#stress points mitigation

[little-p-eng-engineering]

Little P.Eng.: Pioneering Engineering Excellence in Pipe Support and Flexibility Analysis

In the ever-evolving landscape of industrial engineering, the need for specialized expertise in piping infrastructure has never been more critical. Little P.Eng. emerges as a beacon of innovation and reliability, offering comprehensive engineering and consulting services that cater specifically to the intricacies of pipe support engineering/design and pipe flexibility analysis. This article delves into the core offerings of Little P.Eng., highlighting its pivotal role in optimizing the performance and safety of major piping installations across various sectors.

Expertise in Pipe Support Engineering and Design:

At the heart of Little P.Eng.'s services lies its proficiency in pipe support engineering and design. Recognizing the vital importance of stable and reliable pipe supports in industrial installations, Little P.Eng. employs cutting-edge techniques and materials to design supports that ensure operational efficiency and longevity. The company's engineering solutions are tailored to meet the unique requirements of each project, taking into account factors such as load distribution, thermal expansion, and environmental conditions. Through meticulous planning and design, Little P.Eng. guarantees pipe supports that not only meet but exceed industry standards.

Advanced Pipe Flexibility Analysis:

Another cornerstone of Little P.Eng.'s service portfolio is its advanced pipe flexibility analysis. Understanding that thermal expansion, vibration, and other dynamic forces can significantly impact piping systems, Little P.Eng. leverages sophisticated analytical tools to assess and mitigate potential risks. This proactive approach enables the identification of stress points and flexibility issues before they escalate into costly repairs or operational downtime. By prioritizing the integrity and resilience of piping systems, Little P.Eng. plays a crucial role in ensuring the seamless functionality of major installations.

Collaborative Approach to Project Success:

What sets Little P.Eng. apart is not just its technical acumen but also its collaborative approach to project execution. The firm works closely with clients, contractors, and other stakeholders to ensure that every aspect of the piping design and analysis aligns with the project's overall objectives. This synergy between expertise and client engagement fosters an environment of trust and transparency, leading to solutions that are both innovative and aligned with the client's vision.

Industry-Specific Solutions:

Conclusion:

In conclusion, Little P.Eng. stands at the forefront of engineering excellence, providing unmatched services in pipe support engineering/design and pipe flexibility analysis. Through its dedication to innovation, reliability, and client collaboration, the firm not only enhances the safety and efficiency of major piping installations but also contributes to the advancement of the industrial engineering field. As industries continue to evolve and face new challenges, Little P.Eng. remains committed to delivering solutions that pave the way for a safer, more efficient future.

Tags:

Little P.Eng.

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thermal expansion

environmental conditions consideration

safety enhancement

cutting-edge techniques

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resilience improvement

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project-specific solutions

pipe flexibility analysis

technical acumen

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Engineering Services

Located in Calgary, Alberta; Vancouver, BC; Toronto, Ontario; Edmonton, Alberta; Houston Texas; Torrance, California; El Segundo, CA; Manhattan Beach, CA; Concord, CA; We offer our engineering consultancy services across Canada and United States. Meena Rezkallah.

#• #Little P.Eng. #operational efficiency #industry standards #industrial engineering #innovative solutions #engineering services #thermal expansion #environmental conditions consideration #safety enhancement #cutting-edge techniques #stress points mitigation #resilience improvement #efficiency optimization #power generation #project-specific solutions #pipe flexibility analysis #technical acumen #client engagement #chemical processing sector #pipe support engineering #major piping installations #pipe support design #consulting services #oil and gas industry #collaborative approach #sophisticated analytical tools #vibration analysis #load distribution analysis #project execution

[ereh-emanresu-tresni]

.

#can i please just not feel constantly stressed to the point of physical illness lol #or at least like. ever be able to do anything to actually properly mitigate it at least? #it's after 9pm and the last couple nights i got 3-6h of sleep so like these feelings ofc are to be taken with an entire shaker of salt lol #but yeah I'm just. so tired. i was gonna say of a bunch of stuff but got a few in and just realized yeah actually that is all it really is #though. I'm just too ficking tired full stop lmao so anyway /ventpost and good night y'all hope you're all doing swell 💞💞

[flippantfoe]

the rampant reposting on tumblr when it comes to fan-art in certain tags ( against the artists wishes ) is irritating. back in the early 2010's, that used to be a thing prior to people within their own fandoms cracking down on reposters and spreading the word on how reblogging is encouraged and much more better for the content creator & the tag's health.

this wasn't too much of a problem until the 2020's and the migration of newcomers from twitter & other platforms to tumblr. now, i see art reposts happening again & it's constantly non-stop now.

it's one thing if you're reblogging and directly supporting an artist or trying to find said artist's links to properly source them or see if they're alright with reposts, it's another to repost someone else's art to gush about it in the search or the tags - regardless of their popularity and notes in the tags or not.

tumblr isn't a platform like tiktok or twitter where the algorithm is heavily skewed. in fact, your dashboard by default doesn't have an algorithm ( best posts and based on your likes are the closest thing, but i'm not counting those in ).

if you want to spread other people's art, fanfics, content, etc. you have to reblog. likes do nothing for visibility. reposting does nothing to support creators on tumblr.

reblog, don't repost.

#txt #after seeing a post from a creator i can't help but be disappointed in what's going on right now #especially in new fandoms - have some consideracy but there is a point where someone has to put their foot down #and talk about issues happening within their own fandom that even they gotta say something #while we cant stop everyone we can mitigate and lessen stress rather than produce it

[gutsby]

Trigger Tease

Pairing: Mob!Bucky x Reader

Summary: Your honeymoon from hell takes you straight to a strip club south of Madripoor, where Bucky teaches you how to give a lap dance, shoot a gun, and kill a man all in one night—and maybe agree to have his baby, too.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Oral (m! & f!receiving). Sex in a sauna. Sex in a strip club. Praise & degradation. Breeding kink. Daddy kink. Double homicide. Dickriding. Beefy, mob boss Bucky hates birth control and bad men—loves babies and killing HYDRA operatives for his wife.

Descriptions of violence throughout

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 4

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, but that was no matter. What counted now was making the shot, and getting it right.

You sincerely hoped you wouldn’t fuck this up.

It was no secret that the Barnes’ bloodline was steeped in dealing, stealing, gunslinging, and laundering cash. Staggering privilege, too. From the sandy shores of Curaçao to Luxembourg and Guinea-Bissau, any living heir to the dynasty could have expected to find safe refuge and respect just about anywhere that they went. It was all but engrained in their DNA at this point.

All that is to say, Bucky had no trouble finding a foreign hideaway in a pinch. He liked the Swiss Alps the best.

After your short and sweet conversation with ‘Joey’ over the phone—HYDRA hijacking the intercom system—he and Sam and Steve had made the split-second decision to reroute the plane to Zürich, and now you were here.

72 hours into a four-day ticking time bomb and totally clueless as to how you might stave off impending death, and mitigate other casualties, the best that you could.

The stress fucking with Bucky made it worth it, though.

In between breakfast and the start of your husband’s early briefing that day, you’d found yourself situated in much the same way you’d been spending a lot of time lately: pinned against the wall of a wood-paneled sauna, Bucky’s broad shoulders supporting both of your legs as he buried his face deep between your thighs. You sighed.

“Hold still,” Bucky grunted, voice muffled as he tried to keep your slick, squirming body in place above him.

You yelped and seized a fistful of his hair when he wedged his tongue even further inside you, nudging your clit with his nose almost too teasingly and deliberate.

“I can’t…help it,” you bit back, ignoring the brief glare you earned from your husband as soon as you said it, “Your tongue’s just so— s— James!”

This time, Bucky let out a full-throated groan when you yanked on those poor wet locks of his—‘Gonna make me bald by next Christmas if you keep doin’ that, honey’—and he pried his head from your legs just long enough to knock you flat on the sauna bench close by.

The western red cedar seared hot on your skin, already flushed from the exhaustion wrought by Bucky’s tongue; you hardly had the strength to hold yourself up when he pushed you onto your back and crawled over your body.

“How ‘bout my fingers, doll? Can you take a couple’a those for me?” Bucky crooned above you as he stroked your hair, bathed in pure sunlight pouring in from the windows. His voice was a touch more sympathetic now.

After all, this was your third orgasm of the morning. It really wasn’t fair for him to use that biological weapon of mass destruction he liked to call his tongue when he knew how sensitive your clit would get from just one ‘O’. Even his hands might be too much in your current state.

Bucky was busy peppering your skin with kisses, working his way from the base of your neck to the crown of your head, when you whimpered and tried to fight a smile.

“Finger,” you corrected him, “Just one finger, Barnes.”

You would’ve thought you’d just thrown your wedding ring in his face and told him to eat shit. Just one?

“How’s one finger s’posed to stretch you out for my cock, huh? Practically had you screamin’ when I stuck it in last night,” Bucky wasn’t one to hide his amusement, grinning even bigger when you swatted him on the arm.

“Who said anything about your cock?” You tried to keep cool as Bucky’s fingers trailed right back down to the place you felt yourself throbbing, aching for his touch, “You have a meeting in ten minutes.”

“Meeting doesn’t start until I say so, my love,” Bucky reminded you just as his index ghosted over your folds.

In truth, he was willing to play this game any way, and for however long, you wanted it done, so long as he was the one bringing you pleasure all the while. Be that his cock, his finger, or all fucking five on one hand, Bucky just wanted to get you off. It was far better sustenance to him than the whole fucking meal he’d eaten that morning.

Bucky kept it down to one digit and lightly circled your bundle of nerves when he sensed you were ready.

You gripped his forearm and shot a quick look between your legs, still in disbelief as to how he could make you feel this good so soon after you’d cum twice before. You felt his lips drift over to yours and steal a few kisses.

“Always doin’ so good for me,” Bucky praised, moving his finger in circles. When you whined against his mouth, he pressed it even harder, “Such a good girl for daddy.”

“James,” you breathed, clenching your legs together.

“Everything OK?”

“Uh-huh.”

More than OK, in fact. That delectable coil of sweet, euphoric release was already swelling gently in your tummy. Bucky moved his finger even faster.

“Tell me how it feels,” he murmured low in your ear.

Bucky loved seeing you try to articulate your feelings—relatively fresh and new to your world, still—while he was giving you pleasure. Adored the way you winced and whined and arched your back into his touch as a whole blustering hailstorm of sensations crashed over you.

He sank his tongue in your mouth as he kissed you, as if trying to extract the words from between your lips. Your response, in consequence, came somewhat stifled.

“Mm— feels so, oh—” Your voice broke off in a moan when Bucky tightened his circles, “—so good, daddy.”

“Wanna show daddy how good and cum for me?”

Bucky knew by the way you were whimpering under his hand that the tendril in your stomach had almost tripled in size. It wouldn’t take much to tip you over the edge.

“My sweet girl,” he said, rubbing your cunt at the same time he was stroking the back of your head, gently, “Feels so nice down there, doesn’t it?”

You rolled your hips against the bench and nodded. Your breaths were short and ragged, panting helplessly into Bucky’s mouth when he adjusted his hand just a little: pressing the pad of his thumb to your clit, with his index moving down to your entrance. Pushing inside you.

“Another,” you choked, not thinking.

Bucky met your desperate gaze and nodded, knowing this was exactly what you needed to make it over the precipice.

Still, he wouldn’t be Bucky if he didn’t tease just a bit.

“I thought my wife wanted one finger,” he hummed, brow pinching inward.

“No, no.” You could’ve shrieked when he curled the digit, “Want more— Bucky, please, please, I need more.”

Again, your husband appeared to nod in understanding, but his fingers didn’t budge. He worked his thumb a little faster and watched you writhe on the seat beneath him.

“How many, honey? Don’t wanna hurt my baby.” His words were all kindness, it seemed, but his tone laced with shameless condescension—the kind that said, yes, I know you need this, and no, I won’t indulge you just yet. Bucky was the worst when he wanted to prove a point. You could’ve ripped at his clothes and torn them in two if you weren’t both stark naked and shrouded in steam.

You opted to pull at his hair instead.

Bucky winced, but the smirk never left.

“I said how many?” he pressed again.

“Three. Four.” Fuck if you knew.

Your husband raised both eyebrows and hummed, a single finger still plunging in and out of your cunt at a rapid-fire pace. He teased the tip of another at your entrance and smiled even more when you whined.

“Needy little thing, isn’t she?”

“Bucky—”

“Just wants to fuck daddy’s hand to get herself off, hm?”

Bucky didn’t bother to mask his sweet, degrading tone any longer as he talked down and teased you to no end. It drove him half-insane to see you squirm around, rut your hips, let him say the filthiest fucking words he could conjure up, and just bob your head to whatever he said. His impeccant wife and her insatiable needs—Bucky couldn’t even begin to express how turned on the sheer dichotomy got him. He stared in your eyes, all glossy and soft, and felt his cock stand even more rigid on his belly.

He didn’t give a shit if he’d taunted you enough or not; he just shoved his middle and ring fingers alongside the first and clenched his jaw to start fucking you hard with all three.

Your whole face contorted with pleasure, tinged with the faintest shade of discomfort at the tail end of it. You’d forgotten how big his fingers felt all together.

“Bucky,” you whined, mindlessly clawing at the wrist that was moving back and forth, fast, between your legs, “B-Baby, slow— slow down a little.”

But Bucky was deep in the zone. He knew you wanted it too—sensed that you liked to play it safe when it came to your pleasure and grew a little timid at times it got to feel too much—and he needed to talk you through it.

Rather than turn his head and keep to himself as he got you up to your peak, Bucky pressed his face down to yours and nodded again—this time with a tender sincerity.

“Feel a little stretch down there, huh?”

You didn’t have to say anything, just whimpering in time. Bucky kissed your forehead and let you fold into him as his fingers wreaked havoc down below. He kissed you again, and again, and in between kisses, mumbled,

“That’s daddy’s sweet, needy little slut.”

“My perfect fucking wife, so good at taking my fingers.”

“Gonna be nice and stretched out for my cock, hm?”

Every syllable spoken aloud was like a brand new catalyst for your impending release. You barely nodded your head, opened your mouth and whined pathetically, but that’s exactly how Bucky wanted you. Exactly how you needed to be, bucking your hips in time with the cadence of his fingers fucking inside you, and soon, those whimpers were turning to moans as that soft little helix inside you reached its breaking point.

Bucky brushed once or twice more against your sensitive spot, and suddenly you were coming undone all over him—crying his name, clawing his skin, squeezing your legs so tight around his wrist you feared you might snap it in two, and then getting kissed again, over and over. Bucky soaked in your every sound, and the few tears that would inevitably spring to your eyes, like sweet nectar.

You were still moaning, curling your tongue feebly against his own and leaning into him as far as you could, when your husband slipped three fingers up between your mouth and his and pushed them past your parted lips.

“Suck,” Bucky said, clenching his jaw as he watched you, “C’mere, honey, taste your cunt on my fingers.”

You took him in and sucked your arousal off his fingers just like he asked. Took him by surprise and dragged a mindless, lazy, half-crazed and careless tongue all over his hand, where your juices had no doubt collected too.

That slutty, fucked-out look you gave him—like your brain had all but fallen out of your head with the orgasm he’d given you—was everything Bucky could’ve wanted.

He climbed on top of you and took the base of his cock, rock-hard and weeping tears of precum from the tip, almost drunk from the feeling himself. His mouth hung open as he dragged himself over the seam of your cunt.

“I need to fuck you now.”

Bucky’s words couldn’t have hung in the fog-infested air for more than a millisecond or two before he had you back in his arms and carried to the far end of the sauna.

At the door—or, rather, on it—with your back flush against the wood, you felt Bucky pin you in place with his hips and press his erection to that soft, cramped space between your bodies. You tightened your legs around his middle and sucked in a breath when you felt him pulse.

Then the head of his cock was circling that slick, taut ring of muscles like all hope for his future happiness lay there: right between your legs in the softest and sweetest recesses of your body he could reach. His eyes could’ve been engulfed in flames and still not betrayed a fraction of the smouldering desire that lay behind them now—he drank you in with a single look and sighed.

“Can I— do it, now?” The term ‘fucking’ swiftly lost all lustre when he was an inch from your heat and ready to press in; he just needed to be in you, a part of you, now.

“Yeah,” you breathed. You pressed your forehead to his.

Bucky ran his tip once more down your slit and had just begun to ease his hips forward when a moan snagged in his throat. He braced you firmer against the door, letting your arms drape over his shoulders, and was just about to slide his length inside of you, then—

Thump, thump, thump.

Three knocks in quick succession.

You jumped, the sudden raps reverberating up the door.

Bucky held you to him, tight, and planted a hand beside your head as if to hold the whole frame still. Then, through gritted teeth,

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Need you downstairs. Now.”

It was Sam.

“Can it wait?”

“No.”

Bucky frowned. Scratched the wood surface reflexively.

“Can it…wait?” he tried again, tone laden with a silent but pointed, ‘Is it urgent enough to drag me away from my wife when I’m less than an inch away from being seven inside her?’ Evidently, Sam got the gist, or was just keen to get him out, because he returned, quick:

“Yeah. Legal’s here.”

‘Shit’ was Bucky’s wordless expression below you.

Then a ‘Shit, shit, shit, just shoot me now’ kind of look that raised an eyebrow on your own frazzled face.

Wasn’t the arrival of Bucky’s legal team a good thing? He’d been agonizing for days, badgering Sam and Steve to no end over when they’d hear back from his retinue, and here they were. You couldn’t ask just yet, as your husband was lowering you to the floor and stepping back from the door, chest racked with a shuddering breath, but you wanted to know. You reached for a towel.

“Fine. Fuck. I’ll be right out.” As it was, Bucky had chosen to forgo the dry-off altogether and just started chucking clothes on his body, eyes roaming all over.

You turned from the sound of Sam’s retreating steps and found him moving fast, graceless—shoulders hunched, head bowed, pants wrestled almost angrily up his legs. He found his balance, barely, bracing his weight against the sink, then nearly tore the porcelain fixture off the wall with how hard he kicked it trying to get his left shoe on.

He muscled into his dress shirt and flushed bright red.

In a second, you had either side of the crisp white button-up between your hands, frowning.

“Any reason why we’re so upset?” you asked after a beat.

Bucky puffed a short breath over your head as you secured the first button. Then the next. Then the next.

“What? Apart from the fact I’m not balls deep and about to give you your fourth orgasm?” he grumbled.

You shot him a look.

“I mean it’s— not ideal, getting a visit at a time like this,” Bucky continued once he’d sufficiently contained half a smirk and could don a more serious look, “If we were getting any good news they would’ve just called.”

Hell, great news could’ve made it in an email. The whole aggregate of his legal team taking the trip from Brooklyn to Zürich meant that shit had most likely hit the fan in a big way. Bucky wasn’t thrilled to learn the ‘how’ just yet.

Instead, he cupped your cheek in one hand and brushed his thumb along its curve once you’d made it to the last button of his shirt. He started to lean in, hoping to delay the briefing downstairs with a quick diversion to your lips, but he stopped about an inch away from your face.

You’d lowered your touch, slipping it under the band of his boxers. He was still as hard as you’d felt him last.

Bucky let out a grunt when your fingertips grazed the soft tufts of hair adorning that part of his abdomen. He sucked in a breath when they sank even further.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” you said, voice dulcet and slow as you wrapped your hand around the base of his shaft.

Again, a sound rumbled deep inside Bucky’s chest, and the thumb resting on your cheek stirred. In fact, it had no other choice—your head was starting to move.

Descending, slowly. Sinking to the floor in front of him. Positioning yourself right above the bulge in his pants.

Now Bucky’s palm was laying flat on your head, resting light as it ever had while you drew him even closer.

“Baby—”

“Yeah?” you hummed, just then tugging him out and bringing your mouth to the swollen, leaking head. Bucky gripped a good handful of your hair and rutted his hips without meaning to, and you smiled, “Can’t have my husband showing up hard as a rock to his meeting.”

You were right. There was no way Bucky was getting rid of this wood without the help of his hand or one of your holes. And, under any set of circumstances, he would’ve much preferred the latter to the former. He groaned when you took his tip to your lips and stroked him softly.

You made remarkably quick work of the man with just a minute or two, your mouth, your hand, and a tiny bit of spit—a record-breaking feat, Bucky had thought to himself with some embarrassment. But you weren’t concerned with his stamina in the slightest, focusing instead on the ways in which you might maximize his pleasure in the same way he’d done for you. Stretching your lips, loosening your jaw, and taking him down as far and as frequently as you could manage without gagging around him, you had him good. Deep. All but aching for release as he took a firm hold of the sink behind him.

“That’s a—fuck, that’s a good…fuckin’ girl.”

You bobbed your head once or twice more, flitting your gaze to his face, and felt the warmth unload in ropes—glazing your throat and every soft, square inch of your mouth as he did. Practically flooding your tongue with his cum. Bucky groaned and made a fist in your hair.

“Baby…shit,” came the sound of disbelief under his breath when you pulled off just enough to breathe.

You were careful how you took in air; flaring your nostrils the slightest bit, feeling a twitch at the corners of your lips as you tried not to smirk. Then, with an obscene sort of precision and purpose, you gave something else a try.

You stuck your tongue out at Bucky to show him the warm, oozing load he’d just left in your mouth.

Your husband’s response was immediate: evidently, he loved nothing more than a show of himself inside you, displayed like a prize between your two rows of teeth. You watched him grit his own to suppress a moan.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he seethed. Still reeling from his high.

Then he paused, in awe for a second, before dropping one finger to your mouth and swirling his touch along the sticky, opaque puddle resting over your tongue.

You closed your lips around him, snug, and held his gaze.

A weaker man might have come undone. Bucky just let out a breath and smiled.

“If you wanna play show-and-tell with my cum I can find someplace to put that, doll,” he said, low as ever, then,

“C’mere.”

You didn’t need the powers of telepathy to understand what he’d meant. Should’ve known better than to dip your toe in the cumplay game with a man who arguably harbored the world’s biggest breeding kink and really wanted to knock you up. The realization had you back on your feet in an instant. Having swallowed fast, pried your lips off his digit with a pop, and licked the corners of your mouth, you rose without the threat of a second thought.

Your pale yellow dress was the first thing you grabbed—the first thing Bucky tried to yank off of your body when you’d slipped it up your legs and staggered backward.

“Not happening, Barnes,” you giggled, pretending not to see him advance when you stepped back.

But Bucky had never been big on civility in times like these. He lunged forward and nearly tore the barely-zipped frock off your frame, eliciting a shriek and another arch look from you as you started toward the door.

You were amazed you made it through—your husband had had to stop to tuck his dick back in his pants before stumbling after you—but when you took off down the hall, you knew it was only a matter of time before you heard his footsteps thundering fast after your own.

The tips of your toes had just barely grazed the first step down the stairs when hands seized your hips. You yelped.

“BUCKY!”

Whether on account of your own practiced agility, or the fact that Bucky’s palms were still sticky and slick with his sweat, you managed to wrest yourself out of his grip just long enough to get a start down the stairs.

“COME HERE!” Bucky boomed loud, trying his hardest not to laugh as he chased after you.

You screamed without meaning to. Yanked your wrist out of his reach when you’d made it to the bottom of the stairs and felt your husband close the distance in quick. You tried to be firm, insistent, primed with the kind of fine and unfuckwithable attitude that signaled you meant business. You didn’t, though—the series of giggles bubbling up in your chest said as much.

You descended the last step with a hitch, almost losing your shit within a foot of the landing, when Bucky scooped you up in his arms and held on tight. His lips were at your ear in a second, breaths coming in quick.

“Hell, I’ll give you one right here, honey,” he sneered before flipping you back around to face him.

He pressed you flush to the wrought iron railing, then over it, pushing you back bit-by-bit until you had no choice but to jump and latch your legs around his hips.

“James Buchanan Barnes, if you don’t—”

“Give you a baby right now?”

“—get off of me!” You were laughing now, squirming when he nipped at the space just below your ear.

One more second and he might’ve convinced you. Your Bucky was persuasive like that, too smug and self-assured for his own good but one hell of an advocate when he wanted to be. At length, he opened his mouth to take an even bigger, teasing bite, when a voice cut in,

“Barnes.”

He stopped. You froze. Together, you reluctantly turned your heads in the direction of the sound and found a keystone conference table situated at the far end of the room—seating a dozen-odd faces with identical, muted expressions of surprise. Mild discomfort, for some.

Wild discomfort for your mother and father, you saw.

Bucky set you down and simultaneously yanked the hem of your dress back into place. Flashed a smile for the ages and snaked an arm around your waist as he started to lead you over.

“Nat! Hi,” he tried, far too casual, “Long time no see.”

You bit the inside of your cheek hard and hoped like hell your husband had remembered to zip up his pants.

The woman at the head of the table—the source of the voice you’d heard—raised a brow. One cherry-red curl from her sleek, cropped bob threatened to fall out of place as she tilted her face to regard you both. The smile Bucky proffered had done nothing to repair her glare.

Some wordless exchange passed between the two of them, and next, you felt a hand directing you to a seat across the way—Steve. Smug as ever. Smirking just then.

The empty chair beside your mother. The horror.

You were dimly aware of some introductions being made on your behalf and a round of awkward, disjointed congratulations around the table. Greetings from Nat, Sam, Steve—conceited little shit—a few you knew as Bucky’s groomsmen, a couple members of the security detail, and several more friendly, unfamiliar faces, including a smartly dressed blond named Sharon. Your husband had taken a seat by the latter at the end of the table.

“Momma.” You weren’t sure why you felt the need to whisper when the attention had turned back to Natasha and other matters, but you did, “Where have you been?”

Your mother and father were perched in their chairs like prisoners. There were no shackles to be seen but an air of discomfiture and compulsion bound to their every feature. You couldn’t be sure if it was humiliation on your behalf—they had just witnessed their son-in-law promise to put a baby in you for all present to hear—or something more.

For once in your life, you hoped it was just the prudish, sex-averse tendencies of the two rendering them silent.

You tried your mother again when she hadn’t responded.

“Momma.”

“Now is not the time.”

Her voice was clipped. Abrasive.

You knew better than to test that tone another time. You sank back in your seat and let your gaze roam the table, flitting between your father and Bucky a few more times than it probably should have. Surely, your dad, who had screwed Bucky over to hell and back, obliterated your wedding, and jeopardized your lives for a few more million in his pocket would have warranted some sidelong, hateful look from your husband. A glance or a stare, certainly something to show that he knew, and hadn’t forgotten.

No—Bucky was occupied with Sharon at the moment.

You watched your father twist his signet ring on his pinky, jerking the gold back and forth as if hoping for it to break, or save him. He didn’t look at Bucky, either.

“Natasha Romanoff is the Barnes’ retained legal talent for all things maritime crime and narcotics trade-related. Some estate planning, too,” a voice rumbled beside you.

You made a low ‘Hm’ to feign understanding of whatever the fuck Steve had just said, and nodded.

Then, when your eyes wandered left again,

“Sharon Carter, criminal liaison and kingpin informant. Been in bed with the Barnes’ as long as I can remember.”

He really couldn’t have used a worse string of words if he had tried. You cocked your head just slightly and stared at the pair. You considered holding your tongue.

“And she’s been in bed with Bucky how often before?” You’d decided against self-restraint for the time being.

Steve blinked a little harder.

“What do y—”

“I’m not asking if, but when, they fucked,” you interrupted.

Steve blinked again, as if to clear a string of cobwebs from his eyes, and couldn’t quite find the words to answer your question. Either the truth or some half-baked crock of bullshit—there was no in between.

“Once,” he answered, at length. Honest.

You figured as much.

In any other situation where you were faced with one of Bucky’s former fuckbuddies, you probably would’ve felt more than a twinge of jealousy. Might’ve even cast a dark look in the girl’s direction and willed her not to even breathe the same air as him. Then you remembered you weren’t fourteen years old and could behave with some modicum of maturity when it came to some old flame of your husband. They weren’t even sitting that close.

You winced when Bucky gave her shoulder a playful squeeze, though. That facial tic you couldn’t control.

“So to recap,” Natasha announced, having just plodded through a few dull formalities up front, “Barnes got the intercom call from Schröder at 1500 hours, Friday.”

Every head nodded.

“Schröder gave Barnes exactly ninety-six hours to recover the $90 million lost in the…mishap, in Brooklyn—” Natasha’s eyes flickered to your father no longer than a second, “—and today is Monday. We have twenty-four hours to come up with the funds, or face the…penalties of Schröder’s exploding offer. Whatever those may be.”

You knew what ‘those’ were. Ms. Romanoff was either too kind or too diplomatic to say it, you reckoned, but the threat Joey Schröder had made to Bucky had been patently clear: procure the cash or your wife’s family dies.

That was why you’d been so surprised to see your mother and father seated at the table that morning—Schröder had further stipulated that there was to be no contact between you and your parents in the time it took to come up with the money. You’d been completely cut off, in the Alps, since the day of the attack, left to wonder without reprieve whether HYDRA’s bloodless henchmen had taken hostages of your parents, let them abscond to Brooklyn, or simply killed them both and sent the rest of you all on a wild goose chase to get hold of the money.

Now if they’d only had sex once, why was she looking at him like that?—The intruding thought couldn’t be helped when you peered over again—Surely the most platonic and professional working relationships didn’t call for looks like that.

Shut the fuck up. Shut the entire fuck up, please.

The lives of those closest to you were on the line and all you could think now was how well you compared to this random woman in giving Bucky head? Brain fucking rot.

You scrunched your nose and turned back to Natasha.

“…and up until this morning, Schröder’s whereabouts were unknown,” she continued, careful as she spoke.

It seemed that part had caught Bucky’s attention, too, because he was tilting his head away from Sharon and shifting his gaze to the woman at the head of the table.

“And now?” he cut in.

“I’m getting there, James.”

Sharon smiled a little at that, tracing her nail on the notepad in front of her. She muttered something to Bucky, who disregarded her remark entirely.

“Do we know where Schröder is?” he barked.

Across the table, Sam shifted in his seat. He glanced to Natasha, then Sharon.

“I believe we have modestly reliable intel—” he began, only to have his speech mowed over by an impatient, increasingly irate Bucky.

“No. No— we don’t do ‘modestly reliable’ for this, Sam. We either know where the fuck the guy is or we don’t.”

That last fragment seemed to hang in the air a couple seconds longer than needed, and a tense silence fell over the table. It took a new voice—one you hadn’t heard much at all yourself—to reignite the conversation.

“I know it,” Sharon said, “I know he’s in Madripoor.”

Madripoor? The make-believe safe haven for terrorists? You couldn’t tell if she was kidding at first. Then Bucky flitted a look to the side, and his expression was grave. Natasha’s, too. Maybe there was a Madripoor after all.

“Or he will be there, most likely, tomorrow night,” Steve interjected. The hands that had been folded neatly in front of him were now tapping a light and mindless beat on the table, “He’s got the Foxy Den rented out for a…thing.”

Bucky rolled his eyes.

“Where else but a titty bar would Joey host his ‘things’?” he muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear.

So Madripoor was real, and it had strip clubs. Wonderful.

It seemed Natasha was keen to regain control of the conversation, because she presently broke in,

“Keep in mind that time is of the essence—a private flight from here to the Indonesian archipelago is sixteen hours minimum. We most likely can’t afford to fly private, b—”

“Since when the fuck can’t I afford to fly private?” Bucky spat.

You hated how short and plainly nasty he was being to all those around him. If you hadn’t known any better, you might’ve thought these folks were at fault somehow, but they weren’t. Your father, the real culprit, was sitting right under Bucky’s nose, and he wouldn’t even look in his general direction. Your husband flared his nostrils with a new surge of indignation, and Sharon patted his hand.

“She’s not talking finances, bub,” the blond started, “She’s saying your jet is on a no-fly list, we don’t have time to charter a new plane, and there’s a hefty fucking bounty on your head if you ever set foot in Madripoor. We need to get you on a commercial flight, undercover.”

“Fuck that.” Bucky’s response was reflexive. He rose fast.

If your parents could have appeared any more stiff and uncomfortable you might have mistaken them for two charming, thoroughly terrified wax figures. Your father continued to fiddle with his ring as he watched Bucky.

Natasha tensed as well. As soon as Bucky was up on his feet, pacing around at the end of the table, she was urging him to relax, Buck, this isn’t anything we haven’t done before—sit down, please. Bucky didn’t sit, and he most certainly didn’t relax, but he did kick a stool across the room.

“I am not going back to that shithole.”

The stool tumbled onto its side, one leg splintered in half. You made a mental note to look into some anger management classes. Your parents, along with most of the table, flinched at the crashing sound, while your husband stood, supremely agitated, and did not even regard the broken chair. He turned away from Natasha.

“Yeah, well, that ‘shithole’ is our only hope of getting Schröder behind bars and you out of custody, Bucky,” Natasha called as he started to pace away.

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean?”

Bucky tilted his head to the side. He contemplated snagging a bottle of Macallan 25 off the bar cart by the window but decided against it.

“Have you been listening to a word of what I’ve said all weekend?” Natasha returned, almost as biting, “Turned on MSNBC or CNN or any other news outlet in the last forty-eighty hours?”

She dropped her own notepad on the table and scanned the area in search of something else. Sam and Steve took that as their opportunity to jump in.

“Bucky,” Sam started, calmly, “There were over a dozen foreign attachés and two heads of State at your wedding, half of whom are now being hospitalized for injuries they sustained in the attack.”

“So?” Bucky snapped.

His eyes were already trailing back to the cart.

“So you think the U.N. Security Council was just gonna let that slide?”

“Two-thirds of its members have been up in arms, practically chomping at the bit to get someone pinned for the fucking thing—that leaves you or Schröder on the chopping block,” Steve chimed in.

“So one more federal probe. What’s the big deal?” Bucky hardly realized he’d taken a tumbler in his hands.

Just as he’d turned to pour himself a drink, guided more by bare muscle memory than anything else, Natasha raised a manila folder—the item she’d been looking for. He’d filled his glass half full when the folder was flung his way like a frisbee. He narrowly saved himself a papercut—or ten—by ducking his head, almost spilling his drink.

“The fuck, Nat?!” he bellowed.

“Extradition, Bucky. Search warrants for your Brooklyn residence, all your money service businesses up the Eastern Seaboard, and a whole hell of a lot of other financial records that we do not need dredged up in this mess.” Natasha pointed to the folder on the floor, which had just spilled a litany of documents at his feet.

“Let them.” Bucky wasn’t fazed by the warrants, walking over them as he drank, “I’m not going to Madripoor."

This time, it was Sharon's turn to roll her eyes as she swiveled in her chair to face Bucky. She was turned from you now, but you could almost smell the smug, knowing look she raked over your husband as she uncrossed her legs and leaned back.

"We don't have time for this," she said, coolly, "If you have any hopes of getting the Counter-Terrorism Committee off your ass and Schröder in custody, you'll listen to Nat."

Bucky paused, weighing her words in his mind before meeting her gaze again. He brought his glass to his lips and drained it.

Then, perhaps feeling a bit emboldened by the idea that she was the only one to have shut Bucky up—to have made him listen, as it were—Sharon piped up again. You didn't need to see her face to know for certain there was a smirk etched across it,

"Don't look so glum, honey. We have no choice here."

It startled every last soul at that table, yourself included and Sharon especially, when the cup in Bucky's hand sailed across the room and shattered on the edge of a cabinet close by. Before the glass had so much as splintered and scattered half of its jagged shards along the floor, your husband was stalking, then stopping, then looming over Sharon with an implacably dour look. And a jaw set tight as you'd ever seen it.

"My choice," he seethed, so low the words almost came out in a murmur, "is to protect my wife. Whatever you, or Natasha, or anyone else has in mind comes second to that. Do you understand?"

Sharon nodded that she did.

A hushed silence fell over the room once more, only now its duration was greater, and the cause of it—your red-faced, fuming husband—had turned his back to the group and was retrieving from the bar cart another glass. Another drink. Natasha followed his path with a vigilant eye.

"Bucky," she said.

Bucky didn't answer. Filled his new glass to the brim.

"Bucky," Natasha tried with a little more volume and vigor.

Your husband lifted the cup to his mouth and started to guzzle, against every shrill and helpless plea from his liver, you guessed. You wanted to object, to take leave of your seat as quick as you could and knock the thing out of his hand before he could finish, but Natasha had you beat—not with any physical act but a word to slow him down: "Barnes."

Then, a few more to get him to stop entirely:

"Look. Over there."

She pointed to a slip of paper somewhere at the top of the shuffle.

Bucky shifted his gaze to the floor. You saw him lick both corners of his mouth, bathed in whiskey residuum and a light, nascent spatter of stubble. He looked almost menacing in spite of the grin that kicked up.

"What's this?" he murmured.

"The terms of Schröder's newest offer. The one he made this morning."

Bucky's second glass was discarded in an instant.

He dropped to his knees, seized the paper in his hands and pored over the bare, 11-point Times New Roman typeface like it was the single most precious set of words in the world to him. There were several mountains of text, and you sensed he couldn't begin to under the legal jargon with just one cursory look.

"What? What's'it mean?" Bucky wouldn't tear his gaze away, even as he shouted to Natasha.

Your own eyes probably should've been fixed on Bucky, or in your lap, or out the window, reflecting in silence on what the fuck could be going on and why it felt as though things were suddenly coming to a perilous head. Instead, you pivoted to Natasha. Her face was tilted to you.

Then she spoke to Bucky, still crouched on the floor a few feet away from her, but she kept her focus on you. She spoke carefully.

"Schröder won't take the money, Bucky."

"What?"

Bucky's gaze combed over the page, desperate to make sense of what was printed in front of him—"The hell's this all mean, Nat, tell me what it means and what he wants, for fuck's sake."—and he flipped the document. Read some more. His eyes flitted from line to line in a full-blown terror.

Then the eyes stopped in one spot.

Bucky stood.

Fisting the letter in one hand and making a wild, inarticulate gesture with the other, he probably could've seared a hole in Natasha's head with the force of his stare. She refused to meet it.

"This is a joke, isn't it?"

All of a sudden, your father leaned over your mother to you,

"We can make it work. We can keep you—"

"Hey. Don't talk to her. Don't fuckin' look at her. Is this—"

"—safe. We'll keep you safe, darling, I swear."

"—some kind of sick fucking joke?!"

You stared at your dad in disbelief. Bewilderment. Then you chanced a look at Bucky, who had all but gone blue in the face as he approached your father from the opposite end of the table, letter still crushed in his hand.

Your father averted his gaze.

He knew.

You saw him flick the gold signet on his pinky once more, and for reasons you didn't yet understand yourself, you couldn't look away from it, or him.

Surely this scared-shitless son of a bitch could speak to you now. He'd have to. There was no way he wouldn't when the problem was staring him right in the face and his son-in-law was practically apoplectic with rage in front of him.

Something clicked in Bucky's brain.

He knew.

Your husband’s breath caught with the full weight of the realization, and he blinked. He didn’t hesitate; he simply sidestepped Sam and Steve—who had stood as soon as they saw the look of understanding cross over his face—and he seized your father. You heard a scream, most likely from your mother, and you saw Bucky swing, but the act barely registered as real until his fist first cracked against your dad’s skull. Again. And again. And again.

Somewhere in the raucous din and sounds of punches, kicks, and muffled groans, a discharge of blood, and the dim recognition that some of the stuff was dousing you, too, you managed to make out several words, disjointed:

“—FUCKING KILL YOU—SOLD HER—SOLD HER?!”

Roleplay was fun—even vital for a marriage like yours.

Only instead of assuming the role of sexy masseuse, strong and strapping CEO, hands-on handyman, or some naughty professor with a knack for after-class punishment, Bucky got to play a bloodlusting assassin.

‘Winter Soldier’ didn’t have quite the same ring as most pornographic tropes, it was true, but it was an alter-ego he’d been given from his earliest days as a made man. A caricature of himself that was to represent everything he did and was capable of doing in places like Madripoor.

You didn’t know that side. You didn’t like that side.

It was Bucky, and it wasn’t—pummeling your father’s face in the ground after learning that he had offered you up, again, in satisfaction of a debt. Sparing no feelings when he spoke to Natasha, Sam, Steve, Sharon, or anyone, making clear his wife’s safety was paramount.

Maybe you were meant to feel proud. Or flattered. Or safe. But oddly, the longer you’d stared at the bloodied, bruised fist he held above your father’s face and the half-deranged look of anger on his own, the more you began to wonder if the fury was for your protection, or simply a knee-jerk response to the thought of losing a possession. A mere object that he couldn’t bear to part ways with.

You had thought long and hard about where the Soldier stopped and Bucky began. No matter where you landed, you were far from comfortable with the conclusion.

Now, even as you stood two feet away from the man in an upper-level lounge of the Foxy Den, roughly half a day removed from the whirlwind turn of events that almost sent your father to hospital, you hardly knew what to say.

“Zip me up?”

The closest thing you’d had to conversation in hours. Bucky obliged.

You viewed your new dress in the mirror from the side and made a face. Pretended to examine the tight black number but were really just zeroing in on the sight of Bucky’s knuckles as he dragged the zip up your back. He hadn’t bothered to mend his hands, and you hadn’t thought to offer to bandage them up. You tried not to stare.

The hands paused at the top of your dress and froze.

Then crept back slowly, taking the zip along with it.

“Wanna—?”

“Bucky!”

One low groan, followed by a palm to his worn and wearied face. When you spun around, he didn’t move.

“Are you serious?” you bit.

“Will you talk to me now?” Bucky retorted.

To be fair, neither he nor his Winter Soldier persona knew how to solve the silent treatment from a pissed-off wife. This was brand new territory—being ignored for hours on end—and frankly, he had thought a playful request for sex might make you more amenable to conversation.

He had thought wrong.

You stared daggers at his handsome face and raised a finger as though to warn him, then stopped. Opened your mouth as if to speak, then appeared to decide against it. A steady, pulsing bass from the floors below was all that could be heard, and momentarily, you were reminded of why you were all here in the first place:

Locate Schröder. Corner Schröder. Capture Schröder. Bring the bad man to justice—or else just pump the motherfucker’s head full of lead and be done with it.

You weren’t too familiar with the particulars of the plan, but that had seemed to be the heart of it. Bucky never intended for you to stray from the safety of the lounge upstairs, where half of his team were casing the club through dozens of surveillance cameras, and he would likely take off with Sam and Steve the second you’d finished dressing. Now would be the time to talk.

And you planned to. Eventually.

For now, though, you’d let him sweat it out.

You had long envied women with effortless sex appeal and charisma. The kind that seemed to be made for the stage, capable of transfixing any audience, or individual, with little more than their aura alone. You’d never felt a fraction of that allure emanate from yourself before, personally, but looking at Bucky now brought you as close as you’d ever been. He was enthralled by your every move, he was intrigued at all times, you could see.

He was visibly aroused before you had even touched him. You knew it was cruel and unkind before you were even fully conscious of what you were doing, but you did it.

Someone had to teach this man how to control his anger—and his urges—somehow. Who better than you?

You drew closer to Bucky until your fronts almost touched.

“Baby,” you murmured. Simple, nearly plaintive.

Bucky blanched. Could it be? Had his bullshit gambit actually paid off and made you want to talk, or possibly do more? His hands immediately went for your hips, but you were quick to shove them off. You poked one finger to his chest and shook your head.

“We can talk,” you said, measured.

You pressed into his sternum and pretended not to see a short-lived look of defeat, followed by confusion, cross Bucky’s features. He let you walk him back a step or two.

“Okay. What about?”

Where the hell could you even begin?

“Sit first,” you urged him.

It was then that he realized you’d been walking him toward the plush sectional couch behind him—a cozy little touch to the VIP room only marginally diminished by the fact that it was coated in liquor, coke, and glitter. Bucky sat down anyway.

You didn’t follow, choosing instead to stand as you appeared to…scratch something on your back? Your husband looked on in muted curiosity as you reached behind yourself and tilted your torso just slightly.

Then he heard a zip. A hitch. Another, longer drag.

Bucky knew he was fucked before you ever slipped the dress off your body. You were to make quick work of it, eyes never leaving the man in front of you as you peeled the fabric down your legs and off of your frame entirely. When you were down to just your underwear, you hadn’t even needed to see his face to know exactly where his gaze was likely to land—this part was new to him. You kicked the dress aside and let him stare.

To be fair, it wasn’t every day he got to see a Ruger LC9 strapped to your thigh. Hidden in plain sight now that you were stripped bare before him in just your bra, panties, and garter-like holster across the top of your leg.

“Where’d you get that?” Bucky nearly choked, eyes wide.

“TJ Maxx,” you huffed, “Where the fuck do you think?”

“I never said you could— And Sam and Steve—”

Bucky paused, suddenly aware of how indignant and stupid he was starting to sound. He had given orders to the rest of his team not to let you carry a gun under any circumstances, but here you were. If he weren’t so violently aroused by the sight of you wearing the thing, he probably would’ve been fuming.

“A couple guys from your security detail were kind enough to make an exception,” you smiled, words verging on smug, “And who’s to say what I ‘can’ and ‘can’t’ do, hm?”

Bucky looked as though he were priming himself to stand when you lifted one stiletto to rest between his legs on the seat. A silent and quasi-sweet threat in one gesture.

“I didn’t say you can’t— well—” Bucky faltered at the last.

“You just said you never gave me permission!” You threw your hands up in exasperation, “That doesn’t sound very equitable to me, James.”

Bucky let out a frustrated sigh of his own.

“C’mon. You know what I mean, honey…I just…want to keep you safe. You know that.”

“Self-defense is a pretty integral part of safety.”

“No one’s ever taught you to shoot!”

“You never bothered to ask!”

This was getting a little too aggressive and Jerry Springer-eqsue for your liking. Not nearly sexy or seductive enough to be heading in the direction you wanted. Bucky always brought the bickering out of you, but you had to stay strong. Slow and steady and all that bullshit.

So, before he could respond to your last remark, you lowered yourself over him. Brought both legs to bracket his hips and hovered carefully in place above the bulge in his tactical pants. When he swallowed beneath you and raked his gaze over your body, you felt a twinge of relief.

You sank further down. Dragged your lower half over his own and earned a groan from deep within his throat. Again, his hands flew to your waist to get a good grip, but you pried them off before they could ever fully sink into the flesh.

“What?” Impatience palpable in Bucky’s tone.

“No,” you answered simply.

“No?”

“No, you don’t get to touch me. You don’t own me.”

Your husband shifted under your body, hands helpless at his sides and masseter muscle visibly clenching beneath the skin as he gritted his teeth. He shook his head.

“I never said that I did,” he managed, after a pause, “Baby, I love you.”

“And beating the shit out of my dad was your special way of showing that?”

“That wasn’t—”

“Or snapping at Natasha. And Sam. Steve. Sharon,” you added emphasis to the last name without really meaning to, and Bucky raised an eyebrow.

“Yes. I…lost my temper, I—”

“Couldn’t control your anger. Or wouldn’t. All because my dad made some stupid deal with a man and offered me up as collateral.”

“Because Joey wants you for himself!” Bucky snapped, voice suddenly raised to a near-deafening pitch. He shifted his hips and inadvertently grazed the heat between your legs, drawing a subtle pinch in his brow at the friction, “The deal your dad made was to give you over to Schröder in satisfaction of his own fucking debt—you think I was just gonna sit by and let that happen?!”

In spite of the animosity, you pressed your body to his even harder and watched him fold—if only slightly. He breathed a sharp inhale through his nose and flexed both his hands, as if wanting to make fists. However, he knew better than to move himself around at a time like this.

“What? Like the deal you made with him?”

Your words were clipped, almost cruel. You knew it would hit a nerve in Bucky, and sure enough, he met you right where you wanted him: enraged.

“That’s fucking different,” he seethed, “I would’ve paid your father’s debt without— without anything in it for me.”

“But you didn’t, and you got me.”

“And I love you. I don’t wanna lose you.”

The abrupt vulnerability in his voice was all but agony to hear. For a second, it seemed the anger had fled—or at least been eclipsed by some softer, sweeter shade—only for Bucky to blink again, shake his head, and wear that stupid, hardened look that said, ‘I am not losing this.’ Your hands reached for his belt and started in on the zip.

“You have a real fucked up way of showing love, James.”

To your surprise, Bucky let you continue, unhindered. Blue eyes meeting yours in a cold look.

“Makes two of us,” he mumbled, shrugging his boxers and trousers out of the way anyway.

That was probably true. No person in their right mind would think fucking their husband was the safest, most surefire way to let him know they were pissed at him, but both you and Bucky were working on communication skills, still. You’d get to healthy, non-sex-fueled fights at some point.

As it was, Bucky was fumbling around your thighs, trying to pry them open even wider for better access through your panties. That you allowed, but the second he tried manhandling you over his crotch, you pushed back.

“I wanna do this— without your help,” you said, firm.

Somewhat begrudgingly, Bucky agreed. He let you line yourself up with his length, brace your weight against his shoulders, and when you paused, he made a soft, ‘Hm?’ and glanced down where you looked. Before you could remove the pistol from its holster, he set his palm atop the cool metal.

“Leave it,” he murmured.

His eyes flashed with desire. It was almost more than you could bear, despite the plain fact that riding someone with a firearm strapped to your thigh probably violated every NRA gun safety rule known to man. Whatever.

You lowered yourself onto Bucky, slow, and sucked in a quick breath as he filled you. Your husband groaned.

“Fuck,” followed shortly thereafter, almost timid to crawl out of his mouth as you sank to a fully-seated position on top of him. He gripped the armrest beside him.

When your hips first stirred, you thought the man might burst a blood vessel trying not to move right along with you. You pressed a hand to his chest and reminded him, gently but with purpose: let me fucking do this, Bucky, and he relented. Fisting the couch cushion in something close to a death grip, he nodded his head and heaved a short breath and watched you all the while, grinding on him.

“My pretty…pretty girl,” he managed through his teeth.

He was doing better than you expected. You watched his face contort with pleasure when you lifted yourself up to the tip of his cock and slide back down. You squeezed his shoulders, and you let out a low whimper yourself, and dammit all, you felt that pesky fucking knot already forming in the pit of your stomach. You glanced down and frowned, wanting this to last so much longer.

Fortunately, when your eyes found Bucky’s again, you got the sense that he was in the same boat as you: brow furrowed tight in concentration and lips parted slightly, panting in time with each one of your movements.

“Baby,” he said, the single word treading close to a plea. He paused, dropped a glance to the spot where your bodies were coupled, and swallowed. He cursed aloud, then continued, quietly, “Baby…’m’sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” You bounced a bit faster.

“For— fuckin’ hell, honey— for being a…dick.” The last part of his sentence was pierced by a grunt and a moan, but you heard it just the same.

You clenched around him and tried to keep steady. Manage a small, shit-eating grin above him, even.

“Being a dick?” you repeated, pretending not to know what he meant. When his cock grazed over a particularly sensitive place inside you, you just swallowed the moan and kept going, fingers taking hold of some short tufts of hair at the back of Bucky’s head as you rode him.

“Possessive. Controlling. Kind of a—” Bucky paused to grunt when he bottomed out inside, hands aching to hold you, “—piece of shit.”

Finally, you were getting somewhere. Not nearly close enough to cure the rage or the dark, grating impulses churning inside of him, but good enough, for now.

You reached for his hands and set them over your hips.

The next most natural thing was to lean down and kiss him—let his tongue invade your mouth as soon as he’d caught your lips and show you, with a wordless and fast-moving show of affection, that he missed you. And meant what he’d said. With his hands moving quick to cup your cheeks, hold you to him while he kissed you and stroked deep inside your walls, he gripped you tighter than he had in a while. You could feel strips of tension and desperation bleed through his every fingertip.

“Wanna…fuckin’ kill anyone who even thinks…of— fuck,” Bucky’s words were almost slurred at this point, so close to the point of release it seemed every wild and wanton thought that crossed his mind was likely to dance off his tongue, unchecked. You loved to see him in it this deep.

You also had to remind the murderous alter ego that violence was not the answer…always. You let him pull you closer, bodies pressed flush against each other while you fucked, but you made sure to tilt his chin up to yours so he could see the expression on your face as you spoke.

“Hey,” you pinned him with one stern look, “No murder.”

Bucky frowned.

“Yes murder,” he retorted.

You sighed.

This shit was worse than teaching a dog not to bite.

Instead of pulling back or being strict this time, though, you decided you’d give positive reinforcement a try. You squeezed his short locks of hair, gently, and rolled your hips even tighter to his, eliciting a stuttered groan. You bounced up and down on his cock, pulled him into your chest, and brought your face within an inch of his.

“Promise to be good, and I’ll let you cum inside me,” you murmured into his lips. Not the wisest offer you’d made to date, but one that Bucky seemed to want more than the air in his lungs the second the words escaped you. He pulled you in for a kiss, immediately.

“Fuck, you mean it?” he breathed, in between each sloppy, frenzied movement of his mouth.

“Yeah,” you tried not to grin at how eager he seemed, “You’re gonna apologize to everyone, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

Bucky barely seemed to register anyone or anything but you and your pussy at the moment, yearning for the go-ahead to let himself free inside you. With a nod of your head, you’d let him start meeting your motions with gentle thrusts of his own, and both of you were teetering precariously close to the edge with that added pressure. In spite of both your hot and heady, near-anoetic states, you endeavored to hold out a little longer, legs aching.

“Gonna try and talk to Schröder first?” you panted.

Bucky rutted into you hard, lips twitching into a frown.

“Doesn’t…deserve it,” he grunted, barely able to get the words out as he grabbed your hips and thrusted harder, “A fucking bullet between the eyes is what he needs.”

You eyed him soberly, or as serious as you could manage with the force of his strokes nearly sending you into a spiral. You fought back a moan and gripped him tighter.

“Bucky.”

“Bunny.”

Damn, that name.

“Promise me you won’t kill him—or anyone—tonight.”

“Baby—”

“Promise.”

His thrusts were getting sloppier; with his hands hoisting you just above him and his cock practically drilling into you now, speech and coherent thought were some of the toughest things to accomplish, but he tried it, anyway. Bucky would swallow his pride and accede to his wife, no matter how fucking badly he wanted to cum—and kill that Russian mob boss with both his bare, bloody hands.

He could be better than the Winter Soldier. He would.

With a rough, labored breath, Bucky pulled you in for a kiss and felt you squeeze around his cock like a vice. Still thrusting, clutching you, kissing you hard, he saw both of your releases coming in fast and had to act even quicker.

“I— I promise,” he stammered.

That was all either of you needed, or could bear, quite frankly. In the next second or two, you felt a cord snap in your lower half and a deep, punchy flurry of pleasure follow shortly thereafter, fingers sinking deep in Bucky’s shoulders as he bounced you on his cock and held you close. With your walls still pulsing around him, you felt him chase his own high at a breakneck pace, shooting his load inside you a moment later. It was bad, it was brash, it was a really fucking dumb idea to be playing around with the odds of making babies at a time like this, but it also felt good. Exhilarating, even, feeling him empty his balls in that space between your wet, aching walls and filling you up with his seed.

Maybe just one little mini-Bucky wouldn’t—

STOP.

You barely had the energy to acknowledge, much less arbitrate that bone-crushing conflict between your brain and reproductive organs, so you shut the thoughts up with a quick, messy kiss to Bucky, whose chest was still heaving from the peak of his release, holding you to him.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Maybe even two—

FUCK YOU.

The internal war wouldn’t go away that easy, it seemed.

You kissed Bucky long and hard regardless, hoping the shit would sort itself out before you really had to think. Or worry. Or plan. It was dumb and a bit short-sighted, but feeling that hot, erratic pulse between your legs did a pretty good job of making it seem just fine for right now.

Bucky’s expression was lax. Soaking in the feel of your cum-painted insides still squeezing around him, gently. Had he been anywhere but the heart of Low Town on a covert mission in a strip club, hunting down the head of HYDRA with a whole troupe of trained assassins, he probably would’ve liked to stay that way a little longer. But, as it was, he could already hear folks filing in and out of the lounge, footfalls growing heavier as his team loaded up with guns, grenades, and whatever other weapons they could fit beneath their formal attire.

“Don’t look so sad,” you said as you lifted off of Bucky. Carefully pulling your panties back into place as your husband watched you do it, practically forlorn.

“Too late,” he returned in half a groan, yanking his own clothes where they needed to be and trailing a look up your legs, “Might feel better if we tried it again, though.”

“I bet.” You pulled your dress over your head.

Your husband had just tightened his belt and was rolling his shoulders to get a knot out of his neck, it seemed.

“What are your thoughts on ‘Bucky Jr.’?” he asked casually.

“Don’t start with this shit.”

“Jamie for a girl, maybe?”

“I’ll kill you.”

Your baby talk and death threat tête-à-tête continued for quite some time—just a couple minutes, but they felt like years to you—and before long, you were rubbing the gun under your dress and casting a glare in Bucky’s direction, and he got the sense that it was time to head back to the group. He looped an arm around your waist and led you out into the main space.

The living room was little more than a makeshift headquarters at that point. You’d been expecting to see more faces, but the only ones you found were Sam, Natasha, and a few silent, beefy individuals you assumed were part of security. Where Sharon and your parents had gotten off to was anyone’s guess. You took a seat on the couch.

“Anything yet?” Bucky questioned, approaching the panel of surveillance screens with a wary eye.

“We’ve had intermittent visuals on the second floor for forty minutes or so—” Sam motioned to one screen on the left, “—but Schröder hasn’t moved. Hasn’t done anything but bullshit and booze and buy rounds for his group. Won’t even talk to the dancers, which is weird.”

From what you’d been told, the goal was to get Schröder off the second floor, up to one particular private suite on fourth, then send in an agent dressed as a bottle girl to make entry as soon as the rest of the party had arrived, keeping in contact with HQ, and Sam, via PTT earpiece all the while. The details from that point were hazy, but you’d gotten the sense that someone—or, more likely, a sizable and duly-equipped group of someones—was lying in wait somewhere in the suites surrounding them. Steve had been tasked with leading the incursion, though where he could be found, or whom he was with, remained largely a mystery to you. Recon in a bustling, crowded area with music blaring on all four sides was a formidable undertaking, and you could tell both Sam and Natasha had been having trouble keeping tabs on every player. They seemed on edge, monitoring the screens.

“Won’t talk to the dancers?” Bucky’s brow pinched in.

“Won’t talk to anyone outside of his inner circle,” Natasha said, grim, “Which leads me to think he’s not staying here long. Probably called his associates in for a speedy-quick deal because he knows he’s being tailed.”

“Hasn’t engaged with any of our undercovers?” Bucky pressed.

Natasha and Sam shook their heads. Your husband groaned.

“Then how the hell are we getting him upstairs to the champagne room? If he hasn’t budged and doesn’t look like he’s planning to stay?”

The looks on the faces in front of him said there wasn’t one readily available answer—or any answer at all. Bucky turned back to the screens and seemed to survey the whole panel, gaze cooling with the first inkling that this operation may be classed a failure in the very near future.

He barked some half-coherent babble about strategy, security, and failsafes, then barked for Steve.

And, as if on cue, Steve appeared at the threshold of the room a moment later, breathless and slightly flushed.

“Rogers, you’re suppos—” Sam started, eyes widening at something you couldn’t quite discern from his arrival.

“I know, I know,” Steve cut in, fast, “Want the good news or bad news fir—”

“Just spit it out,” Natasha said, preemptively unnerved.

“Schröder’s headed to the suite right now—”

Bucky raised both eyebrows at Steve as he continued.

“—but they won’t let Wanda in.”

‘Fuck’ was the first audible word from your husband, then Sam, in short order. Wanda must have been the agent playing bottle girl upstairs. This didn’t sound good.

“Why the fuck won’t they let her in?” Bucky snapped.

“Someone might’ve tipped his security off. Or else they’re just being extra cautious about who’s let in.”

Steve fiddled with one cufflink on his suit and tried not to appear too despondent, but the implications of this single event were huge, you could read on every face in the room. Wanda had been meant to do something important before the rest of the brigade mobilized—take some key step that couldn’t be omitted from the plan.

“So we retreat.” Natasha was not one to mince her words, per usual, “Get your guys out of the suites now.”

Bucky’s fingers twitched at his sides.

“No,” he said, sharply, “We’re not doing that.”

“Bucky.”

“We’ll get someone in there. We’ll find another way.”

Your husband was already pacing the space in front of you, and you looked on with uncertain eyes. You chanced a look to Natasha, Sam, and Steve, all of whom shared similar, albeit slightly more wearied, expressions as they watched and murmured among themselves.

“None of our people are getting up there, Barnes. Schröder’s got a goddamn sixth sense about our agents or something,” Steve said, at length.

“They’re all in masks—for a fucking masquerade—and we can’t get one person in?! In-and-out, that’s all it needs to be,” Bucky growled.

“We can’t get in there, that’s the point,” Sam sighed, “Masks or no masks, they know our people too well and won’t let us through.”

“We can at least try, for Christ’s sake. That’s what we came this whole fuckin’ way to do, right?”

When no one said a word in response, Bucky scowled,

“Right?”

There was a lull in the conversation that seemed to last for minutes, when, in reality, couldn’t have been more than ten or fifteen seconds. Tensions were high. You could tell from the look in Bucky’s eye he was trying not to lash out as he normally would, but in no time at all, you saw a fractional break in his resolve. You feared he might fly off the handle, or else compromise something that couldn’t be spared at a time like this. You swallowed.

“I’ll go.”

It was stupid.

Every face turned to regard you as if you were stupid, you assumed as soon as the words had left your mouth.

But then, much to your surprise, Steve was perking up, eyes suddenly brighter as his gaze tilted to you.

“She could,” he said, shortly.

“Should she?” Sam seemed to murmur at once.

“Sure, why not?”

“I can think of plenty reasons why not,” Natasha was quick to counter, but beneath that pensive expression, you could’ve sworn you saw the smallest degree of contemplation. Even hope, from the looks of it.

‘NO’ was Bucky’s wordless, immediate, and resounding answer as he kicked whatever furniture—a footstool, this time—was closest to him and sent it flying toward the door. It seemed that self-control of his had worn off fast.

“No,” he affirmed in a word a second later, jaw clenched, “She is going nowhere near that suite.”

He didn’t even spare you a glance while he spoke. He was too busy eyeing the others, Steve specifically, as his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths and a light, blooming tinge of pink rose the length of his neck. If it weren’t for that staunch and menacing look on his face, he would’ve almost looked cute, you mused to yourself.

But, pretty man be damned, you wouldn’t stand for being ignored. Fuck that noise.

“I will,” you returned, a little more resolute this time.

Now Bucky had no choice but to pivot to you. His expression softened some, but not by much.

“No,” he said, again.

“Yes.”

“Baby—”

“Don’t fucking ‘baby’ me, Barnes. You said someone who wasn’t an agent could make it up there, and I can do it. Or try, at least, like you just said.”

If your attention hadn’t been fixed on your husband, you probably would’ve caught sight of more than one thinly veiled smile from the group around you. Natasha, in particular, all but tickled to see someone stand up to Bucky and give him a taste of his own shit—and live to tell the tale. The sight of her boss’s eyes almost glossy in the first tender look she’d seen from him in years was almost too much to bear. Steve stood grinning beside her, and Sam narrowly stifled an exhale of amusement. Neither you nor Bucky flinched from your positions.

“We can’t risk you being around him. They’re already all on high-alert,” your husband said after a calming breath.

“As are all your trigger-happy comrades waiting just ten feet outside the door, right?” you replied, “What is it, like, five, ten of them in total?”

“Twenty,” Steve interjected. Bucky shot him a look.

“I don’t care. I don’t want you up there when that fucker was just trying to— to kidnap you last week. I’m not—”

“Right. Right. Trying to kidnap me, not kill me. If Schröder wanted me dead, he would’ve made pretty quick work of that before,” you cut in, tone a touch more deliberate, “Even if he sniffs me out, he’s not gonna screw this whole deal by hurting me now.”

But the mere suggestion of harm to you had seemed to raise every hair on its end for Bucky, and then he was shaking his head, evidently more stubborn than ever.

“No, fuck. Don’t start,” he snapped with his newfound indignation, then, quieter, “Please…don’t, honey.”

You wouldn’t bow that easily.

“Why not?”

Truly, Bucky couldn’t be certain if it was the lilt in your voice, the pinch at the sides of your lips, or simply the sincerity consuming your eyes as you spoke to him, but the man could not stomach the thought of you, his own wife, being a stone’s throw from mortal danger and beyond his protection—or control, he wasn’t sure which one of the two was more dominating. Some cruel and unforgiving knot inside him came to tighten, and twist, and, nauseating as it was set on escape, the white-hot surge rose like bile in his throat. Before he could stop it, the words were spilling out through his teeth like froth:

“Cause I fuckin’ said so, that’s why. That’s it. It’s settled. You’re not allowed anywhere near him, you hear me?”

What Bucky hadn’t expected was the swift ascent back to your feet. The cool and almost careless expression as you rose, as though his words hadn’t registered at all.

He certainly hadn’t expected you to check him with your shoulder as you passed, knocking him slightly off-balance as he turned, in shock, and watched you give him one manicured middle finger over your left shoulder.

“Rogers, I’d like you to escort me upstairs.”

Worst of all, Bucky hadn’t expected Steve to listen.

Fortunately for him, the night was still young and with it, more than ample opportunity to be proven wrong again. And again.

“And again,” Steve murmured low in your ear as you walked side-by-side down the corridor on fourth floor, “If you get even the slightest bad feeling, you leave.”

“Might as well dip right now,” you muttered, adjusting your mask. Your attempt at humor fell flat with the man.

“I’m serious. We’ll be right outside and listening in from headquarters, but HYDRA is not a faction to fuck around with, or underestimate—as I assume you know by now.”

You did. Or would, eventually.

After the mask, you were busy trying to yank the back of your cocktail waitress dress to cover the full swell of your ass, not just the upper two-thirds. Unsurprisingly, it was a tougher task than you had been prepared to handle. Your new heels were tight and impossibly high, your new dress a mere scrap of pink fabric riddled with sequins and glitter, and your mask—holy fuck, were you glad Mardi Gras was not a year-round affair. Bucky had insisted on the fluffiest, stuffiest, full-face covering to ensure that no one would be able to recognize you, but in exchange for your anonymity, you had had to give up breathing, it seemed.

And then there was that vial of poison between your tits.

Sam had assured you that it was a nonlethal dose before handing it over; Steve had urged you, discreetly, to pour Schröder two for good measure. Natasha had overheard the latter and threatened legal action if he ever tried killing a target without her permission. You hadn’t spent much longer getting ready in the bathroom after that. Then you’d brushed past your husband the second you’d stepped out and strapped that last, semi-lethal ‘accessory’ to your bra before taking the lift upstairs.

As it turned out, you weren’t able to escape him entirely.

While you walked with Steve, Bucky was in your ear.

Literally—the man was talking nonstop through your earpiece and clearly had no intention of shutting the fuck up anytime soon. You silently wondered if there was a way to adjust the volume on the gadget as you ambled along.

“Honey.” There was a slightly more mechanical buzz to Bucky’s voice over your private line. You ignored it.

“So just find the cup he’s drinking from and pour the serum in?” you reiterated to Steve for the third time in the last ten minutes.

Your companion nodded, rattling off a few extra precautions while Bucky’s tone rang out a bit louder:

“Honey? You there?”

At last, you stuck your finger to the tiny flesh-colored device in your ear and snapped, “What?!”

“I love you.”

This fucker.

“I love you too. You’re still high on my shit list, though,” you answered, low and begrudgingly.

“Did I hear ‘hit list’? You’re gonna let me tap that later?”

If you didn’t have about fifteen different reasons to hate the man’s guts, you almost would’ve chuckled. At length, you muttered a quiet, ‘Kiss my ass, Barnes,’ and turned back to Steve, who was just then leading you closer to a room roped off and marked ‘EXECUTIVE SUITE.’ Your stomach did a flip as you paused around the corner.

“Right there. All you gotta do is knock and say a guy named Zemo sent you,” Steve spoke slowly, as if he were teaching arts and crafts to a five-year-old and not a woman about to embark on a high-risk sedation mission.

You nodded and took the silver tray from him carefully.

All the platter contained was an oversized bottle of Brut and a silver bucket, but damn if it didn’t feel like you were carrying the world and some change on that thing. You shifted your weight from foot to foot and turned in the direction of the door just a few yards away.

The time for painstakingly descriptive instructions and pep talks was long past you now. You nodded to Steve one last time and started to wobble over.

The entryway was flanked by two muscle-bound men. You approached with a smile.

“Hi. Zemo sent me.”

You didn’t know who the fuck Zemo was.

You hoped they wouldn’t ask, or notice how stilted and awkward you’d sounded just then. You swallowed a peach-sized lump in your throat and smiled again.

The one on the left grunted. The one on the right gave a nod. Without a word spoken between them, the former opened the door and made way for you to step over the threshold. You couldn’t help but notice both with their eyes trained straight on your tits as you passed by.

There was no way that had just worked. No pat-downs or harrowing threats? Not a single, searing interrogation into your identity or what you might be there to do?

Men were dumb, you decided, far too easily deceived by a decent pair of tits—HYDRA security personnel or not.

But you already knew that. You stepped inside.

The fetid stench of half a dozen blazing cigars and booze spilled on every surface were the first to greet you. A wave of smoke, then a bone-jostling bum bum bum to the beat of what sounded like a Don Toliver song came next. You almost couldn’t bear to make your feet move.

But then, shortly, you had to because a shrill, shimmer-doused beauty was waving you over toward the kitchen.

“Ba-by!” she shrieked, gesture growing frantic, “Bring it over!”

You walked with the tray out in front of you, careful with your steps across the sticky floor. When you made it over, where one other girl was stirring wildly at some concoction on the counter, you stopped, and had only to stand for a second longer, because the redhead that had beckoned you was taking the tray, setting it down, and grabbing something thin and pointy. You’d barely even registered it as an ice pick until the thing was thrust in your face.

“Crush it up,” she ordered, one curt nod toward a block of ice nearby. Evidently not giving a shit who you were or where you’d come from either. You guessed Wanda had just gotten unlucky, or they’d all stopped giving a fuck once Schröder’s men had really started drinking.

And drinking they had been, as your eyes surveyed the scene. Half-naked women with fully-clothed men, dressed head to toe in the finest of suits that were probably soaked through to the bone with sweat and Stolichnaya. You almost shivered at the sight of all the masked, wildly gyrating pricks, fumbling desperately through one verse of ‘After Party.’ You could vomit.

But where was your prick? That grimy little shit, Joey.

“Back of the room by the couch,” Bucky said, as if he’d read your mind.

Then a beat.

“Wait. Shit. That isn’t him. Schröder’s over by the door.”

How many tall, lanky blonds could there be in this place? You cast a sweeping look across the room and received your answer in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail—there were a shit ton of Joey lookalikes all around.

“Careful. Mr. Schröder’s been on edge all night. Might bite your head off if you stare too long.”

The girl that was stirring had apparently caught you looking. She set the spoon aside and turned, but not before chancing a quick glance at the man Bucky had identified to you as your target. The man lifted his gaze.

You chipped away at the ice even faster.

Crush the shit, make a drink, pour the serum, and get it in him. Now. Don’t draw his attention just yet, though.

Something in your head told you to steal another look. You knew it was a bad idea, but you went on and did it anyway—and fortunately, felt a wave of relief at seeing that he’d retreated somewhere back with his friends. The ice pick in your hands made it through the last block.

“I’ll serve the shots, you bring the bottle to Mr. Pierce.”

Mr. Who?

“One of Schröder’s associates. Roll with it.”

It was Natasha’s voice now. Measured, but tense.

“He’s the older gentlemen straight ahead. He probably ordered the champagne for him and the others.”

That was Sam. You could only imagine how all of them looked huddled around the surveillance panel with the transmitter to your earpiece being passed about from person to person. The grip Bucky must’ve had on his gun, or his switchblade, or whatever weapon he could seize to make himself feel a little less helpless. But he was—as were you. And truthfully, there was nothing either one of you could do about that until Schröder was in custody. This was the first step toward reaching that goal.

So you walked with the bottle, now bathed in a tub of ice. You tried to keep steady, but the staggering drunks all around were making that tough, to say the least.

When one man struck you straight in the chest, elbows jutting out as he danced, you stumbled back a step. Nearly lost the tray for half a second, then recovered.

Until the dipshit hit you again.

This time you truly almost sent the bottle sailing for the floor, grip slipping on the tray and knees buckling underneath you as the force of the blow set you back. You bit a quick, ‘Fuck!’ in the air, seized the platter twice as hard and braced your weight against something firm behind you. A shelf, a TV stand, or something. Maybe a half-wall if you were lucky enough not to have careened against some expensive piece of furniture. You sighed.

“Everything alright?” a voice rumbled behind you.

Or a person. Yeah, a person would be pretty fucking bad to bump into at a time like this. Your whole body froze.

You turned.

“Ye-es sir. Yes, sir.” You quickly righted your tone the second you realized it was someone important.

Not Schröder, but someone who seemed to be big-name enough; you just weren’t sure who. The man smiled down at you from under his Venetian mask.

“Is this for me?” he nodded toward the tray, half-teasing.

You swallowed.

“Are you Mr. Pierce?” you asked.

The man’s grin stretched even wider.

“Nope, I’m Ward. but I can take you to Pierce.”

For the first time that night, your heart swelled with some promise. You thanked him quietly, gratefully, then made as if to follow him back through the crowd, when all of a sudden, you stopped. That heartfelt swelling in your chest halted right along with it. You almost dropped the tray.

“Schröder!” Ward bellowed.

No, no, now you were actually going to lose your shit. There was no way in hell you were keeping a grip on this silver little plate any longer without crying or screaming or shitting your pretty, pink, sequin minidress right there. You almost shrieked when a hand reached for the tray.

“Pierce got you doing all the heavy lifting, huh, honey? The bastard.” Even through his own ornate mask, you could tell Joey was grinning—glinting with conceit, as was his prerogative. He took the load off your hands.

“Take it easy now, he’s just—”

“Staring at your rack. Pull your top up, baby, please.”

The chatter in your ear had switched from Sam to Bucky at nearly lightning speed. You glanced down at your cleavage and tugged the fabric up quick, heart beating even faster underneath it.

In front of you, Joey Schröder was all teeth. A gruesome spectacle in spite of its seemingly benevolent intentions, one smile could have turned your stomach sideways. And it did—you wanted to throw up again—but you knew you had bigger fish to fry, and evil mobsters to poison. You didn’t flinch when Schröder nudged you in the shoulder and made his way ahead, coaxing you to follow.

You didn’t tense and didn’t protest. Didn’t blink when he led you straight through the party, around a few topless performers on poles, and into a backroom lounge.

In fact, your mind practically sang as he led you inside.

It was just every other nerve, muscle, and trembling tendon not under the immediate control of your brain that needed soothing. You could’ve sworn the men on the couches would see your legs shaking as soon as you trudged into the room and sniff you out on sight.

But if they had, they didn’t show it.

No one moved when you entered, save for a few lopsided grins and tilts of happy, masked faces. Sizing you up. Drinking you in. Far too easily mistakable for a band of apex predators that had just caught wind of their next meal, and not a room full of sleazy Russian mobsters. You bit back your grating disgust with a smile.

“Got a present for ya, Pierce,” Schröder announced.

A honey-blond head flecked with silver and white sat up from the sofa. Presumably the one who’d ordered the champagne.

“Oh yeah? What’d ya pay for her?” he returned, mouth curling up in a wicked smile.

Even above the booming music, you could make out peals of laughter as the men around you shared in some lewd, crude comments and several whispers exchanged between them. You would’ve liked to grab your bottle by the neck and break it over the nearest patron’s head, but then you remembered yourself, and your mission. You stilled beside Schröder and let them crack a few more tasteless jokes at your expense. Schröder chuckled and set the tray down in front of a thoroughly amused Pierce.

Then he grabbed you by the waist.

“Right. I forgot to ask—what is your price, sweetheart?” he said, swiftly pulling you up to his front.

Your hands flew to his chest reflexively. Your nose scrunched in a wince at the sound of an electric shout:

“GET HIM OFF OF HER!”

“Bucky, hey, hey, we can’t just—”

“NO! THAT’S NOT PART OF THE FUCKING PL—”

The line went silent. You scratched at the space behind your ear, trying hard not to betray any pain on your face, or the fear for what might be going on downstairs.

Clearly, you failed on both fronts, because Joey’s grip only tightened. He peered down at you, curious.

“You deaf or somethin’, sugar? What’s your price?”

You batted your eyes, momentarily struggling for words.

But then, somehow, you managed to choke out, stomach churning with bile:

“Whatever you want, sir.”

You felt your soul drain out through the soles of your shoes as you’d said it. Something fell from your face—most likely a light behind your eyes and any semblance of self-worth as you stood before the man who had tried to buy you, drug you, and kill half your family, and then pretend like you wanted to dance for him, or do more.

It wasn’t real.

It wasn’t right by any means, but it was all just roleplay.

Roleplay.

You had to keep telling yourself that as you let Schröder’s hand glide up your spine and grip the back of your neck, tilting your head up to his. It was just like your husband and his cold-blooded Winter Soldier persona, you tried to convince the increasingly frightened voice in your mind. Just like him, just like your sweet and soft and sadistic—

“Bucky,” you whispered unconsciously.

You knew he couldn’t hear you now. It was almost insane to think anyone could save you now but yourself.

“What?” Joey exhaled sharply.

You froze in fear.

“Five hundred bucks,” you corrected your error quickly.

You weren’t sure Schröder was convinced.

“Five hundred bucks for one lap dance and some fun?” he scoffed. Then he squeezed your neck a little tighter and drew your face within an inch of his own. You could feel the hot puffs of breath, smell the rancid liquor on his tongue, but you stayed where he held you in place and tried not to grimace when he said, “That’s a damn steal.”

Your lips were shaking something awful under your mask. You couldn’t even begin to imagine what kissing this vile, soulless bastard would taste like, but you feared it might come sooner than you knew, because Joey was drawing you even more rough and tight into his chest.

Just when your mouth was less than a hair’s breadth away from his, though, you heard a woman’s scream.

Then another. And another. And another.

Before long, almost half the suite had erupted in shrieks, it seemed, and the sounds of their horror were shortly supplanted by a series of explosions. And gunfire.

Johann Schröder dropped your body like the worst habit known to man and went bounding away from the turmoil as fast as he could. This time, you did trip over your heels and took a nasty little nosedive to the ground. Fumbling, crawling, then sliding across the shag carpet on your belly with your eyes in wild search of somewhere to hide.

You spotted a coffee table and muscled your way over.

“SCHRÖDER!” a voice roared from somewhere behind.

Again, you knew better than to look, but the fear of not knowing who, or what, might be barreling your direction at any second outweighed more sensible considerations. You stole a look over your shoulder and nearly screamed.

A man with a pitch black balaclava stormed into the lounge and wasted no time setting sights on his intended target—raising a Heckler & Koch MP7A1 submachine gun to his face and firing the second the impulse struck.

You watched a once-handsome, lively, and drunk man turn to shredded, fleshy carnage in less than an instant and fall right beside your head with a thud. Your hand was your only defense to keep the shriek inside your chest, but even that blockade was crumbling fast as the blood-soaked assassin wrenched the body in the air.

The gunman tore the mask from his victim’s head and inspected the face—or what was left of it. He cursed.

You could tell from your close proximity to the blues of his eyes, and that sigh, you wouldn’t need to ask at all. You just sat there and stared, knees hugged to your chest as Bucky threw the body back down as hard as he could.

“FUCK!” he bellowed, voice flooded with rage.

Steve stumbled in with his gun at the ready. He eyed the man on the floor, then you, then a dozen other flailing, desperate partygoers trying to escape the suite all around you. You just drew in even tighter to the table.

“What happened?! Where’d he go?”

Rogers, like you, seemed unable to look away from the carcass, but for entirely different reasons. He appeared to be studying it just as your husband had been.

“It’s not Schröder!” Bucky yelled.

“Where the fuck’s he— shit.”

Suddenly, an unknown assailant opened fire on the two men from the opposite end of the room. Both dove for cover, but not before Bucky grabbed you and dragged you, full-force, behind the sofa. It didn’t seem there was time for sweet words or consolations, his eyes wide and half-crazed as they bore into yours just in front of you.

“Don’t move,” he barked, readjusting his grip on his gun in one hand and feeling around all over your sides with the other. On seeing and feeling no trauma, he nodded his head and moved his hand to your cheek, just briefly.

“Honey, I need you here—right here for me, alright? Don’t move a muscle,” he spoke low as Steve covered from above, rapid-fire shots ringing out on both sides.

Rushed and furious as he was, he couldn’t help but linger on that face a half-second longer than he intended. You were shaking your head and hugging your knees, meeting his eyes with what seemed to be reproach.

“You promised, Bucky,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

You were in shock, that was what it was, he kept telling himself. You didn’t know what you were saying, and he needed to turn away to help Steve, but then you were eyeing that body—that man he could’ve sworn was Schröder when he’d pumped him full of bullets—and you were turning back to him with unmistakable disgust.

He would’ve fallen to his knees and begged his wife for forgiveness if there weren’t more pressing matters at hand. Like your life and his, and Steve’s—and Sam’s, now, bursting onto the scene with a semi-automatic rifle of his own as he helped his friend gun down the last of the stragglers. Bucky knew he had to help them, too.

So he’d stumbled back on his feet, less conscious than acting on pure impulse, and he joined in on the gunfire.

He reckoned he liked it. However long it lasted. He just rolled his shoulders once and sent the rounds flying; he ducked and he moved and he stood and he crouched and he fired every shot as if it were as easy to him as breathing. He didn’t think. When the three of them had cleared the lounge, and Sam and Steve tore off toward the two or three remaining rooms at the rear of the suite, Bucky still wasn’t fully present in his body. All he knew was that his clip was near-empty and his side was in pain—and the room they had emptied was safe. For you.

For you—where the fuck had you gone?!

Bucky barreled past the spot behind the couch where you were supposed to have been, but weren’t, and made a beeline for the closest room over. And nothing. More empty, threadbare, and bloody rooms filled with bodies that didn’t belong to you, and shortly he was yelling for Sam or Steve or anyone in that massacred suite to help him find his wife. The breaths in his chest were heaving.

He turned once, twice, eyes roaming wildly and hand grabbing fast for more ammo. He couldn’t find any more. Beads of sweat began to collect on his brow, and just when he turned to call for backup once more, he paused.

In his periphery, he saw two forms.

He stopped fully and turned to the side.

If it was fear he had felt just then, he wasn’t aware of it. Instead, it seemed a white-hot and blinding ire had taken over, and rather than grow timid, or afraid, he went cold.

“Bucky…don’t,” you managed in a strangled, hoarse tone, throat visibly contained by a blade being held to it.

Behind you, a man stood masked and unflinchingly calm.

Bucky knew that wouldn’t do—no matter how hard or helplessly you pleaded with him then not to do it, please don’t do it, Bucky, please. All he heard in his head was the throb of his pulse, and all he saw before him was red.

He fired without a second thought.

The round just grazed the edge of the man’s cheek.

Bucky swore. Tried to fire his gun again. It was empty.

Still not thinking, much less hearing his wife’s desperate cries for him to spare the man’s life, he grabbed the smallest, sharpest object that was closest to him and charged your would-be attacker head on.

Both men fell to the floor, but only Bucky was mobile.

Only Bucky held the weapon now, as his opponent’s knife had been lost somewhere in the skirmish, and he was wielding it now faster than he ever had before, he thought—an ice pick, of all fucking things—driving it into the man’s face and neck and chest without the slightest regard for anything else.

Somewhere far outside his mind, he heard you scream. Felt you claw at his arm, grip at his shirt, make some wild, shrill, and vehement pleas that he couldn’t begin to understand in this state, and he continued. Hadn’t even considered slowing down until the man’s carotid was shredded in two and spewing blood all over his front.

Bucky couldn’t be sure how long it lasted like that; all he remembered was stumbling back, energy spent, fist still holding the pick and eyes duly glued to the body he’d just stabbed through and maimed until no life was left.

He saw you crawl over the body.

He wanted to warn you not to touch it. Lifted a hand and tried his best to form words, but nothing came out.

He watched you lift the mask.

From that point on, he was certain he had to have been seeing things that weren’t really there. Trauma-induced psychosis, he tried to assuage himself silently—that was the only explanation for the scene unfolding before him. Surely it couldn’t be you cupping that face, pinching that skin, shaking that cold and lifeless, blood-drenched frame beneath you as a sob racked through your own.

That signet ring on a pinky couldn’t have been real.

Bucky didn’t want to believe that gruesome discovery made manifest before him—in many ways, he couldn’t—but then it was painted clear as day as the cries endured, nothing changed, and a helpless, frantic wail rang out:

“DAD!”

—

Taglist: (If I missed anyone please lmk!!) @vicmc624, @she-could-never, @mcira, @kentokaze, @identity2212, @unaxv, @buchi91, @ordelixx @stinkerbelle007, @opibarnes @wilsons-striped-ties @desigirlxx, @pono-pura-vida, @geminiflanagansblog, @buggy14, @sky-full-0f-fl0wers, @buckysdoll1520, @armystay89, @minimarvelingmarvel, @kunakizen, @ghostiebby06, @blackhawkfanatic @dameron-grant-spector @sushiseoks @deansapplepie @mrsjoequinn @gyokujyn @lunaroserites @first-edition @kaybaby2494, @jaggedsi @excusememrbarnes @daisychainsoflove, @mostlymarvelgirl @diannana @shawnberry @yujyujj @urmomsalex @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @athenabarnes @christinabae @sluttylittlewaistenthusiast @wintrsoldrluvr @bethbunnyy @i-heart-smut @dixsond @aagn360 @dahliawolfe @fantasyfootballchampion @lilyevanstan1325 @kandis-mom @thealyrs

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #marvel #mcu #mob bucky barnes #marvel smut #marvel x reader #james buchanan barnes #james bucky barnes #mob!bucky #mob!bucky barnes #mob bucky #mafia!bucky #mafia bucky barnes

[mollyjames]

One problem I've been slowly contending with as an artist who is attempting to make her living online has been this idea of Friction. In this case, Friction just means anything that gets in the way of a person reading my work or giving me money.

Strangely, these two things are about equally difficult. There are plenty of people who would very much like to give me money, just as there are plenty of people who haven't gotten around to reading my comics but would like to. And the only reason they haven't is because of Friction.

So let's quickly talk about points of friction. Let's say I upload a full comic book for free to itch.io, for anyone to download to any device, and then they can download it at their convenience. Sounds easy, right? Well, no. First, the way they heard about that book was most likely through my tumblr account, which means they first have to click on a link to leave tumblr and go to a different site. That's already a major point of Friction. If someone is browsing through tumblr on the bus on their way to work, or as a means to unwind from a stressful day, they are very unlikely to want to leave tumblr and commit an unknown amount of time to a separate activity. Then that person has to decide they are willing to download the files as presented on itch. If they have an account they have to login. (Although in many cases they will already be logged in.) Finally they will have the pdf, but then they have to open the pdf at which point they will see the document is 186 pages long at which point they might well decide actually this is too much trouble right now and do something else.

And this comes around to why tumblr is actually a pretty good platform for comic artists. If I upload a couple of pages in chunks at a time, people will read them as they scroll by. That's a point of Friction already mitigated. If they liked it, or their curiosity is piqued, there might be enough interest for them to click the link that takes them directly to the beginning of the comic (also on tumblr), and they can then read it from there. Or else they might make a mental note of it for later, and the next time they see a comic chunk might be the time they have a moment to see what my comic is about. All in all pretty painless.

Unfortunately, with money that's less the case. If you think about the first example, it's not hard to see why. First I have to get someone to click on my patreon link. Then they have to make an account. Then they have to add their payment information. All of these are points of Friction that exist. What's worse is the existence of Anticipated Friction, which essentially frontloads all of that work onto the first point. This makes it very very difficult to get someone to click on any external links in the first place.

This isn't like... a call to action or to shame tumblr users for not reblogging posts by the way. That's not something I can control. It's just an interesting problem to try and solve.

[theweeklydiscourse]

What Makes Feyre’s Pregnancy Plotline in A Court of Silver Flames so Upsetting?

The answer is that the events and outcome concerning Feyre’s pregnancy speak to a fear of one’s loss of autonomy, specifically one’s reproductive autonomy. Furthermore, this plotline demonstrates Maas' consistent prioritization of her male characters at the expense of her female characters. Multiple factors make this subplot feel particularly uncomfortable and upsetting, but I can condense them into three main points that converge to create one frustrating scenario.

1. Rhysand and the Question of Choice

From ACOMAF onwards, the reader is made aware of Rhysand’s unusually progressive politics and his attention to the autonomous choices of women. This is demonstrated through his selection of counsel, appointing Mor and Amren in roles of authority, and eventually crowing Feyre as High Lady of the Night Court. In addition to this, we are shown his emphasis on choice through his interactions with Feyre. Rhysand repeatedly reminds Feyre that she can choose, that she can make an autonomous decision that he will respect. So, it is these positive features of Rhysand that make the pregnancy subplot of ACOSF so disturbing.

He, and the Inner Circle by extension, purposefully omit the information that Feyre’s pregnancy will turn deadly and never volunteer the information to her. During Cassian’s meeting with Rhysand and Amren, we are shown their thought process behind withholding information from Nesta (and Feyre by extension) According to Amren, it is not lying because they are technically not telling lies in the traditional sense, only withholding information.

While this is about Nesta, the reader can see the parallels between both cases. The choice to lie by omission reveals that both Amren and Rhysand are aware of the dishonesty of their actions, choosing to mitigate it slightly on a technicality. It feels distinctly like a loophole in Rhysand’s previous promises to Feyre, making this act feel more deceitful while demonstrating Rhysand’s willingness to undermine Feyre’s authority as High Lady. If Rhysand had a condition or illness that would eventually kill him, informing him of it would be certain, you wouldn’t even consider the possibility of not telling him. However, because Feyre is pregnant, she is not afforded the same autonomy.

Wanting to keep Feyre in blissful ignorance is not a sufficient reason, especially when Feyre is still of sound mind and can advocate for herself. Rhysand’s reasoning sounds noble, but in reality, it is just benevolent sexism. It doesn’t matter if he thinks it will cause Feyre stress, she NEEDS to be aware of what’s going on and the fact that the news will ruin her peaceful pregnancy is of little consequence when her life is on the line. Rhysand prioritizes his feelings and implicitly gives himself executive authority over Feyre’s pregnancy, demonstrating his disregard for her autonomy and choices. This action directly contradicts the progressive beliefs Rhysand stated in previous books and is a betrayal for the reader as well as Feyre.

2. The Infantilization of Feyre

The omission of this critical information, good intentions or not, is based on a belief that Feyre would not be competent enough to handle such a pressing situation in her pregnant state. Amren claims that the stress and fear could have physically harmed Feyre, but such a claim assumes that Feyre would not have the fortitude or ability to handle the situation.

Amren's explanation demonstrates a belief that Feyre's input on the matter would be irrelevant and pointless because it prevents Feyre from offering any. It is a plan that assumes Feyre will not be able to add anything meaningful to the solution and that it would be less harmful to her if she was kept out of it. This is infantilizing and paternalistic because Feyre has proven herself to be capable of coping under pressure and happens to be an unprecedented magical anomaly. Feyre’s access to pertinent medical information should not be revoked and it is insane that Madja her physician, actively misleads her with Rhysand’s consent.

This infantilization of a pregnant character echoes how pregnant women have been infantilized throughout history. It is a terrifying thought to imagine that your bodily autonomy could be stripped from you in the name of serving your supposed best interest. Rosemary’s Baby is one of the most famous horror movies of all time and it explores this exact topic, the same is true for the short story The Yellow Wallpaper, both stories capture the horror of reproductive/medical abuse that still happens to women today.

3. The Aftermath & Prioritizing Male Rage

Lastly, one of the most disturbing elements of this subplot is the way the text consistently prioritizes and coddles the violent rage of male characters at the expense of female characters. This is on full display when Rhysand flies into an intense rage after Nesta reveals the truth to Feyre. Although Nesta can be faulted for her harsh phrasing, let it be known that even Feyre felt that she did the right thing and was expressing her anger at the paternalistic and unjust practices of the Inner Circle. However, Nesta is still subjected to severe physical and emotional punishment in the form of a grueling hike where she is left to stew in her guilt and suicidal ideation despite Feyre ultimately not faulting her.

Feyre admits that Rhysand “majorly overreacted” and that she wanted Nesta back in Velaris. And yet, Nesta is still punished. But why? Will Rhysand or any of the Inner Circle be punished for betraying Feyre? Why, if Feyre agreed that Nesta was right to tell her, would she ever need to be subjected to a severe punishment when she was justified in what she did?

This is a particularly telling detail that compels me to ask: is this punishment about Feyre’s feelings or Rhysand’s? Why is it that Rhysand’s “overreaction” needs to be assuaged by punishing Nesta? What I observe from this passage is the characters prioritizing the feelings of a male character and placating him with the suffering of a female character, even when he wasn’t the one who was hurt in that situation. Feyre asks Cassian to tell Rhysand that the hike will be Nesta's punishment as though it isn't truly a punishment, but it undoubtedly is.

Throughout the hike, Nesta is in a silent spiral of guilt and self-hatred, Cassian never tells her that Feyre is alright and that Rhysand overreacted, letting her dwell in it alone. He hardly speaks to her, he pushes her to the point of exhaustion and is somehow surprised that Nesta shows signs of suicidal ideation.

This isn't constructive at all, it is not evidence that Cassian cares about Nesta's well-being, and the scenes of Nesta internally repeating that she deserves to die and that everyone hates her are nothing but gratuitous and disgustingly self-indulgent. The text basks in Nesta's suffering, even when she was in the right and this hike only happened to placate Rhysand who wronged Feyre in the first place.

Hindsight am I right? Fuck off. A more productive resolution to this matter would be for Feyre and Nesta to talk it out ALONE. Feyre could express her feelings to Nesta directly and they could find a solution together, that way Feyre’s situation could be centered on the two sisters working together. Cassian can see that Feyre is alright, she’s obviously upset, but she didn’t crumble like he expected and that makes it completely baffling that he would punish Nesta anyway. It’s a solution that prioritizes his and Rhysand’s feelings as opposed to Feyre’s, making it not about a perceived transgression against Feyre, but against Rhysand.

In Conclusion

This topic has already been discussed at length by many people in the fandom, but it is a topic that still stays on my mind with how upsetting it is. It is a stunning example of the misogynistic undertones in Sarah J Maas’s writing and makes reading a very straining experience due to her obvious bias towards certain male characters. Not even her main character matters when Rhysand is factored into the situation, his emotions are always centred by other characters and is permitted to betray his wife and get off scot free.

Feyre’s reproductive autonomy is violated, and Maas doesn’t bat an eye. But when Nesta rightfully reveals the truth to Feyre, everyone loses their mind. Both Nesta and Feyre have their autonomy stripped away from the, by way of the Inner Circle’s paternalism, and when Nesta advocates for herself and Feyre, she is punished severely. Being put in her place as the hierarchy is strengthened.

#a court of silver flames #acotar #nesta archeron #acotar meta #feyre archeron #amren #rhysand critical #rhysand #cassian #sarah j maas #acosf meta #anti nessian #close reading #acotar analysis #anti sarah j maas #anti sjm #anti inner circle

[icycoldninja]

Headcanons for the Sparda lads and V getting massages from their s/o? Assuming they'd want one/would be comfortable with it, I mean.

Absolutely, here you go! 💜

Sparda boys + V x Reader massage headcannons

¤ Dante ¤

-Is very, very stiff after years of fighting demons, doing crazy aerial acrobatics, getting stabbed in the chest, and falling asleep almost every night in his wooden office chair.

-Was a little shocked when you offered to give him a massage because no one had ever suggested something like that. Ever.

-His muscles were kinda sore though, so he agreed and hopped onto his bed, stomach down.

-The moment you started kneading his back, he heard so many cracks. It was like years of stress, trauma, both physical and mental, tension and pain was being popped and squeezed right out of him. It was such a good, relieving sensation.

-He soon melted into it, enjoying every second of your masterful mashing of his muscles with delighted little "Oh"s and "Ah"s.

-When you were finished, he found himself to be twice as flexible as before; the discomfort of a million battles finally gone. He'll definitely be coming back for a round two in the near future.

■ Vergil ■

-Does not like being touched by most people for whatever reason. He is constantly paranoid and afraid that he will be attacked if he lets someone touch him.

-However, you're a different story. He knows you wouldn't do anything to hurt him and that he could trust you, so he agrees to your offer of a massage, with some half-hearted grumbling.

-He wasn't sure what to expect from this "massage", but it certainly wasn't what he got. The moment you set to work on his taut, tense, rock-hard muscles, he felt himself instantly relax. He even let out a soft little moan.

-Vergil enjoyed the massage a lot more than he ever expected to. The sensation of having someone press down on your tense areas without murderous intentions was pure bliss.

-When you announced that you were finished with the massage, he whined. Yes, he genuinely, actually, unmistakbly whined. You thought he would request a continuation, but no. He simply stood up, stretched, and slipped his jacket back on.

-Massages are now a nightly tradition between the two of you. He even goes out and gets different lotions and oils for you to experiment with.

□ Nero □

-Nero has never had a massage in his life, nor has he ever wanted one. He didn't dislike the notion of you giving him a massage, nor did he like it. He simply accepted it to make you happy.

-Turns out massages are way better than he could have ever imagined! He just can't get over how it seems to make all his stiffness melt away.

-Now he wants you to massage his legs, arms, shoulders, and neck too--oh, and also the rest of his body.

-At one point he fell asleep while you were massaging him, proving one of two things: Either A, he's very, very, tired, or B, he's just that relaxed.

-Getting massages from you is now the number one thing Nero looks forward to when he comes home from missions.

-Sometimes he has Nico put together a new, vibrating attachment for his arm--which he will then give to you so you can have a helping hand.

● V ●

-V has never heard of a massage and therefore has no idea what it is.

-After Googling it, he deduces that such an activity would benefit him, and that he would be wise to take up your offer.

-And so he does; while the sensations are an entirely new experience for him, he finds them very enjoyable. In fact, they're so helpful in mitigating his stress, he should write a poem about them.

-V loves to have you massage his legs because they're so weary from traveling and supporting his lanky frame all day long.

-Also, he can read while you massage his legs, which makes it all the more comforting.

-Massages are now one of his top stress-relievers, other than cuddling with Shadow, that is.

#Dmc #Dmc5 #Dmc5 dante #Dmc5 Nero #Dmc5 vergil #Dmc5 v #V x reader #Nero x reader #Vergil x reader #Dante x reader #vergil devil may cry #devil may cry #Devil may cry dante #Devil may cry Nero #Devil may cry v #Requested #thanks for requesting #icycoldninja writes #Dmc x reader #Headcannons #Kinda fluff #Sorry it's kinda short

[renphousa]

How to Test Your Bathroom Scale for Accuracy

How to Test Your Bathroom Scale for Accuracy

When it comes to tracking weight loss progress or monitoring our overall well-being, we rely on bathroom scales to provide accurate readings. However, have you ever questioned yourself if you have an accurate scale? After all, it's not uncommon for them to gradually lose their precision over time, potentially leading to misleading measurements and frustration. Thankfully, there's no need to second-guess the reliability of your bathroom scale any longer. Let's go through the step-by-step process of testing one for accuracy. By following these simple yet effective methods, you can ensure that the numbers displayed on your scale truly reflect your weight, empowering you to make informed decisions about your health and fitness journey.

How Do Digital Bathroom Scales Work?

Digital bathroom scales work by utilizing a strain gauge and load cell to accurately measure weight. When weight is applied to the scale, the load cell deforms, a change detected by the strain gauge. The strain gauge then translates this physical deformation into an electrical signal processed and displayed as weight on the digital screen. Compared to analog scales, these scales are generally more reliable and accurate, providing consistent and precise weight measurements. However, common points of failure can include issues with the strain gauge or load cell, leading to inaccurate readings. Environmental factors such as temperature or humidity can also impact the accuracy of the scale. Additionally, improper calibration or damage to the scale can lead to unreliable measurements. Regular maintenance, calibration, and care can help mitigate these potential points of failure and ensure the accuracy of digital bathroom scales. Overall, when functioning properly, these scales provide a convenient and accurate way to monitor weight.

Why is Scale Calibration Important?

Scale calibration is important for several reasons. Firstly, it ensures accuracy in the measurements provided by the scale. Factors like regular use, temperature changes, and mechanical stress can affect a scale's performance over time, leading to inaccuracies. Calibration helps identify any discrepancies and ensures that the scale provides precise readings. Secondly, calibration helps maintain consistency in measurements, which is crucial when tracking health and fitness goals. By regularly calibrating the scale, you can rely on consistent and accurate readings, allowing for reliable comparisons over time. This is essential for making informed decisions and effectively tracking progress. Lastly, regular calibration can extend the lifespan of the scale. By identifying potential issues or malfunctions early on, timely repairs or adjustments can be made, preventing further damage and saving costs on replacements. Recalibrating your scale regularly also allows you to maintain accuracy.

If you don't know how to recalibrate your RENPHO Smart Body Scale, here's a link guide to help you

#health & fitness #wellness #health #healthy lifestyle #renpho scale #scale #digital scale

[babacontainsmultitudes]

I'm not the first person to bring this up but, I do feel that the general response to the gun range scene has mostly failed to acknowledge the context that would call for such extreme levels of self-defense training in the first place. We know from episode 23 that even just a few years after the release of the doodler (when Lark and Sparrow themselves are still just teens) things are already pretty bad (to the extent that in Lark's case the stress of it all has already begun to take a physical toll on him- don't forget that he and Sparrow too were once kids who had the world placed on their shoulders), and one need only look at how quickly the situation with the mayor has degraded to imagine how bad things would have gotten by the time Hero was 12. Training your six-year-old to use a gun in a normal or at least mostly normal world? Batshit crazy. Training your six-year-old to use a gun in a world overrun by an eldritch horror where danger, death, and the possibility of corruption from said eldritch horror are around every corner? Still intense but, much easier to understand the reasoning behind.

oh oops it's a long post woops woops woops

In Sparrow's case in particular, we know that he behaves quite differently under alternative circumstances, and that Normal (Hero too for that matter) lives a pretty different life in a post code purple world:

Not that it hasn't been Sparrow's intent and priority to mitigate the extent to which Normal was caught up in everything from the get-go, as evidenced by his namesake. Recall what he had to say on the matter:

In some ways this extreme self-defense training is a "two sides of the same coin" sort of deal vis-a-vis Grant's extreme isolation of Lincoln for his protection, a major difference being that Lincoln still deals with this in a post code purple world (to the extent that he literally had to pretend to starve himself to get his dad to let him go to public school), whereas Normal and Hero get the chance to live mostly normal lives and do as they please (the disapproving words of a drunken and partially-doodlerized Sparrow aside), now removed from the immediate threat of the doodler.

Hero's case is, at least from what we currently know about the prophecy, more complicated than Norm's. It is easy to reprimand Lark and Sparrow as being the worst parents (and/or uncles) whilst forgetting that their circumstances are fundamentally different from the other kiddads. The first half of this lying in their shared responsibility (and guilt) in releasing the doodler. Grant and Nicky can retreat to their respective homes on the basis that this is the best they can do, resolving to put their energy into protecting their closest ones first and foremost. At the end of the day, they aren't really any more responsible for dealing with the doodler than any other bystander. The same cannot be said of Lark and Sparrow, who can't exactly look away from the fact that they were the ones who brought the doodler into the world. At least from their perspectives- of course Lark (and Sparrow by extension) in reality was a child that was manipulated into doing what he did, which as some people have pointed out is not dissimilar to what happened to Normal at the end of this episode (and if Sparrow felt the need to rid Normal of his memories of this event in particular, perhaps it was to spare his child from feeling guilty about it for the rest of his life).

The second half of what differentiates them is, of course, the prophecy (right- now we can actually get to Hero lol). We must remember that, as far as the twins knew, the only way to actually "defeat" the doodler permanently was through the chosen one, i.e. Hero (probably- after last episode I'm starting to think that Norm may be more directly involved in the prophecy than previously thought, but that's a tangent). "Continue to let the being you released into the world kill and torture millions (very likely billions) of people, which could wind up including both of your children, or put your ill-fated child through very intense and ultimately traumatizing training to put an end to it, potentially losing her in the process", is essentially the choice the twins were given. Hero isn't made to kill a deer with her bare hands for the hell of it, she goes through what she does because Lark (who likely did not see the same thing that Normal did on the throne- or at the very least interpreted things very differently) and Sparrow had no reason to believe that there was any other possibility. This certainly does not negate or undermine the extent to which Hero was deeply traumatized by it all, but it's not exactly a detail that you can choose to ignore when discussing the ethics of Lark and Sparrow's decision-making.

And yet, despite it all, Sparrow and Lark do ultimately chose saving their children over saving the world. Not before significant damage has already been done (to Hero that is), but they do decide to go through with the one plan that allows both of their children to (hopefully) live a doodler-free life: code purple. Code purple, which ultimately reduces to a trolley problem with a presumably near-equal number of people on both tracks, with the important difference of sparing their own children in one case, and likely not the other. And if we want to talk about Henry's ethical stance in the matter and how it compares to the twins, we need to consider what it says about him if he was *not* in favor of code purple, with all of this in mind. Not to come to any hasty conclusions about Henry either- I think there remains too many unknowns on that front to assume much and... Ultimately it's a complicated matter! But that's kind of my point.

Even post code purple, Lark and Sparrow (and the rest of the kiddads) try to pursue that which they believe (or at least hope) will both put an end to the doodler without involving their children and without the enactment of the prophecy. Is blowing up an entire world with the sun to save all the others a plan I'm gonna sit here and defend? I don't think so lol, but you can't exactly look at it and pretend that Lark and Sparrow don't care about protecting their fucking kids.

My point isn't that Lark and Sparrow haven't made a lot of mistakes and questionable decisions, my point is that their circumstances are so much less black and white than the majority of the takes I see on them make them out to be, and a lot of the conclusions I see people jump to when it comes to the twins' feelings and intentions strike me as... Pretty odd? Tangentially-related: if you don't think Sparrow is someone who is affectionate with and deeply loves his kids despite his flaws, I don't really think we're listening to the same podcast. But even in Lark's case, yes he's more subtle about it and yes, Lark can be quick to anger (not that I personally read him yelling in the last episode as anger so much as panic but all the same), but affection can be sewing bulletproof material into your nephew's mascot costume, or secretly taking him out for pizza, or pretending to be his dad so that you can tell him you're proud of him, or putting your gun down when he asks you to. The twins are anything but perfect but, fuck if they aren't trying (and changing, and improving). And yes, they deserve some damn nuance.

Also, okay, I couldn't really find a neat way to bring this up in the above but, speaking of no-nuance and bad faith takes, can we talk about the locks? Or lack thereof, rather. "How could they be so stupid as to leave the door unlocked?" you're right, that does seem odd, and Anthony made a point to explain that every other door was very thoroughly locked, and Normal seemed to have practically been moved into opening the door against his own will so... Hear me out, maybe, just maybe, the door usually *is* locked??? And something fishy or unusual is afoot? I also wouldn't take their immediate, knee-jerk reactions to a dangerous flesh monster being released to come to any conclusions on whether or not Lark and Sparrow "blame" six-year-old Normal for it. In Sparrow's case, I struggle to even imagine it. In Lark's case, though I wouldn't put him above getting angry over it, my doubts on his deeper feelings are still high. Conversely, if he actually did place some of the blame on Normal, at the very least there is an interesting discussion to be had on how this relates to Lark's own guilt over what Willy manipulated him into doing, and subsequently being denied the catharsis of punishment. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Like I said, a lot of important things are yet unknown.

*breathes* okay end of overdue ramble [insert proper conclusion paragraph here lol], thank you.

#dndads #dungeons and daddies #boy. yeah always an ordeal discussing matters related to Hero. Easy to attract misunderstanding- I think. Again it is. A Complicated Affair #but well- had to share my two cents otherwise it surely woulda bugged me lots #hopefully this all makes sense enough I know I kinda went a bunch of different places as usual :0 #sparrow oak #lark oak #hero oak swallows garcia #normal oak swallows garcia #normal oak #lark oak garcia #sparrow oak garcia #dndads s2 ep 47 #baba babbles

[roseykat]

KINKTOBER DAY 6

TITLE: Blanket of Safety 

SUMMARY: an OT8 blurb of how each of the members do aftercare.

WARNING: minors DNI with this post or my blog. I create NSFW SKZ related content and I know I won't be able to regulate/monitor every single potential interaction with these posts so please do not engage with my work and page whatsoever.

TAGS: mentions of sex/scenes, aftercare, nothing too major.

TAGLIST: @kbitties @luneskies @mal-lunar-28 @kibs-and-bits @aaasia111 @fairy-lixie @dreamingaboutjisung @lizzekat @queenmea604 🩷

-

BANG CHAN

When it comes to aftercare, Chan can be overly attentive at times. It’s not a bad nor good thing, he just has a fear of you plummeting into a sub-drop. So he does as much as he can to ensure that it doesn’t happen. Directly after a scene, if you’re on the floor, Chan will help you to your feet and get you to the bed or couch (if you’re in the lounge), as fast as he can. 

Chan then makes sure to talk to you at some point after, about the scene; the good parts and if there was anything wrong with it. Communicating these areas is vital to both of you even though sex and scenes with Chan always run smoothly. But expect big warm bear hugs and lingering kisses as you both lie down, resting next to each other.

-

MINHO

Harsh in the sheets but the complete opposite when it comes to aftercare. Minho can and will use an assortment of items on you in bed, all of which are painfully welcomed, so he needs to ensure that he has the right measures to make sure you’re not feeling it as much afterwards. His first task is to make sure that you’ve calmed down by resting for however long you need.

He has water for you on standby and even snacks in the drawer if you need them. To mitigate the factor of you running on pure adrenaline, he needs to slowly ease those endorphins for you by running a warm bath for you to soak in. From there, he likes to ensure that you're dressed comfortably and that you have some physical contact with you until you feel like you've come back into the right frame of mind.

-

CHANGBIN

Changbin views aftercare almost like a warm down from a session at the gym. They’re both important in the sense that looking after the body when it’s been put through stress is vital, physically and mentally. Same with scenes and sex at times where afterwards he’ll run a bath for you knowing that the warm water will soothe your muscles. If you’re still tense after, he has no problem in giving you a well deserved massage. 

He makes sure that you have a meal at least an hour after the scene and to drink some water or electrolytes to make up for what you lost. Taking care of you from the inside out is one of his best features before he helps you into some comfy clothes and to make sure the rest of your day is as stress-free as possible.

-

HYUNJIN

Hyunjin has no trouble getting you into subspace, but sometimes it’s hard to get you out of it. He knows that in some cases it can last from a few minutes to an entire day, which is why he sticks close to you until you have fully come around. He thinks that having contact with you is vital to ensure that you know he’s right there beside you. If not, there’s a chance to slip into a subdrop. 

Therefore, he’s a very careful individual that doesn’t want to miss any steps. He takes more of a psychological approach to aftercare by using methods to ensure your brain is sending you the right messages to the rest of your body. Then he’ll follow up with the physical stuff like cuddling or tracing his fingertips delicately up and down your arm. He lets you do what you need to do but he’s always right there with you. 

-

JISUNG

Jisung is very good at reading your emotions and can adapt to whatever you need after sex or a scene. Usually, it’s in your best interest to shower right away, but the times when you’re barely stable on your legs, Jisung will fetch a warm cloth from the bathroom and gently wipe you down. Only when you’re able, Jisung will help you into the shower and follow behind you. 

He will shampoo your hair, massaging it gently into your scalp before conditioning your ends. After that, he's lathering your body with a lightly scented body wash, enough to make you sleepy. Then, he'll dry you, get you into comfortable clothes and spend the remainder of the day or night at your side cuddling you.

-

FELIX

Aftercare is in Felix's nature. He already is such a loving and attentive person which he further demonstrates after a heavy scene. If you’re bruised, he’s on his way to the freezer to retrieve ice packs. He doesn’t care about the mess you both make - sweat, cum, his cum - so if you need skin-on-skin contact with him right away, he’s there. 

If you’re on your side, Felix will spoon you from behind under a duvet he’s thrown on you both. In that position, he’ll hold your hand while he whispers in your ear, however many times you need to hear it, words of praise. He likes to kiss the back of your head which eventually lulls you into a deep, well-needed sleep.

-

SEUNGMIN

To Seungmin, aftercare is the bare minimum and he always goes beyond. He doesn’t understand why some partners don’t initiate it after a scene or even vanilla sex. Whenever you both fuck, Seungmin will make sure that afterwards, you are well taken care of. He won’t leave the room unless he’s sure that you’re of some sound mind to allow him to.

Even when he does, it’s to fetch you water, tea, ice packs, whatever it is that you need. Seungmin will break his break to make sure that you have a proper comedown, but there are soft moments that are just as relieving for him as it is for you. Lying in bed together just cuddling, taking a nap, watching something lighthearted on TV, or having a meal together.

-

JEONGIN

With aftercare, Jeongin used to be more of a doer than a talker. He takes care of you so well physically after a scene or sex, that sometimes he would forget to talk. It wasn’t until one time where you had dipped into a heavy subdrop that he discovered he needs to talk to you during aftercare more. Praising you, making sure that you know how good and beautiful you are, are some efforts that he makes.

On top of that, he makes sure to check in on you when you’re resting beside him. You like snuggling up to him in your pajamas with a blanket on the couch and some snacks nearby. Just spending time within close proximity of Jeongin is what you need. Having him within arms reach adds an extra layer of assurance to know that he’s always there. 

-

A/N: This was actually difficult to write because imo, they'd all be so good at aftercare anyway!

#rosiewritesskz #stray kids smut #skz smut #lee know smut #bang chan smut #han jisung smut #hyunjin smut #changbin smut #felix smut #i.n smut

[ladythot]

Sikorsky who decides to be nice to his pet girl for once 👉👈 even gives her head and kisses her goodnight sleep a mimir

☇ tw: power imbalance, master/pet dynamic, abducted reader, creampie, special treatment, breastplay, foreplay, squirting, cumplay — all fem receiving

☇ word count: 3.2k

You weren't used to being handled with genuine care. Especially from him.

Leash and collar are your best friends. The moment he held the collar out to you, you lowered your head with gratitude. And once he fastened the accessory around the skin of your neck, your leash came hasped at the collar's hook next.

You had nothing to lose at the hands of a murderer as long as you understood his terms of keeping you alive; give up your humanity. Your freedom, your right, and every fiber of your being. Be his lapdog for a while until boredom eats him alive and you get to live. 

You reluctantly agreed out of fear and being his personal toy became your only purpose to live. Have you had rejected, your body lays cold at any ground without a pulse and you quickly came in heels with his ability to discard you any moment if he wanted to. He keeps you inside a cold room with little to no provision to help yourself. You eat on his hands as he distastefully makes you lose your own appetite of eating everyday which makes him pay less for a single meal. 

You sometimes keep yourself awake to live, afraid of what may seem to be possible as long as it's crucially done by him. You gradually lose your own mental capacity as your mind teetered down to its breaking point the longer he kept carving the shape of his cock inside your poor cunt like a fleshlight. Everyday, you get to experience numerous orgasms in one go—he never settled less for keeping your cunt filled with his own cum every time he's in profound distress—your skin is smudged with the color purple and chasmic red along with huge scattered handprints as your body staggered down to its limb. Your mouth was never left untouched by anything he could put in there, even your ass gets prodded once he figures your cunt rim's loosen up and there's no fun to that.

You never repudiated any of his actions either, your body just kept giving in whenever he had his hands on you. But your mind declined nonetheless.

It boggles him to think that the sight of your disheveled body is enough to make him turn down a new fresh one every time another girl would sell her body to him—you merely had him wrapped around your loyalty and obedience. He preferred you over anything when it awoke him that you're quite the only pet who took more than what he had to give. Whom he had taught well enough to know the right words to say whenever he needed to hear it, whenever he needed to mitigate his stress into your body, whenever he just needed someone to lay his head on and breath in breath out. There's only one pet he's had that stayed with him despite the many opportunities that passed her to escape from his control. The one who never had the moment to get on her feet and sprint at the nearest unlocked door or the guts for that matter and the last pet he's ever going to be claiming as his own little personal fucktoy.

As time passes, you become used to the life of being a cheap pet kept in a freezing cramped room under a building that only falls under his own acknowledgment. He would come home, a little drunk like always but you knew better how he handles his alcohol very well enough for him to remember how he would hold you by the head and fuck your hips.

"Master.." 

You called out, standing back on your feet from the cold grainy ground. You would come up to him, wrapping your arms around his body as you nuzzle your head against the softness of his chest. Like always, this is what he told you to do when he'd come home despite any state he's in. He places his huge hand on top of your head with a faint smile, seemingly pleased. Although, he wasn't usually smiling when you would do anything close to being affectionate like this. The only clothing you wore was an old ragged maid outfit he stole since you've been obedient and you deserved to have his consideration on giving you some clothes but still keep them a little skimpy for a toy.

"That dress is getting a bit dirty. Should we get you a new one already?"

He would chuckle lightly. You could smell the tinge of alcohol from his lips as he laughed but you could care less—instead, you were shocked. Out of all the things he praised you for, this was something new that made your eyes light.

He looks down at your figure, sliding a hand down to your rear as he opens his mouth and you immediately catched up to his unspoken hint. Standing on your toes, you stick your tongue out and slide it past his warm mouth. Your hands resting on his chest as you closed your eyes. He faintly smiled into the kiss, squeezing your ass as he let you suck his tongue. 

You taste the tinge of strong alcohol on his tongue as you scrunch your brows together from the bitter aftermath. You can feel yourself hazying into a clouded state the more you kissed and lapped at his tongue. He pulls away, peering down at your figure with a faint smile.

"There's a good girl.." 

His voice was nothing like the sober one you were used to. It felt warm and gentle to your eardrums as you looked up at him with your eyes slightly widened.

"Thank you, master.." Exactly like the words of gratitude you were taught to say at any given sentence he tells you necessarily.

His lips etched into a smile, rubbing your head as you let yourself succumb into the warm effect it had on around your entire head. Your half-lidded eyes stared up at him like a dog's pitiful stare at its owner whenever it wanted something; you wanted more of him. More of this side of his to show, if a pet is the last thing you'll be, it has to be something nice at your own expense—something you have always wondered whether he nurtured a soft spot for you for the past few months. Which, he did.

Sikorsky would Usher you on the only bed the cramped room had next to a coffee table, laying you down as he took off his coat. You could feel his eyes and how they never set off of your body, you could almost feel the yearning effect it had at the back of your head.

You soon prepared yourself, hoisting the frilled hem of your dress over your stomach then spreading your legs apart as you watched him undress between your legs. 

Once he finishes, he climbs on top of you with an intense gaze. His huge hand resting on your soft thigh as he kisses the side of your cheek, down to the old collar he presented you. He pulls away, scanning the collar around your neck as he gently unclasps it. This brought you another level of shock since the collar has always held a deeper meaning of his possession over you, in which, he would never once take it off and nor can you at your own expense.

"Let's get you a new collar also.." 

Sikorsky would toss the collar to the side then look back down at you, he scans the round of your neck, which had a chasmic rash of purple and red from the collar. He chuckled lightly, leaning in as he kissed the mesh of dark color around your neck. You perked up from the mattress, your neck hasn't been touched by anything warm since the collar was the only thing that hid your neck from anything that touches it. His tongue felt naked against your damaged skin.

"Master..~" 

You let out a small moan as he held both of your hands to your side, pinning you down on the mattress with firm pressure. The warm feeling of his wet tongue on your bruised neck made it feel like It was burning degrees down. You arched your back, closing your eyes while you let out small moans under him. His lips softly tugged your rash-burned skin as he hums next to your ear, kissing your soft cheek once more before he hastily goes down between your legs.

He doesn't say anything but you get the point. He hadn't eaten you out, never once. But he was generous enough to plan on giving it to you now; He would hold your soft thighs, spreading them apart as he tugged your underwear off with his teeth. You were already quivering above, your thighs trembled from how new and exciting it felt for you and you looked down with a look of thrilled anticipation.

Sikorsky doesn't look up just yet. He paid attention to your perked cunt as if he needed to. He lowers his head, sticking his tongue out to brush against your clit that made you throw your head back to the mattress—causing him to look at you. He smirked, bringing two fingers at your tight hole as he spread your folds apart then entering two digits. He'd let some of his spit drool down at your hole so that his fingers won't have to wait.

You moaned like a cat in heat. Your face beating red as you whined, his thick digits entering you abruptly as you felt your hole gape once again. After all, he's been too considering since the past few weeks—too considerate that he hadn't been fucking his toy. Your legs quivered from the sheer abruptness and pressure around them as he held them down so he could kiss your cunt at full view. His fingers went straight then flat out inside your warm hole, curling at every slicked-filled nooks and crannies. He had fingered your tight hole once but never again after he saw how much you had your cunt tightening so much from it, he wanted to save it just so in any case you would beg him for it—but now, he was more than being generous for that.

You decided it's best if you don't place your hand on his head as you gripped the sheets while looking down with a lewd face. You grit your teeth as soon as he pushes your ass up from below and pushes his tongue into your cunt while he held your hips with a firm grip. His tongue scraped the warm insides of your hole, making him grunt a bit when he felt you thrust upward.

"A-ah..m-master..hahh-" your moans gave him a rough time with his stiffening cock as he discreetly humped the sheets while he held you. He could feel just how your warm flesh would clamp down on his tongue as more of your slick would coat his warm tongue inside of you. He grunts, curling his tongue upward as he stares up at you. He watches close with intent, his brows furrowed with complete resolve to burn the image into his head. His huge hands digging handprints into your soft thighs and only now he could take the time to appreciate how soft your body is as he frantically flicks his tongue inside. 

He places his thumb on your perking clit as he rubbed harsh circles, making you throw your head all the way back on the mattress as you clenched your teeth. Drool trailing down from the corners of your mouth as you moaned uncontrollably under his touch—he took this as a sign that you're close as he pressed his thumb harder onto your clit that sank all the way down just enough to make you squirt. You let out a loud high-pitched moan, covering your face. His jaw and mouth filtered with your slick as he grunted.

You felt as if you broke a rule or two. 

"I-i'm sorry..master..I-" you gasped, heaving your chest up and down as you apologetically spoke "I didn't..I didn't..know I was-" he sat up, his hands still on your trembling thighs as he brought his face close to your red and damped one.

"That's the first time you squirted that much, I like seeing you like that." he laughed hoarsely next to your ear as he gently moved both of your hands away from your face. His eyes would cascade down at your figure with a look of thrill.

Your eyes were watery, your cheeks smeared with your own drool and your face beating red as you pant under him. You looked away, chewing on your lips as you closed your eyes. You let out a small whine, making him soften his gaze upon you. It capered shivers down his spine when he looked at you—his cheeks slightly red, this was his first time taking in your form studiously after all. Whenever he would hold you like this, he only paid attention to his own pleasure. And now, he's at your mercy to show more.

"Don't hide your face," he grabs your face with a firm grip, turning your head to look at him. Your cheeks squished together as you furrowed your eyebrows, your eyes pooling out tears that struck his heart as you looked at him. "Look at me." He stares down, his eyes downing your form into the back of his head.

"I want to see you." 

You could see the sheen of your own slick slathered across his cheek once you slowly opened your eyes to look at him, you felt your cheeks burn as you let out a soft muffled whine under his hand. 

"Good girl. Keep your eyes on me." He gently placed his hand away from your damped face, sliding It down to your thigh as he positioned himself at your entrance. You shivered at the feeling of his hard tip as your soft folds gaped from the base of his cock entering your hole, you shaked and bit down at your bottom lip. His hand would travel back to your upper half, tugging the neck of your dress down where your tits would show themselves. He grunted, lowering his head down to guzzle one in his warm mouth.

"Master!!" You whined, arching your back upwards as you threw your head back to the mattress with a high pitched moan—causing him to moan a little as he places his other hand on your other tit, chafing it between his index and thumb.

"Mmh-" he would squeeze your ass with his free hand, occasionally taking glances at you from above while he violated your body. His hardened cock consistently plunges in and out of your cunt as he picks his pace up in no time. 

It was quite unusual for you to not hear him make you beg for your own release while all of this happened, but you weren't complaining. 

You gripped the sheets as you looked down at him on your chest. Your mouth agape where drool drips out constantly at his touch as you stick your tongue out. You couldn't even begin to comprehend how your chest made you more sensitive all the while he squeezed and sucked on it, causing you to shatter mentally. Your mind went completely blank as soon as he started to pound you into the mattress, causing you to let out moans that sounded like an animal in heat as you simply let him take you again. The only audible words that left your wet mouth was 'master' as you completely gave in.

"Good girl..you take me so well, it's what made me want you more." He whispered between kisses with your tit then went back sucking it with ease. His voice is deep and lusty with a hint of passion in it. His other hand at your ass holding you appropriately matches his hip thrusts—pull out and pull in, he could hear your cunt squelching around his cock as he pulls all the way out, then pushes inside you deeply in a steady pace. He grunted like a bull above you as he pulled away from your chest, leaning into your face.

"You would make a good wife from a pet, I must say. But I like keeping you like this..I like taking care of your body." He panted out, you could feel his thrusts getting more harder as he spoke those words.

"No matter what the others say, I'll always be the criminal I am-" he grunted, speeding up more as he grinned weakly. "I don't deserve a wife..so I made you a pet instead." He panted out with his hands on both of your thighs, hitting your weak spot. You couldn't even make out the words he just whispered. You rolled your eyes lewdly with your chin dripping with drool as you kept Cumming and tightening around his cock.

Sikorsky could feel himself getting close the more he spilled those words into your ear as he lifts your legs up to his shoulders, desperately chasing his own climax as he stared intently down at your lewd face while he slammed his hips against yours.

"A pet sounds better than a wife to me.." He chuckled through his grunting as he leaned in to kiss you. Your lower half cramping against your upper as he lapped at your mouth, you could still taste your own slick from earlier that smeared across his cheek. His thrusts become more erratic as you stagger below him, your mind refusing to think of anything other than the overstimulating pleasure he was providing you. He bites his lip, his hands squeezed your trembling ones while he pinned you down on the mattress. His eyes never left your face as he spilled inside you with one last thrust that reached the back of your cunt, earning yourself a loud groan from him.

He pulls out, your cunt leaked with his cum as it dripped down to your stomach. He smiles at this, placing you down as he climbs on your chest—his cock in front of you as he ushered you to open your mouth, his hand sneaking behind to work on your hole so he could shove the rest of his cum inside you with two digits.

You slowly pry your mouth open with your eyes clouded. When you open your mouth, he could see strings of saliva all over that caused him to grin. He places his tip at the pad of your wet tongue as he spills the rest he had to hold back just for this, making him grin wider. You furrowed your brows as cum dripped all the way down your throat—you swallowed his offer soon after as you watched him climb off of you.

He watched you catch your breath while he felt satisfied with his work. He would look at the mess he made on you and his grin would curve down into a soft smile. He would move a strand of hair from your face, leaning in to kiss your forehead instead of your cum stained lips.

"Rest."

#tw. master play #tw.power imbalance #tw.abduction #tw.creampie #sikorsky x reader #baki smut #tw.petplay #tw.mindbreak

[a-couple-of-notes]

I am personally sad and stressed and tired at the moment but will resurface to comment that Deanna's Commune last night was indeed baller.

I love that Deanna's unflinching questioning of Pelor is, in part, inspired by Pelor's own unflinching nature; Deanna's desire to measure up and meet her god on the level (just as Pelor's ritual with Vex was harsh, but encouraged her to rise to the occasion). I love that the first question she asks is whether Bells Hells can be trusted, and whether their efforts are truly helping save the pantheon; Deanna may be questioning Pelor here, but she's also questioning everything else, too. And I love that "Are you worth saving?" felt to me like a genuine question, a challenge--not an outright condemnation. It's Deanna asking Pelor if he's worthy, to "show [her] his quality"--exactly the things that Pelor asks of his champions and clerics. I think it's honestly a testament to Deanna's faith and her relationship to the Dawnfather that she feels like she can challenge him like that.

I can really see why Deanna's such a good cleric for the Dawnfather, and also why she's such a necessary voice for the show. She questions things, but holds firm moral stances. She takes courage and inspiration from her god, but also challenges and criticizes him. And despite fandom often putting her in the "anti-god" camp (or at least, the "critical of the gods" camp, which people get real mixed up with the "anti-god" camp at some points), I'd say Deanna's actually become one of the stronger voices for the pros of gods and faith in general. She's deeply invested in the good she can do for others, in healing and mitigating harm to innocents, to justice--and that's usually expressed using the gifts of her faith. Deanna explicitly criticizes the use of religion as an oppressive force, and clashes with Pelor about it, but at no point actively renounces her faith* or the mission to save the pantheon. (*she covers the Dawnfather markings, possibly out of a combination of safety and disapproval, but she probably would have done something more drastic if she'd been fully renouncing Pelor.)

I get why people want more pro-god/pro-religious voices on the show as a matter of balance. But I often struggle to understand what people want from those voices when they don't see Deanna as one of them. A cleric who has a completely, 100% loving relationship with their deity (even Jester didn't have this)? Someone who's entirely secure in their faith with no questions or criticisms of who they follow? Deanna's relationship with the Dawnfather may be complicated. But maybe grappling with questions and contradictions and criticisms is part of being faithful, too; it's not at odds with it.

#deanna leimert #critical role #cr spoilers #meta

[ghostflowerhotpotch]

You made headcanon of Gwen and Miles proposal, but how do you think the wedding will be like, I mean let's face it at that point both Gwen and Miles will be dying of nerves before they got to the altar. Also there is no doubt that Pavrit will plan the whole thing.

Oh ho ho, oh boy that would be fun. I don't have a lot of brainpower right now but let me think.

You are right, Gwen and Miles would be SO nervous, I think at first they would try to pretend not to be (to be each other's support and also because nerves or not, they DEFINITELY want to do this.) Before eventually one of them caves, and then they cuddle together while reaffirming to each other everything would be okay.

Pavitr and Rio would be working together in this, I am sure. Rio would be SO excited, and also trying to make sure to invite everyone in their lives. (There is this idea that latino families are extremely big, and that's not really the truth, like sure there are families that are big, but is also that they tend to stay connected. I had fourth degree cousins inviting me to weddings in other countries.)

In all honesty Miles and Gwen aren't that bothered letting Rio and Pavitr do a lot of the planning; mostly because planning weddings is stressing and hectic.

Pavitr would show Gwen two different tones of whites for the napkins, and Gwen would say that she doesn't notice the difference. Pavitr is in shock. (Miles doesn't have this problem, because he is an artist and you bet the guy notices the variances in tone because that type of detail is important.) (Pavitr was also in shock because his idea of an American wedding is thanks to movies, so he thinks is traditional to have lots of white and little colour. Rio mitigates this to some degree.)

Miles and Gwen joke to call the wedding off and instead elope to Las Vegas or a cruise. The reality is that they would had done it if it wasn't because their parents wouldn't had forgiven them for it.

George and Jeff are use to awkwardly standing around each other; normally try to keep the other busy by exchanging police stories. George is there for Gwen's moral support, and Jeff is there because of Rio.

Miles has a hard time deciding a best man, but despite everything, he chooses Peter because he wouldn't be the man and the spider-man he is today without him. Yes, Peter cried when he heard this.

I think Gwen would not feel is fair to choose between Peni and Margo, since I think they are all good friends; and her relationship with Jess was never the same after what happened. So she decides to throw tradition out of the window, and instead of having a maid of honour, she has Hobie as her best man. He offers to wear wedding because fuck gender roles, and he would look amazing in one anyways.

For shits and giggles, the wedding is very much spider themed. There a bunch of little spiders details everywhere you go and in the ballroom. Miles's white suit has little silver spiderweb details, while Gwen's dress has black lace on the skirt with spider-motifs too.

That's all I have for now! I may think of a things later, but like I say, brain fried lol.

#ghostflower #gwiles #ghostflower hcs #miles morales #gwen stacy #pavitr prabhakar #rio morales #atsv #across the spiderverse #I tried to edit and I hope my dyslexia wasn't messing it up too much for me

[grey-sorcery]

Title: Introduction to Grounding

Suggested Reading

Shadow Work: First Steps Shadow Work Concepts Duality in Witchcraft Basics of Energy Work Spirit Work: First Steps Energetic Senses

*- Closed or semi-closed culture/practice

Introduction

After a working, stressful experience, physically or otherwise, one might feel disconnected, sporadic, powerless, unhinged, bogged down, lofty, etc. After experiences like this it can be difficult to re-engage with yourself, your life, your thoughts, feelings, etc. Grounding is the act of recentering your mind, energy, and body to be better conducive after coming out of these types of experiences. The practice can also be insurmountable in dealing with panic attacks and anxiety. This obviously doesn't apply to everyone. If you chronically suffer from such experiences, I highly advise speaking to a licensed psychiatrist.

What is grounding?

Grounding is bringing your mind, body, and subtle body back into equilibrium. It can be as simple as becoming still and taking a deep breath or as complicated as an entire ritual. I personally recommend that all levels of grounding are used when they are most applicable. While some methods are more effective than others, like warding, it is best to be well rounded. When grounded properly, making complex decisions and plans becomes a lot easier (Mental illness allowing). It also makes spellwork go a lot smoother, because you’ll have carved out enough room to easily maintain headspace. It is important to thoroughly ground after spellwork as well. This will help you break away from the working. 

Physical Grounding

These exercises are the simplest form of grounding and don’t require magic at all. Though, energy work can be incorporated into them to make them more effective. The simplest exercise is deep breathing. A deep lasting breath, inhaled through the nose, that is held for three beats of the heart and then slowly released through the mouth. Sometimes, only a single deep breath is necessary. I have an example of an energetic application of this here.

Stretching is also a great way to ground. Practices like Yoga* are very effective at bringing the body, mind, and subtle body into synchronicity. However, you do not need to practice Yoga* to achieve this. Simply stretching while feeling every muscle, tendon, and bone in your body is sufficient. 

Psychological Grounding

The human psyche is a complex web of emotions, thoughts, and reactions to external stimuli. The stability of this intricate system can be undermined by factors such as trauma, stress, or simply the pace of modern life. As such, the concept of grounding has been explored in various psychological and scientific contexts as a means to foster equilibrium within this system. Grounding refers to the act of reconnecting with the present moment, often by focusing on physical sensations or objective realities. This practice can serve as a pivot point from which an individual can recalibrate their emotional and cognitive state.

One of the approaches to grounding is the practice of realist affirmation. This method involves the conscious acknowledgement of tangible realities. Instead of becoming lost in abstract or potentially distressing thoughts, individuals refocus their cognition on concrete facts. For example, one might affirm the date, their location, or a description of their immediate environment. This technique aids in anchoring the individual's mind in objective reality and can mitigate the risk of spiraling into overwhelming emotional states or negative thought patterns.

Meditation, another renowned method for mental regulation, has been the subject of extensive scientific research. While the term is often laden with various cultural and religious connotations, stripped to its basics, meditation is the act of training one's attention. Methods can vary, but commonly include focusing on the breath or on specific bodily sensations. This fosters an awareness of the present moment, and over time, can increase an individual's overall mindfulness, thereby decreasing the prevalence of negative or intrusive thoughts.

Therapy, especially cognitive-behavioral therapy (CBT), has often employed grounding techniques as part of its protocol. CBT operates on the principle that our thoughts, feelings, and behaviors are interconnected. By identifying and challenging negative thought patterns, individuals can regulate their emotions and reactions more effectively. Grounding exercises, within this framework, serve as tools to disrupt and divert from maladaptive cognitive pathways.

A sigil is a symbol imbued with magical intent. In a modern, psychological context, devoid of its magical properties, a psychological sigil can be seen as a symbol or token that serves as a mnemonic or anchor point for a particular mental state or cognitive strategy. For instance, a person might associate a specific shape or symbol with the state of calm and use it as a tactile or visual cue to induce grounding when faced with stress. The Spare Method is a very good example of psychological sigils. This method uses a phrase or intention of personal change and abstracts it through letter grids in order to create a memetic anchor for that concept.

Breathing techniques, rooted in physiology, offer immediate and tangible benefits. The autonomic nervous system, responsible for involuntary bodily functions, is divided into the sympathetic (often associated with the "fight or flight" response) and the parasympathetic (associated with "rest and digest"). By consciously altering breathing patterns, one can engage the parasympathetic system, promoting relaxation and countering the effects of stress. Slow, deep inhalations, followed by prolonged exhalations, have been shown to have a calming effect on the nervous system.

Lastly, the 5 senses exercise is a commonly advocated grounding technique. It involves the sequential acknowledgment of sensory experiences: identifying five things one can see, four one can touch, three one can hear, two one can smell, and one one can taste. This method, rooted in immediate sensory perception, effectively diverts attention from distressing or overwhelming thoughts and anchors the individual firmly in the present.

Spiritual Grounding

Grounding, in a psychological context, pertains to techniques that anchor individuals in the present and deter them from negative cognitive spirals. Spiritual grounding, on the other hand, is oriented towards reconnecting individuals with their inherent spiritual essence or a larger cosmic framework. Rather than just dealing with the immediate sensory realm, it dives into the realms of beliefs, faith, and deeper connections to the universe or divine entities. It facilitates a harmonization of one's spiritual energies with the surrounding environment.

The practice of ancestor work is one method that many cultures and traditions utilize to establish spiritual grounding. This practice involves reaching out to, honoring, and sometimes seeking guidance from one's forebears. Ancestor work acknowledges that an individual's existence is the culmination of countless generations and that wisdom, experience, and energy from these past generations can be accessed and channeled. By connecting with ancestors, either through ritual or meditative techniques, individuals can find guidance, strength, and a deeper sense of belonging in the world.

Prayer, a universal practice found in virtually all spiritual and religious traditions, is another potent tool for spiritual grounding. Though the content and form of prayers can vastly differ, their core essence remains the same: they are channels of communication between the mortal realm and a higher power or consciousness. Prayer is a deliberate act, setting aside a moment from daily life to converse with the divine or the universe, to seek guidance, give thanks, or simply to reflect. This act, by its very nature, pulls individuals out of the mundane and reconnects them with a grander, spiritual realm, thus grounding them in their faith or spiritual path.

Theological offerings and interactions serve as physical representations or acts that demonstrate reverence, gratitude, or supplication to a higher power. These can take the form of food, incense, artifacts, or other symbolic items presented at altars, temples, or other sacred spaces. Such acts are not mere transactions; they symbolize a relationship between the devotee and the divine. By giving offerings, one acknowledges the presence of a higher power in their life, and in return, they may feel a sense of protection, blessing, or simply a deeper connection to their spiritual path. Engaging in these tangible acts can serve to ground an individual in their spiritual beliefs and practices.

Interactions in a theological context might also encompass rituals, ceremonies, or communal gatherings where spiritual teachings are shared and explored. Such interactions, whether they are with spiritual leaders, fellow believers, or the divine itself, serve to solidify and reaffirm an individual's spiritual foundation.

Up Next: Intermediate Grounding

In the next installment of our comprehensive series, we'll delve into Energetic Grounding. Much like its psychological and spiritual counterparts, energetic grounding offers techniques to anchor oneself, but it primarily concerns the non-physical or subtle energy body. 

We'll explore the profound concept of connection and how our subtle body interfaces with the energies of the world around us. This connection acts as a bridge, allowing us to tap into the vast reservoir of cosmic energy and, at the same time, offering a channel for us to root or ground our energies.

The practice of "Rooting the Subtle Body" provides fascinating insights. Rooting is more than just a metaphor; it's an active practice of extending one's energetic tendrils deep into the Earth, much like the roots of a tree, drawing stability, nourishment, and strength. This anchoring not only offers a sense of belonging but also ensures that our energetic system remains balanced and aligned.

Further, the article will delve into the intriguing process of the Subtle Body Expansion into the Physical Body. Our physical form is not isolated from our energy body; rather, they intertwine and influence one another. We'll explore techniques to harmonize and integrate these two aspects of our being, ensuring a symbiotic relationship between the tangible and intangible facets of our existence.

Lastly, we'll touch upon Wellsource Gnosis, or entering into a state of Gnosis on the Wellsource and becoming conscious of its interactions with the subtle and physical bodies. This practice, often overlooked in modern discourse, speaks of a primordial source of energy for the human subtle body. Tapping into the Wellsource can provide not just grounding but also a deep reservoir of insight and understanding.

If you enjoyed this article, check out my masterlist!

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This article was reviewed and edited by ChatGTP

#beginner witch #grounding #energy work #self care #self love #anxiety #social anxiety #baby witch

[valictini]

It really kills me how Baghera’s report kind of implied that her escape wasn’t anything significant in the eyes of the federation. Like, they just say « her last report was very out of date » as if her getting out of the island for presumably YEARS was merely an inconvenience, but nothing to really be worried about. To them, there really is NO escape. It’s not even worth pointing out!

Also, it’s interesting to see that her complete shutdown in stressful situations is seen as a negative thing for the federation. It seems that her mental instability, even if it was directly caused by them, is considered a flaw that needs to be studied and mitigated. It seems like they do want the best for her, but in the sense that they want their experiment to be a perfect success. Kind of insane that they never realised that torturing said kid with invasive experiments would have negative consequences on her psyche. It is so clinical and so deeply inhuman and I really love where this is going, narratively speaking

#qsmp #qsmp lore #qsmp baghera #q!baghera

[astraltrickster]

The thing is - okay, let's humor Matt and say, fine, your story is 100% true. There was a popular user who got banned after being mass-reported and upon review of their (which I use in this intro paragraph because we're pretending for the sake of argument that it could have been anyone and gender played no role in this whatsoever) account, it was found that - oops, the post that got attacked was totally innocuous, BUT they ALSO did do some other stuff that was very much a bannable offense.

The actions and statement I would make in that situation are probably along the lines of:

"Thank you for reaching out with your concerns. We reviewed the case, and unfortunately, it's a fairly complicated one.

We've verified her [because I would, you know, fucking check what pronouns everyone uses] claims of harassment, and have taken action against the parties involved, including penalizing the blogs that were involved in the false reporting campaign and restoring the content that was taken down erroneously.

Unfortunately, upon review of the account, we did find multiple abusive messages to and about other users that were in violation of our terms of service. Because of this, we cannot in good conscience restore the account. The user has been made aware of the specifics of these violations, and if she would like to sign up again without engaging in this behavior, she is free to do so.

We are aware that this case was a very frustrating and difficult one for many people, and we apologize for the stress it has caused our community. We are constantly working to solve the open problem of content moderation systems being abused in the way we have witnessed here, and appreciate your feedback when something goes wrong, not least of all because we recognize the severity and the discriminatory nature of targeted harassment campaigns such as the ones faced by this user. If you see something similar happening, please don't be afraid to reach out, nor to use our reporting system for its proper purpose.

Thank you for using [WEBSITE]."

I would NOT-

Insist on keeping the fully SFW photos down because well the user DID have SOMETHING to get banned over so that's BASICALLY the same thing

Change my justification from "well she posted NSFW" - "I mean she THREATENED me LOOK!" [Looney Toons imagine spot] - "I mean she threatened and harassed me AND other users, really, I swear I have it right this time!"

Threaten to call the fucking FBI on someone over cartoon violence imagine spots posted for justified frustration with my website's moderation speed

Misgender/degender the user in question over multiple iterations until "well I'm just not SURE what that user goes by despite everyone and their grandma telling me in no uncertain terms 🥺" runs out of plausible deniability

DM the user's friends to insist that they just don't know the full story and really she was an awful person you gotta believe me

Go completely scorched earth on the user, past, present, and future

Continue to go on a days-long tirade about how no one UNDERSTANDS and no one has the full picture and refuse to provide even the slightest additional detail, expecting that if I just keep talking I'll find a way to please everyone

Admit that I believed there was no war in Ba Sing Se problem with arbitrary to bigoted harassment and the moderation system being too slow and overburdened to mitigate it at best and used to assist with it at worst until I was personally inconvenienced by the matter, despite the entirety of my marginalized userbase saying there was a problem since before I even took over the site and my predecessors having been under a legally binding agreement to fix it to the best of their ability which I then inherited

Choose THAT moment to say that yes there was at one point a rogue mod who got fired (partially because I or someone else representing the site would probably have made a statement about that AT THE TIME)

Threaten to delete the entire site over it

FOLLOW THE USER TO OTHER WEBSITES TO CONTINUE HARASSING HER

Otherwise shave years off my lawyers' lives

And okay. Sure. I'm no professional. In fact, someone who is a professional could probably draft a better version of that statement. If I were a professional, maybe I, too, would struggle to get it even this close to right under the stresses of trying to manage a website with more than maybe 200 users-

But that's WHY I don't manage a site at this scale. Because I know that I'm personally not cut out for that. Which is a level of self-awareness that more people in the online communications platform business sorely fucking need.

#tumblr wank