#tagging out of an abundance of caution anyway

[baronetcoins]

happy exploding whale day to all who celebrate!

[cat-clawz]

Think I'll take a wee break from the GO and DBD posting until all this settles out and we get some more news on it

[syoddeye]

something something possessed by a worm. you're soap's captive girlfriend who got the call that he was shot. i wrote this between the hours of 2-3 am, so let's be chill. ~1.3k words.

cw: italics, imprisonment/abduction, surveillance, medical inaccuracies we breeze right over, threats of violence, collaring, stalking, noncon blowjob.

on paper, it looks bad. it looks cruel. yet, you can’t bring yourself to care—johnny’s injury is a blessing.

it feels like you won the lottery, picking up the emergency phone. inbound calls only. you were so sure it was him, warning you of his imminent return.

playing the part of a devastated partner is easy. the englishman on the other end of the call sympathizes with your crocodile tears and helpfully tells you that someone will fetch you tomorrow morning. that you'll be brought, at no expense, to sit vigil at your boyfriend's side at the hospital. you hear the word ‘coma’, and launch out of bed. you only half listen to the rest of the conversation, hurriedly packing a bag as he drones. you can't end the call fast enough.

dismantling the flat comes first. you smash the cameras and flush the bugs. pry the tracker tag off your collar and bloody your fingers in the process. later, you’ll stick it on a bus.

you scour every nook and cranny, eventually finding the steel box you've seen john fiddling with. after trial and error, you pick the lock, and it’s a relief to see your id and passport again. it’s like a time capsule. past you offers a genuine, albeit shy smile, and you mutter an apology as you tuck her into a pocket. the last of the snacks he’d left go in with your clothes, as well as the few expensive-looking heirlooms he keeps around the flat. 

someone might call about the wide-eyed, crazed woman jumping off the balcony into the bushes. it’s a risk you take. the nearest pawnbroker, if you remember correctly, is only a ten-minute walk away. the cash you end up with isn’t much, but it's the first chunk of money that's yours in ages.

you hold your breath from glasgow to amsterdam and, by sheer luck, find your godmother’s place by memory alone. she’s surprised to find you on her doorstep, but she buys your story of an au pair job gone sour and lets you stay. truth and reality are too humiliating and too risky so long as you’re on european soil. you lay low, but nobody turns up. no one comes looking.

out of an abundance of caution, you cut and dye your hair anyway. you look up every variation of ‘john mactavish’ and scour obituaries and news articles. you don’t find a thing, but you know he’s special forces—they wouldn’t necessarily publish an announcement.

weeks pass. she doesn’t say a word, but guilt gnaws at you for living off your godmother’s kindness. after dodging their calls, you reach out to your parents and beg them to buy you a plane ticket home to chicago. although they welcome you stateside, they’re distressed and confused about your sudden departure and separation from ‘that nice scottish boy’ they’d met over facetime. they didn’t know about the knife just out of frame or the disturbing sketches he’d draw of your mother from memory. you lie through your teeth and blame his hectic work schedule because it’s easier to say that than admit your little journey of ‘self-discovery’ didn’t lead you into a ‘whirlwind romance’, but a fucking nightmare.

(it started as a dreamy evening of darts and drinks, where a cute soldier made you laugh all the way into his bed. a mirage that hid his true intentions. grand overtures designed to dazzle you until it was too late. until he got you fired and evicted. somehow arranged for your visa to be revoked. orchestrated your demoralization and subsequent breakdown. ushered you into his flat with open arms, cooing and rubbing your back as you hiccuped and sobbed. those days are a blur, a series of escalations. a slow boil you didn’t feel until it scalded, until he locked the collar around your neck. even then, you felt like a failure. that it was all your fault for believing the lies. he laid you out beneath him, whispering the things he’d do to your family if you ran. how the powers at be would let him, given his work. a slap on the wrist. that’s all i’d get, hen.)

months turn into a year. you still look up johnny's name on occasion. still stare when you see a mohawk. yet, little by little, you feel like yourself again. rejoin society. get a shit job. you refuse to touch the dating pool with a ten-foot pole, but you don't feel naked wearing short sleeves anymore. don't flinch at the sound of dog tags clinking together.

you pick up a night shift, determined to save extra money so you can find your own apartment and stop leeching off your parents. everything's fine and dandy. slightly creepy, given the hour, but nothing you can't handle. (after johnny, you handle anything.) you close, intending to take out the trash as you lock up. the alley smells like piss and beer.

tossing the bag into the dumpster, you freeze at the silhouette at the mouth of the passage. they face away, cigarette smoke wafting from their person. they probably don't see you, but just to be safe, you turn to head in the other direction to take the long way to the L—

at least, you would, if johnny wasn't looming over you, night terrors manifest. big, broad shoulders and a puffed-out chest. a grin as wide and sharp as you remember. and those bright blue eyes, the light in them flattening in real time as he drinks in your expression. he relishes the way your face drops. the instant terror. a horrific scar catches your eye, flaring in every direction on his temple like a furious sun.

did ye think i'd forgotten ye, bonnie? or hope the gunshot erased ye? did ye believe me dead?

when you start to cry, because why wouldn't you, he—

no, no. hush. this is a good thing. a happy day. we're reunited, and i'm meetin' my girl's parents. cap's gone ahead to break the ice.

and when you scream, because why wouldn't you, he clamps a hand over your mouth and pins you to the dumpster. doesn't care a whit when your head bounces off the metal. the light returns to his eyes as you squirm. his brows pitch, lips curling. he brandishes a knife and stammers through his reprimand, scolding you for all your struggling.

i see ye forgot the rules and your manners. forgot what'll happen if ye dinnae–din–fuckin' play nice.

johnny forces you into a car, muttering reminders of what happens when you run. assures you, even as he loads you bodily into the backseat, sandwiching you between him and some massive freak in a mask, that he is forgiving. when the car rejoins traffic, johnny works his fly open. it takes a minute, his hands a bit unsteady.

a near-death experience clarifies things. puts what's important into focus. john says he saw his future clear as crystal, then shoves your head down without warning. he barks at the man on your other side, and a hand comes to rest on your flank, causing you to whimper around his cock. he moans sinfully at that before violently fucking your throat.

by the time he comes, you're spent. the fight gone out of you. the mitt on your side migrates to your inner thigh, but you can't begin to care. you’re resigned to drooling on john's lap. you pray for a car crash.

johnny explains how, given his connections, it took only two months to find you. they let him do that because of his work, but he decided to wait and bide his time. he details all the therapy, rehab, and everything he did to get into shape, to get his head on straight, and to get to you himself. plus, there was the matter of tracking down his second quarry. naughty, how you pawned it for less than half its value.

his grandmother's ring fits you perfectly. fate, he calls it.

but you know another collar when you see one.

[ofsappho]

Heartless, Chapter 2

🔞 Simon "Ghost" Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, SMUT

-

Your wedding night. Tags under read more.

-

Tags: degradation kink, praise kink, size kink, consent negotiation, they egg each other on, gaslight gatekeep girlboss reader, pet names (whore, love, doll, good girl, pretty girl, bitch (yes this is used as a pet name I promise))

You watch the military chaplain sort through the prepared marriage license while the world’s largest butterflies do artistic gymnastics in your stomach.

Soap is the religious one out of the two of you, the Catholic one. You would’ve preferred a judge and a courthouse wedding more than this. But there was no time, and the headache of getting an American recognized by the multi-national special forces whatever-the-fuck just wasn’t worth it.

So a chaplain it is.

Soap has told you little about the soldier you’re set to marry. In his defense, he argued that there was very little to tell. Lt. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley’s personnel file is too classified for a mere civilian, and there are only two single-sided sheets of paper’s worth of information in there anyways.

The bare bones - he’s British. (Of course, he is.) He wears a mask that he never takes off. He’s served many tours, in many places. And while Johnny was remarkably diplomatic about the wording, he did caution you that Ghost’s reputation precedes him and terrifies almost everyone who hears it. With good, justified cause.

Lovely.

But the cold, crawling fingers of desperation and the memory of the times when you couldn’t afford to go to the doctor reminded you of your priorities. And so you have agreed to bind yourself to some dude with a ridiculous, overwrought moniker.

After more than a few years of dealing with medical bureaucracy, military bureaucracy is hardly a match for you. You’ve come prepared with the family accommodations application filled out. You have copies of your identifying documents, birth certificates. The basic background check completed.

Once this is done and solemnized, Soap has volunteered to run it personally to his commanding officer like a good little messenger boy. An early wedding gift, he called it.

You’ve asked him for a Keurig just to be an asshole. And whether or not he got one, for real, Soap won’t say.

All that’s left is to… well. Say the vows and hope no one looks close enough to demand ‘proof.’ Like you’re in some awful fucking medieval romance novel. It’s 2023. You refuse to relinquish any bedsheets. Gross. And they’re expensive.

Lt. Riley still has fifteen minutes before the ceremony is supposed to start.

You’re only early out of an abundance of caution and anxiety. There was only so much sitting around in your old apartment and waiting for the clock hands to move you could take, not after you spent all night packing your life into your car and then climbed out onto your roof to watch the sunrise.

The next one you see, you will be a wife.

Even though Soap refused to show you a picture of Lt. Riley, you did your best to look somewhat presentable. For the pictures. And maybe a little bit for him.

The nicest dress you own, the jewelry you always wear.

Shit. Jewelry. Ring.

“Soap. Soap. I don’t have a ring.” Oh, that’s just your fucking luck, isn’t it? You have remembered literally everything. Your potato masher, your books, and the last of your immunosuppressants are packed into a cooler filled with ice.

Other than the one thing you absolutely need.

Your friend stares at you from the corner of his eye. “What do you mean, you don’t got a ring?”

The chaplain’s going to turn and ask what’s wrong any second.

Before he notices, you grab Soap’s bicep and drag him into a corner as the last of your forced calm flees. “I don’t have a ring,” You hiss as your polished nails dig into his dress uniform.

That’s something you should thank him for after this calamity passes. At least your maid of honor is appropriately attired as if this were a real wedding. Or maybe Johnny is a matron of honor because he hasn’t been a virgin in years? Whatever.

His exasperation is less than reassuring. “Alright. Calm down. Calm down, lass. We’ll sort that out later-“ The chapel doors open, cutting him off.

Wow. You thought that Soap was kidding about the mask. That’s a mask.

A balaclava. With a skull on it. Edgy.

Oh, but he’s tall. Taller than you, taller by a couple of inches than Soap. That must really piss your friend off. He is… very tall. And heftily built.

No dress uniform. Just a black sweatshirt showing ripples of defined, bulky muscles underneath and dark wash jeans. And eye black obscures the skin around his eyes, everything his mask doesn’t cover.

It seems impractical, though you can’t deny the shiver of awe that flicks through your nerves when Lt. Ghost meets your inquisitive gaze. His irises are so dark that you can’t distinguish his pupils, leaving you with the impression of looking into twin black holes.

Do you shake his hand? Do you…

You wait for him to make the first move, and he makes no move at all.

“Hi, Lt. Riley,” You say softly, almost timidly. First impressions tend to go better when you make yourself smaller.

For a moment there, you almost think he didn’t hear you. You watch him narrow his eyes as if you’re more than what he was expecting. “License?” He asks after a painfully long awkward silence.

You shove the other papers at Soap, so you have a spare hand to find it. And if you conveniently remain deaf to his protests at being used as a shelf? That’s what maids of honor are for - whatever the bride need.

“License? Oh- uh, yeah, here.” The half-completed form crumples slightly in his hand. It’s from those bulky gloves, and you die a little inside at the sight.

When he hands it back to you with a messy, scrawled signature at all the highlighted blanks, you turn your body away to ensure he overlooks your vain efforts to smooth it out. “Just call me Ghost.”

Damn, this one wrinkle won’t come out. The chaplain will think you’re unprofessional. “Okay, Ghost,” You respond absentmindedly. He hovers in the corner of your eye like his namesake, which is annoying. It’s not as if you’re hiding a fucking bomb over here-

And you stop thinking that immediately. You know, in case they can read minds in this heavily guarded, highly secret special forces base or utilize some tinfoil hat conspiracy theorist's secret weapon. That’s mostly an inside joke you have with yourself. You leave a little room for healthy paranoia to offset the healthy humor.

The chaplain and his small glasses interrupt now that the groom has arrived, and you hand him the still-messed-up license with an embarrassed flush on your cheeks. Thankfully, he takes it without complaint. Maybe a little judgment - and then you remember you have that issue with the rings. There will be more judgment to come.

“Are you ready to begin?” The middle-aged man asks.

Ghost nods almost at the same time you do.

“We are gathered here in the presence of this witness for the purpose of uniting in matrimony Lt. Simon Riley and…”

You tune out the entirety of the cookie-cutter wedding ceremony. The chaplain goes on and on, all sorts of shit about love and forever that you know he has to say but is remarkably humorous in light of your circumstances.

Lt. Riley’s eyelashes are blonde. You couldn’t see it before, but now that you’re inches from him, you can’t look away. They’re a pale platinum blonde that stands out against his dark eyes like threads of ice, and you count each one. Fascinating.

The chaplain clears his throat, then gestures for Ghost to take your hand.

The glove stays on. But he is gentle about it, gentler than what seems natural for his movements. “Do you take Lt. Riley to be your lawfully wedded husband? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish as long as you both shall live?” That’s laying it on a bit thick, you think.”

“I do,” You say, voice low and confident.

“Do you, Lt. Riley, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and cherish as long as you both shall live?”

Something shifts in his gaze. He tilts his head to the side and tracks the features of your face, your full mouth, and your cheekbones. “I do.” You wouldn’t even know where he was looking, had it not been for the stark whites of his eyes darting back and forth.

“The rings?” Your officiant asks.

You hear Johnny stifle a chuckle. Damn him for standing so far away; if he were closer, you’d step on his foot with your heel. “We- the rings are in the mail. They haven’t gotten here yet.” You smile winningly as you hold the chaplain’s bemused stare, practically daring him to call out your poorly-concealed lie.

Ghost hasn’t let go of your hand this whole time. Even he lets out a small huff after seeing your perfect poker face.

“I see. Then I pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

You won't kiss him in front of everyone if he doesn’t lower his mask. As he obviously won’t, you stand on your very tippy-toes and kiss his cheek like you’re at a middle school dance.

Then it’s done, and you’re married.

Ghost pulls his hand back as if you’ve burned him, then steps away before you can ask him any questions.

Just as you try to chase him- “Congratulations, lass,” Soap exclaims, sweeping you into a hug that lifts you off the ground.

It’s got a hell of a lot more than excitement in it; you can feel his relief, and he goes as far as to kiss your forehead like a brother before letting you down.

There’s nothing on earth you can do to repay him. “Thank you. Really. Thank you.” For a moment, you’re children again—two kids against the world.

Johnny takes the license and the rest of your paperwork. “Gotta run this to Chief Laswell. But- you’ll be fine. Don’t be too scared.” You can tell he’s fucking around, but there’s an edge to his voice that you don’t love.

No person can be scarier than a hospital bill. “Worry about yourself, Johnny,” You tell him.

It takes a second for the steel in your eyes to reassure him. Eventually, he nods. “Good luck.” Then he makes his way to Ghost.

They speak in murmurs too quiet for you to hear, and you can see Soap grip his forearm tight enough to bruise. Then they come to some sort of silent consensus. Ghost’s mask gives away absolutely nothing, but your friend seems satisfied enough.

“Uh- pardon me, I’m sure Lt. Riley and yourself are eager to…  celebrate the evening.” The chaplain’s acting like you and Ghost are about to start going at each other right here, right now.

That is a known stereotype for hastily-married couples, and he’s probably seen some traumatizing things in this very chapel. Either way, you coordinate a retreat into the hallway to give the poor man a break. 

Ghost holds the door open for you, and you wonder what torture Soap promised to get him to do that. He doesn’t seem pleased. You’d tell him that he doesn’t need to bother, but you’re not so invested in Ghost’s immediate happiness, and that’s a lot of work.

Someone’s waiting for you in the corridor. A poor uniformed soldier has been conscripted into acting as envoy on behalf of the Special Forces, and he asks you both to follow him to your temporary quarters.

Right. Yes.

Ghost doesn’t say a word. He matches your steps with uncanny accuracy, and you’re beginning to understand why people sincerely call him by his preferred moniker. It’s fucking freaky, how quickly and efficiently he moves without any sound at all. You might even forget he was there if not for the heavy, uncomfortable weight on your back that reminds you he’s still watching.

Then the soldier rounds a corner and presents you with an open door. The lights are on, and a bouquet of fresh flowers is on the table inside with a little white card.

Your guide hightails it out as soon as you’re through the doorway.

And then Ghost closes the door behind him.

You and him. Alone. There’s no one in the other room or close enough to hear if something goes wrong.

You watch him keep himself busy, circling perimeters and learning exits and entrances, and you think… you wouldn’t mind it if something went wrong.

Reading people is something that can’t be taught, not really. You’re lucky to have come out of the womb with that ephemeral quality clutched tightly in one hand. While the mask makes it difficult, you are… learning. You are noting shifts in posture, inflections of voice, where those dark eyes linger.

You need to collect more data.

“Do I have to call you Ghost? I can’t just call you Simon?” Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips, and the tension in the air tastes electric on your teeth. It will be a coin toss to see which way that tension goes, you think.

“Don’t say that name. ‘M not gonna repeat myself.”

You’ll do as he says because now he’s staring into your eyes without flinching. “Hm. Fine.” Which is what you wanted.

Ghost removes his gloves for a moment to fiddle with his phone, and you can’t help but stare.

He has beautiful hands. Long, thick fingers, knuckles marked with a lifetime’s worth of scar tissue, more scars wrapping themselves like cords across the backs of his hands. Beautiful.

There are tattoos blanketing his left forearm. You can’t see them from here, and you doubt you’ll get to examine them in detail sometime this century. Tattoos are so personal, and it would take words a lot tougher than a question to get through his shark skin persona.

Gloves go back on. And he’s caught you staring. You don’t give a fuck.

You relish the challenge.

Like a feral raccoon or a bored weasel, you’ll push and push and push until you’ve found something entertaining.

Does Ghost think that if he menaces you in silence long enough, you’ll scream when he says ‘boo’? How cute.

Out of nowhere, he slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “You’re lookin’ at me.” You could make a snide comment about noticing the obvious, but that’s not the fight you want to pick. Yet.

You’re far more intrigued by the issue of his ghastly, ghoulish, fearsome camouflage. “Do you really, like, wear the mask all the time? Even to sleep? What about eating? You don’t care about getting crumbs all over it?”  Your voice would sound genuine if you put a little more effort into it.

Silence. He knows you’re trying to pry him out into the open, and he thinks he can ignore you until you give up.

Your eyes narrow. “Oh, come on. I’m your wife now. I’m allowed to ask questions.” Those fucking icy eyelashes. Your feet move before you realize it, bringing you closer to him so you can repeatedly run the contrast in your mind.

Ghost crosses his burly arms over his chest. “Not if they’re fuckin’ annoying ones,” He snaps back.

That’s one hell of a British accent. Not a posh one; working class, probably not from London.

Like his eyes, hands, and stature, his low, raspy voice is beautiful, too. “Isn’t that what wives are for?” You bait.

You catch his eye roll and match it with a dirty glare. “Do you ever shut up?” Ghost asks, advancing so quickly that you find yourself trapped against the wall, some primal flight instinct activated by his sinuous, menacing stride.

And you’ve been asked that very same question many, many times in your life. “Um… not really,” You toss out. Smugly, like you’re winning whatever fucked-up game is brewing between you. You totally are.

Like this, you must tilt your head to meet his furious eyes. “Fuck. That’s tedious.” Obviously, this is not nearly as tedious as he complains. He’s still here.

Your eyes flick between the door and Ghost’s mask, indicating he’s free to walk away. “Oh, I’m being tedious? Look at me. Look at me. Say that again.” Under your dress, your skin feels warm. As if he’s already touching you.

Ghost takes another step forward. “You… are… being… tedious.” Close enough that his combat boots touch your fancy low heels.

Kissing someone through a mask is very stupid, both in theory and practice. Just as you thought earlier.

Somehow, some way, Ghost makes it work.

Gentleness seems to be a foreign language to him; he wraps one large hand around your jaw, pushing you against the wall, so roughly that pain radiates across your scalp, and digs his index finger and thumb in until he’s holding your mouth open.

And that’s how he kisses you. Forcing you to be exactly as still as he wants and pressing his mask over your lips, and your eyes flutter shut as if this were a real kiss. If this were a real kiss, you’d have your teeth halfway through his bottom lip by now.

Great idea. Just as Ghost moves back, you nip his mask with your teeth. Nothing serious, no real damage. Enough to teach him something about you, more important than words can say.

For only a moment, it lifts from his face. Not in any type of direction where you can see more, but the fabric stretches, and it reminds him that that’s all his mask is. Fabric. Not metal or bone.

“Nah, don’t do that,” Ghost warns before leaning in again.

Fine. This time, you dig your nails into the tiniest revealed sliver of his pale neck as you kiss him until he’s forced to pin your wrist above your head with one gloved hand.

He seeks to chastise you again, but you put a stop to that by arching into his chest instead of away.

This sets the beautiful, pristine line of your neck on display as you tilt your head just the right way. You know your angles, and you bet he probably enjoys holding fragile things in his palms before crushing them the next second.

The unmarked skin above your pulsing carotid artery sure looks fragile.

And, of course, it invites Ghost to dip his burning gaze lower.

You look good. You know you do; you know that your cleavage pops in this dress, you layer perfume to be the most memorable woman in the room, and this confidence has been insulating you all day.

He’s not immune to it. His other hand runs along your exposed collarbones before dipping between your breasts. He takes the fabric of your dress between his fingers, testing the strength of the cloth and construction.

Wait, hold on, this shit was expensive. And unless he’s going to replace it-

Ghost has been too busy staring at your boobs to notice that he’s let go of your wrist, and you pounce on the opening. You’re out of his grasp immediately before peeling the dress off. Shame is for the weak.

His appreciative groan goes straight to your nerves, to your nipples hardening under your sheer bralette and your panties beginning to stick to your skin.

All that newly exposed skin and soft curves turn the desire in his dark eyes into a ruthless hunger.

You watch him walk towards you, circle you. He checks your ass out in the most blatant way possible, so you feel the compliment more than you hear it.

You turn to look at him through lashes all dolled up with mascara and make your eyes round, doe-like - as saccharine as artificially-flavored taffy.

Even through the balaclava, Ghost grins.

“Can I help you with that?” He asks, gesturing to the flimsy metal clasp in the center of your back that holds the bra in place.

His gloved fingers trail down your spine when you sweep your hair from your shoulders. “What a gentleman.” There are dozens of other more productive things he could be doing right now to get you naked.

He coaxes a slight, involuntary shiver from your spine when he digs his fingertips into the curve of your breast, and you dread what will happen when Ghost finds all the other weak spots.

Just as you’re about to end his fun and get this bra off yourself, he undoes the clasp. “Don’t want to ruin your pretty clothes.” A harsh, jagged leather glove edge clips your skin as he does so. While it won’t make you bleed, not even close, you feel he wouldn’t care if something did.

Fuck.

Instead of dropping both arms out obediently so he can slip you out of it all at once, you have the genius idea of sticking out one arm after another.

This forces Ghost to face you as you let the bralette drop.

A flush crawls up your chest, blooming pink and flustered between your breasts. “You think I look pretty?” You ask, barely suppressing the whine from your tone. It’s a real whine, one that speaks to how badly you want this to escalate.

Someone wolf-whistling at your tits usually makes you angry enough to hit them, but Ghost’s whistle makes the blush in your skin burn brighter. “Christ,” He mutters. The bone-white teeth on his mask distort, then stretch, like he’s licking his lips.

You spent a little extra time this morning hunting down a nice pair of lace-trimmed underwear, and now you’re thrilled you bothered. “Gonna make me wait forever?”

The answer is no. He’s on you in the next second, palm flat between your collarbones as he practically shoves you towards the bare regulation mattress, the kind of thing you’d see in a college dorm.

When you land, the slight impact takes your breath away.

But then he sees your thighs pressing together, your hips shifting, and your eyelids flutter. You’re fucking melting from that force alone. “You like it mean?” He wonders, half-mocking, half-genuine.

You push yourself up on your elbows, making your tits bounce more than necessary. Just to watch him lose his train of thought again.

You’re dripping through your panties, you can feel slick arousal on your skin, and he’ll know as soon as you spread your legs. “I like it mean.” Your smile is wide and beckoning. And filled with your own intentionally-grating menace.

After all, he’s asking the wrong question.

The right question is whether he can be mean enough, whether he can touch you with enough cruelty to make you come. Already, your pussy twitches at the thought.

Something glints in his sin-dark eyes. “Good. That’s a good girl.” No, he promised you something else.

“That’s not very mean.”

You get no further warning.

He braces one muscled forearm across your chest to force you down before shoving that hand under your jaw, so your face is entirely in his control. He keeps you looking at the ceiling, and you realize it’s so he can pull his mask down.

Dammit. You try to fight it, dip your jaw to see his face, but his grip is tougher than iron and so tight that it will leave bruises on your chin.

Then you feel his teeth bite into your throat, mark after mark along the length of your neck, and it hurts. It fucking hurts, and your eyes roll back into your head, skin on fucking fire. “God, real eager, ain’t you?” Ghost hisses as you cough and struggle for breath against his hand. “Haven’t known me for twenty-four hours, and you’re already spreading your legs like a whore.”

There are lingering kisses that are just shy of gentle, long lathes of his tongue along your sweaty skin, and then there are savage bites into the side of your breast, in between them, his fingers plucking at the hardened bud of your nipple.

Your mind is empty, completely empty, as your hips grind up towards his and the thick, heavy erection you can feel through his jeans. “You do that for every man who looks at you twice?” You can hardly hear him over your squeaks of pain mixing with pleasure. Now he’s slotted a knee between your thighs, giving you something to rock your covered pussy on.

“Only for the ones who deserve it,” You get out between clenched teeth, holding back your moans, so he doesn’t get that satisfaction.

He chuckles lowly, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. “Fuckin’ hell.” When he takes one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking, licking, sending jolts of pleasure through your nerves but hovering on the edge of real damage…

It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to put together a retort. “Jealous that you haven’t had a turn yet?”

“Naw, I ain’t jealous. Ain’t gotta be. I know you want me.” He punctuates his words by cruelly pressing his knee harder into your clit, wrenching a long, tortured sound from your throat.

If he keeps that up… already, something hot and vicious begins to simmer low in your stomach, a hollow ache.

Then he fucking lets up on covering you in marks to watch your face twist in rapture when he does it again. “Come on then, Lieutenant. Big, scary, mean Ghost,” You tell him breathlessly.

Again, his knee, your aching clit, you don’t wanna come all over his pants except you kind of do, and if he realizes that, he’ll make you.

His fingers pluck your nipple one last time. “Yeah, I’ll fuckin’ show you.” Then he shoves his mask on haphazardly, withdrawing his hands so he can pull his gloves off. “Take that shit off. Right now,” Ghost orders.

The fabric of your soaked panties rips a little in your enthusiasm to get them away from you, and you toss them in some corner without looking.

And as you hold his gaze, face flushed and dewy from his kisses, you part your legs.

Ghost is so taken by the sight of your glistening, aroused core that he has to sit back for a second and just… “Fuuuck,” He groans, eyes lidded with want.

You run a single teasing hand along the soft skin of your inner thigh. “Still pretty?” Your smile is all teeth, hunger, and a promise that you don’t need him to have a good time.

He shakes his head. “I don’t fuck self-absorbed bitches,” Ghost warns. As if he isn’t literally rolling up his sleeves as he speaks. As if you can’t see his muscles strain and flex with the effort of not touching you.

His shoulders are so huge that he casts a shadow when he looks over you. “You will.” You pause to make a show out of sliding your wicked gaze down to his jeans. “You can lie to me, but you can’t lie to your…” Then Ghost grabs your hips before you can finish your sentence and drags you to the edge of the mattress.

You hear him sigh through his teeth. “Prettiest cunt I’ve ever seen. Prettiest tits, prettiest ass… Where have you been hiding?” It seems that he does, in fact, like you self-absorbed. You’ll drag more compliments from his mouth before the night is over, you swear it.

When you try to slip a leg over his shoulder before he’s ready, Ghost traps your soft thighs open and in place with his hands. “The United States of America.” Fuck. Fuck.

He strokes through your folds with two fingers, not deep enough to do anything but tease. Still, you jump as soon as you feel him brush your clit with a feather-light touch.

Ghost takes those two slick fingers and lazily holds them out in front of your mouth. “Look at me, and this is over. You hear me? I don’t give a fuck how much you whine or complain.” You take them in your mouth in a show of obedience that surprises him, eagerly lapping up your musk and the salt of his skin.

But not entirely obedient - you nip his fingertips before you pull away, and a string of saliva stretches between you. “I hear you.” Whatever. Avoiding peeking at his face is, like, the easiest thing someone could do to get eaten out.

He waits until your head is properly thrown back, and you rest a hand over your eyes, so there’s no chance you will look down.

As if remembering your reaction to his earlier mercy, Ghost takes his sweet fucking time doing everything but eat your needy, dripping cunt. Your stupid, annoying, evil husband covers the soft, plush flesh of your thighs in kisses, he licks up the arousal that’s leaked onto your skin throughout this game, he leaves more love bites in the crease of your thigh.

Asshole.

And it feels good. Of course, it feels good, and you’re already a squirming, pleading mess, holding back your sighs because you’ll be damned if he thinks you’ll fold with no effort.

When he finally licks a hot stripe through your folds, carefully sucking at your clit, your resulting moan fucking bursts out of your chest, drawn out and desperate.

You can feel him laugh against your sensitive flesh before he just…

Your hips can’t get closer if you tried, you’re caught between grinding on his face and trying to flinch away as he fucks you with his mouth, Ghost’s tongue moving with unerring precision to pour pleasure like lightning through your veins.

Your cunt clenches around nothing as he goes back and forth, licking, sucking, making your thighs tremble around his face. “Shit, shit, keep doing that, fuck-“ You beg, mouth open because it feels like you can’t breathe. The air tastes hot, like sex, like smoke and bourbon.

Ghost’s groans are barely audible over the sloppy, explicit sounds of his mouth coaxing more slick out of your core, all over his face. “You taste-“ He presses two thick fingers inside. “So fucking-“ It stings, it’s a stretch, he has to lap at your swollen clit with a delicate touch to get you to loosen up. “Good-“ Your muscles twist and spasm around his fingers, fluttering in time with each thrust.

Then he picks up the pace. “Ghost, Jesus, what the fuck are you-“ You sob, gasping as you try to get control over your body. He’s got every reaction, your vocal cords, your nerves, your needy, desperate cunt, entirely in hand.

His free hand digs into your leg, nails aimed to hurt. And like the whore you absolutely are, every time he does that, your stomach tightens further. “No need to say my name twice, love,” Ghost tells you in a voice as smooth as velvet, like he’s endlessly amused at your expense.

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” You bitch before getting that knee over his muscled shoulder and dragging his hot, wet mouth towards your pussy again.

Your shriek fills the air when he bites, like really bites your thigh in revenge. “‘M busy fucking you. Come on, lemme in. Lemme find it.” His fingers-

They’re thrusting into you deeper, he slides his other hand under your hips to angle your pelvis up.

And then you feel him brush something deep inside your pussy that makes you clench as tight as a vice around his hand. “Um, fuck, I-“ Your back arches off the mattress, and you’ve got your eyes screwed shut in pleasure, your free hand flailing around as you try to just- just get everything under control…

You can’t think, can’t speak, he touches that patch of sensitive flesh inside of you, and it just wipes your brain clean, replacing everything with Ghost. “There we go. That’s it,” He coos at your helplessness, smug with the knowledge that all your bravado and rationality fail when his fingers fuck you harder, rougher.

Ghost helps you chase the orgasm gathering on the horizon, so powerful that you can feel it humming like power lines in your teeth. “Hn-“ Your moans rise and echo off the bare walls, and he drags his fingers inside you at the same time he places his mouth on your aching, swollen clit.

“Got 60 seconds to come, or I’ll stop.” It’s right there, just out of reach, like your skin is on fire and your body is so, so, so desperate for everything he can give.

Tears gather in your eyes. “No, please, don’t stop,” You beg, words garbled up with whimpers and cries, tears tracking down your sweaty cheeks.

Whenever your leg tries to hold him in place to fight off the pleasure or your core clamps down so he can’t withdraw his fingers, he fucks you harder. “Pretty girl.” Holy shit. You just need to breathe, to try and focus, but you can’t. It’s so- “Good fucking girl.”

You need to come. You need to come, you’re trying, you don’t want him to leave you like this, so much arousal pours out of your flushed, oversensitive core that it covers his wrist, and your hips begin to buck and shake.  “5, 4, 3, 2, 1-“

“I- I’m coming, oh my fucking God-“ Your orgasm drags you down in a fury, pulsing hot and violent. Every muscle trembles and your whimpers reach a fever pitch. And Ghost pries at each scrap of your pleasure he can get, sucking and sucking at your flesh, and you can’t do anything. You have to let him swallow you whole.

You forget how to fucking breathe, and you’re sobbing under the hand over your face, trying to escape the sensation, but you can’t stop coming, clenching, chasing the high.

He lets you ride out the last of it on his hand, helping you through the aftershocks and gentling the pace of his tongue until you’re spent.

When that ringing sound clears from your ears, you sit up with sore stomach muscles and reach for him; mask be damned. Ghost gets the balaclava down over his nose, exposing his mouth shiny with your cum.

Your first real kiss is messy and slick, lips slipping against his and saliva going everywhere. His sticky hands tangle in your hair, and you gasp into his mouth from the sudden, sharp pain. It’s his turn to sigh when you nip at his full bottom lip, a deep, raspy sound that you could become addicted to very easily.

Your fingers slip under the edge of the mask - just where it covers his neck, and Ghost pauses for a moment, lips suspended over yours.

It takes three thundering heartbeats for him to return to kissing the air out of your lungs.

His hair feels short under your fingertips, bluntly cut to a regulation length. You’ve done it before for Soap when he first enlisted. You take your nails over the back of his neck once, then again, hard enough to make it sting.

“Bitch,” Ghost hums, and it’s the softest thing he’s said all evening. Like your teeth and claws are more impressive, more beautiful than your obedience.

Clearly, no one taught him how to behave toward a wife. “Manners.” This time, you draw a little blood from his mouth, and Ghost almost melts into a puddle in your hands.

“Let me fuck you.” He has one hand on your throat, not a chokehold so much as a loose necklace. A wedding ring on your finger couldn’t be more possessive than Ghost’s lingering, eager touch.

And when you press your forehead to his through the mask, he permits it. “I thought you just did.”

Something about his eye roll makes him seem younger. Lighter, more playful. “Let me fuck you again,” He tries. Yeah, no. You’re not a cheap date. “Turn around. Come on.” He has to do better than that.

The look on your face makes him sigh. “Don’t make me beg.”

Next time, he shouldn’t try and give you ideas. Definitely not for free. “What happened to ‘I don’t fuck self-absorbed bitches’?” You ask coyly. You could ask him for anything right now, you think, and Ghost would give it to you.

Pained, aching frustration blooms in his dark brown eyes.

“Jesus, you’re never going to drop that, are you?” Ghost is so cute like this, squirming in his own vaguely-repressed way. He answers you quickly, far more quickly than someone who’s only tolerating this would. “You were right.” The hand on your throat moves delicately across your shoulders, massaging your neck, all luxury and indulgence, a slow seduction.

His words are like music to your ears. “I usually am.” You’re a sucker for that specific compliment. And with Ghost determined to caress every inch of your skin, your arms, the dip of your waist, well…

You bat his wanting hands away and flip yourself over. It takes a little care not to tweak anything, but being on your hands and knees is better for your spine in the long run, anyway.

His large palm runs up and down the length of your back, leaving warmth wherever he goes—softening your muscles, getting you used to his presence when you can’t see him, until you’re relaxed and pliant on the bed.

Fabric rustles behind you. It’s the balaclava; he’s pulled it off and tossed it to the side. You can just see it out of the corner of your eye. “Spoilin’ me with this view, love.” Then Ghost kisses the small of your back as he kneels on the bed, covering your skin with appreciation as he makes his way up.

You can’t help your small, genuinely breathless laugh when he kisses the side of your neck. “Make this good, and you’ll see it a second time,” You promise. Then he palms one of your tits, and you grind your ass against his hard-on, so he doesn’t get too lost in the sauce.

He nips your earlobe. “I’m the best you’re gonna have.” When he withdraws, he takes all his warmth with him, leaving you cold and bereft. “Might be a tight fit, doll,” Ghost tells you as he unbuckles his jeans.

Ooh, doll. That’s a new one. You haven’t been called that before. You like it.

His fingers dip between your thighs, nudging at your clit until you’re gasping and writhing. When he works two, then three digits into your cunt, he stretches you out with brisk efficiency.

The slick sound of skin on skin - Ghost pulls his fingers from you to spread your arousal over his dick, pumping himself a few times.

“I can take you.”

One of his palms rests on your back as he carefully, so so, so carefully slips the blunt head of his cock inside. “Ohhhhh, oh fuck.” You go completely slack, cheek dropping to the mattress. He’s big. He’s fucking massive.

Ghost is hardly moving at all, and still, your pussy is trembling, desperately trying to clamp down on him, but you’re too stretched out-

He’s gasping, exhaling hard through his nose while he tries to re-adjust. The feeling of you squeezing him is unbearable.“God. My fuckin’ God. You’re-“ Ghost cuts himself off, and you hear him curse. He pulls himself out slightly, then pushes back in. “Loosen- loosen up a little. Please.” You can’t even make sense of his pleading, not when his dick is so big inside your belly that you don’t have room for thoughts.

When he plays with your clit, rubbing tight circles with his thumb, you feel the pleasure grow and churn and make you shake. “I- you’re so big, I can’t,” You barely succeed at getting out.

But- he rolls his hips again, and your body opens for him bit by bit. “Please. That’s it, that’s it, pretty girl. Doll. Good girl,” He chants.

And what can you do but let out an answering moan, a strung-out, needy, desperate sound for words your brain doesn’t know?

Your nails are seconds away from tearing the plastic mattress cover. God, if only- if only your cunt wasn’t stuffed so full. “Ghost… fuck, you’re splitting me in two.” He bottoms out, and he’s so deep, like he’s molding you around him. After a moment, Ghost starts fucking you in earnest. 

“Holy shit, yes, right there-“ You gasp when his hard cock presses against your g-spot, your core shivering around him.

Ghost keeps at it with both hands on your hips to hold you steady. “I know. I know. I have you. I have you, love.” Your body trusts him to guide you through this - he’s sturdy and strong, and you feel every inch moving inside of you with his thrusts. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, Christ.” Sweat gathers at your hairline before tracking down your face to join the little pool of saliva below your slack, open mouth.

When he grinds into your hypersensitive, tender pussy, you shriek, his cock fucking the sounds out of your strained vocal cords. “Feels so good,” He groans in a shaken, undone voice.

Despite your fucked-out head, despite getting the best dick of your life, you find another ounce of spite you haven’t tapped into yet. “B-best you’ve ever, hngh, had?” You’re dripping around him, so soaked that the wet sounds of your cunt echo almost drown out your nonsensical, cock-drunk noises.

Ghost laughs before fucking you harder, determined to make you scream. “Yeah, best fuckin’ pussy. Best girl. Fuck. Fuck.” And just as he does that, you hear him lick his fingers before pressing them to your swollen clit.

Oh no. Oh no. Your pussy begins to tighten and twitch, and you didn’t plan for this, the pleasure sneaks up on you as you fight it, trying to keep your head above water and your body from… “I’m not gonna last, shit, you’re too good to me,” Ghost growls, relentlessly pounding into you.

Your stomach aches and screams with your orgasm, but you’re not ready yet, you need a second. You- he’s manipulating your body so keenly, you’ve never felt anything like it.

His hips snap into your ass, aiming viciously for your g-spot. “You’ll come again. Like this,” Ghost orders, then presses down on your back, so you drop your chest and cant your hips up.

“Fuck, I don’t know if I can,” You confess, each sound chopped up and breathless as he fucks you harder and harder.

He keeps his fingers on your clit at the same pressure, same speed, and it feels so good that you’re going to start sobbing at any second. Your knees are about to give out, and Ghost’s thrusts get wilder, messier.

“Come. Come for me.”

You’re screeching, crying, wailing as you come. Cunt spasming on his dick, your lungs empty and howling for relief. Your hips keep pushing back towards him to chase the high. Each wave is more painful, more powerful than the next, leaving you a twitching, helpless mess.

You come so fucking hard around him that you think you were meant for this. It’s the sweetest relief, like hot fire licking through your veins. It’s all Ghost and the cock he’s breaking you open on. Your pleasure slices into your gut like a sharpened knife, and your slick covers his pants, your thighs, the bed below you.

He shoves himself into you one last, impossibly deep, painfully good time, and Ghost comes with a long, drawn-out moan as your muscles milk him. There’s a burst of warmth - except your spasming, still-orgasming pussy is packed to the brim with his cock, so you feel his come drip all over your trembling, weak legs.

When he pulls out, he slides an arm around your waist before gently lowering you to the bed. Then Ghost lays on his side so he can draw your bare, sweat-soaked back to his chest, tucking you into him. And while you’re insensible, he grabs the balaclava and shoves it over his face.

You come back to yourself in increments, your head hazy and filled with small snapshots of tenderness.

Ghost adjusts the open buckle of his belt, so it doesn’t hurt you or irritate your sensitive skin. Your hand seeks one of his blindly until he wraps his fingers around yours. He stops your shivering by unzipping his hoodie and draping it over your naked body.

Your heart rate slows to something more reasonable, and as your eyes open, you see his tattoos. He’s got your head cushioned on his shoulder, so your hair has draped itself all over his arm.

You can see monochrome shadows dancing on his muscled, scarred skin, skulls, bombs, and dog tags, all of it peeking out.

Beautiful. Edgy, scary, beautiful. “I like them,” You say as you outline a lovingly-detailed sniper’s scope with the tip of your finger.

He doesn’t laugh, he’s recovering too, but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Not too shabby, eh?”

Barbed wire in that faded, blue-black color that tattoos turn with age, greyscale fire, and brimstone… “They suit you. And so does the mask.” Ghost exhales softly, air fanning out across your skin.

Then he shifts, tightens his arm around you, and brings you closer. “Thanks,” He murmurs after a long, substantial moment.

You try to banish the exhaustion creeping on you to the recesses of your mind. It makes your tongue slippery, makes the thoughts fall straight out of your head and into the world. “Yeah, no problem. Did you know that your eyelashes are blonde? I’ve been thinking about it since I first saw you.”

There are many other things you want to say, but you chew on the inside of your cheek and manage to stop them.

“Have you now?”

Aw, damn. So you did say that out loud, and he heard you. “Yeah. Yeah.” Each time you blink, you do it slower, like gravity is somehow increasing as time goes on, and you’re losing the power to resist it.

Where’d he go? “Gotta fuckin’… put some sheets on this bed. Don’t fall asleep on me just yet, love.” You poke your head up for a second and look around. No Ghost behind you, no arms cradling you.

Then you spot him by the door, shoving his keycard in his pocket. “Mmph.” You don’t lie down until he circles around and curls his palm around your cheek.

“I’ll be right back,” Ghost promises, and with his blessing, you roll over and close your eyes.

-

Tagging @abbiesxox @thedevillovesflowers @poohkie90 @averyyreads @lialacleaf @backupgal @kitty-satan1 @androgynoushellscape @555ilovecats @pinkwigonmytv @almightywdm @discowizard88 @castielsangelsx @jaymicrosoft @rengokulover96 @copiasratscheese @fluffysmiko @d3athtr4psworld @drugsaftersex @teenagegever2k22 @badame0224 @toilet-paper-headbands @itsrosebabe @bangirl134 @silverianni @nezukos-number1fan @deadpoetsandhoney

Idk how tag lists work so i guess just reply if u want to be added? and reply/shoot me a message if you want off!

Thank y'all so much for the support and love <3 <3 <3, the next chapter will be more smut, as well as the 141's reaction to your wedding!

One last thing - please do not ask a disabled author/person in general to disclose intimate details of their disability because you think their disability should limit them from doing something. that is very rude, and also very ableist. the only person entitled to my medical history is my doctor, and I've already had someone act entitled toward my medical history over this fic. i am super uncomfortable that i had to disclose anything at all, but i felt that if i didn't, they would pick a fight. my pinned post contains the comment i made on AO3 about this, including said details that I wish I didn't feel forced to tell people. I am not going to be responding to questions of that kind going forward. thank you.

(as always, dedicated to cuckoo <3)

[campgender]

So I say this with all the love and respect in my heart- I understand you feeling isolated or othered by people saying “men dni” on posts/blogs that you relate to, but fairly regularly complaining about it publicly from the standpoint of the man who is being asked to not interact, has a very “not all men” smell to it that makes it hard to like, empathize with the very real issues underneath this particular phenomenon. Also, in a very real moment of honesty, I think you know that you- tme bigender high femme fagdyke- are not the man in question that women don’t want to interact with. I don’t mean for this to come across aggressive or insincere, I just think it might be beneficial for you to reframe how you’ve been thinking about this issue, and it might help you feel less targeted by other queer people who are not trying to attack you.

wait, so i am a real man when it’s sexist of me to complain, but i’m not the real man they mean so the exclusionism i’m complaining about isn’t actually affecting me anyway? okay, got it: my gender is whatever gets me to shut up fastest.

speaking of my silence i’m very fascinated by your definition of ‘fairly regular’ since to my knowledge i’ve made 5 posts in the past 3 months that even reference this phenomenon, all of which except the ask meme response i posted yesterday are & have been unrebloggable due to my rampant fear of being accused of this very bullshit for so much as glancing in the direction of my own experiences!

if you last read those posts when they were made then it makes sense why you wouldn’t remember what i said in the longest of those, back on march 10 (link):

To Be Clear. my issue is not with people having certain boundaries, even when i disagree with the political implications! but i have had the tags “#men dni” and “#men do not interact” and “#men don’t interact” filtered for years, and i have the text “men dni” and “men do not interact” and “men don’t interact” filtered even though tumblr’s filtering system means that also blocks posts that are specifying something like “cishet men” (or even, occasionally, “i’m a man, men dni blogs don’t rb”), unnecessarily blocking posts people would’ve been fine with / happy about me engaging with, out of an abundance of goddamn fucking caution but apparently the burden remains on me to check individual bios before liking + reblogging a post every time i think the op might potentially be expecting me to self-gatekeep out of it.

but of course as you’ve so kindly pointed out the expectation to self-gatekeep is all in my head! never mind how many people reblog my femme posts with a cool url or insightful tags whose blog when i check it out specifically says something to the effect of “trans men this means you too” after their men dni policy. but since i obviously haven’t been thorough enough in my brief sporadic generally filter-tagged vent posts, let me be perfectly clear:

while i may feel a twinge of disappointment over a femme gender meme & frustration over a butch positivity post created by blogs with ‘men dni’ policies, my core issue here is blogs that self-brand as femme/queer/dyke/whatever archivists who are expecting me to gatekeep my access to my own history. that is why i started reading full texts myself & that is why i post excerpts anyone can reblog & that is why my tumblr has been left to run her queue for days at a time while i try to resolidify myself in the arguments of four decades ago instead.

so thank you for the reminder that no amount of self-censorship is enough 💖 i’ll try harder to stop playing this rigged game 💖

[missr3n3]

Maybe I should have put a trigger warning on top of the writing, but I forgot, sorry

it's all good <3 i probably would've added the tw to the tags anyway out of an abundance of caution

[dumpsterfirepropaganda]

Soooo after flipping through my sketchbook and realizing just how many goofy OC doodles I've been sitting on, I decided to start a side blog specifically for posts relating to my original characters. This will still be my main blog, but I think I'll feel better about dumping original stuff there - that way I won't be clogging up the feeds of people who are following this blog primarily for Mega Man stuff.

If you're interested in checking the new blog out, you can find it at @gremlin-arson! There's already a good bit of stuff there I haven't posted here - but please do read the pinned post and pay attention to the tagging system, as things are a little more mushy-gushy over there in terms of content. I'm not planning on uploading anything explicit but I did label the blog 18+ anyway, just out of an abundance of caution.

See you there!

[madamemachikonew]

I was just browsing through the pantalone/reader tag as I am one to do, this was back when it was only at like two or three chapters. It stuck out to me not just because it was being updated and therefore at the top of the search every time I looked, but because I saw you had to clarify that the child cruelty/slavery was non-sexual and thought "wow, that's... pretty sad you had to point that out." I can't remember exactly why I started reading it, I just know that I was chilling at a friend's house watching her play fire emblem when I was like "okay I'm interested, I'll read it tomorrow."

And then I told you I'm biting tossing your pants man like a rag doll-

Yeah, I'm still pretty new to fics (writing less than a year) so the tag was out of an abundance of caution because the assumption nowadays is that any sort of childhood abuse is inherently sexual. But sadly, it is a very common occurrence. I didn't want to lose readers or trigger people unnecessarily, so felt it was important to clarify the tags from the outset so that people know exactly what they want to read and can enjoy the fic with some peace of mind.

Anyway, hope you're enjoying life in the swamp I have created lol

[max--phillips]

Hello . This is kind of weird and left field but I would like to talk about the unprotected sex tags in fic that are followed by the “(wrap it up irl)” disclaimer or some variation of it, and why it. Bothers me a little?

Don’t get me wrong, this is good advice! But… a lot of times that same fic will have, say, oral sex, which is also unprotected but is not followed by a similar warning. Also, there are cases where protection might not be strictly necessary! Let me break this down a little bit.

My hunch is that most of the time these disclaimers are aimed to remind people reading the fic who might be hooking up or dating irl that the fic is, indeed, fiction, and irl you need to be careful about protection when you don’t know someone else’s situation when it comes to STIs and birth control. Which is fair! If you don’t know someone’s STI status, you should absolutely wear protection out of an abundance of caution. Also, even if your partner is on birth control, condoms can still help prevent pregnancy; BC is still only 99% effective when used perfectly, and less effective with typical use (about 93%). Condoms when used perfectly are about 98% effective, and about 87% effective with typical use. Obviously you can’t just add these together and say using both at the same time is 100% effective, no matter how many precautions you take there is still SOME chance, but using both can get you damn close to 100%.

However, many people making those disclaimers fail to follow up other tags with the same disclaimer, from oral sex to fingering to anal to whatever else. Penis in vagina sex is not the only way to pass on STIs! During oral sex (whether that’s eating someone out or rimming), if you’re unsure what your partner’s STI status is, you can use dental dams and condoms to prevent transmission. During fingering, you can use gloves. In my opinion you should always use condoms when doing anal sex regardless; for a penis-haver doing the penetrating, it’s a pretty good way to get a UTI. (Also, putting condoms on toys can help cleanup afterwards and prevent transmission as well!) (Double also, the fecal oral route is very real and rimming without a dental dam could quite literally give you food poisoning so… y’know)

THAT SAID, if you’re positive everyone involved has been tested and is negative for STIs, and folks who can get pregnant are on birth control, and you’re willing to risk that birth control potentially failing without the additional buffer of barrier protection… you probably can get away with not, in fact, wrapping it up irl. And it’s really really easy to get tested for STIs. Just roll up to your local health department, planned parenthood, or ask your primary care provider. There are also home testing kits available. And please get tested regularly if you’re active with multiple partners, even if you are using barrier protection! The peace of mind is worth it, and if you have contracted something, getting it detected early will usually help you with treatment options!

Anyway. All of this is to say that while the disclaimer it’s good advice, there’s a lot of nuance to it, and you should make the best decisions for your health and your body!

[artworkbyrese]

Blocked for ads

If this is about my Black Art Magazine post, I just added that commercial content tag out of an abundance of caution. Still kinda unclear about the rules here.

I posted about it because I was asked if I wanted to be a part of their spring issue, so I said yes. It’s not an ‘ad’, but you do have to pay to read it, so I wasn’t sure where the line was. Not really interested in ruffling feathers.

I have since taken the label off. You’ve blocked me so this is probably a moot point, but this is actually a good reminder to like… I dunno. Be kind?

Anyway, I hope you are having a good day, anon. Thanks for giving me something to chew on.

That’s not sarcasm, by the way.

[muu-kun]

What Makes Your Muses Body Unique?

Simple premise. Give 5 (or more) headcanons about your muses' body. Hands, eyes, feet, birthmarks, tricks--anything! Tagged by: @tximidity

Features spanning across the ages: Past (bottom icon) and Present (top icon)

Heart shaped face seen in the detailing and relationship between the roundness of his face around his eyes and the angles of cheeks until they meet to form a pointed chin.

I've discussed it before, but I'm mentioning once more (as well as including an image) the fact he has what is known as clinodactyly. It is isolated to three fingers on each hand-- pinky, index, and ring-- with each one varying in severity from one another. All of which in that exact order. These fingers of his are also all double jointed. The bottom knuckles, however, in ALL of his fingers are bulbous in shape. They curvatures of them fit perfectly amongst each other like a puzzle. The same cannot be said about the top knuckles, though, as gaps surround his middle fingers on each sides.

He has a silly little scar at a place very few can see. One of which acquired from an injury sustained as a teenager as a result of doing something he had ought to not be up to in the first place. In an attempt to climb over a metal fence into an area he'd otherwise not been permitted into, and unsupervised at that, he managed to get comically stuck in his hurdle over it by way of his shorts getting caught onto a sticking out piece of metal. Rather than proceed with caution, he adamantly lunged downwards with all of his effort, slicing through his attire and that of the top of his gluteal cleft to the inches just above it. It isn't entirely noticeable unless one is truly looking in that area, and yet in knowing of it the male can't quite help himself from finding joy in its existence. Especially when considering the fact it acts as his nearly invisible tail each time he excitedly sways his hips as though he's wagging it via an energetic stim.

Another feature he finds to be a delight about himself is the fact he has an outie belly button. He's never wished to cosmetically change it in anyway as it has never caused him any pain or problems. He'll never be able to get a piercing there, no, but that's okay on account it looks cute as a button on its own already. It also rests perfectly within his softened stomach. It is where his fat cells deposit themselves most prominently, and has a tendency to consistently bloat forward due to a combination of stored negativity and a hormone imbalance. Muu always has, and always will, calls it his baby fat.

Speaking of body fat, Muu is otherwise rather lacking in that department as he is generally petite across the majority of his physique. Some of which is contributed to an active lifestyle dictated by consistently walking his dog, going on foot or by bicycle to places close enough to not require his vehicle, or public transport even, routine pacing in instances in which he's attempting to physically regulate out an intense emotion, a whole food diet centered on his entirely vegan lifestyle, and plenty, PLENTY of sleep. Muu's actively in bed by no later than 10pm an any given evening as he for one doesn't like to exist in the dark any longer than he has to, and also because he just is very invested in listening to his body for queues it needs an abundance of rest. Consider yourself lucky if you ever invite him to something taking place after eight pm, because by then he'd ideally like to already he in his jammies with the intention of unwinding and settling down for slumber. His slim frame is also a contribution of an underlying eating disorder centered on withholding food from himself whenever he's under the impression that he ought to be punished for his perceived failures of the day; however, he's growing more inclined to forget such a habit in favor of snacking on vitamin rich treats as hunger and hurt go more together than the version of himself who started up the habit in the first place knew about. He's also taking on the role of gentle parenting himself, which does sometimes mean sneaking himself vegan cookies to boost positivity while negative voice inside his head is distracted. All in all, he weighs an astounding 115lbs / 52kg. Already on the thin side, where one can notice it the most is in his teeny, tiny ankles. Them and his wrists are minute in their circumferences, which isn't entirely of any surprise as both his hands and feet are small for even a man of his stature. Fun fact: both his shoe size and his ring size are that of a size seven in traditional American sizing.

[severalowls]

Re: animated avatars - Photosensitivity is a spectrum, and while a small flashing image might not cause a full on-seizure for some, it could for others (or cause things like vertigo, migraines, etc). I had a quick scroll through one of the photosensitivity PSA posts and there were some people with photosensitivity reporting that flashing avatars would give them some sort of trouble, and others with the condition said it wouldn't be an issue. As a specific example my roommate is photosensitive and has vision problems, so even a small flashing image has the potential to give him a seizure.

tl;dr - it depends, and it's probably best out of an abundance of caution to just not use a rapidly flashing image as your pfp. I do agree that some ppl are way too tag-happy with moving images in general though

Yeah I wasn't planning on switching to some kind of strobe light anyway, but good to know. There's been enough times in the past where people have been "you MUST do X for the sake of Y" on a massive scale and then eventually Y is like "what." for me to wonder.

Thank you!

[army-of-bee-assassins]

one school i'm applying to has a due date coming up on the 15th, and after learning that it's more competitive than i thought and also has three annoying ass short essay prompts instead of a personal statement, i'm having a hard time convincing myself that it's even worth the effort and application fee

[accidentalharrie]

.

[nickfowlerrr]

pretty when you cry - chapter three

series masterlist / chapter four

*originally posted to @bellareadsandrecs on 02/16/22*

pairing: dark!biker!bucky x curvy!reader (dark!soulmate au)

warnings: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. dubcon/noncon touching. mention of rape. bucky being kind of a dick - but what’s new. if i’m missing anything please let me know!! 18+ ONLY.

words: 2.4k

notes: this was going to be longer but i decided the next part would flow better into chapter four. hopefully this will hold you over until i post that this weekend lol. again, i always do my best to tag appropriately, but if you find i’m missing anything, please do not hesitate to let me know! as usual, feedback is always appreciated 💘

This is a DARK series!!! Please proceed with abundant caution.

You spent all of Monday in the same bed you fell asleep in; only getting up to use the restroom or to get water as you mindlessly watched your comfort show on repeat. Eva had called you earlier that morning but you didn’t trust yourself enough to answer without immediately crumbling to her. You opted to text her that you think you may have caught something and that you were really unwell. Which wasn’t all a total lie. You did feel extremely sick. You told her that you didn’t want to give her anything and that she shouldn’t come by - you knew she’d rush right over if you didn’t come up with some kind of excuse. Tuesday came quicker than you realized and you decided to call out of your shift at the diner. You didn’t want to be around anyone right now, especially at a place where you could run into Bucky again.

The real problem you were having was emotionally trying to process the events of Sunday evening.

You were hurt and had the bruises to prove it. You felt used because you were used. But you couldn’t wrap your head around the way he touched you and kissed you so gently. It was a stark contrast to the words he spoke to you. And the humiliating way he left you.

There was an underlying motive to his actions, you were sure of that. You just weren’t sure what it was. If you were being honest, you really didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to think about his soft caresses or the feeling of him on you. Or the paralyzing fear you felt as you let him do as he pleased. Even more, you desperately didn’t want to think about the feelings you felt alongside the fear.

So you decided not to. It was over now anyway, so why prolong the experience mentally?

You spent Tuesday much the same as the previous day and when Wednesday came you had decided to get back to normal - as if nothing had even happened.

If you didn’t pay attention to it, it would just go away. Or at least that’s what you told yourself.

Back to your normal work schedule- you thought you’d be able to avoid the men as you had done before. Turns out those men had other plans.

Every time you went into work at the diner, they were there. It wasn’t always all of them, but always enough to make you uncomfortable. Luckily you hadn’t seen Bucky at all.

Two weeks passed and the following Friday, your routine was yet again interrupted. As you were bussing a table, you felt the gaze of a young man, about your age, on your back. You turned to face him with a raised eyebrow and were slightly surprised to see him quickly look away embarrassed by being caught after locking eyes with you.

You didn’t think much of it. Aside from the fact that you hadn’t seen him around before and he was kinda cute - he was also joined at his booth by some of the guys you recognized from the bar.

You didn’t have the patience or care to keep pretending that you didn’t notice his eyes on you for the past twenty minutes, following you as you walked back and forth from the kitchen to the dining area serving your customers. The other guys he had been with had finished their food and left fifteen minutes ago but this guy, he just stayed.

With no regard for any unforeseen consequences and completely unphased by the fact that he was most likely another biker, you walked up to his booth and had to stifle a scoff as you watched him quickly divert his eyes and look around, pretending that he hadn’t been staring and that he didn’t see you stalking right up to him. You knew you looked pissed, it was clear as day on your face. You weren’t scared. In fact, you hadn’t truly felt scared since getting back to work. What was the worst thing that could happen to you, really? Death? You highly doubted it. If there was anything you could consider remotely “good” about that night with Bucky, it was the ridiculous way you now felt near fearless around these guys. The most intense emotion was annoyance and while you still avoided them like the plague, it wasn’t out of fear of being humiliated or harmed. The worst had already happened and you’d been embarrassed enough that now you really didn’t think anything anyone could say to you would phase you.

You stopped right in front of the guy and stared him down, willing him to look up at you and make eye contact.

He slowly and unsurely glanced up at you and you watched him as he gulped and his adams apple bobbed up and down. He stared for a second, slightly parting his mouth like he was going to say something, but didn’t.

“Do you have a problem, sir?” you asked matter of factly.

“Prob- no, uh, no problem,” he stuttered as he blinked at you. “I’m sorry.” You didn’t respond, only lifted an eyebrow as you returned his stare.

“I know I’m staring, it’s just- you’re just- I, I’m sorry,” he said again. “My name’s Peter,” he offered weakly before putting his hand out for you to shake. You looked at it perplexed, was he being serious right now?

“Y/N,” you said skeptically before slowly reaching out to shake his hand.

“Pretty name for a pretty girl,” he smiled.

“Smooth,” you said before rolling your eyes and turning to walk back to your section.

“Wait, I’m sorry. That was really lame. I uh, I just moved here. Don’t really know many people yet. And you are, really pretty,” he said before standing up. He was taller than you, but most men around here were. It was like your town was attracting well built, handsome, ruthless, men. You weren’t sure this guy was ruthless, he certainly didn’t look it, but, “never judge a book by its cover’’ was a saying for a reason. And guilty until proven innocent was your new motto. So you weren’t going to give him the benefit of the doubt. You looked up to meet his eyes now that his eye level had changed from his seated position. You refused to let up on your harsh gaze. And to be honest, you loved the way it obviously made him a little squirrely.

“This is forward, but would you, would you maybe like to get dinner sometime? Or coffee or something else, casually, or not.” He asked trepidatiously. It was actually annoying you how adorable he was being. But you weren’t about to let your guard down completely.

“Dinner?” you asked.

“Yeah. Like a date. Or not, if you don’t want it to be. Like I said, just moved here, so a friend dinner would be nice, too, if you’d want,”

Damn. Those big brown puppy dog eyes were getting to you. Maybe he was a biker, or at the very least, affiliated with them, but maybe he wasn’t corrupted. Not yet at least, especially if he just moved here. You suddenly felt bad. Maybe he fell in with them recently, just trying to make friends. You could warn him, introduce him to your and Eva’s friends. Maybe keep him from going down that path. You felt your face soften and Peter took notice of it too as a small smile played on his lips.

“Okay. Okay, dinner,” you agreed, even surprising yourself. But feeling confident, more so than you’d ever felt before. His face lit up and he grinned even wider.

“Dinner,” he nodded. “Oh, can I get your number?” he asked.

You took out your pad of paper and wrote your number down for him. He took the small piece of paper and shoved it in his pocket. “Are you free on Saturday?”

“After 7, yeah.”

“Cool, well then, I’ll uh, I’ll text you and we’ll plan something for Saturday, then,” he said and you nodded in response. He opened his mouth to speak again, but the ringing of the bell on the entrance door stole both of your attention and when you turned to see who it was, assuming it to be just another random customer, your eyes went wide and your breathing quickened. You quickly turned back to face Peter and when you did, you saw his eyes wide as your own and he looked almost scared. You furrowed your brow in confusion but the sound of Bucky’s voice calling Peter’s name suddenly pulled it into perspective. He was obviously already in deep with these guys. Because of course he was.

“What the fuck are you still doing here? You have ten minutes to get to the clubhouse. And Steve isn’t a very patient man, especially not when it comes to prospects. Get your ass out of here, and hurry the fuck up,” he said gruffly as he approached the two of you.

The diner was nearly cleared out already, but the last two tables got up to leave right as Bucky walked in. As you felt him close behind you, you saw Peter’s mouth moving as he responded to Bucky, but you couldn’t hear anything over the pounding of your heart in your ears. You hated to admit it to yourself, but fear started coursing through your veins at the mere sight of him. You cursed yourself for it, but, realistically, you should have expected this response. The other bikers weren’t anything to you, they didn’t scare you anymore. But Bucky. Bucky was a different story. You started to try and calm yourself down, and that’s when you took account of what you truly were feeling at the moment. Fear, sure. But also, nervousness? Anticipation, but of what?

Something, something, “Saturday,” was all you heard before Peter was rushing out the doors. You suddenly felt hands on you and you immediately moved to walk to the back. There was only half an hour left in your shift, you were sure they’d be fine if you left early. You don’t know why you thought he’d just let you walk away, but you had to try. His hands held tighter on your waist as he pulled you back, further into him than you were before, his chest to your back. Your breath hitched and you stood still against him. “My shift is over, I’m leaving,” you said.

“Shift’s over? Great timing, then. You can have a seat with me,” he replied as he pushed you into the booth Peter had just occupied.

“What do you want,” you said harshly. You were terrified of the man, but you refused to show him that ever again. So you put on your bravado of toughness and irritation instead.

“Got a date with Peter, huh? You got fucked once and your confidence really shot up, didn’t it sweetheart,” he mocked.

“I wouldn’t exactly call it getting fucked, I’d call it getting raped,” you seethed with venom in as hushed a whisper as you could manage.

“You’re being dramatic, doll. We both know you enjoyed it,” he said with a smirk.

“You’re disgusting,” you spit.

“So I’ve been told.”

You sat there for a moment refusing to look at the man across from you until his hand gripped your chin and forced you to look at him.

“What. Do you. Want?” you slowly repeated yourself while maintaining eye contact with him.

“You remember that date I was telling you about? I was really looking forward to it, but god damn if you didn’t ruin it for me. She gave it up surprisingly easily, but while I was fucking her all I could think about was you,” he started but before he could continue, you scoffed, ripped away from his grip and got up out of your seat, moving as quickly as you could to the back. “Are you insane?” you said as you rushed away. Before you got to the door, Bucky grabbed your arm tightly and pulled you into the bathroom, not far from the back door you were trying to reach, locking the door behind him.

He shoved you against the wall harshly as he kept you there with his body pressed to yours, hands once again finding your chin and forcing you to look at him.

“Come on, sweetheart, stop pretending. You’re only gonna get yourself hurt,” he said before nuzzling into your neck. “You know.. I couldn’t stop thinking about how fucking soft you are,” he said as his hands made their way down your body, squeezing and feeling you up just like he had before.

“Stop,” you muttered as you tried futilely to stop his hands.

“Please, I just wanna go home, please,” you begged him as he started nipping softly at your neck. He pulled back and stood to his full height, towering over you while he held you against the wall. His hands returned to your face as he leaned down and surprised you with an intense kiss, that you didn’t mean to reciprocate, but definitely did. Your mouth responded before your mind could and you found yourself fully making out with Bucky against the wall of the bathroom. He only pulled away when you were both out of breath and he gripped your jaw meanly, forcing you to meet his powerful gaze as you struggled to regain your breathing. “You’re not going out with Peter,” he said harshly. “Do you understand me?” he asked.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business or concern,” you responded in as even a tone as you could.

He laughed dryly while he continued to stare down at you.

“You’re not going out with Peter.” he repeated calmly before he leaned closer and softly kissed your forehead, causing you to shudder. “Go,” he said and nodded to the locked door, “I’ll see you around, sweetheart.”

And with that, you sidestepped and unlocked the bathroom door and walked quickly to the back, you couldn’t believe the one day Eva took off this would happen. You grabbed your things and then rushed to your car. You saw Bucky on his bike to the right of the diner front, watching you, but you rolled your eyes, ignored him and pulled out of your spot and headed home.

[gingerteaonthetardis]

i have over fifty wips, AMA.

ashskjsfsdak so i was tagged by both @englishbunnyrocks and @deardiary17 to do a WIP game! as you can see, i have far, far too many to provide coherent summaries in the post, but feel free to ask me anything about them—for excerpts, summaries, random thoughts, what inspired them, what about them mosts haunts my waking nightmares, etc.

also, out of an abundance of caution, i marked with asterisks the ones that either are nsfw currently or could possibly become nsfw at some nebulous point in the future, just in case you're someone who would want to avoid those.

or choose them specifically. idk, i don't judge.

ANYWAY, here's a non-comprehensive list of the best/worst/most embarrassing WIPs in my google docs:

dw: ninerose: unnamed regency doctor/patient au* • hp: fremione: afterlife* • hp: fremione: hermione granger and the first annual annivorcery rager • n&s: margaret x john: convalescence • dw: charleightrose: unnamed prompt fic • dw: tenrose: awake • dw: ninerose: fata lupum • dw x ttoi: tuckerrose: the communications director and the callgirl* • dw: ninerose: the terms* • dw: ninerose: torchwood toys* • tw: bella x paul: alternatives* • dw: tenrose: unnamed stardust au • hp: fremione: i am easy to find • dw: twelverose: unnamed fake dating au • dw: thirteenrose: unnamed moodboard ficlet • dw: eightrose: bust your kneecaps • hp: fremione: boundaries* • tw: jacob x bella: solstice • hp: fremione: a necessary bond* • hp: fremione: complicated rituals* • hp: fremione: fic that's genuinely titled 'porno au, oh my god, send help'* • hp: fremione: unnamed accidentally pregnant fic* • tw: bella x paul: morning bright goodnight shadow machine* • tw: jacob x bella: another life • tw: paul x bella x jake (yeah, you read that right): one hand to keep me warm, one hand to hold my chin • tw: jacob x bella: thirty • n&s: margaret x john: bloody knuckles • s&s: marianne x colonel brandon: unnamed post-wedding fic* • hp: nevmione: an impossible friendship* • dw: eightrose: fobwatched

anyway, that's not remotely all of them, but i'm stopping now for everyone's sake. ask away! tagging @saecookie and @lostinfic, because i know y'all got some good WIPs. also, absolutely anyone else who wants to do it!