#who has a problem with television

[vincentvangoghs]

When Tommy saved Bobby for the second time—this time eight years in the past—it flashed me back to last summer, when Tim Minear posted a BuckTommy video to his facebook.

In that video, a fan effectively highlighted the concept of 'Invisible String Theory' and how it related to BuckTommy as a pairing, while also pointing out how this made Tommy Kinard stand out as not just a unique and effective love interest for Buck, but also an influential character for the direction of the show in general.

So, having a new flashback where Tommy is the one to save Bobby in the past, when it could have just as easily been anyone else who saved him, adds even more contextual layers to the concept. Because had Tommy not intervened at this moment, Bobby likely would have fallen into the inferno and died, leading to the alteration or complete erasure of just about everything we have witnessed in the show since 1x01--never mind just Buck no longer meeting Tommy. It makes me consider that the concept of ‘Invisible String Theory’ may have actually resonated with Minear in a truly influential way once it was brought to his attention, via that video or elsewhere, and that he didn’t just post that video for mere fandom points. Because with this latest development, we have veered away from ‘accidental Invisible String Theory’, to what appears to now be intentional. With this latest development, the writing continues to integrate Tommy into the show’s past and present, while further establishing a strong foundation for his place in the show’s future. It's yet another solid piece of evidence pointing to true longevity for the BuckTommy pairing.

Hen has her Karen, Maddie has her Chimney, Athena had her Bobby, and Buck will have his Tommy.

[celestialbodynumber4]

Youtube i want to know exactly what makes you think i want videos on how my spinterest is the worst show ever and also system fakeclaiming videos. Because you kEEP RECOMMENDING THEM

[catboybiologist]

Today I just found out that the woman who's been the most supportive of me in my transition believes that trans women shouldn't be able to compete against cis women in sports. Do you happen to have any good peer reviewed resources on the effects of estrogenizing HRT on someone's athletic abilities. Said woman in question doesn't seem to believe there's been any research done, which I deeply doubt. Thank you so much for your continued advocacy for us transfems.

I know you're turning to me for scientific guidance, but I'm just so fucking done with this issue overall. To quote contrapoints: I have nothing left but rage.

I've been on this road before. I could give you some. In most ways, trans women match cis women of their height and weight. But there aren't a lot. Yeah, its a problem. But fucking NOBODY will even study it because of how hot this issue is right now.

But more importantly: There will never, EVER be a study that meets their standards. There's always SOME physical metric that has differences between trans women and cis women. It's become essentially an iteration of the multiple testing problem- if you keep on doing statistical tests, eventually something is going to land.

I don't fucking want to provide studies. I don't want to cut myself down. I don't want my defense of myself to be "oohhh look at me I'm just as weak and pathetic and infantile as cis women"

Is this fucking feminism? Really?

I'm fucking done. Call me the evil hysterical woman, but this entire conversation reeks of misogyny to its fucking core. Organized sports as we know them are made by men, for men, to celebrate male accomplishments and excellence. Cis women can and do equal or excel men in many, MANY physical metrics. But the arbitrary set of rules, the arbitrary set of bouncing balls and scoring systems, are all made to reward the physical abilities of men. We create spin offs and systems of score tracking and variations of the same things over, and over, and over again, to give the fragile little male ego more and more reasons to stroke itself.

Let's take a look at some whiny as piss men not being able to handle the thought that women could EVER be physically notable.

Olympic target shooting used to be mixed gender. A woman won one year. The next year, it was segregated. Not only was it segregated, but the scoring system changed so that the scores of men and women could never be directly compared again.

Last year, Donald Trump sat on stage with Riley Gaines, the transphobic swimmer who whipped up the vitriol about Lia Thomas, and bragged about how it wasn't fair she lost her competition because he, Donald Trump, a 78 year old out of shape wax sculpture of a man, was male. And that he could beat Riley. A trained D1 swimmer. And Riley took it, because it advanced her grift.

There's a now infamous poll that 1 in 8 men think they could beat Serena Williams in a tennis match. Its pretty old at this point, but I'm guessing that number is even higher now.

This entire conversation centers around "trans people crushing the dreams of female athletes" but oh my fucking god, are we not doing that as a society already? This entire fucking "debate" is just an excuse for more and more cis men to sit their, stroking their fucking egos on live television about how big and strong and powerful and fucking WHATEVER men are, and even the trace of maleness in trans women is enough to permanently make them some kind of ubermensch that destroys cis women by every metric imagineable.

I don't give two shits about saving sports, one way or another. I detested organized sports long before I transitioned. Ya wanna talk natural advantage, and how sports rewards exactly the kind of physical ability that a certain brand of cis man pushes themselves to? I have a very mild ankle deformity that means jogging for long periods of time is painful. My best mile time is over 11 minutes. And yet I don't see any of the fuckers that are "better" than me out there in the ocean, clinging to the bottom on a single breath for minutes, or up there with me on top of Whitney. Only one of those skills is celebrated.

Fuck me that was a tangent. My point is, I've long since realized that sports are a self propagating system for the egos of people with a very particular kind of physical prowess. The only exception to this is when its exploitative of people with that kind of extremely specific physical prowess, and leaves those it exploits in the fucking gutter. I don't need to start bringing up CTE, I know y'all know exactly what my take would be on that.

but what is sending me over the fucking edge is how I'm supposed to be the crazy one. I'm the delusional tranny for pointing out that we have lost the fucking plot entirely. This is recreation. Its entertainment. And we are using it to punish people. Fuck this.

I'm so sorry OP, but just don't engage in that game. If you need a calm, measured argument, try attacking the misogyny of it all. The only way to "fix" sports is to create more events that reward and celebrate the physical abilities of cis women: flexibility, extreme long term endurance, and fuck I'm not a sports person nor do I want to waste brainspace on more than that. We need a system for cis women, one that doesn't tell them "here, have this shittier, less viewed, less supported, less encouraged, less celebrated version of something a man is good at". Trans people would find some place in that and in theory, there would be nothing to complain about.

Jesus fucking christ, if I see one more male news pundit start talking about trans women in sports I'm going to straight up devolve into a misandrist.

[david-watts]

there used to be this programme on sbs years back where it looked at whether certain homeopathic/natural/cultural medicine had actual benefits or not and I'm sure that programme did really good things in terms of legitimising genuine alternative treatments that have helped many people but what I mostly remember it doing was making my grandmother go 'see you don't need to be on medicine' and then not even allowing me to do the alternative medicine either. which was great

[drchucktingle]

THE TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION TELLS CHUCK TINGLE TO STAY HOME BUT WE PROVE LOVE ANYWAY

just when you buckaroos thought 2024 would be a break from book drama, here comes chuck tingle in the mix. recently i was asked to be a featured speaker at the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION annual conference. a few days ago they rescinded my invitation. here is what happened.

(EDITED TO ADD THIS LINK. if you have a hard time reading this on way of tumblr you can also read for free on chucks patreon)

i would like to start off by saying it is not my intent to start a fight, and all those reading this should know that the actions of a few misguided folks do not speak for the whole TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION. i am sure there are many involved who will be very upset to learn what others at TLA have done in their name. there are many individuals here, so please do not paint them all as villains in your mind. besides, chuck loves the dang library everyone knows that.

the point of writing this is not to vilify. i am writing this is because MOMENTS OF DARKNESS are the best places to SHINE A LIGHT AND PROVE LOVE IS REAL. this is a perfect time for learning and growing and for us talk on some very important things that queer buckaroos and neurodivergent buckaroos face every day. this is an unfortunate moment that WE can turn around and use to prove love is real.

i am also writing this to understand some of my own personal feelings on the matter. for something that seems very simple on the surface, the trot is complex, and i am still working out my emotions on the whole dang thing. i am learning in this way.

PART ONE: BAG OF LOVE

a few months ago chuck was asked to be a featured speaker at the 2024 TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION ANNUAL CONFERENCE. i have been asked to do things like the before and it is ALWAYS a fun time to meet bookseller and librarian buds. trotting around face to face and talking about my story of conquering chronic pain and overcoming my mental hurdles is VERY IMPORTANT to me. i say YES to these things whenever i can. (here i am with authors at CALIFORNIA INDEPENDENT BOOKSELLERS ALLIANCE conference. they are a WONDERFUL group and they proved love with their OWN invitation to chuck. this was such a moving event with so many amazing authors and stories. got very teared up during this photo)

ANYWAY BUCKAROOS i get the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION invite and say 'YES BUD LETS TROT'. we are then confirmed.

months pass. a few weeks ago i get a call from my manager and agent and publisher saying ‘the TLA have rescinded their invitation.’

turns out some things had been going on behind the scenes

at some point the TLA asked chucks INCREDIBLE HEROIC BAD ASS PUBLISHER if chuck would be okay with not wearing the mask, to which tor/nightfire/macmillan said ‘what the heck are you talking about of course chuck is going to wear his mask. this is how chuck presents himself’ (NOT EXACT QUOTE)

as you all know, my pink bag way is a VERY IMPORTANT SPACE. as an autistic buckaroo it is a boundary that allows me to express myself freely and relieve my chronic pain from neurotypically masking all day. i have talked about this for years, and it is why i consider my private identity a SACRED THING. it is literally a health issue.

fortunately THE PINK BAG is never really a problem when making appearances. i have spent years going on television shows, doing interviews, speaking at other conferences and conventions, hosting book events on tour, and even MEETING WITH LAWYERS in my pink face covering. it is always respected and that is very validating to my way.

when arriving anywhere i always take precautions. i always warn buckaroos ahead of time that there is a masked man coming. i always have someone go in ahead of me JUST IN CASE. again, there has never been an issue. at a big conference where i am a special guest there is ESPECIALLY not an issue because my face and bio are printed IN THE DANG PROGRAM

SOME FUN TIMES AT BIG EVENTS BELOW:

CHUCK ON TV SHOW NAME OF 'AT MIDNIGHT' BACK BEFORE I WROTE LOVE IS REAL ON MY HEAD:

well, there has never been an issue.... UNTIL NOW.

PART TWO: RESCINDED

a few days ago TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION suddenly messaged my publishers and said that chuck tingle is no longer invited. my invitation was rescinded. the reason given was that people could possibly be uncomfortable with my mask

right out of the gate i would like to say this: it is absolutely the right of the texas library association to disinvite someone from their conference. it is their event, after all, and they can ban anyone they would like, for any reason.

of course, that doesnt mean other folks HEARING THIS NEWS wont have their own opinions the TLA choices. if the TLA disinvites someone, their reasoning for doing this can be discussed and analyzed. whether or not they follow their own guidelines can be questioned, and certainly their kindness and tact can be considered

there are a few BIG POINTS to make regarding this choice from the TLA

first and foremost, i just gotta say buckaroos, it is incredibly rude to invite someone to be a guest speaker at your event, have them confirm and mark off their calendar and turn down other offers, then rescind their invitation. this is maybe the simplest of the points, but it is an important one.

second, (DEEP BREATH HERE WE GO BUCKAROOS) i personally do not think of my autism as a disability very often, but i also KNOW that despite these feelings it ABSOLUTELY IS. autism is important to be listed as a recognized disability because of the help some autistic buckaroos need regarding government programs and things like that. ALSO just because my neurodivergence has helped me in some ways (hyperfocus and a unique artistic sensibility for example). i personally need to step back and remember my battle with stress and chronic pain from having to neurotypically mask all the time. for as much as i love being autistic it has made some things very difficult.

in other words, i am perfectly capable of speaking and interacting with folks without this pink bag on my head BUT WHEN I AM IN THE CHUCK TINGLE SPACE I REQUIRE IT. i can ONLY use this space while covering my face. is not a want. it is a need. holding this boundary is more important than i can ever say. i will not, and can not, let these spaces cross.

TLA not letting an autistic author wear the face cover theyve set up to express their neurodivergence in a safe, healthy way is--for lack of a better term--NOT A GOOD LOOK.

i cannot fathom them disinviting another author for using a disability aid. i cannot fathom them saying that a buckaroo who hears better with a hearing device cannot use it during their panel because it would make others 'uncomfortable'.

but here we are.

PART THREE: WHAT DOES A BUCKAROO GOTTA DO TO GET BANNED AROUND HERE?

this is the TLAs official stance on disability issues according to their website:

when poking around on the TLA website i noticed a few other things. i noticed a previous guest speaker wearing a niqab, and i was left wondering if the religious significance is what make that okay but chuck tingle banned. that made sense until i looked deeper and saw mascot buckaroos dressed up on the exhibition floor, and saw some kind of spiderbud in a costume contest. nobody around them seemed to be all that scared. their invitations REMAINED INTACT.

it should be mentioned here that AT ONE POINT during the discussions an email was sent from TLA saying chuck is allowed to come and wear his mask in the exhibition halls and smaller panels, just not at any of the big PAID PANELS i was once supposed to participate on. this was a confusing offer, but their explanation was that people who paid for something should have the option to not see chucks 'scary neurodivergence aid'. i tried to wrap my head around WHY they would make a distinction. maybe the exchange of money (rather than time) causes some kind of philosophical adjustment that i just cant grasp?

i wonder, would the author who wears a niqab ALSO be banned from the paid panels? i hope not

my answers trotted up short until i investigated deeper and found this quick moment from one of the TLA help videos. while some events DO require additional buckaroo cash, it actually appears that THE ENTIRE CONFERENCE IS TICKETED AND COSTS MONEY.

at this point i realized there is clearly no actual official policy about not covering your face (other than one from a few years ago saying that you HAVE to cover your face), and the addition of 'money' is a red herring. these excuses make no sense

PART FOUR: CLOSE THOSE GATES

it appears that my neurodivergence is 'scary' enough to get me uninvited, REGARDLESS what their disability and mask policies may say

BUT WHY? why is chucks preferred physical presentation valued SO little by the TLA that a THEORETICAL complaint is worth more? is my neurodivergent expression so awful? is my own safety as a queer activist such an afterthought?

is a pink bag with the words 'love is real' scrawled across the front REALLY going to frighten someone when the posters and pamphlets on the way into in panel would have a photo of my masked face saying THIS IS LITERALLY WHO IS ABOUT TO APPEAR BEFORE YOU.

if THAT accommodation is too much, would it really be so difficult to have someone trot out beforehand and make an announcement? to say 'there is someone on this upcoming panel who needs a mask to express this part of himself, if this makes you uncomfortable then this panel might not be for you'.

and really, i have to heckin ask, is this physical expression of my raw inner truth really so hideous and frightening that fear of making someone uncomfortable is a REAL problem?

(a terrifying display of autism. apparently)

i cannot imagine what kind of precautions they need to take before a stage play featuring costumes and masks.

you MIGHT think chucks queerness and left leaning politics could be the issue with this organization, but they have had drag queens as past speakers (also featuring some GLORIOUS makeup and hair that covers almost all of their faces. VERY CURIOUS). regardless, the TLA do not seem like a conservative bunch.

if you are bisexual or an autistic person who is good at 'passing' you probably already know where this is headed, your dang spiderbuckaroo senses are tingling at FULL ALERT. i will say i do not KNOW the real reason why i was uninvited, and i do not have enough information to make any concrete statement of the real answer. there is only evidence that masks have been fine at TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION events in the past, but not much else to go on.

so the FACTS part of our discussion ends there, but i think it opens us up to talk about some very important feelings that bisexual and autistic buckaroos know well.

THIS is where we take a unfortunate, hurtful moment and turn it into a discussion. this is where we prove love is real.

as someone who is constantly doubted and put through purity tests because of my unique way, we are pushing up against a subject i know well. thats right buckaroos: we are talking GATEKEEPING

AGAIN, i do not know if this is the answer, but someone in my position might be VERY STRONGLY INCLINED TO THINK that a few well-meaning left leaning buckaroos think i am a joke and that this is a character, and that there is something problematic about my work because i am not really a real person.

any upstanding left leaning organization would OF COURSE allow a mask for a neurodivergent buckaroo with an unusual visual presentation, an autistic buckaroo who conquered his chronic pain ONLY by creating this important space... but what about a FAKE autistic buckaroo?

any upstanding left leaning organization would OF COURSE allow a mask for a queer LGBTQ activist standing up for gay and trans rights against a torrent of scoundrels hunting for his legal identity. its a matter of safety... but what about a FAKE queer activist?

let me be very clear for the 100th time: i am a real person. this is not a joke. i am not playing a character. i am really autistic and bisexual. tinglers are sincere and they are not ‘so bad theyre good’. they are just good. camp damascus is not ‘my first serious book’ because my queer erotica is serious. my art is important and real.

when people tell me to unmask they often do not know WHY they want it, and of course one very good reason is innocent curiosity. but there are SOME cases where i start to get THAT feeling--that tingle all of us ‘passing’ buckaroos get when we can sense the real intent behind the poking and prodding. that is the feeling of stumbling into a gatekeepers crosshairs.

if i was to take off my pink bag, what about my face would you analyze to tell if i was REALLY queer. my eye color? my ear shape? if you learned my legal name, would you see if it sounded autistic? is my voice neurodivergent enough?

or is all of that utterly absurd? i am curious what the TEXAS LIBRARY ASSOCIATION thinks.

PART FIVE: GENDERED

this will be the shortest of parts, but it has to be said. i have a very complex relationship with gender, as written about at length here and here. i understand these things can be difficult to parse for some, but i ask that you trust me when i say that the ONLY reason i have been able to talk about my gender and sexuality and learn these things about myself is because of this pink bag. this outward appearance is a direct expression and reflection of my gender journey.

if the texas library association does not care about my appearance as an expression of my autism, then i cant imagine them giving a dang about it as an expression of my gender and queerness. that being said, it is personally very important to me and i think it should be mentioned

PART SIX: SO YOU WANT TO REMOVE AN AUTISTIC QUEER AUTHOR FROM YOUR EVENT BECAUSE PEOPLE MIGHT FIND THEIR DIFFERENCES SCARY

there is a question to be asked here: how could the TLA have done this correctly?

i have one very big piece of advice i would like to shout from the rooftops. please, for the love of sweet barbara, DO ENOUGH RESEARCH to know if this appearance will be a problem and, IF SO, dont extend an invitation in the first place. unique buckaroos with different presentations are constantly left in this place of limbo because we are bombarded with careless actions like those of the TLA. before you consider extending a branch to an artist who might need more accommodations than usual, think to yourself 'CAN WE MAKE THESE ACCOMMODATIONS?'

putting all of this on the shoulders of a single 'buckaroo with a difference' is exhausting. as the TLA has shown, we currently live on a timeline where a buckaroo like myself never really knows if an invite is SOLID without doing a deep dive history lesson on how often a group discriminates and against who.

i did not want to spend my whole family holiday worrying whether or not i should say something publicly or just lie down and shut my dang mouth. i had to consider HOW i should say it. i had to worry whether or not its worth standing up for myself in the face of the largest state library association in the country. i think buckaroos with differences are with me when i say: WE ARE SICK OF HAVING TO DO THIS WORK TO COVER FOR THE POOR BEHAVIOR OF LARGE ORGANIZATIONS WHO TREAT US BADLY

another option would just be to use kindness and common sense and happily accommodate artists with unique presentations to your conventions

PART SEVEN: LOVE IS STILL REAL

i would like to close by saying THANK YOU to my publisher nightfire and editor kelly for standing up for me. they immediately stood firm and had my back. they are the real dang deal. THANK YOU to my management and agent buds dongwon and gino for trotting along beside me. THANK YOU to the folks at the texas library association who initially invited chuck with goodness in their heart and then likely got bowled over by someone else, and maybe even got knocked to the side by a big closing gate.

i hope there are librarians in texas who are still interested in carrying BURY YOUR GAYS when it comes out (which is ironically about someone who creates a space through art to express their queerness where they cant otherwise). libraries prove love is real and what they do IS SO IMPORTANT. it was SO IMPORTANT TO ME as a young buckaroo and i cannot thank you enough. i am not sure if me writing all of this will hurt my sales in some way, but this opportunity to speak about the reality of disability awareness and queer gatekeeping is too important to stay silent. (if you have not already preordered BURY YOUR GAYS then give it a preorder to make up for some texas library losses i guess.)

which leads me to my final thank you. THANK YOU to the buckaroos reading this. yes YOU. i am in the position to stand up and speak my mind against scoundrel forces ONLY because i have the might of you buckaroos by my side. the buckaroo trot is ALL OF OUR TROT and we are ALL HERE TO PROVE LOVE. i cannot tell you how much i appreciate the way you have created a space for me to express these important parts of myself. you have seen this pink mask over my face and saying YES, I ACCEPT YOU, you have literally saved my life. for that i am so thankful.

if you are UPSET by what youve read here, then turn it into something positive. you can support autistic creators, or make a donation to the AUTISTIC SELF ADVOCACY NETWORK

and besides WHO IS REALLY MISSING OUT? this is what it looks like when you invite the worlds greatest author chuck tingle to your event and treat their identity as valid. WE HAVE A DANG GOOD TIME

KEEP TROTTING INTO THE FUTURE. KEEP KICKING DOWN GATES WHEREVER THEY MAY BE. KEEP PROVING LOVE IS REAL AND PROVING IT TOGETHER. lets go buckaroos - chuck

UPDATE AN HOUR AFTER POSTING:

true buckaroo TJ KLUNE was set to be another author on panel chuck was removed from and has informed me he has now chosen to decline his invitation in support and solidarity with chuck. i am so deeply moved by this. thank you from bottom of heart buckaroo

to be very clear TJ has a huge platform and DOES NOT NEED TO DO THIS. these conferences are great for book sales and he is taking a hit out of pure solidarity. this is queer buckaroos standing up for eachother. i am floored by this kindness and love

please consider checking out his books if they are not already covering your dang bookshelf. chuck blurbed IN THE LIVES OF PUPPETS and i was blown away i heckin loved it

MOST RECENT UPDATE:

here is more

[demonic0angel]

Riddler captures Tucker and forces him to compete in one of his evil gameshow stunts. But he keeps running into the problem that Tucker seems to have a bottomless supply of mobile devices to cheat with.

“Now… riddle me this! I’m full of holes but strong as steel. What am I?” The Riddler chuckled.

“A chain,” a young man in the corner said.

The Riddler nodded, pleased before he blinked and did a double take. “What the— give me that!” He snatched the phone out of the man’s hands, glaring at the screen where the riddle had been looked up.

He threw it to one of his goons and said, “Why didn’t you look carefully enough?! He still has his phone!”

“B-But boss!”

Riddler waved him away with a huff before he was back to stroking his chin in thought, leering at the shivering hostages he was able to capture. The camera was still rolling and he was in his element.

“Well, riddle me this! What word has kst in the middle, in the beginning, and at the end?”

“An inkstand.”

The Riddler nodded before once again, he did a double take. The same young man wearing a beanie was now looking at his Apple Watch.

“Why you—! Stop this!” The Riddler took away his watch and glared at him.

The young man pouted.

“No more cheating!” The Riddler said before he turned back towards the hostages, who were watching the two with confusion and bafflement.

The Riddler kept his eye on the young man, glaring at him. He made eye contact back, completely unabashed.

“I speak without a mouth and hear without ears. I’m invisible, but you can call for me. What am I?”

The Riddler and the boy stared at each other. Then the latter looked away for a moment. The Riddler followed his gaze and when he turned back after seeing nothing, the young man had pulled another phone out of his shoe.

“An echo,” the man responded, as if he wasn’t cheating in front of him.

The Riddler gave a scream of rage.

In a very small apartment, Jazz debated between picking up the phone or not as she stared at the TV, conflicted as Tucker seemed to be handling it just fine, but he was still kidnapped and being televised…

“A tree!” Tucker said to another answer after pulling out an AI controlled tamagotchi.

The Riddler screamed again.

Jazz sighed. To call Danny or not to call, that was the question.

[mcmansionhell]

mojo dojo casa house

Howdy folks! Sorry for the delay, I was, uhhhh covering the Tour de France. Anyway, I'm back in Chicago which means this blog has returned to the Chicago suburbs. I'm sure you've all seen Barbie at this point so this 2019 not-so-dream house will come as a pleasant (?) surprise.

Yeah. So this $2.4 million, 7 bed, 8.5+ bath house is over 15,000 square feet and let me be frank: that square footage is not allocated in any kind of efficient or rational manner. It's just kind of there, like a suburban Ramada Inn banquet hall. You think that by reading this you are prepared for this, but no, you are not.

Scale (especially the human one) is unfathomable to the people who built this house. They must have some kind of rare spatial reasoning problem where they perceive themselves to be the size of at least a sedan, maybe a small aircraft. Also as you can see they only know of the existence of a single color.

Ok, but if you were eating a single bowl of cereal alone where would you sit? Personally I am a head of the table type person but I understand that others might be more discreet.

It is undeniable that they put the "great" in great room. You could race bicycles in here. Do roller derby. If you gave this space to three anarchists you would have a functioning bookshop and small press in about a week.

The island bit is so funny. It's literally so far away it's hard to get them in the same image. It is the most functionally useless space ever. You need to walk half a mile to get from the island to the sink or stove.

Of course, every McMansion has a room just for television (if not more than one room) and yet this house fails even to execute that in a way that matters. Honestly impressive.

The rug placement here is physical comedy. Like, they know they messed up.

Bling had a weird second incarnation in the 2010s HomeGoods scene. Few talk about this.

Honestly I think they should have scrapped all of this and built a bowling alley or maybe a hockey rink. Basketball court. A space this grand is wasted on sports of the table variety.

You would also think that seeing the rear exterior of this house would help to rationalize how it's planned but:

Not really.

Anyways, thanks for coming along for another edition of McMansion Hell. I'll be back to regular posting schedule now that the summer is over so keep your eyes peeled for more of the greatest houses to ever exist. Be sure to check the Patreon for today's bonus posts.

Also P.S. - I'm the architecture critic for The Nation now, so check that out, too!

If you like this post and want more like it, support McMansion Hell on Patreon for as little as $1/month for access to great bonus content including a discord server, extra posts, and livestreams.

Not into recurring payments? Try the tip jar, because media work is especially recession-vulnerable.

[mysticalcrowntyrant]

Yandere Killer x Reader

You don’t hear about your sister’s death until the morning after. You’re pouring cheap coffee into a chipped mug, thumb absentmindedly rubbing at a lipstick stain that isn’t yours, when the news report flashes across the television above the counter.

“—young woman, twenty-three, found in an abandoned building off Mulberry. Police believe foul play may be involved.”

The name makes you freeze. The words blur after that.

Your shift ends early. Your manager mumbles something about taking as long as you need, but his eyes dart toward the schedule like your grief is a logistical problem. You leave without saying goodbye.

Your sister’s name doesn’t feel real on the obituary page. Just black ink on grey paper. It says she liked poetry and animals. It doesn’t say she used to steal your clothes or that she could never remember your birthday. It doesn’t say that she owed you money. It doesn’t say you loved her.

It doesn’t say what was done to her.

The cops won’t tell you much. Ongoing investigation, they say. You try to ask again, later, but the detective barely looks up from his notepad.

You think it’s over. You think it’s just another horrible thing in a world full of them. But then, a week later, you find the envelope. No return address, just your name, printed in neat block letters. Inside: a photograph. Black and white. Your sister. Eyes closed. Her mouth is open, like she’s saying something. Behind her is a crumbling brick wall and nothing else.

You recognize the necklace she’s wearing. You gave it to her last Christmas.

There’s no note. No explanation. But you know — it was taken after she died.

You tell the police. They say they’ll look into it. You can tell they don’t believe you. Or maybe they do, but it doesn’t matter. You’re just the family. Just a footnote.

It doesn’t stop. Another envelope arrives, and another. Sometimes it’s photos. Sometimes newspaper clippings about the murder, with certain words underlined in red pen. One of them is a picture of your apartment building, taken from across the street.

You stop sleeping. You jump at shadows. You think you see someone standing across the road at night, but when you blink, they’re gone.

The third letter has something new: a note.

“She screamed your name before she died. I thought you should know.”

You throw up in the sink. You call the police again. They don’t help.

He watches you. You don’t know it yet, but he’s there. He watches you lock your door three times in a row. He watches you flinch at the sound of tires screeching in the street. He watches you cradle your phone like a lifeline when you walk home at night.

He’s fascinated by you.

You’re different than the others. You’re not begging for your life. You’re surviving. You’re enduring. You’re unraveling — beautifully, slowly — and he thinks he’s the only one who really sees it. He did this to you, after all. This grief? This fear? It was his gift.

He calls it connection.

He knows things about you now. How your voice sounds when you’re reading under your breath. What you hum when you’re doing dishes. The way you whisper her name at night, like she might hear you. Like she might come back.

He learns your schedule. Where you shop. Which friends you’ve stopped talking to. Which ones still try to call. (You don’t answer anymore.)

He thinks about introducing himself. Casually. In a grocery store aisle. On the bus. In a coffee shop. Somewhere ordinary. He imagines how startled you’ll be when you realize how much you need him.

He writes your name over and over in a notebook, his handwriting getting more frenzied with each page. He adds hearts around it, then crosses them out until the paper tears.

He breaks into your apartment when you’re gone. Just to look. Just to see how you live. What you keep. What you miss.

He sits on your bed for hours.

One night, you wake up and the air feels wrong. You don’t hear anything, not at first, but something in your bones tells you you’re not alone. You creep into the hallway, heart pounding, and find your front door open.

Not just unlocked. Open.

You call the police. They take a report. They don’t do much else.

You move out a week later. A friend lets you stay on her couch. She doesn’t ask questions. She doesn’t need to — you look haunted.

You change your number. You deactivate your social media. You start carrying a gun in your bag, even though you’ve never used one.

Still, the envelopes come. Now addressed to your friend’s house.

The notes get more personal.

“You looked at me today. You didn’t know it, but you did.”

“I miss her too. But she wasn’t like you.”

“You’re the only one who understands.”

There’s a mirror above your friend’s fireplace. You catch yourself looking at it too often, trying to see what he sees. Why you? What is it about you that made him choose you, follow you, claim you?

You wonder what would happen if you wrote back. If you left a note of your own.

Why are you doing this?

Or maybe:

What do you want from me?

But the real question — the one that curls in your stomach late at night — is darker.

What would it feel like if you answered? If you gave him what he wanted? If you stopped running?

You never met your sister’s killer.

That’s what you tell yourself.

But you remember a man from the funeral. He wasn’t a friend or a family member. You assumed he was a co-worker, or someone she knew from school. He stood in the back. Said nothing. His eyes never left you.

You thought he looked familiar. You thought maybe you’d seen him around.

You think about him too much.

And sometimes, you wonder if he’s still out there. If he’s still watching.

And worse—if he’s waiting.

Because you haven’t heard from him in three months.

And that, somehow, is the most terrifying thing of all.

Masterlist

[puddingbrainscientist]

it feels like this season, doctor who is dealing with the fundamental rules changing. it was strictly sci-fi, you could always logic your way out of any problem with technobabble and a clever plan.

but it feels like so much of the plot is wrapped around poking at the medium of being a television show, of being a story. we have multiple characters looking at the viewers, we have the maestro playing the theme tune, we have such clear parallels to season 1 (2005) that it feels like a universal coincidence. like the whoniverse itself is recognizing its a medium and playing with its tropes.

the genre is changing too - we are leaning more and more into fantasy, rules like you would see in stories about fae, not sci-fi. musical numbers out of nowhere that no one seems to question, with rain inside and musical sidewalks. the vocabulary of rope and power in coincidences. hell, even the way that time travel works is changing! suddenly stepping on a butterfly (specifically a trope in scifi that has been mocked/debunked previously) has consequences. the doctor swiping away the translation circuit's effects with the wave of a hand and breathing life back into a creature without breaking a sweat.

not to mention the way that space babies foreshadows to a universe that creates a story with all the ingredients it knows are supposed to be there (re: bogeyman - there's supposed to be a villain so it made one)

something IS going on. there is a bigger player - bigger than tecteun, bigger than the toymaker. could it be rtd just having a grand ole time using canon as is playground? maybe. but i hope it's something cool.

[polarity-disturbed]

One thing that’s become really clear while watching Classic Doctor Who alongside the current era—especially starting with the Fifteenth Doctor—is how well the Ninth through Twelfth Doctor eras nailed the balance of episode length and story structure.

Classic Who usually split its stories into four or five 20–25 minute episodes per arc, which roughly equals the runtime of a modern two-parter. But while that format allowed for sprawling narratives, it came with a tradeoff: pacing. Entire episodes sometimes feel like narrative treading water—not because the writing was bad, but because of the constraints of mid-20th century television. (That’s its own fascinating rabbit hole, but we’ll save that for another time.)

To be fair, Classic Who did experiment with its format. Some stories, like The Edge of Destruction—a tight, two-part psychological thriller set entirely inside the TARDIS—used a smaller runtime to great effect. It’s still one of the strongest entries of Season 1, partly because it had no room to meander.

Later, the show dabbled in stories of two 45-minute episodes during Season 22. But those episodes often had the same problem: some stories still didn’t need the extra time. Take The Mark of the Rani, for example. It was padded out to fit that two-part, 45-minute-per-episode format (roughly 90 minutes total), but honestly? It could’ve been a sharper, more effective 40-minute story. There’s a lot of unnecessary fluff that drags the pacing down.

But then you get something like The Keys of Marinus—a six-parter (20 min each part) that essentially functions as a sci-fi anthology. Each episode throws the Doctor and co. into a completely new setting with its own self-contained mini-plot. It uses its extended format to experiment and surprise without feeling stale. That’s when the long form works.

Then came the 2005–2017 revival era, and honestly? The show hit its structural gold standard: twelve episodes per season, blending 40-minute standalones with 80-minute two-parters. And it just worked.

Episodes like Blink and Midnight were tight, high-impact stories that landed precisely because they didn’t overstay their welcome. Try stretching either one to feature-length, and the tension would unravel. Meanwhile, two-parters like The Empty Child / The Doctor Dances had room to build atmosphere, layer in character development, and deliver those signature emotional wallops. They remain fan favorites for a reason: the format gave them the breathing room they needed—and then stopped.

Which brings us to the Fifteenth Doctor’s era.

Right now, we’re back to a one-size-fits-all approach but the opposite direction: single 40-minute episodes across the season, with only the finale allowed to be a two-parter. And the result? Some stories just aren’t getting the space they need to land.

Doctor Who thrives on structural flexibility. Some stories need 80 minutes to unfold. Others are perfect little 40-minute excursions. Locking every episode into the same runtime is like asking every alien to fit inside a human suit: it works until it doesn’t, and when it doesn’t, it’s obvious.

The point is: variety in format has always been one of Doctor Who’s strengths. When the show leans into that, it sings. When it forgets that… well, you end up with stories that could’ve soared if they were just given a little more space to breathe.

(Also I don’t mean to exclude 13—it’s just that her era experimented with structure so much across her run that it’s kind of its own thing, there’s a whole separate post to be written about what worked and didn’t there.)

(Fun fact for reading this far: The Edge of Destruction was only two 25-minute parts because the production team didn’t know if the show was getting picked up for more episodes. They wrote a short, self-contained story set entirely inside the TARDIS to avoid building new sets. It was meant to be cheap filler—and it ended up being one of the highlights of the First Doctor’s era.)

[therobbycuepitt]

Hi!!! Here's a cute thought. What about The Pitt boys calling you their wife without you guys being married (or engaged because that makes it kinda cuter imo)? What do you think? What would that look like?

Accidentally calling you his "Wife"

Okay. I only made these for the four main male doctors, so this doesn't include nurses or med students. Sorry! ((but let me know if you want me to add them and I can do a part 2!))

Robby

He's making casual conversation with an older man in one of the rooms. At a rare day in the ED, transitioning patients to their respective departments above the usual chaotic floor of the Emergency Room was going smoothly--patients waited at three hours minimun to get seen, and Gloria wasn't up his ass for anything she can think under the sun.

"My sweet Jenny was a nurse. She loved her job, used to patch me up real good better than any doctor--no offense, Doc," his patient says with a laugh. Robby chuckles but keeps his hands steady, continuing his sutures. "None taken."

"My wife's the only one I trust around here," boasting wasn't Robby's thing but thinking about you always puts a little puff in his chest.

"Oh don't listen to my husband, Mr. Danvers. He'd be a chimney the way he blows so much smoke up my ass," your voice claims the small room. Robby stills in his seat, blushing all shades of red. His patient lets out a huge belly laugh.

"She's a firecracker, Doc. Don't lose her."

Jack

A rowdy group of hockey fans got into a bar fight, resulting in multiple minor injuries--mostly cuts and bruises.

'The Pens suck!'

'The last time your team won the cup, Facebook wasnt even invented yet!' the two groups, which were Stars and Pens fans by the symbols on their jerseys, shouted back and forth between two rooms. Unfortunately for you, you were stuck with the Away team while Parker took care of the Home team.

"You sure you don't want to sub in there, Doc?" the officer--who brought the two groups in, stands beside Jack and John, watching the chaos like it was the most entertaining show on television.

"Nah, my wife's got it. She's tough," Jack smirks a bit when you send him a wink, silently telling him you've got it handled.

Shen chokes on his iced coffee. "Like, 'work wife' , right?"

Frank

"Hey, sweet cheeks. Wanna give me a sponge bath?" Frank leans on the center bay, head hanging low between his shoulders. He glances at Myrna over his shoulder--her usual self cuffed to her wheelchair, giving him a flirty smile.

Turning around to face her, he crosses his arms and chides, "I don't think my wife, would appreciate you flirting with me, Myrna."

"Never saw a ring on it, champ. I can be real flexible," she purrs with her gravely voice, one foot extending infront of her with hands seductively inching her hospital gown up her thigh. You catch the conversation from the curtain behind Myrna, pulling it back you catch Frank’s wide eyes.

"I'll only let you borrow him if you ask nicely, Myrna."

Shen

Shen has a problem, and its called caffeine. He wouldn't say he's addicted to it, no. But if he were, he would probably blame you for putting him on the iced coffee bender. You both have sort of schedule down for who gets coffee for who on alternate days of the week. It's kind of a way to test out new coffee shops around the area and try new blends.

'Super late. Dunkin good?' he texts you, speed walking down the street to the said establishment. His phone dings with a text from you with just a thumbs up emoji. He scans the doughnut display while he waits his turn in line, mentally telling himself to add your favorite round treat to the order.

Approaching the register, his phone goes off with your name flashing on the screen while he gives the worker his coffee order.

"John, could you get me a-"

"Yes. I know, I know. Hey, man. Can you add a Boston for my wife, please," his hand freezes mid reach to his jacket's pocket for his wallet. His phone, which was pressed between his left ear and shoulder, almost slips when he hears you giggling at the other end of the line. The cashier clears his throat, and John quickly recovers, finally getting his card out to pay.

"I... don't know why I said that."

[bogleech]

It bugs me so much the way they decided every character published by the same comic book brand should always share the same universe when so many of them were conceived of as their own unique thing in a bubble. Like why are vampires the single biggest threat on earth in THIS guy's life and he almost never sees killer robots, which are an everyday problem to this woman who has never heard of real vampires, and neither of them normally encounter or even talk about the thousands of goofy ass superheroes and supervillains evidently having widely televised destructive battles in every major city on earth every few days. If all this shit in the DCU or the marvel one was really actually happening in the same timeline of the same earth it'd be unreadable chaos every time you stepped outside, a nonsense circus from loony land all the way to the godforsaken horizon, neon underwear guys flying around everywhere bouncing off the fucking walls, mutant kaiju battles and biblical Armageddons and noir gangster wizard demon shootouts with cyborg werewolf bikini ninjas holding up traffic and shit, how the hell would anybody even find five minutes of goddamn peace to have a coffee and a bagel without being interrupted by gods from three different religions wrestling a big centipede that eats time, or whatever happened on your block this morning, let alone hold down an honest 9 to 5 self contained single genre adventure in that kinda batshit clown fire?!

[moonstruckme]

sirius x fem!reader who is scared to sleep after watching a scary movie/ playing a scary video game!!!

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 697 words

The storm is making things worse. You’ve forced Sirius to put on a sitcom as a palate cleanser  after his thriller, but every time the wind shrieks or a tree branch thwacks against your window you go stiff with anticipation. Sirius thinks it’s hilarious. He mumbles teasing endearments into the ticklish part of your neck as he holds you tightly under your shared blanket. 

Eventually, you can’t stall it any longer. The television goes dark, the only sound left the storm raging outside, and Sirius says, “Alright, I’m done in. Ready to call it a night?” 

“Yeah,” you say, because you’re undeniably tired too. You don’t move, though. 

Sirius eyes you amusedly. “You going to be able to sleep?”

“If I can’t, I’m blaming you.” 

“No poltergeists are haunting this house, gorgeous.” He starts to get up, forcing you to do the same or be dumped off his lap. “And if they were, they’d have to go through me to get to you.” 

“Not too difficult,” you say wryly, “seeing as getting through things is one of their specialties.” 

Your boyfriend’s eyes gleam with mirth in the low light as he folds up your blanket. “We’re safe,” he promises. 

The edge of a tree branch scrapes across your window. You tense. “I think I’m going to grab some water before bed.” 

Sirius hums knowingly. “Not stalling?” 

“I’m centering myself.” 

“I’ll leave the hall light on for you.” 

You’re hoping the familiarity of a nighttime routine might lull you back into your safe sense of reality, but you’re wrong. Though you force yourself not to look out the windows—lest you see a figure lit by the flashes of lightning—your hair stands on end like a spooked cat’s as you move about the kitchen. When you drink your water, it chills you down to the bone. 

You’re grateful for Sirius’ consideration with the hall light. Ordinarily you have no problems navigating your home in the dark, but now every innocuous sound has you fighting the urge to check that nothing is behind you; it’s reassuring to at least be able to see ahead. You nearly jump out of your skin at the squeak of a floorboard before you register that it’s come from beneath your own foot. 

The true obstacle comes at the end of the hall. Sirius is already in bed, his lamp off, but you still need to go to the bathroom to wash your face. Once you turn the hall light off, there’s a ten foot span to be crossed in the impenetrable dark. 

There’s no way around it. You send it. 

Flicking the hall light off, moving as quickly as you can with no sound towards where you know the bathroom to be, reaching blindly for the light switch. 

A voice, so close you can feel its tickle on your nape: “Boo.” 

You shriek and jump away, leaving Sirius to fumble for the light switch whilst he doubles over in laughter. 

“Oh my god.” You cover your face with your hands, breath coming back to your lungs. “You prick.” 

Sirius tries to choke out a couple of words, but they’re incoherent. Tears leak from his eyes. 

“I hope you get a stomach cramp, loser,” you say, fighting a smile as you turn towards the sink. It’s not funny. It’s not. 

You’re finishing brushing your teeth by the time he gets it together, wiping his eyes and standing to wrap his arms around your waist. He’s grinning so hard his cheeks must hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. 

You spit toothpaste into the sink. “No, you’re not.” 

His face admits you’re right. “It was just really easy.” 

“I’m definitely not going to be able to sleep now,” you tell him, glaring without effect into the mirror. “And it’s definitely your fault.” 

Sirius tuts. He squeezes your middle, smizing. “Even if I hold you all night?” 

“You do that anyway.” 

“And it makes you feel very safe, you’ve told me so.” 

You should never tell him anything. You’ll have to remember that. 

“I’m going to stay wrapped around you like a koala,” you threaten. 

Sirius grins, kissing your cheek. “Careful. I’ll start putting on horror films more often.”

[afloweroutofstone]

Strongly convinced that this is one of the primary culprits behind a lot of the most harmful social trends of recent years. Obviously the decline of in-person socialization has been happening for about half a century now (see Bowling Alone), but the last five years have turbo-charged it in an unprecedented way.

Americans are spending less time with other people than in any other period for which we have trustworthy data, going back to 1965. Between that year and the end of the 20th century, in-person socializing slowly declined. From 2003 to 2023, it plunged by more than 20 percent, according to the American Time Use Survey, an annual study conducted by the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Among unmarried men and people younger than 25, the decline was more than 35 percent. Alone time predictably spiked during the pandemic. But the trend had started long before most people had ever heard of a novel coronavirus and continued after the pandemic was declared over. According to Enghin Atalay, an economist at the Federal Reserve Bank of Philadelphia, Americans spent even more time alone in 2023 than they did in 2021... Eroding companionship can be seen in numerous odd and depressing facts of American life today. Men who watch television now spend seven hours in front of the TV for every hour they spend hanging out with somebody outside their home. The typical female pet owner spends more time actively engaged with her pet than she spends in face-to-face contact with friends of her own species. Since the early 2000s, the amount of time that Americans say they spend helping or caring for people outside their nuclear family has declined by more than a third. Self-imposed solitude might just be the most important social fact of the 21st century in America. Perhaps unsurprisingly, many observers have reduced this phenomenon to the topic of loneliness. In 2023, Vivek Murthy, Joe Biden’s surgeon general, published an 81-page warning about America’s “epidemic of loneliness,” claiming that its negative health effects were on par with those of tobacco use and obesity. A growing number of public-health officials seem to regard loneliness as the developed world’s next critical public-health issue. The United Kingdom now has a minister for loneliness. So does Japan. But solitude and loneliness are not one and the same. “It is actually a very healthy emotional response to feel some loneliness,” the NYU sociologist Eric Klinenberg told me. “That cue is the thing that pushes you off the couch and into face-to-face interaction.” The real problem here, the nature of America’s social crisis, is that most Americans don’t seem to be reacting to the biological cue to spend more time with other people. Their solitude levels are surging while many measures of loneliness are actually flat or dropping. A 2021 study of the widely used UCLA Loneliness Scale concluded that “the frequently used term ‘loneliness epidemic’ seems exaggerated.” Although young people are lonelier than they once were, there is little evidence that loneliness is rising more broadly today. A 2023 Gallup survey found that the share of Americans who said they experienced loneliness “a lot of the day yesterday” declined by roughly one-third from 2021 to 2023, even as alone time, by Atalay’s calculation, rose slightly. Day to day, hour to hour, we are choosing this way of life—its comforts, its ready entertainments. But convenience can be a curse. Our habits are creating what Atalay has called a “century of solitude.” This is the anti-social century. Over the past few months, I’ve spoken with psychologists, political scientists, sociologists, and technologists about America’s anti-social streak. Although the particulars of these conversations differed, a theme emerged: The individual preference for solitude, scaled up across society and exercised repeatedly over time, is rewiring America’s civic and psychic identity. And the consequences are far-reaching—for our happiness, our communities, our politics, and even our understanding of reality.

[loves4ge]

celebrity!au cw: swearing, gojo is disgustingly in love

gojo satoru is thoroughly and utterly fucked. there are only ten minutes left until he has to go live for an interview—promotional material for his new movie. the only problem is you, his sweet costar; you had him wrapped around your finger.

despite being each other's on-screen love interests, your schedules hadn't matched until now to do an interview together. and gojo fucking satoru, one of the biggest celebrities to ever set foot in the hall of fame, is nervous. because he knows when gets out there, you'll be waiting for him. you've always been early to places (not really, he's just late).

it's not just the thought of you that has his stomach twisting in knots, it's his obsessive—and frankly, scary—fangirls who hang onto his every look, every glance, every word. even if no one finds out about his itsy bitsy crush, they will. and they will ruin you.

and he can't do that to you! this is your big break after slaving away in minor roles with a no-name cast. you're in the spotlight too much after only have seen the light being shone on other people, there's already too much pressure on you. the sudden onslaught of fans can be overwhelming, but the critics? they're so much harsher than what you expected.

"gojo, get out." it's his manager. deep breaths, he advises himself as he lifts out of the chair and to the set. where you are. god.

"so, i hear the set can get pretty crazy?" the interviewer smiles as he says it. he has that mall santa vibe; a little bit jolly and just slightly discomfort inducing.

your laugh slips out and gojo swears he almost died there. but he makes a conscious effort to not look at your lips. he sneaks a glance anyway.

"that's right! you should see the mess this man makes," you say, nodding your head towards the white-blond man. he should've worn his sunglasses, at least that way he could've stared at you in peace.

"hey! i'm not at fault here," gojo defends himself, guffawed. he crosses his arms as if he was trying to protect his chastity. or defend his honor, i suppose.

"mm, that's what they all say." your playful tone has him weak in the knees and he's thanking the gods that he's sitting down otherwise he would've folded right then and there.

"so geto suguru was here earlier and he mentioned that there was some steam in the movie, eh?"

stay professional, stay professional, stay professional.

"oh yeah. there are a couple of scenes for sure. it wouldn't have turned out as well as they did if it wasn't for satoru. i've never done an intimate scene before and he was just so comforting and really, a strong source of support for me."

fuck.

gojo breaks into a grin, his hand platonically (he hopes) pats your shoulder.

"it actually wouldn't have gone so well if it wasn't for our earth shattering chemistry. and our intimacy coordinator. yep, you heard it here first guys. bridgerton isn't the only show that gets one!" he's not entirely sure if the comedic route was the one to take after your heartfelt confession but he can't seem to respond as sincerely as he wants on television.

your giggle makes up for it though. and the light slap against his thigh. god. he has to resist the urge to ask you to do it again.

---

10 MINUTE COMPILATION OF GOJO BEING DOWN BAD FOR HIS COSTAR (ft. geto)

[hoshigray]

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬: Toji x fem/afab! reader - explicit content; minors DNI - oral (m! receiving) - ball-massaging - face + throat-fucking - praise - pet names (baby, cutie, mama, sweet thing) - implied that reader has given oral prior - first-time Toji finding enjoyment in receiving oral - heavy depictions of a blowjob - mention of spit.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: "Toji has never really enjoyed oral. At least, not until Y/n went down on them for the first time…"

I was playing with NSFW prompts for the first time, and this was literally the first one it gave me…genius. (¬‿¬) guess kinda a switch-up from this oldie i did~ hope you all had a wonderful Christmas and New Year's, accept this as my welcome back present, hehe~ also tysm for 4.6k, hello????

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 1.6k

“…Hey, Toji?” 

“Yeah, baby?”

“…Can I…..give you a blowjob?”

Up until this point, Toji was never one to be given oral from anyone. 

Giving oral isn’t a problem. But receiving it from someone else? That’s another thing. Call it his personal preference or years of sexual experience, but the older man never actually found pleasure in it. It could be from the many inexperienced minxs he’s had to get his dick wet, whose frequent teeth and bites sabotaged the mood for him. Or probably from the others who just really didn’t appear to know what they were doing — again, ruining the mood. Or the fact that most of the time, as mentioned, he finds himself satisfying his partner at the time more than himself. 

Not that he minds at all; no, no. He finds great satisfaction in going in between someone’s legs and getting them turned on from his work. But when it comes to the thought of having his dick sucked, it’s a hard pass. Respectfully. 

Which brings us to the present: him on the couch with an arm wrapped behind your shoulders, bringing you close to him as you watch television comfortably. The ceiling lights dimmed to a warm low glow, your head draped on his shoulder as his hand rubs comforting circles on yours, and the silence only filled with the voices coming from the TV isn’t awkward in the presence of you two. Why would it be? He’s with you, his little sweet thing. And that’s all he wants right now.

So, after all the fidgeting with your thumbs and the occasion glances at him (which he noticed, of course), it was apparent that you’d soon ask him something out of the blue. What he hadn’t expected, though, was that question. 

“Pfft, that’s random,” he scoffs at the sudden question, and more subtle chuckles resort from the bashful turn of your head. God, you were so cute. “Why ask, sweet thing?”

“I was…just wondering, you know?” Your eyes travel down to your twiddling thumbs, avoiding Toji’s deep, observant emerald gaze. “We’ve been together for this long, and not once have I ever given you a blowjob. And I know, you always say you’re fine with it, but like…I really wanna give you one.”

And that’s when you muster up some confidence to peer up at him meekly, and that’s what seals the deal for Toji. Who is he to deny such puppy dog eyes from his baby? 

“Okay then,” he chortles with a smirk, the scar on his right side rooted up. It’s just a blowjob. If not for me, then for them. “Do what you do, cutie.” Little did he know that this would blow his expectations far out.

It started out nice and slow. Toji indulged in your kisses as you snuck your hand into the hem of his drawstring pants, sucking on his tongue while fingers crept inside his boxer briefs to give his cock a rub. He groans into your mouth, liking how you’re setting the mood until you take your lips away from his and slide off the couch to be between his legs. Removing his underwear to the floor, you examine his half-soft dick before using your hands to wrap around the base, massaging around it while you take the tip in your mouth. Toji sighs in bliss at the feeling of your soft licks and rolls of your tongue, shifting around to get more comfortable on the couch.

His erection becomes less and less flaccid, hardening around your mouth. This is where you decide to take in more of his length, hallowing your cheeks as you push your puffy lips down halfway down his erection. By the time you reach this base, your throat is so full of Toji’s girth that you use his sweatpants as reins for your hands as you try to give yourself a few seconds to adjust to the limb occupying your throat. You continue to suck on his cock, bobbing up and down with your saliva coating him, your tongue moving around on the underside of his dick every time you suck up to the tippy top. 

The sucks and strokes to his length become a little faster, and it’s here that Toji can’t concentrate on the television. Subtle twitches of his leg result from the hummed moan you express while taking him to the hilt. The vibrations that resonate along the inner walls of your throat are felt. It feels so good. And the tongue of yours? Fuck. His brows trench down when your tongue licks from the bottom of his ridge to the frenulum, giving his cockhead an onslaught of rough licks and kisses that has Toji exhale through his nose. “Hmmnn, fuck…Y/n, baby, y’re so good at this…Uhghh!”

You release his tip with a soft ‘plop’ with a string of saliva connecting your lips to his spit-covered cock. “Ahahhn, really?” Oh, fucking shit, don’t look at him like that. Your hooded eyes peering up at him with a soft smile while your hands maintain a stroking rhythm that has Toji squirm around your grasp. And then you surprise him with a grasp of his ballsack, oh you’re a devilish cutie. “That makes me happy to know,” you give him a giggle when Toji involuntarily bucks to your hands; the veiny limb contrasting with your pretty fingers is such a sight to see. The pulsating commotion between your legs progresses more by the second.

More dangerous licks paired with the massage to his balls as Toji huff is bliss. “Ahhh, sh–shit…Ya like how my dick tastes, mama?”

Taking his cock back into your mouth with alluringly half-lidded eyes is the answer you give him, your lips covering your teeth as your jaw relaxes to welcome his neither limb back inside your warm oral cavity. The suction of your hallow cheeks became lethal with the increased speed, your tongue now swirling around him and creating such deviant noises that only Toji focuses on despite the television vices failing to drown them out. 

Holy shit, Toji wasn’t expecting this kind of treatment at all. This was downright out of the water from all the other oral ordeals he’s had in his life. How the fuck were you so good at this!? Cupping his balls while slurping his dick was such a dangerous combo; Toji doesn’t know how long he’ll contain the urge to stand and fuck your face here and now. Goddamn, the faster you bob your lips on him, the shiver down his spine is hard to ignore. His hips jerking to your mouth; he wants to fuck your face so bad. And just looking at your ass sway while you suck on him, he knows you’re enjoying this as well. 

It reaches a point where he can’t take it anymore — he wants to go faster and harder. So Toji grabs your head as he stands up and dials the tempo to a harsher motion, propelling your lips down to his pelvis. And you’re quick not to panic, being sure to breathe when Toji smacks his testicles to your chin and ruts into your face and throat with no mercy. Toji moans at the sensation of your gummy walls wrapping around his length, hissing at your muffled wails as he hits the back of your throat. “Fsshhh—Hnngh!! Fuckin’ shit, just like that, mama, just like that…Ohhggh!”

You can feel the veins on his girth pulsate, indicating that his release is soon coming. The thrusts to your face get erratically faster, so you’re sure to grab onto his sweatpants to make sure you don’t lose balance as he spills his load down your throat. Ending it with a few rough hits to your lips, Toji groans with gritted teeth, shaky, strong legs pumping his semen for you to drink, which you merrily take with muzzled squeals on his shaft. The both of you experience the last moment of this euphoric high until Toji’s body calms down, heavy breaths going slower with every expel. He gives you a few moments to suck him off a little more before removing himself from you, gradually pulling his length, quivering with the aftershocks at the dismissal of your warm walls around him. And he jolts when you tease him with one last lick to the sensitive tip. 

“Hahhh, damn, cutie,” Toji takes a seat back on the couch, eyeing you down with a weary smirk and furrowed brows. “Since when did ya like to get down and dirty?”

You sheepishly smile back and avert your eyes down, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “I’m glad you liked it, Toji.” 

“Sure as hell did,” he bends down to grab your chin and bring you in for a kiss. The squeaks you let out when he bites your lips are too adorable and hot to his ears. “Want me to eat you out, sweet thing?”

“Really?” God, you were too cute — beaming at him like that with such a lovely smile. 

“Sure thing. Besides, I saw the way you were movin' that ass while suckin’ me off. So, I got you,” Toji takes off his sweatpants, moving his legs to be on the couch entirely. His dick is still standing erect, and he gives you a suggestive grin before tapping his chest, a sign for you to get ready and sit on him. “Only if ya can do that shit on me again.” The request takes you aback for a minute, but you chuckle and stand up. You remove your bottoms and underwear, and Toji notices the wet spot on the material. 

Again, Toji is never one to be given oral. But if he’s going to be treated like this, you might be able to change his mind.

© 𝐇𝐨𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐲2023 – dividers from @/animatedglittergraphics-n-more.