#toxic ass men lmao

[theoneandonlysilly]

lets be so fr rn, the majority of the adult men in hxh would be SO TOXIC.

(large amount of text after break)

like i luv them, but c’mon… I know a lot of people think that chrollo would be the most tolerable out of the adult trio, but i beg to differ. that man would be so manipulative and would make you feel like shit and put you in a state of co-dependency while his ass is out doing evil phantom troupe shit. and during this you would be trying to keep your slowly but surely deteriorating mental health alive. it would be such an icky situation and i can tell that shit wouldn’t be fun. imo of the characters, illumi MIGHT be the easiest to deal with dating… as long as you don’t get attached to him, because he isn’t very affectionate. im giving him some leverage because i can tell he cares about those he loves, but like, he loves in an odd way. Hisoka is hisoka. thats all i have to say tbh. i honestly have no clue how he would act. he would probably go out of his way to toy with you, but in the way that he gets his sadistic pleasure out of it. and its really just playful teasing and stuff, but he also isn’t very committed, and would likely just stop being interested and just break up with you. onto the more tolerable ones, but still toxic, we have meruem. he’s not horrible once you get used to him, but he is um… interesting. he isn’t affectionate early on, and probably wanted to kill you at first, but based on his relationship with komugi in canon, i believe that he has potential to be a good person/chimera ant/ thing idfk. anyways, kurapika. he is very motivated to destroy the phantom troupe, which may cause him to be toxic in some ways. he doesn’t mean to, he just gets caught up in his revenge plans, sometimes so much so that he forgets to be good to himself, let alone be good to you (he is so me tbh). leorio is honestly fine. he would be a good boyfriend, and he would be very sweet. maybe a little bit sexually driven and may accidentally upset you, but he makes up for it by caring for you. he may get caught up in his emotions sometimes, but he always calms down and makes up for it well, and apologizes. you can tell that he cares and that he would never hurt you mentally or physically. Now onto more toxic mfs, pariston fucking hill. he is the definition of toxic, and sort of like chrollo but in the blond politician sorta way. he would give zero fucks about your feeling and would use you to his advantage. 0/10 would not recommend. anyways, ging. …no. he is very laid back and casual with dating, and probably would upset you all the time and arguments would be common. not quite as bad as some others, but still toxic.

ANYWAYS SORRY FOR RAMBLING BUT THAT WAS FUN TO WRITE ABT

[luthanraels-bignaturals]

every time lynnmanda is portrayed as the soft wholesome ship an angel plummets to hell

[cascadianights]

This goes double for trans men, who will inevitably unfortunately lose more people when you first transition - especially as youre suddenly barred from most queer spaces that laud themselves as women+ - and even more when you are actively labeled with "mean toxic masculinity" for learning to have agency and identity outside of hiding as small as you can be your entire life

one thing you have to get ready for as a trans woman who's about to come out is certain cis people are going want nothing to do with you afterwards. we all know this, we all talk about this. transphobes going transphobe

but what i dont think we talk about enough is you need to be prepared for a second wave of this. it will come later. it's not tied to anything body change or surgery or whatever.

trans women are treated so poorly by society that we inevitably shrink. we learn how to exist in the spaces that will have us, even if that means cramming ourselves into boxes that don't really fit, being treated in ways we often don't like, doing things we often don't like doing, often even fucking people we don't want to fuck.

at some point, you're going to learn to stand up for yourself. i don't say this to scare you into thinking you'll become a 'mean trans girl' or whatever. but just like transitioning in the first place, it's change or die. you found the first safe harbor and fashioned your anchor to it but you can't go on living with people who don't respect you, working a job you're too smart for, living a life you don't really love.

and when you do, there will be cis people in your life who only liked that meek, quiet girl who would do as she's told. some of these people were malicious, doing it on purpose because they've known enough trans women to know who's vulnerable. some are doing it unintentionally, believing themselves to be a good ally, you've just gotten angry and bitter (this one hurts the most). and some just plain won't like the person you really are, having only known the people pleaser they got to know.

but it's change or die. if you're not you, you're not living. there are so many better people just waiting to love you, but you won't find them chasing after cis approval. and girl, i promise you, you deserve so much more than what you're getting right now. be strong. you've been strong before. i love you.

[bigkickguy]

I haven't been drawing because i've been flourishing playing 2007 mmo smt imagine in my free time - and also mh generations ultimate for the first time i am in my favorite environment - making yaoi in my head about video game characters no one has cared about for like 15 years

[inklore]

code breaker

premise: there’s always been something there, between the two of you. unspoken and filling in the cracks of those moments where joel is helping you out of a tough situation and your offering up a thank you and sweet smile. if only it didn’t take bloody knuckles and some band-aids to finally crack the code of that something.

pairing: joel miller x (f)reader

word count: 6.2k

warnings: eighteen+ content, unprotected p in v, smut with feelings really, fem receiving oral, friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff, mentions of violence and blood, alcohol mention, toxic exes and relationships discussed, dirty talk, biting and love marks mention, lots of banter, au (preoutbreak).

note: i meant for this to be darker but it turned out wayyy more fluffy and i’m actually really happy about it. i hella edited this but it still feels choppy so if it is i’m sorry ya girl has bad eyes lmao. gif made by me so don’t be an ass and steal it tysm <3

There’s words you should be saying right now. Expressing. Spilling from your mouth in a heap of thank you, I appreciate you, what would I do without you always being there for me…

But they just can’t seem to come out. The speech part of your brain—and your heart—aching and prompting you to speak. To show courtesy, your vocal cords refuse to let you get out. Like your mouth has forgotten its purpose, your throat hoarse from screaming Joel’s name in the chaos of thrown fists, people shouting, men trying and failing to haul Joel’s weight off of the bloodied body below it.

The blood on his knuckles pulls your eyes in like a neon sign: caked, dark, and drying the longer the air gets to it. If it hurts Joel doesn’t state it—show it as he grips the steering wheel. You’ve never thrown a punch before, have never seen something like this up close and personal. You excelled at resolving conflicts before they arose. Never let arguments get past the phase of unfair yelling. But you would assume his knuckles must be aching, even if only a dull pounding.

You know for certain your ex's face is.

Good. 

You hadn’t expected him to show up at the bar, your job. Hadn’t expected him to start in on the possessive act—coincidently the local patrons were less than surprised at the all-too-cliché behavior. The town having labeled him as bad news ages ago. Something you had to learn the hard way, when you finally took off those rose colored glasses. 

Joel had been staring at you for the duration of the exchange. Even after your ex left to hang out with a group of his buddies in the corner, his gaze lingered on you.

"You alright?" He asked as he slid his glass towards you, his forearm leaning against the bar. A wordless nod letting you know he wanted another. 

"Yeah, he’s not the first creep I've had to deal with. It's in our DNA as women to deal with the lesser species of the male population."

"Can’t tell if that makes me feel better or worse as a father."

"Oh," you send him a sweet smile. Setting his refilled whiskey in front of him, "no creep dare mess with Sarah. I’ve seen her make jocks cry."

"That’s my girl, taught her well." The grin he wraps around the rim of the glass makes something girlish—and foolish—spark in your stomach. 

Maybe if you had a man like Joel in your life, you would be less likely to keep making the same mistakes with no-good assholes who are good for a week and bad for the rest of the 358 days. 

A girl can dream. 

And she has. Embarrassingly. 

The two of you had continued to talk, your hip pressed against the bar as you cleaned a glass; perhaps you had been smiling and laughing too hard at what Joel was saying because your ex was back and grabbing you from across the bar in an instant.

An action that quickly landed him passed out and bloodied on the bar floor, and your boss trying to make sure Joel hadn’t taught him too good of a lesson to have him see God. 

And while the adrenaline of shock had been bruising your heart against your rib cage, your lungs devoid of air—when Joel had put his non-bloody hand against your arm, calling your name (the white noise of the commotion in the bar creating an impenetrable barrier to your ear drums), a warm thumb under your chin pulling your attention away from the limp body on the floor and up into his eyes—that adrenaline melted and turned into serendipity. 

Gratefulness. 

Those girlish sparks turning into an entire flame that quickly engulfed you as he asked if you were okay. As he comforted you with a barely there touch on your arm and chin, concern in his dark eyes. Concern for what? Frightening you? 

When your gaze is drawn to his knuckles, his body language responds with a grimace. When you see the gashes only bone against bone brings. 

He’s worried he’s upset you. As if he's done something wrong.

When he insists on driving you home you don’t argue. Wouldn’t dream of it even if the circumstances were different. It wouldn't be the first time he drove you home because your beat-up car wouldn't start or because the weather was bad and your anxiety was high.

That’s the thing about Joel. 

He was always there. 

If you needed help, he always seemed to find time. 

Because of this, and the aforementioned beating your toxic ex to a pulp, you shouldn't be allowing the silence to spread between the two of you like strangers. Like something in the air was making everything awkward, like you hadn’t sat in his truck a dozen times before. Like he hasn’t gotten you out of a pinch (minus the blood) before. 

And after he’s pulled into your driveway, engine turned off, the cicadas and crickets filling the silence, it’s Joel who finally speaks. 

Who cracks that barrier you have mentally been trying so hard to climb over. 

"I’m sorry if I," he clears his throat, flexes his fingers against the steering wheel. "If I overstepped." 

And the ridiculousness of him even apologizing has your mouth finally moving into action. "Joel, no, oh my gosh, no." Your palm presses against your chest as you look at him apologetically; you should be the only one saying sorry, thanking him, worshiping at his feet for this. "I should be the one saying that. I should have handled it myself or-"

"Or what?" He looks almost angry, shocked at your words. "He had a hold of you, and no disrespect, but I ain’t ever seen you kill a fly, let alone throw a punch at someone." 

"Hey! I could punch someone." 

"Could and would are two different things." 

"You sayin I couldn’t?" 

"I’m sayin' you wouldn’t." 

"Not tough enough?" 

"Your heart's too big." 

"If you knew how hard I was holding back the urge to prove you wrong by bruising that bicep of yours, Joel Miller, you’d think differently." Your scowl and threat only seem to amuse him because he’s grinning at you. "You’re lucky you’re injured." 

"I’m shaking in my boots." 

"As you should be." The laugh the two of you share makes your cheeks burn.  On the outside, many could and have labeled Joel as a complicated man. A man who takes a lot of nudging and persistence to get to know past that surface-level workaholic grump he sometimes displays. But he’s a man who would lend a hand at the drop of a hat. A man with honor embedded in his very DNA.

There’s a list you’ve kept in the back of your mind that has every bullet point filled out and doodled hearts around the edges of all the reasons Joel is a good man. A man you trust. A man you adore.

"Thank you, Joel." He starts to shake his head, but you stop him with your palm resting on his forearm, "thank you. "You're right, I don't think I even know how to make a proper fist, let alone connect it." Your soft laugh makes the corners of his lips tick up. "You didn’t hesitate to help me. You never do. It means a lot to me, I hope you know that."

He nods, his eyes only on your face. Listening. Taking in every word you’re saying, even if you know he hates the fact that you’re thanking him for this. But he deserves to know how much you appreciate him.

Your hand moves to his wrist, gently yanking it away from his vice-like grip on the wheel. Your index finger runs along a vein at the top of his hand—the one spot the blood didn’t cake on to. "Does it hurt?" 

"No. Between the callouses and the whiskey, it’s nothing more than a cat scratch." 

"You should still get it looked at."

"You’re looking at it, aren’t ya?" 

Your eyes roll. "I’m not a doctor, Joel." 

"All a doctors gonna tell me is to be more careful, hand me a band-aid, and charge me three hundred dollars."

"Well, in that case," you drop his hand and grab for the door. The dry summer air ineffective to your already burning skin from the man whose raising his brows at you, "I got band aids in the house, and I didn’t get to finish my shift, which means you owe me three hundred in tips alone sooo."

"There's barely three hundred people in this town, and you’re tellin me you make that in tips?" 

"Joel, just get in the damn house." You order, slamming the door of his truck and walking up the path to your front door. Smiling when you hear him huff and grumble under his breath as he gets out. 

A hiss—and a scowl so deadly it could scare away even the biggest and badest of grown men—has Joel’s hand twitching in your hold as you run a wet cloth along the tops of his knuckles. The fabric pulling up the caked on flecks of dried blood, the surface of the cuts along the bone already starting the healing process from being clotted with red. 

"I thought you said it didn’t hurt?" You smirk playfully. 

"Whiskey’s wearin' off," he grunts. 

"Or," you dab the cloth in the small cap of saline solution you’ve pulled from your first aid kit under the sink. Bringing it back to his skin to press gently across his cuts, his body tensing. "You’re human after all," his eyes roll. 

"Don’t alert the press." 

"Oh, they’ve already been informed." 

His hand rests on your thigh as you ball up some tissues to dry the area around his knuckles. Enough to keep the band-aids—the only thing he would allow you to use because gauze would just get in the way at work, he informed you when you insisted—from falling off. The heat from his palm burns through your jeans, and it's a blessing in and of itself that you're ignoring how it makes your insides feel; how your body's warmth is no match for how hot he feels. His legs are spread, body slouched against your couch, his knee against yours. A closeness he’s never been before. A casual touch and directness between friends that shouldn’t be making you feel feverish and cheeky. 

When he flexes his fingers a couple times and his fingertips run along the top of your thigh, you find yourself wishing you’d worn a dress to work. A skirt. Anything to have been able to feel him do that against your bare skin. A thought you chide yourself for. A thought you hope isn’t written all over your face when you look over at Joel and he’s staring at you. Eyes darker, expression unreadable and stoic, in that way you can never tell what emotion he’s feeling at that exact moment. He gives nothing away but still sends your stomach plummeting. 

After the band-aids have been stuck and you’ve cleaned up the mess on your coffee table you offer him a drink. 

"Unless you have to get back to Sarah, then I understand."

"She’s with a friend tonight." 

"You gonna tell her how you saved the day, all knight and shining armor style?" You tease as you walk back to the living room with two beers in hand, putting one in Joel’s outstretched one and the other to your lips. Taking a sip as you take your place beside him once again, this time a leg pulled under you as you face him. 

He snorts, "don’t know about all that."

"I’m sure word has already gotten around. Her friends are probably gabbing about how heroic Mr. Miller is, a real prince charming." You laugh when you see his grin. 

"Or," he says, swallowing the sip he's just taken. "She’ll give me that death glare that all teenagers possess after puberty, you know the one?"

"Oh, I know the one. Mine was so fierce my mother banned it from our house."

"It’s deadly."

"Truly."

"I’m sure prince charming will be the last thing connected to my actions. Rage and jackass sound more on the money." 

You frown. Watch as he stares down at the result of the rage he thinks will now be accompanied with his name. Tarnishing it that now people will forget the kindness that was once there, the man whose hardworking now turned into something vile all because of an act of heroism some might find obscene; with how much blood and possible damage it has caused to one mans face, you could understand why such an act would be. 

But to you—and those who knew how horrible your ex had been, how he had deserved every bone crunching punch, every spit of blood and teeth choked on—you knew that what Joel did was right. And maybe, somewhere deep down in those morals against violence everyone gets handed out to them at birth, you knew that Joel could be sitting in a jail cell instead of on your couch if those punches had been any worse. If it had been pure untamed rage like some will say. 

"You’re a good man, Joel. So you potentially hospitalized an asshole, who hasn’t?" Your heart leaps in your chest when he laughs, and you thank God that your joke landed. Thank him that this man with his disheveled hair that's begging to have a hand run through it, work shirt and jeans looking like they’ve seen better days—is in your life. Not every girl has someone willing to bruise another man's face while destroying the hand that's needed to do their job properly.

No one had acted as quick as Joel had. 

Joel Miller was a good man. 

"What did you see in him anyway?" Joel asks, taking another sip of his beer. His gaze is drawn to you from the hole he was burning into his hand. 

And if you were being honest with yourself, you didn’t know. 

Couldn’t answer that question with the full truth because you didn’t know why you always went for the assholes. The guys who liked to scream instead of talk it out. Who liked to steal money from your wallet for booze or a habit they couldn’t kick. The ones who never remembered your birthday but made sure didn't forget theirs.

Your father had been a great man. Your mother an amazing woman. You couldn’t take the easy way out and blame it on family trauma. 

So you answered with the only viable reason that came to mind. 

"Loneliness makes you ignore all the bad stuff." You take a sip, swallow it down (washing away the pinpricks of potential embarrassment for being so brutally honest with Joel). "It makes you talk yourself out of throwing all their stuff to the curb or burning it in your backyard, because it’s not always bad. Some days are good. Some of them wait to be assholes before the novelty wears off; others wait until you're two years in and they’ve already slept with half the town behind your back. And some will bring you flowers every time they mess up, until one day you look around and realize you don't have any room to put this new vase and there's dried flower petals all over your floors. But hey, at least you’re not lonely, and your house smells really good." 

The smile on your lips fades when you see the look on Joel’s face. See that he’s finding no humor in this story. And the gulp that swallows down the beer in your hands burns your throat the entire way down. Your cheeks are burning, and you have to look away from him. Distract yourself by picking at the label on the bottle. 

"Or maybe it’s as cliché as saying I haven’t found the right one yet." You try to save, nervously chuckling under your breath. In hopes that he forgets everything you’ve just said and clings to this one shitty joke. 

"Look at me."

You do, and you wish you hadn’t. The roughness of his voice makes your stomach swoop and fall like a rollercoaster of emotions you did not prepare yourself for. Hadn’t imagined this being in your future when you’d walked into work. But you’re looking at him. Meeting his eyes. Seeing the stern glower in them before he speaks. 

There’s a million things you imagine him saying. Telling you how much better you are than that, than all of those meaningless assholes. How you deserve better, and you’ll find it someday. Hell, you expect him to scold you with how low his brows are.

What you don’t expect is to feel his lips on yours. His fingers digging into the skin at the back of your neck, his chest inches from your now-heaving one. And it renders you speechless. Still. Your brain not computing with the signals your nerves are giving off right now. 

When he pulls away and looks at you, it takes you several blinks to meet his gaze. The air in your lungs weighing your chest down. You shouldn’t speak. Should allow yourself to get your bearings in order. To catch your breath and sort through everything you’re feeling right now. "Was that a pity kiss?" 

"A what—pity kiss?" 

"Cause of the," you swallow, lick your lips, "of the aforementioned assholes?" 

Joel’s breath fans across your face when he chuckles, "anyone who’d pity kiss you deserves to be added to that list of assholes. And I might be on many asshole lists, but hopefully not on yours." The fingers on your neck skate forward to your cheek, thumb pressed gently along your jawline. His features grow serious again. "I didn’t just knock that asshole out because he had it comin'. And if you haven't noticed, I’m either working or at home with Sarah. Both keepin' me more than busy."

"Too busy to be making house calls for leaky faucets and tarnishing your good name with your fists?" 

"Exactly." 

There's a long pause between you two, as if you're both waiting for the other to say something, anything, to put these unspoken mutual feelings out there.

"Joel, are you saying you coming over to fix my faucet and staying for the occasional beer was you…flirting?" The grin he gives you makes you laugh, "who taught you how to flirt? And please don’t say Tommy."

"No. If I had listened to him we’d be–" he doesn’t finish. Just shakes his head and chuckles under his breath. 

And maybe affirmative action with your hands wasn’t your forte, maybe you couldn’t do what needed to be done when it came in the form of actions. But when it came to words, to saying what you wanted, needed, craved when it was right here in front of you being hinted and teased at, you didn’t hesitate. 

"Maybe you should have listened to Tommy." Your hand mirrors his own, resting on his cheek. You already knew he ran hot from his palm alone. But his cheek feels just as warm as you do, burning right through to your bones. His gaze falls to your parted lips, and a decision is made in the seconds it takes him to return his gaze to yours.

An agreement. 

"C'mere." His lips collide with yours in a heated kiss of nicks of teeth and tongue that taste like whiskey and beer and something that your brain will forever recognize as Joel. A taste you know you’ll be wanting to swallow down again and again. To feel the burn of his beard against your chin until your skin is raw and blotchy from how hard his mouth is devouring yours. An arm wrapped around your waist pulls you into his lap, and your forgotten beers spill and stain the cushions of your couch. "Shit, sorry, let me," Joel starts, but you stop him with your hands on his cheeks. 

"Leave it, just come here." You insist, lips returning to his. 

"Yes, ma’am." His smirk molds to your mouth, wipes away as his tongue runs along your bottom lip to press against yours. A hand on your ass squeezes and presses you forward so you’re grinding against his lap. The seam of your jeans rubs up against the wet patch that's quickly forming on the fabric of your underwear, becoming sticky and clinging to your pussy. Joel's other hand runs down the column of your neck, gripping and pulling you away from his mouth so that his lips can latch onto your sensitive skin. A gasp leaving your lungs, teeth and tongue making you shudder and cling to his shoulders. 

Shoulders you don't let go of until your back hits the mattress and you're both pulling your shirts above your heads, your fingers quickly working the clip of your bra, joining the discarded pile of shirts and shoes on your bedroom floor.

Your heart feels as if it’s beating a hole through your chest, like it’ll fall into Joel’s hands as he leans over your body, knees between your open legs, as his palms run down your chest, between your breasts. Over the globes of them, calloused thumb circling around your nipple. Your breath caught in your throat as you press yourself up into his touch. He’s taking you in, letting his eyes trail every dip, possible mole, scar, and marking on your skin. How your chest heaves in response to his hand. How your breasts fit in his palm. How you gasp and cry into the air when he leans down and swirls his tongue around one of your nipples before sucking it into his mouth, teeth lightly scraping against the sensitive flesh when he pulls off and does the same to the other one. 

His mouth finding its way back to yours again. His hips canting against yours; you can feel his cock digging into your thigh. And when you let your hand skate between the two of you to give him more friction. A dizzying desire to feel more of his heat and need for you burning through your skin and to your core, where you truly crave him. 

The deep grunt that falls from his mouth and onto your waiting tongue sends a shockwave of arousal through your entire body. Being. You want to hear it again, want to pull every noise from this man with your body and mouth until you are both drained and cursing yourselves for not doing this sooner. And you know he wants to do the same. Wants to catalog every pressure point and sensitive bit of your flesh so he can draw this out, can rile you up with a simple touch, scrape of teeth, run of his tongue along your jugular. Until you tell him how badly you can’t stand not having him inside of you. 

He's leaving a trail of kisses down your stomach, his fingers digging into the skin above your jeans, holding your hips still. Preventing you from moving them the way you want to from each press and prickle from his mouth and beard—scalding the nerves of your skin and making your insides whirl. 

"Lift your hips for me, sweetheart." Joel murmurs into your skin as his fingers curl into the waistband of your jeans. Your body feels barren and cool away from his heat as he sits back on his knees, your hips lifting as he frees your legs from their confines. His thumb runs along the lace of your underwear, dipping lower and lower until it’s pressing into that wet spot. A silent, smug praise tugs at the corner of his lopsided smile as his eyes look up to yours.

If your mind was working coherently and not filled with Joel Joel Joel (the way he smells woodsy and rugged, the way something deep and gruff reverberates in his chest when your teeth sink into the skin of his neck, and how he keeps looking at you like a fine art piece hung in the Louvre. Movements quick and gentle as he pulls your underwear down your thighs, making quick work to push your legs apart, fingers digging into the back of your thigh as he lets himself take his time adorning you fully on display for him) there'd be a sassy remark aimed at him.

The callus of his thumb nicks your swollen clit, eliciting a whimper from your lips, your hips following the descent of his finger as it spreads you apart. Trailing a line from your clit to dip into your entrance, gathering your arousal on the pad of his finger, his eyes on yours as he presses it against his tongue. A burning hunger in his eyes as he sucks your wetness from his fingers. 

You're a panting mess by the time Joel positions his head between your legs, arms wrapped behind your thighs, lips, teeth, and tongue trailing up your inner thigh. Your fingers clench the blanket in anticipation, need, and want. The closer his mouth gets to your center, the more you can feel his hot breath moving in, the potential love bites and marks he’s leaving on your inner thigh—all a certain type of torture you don’t think you’re strong enough to put up with right now. 

You lift your head to start begging, to plead with your torturer, but he’s speaking before you can. 

"Wanna take my time, sweetheart." His tongue swirls at the joint of your inner thigh. And just as earlier, the words you mean to get out, to speak from the storm cloud of lust in your head, die in the back of your throat when Joel runs the flat of his tongue up the seam of your pussy. The torturous muscle wraps you around his tongue, following the slowest path to your clit, until the tip of his tongue flicks, making a pattern of strokes and licks, until his lips wrap around the swollen nerve, making you feel delirious. Keeps pulling gasps, moans, and pants of pleasure and ecstasy from your parted mouth; head thrown back on pillows; legs trembling around his head from the blazing fire that grows and grows the more he consumes you.

The more his nose nicks your clit when he fucks you with his tongue, the more his fingers dig into your quivering legs to keep you anchored to the bed and his mouth. 

It feels like hours with how slowly he goes. Keeps you dangling from the ledge with every stroke and suck. Every soothing indent his fingers are leaving in your thigh. Your skin slicked with sweat, knuckles cramped from its grip in the blanket. When your moans go up in pitch he goes slower in that motion, that spot that has you seeing stars. Then he lets your breath come back to you with slow strokes of his tongue at your entrance, giving attention to the other parts of you that you didn’t think could elicit such erotic noises from your lungs. 

Your fingers find their way into those disheveled strands you’ve been waiting a lifetime to thread through. To pull and keep yourself from the feeling of floating away from the intensity of the pleasure. From your orgasm coming closer and closer until you’re panting his name, "Joel, Joel, Joel–fuck," your body shaking, the cries pulled out from this man burning your throat as you finally fall from the ledge and into him; his tongue coated in you, his chin wet with your essence. 

Your body sensitive and heavy as you come down, a sweaty heat making you feel sticky. Joel’s fingers seem to bypass every sensitive part though, as his palm caresses the tops of your thighs, your hips, your curves, the side of your breast. Until he’s reached your burning cheeks, mouth pressing the gentlest of kisses to your lips. The kiss was slow and gentle. Your arousal coats your taste buds when his tongue meets yours.

The kiss feeling more intimate than before, more heady. Knocking you right back on that loop you just got off of. That ache and throb he just sedated starting again in your belly, moving to where your thighs are soaked. 

"You’re overdressed," you murmur against his lips. Joel kisses you again, your open mouths exchanging a breathy chuckle.

"Do you wanna change that?" 

The question holds more than just the surface level of a joke and an answer of "yeah, obviously."  There’s a seriousness to it that makes you pull back from his lips and stare up at him. His thumb traces a soothing pattern into the bottom of your chin, his eyes holding an unspoken reassurance that he’s fine with it ending right here. With him just pleasing you, getting to take you apart and reassemble you with tender touches and a torturous mouth.

It can be all about you.

It is all about you.

You deserve nothing less.

His eyes and soft grin speak unspoken. 

Your nod is slow and reassuring. Your fingertips copy the motions of his thumb against the patches of skin in his damp beard. "Unless you’d rather help me get the stain out of my couch that you caused."

"I caused?" His brows shoot up. 

"It's to be expected when you can't keep your hands off of me," you say before shrieking as he pinches your side. His lips kissing your scowl away—a problem you foresee in the near future.

The kiss lasts for minutes (centuries you wish). Your fingertips never lift from the other's face, moving along jawlines, chins, and cheek bones. His chest comfortably against yours, giving you that heat you missed so dearly. His cock still stiff and hot in his jeans, grinding slowly against your pelvis. 

Is this how it’s supposed to feel? When feelings haven't even been discussed yet, but you just know? Already know what each touch, kiss, and caress holds behind it. Telling a wordless story in the way he had wanted to give you pleasure first—to taste—and take his time making you feel everything his mouth could do. Everything he wanted to do to you.

He wasn’t thinking about himself after the fact. Wasn’t rushing to put you in a position that made it all about his pleasure. Giving you little to no space to cool down, regain your bearings, and have that fire slowly relight and become more tantalizing, as he is right now.

You really did date assholes. 

Your fingers move to his chest, splaying your palm along his body until you’ve reached where he’s hard and pressing against you. Your fingers curl around the outline of him. Stroking, massaging. 

"I want you, Joel." You breathe into his mouth. 

He growls against your lips in something akin to frustration and agony. It makes something inside of you sink, overthink that maybe he doesn’t actually want to push it past the points you’ve already reached. Maybe it’s too much, all too soon, for this new territory of your friendship—even if it already seemed a little too late with the couch confessions and his saliva still coating your center. 

He must see the thoughts volleying in your head because he’s scolding himself under his breath and shaking his head. A soothing touch placed on your skin. "I feel like I’m some horny teenager again, with how bad I want you." His chuckle soothes your heart, "I don’t have-"

And you can't help but laugh at his waving hand towards his pockets and the sentence he's about to finish.

"Jesus, Joel. Bless anyone who's ever thought you were the ungentlemanly type." Here you were worrying about whether or not he wanted you, the proof being clearer than just his dick against your fingers. While the only thing on his mind was protection. 

"Glad I’m amusin’ to you." 

Cupping his cheeks, you pull him back to your lips. "All a girl wants is a decent man to make her laugh, not break her heart, and be able to make her come. And so far you’ve done all three." You let your tongue slip between your mouths and run along his bottom lip, "I’m good if you are." 

I’m clean.

I take a little pill every day because life is chaotic enough and I don’t want any surprises. 

We’re protected.

Now take me already.

The drag of your tongue, the roll of your hips against him, the little whimper you let out when he bites your lip—speaks for you.

It’s all either of you needs to rid Joel of his jeans: hands tangled in belt loops, tugs, pulls, pushing until he’s completely bare in front of you. Your breath hitches when you feel the underside of his cock spreading you and running along your clit slowly and languidly. The heat of him feels nothing compared to your own, the throb and ache of requisite in every roll and drag. 

And when neither of you can stand it anymore, when he’s grunting and you’re begging, he leans up on an elbow, hand wrapped around his cock, lining himself up to your entrance. Your breath leaves your lungs, stomach falling falling down to where he’s pushing into you. Stretching you, filling you until there’s no telling where either of you ends or begins. Attached by that intangible string of pleasure and bliss of only being able to feel each other.

"Fuck," Joel groans. Mouth finding your shoulder, breath hot and heavy. His thrusts start leisurely, taking his time in that way you’re learning he loves to do. Loves to compartmentalize up what you need—more, faster, harder. Going off of the moans panted into his neck, nails digging into his back. 

There's a hand gripped in the pillow beside your head, another at your breast, his mouth connected to your neck, your jaw, your chin, your lips. His hips slamming against your open thighs, thrusts deep, sharp. His cock hitting places that make your back arch, his name strung together with pleas for more. The slapping of skin and wet squelching of bodily fluids between the two of you making a symphony of lewd delight. 

When the hand at your breast hikes up one of your legs, the cry you let out is swallowed by his mouth. The deeper he fucks into you, the more your body shakes, the more you feel him completely consuming you. turning you into someone who will never get enough of this. Of him. Of how good he's making you feel. 

"Sound s’pretty," his tongue brushes against the underside of your chin, teeth nipping at the bone. A trail of him brought down to the shell of your ear. Where his heavy breaths and grunts fill you just as his cock does. Fills you to the brink of pain turned satisfying pleasure, as each stroke brings you closer to a precipice he’s already pushed you from. "Can’t believe I held myself back from you."

"Joel."

"I should knock out every asshole who thought to hurt you, t’not love you the way you deserve. Put you first," he slips his hand between your slick bodies, palm hot against your pelvis as his thumb rubs fast tight circles around your clit. His words getting filthier, ragged. Becoming heaving breaths against your ear as he fucks you faster. As his thumb matches the pace, as you grow closer and closer. Led by his words and pushed over by his cock. 

"That’s it, sweetheart." He’s encourages as you come. As he fucks you through it, as that white-hot heat makes your body contort against his. Cling and squeeze around him. The string of groans and curses, your name mixed with something incoherent but soft and deep, makes your chest swish—bit into your skin as Joel comes not long after. 

And after the two of you have cleaned up enough to call it satisfactory, two new beers condensing on your night stand. Your cheek pressed into his chest as your bodies lay pressed together under your sheet. His chin resting atop your forehead, a soft brush of fingertips at your spine—there’s cheesy grins on your faces, "Tommy’s going to have a heyday."

"He owes me fifty bucks."

There’s faux shock on your face when you turn and lean on your elbow to look at him, "excuse me?"

"He didn't think I'd ever tell ya," Joel shrugs as his hand caresses your shoulder. A fondness in his eyes, "I never do anything for myself." You press a kiss to his thumb, "I think we both deserve something good for once though." 

"I guess I solved the mystery of how to get Joel Miller to be soft," you joke. Nip at the skin of his thumb playfully. 

"I ain’t soft." He grumbles.

"Postcoitous Joel disagrees with that statement," you say. The dramatic roll his eyes do makes you laugh. Your teeth nipping his thumb harder, a bite this time, you shift so you’re on top of him. Sitting up on your knees. "Since this bet is half at my expense.."

"Expense, huh?" His palm grabs a handful of your ass and squeezes, causing you to rock in his lap. His cock already twitching to life again.

"I think we should get you your money's worth," you smirk.

"That's the smartest thing you've said all night," his fingers tangled in your back hair, pulling your mouth down to his in a hard kiss, before you get the chance to at least pretend to be offended.

[justareallyboredfangirl]

“why would a MAN be there” rings of terf shit anyways.

This discourse telling bi women to leave their boyfriends at home during pride is absolutely ridiculous for so many reasons, main one being is that allies are allowed to go to pride, you know that right? People have to also let go of this idea that they can 'tell' who is queer. No you can't! Plenty of trans men pass as cis men, and plenty of bi women date bi men.

[tteokdoroki]

*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— after sickness, after health + sae itoshi.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — your ex husband is a menace. married or not, you'll always belong to him.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, smut, angst, divorce, custody battles, you have kids, cheating (with sae lol), manipulation, possesion, slight yandere if you squint, dub-con, tummy bulges, hold the moan, spit!kink, drunk sex, unprotected sex, toxic relationships, previously established relationships, mentions of arguments, ex husband + pro player!sae, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 1.5K.

⭑ notes — hello... i was not meant to write this but,, i fear i cannot escape the bllk brain rot lmao !! sorry if he's ooc or too mean but i hope u like it ily guys mwah <3 - m.list ✩

oooo ex husband!sae is so annoying, jarring, he’s horrible.

the divorce is somewhat amicable. both of you pretend it is. you were young and in love but now you’re growing out of affectionate shoes that are too small for you now. it hurts. but you pretend.

ex husband!sae takes what’s his and you take what’s yours. sae doesn’t want what you have and what he gave you — being the big bread winner he was, you keep the house and the cars, the expensive wedding gifts his parents sent from abroad. pity presents, he calls them. he doesn’t want you to be out on your own.

the only thing you and ex husband!sae fight over are the kids — it’s a long and drawn out battle. very messy with tears on your end begging him to call it even and take the deal your lawyer offers up so that the public stops tearing you down. he likes that you’ve called him against the wishes of your lawyers, you’re coming to him as his ex-wife — pleading with him in that way that makes his lips quirk up in a cruel smile because it’s been so long since ex husband!sae heard you beg for him like that.

maybe the custody battle was only to drag you through the mud, make you hurt a little bit so you remember ex husband!sae for the rest of your life. the time you spend with kids is split down the middle.

ex husband!sae hears it from one of your little girls on the way back from their ballet class that mommy is seeing someone new. your other daughter likes him a lot, says he gets them ice cream on the weekends where you have them. and sure enough, your ex doesn’t like that, a weird and sick sense of possession curling around his heart and lungs because you’re not supposed to have been able to move on from sae. you’re only supposed to be happy with him.

ex husband!sae who invites himself over to dinner with your girls on the night he knows that your new boy toy will be there. a sense of pride washes over him as he takes in your expression when you open the front door to him; your eyes wide, pretty lips parted in a delicate ‘o’ — you look as though you might cry, asking him if he’s here for the girls and blinking quick when he says he wants to join the four of you for dinner. he watches the curve of your ass as you lead him inside, wanting to rip that little apron right off of you and make you his again in front of your boyfriend.

the kitchen is cramped with both men politely arguing over how to make the girls’ favourite dinner while they watch bluey out in the living room — paying no mind to the tension building down the hall. your boyfriend seems uncomfortable with how comfortable ex husband!sae is in your space. he knows where the spices are, how you like to wash the dishes as you go along, the way you set the dinner table. your stress runs high as sae flits through your home, after all he did live here once too.

your boyfriend puts his hand on your shoulder. sae smiles when you shrug him off.

the polite yet snide comments continue when your girls are seated for their meals. ex husband!sae makes it known that your current partner has no place at the table, that he could never have you because you’re too loyal to the routine and life that you know. you turn to the fancy bottle of red wine sae bought with him as stress relief.

you’re slightly tipsy when ex husband!sae puts your children to bed — he stops on the creaky stairs because he can hear you drunkenly argue with your boyfriend about tonight’s events and he can’t help but feel as if he’s won. your boyfriend doesn’t think that sae should be around, that he’s bad for you, for the girls too for picking fights in front of them. and like the loyal little thing you are, you defend your ex-husband because he’s a good father and he takes care of you. he always has.

sae only steps in when he sees you getting upset, crumbling under the weight of the evening, the stress of being a single mother with someone who doesn’t understand it the way your ex does. no one else should have the power to make you cry like the midfielder does. that’s sae’s job. the steps of the stairs groan under the weight of his footsteps as sae trudges down them — intervening when you flinch away from your boyfriend who’s raised his voice at you in an attempt to get you to see that ex husband!sae is bad for you.

you screw your eyes shut and clench your fists, not intoxicated enough to fail to gently remind your current partner. “please don’t yell at me.”

you sound so hurt by the argument and that only serves to piss sae off.

“i can take care of her from here,” ex husband!sae brushes past your boyfriend to pull your swaying frame into his chest — sweeping in like your knight in shining armour and ushering the man out of his house with a sick smirk. “i think you should leave.” your boyfriend says he’ll text you later on, no doubt, with the intention to smooth things over while he still feels threatened by your pro-football player ex. but you don’t find the time to respond when later does eventually come around.

because later that night, you give into your urges and succumb to familiarity where ex husband!sae has your knees pressed into your shoulders and your hot cunt wrapped around his shaft — milking him so good like you always have. like you’re meant to be. the midfielder shudders above you, listening out for the squelching symphony your sex sings for him as he fucks you nice and slow. sae fills you up until you can feel his cock in your lungs, dragging his milky pre along your walls as if it’s his signature on your body.

the older itoshi brother would be lying if he said he didn’t miss you, your body, your kisses. the way you dreamily echo his name like it’s a prayer every time he angles his cock to hit your sweet spots. you find his hands within the messy sheets, the slickness of your heat making it easier for sae to grind himself into you. he feels lightheaded with ecstasy, his grunts turning to deep rooted moans as he swoops down to kiss you with tongue — a poor attempt to silence your squeals since your girls are sleeping just down the hall.

the bed that you used to share betrays you, crying from underneath the languid push and pull of your bodies working together for orgasm. ex husband!sae is torn between capturing your teary face in the now and reminiscing all the times he’d fucked you or made love to you against these very sheets. the thought of your new boyfriend doing the same makes him hotter, makes him move faster — slurring and spitting his praises into your eager mouth as his balls clap against the curve of your ass and the crude mix of precum and your juices tie sae itoshi to you.

licking into his mouth, you lift a hand to curl into sae’s roots and tug hard in the way that he likes. “sae,” you mewl, breathless and bambi eyed. “feel s’fuckin’ good. hah! d-don’t stop, m-missed you!”

“don’t tell me what to do, ‘couldn’t stop even if you begged for it.” sweat beads on ex husband!sae’s forehead and he closes his eyes, hips stuttering even though they piston into yours. he can’t tell if you actually miss him or if it’s the sex that’s making you feel this way — and quite frankly, he’s in the same boat. he hooks your thighs over his shoulders and presses the entirety of his body over yours, putting all of his energy in to deep, long strokes that make you choke on your words and gush sweet and clear streams around the base of his throbbing cock.

“you feel me here, love?” your ex husband!sae, asks, magenta hair flopping over his eyes — his hips flush against your puffy clit as your juices pearl along side it. he gives you a rough thrust, fucking you like it’s your wedding night all over again and he hasn’t made the last few months of your life a living hell. like he loves you. “c’mon baby, pay attention. can’t believe you’re so shameless, letting me have you like this again. do you feel me?” sae presses down on your tummy where his thick dick bulges, the sensation making the whites of your eyes visible as they roll back into your skull.

you nod, delirious with desire, pussy trapping your ex husband inside of you. “y-yes, sae! f-feel you!”

“good, because i belong here, sweetheart,” ex husband!sae coos, an evil spark haunting his aquamarine eyes. “i’m the only one who ever gets to fuck you here. because no matter what happens — you’ll always be mine and i’ll always be yours.”

[q1ngqve]

Hiiii I'm the avenratio x reader requester a while back!! No worries I'm not here to make you hurry up on that but I did want to leave some more food for thought!! :3 But hmmmm AvenRatio who starts their toxic yaoi w you as their messenger/wingman LMAO so you've seen some and been through some shit cause of them HDHSHSHHS and then one day they get together and you're like my work here is done!!! And try to leave but you silly! Silly thing <333 you have been part of their dynamic since the very beginning isn't that why you were both helping them in the first place?

Tsk tsk tsk guess they'll just have to reteach their dumb stupid little human on what's correct or not <333 (yes imagine this w wolf ratio and fox aventurine or something and you're a normal human okay good day idk what my anon tag should be you decide)

im gonna change it up a little because i dont write for mlm so 😼 also reader is a bunny hybrid because ive been obsessed with this dynamic lately

CW; fem! reader, threesome, bunny hybrid reader, fox hybrid aventurine, wolf hybrid dr ratio, degradation, sex toy (dildo), double penetration (ass & vagina), throat fucking

wolf! dr ratio would be degrading you the whole time after he finds out that you think you could just run away after helping them! are you really that dumb or just pretending to not know?

“dumb little bunny, thinking she can just leave us whenever she likes.”

and fox! aventurine would be laugh teasingly at you as he shoves a dildo up your ass, a mischievous glint appearing in his eyes when he turns up the vibration on the toy

wolf! dr ratio and fox! aventurine getting even more excited when they notice your fluffy tail twitching and your ears flopping down to the back of your head each them they play with the sensitive parts on your body

their animal instincts taking over when you promise to be good and listen to whatever they say, because you’re just too dumb to make any correct decisions for yourself! you just need two big men to make all your decisions for you, so you can turn off your brain when you’re with them! why think at all when they can do that for you?

“gotta teach you a lesson, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

fox! aventurine’s grip on your hair tightens as he fucks your mouth, your throat constricting around the tip of his dick, while wolf! dr ratio pounds into your pussy from behind, the dildo in your ass not helping the situation. you’re so full that all you can do is whine around aventurine’s dick as you clench around wolf! dr ratio :(

“c’mon, use your words.” knowing full well you’re already fucked dumb and delirious! they just wanna tease you 😵‍💫

[achillesuwu]

Thinking about how masculinity change over time. like, some things people did in a specific time and culture can seems very very feminine to us while it was peak masculinity in those day (like the color pink for boy and blue for girl, heels were for men,…)

And just look, post return Arthur pendragon repressed ass with his toxic masculinity would be knocked out unconscious lmao Like Arthur having to work on it not because he has some realization about his upbringing but because he was going to say to Merlin that’s he is such a girl for doing something but a woman beat him to it and say that he is so masculine for doing it and he just can’t figure it out.

[vendettasfanfictioning]

It also makes sense, narratively speaking, for Fukuchi to be Fukuzawa and Mori's opponent (as a unit). I'm not even talking about aesthetic or age range here, it's the fact that these three characters are at the center of the conflict which started all of this: The Great War.

(This isn't to say others weren't affected or traumatized, there's Yosano and Chuuya for example, whose identities were built upon the war—but Fukuchi, Fukuzawa, and Mori fought the hardest in it, so it's likely they'd end it as well.)

The thing with BSD that I absolutely love is the fact that, since it's based off of light novels and there are multiple ongoing mangas they base it off of, we get to hop around different perspectives and plots. While we can and should unanimously agree that Atsushi is the MC, that does not make the others less integral to the narrative, especially when you think of Atsushi as the latest addition to a growing line of powerful, compatible partners, whose battles make the story run. It's in the name—shin soukoku, new double black.

(It's also worth noting that BSD is built on parallel partnerships.)

We have Atsushi, who's at the bottom of the ladder, hence why he's out there on the battlefield, fighting Akutagawa because this emo boy became a vampire. A little higher, there's Dazai and Chuuya, whose demon is Fyodor (and that's a whole different can of worms to open because we've been slapped by Dazai and Fyodor's rivalry for ages, and Fyodor's played a hand in conflicts that Dazai and Chuuya had to face together.)

Then on top is Fukuzawa, who has history with the current world enemy #1 Fukuchi. Who else would better fit the role of his partner than Mori?

Another fun little observation: this battle may have been foreshadowed from the very beginning.

"In the midst of the post-Great War chaos, Sōseki Natsume devised the Tripartite Framework, a plan that aims to preserve the balance of peace and order in Yokohama. The Special Division and the military police were tapped to oversee and handle affairs during the daytime, the Port Mafia at night, and the Armed Detective Agency in the twilight."

What's fucking up the very safety of Yokohama (and the world) right now? What's Fukuchi's motive for all of this bloodshed? What's the common link pushing the story so far? That's right, baby, war trauma and old, overpowered men.

EDIT: Also!!!!! That thing with Tachihara asking Higuchi and Hirotsu if they thought the ADA were actually terrorists!!!! It's such a perfect way to establish the connection the PM has with the ADA. Even when the whole fucking world is turning on the ADA, the PM know. I like to think that exchange served a purpose bigger than resolve Tachihara's conflicted feelings, especially since Mori approached him not long afterwards.

BSD 107 - spoilers and meta

Keep reading

[alnilaem]

a toxic ghoap wip i had in my drafts from months ago but will no longer be continuing. i just wanna dump it here lol

cw for misogyny, smut, (internalized) homophobia, hedonism, sacrilege, prostitution mention, ghost is an ass

pls heed all tags, this was a vent fic, and also bare in mind im never gonna finish this lmao

-

Johnny's world is asymmetrical.

His world. His beginning and his end. Humvees and Dauphin 2 helis and deployments around the globe. Undercover operations, saving women and children, the comforting carbon steel of a rifle in his hands. 

It’s an unspoken stigma, but it’s there. Materialising as insults while his lads take the piss out of each other, and in the form of dishonourable discharges. 

The stigma has always been there. It has no start and no finish, so Johnny can’t remember where it came from, but he knows it was there since primary, where boys would kick girls at the bends of their knees and yank on their pigtails, squatting to the floor to get a look-see up their chequered skirts and cackle, all while Johnny stood off to the side, overtly uncomfortable. 

Mum’s complained. Teacher’s were involved. Dad’s simply said, “Boys will be boys,” and the situation was brushed under the carpet.

The stigma tailed Johnny into secondary school. His older cousin lent him a suit for formal, which prompted Johnny awkwardly standing on his doorstep with his date—a pretty lass named Rory—as his mam snapped a spate of photos. 

Johnny’s disposition was a grave juxtaposition to Rory’s. She was all grins and giggles, cantered into Johnny’s arm, while he was inelastically poised with tight lips. 

His mam wouldn’t stop pinching his supple cheeks, trying to shepherd a smile out of him. She gave up, throwing her hands in the air and wheedling them off the porch, tacking on an ornate, “Have fun, kiddos!” as they pooled into Johnny’s scrap metal car. 

Johnny felt as if he was lacking something. As if his wings had been clipped by the world a little too soon. It’s always been like that. A piece of him plucked from his wracking ribs and stolen, ever since he was a little boy. So in a lapse of judgement, in order to prove himself, to shatter the bubbling stigma, Johnny sought out the most masculine thing to offset his failure: follow in the steps of his cousin, and enlist. 

It was a rashly undertaken decision, but a decision he stuck with, because, for the first time in forever, Johnny’s old man clasped his shoulder in pride. 

But stigma was an incessant little thing. Because even in military school, it followed him closely. As Johnny’s school brothers had Playboy rafts and pin-up girls folded into their pillow cases, he would blunder upon being asked, “Who’d ye shag?” by his mate. 

In boot camp, he was a lowly private, whose hands would jade and cramp from cleaning rifles. They gave him blisters. And so his bunkmate—a nice lad from Glasgow with a crooked nose—would tend to his fingers during their lunch routine. Hidden somewhere in the corner, making jokes about their Drill Instructor. Callum, was his name. He’d swathe Johnny’s hands in gauze and garnish it with a lopsided smiley face. It always sucked, fell apart half way, but he did it anyway. 

That’s when Johnny started blistering his hands on purpose. 

Wedging his thumb in the dip of a garand and not pulling it out until it was swollen. Then he’d snivel, seeking Callum out in their barracks. There was a pull in Johnny’s stomach, half of an ebb that finished Callum’s flow. It would give him rashly undertaken ideas—such as fixing his hand in the lid of an armoury shell—for Callum to fix up. Johnny would find him among their other friends, beseeching with his cobalt eyes, holding out a hand.

In enlistment, his confusion ripened into a gravely miscalculated realisation. That it wasn't an affinity for men Johnny wanted to be—to attract ladies with his chest candy and the brandished title of military man—no, it reared its ugly head when Johnny finally became his own private. Grinning, at the time, clean-shaven and giddy as his mother snapped a spate of photos of him saluting in his new uniform, plaintively whining when she reached out to adjust his garrison cap because “It’s lopsided, pumpkin!” To which Johnny, under the searing gaze of his fellow privates, would clip, “‘Cos it’s meant to be like tha’, ma!”

Johnny didn’t know when it started. He just remembered realising how good Callum looked one day at the range—sweat sluicing down his pale neck, disappearing behind his lapels, ass filling out the space of his pants as he would squat to the ground and aim for the faraway target. Before he knew it, Johnny was seizing lights out. Using the time to sneak off to the bathrooms and cramp a fist around his leaking cock, beating his dick to the thought of him. Him, him, him. 

Johnny’s sordid thoughts didn’t emulate what his granny had planned for him—to pass down her old wedding stack once he “Found the right lass,” to bring home to her; it wasn’t what the Orthodox spiels of sermons and hymns and praise on Sunday’s drilled into him; it wasn’t what his uncle was anticipating—“Got a girlfrien’ yet, Johnny-boy? Ah, why’re ye frowning! Soon enough, ye will.”

His fantasies rivalled those of his squadmates. Because on his first tour, a summer ten years ago in the chilly expanse of Northern Ireland was a woman that approached them. Denim skirt and a mulberry red halter top. Kitten heels, sunglasses. Shiny lipgloss. She tried to ply them by batting her eyes, offering her services. She was smart. Military men always paid. It’s the desperation that got to them most of the time, a tinge of worry, and a hint of entitlement. They took the bait. Rode her back to camp and took their turns with her.

When it was Johnny’s turn, he listlessly declined and hung his head. He said he had a lass waiting for him back home—Rory—that’s the first name that popped in his head. His secondary school girlfriend in which he sobbed on when he tried kissing her. Johnny said he had a bird, just like all his other lads, with pictures of their wives and girlfriends pinned to the massive cork board in the middle of their camp. But they had no problem indulging themselves. 

They were shoving him around, calling him all sorts of names, bullying him into following them. And that’s when Johnny caved. A cacophony of hollers flared out around him as he ducked into the tent where the woman lay, thin bed sheets hiked up to her collarbones, her previous lipgloss smeared over her chin.

Johnny said, “Hi, how are you?” Because that’s what his mother taught him. She softly giggled. 

Not at him, but with his overdue respect.

Johnny shucked off his uniform with trembling hands, mounting her with his dick flaccid and stomach flipping. He remembers ruminating, “Why don’t you like it? You should like it. Love it,” but his heart leapt to his throat and his navel twisted, heart seized as the head of his cock kept slipping around her messy opening, poking her thigh. His throat constricted, dry, then slackened. A muffled sob wracked through him. Barely concealed by the threshold of his thin lips. He pushed his tongue into the roof of his mouth and buried his face in the crook of her neck, collapsing into her bare chest, furiously wiping his tears into the inflatable mattress.

Then, the body beneath him quivered. Johnny hoisted himself up, a spiel of apologies curling off of his tongue, when he realised she was crying too. The same type as him—wrung out, jaded, tired. She blindly reached out for him and pulled him close. Not reaching for his dick nor biting sensual whispers into his ear. They held each other for a little while, coalescing as their cries muffled into each other’s skin. Then, she pushed him off. Slid off the mattress and snaked her into her clothes. 

They both left the tent shaking. She was still sniffling. His lads cheered as she walked away and clapped him on the back. 

That’s when Johnny realised there wasn't a place for him in his world. Johnny shrunk himself, half the light he used to be, pushing himself into a little box as his world around him clipped off his wings. 

Now, Johnny’s world consists of something a little different. 

Something sinewy and rough around the edges. Gruff, but tactical. Calm, akin to the placid sea, but could flip a switch and emulate its choppy waters if he wanted to, too. Big, striking, with eyes that could kill a sailor. A deep timbre mandated by Manchester. Wide-set shoulders but a willowy waist, hips that sway as he walks. A macabre mask and skeletal gloves—ones that have Johnny wrapped tightly around his fingers.

Johnny grew into himself between serving in the parachute regiment to selection for the SAS. He got rougher. Learned how to hide himself better. Perfectly fit himself within the Task Force, around men who would become his best friends and brothers. He’s otherwise your normal guy. Goes to the bar with the team when they’re able. Shooting darts with Gaz (“You’ve got a Marksman badge but can’t score more than two points? C’mon, mate…”); pool with Price; and drinks with Ghost.

Beer always sloshes over the lip of Ghost’s glass when they clink their drinks. It crashes up and over the Brit’s fingers, dripping down his hands, between his thick fingers. Johnny always resists the urge to lean in close and lick the wash of alcohol glistening Ghost’s knuckles. 

But they’re just friends. Apparently. Because friends don’t fuck.

It started way down in Chicago’s heart, after another op. Gaz—ever the exploiter of his puppy eyes—managed to ply Price into stopping at a bar instead of heading straight back to base for paperwork. So they stopped at a little hole-in-the-wall, still rife with adrenaline, spreading out and all doing their own thing.

Johnny and Ghost were sat around a rickety table with wobbly legs. A spread of peanut shells around them and sticky rings of alcohol from their glasses glossing the surface. Ghost raised an arm to wipe his eyes, knocking over Johnny’s beer in the process. An expletive crossed the Brit’s tongue and he apologised, grasping a fistful of napkins and scrubbing it over Johnny’s soaked shirt. 

It ebbed and flowed in long, rough strokes. Ghost’s hand gliding over Johnny’s legs, Ghost’s middle finger and thumb snapped around Johnny’s thigh, his grasp cutting into the sinews. 

It wasn’t that different from suturing a teammate up after a mission. But with the unsaid admiration Johnny had for him, tempered by the hint of alcohol on the roof of his mouth and the hazel canopy of Ghost’s lashes, over his focused eyes, arousal quickly seized Johnny.

Ghost’s hand brushed over a tent on Johnny’s jeans. One that hadn’t been there before. He cut his next stroke from the root, pausing, and blinked up at his friend. 

The Scotsman felt a wound up spring in his stomach. He turned away, smacking Ghost’s hand, and ran a hand through his black tuft of hair, slapping both sides of his shaved heads. He felt his lungs betray him—squeezing like dried fruit and refusing to expand—to yield to his sudden heavy breathing and quick succession of heartbeats.

Johnny shook his head. Sputtering. “Lad, y’know, sometimes we can’t control ‘em–” 

The words died on his tongue when Ghost flattened hand against the bend of his knee. He was testing the waters. 

Johnny looked back, gulping, and took the bait. He inched his knee closer, until it met with Ghost’s thick leg. It’s something he’s done so many times. When he was starved for friction but couldn’t make it overtly obvious—grazing Ghost’s hand passing him a flare; knocking his foot under the table during debrief (“Sorry, lad,”); applying extra gauze to a slice in his torso just to feel Ghost’s chest throb below his fingers a little more.

But this is different. Something Johnny’s chased for so long. A tangible ghost on his tongue for a flavour he’s longed for with just fantasies while he fucked his fist late into the night. 

Ghost tightened his hold on Johnny’s thigh. “Sons of bitches, ain’t they?” 

His voice was taut. As was the muscle between Johnny’s shoulders.

They exchanged a glance. Soundless, but not wordless. Then Ghost slunk his hand down and wrapped it around Johnny’s swelling cock. 

The feeling of it—a sensation so foreign, so yearned for—penetrated Johnny’s core. It made him yelp and jerk his knee into the table, sending more beer spilling over the rim of his glass and onto his pants. 

Ghost hummed, shook his head. “C’mon, Johnny, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?” And he inclined his head towards the bathroom in the back. 

Johnny blindly nodded, yielding to Ghost’s hold as he hoisted him from his seat. Ghost directed them through the sea of gyrating bodies and towards the toilets. They bursted inside, and the Brit pulled Johnny into the last stall. A seedy little thing, with graffiti and the ash of cigarette butts welded into its walls. 

The succeeding acts were a blip in the streamline of Johnny’s memory. He remembers Ghost shucking his pants down, then settling himself behind him. He remembers Ghost’s gloveless hand reaching around and working over his drooling cock. He remembers a voice in his ear, “What the fuck are we doing,” and a bulbous cockhead poking his ass. He remembers the shrill rattle of the stall hinges as he withered against it, trembling under Ghost’s deft hands, the finger that swept over the slit of his cock and slipped down to fondle his balls. 

Before white-hot pleasure seared his vision, Johnny remembers emptying his come into the crotch of his denims, shaking, as it dampened his pants and as Ghost commanded him to pull it back up. 

They left the bar alongside each other, meeting everyone else on the pavement. Johnny’s lips were popped open and swollen. Peeling, from how his teeth had sunk into them. His eyes were glossy and his hair was tousled in the middle of his head. He had a wet patch on his jeans.

“Oh, you are pissed, mate,” Gaz exclaimed, “I– that’s pee?”

“Spilled some water,” Ghost lied to the other teammates, “had to sort him out.”

They made it back to base within hours, signing off to their quarters. 

The next day, Johnny didn’t see him at all. 

The day after that, too; Ghost didn’t even spare him a glance.

He tried reassuring himself. Ghost hadn’t talked about men before—not in this calibre—so Johnny told himself it’s because he was digesting what rashly happened in Chicago. 

That was, until, he was paged one night. A command from Ghost to meet him in his quarters. The message was succinct: one sentence, leaving no lines to be read between. Johnny walked ambled to his room with his heart in his stomach and his blood rushing to his ears. Nudging the door open, Ghost was on the edge of his bed, legs parted, smarting denim-washed jeans and a black pullover. A simple, soft gauze balaclava. 

His eyes slid upwards first. Then the rest of his head. Ghost pinned Johnny under his smouldering gaze, then beckoned him forward with the tilt of his head. No words were swapped. Ghost simply tugged Johnny forward, between his thick thighs, and bullied the Scotsman to his knees with a hand splayed over his half-shaved head. 

Johnny’s eyes widened. He popped his lips open to speak—lips Ghost whispers his thumb over to seal shut, uprooting his words from its step. Ghost shook his head, undid his belt with a single hand, and shucked down his jeans. He palmed himself for a while, watching Johnny’s eyes sheen over, before pushing his boxer-briefs scarcely over his meaty thighs, pinching the head of his cock. 

Ghost didn’t even bother pulling his balls out. Just his dick—long, thick, a comely vein running beneath it—better than anything Johnny’s ever wanted. Better than the images he’s fucked his fist to, memories of Ghost, freshly out of the shower after sparring, his thin towel outlining the barest hint of his dick. 

Johnny reaches out, but Ghost swipes it back. He tuts and softly smacks his cock against Johnny’s ruddy cheek, watching as a string of his precum connects to Johnny’s face. 

“How bad do ya wan’ it, Johnny?” Ghost had prompted, swiping his cockhead over the Scotsmans lips, then pulling it back whenever his jaw readily slacked. 

“Real… real bad, Lt.” He breathed. 

Ghost tapped his cheek again. “Open.”

And so Johnny did. Like it was second nature, like he’s been wanting for so long. Waiting for so fucking long. 

Johnny’s lips popped open and closed around Ghost’s wet tip. He swirled his tongue around it, clumsy in his movements, teeth grazing Ghost’s skin.

He winced. “Easy…”

Johnny blinked in a rapid succession, nodding, sucking him in a little deeper, mindful of hollowing out his cheeks and relaxing his jaw. Ghost’s eye twitched, hands digging into his tuft, hanging his head back, softly bucking his hips up into Johnny’s mouth. 

“Atta boy, Johnny, fuck– where the fuck’d you learn this, eh?”

Johnny replied with a gargled purl of precum and saliva coalescing in his mouth, gagging over the wide girth splitting his jaw open. Ghost laughed, his gloved hand settling on the scruff of Johnny’s neck, pulling him a little closer; sinking his cock a little deeper, rutting his pelvis into his squadmate's pliable mouth.

Ghost cums. Johnny laps it all up. And in an undertaken lapse of judgement, rises to his feet, puckering his frosted lips, ready to hike Ghost’s balaclava above his nose and share his taste with him. But Ghost set a hand to Johnny’s face, shaking his head. He tucked his softening cock back into his pants.

That was the first instance Johnny disregarded. One he ignored in favour of indulging himself in something he yearned after for years. He didn’t realise his grave digging began there—when he witlessly nodded in response. 

And from there, it became a cycle. It was always on Ghost’s call. Never Johnny’s. When Ghost wanted his dick sucked; when Ghost wanted a wet and tight hole wrapped around his cock. Johnny knew better. He knew he was being shepherded into something bad, but he couldn’t help himself.

Trembling under Ghost, his whole world encompassed by the Brit’s towering stature, was all that mattered to him. Getting spread over a cock he’s wanted for so long, a long ways from the taboo fantasies that’s collected cobwebs in his thoughts for so long.

Johnny was less of a teammate, more of an outlet for Ghost to exhaust his frustrations into. Even then, it was a pill Ghost had trouble swallowing. As if he’ll acknowledge it, and a relationship will materialise. So he stays still—fucks Johnny like a dirty little secret then turns the other way. 

Johnny tries talking to him. Tries telling him he struggled with the same thing. That he isn’t alone and that he belongs here. That there’s no shame in it. 

Simon collapses Johnny’s pleads with a final, resolute bark. “I ain’t gay, mate. You’re a friend helping a friend.”

-

basically it ends with Simon shepherding Johnny into some hedonistic, one-sided relationship. Johnny just accepts it bc if Simon wont love him, he’ll do it by proxy, because hes all fucked out and desperate for him🖤🖤

[eternal-ascensionism]

Song Fic maybe???

Hii! I have a request for you, its a Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader idea with the song "Love Again" by Dua Lipa. Where maybe reader has been through some tough/ toxic relationships and swears off of romance once they joined the avengers but then when Bucky returns from Wakanda the reader begins to develope a crush on Bucky as he flirts with them after having a crush on her from the moment he met them. Maybe the reader thoughts align with the lyrics of the song and in the end the reader lets their heart open and starts dating Bucky after he knocks down all of thier walls :) (Also reader can be female or GN and I tried to give you some like guide but didn't want to restrict you!) Hope you have a good day :D

Ok first anon I love you sm for puttin me on this song it BANGS and I love this idea sm!!!

This is technically more like avengers assistant!reader because I suck at finding cohesive ways to fit an original character into the avengers team ((I have tried since I was 16 LMAO)) but hopefully it still works! Hope you enjoy!

Heaven’s Right Here, Baby 

Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Themes: Angst, comfort, fluff

Warnings:Angst; discussions of: war, PTSD, abusive relationships, trauma bonding, etc. (if you pick up on any I’ve missed pleeease let me know!!)

💗

I glance upward as I hear the rumble above, eyes squinting against the sun’s rays. For some unknown reason, I’d been expecting some grand aircraft; a sleek jet or maybe one of the large helicarriers I’d seen in the hangar back at the Avengers’ HQ when I first arrived. What I was met with was a rather modest plane I’d estimate could fit ten passengers at best. It didn’t really matter, I knew the man aboard couldn’t care less about materialism or prestige. Still, he was one of our team’s brightest and most respected members. It simply felt odd to receive him back via such underwhelming conditions. 

Up until this point, I’d only ever worked basic civilian jobs or the occasional temp gig. However after a particularly traumatic breakup, I’d decided that being miserable and barely living above the poverty line wasn’t cutting it anymore. It took a good few years and a considerable amount of ass kissing, but I eventually got offered a role as an assistant of sorts for Nick Fury in New York City.

Natasha was the first person I’d found myself bonding with; the first night I’d spent in the tower was a long one, and she had spent a large chunk of it comforting me by making me laugh with her Captain America impression. Funnily enough, I’d meet Steve Rogers the next morning in the kitchen. He walked into the kitchen and shook my hand, exchanging names and pleasantries with me as the rest of the team filtered in. I watched anxiously as they all began to dig into the food; I couldn’t pinpoint why, but I found myself desperate to impress each of my new coworkers.

Introductions were made, meals were finished, and I beamed at the compliments toward my cooking. To my surprise the conversations seemed to flow naturally. I couldn’t help but linger on one man in particular, though. His metal arm gleamed brilliantly in the lighting of the spacious dining area. He was a man of few words. Bucky, they called him. The next month consisted of me making a fool of myself through several missions, distracted each time by that smolder and the tortured look behind his eyes. It was a look I knew all too well. Still, I didn’t dare approach sergeant Barnes out of fear. Whether it be fear of authority or my lingering fear of men, I wasn’t sure. Didn’t make much difference; the less interactions, the better. The last thing I needed was to get in over my head during what’s meant to be my fresh start.

Today was his return from the last stage of a program for training and rehab that began long before I came into the picture. From what I understood, it all began a few years back when the late King T’Challa harbored Bucky; partly as a favor to Steve, and partly out of respect for the sergeant. He saw James Buchanan Barnes beyond the outgrown hair and the guarded demeanor. He saw someone worth fighting to save. By the time I’d arrived, his reserved nature had let up a bit. We both exhibit similar acts such as hypervigilance, but I suppose that’ll always remain in some small way. We’re part of the team tasked with ensuring the safety of earth, after all.

I wave a hand to Bucky as he steps off the walkway, a bag slung over his shoulder. When he sees me and the team, he shoots us a small grin. It wasn’t until he made it halfway across the asphalt that I registered the changes of his left arm. The once scuffed and faded titanium had been replaced with a new, higher quality gold and silver prosthetic.

“Vibranium,” Bucky offers, having picked up on my stare. “Shuri helped me.”

I felt a pang in my chest as he looked at it proudly. It was the same ache I’d gotten every time I’d bore witness to sergeant Barnes letting pieces of his real self shine through. I could try and lie to myself, but I’m grown. I know what it means to have feelings for someone. As much as I’d fought to stay neutral from the beginning, something about Bucky had always pulled at my heart. I would never let him know, but he’d melted some part of me that I’d spent years freezing out. Still, I’d vowed to keep to the professional relationship I’ve created with the former soldier. I couldn’t risk letting something like random feelings of fondness jeopardize my job. I am here to help others and to run away from my demons, nothing more and nothing less.

-

“I never thought that I would find a way out, I never thought I’d hear my heart beat so loud. I can’t believe there’s something left in my chest anymore”

-

Upon our entry to the tower, we were met by the quiet humming of music. Puzzled, we all made our way to the lounge area where we found Tony behind the bar in the corner. He raised a glass of amber-colored liquid in our direction as a greeting. “Welcome back, Barnes. Dig the new scrap pieces.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and pointed to the speakers built into the tall ceiling overhead. “Thanks. What’s with the music?” Swinging around the bar to stand in front of us, Tony smirked.

“What? Can’t we have a little homecoming celebration? We missed you, bud.” Before he could reply, Natasha interjected, grabbing Tony’s free hand.

“In that case, let’s dance. You’ve only got six months before your wedding and Pepper is gonna kill you if you step on her white heels.”

I watch in glee as Nat drags Tony away to the open space near the couch to practice his moves for the big day. Everyone branched off into pairs, leaving me standing at the bar with a can of soda while Bucky perched on the arm of the recliner. These little moments of joy made being alive less painful each day. I continued observing my teammates for a while before hearing someone clear their throat from beside me. “Wanna dance, doll?”

The low timbre gave him away without so much as a sideways glance. It was sergeant Barnes. Asking me to dance. With him. Ignoring the cold sensation shooting through my veins, I threw him a smile and nodded. Offering me a hand, we make our way over to the spot where the others are swaying to the crooning of an early 1900s love song. With the way Bucky and Steve perked up as it came on, I’d be willing to bet they were grooving to it back in the days of its first release. The thought warms my heart, and I risk placing my head on Bucky’s shoulder as we let the music guide us. Maybe trusting him for one dance wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it’s okay to let my guard down just this once.

-

“I never knew I had it in me to dance anymore, but god damn, you’ve got me in love again.”

-

Love. That’s what it was. I hated to admit it to myself, it scared me to the point of lost sleep and vomiting, quite frankly. But I couldn’t bear pretending any more. Bucky had been back in New York for all of two weeks before we started being sent on missions together to gather intel on a potential threat. I didn’t know the details, they only ever told me what was absolutely necessary to carry out a job. They explained it was so that if I were to be caught, I could play dumb as a simple civilian caught up in bigger matters on accident. You never know what tactics someone may have to pull the truth from you, but there’s nothing to be extracted if I truly know nothing. However, at the current moment, I wished for little more than to be pulled from this room and dragged elsewhere. I tear my eyes from my debrief notes to stare back at the disheveled man sat across from me. I had yet to fully process what he asked.

“What?” His frown deepens, and I almost regret asking him to repeat himself.

“Do you think I’m someone you could love?”

I was completely taken aback. Sure, the sergeant and I had some pretty deep conversations in the past. We weren’t incredibly close before his return, both of us being highly traumatized and reserved people; but pair long missions with hours spent staring off into the night watching for movement and we had begun to fill the void. He relayed stories of war and torture, and I recounted memories of toxic relationships and a traumatic childhood. It only seemed natural that we eventually progressed into becoming each other’s confidant over the last few months. When we accepted the latest task I expected us to exchange banter, maybe make up some new inside jokes. I didn’t expect it to devolve into a raw and emotional conversation about our past hurts and shortcomings. Bucky had opened up about the women he’d met before the war, branching off into a story where he’d tried to make something work with a woman he’d met briefly in Romania before he’d had to go back on the run. I could see the pain in his expression, I could hear the slight waver in his voice as he tried making sense of where he’d gone wrong in life to deserve it all.

Then he looked up at me, those big grey-blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and he asked me the one question that I know will change everything. Is he someone I could love? When he asked, I realized I already know the answer. I already know I love him.

“Yes.” He blinks at me, seemingly in shock, but I just continue. “I don’t have to think about it, Buck. I love you because you are worthy of being loved. I love you because you are inherently lovable. I love how you care about people, I love how you fight fiercely to protect them. I love how intelligent you are, and how you never use that against others. I love how you make me feel safe. I love how you’ve never given me a reason to question your motives like all the other men I’ve let into my life. I love you, and I didn’t even think I could love again.” I dabbed my sleeve over the wetness pooling under my eyes, chuckling at my own intense reaction. Discussing my feelings was never easy, but it just came naturally with Bucky.

Two hands came up to hold my cheeks as Bucky looked at my face, perhaps studying me for any sign of deceit or sarcasm. I meant every word, though. He wrapped me up in a tight hug, and after he pulled back, I felt a sudden confidence. I leaned in and pressed a soft peck to his stubble-covered cheek, delighting in the light red tint that washed over his face.

“I love you too, doll. I didn’t wanna scare you away, you mean the world to me. Just didn’t imagine you’d feel the same. Not that I’d blame you, with what you’ve told me about the others I wouldn’t blame ya if you never spoke to a man again.” Bucky laid a gentle kiss to the back of my hand that still rested in his. “Honored to be the one you trust.”

“Never have I ever met somebody like you, used to be afraid of love and what it might do. But god damn, you’ve got me in love again”

—!—

HELLO I REALLY HOPE THIS WAS WHAT YOU WANTED! I’m sorry it took me so long to finish I kept branching off with different ideas before settling on one cohesive concept and hopefully I did a decent job following your prompt! Thank you sooo much for the request this was super fun to write and honestly kickstarted my productivity which has been in the shitter since like pre 2020 lmao bless you guys <333

[komohine]

How are sheith shippers fetishizing gay men. Are you delusional? Misinformed? Lacking IQ?

Keith is not Asian btw, While we're at it, please prove to me all the damage sheith has done to the gay Asian male community.

Ok considering i have sheith shippers/defenders dni in my intro post and I really dont feel like wasting my time today ill try to keep it short and wont be responding to shit like this down the line. Next time save your breath though. Because idk if you knew this but dni stands for Do Not Interact. You are interacting. Stop that.

1) they’re brothers. Sure it’s revealed much later in the seasons, but the point is they have an incredibly strong familial relationship. If you started off shipping sheith when they weren’t explicitly defined as brothers, fine. But after their familial relationship is revealed the choice to continue shipping those two specifically comes off as strange as hell. Even stranger when you consider the multiple other available male characters that are not only more age appropriate but also dont have a familial relationship with them lmao. Also Shiro canonically gets married to a man. So the choice to continue shipping sheith has to go beyond just wanting to guys to kiss. The next common denominator? They’re both asian, so I must conclude that the need to ship them comes from that. The next next common denominator is that they’re related and some of you just have a thing for incest. But i still have faith in humanity so i wont accuse you of that even though i occasionally feel the urge to. I refuse to take “but but they have the most in show relationship development” as a reason because that just means you’re too fucking lazy to think of your own scenarios. Which is not true, because the amount of devious ass sheith shit I unfortunately stumble across means your collective neurons are actively firing away. Just for the wrong thing. You guys really saw the only real developed relationship (i use this word generally and not strictly romantically) between two guys in the show and decided that it must have romantic undertones. Beyond how its harmful to irl men and deters them from emotional maturity out of fear that any non toxic relationship between two men is automatically seen as romantic by some people, it’s just fundamentally mid yaoi because you guys cant fathom that 1) romance isn’t a core part of the show beyond allurance 2) that two guys can talk to eachother while smiling without wanting to fuck. Yall are in the same league as those guys who are addicted to step sister p0rn.

1.5) bcs i know someones gonna ask “why do you think sheith is incest”, its because shiro fulfills the kinship role of “sibling” for keith, or even “parent”. From here-on out simplified as “guardian”. Within anthropology there are numerous kinship systems which determine which family member is called what. Ex. In the hawaiian system, every male family member is called “father” and every female “mother”. No matter if they birthed you or not. In the linear (also known as esk/mo but that’s a word with heavy history) system, your parents are “mom/dad”, siblings are defined as “brother/sister”, and everyone else is “aunt/uncle” or “cousin”. This is the system commonly used in the west. Kinship systems define a lot of things, from inheritance to respect hierarchies. Another key thing they determine is incest taboo. The range of which this taboo applies differs depending on culture, which is why you’ll hear of two people, for example, cousins getting married. In the west that’s considered taboo, but it may not be in another culture. Kinship and its taboos also apply to non blood related relationships. Hence adoptive siblings, etc. And keith quite explicitly refers to shiro as his brother. Given the context of those scenes, it can be deduced that it’s not said in a way that is 1) casual, as the lingo would more likely be “sup bro” or the tone of voice would be significantly more casual, 2) indicative of anything other than a familial relationship, for if keith considered him a brother in arms he would’ve said something more along the lines up “on your feet, brother”. Keith saying “you’re like my brother” AND THEN DOUBLING DOWN TO “You’re my brother,” said in such a sincere tone of voice leaves little to be debated.

Tldr: Shiro fulfills a guardian kinship role for Keith and thus the incest taboo applies to him.

1.6) also like? It’d be weird either way. Going by their canon age diff (season 1, 25-18 = SEVEN YEARS), and considering shiro met keith in middle school, and going by the oldest middle school age (15) bcs im feeling generous, shiro wouldve still been 22. If they just met once and never again till seasom 1, fine. Ship sheith however you want. But the fact is they met and then they formed a bond when shiro was significantly older and in a position of power over keith. Shiro was a mentor and guardian to keith whether you like it or not, and he stayed that way from when keith was young and impressionable until he was an adult. Yk what thats called? Raising a child. Imagine shipping that. Crazy. Imagine a 9 year old being raised by a 17 year old babysitter bcs of his absent parents. Suddenly when the 9 year old turns 18 he starts dating his babysitter. Thats freaky as hell, and i only increased the age gap by 2 years. Literally nothing else changed.

2) now why would they include a non aapi character in the mash up? Also, his source character from the og voltron is named “Keith Akira Kogane”. What non asian person is named that?

3) also the fact you need me to show you damage.. same vibe as “wdym he’s stalking you he’s just being friendly!! Show me how his so called stalking has put your life in danger”. Like imagine needing actual damage before even considering something bad.

[spxdyr]

What’re some of the examples?

I'm gonna assume you mean examples of a lack of media skills in posts under the anti-buddie tag. The biggest one I saw was someone saying that--and most of the anti-buddie posts are anti-queer Eddie which is a whole thing by itself--Eddie isn't queer or queer coded he just has commitment issues which is why all of his relationships don't work out.

Which like it doesn't take much understanding of media literacy to understand what the show literally said. Like Bobby and Eddie talked about Eddie's apparent 'commitment issues' and specifically they talked about Eddie not having them. Eddie is plenty okay with committing to A LOT of things some of which include his job, his son, his relationship with Shannon, his relationship with Buck, his friendships with the 118, his, somewhat toxic, commitment to his family. He just can't seem to commit with other women which has been laid out that it isn't a commitment issue.

The other one I saw was someone saying that Eddie doesn't do anything for Buck outside of using Buck which is WILD. The example they used was after the lightning strike how Eddie just "used Buck for his new superpower." Which, one, a lot of people on that side of the fandom seem to forget Buck is a grown ass man. But two, Buck in the show wanted nothing more than to be treated like normal, because yes he died but he isn't dead so it's fine (said no one ever lmao). Eddie was the only person who actually listened to Buck in that regard. He just treated him like Buck and let's be real Buck was thrilled to show off his math superpower.

It just feels like because Eddie hasn't said he's queer or kissed a man that means he can't be queer. Like queerness in television isn't just what they spoon-feed you and when they show two men kissing. And me personally, I enjoy that we get to see a quote "manly" POC man go through a long journey with his queer identity where he won't die at the end.

[talisidekick]

Thanks for being so compassionate! As someone who's had to defend himself from assault pre transition and assault and attempted trafficking during transition which has contributed to some agoraphobia centered on thoughts like "damn, wasn't safe off T not safe on it", it's been rlly scary seeing ppl shrug off how transmascs are endangered in real life in service of discrediting transandro discourse. Cool seeing who's really real I guess????? anyways hope you're well and warm. Srry about my run on sentence lmao

There is absolutely nothing to apologize for. We only get to see one side publically, and that's pretty much just trans women issues. Media likes to cover just us. I rarely see news stories about just trans men. We don't see the stories about trans men getting stalked or followed around in stores by total strangers, getting attacked in public, rarely a mention if a trans man gets killed. It's happening but you don't see it. You don't see a flood of forum posts about the constant dismissal of, unique brand of hatred around, or the types of dangers faced by trans men.

My introduction to questioning my gender was actually FROM transandrophobia. The reason for this is I've had more of a curvy figure since ... well forever, even though my body was producing T on it's own. I got A LOT of compliments on it by pretty much all my friends (which were mostly girls, and yes that probably should have been a sign but I'm a bit thick sometimes, okay?) because I was "unconventionally sexy" because of it. I'm now remembering I do have a shirtless picture somewhere from before I was on HRT ... I'll work up the nerve to show that at some point to prove that point. Anywho, because of this, a random ass stranger had been following me as I went to grab a few things from a walmart after my shift. It was weird as fuck. Uncomfortably close, constantly looking at me but not what they were pretending to, and I kind of knew this dick was waiting until there was no one in the aisle before pulling something. I'd been mugged before at 14 and 15 so at 24 I was kind of like "I'm not getting stabbed in a damn Walmart" and just made sure to be quick. I got out of the store and met up with some old work friends and just let them know someone was following me and I wanted to wait them out. Props to my friends at the time, they bullseyed the dude (to be fair he wasn't being stealthy) and called him out. And he yelled back "You'll never be a real man" to me. My friends laughed at him because as far as we all knew, I was cis. But this would happen two more times in the same week. A lady would tell me I shouldn't be doing "this" to myself with a full body gesture, and that god "loves" me; and a college colleague flat out dismissed my concerns on something because "only a real man would need to worry about that". It got me wondering if this was a new fad, to hate on someones manliness, and upon looking that up I learned about what exactly transgender meant, the experiences of trans men and women (just a bit on women, my concern was on trans men at the time), and thought it was kind of cool there were people who'd know two sides to the gender spectrum. But it must SUCK to have to go through the bullshit I did and actually be affected by it. Like, no one has any right to tell another man they're less of one.

This whole situation would actually come back to help me 2 years later in finding myself. I'd only really looked up trans men and curiosity mid covid lock down would lead me to look up non-binary and then trans women. However, transandrophobia is how I, a trans woman, got her start. So it boils my blood when I see people talk about T being toxic or trans men having it easier. It shows a complete lack of understanding and a lack of acceptance and willingness to empathize. Trans men and trans mascs have different issues, that doesn't make them lesser, and while those issues may not affect me, it doesn't make it less of my problem to help deal with where I can. I know certain issues I'll have no experience on, no idea how to help, but that doesn't mean I can't still offer to be support. Everyone should be doing the same, and shame on those who aren't.

You deserve equal treatment and support in your fight for it, not dismissal. Those that dismiss the issues of trans men aren't allies, they're transphobes. And fuck transphobes.

[im-out-of-it]

making a complete list of my thoughts of the show vs books since I finished it and will probably leave some stuff out since I’m super forgetful, sorry 💀

1. once again love that they upped the ages. glad we didn’t have centuries year old Magnus chasing teenager Alec or all the other inappropriate relationships in the books

2. Malec is fucking perfect on the show and it really showed that if any actually cares about them, they can make the characters much better and give the characters a better shot than the author ever did. I seriously love all the details Matt, Harry, and whoever wrote their episodes did. only one I cannot stand is when Alec doesn’t realize right away that Magnus and valentine switched bodies. but alec handled the immortality thing wayyyyyy better than book Alec ever could. book Alec (and pretty much TMI content and etc) barely exists let’s be real

3. Izzy and Simon are way too rushed in the series but at least they have more do a friendship and there’s no cheating storyline. but I kinda like Maia and Simon together. I feel that Maia understood Simon.

adding: I don’t mind Simon and clary in the show dating and the way they end things is not as harsh as it is in the books. maybe clary (I’m being kind lmao) actually cares about Simon in the show but still kinda uses him at times

4. might be the only thing I’ll say about the books that’s nice but it would’ve been cute to see the vacation storyline (eldest curses) in the show. would’ve been cute to see a Malec holiday and moving towards them having children 🥹

5. Maia doesn’t get enough credit. she’s one of the few sensible people on the show and gets more attention than book Maia ever did

6. speaking of Maia, I’m glad they didn’t go too extreme with the Jordan plot. in the books, I think she was made to feel to get over how Jordan treated her. but man, why does the actor have to be attractive 😭

7. I really like Maryse and Luke together. they fit each other quite well. Maryse has some of the best development in the show and I loved seeing her grow

8. glad Jocelyn was killed off. she was more insufferable in the books so glad the show decided they didn’t need that energy

9. Jace and clary are both clearly insufferable but it’s worse in the books. I feel like in the show they’re still pretty bad but it’s a little tamed

10. Alec deserved better than jace. dude had the audacity to act as though Alec is a fling, expected Alec at his beck and call to do whatever he wanted while not understanding or caring about Alec’s feelings and his needs, practically invites himself at Magnus’s place while being the worst roommate, and then taking for granted all the people who sacrificed (MAGNUS AND HIS MAGIC LITERALLY THIS LOVELY MAN LOSES HIS MAGIC AND HIS HOME AND HIS MIND) once again to help his worthless ass

11. wish they wouldn’t have killed ragnor off. we got to see a lot of vampires and wolves but not a lot of warlocks. would’ve been great to see more of Magnus’s friends. you could seriously make a whole show based off on Magnus and his life

12. kinda wish they kept camille around. I know she was drama for malec in the beginning but she’s still a very fascinating character

13. I’m 100% thankful for the show not following the books and creating their own world

14. I would’ve loved to see more of the alternate universe episodes. one of the best episodes

15. ALL THE MALEC PARALLELS. these two beautiful and desperately, devoted, in love with one another men are seriously the best part of the show 😭 the fact that there are no cheating stories (when Alec is all drunk, underhill is flirting and all Alec can talk about is Magnus. Magnus defies bisexual stereotypes when dot tries to kiss him.), no taking away immortality or throwing fits or bierasure, or any toxic storylines is one of my fav things about Malec. they’re just two beings who are so in love with one another, who communicate, and are just completely devoted to each other. and it’s one of the reasons why everyone was so hooked on Malec. they’re healthy but you’re also excitedly rooting for them 🫶🏼

16. Clary deserved to lose her ability with runes. the angels message was to not use her rune ability for whatever she pleased but she took advantage of it. but I will say, some helped but I feel that the rest she just used because she didn’t care

17. season three breakup wrecked me and I’ll not emotionally recover from that. it breaks my heart seeing Alec break his own heart and Magnus’s all so Magnus can have his magic and be whole again. I’m so glad they got married in the end 💓

18. I’m glad the twinning rune went to clary instead of jace because how many times does this worthless fucker need saved????? SERIOUSLY HOW MANY

19. I think Magnus recognizing what Alec needs at the beginning when they meet is beautiful. I don’t think it’s creepy (as some book fans state.) and it shows that Magnus understands that Alec is not ready to be out. I’m glad Magnus doesn’t get shitty with Alec on not being out like he does in the books

20. also book vs show thing. I actually like the whole marrying Lydia plot. I get the whole grand gesture of kissing in wherever they were- sanctuary???? (y’all cannot pay me enough to read TMI again, I will not go through that torture again) but I really hate that it’s not even in Alec or Magnus’s pov. CC makes a point of giving characters she chooses to have unnecessary pov

21. I probably forgot something but I mainly skipped all the clace content that didn’t involve Alec or Magnus but otherwise, messy show but so amazing for the Malec content. Izzy, Maia, Raphael, and Simon are a bonus as well. I’m just saying that the show could’ve been a whole lot worse lmao