#trigger warning SA

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 4042

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, and alcohol abuse.

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

5. Jiggly Soufflé Cake

Steve

“I should be in there,” Bucky says again, making Steve roll his eyes.

They’re sitting next to each other, out in the waiting room at the Center. It’s been over an hour, but Steve remembers how the intake worker had told them that Mary’s evaluation wouldn’t be short. Already, he’s read through half the crappy magazine selection. He lets the edge of an outdated issue of Dominant Monthly flop down to his lap. “Babe …”

“It’s taking too long. What if they’re harassing her or—”

“You know that’s not true. The people here are good. You’re just trying to control everything,” he reminds Bucky.

“If I was in there I could—”

“Get in the way. She needs to feel like she can express herself.”

“What if she’s not honest? What if Linda’s not asking her the right—”

“Buck, stop,” Steve says, injecting some command into his voice. Bucky might be the Dom, but Steve can put his foot down with his husband when needed. “The therapist knows what she’s doing. All the people here do. This is what they do.”

They’re at the Center for Designated Peoples, the place where people like Bucky go for … well, anything related to their dominance or submission needs. That’s all Steve really knows. He knows that Bucky has been in and out of CDPs since he was a kid. “It took almost a week to get her this appointment, alright? You want to mess that up?”

Bucky grumbles. “No.”

“Good. Cause they don’t need you in there, interfering in her assessment. So sit tight.”

Bucky shuts up after that, satisfying Steve that he’s made his point.

“Well, what do you think?” Bucky eventually says, when another ten minutes have passed and the door to the therapist’s office is still closed. “Of her?”

Steve glances over. “You mean in general?”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Steve can tell when Bucky’s being defensive. “You like her,” he says. “And not just cause of her lemon tarts.” He’d seen him looking at weighted blankets on Amazon, yesterday. “Admit it,” he prods, nudging Bucky’s shoe with his. “You can tell me how you feel. Why d’you need me to qualify it for you, first?

“Because I’m married to you, not her,” Bucky snaps. “Jesus, Rogers. Never met a man with less self-preservation instincts than you.”

“Mmhm. Aand?”

“... Okay I’m drawn to her,” Bucky says. “But I can’t tell how much of that is instinct and how much is normal people stuff.”

“‘Normal people stuff’,” Steve echoes, amused.

“I want to know what you think of her.” Bucky kicks his shoe back. “Tell me.”

“I like her too,” Steve concedes. “It’s not just you.” He can see as Bucky’s shoulders relaxing a little bit, knows that his opinion matters to his husband. “She’s different. Plain, but …” Steve searches for the right word. ‘Cute’ doesn’t seem right. She’s too prickly for that and too old besides. She’s a woman, not a girl, and he’s not just trying to describe her physical appearance. “I don’t know,” he says. “Editorial?”

“Editorial?” Bucky scowls. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“I dunno, just, not off the rack. Different.” Bucky snatches the magazine out of his lap and chucks it back to the coffee table. Steve rolls his eyes. “Wish she wasn’t so defensive, though. And I wish we could’ve met her … you know, like on a date or at the gym or something.”

Bucky snorts. “Yeah.”

“She grows on you,” Steve decides. Like an angry, stray cat. That’s dirty and scraggy a little.

“She’s pretty,” Bucky offers, but the words fall flat. They can both see that she’s attractive, that isn’t news. Bucky and Steve are attractive people themselves. They aren’t hurting for opportunities to be with attractive women (or men), if they want to. And it’s been a while since they invited another person into their bed. But …

“I haven’t been with a woman since my twenties,” Steve mumbles, thinking about it. He glances at Bucky. “You have.”

They both know Bucky was dating women casually when he met Steve, years ago. “Yeah,” he says simply.

“You ever miss ‘em? Women?” Steve kind of does sometimes. He likes how soft they are; the contrast. It had taken him a couple of dates and a few glasses of wine, back when they’d first gotten together, to admit to Bucky that he was bi. Steve had told him that, and then Bucky had disclosed his designation status. “We used to talk about the whole poly thing a lot more.”

“Hm, yeah I guess.” Bucky shrugs and reaches to take his hand. Steve gives it a squeeze. “I dunno babe. Kind of hard to think about anybody else when I’ve got you around.” He gives him a lecherous look that makes Steve glad they’re the only ones in the waiting room. “Your hot body’s been enough to keep my attention.” His eyes drag up and down Steve, mentally undressing him.

Steve feels heat creep up his neck and he chuckles, pushing Bucky’s hand away. “Stoppit. Jerk. I’m a person.”

“Punk,” Buck smirks. “You like it.”

“Shuddup. Not here. God, you’re such a creep.” They’re both grinning—probably like complete, horny letches—when the door to the therapist’s office opens.

The professionally dressed woman offers them a friendly smile. “Bucky, Steve.”

“Hey Linda,” Bucky greets.

“How’d it go, Doctor?” Steve asks, not on as informal terms with the CDP staff as his husband is. “Is she …”

“Mary is fine. Would you like to come in and talk with us?”

Bucky is immediately standing from his chair. “Yep.”

Steve has to refrain from rolling his eyes. He grabs Bucky’s wrist. “Hang on now, Buck. Maybe she doesn’t want us in there. We should try and give her choices where we can.”

Doctor Linda surprises him by saying, “Actually, Mary says she’s fine with discussing this all together.”

Bucky shoots him a smug look and tugs his wrist back. “See?”

This time Steve does roll his eyes, but he nods at Linda and gets up to follow her back into the office.

Bucky

Bucky can recall very clearly the first time he’d been told he had a mental illness. He’d been ten, had been sent to the school shrink for misbehavior. He remembers how his mom had come in, harried about being called off from work when her kid wasn’t even sick. Bucky had felt bad about that, had felt like he’d done something wrong (well, he had scrubbed Trixie Wallace’s face into a mud puddle at recess).

But still, even at ten years old he’d been smart enough to know that this meeting with his mom and the counselor was more serious than another simple admonition or in-school suspension.

Long story short, His mom wound up reacting with something like embarrassment, and Bucky had wound up internalizing that for a long time, feeling like his “condition” was something to be kept private and not discussed.

Now, he sits in Linda’s office and makes sure to exude an air of calm and acceptance. He doesn’t want Mary to be embarrassed about this like he was. It helps that times have changed a bit since Bucky was a kid, and he knows this particular Center very well. They do good work with the designated community. Bucky knows that no one here is going to announce to Mary that she’s a deviant.

Mary’s sitting in her own chair, separate from where Bucky and Steve share the couch. Even though Bucky’s instinct is to tell her to come sit with them, he holds back. He knows that the seating arrangement is likely purposeful on Linda’s part. He tries to remember Steve’s words about giving Mary choices where they can. Domination may be what she needs, but too much of a good thing, administered too fast, can still be harmful.

“High needs,” Steve is saying, echoing what Linda’s just told them. “... So, she’s like Bucky, but submissive?”

“Yes,” Linda confirms. “We did the assessment twice, and both times Mary tested at the far end of the spectrum.”

“Fantastic,” Mary mutters.

“We’ve been discussing what this might mean for her care plan, going forward. Mary has several other issues that I believe tie into her unfulfilled needs as a submissive.”

“I don’t understand how it went undiagnosed for so long,” Bucky says, feeling vaguely upset about it. “Doc?”

She shrugs. “Mary’s from a part of the country where mental health awareness isn’t so advanced. They didn’t test in the public school system where she grew up.” Mary makes a quiet noise of discontent and Linda adds, “So we’ve been talking about the physiology of it, the role of neurotransmitters and how important it is for her to be dropped regularly. And we’ve discussed what that might look like, different options she has.”

“Options?”

Here, Linda hesitates. “Well … Mary has expressed an interest in taking advantage of the Center’s social programs.”

“No,” Bucky says right away. “Absolutely not.”

“She said you do it,” Mary counters, and when Bucky looks over he finds her glaring at him. “Apparently, I don’t need you after all. I can just come here and hook up with any old body.”

“I’m your legal guardian right now,” Bucky reminds her. “And the clubs are for people who know what they’re doing. It’s too unstructured for you. You need more stability than that.”

Mary scoffs and crosses her arms, but Dr. Linda is already nodding in agreement. “I think Bucky’s right, Mary,” she says gently. “A reliable, dominant partner and regular drops in a safe space are what you need right now.”

“Why can’t you just write me a prescription or something?” Mary complains. “You said it was a brain chemistry thing, so why not?”

Linda looks uncomfortable as she explains, “Medication is usually only considered as a last ditch treatment option … and with your substance use disorder and other issues I'd rather not —”

“I am not an alcoholic!”

“No meds,” Bucky says, hating that idea. “Come on, Mary. You don’t want to be drugged up, do you?”

She glares at him. “You just want to control me.”

He fights very, very hard not to roll his eyes. “Yeah,” he quips. “That’s kind of the whole point.”

Mary groans and slumps back into the cushions of her chair, looking put out. “This sucks.”

“It’s manageable,” Linda reminds gently.

"I don't want to be this way," she mumbles. "'High needs'. It's embarrassing."

“It's no different than needing air, or food or sleep,” Steve supplies. “You guys just have this extra thing.”

Mary makes a face, probably at being lumped into the ‘you guys’ category with Bucky. “So, what’s the plan then?” she asks mulishly, crossing her arms. “We go back to your place and you break out the whips and chains?”

Bucky barks out a laugh before he can stop himself. “Oh, honey. I promise there aren’t any chains.” He winks at her. “I prefer leather.”

Mary

After the therapist, it gets a little easier to be around Steve and Bucky. Mary’s still quick to anger, thinking about the situation that she's managed to get herself into, but there are some ameliorating factors to the situation.

Having an official diagnosis—no matter how much she doesn’t want this diagnosis—is at least a starting point. Mary doesn’t have to keep exhausting herself, arguing with Bucky that she’s not a sub. She is. That’s that.

And when he takes it upon himself to speak with Mary’s boss about her situation (effectively getting him to unfire her for the multiple days of work she’s missed) some more of Mary’s contempt for Bucky slips away.

“Thank you,” she says quietly once they leave the café, her next shift already scheduled for that upcoming Monday. “ I … this job, it means a lot to me.”

“I know.” Bucky says simply, though Mary can see the self-satisfaction in his posture. He takes her hand as they walk together down the sidewalk, and to Mary it feels like some sort of test, like he’s waiting for her to pull away.

So she forces herself to curl her fingers around his and keep holding his hand.

Again, she can practically feel the reaction coming off of him. He’s pleased with her. Mary’s cheeks flush from the domineering squeeze he gives her hand from time to time as they walk, and she’s grateful that she can blame it on the day’s chilly air.

Doctor Linda had explained everything, of course, when Mary went in for the assessment. The testing hadn’t been what she was expecting, hadn’t been embarrassing or invasive. And, perhaps most disappointing of all, it hadn’t been predictable. Mary hadn’t felt like she knew which way to fake her responses, to get the test to declare her mentally fit. So she’d answered honestly. 

And where had that gotten her? Lumped into the same group of deviants as James Bucky Barnes. “High needs”—God it sounds awful.

“It’s not necessarily sexual,” Linda tells her at her second appointment. “Or, well … it doesn’t have to be, at least. There are ways around it, if you really need an asexual dynamic.”

Mary nods along, but inside she thinks about the last time Bucky scolded her or praised her or held her hand on the sidewalk. She thinks about when he’d put his hand on her throat and applied pressure. Thinking about those things doesn’t make her feel asexual at all.

The first time Bucky doms her in a coordinated manner, she’s actually unaware of what he’s doing at first. It’s one of Mary’s  three days off and she’s terribly bored, researching how to make grapefruit soda caviar and wondering if there’s a gym nearby that she could join. She hasn’t exercised in weeks, and honestly, if there’s even the slightest chance that she’s going to wind up being naked in front of Bucky or Steve (or, oh god, both of them), then she really feels like she needs to work out.

Scratching fingernails over the skin of her lower stomach, she googles nearby gyms, finds one that looks decent, and tells Steve that she’s headed out to go join. She’s tying one sneaker when Steve objects.

“Oh but wait,” he says. “Um, Bucky’s going to be home soon. And I think he uh, I think he had plans. … For us.”

Mary raises an eyebrow. She likes Steve—thinks he’s kind of a big, beefy sweetheart, actually—but sometimes his devotion to Bucky and what Bucky wants is annoying. “Fine, you stay here and tell him where I went. I’ve got to get out of this apartment.” And out from under you and your bossy husband’s constant supervision. “Got to … I dunno, burn off some steam.”

Bucky’s timing is impeccable. He comes through the door just as she’s bending over to lace up her other sneaker. His arms are full of plastic grocery bags, which he dumps onto the kitchen counter with fanfare. "Honey, I'm home."

“What happened to using the reusable bags?” Steve drawls, earning an eye roll from Bucky.

“Forgot 'em.”

“Mmhm.”

“Shut up.” Bucky’s grinning at his husband, until he catches sight of Mary crouched in her gym clothes. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asks her.

“None of your business,” she snips, standing back up and heading for the front door.

“Stop right there, Princess.”

Oh. Well that’s a new one. Mary turns back around with what she’s sure is an incredulous look. “‘Princess’?”

Bucky smiles warmly and drags her over to inspect the groceries that are in the bags. She’s quick to catalog: eggs, butter, flour, sugar, milk. “What?” she asks, looking up at him. “You think I’m going to cook for you?”

“Oh I know you’re going to cook for me,” he says calmly, taking dry goods out of one of the bags and arranging them in the pantry. “Bake, in fact.”

Mary might stare a little, maybe with her lips parted. She feels equal parts annoyed and intrigued by his audacity. Something vaguely squirmy and warm stirs in her. She's planning on throwing some haughty quip back at him, maybe casually threatening poisoning, but somehow what comes out of her mouth is a subservient, “Well … what do you want me to make?”

He turns back around with bright eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you can come up with something,” he practically purrs. He gets right up in her space and says, “Something … delectable.”

Mary has to avert her gaze and turn away. She says a quick prayer that he hadn’t been close enough to hear the little hitch in her breath, then tries to focus her attention on cataloging the ingredients the jerk has brought her. Eggs, butter, flour, sugar, milk …

Hadn’t she … hadn’t she been going out somewhere? Oh yeah, right. The gym.

She squeaks when Bucky claps a cheerful hand on her shoulder and gives her a squeeze. “Good girl,” he simpers, then walks over to the couch and flops down next to Steve, giving him a kiss hello. They proceed to chat with each other and chat about their days like Mary isn’t standing less than twenty feet away in the kitchen.

She suddenly feels like some 1950’s housewife. … One with damp panties, now that Bucky’s called her that right in her ear. Christ. Had Steve heard? She glances back over to them, but they’re not looking her way. Mary flushes and looks back down at the countertop. Eggs, butter, flour, sugar, milk. She tries to think if she has everything she might need for soufflé cakes.

“How can something so plain be so good?” Steve wonders at the dinner table, where he’s squinting closely at his third helping of dessert like he can glean answers from it. “And what is it?”

“Satisfying,” Bucky says sagely. “That’s the secret.”

“The secret is buttermilk. And it’s cake, Steve. Just eat it.”

“How’re those dishes coming, Doll?” Bucky calls back, shooting her a sly look from over his shoulder. Mary resists the urge to stick her tongue out at him and dunks her hands back into the soapy sink water. 

Steve pokes the jiggly cake with his fork. “What are yooou?” 

By the time they’re finished with dinner and dessert (and dishes), she’s figured it out. All the pet names, the casual touches and the confident demands? Bucky’s trying to dominate her. She thinks about calling him out on it, but promptly forgets to do that when they go into the living room to watch a movie and Bucky firmly suggests that she make herself comfortable on the floor instead of the couch. At his and Steve’s feet.

Forget about damp panties, she just hopes it doesn’t start to show through her leggings.

Asexual dynamic her ass.

Mary had only held onto the illusion that the guys were gay gay for about two whole days, before it became very apparent that they actually like women, too. Steve’s comments alone about Daenerys while watching Game of Thrones are enough to broadcast that he swings both ways.

So that takes it from regrettable to just plain insulting when, as time goes by, Bucky doesn’t initiate anything sexual with her. He keeps doing his whole Dom thing, aided and abetted by Steve, and almost always in ways that take Mary off guard. He’s never mean, never does any of the intimidating things she’d imagined a dom would do to a submissive. 

And Mary won’t admit it, but she’s starting to look forward to when Bucky gets home from work at the end of the day. She spends more time than she’ll ever admit planning out something new to make for dessert, all the while anticipating the beginning of Bucky’s early evening commands and how they elicit those first tendrils of effervescent, pink fizz giddiness. 

It’s the later commands—the ones that come after dinner and during tv time, that tend to bring on the warm, sunken bathwater feelings. Marys pretty sure that Steve is a bit of a voyeur, because he seems fascinated by it all, watching every night as Bucky bosses her around, sometimes even joining in his own small ways, by petting her hair or telling her she’s sweet, or something like that.

Every evening, they play this strange game. And every evening Bucky and Steve each give her a kiss on the cheek and send her dazed little self off to bed, the two of them retiring to their own room. In the beginning, being left alone to go to bed is nice. She ignores the arousal between her legs in favor of floating in her syrupy sea of sweet feelings. Going to bed in subspace gives her the most solid sleep she’s ever had in her life. But after another week of it, and then another, the arousal starts to linger a little more at bedtime. She starts to fantasize about what it would be like to keep things going, to take Steve’s hand at the end of the night and let him guide her into his and Bucky’s bedroom, rather than her own; be held between their two big bodies while they whisper more sweet things to her and touch her in new places …

Maybe Steve and Bucky really do just want this to be platonic, she thinks, as another week of the same goes by and her dreams are getting dirtier by the minute. She’d surreptitiously stuffed her vibrator into a bag when they’d gone back to her apartment to retrieve her belongings, but she’s been too afraid to use it when Steve and Bucky are right across the hallway in their room, mortified to think that they might hear the buzzing and know what she’s doing.

Best not to add fuel to the fire, she thinks, when she ignores how increasingly horny she’s becoming and forces herself to lie still and count sheep and not fantasize about the two insanely hot, not-gay-gay men in the next room. They’re still a happily married couple, she tells herself. They’ve got no interest in her as of yet, and she’ll just be making herself into a homewrecker if she pushes for more.

… Or maybe they’re just not attracted to her that way, she eventually starts to think. Steve and Bucky are both in amazing shape, and they’re very good looking. They probably see her as like … maybe a solid five—with makeup and a blowout. 

She gets a little down in the dumps about it, realizing that all the heavy drinking and crap diet of this past year and a half has taken its toll on her, and she’s just not physically their type. She convinces Bucky to start adding salmon to the grocery list, she researches the pros and cons of lip filler, and starts whitening her teeth with one of those nasty little gel kits.

She stands in front of her bathroom mirror each night and scrutinizes her naked body, dragging her nails absentmindedly against the skin of her lower stomach and cataloging everything that’s not as good as it could be. She considers the scars on her hip that have no new slices added to the roster, wonders if Bucky ever wound up telling Steve about how … how awful they are …

“Night, Mary!” Steve chirps from across the hall, making her inhale and flinch in surprise.

“N-night!” she calls back through the wall, feeling the pleasant effects of that night’s drop fading away faster than she’d like.

Maybe she should just be happy that she’s getting at least this much attention from them, that things have improved a little and she at least isn’t drinking herself into a stupor each night anymore. That’s a positive, even if she is still left pining after them like a fool every night. Steve and Bucky are okay guys, but they probably just don’t want anything more than this from her. They’re helping her because she shares this mental illness with Bucky, and that’s super nice of them, but it doesn’t mean they have to be attracted to her, too. Mary’s not entitled to anything.

She joins a 24 hour gym and takes to binge exercising in the middle of the night to push away the uncertainty.

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@badthingshappenbingo

card: sarah-writes-stucky / sarahyellow

Square O2: therapy session

@marvel-smash-bingo

card: sarah-writes-stucky

square I1: enemies to lovers

@sebastianstanbingo

card: @sarahowritesostucky

Square B5: Love triangle

@ultimatechrisbingo

card: @sarahowritesostucky

Square B3: Inconvenient attraction

[crimsonsoulpower]

Hindi is my mother tongue and it's great I get to see a brown vampire in a kind of mainstream TV show that has such a passionate fanbase and critical acclaim.

That being said, people got to stop calling Arun (अरुण) his slave name. It's not that, it's something his parents named him.

But also I do not get people saying he has happy memories attached to it. The show has a habit of making people worse than they are in books so they changed the plot point to make it that his parents sold him to slavery. So yeah, he was likely called that name in the brothel. Same place where the abuse was so severe that's what he thinks his birth name is. I get people wanting positive happy connotations with it but that's not the story they told us on TV. I cannot picture him having any happy attachment to something he isn't even sure is his name because of the horrid abuse he suffered.

In short, it's NOT a slave name but also please stop insisting he has happy attachments/memories to it when the show hasn't shown any.

[positivelyruined]

Okay, so first off — I barely even understand what happened. I woke up to chaos. Normally, this is not something I would ever post about, but apparently, my name got dragged into the ACOTAR fandom drama last night for being someone who does not support SA victims.

How? Apparently, an anti-Rhysand post which I liked is considered offensive by several people.

I cannot say this strongly enough. You cannot know someone by looking at their likes with absolutely no context.

Like plenty of other people, I primarily use my likes to save posts to look at in the future.

The post in question was strongly worded and I understand how it could be triggering to victims of SA. As one myself, I have openly spoken about the use of proper tagging when it comes to incredibly triggering subjects such as SA and DV.

Can I just say that if those are two things which trigger you to the end the degree, the ACOTAR fandom is probably not the safest and healthiest place to spend a lot of time. These books do not deal with these topics in healthy, respectful, and educated ways. They are often glorified, ignored for their horror, and pushed into the story without enough research or due diligence.

I allow myself to be in a very tiny part of this fandom because I am still healing from my own personal experiences under my mountain.

To anti-writers, I don’t hate you. I don’t blame you. I am often proud of those who call SJM on the carpet for not handling serious topics with care and concern. In a gentle reminder, consider posting a warning at the top of your post, using tags, and trying to keep a logical and straight tone — despite how easy it is for these things to ignite anger. To those who do those things, you are the real MVPs. Thank you.

To fellow victims, I know your abuser will never apologize, so please let me. I am so sorry that someone else chose to use their actions to personally harm you in a way that can irrevocably change a person. I am sorry you were ever put in that position. I am sorry the world does not listen to you when you are screaming at the top of your lungs. You are valid. Your struggle is real. I understand.

The fictional characters you relate to during your time of healing do not have to be ones who others hold up as pillars of morality. You are allowed to heal however you need to and it’s okay if people don’t like how it looks.

My final point is this. It is very easy to judge a book by its cover, a user by its likes, or a person by the characters they like; but, when it comes down to it every single person in this world is carrying their own unique struggle and story.

It is okay to disagree with someone. It’s a part of life. Yet, I am personally resolved to treat those I come across with kindness. For all I know, today could be the worst day of their life.

Carrying pain well does not make it invalid.

That is all.

Rest well. Breathe deeply. The world is not over and the sun continues to rise.

[princess-caspian]

*trigger warning: discussion of SA*!!

feelings about the Neil Gaiman news (in brief because I don’t have the capacity for more rn): I believe the women. I believe the others who are now feeling slowly able to share their stories. I am a survivor. I feel shaken to my bones and ripped apart and betrayed and heartbroken for the women this man has hurt whilst manufacturing this facade in the public eye of a wholesome literary good guy - that I’m furious I believed - there is no way to defend this man’s actions. For want of a better phrase, he “at best” groomed multiple young women into bdsm style relationships they were not prepared for or felt pressured in or thought they wanted, knowingly doing so with a vast power inbalance between himself and partners - “at best” this man is a fucking creep and predator, and at worst (which his response, trying to suggest a woman has ‘false memories’, essentially makes me even less trusting of anything he’s ever said) he’s a sex offender. The reports all mentioning ‘unwanted sex’ are scared to say sexual assault or rape. UNWANTED, CLEARLY REFUSED SEX IS R*PE.

I feel sick to my core to my bones to my heart

Honestly, I can let go mentally of most of his work instantly - anything I hadn’t read yet I now no longer want to read - but two that formed my childhood passion for writing were The Graveyard Book and Stardust. His books were my safe place and they are no longer that for me.

Stardust became the book that I defined my heart by, connected with, friends and family knew my love for, the comfort film above all others, the only book I try to make anyone and everyone read. I’d been planning my first tattoo from Charles Vess’ illustrations of Yvaine.

Unhooking myself from Stardust feels hard, maybe impossible, maybe twisted forever (certainly not immortalized on my skin like I’d wanted to) and I don’t know how to feel about that when it’s a book that brings me back to earth when everything feels like it’s burning.

But now it feels like all the books I loved have been burnt to the ground and I don’t want to touch them anymore. I know some people can separate art from artist, I don’t know how good I am at that.

Sorry, this isn’t short at all it’s a huge heart ramble. I hope the women involved have the support they need. I hope fans on this platform and others stay kind to each other and believe victims - stop defending a man who has confessed to having sex with a girl who could be his granddaughter 4 hours after meeting her. Look after each other.

I don’t idolize people very often. This one I did from the point a primary school teacher introduced me to his work. That’s a lesson in itself from this - I don’t idolize many authors, I’ll continue not to. I’d idolized Stardust though and I don’t know if I can reconcile myself with that work over time or if ill want to dissect all his books from my shelves.

[anetherealpoetess]

the trans community must be so tired. not only do they have to deal with violent discrimination from conservative communities, but now they also have to deal with so-called liberal communities using them in deranged conspiracy theories as human shield-props to defend abusive white man neil gaiman

[todomemolesta18]

Blitzo and angel dust what they have in common the main one they are victim who's not only imperfect but also lashing out. Then they also have bigotry angel dust with sexism and racism blitzo with ableism and sexism. This portrayal is valid because bigotry can be happen to anyone whether they are horrible or kind people

Blitzo yes he is horrible but saying he deserved what he went through is just evil and slap to the face to people who suffer from this. You can hate blitzo while also understood that thing he suffer is not ok beside stolas, loona is also guilty too.

So i decided to give scenario if blitzo report or talk the SA he endured

A lot demon victim blamed him and most don't believe he got raped. He's behavior who talk about sex and sexual behavior make them think blitzo doing this for attention. The ars goetia will do anything to silence blitzo giving hush money sure, sending threat sure, tarnish he's reputation even better for them. Despite he's treatment toward moxxie, moxxie believe in him. Everywhere blitzo go he get mocked by a lot demon they even threatening to kill him so blitzo fight back and he felt very hopeless

I hate how much they victim blame Blitzo. I dislike him, yes, but he doesnt deserve to be SA. I like what you wrote, is really good ✨

[emoenbie]

...LA Olympics choosing Red Hot Chili Peppers for their opening song... when lead singer Anthony Kiedis has a long history of SA including a 14 year old victim he boasted about... unsurprising after letting a convicted child r*pist compete in the Paris Olympics...

[amateur-scribbler]

I want to scream until my throat bleeds, a soul crushing scream that would scare birds from their trees.

That scream will echo with all the numbing pain I feel, whenever I think of how I lost the light in my eyes on the night I learnt what any man could so easily steal.

He knows every sickening moment of that night, he heard every one of my hiccuped cries, and with every painfully slow second, I realised it wasn’t just his hands that gripped my throat tight.

My tears melded with the mantra of pleads for it to stop, the choked words were met by deaf ears and my deep fear; a reception that made my heart drop.

The cold hands kept grabbing at the skin he’d decided he was owed, to these cries his conscience was immune, the entitlement to every curve etched in his frenzied eyes showed.

The sounds of the ocean were so close, she called to me, her pained cries crashed onto the shores that were strewn with stone.

I lost myself in the shell my body became, not my own and certainly not something I could bring myself to call home.

His hands and lips had taken their claim, but here I am, in these bones racked with rotting shame, I remain.

He left no trail of blackened bruises or deep scratches in my skin but, I see it so clearly, scars etched in my every fibre; his hands have left a trail of welting burns and this pain will continue to burn like an all consuming wildfire.

Years have passed but those hands, so calloused and cruel, gave life to a twisted dark bitterness that, with time, only grew.

His hands aren’t yours yet your touch will make my skin crawl, please know it’s because I carry his sins entrenched in my every limb; the pain whispers “this body is not yours, not anymore”.

This shame washes over me, it’s a layer of grime I’ll never clean, caked like dried mud that only I will ever see.

I’m the a type of monster Frankenstein didn’t mean to create, and I hope my cries follow him leaving him entrenched in guilt until he lies lonely in his grave.

I hope when he cleanses his skin, the water is tied to my tears and makes him remember that I’ll haunt him until he scratches out his eyes to stop the memories of every woman he ever made feel this sacred kind of fear.

how the ocean finds her sirens - t.k.o

[goldenretriever-nicknelson]

Story of Us [P.P]

A/n: I don't know how I wrote this but I actually managed to before I went back to Uni and I'm so proud of myself! This is very angsty and lets just say I'm sorry. Yes it's based off of one of my favourite Taylor Swift songs.

Peter and reader are older but nwh didn't happen.

Pairing: MCU!Peter Parker x Stark!reader

WC: 2.2k

Warnings: angst, lots of angst, mentions of grief, implied mental health issues, (brief) detail and mention of SA (drunk guy tries to hook up with reader who doesn’t want to), breakup, some violence (punching), implied sexual themes, underage drinking - if there's anything I've forgotten let me know!

“You and Peter are so lucky.”

“Imagine finding your soulmate so early on.” 

“You two will have beautiful kids.” 

The words that others had spoken about you over the past year echoed in your ear. Compliments about you and Peter being the best couple, that you were going to save the universe together one day. Yet here you were alone, travelling to the annual Avengers New Years party. 

And it was all your fault. 

You had almost chickened out of going at all, wanting to spend another day in your sweatpants eating through leftover Christmas food. The Avengers and Peter’s aunt May hadn’t wanted you to spend Christmas alone so they had invited you over, sent food and facetimed you trying to encourage you to participate in the holiday spirit. Usually Peter was enough to bring you joy even when you were just friends but even he wasn’t there anymore. 

How could you enjoy any festivities without the one man who had been there through everything, supported you and protected you? Tony was gone and now Peter was too. You were fed up with losing everyone so you’d stayed well out of everyone’s way. If you weren’t close to anyone, you couldn’t lose them. 

May had scheduled sessions for you with a therapist in the New Year, the same one she had seen after the blip and after her husband had passed. She had offered to drive you herself too. Most people might find it awkward to stay in contact with your ex’s family but May had always treated you like her own especially after Tony died and you had always been grateful to her as she had been to you for looking after Peter. 

The driver of your taxi announced you had arrived and you were pulled out of your trance, your eyes drawn to the Avengers compound that was decorated in bright lights and Christmas decorations. At least they had still continued with tradition. 

You took a deep breath as you exited the car, ironing down your dress once more with your hands and putting a smile on your face, however fake it may be. The music was playing loudly as you came closer to the building joined with the chorus of laughter and cheer. 

Your heart sank as you spotted the statute of Tony and Natasha they had built. Engraved below read “The real heroes, forever remembered”. You fought back your tears and shook your head, walking in and putting your smile back on. 

All you had to do was stay until midnight and then you could make a swift exit. That had been the plan anyway and then you had seen him. 

Peter Parker. Your ex boyfriend and love of your life, laughing away with Sam and Bucky and smiling wide. His brown curls looked messy as if his hair had been ruffled several times and no doubt by the duo that was standing in front of him. He was wearing his usual party shirt, the same one you had drunkenly cried on many times and the one he had kissed you in when the clock struck midnight this time last year. 

The room was crowded and yet his eyes still managed to find yours across the sea of drunken people. His smile fell ever so slightly but there was a kindness in his eyes as he looked at you and you could tell he was as nervous as you. 

You quickly looked away and went to the kitchen to make yourself a drink. Even though you were underage, no thanks to the blip, a little alcohol wouldn’t hurt. Dutch courage, as your Dad would say. 

The first shot of alcohol had just gone down when someone was pulling the empty shot glass away from you. “Hey! Hey!” 

You sighed and turned around to see no one other than Doctor Strange himself chastising you for underage drinking. 

“This is reserved for the adults.” Strange sighed and vanished the bottle of alcohol through a portal to another room. 

“Do you ever stop being a killjoy?” You crossed your arms and glared at him in true Stark fashion, noticing Peter walking over from the corner of your eye and getting nervous again. 

“With you and Peter drinking underage, I might just celebrate the new year in another universe. Less stressful when you’re made of paint.” Strange gave an amused smile at his own joke and started to walk away, leaving Peter headed straight for you. 

Your heart picked up its pace, threatening to explode as Peter’s eyes met yours. His honey brown eyes almost drew you in but you couldn’t give in. You quickly pretended that someone else had caught your attention and darted out of the kitchen, heading for your old room. 

“Hey pretty girl.” 

A stranger, a little bit older than you, stopped you in your path and grabbed your arm. He was tall with dark hair, eyes the same colour as Peter’s but nowhere near as intoxicating or warm. You recognised him from when he would sometimes work with the Avengers. His jacket had the classic SHIELD logo and you scoffed. 

“Either you’re in fancy dress or you’re really bad at being a covert agent.” You pushed him off of you and laughed but the agent guy wasn’t having any of it. He cornered you near the bathroom and placed his hand on the wall by the side of your face, trapping you as he inched closer. You smelt alcohol on his breath and the way he was looking at you sickened you to your stomach. 

“The famous Y/n Stark, complete with the wit to match the name.” He smirked and went to touch your face but you moved your head away, ready to put your fighting skills to the test. Natasha had taught you some things during your initial training to become an Avenger before the world went to shit and half the population disappeared. 

“Yeah well I better get back-” You tried to push past him but he kept you trapped, cutting you off from speaking. You froze as his free hand wrapped around your waist, trying to pull you into him. You knew you should have fought back but you couldn’t. 

You told him to stop, pushing him away and threatening him but nothing seemed to deter him. That was until someone ran and tackled him to the floor, punching him with fast reflexes and super strength. You recognised that head of curls from anywhere. 

Peter got up after making sure the other guy wasn’t getting up anytime soon and quickly came over to you. A worried expression on his face as he reached out to held you before hesitating and withdrawing back. 

“A-are you okay?” 

You nodded and took a deep breath, noticing that some of the partygoers had now noticed what was going on. Sam and Bucky made sure the guy was thrown out and reported whilst insisting you go with Peter to get a drink and sit down. 

Peter made you a hot cocoa and sat down with you in a room on the other end of the compound, wrapping a blanket around you which you soon realised looked familiar. On the wall were Star Wars and Sci-Fi posters along with some selfies taken by Peter. This was his old room when he had first joined the Avengers. Tony kept it for him even when he declined his offer so that Peter would always have a place to stay if he needed it. 

You didn’t even notice you were crying until Peter handed you a tissue and rested a hand on your arm. You appreciated the gesture and wiped your eyes, not even caring if it smeared your makeup. You knew what Peter must have been thinking and honestly it was still what you were questioning yourself. 

“I couldn’t fight back.”

Peter looked at you and raised a brow but he didn’t say anything he just listened. You told him what had happened and how terrified you had been. You felt like you had let Tony down, he always told you to fight back and you couldn’t even do that when you needed to. 

“Hey. You didn’t let anyone down. It’s okay to be scared.” Peter tried to reassure you, taking your hand into his and squeezing. A technique he had learnt over time that made you feel safe and calm. 

You sighed and swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat. The moment you had been dreading since you had arrived had dawned on you without any warning. You were unprepared and scared again but you knew Peter, he would never hurt you. 

Silence filled the room, the only sound was the music from the party and the laughter from people who were having fun. You sighed and looked down at your hands, remembering that cold September night when everything finally caught up to you, the loss and the heartbreak,  and Peter had been the one to suffer. 

“I’m sorry.” 

The words that had been on your tongue for so long, threatening to spill every time you saw him or May and yet never being able to speak them into existence. It was only two words but the meaning held so much more. 

Peter didn’t reply for a moment and instead wrapped his arms around you, just holding you as you let yourself cry onto his shoulder. He rubbed your back and played with your hair, humming the song you and him shared a love for. You could smell his cologne and feel the softness of his shirt, noticing that he had a cut by his shoulder that he had evidently tried to heal himself. It was almost as if nothing had changed. 

“I’m sorry too.” 

His words caused you to look up at him in surprise, your heart once again racing as you met his gaze. His eyes were watering and he looked sad, more broken than you had ever seen him. 

“I shouldn’t have let go. I should have held onto you and helped you even when you pushed me away but I-I couldn’t do it. I was hurting too.” Peter’s words were full of pain and sorrow, your heart breaking as you heard them. You had spent so much time wrapped up in your own pain and pity that you hadn’t even seen Peter’s. 

You realised you didn’t have to go through it alone after all and that Peter was just as afraid of losing you as you were of losing him. 

Your lips met Peter’s before he could ramble anymore, the small bit of dutch courage you had that pushed you to make an impulsive decision. His lips tasted just as you remembered them, sweet and like home but with a tint of alcohol mixed onto them. 

Peter hummed in surprise, his eyes widening before kissing you back. Both of you settled into a familiar rhythm of lips moving against each other as the rest of the world faded away. You were reminded of the times you had spent sneaking in here as a teenager after Peter had come back from a mission and healing him with your touch. You had thought you had been smart but your Dad had always known even the things you didn’t want him to know, thanks to Peter being loud in the bedroom. 

“Y/n,” Peter pulled back and cupped your face in his hands, worry still evident on his face. “You just went through an ordeal, we don’t have to-” 

“Peter.” You smiled kindly at him, the first real smile you had felt in a while as you held him close and nuzzled your nose against his. “I want to because I love you and I wasted all this time trying to push you away when all I needed was to have you here, with me.” 

The smile that lit up Peter’s face was enough to make your heart race from pure joy as he held you close and kissed you one more time. In the background the sound of a countdown had begun, counting down the seconds till the new year would begin. 

“I love you too by the way.” Peter interrupted, his cheeks burning scarlet as you kissed over his face and neck. You giggled and shook your head at how dorky Peter could be. 

“I never stopped.” Your eyes met his again as he spoke and the sincerity in his gaze made you pause. You had never met anybody quite like Peter and you were sure you never would. 

“10, 9, 8, 7, 6!” 

“Neither did I.” 

Both of you smiled as you cuddled close, enjoying every moment that you had and determined not to waste another. You remembered fondly all the times that the Avengers team and your friends had tried to set you and Peter up, placing you together on missions and being the only two left when the study group or team briefing got cancelled. 

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1!” 

“Happy new year!” You chimed in with the rest of the party but only as a shared whisper between you and Peter. He returned the sentiment with a new years kiss just like the year before but this time there was more love and passion behind it, behind the closed doors of Peter’s old room. 

The polaroid picture that May had snapped of you both asleep in each other's arms that night soon took pride and place in Peter’s room. That was until you moved in together and had a whole canvas filled with photos of the both of you including your wedding photos.

Taglist (join here): @farfrombarnes @marvel-lock @parkerpeter24

Moots: @the-girl-in-the-chair @glowunderthemoon @spideyspeaches @seolaseoul

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Temporary Custody"

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Steve x ofc x Bucky; Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 5461

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, and alcohol abuse.

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

9. Honey-mascarpone crêpes

A.N. : Disappeared by my staff troll without notice or reason other than that she abuses her privileges at the company. Complaint email sent, and it's back up now.

Bucky

Once Steve talks him off the cliff of domspace (not the good kind), Bucky's able to calm down and see things more rationally.

First off, he stops being mad at Mary. He has to remember that she's going through right now what he went through as a kid. She's dealing with the loss of her freedom, shifting self-perception, horribly unbalanced (probably) neurotransmitters, and the complete—if temporary—restructuring of her life. Sure, she's bratting, but subs brat as a coping mechanism, and Bucky knows he needs to be a good dom for her, not an overreacting hothead. He can do that. He can totally do that.

(Having Steve around certainly helps, though.)

Mary is clearly surprised when he gets home from work and doesn't immediately set in to scolding her. But Steve was right: they have to wait to get a discipline plan in place. Mary might have a good sense of what'll piss Bucky off, but they've never explicitly sat down and defined the rules, their roles, or the consequences for misbehavior.

So Bucky just acts neutrally that evening and they eat dinner together and relax in front of the tv until bedtime. Mary seems to expect him to do something, punish her somehow. The thing is, he should. It's what's good and healthy for her. Bucky knows submissives very well, is very attuned to them, so he's sure that Mary's actually aching for a little correction by the time he and Steve calmly bid her goodnight and head off to their own bedroom. Bucky wishes he could give her what she needs, but he consoles himself with the fact that soon he'll be able to.

The next morning, Steve and Mary are both quiet. Bucky doesn't think too much about it. When he gets out to the kitchen, Steve informs him that they have an appointment at the Center that evening, and Mary pushes a plate of crêpes at him without meeting his eyes and then turns away.

"What's this?" Bucky asks, picking up his fork and prodding at the—frankly, delicious-looking—pile of folded cakes. He takes a bite and his eyes slip closed momentarily as he forces himself not to moan. When he opens his eyes again, Mary's watching him from over by the sink, biting her lip.

"Stop biting your lip," he says.

She stops.

Bucky gets that nice, warmth-after-whiskey rush in his chest at the obedience. He gets to work in cutting off another bite of the crêpes. "Are these an apology?" he asks, eyebrow arched at her. "For your behavior yesterday?" He puts the bite of crêpe in his mouth and chews, smug about the fact that she's flushing in embarrassment.

"They're crêpes," she mumbles. "With mascarpone and honey."

"Hmm." Bucky nods along and chews, enjoying the flavors while he maintains solid eye contact with her. After he pauses to swallow, he says, "Apology crêpes, then. Good girl. Apology accepted."

She doesn't say anything back to that, just gets pink in the face at the 'good girl' and whirls around to face the sink and do dishes.

Bucky smirks in satisfaction, then meets Steve's eyes. His husband looks deep in thought, but when Bucky prompts him with a questioning look, Steve just shakes his head and smiles avoidantly. "I already ate mine," he says, then pushes off from the counter. "I'm gonna go grab a shower."

Shrugging, Bucky goes back to eating his apology crêpes. "These are really good, Mare," he says. Over by the sink, he sees her head bob in a little nod. "You okay, Honey?"

She nods again, using the sprayer to rinse a dish. "Do we really have to go?" she complains, almost shyly and in a way that makes Bucky think that maybe his apology crêpes are actually 'please don't take me to go get a blood test' crêpes. "I hate needles."

"Don't be a baby," Bucky chides. "It's one poke and you're done. It's for your own good."

"Ugh."

Steve

On the day after the blood test, Steve glances sideways at his husband to gauge his reaction to the news they’ve just been given. Bucky’s frowning lightly, almost looks like his feelings are hurt. “Babe ...” Steve says softly.

“I don’t understand,” Bucky says, addressing Linda, who’s sitting in the chair across from them, who’s got them alone in her office while Mary is off at some sort of class. This is Bucky and Steve’s time now, to discuss the care of their charge, and Linda’s just told them the results of Mary’s bloodwork. Bucky continues to frown as if insulted. “I’ve been bringing her down every night. Every night. How can that not have made a difference?”

Linda shakes her head. “It has made a difference, but her levels aren’t near what they should be at this point.”

“Levels?” Steve asks.

“Dopamine,”

“Serotonin,” 

Linda’s mouth quirks at her and Bucky having spoken over each other. “Both,” she says. “Along with oxytocin. They’re called the ‘happy hormones.’ When people like Bucky or Mary go without treatment, they have an imbalance of them. The further on the spectrum they are, the worse the imbalance tends to be.” She looks back down to her clipboard, which holds Mary’s test results. “She’s not in what I’d call the danger zone anymore, but we should definitely discuss options for how to help improve these levels.” Linda looks up, blinking expectantly at them through her glasses. “So? What all have you been doing during your scenes?”

Bucky tells her, laying out the general gist of what they do during the evenings in their apartment. But when he stops talking, Linda still looks expectant. “So ... there hasn’t been any sex play?”

Steve feels his cheeks heat at the term. He glances over at Bucky, who’s shaking his head. 

“She hasn’t initiated, and I haven't wanted to scare her off or make her feel like she has to. They’re always going on about subs’ sexual autonomy these days, you know?”

Linda sighs and uses a finger to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Bucky, that’s admirable, really. But you of all people should know it’s unrealistic.”

“Is it?” Steve asks. Bucky puts a hand on his knee in what feels like a patronizing, 'The adults are speaking, Honey,' and Linda says,

“Sexual domination or submission isn’t necessary for anyone on the spectrum, but it is the most efficient way to get the job done.” She looks at Bucky with a little bit of reproach in her gaze, if Steve is reading her right. “She’d probably have to be dropped three or more times a day, if sex play wasn’t involved.” She looks back and forth between the two of them. “Are you and Steve no longer comfortable with sex outside of your marriage? Because if that’s the case then I really do have to recommend that you allow Mary to attend our socials, so that she can find a partner. Either that or we can schedule her for visits with one of our ProDoms.”

“No,” Bucky says, wasp-quick. “I don’t want her with strangers.”

Steve nods, though he feels like a cad for agreeing.

Linda purses her lips. “Well obviously it’s not the best option, but if the two of you aren’t willing to—”

“We are!” Steve blurts, maybe a little too loudly. He winces and reigns himself in. “Sorry, I just mean …”

Bucky’s metal hand covers his on the couch cushion. “We’re willing to make it sexual,” he says. “But we just don’t know how to … approach it with her, I guess.” Then he adds, “I’ve kissed her. Once. And that went over well. She seems receptive to Steve too.”

Linda nods, writing something down on her clipboard. “That’s good, good. Okay. Well with that in mind, when Mary has her session with me this evening I’ll administer some tests to help her map out what might be most useful for her to go down during sex play.”

Steve fights back a wince. He really wishes Dr. Linda wouldn’t call it that. “Make sure she knows we’re not pressuring her, okay?” he says.

“Of course not,” Linda says. “We’re just presenting all the options.”

Mary

The Center for Designated People is housed in a building in Queens, and it’s made up of a lot of glazed brown brick from the 80’s. 

This is the first time Mary’s been anywhere other than Linda’s office or the waiting area immediately outside of it. Come to find, there’s a bit more to the CDP than just therapists’ offices. There are classrooms and conference rooms, and a big social area with game tables and couches and a carpeted amphitheater that reminds her of the student union building back in college.

She’s not entirely sure what she’s supposed to be doing with herself. Everybody else seems to be mingling, comfortable in a way that she herself isn’t. Today’s the second day in a row that she’s had to show up at the CDP, and yesterday kind of left a bad taste in her mouth about it.

Yesterday, they drew her blood to test for neurochemicals. To make sure that she’s getting better, whatever that means. Mary hates needles and she’d resented the hell out of Bucky and Steve when they basically bossed her all the way down to the lab for the draw. 

“It’s for your own good.” 

God, she's tired of hearing that phrase. Everybody, especially Bucky, seems to think that they know what is for her “own good.” Personally, she thinks that Bucky just gets a thrill out saying the words. She thinks he gets off on it.

(… Never mind that something deep in her belly clenches whenever she hears him say it.)

The results of her tests are back, and they’re “not great” according to Linda—Linda, who’s holed herself up in the office with Bucky and Steve, whilst banishing Mary to a rec room full of other submissives.

They’re having some sort of low key party. Linda had called it a “social.” Bucky didn’t want her to go at first, until he heard that there would only be submissives at the party, no dominants. He’s so possessive, jeez.

There are maybe thirty other people in the room, talking in small groups, looking like they all know each other and are friends. There’s a tv and a foosball table and a bunch of little couches in squared off areas. A couple of people are sitting in the amphitheater playing boardgames, and there’s a table set up with snack foods and a punch bowl. It could almost be any normal social gathering, the only giveaway being that more than a few of the people present are wearing collars.

Like: openly and obviously, as if the collars are just another accessory to their outfits. Mary’s got a feeling that the collars are worn to make a statement, though she can’t for the life of her understand why someone would want to advertise that they’re like this.

She avoids the other people and goes over to the food, picking out a few things to nibble on. She tries to make herself seem busy by focusing on some pamphlets she���d picked up in the lobby outside Linda’s office. There’s one that has a serene picture of three river rocks stacked in a reflective pool of water, and the title reads, “Embracing Submission.” Mary rolls her eyes and tosses it aside.

She pulls out the pocket copy of the DSM V that Linda had reluctantly handed over (“It’s very clinical language. Don’t read too much into it.”), and searches out the section on Submissive Personality Disorder.

Personality disorders (PD) are a class of mental disorders characterized by enduring maladaptive patterns of behavior, cognition, and inner experience, exhibited across many contexts and deviating from those accepted by the individual's culture. These patterns develop early, are inflexible, and are associated with significant distress or disability. Cluster C (anxious or fearful disorders): Avoidant Personality Disorder, Obsessive-compulsive Personality Disorder, Dominant Personality Disorder, Submissive Personality Disorder. Submissive Personality Disorder (SPD) is a personality disorder that is characterized by a pervasive psychological dependence on and deference towards other people; especially to those who are oriented towards a dominant personality, or “Dominant Personality Disorder” (DPD). SPD is a long-term condition[1] in which people depend on others to meet their emotional and physical needs, with only a minority achieving normal levels of independence. SPD is a Cluster C personality disorder[2], characterized by excessive fear and anxiety. Typically beginning in early adolescence, it is present in a variety of contexts and is associated with inadequate functioning. Symptoms can include anything from extreme passivity, devastation, or helplessness when relationships end, to avoidance of responsibilities and severe submission. Manifestations may include: Cognitive: a perception of oneself as powerless and ineffectual, coupled with the belief that other people are comparatively powerful and potent. Motivational: a desire to obtain and maintain relationships with protectors and caregivers. Behavioral: a pattern of relationship-facilitating behavior designed to strengthen interpersonal ties and minimize the possibility of abandonment and rejection. Emotional: fear of abandonment, fear of rejection, and anxiety regarding evaluation by figures of authority.[8] Diagnostic Criteria: A diagnosis of Submissive Personality Disorder is indicated when five or more of the following criteria are met:

🟣Has difficulty making everyday decisions without an excessive amount of advice and reassurance from a Dom. 🟣Needs a Dom to assume responsibility for most major areas of their life. 🟣Has difficulty expressing disagreement with others because of fear of loss of support or approval. 🟣Has difficulty initiating projects or doing things on their own (because of a lack of self confidence in judgment or abilities rather than a lack of motivation or energy). 🟣Goes to excessive lengths to obtain nurturance and support from Doms, to the point of volunteering to do things that are unpleasant. 🟣Feels uncomfortable or helpless when alone because of exaggerated fears of being unable to care for themselves. 🟣Urgently seeks another relationship as a source of care and support when a close relationship ends. 🟣Is unrealistically preoccupied with fears of being left to take care of themselves.[11] *As of December, 1998, the additional criteria of neurochemical imbalance has been added by the American Psychiatric Association.

Christ. 

Mary’s not stupid, she can see where she fits into some (maybe most) of those categories. And nearly every line makes her want to throw the book across the room. She doesn’t like the picture it paints of someone like her, not at all. For lack of a better word, it's pathetic. So she pulls out her phone and looks up the Wikipedia page instead.

The World Health Organization (WHO) has isolated nine defining emotional and social attributes of those suffering from Submissive Personality Disorder (SPD):

🟣Tends to become attached quickly and/or intensely, developing feelings and expectations that are not warranted by the history or context of the relationship. 🟣Due to a tendency to be ingratiating and submissive, is likely to enter into relationships in which they are emotionally or physically abused, or “dominated.” 🟣Tends to feel ashamed, inadequate, and depressed. Is highly suggestible. 🟣Reacts to force or dominance from others with periods of mild derealization, or “submissive fugue.” 🟣Engages in passive-aggressive reactions to social interaction. 🟣Has difficulty acknowledging and expressing anger, struggles to get their own needs and goals met. 🟣Has an inability to soothe or comfort themself when distressed, they require involvement of a Dom to help regulate their emotions.[10] 🟣Displays a marked positive reaction to physical touch and affection, especially to the neck and head.

Well. That’s not exactly an easy pill to swallow. Mary fits almost every one of those qualities, if she’s really being honest with herself. But reading about it all clinical like that leaves a sour feeling in her stomach. Dr. Linda was right: she shouldn’t have read up on it. She shoves her phone back in her bag and returns to the refreshments table. She’s just finished ladling out a cup of punch for herself when a wry voice says,

“Careful. Last few socials, that’s gotten spiked.”

Mary turns. The voice belongs to a young woman. Maybe Mary’s own age, or a bit younger. She’s got that Seattle hipster look, with long dark hair crammed under a beanie, wide rimmed glasses, and an overlarge sweater with holes in the sleeves. She’s giving Mary a friendly look, though. “You’re new.” She states it, doesn’t ask, then holds out her hand. “I’m Darcy.”

Mary shakes her hand, pulling back as soon as can be considered polite. “Hi. Mary.”

Darcy smiles. She looks over her shoulder at the room full of people, then turns back with an apologetic expression. “Don't worry. It can be weird when you’re new. But it’s pretty easy to make friends around here.”

Mary tries not to make a face at the way Darcy talks about it—like this is some sort of club that she’s expected to join. “This is, um … I’m just waiting here while my friends see a therapist.”

Darcy boldly takes the punch glass right out of Mary's hand and sips from it. She looks thoughtful for a second, then nods and hands the cup back. “Yep, it’s fine,” she says. “Usually Scott’s the culprit, I think. And he’s not here today, so.”

Mary blinks down at the cup, wondering who Scott is. “Um …”

“So what brought you in?” Darcy asks. “TDO, or just curious?”

“TD-what?”

“Oh, you know: cops, the psych ward, all that good stuff.” She waves her hand, like this is a common thing and not something to balk at, like half the room’s occupants have gone through cops and psych wards.

Mary’s eyes flick back around at a few of the people nearby. Maybe they have, she thinks. Hell, it’s not like Mary herself wasn’t handcuffed to a hospital bed less than a month ago. The only reason a visit to the psych ward didn’t happen to her was because Bucky and Steve stepped in to help. She frowns as she thinks about how differently it could’ve gone.

“Sorry,” Darcy says, looking sheepish. “That’s kinda heavy, I guess. I tend to just say things.”

“No, you’re okay.”

“I saw you over here making friends with the vegetables and thought I’d butt in,” she says. She leans over and grabs a celery stick, dips it liberally in what looks like ranch dressing, before stuffing it in her mouth.

Mary wonders if it’s her own way of shutting herself up. “Really, it’s fine. I didn’t have anybody to talk to. I don’t mind.” She tries to offer a smile that doesn’t come across as forced or strained, but isn’t sure she manages. Wasn’t there a time when she had friends? It feels like a lifetime ago. In a weak attempt to seem receptive, she lifts her punch glass and takes a big sip, smiling over the rim.

Darcy tips her head. “Come on. Let’s grab some of the good chairs before they’re all gone.” They settle into a pair of very worn but very comfortable chairs, and Mary resists the urge to tuck her legs up underneath herself. Darcy, however, leans back and props her feet on the coffee table like she’s right at home . “So I take it you’re a TDO, then,” she says.

“I don’t know what that stands for.”

“Temporary detainment order. When they haul you off and force treatment.”

“Oh.” Mary squirms, hating to remember that night and how embarrassing she’d been. In front of Bucky, Steve, even the cop. Ugh, it’s so cringe. “Erm, yeah,” she mutters. “Basically.”

Darcy nods along, unfazed. “Yeah I went through all that, too. Couple’a years ago. It was fucked. Trust me, I did not want to be here at first. The courts made me come. Sent me with a social worker to make sure I didn't skip out, the whole nine yards.” She makes a face that looks just like how Mary feels when thinking about her own night in the ER. “God, it was so cringe.”

Mary stiffens at hearing her own thoughts reflected almost word for word. “But now?” she asks, eyes flicking down to the collar Darcy’s got on. “You still come here?”

“Oh yeah! This place is the shit. I love it.” Darcy grins and thumbs over her shoulder at the area where the foosball table is. “Tall lanky guy, taking it way too seriously? That’s Ian. He’s my sister wife.”

Mary nearly chokes on her punch. “Your what?”

“He and I share the same Dom.”

Mary blinks, working that one out in her head. “So … you’re a throuple?” Is that a usual thing with these people? she wonders. (… Could she be in a throuple with Bucky and Steve?)

“No, Ian’s my boyfriend. But he’s a sub too, so we come here to get services from Thor.”

Mary’s eyebrows rise. “Thor?”

“Yeah I know. Weird name, right? He looks it, too. You should see him. He’s this huge blond guy, accent. I think he’s actually from Norway. Or something. Wherever the Vikings were from.”

“So you …” Mary tries to parse out what she wants to ask. “You pay to have sex with him?”

Darcy pauses and looks at her strangely. “No,” she says slowly. “Insurance covers it. He just Doms us. You know, like helps us with our weekly drops? There’s no sex.” She laughs. “Dude. Only, like, extreme cases need that.”

Mary knows she’s blushing now. “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.” She bites her lip and tentatively asks, “But you said you see him weekly?”

“Yeah. Once a week. Usually Fridays.”

“... But like, at home? You don’t have other stuff?”

Darcy frowns. “What other stuff?”

“Like … like dropping,” Mary whispers, like it’s a bad word. “You’re saying you only do that once a week?”

“Yeah, usually. I mean unless we’ve got some really stressful shit going on. Like, when it was my finals week? I booked Thor three times that week.” She huffs like that’s a preposterous amount of times. “But other than that, yeah, once usually tides us over. That’s pretty standard.”

Mary squirms uncomfortably as she thinks about the nightly ritual she has with Bucky and Steve. “Oh.” She says quietly, because what else is she supposed to say? She wishes she could leave to go process this, maybe ask Linda about it. Because what Darcy’s just said does not match up with her own experiences, and it’s kind of jarring—no, scratch that, it’s definitely jarring. Sure, theoretically Mary already knew that she’d been labeled as a “high needs” submissive, but she hadn’t realized how different it was. Other subs only need to get dropped once a week? And according to Darcy, there’s not ever sex involved? Dr. Linda keeps insisting that Mary needs a sexual dynamic.

‘Only extreme cases need that’��Darcy’s words ring in her ears, making her super self-conscious. She’s extreme. She must be. How embarrassing.

“Hey, you okay?” Darcy tilts her head in concern. “What’d I say?”

“N-nothing,” Mary hurries to compose herself. “I was just thinking, that’s all. I’m still so new to all of this.” She tries to think of something to say to change the topic. “Ahm, so … Thor. He’s like a therapist, then? Here at the center?”

“He’s a ProDom,” Darcy corrects. “Which is kinda like a therapist I guess, but not like the actual shrinks they have here. The Pros get paid to help us with our drops. And highs,” she adds belatedly. “The ProSubs do that, I mean.”

Mary blinks at the idea that there are also professional submissive services for dominants. Has Bucky ever …?

“And they teach classes here too. Ohmygosh!” Darcy’s face lights up and Mary instinctively shrinks back at the enthusiasm. “You should totally sign up for some.”

“Classes?” Mary says, sure that her tone is showing how much she doesn’t want to do that.

“Yeah! Oh my gosh it is the best way to meet people, and the classes are actually pretty fun. It’s how I met Ian. And they definitely saved my ass back when I was new. Hey, I’ll help you pick some out!”

Mary flounders, not wanting to be insulting but also really, really not into the idea of coming back to the CDP any more than Bucky forces her to. “Um I’m kinda busy with …”

“Mare.”

She inhales sharply at the sound of Bucky’s voice. She turns around in her seat and she sees him and Steve coming over. Her shoulders sag with relief. Saved by the bell. “Hey guys,” she chirps, sitting up straighter. Is it time to go?” She starts to get up from her seat and shoot an apology Darcy’s way. “Hey, it’s been nice meeting you but I guess I have to—”

“Are these your Doms?” Darcy asks, looking wide eyed at Steve and Bucky. “Wow.” The look on her face might as well read: hubba hubba. “Um. Well done, girl.”

Mary huffs. “I didn’t pick them.”

Before Darcy can respond to that, Bucky’s coming closer (and Steve by extension because—living in each other’s skin, and whatnot). Bucky looks pleased. “Making friends?” he asks Mary.

What is she supposed to say? ‘Not if I can help it’? She shrugs in answer. Darcy, unfortunately, presses the issue of the classes to Bucky.

“I told her she should sign up for some.”

“Really, I don’t think—”

“Sounds like a good idea to me,” Bucky says, cutting Mary off. He glances to Steve, who shrugs like a big dummy. “I don’t know what they offer these days,” Bucky says. “It’s been a hot minute since I took a class here. What do they have for subs?” He’s asking Darcy, who unfortunately is very helpful and replies,

“I’m coteaching one this winter! It’s a four week course on recognizing Drop. Knowing the signs of deprivation to look for, self care, that kind of thing.”

“Really,” Mary tries again. “I don’t need to—”

“Mary,” Bucky says, and his voice has changed to that calm, firm register that he uses when he’s being really serious about controlling her. His “Dom” voice. That’s what Steve calls it. Mary swallows at the way he's looking at her now. He puts his hand on her shoulder, and it’s not the metal one but the simple presence of it there still feels like a hundred pounds. “I want you to go to the class with Darcy. You’ll learn a lot.”

“I don’t want to,” she snaps quietly. “I have work.”

“Your boss knows about your condition,” he says, infuriatingly calm.

“Yeah, because you told him!” Talk about mortifying.

Bucky’s fingers squeeze her shoulder lightly. “Hush. If the classes interfere with work, you can get your shift changed for that day.”

“They’re evening classes. On Wednesdays,” Darcy supplies.

“Perfect! She never works evenings.” Bucky releases Mary’s shoulder and nods like this makes it final. “My email’s in the database,” he tells Darcy. “Barnes. B-A-R-N-E-S. Can you email me the info?”

“Sure!” Darcy looks thrilled. She shoots Mary a saucy wink. “Thor’s the co-teacher, so you’ll get to meet him. We use him as our practice Dom.”

“Huh?” Mary says, just as Bucky says,

“Thor?” and tenses up by her side. “The Pro?”

Darcy grins, oblivious to Bucky’s stiffening posture. “Yeah! He’s who we practice with. Kind of like in a self-defense class how there’s the big guy you practice kicking in the nuts and whatnot? Thor’s our guy. Except we don't, you know, kick him in the nuts or anything. He drops us. For practice.”

Bucky’s entire attitude has changed since the mention of Thor being involved. Mary watches his expression darken and she delights a little bit in the opportunity to rile him up. “… Yeah,” she says slowly, as if the idea is now coming around on her. “Yeah I think I will go to the classes.” She peeks up at Bucky and sees him pressing his lips into a tight line. Mary grins. “Thanks Darcy. Email Bucky the info and I’ll be there. Should be fun! Can’t wait to meet Thor.”

Darcy nods and smiles brilliantly and bids them all goodbye, and then Mary walks out of the room with Steve and Bucky by her side. She feels smug, and is just waiting for Bucky to start complaining.

“Babe …” Steve says quietly, speaking to Bucky. He takes Bucky’s hand in his as they walk, and Mary watches the two of them have one of their freaky weird silent conversations. It ends when Bucky gives an unhappy grunt, but whatever matter they’d discussed (herself, Mary assumes), seems settled. 

“You can take the class,” Bucky says, sounding none too happy about it.

Mary smirks haughtily. “I thought you wanted me to in the first place?”

Bucky says nothing. Mary remains smug.

She stops being smug when it’s her turn in Linda’s office, and she’s just been told the results of her bloodwork.

“So … I have to?” she says, voice tiny. “With them?”

“Bucky and Steve? No, not necessarily,” Linda says, sitting up straighter. “Who you have sex with is your choice, Mary. You have options.”

Mary glances back at the door, as if Bucky’s on the other side with his ear pressed up against the crack. She wouldn’t put it past him. “Can’t we just keep doing it the way we have been?” she asks. She thinks about how Darcy had made a weird face and said that 'only the extreme cases' needed sexual domination.

Linda looks almost pained as she admits, “I’d have to recommend you be admitted to an inpatient program then, if sex play was absolutely off the table. Multiple drops per day would be required to—”

“What?!” Mary groans, grabbing her hair and yanking it a little as she runs her fingers back through it. Multiple drops per day? What a joke. She’d be a drooling, submissive zombie! “No way! I can't do that!” She wouldn't be able to keep her job if she had to do that. She wouldn’t be able to bake, or work out. She’d have no life!

“We hardly ever institutionalize people like that anymore,” Linda assures her. “And I promise I won’t recommend it if you can find a drop partner with whom you’re comfortable.”

“To fuck,” Mary grumps, being crass on purpose.

“Mary ...” Linda looks sorrowfully at her. “Really, this isn’t the norm. People like you usually test into the system early and grow up with much better care plans in place. Like Bucky did. This is really an unfortunate convergence of circumstances. We only want what’s best for—”

“I want drugs,” Mary says, blurting it out because she’s feeling icy panic at the way Linda had thrown out the word 'institutionalization'. Jesus Christ. “That’ll make me better, right?”

Linda downright cringes. “The medications we have available for this still come with a lot of side effects. I’m not going to prescribe those for you yet.”

"Well what are the side effects?”

Linda sighs as if Mary is the biggest pest. “Let’s at least have you take the assessment I told you about, okay?”

“Ugh. Fine.” A test can’t hurt, at least, Mary thinks. Linda looks pleased.

“Good. The SSITA is the first step. We’ll get you evaluated and go from there, okay?” She pushes the clipboard of papers on the coffee table over to her.

When Mary looks down, she reads the title page: Submissive Sexual Interests and Tendencies Assessment. “That’s … that’s personal,” she whispers, feeling her whole body heat. She shakes her head, already hating the idea.

“The results will be completely confidential. I won’t ever see your answers and neither will Bucky or Steve,” Linda promises, knowing by now that such a thing would humiliate Mary. “So there’s no reason not to answer honestly. A panel of staff who don’t know you and will never meet you evaluate the answers and send recommendations. That’s all.”

Mary picks the clipboard up with shaking hands. It holds a packet of papers with a pen tucked in at the clip. She bites her lip and nods. “Okay.” She takes the pen out and gets started.

It takes her about forty minutes to complete the assessment. It’s formatted into a bunch of statements with “strongly agree” all the way to “strongly disagree.” Checking the circles honestly has her blushing a bit some of the time, but Mary reassures herself with what Linda had said about the test’s anonymity. There are short answer questions at the end that have her gritting her teeth, but she’s honest, God help her. “Okay,” she says when she’s finished, handing the packet back over.

Linda briskly slips it into a manilla envelope and seals it. That’s reassuring, too. Mary takes a deep breath. “So, I don’t know who I’ll … ya know,” she makes a face, “do it with. Darcy said there are Professionals here? ProDoms?”

“Oh you met Darcy? She’s a wonderful girl. Very involved here. Yes we have our staff of ProDoms of course. But um,” Linda tilts her head. “What about Bucky?”

Mary looks down at her lap, thinking about the kiss they’d had. It’d been … Mary’s not sure she’s ever felt so unmoored by just a kiss. “He’s married,” she says quietly. “To Steve.” She thinks about her midnight conversation with Steve.

Linda is silent for a moment, and then she says carefully, “Mary ... Bucky and Steve have talked to me about this. During their sessions with me.”

“They have?”

“They’ve both expressed positive feelings about the possibility of a sexual relationship with you.”

Mary just about swallows her own tongue at that one. “Positive feelings?” What the hell does that mean? Has Bucky told Dr. Linda about the kiss? Has he told Steve?

Should she tell Steve? She’d hate to be the reason to break up a good marriage. ... But then again, Dr. Linda just said 'positive feelings'. Maybe that means that Steve and Bucky do want more.

Linda smiles encouragingly and puts the sealed assessment on her desk. “Yep. I suggest you talk with them about it.”

Mary sighs. Easier said than done.

Series Masterlist

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[spider-stark]

happy birthday and congrats on being noticed by kieran and ryan!!! <3

any thoughts on the episode ?

thank you so much!!🫶🖤 definitely an incredible birthday haha

as far as my thoughts on last nights episode, they honestly all begin and end with---fuck Daemon Targaryen and fuck Willem Blackwood.

the Blackwoods jumping at an opportunity to wreak destruction upon the Septs makes perfect sense considering their belief that the Brackens were responsible for poisoning the weirwood at Raventree. having them rape and murder children tho???

nothing about that makes any sense to me, especially considering Willem Blackwood seemed to think highly of Rhaenyra and hold a lot of respect for her. it also seems stupid to think the Brackens would just sort of... take that? I mean, they had Amos Bracken basically stare a dragon in the eyes and accept death---why would raping and murdering innocent women and children not just make him fight against the cause of Daemon Targaryen even harder??

idk. I feel like this is probably the reason why we haven't seen Black Aly--because the writers knew if they had her acting in Benji's stead then they wouldn't be able to twist it to where she would actually order such atrocities; especially on behalf of someone as fucked as Daemon Targaryen.

with all of that being said, was super happy that they're giving Jace a little screen time lmao. glad the writers might actually explore how intelligent his character, especially when it comes to political matters.

how about you? what were your thoughts on everything?

[demigoddreamer]

I might be weird for this but am I the only one who can't stand when people sing along to Poison when watching episode 4 of Hazbin? If they're just watching the lyric video, singing along doesn't bother me but when they're watching the actual episode I just like can't help but side-eye them a bit.

Like bruh that's a whole ass SA scene you're looking at and you're singing along? I get that it's catchy as fuck but I think the visuals are so sickening that any attempt at vibing is ruined. Me personally when I saw that scene, I just stared in devastation, despair, and heartbreak for Angel. The pain was too much for me to vibe along singing.

I'm not trying to blame people for being different than me. And look I get that Poison was released before the show so everyone got the tune on their minds but I also listened to the song beforehand and still did not attempt to sing. Feel free to bash me if you think I'm crazy

Edit: If the song is empowering for you, especially for abuse survivors, ignore the fuck out of me. That's not the audience this post was targeted at, it's targeted at the smiley happy mfs who vibe in a sus way to the song.

[femanthropy]

This is a big bat out of left field but does anyone have any info on the controversy about Andrea Dworkins earlier work regarding her talk about b3a$tial1ty and in$3st? Esp in her book “woman hating”

I came across this tumblr account that copy+pasted the same reply under every Dworkin post about her defending these topics and I wanted to know what context I’m missing/the deal on it.

[vampysmusings]

from my collection of poems & prose

[normystical]

Reminder that sometimes the victim is the oldest individual.

Reminder that sometimes the perpetrator is sometimes the youngest individual.

Reminder that minors can, in fact, S/A adults.

IT'S STILL S/A.

[askapplepie24]

Adam: This actually did happen to me. It was scary to wake up with Lilith on top of me and it hurting so much. I still don’t know what I did to make her hate me.

Eve: Adam, what happened to you wasn’t your fault.

Lucifer: If I ever see Lilith again, I am going to kill her for what she did to you.