#maybe i just need to figure out how i'd personally like to go about the story from a literary perspective

[bumblingbeezzz]

I agree more with the insight that they basically just wanted a situation where they thought they could be important. The shooting POC thing is a bit of a wild leap. Like, there's some overlap, but I really think those traits are not connected to a desire for a post-apocalyptic world. We're talking about dudes who watched the Walking Dead and thought it made for good vacation plans from the drudge of average modern life. Okay, admittedly I was somewhat in that ballpark at one point. Never been the least bit conservative, but in my fantasies I found the idea of living in apocalyptic scenarios to be thrilling. Terrifying af (zombies are one of my worst fears), but thrilling. I liked the idea of having surplus resources to just go out and gather in pre-processed and pre-packaged form for free, enjoying the empty liminal spaces of abandoned places, and eventually just starting civilization over from scratch. Not because I thought there was anything so wrong with the world that it needed to be scrapped Biblical-flood style (other than feeling generally overcrowded and thinking about the taxing effect of every person's carbon footprint on the environment) I just, well I don't know really, I probably never truly wanted it because I never liked the idea of huge amounts of people dying, and I'm sure being in survival mode all the time would've gotten old pretty quick and I'd miss being able to chill with all the glory of modern conveniences. Part of the supposed appeal was definitely seeing various characters fail so badly at surviving because of really basic failures of common sense and safety, I guess it had that weird effect on me that I was eager to try and do better. Go figure. I am wiser now, hopefully obviously. If faced with that outcome, I'd probably kill myself pretty early on, maybe right off the bat, just to avoid a more horrific death. Or maybe I'd try for a bit, see how long I last, I dunno. Maybe I'd make some friends, help them stay alive. People who, just four Sundays ago, were going to movie theaters and posting on their socials, posting pictures of themselves in their new favorite outfit. Now are spattered with dried blood and mud, they wear slings and pouches, make-shift armor of plastic tubing and duct-tape. People who've been hardened and weathered the way the sun dries leather; by the choices they've had to make, the losses they've endured, and the emotional armor the've had to construct to adapt to this unforgiving new world. Well, it's definitely something more suited to exploring in fiction.

[nothorses]

Well that was a lot of really creative ways to avoid saying donate to a Palestinian.

Hey, I understand the hurt and the panic you're feeling, and I'm worried about Palestinians too. I'm hurting too, and I'm worried too.

This ask sucked to receive. It hurt a little to feel like the effort I have been putting in to promote Palestinian fundraisers, particularly to double check that what I promote is vetted by someone trustworthy so that people do not lose more faith in the validity of these donation efforts on my account. More than that, though, this ask made me feel angry and isolated.

The post you're referring to is a post about local community support networks, and what I said on it was just a list of small things people can do to build local community connections, starting from 0. It's for people who don't think they have friends and don't know how to make them, or who don't know how they can translate friendship into material support and action that benefits the whole.

This ask made me feel frustrated that you don't understand that point, or the importance of it. Or maybe you do, and you weren't willing to see or engage with that point because of other feelings you were having. Maybe you chose to direct those feelings at me because you needed an outlet for them, and you weren't thinking about the impact your actions would have on someone else.

Donating to Palestinians is also good, important work. I have fundraisers in my pinned post for that reason. I haven't had time or energy to go through the asks I've received to verify, promote, and add them to that list in a while, and I feel bad about that! And it's weird to me that you think I'd avoid advocating for that after all the energy I've put into doing exactly not that.

And like, again, I feel bad that I haven't done more. Part of that is because my expectations for myself are too high, and I am a person who tends to feel guilty over stuff that I shouldn't feel guilty for. Part of that is because I really could be doing better. I just haven't figured out how to do that in a sustainable way yet; which also means getting over the guilt so I can redirect that energy into productivity.

I wanted to respond to this ask with the frustration and irritation I was feeling when I first read it. I'm choosing not to because, when I started drafting that response in my head, I realized that telling you off for guilt-tripping me in this hostile, unproductive way would be hypocritical.

Community connection is more important than ever right now. We need each other. We need patience, forgiveness, grace, and connection. We need to be vulnerable with one another, even and especially when it's hard. When it hurts.

I would have preferred you ask me why I didn't add a suggestion to donate to Palestinians in my response. Better yet, that you add it yourself! I would have been happy to reblog that addition, and receiving that as a reminder, or as building on what I said, would have felt encouraging. It would have made me feel more connected to you, more hopeful, and more excited to do this work. It would have made me excited to dig into my ask box and promote more Palestinian fundraisers, in solidarity with them as well as with you.

I understand why you didn't do that; it hurts right now. It's hard to make the choice to embody critical hope in the face of so much pain. I don't blame you for the guilt I feel, and I know I can't let that discourage me from doing work to help other people either.

I also know you're less likely to hear any of this than the uninvolved people who'll see it without feeling any defensiveness over this critique of your choices, and like, that's fine too. But I don't think I'm wasting my breath either way; I want to set an example in my community, promote connection, and promote the healing and growth that will allow us to do the hard work we need to do in the coming years. We're entering a fight, and we need to do it together, with grace for each other and the vulnerability that will allow us to connect and heal. We need to practice the future we're fighting for, and we have to start now.

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for @qwertynerd97 behind the cut. If I had a nickel for every time an unethical billionaire cloned the superhero archnemesis he's obsessed with, I'd have two nickels. Which is not a lot, but it's weird that it happened twice. (( chrono || non-chrono ))

They really do get to Amity in, like, surprisingly good time, all things considered? At least Tucker’s surprised, anyway. If nothing else he would’ve expected a random ghost attack he’d have to teach Superboy how to fight ghosts really quickly during to happen, given . . . literally everything about his entire life since the age of fourteen, pretty much. Or maybe a supervillain or something, since Superboy’s in the mix right now and all. 

Mind, Tucker definitely did go over how ghosts work and all on the flight over and also during they two convenience store snack/pee/walk breaks they took, since he would personally like to avoid the demi-Kryptonian whose DNA he desperately needs free access to getting overshadowed. And also, like, it’s just a dick move to take anybody to Amity Park without mentioning the ghosts and how to deal with them. 

There are just . . . so many ghosts. So many. 

So, so many.

Superboy hopefully actually listened to at least most of the “Amity Park: Ghosts, Spirits, & Not Getting Your Ass Spectrally Kicked By Either 101” speech and didn’t just tune him the frick out for infodumping on him too hard and talking his ear off, but it at least seemed like he was listening? Like, he asked some questions and stuff and seemed to be following along okay, more or less? Mostly? 

Tucker really, really hopes Superboy listened to the ghost speech. 

“Okay, so like, avoid anybody too glowy for right now, maybe?” Tucker says as Superboy lets him down on the sidewalk just down the block from FentonWorks, which Superboy is currently squinting through his sunglasses at. Which, like–fair, Tucker figures. Definitely fair. “As in let me deal with anybody too glowy for right now, that’s probably just for the best right now. Like I’ll tell you who’s cool and who I’m gonna have to soup and who we need to flee from in a blind panic, yeah?” 

“‘Soup’?” Superboy repeats skeptically. 

“Thermos thing,” Tucker clarifies. “Remember the Thermos thing? We call it souping, sometimes. Also I mentioned we need to not say anything whatsoever to Danny’s parents, right, like I definitely mentioned that being a thing?” 

“Seven times,” Superboy says. “One of which was a seventeen-minute rant about their shitty tech skills.” 

“They don’t test! They don’t even have any basic safety protocols in place!” Tucker hisses. “Literally they got one of their kids literally killed via a portal to the Infinite Realms with no safety locks on it and didn’t even notice! Like I’m not this liminal because the Fentons have safety locks or literally any basic shielding or food safety knowledge! Which, on that note, don’t eat anything they offer you, if they offer you anything. Probably they won’t, they’re not really the type to think about basic human needs or general human politeness, but yeah.” 

“Yeah, I’m still not clear on the whole ‘liminal’ thing,” Superboy says. “The liminal thing is confusing.” 

“So are literally our entire lives,” Tucker replies frankly, making a mental note to get him a mini-primer or something. Maybe some notes or a spreadsheet. Like just whatever Superboy can brush up on while they’re poking at his DNA or whatever, basically. There is no such thing as knowing too much about ghosts, as far as he’s concerned. “So anyway, yeah, just lemme take the lead with the Fentons. Actually any Fentons? Just–let me take the lead in general, for right now. Like–uh. Please?” 

Probably Superboy is not gonna be down with that, actually, because he’s–actually Tucker’s not sure, is he an emancipated minor, or . . . ? Like, dude makes his own money, obviously, and he does his hero work solo, plus it’s not like he called any parent/guardian about leaving Hawaii on basically a whim, so . . . yeahhhhh. 

“I’m down with that,” Superboy says with an easy shrug, spreading his hands. “Your stomping grounds, man, not mine.” 

Tucker stares blankly at him for a moment, then decides not to look that gift poltergeist in the mouth. 

“Cool,” he says. “Uh–thanks. Uh–this way?” 

“Oh yeah?” Superboy asks, cocking an eyebrow at Fentonworks’ whole . . . Fentonworks-ness as he looks at it over the top of his sunglasses. Tucker boils in embarrassment, and also boils in renewed bewilderment about how pretty this dude’s eyes are. Just–pretty. So pretty. Tucker just came out to rescue Danny’s clone-sister/daughter/cousin and he is honestly feeling so attacked right now? “Good thing I sprung for the local tour guide.” 

“In my defense, this town is so much weirder than you know,” Tucker says. “Just–so much weirder.” 

“There’s this eternal party in space I just go to whenever I’m bored,” Superboy says. “Got a teleport thing that takes me, it’s kinda sick.” 

“. . . okay so your opinion of ‘weird’ is not universal, is what I’m hearing here,” Tucker says after a moment. Danny would friggin’ love that, if they weren’t all freaking out about Dani right now. 

“That’s what they tell me,” Superboy replies with another easy shrug. 

“I’m definitely making the mistake of assuming you’re a normie, yeah,” Tucker says, which is definitely a mistake he keeps making, for whatever reason. Probably, like, habit from interacting with literally every other living being he’s encountered in his life up until two years ago, he guesses. “Alright, yeah anyway, Fenton parents, threat level . . . orange, I’d say? Like not full red, but we’re getting there. So, uh–follow my lead, and please don’t maim them if they try to net you. Or shoot you. Or shoot you with a net, that’s also a–uh. Yeah.” 

He spares a moment to suffer in mortification over the way Superboy’s pushed his glasses up into his hair to squint at him, then flees–strategically retreats–towards FentonWorks. 

It is just very clearly time to strategically retreat, is all. 

Or, uh, time to figure out how to handle Danny’s parents, Tucker mentally amends with a wince as he gets close enough to see their stupid van haphazardly “parked” more on the sidewalk than the street. Parts of it are actively smoking; the rest is dripping bubbling ecto. 

“Trippy,” Superboy muses, floating up a few feet to peer over the top of his sunglasses at the top of the van. Tucker dives forward and automatically grabbing the guy in an attempt to yank him down out of the air before anyone mistakes him for a ghost. They very much do not have time for that right now, especially right outside the Fentons’ place. 

Unfortunately, his yank less yanks Superboy down than it yanks himself up, which is officially the closest he’s ever gotten to doing a pull-up, so he guesses that’s cool or whatever, but also not helpful. 

“Did I mention how you shouldn’t fly around here?” Tucker asks, maybe a little bit dangling off Superboy’s waist right now. Like, just a tiny little sort-of bit. “Because if I did not, that was a serious oversight on my part. So, uh, please come back down here, dude.” 

“Says the dude who’s climbed up here,” Superboy snorts, but does, mercifully, actually settle back down on the sidewalk. 

“I would not describe that as ‘climbing’ so much as ‘failing’, but you do you,” Tucker says. “C’mon, we’re going in. Try to look, uh . . . less like a superhero.” 

“I am literally incapable of that one, buddy,” Superboy says dryly, raising an eyebrow at him. “On account of how they made me in the literal exact image of the superhero.” 

“. . . yeah alright, that wasn’t a fair ask,” Tucker admits with another wince. Well–Danny’s parents aren’t that observant when they’ve got a distraction distracting them, and obviously they need distracted, so . . . it’ll probably be fine? Probably? 

. . . . . . maybe they should just sneak in Danny’s bedroom window, actually. Maybe that would be the smarter play right now.

[commanderjuni]

twirls my hair absentmindedly.... i know i say i'll use this character and that character as my commander but making one is genuinely so hard for me! U_U each time i think i got something figured out i end up going to another character or idea.. its a bit fustrating...

[keeps-ache]

little soup cans are some of the neatest things we have, wish there were more soup-can-like things in this world

[musical-chick-13]

.

[desperatecheesecubes]

See the mental unwellness in me is telling me that I should combine all the reading guides for the Young Justice crew together to get the true full YJ reading order, but I feel like that would just immediately become overwhelming. But I might do it anyway lmao.

[medicinemane]

The world is set on prescriptivism and... it doesn't jive with me

[ame-to-ame]

Rereading ayaka is in love with Hiroko senpai!!! Last time I read it I don't think it was finished/I didn't finish it but ack. Now I also want to be in love 😭😭😭

[snekdood]

bitches prolly out here psychoanalyzing my old art on behalf of my abuser to cushion their belief that im a Horrible Person but then dont see the irony when I point out the shitty things my abuser has drawn and how I see it as clear evidence of their mindset and beliefs (of what's okay to do and how to treat people) descending and pairing that along with everything else they've done and it paints a clear picture of how this person got to the point of thinking it was okay to abuse me the way they did and then the people looking for reasons to hate me through my art will act like "they're just drawings !!!" about their art. which one is it. does someones art say something about them or not? or does it only say something about them if you hate them?

[queenkatluv]

Impersonations

Hi, Kat here! Usually, I don't interact in the community openly. I do scroll through Tumblr, YT comments, Discord, etc whenever I get the time, just because I love to see how people feel about the series/episodes/characters. I'm no stranger to people pretending to be me/Davis/Reed on other socials. There's not much I can really do about it but spread the word and hope people will figure it out on their own! But what really surprised me was a certain account on TikTok. I won't be spreading the account as I don't want to ignite anything, though it would be relatively easy to find them once I describe the material they are posting. Someone has been impersonating Davis, not correcting people who think it's the real them (from what I can see in their comment section) and post sexually graphic material. Some of their comments are...questionable, some of them seeming to be sexually directed at minors or myself. Implying things such as 'liking them young' or finding sex toys in my bedroom. This in of itself is very worrying, and I would like to let people know that Davis DOES NOT HAVE ALTERNATIVE ACCOUNTS! SAME WITH ME! The fact that there are some people under the impression that Davis would behave like this is upsetting, and we have tried reporting this account/specific videos but have had no success. Hence why I'm trying to spread the word to not believe everything you see online! I'd also like to take a moment to be real here. I understand that as a person with a following online, I have no control over what people say about me or do with my pictures/persona in private. But the amount of accounts that I believe belong to minors openly sexualizing me is really disturbing to me. I realize there's not much I can do about that, and in all honesty I don't mind characters I portray to be sexualized (as long as they are adults) but it's very different when it's ME, MY FACE people are sexualizing. Maybe that's something I need to get used to as a micro influencer (haha) but it makes me uncomfortable. This is not me calling anyone out (aside from that one TikTok account owner, I hope you read this and kindly either stop or clarify you aren't Davis/it's a strange joke) but I want to let people know my boundaries. Thanks for reading! I'll go back to lurking!

[firewasabeast]

“Tommy!” Eddie cheered, lifting his drink toward the sky as he spotted his friend walking toward him. “Whatcha doin' here, Man?”

“Figured I'd stop by and see how you were doing, Bud,” Tommy replied. He gave Eddie a pat on the back as he sat down in the empty seat next to him. “You come here alone?”

“Mhm. Needed ta get out. House's too quiet.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Too long,” the bartender interrupted as he walked by. “Was about to cut him off. I already took his keys.”

Eddie's eyebrows furrowed, looking around the bar counter. “Hey! You took my keys.”

“I got him,” Tommy said, giving the bartender a nod. “I gotta say, at least you're talking better than you're texting. I was worried.”

Eddie's face scrunched up in confusion. “Huh? I never did texted you.”

“Oh, I beg to differ.” Tommy fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and went to his messages. “'Buuuuuuuck, lezz drink, Buddy.' Then five minutes later, 'Bruck, why rn't you at bar? I waiting.' A good two minutes after that you sent me your location with an angry emoji. Then, and this is my personal favorite, 'Loser too busy kissy kissy with Tummy to be a friendship.'”

"Huh. Thought I was textin' Buck.”

“Yeah, I pieced that together.”

“So where's Buck if you're not kissy kissy?” Eddie asked, his final drink sloshing over his fingers as he attempted to bring it to his lips.

Tommy took the drink from Eddie and set it back on the counter. “Evan is watching Jee overnight so Howie and Maddie can have a night away. So, you wanna talk about whatever's bothering you? I mean, I could take a guess, but...”

“Nah. No, no, nope. I wanna,” Eddie pulled at the collar of his shirt. “Lessgo karaoke, Tomboy-”

“We're not calling me that.”

“I wanna sing to the rooftops,” Eddie continued, his words slurring more and more with each sentence. “I wanna. I wanna be, you know, be free, Tommy. I don't have a rea-,” he hiccuped, “reason to get back home.”

“Really? Seems like that's exactly where you need to be right now.”

Eddie's eyes widened, like he'd thought of the best idea in the entire world. “Let's go to Peeping Tom! That's your name!”

“Peeping Tom is a gay bar, Eddie.”

“I don judge.”

“A very kinky, fully nude gay bar,” Tommy clarified.

Eddie squinted, deep in thought. “No karaoke?”

“No karaoke.”

“Well, then were we go? Don't say home!”

“Home.”

“Ugh,” Eddie groaned, allowing Tommy to wrap an arm around his back and help him up. “You're like a no- no fun dad. Wish I'd texted fun dad.”

Tommy gripped onto Eddie tighter as he stumbled while taking a step. He sighed. “Maybe next time.”

*****

When Eddie woke up the next morning it was to a pounding headache and blinding sunlight coming through his window. He was nauseous and his mouth tasted like a mixture of gasoline and mouthwash.

He laid there for a few minutes, trying to figure out what happened that made him feel so unbelievably ill.

After a few failed attempts, he finally rolled out of bed and made his way into the kitchen to fix himself some coffee.

He froze when he walked through the door to see Tommy sitting there, reading the newspaper.

“Good... morning?” Eddie started, confused.

Tommy set the paper down. “Morning. Sleep well?”

“I- I think so, I guess. It's a little blurry.”

Tommy hummed. “Not surprising. Coffee just finished, if you want some. Your couch is not comfortable, by the way.”

“Buck's never complained.”

“Yeah, well, he's easier to please than I am.”

Eddie was too hungover for this. He had so many questions, but for some reason the first one out of his mouth was: “Where'd you put my shoes?”

“In your closet.”

He grabbed himself a cup for some coffee. “My keys?”

“We have to go pick them up at the bar today, along with your car, obviously.”

“You didn't close my curtains last night. Woke up thinking I was being interrogated by Ice T.”

Tommy sighed, leaning back in his seat. “'Thank you so much for getting me home safely, Tommy. Did it hurt your back having to drag me into the house while I belted out Bohemian Rhapsody at the top of my lungs?'” He stood, walking over to Eddie and taking the coffee out of his hand, drinking a big sip. “Thank you for asking, Eddie. I think my back will be okay, but my ears will never recover.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, turning to fix himself another cup. “Thank you for getting me home safely, Tommy. I appreciate it.”

“Mhm. No problem.” Tommy returned to his seat and Eddie joined him at the table. They sat in silence for a couple minutes, taking small sips of their drinks.

Eventually, Tommy set his cup down a little harder than normal, getting Eddie's attention with the clinking sound. “Wanna talk about it?”

“About what? How your coffee tastes like cigarette sludge?”

“I'll take that as a no then.” Tommy checked his watch. “The bar doesn't open until three. Want me to stop by and pick you up then?”

Eddie shook his head. “I can just get an Uber, Man, thanks though.”

“Of course. I'll, uh, let you recover.” Tommy stood and went to leave, checking his pocket for his keys and phone.

As he neared the door, Eddie spoke. “Wait,” he said. Tommy turned back to face him.

“Yeah?”

“Why'd you sleep on my couch?”

“You're my friend,” he answered simply. “You drank a lot. Wanted to make sure you were okay.” He took a step back toward the table. “Are you okay?”

Eddie cradled the mug in his hands, watching the steam rise from the cup. “You don't... How long has it been? Since you talked to your dad?”

Okay, so Tommy wasn't leaving then.

He came to the table and sat down, taking a moment to think about Eddie's question. “About six years, I think.”

“What did he do?” He looked over at Tommy. “To make you stop talking to him, I mean. Unless you don't wanna get into it. In fact, forget it, I shouldn't-”

“Eddie, it's fine,” Tommy assured him. “I don't mind.”

“Okay,” Eddie nodded, sitting up straighter. “So? What happened?”

“It wasn't just one thing,” Tommy explained. “It was a lifetime of things. He's... He's not a good man. I think the catalyst was about a year after I came out. I hadn't been home in awhile, so I decided to drive to his place one weekend. When he answered the door he said, 'What the hell are you doing here?' I told him I was coming to see him and he said, 'What's the damn point in that?' I thought about it for a second and realized that was a good question, so I turned around, got in my car, and left. Never looked back.” Eddie seemed to be contemplating his words, and Tommy could tell where this was going. “It's not the same thing, Eddie,” he said, beating Eddie to it.

“What if he doesn't come back? What I did, Tommy, it wasn't... It was bad.”

“You made a mistake.”

“I cheated on my girlfriend with a doppelganger of his mom, Tommy, and he caught me.”

“Granted, it was a big mistake,” Tommy deadpanned. “But, still a mistake. He'll come around. You gotta give him time.”

“People keep telling me that,” Eddie replied with an eye roll. “That he'll come around. But it's been months of nothing. And it seems like no matter what I do, it's not enough.”

“You're trying.”

Eddie huffed. “I'm not sure getting drunk alone at a bar is trying.”

“I think it shows you care, Eddie. And, yeah, that shouldn't become a habit, but you're allowed to be upset. You're allowed to hurt. You made a mistake, but you're a good dad and Christopher knows that. He will come around.”

“And if he doesn't?” Eddie asked, staring over at Tommy.

“Then you keep trying,” Tommy replied. “You never stop trying. Keep being there, keep sending him letters and getting him on Facetime. Go for a visit. Send him texts. I'm not saying you gotta smother him, but never let him forget that you're there. That's the biggest mistake you could ever make.”

“Yeah,” Eddie took a deep breath. “Yeah, you're right. I just... I gotta keep it up. Let him know I'm here, whenever he's ready.”

“Exactly.”

Eddie looked over at the clock on his stove, 11:32 staring back at him. He had no idea he'd slept so long. “Why don't you call Buck, see if he wants to come over and watch a game? Then you can drive me to my car.”

“Oh, you want me to call Evan? Don't you mean fun dad?” Tommy asked, eying Eddie.

It took him a minute, but the memory came back to him. “I did say that, didn't I?”

“You did,” Tommy confirmed. “Which I'm very offended by, by the way. I'm fun!”

Eddie sighed, his head drooping down. “I know you are.”

“I introduced you to karaoke trivia. I've flown you to Vegas.”

“I remember.”

“I never tried to seriously injure you in the name of love.”

“Which I'm very grateful for.”

“I don't have control issues when I have a clipboard in my hand.”

“Are you just gonna keep listing reasons why you're fun?”

“I once shoved three cupcakes in my mouth at once! Nearly choked to death, but Evan whacked me on the back and everything went down just fine.”

Eddie stood with his mug in hand, pointing toward the living room, “I'm gonna go to the couch. Get more comfortable.”

Tommy followed behind, pulling out his phone to call Buck. “I'll let Evan tell you who bowled a 230 last week. Hint: it was me!”

[kedreeva]

Okay so, I don't think I've spoken of the saga here yet but! Gather round. I shall tell you a long story about the bird I just acquired and why she is VERY IMPORTANT.

At the beginning of last fall, I started looking into quail genetics a little more, because I got tired of not being able to sex my Celadon quail by their feathers. Originally I thought I could kill 2 birds (ok maybe more) with 1 stone and order nice jumbo wild type (which MANY places advertised as wild type jumbo) hatching eggs, and this would help me put some size on the Celadons (jumbo) while also making them feather sexable (wild type). Perfect!

But then I come to find out that pretty much all jumbo lines are jumbo BROWNS, as in they all have the sex linked brown (SLB) gene. So, I was a little confused and a LOT annoyed because I wanted to work specifically with the wild type color/pattern. No mutations just straight, plain wild type.

And EVERYWHERE I looked - major production hatcheries, private breeders through websites, Facebook groups, local swaps, craigslist, e v e r y w h e r e -

People ONLY had SLB.

This spring I came across a video showing about the differences between SLB and wild type and I figured if the person who made it can tell, maybe she will have some. So I looked her up (not in a stalker way, her farm name was stamped on the video and took me to the website), and what luck! She was in Michigan! Upper Michigan, so still a hike, but not California, y'know?

So I shot her an email and explained that I was looking for WT and that her site said she bred them and that people could do local pickup. She responded yeah she's totally got a bunch! And I said great, I'm also in Michigan, albeit far away, but I don't mind driving 7+ hours each way, because I really need actual, trusted WT for sure birds for my celadon project, can I come pick them up?

Cue the most frankly bizarre email chain in my short life. As soon as I mentioned that I was going to drive, or perhaps that I had a genetics plan in place, she got super sketchy and started saying how she hadn't really paid as close attention to SLB vs. WT, that it mattered less than she thought it would when she started, that I shouldn't focus on that either, and also that "fawn celadon is practically unheard of" in the hobby and "you should focus on a clean Tibetan because it's hard to find without roux in it) implying that I should concentrate on those things instead. And concluded by telling me if I really want WT, to contact this other person (why happens to be someone I can't stand). It all sounded VERY much like she didn't have wild type males, after all, and had thought I didn't know the difference so it wouldn't actually matter. But, it does. It actually matters a lot to me.

So I messaged back to say, well, I don't want to do any of those things, I specifically want to work with this set of genetics and you said you have them so I shouldn't have to go to anyone else??

And then she went radio silent for a week. I kind of figured I'd called a bluff, and that she was one of dozens of people I'd contacted who'd said they had WT only to find out they had SLB. I get that it's difficult to see the difference, but this particular person was the president of the American Coturnix Breeders Association or whatever (found out it's actually just a club formed by her and her friends a year ago, so not as impressive as it sounds, considering they don't actually DO anything- no putting on shows, no newsletters, no certifications, no public breeder directory, no finished SOP, nada), so I kind of expected she should know what she's talking about, if anyone does.

Eventually, after a week, she responded that she had been judging at a county fair, but she had a few heterozygous males (WT het roux, which is fine) and she could set a hatch for me for more if I wanted to come at the end of the month, but she's in WI now, not MI. I said sure, since where she was in WI was actually closer than where she'd been in the UP, and we arranged date/time.

The day of, my neighbor friend, Jude, comes with me for company/keeping me awake through the 15 hours driving round trip. It's a pleasant enough drive. We arrived at a cutesy little house on the edge of town that looks like anyone's house in a neighborhood, with a spacious lawn. The person meets us and takes me around the side of the house to a 6x6x1.5 or so chicken tractor, where she's got some male coturnix. She pulls the available males for me to look through and... fam, they ALL looked SLB, to me.

Now, she swore to me up and down that they couldn't be anything except WT het for roux, because of the way she is breeding them. But I've put these birds next to my SLB males and if I didn't have my males banded, I would not ever have told the difference between them. I still picked up 4 of them, because I will give it a go- worst case, I can produce plain Roux hens/plain Roux males for use in breeding later, best case they do actually produce WT hens and they just LOOK SLB and I have to figure out what the differences are. I don't want to leave without seeing her hens, which she has told me are all WT (which is why the males HAVE to be het for it), and she takes me back. Now the hens, the hens are easy to see the difference. White bellies first of all, but the chest feathers are also wildly different! The shafts are white, the dot around the shaft is dark, ringed in red, ringed in white. On an SLB, the shafts aren't white, it's just a black dot surrounded in a red feather, and the belly is all red/buff/cream, not white.

This is what an SLB hen looks like:

So I take a nice long look to memorize the color, and thank her for showing me and meeting, and we head back home.

I do fecals when I get home because all of the males are VERY thin, no meat on them at all, and since she said she'd been feeding Purina (garbage for fowl feeds), I figured that was why, but no- HUGE coccidia loads in all of them. So I treated them and got them on a better feed. They immediately began putting on meat, and they're find now.

The rest of this summer, I have spent going to local bird swaps and inspecting all of the quail I could find, hoping to find one (1) actual wild-type phenotype bird. Hundreds and hundreds of birds, I have pawed through them all, being super obnoxious to the owners I'm sure, holding and inspecting males. I found ONE suspected WT male (and this is a HUGE "suspected," he could very well be SLB with low red expression). I compared him when I got home and I'm doubting myself still, so I don't know if I will ever actually pair him with the SLB hens or if I'll just wait til I have a roux set.

Regardless, it's been a dry season for getting what I want. It's been a dry YEAR. Yesterday was another swap and more hundreds of quail and me pawing through all of them.

Until.

My eyes landed upon.... her.

If you've only lived in an area that has american crows and not ravens, you find yourself wondering if crows are ravens. You see a big crow and you think wow! maybe that is a raven! It could be a crow, but it's seems bigger so maybe it's a raven. But, if you take a trip to a place with ravens, and you see one for the first time, you realize that there is no question, when you see a raven. When you see a raven in person, there's no question and not only is there no question, you wonder how you could ever have thought a crow was a raven. It's laughable, while looking at the raven.

That's how finding this bird felt. I'd been picking up every SLB hen and going maybe this is actually WT? It could be SLB but maybe it's WT? But the second I laid eyes on her in the middle of a pack of SLB with some mixed colors, I knew I was looking at WT hen, and I can't imagine how I ever thought maybe an SLB hen was WT.

Here's a better photo of her chest and belly (she's beat UP from her previous home, the back of her head and most of her rump are plucked clean from males). You can see the white shafts and the white belly.

And some other pics of her, showing the grey-brown on her side and back- VERY different than the SLB hens

I can't express how stoked I am about this bird. This is the first time after a LOT of effort and time, that I have felt confident I am holding the bird I want.

She's also the indicator that I have a LOT of work ahead of me.

My end goal is to have birds that look like her, weigh 12-14oz, and lay large, blue eggs. I have birds that lay large, blue eggs, I have birds that weigh 12-14oz live weigh, and now I have at least 1 bird that looks like her, which means I can make more that look like her. The first step is cleaning the color mutations out of the celadon line without losing the celadon eggs. This is going to be a bit of a nightmare, BUT, I have a friend helping me out with getting a few celadons that are either WT or SLB (I'm guessing SLB all things considered) to start the work with. I will work over the winter to get a few more actual WT birds here, and to start crossing out the celadons with the SLB jumbos to clean out the other feather color mutations. Once I'm down to just SLB and celadon for mutations, I can clean the SLB out with the WT and roux lines.

This project will likely take me a good 2 years, maybe 3, to complete and then test breed to ensure I haven't lost the celadon gene and I don't have any hidden recessives lingering about. But just having the fucking materials to do it all on hand now is a huge step forward from where I was when I decided to start the project.

[murdrdocs]

just read all your imagines and they are so good!! just on here to req anything hobie brown related cos god that man is so fine. maybe like a one-shot where they are fwb cos hobie doest do labels but gets jealous and then asks reader to be his gf and then shows her off to everyone. just like really anything u want to write tbh ✨✨

end of line | h. brown

description. being friends with benefits with your best friend, hobie brown, is fun and all, but you start to realize that maybe firm labels suit you better than whatever this is

includes. slight smut SUGGESTIVE 16+, fem!reader referred to as “girl”, fluff, sweet!hobie, pav gwen and miles mention, rockstar!hobie

a/n: i have no words this was supposed to be uploaded like a week ago but then i went to disney so ... sorry yall. also not edited well bc ... disney. edit: title from the song by daft punk bc tron <3

word count: 1.7k+

things are still in your bedroom. they always are right before he arrives.

you're not a psychic, nor do you have a "spider-sense" (which, with the creepy-sixth sense way hobie described it, you don't want one either), but you like to think that you can tell when he'll come by.

nights when you haven't heard much from him, but the sirens seemed to never stop outside, were usually when your window would creek as it slid up.

you listen out for the sound now as you finish painting your last nail. you'd used the quick dry polish tonight, in hopes that you wouldn't have a repeat of last time, when your fingernails weren't dried but hobie was incredibly impatient and when you were done, you'd realized that your right ring and pinkie fingers were smudged.

the bottle's closed, you'd blown on your nail to ensure it dried, and that's when your window slides open.

there's no point in looking back at him when he tumbles into the room. he starts mumbling complaints as soon as the window's closed, the sound of his shoes unlacing padding his words, something about some common thief who hobie was going to let go but then he went and messed with the lady on the street and her cat.

you'd lost the tail end of his words whenever he started walking closer to you. you sat up straighter, pushed everything out of the way, and waited for him to turn your chair around.

which, when he did, you looked up at him, small smile on your lips as you stared into his deep brown eyes.

"how's your night, hm?" he asked, a courtesy before getting to the real action.

you shrugged, pretending to think. "nothing. just a lot of this."

"no smashing societal standards? picking off misogynists one by one?"

a small laugh in the form of a snort from you. "nah. figured i'd take a day off, you know?" the sarcasm dripping from your words. that's not who you were. you wish you could've been like that, could've been like hobie. but there's one spider-person for a reason.

"oh, yeah, uh-huh..." and hobie trailed off as he leaned in, pointer finger hooking under your chin to pull your lips to his.

it always felt good to kiss hobie.

you'd fantasized about it for weeks before it actually happened. he's your closest friend at the moment, and he occupied the title before this arrangement even existed. and of course you had the worry about ruining your beautiful friendship if you became more, fear that you wouldn't be able to go back and you would subsequently lose probably the best friend you've ever had.

but that was no need to worry. because while you could let hobie pull you up and lead you to your bed, sitting back and pulling you into his lap while he kissed you with a tenderness you know so well, you could also just be friends with him, sitting side by side on the couch and having a movie marathon of horrible biopics without thinking about jumping each other's bones.

there's a balance here that you could only hope would've existed.

and it's never thrown off. not even when he pulls your shirt over your head and his full lips find your nipples and the slightly-faded marks he'd left a few days ago. not even when he switches your position, laying you back and kissing down your torso until he can bury his head between your legs. not even when you whine and cry just a bit, slightly begging for him to pull his suit off so he can fuck into you in a way that only he can.

you try not to think about the equilibrium of your relationship with hobie when your legs hook around his waist and the heels of your feet dig into your lower back. you try to solely focus on the way his cock fills you up perfectly, mostly long with the right amount of girth for your walls, tip reaching deep within you in an almost mind bending way.

but you can't help but think about the way hobie doesn't do labels when he helps you to your bathroom, where he lets the shower heat up while you sit in a shirt he left behind a few days ago when he'd shown up as just hobie brown and not spiderman. you can't help but think about being hobie's girlfriend when his big, veiny hands run along your skin after the shower, smothering you in shea butter as you struggle to hold your eyes open. and you don't bother attempting to fight off the lasting thought of being hobie's while he hums an unknown song to himself with your head on his chest, the deep sound of his voice and the vibration of his chest lulling you to sleep.

you need to be someone's.

the friends with benefits scenario was fun, it worked, it was glorious, but you don't think it's for you. and labels aren't for hobie.

so, you look elsewhere.

you're at hobie's show, standing in the back of the pub with a drink you weren't interested in, with some guy you really weren't all that interested in, either. but he smelled nice, and he seemed nice, and you were just looking to broaden your horizons just a bit.

you and hobie weren't exclusive, but maybe it's a little wrong to flirt with someone else at his show. but you were slightly upset, and craving attention, so it didn't matter.

not until hobie got off stage.

it took a while for him to roam over to you, but even then you were still entertaining the other guy. giggling, tilting your head, batting your eyelashes, your hip popped out and a manicure, that was still fresh, blinging as your hand rested on the bone.

he greets you with a term of endearment that he uses often, but it feels different in this circumstance. you tell yourself that it feels different because you want it to feel different.

"oi, babe! who's this bloke?"

his arm slings over your shoulder and you tense under it. your hands folding over your chest, your smile tightening a little.

“uh this is steven.” your hand reaches out to point to the man, a tight lipped smile spreading onto his lips.

“steven …” hobie repeats the name slowly, and without looking at him you can tell that he’s eyeing the guy up and down.

the air is stiff, the three of you are silent, and unfortunately, steven takes the hint to dismiss himself, and you instantly turn to hobie, a scowl on your face.

“what the fuck, hobes?” you’re pissed, but the nickname still slips off easily.

hobie shrugs and reaches into his back pocket, a cigarette appearing and he sticks it between his lips. instantly, your fingers pluck it out from his mouth, instead putting it in your own back pocket.

instead of looking upset, hobie looks amused. his hands reach out to grab your waist, and you want to give in, but you try to push his hands away instead.

hobie lets you, and you don’t know if your happy or upset with that.

“what’d you mean?”

you stare at him, deadpan, then gesture to where steven had walked away towards.

“you just cockblocked me!”

a cocky grin, almost a little condescending. “i didn’t ‘cockblock’ you, babes. you weren’t trying to get with that guy.” your eyebrow lifts and you can see realization come onto hobie’s face. “oh … you were?”

“yes! of course i was!”

“but why? you are i are together.”

“sure, hobes, but we’re not ‘together’.”

“yes we are.”

“no, we aren’t.”

“why do you think that?”

you suddenly feel a little insecure, eyes scanning the thinning crowd, ears noticing the way the volume in the pub is lowered. “because you’ve never put a label on it, bee.”

another layer of realization. hobie’s hands coming to your waist again, but this time you let him pull you in.

“i didn’t know we needed a label. but you’re my girl. and i’m your guy.”

your body heats up and you bite down onto your lower lip giddily, peeking up at hobie through your lashes.

"thought you didn't like relationships?"

"labels. i don't like labels."

there's a disruption in the atmosphere. goosebumps raise on your skin, the hair on the back of your neck sticks up, and even if you weren't aware internally, the way the magazine you were previously reading floats above the table would've tipped you off.

the portal opens shortly after, but you knew it was coming. it took hobie a while to tell you that he was spiderman, longer to convince you that he was spiderman, and a while longer to convince you of the existence society, and even though you know, you still get a little shocked whenever a portal opens.

he comes through first, thud of his heavy boots against the floor of his flat. the spoon in your mouth clings against the side of the bowl, your free hand reaches out to the tv remote to pause the episode as you look over at hobie.

"oi, didn't know you were still here." is all he says before he's walking over, pulling his mask off on the way, and leaning down. your head tilts up instantly to meet his lips in a kiss, your body warming with the way his hand pushes into the back of the couch, slender but muscular form caging you in.

you expect him to sit beside you and force you to give a recap of the episode, but he stands back, and then three other people come through the portal.

"oh ... are we expecting guests?" surprise sits in your words, the tone amplified when hobie takes your bowl of cereal out of your hands to finish it off himself.

"right," he speaks through mouthfuls, saying your name as an introduction to the other three. "this is pav, miles, and gwendy. spider people." you nod, waving at each.

"this here, is my girlfriend." three sets of spider-eyes widen with the admission and you can already sense what's coming.

"wow, you're pretty. 's nice to meet you."

"i knew it! i could sense the tension as soon as we got here."

"you have a girlfriend? wait. i thought you didn't like labels."

a small smile on your face as you tuck your hands in the pocket of hobie’s sweatshirt that you wear.

in coordination learned from how close you two are, you speak at the same time.

"he doesn't like consistency."

"don't like consistency, mate."

[vincentbriggs]

Do you need a sewing machine to start making shirts and vests? Is hand sewing an option worth considering, or should I invest in a machine, in your opinion?

That's really a matter of personal preference!

Do you need a machine? Absolutely not! Every garment ever made before the 1840's was sewn by hand, and a lot of them after that too. I've sewn many garments completely by hand, including the early 18th century tiddy-out-violinist shirt, these bright orange breeches, and this green waistcoat.

Is it nice to have a machine? I think so, but again, individual opinions vary!

One of the costumers I follow sews everything 100% by hand because she finds it meditative and isn't interested in using a machine at all. Some people hate hand sewing and prefer to do everything by machine, with maybe a bit of hand finishing if they absolutely can't avoid it.

I do about a 50/50 split overall, maybe skewing a bit more towards hand sewing. I like to do pants, shirts, and nightgowns mostly by machine with some hand finishing, but for jackets and waistcoats I usually do considerably more hand sewing than machine, because I like 18th century tailoring techniques and think they give a nicer looking result. I do most of my buttonholes by hand, or I do them by machine first and then cover them in hand stitching.

Most people who sew do at least some of it by machine, but again, I don't know which way you prefer to work, so I'd suggest trying out both to see how you feel abut them.

For hand sewing, I suspect a lot of people hate it because they're using shitty needles and/or shitty thread, and perhaps haven't found good resources for hand sewing techniques.

Here's a post of hand sewing advice that I found quite helpful a decade ago. Use good needles because the eyes of the cheap ones have jagged edges and will ruin your thread! Use nice thread because the wrong kind will be twisty and tangly and will fray more!

Thimbles are good and useful, and typically they go on the middle finger of your dominant hand, and you use them to push the needle. I prefer metal thimbles and dislike using leather ones, but some people prefer the leather ones, or rubber ones.

The metal ones come in sizes, and I don't know how to find out your size aside from trying them on in person, but I know I'm a size 11.

One very important thing is that if you're hand sewing a garment, look for hand sewing specific instructions on how to do the construction techniques you're going for. A lot of the time when someone nowadays is trying to figure out how to hand sew a thing they'll just try and copy the machine sewn version, and a lot of the time that's inefficient and more difficult and the result looks worse, because machines and hands work very differently!

This is something I'm going to briefly discuss in the outro to the very long shirt video I'm working on, because it's so very common, and I've done it too! On several of my earlier hand sewn shirts I didn't know to turn the edge in on the front slit and do a little narrow hem, so I instead sewed on a facing for the front slit and cut and turned it, just like I'd seen on machine sewn shirts. This made it about 3x more time consuming, and the result was much bulkier and looked worse.

I've got so many more things to say about sewing but it's almost bedtime and I don't want to make this post too long.

For machine sewing, again there's a lot of personal choice. Some people like newer machines, some people like vintage or antique ones. I'm one of the ones who prefers solid metal vintage machines. I grew up using an old cast iron Singer, and the newer domestic machines just feel so plasticy and insubstantial to me. I'm used to ones that just do straight stitch and can also go backwards, but some people are perfectly happy with ones that can't even backstitch.

I do think that for a beginner the vintage machines are a better deal, because if you're patient and look around for a while you can snag one for really cheap at a thrift store, yard sale, facebook marketplace, etc. Also they're mostly metal and therefore harder to break.

I recently got a Pfaff (from I think the 1960's?) at an estate sale for 25 bucks. The zig zag mechanism is stuck and needs fixing, but I cleaned & oiled it up and it works just fine for regular straight stitching.

There are SO MANY online resources for how to clean, oil, and fix vintage sewing machines, especially the more popular brands, and a lot of the time cleaning & oiling is all they need. Read the manual and get an oil bottle with a nice long pointy thing so you can reach all the parts, and get some compressed air to whoosh out the fuzz. If it's old and hasn't been used in years, turn the hand wheel and observe every single place where metal rubs against metal, and Make It Greasy There.

(If you don't have the manual, you can often find those online too. I even found the service manual for my new-old Pfaff! I have the original users manual, but this one's for the people doing repairs.)

Oh this post is getting much too long! If you don't know yet if you like machine sewing, try seeing if you can use one without owning it, perhaps at a sewing class or in a makerspace. I know some libraries can loan out machines. A sewing class would probably be a good idea actually, if there are any available where you live!

Much like how you'll have a bad time hand sewing if you've got shitty supplies and no proper instructions on good techniques, you'll have a bad time machine sewing if it's not oiled well and if the tension is uneven.

There are so so very many things to learn about sewing and I hope I'm not making it sound too overwhelming, because I promise it's not if you take it one step at a time!

Also, when someone who's been sewing for a long time says "You may think you can ignore (piece of sewing advice), but actually that's bad and you will regret it", they're usually right. Oh, how I regret not learning to use a thimble years earlier than I did...

Sorry this post is so long, I hope it's helpful!

Basically, there's no one best way to sew anything, and you should try different stuff and see what works best for you, because everyone has different preferences.

[eyeless-cunt]

KINKTOBER DAY 6

PROMPT: Size Kink

CREEP: LJ

Word Count: 2.1k

CW: 18+ Sexual Content, Mentions of killing/Stabbing/Slight Gore, Non-con maybe? Perhaps? Orgasm denial.

KINKTOBER '24 MASTERLIST

“Wanna pop?” His smile was curled, etched onto his face with a devious glint lit in his eyes. I knew better than that. After so long it became obvious to look for a hidden meaning in Jack's words–rarely was there not one. Sometimes it was obvious, while others had a person only understanding what had happened in hindsight. I liked to think he took me a bit more seriously than others, but it was times like these that had me second guessing myself.

“I think you'd rather have a pop,” my words came out chiding, eyes turned up towards him as though I wasn't amused–even though I did think he was a little amusing. The can he had behind his back ‘popped’ (Exploded, more like) and he brought it forward with a pout. We were now both severely unimpressed with each other.

“That was a waste of a good root beer,” I said, motioning to the wet aluminum scraps that laid in his abnormally large hand, his claws curling around them and crushing them in his white palm. He smiled and shrugged, not bothered by my chiding nor the apparent stickiness that covered him and the floor in matching outfits.

“Well I did offer it to you–although it’s never a waste when it comes to your reactions, little thing.” I huffed, face turning gently sour at the nickname. Standing annoyingly proud at over seven feet tall, Jack probably thought everyone was a ‘little thing’. I could be well over a foot taller than I was now and still never dream of reaching his height.

“Go and bother another little thing then, this one's tired.” I rolled back over to face the wall, remembering how he'd appeared earlier behind my half asleep form, laughing and blowing into my ear, jolting me wide awake. Annoyed barely covered it for me. His habit of appearing and disappearing anywhere he'd like no matter the time on the clock had me wondering if I would be able to kill him some nights.

“Hm. Go to sleep, then–we’ll talk more in your dreams.” Would a knife do the job? If I stabbed it directly into his brain through his socket, maybe. I sat up in bed, turning to look at him with what I hoped was a scathing glare. He didn't seem too put off by it.

“Jack, no offense,” I started speaking slowly, my neck craning to look up at him, “–but I think I'd rather just sleep uninterrupted without being scared for my life in a theme park. No offense. Seriously.” I watched his frown form slowly, knowing he was finally understanding my words, although he wasn't perfectly happy with what they meant. He was a stage one clinger, and not hanging out for more than eight hours was bound to upset him.

To my surprise–he nodded in agreement. Relieved, I let out a deep sigh and nodded, rolling back over. I wasn't sure what made him so easily agreeable but I wasn't about to stay awake to find out. My eyes closed, me figuring he'd poof away to grief someone else. Whatever he did next wasn't my issue. With that thought in mind, I began to drift off, my mind only half realizing the new warmth that pressed behind me.

Slowly I turned, my eyes eventually reaching those of the smiling clown. As if I was seeing things I took a few seconds to try and blink his visage away. Nothing changed, though, and still he was there. His chest flush against my back, an arm holding his head up as he stared down at me with a smile that looked evil. More blinking did nothing for me still, his smile only growing the longer I held confused eye contact.

“...Jack…,” I questioned, my voice barely a whisper. He hummed, throwing a heavy arm around my waist, his open palm pressed against my stomach warmly. “Hm?” He had a hard time keeping his smile controlled, the corner beginning to twitch.

“Did you…need something maybe?” I said it dumbly, my voice still just a whisper, the end of my sentence tapering off as I got quieter. I slowly eyed just how small I felt as he practically sprawled over me. My head was eye to eye with his chest, my heels pressed against his legs. Was this not phantom warmth?

“No, nothing much. You?” My mouth parted, eyebrows scrunched on my face as I balked at the question. His fingers slowly traced random shapes over my stomach, the heat from his fingers sending shocks through my shirt and into my skin. “Me?” I parroted the question, tensing as his finger flitted over the bottom of the blanket, which laid at my hips. I worried that he'd pull it off me, only a longer shirt doing the job of covering my bare ass. I didn't usually dress for visitors when getting ready to sleep.

“Yes, actually. More so–did you need anything? From me, maybe?” I paused, my brain short circuiting further with every word that came from his mouth. I mouthed the words, ‘from you?’ I attempted to form words–any words, really–but I only managed to sputter, my head shaking in confusion.

My thighs clenched as he flattened his palm, pressing against me as the tops of his fingers ghosted under where my waistband would normally be. Why did his hand stretch so far? I looked down to see just how large his fingers were, the realization forcing me to tear my eyes away, embarrassed. His fingers moved, tracing slow circles into the skin there. The sensation had me clenching my thighs again, a wetness beginning to form.

“Why are you in my bed?” I managed to push the question out whole, but my voice still faltered under the weight of his stare. A finger dipping particularly low had my legs twitching for a second, embarrassment creeping up the back of my neck.

He tilted his head at my question, acting confused. Whether he noticed how shaky and jumpy I was as he ran his fingers over me or not I couldn't be sure of–either way he ignored it. I bit my lip, the warmth from his chest not the only thing heating me. “Hm? I was letting you sleep. Wasn't that your request?” He said it as though he really wasn't interrupting me, as though the feeling of him pressed against me wasn't enough to keep me from sleeping.

“I…,” my voice trailed off as he pulled the blanket, trying to situate himself under it beside me. My heart stopped in my chest, my legs bare before him, my hands moving to pull my shirt down as though he hadn't probably seen half of my ass. “Um, I don't think this is helping me sleep.”

“No? I think I could sleep like this. Who knew I could hold you like a teddy bear?” I heated, the thought of his large arms wrapped around me causing me to shift uncomfortably. Before today I was only mildly aware of our size difference. Tonight I was being made aware in embarrassing ways. As though proving his point he grabbed me by the waist, pulling me over him as he rolled onto his back. I gasped, pushing off of his chest so that I was sitting up, my thighs wrapped around his hips as I kneeled with legs on either side of him. I could feel my heart racing as I felt my bare ass pressed against him. I raced to pull the hem of my shirt down, trying to hide and save myself from embarrassment.

“Jack!” I chastised him, fighting to hold his gaze despite my shame. He only smiled at me, hands splaying over my bare thighs. I didn't miss the way his thumbs were placed under my shirt, rubbing into the skin on my inner thigh. I knew if this kept up I'd begin to generate a puddle under me. If he felt how wet I was by the way I'd left his clothing a sticky mess I'd die of embarrassment.

“See? Portable. Also–” His smile grew evil as he pulled me down, my face meeting his as my ass rose, my hands moving to catch my fall on either side of his head. I sucked in a breath, feeling the cold air on my now bare bottom half as my shirt slid up my back. He wrapped one arm around my waist, the other moving to grip my ass. I practically yelped as I felt him squeeze, my legs unable to close as they were forced open by his waist. “Holdable.” He laughed, my entire body heating as he traced a finger to my pussy. My eyes widened as he pushed a finger into me, my walls fluttering around him in relief. Despite my body feeling the relief, my mind raced, still not caught up to the events transpiring. I couldn't help but arch my back, hips unwillingly rolling back into his finger, practically grinding on it.

“Why?” I whimpered as he pushed another finger into me, pumping them in and out as I whined into his neck. I couldn't help the way my legs spread as though begging for more, my clit aching to be touched.

“Why what?” His voice sounded perfectly confused. I could hear my wetness as he continued pumping into me, my fists clenching his shirt, forehead pressed into his chest. Barely functioning, I whined as he pulled out, my hips still rolling as if the air could give me the friction I needed. He grabbed me by the chin, pulling me to look at him. The sight of my blissed out face had him laughing. I watched as he licked his fingers, smiling as though he was proud of himself.

“Hm? No answer, little thing?” I faltered as he went back to gripping my ass, electricity shooting through my nerves. “Why are you touching me?” I could barely ask the question, embarrassment managing to find me again.

The feeling of him rubbing my clit had me letting out an accidental moan, hips swaying as I clenched around nothing. I couldn't help the way my body shook as he gave me a light pinch, a laugh escaping him as I shuddered against his mouth.

“Oh, should I stop?” The loss of him against me had me whimpering. I could barely manage to shake my head, my head feeling as though it was more sugar than flesh. I sat back up, my bare pussy now pressed against him. I sighed as I rolled my hips, pushing all my weight against my hands that laid against his shoulders, holding me up. I could hear him chuckling as he undid his pants, pulling himself out of the fabric and stroking himself as he watched me chase an orgasm.

Before I could reach it he lifted my hips, positioning me over him as he rubbed himself up and down my folds, my legs spreading more to accommodate him. I whimpered as he finally pushed inside of me, letting out a relieved sigh as I felt him twitch. “Guess I won't, then.” I could hear the satisfaction in his voice, making me wonder just how long he's wanted to have me on the other end of his dick. The fullness had me gasping as he began to move, hips snapping up to meet mine. I flinched at his size, the burn making me crave more of him.

I did my best to ride him, the burn in my legs working against me despite the growing pleasure racing through me. He ended up taking over the grueling work, surprising me when he lifted me easily. I was completely moldable, pliant and desperate as he fucked into me at a steady pace. I couldn't help the mewls that escaped me, wondering if my size turned him on as much as his did me.

The sight of him staring at me with a smile that grew more amused as he noticed my attention had me looking away, embarrassed. I looked back to find his attention on where we met, the sight of him entering me seeming to please him. I started to shake, the pleasure getting to me as it waved through me, growing quickly now. I began to move my hips again, chasing the orgasm that was almost fully formed. Just before it hit me I was lifted up into the air, the feeling interrupted and completely halted.

“Wha-?” I was cut off by the wide smile on his face. My chest moved quickly, my breathing harsh. His voice came out joyful, smile growing as he said it. “Didn't you not wanna pop?” The realization quickly washed over me, aggravation coursing through me immediately. Tonight would definitely be the night I finally killed him.