#like they just don’t like the idea of a man being a woman

[luveline]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝

You try to break up with your boyfriend. Aaron just wants to know why. (And what he can do to fix it.) [4k]

c: fem, stripper!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, fluff epilogue, suggestive themes mdni. requested here 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

I don’t want to see you anymore. 

The text doesn’t compute at first. He reads it twice. Reads the sender’s name, his heart stopped clean in his chest. 

He puts down his pen.

The idea that the text wasn’t meant for him crosses his mind, but that might further break his heart. He knows you have clients, but you don’t contact them outside of the club. 

His second thought is that he’d been a client unknowingly, but he made it clear to you those few months ago that he liked you as you, not as a service provider, and not as something to be bought. You thought he was trying to acquire you as a private escort. He explained it as what it was truthfully, if vulnerably.

He’s being broken up with, he surmises. Over text. By a woman he adores, who he’d thought was happy. Aaron opens his phone to call you, clicking your contact, bringing it to his ear. You don’t answer. He calls again and he’s clearly declined three rings in. 

He puts his phone down and has a few minutes of unbreathable heartbreak. Just a few minutes, his hand to his stomach, trying to think of things as reasonably as he can. 

Aaron doesn’t care that you’re a stripper. He might’ve at first. Denied his attraction to you, because of course he had feelings for you when you were standing against the side of the club in your dancing lingerie, who wouldn’t fall in love with you? Every fool lucky enough to see you undressed must assume the same thing. He thought it wouldn’t work, and that you’d never be interested in a man like him. 

Interviews for information lended themselves to rare moments of conversation. He liked how you talked, how your eyes moved to his, the way you watched his mouth. Your unusual friendship with Spencer drew you closer, and activated a rare seed of jealousy within him that helped him place you in his life. He had real, tangible feelings for you. 

And now it’s over. 

He scrunches his eyes closed and gets up from his desk. Puts his coat on, but leaves his things where they are on his desk. 

“Hotch?” Morgan asks as he descends the steps down from his office into the bullpen. 

“I’m not sure when I’ll be back.” 

“What happened?” 

Aaron turns to Morgan, hiding his panic as well as he’s able to. “I have a small emergency. It’s fine. Can you make sure things are okay here?” 

“Hotch?” Morgan asks again. 

Aaron keeps on going. He tries your number again on the way down. Three times, a fourth by the time he’s at the parking garage. 

The fifth time, you answer. 

He almost breaks the phone, its plastic body creaking in his hand. “Honey?” he asks. 

“I don’t want to see you anymore, Aaron. Is it hard to understand?” 

He’s taken aback. Some part of him had held onto the hope that it was a mistake. “Yes,” he says slowly, struggling to pull his keys out as his car comes into view, “it is.” 

“I don’t want to be with you.” 

“Have I upset you?” 

“Would that make it easier?” 

“No. I don’t think anything would make it any easier. Honey, this feels so sudden. Can’t we talk about it?” 

“I don’t want to see you.” 

“Please.” He can’t imagine never seeing you again. Just a few days ago he was sitting at the dinner table with you laughing opposite, your socked toes brushing his ankle. “Please, give me the chance to fix this.” 

“Aaron, it’s not really fixable. Please don’t call me again.”

“Y/N,” he says, firmer now. Anger leaks into his tone —what’s going on? “Let me come over. We need to talk about this.” 

“No–”

“It’s not fair to me for you to do it over the phone.” 

“…Okay. Fine. I’m at home, but I have work at six.” 

“I’m on my way.” 

He hangs up. Your terse allowance is all he needs to get in the car and drive, checking his watch. There’s plenty of time between now and six. He can figure out what’s wrong and hopefully change your mind.

He thinks about it more seriously as he’s parking outside of your place. Perhaps he doesn’t want to change your mind. You aren’t acting like you, none of your kindness can be found in such a swift dismissal, but he thinks of your foot under the table, your sock rubbing along his ankle without comment. 

He takes the stairs to your apartment. It’s not the nicest place to stay, but it’s far from a slum, either. He doesn’t worry about you when you’re home beyond the usual everyday fears: Is she eating? Sleeping? Having a good day? 

Now he’s thinking, What did I do? 

He gets to your apartment and pauses at the threshold. After a moment's deliberation, he knocks. 

“Come in, Aaron.” 

He pulls down the handle and lets himself in. You’ve mail piled on the sideboard and your shoes tucked under it, a coat rack further in bragging scarves and coats and jackets of all different colours. He’s always liked the interior of your apartment. It doesn’t feel as cold as his own, parts of your personality peeking in through everything, from the flowered tiles in the bathroom to the glass lampshade in the bedroom. 

You’re sitting in the kitchen with the light off. “Hey,” he says, voice already laden with relief he doesn’t mean to share. 

“Hi.” 

“Can I sit down?” 

You gesture for him to do as he likes. 

Aaron sits down at your table. It’s a small square just big enough to share dinner, plain wood edged in a darker slate grey outline. Sometimes when you’re feeling especially pretty, you’ll lean heavily on an elbow and grin at him, enticing him in for a kiss.

“What’s this all about?” he asks quietly. 

“I just think we’re… at the end of our relationship.” 

You don’t sound truthful. He knew there was something strange in your voice over the phone. 

“What’s making you feel that way?” 

“Does it matter?” 

Again, avoiding and evasive. 

He meets your gaze unflinchingly. “I care about you. I love you,” he says. “I know I can’t be who you pictured for yourself, and if you really can’t see a future for us, then… I’ll have seen it alone. I just wish I could understand this sudden change. Did I do something wrong?” 

“You’re not who I picture for myself,” you agree. 

“No?” he asks. 

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong, but I can’t see us together. We’re not the right fit.” 

You twist a ring around your middle finger. He thinks he’s starting to understand. “Do you think we’re not the right fit?” 

“Please don’t use your psychoanalysis on me.” 

“It’s not psychoanalysis, sweetheart, it’s– I know you.” He grimaces. “I’d like to think I do. And I’m allowing myself the audacity to believe you were happy with me just a few days ago. What happened between then and now to change your mind?” 

You stare at your two-toned table. Your mouth opens to talk, little but air making it out. Your shoulders begin tightening like you’ve been keyed between them, twisting and twisting. 

“What do you want me to say?” you ask. 

Dramatic, he’d hope you could say you don’t love him, or don’t care about him enough to let him convince you the rest of the way. “Is this really what you want?” he asks instead. 

Your staring turns to squinting. With a start, he watches a small tear drip from the corner of your eye to your nostril, to your cupid's bow. 

“No,” you say carefully, “it’s not what I want. I don’t like you being against me.” 

“Then what’s making you feel this way?” 

You cover your eyes with one hand. “I wanted to do this over the phone,” you say in a squeeze. 

He reaches for you but doesn’t touch. “I couldn’t let you.” 

“I just want you to be happy,” you say, so high he can barely understand you. “I’ll never be like you, Aaron. You’re so smart, and you’ve done so much. You’re a hero, and you must look so stupid with me. What do you think people say when they realise what I am?” 

“It doesn’t matter to me what they say. I know you, and they don’t.”

“What about what I think?” 

“What do you think?” 

You wipe your face roughly, eyes lit with an anger he’s unprepared for. “I told you, don’t psychoanalyse me. I don’t want to have to explain it, I just want to say what I have to say. I don’t want to be with you because you won’t be happy, and neither will I.” 

Aaron isn’t too prideful to recognise when he needs to fight for what he wants. He reaches over the table and takes your arm into his hand, picking it up, feeling down The length of it until he’s curled his hand over your smaller fingers. “We are happy,” he says softly, giving your hand a small shake. “I understand where you’re coming from. When we first met, I couldn’t have predicted that I’d be here with you now. I do wonder what people think when they ask me what you do and I tell them you’re a performer. I know we agreed to it, but there are moments where I feel like I’m being cruel to you. But just because there’s a stigma surrounding what you do, it doesn’t mean that you’re any lesser than me. You’re not less intelligent, or less accomplished. We chose different paths and I’m glad we did. If you weren’t a dancer I never would’ve met you.” 

“Do you know how it feels for me to come home to you sometimes?” you ask weakly. 

“I’d hope it feels as it does for me. Every time I see you, I’m relieved.” 

“Aaron, I get this rush of safety, like you’re– I’m finally safe. I can take care of myself, you know that, but now I have you it’s that I don’t even want to. And that’s stupid. I know that that’s stupid.” 

“What I’m thinking,” he says, soft, not as worried about being without you now as he is of the horrible way you’re feeling, “is that you’ve thought about all of this a lot. I’m glad you’ve taken time to reflect on us and your life, but I wish you’d thought more about what we both want.” 

“I want you to be happy,” you argue, as you had a few moments ago. 

“And I’m never happier than when we’re together.” He shrugs. “Love isn’t about work. Your job shapes you as mine shapes me, but you have to know that who you are is what’s important.” 

“I don’t know who I am…” 

“I know exactly who you are,” he says, rubbing a loving thumb over your knuckles. 

“I’m… I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, on the phone. I knew if I talked to you like this I’d be too much of a coward to really see it through.” 

“I see. You’ve planned my heartbreak weeks in advance.” 

You shake your head sadly. “Aaron, we’re not good for each other. You make me this awful, weak version of me, and I’m no good.” 

“We have been nothing but happy since we met.” Aaron pulls your hand up and kisses the side of your wrist. He isn’t ashamed of you. He doesn’t make you weak, you aren’t. “I don’t know how to explain it. Sometimes it feels like we’re from different worlds, but it’s not that melodramatic. You’re my partner. I love you. It’s hard not to think about what others think of us, but I know exactly what I think of you, and I know what you think of me, too.” 

You share a look. 

“I’ve never heard you talk so much,” you say, your frown fading. “I’m sorry.” 

“You haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“When I thought I couldn’t get any more embarrassing,” you mumble. 

“You aren’t embarrassing. Please, put the thought out of your head.” 

“Thought out of my head,” you repeat, still mumbling as you flex your fingers, pushing them between his and intertwining your hands. You bring them linked to your forehead and take a heavy breath. 

“Do you really want to break up?” he asks softly. 

Your breath warms his arm. “No.” 

“You can have the things you want, you know? I imagine that there are people who laugh when I tell them about you, but you have to know that their opinions would never matter to me.” He pulls his hand from your head to encourage you to meet his eyes. “No one else matters but me and you. We don’t have to factor in other people. We can just be together.” 

“I’m not worth all the fuss,” you say under your breath. 

“What, this fuss? Honey, a few weeks ago you cried in my lap because I got you that cake from the bakery. And you know what? I didn’t want you to cry, but getting to rub your back?” He chances a smile. “That made my night.” 

“You like making girls cry.” 

“Yes,” he says, trying not to grin like a fool as you stand from your chair and put yourself in front of him. He is no saint. He pulls you onto his thighs and wraps an arm around the small of your back, your legs either side of him. “That’s my goal in life, sweetheart.” His voice falls to a whisper as you hang your head against him, tip of your nose to a rough cheek. “Making you cry…” 

Your arms creep to his neck. Resting on him, rather than hugging. He doesn’t mind, he’ll do the hard work. 

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. 

“It’s okay.” He turns your face with his to press his lips to your cheek. “It’s alright, honey, bumps in the road happen with everyone.” 

“All my fault.” 

“Maybe next time, if you feel so strongly about something, you can just extend me that little bit of faith and… know that I’m here for you. Even if it did mean we wouldn’t be together, it doesn’t have to be that you’re alone, making such a big decision. Valiant,” he adds, enjoying the warmth of you seeping into his shirt, his face, his neck where your wrist is laid against it. “You’re not a coward. But I wish you wouldn’t be this brave about breaking my heart.” 

“Stop making me feel guilty.” 

His laugh is a breath against your cheek. “No, it’s fine, isn’t it? Use me and abuse me.” 

“Shut up. Stop, what is this weird guilt tripping you’re doing?” You laugh at his absurdity. “I’d never abuse you.” 

“I know. Just step on me a bit.” 

“Stop, stop,” you mumble, your voice turning slowly from self-pitying to honey, all that love for him he knew you still had like threads of gold shooting through it, “I don’t wanna step on you, I never would…” 

“Just rough me up a little.” 

“Never.” You press your face to his neck. “Thank you for not letting me do it.” 

“I won’t let you go so easily.” His hand trails up your back, feeling the softness of you beneath your t-shirt. Fat, muscle, all of it familiar, and treasured by his touching. 

He squeezes you rather tightly, then, but you don’t complain, you just sigh. 

“It’s not that you’re not who I picture for myself, like I said before,” you confess, leaning all your weight against him, barely held up by your legs either side of him. “You weren’t, but I didn’t realise that I could have you. I didn’t really know men like you existed. I should’ve known I was looking in the wrong age bracket.” 

“That’s not very nice. In my line of work they call that a feedback sandwich, honey. Something cruel between nice things to distract me.” 

“Sorry. Just had to get it in.” 

He considers your teasing a return to normalcy, guiding your head away from his with a hand to the back of your neck. “If this was a ploy to make me leave work early, consider it successful.” 

“I know your attention usually falls to other places, Mr. Hotchner–” You burst into giggles as he pinches the back of your neck, but it’s only to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your parted lips as your laughter fades away.

You scrunch his shirt in your hand and kiss him nicely. 

“Sorry,” you say. 

“Forgiven.” Even if he did almost go into cardiac arrest at his desk. “I like begging to stay. It builds character.” 

“How long will you be like this?” you ask, shaking your head slowly, your smile poorly hidden. 

You’d needed a reminder, is all. Aaron isn’t solely business and sternness, he’s an idiot, your idiot, who likes to tease you, and doesn’t care who knows that. When he’s working he’s one person, and when he’s with you, he’s another. Both have their qualities and faults, but only one version is the one he needs to be with you. 

“At my age it’s perfectly normal to have a young and beautiful wife,” he says. “You’ve seen some of the other Section’s worker’s wives.” 

“I’m not that young,” you say. 

“So you admit it?” 

You reward him with a tired sigh, cuddling into his collar. 

—

…I'll never be your beast of burden. So let's go home and draw the curtains…

Aaron’s humming from the bedroom. He knows every classic rock song to exist, every word to every Beatles song. When the chorus comes, he sings under his breath, but you can hear him regardless. “Am I rough enough, am I rich enough? I’m not too blind…” he fades off. 

The music hums under your feet. Record player open on the floor, his Some Girls vinyl on the plate. 

You press a hand down your side. 

To inspire less worry on your part, you and Aaron are trying to be more open about the other sides of your lives. His work feels alien to you, and you worry that yours is dirty to him, despite reassurance that a job is a job. You know that already, but you can’t make yourself believe that he’s as happy as he could be if you were, say, a checkout girl. 

You’d make a cute checkout girl, he’d said. 

This is cute, too. Babydoll lingerie with feather edgings, starkly white against your skin. You fluff out the ends and neaten the crotch of your panties. Nothing is on show that shouldn’t be, but it’s still lingerie. It’s meant to excite. 

“Honey,” he says, dulcet tone carrying to the bathroom, “are you stuck again?” 

You laugh. “I bet you hope so.” 

“That’s accusatory in nature.” 

“I’m coming.” You give it a last glance in the mirror and head into the bedroom. 

Aaron’s sat against your headboard, flowery pillowcases behind his head and back. He discards the little figurine he’d been playing with out of boredom and looks you up and down, corners of his lips curling. 

“Home only,” he says. 

“I knew you’d say that.” 

“You look stunning.” His eyes seem darker. All pupil. 

“I have to wear some of these at the club, Aaron, that’s why I bought them.” 

Something in your voice makes him smile. “You said I could veto the ones that are too beautiful.” 

“I said too slutty.” 

“Honey, they’re all revealing in their ways. And I don’t have a problem with it…” He takes a breath. “Much. But some of these are meant for…” 

“The man who loves me?”

“Exactly.” 

He’d said something similar about the light blue set with darker flowers, the black set that showed the curves of your chest, and especially about the pink one-piece with white ribbons. That one gave him pause. 

“Spin?” he asks. 

One day it might bother Aaron that you dance, but for now he’s gently approving. Just wants you to be happy. So you do a little spin without any attempt to be sexy and beam when he whistles. 

“Beautiful. Really, honey, that’s the nicest so far.” 

“I have a confession.” 

“Yeah?” 

“This one was for you.” 

He’d know if you were lying. “For me?” he says, in that tone bordering stern, as much of his professionalism as you’re used to hearing these days. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Don’t,” he says, seductions gone as he tips his head back into a pillow patterned with lavender and peony. “Unless you’re done trying those on, I don’t want to hear it.” 

“This is the last one.” 

“In that case.” He covers his face with a cushion. 

You look down. Your stomach is a little bloated from lunch, and you have a shaving rash on your left knee, but Aaron won’t mind. He never does. Without worry, you tread to the side of the bed and climb onto it, one leg over his lap. The last time you’d been sitting in his lap, you’d been teary-eyed and regretful. Fuck, what was I thinking? you ask yourself, slipping a hand under his rising shirt to feel his abdomen. It’ll never not be weird, the FBI man and his stripper girlfriend, but it doesn’t have to make sense to anyone but him and you. 

You ease the pillow down his face. 

“Are you blushing, Aaron?” you ask. 

“Not purposefully.” 

“You look a little… hot.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

It starts slowly. The heat of you atop him, the pillows moved out of the way. You didn’t expect him to stay unbothered as you paraded your new spoils, but his willpower is remarkable, and he only breaks when you let yourself settle on his lap. His big hand cups your face. 

“That’s funny.” You lift up enough to be in kissing range, but don’t kiss. You just wait for him to react, holding your weight off of his chest. 

He finds the small of your back and drags. Your gasp isn’t your own, a breathy, excited thing as he brings your face to his for a kiss. Your lips almost immediately part in anticipation of his eagerness, of his hand on the back of your neck, and the unflinching heat of his mouth as he turns his head. Your noses brush. He wades in deeper, his own breath already failing him as the bridges of your nose press hard. 

They aren’t rough kisses, but there’s something desperate there. He holds you to him until he can’t, ushering you onto your back, his weight bearing down sudden and steady. 

“I can’t believe I nearly lost you,” he utters, stroking your cheek, edging back in to kiss you before you can reply. 

You wrap an arm behind his back and hike your leg, soft thigh naked and waiting for his touch. You didn’t nearly lose me, you think. To be lost, you’d have to be something worth losing, and you’re not sure you are, but Aaron? 

“I don’t think you could,” you mumble, forcing him to kiss your cheek, your jaw, the line of your throat. He nips at your neck, a shudder racing through you. 

“I have no intent of letting it come that close again, sweetheart.” 

His hand dances up your side to the soft hill of your chest. 

You hold the hair from his face and let him kiss you. He’s here to stay, no matter how odd a pairing you might make. You love him. That’s all he cares about. 

“Want me to do that thing you like?” you offer softly, mildly playful. 

He laughs into your neck. “No,” he says, “I think tonight is about you, hm? You’re all dressed up. I think that deserves a reward.” 

You knew he’d like the white babydoll. 

˗ˋˏ ♡ ˎˊ˗

[soleilapproves]

Nanami is in love with his best friend who saves him from a creepy woman. Honestly, I’m not sure what the plot is. I just wrote this because I was procrastinating my chem assignment.

Notes: reader referred to as wife

main masterlist

Nanami Kento didn’t know when he fell in love with you. Maybe it was when you giggled and pulled him out of the house to jump around in the rain with you. Or was it when you fell asleep on his shoulder after a long workday?

He didn’t know that you found so much solace in him. 

His breathing was shallow as he watched you prance around your shared kitchen, singing a generic pop song about… love, was it? Or heartache. He didn’t know or care; all he knew was that you were wearing his shirt like it belonged to you- like he didn’t spend his hard-earned money to buy something for work, and you just plucked it out of the laundry room like it had your name on it.

He half expected you to be all bashful once you turned around and saw him, but no, you just pointed the whisk you used to mix your pancake batter at him and began lip-syncing the song's lyrics to him. He scoffed as he walked around the kitchen island and held on to your waist. Your singing slowed down as his grip tightened on you.

“What? You were hogging up the space in front of the coffee machine. Don’t stop on my account,” Nanami nonchalantly said as he dragged you away from the coffee station. Bewildered, you went back to singing again, facing away from him as you looked for cinnamon in the spice cabinet. 

Nanami bit the inside of his cheek as he noticed your ears looked redder than usual.

It all felt oddly domestic. Your work shoes were strewn by the door, he was comfortable with his hair being disheveled, your unapologetically tone-deaf singing, and of course, the fact that you were making breakfast for him unprompted. 

‘I could live like this forever,’ the blond thought. Of course, minus the whole best-friends-who-live-together-and-aren’t-in-a-romantic-relationship situation.

But was confessing to you a good idea? What if you both broke up and never wanted to see each other again? What would happen to your living arrangement then? He can’t handle not seeing you for a day. It would be horrible for his sanity. 

But then again, you both have been friends for so long that it only felt natural to be with each other all the time.

He ignored his heart, screaming at him to confess to you. The man was clearly too far gone; if he spent another day in your presence, he would surely go mad. In love and in vain.

He ignored his thoughts when he saw you accidentally pick up his cup and place your lips exactly where his were a few seconds ago. You scrunched your nose, and it took everything in him not to kiss it. “Dear God, this is bitter. I’m sorry, Ken, but I will never enjoy your tastes in food.” 

Ken

He could hear you say that all day, all night, and in his dreams. Fuck, weren’t you a magnetic being?

He ignored his heart while brushing his teeth later that night. He put his hand on his chest and rubbed it when he saw your toothpaste next to his. Yours was pink, and his was blue. A silly little cliche among most couples. He looked at the shower shelf in the bathroom- you used the same body wash as him because you said men’s shower gels smelled better. He simply complied and brought you a few bottles because it gave him the illusion that you had slept in his bed. 

The two of you were polar opposites. He preferred a quiet night in, while you’d take advantage of your weekends and go out with friends. You hated cooking while he cooked elaborate recipes for fun. You were very outdoorsy while he preferred to use his treadmill.

There were so many differences, but you both complemented one another so well. So much that it confused mutual friends. People often asked why you both weren't a couple instead of if you were one.

He would also ignore his heart when it thrilled him to see men walk away from you as soon as he was in your space, hands naturally sitting on your waist while you whined about being single. ‘I’m right here!’ he wanted to scream. ‘Look at me!’

But his heart reached its wits end when you pretended to be his wife to protect him from an uncomfortably touchy woman.

Nanami is a simple man; he gets excited when he hears about food. Especially when it has to do with trying new dishes. So it was only natural that he dragged you to a global food festival in the city. It was pleasantly warm in the outdoor space for a cold winter night, thanks to all the cooking going on in the stands. You were a little overstimulated by all the smells, but the excitement on Nanami’s face was well worth the temporary discomfort. By now, you both had traveled to France, Turkey, and India via flavors alone.

The bar at the food stand you both were eating was getting increasingly crowded by the second, so it was only natural that there would be some unintentional physical contact with strangers. Nanami wrapped his arm around you to prevent the old man beside you from rubbing all his nauseating cologne over you. You ignored the way your body fit right next to his. And dare you say- like a puzzle piece with the silhouette of your breasts pressing up right beneath his pecs. 

You both decided to share a bowl of spicy noodle soup, but you couldn’t handle the prickly taste of peppers on your tongue. “I’m gonna grab something sweet. You want anything?” 

Nanami missed your warmth as you climbed out of the booth’s eating bench. “I’m alright, I’ll wait for you.” 

You also needed a few minutes away from him so your body could catch a break. The rush of adrenaline you’d get when he’d touch you was unlike any other.

He didn’t touch his noodle soup in your absence. It felt tasteless to him without you pressed up next to him. 

He continued his wallowing while staring at the bowl of soup until he felt someone slide in next to him. Excited, he turned around only to be met with a stranger. “Oh my, I really want to try the spicy noodle soup, but I’m scared it’ll be too painful.” 

“I’m sure the owner can give you a sample, and this seat is taken, so I’m gonna have to ask you to move to another place.” 

The insistent woman placed her manicured hand on his bicep, and Nananmi’s posture stiffened. “Oh, come on, I’ll just take a sip from you- I mean, your bowl, and I’ll be out of your hair.” 

This was turning into sexual harassment, and he was about to pull out his sanitizer spray to put her in her place until he heard a familiar voice. “Hey, lady! Leave him alone.” He let out a breath of relief when you arrived, ice cream in hand. 

“I can do whatever I want; it’s a free country,” she sulked.

“So can he, and he asked you to leave him alone,” you argued back. 

“Who even are you?”

“His wife.” Nanami’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. By now, the people at the booth had turned towards the three of you to observe the spectacle. Before the creep could counter your answer or ask you for proof, the booth’s owner spoke up. “Hey, you buyin’ or not? I have customers waitin’ who actually wanna eat!” 

The lady quickly tucked her tail between her legs and briskly walked out of the area. Never to be seen again. “Fucking hell, some people really need to learn about consent. You okay?” Nanami wanted to reply to you, but no words came out of his mouth. 

You had basically declared to the world that you were his wife. Well, not the world, but all eight people in the booth (excluding you two) believed that you were his wife! It probably meant nothing to them, but to him it was like you had hung the stars in the sky. 

“Ken?” 

Ugh, you said it again. 

“Yeah, I’m alright.” His eyes simply couldn’t look away from your spice-swollen lips. If you’re his pretend wife, then it’s okay for him to kiss you, right? 

He mentally slapped himself at that thought. If he was going to kiss you then it was going to be the real deal.

—

Honestly, I like it when reader protects the character. Like yes, come here, my 6’4 baby girl, I’ll beat that person up for you.

[butchvampireheimerdinger]

okay hear me out…butch4butch Sevika where Sevika is a power bottom???👀 reader is taller and stronger than her but very shy and intimidated by her🙈

Pairing: Powerbottom!Sevika x gentle giant-service top! reader

Warnings: ns/fw, fingering, cunnilingus, grinding/dry humping, smoking, mentions of violence, and horny lesbian activityyyy

Word count: 3k

A/N: Love you. Love this. You have come to the right place for this one, my friend. The lack of butch4butch Sevika content is criminalll if that woman has a type it begins with D and ends in Y-K-E-S. Anyways, how appropriate is it that my first fic is butch4butch Sevika smut. Checks out. (that being said, it is my first fic so you freaks betta be NICE) Now without further ado…

You Have No Idea

By ButchVampireHeimerdinger

It was the slow ending to an eventful shift at the last drop. Customers were in good spirits all night, likely due to a sudden influx of Piltie goods some gang had rattled up through more or less honorable means and was making its way through town. In any case, the energy was contagious and it had you, the buff and generally even-tempered server/bouncer, doing things you didn’t normally do. Like drink on the job — just a beer you had been nursing for over forty minutes — and fraternize with patrons. Y’know, other than the obligatory how are you, do you wanna pay out now or open a tab. Real actual conversations -- which led you to number three on the list of Things You Don’t Normally Do; you were hunched over the bar playing Texas Hold ‘Em with three regulars. Two were men, you didn’t remember their names, but they always came to the bar at about this time. A package deal — they snickered in your direction as a nearby shady-looking customer walked out on his tab.

“Hey, isn’t that your cue, tough guy?” The man gave you a patronizing sort of eyebrow raise as he dealt the next round.

Technically, it was. You got hired pretty much on account of your physique — you were 6’3” and a tank, always had been. Broad shoulders, biggest girl on the playground growing up, you gained muscle at the drop of a hat. You didn’t even try. But it was all for show. You were more of a lover than a fighter. Sometime in the first few months of the job the staff discovered you were better equipped to work inside the bar. Customers liked you because you were polite, a breath of fresh air from the culture of animosity that permeated the undercity. Still, it didn’t help your ego in situations like this. ”Hey, you don’t know what she’s got under her sleeve.” The third voice at the table spoke up. The right hand of Zaun. Sevika.

She had been a regular since before you started and probably would be long after. You had heard some pretty nasty stories about her and the things she was capable of. But when she came up to your counter for a drink, she came without malintent, always respectful to the waitstaff. It was disarming. Tonight, especially, your eyes lingered over her toned shoulders and sharp collarbones.You wanted to run your hands over them, to see how her body would react. And maybe it was the house IPA you had been drinking, but probably not.

Sevika gestured toward your dwindling pile of poker chips with her chin as she looked down, analyzing her hand. “Clearly, she must be the type to play the long game.” This earned her another light fit of snickers from bar idiots one and two, but they were easily impressed. You rolled your eyes.

Sevika raised two chips. The table matched. She spoke again.

“So, tough guy, do those arms of yours get you any female attention? Since you’re obviously not using them for any other tactile purpose,” her eyes traveled to the empty seat where the tab-skipper had been sitting.

You shrugged, suddenly warm and very aware of your body and not sure where to rest your gaze. “I get around.”

For some reason, tweedles dum and dee found this hilarious, and howls of laughter followed. You slapped your hand over your heart and feigned a look of deep hurt, to mask the bit of real hurt you were feeling. Yeah, it had been a while, but surely not long enough to warrant that response.

“Is it that implausible?”

Sevika chuckled and shook her head, but her expression was good-natured.

“Just make your move, Casanova.”

You had a full house. Three aces. Two kings. You matched, and didn’t raise.

Sevika raised, the men matched, and you folded.

The table revealed their hands and Sevika won the pile with a straight. Not a bad hand, but the round would’ve been yours if you had taken the risk. Sevika clicked her tongue, scolding you, which made your palms sweat. You averted her gaze and became suddenly interested in wiping down the bar.

Following your pitiful defeat, the two guys payed out, leaving the bar empty save for you, Sevika, and a couple stragglers who always stayed until morning and probably didn’t have anywhere else to spend the night. To your surprise, the woman beckoned you over once more. Something in your heart lifted. Something in your pants dropped.

“Blackjack?” She pushed the cards toward you, and her dominant sort of gaze made you feel, once again, compelled to do what she asked.

You won the first few rounds. Sevika was risky to a fault. If it wasn’t 21 exactly, trust she would draw. And she always made you the dealer, watching your hands intently, hungrily, even, as you shuffled. The third round was a tie, but she didn’t have anything left to raise.

“Tell you what,” she said. “You win this round and I’ll spread it around that I walked out on my tab, and you chased me down and kicked my ass for it. Should prevent other situations like our friend earlier, at least for a while.”

“Are my bouncer abilities really that pathetic?” You picked at the side of your nails. Sevika’s gaze pierced through you and you found it difficult to meet her eyes. But you didn’t necessarily hate the way her eyes took you in. Slowly and deliberately, like you were a battle map and she was trying to parse out her strategy.

“And if you win?” You looked up, all innocent. Maybe you imagined it, but your doe eyes seemed to rile her up a little bit. Something in the way her jaw shifted, the way she rubbed her flesh palm on her pants.

“Already planning for defeat? See, this is exactly your problem. You’re talking through a universe where you lose before we’ve even started.” She shoved her pile towards you again.

“Deal ‘em.” She commanded, you obliged.

“I’m serious! I just wanna know what I’m agreeing to. Fools rush in, and all that.” Your voice made everything sound like a question. With her, it was. Sevika was hard to figure out.

“You’re cute. If I win, I want…” The woman took a hit of the blunt she was holding and used it to gesture, her movements creating little loops of smoke that rose and dissipated. Her eyes followed them, and not you. For once.

“I want an hour. With you. N’ those arms.” You jerked while shuffling, accidentally knocking over your beer in your surprise. You picked it up quickly, hoping she didn’t notice.

“You serious?”

“Deadly. Fuck me up, Casanova.”

She won. Wasn’t even close. Three sevens, if you could believe it. As soon as you slapped the last seven down, you both shot up from the counter at light speed and she followed you to the back.

“A little eager, aren’t we?” Her voice was low and husky, but with a little something else.

“Sore winner,” was all you could think to respond. You shoved her lightly. She shoved you harder with her prosthetic arm. The two of you kept at it, pushing and shoving back and forth as you practically raced to The Last Drop’s back office. Play-fighting, like you were “one of the boys,” but it had a bit of a bite to it. Like you wanted to eat each other alive.

The office was hardly used except for the rare moments when staff wanted to crunch numbers. Or, of course, engage in extra-professional affairs like this one. That couch had seen some things. You fiddled with the key for what was apparently a moment too long.

“I’m getting bored out here, Casanova.” You looked into Sevika’s eyes through her thick brows, a couple inches below yours. You slammed your shoulder into the door and it gave way immediately, with a satisfying bang as it swung open. Sevika followed, grabbing you by the shirt as she brought your lips down to hers, hard, and kicked the door shut behind her without looking.

She dragged you toward her, her back pressed against the peeling drywall. Her tongue dragged against your bottom lip and something deep in your pelvis vibrated in anticipation. One of your hands reached up to the wall, to keep you both steady. Sevika grabbed your other hand and guided it under her tank top. You squeezed her breast, tracing over her nipple with your thumb. Your bodies pressed together and you brought your knee in between hers, rolling your hips forward and pressing your leg into her crotch. She moaned into your mouth. Like her voice, it was deep and gravelly.

You set a pace. Her hips seemed to agree with it, bucking upwards to get that friction where she needed it most. Her hands gripped your waist and hips as she started to manhandle you, making you move faster against her. Your kissing was frantic and sloppy, like there was anger behind it. Your lips shined with her spit, and you moved to kiss up and down her neck. She reacted with a throaty panting noise when you got to a sensitive spot — a fleshy and soft area where her jaw met with her neck. You twisted your head to the side and downward to get better access, to fully exploit that weakness. Without fully thinking through your actions, your sucking collapsed into biting. You drove your teeth into her neck and Sevika’s jaw shot upward as her panting became gasping. She grabbed the back of your head and pushed it harder against her neck to say what she couldn’t; more, more, more.

Your hands fumbled with her belt and she noticeably did not help you with it. It was like she got a kick out of watching you struggle. You finally got them unzipped and you reached under to start palming her through her boyshorts. She had already soaked through. Good.

You pulled away to look down at her again while tugging lightly at her waistband. You raised your eyebrows to ask, May I? Chin still tilted upward, she nodded, huffed out a “yuh” sort of noise, and hooked her leg around the back of yours to bring your chests closer, all rough.

You pulled down the panties and your fingers dipped into her folds. Sevika’s eyebrows knitted even closer together, if that was possible. You continued sucking and working that spot on her neck. Her lips were against your ear and you heard her panting grow more desperate, more melodic; whines and vocalizations mixed with the gruff and grainy rhythmic in-and-out of her breaths.

Your middle and ring finger sort of skated all around her entrance, just barely avoiding her swollen clit. You took in the sight — Sevika’s heaving chest, her eyes closed as she chased the pleasure you were giving her. Her moans grew to something not exactly desperate, that wasn’t like her, but deranged and shameless. She panted like she was breathing fire. And like she didn’t care if all of The Last Drop could hear her, even though they probably couldn’t.

The pulse of her hips grew a little more erratic and she shifted her legs like she was ready to switch positions. You gestured subtly with your head toward the couch, and she dragged you toward it.

The woman collapsed on it and rested her arms outward, elbows relaxed on top like it was a throne. She leaned as far back as she could as you helped work her pants and boyshorts all the way down until they dropped to her ankles. She pulled her shirt off with both hands, pulling it up and over from the back of the neckline. She threw the tank top to the side and all of the air left your lungs, as you took in the sight of her upper body. Where you were buff, she was cut. Unlike you, Sevika didn’t have the type of figure that was imposing simply by nature — her physique came from blood, sweat, and tears. She had the body of a bruiser, of someone who spent their life fighting. The Sevika before you made you realize why some of the patrons kept their distance. But it somehow made you want to get closer. It made you want to please her, and to be good at it.

Sevika had a manspread going and you dropped to your knees in front of her. But she wasn’t having that — not yet. With her flesh hand she grabbed you by the throat and dragged you up to her lips for another messy kiss. Your teeth clashed together and when your tongues made contact, you felt those butterflies low in your pelvis. You moaned into her mouth instinctively, and it came out higher and breathier than you expected. You felt her lips form a slight smile against yours and she released her hold on your neck, making you drop down to your knees. You were certain the impact must have shook the entire city block.

Breathing heavy, you went to start kissing and sucking at her inner thigh, but she tilted your chin upward to look at her. Breathless, she commanded,

“Take your shirt off for me, Casanova. I wanna see those arms while you… Yeah.”

You fought the smile forming and stripped for her. You took off your tank top and sports bra the same way she had — in one fluid motion, from the back. You were caught between a sudden wave of self consciousness and the urge to draw it out, to put on a show for her. You settled at maintaining eye contact as you subtly flexed for her, and placed your broad hands on her knees. Sevika smiled, all smug as she reached over to a nearby discarded vest, brought out the rest of her blunt, and lit up as her eyes poured over your exposed upper body. She inhaled deep using her metal arm, and with her flesh hand she traced over your biceps, satisfied.

All confident, you started on her inner thighs, taking your time. When your lips finally connected with her wet cunt, you heard her make a sharp exhale through her teeth. You kept going, first going over it all with a flat tongue, drinking in the moment, then using your tongue to explore her folds. Sevika let out a satisfied hum as you started sucking at her swollen, neglected clit.

That was when you brought your fingers up to her entrance, casually tracing, nothing else. That pissed her off.

Sevika slapped the top of the couch to get your attention. Your eyes snapped up to hers as she leaned forward to get all up in your face, with her signature sneer on.

“Did someone pay you to waste my time?”

You froze.

“That wasn’t rhetorical, I’m seriously asking you if some outside party with an interest in distracting me paid you to bring me here and do absolutely nothing with me.” You raised your eyebrows, eyes all wide and innocent. That made her groan, and she covered her face with one hand, your puppy eyes making her feel horny and desperate and a little guilty about snapping at you.

“Just. Fuck. Me.” She collapsed backward and you didn’t respond, just immediately did what she asked. You pushed your two fingers inside her without warning — hard. Again she exhaled through her teeth.

With your mouth, you continued giving her clit attention, and you pushed in and out of her, fingertips maintaining contact with her front wall, the one closest to you.

The sounds she made were pornographic, and it made you aware of the pool of slick that had established itself in the crotch of your boxers. Listening to her body, you gradually picked up the pace and you found Sevikas hand weave through your hair, grabbing you roughly at the scalp and pressing you closer and closer still.

Her face was angled toward the sky as she whined, her metal hand gripping the cushion tight enough to create what was probably going to be permanent ripples in the fabric. You brought her closer and closer and her grip on your head tightened as she bucked her hips upward, essentially fucking herself on your tongue and fingers. She occasionally let out a depraved vocalization that a trained ear might recognize as “fuck,” “don’t stop,” and “faster-FUCK faster.”

Until the pulse inside her cunt became erratic, and you felt a familiar tremor in her legs. You didn’t let up. You started fucking her deeper, with more pressure, using your tongue to play with her clit faster. Sevika’s thighs involuntarily snapped up to trap your head and you brought your hands up to brace them. Your tongue still moving as she cried out, loud and animalistic as she rode out her orgasm. Her thighs held you so tight against her pussy that you couldn’t escape if you tried, and the strength would probably have suffocated someone more petite.

Eventually, Sevika’s cries retreated back into deep panting and her legs dropped back to the floor, still trembling and spasming. She looked down at you, eyes half lidded, and gave you what could have been interpreted as a smile. She spread her arms back out on the top edge of the couch cushions, somehow still holding the half-smoked blunt. You shook your hair and a bit of ash fell out, which made you giggle. You were so invested in fucking her, you hadn’t noticed the active fire hazard against your skin the whole time.

With her chin, the woman gestured to the spot on the couch next to her. You settled in, your sides touching and your head leaning back against where her bicep was resting. She wrapped that arm around to bring the blunt to your lips.

“You can finish it, I don’t like the roach,” she said, and you obliged. You took a deep hit from her fingers and the last fiery bits assaulted your lungs, but you liked it. Sevika ashed it out on the couch, as if you hadn’t already desecrated it enough. You settled into a comfortable silence and she allowed you to lean your head on her pec, still uncovered. Until she spoke up.

“Promise me something, Casanova.” Her voice hoarse and gravelly from the earlier activities.

“Mm?” you responded. She wrapped her arm around you to reach up and ruffle your hair.

“Promise me you’ll never get good at cards.” You sucked your teeth and sneered back at her, giving her a hefty shove, which she gladly returned with equal force.

[limeade-l3sbian]

Im sure you have noticed many radfems talk of how men will use their spouse/partner as basically a second mother, having her do all the chores, the emotional labour, the organisation, etc. And I agree with this take.

But can we talk about how a lot of women, especially trad adjacent ones, also see their male partner as almost a parental figure. The amount of times i’ve seen women use different versions of “I just want a man that can think for me” is too many to count at this point. And it’s common. It’s seen in so much romance media, where the man takes control of everything, all the big decisions. It’s become a whole trope in heterosexual romance books and stories, of a rich man with control issues who sweeps some woman off her feet and makes it so she basically just disappears in his embrace.

This is gonna sound super harsh, but please know it isn’t meant as a critique of them as much as something i’ve noticed. I really do believe a lot of women who crave old school gender roles are very lazy, “useless”(to themselves) people who don’t want to amount to anything in life. The idea of struggle and hardship, heck, even just working TOWARDS something, it scares them so much they would rather be shapeless blobs controlled by someone else. That’s why they fetishize that traditional life style for women. Obviously WE know the women of that time and current time too in those types of homes aren’t just sitting around all day doing nothing, but I really do think a lot of women use it as an escapism fantasy from life.

The way a lot of them describe their sexual fantasies is similar, it’s always what is done to them, like they aren’t actually active participants, like they don’t actually have to make any choices.

I think the reason a lot of men crave a parental figure partner vs the reason a lot of women crave one is very different but they seem to be extremely common nonetheless. And with women I also know it’s a very complex issue of both society telling us our worth, the fact that women nowadays even as the more educated demographic STILL do more housework and emotional labour in relationships, capitalism being horrifyingly exhausting to live under, I could go on. But the point is, I think certain women crave a life of no consequences so that whole “i’m just a girl” and “he thinks for me, he makes the choices” mentality thats unfortunately had a huge uptick in popularity in recent years, I do think it’s women craving a parental figure as a partner. Not to say it’s anything linked to incest, i’m not trying to make freudian connections here, but I think the role of a parent is to take responsibility for the child and they crave that floating consequence free existence of a child.

I dunno, is what I’m saying completely deranged? Let me know.

Anon, I'm gonna try to be respectful and hold your hand when I say this... YOU'RE RIGHT! Thought I was gonna get condescending on your ass, huh? 😎🤪

Firstly, don't undercut your words with "I dunno." You made a completely logical point and casually explained yourself so eloquently I wouldn't be surprised if English wasn't your first language.

Secondly! I have seen this too! This weird, "take care of me" emphasis from both sides of the camp. Is it laziness? I wouldn't cast that aside for a second. But I think it's also this strange reaction to the present world. At least in the U.S., the economy is shit and people kind of already know that shit is just going to be hard, no matter what. And as humans, we have a weird tendency to swing the pendulum completely to the left or the right. So our reaction to very real, economic hardship that requires frequent "grinding" is to desire a complete release of the wheel, and to have someone else handle the hard stuff.

For some reason, according to social media, you either need to be grindset girl boss or a trad trophy wife which is...yeah. But I don't doubt your point being more of a reason for this. It's bizarre, and you're not crazy.

[lambsouvlaki]

Taste

She liked to run. Ghost liked to chase. From the outside they both looked like ravenous animals. (the start of a Ghost/f!oc/Price fic I have no idea if I'm continuing) Word count: 1088

Sunlight drained from the sky like bourbon from a glass. The last dregs of amber light lingered in the corners, lined the clouds, and faded from the pockmarked walls of the compound.  

Ghost stamped out his cigarette.

He stood on a narrow balcony, in the shadow of a windowless wall, with a good view of the rocky surroundings. Transport back to base was hours away, but they weren’t on alert, the mission was done. Cock-ups be damned. He rolled his mask back down over his mouth.

The door behind him opened with a shriek of unoiled hinges, followed by footfalls his mind automatically identified as Price, approaching him on the balcony. He turned his head.

Price was tense. Ghost straightened, immediately alert. Were they wading back into the mess after all? 

“Ghost.”

“Boss.”

Price pulled a phone out of a pocket, his other hand tucking into the straps of his tac vest. He opened what looked like cheap security footage and angled the phone for Ghost to see. 

“Tell me what I’m looking at.” 

A black and white clip played, with blurry date and time markers in the corner. It showed a nondescript patio with a table and chairs and a sliding glass door leading into a dark house. Ghost didn’t recognise the location until he saw a tall man in dark clothes and a balaclava cross the patio, pick the lock, and enter. Less than five seconds later he came back with a struggling woman thrown over his shoulders. She had a bag over her head and one of her shoes missing. The two figures disappeared back the way he came. 

Ghost watched without reaction. 

The video ended. Price was watching him with his face locked down, eyes narrowed and lips thin. He was deciding whether he was going to explode or let himself get talked out of it.

They had been through more together than he cared to remember. He knew that expression very well. Just as well as Price knew the man in the footage could only be Ghost. 

Price’s face darkened. His fingers tightened in his vest and he lowered the phone. Rage was winning out. When it won, things would break. 

Ghost pulled out his own phone out of a pocket.

“Simon,” Price growled. 

“I’m answering yer question.”  

He pressed call, and it rang. The other end picked up. 

“Simon?” a woman said, thin and quiet through the phone’s speakers. She sounded groggy, probably the middle of the night for her. 

Price’s eyebrows pulled together. 

“Do you remember Seattle?”

“Mmm, of course I remember Seattle,” she said, her voice turning warm in a way he can’t focus on right now. 

“Was I too rough, pet?”

“...What?”

“I watched the footage back and it doesn’t look like I was very nice to you,” Ghost grunted. “Breaking into your house and hauling you off.” 

There was a long silence. 

“Simon, you start being nice to me and I’m never sucking your dick ever again.”

“Good girl.”

“...Are you going to send me that footage?”

“No.” He hung up. 

Price looked so tired of his shit. 

“Anything else, sir?” Ghost drawled. 

“You’re a sick man, Simon.”

“Yes sir,” he said, and straightened his jacket.

Price shook his head, carefully folding the burning anger away for the next time he needed it. Good. Ghost was unsettled having it directed at him. Price sighed, and some of the tense energy melted from his shoulders. Not all. 

 “Where’d you get the footage?” 

“Laswell.”  

“Anyone else seen it?”

“She brought it to me instead of escalating.” Price pulled out a cigar and made a show of examining the end. “I’ll just get that wiped for you, shall I?” 

Ghost crossed his arms and grunted. 

“Don’t suppose you need the spiel about bringing the corps into disrepute, do you, Lieutenant?” Price said, as he sliced the cap off of the cigar and slowly lit the end. His beady eyes watched Ghost in the growing dark. He wasn’t above a little needling and the glint of the flame in his eyes said he was taking his due.

“No sir,” Ghost said, resigned. 

“Maybe due for a refresher course on covert operations. Staying out of sight, checking your surroundings. Locating cameras.” He puffed out the first draw of smoke. “The basics.” 

Ghost eyeballed him. He knew damn well Price could barely see him in the dark corner he had claimed, but that didn’t stop the annoying as shit look on his face as he peered vaguely at where his head was. 

“If you say so, Captain. I’ll head back to Hereford and you can handle the next one without me.” 

Price chortled. “I should’ve known you’d found yourself a sweet little something. You’re much too chipper.”

“I’m always a barrel of laughs,” Ghost rumbled. 

Price snorted. He looked out over the balcony. The desert gave up very little in the day and even less at night. The shadows of rocks and scrub merged into a single blanket darkness. The empty sky reflected the lost light from over the horizon. Smoke curled into the air. Ghost resisted the urge to light another cigarette. 

They didn’t talk about the blood-splattered trail behind them. 

He had no idea if it was worth it. The politics changed on them and it looked an awful lot like they carved their way through hell for no other prize than having survived it. It weighed on them both, but the bulk rested on Price’s shoulder’s. He needed to believe he was doing right, whatever ‘right’ meant. Most days it meant keeping his boys alive and bringing them all home. Ghost, Simon, he just needed to know where he stood. Who was his. 

It was why he followed him. For so long, Price was the only one in Simon’s corner. 

Strange how things change. 

“She good for you?” Price asked, looking down at the glow of the cigar’s end. 

“Fucking amazing,” Ghost admitted. Then, after a long thoughtful pause, “You’d like her.”

“Oh?”

“Mm. She’d hate you.”

Price stopped halfway through a drag, a disgruntled twitch of his moustache. “Why?” 

“She’s got taste.”

He barked a laugh. Ghost’s lip threatened to smile beneath his mask. She’d laugh at that too. 

“I’ve seen video evidence that that’s not true.”

“Hm.”

Ghost turned over the idea. He observed the cantankerous old bastard. He was barely four years older than Simon, and just as possessive, with just as little to hold onto at the end of the day. 

“Want to find out? Ghost asked. 

[yannaryartside]

On Fak and Claire

I really need someone to help me understand why the scene where Fak talks to Claire in the hospital feels so gross. Not just cringey or anoying, but plain gross.

Like, gut twisting gross. Female instinct activated gross.

Some people clicked the idea of “Fak living trough Carmy to having a relationship with Claire”

For the longest time I tough Faks obsesión with Claire was a mommy issues thing, (the same with Richie even, these people grow up which such lack of nurture that they will pray for a woman that wants to nurse them as baby’s) the way Fak practically begs Nat to mother him and delivers some (sometimes) cringe worthy clingy behavior.

But recently I watched the hospital scene and the way he delivers some lines is so fucking gross…

“He will take care of you” “he will hug you more” this man was straight up projecting.

Also when he said carmy called her “peace” after they themselves early thought Carmy could only be complimenting Claire by calling her “a piece of ass” it felt like those guys that try to have more game or just straight up don’t care about the attributes of a woman that don’t serve them, but when they her something that they think woman like to hear, they repeat it to gain points.

And then he asks about Claire friends who are also doctors. This was the nail on the coffin for me.

Like he either really wants to fuck Claire and has to conform with the best “lookalike” /living trough someone else what he imagines being with Claire feels like. Or he just wants someone to mother him, diaper him and also fuck him. Which is a problem many men have. They want a mommy they can fuck.

Overall deeply gross, but I doubt they will call it by what it is in the show because Matty is a producer and they cannot give him an actual flawed character that needs to grow, specifically with such a masculinity related problem

[astoldbyaja]

Late Nights Playing in the Dark

“I- I need to empty myself inside you, mein liebling.”

Konig X Black plus size female OC

Authors notes

And no I’m not trying to hear your opinion or views on what weight size is considered plus size to you! Keep it to yourself and enjoy the smut!

I am 5’7 rocking a 260-pound body that I was in love with. My face is bomb, my ass is fat, my bust is gorgeous, and I love my stomach and don’t get me started on thighs. Before I was in the military, I would walk around my house naked because I just enjoyed walking past every mirror in my home!

My body was heavily worshiped by my past lovers, not to mention there was much more of me to go around that my men just enjoyed. Those were good times, before I offered my service as a medic to KorTac. I got a long with pretty much everyone who came to my sick bay to be cared for…

So, you can imagine my surprise when Austrian operator Konig, had his thick muscular arms around my thighs carrying me to his barracks, like I didn’t weigh a thing.

“KONIG STOP IT! LET ME GO!” I said pounding on his heavy shoulders which did nothing to stop him. This man I have treated many times, he was built like a tank, arms covered in tattoos, yet he never removed his sniper hood. I knew he had severe anxiety, so I figured it brought him comfort. I was trying to figure out how it came to this, being brought into his large room and just placed onto his bed with a bounce.

It was late and I was checking a wound on his arm to ensure it healed properly and when I gave the “all clear”, he stood over me like a shadow, hoisted me up in his arms and just began to leave with me, without saying a word! Just like that. Konig was in a black tight shirt and his uniform pants. Konig looked down at me with heavy blue eyes.

“Naevia… I need you.” he said huskily, and I was almost confused before he began to unbuckle his pants and I gasped and covered my face, my fear rising in me. “I- I need to empty myself inside you, mein liebling.”

I squeaked at his words peeking through my fingers to see his cock standing at attention. My eyes widened. Oh, good lord he’s hung!

“Konig I-I don’t think I’m the right woman for you!” I said. For the first time, my confidence in my body was shot, mixed with fear of this giant of a man who had already removed his shirt revealing his muscular torso. He tilted his head.

“Why… would you say such a thing?” he asked as if offended. I finally lowered my hands and looked at his body and then looked at my body.

“I mean surely you’d want a woman who is smaller and well-built or something right?” I asked. I’ve personally never seen Konig around any women, but well-built men usually always wanted well-built petite women, or so I thought. He blinked down at me for a moment before leaning over and with one firm yank, he just slid my scrubs upward. I yelped as my legs were forced in the air as my pants slid right down my soft plushy thighs.

He even managed to take my Skechers off in the process!

“KONIG!” I yelped in shock. His hooded face was suddenly buried in my left thigh nuzzling it gently.

“Mein liebe, you have no idea how long I have waited to feel your soft skin against my face. Your body is perfect, you are perfect. Your thighs are so gorgeous, the way I want them to lock around my head and squeeze me so good!” He swoons, his gloved hands gently yet firmly holding my thighs in place. My eyes just watch in both horror and mild fascination at how much he was nuzzling my skin. I notice he leans into my inner thigh and press the space where his mouth is against my skin. He slowly reaches over to pull his mask up, but only enough for me to see his strong jaw as he kisses at my skin. “You smell amazing Naevia… you always do.”

I whimpered as his kisses begin to move up my body and I swallowed nervously as I felt him growl into my flesh. I shook my head snapping out of it as I try to scoot back some so, I could close my legs. I have been on my feet all day there is no way I smelled good down there!

“Konig, stop it’s dirty!” I say only for him to grab me and pull me back, burying his mask right into the center of my panties. I yelp as he inhales my scent, his eyes fluttering close for a moment.

“My darling, Naevia you could never be dirty.” he swoons, his eyes opening and looking at me with such… devotion. If eyes could show hearts in them, Konig’s would be pulsing. “Please Naevia… let me have you. Let me worship your body. I need it.”

I bit my lip looking at the top of his perfectly sculpted ass noticing he was rutting desperately into the bed right now. My heart was pounding hard in my chest, but I couldn’t deny the curiosity of how this moment would go with someone like Konig.

I’ve always heard this man was a monster on the battlefield, a killing machine who lived for the kill, and now here he is basically rubbing his cheeks against my thighs begging to have me. Fuck it.

“Okay… b-but shouldn’t I at least shower first- aaah~”

My words were cut off by his thick done moving up and down my folds through my panties. It felt weird at first, foreign almost, my body not aware of what was going on.

“No- need you… just like this.” he muttered into my pussy as he kept licking. The satin fabric of my panties mixed with his tongue had my folds tingling a bit due to the soft friction of the panties being touched. I shuddered feeling my vaginal walls starting to come to life. My chest begins to move up and down as I can hear him grumbling and growling into my pussy sending vibrations into me.

“Aah…” I moan as I feel his fingers finally pull my panties out of the way before feeling his tongue against my now wet folds. My toes began to curl as it didn’t take long for my body to respond. Konig begins to remove his gloves setting them on the ground so he can grip my thighs more, his fingers gently running along them after a moment.

“You taste amazing mein schatz.” Konig grumbles as his tongue begins to dip past my wet folds burying deeper inside, exploring my velvet walls. I can feel said walls begin to clench around the intruder. I notice his hands start to spread my thighs further apart, as he climbs further onto the bed, yet his mouth never leaves my drenched pussy.

Moans were falling from my lips as I feel his lips now move to suck on my sensitive clit. My toes curl immediately at the sensations, and I grip the bed sheets hard feeling heavy currents of pleasure beginning to move up into my body. My hips try and roll against his face, but he holds them down into the bed.

“Don’t worry, my liebe, I’ll take care of you.” he said, his dark eyes looking at me as if commanding me to keep still. My body is quivering still as he brings his attention back to my clit, flicking and teasing me now swollen pearl. My entire body was feeling warm and tingly all over. I feel two thick fingers prod at my soaked entrance before slowly pushing in, my walls automatically clenching up.

I gasped at the feel, his fingers curling lightly as he enters me. My eyes see stars as he started moving his fingers in and out, teasingly slow all the while his tongue continues to work my clit, sucking on it fast and hard. My cries grow louder, and I didn’t care about being quiet. I’ve always been told my moans sounded orgasmic, and I wanted to know if Konig would agree.

He growls out lowly as my moans continue, his fingers increasing in speed. My lower half was quivering from the stomach clenching pleasure I was feeling. I did not foresee my day going like this, but my god I didn't care. He felt so good inside me and it was making my body crave more of him.

“Ah Konig!” I moan his name. This only got his fingers moving faster and deeper inside me, hell bent to find my sweet spot, and when he does, I see white. My body bucks just a bit at the intense tingling sensations that were washing over me in waves. My walls were clenching faster and tighter, and my juices were pouring onto his fingers as his tongue continued to attack my clit.

“Keep showing me how good I make you, Naevia. I won’t stop until you cum at least four times.” Konig commands aggressively as his fingers curl inside me. Now the sparks of pleasure are attacking my pussy in heavy jolts, and I’m crying out harder and louder, desperate for him to keep going. My thighs lock around his head and he snarls happily at this response.

“Oh my god! Just like that, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum!” I chant as his fingers keep working me over, my hot juices are pouring out faster than I can stop it.

“Give it to me, mein Schatz!” he commands abusing that sweet spot now. I moan out hard as I feel me cum squirting out all over his fingers and face. My body shakes violently as I scream out in total bliss. My pussy gushes a bit more and I’m shuddering heavily. I’ve never done that before and it feels amazing.

“Braves mädchen…” he says lowly standing up on his knees before me. I have another clear picture of his body, his cock twitching almost angrily now, his balls tight. “Now… this is what’s going to happen next… I am going to remove the rest of your clothes and worship the rest of your body… I am going to suck those pretty nipples of yours until you cum from it- that will be your second orgasm… then I am going to eat that tight ass of yours until you come a third time… and finally… I am going to fuck you so deep in your pretty pink pussy until your womb is overflowing with my cum and then I will allow you to come a forth time.”

His tone was dark and heavy, and leaving no room for argument. This was not a suggestion this was a full-on command. There would be no democratic discussions on how this would go; this was going to be a dictatorship on my pussy that he was going to conquer and claim.

“Okay…” I said weakly and his eyes showed me that he was pleased, and he was smirking as he leaned over my body, his face closing in on mine as he raises his sniper hood just enough for his lips to hover over mine.

“Braves mädchen.” he says huskily before capturing my lips in a dominate kiss.

Taglist

@poohkie90

@patienceunique (only because you replied to my question about this yesterday lol if you want to be taken off I will do so xD)

@gremlinmodetweeker

@marley-suguru4143

@cyaniderainfall

[jainydoe]

Metastable; Chapter 1

When it started, he told himself it was something irrelevant - that squirming in his gut and need to straighten his vest, smooth his hair, feel if his face was really getting hot or it was a trick of the senses.

This whole thing was a bug to be squashed. A burnt dinner you ate anyway and hoped you forgot about in the morning. Her glances were an accident. She wasn’t taking an inventory of his features the way he did hers. Those weren’t the kind of words he should take seriously. Her comments on his jewels or his impressive use of language. Each time she’d look up at him through her lashes, ghost of a smile on her lips and a quick remark about his intellect, his looks, how very capable he was and what a brilliant idea it was to bring him along, she should kiss Bellara for being such a good scout - he really was such a dashing asset - he’d feel that voltage in his chest saying do it. 

Ask her to dinner. 

Buy her some jewelry. 

Tell her how dashing she’d look in Nevarran robes. 

With a Nevarran date. 

In his Nevarran sheets. 

Then, of course, reality would whack his thoughts away with a ruler and cruel grin. 

You published your first paper before she was a thought in her mommy’s belly. 

He quickly ushers her out of his quarters so he can grip the balcony railing and will himself to hold down his lunch. He reminds himself to ask Lucanis about how he keeps Spite at bay. He’ll be sure it comes across casual. Purely academic. That’s all he is, anyway. A brain for hire. Years of practice in the type of classical restraint that comes so naturally nowadays will work on the likes of Lucanis. It held up with the Dalish boy years ago, too. And that woman from Orlais. And the bartender from that place after that thing a while back. Maybe it’s because Rook can dismantle him so easily that terrifies him as much as it intoxicates. A girl with a puzzle she’s solving too fast, expectant eyes soon to be following. Was that all? 

He tells himself getting to know the rest of their quilt-together cohort will distract from the certain doom of Captain Rook, Daring Young Adventurer. Stronger. More capable. More dashing of an asset. Bellara is a fine way to achieve this. So many questions. So eager. So curious. Time flies when they dissect their studies. She reminds him of a younger version of himself, back before things got easier. He’s not here to make friends, exactly, and after meeting everyone, it’s not something he banks on succeeding in, but she’s a decent partner for lengthy discussion. The sun is on their shoulders one afternoon, papers scattered on a bench outside, and after they’ve exhausted themselves over rhetoric, he watches as Bellara’s eyes follow after their fearless leader. She sighs. 

“Isn’t Rook just so,” she trails off. 

“She is,” he answers. 

Yes, he sees himself in her. Curious and eager. Hungry. A dreamer, cursed. They don’t realize minutes go by in silence until Rook casts a glance their way, eyes darting between the two before a smile unlike one he’s seen before melts and simmers onto her expression. It’s hard. Acidic. The kind reserved for enemies before battle. It runs a shiver down his scalp and settles in his hands. They continue their discussion on summoning spirits and ignore each other’s shaken breath. 

The next morning, Rook doesn’t invite him on the mission and it’s an embarrassment. He’s become accustomed to their routine. Expectant. It’s a strange type of pride he holds close to the vest. He knows it’s because he’s older, wiser, more practiced than the rest of their crew. 

But isn’t that a bad thing, old man? 

He still hasn’t asked Lucanis about Spite. Damnit. Serves him right. He stands at the breakfast table, patting his mouth free of crumbs and making his way to change into his gear when Rook shouts, “Neve, Lucanis, we’re heading out to Tevinter.” 

He’s embarrassed by how fast he turns to stare. It’s embarrassing the way his mouth opens, as if to protest, before quickly shutting and his hands beginning to flex. 

It should be strange for you to come along, at all, reason whispers. You’re a brain for hire, remember? Sometimes, Rook doesn’t wanna carry the team all on her graceful shoulders. You should know. Dead Weight Walking. 

Even Neve looks confused, but steels her expression and nods. He sees the ways hers and Lucanis’ eyes meet, then depart, then meet again, cheeks growing redder by the second. They’ll make a handsome couple. An appropriate couple. He feels a boiling behind his eyes at how easy it must be for him. To just ask. To smile at Neve. To offer her sweets and them both understand it’s a prelude. When he gets back to his quarters, he rips open his desk drawer and rummages for the gold case of Rivaini cigarettes he’d managed to stave off for long enough he couldn’t remember. For someone so petrified of death, it was funny how instantly he itched for a smoke at times like this. He decides he won’t draw comparisons between the cigarettes and Rook. She’s not an addiction. She’s not death. She’s not something to hide in a drawer. He paces out his room, through the den, out onto the balcony to get some last few seconds of fresh air. As he closes his eyes, breeze kissing the back of his neck and hips leaned against the railing, his mind billows over to a girl - bloody, victorious, fire in her gaze as she looms over her latest triumph - and he feels himself get hard. It’s harder to ignore when he hears her laughter below. 

He looks down at the quad, quickly finding a rare smile on brave Davrin’s face, and next to him, a giggling Rook. They’re going inside to the library. Perhaps to her room. Maybe they’ll swap horror stories and he’ll show her just how those Grey Wardens keep warm in the wetlands. Before he can stop himself, he flicks the rest of his cigarette off the edge, it landing on Davrin’s shoulder. He’s quick enough to duck away before either can find his horrified expression looking down at them. Their continued laughter makes his mouth taste like ash. 

A week has gone by and he’s catching up on one of the books he brought from home, a story about two brothers and betrayal, when a low knock echoes through the room. Manfred is with Harding, this evening. He’s thankful for the companionship. He makes his way to the door, tying his robe and beginning a Thank You, Harding speech when those eyes stare up in mild amusement, minor challenge. “Do you always wear collared shirts to bed?” 

He stares for a moment before looking above her head, out into the darkness of the hall. “Common side-effect of working late.” They watch each other before she steps close and then closer, shoulder brushing his ribcage as she pushes her way into the room. 

“You have a real eye for design, you know. Everything is so very … clean.” She brushes her fingers along the staircase, the autopsy table, the fireplace, and he follows her trail, stalking like a wisp. “And it smells like something lovely. Flowers?” 

“Lilacs.” 

She hums in acknowledgement, turning to him. Her nose twitches as she inhales, gently leaning in. “You even smell like lilacs. It’s perfect in here. Pristine.” He can’t breathe. “I suppose that’s why you smoke outside then?” 

This must be what it feels like when your lungs collapse, he thinks. “I am, I am so very, very sorry, I had no idea young Davrin, or you, for that matter, were walking that way, I was simply falling into old habits and once I realized what happened, I was so mortified, I just had to, well, I just, I panicked, I suppose the point is I am so completely sorry and will be sure to send Davrin a plate of confections in the morning as an apology, I hope he wasn’t offended,” he hasn’t breathed in a while and decides to. She says nothing. Then laughs. Like the fact she’s found him funny should be a secret. She follows with a whisper. 

“Next time you want to smoke and be angry, send over an invitation.” 

He wants to ask how she knew he was angry, but she brushes past his arm and glides slowly to the door. Ghostly in her perfection. 

“Have a nice night, Emmrich.” 

He’s not sure if he does.

Things go back to their version of normal. He comes along on journeys, offering information and excellent healing charms. He kindly ignores the jabs her colleagues take, making it clear not only do they find him off putting, but they question Rook’s judgment. When she shuts them down, lovingly firm, eyes clear and shoulders squared, he wants to kiss her. Thank her for rescuing him. Bat his eyes and smile and sigh and grip her armor as she pins him to the side of a cave. It’s refreshing, being outside and flexing his magic. Proving his worth beyond a seminar. The sun agrees with him. The exercise agrees with him. For once, he’s not thinking about how slow he feels and how choking the future can be. He’s staring out at the coastline, the bustle of Minrathous buzzing behind him when a hand rests on his shoulder, her breath hot against his ear. “You were excellent today. How lucky am I?”

I. I. I. Not we. I. 

By the time he looks down, she’s gone, but she’s smiling at him over her shoulder, hair floating in the breeze and tan setting in on her skin. Her cheeks are flushed and the hair around her temples are sweaty. The slice of pie she had earlier has crusted into the corner of her mouth. A berry smudge that paints her lips in a suspended smirk. He realizes, in that moment, that things are much worse than he originally thought.

That evening, he writes a letter to his colleague at the college. 

Dear Simon,

I hope you’re well, blah blah blah, I’m doing this and that, etcetera, etcetera, how is so and so, whatever whatever, tea at our normal haunt? Hope to hear from you soon.

E

Simon wasn’t exactly a friend. There are a lot of not-exactly’s when you’re a professor as decorated and relaxed in his field as Emmrich was. But when there are plenty of pricks in the department and you find a fellow with enough self awareness to not keep his published works loudly present on his desk or laugh the hardest at the dean’s quarterly dinners, you keep in touch. 

“What’s shaking, Ricky,” he smiles, flat accent blaring. Fine, he responds, just fine. They share a pot of tea, trading rumors and stories about other faculty members before he feels comfortable enough bringing it up. 

“I know this isn’t something you probably want to discuss,” he starts, keeping his eyes trained on the tea leaves lurking at the bottom of his cup. Blueberry lavender. “And I understand if you want to change the subject entirely.” He holds his breath. “You and your wife.”

He doesn’t have to say anything more. Simon straightens, crossing his legs and leaning away from the table to stare at the rest of the establishment. It’s dim in lightning and warm, a kind separation from the chilling darkness outside. No one they know is here. That doesn’t make things better. “Is this why you wanted to meet? To question me about,”

He throws a hand over the table, splayed next to Simon’s cup. This is out of character. He hopes it conveys the urgency. “When did you know it was more than,” he looks around, “more than just you. Did she,” he’s sweating. Must be the fire. “Did she say something or, or do something to suggest,” he can’t finish his thought. 

Simon’s eyes widen for a moment before his shoulders lower, eyes quickly going to the fire before meeting Emmrich’s. He understands. “She held my hand. I’d told her about my daughter being sick and she was so. Sorry. But she wouldn’t stop staring at my mouth.” He tilts his head. “Of course, nothing happened until after she graduated. No matter what the others might tell you.” He leans in. “How old is she? Yours?” 

Emmrich thinks of rotting flesh, Assan dead, mutilated villages to wage war against the shocking thrill of hearing her described as his, however untrue the claim may be. 

“Young enough for it to not be real.” 

At that, Simon laughs. “Been there, old pal. Write me when it gets all too real, all too fast.”

He promises, should that unreality make itself real, he will. He’d throw a parade, too. And go skinny dipping in Hossberg. 

No one asks where he’s been when he returns to the Lighthouse. Instead, he arrives to a slice of pie on his desk, a note with a bit of blue thumbprint on the edge. 

Trust me, it’s delicious. 

-R

He doesn’t think twice before digging a finger into the center, ripping off his slice and slipping it into his mouth. It’s sweet. It’s tart. It’s a perfectly fine pie and he imagines blue thumbprints all over her body. A joke about how she's the only thing he'll get dirty over. He lets the slice melt on his tongue. 

“A little birdie told me someone likes you ,” Bellara sings to Davrin, feet kicking under the dinner table. Conversation swings their way, smiles all around and drinks spilling in favor of hearing Bellara’s hot new gossip. Rook is the only person not present. 

“Oh, yeah? What have you heard?” Bellara’s beaming behind her hand, leaning over the food to whisper in his ear. 

This table is a young man’s game. 

Emmrich prides himself on manners. No one would ever accuse him of impoliteness. Which is why he says to no one in particular that he’s excusing himself for the evening before pushing his chair out and beginning the walk back to his room. It’s more like a pre-jog. He’s only had half a dinner but that’s fine. There will be no wars won tomorrow. He wishes there were stars around here, instead of this blasted, perpetual summertime. He considers going home, where he could wallow and rot in peace. Before he can enter the library, tell Manfred to pack a bag and make sure to pack his robe, a flaming hot sizzle lands on his left shoulder. In surprise, he yelps, brushing it off and looking up to see who the hell would dare?

She would. She would dare. “Walking home all by yourself, handsome?”

He huffs, if just to make her feel the slightest bit bad. He knows it won’t work. “Lost my appetite, I’m afraid.” 

She beckons him up the stairs. “Good thing I’ve got just the thing to help.”

When he reaches the top, she’s lighting a new cigarette, passing it to him as she stares out onto the cul-de-sac they’ve begun to find familiar. “If these kill me, will you bring me back?”

He doesn’t want to let on how terrified the thought leaves him. Instead, he looks her in the eye, letting the end rest on his lower lip before sucking down a deep inhale, eyes stuck on hers. “You know, the likelihood is I go out before you, my dear. Should I decide against immortality.”

Her eyebrow quirks. He ignores that she’s staring at his mouth. “What do you think of our little stowaways?” 

“Perfectly qualified team of individuals. They’re certainly exciting.” 

She sighs. He starts wondering how he answered her wrong, but she cuts in. “One of these days, I’d appreciate if you told me what you really think. However,” she stops, looking at his nose, his tie, his chin, “... improper … you may think it be.”

He wants to kiss her. He’s going to kiss her. He’s going to drop his cigarette and light this place on fire and feel the flames licking their legs as he bites into her neck and dares everyone to admire just how accomplished he really is. 

She grabs the cigarette from his lips. He finds it’s his cue to answer. “I could do with less from Davrin, lately.” He’s shocked he’s said it. “I mean,”

“Wow, didn’t realize you really meant to burn him earlier.”

“I didn’t, I-”

“You got a problem?”

“No, I don’t, really, I don’t know why I-”

“It makes sense, really. He’s brave, and strong, and all the things that make a hero. ”

He schools his expression into the one reserved for faculty meetings and difficult students. It’s hard. It’s acidic. “I see you’ve taken an interest in a new companion. How charming. I’m sure you’re both," he considers his words, "well-suited for each other.”

Something shifts in her gaze. Off-kilter. On the back foot. She ceases to be the warrior he works with, the woman that torments him - instead, he sees a girl, fingers picked bloody and lip worked raw, suddenly unsure. He sees himself in her. Hungry and cursed. 

“I certainly have taken an interest, Emmrich.” Ever daring, she steps closer. Her hand brushing his against the rail, then curled against her chest, then to her lips and finally placing the bit of cigarette left between his lips. “A little birdie tells me you feel the same.” 

Later that night, when he’s ghosting his hand over her backside, watching his fireplace dance shadows on their legs, he asks Manfred for some stationary and ink. He has a surprising letter to write.  Ch. 2

[explanationpoint]

note to self: if you’re a trans woman and you become famous, tell people some bs about how you’re not actually trans despite transitioning. it’ll make everyone like you more.

[loveguts]

i’m not a transandrophobia truther in the slightest don’t get me wrong, but i think some people on here really need to realize and comprehend the fact that cis women, way WAY more often than not, hold extremely significant social and political power over trans men the vast majority of the time in our day to day lives

[itspileofgoodthings]

.

[bigothteddies]

oh my god re: your recent post... the 'girl dinner' shit. omfg. idc if it's 'not that deep' you're still reinforcing terrible shit!!! and also the like 'boys when they see a stick/cool rock' and 'girls when they time travel vs boys when they time travel' wojaks. the gender-fication of barbie vs. oppenheimer. why the fuck is the recent internet zeitgeist hyper stereotypical cisnormativity. like. i thought we had collectively outgrown this.

exactly. And that’s all just some parts of it too. People pretend they’re so on top of things but it’s just because they don’t want to seem out of touch and offensive. It’s wild watching people barf out gender binaries with new terms and new ways to categorize trans people as not their gender and new ways to reinforce the same gender roles on ourselves but in “good” ways now. It’s just….really frustrating and pretty terrifying at the same time

[lesbiansanemi]

Google how to make peace with the fact that you will always be vaguely to extremely uncomfortable (depending on the day) with your body and how others perceive it until the day you die and nothing you do will ever change that

[daydreamerdrew]

I genuinely think that if Bucky had survived WWII (and ignoring Gretchen for a moment) that he wouldn’t have succeeded in forming a strong, lasting relationship with a woman that hadn’t been in combat at all and lived an ordinary life for an American woman at the time. I think it was necessary for him to be with someone like Natasha who could be his partner at home and in work, specifically the kind of fantastical violence and espionage he was involved in. I don’t think he would have actually been able to relate to and understand and be emotionally vulnerable with a woman otherwise. I don’t think he would have expected his work to become his life, but it would. I think about the way Bucky was raised, so embedded in the military and with girls as a distant ideal, the scene in Captain America and Bucky (2011) #620 where Bucky bribes a sergeant into taking him to a dance off-base, which he jokes is like going to heaven. Bucky was a casual, charming flirter for fun during the war in the short periods of time when he was around women, say nurses, but then afterwards to everyone’s shock he wouldn’t have been able to make something last, or if it did last it would have been eventually been begrudging and unhappy. women are nice in concept, he’s attracted to women, but it would have been hard for him to understand someone with such a different life experience, specifically as not having the skills that he values and that impress him, as a full human being. it was Natasha being both an amazing and intrinsically feminine fighter, like a ballerina, that made that work so well, that made him so attracted to her while also genuinely respecting her.

[magical-xirl-4]

Haha would y’all be mad if I said I might be a trans man

[yuribalisms]

Everyday the allure of going on t just for a little bit so my voice gets lower gets stronger