#So this was just tacked on to the end of a season?

[ducktracy]

30 second MS Paint self portrait but my director pointed out that i always start every meeting doing this and said that my energy is admirable and something to aspire towards. and i'm documenting this because i genuinely think a part of my brain is subconsciously being influenced by HIM

[unproduciblesmackdown]

among the boundless billions zaniness like laugh track as it definitely has that moment of expressing "rolling my eyes as The Left makes a kerfuffle of Acting like they have a stance as a veneer over the true belief that [xyz] is cool & chill actually" like what, approximate 0.000% chance wendy isn't, as usual, given the Objective Stance of "yeah yeah ohh we are cancelling involved parties talking about how we Don't watch this But. we all love this damn epic movie & already have it memorized so shut the fuck up, kids today" like. don't wanna really delve into how much billions thinks taylor or anyone is "really" trans / nonbinary like not too much benefit of the doubt in this material including what does provide info abt that specifically

& the general like [head in hands. what do you think any of this could possibly be about (you're the one that made your show at all about Power)] of "yes, it's bad/wrong to be someone that someone has done something to / victim of something" like that to be anti misogyny All Women Must Be Epic Winners b/c there's something to be proved: that they don't Deserve to be victims (of misogyny), not taken as a Given. while when we see some epic winner men stepping on other men (who need not all be guaranteed Winners so as to say misogyny is wrong), that's often Good, well beyond any assumption that various forms of basic disrespect / violation / patterns of emergent/entrenched power difference as Bad (for being things done to people, not for there being people they're being done to), & generally billions has to take an extra step when ppl get shitted on & tell us the Specific Cases when it was undeserved actually & someone was being mean to a specific person who didn't deserve that. & the specific cases when hey guess it wasn't that bad(tm) or when hey It's Okay that you're someone something was done to, in this case. & tell us what we were supposed to know all along like when someone who something was being done to (wrong Of Them, whether b/c they inherently deserve it no matter what, &/or b/c they failed to be someone who could make it Impossible to do anything to them, which, how do you do that besides being The Authority / Superior yourself, exactly? nonrhetorically? what if the in group vs out group / fascism / authoritarianism protected Me?) was actually being treated Too Well b/c ah well the abuse meant you were getting any attention, maybe it meant you were claimed as any superior's property, maybe it meant you weren't Already disposed of, as all Losers were in the end, You're Welcome.

obviously referring to winston where it's spelled out all the abuse towards him was deserved, & More than he deserved in the case of rian having more access & taking advantage of that, all for billions' enjoying its own sendoff there of, again, maximizing violation & violence short of [real violence is physical & leaves bruises / draws blood / Literally kills] which would be distasteful in general But doesn't it make wags look like the winner & winston the loser is that the former's completely unrelated completely impersonal ego blow gets way amplified taken out on winston, the most vulnerable recurring character when spyros as [first & ultimate Everyone Hates Him role] is more entrenched in there & billions still magnanimously pities tuk, as it does winston too, just not quite as much. again that like completely surface level realized power fantasy of forcing the mirror up to the Inferior so they're like nooo my inferiorityyyy & in doing so like, the projection in that lmao, we get it re: the valuing of & need(tm) for such Power Tripping & Reaffirming My Superiority & My Ego Restored; Everyone Claps like good god. & then for all ben & tuk are the slightly softer Two Too Nice Boys duo to the rian & winston quant duo, also like too nice i guess but not as much, ben is in charge of tuk but Any instance of rian being in charge of winston outstrips them in that "yay interpersonal abuse" dynamic, like then in the end billions may be like "yeah it's possible to be mean to them unlike how being mean to winston is actually Nice b/c he deserves everything he gets, we only vicariously enjoy it vs Feeling Bad for tuk & ben sometimes (still magnanimously & it's Not That Bad / just goofin)" like ben & tuk still Fail by not being people it's impossible to do anything to. & not Exceptions who anyone is really being Too Mean to. like if they were women, in which case, no problem surely with a "positive" kind of victim blaming where there is something Inherent that Will be victimized so hey how about to cancel that out there's this special Paternal Protection you Need always, Or Else? :) but instead they are men who are asian & is ben gay & w/tuk & winston nobody mentions glasses or fatness but billions doesn't really do much or very in depth textual mentioning of Anything, even w/nonzero mention that there may be gender & race in this world. a gay man, once. no disability. we just Know who are the inferiors who deserve it when they're treated inferiorly, or if they don't, they start deserving it when they fail to stop/avoid it, but if you start mentioning the factors behind who we all totally agree is inferior like whoa nobody was Saying any of that? being the real agent of oppression on the basis of the factors only You spelled out, much? nonbinary? i never say anything about the Gender Binary when i'm subscribing to it, sounds like You've created & enforced it. obfuscation & deflection onto [so Just Normal nobody has to label, explain, or argue it] couldn't serve a purpose & protect the existing power differences as they are. maybe You're the problem? perhaps you brought it upon yourself & now you're causing too much trouble standing up for yourself while everyone else's criticism is laser focused on you as the prior & continuing negative actions done to you are taken as a given / unquestioned / covertly protected to overtly encouraged?

anyway so wild if the Completely Normal(tm) Victim Blaming is uncritically recreated & oft embraced for "if you're watching this & don't wish you were axe / find him appealing" [billions as a sequence of vicarious power trips] purposes in this series....but a bit wild considering like this is your multiseason show that wasn't just purporting to be those power trips for [enough demographic & apparently specific personal tastes overlap w/creators] & was at all purporting to question the matters of power at play in the material, or yknow, at least to not be completely superficial material while said material is textually & thematically all about power difference being leveraged, how, the consequences, & so on. thus i will have to intermittently talk about it forever like this like lord unbelievable. & the funny little & sometimes less funny less little characters it has trapped in there so that those of us who were never meant to be in the audience can be cursed with this knowledge. like i have some feedback. "imagine not victim blaming" & "imagine adjusting your perspective can go beyond superficial layers added to politely defer to some other ppl while they're present but really like cmon do they deserve that. am i not just saying what we're allll thinking"

[vivitalks]

“Is someone dying?”

“No! It's nothing like that.”

“Okay, I just had to check!” Luke pauses. “Am I dying? Am I dead and this is the afterlife?”

“What about this situation—”

“Maybe it’s a test to get into heaven! Like I have to comfort my friend in order to prove— I don’t know, man! I’ve never…” Luke swallows. “I’ve never seen you cry before.”

The faint amusement on Alex’s face wilts away. He breathes out, shakes his head, and then inhales deeply. “I, uh…” He sits on the armrest of their ratty sofa. “I came out to my parents.”

“Oh, shit,” Luke whispers.

hi. julie and the phantoms fanfiction for you and yours.

[hecksupremechips]

Finished good omens season 2 and I’m just gonna sit here peacefully for a minute because oh god. Oh no. The discourse

[tteokdoroki]

☆༉ — SATORU GOJO. a love so cold.

about. as the seasons start to change, satoru gojo figures out a new way to keep you warm on colder mornings.

warnings. minors, blank and ageless blogs do not interact. smut, somnophilia, soft morning sex, oral sex (f!receiving), brief mention of gojo and reader being married, lovey lovey lovey dovey dovey dovey stuff !! fem!reader.

gojo waking you up on a cold morning by diving between your thighs.

sure the duvet is long abandoned and your (his) shirt is pushed up to expose your pebbled nipples to the frosty air — but it’s the heat of his tongue salaciously rolling through your puffy folds that keep you nice and warm.

satoru breathes hot air against your pulsing mount, his lips encircling your clit as he sucks it, kisses it and makes out with it as if he’s making out with you. every time he moans into your heat, he draws a shrill sound from deep in your chest that pierces the solace of autumn’s silence. your whines echo along with the sway of rustling tree leaves and gojo’s hungry growls provide the bass of your seasonal tune.

he’s a sight for sore eyes between your shaky thighs that knock the blankets from your king sized bed. his blue eyes blaze bright enough to rival the subtle hue of the morning sky breaking through the curtains of night. it’s always darker this time of year. and his pale white locks, astray and askew, remind you that it might snow once winter comes.

“sa..satoru!” you exclaim though your voice is hoarse from not having been used in hours. the last thing you’d said was that you loved him — you think that you might love him even more right now. mouth on your sluice and syrupy slit, sucking the very juices from their place between your pussy lips. your fingers dance down to grip the roots of his hair, settled against his scalp like snow on sturdy ground. you don’t tug yet, only using his head to ground yourself. “sa…satoru—oh!”

your lips move to form the syllables of his name — though they’re lost on you when the ecstasy he builds up within you, by tacking his tongue to your clit in tight circles, starts a fire in your lower pelvis. that very same fire burns it’s way through your body like a forest fire, effectively warming you up from the inside out. it keeps going, consuming your every nerve ending until it reaches the base of your lungs and all you can breathe is the smoke of satoru gojo.

“good morning to you too, sweetheart,” satoru sings into your cunt in amusement. his voice holds the tenderness of an early morning greeting before he delves back into tasting you — slurping and sucking up and down the length of your slit before slipping his tongue into your quivering hole. his chin juts forward rhythmically, as if to fuck you with the pink appendage like it’s his cock.

he watches your face with adoration as it twists and scrunches and morphs into pure bliss. he loves that about you, how expressive you are — how your body follows his lead even if it’s too cold for you to stop shaking. he’ll warm you up. he always does.

“you don’t have to say it back, i know, baby. you’re just too tired, too close to even speak—“ gojo doesn’t get a chance to finish, not before your fingers twist in his roots as his tongue twists and wiggles against your sloppy, ribbed wall. it travels along your pleasure spots — the ones only he knows about, and maps out even more for next time. but any praise or condescension he has saved for you is lost and muffled against your sex as you rut your hips down on his handsome face.

“‘m close… gonna… haf’ta—!”

finally finding your voice despite the smoke-like aphrodisiac in your lungs — you succumb to the heat. the hotness of satoru’s mouth on you, his fingers sinking into your hips to keep you on his face, the lust that prickles just below the surface of your skin. you cum just as the winter birds break the silence with their own morning calls, as the sun breaks through grey-ish and intimidating clouds. you gush all over satoru, your lover and protector, with a high pitch and whistle tone wail — head thrown back into the pillows and your lips parted ever so slightly.

his white brows knit together in the centre of his forehead, mocking your dazed and needy expression. however, it’s clear he’s just as love and sex and pussy drunk on you as you might be on him. satoru results to gulping down the stormy waves of your orgasm with unbridled greed. as of what you offer him is the finest of wines or the last thing he’ll ever drink.

those pretty blue eyes are overcome with a haze as he drinks you down, dazed and content to just have a taste of you. satoru’s tongue makes its laps through your folds to make sure he doesn’t waist a drop — wolffish grunts and groans and sounds like ‘mph’ or ‘mhm’ reverberate between your thighs until he’s done cleaning you up. only adding to your shakes and shivers.

not from the cold, but from how hard you’ve cum.

“you… mph, taste so— fucking good, baby.” he huffs, breathless from nearly suffocating himself to get a taste of you. gojo dares to dive back in, but you tug on his hair once more and force him to look up into your pleading eyes.

“‘toru,” you whisper, lashes fluttering innocently, voice still shaky and hoarse. “good morning.”

you need him, up there with you.

his face breaks out into a slow and sexy smile — kissing up your body, over your naval and between the valley of your breasts, against your neck and chin until he reaches your lips. he kisses you gently then and his entire body sits between your thighs.

“good morning, beautiful.” he sighs, content. he cups your face gently to keep you looking at him, his wedding band glistening more than what you’ve left on his chin.

you hum, feeling his body heat simmer over you along with what’s left of the arousal in your system while it simmers down. “you’re insatiable, you know that?”

“but you love me.”

“i suppose so.”

“ouch, sweetheart. so cold.” gojo pouts, faux hurt laced with his teasing voice.

and in that moment, you wrap your legs around his unfairly slender waist and flip the man so that you end up on top — straddling the great satoru gojo and planting your hands on his the centre of his blistering hot chest.

there’s a glint in your eye, the flicker of a lustful flame that only serves to set satoru’s heart alight while you press your sticky sex down on him.

“then let me do the honours of warming you back up, my love.”

꒰ end. — all rights reserved © tteokdoroki 2023. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[teslacoils-and-hubris]

There's this show i only watched one episode of called ugliest house in America, and the premise is that the host goes around America looking at submitted ugly houses and the Most Ugly house gets remodeled at the end of the season.

All this only matters because the one episode I caught made me just.... really sad. They show three houses per episode and I don't really remember the other two houses because they were bland and not that interesting, but the one house, the one that won that round and was closer to being remodeled was obviously an artists house.

Everything in this house had been customized around the previous owners life Pasion: birds. And I do mean everything. They had literally printed out dozens of various drawings of birds and plastered them onto the basement wall. They had made tile mosseics of cranes right on the front entrance. Drawn egrets with what I'm pretty sure were crayons on the walls. And it was really obvious how many hours and how much love went into making this house something beautiful to that artist. And here it was, being toured around on television, touted as the ugliest house in America.

Every time they saw another bird the show played up the hosts surprise and eventually disgust. How WEEIRD that this unnamed, presumably dead artist was soooo into birds that they carefully crafted their whole life around them. The attic was an aviary for (the current owners assumed) pigeons. How silly and foolish and stupid that artist was for ruining the market value of their home by making it a shrine to something they loved. Do I blame the current owners? No. Of course not. I certainly wouldn't want to live in a house plastered wall to wall with birds with an attic that still smells like bird. But it's just..... the way they talked about it was upsetting.

There was no compassion for the person who put so much time and effort into lovingly crafting a house they really were happy in. The genuinely well done and skilled crayon drawings on the wall talked about the exact same way as you'd talk about a stain on the carpet. Unsightly. Strange. Unmarketable.

I look at my own room, lovingly crafted to be my oasis after a hard day. Halloween decoration sticker bats permanently on the wall. The ufo mural I spent a good month on that would probably be more at home in a minigolf course than a bedroom. Years of artwork both handmade and purchased tacked up to the walls. How much of it would the host mock. Teal walls sanded down and painted the off-white eggshell of marketability. It's going to happen regardless, I can't take the mural with me and even if I live in this house until I die someone will be here after me and they probably won't want it. But there's a certain kind of.... humiliating exposure of watching someone's heart and soul get torn apart on television. The ugliest house in America.

[the-californicationist]

Cali's Kinktober 2024: Day 05

Kinktober Masterlist rara avis - "the rare bird" John Price x f!reader Kinks > yandere, NC voyeurism, stalking, rough sex Full tags on AO3 - MDNI

When you move to your new home, you are totally swept off your feet by the amenities. There are so many beautiful, wooded trails and a gorgeous creek for you to explore in your own backyard. Your neighbor, an avid bird watcher, mostly keeps to himself. However, you start feeling like you’re the bird being watched.

If you don't like what's in the kink list, don't fucking click on this story. You're not invited. Block me, and then.... Get. Fucking. Lost.

You had picked this place because of the view. Your backyard overlooked the most gorgeous, fairytale-perfect creek that you’d ever seen. In the morning, ducks and their ducklings played in the shallow bends and curves of the whispering brook, and at night, frogs and fireflies sang and danced to serenade you to sleep. It was heaven. 

So, that’s why you practically lived in your backyard. You were always outside gardening or weeding, laying by the stream with a spicy book, or swinging gently in your hammock, letting your toes skim the cold water of your very own oasis. 

Your swimming had started as a summer habit. After you finished your sweaty chores, you loved stripping down to your bra and panties to cool off in the little creek. The deepest part only came to your belly button, so it was more like a sit rather than a swim, but you didn’t mind. In fact, if you remained still long enough, little finches would sneak along the bank, keeping an eye on you while they hunted for bugs and seeds in the muddy shoal. 

Autumn brought cardinals and bluebird that roosted in the low branches of your trees, and a very vocal whippoorwill, all competing for their own spot in this obvious paradise. 

You weren’t much of a bird watcher, but your neighbor was. 

Captain John Price was some sort of legend. He had served in the special forces, or still did serve, but that was all classified. Your other neighbors had let you in on his intense background, yet no one had anything but the highest praise for his classy manners and charming smile. And while he did flash a beaming grin to the Smiths and the Broussards across the wide lane, he looked at you with a different sort of smile. 

The way he looked at you made you melt like a popsicle on a hot day. 

You’d gotten closer to the captain over the last year or so that you’d lived here. He had come over one evening because your pipes had burst in the freeze, and he knew just how to fix it. Over the course of the season, he’d sit outside and you would make excuses to chat with him. Once he had your attention, he’d point out all the different types of birds that flitted between his trees and yours, helping you recognize their calls. He’d bring his binoculars with him some evenings while he sat to watch the avian traffic, and he even let you peer through the lenses to see a nest of baby chicks in your own backyard. 

Then, he’d had to go away for “work”, so he asked you to keep an eye on the mail for him. He was only supposed to be gone for six weeks, but six more weeks passed before he showed up with ten stitches over his eye and his arm in a sling asking for his key back. 

When he saw your face fall in reaction to his wounds, he chuckled, the corners of his eyes creasing at their seams as he told his lies,

“Clumsy, me. Fell down the bloody stairs at Heathrow. Dunno what hurts worse, my arm or my pride.”

The wink that he tacked on at the end of his quip was Cupid’s thick-shafted arrow, striking you right in your heart. You were in trouble. This man was some sort of secret agent contract killer, and yet you found yourself replacing old boyfriends’ faces with his when you made yourself come at night, imagining him spreading you open instead of whoever had been your flavor of the month back then. Price might be the most dangerous man on Earth, but goddamnit, you didn’t care.

Over the following summer, your dark fantasies continued. He started working on his own backyard, putting up birdhouses and sharing facts with you about some of the local species he was hoping to host when you passed each other coming and going. Each day that you got to see him was a true gift, even if you didn’t really care about birding in the least. 

One particular afternoon was especially fruitful. The captain was out there all day trimming trees, cutting brush, and hacking back old growth… shirtless. His muscles gleamed like a hirsute Adonis, snapping and rolling under his skin like a symphony of strength. The way his tanned flesh gleamed in the sun made him look like he was carved out of bronze. 

So, you thought, two could play at that game. 

You bought a white bikini online and lounged in it the first day it came in, rocking back and forth in your hammock, hoping that you could catch a glimpse of him watching you with that savage look in his eyes. When you spotted him glance over at you from his garden, you knew your plan had worked. He would peek over his shoulder as he raked or shoveled, almost imperceptibly, but you were watching him like a hawk and you noticed every little breath and movement he was making. 

As the afternoon wore on, especially when you needed to apply more sunscreen, he fed you juicier and juicer morsels of his lustful longing. He would stare, when he thought you weren’t looking, at the way your heavy tits strained the lycra of your triangle top, and when you bent over, his eyes would scrape and claw for every curve of your plump ass before righting himself again before you caught him scavenging. 

At one point, you pretended to fall asleep, letting your book fall limply out of your hand and onto the grass, making your mouth soft and slack, just to see what he would do. To your shock, he pulled out his phone and began to take pictures of you, quick and efficient, pocketing his device before he even looked at the results. His audacity was shocking. Your mind raced with all of the thoughts of what he might do with your images, of how he might touch himself thinking about you, hungering for you and your tender body. 

A few minutes passed, and he continued to try and work, but it was futile. John started to walk over to you, moving through your shared backyard and making a steady advance on your position. As he got closer and closer, you tried to control your breathing, reminding yourself to be dead asleep, forcing your mind not to obsess over his enormous muscle-bound body or the dark fur that covered his skin, becoming denser and curling as it trailed below his belly button, pointing you to where you wanted to focus. 

He stood a short distance away for a while, and he seemed to be locked in a silent battle with himself. The captain wanted to attack and retreat at the same time. All the while, you noticed him shaking his leg ever so slightly, bending the knee and widening his stance. But, his shifting wasn’t working, and to your absolute joy, he finally relented and had to use his hand to readjust his growing cock. He pulled the body of it up and over his left hip, lovingly squeezing the tip just a bit before letting it go. You marveled at his girth, praying that the outline in his pants was truly representative of the absolute monster he kept inside of them.

Your neighbor allowed himself to step forward. And again. Slowly, step by step, he closed the gap, his eyes never leaving your face, worrying that you would wake up to find him leering. Yet, he didn’t care enough to return to his side of the yard. 

Shame, it seemed, was not a deterrent for his thirst. 

When he was close enough to touch you, he knelt down, studying your face. Then, his eyes began to drink you in, gazing at your breasts as they hung slightly to the side, their round shapes being pulled by gravity into smooth teardrops of sensitive flesh. His hands fidgeted with the wooden handle of his rake he was holding, wanting to touch the silk of your skin and test its fineness. 

Then, he trailed his vision along the midline of your belly, chewing on the inside of his lip as he studied your thickness. When he looked down at the join of your legs, staring at your fat pussy hidden under the thin fabric of your suit, his whole body sighed. You watched his bones sag and reset themselves, his jaw working through its hinge once and then twice as if he was chewing on cold mastic. 

Just when you thought he would reach out to touch you, or maybe snap another picture, he bent down a little further and picked up your fallen book. As he crouched there beside you, he flipped a few pages back and forth until he seemed to find what he was looking for. A twitch of a smile pulled at his full mouth, and he laid the book back on the grass, open to the scene he wanted you to discover. 

His eyes gave you one last look, wistful almost, and then he returned to his yard. Now, you just had to wait for him to look away for long enough that you could pretend to wake up from your nap. Luckily, he ducked into his shed for a moment, taking out new tools to use, and while he was busy organizing his equipment, you roused yourself from your farce. 

You were soaking wet. You could feel the slide of your desire between your soft lips, and your mind was buzzing with adrenaline.  

As casually as you could, you reached over and grabbed your book, tossing your bookmark into the page he’d kept for you, forcing yourself to wait until you were in the safety of your own home to see what he had wanted to show you.

You got up from your hammock and stretched, gathering up your belongings and making a slow but deliberate trek back indoors. When you noticed him looking over, you turned to wave, giving him what you hoped was a typical, neighborly smile. He smiled back but didn’t return the gesture, resting his hands on the handle of a long spade, watching you as you sealed yourself back indoors. 

The moment you shut the door, you opened the book, desperate to read the scene he wanted you to see. It was a raunchy moment for the main characters with the hero burying his face between his paramour’s thighs, eating his fill of her. Just the thought of John Price wanting to perform this scene with you was enough to make you clench your knees together with lurid want. You let your hand slip over the top of your swimsuit bottoms, and you teased yourself to a quick, vicious orgasm right in the middle of your kitchen, sinking down to the floor in a wet, inglorious puddle.

The next few days passed without incident. You weren’t even sure if he was home. But, one afternoon, you were both getting the mail, and he was carrying in a long box. It was about half as tall as he was, and it didn’t look lightweight. 

“Wow,” you raised your voice a bit to get his attention, “You’ve got quite the package.”

You hadn’t initially intended for the innuendo, but you weren’t mad about it. You even gave him a knowing smile, acknowledging the line. He chuckled, the sound of it creating a churning feeling deep in your core, 

“Telescope. Your creek had a kingfisher in it last week, and I’m hoping to see him again.”

“Oh, cool,” you walked a little closer, making your conversation more intimate, pretending to be interested in birds for once in your life, “Is that a rare bird?” 

His warm purr turned to a suggestive growl, soft and trapped in his throat, and the fire in his eyes made your blood run hot, but he wasn’t excited about birds. He was excited about you. 

“Aye, the rarest,” he nodded, pointing up to his main bedroom’s balcony on the second level, “I think I’ve got a decent view from there. This thing comes with a camera attachment, so I’ll try to catch him for you.”

“That’s really awesome,” you grinned, noticing that his balcony also had a pretty damn good view of your own bedroom window, “I bet you’ll get some great shots. Can’t wait to see them.”

“You bet,” he grinned knowingly, dragging his huge package back inside. 

That night, you watched him setting it all up, spying on him from your own bedroom window. He was fixing the telescope on your creek, making sure the angle was just right. So, you decided to make it worth his while. 

In the purple dusk, you found yourself walking out into your backyard in nothing but a thin mesh cover-up. It was barely enough to be publicly decent, but as soon as it got wet, you knew it would show everything. It took all your power not to glance over your shoulder at him as you stepped into the creek, but you kept your cool. Face forward, sinking slowly into the water for a quick dip. 

You settled into the stream, kneeling on the soft rocks, playing in the babbling waters, pretending to relax after a long day. You started skimming for pretty stones, leaning forward to wet the top of your cover-up, feeling the fabric cling to your peaked nipples, knowing they would be very much on display through the tissue-thin mesh. 

Unable to stand it any longer, you dared to glance up at the balcony. There, sitting behind his brand new scope, was your hot neighbor, staring through the lens trained right on you. A rush of desire hit you like a drug, and you made yourself bravely gaze into the lens, peering through the dark glass, knowing he would see you looking. 

Then, when he didn’t react, you pushed the envelope. You dropped the pretty rock you had in your palm and scooped up a handful of water between your hands, holding them together like a bowl. Then, you poured it on your neck, letting the cool liquid soak the rest of your top, making your garment entirely transparent and sticking to your body like latex. 

Every moment that passed made you more brazen. You began to trace the outline of your collarbone, rubbing the side of your neck, pretending to massage away the stress. 

Your eyes kept glancing to his spot, looking at him as he stared at you. This time, when you looked back, his body illuminated by his outdoor light, you saw something magical. His hand was stuck down his black, athletic shorts, and he was slowly jerking his cock back and forth, pleasuring himself as he watched you moonbathe in your stream. 

Now, you locked eyes with the scope, and you turned your body towards him, making sure he knew that this show was for him. You moved your hands to your hanging breasts, circling them and pressing them together, holding them through the wet mesh. It felt so nice to squeeze them and feel the pleasure you were crafting, so you began to play with your nipples, plucking them and pinching the tips, being gentle and cruel, letting your eyes and mouth soften as you teased your own body.

You wondered if he was taking pictures or not. Maybe a video? You didn’t care. You wanted him to take them. You wanted him to take you, if he would have you. 

When he saw evidence of your want, he pulled his cock free from his shorts, and now he was very clearly jerking off, using his precome to shine his shaft to a wet gleam. You wished you could taste it. You wanted to study the fullness of his head, suckling on the drooling tip, and you wanted to trace the veins of his shaft like rivers on a map, blue and full of his warm blood. 

Just the thought of how his fat dick would feel inside of you was sending you over the edge. So, you sank one of your hands between your legs to relieve some tension, massaging your clit in frantic circles under the water. You must have gotten lost in your own ministrations, because when you snapped back to reality and focused on the balcony again, he was gone. 

At first, your heart sank, disappointed that he was finished with your display. Then, you heard the slam of a door and looked down into his backyard. There he was, a tight white tee shirt stretching over his broad shoulders, his cockhead trapped in the elastic of his shorts, the outline of it visible as he walked, barefoot, straight towards you. 

You stared at him in shock, not knowing what to do. He looked like he was in a rage. His brow was set in a determined line, and a frightened thrill writhed its way along your spine. Was he angry with you for being so indecent? For teasing him with your lewdness? 

He said nothing as he approached, and you thought he would stop at the bank of the creek, but he didn’t. He came splashing right through the water, making his way right over to the spot where you were kneeling, reaching out and grabbing you tightly around your shoulders, lifting you out of the water in a wet, chaotic mess.

You were pressed against his body, getting his clothes all wet, gasping from the shock of his aggression. You started to protest, trying to get your footing, but his mouth silenced your words. John pressed his lips to yours in a ferocious kiss, invading you with his long tongue, and sucking on your bottom lip hard enough for it to sting. 

He pulled away and began to bite and lick his way down your neck, stealing your breath and stumbling through the creek as he devoured you, marching you backwards, awkward and halting, all the way to the shallow near the bank. Then, just when you could feel the pebbles give way to the sand and mud of the shoal, you felt him shove you to the ground. You landed hard on your rump, gasping from the violence of it, trapped somewhere between terror and ecstasy. 

“John, I wa–”

He fell to his knees and kissed your words away again, tasting you over and over, committing your flavor to memory, fisting your hair to control the way you kissed him back, stealing you from yourself like a thief. 

You were being covered, inch by inch, with his heavy body, and he leaned over you, kissing and sucking and licking and biting whatever his mouth could reach. He moved to your nipple, suckling on you through the thin mesh of your cover-up, the warmth of his tongue a stark contrast to the chill of the wet fabric. He stayed there for as long as he wanted, groping and pinching your other breast as he sucked on you, making you whimper from the overstimulation. Then, he sat back on his heels, his knees still stuck in the shallow water of the creek, your bodies half-in and half-out of the span. 

He was peering down at you and panting. You were both breathing hard, your chests heaving, staring at each other like a predator with its prey, not knowing which one you were but dying to be the latter. 

John seemed like he was waiting for something, and when you saw his eyes move down your body to stare at your pussy, you knew what he wanted. So, very slowly, you opened yourself up to him, unfolding your legs from your center, blooming for him like a dew-soaked flower, ready to present your sticky nectar to him. The sigh of relief that rattled through his body made you want to come. 

He fell to his chest, clutching your hips in his huge, strong hands, lifting you to his mouth as he began to eat you from the inside. His tongue prodded and curled, searching for your favorite spots, finding them with a suspicious ease. Licking across your clit, his mouth created wet, pornographic noises, and he groaned as he ate, unable to hold back his expression of pleasure with every brain-breaking suck and lick. 

When you cried out from the immediate response your body sent slashing through your belly, he looked up from his work, but he didn’t stop. His eyes, pale blue and feral, caught yours and something inside of them forced you to stay on him, unable to look away, trapped like a rabbit in a snapping snare.

His steady, forceful suckling dragged you to an orgasm, making you tremble and wriggle against his jaws, your body sliding in the muddy bank of the stream. You felt him pull away, and you thought he was done, the spell broken by your keening completion. But, he stripped off his shirt and raked the band of his shorts under his enormous sack, presenting his engorged prick to you like a present. 

Looking down at you, his eyes hooded, the pupils blown, you knew he was waiting again. Waiting for you to let him in. You were already spread open for him like a wanton whore, barely clothed and filthy from the ground. So, you reached between your thighs to cradle the underside of his shaft, petting him gently, tugging him forward in invitation. 

His nonverbal viciousness was making you feel like you were under his spell, so you dared not speak lest it could be broken. Wordlessly, you pulled him toward your dripping hole, coaxing him in, letting him know he was more than welcome in your body’s sacral embrace. 

A deep, demonic moan fell from his lips as he let his heavy cockhead slot itself between your lips. You took your hand away, returning to your breasts, playing with yourself just as you had in his telescope, letting him see you bring yourself pleasure at your delicate peaks. 

Hungry, he thrust himself forward through your folds, slipping in your wetness, the weeping slit of his tip bullying your clit with every forward motion. Back and forth, he slid through you, slicking himself in your flesh, using himself like a toy in your sensitive petals. 

You couldn’t help but whine for him. It felt mind-numbingly delicious to be played with in this way, and his rocking undulations drove you to the point of madness. You began to hump his shaft like a naughty dog, eager for everything he was giving you and more. His cock was big enough to be a challenge, but you were up for it. You didn’t care if it hurt. You wanted to feel him invading you, claiming you like an animal out here in the stream. 

Finally, when John couldn’t wait any longer, he allowed his head to slip down and notch in the pliant sling of your quim, moaning just as desperately as you had been as he felt you swallow his tip inside of your hole.

“Nhgh,” he clenched his teeth as he pressed his hips forward, his hand grabbing your hip hard enough to bruise, holding you in place so you couldn’t escape him, as if you wanted to, “Bloody hell, you’re so wet for me.”

You cried out as he pried you open, his heavy shaft too thick for your unpracticed slit,

“John… it’s so big… oh, God…”  

His grimace morphed into a smile, and he slid himself out before pumping forward again, trying to fit his thick rod into your cunt,

“Thought you could just give me a fuckin’ show. Thought I’d just watch, that I’d let you get away with it.”

He shoved himself forward, forcing a shrill scream from your lips, laying himself over you and trapping you between his arms. As he began to thrust himself into you, dragging himself out and punching himself back in, you felt hot tears sting your eyes with their salt, overwhelmed by the blinding pleasure you were experiencing. 

“Fuckkkkk,” you watched as his eyes rolled back in his head as he cursed at the feeling of your body clenching around him, stuck in the feeding-bleeding cycle of your shared bliss, “Rub that pussy for me, love.”

You obeyed, following his eyes as he watched your fingers make their little ovals in the plushness of your flesh. He groaned, pleased, and set himself to his task. As he fucked you, he began in steady, pumping thrusts. You could have kept time with his momentum, shocked by his consistency. He never faltered, he never weakened; he simply fed himself to you, in and out, stuffing you full of his hard length and rubbing at your softest, deepest places. 

Between his steady sex and your familiar touch, you were falling over yourself in an embarrassingly short time, your pussy already primed for pleasure, horny beyond belief, tingling and eager to throb around his shaft in celebration. He bent to kiss you on your sensitive neck, sucking against your skin, mean enough to leave a mark, whispering a chaotic mess of messages to you as he was lost in the thrall of fucking you into the dirt,

“Feel you wantin’ to come, pretty bird. Sing for me, yeah? Let me hear you scream for me.”

This couldn’t be real. His filthy talk was pulling you deeper and deeper into your mounting orgasm, and you felt the line snap. Your body began to tense up, your muscles tight and shaking, and you could felt the rush of your come coating you both from the inside. You were feeling completely unbound, and you had to stop touching your clit. It was too much, but he wasn’t having it,

“Don’t stop. Don’t… C’mere.”

He shoved your hand away and took over for you, fucking you and rubbing you, refusing to let you escape from his efforts. His touch flung you back into an orgasmic whirlpool, making you dizzy, tricking you into thinking you had finally stopped coming and then proving you wrong. He was dragging them out of you, ragged and nasty, moaning from your screams and from the gripping, pulsating tightness of your pussy. 

“That’s it. Such a pretty song. Keep singin’ for me, love. Makes me wanna fuckin’ fill you up with my come.”

“I’m… John, please… Mmngh!” You fell apart, your orgasm turning you into a brainless little fucktoy for him, your body betraying you, defecting to his side, willing to listen to his every command. 

He took his hand away, and you sighed in relief until you realized he had new plans for you. He pulled away, sitting back and flipping you over with frightening ease, helping you to your knees before feeding himself back inside of you from behind. Your chest was pressed down into the mud, the cold ground stinging your swollen nipples, the smell of the wet dirt heady in your nose. 

“Pretty bird. Look at this fat fuckin’ arse,” he grunted, slapping you hard on your right cheek. 

“Angh!” You cried out. 

“Perfect,” he smiled, showing you his sharp teeth as you stared at him over your shoulder. 

He hunched himself over your body, humping his fat prick into you like a dog, grinding himself into your hole with wet, milking noises filling the night air as he fucked you in the dark. John was pumping himself hard enough in you that you thought you might bruise. You knew your pussy was helpless to his invasion, and it trembled with every thrust, trying its best to flood you with your own lubrication, doing everything it could to help you cope. 

Frantic, John wrapped his hand around the base of your neck, holding you beneath him, pressing his hips even closer so he could reach his crown to new depths. The angle forced you to arch your back and he rewarded you for it, rubbing his hand along your ribs before reaching under your cover-up to hold your breast in his palm, gripping you fiercely. 

“Holy hell, this tight little cunt’s gonna make me come, baby,” he purred into your ear, bending himself over you, increasing his pace and his power, watching the pleasure-packed tears roll down your cheeks, “You want it? You want my fuckin’ come? Want me to put it right here?”

You felt his hand reach around your leg so that he could press his fist against your womb, making your body feel every inch of him even tighter inside of you, allowing you to know exactly just how deep he was rutting into you. 

“Please, John… I need…” You tried to answer, but you were fuck-drunk and dumb. You were nothing more than his cocksleeve. You were made for him to pump his load into you. That was all you wanted. Nothing else mattered. Nothing else even existed. Your whole world fell away, replaced by your neighbor’s pounding rod. 

“Tha’s it, pretty bird,” he rolled his fist against your lower belly in deep, massaging circles, flinging you into a rolling orgasm, “The louder you scream, the harder I’ll fuckin’ come.”

His groaning turned into animalistic grunting, shouting, growling despair, and he sank himself down into you, flush with his girthy base, fully sheathed in your hot core. You could feel him filling you with his creamy orgasm, letting rope after rope shoot into your body, trapped inside by his thick root. 

John’s breath was hot against your cheek, and he kissed his way down your body as he pulled himself away. The long retreat of his shaft made you feel like your soul was being ripped from your chest, and the wet, gooey noise of his spend sliding out of you turning your heart inside out. You collapsed to the ground, not caring in the least about the mud, nor its cold, clinging, filth; you just breathed and trembled, used and spent. 

You thought he would leave you where he found you, his cruel love shaming him into fleeing such a scene of terrible waste. But, he didn’t. He shucked off his shorts and pulled your cover-up off of you, letting it slap down into the shoal. Then, he scooped you up in his arms and waded with you back into the creek, laying you in the running water, black with the night’s dark sky above you, cold against your sensitive flesh. 

You shivered, curling into him, and you felt his hands using the clear water to wash you clean. He was clearing the sand out of your hair and off of your skin, gently as he could, caring for you like a precious pet, baptizing you in his own praises. Telling you how good you were for him, how you were his pretty bird, how he would take care of everything. 

When he was done, he lifted you out of the stream and carried you to the yard, heading for his backdoor. He nudged it open and lifted you all the way up the stairs, single-minded on his mission. You were in and out of consciousness, too weak to protest, and when he finally lay you in his own bed, he wrapped you in a towel he pulled from his bathroom, using another to dry himself off as well. 

You groaned, trying to get up, but he lay himself on top of you, fidgeting with the covers under you were under him and the sheet, locked against his naked body.

“I should go… “ You whispered, trying to fight the sleep that was seeping into your mind. 

You felt the prod of his cock, hard once more, and you whined from the absurdity of your sore hole being asked to stretch again for him.

He pushed himself inside with little resistance this time, and started the process again, taking your primed body like you were made for it. Like it was your one, true purpose. 

“I can’t,” you whimpered, panting and curling against him, “Don’t make me come again.”

“Shh,” John said, kissing you quiet, “Hush, love. I’m not fuckin’ finished.”

 You couldn’t remember how many orgasms he had pulled from you, but when you woke the next morning, his arm wrapped tight around your breasts, you felt like you had transcended. You were on a whole new plane of existence, and although you were bruised, used, and soaking in his milky seed, you were well and truly satisfied. 

As your eyes adjusted to the light, you saw a picture of yourself come into view. You were on his nightstand, dressed in your white bikini, pretending to sleep with your book by your side. It was trapped beneath a pane of glass, gleaming in the dawn, surrounded by a proud frame. 

That’s weird, you thought. Framing it was a little odd. But, then, you saw the rest. All over his wall, the one that faced your bedroom, pictures of you covered the sheetrock like wallpaper. You stopped breathing. All you could see were pictures of you from every different angle and position. Some were of you getting dressed in your bedroom, and some were of you shopping at the store. Some were close portraits, and some were taken in places you didn’t even remember. They were everywhere, floor to ceiling, pasted very meticulously to the plaster. And you were in every one. 

You hadn’t realized he was awake yet, but you knew he had been watching you examine his gallery when his palm covered your mouth stopping you in the middle of your scream.

[burst-of-iridescent]

No, Shipping Zutara Is Not Supporting Amatonormativity (Please Use Some Fucking Braincells For Once)

- a treatise by a severely pissed off aroace zutara shipper

since words don’t mean anything anymore (if they ever did on the esteemed piss-on-the-poor website), let’s start with a definition.

amatonormativity: the set of social assumptions that everyone prospers with a romantic relationship, thereby positioning marriage as a universal goal of adult life. amatonormativity forms the basis of several institutional structures that are built to cater to romantic bonds over all others, also manifesting in social pressure on individuals to find a romantic partner by pushing the false narrative that those who do not experience romance are automatically lonely, unhappy and unfulfilled. it is usually characterized by the prioritization of romantic love over other forms of love, particularly platonic.

the anti-zutara argument based on this is as follows: wanting zutara to happen is amatonormative because it a) devalues zuko and katara’s platonic bond b) pushes the idea that men and women can’t be friends and c) doesn’t align with the themes of the show, as romantic love was never the point of atla.

i would like to take the time today to tell you that this is some fucking bullshit, for the following reasons:

one, this may come as a shock to some of you, but zutara shippers did not invent the concept of romantic love in avatar: the last airbender. you are more than welcome to criticize the pairings of suki/sokka, katara/aang, mai/zuko, yue/sokka, jin/zuko, jet/katara, and even kanna/pakku for perpetuating amatonormativity through their unnecessary romantic subplots. and if you don’t have anything to say about any of those pairings, then here’s a word for you: hypocrite.

zk shippers are not introducing the taint of romantic love into some kind of wholesome platonic utopia where it never existed. when we say zutara should have been canon, it is a statement that ends with the implicit instead of kat.aang and mai.ko tacked on at the back because if we were going to get a romantic relationship anyway, it might as well have been one that was well-developed, narratively impactful, and thematically relevant.

two, saying zutara is amatonormative is fucking rich when the main “romance” of atla is a three season long struggle to get out of the friendzone. aang’s desire to be in a romantic relationship with katara is one of his primary motivations throughout the show, and not once does either he or the narrative ever entertain the thought that just being katara’s friend might be enough. to the contrary, aang’s crush and the potential of its reciprocation is a fundamental part of how the story gets its audience to invest in both his character and the kat.aang relationship. they want you to want him to get the girl, and that’s the driving force of the ship’s development from start to finish.

you can see the influence of this in the way people defend why kat.aang had to happen: “aang would be crushed!” “it would break aang’s heart!” “aang deserves to be happy!” and that in and of itself is more amatonormative than any version of romantic zutara, as if this idea that aang is somehow doomed to a life of misery and loneliness just because he can’t be with the girl he likes isn’t inherently based on the assumption that platonic love can’t be as meaningful and satisfying as romantic love.

three, let’s be so fucking fr: a show written by cishet men in the early 2000s was not “subverting amatonormativity��� by not making zutara happen, especially not when they went for the fucking olympic gold of romantic cliches — the hero gets the girl trope — instead. otherwise, why did the entire show end with an uncomfortably long liplock? if romance would’ve devalued zuko and katara’s platonic bond, then what the everloving fuck happened to their friendship in the comics and the legend of korra?

it is blatantly false to say that zutara shippers are the ones devaluing their platonic bond when the creators did it first. they evidently don’t view zutara’s platonic bond as equal to kat.aang’s romantic one, judging by their treatment of both relationships in the comics and LOK and the fact that they talked about kat.aang “winning” the ship war in the first place. because if the two relationships were of equivalent standing, why would there be a winner and a loser at all?

amatonormativity is baked into the DNA of atla, and while some people choose to reject this framework entirely (zk friendship >>> ka romance anyday), it is also not wrong for zk shippers to be annoyed at the treatment zutara received within the context of said framework. since the creators clearly thought a romantic relationship was better than a platonic one, they could at least have picked the couple that actually made sense instead of adding insult to injury by making that romance kat.aang. it is not amatonormative to acknowledge that zutara was not afforded the distinction it should have been in the eyes of those who wrote it, because it’s obvious that the decision to keep zuko and katara’s relationship platonic wasn’t to respect their friendship, but to position them as inferior to kat.aang.

four, detractors of romantic zutara often argue that their platonic relationship is inherently better & i’ve discussed before why that isn’t the case, but i also hate this argument because it’s perpetuating the very thing that aromantic people are trying to get rid of in the first place: the hierarchization of love. it is not the “gotcha!” you think it is to genuinely state that platonic love is better than romantic love, because it’s still buying into the idea that there’s some kind of order to categorizing human relationships. the solution to amatonormativity isn’t changing what form of love gets to be at the top of the list — it’s doing away with the hierarchy entirely.

i ship zuko and katara because canon already gave me their friendship. i already know what their platonic relationship looks like and that gives me more room for imagination in developing their romantic one because it’s a place canon didn’t go.

at the end of the day, friendship and romance are just different avenues of exploring intimacy. neither is inherently more valuable than the other, and neither is inherently more problematic. and if you truly believe in dismantling amatonormative beliefs, you would recognize that making a distinction between the two is only perpetuating the problem, not challenging it.

[ktsumu]

A CHILDHOOD BEDROOM tw: allusions to divorce/his family dynamic, holiday comfort for the soul

Ushijima’s bedroom is nothing like the one you share. 

His walls are bare, save for a few frames with pictures that are older than the two of you. There’s a bulletin above his desk that’s naked down to the cork, a few tacks littering it at random.

He has his dresser, a small mirror on the wall hanging above it. The room is nearly devoid of colour aside from beige and navy, but the Christmas lights from the house across the street give it some red and green. Not much, but it’s good enough.

You walk along the perimeter of the room, the floors cold, hands tracing over his desk and chair. He watches you from the doorway, the door closing softly behind him as he does. You hear the same floor creak beneath his feet as he crosses to his bed, the frame sighing under his weight.

A print-out picture of him and a redhead (Satori, he’s mentioned) standing side-by-side in school uniforms is framed on said desk, thumbs up on all four of their combined hands. A team in maroon stands tall beside it, and he’s dead center. A three-person family — father, mother, boy — takes up the space beside that, the frame much more sophisticated than the others. He looks about ten.

The clock on his wall tells the time wrong; it hasn’t been reset since he graduated and moved out at eighteen. It looks like it’s a few hours behind, but it’s really telling you time six years back. 

“Your walls are so bare,” you comment, turning back to look at him where he’s sat. He offers an almost unnoticeable, lopsided smile. “Where are all the medals, huh? I’ve heard big things about Ushiwaka the Great, you know.”

You’re joking, but he answers, “In my drawer.”

(You check; it’s full of them.)

Ushijima watches you hold them, looking at all of the engravings before setting them back, the years stretching further back the deeper that you dig. It’s like your chest is swelling with pride over things he won before you knew him. 

“What is it?” he asks, eyes following you as you cross over to his bed, sitting down to face him. His brows furrow, leaning his back against the headboard that looks so comically small; then his lips tug up at the sight of gold around your neck. His teenage pride rests on your chest.

There is something so invasive about a childhood bedroom, about wearing what once was his entire life as he looks at it — a whole life you didn’t have the chance to watch lays itself out in front of you. This childhood doesn’t exist anymore (maybe it never really did) and yet you see it around you all the same. 

(It is invasive, but it is full of love. An empty room that feels so full.)

“Why doesn’t your mother display your medals in the house?” you ask, tilting your head. “Hell, my mom would’ve lined mine up in the window. And your desk is like a trophy factory.”

 “It’s not practical, I suppose.”

“So they just sit in here?”

Ushijima looks at you like he’s in thought. 

He shrugs. “Mostly,” he says, “my father has a few in California. My player portrait is on his office wall. My mother shows her affection in her own way.”

“Can we take some back home?”

“Why? They’re old.”

“I don’t mind,” you say, shrugging. “I’ll display them around the room for a bit, swap ‘em out when you rack some up this season.”

Ushijima just chuckles shortly, shaking his head as he moves down the bed, laying down flat. His feet hang off the end a bit, and the pillows are the same as they always were. “If you wish. You know I never stop you from anything.”

You hum. “God, does it echo in here?”

“Sometimes. It never used to.”

“When did it start?”

He knows when. “I’m not sure.”

You know, too. “That’s okay. Our room at home doesn’t echo, at least.”

“No, you won’t let it.”

“Never.”

Ushijima reaches out a hand, his left, and he twirls the medal you picked in his hand. You wear it still, and it looks like it gleams. His eyes flicker up to yours. 

“I love you,” you tell him. “You and your empty room.”

He sighs a laugh, one you taught him how to make, and he pulls you into his chest by the ribbon around your neck. He breathes, your head rises and falls with his chest, and the room comes alive; breathing with its maker, welcoming him home the best it can. You certainly help.

Ushijima looks at his bedroom walls, his broken clock; the house is not resetting, his parents’ old bed will always be half full and half made, but he thinks this is enough — coming back with you was enough. Now, when he leaves, he will remember a warm bed and leave to sleep in a warmer one. 

“Love?”

“Mm?”

“When we find a home we like enough to live in,” When. Not if, when. “I’d like to paint the walls with you.”

“Ooh, what colour?”

“Not white — or beige.”

You grin, angling your head up to see him. Ushijima is looking up at his clock, six years behind like he just got home from training camp, his boxes packed for the city.

(He meets you two years later.)

“Pick a swatch, baby. Just no neons.”

“Oh. I was thinking of a traffic cone orange.”

“Ha-ha.”

[crybaby-bkg]

Bakugou loves you, he really does, but he can’t help but be a little prickly sometimes. it’s not because he’s mad at you or anything that’s actively your fault, no. Sometimes he just likes to pick and be an ass to you because he finds your reactions funny, likes how your lip pouts, and how you huff at him whenever he pokes at you.

But it always irks you whenever he rejects your physical affection. It’s playful, the way he softly taps your fingers away from him when you wrap your arms around his middle while he cooks. You bite at his shoulder blade and he wiggles in your grasp, grumbles for you to stop fucking with him while he makes your damn soup.

And that irks you to no end, more than usual, for some reason. Chalk it up to pms or the weather or whatever the fuck, but you’re sick of it. You step beside him, turning until your butt hits the counter, folding your arms as you glare up at him.

“Well, if I can’t touch you, then you can’t touch me.” You declare childishly, and it makes Bakugou smirk at your petulance. He stirs the soup a few more times in silence, adding in more seasoning with a shake of his head while you stare him down.

After what feels like forever, he lays the spoon beside the pot and faces you with a hand resting on the counter and the other on his hip. He cocks his head at you, grinning now when he meets your frowning face.

“My poor baby,” he coos to you condescendingly, reaching out to grip your hip but you lightly smack his fingers away, same as he did you earlier. He expects that, and the next one, and the next. However, he doesn’t expect for it to last for the rest of the night, being unable to touch you.

At this point, he thinks he might be going stir crazy. He’s so used to the casual touches; squeezing your butt when you walk past, patting your cheek when you eat, rubbing your shoulders, massaging your calf on the couch. But he’s been rejected every time, and goddamn you, it’s not funny anymore.

So he blocks you in where you stand trying to leave the bathroom. To anyone else, he would look menacing, but to you, he just looks like an overstuffed teddy bear as he hunches his shoulders to his ears. He doesn’t look you in the eye, instead at your mouth, as he grumbles,

“M’sorry for being stupid. Now lemme touch you. Please.” He tacks on when he sees your eyes narrow. You stand there with your arms crossed for a few seconds, before humming and placing your hands on your hips.

“I’ll forgive you if you let me hold your boobs.” You counteroffer. His face scrunches up for a second at that.

“They’re not—you know what? Go ahead, have at it.” He tells you with a dramatic sigh, mirroring your position as he looks up to the ceiling. But as you cup his chest in your hands and squeeze his pecs and bury your face in it, Bakugou can’t help but smile a little. As long as he gets to do it back to you, he doesn’t mind one bit.

[iwritenarrativesandstuff]

Actually I might as well add onto my thoughts and opinions on what's going on with skk right now.

[ID: A screenshot from Bungou Stray Dogs Season 5 Episode 10. Dazai sits against the metal wall, holding his injured shoulder. His blood is spattered on the wall behind him. He looks up at Chuuya, who is standing before him with a gun to his head. End ID.]

I still think the drowning in 101 was a trap set by Dazai for Fyodor before he knew Chuuya would be there - it would be weird for him to sacrifice his partner and I see no reason he would flashback to some of their memories and have such a choked voice otherwise. Dazai is not like Mori. This has been long established since Dark Era - he is selfish, and thus bad at actually making the sacrifice play with someone he has an actual connection with. I think the trap was set, Dazai had no choice but to follow through, but hoped that Chuuya would break control and escape. He tries a speech which seems like it's going to be a very genuine farewell... only to switch tacks and play it off as though he doesn't care. I do think there was a possibility Chuuya could've died in that scene... but Dazai was deeply hoping he wouldn't.

Seems a silly thing, for Dazai to be relying on hope so much as a master strategist, but you have to remember that Dazai has a near unshakeable trust in Chuuya. He thinks very highly of him, and has a "Chuuya can push through anything" kind of mentality that he's had since they were teenagers. Of course Chuuya can break through the vampire brainwashing! He just needs the right impetus!

So we have Dazai do what he does best - try to piss off Chuuya. The "sorry there weren't any", the goading him into punching him - this is very typical behaviour for these two, and it might've actually worked if it weren't for Fyodor's intervention.

"Good-bye!" is probably a plan. It's the same name as one of Dazai-sensei's works (his last, unfinished work, in fact...), and we know Double Black's plans are named after the author's stories/poems. Note that it comes right after the first goading he does, when Chuuya is more likely to be agitated and thus aware. But also note that, if this is indeed a plan, then it's a little strange for it to be named after only Dazai's story, without incorporating Chuuya's. Their plans are named after combinations of their works' titles, remember? So, it can be reasonably assumed that this plan is solely Dazai's, that it's possible he came up with it on the fly, and that he is desperately trying to get Chuuya on board.

Unfortunately, the usual goading isn't working, so Dazai turns to something he only very rarely uses, and rarer still to Chuuya's face - and that is sincerity. He's trying to reach him, and I really think that's genuine. He's changing tactics, trying something else - because a) this plan won't work without Chuuya, and b) Chuuya is being mind controlled and you cannot convince me that Dazai isn't still royally pissed off about that. He needs to snap him out of it, now.

Even if this is a plan Dazai came up with on the fly, Chuuya will be able to catch on quickly and go along with it - but only if he is actually conscious enough to do so. Double Black's plans can only work when they are both on the same page, and right now - that's more than a little ambiguous. Dazai actually has no real way of knowing whether or not Chuuya heard him, or even if he did, if he is capable of acting on it - but Dazai's faith in Chuuya is so strong that he naturally assumes Chuuya can break through it. Having him shoot him like that came as a genuine shock.

Fyodor implicitly accuses Dazai of underestimating his partner... but I think it's the exact opposite. Dazai is so used to Chuuya being able to struggle through anything that for him apparently not to be able to in this situation is genuinely blindsiding.

It appears that Dazai, too, has been relying on Chuuya's strength.

Tldr: There is a plan, but it is solely Dazai's, not a typical joint skk plan and he has been trying to communicate it to Chuuya and break past the brainwashing - which means Dazai is actually being horribly genuine right now. Unfortunately... it doesn't seem like Chuuya is conscious enough to participate in this plan at the moment (though possibly conscious enough to, like Akutagawa, prevent himself from making a killing blow).

[lbulldesigns]

Wild Rune Foreshadowing Jayce, Heimendinger, and Ekko's roles in the coming episodes

I just had this sudden epiphany about the true significance of Jayce, Heimendinger, and Ekko's scene in the Wild Rune at the end of Act I.

The way that the Wild Rune distorts them is basically showing us what they are experiencing individually and foreshadowing their roles in the rest of the season.

Jayce:

We have this, honestly, really cool loop of Jayce which stands out from Heimendinger and Ekko's distortion. For one he's in tack, he isn't splintering apart or anything. Two, he looks at his previous self before facing forward which indicates that he's stuck repeating himself until we get to the end where he looks horrified at the Wild Rune and asks "what have we done" before attacking it with his hammer.

And going by how worn-out Jayce looks in Act II, his dialogue with Viktor, plus him just instantly attacking Viktor on sight. All points towards Jayce having been stuck in a time loop, and episode 6 is him finally breaking out of it.

I think the Wild Rune put him through this particular hell because it wants Jayce to fix his mistakes, but considering Jayce's habit of making decisions without fully thinking ahead (i.e. his deal with Silco, resurrecting Viktor, building the failsafe in a location that he didn't thoroughly vet first and making sure was safe) and then regretting said actions once things go wrong, the time loop could be the Wild Rune's way of forcing Jayce to make his mistakes until he either learns from them or learns to avoid them.

The glitching out we see before he shoots Viktor, going by Riot's way of showcasing mental struggles with individual characters i.e. Jinx seeing scratches and neon sketches when she has a breakdown, him splitting apart into more of himself can be a nod towards him reliving this experience again and again and again. He was prepared to talk at this point, and then he just starts shooting instead.

Heimendinger:

Now, onto Eldricheimer.

I've seen a lot of Biblically Accurate Heimendinger jokes going around, and this is mostly because of how his face splits apart and his eyes multiply.

I don't think the animators put this in just to show how disturbing the Wild Rune is, I think they wanted us to actually think of Eldrich beings when looking at him. For those who aren't well versed or know about H.P. Lovecraft's work, the Eldrich horrors in his stories share the same concept. They're creatures so ancient that looking upon them will drive you insane. They break the laws of our nature and are often hard to describe, much like biblically accurate angels who are described as having many eyes.

The reason why either of these beings are difficult to understand or describe is because they basically shoot knowledge straight into your brain, they show you the answers to the universe, but because our minds can't hold that much information, we go insane and perceive what we are experiencing as a horrific experience.

When Heimendinger is affected, his body is being held still and is facing forward. His arms are held stiffly by his side, as if he's being forced. And then his eyes splinter from his face and multiply (even on the wall behind him), with his many eyes staring outwards in wide eyed in horror.

The Wild Rune is forcing Heimendinger to look. It's forcing a person who has stayed so consistently and ignorantly blind to the point of sheer stubbornness to actually look.

Heimendinger, as we all know, doesn't take accountability for his actions. He is 200 years old, he assisted in the founding of Piltover, he lead the council throughout that time, and has basically allowed Zaun to fall so stupidly and pointlessly into destitution because he wouldn't look at what was happening in front of him. He stayed focused on his pride and joy, Piltover.

I speculate that, if we go by the theme we have so far with time distortion, that Heimendinger is being made to watch everything both past and future. This would drive a normal person insane, but Heimendinger is basically immortal therefore his mind would be able to handle the information overload; you don't live through centuries without being able to compartmentalize hundreds of years of memories.

And going by his League description, Heimendinger is a scientist that vows to understand the knowledge of the universe, both natural and magic. This is how we are going to get the unhinged Heimendinger who build mecha T-Rex's as shown in his splash art.

Ekko:

I thought that this was a pretty cool shot not gonna lie, I 100% believe that Ekko isn't dead, I mean we all understand his game counterparts history with time and there are still scenes with him that we haven't seen yet, so the revalation that his is a-okay is not that ground breaking.

But I really like where the writers and animators are going in regards to him acquiring his time manipulaton abilities for the show. Him creating a time machine because his a genius is good and all, but how much more poetic is it that he learns to master time by being taught by time itself and using both his newly acquired knowledge and his expertise in tinkering and inventing to then make the Z-Drive.

The boy who shattered time, being shattered apart.

And we all understand where his story is gonna go from here, he is going to be able to rewind time to fix things. Perhaps the Wild Rune imparted this knowledge onto him to counteract any mistakes that jayce would make, or to ensure that the best outcome would be achieved for whatever crisis (possible Void invasion) may be coming.

Or maybe it saw his wish to save Powder/Jinx from herself, but because fate has had a trajectory already outlined refuses to let him go that far back.

Perhaps the events of episode 6 are where the Wild Rune will allow this fate's story to be manipulated, like rewritting a chapter to determine a better ending to the book. There could be a chance that Jinx will play a pivitol role in the events to come, and that her dying before the upcoming battle will ensure a bad outcome... Or that could just be my own wishful thinking, I don't know.

[wellofdean]

OK, I was going to reblog this excellent post by @luckshiptoshore so go read it, because yes. Yes!! YES!!! But then when I got started my post got super long and I felt bad tacking it onto her post and decided to make my own in response to these tags:

#i am actually a bit obsessed by the whole hunting as queerness metaphor#it’s so clearly something everyone involved in the show is thinking about#supernatural

Gurl, me too! Like go back to the start! By the time Supernatural began, the backlash against the Joseph Campbell Monomyth-style mode of storytelling had already begun in the hallowed halls of USC film school, and yo: I was there at the time of Kripke's graduation, and my best friends from college are full scale big giant time filmmakers now, whose names I will not share on main because it's uncool, and I don't want that attention, but... yeah. I am referencing FIRST HAND SOURCES on this.

But, for a real source? The Oxford English Dictionary places the first use of the term "Queer Theory" in 1990, with Queer Studies as an option in the academy by 1992. I know the kids think it's a new-fangled thing, but Kripke graduated USC in 1996 (I graduated in 1995) and it was ALL THE RAGE by then. My friends read queer theory in their Critical Studies courses in the Film School, I read it in the College of Humanities getting my degree in Literature. By that time, you could not get through that school with any degree in any non-STEM subject without knowing about ye olde postmodern lenses, queer and feminist theory, and without knowing how to employ those lenses.

Queer refers to sexuality, yes, but the word's earliest use (again, according to the OED) is in the 1500's, meaning: strange, odd, peculiar, eccentric. Also: of questionable character; suspicious, dubious.

So, ok, in 2005, Enter Supernatural, episode 1:

Presented? Two brothers. One actively seeking credit in the straight world that is not available to him in the bosom of his family: Stanford, law school, hot co-ed girlfriend, the other bound to his fractured, wounded family by duty, yes, but also by love, living on the fringe, alone, fighting monsters, and chasing after his father's approval, and who has long since given up any dream of being 'normal'. Episode 1 presents Sam's call to adventure, which he refuses when it's just familial duty, honor and love calling him, but accepts when the show takes a very straightforward and very telling path by classically fridging his woman. Ok, now he's on board. Like John, whose motivation is another dead woman, his motivation is revenge. So far so straight!

Dean though: he's different. He is already on the adventure and he was not 'called' or given the option of accepting or refusing because he had no agency when his feet were set upon this road. He does not fit the straight world at all, because he is cobbled together out of love, duty, deep guilt, striving, desperation and fear. This is who he is now, in some elemental, incontrovertible way. It was not a choice for him, he was born to it. His mother is dead, and we later learn, she made the choices that brought them all to this fate. Dean remembers her idyllically, but he is not motivated by revenge, more than any other thing, he wants to be worthy. He wants his father's approval, his brother's love.

Enter Supernatural's main theme: fucked up relationships between men enmeshed in patriarchy, which will eventually expand to include fucking GOD HIMSELF.

And like, there are SO MANY CLEAR STEPS ALONG THE ROAD in season one, and I am not even talking about sexuality and gender here, but there is SO MUCH TO SAY about it in season 1. But I am not talking about that -- I am talking at a structural, narrative level, the whole thing is just fucking all the way queered, yo.

The big climax?

At the end of the season, Dean says: "I just want my family back together. You, me, Dad... it's all I have." He is Sam's mother, John's partner! His vulnerability and emotion is feminized and contrasted with Sam and John's more overtly driven by their more masculine/straight heroic revenge quest. John: "Sam and I can get pretty obsessed, but you always take care of this family." Only that's not John talking, it's Azazel, and Dean knows it is because his father would never forgive how soft he is, how he will always choose love and family over revenge. Then, in the end, the show makes a huge point of telegraphing that Sam is finally aligning with Dean by refusing to shoot Azazel because he's possessing John, and Sam just can't do that to Dean.

Sam and Dean are thus bound together and cemented into a marginalised path, living on the road, haunting liminal spaces and cheap motels, confronting the monstrous everyday. Sam is presented as the brains of the operation, he does research, logics his way through things (masculine) while Dean is the heart who acts impulsively and on instinct and intuition (feminine).

It later transpires that Sam has a piece of the monster inside himself, and Dean has to learn to love the monstrous, he has no choice, because Sam is his brother and then Cas... and, and, and!

Like... I could go on and on, citing ENDLESS EXAMPLES. This could be a literal book. Maybe one you need to read with a magnifying glass like my condensed edition of the OED. LIke, the queerness of Supernatural is DIZZYING and MYRIAD.

But basically? FROM THE START, hunting is a queered version of family, and within that, Dean is a queered version of a Campbellian hero. Hunting is a metaphor for otherness and liminality, and that's even before you say a WORD about sex. It starts in deviation from the norms of family, masculinity and expands from there on so many levels both in story and on a meta level. The story is flesh on queer fucking bones.

I'm so sorry, but anyone who thinks queerness was not BAKED INTO Supernatural and more specifically into Dean from DAY 1 has clearly never seen Dean's insane lip gloss in season 1, and vastly underestimates the cultural awareness of people who write shit in Hollywood, and also the other people who put pink lip gloss on pretty boys in Hollywood. Nothing that gets on your screen wasn't a fucking choice made and approved by a LONG LIST of people who know what they are about.

[starshideurfics]

Thirsty Thursday - Pumpkin

steddie, omegaverse, bones and boners, mpreg, mdni🔞

Eddie is the master of decorating for Halloween, but his prized possession is a life-sized, articulated skeleton that he got for the low price of free when Mr. Clarke replaced the replica human skeleton in his classroom with a new one.

It’s kinda big to store, so for the most part it stands in the corner of his and Steve’s living room, occasionally outfitted with a seasonal hat. At New Year’s, the skeleton is wearing a glittery top hat, a party blower stuck between its teeth. Steve and Eddie get home late, tipsy on cheap champagne after watching the ball drop at their local bar with Robin and Chrissy.

They giggle together as they drop onto the couch, talking about everything and nothing until suddenly Steve turns serious and says, “We should fuck. Right now.”

Eddie struggles to focus and half-slurs, “Loving the energy, babe, but why?”

Steve doesn’t answer right away, just bolts to his feet and stumbles over to the skeleton, pointing at it. “Because we need a Halloween baby!” He picks up a decorative candle, red and white with candy cane stripes, and waggles his eyebrows as he crudely thrusts it up through the pelvic opening on the skeleton. “C’mon, Eddie. Put a baby in me,” Steve begs, his hand slowing as he holds the candle in place, the image comical as Eddie imagines his driving his dick so deep into his omega that the tip reaches the bottom of his sternum.

Eddie nods, tripping over his feet in his haste to get to Steve, taking his face in his hands and kissing him soundly. Steve puts down the candle, and they giggle as they strip on their way to the bedroom.

🎃🎃🎃

Ten months later, Steve is ready to pop. He’s full-term, could go into labor any day, but he and Eddie are still having their friends over the night before Halloween for a party. Their 20-week ultrasound has pride of place, blu-tacked to the skeleton’s pelvis, and Steve is taking advantage of his pregnant belly for his costume. He asks Will to paint the jack o’lantern face, and it turns out perfectly.

Eddie is dressed as a scarecrow, complete with fake birds on his shoulders, and Steve has to keep reminding him to be careful and avoid smearing the paint, his mate constantly needing to touch his belly and cradle their pup.

The party ends early when Steve’s water breaks around nine. Their baby is right on time; Jack Munson is born at three in the morning—at the witching hour on Halloween.

[the-californicationist]

Hey 🫵🫶🏻! I love your John Price fics A LOT and I wanted to thank you for that<3 I wanted your opinion! How do you like Price's new skin?!

I'm just thinking about that!!! On a camouflage/infiltration mission and he fucks reader in this outfit!

Me right now looking at this photo:

Cold Shoulder

I wasn't sure how this one was gonna go, but I hope this is close to what you imagined! <3 <3 love this outfit. TW: fem reader, dub con?

"There you are," he growled, lowering his gun when he realized it was you.

You were holed up in a small alcove of a cave on the west side of the mountain. It was snowing, and you were doing your best to keep warm, but it was getting more difficult by the minute. And now, you had your angry captain yelling at you.

"You could've been killed, Sparrow. What the fuck were you thinking? This is a full klick away from the RV."

He closed in on you. Price was still fully geared up, and his snow hood shaded his eyes, making them all the more menacing. He was wearing his shining skull mask, but the sharp teeth below it were scarier than the gleaming bones.

Price grabbed you by the arms and pulled you up to face him,

"Answer me, soldier."

His eyes searched yours, looking for the truth. You swallowed your spit, thick and suffocating, trying to comply,

"I don't know, sir."

"You don't know? You don't know how many men I fuckin' killed to get up here to find you. I thought..." His anger cracked like glass, sudden and violent, "I thought I lost you."

"What do you care... sir?"

The words tumbled out of you before you could catch them. It was hard to call him by his title when you were basically calling him out. But, you managed to tack it on to the end.

The problem was, you hadn't wanted to be saved by your captain. You had wanted to handle your ex-fil on your own. After all, it was he who had told you that you two should stop what you were doing. All the sneaking around and finding comfort in each other in the middle of the night. He had said it needed to stop. So, why was he so concerned about you now? You seethed,

"I could've gotten out of here on my own if you hadn't disconnected my sat-tab! I was closing in on their camp. Soap and his explosion blew my cover and I --"

"That explosion saved your bloody life, little bird. You jeopardized the mission, and you're not using your head. I know you're upset with me, but..."

"Upset? You told me you loved me, John!"

A cold, snowy silence stretched out between you. Even though he was so close to you, you could barely hear his heavy breaths. You could smell him. He was spice and tobacco and oak moss. His sweat and soap tangled with all of his other scents, reminding you of all of the times you had breathed him in.

Suddenly, striking like a viper, he grabbed you by the back of your neck and pulled you toward his face. You thought he would kiss you, but he didn't. He held you just close enough and said,

"Turn around, Corporal."

"What?" You were confused, but you were at his mercy.

Price turned you around himself, shoving you down on all fours in the stony floor of the cave. The rocks were wet beneath your hands. You heard the zipper of his pants, and you turned to look at him, shocked. He snarled, right in your ear, as he leaned over you,

"Won't listen. Gonna have to make you behave."

He started to pull down your pants, dragging them over your thick ass cheeks, revealing your pussy to him. He took off his glove with his teeth and began to play in you, telling you,

"Can't have you riskin' your life like that, little bird. I do love you. Can't seem to fuckin' help it. Tried to stay away. Can't. I can't."

Then, you felt it. His cock was at your warm entrance, pressing into you in that familiar way but at an unfamiliar pace.

Usually, he treated you like his soft little princess despite the fact that you were a seasoned soldier. He would eat you for hours, sometimes, making you dripping and pliant enough to take his heavy girth.

But, not now. Now, he was on a mission to make you remember how precious you really were. You needed to learn, and he was ready to teach you.

You screamed as he pressed your walls apart. It wasn't pain, but it was intense. He went slowly, but he didn't relent. As he began to pump himself in and out of your body, he lay his hand down hard across your ass, smacking you and letting the skin burn beneath his palm,

"Tha's it, birdie. Sing for me. Loud. Let me hear you."

Price's huge rod was fucking you so deep at this angle, and he wanted more. So, he pushed your shoulders down, forcing your chest into the snow. Your cheek hurt from the ice.

"So wet for me. Almost like you wanted me to find you," he teased.

What could you tell him? That he was right?

All you did to respond was pulse around him, gripping him hard inside of your body, making him stutter in his rhythm.

He let out a low growl and grabbed your ponytail in his hand, arching your back up towards him, barking commands at you,

"Say you're sorry! Tell me you're sorry for riskin' your fuckin' life up here on this goddamn mountain. Say it!"

"I'm sorry..." You managed.

"Sorry, what?" He bit down hard on your neck, marking you with his teeth.

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Good girl. See? You're so good. So good for me. Mmmf. Fuck!"

He pounded into you mercilessly, and his other hand began to play with your clit, smearing your wet juices all over your lower lips and skin, dragging it up over your mons and onto your belly.

"Fuck, you're so wet, Sparrow. I'm gonna come in you."

"Yes, sir."

"Fuck!"

You felt his hot come pool in your body, radiating through your skin, wet on wet on wet. Your ass cheeks stung, your body ached, and yet, you were so satisfied. You'd never seen Price get so worked up, but you wanted more. He had created a monster.

He fastened his pants and sat with you in his lap, breathing heavy in the darkness of his hood.

"Sparrow, I love you. I can't lose you. I won't. Don't do that to me."

"I love you, too, John."

You nuzzled against his neck, smelling his familiar scent, waiting for the next time you could misbehave.

[wannab-urs]

Title: Under Your Skin

Pairing: Jack “Whiskey” Daniels x Javier Peña x F!Reader

Summary: You’ve worked on Chucho’s ranch since you were 15 years old, grew up with Javi, loved Javi… He comes back after nearly 20 years to find you hooking up with a certain former secret agent. He’s jealous, for sure, but of who? 

Warnings: mdni, 18+ post season 3 of Narcos, AU where Jack gets kicked out of the Statesmen instead of burgered, Javi being bi and repressed, Jack being a bisexual slut, SMUT, MMF dynamics, oral (f receiving), javi being a dick, oral (m receiving), javi tries to hit jack, gay kissing (!!!), making out, face sitting, reader kinda gets used and likes it, nipple play, throat fucking, Eiffel tower moment, brief f masturbation, brief m masturbation, pet names (sugar, cowboy, baby, hermosa), truly unreasonable amounts of cursing i’m sorry i talk like this, and also unreasonable amounts of southern phrasing, again sorry I talk like this, unprotected PIV, creampie, cum eating, teasing Javi, actually 90% porn with like a little backstory, kind of enemies to lovers, they’re all ranch hands technically, also they’re all romantically into each other but also javi is dumb and jack can’t believe anyone would want him for more than sex haha oops :)  WC: 3.5k

A/N: This is my @pedrostories Secret Santa gift to the lovely @javier-pena!! I hope it’s everything you wanted ahhhhh. I hope it's ok that this has nothing to do with Christmas and really doesn't even take place in the winter. I saw that you like Whiskey and Javi P, cowboys , and poly fics and like... could not resist. I tried my hand at enemies to lovers, a trope I love to read, but I think it came out pretty mild. I am so excited for you to read this!!!!! Happy Holidays ❤️

credits: dividers by @saradika // Thanks for the beta @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin, @beskarandblasters, and @idolatrybarbie

Jack Daniels Masterlist | Javier Peña Masterlist | Main Masterlist | AO3 | Kofi

Working on a ranch isn’t easy, and it usually isn’t even all that fun. But it does have its perks. One such perk is currently on his knees with his face buried in your pussy. One of your legs is over Jack’s shoulder and you use it to pull him even closer, grinding your clit on his hooked nose. Just as you’re about to come, the door to the tack room slams open. You and Jack jump apart and you quickly start stuffing your legs back into your jeans. 

“For FUCKS sake, Daniels. This is the third time this week. Get back to fucking work.” Javier Peña, face red and chest heaving, looks like he just caught his girlfriend cheating on him. “And you. You should fucking know better.” 

You fasten the button of your jeans and smirk at Javi. “Know better than what, Javi?”

“Than to fuck around with some asshole like Daniels.” 

“He’s nicer than you,” you snark before storming out, making sure to slam your shoulder into Javi on the way out the door. He ruined a perfectly good orgasm.

You’ve worked on Chucho’s ranch since you were 15 years old, taking care of the horses at first before graduating to fixing the fences and caring for the cattle as well. You and Javi had been best friends before he ran off to Colombia, spending every day after school and every second of daylight in the summer together on his father’s ranch. 

You had been in the back pew the day he never showed up for his and Lorraine’s wedding. You like to think you had something to do with that. He clearly, clearly, wanted out of Laredo, wanted nothing to do with the wife and 2.5 kids and picket fence life he was barrelling toward. 

His bachelor party was just the two of you drinking in the hayloft, you begging him to do what he’d always wanted to and him going on about duty and obligation. You’d almost kissed him that night, but stopped yourself. He was getting married the next day, for fuck’s sake. You’re glad he listened to you, in the end, even if he disappeared without so much as a goodbye.

In the years he was gone, you never really forgot about him. The truth was that he had been your first love, but you’d never worked up the courage to tell him, and then he was getting married and then he was gone. 

Jack looked so much like Javi that when he first showed up on the ranch, you asked if he was Javi’s cousin or something, a long lost Peña. He assured you he was from Kentucky and had no relation to the Peñas. Jack had been some sort of law enforcement, and the reason he was here on a ranch in Texas was a mystery to everyone but him. There were rumors he was fired, banned from law enforcement altogether, but nothing could be confirmed. He doesn’t seem like the type to have a bad past, but you never really know.

Jack is charming in a loud, overly confident sort of way. He’s smart as a whip and funny to boot. He’s a damn good time and he’s never asked anything of you but a good fuck and better company. It’s really more than you could have hoped for with Javi gone and no other prospects in town… that you had any interest in anyway.

Now, nearly a couple decades after he left, Javi is back working for his dad. He won’t talk about Colombia, even though everyone calls him a hero. You’d think he’d want to brag about his accomplishments down there, but he reminds you of war vets, the way he shuts down when anyone brings it up. 

He’s different now than the old Javi, your Javi, was. He’s surly, quick to snap at people, smokes like a freight train, and never does anything but sit in the bunkhouse and drink. You think you could handle all the change if he’d just talk to you. 

You were so close as kids, but now it’s like you don’t know him at all. The bright, funny, hot-headed kid you knew is gone and some asshole has replaced him. He barely speaks to you at all, but he treats Jack even worse – insinuating Jack can’t do his job, calling him an asshole at any given opportunity, even up and leaving a room when the man walks in. It’s ridiculous and you can’t figure out why he’s acting like this. Jack has never so much as looked at Javi sideways, even after all the harsh treatment.

You head to your room in the bunkhouse, all your work taken care of for the day already. It’s not like you were neglecting your job to hook up with Jack, as much as Javi might like to think that. You push open the door to your room and find Jack lounging in your bed, shirtless and barefoot. 

“Hey there, pretty girl,” Jack smiles at you, his eyes scrunching at the corners. God he’s cute. 

“Hi, cowboy. Made yourself at home, did you?” You start stripping out of your work clothes, not caring about Jack’s presence. Nothing he hasn’t seen before. Jack gets off the bed and pulls your mostly naked body into his chest, nuzzling your neck. 

“We got interrupted earlier.” 

“Fucking asshole. He’s just mad he’s not getting any.”

“May be more right than you know, sugar.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him but shrug off the comment, dropping to your knees and working at Jack’s belt buckle. 

Javi hates that son of a bitch, he really does. He’s always sneaking off work to fuck whatever willing idiot falls for his charming smile and his stupid broad shoulders and his long bowlegs. 

He can’t believe you of all people fell for it, keep falling for it. Sure he’s pretty, but the guy is an asshole. Two days ago, he caught him in the store room with his hand down Jose’s pants. The guy is a slut, plain and simple. You’re too fucking good for him. 

Javi isn’t completely sure why Jack gets under his skin so bad. At least not in any way he’ll admit to himself or anyone else. Jack is charming without being sleazy, smart, good at his job, funny. There were rumors that Jack had done bad things in his past, though there’s nothing about the man that indicates he had, aside from his silence on the topic. Something Javi can’t honestly hold against him, considering his own refusal to open up. There’s no real reason for Javi to hate him, but he does. Everything the other man does sets him into a rage, his face hot, chest heaving, fists clenching. He wants to put his fist through a wall. 

He’s not quite sure where he went wrong with you. Sure, leaving for nearly 20 years does a number on a friendship, but he’s pretty sure it shouldn’t be this bad. You haven’t done anything wrong, other than fuck around with Jack, but every time he speaks to you now it’s a biting remark. A criticism of your work ethic, your choice in bed fellows, even your outfits. It’s like he has no control over his own damn mouth.

Javi knows he’s in the wrong, knows he should apologize for his comment earlier. He heads to the bunkhouse to find you. Your room is two doors down and across the hall from his. Javi doesn’t bother knocking, pushing the door open.

“Hey, do you have a sec–” Javi freezes in your doorway, catching an eyeful of you with Jack fucking Daniels’ cock in your mouth. Jack catches his eye and fucking winks at him. Javi ignores the twitch in his jeans and closes the door, stalking down the hall to his own room and slamming his door behind him.

Twice in one day? Seriously? He takes back the apology before he can ever offer it to you. This is just ridiculous. What do you see in Jack that you don’t see in him? And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? Javi wants you for himself and he’s pissed that Jack got to you while you he was off not catching Escobar. 

There’s a knock on his door and then, “Peña?” Fucking Jack Daniels. 

“Piss off, Whiskey. Not in the mood.”

Jack opens the door anyway, steps inside and shuts it behind him. Javi takes his disheveled hair, still bare chest and feet. The man hadn’t even bothered to button his jeans. Javi is on his feet in the other man’s face in seconds. “I said piss off, Daniels. Something about that you don’t understand?” 

“No need to be hostile, Peña, I just wanted to check on you. Stormed out of there pretty quick.” Jack doesn’t back up an inch. 

“Forgive me if I don’t want to see her with your cock down her throat.” 

“Why, Jav? You like her or something?” Javi shoves Jack until his back hits the wall, hard. “Or is it because you’re afraid you’ll like it too much?” Javi sees red. He swings on Jack, but Jack catches his fist and pulls the other man into his chest. 

“Fuck you,” Javi growls it, lips almost grazing Jack’s, their mouths are so close together. 

“That an offer?” Jack smirks. If Jack didn’t know better, he’d think he heard Javi’s breath hitch in his throat at that. Before he can wonder if Javi is gonna try to hit him again, Javi crashes their lips together. 

Jack drops Javi’s arm and grabs the collar of his shirt in both hands instead. Jack licks into Javi’s mouth, slots a thigh between Javi’s and feels the other man’s cock getting hard against his leg. Jack walks him back toward the bed, tugging at the buttons of Javi’s shirt. 

Suddenly, the door opens and Javi flies back from Jack as if he’d shoved him, sprawling on the bed. Jack doesn’t even turn to look at you, just stares Javi down.

 “Hey, I heard…” you trail off, taking in the scene in front of you. Jack standing in the middle of the room, looking even more disheveled than the state you’d left him in. Javi spread out on the bed, shirt half untucked and half unbuttoned, his dick clearly hard in his jeans. “What am I looking at here?”

“Nothing,” Javi spits out. 

“Me and Jav had a little fight, but we kissed and made up, Sugar.” Jack winks at you and you feel your cheeks heat, feel a flutter of arousal in your belly. 

“Oh really?” You run your tongue along your top teeth, trying and failing to contain a smirk.

Javi furrows his brow at you. Do you sound… excited? Jack glances back and forth between the two of you. 

“Why don’t you close the door?” Jack asks you, his voice low. You kick the door closed behind you and walk over to Javi. You take his face in your hands and tug him toward you until he’s sitting up on the bed.

“Close your mouth ‘fore flies get in, baby.” He snaps his jaw shut and you press a chaste kiss to his lips. “This okay?” Javi nods slowly. You climb onto the bed, straddling Javi’s thighs, and kiss him again, deeper and longer than the first. 

Jack makes his way across the room and settles on his knees behind Javi, gripping his hips and pressing his lips behind his ear. 

“How about this? Is this okay?” Jack whispers. 

“Y-yeah,” Javi honest to god stutters. This is not where he thought this was going. He doesn’t even like men. Not usually. 

Javi kisses you like his fucking life depends on it. He sucks your tongue into his mouth, tangles his own with yours. Drags his mouth down your jaw line, your throat, leaves a mark on your collarbone. You finish unbuttoning Javi’s shirt and Jack pulls it off him and tosses it on the floor before he sucks his own mark into Javi’s neck and Javi bites back a moan at the feeling. He buries his face in the crook of your neck. 

“I um- I don’t really-” Javi’s face burns hot. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. 

“It’s alright, I gotcha.” Jack runs his hands up and down Javi’s sides, soothing him. “Let’s start with something you’re familiar with, huh? Or at least I hope you are.” Jack slides off the bed, silently communicating with you what his plan is. 

You push Javi until he’s on his back in the center of the bed. You stand up and strip your panties and t-shirt off before you crawl up his body, dropping kisses on the soft curve of his stomach, his chest, his throat. You settle your knees on either side of his head, your soaked pussy hovering just over his face. This he can do, he thinks.

He grabs your thighs and licks a stripe from your core to your clit. You moan, one hand braced on the wall in front of you and the other fisted in his hair. He pulls you flush with his mouth and starts moving your hips for you, making you ride his face. He thrusts his tongue in and out of you while you grind on his nose, much like you had Jack’s earlier. They’re both so fucking beautiful, fuck. 

Jack gets situated between Javi’s spread thighs and takes in the sight of you straddling his face. It might be the most gorgeous thing he’s ever seen. Your head thrown back in ecstasy, Javi’s strong arms pulling you back and forth on his face. 

Jack palms Javi through his jeans and he hears him moan into your skin. Jack strips his own jeans off, then drags Javi’s down far enough to free his cock. Jack’s mouth waters at the sight. Javi is thick, long, uncut. Fuckin’ gorgeous. He sucks the tip of Javi’s cock into his mouth, savoring the salty taste of his precum. Javi lets out a deep, muffled groan straight into your core and it sends you over the edge. Your cries only encourage Jack more and he takes Javi to the root, bobbing his head up and down the man’s length. 

Javi holds you to his face while he works you through your orgasm. He finally lets you go, and you fall to the side to catch your breath and shake off the aftershocks. 

Javi slides both hands into Jack’s hair, thrusting lightly into Jack’s mouth. Jack reaches a hand between his own legs and strokes himself while he lets Javi use his throat. You just came, but the sight of the two men together has your cunt clenching around nothing. You drop your hand to your clit and rub circles in time to Javi’s thrusts. 

Javi pulls Jack off him abruptly. “Fuck- you’re really good at that.”

“I know,” Jack smirks at Javi, his voice rough. 

“I’d really like to come in her tight little cunt though, instead of your mouth.” Javi looks over to you, eyes full of lust. “If that’s okay?” 

“More than okay, baby.” You shoo the boys off the bed and lay across it with your head hanging off the edge. Jack moves to stand by your head and slips the head of his cock between your open lips. Javi feels a twinge of jealousy at the way you both seem to know exactly what the other wants without saying a word aloud. But then you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer to you and he lets it go. If this is the only time Javi gets to have you, he’s not going to waste it being jealous of the guy who just sucked him off. 

Javi drags his cock through your soaked folds. “So wet for us, baby.” Javi groans as he pushes inside you, slowly sliding in to the hilt. “Fuck, you feel so good.” 

Jack cradles your head in one hand while he shallowly fucks your throat, playing with your tits with his free hand. He tweaks your left nipple and you moan around his cock. Every thrust from Javi pushes you further down Jack’s length, forcing him to fuck your throat. You’ve never been used like this before, like some sort of proxy for two men to fuck each other, but you fucking love it. You feel close to coming again already, and no one has touched your clit in minutes. 

Jack pulls Javi to him and crashes their mouths together. Javi lets Jack plunder his mouth for a moment before sucking on the other man’s tongue, drawing a moan from the cowboy’s throat. He may have never kissed a man, but he’s been with enough women to manage that. 

The two men sync up, thrusting into your holes at the same time and you feel like you’re ascending to another fucking plane of existence. There are no thoughts in your head except for Javi and Jack and how fucking amazing you feel. And, briefly, the thought of them both stuffed in your core, stuffing you fuller than you’ve ever been. You clench at that thought, and Javi has enough presence of mind to drop his hand to your mound, rubbing messy circles on your clit. 

Your body tenses, back arching as you get closer and closer to the edge, which only serves to open your throat up more for Jack. Javi grabs your hips with both hands and starts pulling you onto his cock, hitting your g-spot every time. Suddenly, your entire body tenses and your pussy flutters around Javi’s thick cock. Your vision blacks out as your eyes roll into the back of your head, coming harder than you ever have before.

Jack comes down your throat with absolutely no warning, too lost in Javi’s mouth on his and your mouth around his cock to say a word. You grab his hips and hold him deep in your throat, swallowing around him. The force of his orgasm knocks him forward on the bed, hands planted on either side of your hips and face buried in the crook of Javi’s neck as he paints your throat. 

Javi thrusts into you a few more times before his hips still, flush with yours. He comes deep inside you for what feels like forever, his cum spilling out of you and dripping onto the bed. 

He pulls out of you slowly, dropping a kiss to your thigh before he goes to get a towel to clean you up. When he comes back, he finds you with your legs thrown over Jack’s shoulders, the man eating Javi’s cum out of your cunt. Javi’s spent dick gives a valiant twitch at the sight. 

“Guess I didn’t need the towel then?” Javi jokes, tossing it onto the bedside table and climbing back onto the bed. Jack sucks your clit into his mouth one last time and pulls off with a pop. 

“Guess not,” Jack smirks. You and Jack settle in beside Javi, Jack pulling the man’s head to his chest and you resting your head on Javi’s torso. You all sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes. 

“You’re not uh-” Javi closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “You’re not gonna tell my old man I-”

“That you like boys?” you snicker. 

“Not foolin’ anyone in those tight little jeans you wear, Jav.”

Javi presses his fingers into his eyelids and takes another deep breath. “Guys I’m serious.” 

“Of course. We won’t tell anyone. Not til you’re ready.” You lean up and kiss his cheek before nuzzling back into Javi’s tummy. 

“So you gonna tell her, or am I?” Jack looks like a kid in a candy store.

You sit up quickly. “Tell me what?” 

“Don’t–” Javi tries to plead with Jack.

“Sugar, he tried to hit me for messing around with you,” Jack interrupts. “Think he might have a crush.” 

“What the fuck, man?” Javi’s brow furrows so deep you think it might get stuck that way. 

Jack ignores him and addresses you, “He’s always starin’ at you and checking up on you and asking you for shit he can damn well get himself.”

“Javi, is it true?” 

Javi looks up at the ceiling as if he’s praying for God to have mercy on him. 

“Yeah, hermosa. It’s true. Lo- Liked you since I was a kid.” 

You smile so wide it hurts and wrap your arms around Javi, pulling him to you for another long, deep kiss. “Javi, baby, I was in love with you before you ever even got with Lorraine. And I never stopped loving you. Jack was just a stand-in, until he wasn’t.” You look over at Jack with a wince. “Sorry, Jack. No offense?” 

“None taken, sugar.” Jack smiles good-naturedly and kisses you on the forehead. “Could we do this again sometime? Or are y’all cuttin’ me out of the deal now?” 

“You’re not going anywhere, cowboy. Javi likes you too.” 

“Wait really?” Jack seems genuinely surprised. 

Javi drops his head into his hands and groans. “I need a fucking cigarette.”

Oh and here's a silly little moodboard thing I made