#that shits beneficial for her mental health AND plays into her special interests what the fuck!!!

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4861

Tags: Dom/sub, bdsm au, dom Bucky, sub reader, hurt/comfort, enemies to lovers, gay sex'n'stuff, straight sex'n'stuff, Steve being a literal Golden Retriever, mental health issues, dub-con, forced submission, referenced childhood abuse and resultant mental health issues, bakery au, m/f/m, gentle domination, total power exchange

Summary: The stigma and shame of being a submissive has kept Mary unfulfilled and in the closet her whole life, until an inciting incident leads to Bucky and Steve taking her in and giving her everything she was always too afraid to ask for.

Trigger warnings: This story contains themes of eating disordered behavior, body image issues, childhood abuse, self-harm, mental illness, and alcohol abuse.

Wait! I haven't read an earlier chapter of this fic! Story Masterpost

10. S'mores

It’s the “sex play” (God, that term is so cringe) thing being on the table that builds the tension in the apartment, all of them knowing about it but none of them talking about it. Mary sure as shit doesn’t have the guts to break that ice, and now Bucky’s always deep in thought and quiet around her. And Steve, well.

Steve is like a big, mopey golden retriever who knows its humans are upset but doesn’t know how to help besides headbutting things affectionately.

Mary’s feelings for him only grow when she realizes that he really hasn’t told Bucky about that night in the kitchen: the things she’d confided about the razor and her nightmares and sneaking out to the gym. Knowing that Steve’s stuck by his word like that makes her like him and trust him a whole heck of a lot more. 

But it doesn’t solve the underlying problem. 

There’s a court hearing in front of a judge next month to revisit the custody arrangement—Next month. And one afternoon while Bucky’s out of the apartment, Steve gently informs Mary that Dr. Linda is recommending the order be extended. Jesus fucking Christ. 

And then the results to that test Linda made her take, the “Submissive Sexual Interests and Tendencies Assessment”, arrive in the mail (addressed to Bucky, because of course they would be), and Mary gets her hands on them after Bucky and Steve read them, and she’s mortified at what it says about her.

Tendencies: Passive aggression (reactive aggression in lieu of submission), emotional outbursts, low self-esteem, impulsive sexual promiscuity, self-harm, alcohol use disorder, possible co-morbidity (OCD, EDNOS, BDD). Dynamic Preferences: single dominant authority figure, structured domestic routine, service, discipline, monogamous relationship, emotional bonding. Recommendations: Following assessment review, patient is most likely to benefit from continued domestic control in a consistent (24/7) environment. Transfer of custody not recommended. Continued therapy sessions and educational courses at CDP highly recommended. Most beneficial therapeutic modalities include limited corporal discipline, sex play, and reward-based service routine.

There’s a ton of infuriating psycho babble bullshit packed into those results that she could get upset about, and she does, but Mary’s eyes track over that one, most-horrible phrase over and over again: 

“Transfer of custody not recommended.”

Fuck.

She loses sleep over it, sneaks out of the apartment in the middle of the night and does cardio at the gym until she’s exhausted enough to head back home and pass out. It pisses her off that this is such a thing now. She doesn’t want to be special needs, she should have the right to choose whether she even wants treatment or not! She resents the hell out of Bucky and Steve for having custody of her the way that they do. They’re clearly expecting her to blow up or something, after the news from Linda and the SSITA results come in. It’s so obvious that they’re walking on eggshells around her, Mary halfway wishes they’d just do something. One way or the other, it’d be better than this.

Linda claims that they’ve expressed “positive feelings” about a sexual dynamic, but if they have, they sure aren’t expressing it to Mary. She suspects that most of that positivity has come from Steve, and probably only because he’s a golden retriever in human form who just wants to do what’s right and good, not because he or Bucky are particularly attracted to her.

While she has managed to clean herself up quite a bit since moving in with them, Mary isn’t delusional: she realizes that Steve and Bucky are very attractive men, whereas she’s just average. She tries to tell herself she’s fine with that. She knows Bucky and Steve could probably get like, a supermodel to sleep with them if they really wanted to. Mary’s not in their league, and that’s okay. 

But if they’re not attracted to her that way then they should at least have the decency to just say so! At least then she could find someone else, get back on Tinder, or even sign up for one of those ProDoms that the CDP has. Darcy said Thor was good, so maybe Mary could request him? The way that Darcy had described the guy, he sounds like he's a hunka hunka burning Nordic god. Mary could go for that.

She brings it up casually over dinner, framing it lightheartedly, and Bucky literally crushes his water glass in his prosthetic hand. “What?” he snaps, frowning down at the mess he’s just made. “No.”

Mary huffs and goes to fetch the desserts while Steve gets the waste bin and begins scraping the broken pieces of glass into it like it’s just another Tuesday. “I don’t see why not,” Mary complains from over at the counter. She’s pulled the plates out from the fridge and grabs the butane torch for the meringue.

“Jesus,” Bucky exclaims when he sees the industrial sized torch she's wielding. “Where’d you get that?”

Mary purses her lips as she focuses on achieving the perfect amount of toastedness. “Hardware store,” she mutters. “So why can’t I go see one of the ProDom’s again?” She purposefully over-torches Bucky’s meringue, because she can tell that this isn’t going to go her way. “Sounds like a win-win. You don’t have to deal with me, I can meet new people, and insurance pays for it. What exactly is the problem?” She’s trying to force him to admit that he doesn’t want to Dom her sexually, trying to get him to see that something’s gotta give and he’ll have to let her use one of the ProDoms eventually if that’s what the severity of her “condition” requires (gigantic ‘Ew’). 

But frustratingly, he refuses to engage with her on the topic. “It’s a no, Mare,” he tells her sternly. “Pros are for people who have more experience. You don’t.”

Mary seriously doubts that. “Linda didn’t say that,” she argues, carrying the plates over to the table and handing the nice one to Steve and the burnt one to Bucky. 

He pulls it closer to himself and raises an eyebrow at it. “Linda’s being diplomatic,” he mutters. “I thought you said you were making s’mores?” 

Yesterday, Bucky had been talking with Steve about how much they both missed their old camping trips they used to take. The two of them must’ve waxed poetic over campfire s’mores for ten whole minutes. So Mary thought this would be an excellent way to butter them up. Apparently not.

She sniffs and picks up her fork. “They are s’mores. It’s a plated dessert, Bucky. An interpretation. It’s not literal.”

He grunts and peers at his portion, poking it dubiously with his fork. “What’s it made of?”

Mary heaves a sigh and snottily recites: “Honey Sablé, 70% Valrhona cremeux, cold-smoked Italian meringue, torched ‘mallow, Graham crumb streusel, and tempered chocolate stick for garnish." Both Bucky and Steve stop poking at their plates and just stare at her for a second. 

“Sounds good,” Steve chirps, and digs into his.

Mary stares Bucky down, until he too, deigns to eat the apparently too fancy for him version of a  s’more. “Oh, damn,” he says after the first bite, looking taken-aback. “I can taste the smoke.”

Mary preens, then asks again about the ProDom. “Well if I’m not getting it there then who the heck’s supposed to fuck me?” she winds up blurting out of frustration.

When that direct reference doesn’t elicit any response from Bucky besides a barrage of bossy instructions for after-dinner cleanup, Mary loses a bit of the hope she’d been holding onto that maybe Linda was right about them being attracted to her. She just gave him the perfect fucking opening, and he didn’t take it. She gets the kitchen cleaned up from dinner, resigning herself to another evening of platonic domination that doesn’t quite hit the spot. 

Nightly drops are nice. Not as nice as they were in the beginning, the effects having waned quite a bit from what they once were, but still better than no drops at all. 

Mary sits on her pillow on the floor, head on the couch cushion next to Bucky’s thigh, listening vaguely to the sound of the television while she enjoys the feeling of his fingers carding through her hair, lightly massaging her scalp. It’s been a while now, and she doesn’t think she’s going to get any deeper. It’s late, already they’ve watched two full episodes of their show, and Mary’s got work tomorrow. It’ll be bedtime soon. 

A big yawn works its way up in her throat, and Bucky chuckles when it finally breaks free. “Tired?” he asks.

“Mmhm.” She inhales deeply and sits up, sleepy and squinting. It takes a moment before her eyes adjust to the darkness of the room and Bucky’s form sitting right in front of her. Wow, she’d been really close to him, hadn’t realized just how close. Had she been … hugging his shin? God, she hopes not. Not like she hasn’t spent whole evenings fantasizing about rubbing her face all over his thighs and his— Nope. Not gonna think about that when he’s sitting right there. She tears her eyes away and forces that train of thought to stop right in its metaphorical tracks. 

“You good, Hon?” Bucky asks, his soft voice drawing her attention back from her own head. She looks up and sees his fond expression, his relaxed posture. Wonders if he’s in Domspace at all. Probably not.

Then her eyes land on the line of his cock at the front of his pants. 

He’s hard. Not very, but some. Underneath his sweats his dick is chubbed up enough that it creates a slight bulge against the fabric. Mary freezes, staring for too long before she’s able to tear her eyes away. When she does, and she looks up, Bucky’s watching her with an inscrutable expression. Her breath catches and her mind goes absolutely dumb.

Does he want ..? Should she ..?

She looks back down at it, at the relaxed splay of his thighs. She wets her lips and thinks about reaching forward and sliding her hand over it, what it would feel like, if it would twitch, if Bucky would shiver or make a sound. She wants to touch it, and seriously considers doing so, but when she looks up at Bucky again, he doesn’t look like he’s excited, or anticipating her touching him. He looks … resigned. 

“Tired?” he asks kindly. "Do you maybe ... Do you need anything else tonight? From me?"

Mary's lips part, heart leaping at what that might mean ... but then Bucky looks over at Steve with visible yearning in his eyes, and the two of them share one of their silent conversations, brows pinched and expectant. 

Oh. Right. Bucky’s just horny and eager to get Steve into bed, wants to wrap this up. Mary wonders if he really can’t tell that she's not far down like she used to get. Maybe he thinks this is all she needs and he really isn’t going to take Linda’s advice seriously. Mary should be happy about that. After all, it’s what she wanted. Isn’t it?

She balls up the hand that she’d been imagining touching Bucky with and nods. “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, I’m tired. Think I’m gonna … go get ready for bed.”

She glances over at Steve, but he looks mopey and eager to get out of the room just like his husband does, cementing the notion in Mary’s mind that they don’t want to be with her that way. No doubt they will if push comes to shove, because Linda’s told them Mary needs a sexual dynamic, but it’s not something they’re excited about. Mary knows men: They’re not the sort to sit around and wait for a girl they like to make the first move. And certainly not a man like Bucky, of all people. 

She tries not to be hurt by it, but still gets a little weepy while brushing her teeth, the unintended rejection stinging more when she’s down in the tingly, vulnerable throes of subspace. She spits, rinses, flosses, rinses. Grabs the mouthwash that she hates to use but that Bucky has ordered her to always use after brushing her teeth at night. 

She says goodnight to Steve and Bucky through the safety of her closed bedroom door, and despite her voice being warbly, neither one of them knocks on the door to see what’s up. That drives the point home, and Mary tucks herself into bed with the mindset that she’ll let them know they don’t have to sleep with her just to be nice or to help her or whatever. She’ll just find a way to convince them that she really is fine with going to one of the ProDoms, and that it really is a better arrangement.

Better than a pity fuck, at least.

It’s disappointing to know that Mary prefers the ProDom, that she doesn’t want to make their relationship sexual, but Bucky gets it, and he knows that he shouldn’t be surprised. He’s not exactly an easy person to get along with, after all. He’s prickly as fuck, grumpy, bossy, selfish. And aside from her natural submission, Mary’s personality clashes with his horribly. Steve is essential, but he just isn’t enough to successfully buffer between the two of them—not enough to make her want them that way, at least. 

Bucky can see the profound disappointment in Steve’s eyes that night, as Mary doesn’t react the way they were both hoping, doesn’t take the offerings Bucky puts out.

They have to let it be her choice, of course, having planned it out and discussed it between just the two of them. It's all anybody ever talks about in the D/s community these days: making sure subs are the initiators at key moments like this, not letting domination creep in and become manipulation-so easy to do with how naturally vulnerable and people pleasing submissives are. Gone are the days when Doms like Bucky were encouraged to guide new partners in the "right" direction. That leads to too much trauma, too many subs in situations they don't really want. Mary has to be left to make the choice on her own, it's her right.

But it's still the hardest fucking thing for him to do, to just sit there and wait passively. And it still stings when she looks straight at his erection and declares that she’s ready for bed. Well, if it wasn’t clear before.

Steve looks like a friggin’ kicked puppy, as he stands outside of Mary’s closed bedroom door and bids her goodnight. Bucky nudges him in the direction of their own room and murmurs, “Come on, Sweetheart.” 

In their bedroom, they each get undressed. Steve continues to mope, so Bucky goes up to him and places a hand on his shoulder and rubs. “Hey. Don’t sulk. You’ve still got me.” Steve’s mouth twitches in a small smile and Bucky’s heart flares with fondness for him. “You wanna play a game?” he offers, leaning in and kissing him once on the lips. “Mm?” He looks down pointedly to both of their boners that haven’t completely lagged since tv time ended.

“Okay.” 

Bucky hums and turns, putting his left shoulder out. “Lend a guy a hand?” Steve obliges. He removes the prosthetic arm with practiced motions. Bucky moans quietly at how good it feels to get the heavy weight off. “Fuck.” He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck each way with a blissed out groan. “Yes.”

“You’ve been wearing it more than usual, lately,” Steve points out, going over to set it on the table at Bucky’s side of the bed. “Why?”

He already knows: Bucky can tell from the way he asks it. He grunts and looks away, refraining from answering. He normally only wears the arm to work and to the gym, skipping it around the house or when he’s just got simple errands to run. There’s a surprising amount he can do just fine without the use of two arms, and he’s been confident about being seen in public without it for a long time now, thanks to Steve and their friends at the V.A. Being self conscious about it again after all these years isn’t something Bucky wants to admit out loud or think about, but Steve isn’t stupid. He can put two and two together. 

“Babe,” he says softly, walking back over to stand behind him. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and noses into his neck. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Bucky inhales deeply. “I know. I’m not.” Steve makes a sound that clearly says he doesn’t believe that. But Bucky doesn’t want to talk about it, so he reaches back with the only arm he has to grab playfully at the side of Steve’s ass. “Go in the bathroom. Get the water going how I like.”

Steve groans and thunks his forehead against the back of Bucky’s neck. “Not that game,” he complains, though there’s no conviction to it. He slinks off towards the bathroom to go do as he’s been told. “I hate that game.”

“Fuck you. You love that game.” 

Steve shoots him the finger from over his shoulder, but something about his naked body and tight little ass being on display strips the gesture of its animosity. He disappears into the bathroom and Bucky walks over to their bedroom dresser to grab a hair tie, still snickering. He sobers when he takes one from the valet tray and realizes that he’ll have to have Steve tie his hair back. That’s one thing he never could figure out how to do one handed. He stands there and looks in the mirror above the dresser, studying the left side of his body in a way that he rarely does anymore. 

He’s gotten so used to it: his life with Steve, whom he knows down to his bones accepts him unconditionally. He’s almost forgotten what it feels like to be self conscious about his body. Bucky hasn’t known how to talk about it, and Mary hasn’t asked. She’s seen him with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, or in tee shirts at the gym, but that’s all so far. Sometimes he’ll catch her looking, but he’s got no clue what she’s thinking. He considers his reflection, looks at the scars and puckered skin, the implanted base of the arm where his stump used to be. He doesn’t like the uncomfortability of being critical of his body again. In a way, he almost resents Mary for it, for making that feeling come back after all these years. Silly, he knows. 

“Babe?” Steve’s voice calls out from the bathroom. Bucky’s ears register the sound of rushing water. “You coming?” 

Bucky inhales deeply and decides it doesn’t matter anyway. Mary wants a ProDom, not them, so he doesn’t have to stress over what she thinks about any part of his body, let alone the one part he doesn’t have.

“Yeah.” He turns his back to the judgmental mirror and heads towards his very non-judgmental best guy.

“Okay. Stop clenching.”

Steve exhales shakily, but he does obey, body slumping back against the end of the tub as he relaxes his muscles. “Fuck,” he breathes, overwhelmed.

“Hand too, Baby.”

His hand abandons his dick in the bathwater. “Ungh.”

Bucky smiles lazily and rubs the side of his foot against Steve’s hip in praise. “Good boy.”

They’re in the bathtub together, opposite ends, legs tangled. Their combined bulk displaces the water all the way up to above their shoulders, but that’s part of the game: they’re not allowed to splash on the floor, so they can’t jerk off very hard or fast. First one to splash water on the floor is the automatic loser and has to bottom the next time they fuck (Bucky added that little caveat because he’s very good at not splashing, whereas Steve is hopelessly clumsy and overeager ). “How you doing, Sweetheart?” he asks, drinking in the sight of Steve with his lips parted, chest heaving, squirming. He’s pink from temple to tits, flushed from the bathwater and arousal both, and Bucky loves it. “You’re not close already, are you?” he tuts, grinning. “So sensitive.”

“Buck,” Steve croaks, heated eyes dragging over Bucky’s body at the other end of the tub where he’s still gently jerking himself off. “Please.”

Bucky affords himself another toe-curlingly good swipe over the head of his dick before he nods. “Okay. Slow. Just like me”

Steve huffs and wraps his hand back around himself, stroking his dick in slow, measured strokes, just like Bucky said. Bucky’s guts warm and another heady rush of dominance swirls low in his belly at watching Steve do exactly as he says. “You can start workin’ it again, too,” he says.

Steve moans gratefully. “Thank you. Fuck.” His abs start clenching, his body straining again with visible tension as he works the Aneros that’s seated up inside him. Under the water, his knees move in and out in that instinctive motion as he tries to rock it just right. But it’s hard to do it with the water so high, and more than once he catches himself and holds back at the sight of the bathwater sloshing precariously close to the lip of the tub. At one point he gasps and his eyes slam shut, and Bucky figures the toy must’ve shifted to press even more directly against his prostate. 

“Ooh, does that feel good, Stevie?”

Steve peeks his eyes open, glaring across the way at him. “You know it does.”

Bucky does, in fact, know exactly how good it feels—because he’s got another of the exact same toy inside of himself, right now. “I don’t know why you still agree to play this game,” he taunts, grunting from the effort of holding back his own moan as his prostate gets a firm prod from the head of the toy. “You—nngh—you always wind up losing.”

“Yeah, well …” Steve’s throat bobs as he swallows heavily. “Maybe I don’t mind you coming out on top, sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Bucky scoffs, but he’s breathing heavier than he was thirty minutes ago, his composure slipping the longer he works the toy inside himself and jerks himself off agonizingly slowly underneath the water. In fact, he’s not even sure it even counts as jerking off at this slow a pace.

Edging is something he’d introduced Steve to early on in their relationship, as soon as he’d realized how delightfully sensitive his new boyfriend was. And Steve, the big idiot, had worried Bucky wouldn’t like it, had actually thought of it as a negative! An absurd notion that Bucky promptly disabused him of. Watching his ungodly sexy blond behemoth of a husband whine and squirm and struggle to hold himself in check is one of the fucking hottest things Bucky’s ever seen—and he’s seen a lot. He’d been a bit of a manwhore back in his heyday, racking up the bodies as he fought to find himself as a Dom and accept the body an IED had left him with.

Steve, his overly-sensitive, glorious hunk of a then-boyfriend, had helped him to do both. And it’s times like this where Bucky remembers just how goddamn lucky he is. Having Steve to love and fuck around with feels like the best gift in the world. 

At the other end of the tub, the water sloshes as something he’s done to himself makes Steve’s breath hitch in another helpless moan. He tosses his head back for a moment, eyes clamped shut as his expression crumples beautifully and he whimpers. Bucky’s ass clenches down hard in arousal at the sight, which only makes the toy in his ass rub over his prostate that much better. His cock throbs as his pleasure flares dangerously high. Fuck, he wants to come. 

Licking his lips, he decides it's time to end this. His balls are pulled up too close to his body, taut and full and aching for release. Trying to school his breathing into something resembling nonchalance is a lost cause, and his face feels almost as flushed as Steve’s looks right now. Bucky decides to call it, because even though he’s the automatic favorite to win this game every time, he is capable of losing, if he gets too caught up in ogling Steve’s body and reactions and doesn’t focus enough on playing his cards right. “Okay,” he finally says, smirking when Steve’s head jerks back to attention, his irises visibly flaring in excitement. “Yeah, Baby. It’s time.”

“Fuck.”

“You ready for the home stretch?” He waggles his eyebrows and lets his head rest back against the tub, spreading his legs wider and keeping his eyes on Steve. “Gotta keep up,” he instructs, even though Steve already knows how this goes. When Bucky tightens his hand and speeds up the pace of how fast he’s jerking himself off, Steve copies him. That’s how it is at the end of this—totally-rigged-in-Bucky’s-favor—game. They both jerk off at the pace that Bucky sets, and the first one to splash water on the floor or come is the loser. It’s not very fair, but Bucky never claimed he was a fair guy. He is, in fact, selfish as fuck. 

Lucky for him, Steve’s into that.

“Fuck,” Steve pants from his end of the tub. He slides down lower, keeping more of his body under the water in an attempt to prevent splashing. It’s a futile effort, though, because he’s doomed to lose anyway with the faster pace that Bucky’s set. Already, he’s going lobster red in the face, brow pinched and desperate, knees knocking the sides of the tub as he compulsively works the toy in his ass. 

The arousal in Bucky’s gut coils tighter at the sight. “Watch my hand,” he warns, when he notices Steve slacking off. “Gotta match it, Baby.”

“I am.”

“Tighter,” he says, eyes gleaming. “And stop avoiding the head. I can see you cheatin’ over there, Punk.”

Steve whimpers, and Bucky knows that he really wasn’t going as tight as he is, because Steve’s hand changes its hold and he starts getting the head of his dick with the same intensity that Bucky is. Bucky grins open mouthed, panting. “Atta boy.”

“You should—ugn.” Steve grimaces. “Should get a penalty, for being cut. I should get an extra, nnnh, th-thirty seconds, at least.”

Bucky laughs, because trust Steve to think of a sportsman’s solution to the inequity of their dicks. Steve being uncut means that it takes less intense stimulation for him to come. They both know this, Bucky loves this, and again: he never claimed the game was fair. “No penalty,” he grunts, speeding up his pace even further. Steve’s eyes widen but he matches it. Bucky grits his teeth. He can hold out long enough. Steve’ll blow in seconds at this pace. 

And sure enough, it’s not even twenty seconds later when Steve is crying out, body tensing and muscles straining gorgeously as he seizes up and starts to come. “Agh!” His knees fling out hard and hit the sides of the tub, splashing water over the lip to the floor below. But he hasn’t even noticed, he’s so lost to his orgasm. His asshole is twitching, sucking on the Aneros as the contractions of his body pull the toy up against his prostate again and again, drawing the pleasure out. He shoves down hard in the water and shouts louder, as though he’s getting a second orgasm on top of the first. “Ohnfuck …” 

Bucky groans as he watches it happen: Steve’s gorgeous face and juddering hips, big hand wringing up hard underneath the head the whole way through. The fucking sounds he makes, Jesus wept. It’s leagues better than any porn Bucky’s ever seen. “Fuck, Baby,” he praises. “Yes. Fuck that’s so hot …” 

Steve’s hand keeps working the whole way through, only abandoning his cock once it’s fully spent and softening, the cloudy ribbons of his cum floating away in the bathwater. “Fuck,” he exhales hugely once it’s done, letting his body go lax and slump so far down that only his face is above the waterline.

Bucky grunts and spreads his legs wider, not heeding the splashing rule now that he’s already won. The water splashes precariously as he shoves his hips down and down and down, squeezing the shape of the toy inside so fucking perfectly. Fuck, it feels fucking good working over his spot like that. “Oghnnn,” he pants, grunting and groaning and jerking his cock hard. “Fuck, Baby. You’re so fucking pretty. Fuck. M’gonna cum …” 

Steve gives a sated hum from his end of the tub. Bucky can sense him shifting in the water, and then gasps when he feels the ball of Steve’s foot gently press up on his balls. His eyes fly open and he looks down. “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “Fuck, fuck.”

Steve grins and rubs his foot against him. And Bucky doesn’t have that fetish, but there’s something so fucking perverse about seeing Steve’s toes up against his balls that it turns his brain to mush anyway and pushes him right on over into orgasm. He shoots off beneath the water, stroking and thrusting and moaning—and probably splashing water all over the floor just as badly as Steve ever has.

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u know what actually? fuck u if you don’t think Robin takes ASL in college and starts to use it to hide when she’s non-verbal omg 🙄

[sibyl-of-space]

havent angsty long-posted on here in a while lol it’s like i am in 3rd year of college all over again

Well, no thanks to fast and reliable testing, I am at least fairly sure I actually do have Covid. I still haven’t gotten my test results and it’s been a week, but I have a headache typing this because I over exerted myself by performing the highly taxing tasks of... taking a shower, cooking something, and sitting upright instead of lying in bed (as I have been largely doing for the last 2 weeks). So at the very least I’ve been able to communicate with my workplace and am now at an understanding that I should just take this week off too because if sitting upright for extended periods of time makes it hard to breathe, that is perhaps, slightly concerning.

So instead my anxieties now are about the fact that literally contracting Covid was actually in the long run beneficial for my mental health because I’ve been able to just... rest, and play some video games, and rest some more, and sleep, and edit photos, and watch other people play video games. I’ve gotten to just. Relax. I haven’t had the chance to relax since before the pandemic started, because I work at a nonprofit that helps homeless people and that shit doesn’t stop being necessary in a crisis. And it’s compounded by the fact that I work in IT and we had to basically throw together enough band-aid and duct tape solutions to get everyone set up to work remotely, which was hard as fuck to do, and now we are still going in part of the week to help serve meals shifts because we don’t have any volunteers.

(That is like 90% definitely how I contracted it, a few weeks ago I worked a meals shift with someone who was not-so-subtly coughing into his mask next to me and it was not the phlegm-y cough but the ‘ah i am just clearing the old airways’ cough. Why are you working a meals shift to serve the homeless if you have symptoms OH MY GOD. Anyway.)

My workplace is not organized in the best of times, which made it interesting but lively and was largely endearing even if it was somewhat frustrating. But now, it is just driving me up the wall. I have felt at the end of my rope mentally for about 2 straight months with no end in sight. And now the more literature that comes out indicates it could be YEARS before the USA is able to approach anything resembling normal because of this, and I do not think I am mentally capable of handling this kind of environment for that long.

My team is GREAT. I love them. This organization put out the only legitimate IT starting position that did not require 3-5 years of previous experience, paid me MORE than a fair starting wage, and is just all around great at treating me like a person and I’ve learned so much from them. I am so thankful. But the organization as a whole is managed like, well, basically a shit show that makes me honestly miss the well-oiled shitty corporate bureaucracy that was my first job out of college. I’ve been considering applying elsewhere for ages now, but... well first of all I feel like I need to at least have worked a full year here before moving on (it’s been about 7 months presently) for it to count for anything, and also, well it has been very nice actually being treated like a person in a 9-to-5:30 office position and I don’t know how much I’ll be seeing that if I sell out and work for some tech startup or whatever the hell.

Up until now I have had a sort of... promise I’ve kept to myself, where if I am not fulfilled and start to actively dislike and resent my job when I wake up for it in the morning, that I will move on from that job. I have held on to that. My first job out of college was an excellent source of stability for me as a recent college grad, but when it reached a point it was stressing me more than it was supporting me, I moved on. I then worked minimum wage (note: minimum wage was $15/hr at this point so my income was only actually decreasing by $4/hour because administrative assistants do not get paid what they are worth. Now bay area cost of living is fucking stupid, but minimum wage in this circumstance was actually livable for me with the bonus of having my parents’ health insurance.) at a fabric store - I stayed there for 2 years, longer than I’ve ever held a position, and while partly I left because I had more or less finished learning what I had hoped to learn from my coworkers, the store was transforming away from that kind of community DIY vibe it started out as and turned into a kind of etsy wine mom vibe that didn’t click with me as much anymore, and also I was turning 26 and would lose my health insurance through my parents.

So I took the next several months taking my first real break from constant responsibilities/employment since pretty much ever, focused on speedrunning Tales of Symphonia and eventually started studying for a baseline IT certification so I could try and get a job that was more appealing to me than administrative bullshit, which I hated so much. My closest friends I made in my first corporate job out of college were people in QA and IT, so I decided to try and make that a reality. I studied my ass off for a couple solid months, took both tests for the A+ certification, passed, and started applying to jobs. And now here we are.

My frustration stems from the fact that I want to continue working with the people who took a chance on me when I was very green and had no experience, just 2 tests under my belt and a willingness to learn. I really do want to continue learning and growing here. But the environment, through no fault of anyone’s, has been just grating on me. I honestly believe that if I quit they would all completely understand, but I don’t WANT to - I want to stick it out, partly out of pride (this organization has such high turnover, I have already outlasted over half of the new users I’ve onboarded.....), partly to repay the team that has invested in me and treated me like a human being, and partly because I know more experience is necessary if I want to land another job anywhere else.

But boy, am I drained. I was literally hoping I had Covid because it meant I could get 2 weeks off work. And here I am, finally got Covid, am taking 2 weeks off work, and yet I still feel bad about it because a damn test hasn’t come back making me feel validated about it and I’ve still partially convinced myself I’m being a drama queen.

And this break from work is just making me dread the prospect of YEARS of this kind of uncertainty. It’s been so nice just kind of being able to do things at my pace, but it took me actually contracting The Plague to actually get this kind of relief.

Anyway, a few bright sides... first, my tortoise is adorable and doing great, so there is that. (Just looked over and saw her doing something cute. I love her.) Second, I will continue to rest this full week, and next week there is a good chance I will feel more empowered to tackle a workday with the perspective of fresh challenges as opposed to just some monotonous daily grind, after having this time off. Third, if I continue to feel nothing but dread and frustration regarding work, I think I should stick to that promise to myself and give a deadline to when it’s time to start looking elsewhere and move on, because no organization is worth my mental well-being. And lastly, I’ve re-visited OoT for the first time in a really long time (handhelds are about all I can do at the moment), and that was really special.

I’m still fucking pissed that there is pretty much no chance I’ll be able to go to France this Christmas with my roommate and girlfriend. I was so excited to have a paycheck where I could afford to do something not just for myself but for the people closest to me, I routed our flights so we had layovers that would let us connect on the main flight together and paid extra so we could sit together, I was SO excited about this because I spent almost EVERY Christmas in France as a kid because of my family and I miss it SO MUCH, I was so so so excited to share these intimate memories with people I really care about, but the USA is a fucking dumpster fire shit show so who knows when I’ll be able to actually do that now. I haven’t cancelled the flights yet but I’m coming to terms with the fact I’m going to have to do so. Hopefully I can get a refund and we will just have to go next Christmas, but I’m still really fucking upset.

Not even going to comment on how much of a shit show the USA is in general. I feel completely helpless. Another 4 years of Trump is literally a catastrophe we can NOT permit but the current DNC platform looks like it is going to fix about, oh, FUCK ALL, so at this point it feels like there is no hope unless we literally start busting out the guillotines. Every time I see an Elon Musk fanboy on Twitter some of my remaining faith in humanity crumbles. Then I think about how people have been protesting EVERY SINGLE DAY for the right of Black people to LIVE and NOTHING is being done about it. It’s both exhausting and terrifying.

In conclusion, I would like to stop living through a major historical event, please and thank you.

[mlmsamatoki]

I finally made this post like I said I would several months ago.

This is my OC, Cinnabar “Cinni” Tran, the Master of Luck!

(More information underneath and TW for brief mentions of abuse)

Fun facts

-Cinnabar is autistic, has ADHD, is 17 years old, nonbinary, aro, ace, and uses they/them pronouns.

-Their mom is Vietnamese and their dad is half Chinese and half Vietnamese.

-They have a younger sister named Mai.

-Cinnabar is very emotional, and you can almost always clearly tell what they are feeling by looking at their face.

-They honestly care too much about everything.

-They also like to exaggerate their facial expressions for humor or intimidation. Sometimes, there is no actual reason for them to exaggerate their face, but they just do it because why not????

-Speaking of humor, they find the most mundane or random things to be funny (picture a scale titled “The Humor of Cinnabar” ranging from a single letter of the alphabet to a lizard with an octopus body playing the drums).

-Cinni’s only emotions are Anger, Too Much Of This Shit, Needs More Of This Shit, Good, Bad, and ??????.

-They will aggressively criticize things that they believe are inaccurate, immoral, or just straight up terrible.

-Condescension, entitlement, ignorance, and feeling vulnerable are things that they hate the most.

-Their hand gestures are so elaborate and rapid that you’re more likely to pay attention to their hands rather than what they’re talking about.

-Cinnabar’s birthday is June 6th.

-They have a soft spot for children and will actually steal your toes if you’re a dick to kids.

-They believe in superstitions and will actually carry lucky charms/items around with them. In fact, they would collect abandoned items and keep them as lucky charms. A crusty rock with someone’s name on it? Lucky charm. A dusty book with indecipherable runes? Lucky charm. Creepy doll from an old abandoned house? Lucky charm. A rotting statue lying on the middle of the street? Lucky charm.

-Cinni pretends to be neat and organized while their room is always covered in piles of clothes, charms, and literally any other things they could get their hands on.

-Their lifelong special interest is nomenclature. They have memorized *tons* of information about systemic naming in multiple fields such as taxonomy, business, law, and chemistry. Heck, they even created their own nomenclature to categorize lucky charms and organize their journals.

-Another special interest they have is their powers. They’ve been analyzing them ever since they unlocked them, and they own several journals chronicling their abilities and development.

-Cinni named themself Cinnabar because red is their favorite color and represents luck in Chinese and Vietnamese culture.

-All the emotions or thoughts they don’t express manifest as internal rambling or screaming in their head.

-Cinni’s mind is always in a constant, mindless state of chattering, so it can be really hard for them to relax or focus.

-They try their best to be respectful of others and their boundaries because they’re a decent person.

-Cinnabar has a reputation for always being on time.

-Catch them walking around in circles while muttering unnecessarily long words.

-They really love spicy food and will probably try to eat a ghost pepper immediately on sight.

-They like swimming because moving around gives them Good! Feelings! And it’s stimmy.

-Honestly, Cinni is willing to do nearly anything that requires motion.

-They’re extremely loyal to the people they trust.

-Sometimes, they have the urge to stare into the sun for hours, and other times, they can’t even look at a bright color for more than one second.

-Cinnabar has mixed feelings about being mature for their age because on one hand, experience is the best teacher, but on the other hand, experience can also be traumatizing.

Backstory

-The Previous Master of Luck was Cinnabar’s grandmother, who returned to a quiet life after the Great Serpentine Wars and never disclosed her powers to anyone else besides the people who she fought beside. She passed on her powers to her daughter, who never unlocked them due to being unaware that she had them. Her daughter then passed her powers on to her firstborn child, who is, you guessed it, Cinnabar.

-When they were growing up, their parents would ignore their emotional and mental health, which resulted in them having for care for them themself, along with Mai’s.

-They were constantly guilt tripped by others for “not trying hard enough,” behaving “inappropriately,” or for being “too weird.” They were also told that they were too fragile, unmanly, and needed to toughen up.

-Other kids would take advantage of them since they were really naive and gullible. In fact, Cinnabar’s had many “friends” who manipulated them or found their “quirkiness” to be entertaining.

-As a result, they developed anxiety, poor self esteem, and fear of trusting others.

-On top of that, they would get into all sorts of trouble for fighting back against bullies, so they began practicing martial arts to finish fights in retaliation so that they wouldn’t be accused for escalating the problem. Ultimately, they still received punishments, but they decided that it was worth it since people would know not to fuck with them.

-The person they trust the most is Mai. Cinnabar loves talking about *anything* with her, and the two enjoy taking turns to infodump about their special interests.

-Cinni realized that they had powers at age 14 after everything dramatically happened in their favor for a week. At first, Mai thought that their claims were superstition-related but changed her mind after seeing them pull a Komaeda on a group of bullies.

-There had been numerous reports in Stiix about people mysteriously escaping near-death situations and people who were hit with sudden influxes of misfortune... Guess who caused all of them.

-Cinnabar was considered very intelligent as a kid and would absorb information from any books they had access to. Now, they suddenly can’t read every time they see a huge wall of text.

-Cinnabar was invited to participate in the Tournament of Elements but declined since they were wary of how suspicious the event seemed. Plus, they never told anyone that they were the Master of Luck so hmmmmm.

-When Stiix was overtaken by ghosts, they reached their full potential by saving their sister and other villagers from ghosts and helping them escape. Then, they absconded to New Ninjago City with their family and continued to live there until they and Mai left when they turned 16 and 14, respectively.

-Currently, Cinnabar and Mai have been traveling across Ninjago for over a year.

Elemental Powers

-Cinnabar can detect only every potential positive outcome, and in order to choose which outcome to act on, they must consider theoretical pros and cons and what would be the most beneficial.

-If an outcome is connected to a person, then it must be desired by that person in order to be deemed as positive.

-They can’t steal luck from people, but they can redirect it, which how they cause people to appear as though they are experiencing good or bad luck.

-Also, they charm items using their own luck.

-Cinni can manifest luck into power/energy that they can physically carry in their hands.

-They don’t know how to do Spinjitzu.

[autistic-bee-blog]

**trigger warning for self harm, suicide, mentions of emotional abuse***

There aren’t many posts (that I’ve seen) that talk about what happens when you are Autistic and people label you gifted, or a savant, or a prodigy, or any other terms similar to those. So, I’m going to talk about it, but here’s a quick disclaimer:

I wholeheartedly believe that IQ is inaccurate and discriminates against those who are not verbal, do not come from a background which provides typical academic education (i.e., those who live in poverty), and those whose skills lie outside of the bounds of spatial, verbal, auditory processing, and written comprehension. I also believe that labels such as savant, gifted, and prodigy are often used in an elitist manner to say that “these Autistics are okay because they can do ___ and have contributed heavily to society in a manner deemed profitable and/or productive"or are otherwise misapplied by outsiders to discredit those who are on the spectrum but are verbal or deemed of higher intelligence. That being said, this is an account of my personal experiences and beliefs and these viewpoints do not ring true for everyone.

So. My original diagnosis was Aspergers Syndrome, which is the exact same thing as Autism, the only difference in criteria is that those diagnosed with Aspergers Servers and not Autism were verbal before age three. This diagnosis was later re classified as Autism spectrum disorder after the publication of the DSM-V.

As a child, I spoke very early on. I mean, I was speaking full sentences by the time I was two. One of the things I remember is my fascination with colors. I memorized all of the crayola crayon names, and when I went to daycare as a little toddler we would all go over colors. But when the lady pointed out colors and all of the other kids would say "red” or “blue,” I’d say “burnt sienna” or “turquoise” or something more specific for each hue. I LOVED colors, and coloring, even if I did do it outside of the lines.

My parents noticed Autistic traits very early on with me as well. I didn’t socialize with other children, I played off by myself. I cried and screamed when certain smells, tastes, or clothing entered my environment. I had horrible meltdowns where I would become a danger to myself: I’d pull out my hair, or bang my head on a wall, or claw at myself. I had echolalia as well; teachers and kids would get mad at me because I kept making cat noises or repeating things over and over. I had such a hard time holding pencils and writing that I had to get special permission to type my assignments. I actually could not read until second grade, because i couldn’t put sounds with letters on a page. So all of these things led my parents to taking me to several psychologists and specialists, after which I received my diagnosis.

When I got older, academics became more important. I was a very curious child, and I loved to learn. My interests were strange for my age, I was fascinated by microbiology and diseases and insects and animals. I learned names of bacteria and their different strains, I watched videos on different species of spiders, I learned about diseases and medical conditions, which I memorized. I was prone to infodumping on unsuspecting strangers (my favorite story about that is a cashier in Publix who offered me hand sanitizer while my mom was paying for groceries. I looked at her very gravely, and starting warning her about the dangers of stapholoccocus and streptoloccocus, and how important it is to wash your hands and clean open wounds. My mom finally told me that that was enough, but the cashier thought it was the neatest thing ever. Fun fact: she went on to become best friends with my mother, and they keep in touch to this day.)

In third grade, people started to notice that I was ahead of other kids my age in acedemics. I was given my first IQ test, just to see where I was. I didn’t know it was an IQ test at the time, but I took it. I found out the results years later: at age nine, I had an IQ of 136.

Everyone labelled me gifted, prodigy, etc. It felt nice, encouraging even, to an Autistic kid who kept getting picked on or slammed around and ostracized by the other students. But it started a cycle that I didn’t recognize until many years later.

When I got to high school, I was awarded all sorts of things relating to standardized test scores and academic achievement. They gave me another IQ test at 16, and by that time my IQ was 146.

With all of this however, I still faced difficulties related to my Autism, amplified by ignorant teachers and school officials. I can’t drive, and I had a very hard time in math and science because of my spatial and visual processing disability, and I had a hard time writing and copying from the board because of my impaired fine motor skills along with the aforementioned disability. I also had (still have) problems talking aloud to other students or teachers, due to severe anxiety, and also following verbal directions (which got me into several less than savory situations regarding my commitment to class and my supposed lack of self advocacy. Ironically, I had an IEP which required teachers, by federal law, to comply with accommodations, including printing all directions and assignments and clarifying these things with me after class. Every time they broke that law, it was blamed on my lack of advocacy, or initiative. Even when I called for meetings, or spoke up for myself, or informed teachers repeatedly of my IEP and disability. Several teachers flat out refused to follow it and said that it was just a disciplinary issue. Others asked what would happen to me in college, in “the real world,” to which my mother retorted that I would always need some level of assistance and that they should be ashamed for trying to frighten her kid like that, like everyone was just going to abandon me in adulthood.)

I had severe problems with self esteem and self worth. I always accused people of lying when they said I was special or smart. My main issue though, was that i felt like if I wasn’t deemed smart or gifted, that I would just be broken and everyone would toss me aside and hurt me, at least, more than they already had in the past. I grew up thinking that I was obligated to redeem myself, to “make up” for being Autistic. I thought that “gifted” was the only worthwhile thing about me.

My mental health worsened too. I had started cutting and burning myself in middle school, it got worse as I got older. I starved myself in high school. I had tried to kill myself twice by the time I turned 16, and was rushed to the ER after a violent meltdown which resulted in a deep wound on my arm that required 7 stitches.

All of this could be traced back to feeling like I was, well, a piece of shit. And to the emotional abuse I endured at the hands of teachers, and the things kids did to me to mess with me, the things people whispered about me, the way they looked at me, the way my parents looked at each other. The ignorance and cruelty of people around me. Their unwillingness to listen to me, to accommodate me. Their willingness to turn away in the midst of hatred and prejudice. I began to hate them.

On bad days, I want to give up trying to explain all of this and Autism and just resign myself to the fact that nobody will ever accept and accomodate me the way I am, much less love me. I say I should just accept that I’ll probably always be at the mercy of other people, I’ll probably be abused all over again. I tell myself I’m better than them anyway, that I’m gifted and they aren’t. I try and fail to believe that lie. Those days…I try to just hide in my house and stay silent.

But the worst part of all of this, was that whenever I tried to talk about any I’d it, about “gifted” being used to ignore an obvious disability, I’d get dismissed as high functioning, or I’d be reprimanded for being ungrateful for my talents.

I got labelled gifted, and suddenly it didn’t feel like a compliment anymore, but a threat. A disavowal. Shackles of an obligation to be normal, but also smart enough to be beneficial to society, to make up for all the things they have to deal with to accommodate me.

Now, I think that “gifted” is such a flat way of looking at things. I think that it only serves to label someone high functioning, so the people in charge can ignore any of their inaccessibility or ignorance when confronted by the person being hurt by it. I think that gifted is too often used as a measure of value, and is too often misaligned with merit. What about creativity? Dedication? Perseverance? Kindness? Open-mindedness? The most important qualities have no ruler to measure by.

I think “gifted” can go die in a hole. I’m not gifted. I’m ME. I’m curious, I’m dedicated, I’m strongwilled, I’m defiant, I’m kind, I’m compassionate, and I’m Autistic. And I make no apologies.