#like there is still crazy stigma

[phantasmanatic]

i hate bad therapists SO MUCH

bc omfg having a good one can completely change your whole outlook on life and have you trust that someone is always looking out for your best interest. it has genuinely saved my life

but there are so many people out there that may never find that solely bc terrible ppl with power ruined their belief and faith in therapy’s ability to help or do literally anything good

[call-me-pup2]

We filming new content?

Ding ding ding we have a winner!! I'm finally ready to make new content again! I've been scheming it for like a month now so finally going to actually make some tomorrow night all going to plan. Apparently I really can't stay away from 0F for too long 😅😂

[hareofhrair]

I wanted to put this one the previous post but it was long and this is a tangent but- In regards to the hypothetical "If House was my doctor I'd just tell him everything. Rip to all his other patients but I'm different."

The whole point of the show is that you wouldn't. Like a major theme of the show is about how the various shames and stigmas and habitual dishonesties that plague our societies both metaphorically and literally kill us. "Everybody lies" isn't just a cynical catchphrase, it's the shows thesis. Because of how we operate as a society, everyone feels compelled to suppress and hide things and that inevitably leads to suffering.

And there are plenty of episodes where this is obvious, ie "I cheated on my partner and gave them an STD." But there's also much more of "This little girl went through early puberty and because of the way our society stigmatizes women's bodies her single father never discussed puberty with her and she was so afraid and ashamed of her new pubic hair that she tried to shave it without telling anyone and mutilated herself, leading everyone to think she'd been abused and throwing off the whole case until House figured out her hormones were going crazy because she'd been exposed to her father's low T medicine, which he hid because of how our society regards masculinity, which he started taking because he began dating a younger woman (because of shame stemming from our society's unrealistic expectations wrt sex in relationships) which he was hiding from his kids, because of shame regarding our societies toxic views on monogamy."

A particular episode stands out as a really good example. S06E15 "Private Lives," which aired in 2010 but was fairly prescient about where social media was heading. The patient was a blogger who documented literally every moment of every day for her followers. She made it very clear she left *nothing* out, from her and her boyfriend's sex life to, eventually, asking for feedback from her followers on whether to get her heart valve replaced with one from a pig or a "vegan" plastic one. She handed the whole blog over to House as soon as he took the case and the team poured through the whole thing. Surely this is proof you're wrong about everybody lying, the team says to House. She's give us her whole life and you still can't find out what's wrong! Spoiler, it turned out the crucial symptom that allowed House to put it all together? Was the one thing she *didn't* include in the blog- Her bowel movements. Shame and stigma around talking about *poop* nearly killed this woman. It was also a detail that should have been picked up immediately by a normal doctor, who would have asked about her bowel movements as part of the standard checklist of diagnostic questions. But this woman was so confident that she'd laid out every relevant detail of her life in her blog, she wouldn't answer those questions, obfuscating what she was actually ashamed of underneath a pile of curated, rationalized, narritivized junk she could pretend was proof of a lack of shame and not simply a skill at creative writing.

When I say "I'd just tell House everything" is ridiculous, I don't just mean "well, because of the way the show works, you HAVE to be hiding SOMETHING." I mean literally, you- because you are a human being- are ashamed of *something.* And because you are a human being, the more info you try to give House the more deeply you will bury whatever it is you're actually ashamed of. And, because of the way the show works, that *will* end up being the key to what's making you sick.

[taegimood]

thinking of subby switch soobin getting fed up with being edged to outer space for the last 45 minutes, you calling him your big dumb bunny as he whines underneath you — “so much bigger than me and still can’t do anything but lay there and take it” — and in his desperation he decides he’s had enough.

flipping you over onto your back with a strength you should’ve expected him to possess, your thighs slung over his and your hips pressed down against the mattress as his giant hands grip tightly onto your waist, and without hesitation he’s pistoning in and out of you like a madman — making you squeal and moan at the sudden shift as you quickly grab onto the sheets to keep yourself from jolting up the bed from the force of his thrusts.

he’s panting and breathless and desperate; “still a dumb bunny? huh? still a big dumb bunny?” and you can’t even formulate a single response as you go slack-jawed from the way he’s completely rocking your shit.

fucking into you fast and deep, all messy and on the verge of letting go himself as he continues his breathless babbling, “dumb bunny fucking you so good, huh, can’t even speak? gonna make you cum? gonna cum on your big bunny’s cock even though he’s just so stupid?”

he’s now not only degrading you but degrading himself at this point, and all you can do is moan for him, gasping out his name as he takes you how he wants, fat cock bulging in your tummy as he cums hard, collapsing on top of you and filling you up for what feels like forever with his huge load as you clench and tremble around him in your own mind-numbing climax.

“soobin, what the- holy fuck.”

you’re panting, staring up at the ceiling in disbelief as your boyfriend’s large frame lays draped over you, his own heavy breaths hot against your neck.

he lifts his head tiredly with a sheepish smile; “sorry,” he breathes, but you know that he isn’t.

“soobin. i’m pretty sure that was one of the hottest things you’ve ever done and i’d definitely be lying if i said i wasn’t still insanely turned on right now.”

and from the flicker in his eyes and the way his cock twitches inside you, you can tell that he doesn’t mind that one bit.

all i’m saying is that soobin sure seems to live up to the stigma around rabbits and how they breed like crazy ‘cause 😗

[henry-fox-biggest-stan]

Thinking about being a demigod as a metaphor for neurodivergency

Thinking about demigods fighting monsters no one else can see, thinking about the mist, how mortals just can’t see it. Thinking about Mrs Dodds, and how everyone told Percy he was crazy for remembering her. How ableism and insults are just so typical in places like a high school and yet if you’re neurodivergent and remember it years after school, you’re called crazy and obsessed because “it wasn’t that bad” and “you need to move on”. How Nancy Bobofit called Percy special. How Chiron (a centaur) was the only teacher to be actually nice and understanding of Percy, since he too wasn’t a mortal. How mortals can’t see the monsters and swords, how they can’t see the struggles we face and our defense mechanisms/ways to cope. How demigods just trying to defense themselves against monsters are seen as “evil” or a threat by mortals, because they can’t see than the reason they made that thing explode was to survive, than the bump on their car wasn’t actually made on purpose, but by a monster throwing them against it. How the world is dangerous to demigods, how they always have to stay alert, how there was always something off about them growing up. How they might have known they were demigods since a young age, or if not demigods, they knew something was different about them. Like Annabeth, who kept attracting monsters and decided to run away at just 8. She knew, her father knew, her family knew. There was no point in hiding it, no point in pretending it wasn’t there, everyone could see it. Thinking about Percy, how his mom knew, and how she made sure to help Percy no matter what, how she never cared. Thinking about Leo, who didn’t know until he was a teenager, who figured out on his own, who’s childhood was traumatized by his powers, how being a demigod completely ruined what would have been a lovely childhood. Thinking about Percy’s time in school, thinking about the demigods having adhd and dyslexia, thinking about how “their brains are trained for ancient greek/latin” and how they have trouble understanding what everyone else can easily read. Sure, it’s dyslexia, but it can also be something else. Their brains are not trained for neurotypical social cues, that’s not a language their fluent in, they have their own language, which neurotypicals can’t understand. How if they tell someone they’re a demigod, they won’t believe them, and think they’re weird. How it’s not something they can mention unless around the right people (other demigods, gods, mythological creatures, or parents of demigods kids, which in this scenario, is anyone with a connection to neurodiversity). How the parents sometimes are aware their kid is a demigod (like Sally), because they know the other parent was a god, in this scenario, they’re aware of the possibility of a neurodivergent kid because they slept with a neurodivergent person. Except sometimes they don’t know the other parent is a god, they don’t know their kid is a demigod. How someone can have neurodivergent kids, who’s neurodivergency is passed down from their other parent, except the other parent is not diagnosed. How, even still the neurodiversity community, there’s still stigma and stereotypes. How they treated Nico, even if he was just like them, simply because he didn’t fit. How the more visibly demigod you are, if you’re the child of one of the big three, the more monsters you attract, the more dangerous life becomes, how the moment a demigod realizes they're a demigod, they can't hide it, they attract more monsters, there’s no turning back.

Thinking about being a demigod as a metaphor for neurodivergency

[etanow]

Got some Abstragedy and various ML ramblings!!

Zooble doesn't care much for torturing and tricking humans or whatever the stigma around demons is, they're more aligned with the sin of sloth, manifesting with apathy and a blatant disregard for any 'duty' they might have to higher powers.

This means they aren't into the whole "human and blood sacrifice" stuff like other demons might be, so when a mysterious cult's summoning of an ancient power failed and the group summoned Zooble instead, you can only imagine how pissed they were. Not only from being ripped away from a Seinfeld marathon but also now having an innocent soul sacrificed in their name. Hell has paperwork, too much damn paperwork, and turning the bright soul over to eternal damnation like it was promised to felt like too much of a chore and such a waste of a soul. So instead Zooble told it to go haunt or whatever, just leave them be and they won't collect. She didn't like this idea much. Stuck as little more than a string of shadows with no name to remember, and nowhere to go, and the idea of haunting her family felt wrong.

So in the first few years, Gangle followed Zooble around as a distant shadow, not interacting much, simply watching the demon go about their business. Zooble didn't mind this. They got annoyed at first when she started getting curious and asking questions or starting up chats, but soon found her to be a decent conversation partner.

Gangle didn't know she could possess the mask she died in until Zooble showed her, even with the heavy emotions that the mask brought she missed being more than a watcher to the world. She can enter it freely, but can't exit it unless the mask breaks. There's something supernatural about the mask, the breaks never stick. The black silk ribbons originally were connected to the back as decorations. It's how Gangle got her new name, when she learned she could use the ribbons like limbs and Zooble started laughing at how gangly she looked. Gangle as a nickname stuck more than any other they gave her.

She cried when she held a pencil for the first time in a decade and now finds enjoyment in interacting with everything around, she's very touchy-feely. Goes absolutely crazy for bubble wrap.

Zooble can interact with Gangle when she's pure shadow and vice versa.

Zooble's allergic to holy water lol

Gangle worries about everything and overthinks a lot, being around Zooble helps with that as their presence does promote feelings of apathy.

Gangle is ambidextrous after learning how to write with flimsy hands. Zooble prefers writing with her shadowy hand.

Zooble can switch out parts but certainly has preferences based on fate, even if they don't know why. They change their parts out slowly rather than daily and will stick with some appendages for months or years at a time.

Gangle kissed Zooble first and then ran and hid for 4 months out of embarrassment even though Zooble very enthusiastically kissed her back. Zooble found her and the first thing she did was return the favor 💕

They didn't put a label on their relationship until much later, just fine being whatever felt right in the moment.

Gangle can't feel temperature anymore so doesn't mind Zooble's elevated body temperature or when they burst into flames.

Their arrangement works, but Zooble still feels like Gangle is missing out on the life that got stolen from them. They want to fix it. It took a while to hunt down someone with connections who might be able to help, it's how they made their way into C&A Laboratories- specifically in a research division focused on the study of souls; One of Caine's many domains. In exchange for services to find a way to sever the soul debt, they'd both participate in any research going on within the residency.

Jax is the one to fix Gangle's mask when it breaks when Caine isn't around. He teases her for it endlessly, sometimes throwing it at the shadow when she isn't paying attention only for it to stick to her and force her back in.

Jax and Zooble have an,, interesting agreement. Deals and trades are how he ended up in the same residency, and he's no stranger to twisting the words of their pacts for his own benefit, even to other lab resident's detriment.

[moutainrusing]

illness

987 words, @wolfstarmicrofic

Poking Sirius’s forehead was his mother’s wand. Running the length of Sirius’s body was his father’s wand. Tradition of the Black heir turning sixteen: make sure he had no disabilities. No setbacks, disadvantages, handicaps.

With stern frowns, they analysed the results. Then, “Get out.” They faced each other in shock, having said that simultaneously. He has both?

“What?” Sirius croaked.

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Orion bellowed.

Walburga shoved Orion, caterwauling, “GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU CRETIN!”

“NO SON OF MINE, YOU CRIPPLE!” Orion screamed.

“HE’S NOT MINE, EITHER!” Walburga roared. (Now she was yelling more at Orion than Sirius…?)

His parents’ faces had twisted, fury curling their lips, passion blotching their cheeks red, anxiety shaking their hands, regret furrowing their brows, sadness freezing their voices, sharpening them to ice. They blamed themselves for his disabilities. Their genes, their problem. Upset he turned out this way, riddled with issues. Bitter, because how could life do this to them? If word got out, eyes would turn to them. This is your invalid? Makes sense.

Sirius nodded slowly, eyes prickling. He didn’t want to be disabled. The first thing people saw about him: the fact that he was incapable, helpless, hopeless. They would judge him while pretending they weren’t. There was always stigma around it. He was weak, dumb, weird. “I— I’ll go. But… what’s wrong with me?” He looked at his parents pleadingly. Fix me.

“Mental illness and physical,” Walburga scoffed.

Orion snarled, “Won’t live past thirty, wretch.”

“Unstable in both mind and muscle. They’ll all give up on you, as they should. Immobile, paralysed.” Walburga laughed shrilly, “Get out.”

“While you can still walk,” Orion sneered.

Sirius nodded silently, a sob choked up in his throat. When he shut the door, he heard his parents break. He followed suit, in tears on the street.

- - -

“I DON’T GIVE A SHIT THAT YOU’RE A WEREWOLF, REMUS. I’M IN LOVE WITH YOU!” Sirius took a deep breath. “You,” he jabbed Remus’s chest. “Being. A. Werewolf. Doesn’t. Matter.”

“But it does.” Remus shoved Sirius’s hand away pitifully. “I’ll hinder your life. You can find love with someone worthy, live a beautiful life until you’re grey and old—”

“I’LL NEVER BE GREY AND OLD!” Sirius yelled, not catching the words before they left his mouth. His eyes widened.

“What?” Remus stammered.

Sirius laughed harshly. “I’ll probably die before you. In fact, I’m the one who’ll hinder you.” He bowed dramatically, “I’m sick.” He jabbed his chest, “I can already feel it. Y’know how you call me clumsy?” Sirius smirked depravedly. “Well, that’s my muscles spasming. Ain’t working properly. They’re giving up on me like my parents did. Like you’re doing. And I’m crazy?” Sirius cackled, “That’s my brain. Fucking disabled.”

“Sirius,” Remus whispered.

Sirius pointed frantically, “See?! Already scared of me!”

“No, Sirius,” Remus shook his head softly. “Whatever is going on is not a problem. Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re human.”

“Yeah, right, say that to yourself,” Sirius scoffed.

Remus sighed, “It’s different—”

“Is it though?” Sirius glared. “I’m gonna die early ‘cause of something I can’t control, something people still blame and judge me for. Their discrimination is more pointless than I am.”

“You’re not pointless,” Remus argued.

“And you?” Sirius returned, eyebrow raised.

“I’m not…” Remus winced, finishing pathetically, “Pointless.”

“Ha!” Sirius crowed victoriously. “You don’t believe it! How am I supposed to believe that being disabled isn’t a curse when you act like that?! When everyone acts like that?! You coo and reassure someone else it’s okay, but when it’s you?!”

“I…” Remus was at a loss for words.

Fine. Sirius had way too much for both of them. “Why do you add on to the discrimination already there?”

Remus shook his head helplessly.

Sirius prodded, “Why can’t people let us be? Everyone’s gonna die, so let us be happy. When I first found out, I hated myself. But then I realised that even with disabilities, I am still myself. I’m still brave, smart, whatever. I never stopped. And my parents’ve always been wrong. Of course they were wrong about disabilities, too. I dunno what’s gonna happen to me, but then, does anyone? You could get caught in an accident any day! We could die any day! You’re a werewolf, but you never stopped being Remus. You never stopped being thoughtful, beautiful, lovely, mine. My friend,” Sirius clarified, smiling gently.

Loud again, “But we should be more if we both want that. Let us want! Take all the love you get, because so many people will deny you the best life you deserve. So what if it doesn’t last? If it’s not always happy? Let yourself live.”

Remus was crying. While Sirius could still move his fingers, he brushed the tears away.

- - -

Sirius did make it to thirty. Wheelchair-bound, unable to move a muscle nor talk, brain functioning perfectly, heart beating a love song for Remus.

He could move a few muscles. His thumb: up and down, up and down as he pressed the button of a Muggle invention to form words on this screen.

He could write books on anything, all the knowledge of OWLs and NEWTs and beyond firmly stuck in the crevices of his brain.

Remus pulled a chair up next to him, having also made it to thirty: grey-haired, smiling, walking with a cane, tired, living, bones aching, thinking, dreaming, being.

Scanning over Sirius’s document, Remus’s eyes lit up, and he turned to Sirius with a grin. “You’re the smartest person I know.”

Sirius couldn’t say anything except stare at Remus in awe. But that was okay, because Remus had enough words for both of them.

Remus leaned towards Sirius, giving him enough time to roll away if necessary, before slotting their lips together. “You’re amazing. I love you,” Remus mumbled. Sirius put all his effort, energy, love towards smiling into the kiss. Nothing happened, but he knew Remus could feel it anyway.

[tokyo-debunker-idk]

Crushed | 01

Summary: He's tried to convince Leo that you're a cool person, to which the former just scoffs and accuses Sho of having a crush. Honestly, the reaction is obnoxious – people of the opposite sex are perfectly able to have platonic friendships. Just because Sho's taken to bringing an extra lunch for you on training days so you can eat together after, and he enjoys spending time with you, and you're pretty and smell good even after an hour of sparring, doesn't mean he has a crush.

Pairing: Haizono Sho x Reader x Kurosagi Leo

Genre: Humor, romantic comedy, slowish burn, no real plot, Leo bullying

18+, minors DNI

~~~~~

"If you can't do it what's even the point of taking you on missions?"

Leo's condescending, disappointed tone cuts you like a knife. Your stigma-enhancing ability, one of the only reasons you're supposed to be useful at this academy, didn't work on Sho during the mission.

"You just expect us to protect you? You're dead weight. Right, Sho?"

You tune out the rest of their conversation as shame flares in your chest, hot and painful. As much as you want to fight Leo's cruel words, the inherent truth behind them clogs your throat. Because he's right. You can't fight, you don't know anything about anomalies, and you've had to be rescued in every mission even when your ability did work.

He doesn't have to be such a dick about it, though. Stupid finger-hearting TikTok asshole. Harsh truths are even harsher when they come from someone you dislike, and you've disliked the pretty, silver-haired influencer ever since you met him, when he unnecessarily antagonized your friends just for his amusement. The impression has only been further compounded by his attitude during the mission, and just how convincingly he was able to spin tales and fake emotions and tears to convince his audience. Leo is a manipulative bastard, and you don't trust him one bit.

Unfortunately, that doesn't make any of his current words less valid. At this rate, you're going to die sitting on your ass while the ghouls do all the work. You only have a year until your curse kills you, and you've already almost died more than once. So why are you being so timid and hesitant? Might as well risk earlier death by giving it your all than sit passively and hope everything works out.

Your resolve grows, and by the time you're back at your own chapel-dorm, you've made a decision.

~~~~~

Sho blinks as he arrives at the Vagastrom Pit at lunch, because for some reason the honor student is already there. Looking at you gives him a twinge of shame – sure, he'll scam rich assholes with Leo and follow his plots, but he's never almost caused an innocent person's death before. Especially one who has done nothing but try to help others, the entire time he's known you.

The look of panic on your face, the way you had tried to reach out – still trusting him to save you despite his failure – had plagued his dreams last night, and seeing you solid, safe, and alive in front of him now is more of a relief than he wants to admit.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, making you squeak and almost drop your phone, and he resolutely does not notice that it's quite cute. He doesn't really deserve to.

For some reason you're the one who looks guilty, despite having done nothing wrong. And then he notices you're wearing athletic gear rather than your usual uniform.

"Alan told you to come here at lunch for training, right?" you ask, standing up and tossing your phone carelessly into your bag to give him your full attention in a way Leo never does. "I want to join."

"Are you crazy?" asks Sho incredulously, wondering why on earth you would voluntarily sign up for what is most likely going to be a beatdown. Based on how the mission went, you've never even been anywhere near a fight before coming to Darkwick. So why this?

"No. Maybe." you reply, your face determined. "But I'd rather be crazy than useless."

Oh. So that's why.

Alan arrives right then, which is probably a good thing because Sho feels a nauseating mixture of shame and – admiration? The reminder of Leo's jibes makes guilt bubble in his stomach, but something about the staunch resolve on your face fills his chest with a warmth akin to the first time he held your hand on the mission. Or maybe it's an after effect of you enhancing his stigma.

Sho's not really sure, but he does decide then and there that he is going to do his best to make it up to you.

~~~~~

"Oh my god, this is so good," you practically moan as you take a huge bite of your sandwich. "Sho, you should charge for this." You're so invested in your meal that you miss the way the tips of his ears turn pink at your praise.

"It's just a sandwich," he replies, brushing off your comment and resisting the urge to twirl his silver hair like a schoolgirl. The two of you are eating in the courtyard after getting pummeled by Alan for the better half of the lunch hour, sitting in the grass because all the benches are already occupied.

He shouldn't feel this pleased by your approval, but as he's gotten to know you, he's come to respect and value your opinion. Sure, maybe at first he had begun spending time with you out of guilt, but you really are cool – fun and snarky in a way he hadn't noticed during the mission. Hanging out with you is comfortable, easy, and he doesn't have to worry about silly intrigues and gossip. You're honest and upfront in a way Leo has never been, and while he loves his best friend, being around you is refreshing.

And you're determined, never complaining during the training sessions no matter what Alan has you do despite the fact that you're clearly out of your element. Sho supposes Alan saw that in you long before he did, because the captain seems completely unsurprised by your conviction. It makes him feel a little ashamed in a different way than guilt – that he has nothing to strive for other than whatever Leo comes up with.

Sho kind of wishes the three of you could hang out together, but Leo's made it clear he has no interest in ever interacting with you, and you look distinctly uncomfortable any time Leo is in the vicinity. Which Sho can't exactly blame you for, considering his friend's behavior.

He's tried to convince Leo to give you a chance, to which the former merely scoffs and accuses Sho of having a crush. Honestly, the reaction is obnoxious – people of the opposite sex are perfectly able to have platonic friendships. Just because Sho's taken to bringing an extra lunch for you on training days so you can eat together after, and he enjoys spending time with you, and you're pretty and smell good even after an hour of sparring, doesn't mean he has a crush.

"No, I'm serious," you insist, jabbing the half-eaten sandwich at him for emphasis. "The fried egg is salted perfectly, and I never thought of including green onion with other veggies. It's really delicious."

The sweetly earnest expression on your face brings that familiar warmth to his chest, and Sho can't help but smile when he notices a dab of mayo on your nose.

"So you're saying I should start charging you for these lunches?" he teases, using his thumb to wipe the condiment off your face and absently noting how soft your skin feels.

"What? I don't get VIP privileges for being adorable?" you reply with a pout that is, indeed, adorable. Sho just snorts at your audacity as he wipes his hand on a napkin.

"No, you don't. But I suppose I can give you friend privileges since we're both being physically abused together."

Your eyes sparkle when you smile, and Sho feels that fluttery warmth again. They really do need to do more testing with your ability.

"Thanks Sho, you're the best," you announce happily, dropping your head on his shoulder affectionately. "I'm glad you're my friend. And not just for the food, either."

How do you still smell so nice after all that sweating?

~~~~~

TikTokBitch: Hey honor roll

You: What do you want

TikTokBitch: I know ur free

TikTokBitch: Come to the garage quick

Your brows crinkle as you scowl at your phone. Does he really think you're going to just rush over like an obedient little puppy? If his personality matched his good looks, you'd be happy to help him. It's truly a waste that such a gigantic turd has such a pretty exterior.

You pause, an idea sparking in your head.

You: I will if you owe me a favor

TikTokBitch: Whatever fine just hurry up

~~~~~

Leo rolls his eyes in annoyance as you stroll into the Pit, tape wrapped around your knuckles as if you're actually going to fight.

He'd been surprised when your "favor" had been to spar with him, of all things. Are you trying to impress him or something? Maybe you think close physical contact will make him like you. Sad, really.

Still, he had stupidly agreed to give you a favor in his impatience to hear more clandestine conversations, and now he's here wasting his precious time. He thought you'd learned your place after your mission together, but apparently he'll have to humble you again. Leo isn't exactly a fighter, but he is still a ghoul, and that means an NPC like you doesn't stand a chance.

Which is why it's laughable that you're stretching as if this is serious, like it's a real pit match rather than just the two of you here at night. Leo hasn't even told Sho, because he doesn't like the way his friend seems to be getting closer to you by the day.

Leo contemplates how Sho has been spending his lunch hours with you. Does he actually have a crush on you despite his denials? You're not even that interesting.

He narrows his eyes as he watches you finish warming up, trying to understand what Sho sees in you.

You are kind of brave, he supposes, considering you've been a normal person without any knowledge of this side of the world until recently. And you have a pretty face, when it's not twisted into a sour expression every time you see him. You also have a nice ass, he vaguely notes as you finish warming up. Then he realizes he's ogling and snaps out of it, irritated because you're definitely wearing those little shorts to show yourself off in a way your uniform skirt doesn't.

He really needs to get Sho off campus so he remembers other girls exist, because this is ridiculous. You aren't special, and Sho obviously needs to be reminded of that.

~~~~~

"I win," you sing out smugly, smirking down at the ghoul you've pinned beneath you. Leo's pretty face exudes irritation, if not a little bit of shock, which just serves to boost your ego even more. Not for the first time, you lament that such beautiful golden eyes and sharp cheekbones belong to an asshole like him.

"Don't get cocky," he hisses in frustration, too stunned to do anything but glare. "Just because you caught me off guard, doesn't mean you're any less use–"

– SLAP.

You are so sick of his shit. Perhaps he did underestimate you, but that doesn't make your victory any less valid. If you've learned anything from Alan and Sho (other than that it's possible to be sore in muscles you didn't even realizes existed), it's that there are no rules in a real fight. When you're trying to survive, any and all possibilities should be taken advantage of. The one time you managed to land a hit on Sho (not that it caused any actual damage), he hadn't been pissed and petulant. He'd been proud, approval for you shining from his handsome face.

Leo, on the other hand, can't seem to stand the idea of anyone being better than him. Or even having more attention than him. All he does is manipulate and pull down everyone around him, and you are done hearing the poison that drips from his lips. You open your own mouth to give him a piece of your mind when you feel it.

It being something stirring beneath you, and you're reminded that you are straddling the TikTok asshole in a rather compromising position. One glance at his face shows reddening skin from your slap and shock in his golden eyes.

What the fuck.

"G-get off me," he mutters, staunchly looking anywhere but at you as a rosy flush creeps up his neck. Holy shit. Did slapping him… turn him on?

It's the first time you've ever seen him this flustered, and as disgusted as you are, a petty part of you is pleased to finally have the upper-hand. For this small period of time, you seem to be the one in control, and that feeling is… satisfying in a way you're not currently ready to acknowledge.

So you make a somewhat questionable decision. Instead of scrambling off him as you probably should, you grind against him just ever so slightly. Leo's gaze meets yours, wide in surprise as you feel him harden beneath you, and at the edge of your vision you see his fingers twitch as his hands inch toward your hips.

You slap his other cheek, and feel him twitch against your shorts despite the way his eyes burn with rage. You give him your sweetest smile, infinitely pleased to have confirmed your suspicions, the sting of your palms a satisfying proof of victory.

Then, you do what any other vindictive human would do. You flick his forehead and get up, very charitably resisting the urge to kick him before walking away.

Before he can do anything other than gawk and splutter, Alan and Sho enter the room. Perfect timing actually, because despite your bravado you actually have no idea what to do next other than run away as realization of what you had just done crashes into you.

"Oh hey guys!" you chirp happily, doing what you do best and shoving the event into a dusty corner of your brain to avoid thinking about it. You prance over to the two and tackle Sho in a hug, just to annoy your opponent even further. "I beat Leo!"

Alan's lips quirk into what, for Alan, counts as a smile, and he pats your head gently.

"Good work."

You still haven't really decided if you have the best luck, or the worst. Sure, you've been cursed by a creepy one-eyed flower to die within a year, and sure you're basically Darkwick's slave and periodically sent on dangerous missions with superhumans of questionable mental stability, but well.

At least they're hot.

And most of them treat you like a human being, other than perhaps Jin who sees you as a glorified chore-peasant, and Leo who perhaps after today will stop looking at you like gum stuck to his shoe.

"You've been training with them?"

You turn to see the man in question, looking pissed but otherwise back to normal as if nothing has happened. He's still looking at you like you're unworthy of his acknowledgement, and you can't help but antagonize him.

"Yeah, maybe you should too. It seemed like you were having a hard time out there."

His expression twists – a mixture of furious and mortified – and it's more than enough to have made all this training with it.

Sho chortling as he teases Leo for losing to you is just the icing on the cake.

~~~~~ Masterlist | Next

[blackbackedjackal]

You know I've been feeling a little anxious bc Captain's werewolf form and June's shadowy version of her werewolf form look a lot a like and I always hope no one accuses either of us of design theft like it happened to me with one of my old characters, though I made his werewolf form in like 2020. June is cool as hell (if not cooler) I wouldn't want someone to be a jerk about it. Maybe I should draw them together shaking hands as a preventive measure lol

Heya! I hope this is ok to post but please don't worry about it! June's design is based off of other (mostly animated) werewolf designs I liked, but was given meaning through her story and the reason as to /why/ her form looks a certain way.

It's not that she's just shadowy, it's an intentional visual representation of black trauma. There's are cultural and social stigmas of Black people being systematically denied access to mental health resources or being told that they're just "lazy" or "crazy" or "faking it". June's form is altered by her mental/emotional state, it's what she /believes/ she is due to her past trauma and her story is, in part, learning deal with her trauma in a healthy way.

June's form is also based on the lesser known theories that The Beast of Gévaudan (which June is related to via her lycan lineage) was either a product of mass hysteria from the high number of wolf attacks in the region or was potentially a serial killer. The way the beast is often described (black fur, red lips, white/yellowed eyes and teeth) is similar to racist depictions of Black people in the past. I used this as a basis for designing her form. It's the intention and her story that's important, followed by visuals that are found within the werewolf genre and outside of it.

I'm a little too tired to go more in-depth but I'll leave this quote from the Jim Crow museum:

The mission of the Jim Crow Museum is straightforward: use items of intolerance to teach tolerance. We examine the historical patterns of race relations and the origins and consequences of racist depictions. The aim is to engage visitors in open and honest dialogues about this country's racial history...The Jim Crow Museum is founded on the belief that open, honest, even painful discussions about race are necessary to avoid yesterday's mistakes.

June's story is about racism. It's about intolerance towards black queer folk. It's about how Black people (especially Black women) have to suffer under a system that denies them mental health resources, resulting in many Black people turning to unhealthy coping mechanisms. Her design was me intentionally marrying old werewolf motifs with a different perspective on the werewolf genre (since even today is it still mostly a white space). There's a stark difference to me when someone comes up with a similar design independently vs when someone is actively lifting direct inspiration from my work and twisting the meaning in the process.

[venomnyx]

imagine enjoying a piece of media and just turning it off when. you could just continue to consume FREE content. like it's definitely not hard to source well-written, fully-fledged pieces (not that "poorly" written pieces aren't valid, we've all written our fair share when we started out) and honestly i've read far worse books that people have raved about on tiktok

the older i get the less shame i have around reading/writing fanfiction. some people still give me weird looks when i drop it into conversation but like. why starve yourself the joy of slow burn enemies to lovers fics of yourself and your favourite comfort character

[mangalho]

Ex-warbot OC

They don’t have names yet.

The two bots with the scary faces were specifically made for war, and now that it’s over, they still maintained their original ‘warface’ even though it has stigma associated to it. Many robots changed their faceplates post-war, as it made it easier to find jobs and not get into unnecessary conflict.

The sleeker looking guy used to be in their company, though he wasn’t made in the same factory as them; he isn’t their ’batch-mate’.

After the war he completely modified his frame, and now has an idol career. He desperately wats to erase his past, as people (and robots alike) will respond better to a ‘new’ and untainted idol.

The two warface bots are “brother and sister” and they do odd jobs here and there to make ends meet and to be able to afford things they want. Rich people hire them as bouncers a lot since they are a symbol of terrible times. Sometimes they earn 15k in one night for just one gig it’s crazy. They both really love clothes since it distances them from their body’s original purpose while simultaneously not erasing their past. Also they look cute and cool!

The idol bot once meets the warfaces by chance in the street and pretends he doesn’t know them AGAHAKALAK I think he’s insane… completely erasing your past and the person you were is psychopathic to me idk. Anyway

There arent a lot of warfaces going around anymore. since they either died during the war or changed their frames. Pre-war bots were re-fitted during the conflicts and just had to go back to their former unweaponized frames after it was all over so they’re fine.  All of these robots can download information and i want that type of learning to mostly disappear if its deleted, but if they learn things like we do or experience real events, those memories and skills can’t really truly be erased; if they do try erasing them, they will still remember them, just not with HD video clarity, which brings them immense suffering sometimes. “How to people live like this?!” Well buddy it sucks idk we all cope

Newly minted robots are wack because they don’t exactly have a ‘soul’ yet they just do things they’re supposed to do, but after some time, all of them actually develop real awareness and shit… my war bots had like a 78% chance of dying everyday when they were activated, but they survived and attained sentience at like one year post birth and they wised up rly fast after that. They remember their first year, but they describe it as a ‘weird haze’

These robots feel pain so they wont like dive into a hole or damage themselves too much. Self preservation means longer-lived machines which means less repair costs and less human lives on the line as well.. slay !!!

While the conflicts went on, most robots achieved sentience and decided to stop fighting so there was like a robots rights movement and eventually the war stopped altogether and now the robots have a salary and a normal life mostly. They arent organics, so they need other things. They are solar powered and need oil sometimes and also they need new nanomachines once in a while like we need vaccines. Get your boosters… its not just tetanus and coronavirus anymore now they gotta think about like..the trojan horse 9000

I want them to have this aversion to organic things dying bc they are universally gross. Like they dont like seeing living-machines die either but a rat being squished by a car is also gross!

There are probably some tensions between humans and robots but like i kinda get it bc i wouldnt mess with a guy who has like lead pipes for arms. also most robots ARE normal but some are insane idk 🙆‍♀️🤷‍♀️ just  like people are.

 mine are normal tho they’re just vibing 💖🗣🤙

[kurosagi-h8r]

A crack thought

Now that we know how romeo's stigma works, imagine getting married to him in like a small village in italy with only close family and friends— it's still luxurious, yes, well it has to be it's ROMEO'S WEDDING but the intimacy is what matters (and mainly safety because in this story sinostra continue as mafia). Suddenly during the vow the wedding got under attack by some other mafia maybe, Taiga was already bored with the whole thing so he goes batshit crazy eliminating the enemies while Ritsu protect the guests.

One thing leads to another, the next thing he knew you had a gun pointed at you and HE DIDN'T EVEN GET TO PUT THE RING ON YOU YET but if he had to choose between you and the customed something number something carat diamond that he spent time picking and designing...

"TIRIS!" 💍💍↗️➡️↘️💥💥💥

"ROMEO YOU BASTARD THAT'S OUR WEDDING RING!"

"STFU UP YOU'RE MORE IMPORTANT!"

"I SWEAR TO GOD YOU'RE SLEEPING OUTSIDE TONIGHT!"

"YOU BB I'M TRYING TO SAVE YOUR ASS!"

And that's how you begin your new life with your forever new partner in crime.

That is all. Thank you for coming to my tedtalk.

[feminist-space]

There is nothing wrong with a person who wears adult diapers. Those are an aid, a tool, to help that person be more mobile and preserve their dignity.

If someone has tremors in their hands and needs help picking up everyday objects, that doesn't take away from who they are as a person. There's no dishonor in muscular tremors.

If someone can't see or hear, or can only see or hear with aid of a tool, a piece of technology, that's fine! Here's a really simple one: so many of us wear glasses because our eyes can't do the thing on their own.

Having disabilities doesn't take away from who a person is. Mocking someone for needing aid to do things, however, is morally repugnant. And using ableism to put down or mock someone who themselves is morally reprehensible is still never ok.

It is important for all of us to re-examine how we, too, perform ableist acts in our daily lives. Here are some simple ones:

Stop using ableist words (check out this page: https://www.autistichoya.com/p/ableist-words-and-terms-to-avoid.html).

Stop calling disabled people "inspirational" and using them as a way to say "if they can do it then so can you" (see: paralympic commentaries from the same people who still support organizations like Autism Speaks -- https://www.themarysue.com/the-autism-speaks-controversy-explained/).

Stop mocking people for not being able to move the way you think they should move.

Stop calling bigots "crazy" (their bigotry isn't a mental illness).

Stop saying that "only disabled and immuno-compromised people are at risk from COVID-19" when what is unsaid after that is "so that's why I don't need to care about it or take any precautions."

Stop calling someone "blind" or "deaf" when they're being ignorant.

Stop making fun of someone for taking an elevator or using a motorized scooter at the store.

Eliminate the stigma of disabled people asking for accessibility by making things accessible in the first place.

When you're in a position to design things, physical or otherwise (buildings, software, apps), think about accessibility.

Actively learn from disability activists, what things are actually helpful and actually accessible. Incorporate those things into your design.

Hire and elevate to positions of leadership people with disabilities (and if your gut response is "but we hire by merit," I challenge you: are you telling me you don't think disabled folks can perform the duties of leaders in your organization? What are you saying, exactly?).

Change your organization to be supportive to disabled employees, and get rid of policies that marginalize them.

There's a whole LOT of ableism weaved in to literally everything. Even if we don't get it all in one go (and we won't), it's important to put in the work to do better.

--

Before someone comments with these:

"what's wrong with people?"

Ableism is EVERYWHERE, it is in EVERYTHING in this world and we have to actively work against it. Don't assume you're exempt. None of us are.

"who says these things?" "who does these things?"

A lot of people. A lot of people you might love. A lot of people that might include us (likely, actually). These mostly aren't monsters in alleyways saying and doing ableist things.

It's the nurse getting annoyed at the person using a wheelchair for having their wheelchair there. It's the dude at the gym who tells his friend that if those paralympians can do it, they definitely can do it. It's the person who keeps telling their friend with long covid to just do more yoga. It's the liberal angry at Trump who mocks him by saying he wears adult diapers. It's the person who builds a business branded and marketed on being kumbaya "we're so progressive" but they made their doors so heavy that they're hard for anyone to open and definitely impossible to open for a wheelchair user. It's the boomer telling a young person using a disabled parking spot that young people can't be disabled. It is literally everywhere. It's that guy telling disabled people they shouldn't be out past sunset ("we're disabled, Daniel, we're not werewolves."--Jen L Rossman).

--

Reading list, obviously not exhaustive:

https://thebodyisnotanapology.com/magazine/14-black-disabled-women-reminding-us-of-our-power/

https://thedailytexan.com/2018/03/23/stop-using-ableist-language-and-call-out-others-who-use-it

https://www.autistichoya.com/p/ableist-words-and-terms-to-avoid.html

https://www.tolerance.org/magazine/no-joking-matter-words-and-disability

https://diaryofadisabledperson.blog/

https://www.thegauntlet.news/p/disabled-peoples-exclusion-from-indoor

https://www.mirror.co.uk/news/uk-news/being-grabbed-pushed-touched-without-27376323

https://www.sociability.app/blog/the-medical-vs-social-model-of-disability

[trans-axolotl2]

Fuck the DSM. Seriously, fuck the DSM.

The DSM is and always has been used primarily as a method of rationalizing mistreatment of the people it labels as "deviant." When you look at the history of psychiatry, it becomes clear that things like drapetomania, protest psychosis, hysteria, and homosexuality as a disorder were not just thrown into there randomly. Rather, it showcases the power of the DSM: labeling and categorizing ways of being as mental illness opens up new paths of incarceration, social control, and curative violence. I need people to understand that the modern DSM still works like this: these classifications of madness/mental distress/neurodivergence into psychiatric labels encourage society to treat madness/mental distress/neurodivergence with the apparatuses used to eradicate "deviance." Diagnosis is not neutral.

As mad/mentally ill/neurodivergent people, we deserve access to more explanatory models of madness/mental illness/ neurodivergence than what the psychiatric language of normalcy and disorder offers us. Whether this looks like rejecting diagnosis, embracing varying cultural understandings of mental experience, or any million different ways of interpreting our bodymind, we deserve the option to move beyond clinical language that tries to convince us not to trust ourselves. We deserve to view ourselves wholly, leaving room for all our experiences of madness/mental illness/neurodivergence--the meaningful, the terrifying, the joyful, the exhausting. We deserve to have our own relationship with our madness, instead of being pushed to view ourselves as an inherent "danger to self or others" simply by existing as crazy.

Here's another truth: I hate the DSM, and I still call myself bipolar, a diagnosis that came to me through psych incarceration. While I wholeheartedly reject the DSM and the system intertwined with it, I simultaneously acknowledge and believe that many of the collections of symptoms that the DSM describes are very, very real ways of living in the world, and that the distress that they can cause are very very real. When I say fuck the DSM, I don't mean "Mental distress, disability, and neurodivergence aren't real." Rather, I mean that the DSM can never hold my experience of what it is like to be bipolar, the meaning I derive from experiencing life with cyclical moods. The DSM can't hold within its pages what it's like to see my mood cycle not as a tragedy or disaster, but instead as an opportunity, a gift, to grow and shift and go back to the same place over and over again, dying in winter and blooming again in spring. The DSM can't hold the fact that even though I experience very, very real distress due to those mood cycles--they're still mine and I claim that as something that matters to me. I call myself bipolar as a shorthand to tell people that I experience many things both extreme high and low, but I do not mean the same thing when I say "bipolar" as a psychiatrist does.

When we build community as mad/mentally ill/neurodivergent people, I want us to have room to share, relate, and care for each other in ways that isn't calling to the authority of a fucked up system with strictly defined categories. I don't want us to take those same ways of thinking and rebrand it into advocacy that claims to fight stigma, but really just ends up reinforcing these same ideas about deviance, cure, control, and danger. I dream of the day when psychiatry doesn't loom as a threat in all of our lives, and I think part of that work requires us as mad/mentally ill/neurodivergent people to really grapple with and untangle the ways we label and make meaning of our minds.

ok to reblog, if you want to learn more about antipsychiatry/mad studies check out this reading list.

[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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[sourholland]

WELCOME TO THE STYLE MASTERLIST

series based off of taylor swift’s song style

Summary → He’s the Quarterback of the Cincinnati Bengals, a worldwide heartthrob with an ego the size of Lake Erie—but does he have the heart to match it? You’re the Bengals newest cheerleader, desperate to prove how much you deserve your spot on the team. It doesn’t take much to catch the eye of Joe Burrow, however that isn’t necessarily a good thing when you’re told that any romantic relations between cheerleaders and players is strictly prohibited.

AN → Honestly this idea came to me pretty suddenly, it wasn’t very premeditated. I’m not sure anyone will be interested in reading it, this is me kinda testing the waters. I’m just going through a crazy sad breakup so I’m kinda just trying to get back into the things I love to do, writing being one of them. Also, I kinda just want to get my mind off stuff and who doesn’t love Joe Burrow haha. As always, let me know to be added to the tag list :)

Pairing(s) → Joe Burrow x Fem!Reader

Warnings → Strong Language, Alcohol Use, Mature Themes/NSFW Themes, Angst, Injury, Forbidden Love, More to Come

PLAYLIST

PART ONE - No Headlights

PART TWO - Good Girl

PART THREE - James Dean

PART FOUR - His Wild Eyes

PART FIVE - Taking Off His Coat

PART SIX - Tell You To Leave

Teaser →

After a rigorous auditioning process with over a thousand girls trying to earn their spot on the Bengal’s Cheerleading Squad, only forty made the cut. Most returners, some new like yourself. You’d watched girls break bones, continuing to audition on them to have a shot on the squad. Many left in tears, cut and sent home with hardly any reason why.

There was a little bit of metaphorical survivor’s guilt after you’d made the team, knowing this wasn’t your dream like it was for some others. This was only a season or two commitment for you while you finished up your last year of college. Then you’d become a teacher, something you’d had a passion for over the years. Cheerleading was more so a hobby, you’d danced all of your life and had cheered in high school. This wasn’t going to be your livelihood, nor did it offer you the funds to live off of for more than a short while.

There were plenty of rules to follow, many of which had you questioning if this was truly what you wanted. The handbook they’d given you was thick, although some of the girls had told you that they’d lessened up on the requirements over the years after a lawsuit had been filed. In the end, it wasn’t so bad. Tedious, but still a very surreal experience.

From about April to the middle of July, it was practice twice a week from 7:30 at night to about 11. There was a separate facility used to work and condition through the colder months, just following the Super Bowl. Once pre-season truly began, the whole team moved practice facilities. This put you in the same place as the Bengals practiced, giving you more field time than gym time to get acclimated. It was different, especially due to the fact that players and cheerleaders were placed at an arms length most of the time.

The afternoon of the first practice at the new stadium, you’d all been given the talk. This was basically your coaches and executives way of saying that if anyone found out that anyone off the squad had anything more than a friendly, professional relationship with one of the players—they’d be either cut or sanctioned. It was bad for the image of the team, making it bad for those in charge.

It shouldn’t have been a problem.

That first night practice in August was tough, you were coming off of a sprained ankle and the heat was blistering even at 8 at night. Amanda, your head coach, sent you inside to grab some ice from the athletic trainer to bring back out to the field. There was a stigma around the coaching and treatment of NFL cheerleaders, but you’d mostly had a decent experience so far. Your coaches did care that you were healthy and equipped to cheer.

Adorned in a slightly baggy Bengals T-shirt and spandex, you walked through the empty halls of the mostly deserted facility. The players had just ended their practice about an hour earlier, you watched them all exit into the locker room. That meant that mostly everyone had called it a night, heading home. The cheerleaders stayed late because practice was meant to be after work or class, it wasn’t a full-time job.

The door to the athletic trainers office was slightly ajar, the light on. Pushing it open slightly, you stepped in with furrowed eyebrows and a curious look. On the large medical table, ice in hand, sat Joe Borrow still in his practice jersey and shorts. The office was empty besides him, trainer nowhere to be seen.

He was a good looking guy, you’d give him that. Maybe it was the fact that he was 6’4 or maybe it was the fact that he was really fucking good at his sport. He looked up at you and gave a friendly grin, laying the ice on his knee.

“Emily said she was heading home about a half hour ago, her kid was sick or something so she had to pick him up from the babysitter,” Joe told you politely. “I came in just as she was like walking out, she just told me to lock up the office when I was done.”

Someone was clearly a rambler.

“Yeah,” you nodded. “I was just going to grab some ice.”

He nodded and went silent while you walked over to the ice maker, taking the plastic scooper and putting some of it into a plastic bag. He was still looking at you, making it obvious as you saw him from your peripheral. Twisting the bag, you felt slightly awkward just standing there in silence.

“I’m Joe,” he spoke again.

“Y/N,” you turned back towards him. “It’s nice to meet you.”

He extended a hand towards you, smiling as you took it and shook it softly. When you broke from his grip, he remained looking at you. He was definitely one of those people who looked you right in the eyes through the entire conversation. You didn’t know if this made you particularly uncomfortable or slightly excited.

“You’re a cheerleader.”

“Was that a question?” You chuckled, “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“No, no. I was kind of just thinking out loud.”

He was easily flustered, that much was obvious. He repositioned the bag of ice and looked back up at you with slightly pink cheeks. This made you want to crack a grin, feeling like you were talking to a boy for the first time ever or something.

“I should head back to practice,” you told him, watching him slowly nod in understanding.

“Yeah, of course,” Joe smiled. “It was nice meeting you, Y/N.”

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