#have a fun fact for sexy sunday

[wheresarizona]

Learning to Live Part 30

summary: Sunday—it’s Javier’s 40th birthday, and you have some sexy surprises planned for when you get home from dinner. Monday—you’re back at work after your lovely vacation, and it’s time to bite the bullet and tell your disapproving family that you’re getting married. You can probably guess how well that goes over…

rating: E (18+! A good chunk of this is about birthday sex. No y/n, alternating POV, age gap (around ten years), unprotected p in v (wrap it up), creampie, oral sex (m & f receiving), 69, face sitting, butt plugs (f), anal play (f receiving), double penetration, breeding kink, lingerie, nude photos, dirty talk, praise kink, spanking, spit mention, waxing poetic about Javier’s dick, getting KO’d from orgasms, banter, domestic fluff, fluff, emotional hurt/comfort, death of a parent/grief, dysfunctional family, arguing, period typical sexism, spoiling Javier for his birthday, nurse stories (humorous), Javier being the little spoon, discussion about eating habits, Javier making you post-sex food, a special guest makes an appearance)

pairing: Javier Peña/f!reader (reader is a nurse with no physical descriptions)

word count: 16.8k (Why am I like this?)

a/n: This chapter was supposed to be solely about birthday sex, but something happened, I’m not sure what, and somehow there’s a lot of plot in it now? I apologize. I am at the mercy of the characters. I hope you enjoy! Thank you to the love of my life @juletheghoul, for betaing! You’re incredible.

Thank you for reading! Comments and reblogs feed me. I’d love to know what you thought!

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There was a game Javier liked to play when you went out to eat with people and were seated next to one another. It was kind of like Chicken, where two cars drive toward each other, and one of them has to swerve, or else they’ll crash—basically, it was a test to see how ballsy you were and how much of a risk you were willing to take to come out as the victor. In Javi’s version, it involved his hand under the table on your knee that would slowly creep up your thigh and under your dress, if you were wearing one, or along your pant-covered leg to try and make it to his goal nestled between your thighs—it was up to you to determine how far he’d get. Were you going to chicken out and stop his movements? Or were you going to be ballsy and let him get to the finish line? Honestly, it depended on how you were feeling and who you were with because it was really distracting when he rubbed your pussy in the middle of trying to have a conversation with someone. Still, the game was a lot of fun, and sometimes you liked to mess with him by letting him get almost all the way to his prize before you denied him, just to keep him on his toes.

Another thing was that there wasn’t always one round. Sometimes, he’d wait a bit and try his luck, again and again, to see how many attempts it’d take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of your Tootsie Pop—unless you told him to stop, then his hand would make itself at home, holding your thigh.

Tonight was Javi's 40th birthday, and you'd gone out to dinner with his father. Usually, on such a special day—and the fact you were always horny for him—you'd allow his palm to reach its destination. This evening, however, you had stopped all of his attempts and wouldn't let him get very far since you didn't want to ruin the surprise that was hiding under your dress—and your fiancé was very, very curious about what your undergarment situation was, getting to the point you kept his hand still between your closed thighs until it was time to leave.

The meal and catching up with Chucho had been wonderful—hanging out with your soon-to-be father-in-law was always a great time.

On the morning that you called the older man to tell him about your engagement, you laughed when he said he'd have something put in writing about his promises that he'd love you both living with him and wouldn't mind if there was a newborn there, too. You were well aware of his eagerness to have grandchildren and bet Javi twenty dollars his dad was going to show up today with legal documents on the matter, and you'd been right—he had a large manila envelope with an agreement he had his lawyer put together inside for you. Once dinner was done, you found out that wasn't all he brought; Chucho presented Javi with a Tupperware container filled with a big slice of tres leches cake his tía María made from his mother’s recipe. As he ate, his dad quietly serenaded him with a song called “Las Mañanitas,” much to his chagrin, the first part being:

“Estas son las mañanitas, que cantaba el Rey David, (This is the morning song that King David sang), Hoy por ser día de tu santo, te las cantamos a ti, (Because today is your saint’s day, we’re singing it for you), Despierta, mi Javi, despierta, mira que ya amaneció, (Wake up, mi Javi, wake up, look it is already dawn), Ya los pajarillos cantan, la luna ya se metió, (The birds are already singing, and the moon has set).”

There was a promise between the three of you that the restaurant staff wouldn’t be alerted that it was Javier’s birthday in order to avoid the employees bringing attention to him and singing; he didn’t, however, put any restrictions on his father or you singing to him, and Chucho was happily exploiting that loophole while his son grumpily devoured his cake he shared with you.

Javi wasn’t actually annoyed with his dad—he had the Tupperware practically licked clean by the time you were ready to go, and before you left, he gave his dad a big hug and whispered his thanks for having the cake made since it was something his mother always baked for their birthdays.

The big 4-0 was a milestone that usually involved a celebration, but your fiancé had declined his father and three tías offers to throw him a party and told everyone he didn’t want any gifts—he was determined not to make it a big deal, and only desired to have dinner with you and Chucho; the tres leches cake was a wonderful surprise, and definitely appreciated, though.

All of that brings you to where you were currently—sitting beside Javi on the bench seat of his truck as he drove you home. He’d pulled up your dress to bare your knee, resting his hand on it, and you were wondering when he would give his game another go; you knew him and that there was no way he’d be able to resist trying again, now that you were alone.

"Did you enjoy your birthday?" you asked, doing your best to keep your squirming to a minimum as you tried to find a comfortable position.

"Yeah," he answered, glancing at you with a smile. "I loved spending the day with you, seeing my mom—" You stopped by the cemetery on your way to dinner to tell her about your engagement. "—and going to dinner with Pop. Today was nice."

You hugged his arm. "I'm happy you had a good day, even though a certain someone—" Lorraine. "—tried to ruin it. Do you think she'll listen and leave us alone?" There'd been an altercation with her on your walk to the restaurant, and Javi finally had his chance to give her a piece of his mind and threaten her and her family with restraining orders if they didn't stop bothering you.

His eyes were back on the road, a frown replacing his smile.

"Maybe? She's been dead set on making my life difficult since I left her, and I don't know if she'll be able to give up."

"Guess we'll just have to see." A change in subject was needed. "Sooo, do you have any requests for tonight?"

His fingers stroked the inside of your knee.

"What do you mean?"

He started slowly moving his hand along your thigh, your palm resting on his jean-covered leg.

"You know exactly what I mean. It's your birthday, so you get anything you want."

He turned his head your way for a few seconds.

“I thought you had tonight planned.”

"I do." You nodded. "But you're the birthday boy, and I wanna make sure to include any specific desires you may have for this evening."

His focus went to what was in front of him, his fingers skating up your inner thigh and under your dress.

"Hmmm," he hummed. "I know you don't want to spoil tonight, but will I get to eat your pussy?"

"If you want to, sure."

"Are you gonna suck my dick?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Will I get to come inside you?"

There was a pause for a moment as you figured out how to respond. "...yes?"

He looked over at you with a curious expression. "That's... interesting. With how you answered, I'll be coming inside you, but not where I imagined…"

You frowned. "Javier, it is your birthday, and I won't have you ruining my surprises by you going all Detective Peña on me." To end the sentence, you squeezed your thighs shut to trap his hand and keep it from moving any further.

Your reaction made him pout and turn his attention back to the road.

"Fine," he said. "I won't think about it." He sighed. "I know you're not wearing panties. I won't be ruining any surprises if you let me touch you."

"Sure, but I want you to wait until we get home so you can undress me."

"Okay."

You rubbed his arm with your free hand. "Patience, baby—you're gonna have a great time."

His eyes met yours, and he smiled. "I know, mi amor (my love), and I'm fucking excited." He moved his hand out from between your legs to grab your smaller one on his thigh, pressing your palm against where he was half-hard beneath his jeans.

"You are excited,” you purred, rubbing him over his pants. “Better get you nice and hard before we get home.”

“With what I’m hoping will happen tonight? That won’t be an issue, Cielito.”

Once you arrived at your shared apartment, you hung up the jean jacket you were wearing, setting your purse onto the console table near the front door, Javi emptying his pockets into the large bowl on top of it. Both of you kicked off your shoes, and your fiancé laid his folded sports coat over the back of the couch before he was on you, his lips hungrily colliding with yours in a searing kiss—one of his arms went around you to pull you flush against him, his other hand cradling the back of your head, making you moan when he eagerly licked into your mouth.

His kisses were sweet from the cake, tasting it on his tongue, arousal burning hot in your abdomen. He had your toes curling and skin vibrating, wanting him so bad, and he seemed to want you just as much when he turned and walked you toward your room with your lips fused together.

Anticipation was swelling inside you, butterflies going wild in your tummy at hoping Javi really did enjoy what you had in store for him.

As your feet moved, your hands worked open the buttons on his shirt, rubbing your palms up the warm skin of his torso once it was bared, feeling the soft give of his belly to his muscular chest—moving higher along his neck, cupping his cheeks, then pressing your fingers into his soft hair.

The moment you stepped into your room, he unzipped the back of your dress and moved you a little further inside to have you at the end of your big, king-sized bed. Javi broke the kiss, shrugging off his shirt that fell to the floor, his hungry gaze focusing on your chest—he was careful when he took the red, satiny shoulder straps into his hands, and pulled the dress down and off your arms, revealing your bosom, and letting gravity take the rest of it to the ground, where it pooled around your feet.

“Fuck,” he breathed. Javi was unable to stop himself; it was as if there was some kind of magnetic pull that had his hand reaching to palm your lace-covered breast. His eyes had darkened, the front of his jeans bulging where he was straining against the zipper. "This is what you've been hiding all night?" he asked, his free palm massaging your other tit.

His reaction made you feel good about your choice of lingerie.

The red teddy covered most of your breasts and down your ribs in sheer lace with laces crisscrossing from one side to the other on the front and back to keep the pieces together; the best part about it, and what you knew was Javi’s favorite part, was the fact nothing was covering your crotch or ass—it was put on like a one-piece swimsuit, your legs going through two thin straps, with the rest of the bottom completely bare.

There was a similar teddy you owned in a pretty plum color that covered more of your skin in lace.

"Yes," you answered. "Do you like it?"

His gaze met yours, and he stepped into your space, his big hands going around to grab your bare backside.

He was smirking with his eyebrow raised. "Do I like it?" he rasped. Javi squeezed your ass. "You know I fucking love it, mi amor (my love)." His lips met yours, kissing you quickly before he ended it with a playful nip to your bottom lip, pulling his head back to look at you. "You're so fucking sexy—Christ, I want you so fucking bad."

Your hands slid up his chest to caress his cheeks, smiling at him.

"I have another surprise for you..." you said.

His eyes rounded. "There's more?" he asked.

You booped him on the nose with your finger. "Yep," you answered. "You're getting spoiled tonight."

"You don't need to spoil me."

"Um, yes, I do. It's your special day. Plus, you spoiled me on my birthday by letting me tie you up and edge you—this is me making sure your night is just as wonderful." You poked him over his pec.

He grabbed your hand, bringing it up to kiss your knuckles as he smiled. "Happy fucking birthday to me."

"Yes, now, pants off, mister,” you ordered. “I don't want you coming in them." The sentence was punctuated with a wink.

What you said made him chuckle. "Yes, ma'am."

Stepping back from him, his hands went to the front of his jeans to quickly get them off. His belt clinked as he worked it open, hearing the teeth separate when he undid his zipper, the pants getting shoved down his legs, Javi having to do the awkward dance of lifting each foot to tug them off, along with his socks.

Once he was completely naked, he closed the distance between you, his big palms holding your face when he crushed his mouth to yours, kissing you hard. You snaked your hand down into the tight space your bodies had created to grab his throbbing cock, the skin velvety soft and hot to the touch, making him moan into the kiss. His hips bucked forward in your grip while you slowly pumped him. His hand massaged your breast and tweaked your nipple through the lace, his other palm tracing along your jawbone, the shell of your ear, and down to your neck, he gently held as you kissed, leaving a trail of fire under your skin.

"Let me show you your surprise," you murmured against his lips.

"'Mmkay," he said and didn't stop kissing you.

It was up to you to break away from him, Javi chasing your mouth when you did, making you grin and press your hand to his chest to softly push him back—his eyes were closed, his lips turned up in a smile, looking so unbelievably happy.

"Adorable," you whispered.

His chest was slightly heaving from his heavy breaths, his lips red and shining from saliva.

"Open those pretty brown eyes, babe,” you told him. “It’s time for your surprise." They blinked open, and he grabbed your waist.

"What is it?" he asked, his head dipping to kiss along the column of your throat. You took one of his hands and slid it behind you over your ass to between your cheeks.

His breath caught in his throat, his face popping up to meet your eyes with a look of surprise.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped. “Is that…?”

His reaction made you grin even bigger. “A very cute butt plug? Yes, it is.”

The plug was made out of smooth pink-colored glass with a tapered tip and bulbous body, the slender neck making it easy for your tight muscles to wrap around it and hold it in place, the flared base covering your hole shaped into a daisy flower.

As you said, it was very cute and filled you nicely—any time you moved, it had a tingle dancing up your spine, fueling the arousal sparking in your tummy.

His fingers were mapping out the flower, gliding over the petals, his gaze locking onto yours, seeing his cheeks had a lovely pink tint.

"Does this mean what I think it means…?" he asked with hope gleaming in those big, gorgeous brown eyes of his.

"That you can fuck my ass? Yes." You nodded. "I figured the toy would save us some time stretching me out."

He looked beyond delighted. "I am so fucking hard right now—how long have you been wearing it?"

"Since I excused myself at dinner to use the ladies' room—spoiler, I was in there getting this inside me; I brought lube and everything."

He was smiling. "My dirty fucking girl." His hand, not on your ass, came up to cup your cheek. "You kept adjusting in your seat when you got back, I thought you were horny—it's why I kept trying to touch your pussy—confused the fuck out of me that you wouldn't let me."

"I didn't want you to discover the lingerie or accidentally feel the plug."

"I get that now—can I see it?"

"Of course." You kissed him quickly and took a few steps to crawl up onto the bed, your hands and knees sinking into the mattress as you got onto all fours to present your ass to him. Seconds later, his warm palms were grabbing your asscheeks, spreading them.

You looked over your shoulder, and his eyes were glued to your backside.

"It’s so fucking pretty," he mused, rubbing a thumb over the base. “Can I take a picture?”

“Need it for your spank bank collection?”

In his bedside table was a stack of your nude Polaroids he liked to jack off to when the need very rarely arose.

His gaze lifted to yours with a smile. “Yeah, I do.”

“Then go for it.”

He walked away from you to grab the Polaroid camera off his dresser, returning seconds later. One of his hands pushed aside a plump cheek to give him a better visual.

“I fucking love this,” he murmured. The camera flashed, then whirred as it ejected the photo, Javi setting both out of the way on the bed. He was back behind you, staring at what he’d just photographed. “Am I allowed to touch it?” he asked.

"It's your birthday—you get to do whatever the fuck you want to me; mi cuerpo es tu cuerpo (my body is your body)."

He looked you in the eyes.

"I love you so much. I don't know how I got so fucking lucky—you're perfect."

"You're perfect."

His thumb circled around the edges of the glass flower, making you moan when he experimented by pulling it out a little and pushing it back in, loving the stretch—he did it again and again, and, again, Javi leaning his head down to spit on your pussy, the fingers of his other hand spreading it through your slit to rub your clit.

There was no way to stop your gasping moans as the toy was fucking in and out of your tight hole at the same time his hand strummed your bundle of sensitive nerves like a virtuoso—the sensations had your eyes rolling back in your head, the muscles in your abdomen starting to tighten as he built you up, higher and higher.

You had to face forward, your arms giving out, and crossing in front of you to rest your head on them—this was going to end quickly with how fucking good it felt, and you weren’t surprised when your orgasm hit, pleasure washing over you with a loud cry of his name.

Your breaths were ragged, sweat beginning to form on your skin.

“My good girl,” Javi purred. Both of his hands suddenly stopped, and a palm smacked the side of your ass, the sharp sting making you gasp.

"I need to eat your pussy," his voice was deeper and huskier.

Your entire body flattened onto the bed, and you turned on your side to look at him. The words came out hoarse, "How do you want me?"

"We can do anything I want...?" he asked. "Is there, uh, anything you're not in the mood for?"

Your eyebrow lifted. "Aside from my regular things I'm not into, nope—I'm down for whatever you want. What do you have in mind?"

He smirked. "You sitting on my face?"

You smiled. "Of course, you'd wanna drown in my pussy on your birthday."

"Yeah, and, uh—" He scratched at the back of his neck. "—would you wanna suck me off while I did it...?"

With how much you guys fucked, you were pretty sure Javi had put you in every position imaginable, but this request was new. Sitting on his face was something you’d done many times, but adding in having you blow him at the same time had your cunt clenching hard around nothing.

"Um, yes," you answered, nodding your head. "That is definitely something I want to do. Get your cute little ass on this bed and get comfy." You patted the bedding beside you. "I wanna take that perfect mustache for a ride."

Javi chuckled as he got onto the mattress and moved up it to flop over on his back, resting his head on a pillow he fluffed to get cozy. His hard dick was lying against his belly, the tip glossy with precum and dripping into the happy trail of hair on his stomach.

It took him a second to get settled before he tapped his chest, his eyes heavy-lidded and crookedly smiling.

“Get up here, baby—this mustache isn’t gonna ride itself.”

You snorted and started to crawl his way.

"Dork," you said.

"One you love."

"That I do.”

When you got to his side, you swung yourself around to face his feet, getting your leg over his torso to straddle him. Javi gripped your thighs and pulled you back to have your wet pussy hovering over his face, two of his fingers spreading open the lips of your sex.

"So fucking pretty," he murmured. He inhaled deeply. "You smell so good, too."

His cock was in front of you, and you held yourself up with one arm to wrap the fingers of your other hand around his length.

"In case I haven't said it lately," you started, languidly stroking him, "you literally have the prettiest dick I've ever seen.”

It was true.

He did have the prettiest dick you've ever laid your eyes on—at full mast, he was just shy of eight inches, cut, not too thin, but not too girthy, either; it was just the right size that when he was inside you, there was a nice stretch and perfect fullness. On the underside of his shaft, two throbbing veins were crawling up the sides and another along the top you liked to trace with your tongue; licking around the velvety soft ridge at the tip and over his frenulum was a surefire way to drive him crazy and get him to make absolutely delicious noises, and when he was coming, you could feel him get bigger and jerk in your mouth, hand, or cunt. If you were looking, you could see his balls draw up and his cock pulse as he unloaded spurts and spurts of his come.

It was truly a work of art.

“And being in a medical profession,” you continued, “I’ve seen a lot of dicks—95% I wish I hadn't seen."

He snorted. "Thank you—you have the prettiest pussy I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of pussy."

"The prettiest pussy?" You didn't mean to sound so surprised. "Really?"

"Oh yeah, the prettiest and the fucking tastiest."

It was evident Javi was done with the conversation by how he tugged your hips down onto his face and began feasting—which was an apt descriptor for how he eagerly dove in and the groans he made that sounded like he was eating the best meal of his entire life.

He licked through your wetness and over the lips of your cunt to get every last drop of your arousal he could find on his tongue; it felt so amazing you forgot for a minute you were supposed to be sucking him off. Gripping him at the base, you took him into your mouth, your head bobbing as you sucked down more and more of him until he was hitting the back of your throat.

His lips wrapped around your perky little clit, and when he sucked, it was like having lightning shock through you from the pleasure, your loud moan muffled by his cock in your mouth—it was hard to concentrate, and you put what little attention you had on the tip of him, licking along the sensitive ridge, pumping the rest of his spit-slick shaft with your palm that twitched, and loving how it made Javi whine.

He tasted salty from the steady leak of precum and clean, the scent of his skin smelling like the body wash he used in the shower. The lingering note coming through was Eucalyptus—woodsy, fresh, minty.

It was embarrassing that you were struggling to give him a basic blow job, doing your best not to get overwhelmed by his determined mouth trying to take you apart piece by piece as he licked, sucked, and tongue fucked you with abandon.

Fire was burning in your tummy and getting hotter with every second that passed. His dick was sliding along your palate to kiss the back of your throat, and you almost choked when he pulled and pushed on the toy in your ass.

It was skating the line of too much, how the plug was moving a little out to stretch your hole and being shoved back in to fill you again—thinking was hard, and you had to come off of him, unable to keep from moaning or stop your limbs from trembling.

“Oh, god,” you whined. “Oh, fuck.”

With how intense it felt, there was no way you could focus on sucking him off. What you could do was continue stroking his length, your hand gliding easily up and down while you were rocketing toward your end from him fucking you with the toy and sucking your clit. Your hips were moving of their own accord, rocking back to help fuck yourself and grind against his mouth.

Sixty-nining sounded fun in theory. The problem you ran into was your fiancé was relentless in wanting to make you come as hard as humanly possible, which made it practically impossible for you to do your part—it was too distracting. The pleasure had consumed all of your thoughts, and you could barely function.

The coil was winding inside you, getting tighter and tighter until it snapped, and euphoria was exploding from your center with a cry of his name, feeling your orgasm throughout your entire body from the tips of your fingers to your toes. Immediately, he shoved his tongue inside your fluttering hole to lick up your release, refusing to let a single drop of your come go to waste, and you could feel and hear his moans as you experienced the aftershocks of your climax.

With how hard you came, your hand paused on him, your upper body dropping, resting your head on his thigh to catch your breath and ride out your high.

Javi stopped behind you, lifting you from his face and inhaling deeply, taking big gasps of air.

"You okay?" his voice was rough.

"Mhmm," you hummed, speaking seeming too hard.

"You need a minute?"

"Mhmm."

"Let go of my dick."

You did as he asked and squeaked in surprise when he pushed you over to fall to the bed on your side.

"Sorry," he said. The mattress jostled, and pained grunts sounded from him, finding yourself seconds later getting wrapped up in his arms with your head on his chest.

“Did it feel good?” he asked and kissed your hair.

“Mhmm.”

“You come so quick with stuff in your ass.”

You smiled, finally finding your words. “You also come quick with stuff in your ass.”

“Yeah, I do—do you want me to fuck you while you’re wearing it?”

“Do you want to fuck me while I’m wearing it?”

“I wanna see how tight it makes you.”

“Uh-huh, and you wanna come in my pussy because you are on a mission to knock me up, and you would hate missing a chance.”

“That’s not all—it helps me last when I fuck your ass.”

“That’s true. It’s basically a medicinal cream pie. You know, earlier this year, they came out with a pill to help men keep it up, and we had a guy come into the ER who’d taken one—which, just so you’re aware,” you sidetracked, “if you have an erection lasting more than four hours, you need to seek medical help, and this dude was at almost six hours with a raging boner.”

He was frowning. “Did it go down on its own…?”

“Nope. A doctor had to use a syringe to remove some of the blood.”

"Jesus Christ, just thinking about that makes my dick hurt."

"Sorry." You rubbed your hand over his pec. "Let's talk about something else."

"Where'd you get the toy?"

A reasonable question, seeing as the closest sex shop was hours away in the big city.

"Okay, remember last month when you, me, Robyn, and Seb—" Sebastián, or Seb, was Robyn's boyfriend and Javi's cousin. "—spent that weekend in San Antonio, and you guys let us have our girls-only spa day while you and Seb went to see that movie about corrupt NSA agents that annoyed the fuck out of you because they got a lot of the government shit wrong, which you explained in excruciating detail to Seb at a bar afterward? Well, after the spa, she took me to a sex shop, and we bought some stuff."

"If you’re gonna make a movie about a government agency, you should do the fucking research,” he grumbled. His tone changed to intrigue, “What else did you buy…?"

"Some flavored lube and fluffy handcuffs. I was super picky about the kind of plug I wanted because you’d be surprised how many people come into the hospital with things stuck in their asses.” A memory made you snort. “Oh my god, so one time, this man came in with probably twenty or so of those bigger marbles? You know, the ones that are about double the size of a regular one? Lodged up his butt. When he was asked how they got stuck in there, he told everyone he was at home, standing on a step ladder, cleaning the cobwebs from the ceiling when he accidentally fell off and onto a container of them—this man stood by his story that instead of the marbles scattering everywhere when he fell on them, they magically made their way inside him.”

“What the fuck?” Javi said in disbelief. “He really thought people would believe he was cleaning without pants on, fell, and marbles just went up his ass? That makes zero fucking sense.”

“People come up with the stupidest lies when they’re embarrassed.”

“Like when you told the hotel staff we were checking out early because my nephew was viciously attacked by a duck?”

“You’re a jerk.” You pinched his nipple, making him flinch and laugh. “You’re just never going to let me live that down, huh?”

He grabbed your hand to kiss your palm. “No—you’re a terrible liar.”

“Rude.”

“I’m sorry, baby.” He kissed each of your fingers. “Did you buy anything else at the shop?”

“No, because I wanna go there with you to pick out things we’d enjoy."

He perked up, immediately responding, "We could go next weekend?"

"Shopping the weekend before Christmas? That would be a special kind of hell. Sorry, babe, we'll have to wait till next month." You got your hand free of him and patted his chest.

He let out a long, disappointed sigh. "Fine."

Things needed to get back to being horny, so you threw your leg over his waist and moved to sit on top of him with your knees bracketing his hips. His cock was wet from saliva and hard beneath you, and you leaned forward to kiss him, holding yourself up with your arms on either side of his head—this wasn't a peck on the lips or something chaste; this was a kiss that told him you wanted him. The kind of kiss that had his big hands grabbing onto your behind and groaning into your mouth. A kiss where things quickly heated up, and he was helping you grind your wet cunt over his dick, coating it in your slick. A kiss that turned into desperation for him to be inside you.

“Mmm, need lube,” you said into his lips. Sitting up, you leaned to get under the large, folded, black towel near the edge of the bed to grab the small bottle. You popped the cap, pouring a little bit into your palm before closing it and letting it fall onto the mattress beside you.

“With how huge your dick is,” you started as you lifted your hips up. “There’s no way in hell you’re gonna fit without some help.” Javi’s mouth fell open when you grabbed his cock under you, getting it nice and slick with the strokes of your hand.

His throat bobbed, swallowing. “Good call.” With how his eyes widened for a split second, you knew an idea had come to him. He grabbed your thighs. “Wait,” he said.

Your hand paused. “What’s up?”

“I wanna change positions.”

That had your eyebrows lifting in interest. “Oh?”

He was crookedly smiling. “Hands and knees, baby,” he replied, with a light slap to your hip.

“Oh, hell yeah.” You’d finished lubing him up and quickly moved onto the bed next to him, getting into the position he requested, your hands and slightly spread knees sinking into the mattress. Javi groaned when he flipped over and rose up onto his knees, the bedsprings complaining as he shuffled around to get behind you.

The smartest decision you made when you moved in together was upgrading to a king-sized bed—there was so much room for sexy activities.

Bending forward, he reached to grab the camera and set it in a place where it was easily accessible but not in the way.

He slid his dick through your drenched folds, notching himself at your entrance, his other hand holding your hip.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said. “Okay?”

Looking over your shoulder, you met his eyes that were more black than brown. “Yes,” you answered.

He smiled. “Good girl—ready?”

“Yes, Papí.”

“Fuck,” he groaned, his eyes closing for a moment. He looked at you again. “Me vas a matar (You’re going to kill me).”

“If by kill, you mean la petite mort, then yeah, handsome, I’m gonna make you come so hard.” You winked. “Now, stick it in.” You pressed back the tiniest bit to have the tip of him starting to enter you.

“And you call me bossy when I’m horny,” he mumbled.

There wasn’t a chance to respond since moans sounded from the both of you as he slowly started sinking into you, taking his time to let your body adjust to being stuffed with each glorious inch of him until he was buried all the way to the root inside of you.

Full didn’t accurately describe how you felt with the plug in your ass pressing against his thick cock—you were beyond full. You honestly couldn’t believe he was able to fit; you couldn’t believe you were able to take him. It was so overwhelming, it had you whimpering, squeezing your eyes shut.

Javi’s voice came out strained, “Are you okay?”

There was no way you could hold yourself up on your arms with it requiring too much concentration, so you let your upper body fall to the bed, cradling your head with your limbs.

“Yes,” the word was said on a breath.

All of the nerves in your body were aflame, feeling like static was thrumming under your skin. You were okay—you just needed a minute to get used to having both of your holes filled at the same time.

“Okay, baby.” He rubbed a comforting hand along the line of your spine. “Tell me when you want me to move.”

He picked up the Polaroid camera.

“Definitely gonna jerk off to this,” he murmured, and you heard the camera snap the picture and the gears whir to spit it out—he’d taken a photo of himself inside of you while you wore the plug.

The camera and picture were set aside.

There was a question you couldn’t stop yourself from asking. “Am I tighter?”

He huffed out a breath. “Feels like you’re choking my dick with that toy in your ass—so, yeah, you’re tighter. You’ll probably cut off the circulation when I make you come, and you squeeze around me.”

Even though it was a struggle to think of anything other than the fullness, he made you worry. “Are you uncomfortable?” you asked. “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable…”

“Mi amor.” He bent over your back to kiss the hair behind your ear, speaking softly, “I’m okay—I like how it feels. I’m really fucking worried I’m gonna come too fast.”

That made you feel better.

After an ample amount of time had passed for you to get used to everything, you said, “Move.”

He nipped at the shell of your ear, grunting as he straightened. He gripped your asscheeks and slowly dragged his cock halfway out of your sopping cunt before thrusting back in, stealing your breath. His pace started out languid to allow you to adapt to the feeling of him moving inside you, rough sounds rumbling from his chest, his fingers tightening on your flesh.

The plug made it easier for him to rub against all those spots that made fireworks dance behind your eyelids. Sweat glistened on your skin, the pleasure making you dizzy, and even though it had only just begun, you were already on the cusp of falling over the edge—intense was an understatement for how you felt. The heat was growing deep inside you, deeper than it usually did, the muscles in your tummy constricting.

His hips were slowly fucking into you, Javi grunting, and it was like nothing you had felt before—feeling so full and falling apart with every thrust.

“Oh, god, Javi,” you whined. “I’m gonna come. You’re gonna make me come.”

With how he spoke through clenched teeth, you knew he was fighting for his life not to finish so soon, “Come for me, baby.” He smacked your ass, the pleasurable sting making you clench and his rhythm stutter. “Shit,” he gasped. “You’re so fucking tight—it feels so good.”

It was wet and sticky where you were joined, Javi coaxing wave after wave of arousal from your pussy that soaked his cock and dripped down to coat his balls—his thrusts were loud, squelching sounding every time he pushed in. Moans were escaping your lips while deeper noises ripped from his chest.

Javier wasn’t a tiny guy—just his cock made you feel full, and now you had it pressing into your sensitive walls against a rigid toy that turned up the sense of fullness to a ten and felt so fucking incredible that when he sped up his strokes, you were done for; pleasure erupted from deep in your depths that had your mouth opening in a silent scream and every muscle in your body pulling taut, hearing the man behind you let out a strangled groan as he suddenly stopped moving.

No thoughts could form in your brain, your chest rising and falling hard, your pussy pulsing as you rode out the high. Your ears rang, and you were too out of it to make out what Javi was saying, him sounding like the adults in a Peanuts film; a muted trombone going, ”Wah wah wah.”

A body pressed against your back, feeling hot breaths on your ear.

“Cielito?” he whispered.

“Mhmm?” you hummed.

“You okay, mi amor?”

“Mhmm,” you answered and gave him a thumbs up.

“Do you want me to keep going?”

The words slurred from your mouth, “Yes, please. I want you to come.”

“Okay. If it gets to be too much, tell me.” He kissed your hair, a pained sound leaving him as he moved up on his knees again.

Each time you’d done anal in the past, he’d made you come so many times you ended up passing out afterward. This time, though, the orgasms had been much stronger, and it was already hard to keep your eyes open—there was a chance if you had another, it was going to put you to sleep, and you knew Javi wouldn’t care, but you felt bad about possibly needing a little nap before he had a chance to fuck your ass.

“Javi?” you said.

“Yes, baby?” His palms slid along your sides from your waist to just below your ribs.

“I’m sorry if I fall asleep…”

He sounded confused. “Why are you apologizing for that…?”

“Because I know you’re super excited my ass is up for grabs tonight, and I feel bad I might have to make you wait while I take a little snooze.”

“Cielito, mi amor, it’s okay. Don’t be sorry, baby. I’m gonna tell you something that might surprise you.”

“What’s that?”

“Getting to fuck your pussy like this is better than fucking your ass.”

That surprised you so much that your eyes popped open, and you almost couldn’t believe him, except you knew he wasn’t lying since he was always truthful with you. Your knees were still under you with your butt up in the air, and Javi nestled all of the way inside you, your chest pressed to the mattress. You twisted your upper body to look back at him.

His forehead was shiny with sweat, his hair sticking wetly to it, a beautiful flush rising from his chest up to his cheeks, his darkened eyes meeting yours.

“Are you serious?” you asked.

His eyebrow arched. “Yeah? Why would I lie? Think about it—the plug makes your pussy so fucking tight, and I get to come in it.” He put it into plainer terms, “You’re tighter than hell, and I could knock you up.”

“Oh, you’re having the best time.”

He smiled. “I’m having the best fucking time.”

“You like the plug?”

“I love the plug. Do you like it?”

“Yeah, makes me come harder.”

“Then stop feeling bad.” He slapped your ass, and it made you tense, his mouth going slack and eyes closing at you clenching around his dick. “Jesus Christ,” he breathed, his throat worked as he swallowed hard. “It’s okay if you pass out,” he said. “I might pass out, too.”

He pulled himself almost all of the way out of your cunt, and pushed back in, the fullness making your head spin and pleasure simmer in your belly. He was definitely going to get you off again, and you no longer worried about what would happen when you did.

He was going to come, and it'd only been—he looked over at the red numbers of the alarm clock on the bedside table—eight fucking minutes since he first put his dick inside her, or more accurately, worked his dick inside her.

Javier knew it was going to be a tight fit, but what he hadn't expected was it feeling like when he pressed into her ass: the ring of muscle squeezing him hard as he fed himself into her. With the addition of the plug, there was the same tightness, yet it wasn't only at the opening; it extended further into her, massaging his cock with her hot, tight, velvety walls. He was balancing on a razor's edge to not blow his load, and her coming didn't help with how it made her pussy strangle his dick to the point it was toeing the line of being painful.

He was in heaven.

And when he made her come again, he knew she was going to take him with her.

He was rock hard, his heart thudding rapidly in his chest, and skin coated in a thin layer of sweat—Javier was wound up so tight, a ball of tension had formed in his gut that was threatening to burst; she said the toy made her come harder, and it looked like it was going to be the same for him.

His fingers dug into the soft skin on her hips, sliding himself in and out of her wet heat and having to take a big, calming breath, slowly letting it out to get himself under control and focus on not finishing so quickly.

Shifting his gaze down, he could see his cock covered in her juices, glimmering under the lights of the room before sheathing it back inside of her, and the pretty, pink glass flower covering her asshole. He was so sensitive from being close to losing it, the pressure from the toy's solid body and the warmth of her were driving him crazy and making him throb.

He increased the speed of his movements, gritting his teeth, her sounds spurring him on. He wanted to make her come once more, but he didn't have much time with the pleasure welling up in him and growing with every passing second.

His hand gripped her asscheek, his strokes not waning as the fingers of his other hand got ahold of the plug's flared base, pulling on it to stretch her hole until only the tip remained, and slipping it back in, doing that over and over again, and out of sync to his own thrusts.

The way she loudly moaned his name and stretched her arms out in front of her to clutch the bedding with her cheek to the mattress had him twitching inside of her, electricity shocking through his body. Her pussy was pulsating around him, her arousal seeping down his shaft to catch on his sack, and he knew she was close.

"You gonna give me one more, Cielito?" he grunted, continuing to fuck her with his dick and the toy. "Does it feel good getting both of your holes fucked?"

"Yes," she gasped. "Oh my fucking god, it feels so good, Javi." Her hands clenched the sheets, her body shaking. "You’re fucking me so good—marry me; put a baby in me." His rhythm faltered for a second at the stab of pleasure in his belly, and he groaned.

The muscles in his groin started contracting, his orgasm imminent, and he tried to hold it off. His hips moved faster, beads of perspiration dripping down his face and the small of his back.

"I will," he panted. "I'll marry you; I'll fuck a baby into you. I'll do anything you ask me to." His eyes were cinched tight, and he was so lost in her that his thoughts were flowing freely from his mouth. "Dime cuándo, y te haré mi esposa (Tell me when, and I'll make you my wife). En cualquier momento, soy tuyo (Any time, I'm yours). Siempre seré tuyo (I'll always be yours). Puedes tener mi apellido (You can have my last name). Seguiré intentándolo hasta que estés embarazada con nuestro bebé (I'll keep trying until you're pregnant with our baby). Serás la madre de mis hijos (You will be the mother of my children). I can't fucking wait—come for me," he ordered. "Give me one more, and my come is yours. I'll pump you full of it. I'll put a baby in you. Come for me," he all but begged.

That was it.

She gasped his name, her body going stiff, and cunt spasming, wringing out his own orgasm—his hips went flush to her ass, burying himself as deep as possible in her depths, the tightly wound ball in his belly snapping hard enough, he fell forward, blanketing her back. The sounds he made were guttural as pleasure seared through his entire being, his cock pulsing and pumping so many spurts of his come he thought it might never end.

His brain went blissfully blank, his body completely lax, his soul possibly leaving him for some seconds since everything went dark, and he couldn't think of a single thought.

When he came to, he was bone tired and on the verge of falling asleep. Thankfully, he had the presence of mind to bring her with him as he moved to lie on his side, her limbs trembling, and he knew she was sleeping when there was no reaction to him removing the toy from inside her; it was tossed onto the bed near them, and then he tugged on the duvet behind him to pull it over their bodies and hugged her close with one arm, pressing his nose into her hair to breathe in her comforting scent, the ring on the hand he was holding causing him to pass out while happily thinking about how pretty soon she’d be his wife.

Time passed as they slumbered, minutes turning into hours. They shifted in their sleep and he woke when the warmth of her front pressed along the line of his spine disappeared, the springs in the mattress softly squeaking as she moved to get off it with a whispered, "Sorry." He heard her walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her.

He threw the blanket off of him and got out of bed, not caring at all that he was naked as his bare feet took him to the kitchen, where he got two large cups of cold water.

When Cielito came back into the bedroom, she found him standing by the bed chugging one of the glasses, and she joined him to drink her own. He finished before her, setting his empty cup on the nearby bedside table and taking some steps to end up behind her, wrapping his arms around her lingerie-covered middle. His lips met the side of her neck, kissing up it to nibble on her ear.

She hummed in appreciation, resting her free hand on one of his arms. She swallowed her drink of water. "Did you have a good time, baby?" she asked.

He spoke softly in her ear, "Yes."

Her fingers slid along his arm.

"Good. Are you up for another round, or do you wanna shower, and we can cuddle on the couch and watch something?"

Truth be told, he was exhausted from how eventful the last four days had been, and he didn't think he had the energy to go again—he was drained, and his dick was starting to ache from using it so much in Miami.

"Shower and couch," he answered, kissing a spot behind her ear. Her hand came up to press her fingers into his hair, and it made him shiver.

"Sounds good. Let me finish my water, and then we can go get clean."

"Thank you for today." He was peppering kisses along her shoulder now.

"You're welcome, babe. I'm happy you enjoyed it."

"I loved it."

"I love you."

"I know. I love you, too—I love you so fucking much."

"Same."

Forty-five minutes later, they were clean and changed—Javier was wearing his grey sweatpants, and his future wife was in a faded, thinned, oversized purple t-shirt and her underwear. She was sitting on the kitchen counter beside him eating a grilled cheese while he made his own sandwich on the stove.

At dinner, he noticed she didn’t eat much, and when he quietly asked if she was feeling okay, she told him she was fine and just not very hungry, which turned out to be a dirty fucking lie with how her stomach loudly grumbled on their way to take a shower. So, the first thing he did after they were dressed was feed her; she tried to fight him that it was his birthday and she should be cooking for him, and he responded by telling her it was his birthday and he wanted to make her something to eat. She agreed to grilled cheese sandwiches, and he had to sit her ass on the counter and tell her not to move in order to keep her from trying to help him.

“This is the best grilled cheese I have ever had in my entire life,” she said around the food in her mouth.

He huffed out a breath, flipping the sandwich in the pan with a black plastic spatula. “You’re only saying that because you’re fucking starving,” he replied.

She swallowed. “Lies—it’s the world’s best. You could win awards for how good this is.” Half of her sandwich was already eaten, and she took another bite.

Javier set the plastic utensil onto the counter on his other side and stepped to have himself standing between her legs. He rubbed his palms up her bare thighs, kissing her forehead. “I’m glad you like the sandwich, Cielito,” he said, looking at her. “Do you want me to make you another?”

She was chewing and shook her head, swallowing. “No, thank you. One is enough.”

“I can cut up some fruit? We got enough today at the grocery store for me to make you a fruit salad?”

Her hand pressed to his cheek, her gaze turning soft, and he leaned into her palm. “I’m okay, Javi,” she said. “This one sandwich is enough.”

He frowned. “You told me you were fine at the restaurant and not very hungry, but that wasn’t true, mi amor. I know it was because of the sex tonight—”

“Birthday sex,” she interrupted. “Birthday sex is special and worth going a little hungry for.” “I disagree with that…” His sandwich was finished, and he moved back to the stove, sliding it directly from the pan and onto a waiting plate next to the spatula.

“What do you mean you disagree with that?” she asked.

He put the pan on one of the cold back burners and switched off the stove, returning to his spot in front of her. His eyes were on hers, smoothing his hands along her thighs and under her shirt to hold her hips. “I mean that we’re trying to have a baby, and I don’t like the idea of you not eating enough for yourself and our child just so we can fuck.”

“Oh.” Her attention went to her lap.

“In the future, eat as much as you need—do something light if you’re really worried.” He lifted her chin with his finger to look at him. “Can you promise me that, Cielito? Can you do that for me so I won’t worry?”

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Thank you.” He slotted his lips against hers, kissing her tenderly. When they separated, he asked, “Another sandwich or fruit?”

“Fruit, please,” she answered. “Can you do it with Tajín and chamoy like the fruit cart?”

She was talking about the fruit cart on the side of one of the busier streets downtown where you could get freshly cut fruits like mango, jícama, papaya, and watermelon, and they did vasos de frutas (fruit cups) similar to the street vendors in Mexico; cups filled with a variety of cubed fruits and topped with Tajín (a powder made of chile, lime, and salt), and chamoy (a thick sauce made out of pickled fruit like mango, plums, and apricot that was mixed with spicy chiles, and a salty brine—it’s a tasty mixture that was sweet, spicy, salty, and sour).

The combined ingredients created a refreshing snack that perfectly balanced the sweet, tangy, and spicy flavors.

He smiled. “Of course, mi amor.” He gave her a quick peck on the lips before making his way to the fridge to start getting out the fruits.

She hopped off the counter after she finished her sandwich to stand next to him, holding up his grilled cheese for him to take bites of while he chopped the fruit and chatting with him about random things on her mind.

They were sitting on the couch, her legs on his lap, and had just finished their vasos de frutas (fruit cups), which ended up being tazones de frutas (fruit bowls) while they watched the first Jurassic Park movie. His empty bowl was on the coffee table in front of them, his hands busy gliding over her legs and thighs. She leaned forward to set her dish down beside his as Dr. Malcolm discussed the moral implications of the island's scientists only caring about what they could and couldn't do and not if they should. Cielito moved to get up, and his face lifted toward hers.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

Her eyes met his. "First, I'm gonna go put the bowls in the sink." She bent to pick up one in each hand and straightened. "Then I need to go grab something."

"What do you need, and I'll get it?" He started to stand, wanting to help so they could get back to cuddling quicker.

"Nope,” she said, and he stopped. "I'll get it. You just sit there and keep looking pretty." She smiled.

He frowned. "Okay."

She left the room, and he couldn't pay attention to what was on the television, instead listening to her rinsing the bowls out in the kitchen sink, followed by her footsteps as she made her way back through the living room, his head turning to watch her on her journey into the bedroom where she disappeared from view.

He wondered what she needed—maybe she wanted to paint her nails and had to choose a color of nail polish. Or she was going to get the stuff for face masks, which was something he enjoyed; his skin hadn't looked this good since he was in his early twenties.

"I'll be out in a minute, babe," she called from the other room. "I need to check the message on the answering machine."

"Take your time," he replied, hoping she didn't.

The fingers of his right hand were tapping absentmindedly on his knee.

His gaze went up to the clock on the wall, seeing it was a little after eleven, his eyes following the big hand as it ticked away each second.

Tick, tick, tick.

A whole minute passed before she returned to him, his eyebrows pulling together at her frowning face.

"Who called?" he asked.

"My mother."

That explained it.

"What did she want?"

"She said she had some exciting news and needed to talk to me about something important."

"Any idea what either could be...?"

A long, drawn-out sigh left her. "Yeah, most likely it's to tell me my brother's wife is pregnant again—they've been trying for months."

She found out they started trying the night he first told her he loved her. His face relaxed, understanding now that she was upset by the possible news.

He rose from the sofa and went to her in three steps, wrapping her in his arms to hold her close. He kissed her cheek and whispered, "It'll be us telling people the same news soon—they just had a head start. Don't let it get you down, okay? Everything is okay. We're okay. We’re happy, and that’s all that fucking matters."

He felt her relax in his hold.

"You're right—they've had more time."

He pulled back to look at her, smiling softly.

"Yeah, and I'm pretty sure I can knock you up in the same amount of months. Hell, maybe I'll be so fucking good at it that I’ll get you pregnant with twins."

That made her giggle, and her mouth turned up in his favorite smile.

"You're ridiculous," she said. "It's not a competition."

"It is now—we're gonna beat their time."

She playfully rolled her eyes.

"I love you, you goober." She kissed him, and when she broke away, there was a serious look on her face. "Let's stick to one baby for my first pregnancy, please."

"That's not how it works..." he said slowly. "It's a gamble, Cielito."

"Yes, I know that Javier, but let's not put the idea out into the universe."

"Okay—un bebé (one baby). That's all I'll wish for or whatever the fuck."

"Even though I know you're being a lying liar who lies because you'd be beyond happy if there was more than one baby—“ That was true; he’d love getting two babies for the price of one. “—I appreciate the thought. Now, enough about me. You need to open your birthday present."

His face scrunched in confusion. "Didn't I do that when I took off your clothes…?"

"That was only the sexy birthday present. I also got you an actual present."

He was so worried about her that he hadn’t realized she was holding something. She held up a rectangular gift wrapped in solid, bright red wrapping paper.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” he said. “Today was perfect.”

“Sure, but as I told you when you were undressing me, you’re getting spoiled tonight. Please open this. I’m nervous about it.”

“Why are you nervous?” he asked, taking it from her.

“Because I put a lot of time into it, and I’m pretty sure you’re going to love it, but there’s a chance it’ll make you sad.”

That had him curious. He stepped away and grabbed her hand to lead her to the couch, pulling her down to sit beside him.

It wasn’t too heavy or light, and when he felt it, it was firm. He thought it might be a book. Tearing open the wrapping paper, he discovered it was actually a maroon-colored leather-bound photo album.

He glanced over at her.

“We have our photo album of us we put together. What’s this one?”

He asked the question even though he had an idea of what it could be.

She gave him a reassuring smile. “Open it, and you’ll see.”

He did as he was instructed, and his breath caught in his throat—the first picture was of him as a newborn being held by his mother in a hospital bed. His birth hadn’t been the easiest, and the exhaustion was clear on her face, yet she was grinning. The next photo was in the same spot, but this time, she was gazing at him in her arms with a look that showed she was in love and unbelievably happy. His eyes started watering, turning to the next page to find more pictures of newborn him and his mom now taken at home. All the pages after that featured the same thing: it was always just him and his mom. Some of the photos he’d seen in other albums his father had, there were many, though, that this was the first time he’d come across them.

He lost count of how many were of them in the kitchen, seeing them both age through the years and him doing more to help her as he grew.

There was one where he was maybe three, standing on a dining room chair with his mother beside him as he used a tortilladora (tortilla press) on the table to flatten tortillas, one perfectly done on the plate. His face was turned up toward her with a toothy grin, and she was gazing upon him fondly and clearly proud—it was the first time he had made a tortilla.

He was maybe six in another, using a stool in order to reach the stove with her watching from behind him as he stirred a giant pot he knew had the sauce for her tamales—it was the first time she walked him step by step on how to make them, and it reminded him of something she said that day: “Un día, tu esposa hará esta receta y necesitas poder ayudarla, así que presta atención, Javiercito (One day, your wife will make this recipe and you need to be able to help her, so pay attention, Javier).” And she was right. He had used what she taught him to help his wif-fiancée make her tamales. He even showed Cielito some of the techniques his mother used to make the process easier.

His father had captured a lot of wonderful moments, including one when he had to be about ten with how he’d shot up in height and was almost as tall as his mother—they had matching grins and were mid-dance in the kitchen, her left hand held in his right and their arms around each other’s backs.

So many memories came back to him of times they spent together, and there was even a picture of the last time they made a tres leches cake for his birthday, both laughing about something he couldn’t remember, and it made him smile at how happy they looked.

The final photo was of him in his senior year of college after a swim meet. He’d changed back into his clothes—some jeans and a baby blue button-up shirt, his hair still wet, and a gold medal around his neck. His mother was embracing him from the side, her head barely reaching his shoulders, Javier hugging her back; big smiles were on their faces, and happiness was shining in their matching chocolate-colored eyes as they looked at the camera.

Seeing all of the sweet moments they shared already had him on the verge of tears, and this one broke him, knowing it was his last competition before he met Lorraine—his shoulders shook with sobs as he let himself cry.

The album only contained the memories of before his life went to shit—when he was on track to make his dream of swimming in the Olympics come true, his mother was still alive, he hadn’t hurt his parents with his bad choices, and life was good and still made sense.

“Oh, Javi,” Cielito’s voice was soft, and he welcomed her arms that enveloped him. “I’m so sorry—I worried it’d upset you. I shouldn’t have made this. I’ll take the pictures back to Pop’s.” She reached for the album, and he held it away.

“No,” he said through the tears, his words coming out gravelly. “It’s perfect—I love it.” Closing the book, he set it on the coffee table in front of them before he twisted his body to pull her into his arms, burying his face in her neck. Her hands were rubbing soothingly over his back. “Thank you,” his muffled voice said, tears wetting her skin. “Thank you for making it—it brought back so much happy shit I’d forgotten.”

“You really love the album?” she asked.

He pulled back to look her in the eyes and nodded with a little smile. “Yeah, it really is perfect. You wanna know something?”

“What?”

“I can’t wait to show it to our kids one day.” Her face brightened. “I know you’ll probably cook with them, and they’ll love seeing photos of their abuela (grandma) and papá (dad) doing the same.”

“Oh, I’m absolutely cooking with our kids,” she said, and it had warmth spread through his veins. “Your dad let me go through the boxes, plural, of loose photos he has—side note, I have never seen so many, and I’m pretty sure he’s single-handedly keeping the one-hour photo kiosk in business.”

“Probably,” he chuckled.

Growing up, whenever his father wasn’t working out on the ranch, he was spending time with Javier and his mom, and it was pretty typical for Chucho to get out his camera or video camera to snap pictures or record whatever they were doing—his dad was a sentimental guy. With Javier being his only child, he wanted to ensure they documented as much as possible to look back on fondly.

“Anyways,” she continued. “I went through hundreds, maybe even thousands of photos, and in every single one of you with your mom in the kitchen, you both look so fucking happy, and then add in that some of your favorite memories are cooking with her, and I want that for our babies, too. I want them to have happy memories of learning to cook with their mom and dad.”

His vision was blurring with unshed tears, feeling so unbelievably happy he might combust.

“You want me there, too?”

“Um, yes, Javi. As your mother would say, ‘Eres mi buena suerte (You’re my good luck).’ You gotta be there to at least take a ton of pictures.”

He was smiling. “I’d love that.”

“Good.” She kissed him, just a press of her lips to his, and it wasn’t enough; he deepened it with a swipe of his tongue along her bottom lip, and when she granted him access by opening her mouth a little, he was delving inside to tangle their tongues.

He didn’t know how he got so lucky finding her—she was perfect. Somehow, she made him fall more in love with her with each passing day.

Hearing her say she wanted their children to experience the same happiness he did with his mother had him feeling over the moon and even more excited about them starting their family—she was going to be an incredible mom to their kids, and it filled him with joy knowing, without a doubt, they’ll get to grow up like him with parents who will not only love them more than anything but each other to the point their children will be disgusted by their open affection. Their kids were going to have happy childhoods where they knew they were loved and cherished and got nothing but encouragement for their dreams. It would be drastically different than how Cielito was raised, and that was what she wanted; she couldn’t fathom treating her children the same way her parents treated her. There wouldn’t be one kid who was loved more than another, and they definitely were going to be proud of their babies no matter what. She was breaking a cycle of neglect and impossible standards to ensure their children only knew love and acceptance.

Their breaths were coming out heavier when their mouths detached.

She smiled, the sentence coming out breathy, “Happy birthday, Javi.”

He shared her look. “Thank you for making it amazing—made me almost forget I’m old now.”

She huffed in exasperation. “You turned forty, Javi. You’re not old. If it makes you feel any better, I’m happy to report you’ve still got a bangin’ bod and continue being a sex god.”

“You’re calling me a sex god again?” His eyebrow rose.

“I never stopped calling you a sex god, and let’s look at the facts:” She held up one finger. “Stamina of someone in their twenties.” The next digit went up. “The experience of a forty-year-old that’s spent a lot of time fucking.” Another finger rose. “Makes his partner come every time.” The next digit extended. “Actually knows how to use his mouth and fingers.” The final finger went up. “Has the biggest and prettiest dick known to man—face it, babe, you’re a bonafide sex god; I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a statue of you in some sex temple somewhere.”

His chest had puffed out a little from her praise, and what she said made him snort, Javier, smiling. “What is it with you and statues of me?”

She pushed his bangs off of his forehead. “Um, did you not hear the part where I said you have a bangin’ bod and the biggest and prettiest dick known to man? You’d make a sexy statue—hotter than Prince Eric’s, and that’s saying something.” Both of her hands came up to hold his face as she stared him in the eyes. “What you should get from this is I find you exceptionally attractive and want to have your babies, and I’ll still find you exceptionally attractive and want to have your babies next year, and the year after that and the year after that; you get the picture. Basically, I do not give a single fuck about how old you are because you are aging like the finest wine, sweetcheeks, and I am so unbelievably horny for you.”

From the way she was looking at him, he knew she was telling the truth, and it made him feel some relief. He’d been dreading this day, and he was starting to realize there was no reason to—he was older and wiser, engaged to marry the most amazing woman on the planet, in the process of starting his family, working a job he didn’t hate, and he was back home, where he belonged (even if some of the townspeople thought otherwise). He was happy, truly happy, and yeah, it wasn’t an easy journey, and it took him a while to get to this point, but he made it, and that was all that fucking mattered.

Mondays were the worst.

Mondays after a lovely vacation were the worst of the worst.

Honestly, it should be illegal having to go back to work on a Monday after being away. Unfortunately, it wasn’t, so here you were sitting at the nurse's station desk, a bit past ten in the morning, notating a chart, and nervously waiting for your first break that was in—you glanced at the watch on your wrist—five minutes.

"Still nervous?" Came the Texas twang of your coworker/best friend, Robyn, who pulled out the rolly chair beside you and sat down.

Her long, chestnut curls were pulled back into a ponytail, and she looked ready to model with how perfectly she’d done her makeup; firetruck-red lipstick was coating her full lips, her big blue eyes accentuated with an outline of black mascara and eyeliner, her cheeks rosy, and face blemish free without being caked in foundation and concealer—she could be on the cover of the American Journal of Nursing magazine with her being in her blue scrubs.

Your head turned her way, frowning. "Yes, because I know, in my bones, it's not gonna go well."

She gave you a reassuring smile and put her hand on your arm. "And that's why you're doin’ it on your fifteen-minute break. It gives you a time limit, and havin’ to get back to work is a great excuse to end things."

You weren't convinced. "I guess..."

"I'm sorry, girl, but this is somethin’ you have to do and it'll be better to just rip off the bandaid."

"Maybe I'd prefer to keep the bandaid on and continue living in my perfect little bubble with the love of my life."

"Because the bubble is goin’ to burst one way or another, and at least this way, you're in control."

"I really don't want to do this…" you said truthfully. It had you feeling a little sick.

"I know, girl." She patted your forearm. "I can't promise it'll go well, but just remember you've got Javi and me for support, and you know as well as I do that man will up and leave work without a word to come here for you."

"That's true. He, uh, doesn't know..."

The other woman's eyebrows dipped. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"It's Javi—he'd worry too much and wouldn't be able to work. Now that we're doing this whole baby thing and getting married soon, it's like his caveman instincts have turned up to the max, and he's in protection mode 24/7. So, he's not going to find out about what's going on until after it happens."

"If you think that's best." Her eyes went to her wristwatch. "Looks like it's time." She met your gaze. "Go do it in the on-call room so you'll have some privacy."

You took a deep breath, ignoring the fluttering nerves in your belly. "Okay," you said as you pushed back in your chair to get up. "If I'm not back in fifteen minutes, you better come to get me."

She smiled. "That was the plan."

"You're the best."

The closest on-call room wasn't anything more than a small windowless room with a twin-size bed and a desk with a lamp and telephone atop it. The overhead light was on, and you'd locked the door upon entering, taking a seat at the desk. Picking up the phone's receiver, you pressed it to your ear, your other hand punching in the string of numbers from muscle memory, and hardly any thought.

Ring.

Ring.

"Hello?" the familiar voice answered.

This was it. "Hi, Mom, it's me."

"Oh, good, you got my message. I was expecting your call yesterday."

"Sorry, it was Javi's birthday, and we went out to dinner to celebrate."

Her voice went tight. "I see... Remind me again how old he turned?"

"Forty."

"Forty years old, and he doesn't own a house or have a career? When your father turned forty, he was already the chief of surgery and had invented a procedure, but I guess they're two different men from two different backgrounds."

Your jaw clenched. "I don't appreciate you belittling the man I love, who had a very successful career in the DEA and helped take down Pablo fucking Escobar and the Cali Cartel before he was forty—but please, go on about his ‘lack of career,’ and how he doesn’t measure up to Dad in your eyes; I’d be more than happy to end this call right now.”

The older woman sighed. “I’m just looking out for your best interests, but since it’s a sore subject, I won’t talk about him at all.”

The ‘best interests’ excuse made you roll your eyes so hard they were at risk of getting stuck in the back of your head.

"Fine—what's the exciting news you have?"

"Oh, yes," her tone shifted, hearing her excitement. "Your brother is having another baby, and it's a boy!" You fucking knew that was why she called, and you didn’t have it in you to be excited, not when the same news from you would have a vastly different reaction. "Your father and I are so excited to have another grandson," she continued. "I can't believe how blessed we are to have three grandchildren, a fourth on the way, and they’re all boys!"

"God forbid they had a girl," you mumbled.

"What was that?"

"I said, wow, that's great," you spoke normally. "Well, give them my congratulations, and if that was all you wanted to tell me, I'm going to get back to work—I'm on break."

Yes, you were chickening out on telling her about your engagement.

"That isn't the only exciting news!"

"Yay, there's more," you deadpanned.

“If your father was home, he could give you more information, but his hospital is going through some staffing changes, and he got you a job to be the director of nursing—you can finally move back home!"

Um, what?

He got you a job you never even asked for or wanted?

The audacity of them doing this behind your back in an attempt to lure you home had stunned you into silence, anger threading through your chest and tummy.

"Are you still there?" she asked.

"I don't want a new job," you said calmly.

"You don't know what you're saying, sweetie. This would make you the head of the nursing program at his hospital and is much better than whatever it is you’re currently doing. You’d make substantially more than what you are right now, and it brings you closer to us, your family—it’s about time you come home, anyway. You’ve been away long enough and haven’t been making the best decisions.”

Tears were burning in your eyes at the blatant disregard for your feelings.

"I'm not leaving Laredo."

She sighed again. "What does that backwater town have to offer you? That hospital you're working for can't compete with what your father’s hospital is willing to pay, and there isn’t anything there worth staying for or tying you down—thank god you've been smart and haven't done anything stupid like get pregnant."

She managed to insult Javi and the life you built without outright saying the words, and it pissed you off how fucking rude she was in regards to your future husband—she could say whatever she wanted about you and the way you were living, but you wouldn’t stand for such vitriol toward your fiancé.

"I'm getting married,” you blurted.

Her line went completely silent, and you thought she might’ve hung up until she said, “I’m sorry. I think I misheard you. What did you say?”

“Javi proposed—we’re getting married, and that isn’t the only exciting news; we’ve started trying for a baby.” Informing people that you were getting fucked raw and filled like a Boston cream donut on the regular made you wish the earth would completely swallow you up so you didn’t have to feel such embarrassment; it being socially acceptable to openly discuss your sex life when it had to do with procreation would never make any sense to you.

“I know Javier doesn’t meet your standards,” you continued, “however, he more than meets mine, and I wish you could see how incredible he is and how happy he makes me, but the only things you care about is the amount of money in his bank account and career choice; which, again, people all over are aware of who The Javier Peña is because of the work he did with the DEA. He was a hot commodity when he returned to the States, and agencies all over the country were trying to bag him.

“Just because he’s not in the same tax bracket as you,” you kept speaking, “and he can’t buy me a big mansion we don’t even need, doesn’t make him any less of a person. Honestly, he’s better than you—he’s better than you. He’s better than Dad, and he’s definitely better than that golden child you worship, who couldn’t even make it into his Ivy League school without you buying his way in. Javi got a full-ride scholarship to his dream university because of how talented he was at swimming,” you said proudly.

“My fiancé is an amazing man who treats me like a queen and will be the best father to our children. Now, let’s circle back to your question about what Laredo has to offer me—the answer is everything. Laredo has everything I could ever need or want. The man I’m marrying and the future father of my kids is here. I have a family here—a real family that loves me. I have friends and a great job here. This is the place where I’ll raise my children and grow old with my soulmate. This is my home and where I’ve always belonged. So, thank you, but no, thank you for such an amazing job offer I didn’t ask for. I’m not leaving Laredo—you’re just gonna have to get used to the fact that Javier and I are a package deal and that he’ll be your son-in-law one day and the father of your grandchildren. If you can’t stomach that, then don’t ever call me again because Javi means more to me than anyone else in the entire universe.”

Silence.

Many seconds passed before she spoke.

“You’re sure he’s the one…?” she asked slowly.

“Yes, one hundred percent.”

“You don’t care about how much money he has because he makes you… happy…?”

She made it sound like a foreign concept, and you huffed in amusement.

“I know, it’s crazy to fall in love with someone for them and not their money.”

“This is what I get for allowing you to watch those cartoon fairytale movies when you were a child. Your ideas of what’s important in life have been skewed by fictional nonsense, and you failed to notice at the end of those films, the girls become princesses—rich—when they meet their princes and finally get their—what was it?—happily… happily…” She was struggling.

“Their happily ever afters?” you said.

“Yes, that’s it! They only got their happily ever afters once they became princesses, and you should strive to want that kind of status or meet a man who will give it to you.”

“Weird take, but to me, they get their happily ever afters when they meet their one true loves, and the fancy titles are just bonuses.” You shrugged even though she couldn’t see you.

She let out a sigh. “You need to understand that real life isn’t like those whimsical cartoons. You might think you’re in love right now, but you haven’t even known this man for a year. How do you know if you will feel this way about him a year from now? Or two years? There’s no guarantee that your relationship will last, and you’re throwing away a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to advance your career and make a name for yourself because you’re infatuated and living in some dream world.”

“I am in love, and it’s the real thing. What you’re not understanding is my career is secondary to my happiness. I care more about being happy than making money, and I’ve made my choice that I’m going to marry Javi because he makes me happy—get it through your head that he isn’t going anywhere.”

“Very well, if that’s your decision, then so be it.”

“Thank you.”

“Can you answer a question about Javier?”

“Uh, depends on what you’re going to ask...”

“He helped take down Pablo Escobar and that other cartel, which wouldn’t have been small feats. I’m assuming a lot of opportunities would’ve opened up to him within his agency, and he was probably on track for promotions. Why did he quit when he was at the height of his career?”

You smiled. “Because he decided his career was secondary to his happiness, and he cared more about being happy than advancing in a job he’d grown to hate.”

“Oh.”

“You know, he only went to work for the Sheriff here, so I wasn’t the sole provider in our relationship—he makes decent money, too, and tries to pay more than his fair share. He took the job to be able to take care of me, and if I couldn’t work, we’d be more than okay on just his salary.”

“Really?” She didn’t attempt to hide her surprise.

“Yes—someone with Javi’s expertise is paid handsomely to consult. He’s gotten a ton of offers to do paid talks at universities and conferences. He’s actually kind of a big deal in that community.” It was lovely getting to brag about him.

“Why haven’t you told me this before?”

“Because from the moment you found out I was dating him, you were convinced he wasn’t good enough for me, and it seemed like nothing I could say would change your mind.”

“I guess I might have rushed to conclusions…”

“You did.”

“Well, congratulations, honey,” She sounded genuinely happy, not as jazzed as the imminent arrival of another grandson, but happy enough it had you taken aback. “This is exciting! I hadn’t realized things had gotten so serious between you two. Have you picked out a date for the wedding?”

To say you felt thrown off kilter from the complete one-eighty she just made on her views of your relationship would be putting it mildly; you thought there was a chance you were in the Twilight Zone with how bizarre this reaction was.

Did you actually convince her of Javi’s worthiness?

That didn’t seem right…

“Um, no?” you answered.

“I’ll call the wedding planner who helped plan your brother’s, and don’t worry about the cost, we’ll take care of it, along with the wedding itself—we’ll have to look at venues in your town that can hold at least, I think, one hundred and fifty guests, maybe? I’ll also have Jerry—” The family lawyer. “—get a prenup together—I’ll bring him with me.” Uh, what was happening? “Let me look at the calendar.” Pages flipping could be heard over the phone, and you knew she was going through her daily planner. “Your father and I have prior engagements over the next month and a half, but I could visit in February with the wedding planner and Jerry to get started on everything.”

The thought of her visiting had you feeling sick to your stomach, the anxiety hitting you like a bucket of cold water over your head.

“Woah, woah, hold on a second,” you said. “We’re not having a big wedding, so there’s no need for a wedding planner. We’re not doing a prenup, either, so Jerry doesn’t need to be bothered, and we want to get married sometime next month.”

“I won’t sour our conversation with legal talk, so I’ll discuss it with you later—you want to get married that soon?” There was a frown in her voice. "I told you we’re booked next month... We wouldn’t be able to make it…”

“We’re not doing much of a traditional wedding anyway, so you won’t miss much. We can send you a copy of the video—” Javi was planning on buying a camcorder to record your nuptials and other erotic things. “—and maybe in February we could visit you.” That was something you didn’t particularly want to do, but her change in attitude and desire to help seemed like she was extending an olive branch for all of the hurtful things she had said about your future husband.

“That would be fine. We’re dying to meet this man you’re in love with.”

Your eyes narrowed. “The one you didn’t approve of five minutes ago…?”

“You gave me a lot to think about in those five minutes, and I’m doing as you said and accepting that he’s going to be my son-in-law. Am I not allowed to change my opinion of someone?”

“Sure, you can change your opinion. You’re really okay with me marrying him?”

“Yes, sweetie.”

A knock sounded on the on-call room’s door, Robyn’s voice coming from the other side, “Hey, I need you out here.”

“I’m sorry, Mom, but my break’s over, and I need to get back. I’ll talk to you later.”

“No problem. Have a great day, and tell Javier hi from me.”

That will freak him out.

You said your goodbyes and hung up the phone, getting up to walk over and open the door.

Robyn was standing there. “How’d it go?” she asked.

“That’s the thing, Robyn, I think it went well, and I’m so fucking confused—I think my mom might even like Javi a little bit now.”

Shock appeared on her face. “Um, what…?”

“Makes zero sense, right?”

“Yeah… You need to call Javi?”

She was the best.

“Would you mind?”

“Nope! I’ll hold down the fort.”

“Thank you!”

This time, when you sat down to use the hospital-provided telephone, you dialed your fiancé’s desk phone from memory.

Ring.

“Peña,” he answered.

“Has hell frozen over?” you asked.

“Cielito?” He was clearly confused.

“Yes, it’s me—let’s focus. Has hell frozen over?”

“Uh, I don’t think so?”

“Are pigs flying?” You heard him roll back in his chair and the rustle of him looking through his office window’s blinds.

“I don’t see any pigs with wings, but that Sheriff’s deputy whose wife won’t let him have red meat so he can lower his cholesterol is in his car eating a burger with the same enthusiasm I have when I eat your pussy.”

“Guy is truly eating it like a man starved—respect. ¿Están volando las vacas (Are the cows flying)?”

“No veo a Daphne ni a Velma en el cielo (I don’t see Daphne or Velma in the sky).” He rolled back to his desk. “¿Qué pasa, mi amor (What’s going on, my love)?”

“I talked to my mom…”

“…are you okay?”

“Um, sure.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

He was starting to hang up the phone, and you quickly said, “Javi, no, no! Don’t leave!”

“Are you sure?” he asked. “It wouldn’t be a problem.”

“It’s really okay—I’m gonna see you at lunch.”

The plan was to eat the lunches you made together in his truck.

“Okay.” His tone went serious. “Tell me what happened.”

“I called her like she asked, and she confirmed my sister-in-law is with child and talk about the excitement over a fetus having male genitals.”

“Of course, they’re fucking excited it’s a boy, the misogynistic assholes,” he seethed.

“I am so unbelievably in love with you—I know you’d love having a baby girl and getting to dress her up in pretty dresses.”

“God, yeah.” You didn’t have to see his face to know he was smiling. “And giving her cute hairdos and I could paint her nails to match her dresses—wait, we’re getting distracted. Did the news upset you? I really feel like I should come down there...”

“I promise I’m fine, babe.”

“I don’t like that I’m not there for you in person…” He sighed. “Was that all your mother wanted to talk to you about?”

“This next part is really gonna piss you off, so please take a big breath for me, my love.”

You heard him inhale deeply.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

“My parents, or father specifically, offered me a job that a person would be insane to turn down to get me to move back home—I didn’t even contemplate for a second about taking it and proceeded to inform her about us getting married and starting our family, then went off about how amazing you are and that this is my home and I wouldn’t be leaving it. I made it very clear that you are the most important person to me, and if they couldn’t accept you as my husband, then I wanted nothing to do with them.”

“…If you want the job, we can move there,” he said carefully.

You smiled. “That’s sweet of you to offer, but I can’t fathom moving away from our family here, especially your dad. This is our home, and I’m happy with the life we have. So, I don’t care about some fancy schmancy job.”

“Promise?”

“Pinky promise.”

He let out a relieved sigh before he started speaking again, his words soaked in anger, “They hate me so fucking much they tried to give you an offer you couldn’t refuse, so you’d leave me? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m sorry, baby, but I can’t fucking stand these people you share blood with—they don’t even fucking deserve to be called your family with how they disrespect you and don’t give a flying fuck about your happiness.” He had to take another big breath to try to calm his rage. “I might sound like an asshole, but I don’t want them around our kids, and this isn’t me putting my foot down or saying that’s how it has to be; I’m saying that our children’s well-being is my first priority, and these assholes are nothing but poison,” he spat. “I’ll support you if you decide to cut ties with them—hell, I’d love it since it makes me so fucking angry how they’ve treated you and continue to treat you. We’ve got our family here, anyway; Pop and all our tías, tíos, and primos, so you don’t even need those fuckers.” His tone shifted to something softer, hearing in it how much he cared for you. “Cielito, mi amor, all I want is for you to be happy and to feel loved, and I will do everything in my power to make that happen—please, for me, when you decide what to do, you choose what makes you happiest; not what would make me happy and definitely don’t even think about their feelings because they’ve never done the same for you. I’ll stand by you no matter what.”

What he said had your eyes getting misty. “I love you.”

“I love you, too. More than anything.”

And you knew that was the truth.

“I didn’t tell you the whole story,” you said, “and this is where I get confused about the entire interaction.”

“What happened…?”

“So, I kinda bragged about how much of a hot shot you are in the drug enforcement community and that you make decent money, and I think I somehow made my mom like you? I know it sounds fake, but Javi, she wanted to hire us a wedding planner and pay for the whole event that she was going to invite a hundred and fifty people to…”

You left out the lawyer bit because you were going to nip that in the bud when she got around to talking to you about it.

“Uh, what…?”

“It was fucking weird, babe! She even told me to tell you hi when we were getting off the phone!”

“Me? Are you sure…?”

“Yeah! It makes zero fucking sense. Our conversation started with her basically telling me my life decisions were trash and that there’s nothing in Laredo worth staying for—she actually said she was happy I hadn’t accidentally gotten pregnant. Like, that’s so fucking rude. Then her tone had completely changed by the end of the call, and she was pro-you and pro-us getting married.”

“Interesting…” You could picture him sitting at his desk, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip while we pieced together the information you’d given him and analyzed it for any indication of more going on.

“Are your Detective Peña senses tingling?” you asked. “Do you think they’re up to something?”

“I’m not sure… But I could just be paranoid about people trying to fuck with our relationship.”

“Oh god, what if we are being paranoid and overthinking this entire thing? We might be looking a gift horse in the mouth, and my family really has warmed up to you.”

He scoffed, “Tal vez cuando las vacas vuelen (Maybe when cows fly),” he muttered. “It seems too good to be true,” he said. “But, there’s a chance hell did freeze over, and Daphne and Velma grew wings.” He sighed. “My hopes aren’t very high, though; at this point, all we can do is see what happens.” He suddenly sounded panicked, “Cariño, ¿los invitaste a nuestra boda (Honey, did you invite them to our wedding)? ¿Tendré que conocerlos en persona (Will I have to meet them in person)?”

Javier Peña had a cute face, a cute face that naturally looked pissed off when it was resting and showed everything he was feeling. There was no doubt that in the presence of your family, his glares would be murderous, and he wouldn’t be able to hide his anger—which, honestly, delighted you. But you hated the idea of them coming to the place you called home and was your haven away from them, so you were never going to invite them to visit; if you had to, you’d go to them.

“Cálmate, mi amor (Calm down, my love),” you said. “No te preocupes (Don’t worry). I didn’t invite them, and I don’t even want them coming here. I did have to say we might visit them in a couple of months to keep them happy—I’m also gonna send my parents that blender my mother wants but refuses to buy because the one they have still works for Christmas. Hopefully, all that will tide them over for a while so we can figure out if their new attitude is legit or not.”

“Good idea.”

“Well, I better get back to work. I’ll see you at lunch.”

“Yes, you will. If you need me to get your mind off all this shit, just let me know. It’d take us about the same amount of time to meet at home…”

His offer made you smile. “Javier, is this your way of saying you’d like a nooner?”

“Maybe… I’m on edge and need to calm my nerves, and the best ways to do that is either having a cigarette or fucking—I’m sure you can guess my preference, but it wouldn’t be a big deal if I bummed a smoke off someone.”

“You’re in need of a medicinal cream pie,” you said in understanding, nodding your head. “I am also on edge and could use a medicinal orgasm or two. I’ll see you at the apartment, handsome, and the suit stays on—I’m riding Detective Peña into the sunset.”

You could hear his smile when he spoke. “Is that so?”

“Yep—you’ve been staring at my tits a lot lately, and I thought you’d enjoy them bouncing in your face.”

His groan confirmed your suspicion. “Minimum of two orgasms, keep the suit on, and you’re riding me on the couch—anything I’m missing?”

“Yeah, you coming inside me so I can go back to work all nice and stuffed.”

“Marry me.”

“I am,” you giggled. “We need to figure out a date.”

“January 11. Under the big oak tree on Pop’s land at sunset—that’s when we should do it.”

“Why the eleventh?” you asked, curious about why that date specifically.

“You agreed to be my girlfriend on the eleventh. You agreed to be my fiancée on the eleventh. It only seems right that I vow to love you forever on the eleventh of the New Year and hope you agree to be my wife then—Cielito, mi amor, mi vida mi media naranja, mi todo, (Cielito, my love, my life, my soulmate, my everything), will you marry me in twenty-eight days on January 11?”

Tears brimmed your eyes. “Yes, Javi! Absolutely, yes—it’s perfect.”

“Not as perfect as you,” he smoothly replied.

“You’re a sap.”

“—and your perfect tits.”

“A horny sap,” you laughed.

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#pedro pascal #javier peña #Javier Peña/reader #javier peña x reader #javier peña x you #javier peña smut #wheresarizona writes #learning to live series

[mcytblrsexymen]

Rules and FAQ

Rules

This is a character-focused poll, not streamer. However, because of the sheer volume of nominations, we are not specifying between different server characters, e.g. Rats SMP Scott versus Origins SMP Scott. Just put down Scott Smajor, and the nomination will be for an entire portfolio of character work. 

The character does not have to identify as a man to be considered, but they do have to fall under the “sexyman” category. E.g. Iskall would be a good fit, but Stressmonster would not. 

The character does not have to be remotely human and in fact it might be better if they’re part monster. We love a good set of wings on a man.

To be considered for the poll, the character must be 18 or older during the run of the server. They do not need to have entered the server as 18, but they need to have exited the server as an adult. There is no maximum age.

Sexyman is using the tumblr definition, which often includes the fact that the source material is not that sexy/detailed/gender, but boy did the artists run with it. We believe the opportunity presented by Minecraft skins offers a peak opportunity for sexyman-ness. You do not have to be attracted to the character, but you do have to go “oh wow, someone’s having fun” at what the artists/writers are doing. 

We will be running a 96-character bracket, for the most fun matchups.

Links and Dates

Nominations Accepted: 1 Feb - 2am EST 3 February.

Data Collation: 3 February - 5 February

Voting: VERY SOON

Nominate Here (now closed)

FAQ

Why are you doing this? There is a devil on my shoulder.

I think some of the nominated sexymen are just Sexy Men, not tumblr sexymen. This is when you get to rally followers to your side and defeat them in the court of tumblr democracy. Or vote for them even harder, whichever floats your boat. 

I want to vote for a character who’s an NPC, can I? Go for it. We personally think that Eddie-The-Dilf can make a fine sexyman.

I want to know how many nominations someone has? The mods are answering nomination count questions on a “when we feel like it” basis, cause otherwise we would be answering nomination questions constantly. You may have to wait for the spreadsheet release.

I want to nominate a specific guy five times. Well that would be voter fraud, which is frowned on, but I can’t personally stop you. Do what’s in your heart and what the sexymen drive you to do. 

I want to see the spreadsheet. It will be released once it’s sorted!

When do we get to vote for sexy ladies? First of all, hello tommyinnit, second of all, let me get the sexymen out of the way first and see if this ends up with twitter cancellations before I commit to more brackets.

So when does voting start? As soon as we finish crunching the data! So hopefully Sunday!

#faq #nomination updates #actual polls #signal boost! #mcytblr sexyman

[hajimedics]

On Puppets, Agency, and Fate

I’ve been writing this thinkpiece for around a week while looking further into Welcome Home’s symbolism through queer/neurodivergent lenses; strengthening my belief that its themes of freedom and fate cannot be separated from the struggles the characters face as queer/neurodivergent folks.

This writing is going to be a mix of canonical content and my personal interpretation as I make many connections to various readings. Not to mention that the story is very far from done according to the words of the creator himself, so please take the things I say with a grain of salt.

You can view this thinkpiece in Google Docs format here.

CW: mentions/discussions of homophobia, transphobia, ableism, and abuse

I've always adored explorations of humanity and their deteriorating, fluctuating psyche through characters constantly challenged by the narrative (example: Phos from Land of the L*strous, Kris from D*ltarune, Guts from B*rserk, Mae from N*ght in the W*ods) and how they struggle to find their place in the world and freedom. To progress, humanity has always desire freedom. Freedom of expression. Freedom to think. Freedom to honestly, unapologetically be who one wants to be. Humans and humanity are not always synonymous. Welcome Home is a case of this too, its ensemble cast consisting of puppets.

Clown has stated that themes of being queer/neurodivergent are very integral to the story in many aspects, from the characters to the metanarrative. I want to talk about the things I've noticed, the analogies they carry, and how every character's identity contributes to the themes or the story.

First off, the neighborhood.

The neighborhood in general

From the perspective of Welcome Home Puppet Show’s creators, the neighborhood is the idea of a perfect, idyllic community through the lens of cisheteronormavity from the 70s. It is something out of a children’s dream with the colorful imagery, the peaceful yet eventful neighborhood filled with fun activities where everyone in the neighborhood is happy and there are no realistic problems like capitalism, oppression, relationship problems, sickness, and death. Of course, it’s the given obvious because this is a puppet show we’re talking about. A show aimed at kids.

Everyone has a role to play in the neighborhood – the shopkeeper, the mailman, the baker, the bug nerd – they all fit the traditional, stereotypical, cartoonish American mold of what the dream urban life is like in the 70s (and it still is in my small hometown, in Indonesia! We’re quite traditional in a sense) especially with the lack of serious overarching threats of aforementioned human problems.

Welcome Home first aired on 1969 and abruptly ended on 1974. A possible theory is that they cannot keep up with the competitor shows at the time (Sesame Street started on 1969 and The Muppet Show started on 1974, fun fact!), but seeing the amount of merchandise they put out and the way it stood out from various angles, this theory can be thrown out the window. The “about” page for WHPS also describes the show as well acclaimed and doing well during its runtime.

Another one is that the sentience of the puppets (and their desire to have autonomy over their own lives) have possibly impacted the writing of the story, given how they have their own identity outside of the one given by WHPS’s writers to them. Even more when you take into consideration that WHPS is produced during the era when LGBT history in America is at a major turning point. As cited from The Atlantic:

“Those years that followed, the decade of the 1970s, represent a remarkable period of transformation for gays and lesbians, particularly those living in America's coastal cities. At its core, that transformation was about visibility. During those years, there was the first gay television movie (That Certain Summer); a sexy on-screen kiss between two men in Sunday, Blood Sunday; and the release of Cabaret, which has been hailed as the first movie that "really celebrated homosexuality.

There were gains in politics too: Edward Koch, then serving in Congress, "became one of the first elected officials to publicly lobby on behalf of the homosexuals of Greenwich Village," Kaiser writes. Gay Pride Week was established. Perhaps most significantly: In December of 1973, the board of the American Psychiatric Association* voted 13-0 "to remove homosexuality from its list of psychiatric disorders."

The laws that no longer criminalizes or dehumanizes queer folks are being written. Changes are made. Even when LGBT movement was going on a fairly optimistic path, oppression and bigotry towards the community was still rampant. After all, oppressors just can’t change their views in a whim! Their hatred comes from their own thoughts and not because the higher ups told them so.

I won’t turn this into a writing about queer history instead of focusing on Welcome Home. Though, I think it's all worth mentioning given the things I'm going to discuss here and how Clown stated that these themes will become prevalent throughout the story. I decide to write this thinkpiece as an outlet for my thoughts and how I connected many of the story's aspects to the themes of freedom – both from their status as puppets and their identity.

Now that the overview is out of the way, time to bring in the big guns.

The neighborhood and Playfellow Workshop

If we take Playfellow Workshop's involvement in the characters' lives outside of episode recordings, Welcome Home becomes a huge transgender allegory, wrapped in a neat colorful package called "being puppets whose view on the world is much more narrow and simple in which they are controlled by beings above their comprehension".

Playfellow Workshop is the company that creates WHPS and owns its characters. They act as the "parents" to the "children" – WHPS' characters – in this comparison. They house the characters, have them as their responsibilities and assets, and, as any show production goes, they most definitely have staff that takes care of the puppets to see if there are any rips or tears in their bodies, making sure they are fit for the show production. It's just like how parents house their children when they cannot afford housing or live on their own, taking care of (or rather monitor) them, giving them shelter and food.

They are controlled both literally and figuratively by Playfellow Workshop – former because they're hand puppets made for children's entertainment and latter because of their status binding them to their duties. Just like how a parent has authority over their children under the guise of “you live under my roof, you live under my rules.” The rules in questions are the episodes which are produced on story scripts, and the puppets follow said scripts. 

Playfellow Workshop is extremely important to the puppets, whether the company is taking a positive role, a neutral role, or an antagonistic role. If the puppets were to break free from their grasp, who would take care of them? Who will place them onto their cases, or fix their rips and tears, or make sure they're in good shape? Playfellow Workshop may have taken a toll on the puppets, but no one can take care of the puppets better than Playfellow Workshop. 

You might be wondering, “But Senja, this can be read as a typical controlling parent and clueless children dynamic. Why so specific about it being a trans experience?”

It can be read like the former! I made more connections and thus thought "Hm. This is so true to my trans experience". 

There are multiple transgender characters in the story such as Frank, Poppy, and Julie. I was struggling on how to put my thoughts into words about the ways the producers of WHPS (could it be that they thought about the puppets not being cis?) can write in trans characters in WHPS, but I believe Clown himself and the wikipedia page for Gonzo from The Muppets said it best. 

A similar case for the puppets can be applied to the trans characters of Welcome Home! Still, the way the puppets present themselves to the audience is also ultimately a decision made by Playfellow Workshop, especially during episode recordings. Clown also said that they won’t reveal much about it since he doesn’t want to give out spoilers. Perhaps regarding to the nature of Playfellow Workshop, too?

The puppets and the scripts can also be a stand-in for how trans folks who still live with authoritative adult figures (especially those that don't accept them or begrudgingly does) are handling autonomy over their own bodies and actions. Although not shown for now, I predict there’s going to be an eventual identity dissonance between who the puppets truly are and who the puppets are according to WHPS’ writers.  It reminds me of my experience of when I was much younger, being a closeted trans person who often struggles with disassociation, looking into the mirror and feeling like me and my body are not one. Not myself. It's like they're two separate beings, "me" who is what I truly am, and "my body" that is dictated and dressed up by my parents. As much as I love my body, little me wanted to claw out and break free if it means I can have a semblance of independence over my life. (Things are much better these past few years, though!)

Again, I don’t like accusing Playfellow Workshop of purposefully mistreating the puppets or even taking pleasure in hurting them because we are just getting started; getting to know the personalities and character dynamics between each character. Authoritative parents won't exactly be abusive to their children. Maybe Playfellow Workshop is just doing their job. They take care of the puppets because if they're damaged, the show won't go on. They act indifferent towards the puppets because well, they're just puppets. No personal feelings. That's just how business goes.

We do know that Playfellow Workshop is a big problem regarding the WHPS’ cancellation and the puppets’ worrying fates.

Playfellow Workshop aside, what about the community regarding the puppets?

The neighborhood is a small town consisting of nine residents. Everyone knows each other, and it’s hard to keep secrets from one another with just how tight-knit everyone is; the experience of living in a small town rings true to mine. Almost everyone in my quaint hometown knows many details about each other and their families because our community strongly believes in the importance of bonds and our culture is built on the word "family".

The neighborhood is a family that does not fit the general criteria of what the traditional structure of a family is. There is no concrete "father" or "mother" or "siblings" assigned here – they're also not the typical found family where they meet one another by chance. They are placed inside the set by the creators of the WHPS, lives already decided by its writers (like a traditional family), but they find solace in each other, having their lives intertwined with one another through bonds that they also take part in building, even outside of the show's production (like a found family, as seen in the "answer" pages). They are friends. They are family. Not to mention how the neighborhood is called "Home", a place where a family lives.

But they also cannot get out – as in get out of WHPS instead of just the neighborhood. I will be covering connections to freedom for each character later on (Sally falling from the sky, Poppy as a flightless bird, Howdy as an adult caterpillar) but the way their existence is bound by the colorful stage sets and rainbow props can also be seen as a small analogy that traditional families are expected to always stick with each other no matter how bad things are. 

Themes of family aside, I’ll talk about how the so-called “long lost and unknown of number” episodes. WHPS’ episodes start with Wally leading the viewers through the cacophony of the neighborhood. Then other characters join in, with many of them having notable activity segments. The episodes then end with Wally, who has finished journeying with the viewer, when the day has ended. It is most peculiar and harrowing that the agency of the puppets regarding the show is dependent on Wally and the time of the day. Wally plays the central figure of the story, first being placed in the position as the protagonist and most important character in WHPS, then having to act as their savior because he is the only puppet thus far that has contact with the restoration team and you, the viewer. He is akin to a child who has to take the lead as the head of the family even though he is not prepared for it.

Nobody remembers Welcome Home. Nobody remembers who the puppets are. At the time, the puppets only have themselves and each other to rely on for support. Then again, it’s not even clear if they are with each other when they went missing or scattered around.

Now that I've covered the connections I've made regarding the neighborhood as a whole, I’d like to analyze its residences one by one.

Wally Darling

Wally is a very complex character and by far the most – ironically – human out of everyone in the cast. The word "freedom" is written all over him and the word "love" is sewn into every inch of his body.

Wally is shown to show little to no interest in romance or dating. He allowed his friends to get touchy-feely with him (examples being sleeping with Barnaby and getting hugged by Eddie) and doesn’t hesitate to show his affections to them, but it’s been said that he never found them romantic. Wally’s lack of interest in romance gives me the impression that he is in the AroAce spectrum. Clown even mentioned that he doesn’t know what to do if someone confesses their love to him. Wally knows what romance is, he knows what romantic love is, he just doesn't see himself finding a partner anytime soon.

Wally's view on love not only ties into his queerness, but also his neurodiversity – his autism. He is not good at reading social cues or acting "as accordingly" to the situations presented to him. Clown also suggested that Wally cannot process emotions “the way humans do”. They also entertain the idea that Wally is “emotionless”; but I’d rather interpret it as Wally having low empathy and possibly alexithymia, traits shared by many autistic folks (including me).

He expresses his love in a way that accommodates his neurodiversity: real actions.

Wally has been shown from time to time as someone who absolutely, truly loves his friends. The way he loves others cannot be categorized into simple boxes such as “romantic” or “platonic” or “familial”. Wally loves his friends dearly and it is deep and true, simple as that. He also loves you, the viewer, and a hidden page in the Welcome Home page says that "Wally is your best friend". When he was communicating with you, it read to me more like fascination, curiosity, and cries of help instead of macabre obsession as I normally would expect in psychological stories such as Welcome Home.

All of this makes the struggles he faced after WHPS' cancellation and getting separated from his friends more tragic.

Having the world that he knows ripped away from him must've been traumatizing to him. The world that he has always known is gone. The people that he knew and met everyday are scattered everywhere. Although there are many image file names that suggest he has contact with some of his friends, he doesn’t know if everyone is fine. He’s now left to pick up the pieces and try to stick them back together. He has so much to think about, too much to think about, and so he decides to reach out to you.

When you take into consideration that autistic folks often rely on self-made sets of rules, Wally's situation turns from sad to depressing. Autistic folks rely on schedules and routines (also seen through Frank) to give them a sense of control over their lives and help them ground themselves in reality. When Wally's "routine" is ripped away from him, he has to immediately make sense of his situation and make himself accustomed to a life full of uncertainty. His adaptation to change isn't simply about comfort – it's about surviving. His struggles don't only stop there. 

Wally's intentions are read wrongly, some people interpreting him as "creepy" or "malicious" instead of just "awkward" or "desperate". Interestingly, this flanderization and misconception of his character comes from the internet's view on him instead of from the audience/staff in-universe. His autistic traits that cannot be deemed "cute" enough (the way he stares, his mannerism, how he talks slowly, or his fixation on the viewer) is considered creepy in a way that appeals to the fandom and thus extrapolated into something more extreme; him being a lovesick obsessive love interest, him being a religious cult leader, or him being the overarching villain of the story. The way that people outside his universe are the ones demonizing him is poetic in a way – reflective of the world that we live in where ableism towards autistics are so embedded even in the way we view tragic characters with low empathy.

Maybe Wally’s mannerisms are written that way because it’s to add more mystery, but knowing that Clown likes to play with secrets and says that neurodivergency plays a huge part in the story makes me think it’s also the other way around. His behavior as an autistic and traumatized character is what makes people believe that he's the villain. It’s unintentional on his part, but people who fail to read between the lines can think otherwise. It reminds me that when autistic folks cannot express emotions "correctly” or act a certain way that is expected regarding certain social situations, neurotypicals immediately jump into bad, unsavory conclusions about their intentions.

In reality, Wally is a desperate person who just wants the viewer to know and realize his presence and (assumedly) save his friends. Sure, he isn't straightforward in his words when communicating to us through hidden audio files, but his intentions are getting more clear to me. He’s thrust into a situation where he now acts as the guardian for his friends instead of Playfellow Workshop. He wants to get in. He's not a saint. He's not a villain. He's a struggler.

Sally Starlet

Sally! Her name is a fun one. She’s a star. She’s also an actress/play writer, related to the phrase “star of the show”.

So far, Clown hasn’t confirmed anything regarding her sexuality or gender identity, but the interactions she has with other characters from various audio files gave me some clues.

Her interactions with male characters are comedic or bossy in a comical sense, definitely stays true to her bombastic personality. She's not particularly fond of having Barnaby or Howdy star in her plays – the former not taking it seriously while the latter advertising his products in the middle of her plays. She also likes bossing Eddie around as shown in Eddie's Big Lift and is entertained by his antics, from him calling her "ma'am" to him not being able to refuse any of her commands. 

Sally is noticeably more mellow around women like Julie and Poppy, notably the latter. Despite getting tired of Julie messing up the script of her plays, she isn’t annoyed with her and thinks of her antics as amusing rather than annoying. She is also patient with Poppy, not getting deterred by her always worrying nature and talks to her calmly. She encourages her ideas, help her to be more confident in herself and is very supportive of her! Their personalities bounce off one another really well, and she is just so sweet. Sally also endearingly calls Julie “Juliet” and Poppy “dear” and “darling”, something she doesn’t do with the male characters.

She gives me the impression of being a lesbian. She reminds me a lot of Lady D from RE VIII who’s a canon lesbian, calls Evan “manthing”, and speaks/acts in the same sophisticated manner as Sally, haha!

Besides her queerness, I found an interesting connection to freedom from her backstory. Sally was originally a star from space that falls to earth in order to pursue her interest in acting. She fell from a place that is vast and endless to a place surrounded by trees and predetermined fates. Also her working with play scripts… the show running on episode scripts… hm…

A falling star has a close definition to a meteor, burning brightly due to the pressure but then losing its spark and mass during its journey, ultimately burning into nothingness. Possibly just a coincidence, but the symbolism when related to Sally is sad.

Frank Frankly

Amidst the cheerful technicolor citizens of the neighborhood, Frank stood out the most by having grey skin and a constant frown on his face. He’s the bookworm character archetype of the show and is described as “arguably the smartest person in the neighborhood”. He’s also one of the handful characters that doesn’t have any information regarding where he was before he came to the neighborhood.

Frank is autistic. As I’ve mentioned in Wally’s part of this thinkpiece, Frank relies on routines and familiarity to give himself a sense of agency and control over his life. He likes arranging things in the order they’re supposed to go, he has a keen eye on organization and structure, and he wants things to be done right in his own ways. “This is the way things should be done, not that way.”

There are drawings Clown made depicting him stimming and infodumping about his special interests, those being entomology and insects. 

Frank and Julie are paired together in many Welcome Home-related content. They are best friends who does things together and spends time playing together. They perform a comedy duo; Frank is the "straight man" to Julie's "funny man". His friendship with Julie is very important to both the show and the overarching story. They are something more than simple friends, something less than lovers, and something just right and deep for the both of them. Not that Playfellow Workshop thinks much about that. 

The animation cells for “Julie-rella” has given me a very thin theory that themes of cisheteronormavity will be at play as the story goes. Frank is the prince charming, while Julie is Cinderella – fated to be together when the story ends. Well, maybe it’s just Sally, being her over-the-top self and her reenacting a classic fairy tale with her personal spin, but I just can’t help but think harder about the implications of it. Frank is not a cishet man, and Julie is not a cishet woman. I have talked about it in this short writing I made about Eddie and Frank.

Frank is canonically nonbinary and gay. He and Eddie are each other's love interests, something that isn’t outright shown. One can argue that they don’t exactly “act” like a typical couple from what we’ve seen, and their interactions in WHPS’ audios and merchandises gives off the feeling that they’re amicable at best (referring to the link I embedded above). They are noticeably closer in the “answer” page, though. It is not certain that their relationship at the time WHPS was still going and before Welcome Home Restoration Project’s involvement was already established or they’re just starting to get to know each other  – though many audios in the WHRP website leans more towards the latter. Either way, it reminds me of the way some queer people have to hide their relationships in public to avoid getting hate or persecution.

You know that one art of a terrified Frank with a bright red rectangle and many appendages surrounding him that can be found in the staff-only page? Regarding his status as the bookworm character, I have a feeling that the phrase “ignorance is bliss” will come at play here, subverting his character. 

Poppy Partridge

This sweet, poor bird who is always shaken by everything around her. Poppy grew up in a nest with her family, though growing up to become the biggest bird out of everyone, eventually leaving the nest and moving into the neighborhood, living inside a barn and rarely leaving it because of her anxiety. Poppy is described to not be based on just one bird, as Clown said. She is said to be a mix of “flamingo from father’s side, hen from mother’s side”, fitting with how unique everyone is in the neighborhood.

It is heartwarming that she is surrounded by people who are understanding of her anxiety. Nobody makes fun of her fretfulness or forces her to be “more social”, Howdy brings her groceries to her barn, and she even has her own baking business! She’s not the greatest at the things she likes doing, but it’s nice to see that she founds joy in them.

Poppy is canonically a trans lesbian. She’s very close with Sally, whose personality is a stark contrast to hers. Poppy feels like she can trust Sally with handling the jobs she’s supposed to do and Sally encourages her to be more true to herself. Poppy feels at ease whenever she’s around Sally and even seems to act more flustered around her – a possible love interest between the two. It’s also cute that Sally likes to drag Poppy in her antics, with the latter not being too bothered about it. They trust each other very much. Also their dynamic is also just really good, y’know?

Connected to themes of freedom in this story, Poppy is a flightless bird, yet another symbol of her state of freedom as a puppet to Playfellow Workshop. Many birds have the ability to spread their wings and fly away to the places that they desire while Poppy cannot. Like the rest of the cast, her world is limited by the trees around the neighborhood. She also left her nest not because she has big dreams like Sally or ambitions like Howdy, but because of the circumstances she cannot control on her own.

As I’ve mentioned earlier, Poppy grew up to be the biggest bird out of her family and it became the reason why she left for the neighborhood. And when she got there, she prefers being inside her own barn instead of going around and socializing with everyone.

Howdy Pillar

Ohhh my god. This guy. He originates from an apple as a teensy little caterpillar, then leaving the place where he was raised in because of his dreams (similar to Sally, different to Poppy). He is shown to be very proud and confident in himself, having a clear ambition on opening his very own shop and takes great pride in what he does. He’s a great talker and can easily convince even the proudest people in the neighborhood to purchase his wares, and his character gives me the impression that he prefers being around people that understands his dreams.

I cannot find any notable queer readings regarding Howdy, but his interactions with Barnaby gives me the impression that they’re close to one another. Howdy considers Barnaby his favorite customer, and is seemingly happy that Barnaby is willing to listen to him ramble about his family gossips.

I do find connections between his physical appearance and the story’s themes of freedom.

In a caterpillar’s life, when they’re about to reach their adult stage and move on from their juvenile stage, they turn into butterflies. Not the case with Howdy. He’s an adult caterpillar whose family are a bunch of butterflies. Like Poppy, whose symbolism of lack of freedom is the same as Howdy's, he cannot turn into a butterfly and fly away from the grasp of Playfellow Workshop – outside the neighborhood, outside the town surrounded by colorful trees and dictated by scripts.

Unlike Poppy however, Clown mentioned that Howdy has the possibility of turning into a butterfly someday. Poppy is also an adult bird, the last stage of her life cycle, while Howdy is an adult caterpillar, the beginning stage of his life cycle. A possible foreshadowing for his fate regarding freedom later on…? Or maybe just a fun little trivia.

Barnaby B. Beagle

Barnaby, the comedic relief who's the most emotionally intelligent. The jokester who knows that something is amiss when the situation calls for it, the comedian who can be honest and straightforward in what he finds amusing and not, the humorist whose appearance is always met with cheers, claps, and boos, as if he’s the main character of a very long winded sitcom.

As far as I’ve noticed, there aren’t as many connections to themes of freedom regarding Barnaby as there is on other characters. Though I can say that Barnaby can stand his ground more than Eddie, another character who is usually put in situations where he gets the boot to the head and usually lets people do as they please. I cannot put these into concrete words, but Barnaby has an air of professionalism to him despite his character archetype being the comedic relief. 

Barnaby is close with Howdy (see the writing regarding his character above!), sharing jokes and puns with him. Barnaby is also considered Howdy’s greatest customer, always making the latter crack up and their personalities bounce off one another really well.

Another resident that Barnaby shares a close bond with – closer even – is Wally. Barnaby is very close to Wally. They are best friends, and many art for Welcome Home depicts them together a lot of the time. Barnaby includes Wally in the things he does like getting hotdogs together or sharing jokes. Besides Home, Barnaby knows Wally the best. He is also quick to notice changes in Wally’s demeanor, getting concerned about him when he doesn’t react to his words the way Wally always does in the last “answer audio”. 

Clown also said that in any universe, Barnaby and Wally will always become best friends. They are the definition of soulmates. Platonic, romantic, whatever you call it – but like I’ve said earlier, the puppets’ view on love are not as complicated as humans’, and I can say that they love each other deeply, simple and true as that. Like someone once said, they’ll find each other in any universe. This makes me fear for their relationship even more, given that Wally and Barnaby are most likely not near each other when WHPS ended.

Eddie Dear

Eddie! Neighborhood’s creative, kind, and hardworking mailman. He has a good eye on arts and craft, and is more than delighted to lead the viewers of the show with the things he wants to create.

As Clown have stated, Eddie is a gay man. I’ve covered most of the things I’ve said regarding their (blooming) romantic relationship in Frank’s section of this thinkpiece however, so I implore you to go back there if you don’t want me to rewrite the whole thing all over again here, haha!

A recurring trope with him is that despite his adherence to work ethics and schedules, Eddie tends to forget a lot of things. The Welcome Home website says that he hails from a town far away from the neighborhood, but he always gets the name of the town wrong and oftentimes mentions names of places that doesn’t exist. He talks to inanimate objects to aid his forgetfulness (also for endearing character traits) and Frank once suggested that he ties strings to the things he doesn’t want to forget, but this doesn’t always work. Eddie also doesn’t remember where he came from and his character profile says that he and the post office appeared out of nowhere one day.

Eddie is also accident-prone, always getting himself into situations (a bug landing on his paper chains, getting chased by Barnaby) and is mainly depicted as the unwilling comedian. Many of his character aspects are depicted as a source of comedy, even by himself. Eddie also has tendencies of prioritizing what others want before himself because of his even-tempered nature. So far, Eddie doesn’t express any serious frustration over this, but with the themes of agency recurring in this story, I’m afraid that it’s going to be a matter of time before we see Eddie express discomfort over this.

Throwback to what I have said: Frank is a smart person who constantly searches for logical answers to things, while Eddie is more laid back and isn’t very focused on finding the right answer and just wanting problems to be handled. This contrast on their personalities and how their backstories are foils of each other (Frank coming from unclear origins, Eddie not knowing the name of the place he’s from) make me think: Is ignorance bliss to Eddie? 

Julie Joyful

The sunshine of the neighborhood! The bringer of rainbows in Welcome Home! Julie stays true to her surname, always depicted with a bright smile on her face. She is the one that can turn Frank’s frown upside down. She is the one that can bring a tinge of comedy in Sally’s tragic dramas. 

Julie joins the side of the neighborhood that has clear origins. She once lived inside a cave with her siblings, but ultimately leaves under her own volition to find life for herself. Regardless, she is a character that is known for her constant interactions with other neighbors, notably Frank, her best friend.

Her friendship with Frank is extremely special for both of them – if you want to read about it, you should go to Frank's section of this thinkpiece as I've covered most of my thoughts about Frank and Julie's friendship there, but I want to add a few more things.

She is the "funny man" to Frank's "straight man", forming the neighborhood’s comedic duo. She drags him into her shenanigans, like the time they played “Business Woman In The Big City”. They’re also quite competitive when participating in the games that Julie conducts. She brings out the best in Frank, always making sure he feels included and happy in any activity they do. Julie is the “spontaneity” to Frank’s “routinity”. Julie is the “fun” to Frank’s “frown”. They’re inseparable from one another, like Barnaby with Wally.

As stated by Clown, Julie is genderfluid and bisexual. She doesn’t have a love interest set for her, but what’s important is that her character is emphasized with her connections with others. When Frank couldn’t play with her, she plays with Sally and enjoys spending time with her and even stars as the main character in many of the latter’s plays. There are lots of love inside her, after all! She is also said to be quite touchy with her friends, often hugging them and encouraging them to go through with the things they want to do. It doesn’t always have to be seen as “romantic”, like I’ve said before.

Onto her status as a puppet for Playfellow Workshop. Something funny is that Julie has a tendency to go off-script as shown from her interaction with Sally while practicing for a play. She has issues getting into the mood of her plays, making scenes that are supposed to be emotional… comedical, instead.

Is this supposed to symbolize something further? Is this habit of hers pointing towards how she’s going to express her unwillingness to be a mere cog in the big machine? The puppets are very much sentient, but I am not sure if they are aware if their actions in the WHPS episodes are controlled by the script. Time will tell, and perhaps, Julie too.

Home

Finally, we get to the last but one of the most important characters in this story – Home.

Home is the ninth residence of the neighborhood, though it’s not a puppet but a stationery character. It houses Wally, the main character of this story. Unlike the rest of the cast, Home talks in onomatopeias, like creaking its doors or opening its windows to produce sound as means of communication. Its eyes are very expressive and is constantly moving. Unlike other houses in the neighborhood, they’re very expressive.

Their importance isn’t only limited to being Wally’s house or being the only character in Welcome Home that cannot walk or talk.

The mobile characters of Welcome Home never expressed annoyance for Home’s non-verbal trait and instead put in effort to understand them and include them in their activities. They accommodate for Home, making sure they feel comfortable, wanted, and not left out. Home feels… at home around them.

Wally writes for Home to help it communicate and makes his canvas face Home whenever he’s painting, Julie teaches it how to hula hoop, Eddie makes small talk with Home, Barnaby makes jokes and laughs with Home, Frank tries to include home in games of chess, and so on! Home isn’t just a building like the rest of the cast’s houses. They are part of the family. It makes me so happy to see that their existence isn’t considered a burden or an annoyance or have their traits be seen as sources of comedy. It hits close to home for me as a physically disabled person.

Regarding the overarching story outside of WHPS, Home is a character that plays a significant part in Wally's journey. Wally loves Home dearly. He takes care of Home and makes sure he is in great condition. He is the caretaker for Home and becomes its communicator when the situation calls for it. In return, Home makes sure Wally is safe and sound inside their cavity and expresses their love for Wally through communication from creaking noises and even lightly squishing him between their door and door frame. Home is also quick to notice changes in Wally’s behavior and shows their concern for him, signifying just how deep their relationship is.

As I’ve mentioned many times before, their closeness cannot be boxed into the usual types of love humans are used to. You just know they are extremely linked to one another and that their relationship is not only important in WHPS, but also the story as a whole.

Home and Wally are inseparable from one another. They have their separate personalities and are distinguishable from one another, but ultimately they will always be one. Home is Wally’s fortress. Home is the shield to Wally’s sword. Home is the pericardium to Wally’s heart. After all, “Home is where the heart is”, right?

Afterwords

Yay! Whew! Congrats on making it to the afterwords! I’ve spent more than a week writing this whole thing and having my friend @rxveriecaeli proofread this thinkpiece (Morfe if you’re reading this I love you bestie). Huge HUGE shoutout to them because I’d be lost without them giving the finishing touches! 

I know, some people will say that I’m reaching or thinking too much about this story, but hey! That’s why it’s called a thinkpiece and not a theory or concrete proof of X or Y. I cannot say that I’m 100% sure about where the story is heading or what Clown has in mind for certain characters, but I just want to think and love making connections and my brain just keeps producing questions after questions after questions. Are the feelings they have with each other theirs and not the byproduct of the script commanding them? I believe so. 

What if Poppy is a flightless bird because she's based on Big Bird and not because it's an analogy for her not being able to fly freely away? What if Howdy is an adult caterpillar because he just IS and not because it's an analogy for not being able to turn into a butterfly that can fly? These options might be so, but even if Clown someday confirm that their design choices are simply because they're inspired by other puppet characters, I'm just happy that I manage to find symbolism that I can connect to their character designs.

I think it's too early to assume that the puppets are surely seeking freedom. At most, they just want to be saved from the tragic states they’re in, and Wally is on the lead. I mean, the show's canceled and they no longer live by following the scripts made for them! We don't even know the true fates of them aside from being nearly forgotten to time. And even if the puppets do achieve freedom, what will be of them? The producers aren't around anymore, the employees that treat them as toys but also take care of them aren't there anymore, and they have to fend for themselves in the big world.

I am not a native English speaker and I cannot put some of my thoughts into words both because of my language barrier and my ADHD. I do not intend on expressing malicious or harmful subtext through this writing, but do tell me if I had worded anything incorrectly and I will fix it. I would love to hear your thoughts about this thinkpiece too, so don’t hesitate to leave comments or tags in the reblogs (though please be patient with me!). Not that I will tolerate hateful or bigoted comments, however!

Please do not start accusing me of spreading the rhetoric that “being queer/neurodivergent is painful and constantly suffering and if you don’t suffer you are not part of those groups”! Being queer is fun and liberating. Being neurodivergent or disabled is something to take pride in. I’m proud of who I am and I encourage others to be so too. The experiences of queer/neurodivergent won’t always be easy, though, and I made this analysis and the correlating connections based on my own experience as a queer, autistic, and physically disabled person. 

That being said, thank you for reading!

Fun little trivia! The characters' favorite colors form a rainbow when put in respective order, just like the colors of the original pride flag :]

#LONG POST AHEAD!!! #welcome home #welcome home puppet show #wally darling #sally starlet #frank frankly #poppy partridge #howdy pillar #barnaby b beagle #eddie dear #julie joyful #home #senja writing

[ebullient-beauty]

- - - fuck you dumber - - -

aged up mike wheeler x bimbo cheerleader reader warnings for the series: agedup!mike wheeler, smut, swearing, nsfw warnings for the preview: agedup!mike wheeler, swearing, references of sexual actions, nsfw

preview: Mike Wheeler, aka Wheeler Boy, was elated. He had recently gotten to be Dungeon Master during a Hellfire meeting, he was doing good in school, but best of all, he had a fucking hot girlfriend. You were one of the most popular girls at Hawkins High, being part of the cheer team helped with that, but that wasn't why. It was because you were… sexy and you fucking knew it. So you dressed like it too. Short skirts, deep V-necks, almost everything being some shade of pink, and every once in a while you wore that dress that was so small you had to wear shorts underneath.

But Mike loved it. He loved seeing you feel at home in the spotlight, he loved overhearing you talk about him to your cheerleader friends, he loved when you called him over to the popular people table, "Wheeler Boy! Get over here!", and loved when he got to sit next to you while you made it obvious to the jocks sitting near that you were off limits. But what he loved a whole lot was that fact that sometimes (most of the time, actually) you would tease him for the full school day and then get him off or let him fuck you the second you guys went home.

You only ever teased Mike for a day, knowing how he got when unfulfilled, but you had decided 3 days ago that you would try to torture him for as long as possible so he would fuck you the way you really wanted. He had only ever done you like that one time before, when he went a full 2 weeks without seeing you because he was in California. When he got back- let's just say you could not walk correctly for a full day. But he had left you craving for it, for that feeling where you knew he held absolutely nothing back from you.

You had your wonderful idea planned to the T and written in your notebook, and tomorrow was the day you would put it into action. You knew to play your cards right, you couldn't make it obvious that you were teasing him relentlessly. So the plan was as follows:

Thursday- Day One: Excuse of not meeting with him after school is that I have cheer practice and after family dinner, then off to bed.

Friday- Day Two: Excuse of not meeting with him after school is that he has Hellfire and by the time it's over, I'm "too tired".

Saturday & Sunday- Days 3 & 4: I'm out of town with my parents for a family gathering at Aunt Rosie's house.

Monday- Day 5: Excuse is that I have cheer practice and after I'm going to Cathy's house to study and sleep over.

Tuesday- Day 6: Basketball game that I'm required to attend, because cheerleader, duh and we leave during last period.

Wednesday- Day 7: Cheer meet after school and then all the girls and I are having a sleepover party at Nicole's house

Thursday- Day 8: Plan for Armageddon Wheeler Boy

And that was all you had. After a week of torturing your poor boyfriend, you didn't know whether it could go on past that. You sighed in exhilaration, opening the drawer on your nightstand, and slipping in the journal before shutting it closed. As you laid in bed, all you could think was that this is gonna be fun.

part 1 [unavailable atm] part 2 [unavailable atm] part 3 [unavailable atm] part 4 [unavailable atm] part 5 [unavailable atm] part 6 [unavailable atm] part 7 [unavailable atm] part 8 [unavailable atm]

DM me or reply to a post to be added to the taglist!

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[fuck you dumber] taglist: @riouri @dragonsvelour @morganasimp26 @strawberrykittyv @luv4mike @whitemanswhore101 @shawtyasf1 @lovenotesxo @givemehickeysplease @mikewheelersactualgf @angelar4 @sspikey69 @buckys-slave @sunflower-120 @justmsstuff @tsukishimawhore @tragicdiary @okjaeminn @trashmouth-munson-thingss @grffdbicv @bucket-hat-bestie @runninngyouth @smodgie @uhmislaigs-blog @hdhdhdhdhs-stuff @prom1es @xxxjaexx @nicciekawegosblog @pytbasha888 @yoirfriendlyneigborhoodfairy @dayntplanet @ilovemitskii @riiikaaa @turtleshroooms @smileyswifeyy @sappynappysworld @vl-p @str4nd3d-lull4by @yourleastfavx @ady-hilborn @strxvnge @miiikkeey @raquel12 @mushroomsoup1920 @doingurmom69 @renssonly @viixen01 @irinity @elainavmarie @justlillythinking @kingsmanperfecthartwin @cybergiirl @justbreeisfine @222micah222 @bigwhore4levi

#redredredredred #want me dead #never again #mike wheeler smut #mike wheeler x you #mike wheeler x reader #mike wheeler #mike wheeler x y/n #mike wheeler fluff #mike wheeler imagine #mike wheeler oneshot #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things one shot #stranger things smut #stranger things x reader

[magicxc]

Call On Me

Pairings: Idris Elba x Black!Reader

Word Count: 1523

Warnings: Exhibitionism, Fellatio, Choking

BBJ Masterlist

“C’mon angel, put it in all the way.”

“Idris, it wont fit and I’m not about to make it either.”

“Just let me help you push it in, you’re not doing it right.”

“No, cause then it’ll stretch.”

“It’s elastic, so it’ll snap back.”

“We’re still here daddy, I can just get another size as opposed to destroying this one.”

“I mean if you want your jeans to fit like sweatpants, then go for it.”

“You’re so dramatic, it simply doesn’t fit, and you’ll love me either way; sweat pants or not.”

“I mean yeah, of course but it’s drip or drown; and if you're gonna be with me, then you’ve got to be drippin.”

Sometimes it’s best to ignore him. God knows I love my boyfriend, but I can’t with the shit that comes out of his mouth. It’s like somebody teleported him back to 2017 and he’s readjusting to the present life. 

Albeit fashion is a big deal to Idris, I’ll give him that. But I, for one, value comfort over everything. It’s just one of those things we’ve come to meet in the middle about, though he’ll still try and rearrange my wardrobe if given the chance. 

“Idris, can you add this to the ‘maybe’ pile in the corner please?”

Taking the pants from me, he neatly hangs it up in the corner of the room, uttering how even tho my clothes aren’t dripping, he can be.

“Oh my goodness,” I laugh. “Really? Tell me you’re joking.”

“Now why would I do that mhmm? In fact I remember a time when stargazing in public was on both of our bucket lists.”

“Yes, in the car or under a moonlit beach not the damn mall,” I gushed. “Idris nothing about this says private.”

“Is that not the point of PUBLIC stargazing,” he enunciated.

Ahh yes, stargazing - an act in which one can observe the many stars of the galaxy sometimes as a hobby or sometimes for scientific research. Of course our star gazing meant something vastly different. Even though we didn’t need a telescope to see them, there was still that warm and fuzzy feeling when they did appear. 

You see Idris and I have a thing for code words. It’s used mostly when gossiping about people or situations. But recently it's become a fun new way for us to describe sexy times in front of others. 

How real would it be to blurt out amongst your friends that you just want to take your lover home and become one with the sheets? I’m sure they’d understand but I’m not tryna let people know every time I want my back blown out. So instead we came up with a way to state our intentions without having to dance around certain words. 

For example, Sunday dinners with the family goes something along the lines of 'do you want to go stargazing afterward?' Similarly to how it's socially acceptable to tell your loved ones that you and your partner are trying for a baby but not that their pussy turns into a mini day care every night; except our family hasn’t quite caught onto the the fact that neither of us so much as own a telescope; though I fear it’s only a matter of time until they do. 

I’m not as sexually daring as Idris but I refuse to punk out of this. He thinks that I’ll back out of stargazing simply because we’re in a public place where people can hear us? Let's be clear, I absolutely would, but the way my competitive nature is set up, I’ll stargaze with him. Shit, he better be ready to see the milky way too, cause I’ll be damned if I don’t make him cry for me. 

“You know what daddy, drop em,” I demanded, chin pointing toward his pants. “Gone ahead and give me something shiny to see.”

To say that he was shocked would be an understatement, bug eyed and eager as he runs his tongue across those juicy lips. He doesn’t let that falter him for long and makes quick work of the buckle of his pants. And my God if that action isn’t my personal little aphrodisiac. 

Knees hitting the floor, I watch in awe as his dick springs free, pre cum slowly dribbling from the tip. 

“You this wet already for me?” I tease. “Tell me exactly how you want it.”

“Use your mouth.”

“Nuh uh, use your words,” I insist. 

“Start by getting the tip nice and drenched for me angel,” Idris lamented. 

Inching closer to the head, I open my mouth and spit on it, watching intently as it trails down to the floor. 

“Now what?”

Smirking, he asks me to drain his balls entirely and I work on doing just that. 

Gathering the tip of his penis in my mouth,  I use the wetness to help me suction him. Cheeks hallowed and teeth tucked, I make sure to maximize on his sensitivity; tongue twirling around that mini slit lined at the head. 

His thighs quake ever so slightly, which only pushes me to suck in earnest, making sure to keep the tip nestled against my tongue. 

Fingers cradled behind me, I lock them together, opting instead for hands free head so I can really talk my shit once we’re done. 

Deciding it’s time to show some love to the rest of his lengthy member, I slow my ministrations and softly run my tongue along his shaft; tracing each thick and hardened vein - starstruck at Idris’ skin, a rich shade of chestnut. 

This part always gives me some trouble, but I’m willing to sacrifice a little comfort if it means I can hear him sing for me; and quite frankly he’s not doing enough of it. 

Bobbing my head steadily, it takes a minute for me to gain some traction, mouth now sliding along his dick with ease. His hips start a slow thrust and I bounce my head a little quicker, twisting from side to side as I do so. 

Finally, it’s drenched enough for me to take the entirety of him, stopping only when I reach the base of his shaft. His dick is properly lodged down my throat and I do everything I can to breathe through my nose, slight gagging noises making its way past my lips. 

As quiet as he tries to be, the harsh hissing that meets my ear encourages me to make quick work of him, bobbing in short, rapid successions, listening intently as his groans turn into quiet moans. 

Face planted against his coily pubes, they’re trimmed to perfection, the tropical notes of his coconut body wash lingering inside my nose. The deep, onyx color glistens with a mixture of precum and spit, similar to that of stars littered against the never ending black hole of space, as they softly tickle my cheeks.

Dislodging him completely to take a much needed breath, the cool air feels icy against my drool ridden chin. Tears brimmed at my eyes and pussy clenching against fabric, this dressing room is fixing to see way more than just changing of the clothes. 

“You wanna cum?” I taunted. “Make those pretty noises for me and I just might let you.”

Dick jumping in anticipation, I decide to head down south and give a little love to the overlooked - his ball sac. 

Slurping them in my mouth, I swish them around, mapping over the textured skin. His girthy member sits on my forehead, wet and dripping; adding to the soaked mess down under. 

I get a light hum in return and suction him to a the very fine line of pleasure and pain. A breathy moan follows and his hand soon finds itself planted at the root of my scalp. 

Thankfully he cant see the smirk that lines my lips and I give his balls a few more swirls before I set them free with a loud pop. 

“Haaaah”, is the desperate whine that I hear above me, but somehow I need more. 

Dick once again at the bottom of my throat I remove it until I get to the very tip and slam it back down again. 

“Just like that daddy, keep it up and I can make it real good for you.” 

*slurp*

“What’s my name? Huh? Let these bitches know who’s making you quiver like the slut you are.”

*slurp*

“C’mon and cum for me like I know you can, Idris.”

The fingers once tangled in my hair soon find themselves wrapped around my throat, squeezing me with just enough pressure to remind me how little control I actually have here. And while it was fun while it lasted, feminism doesn't exist with his hand around my neck. 

“Open wide for me angel.”

Tongue slithering past my teeth, I lay it flat for a full display, watching intently as he jerks himself to the finish line and in my mouth. 

He shouts his release, a little higher in pitch than I expected, chanting my name like the prayer it is. 

“Now close your mouth and swallow like I know you can,” he grunted. 

#Emmy Writes #Emmy Tries #My Drabbles #Black Boy Joy #Idris Elba x Black Reader #Idris Elba x Black!Fem!Reader #Idris Elba #Black Reader #Black!Fem!Reader #Dressing Room Shenanigans

[sebstan2020]

Red Ties

Chapter 9

Mary, a sweet Christian girl living in the city of Brooklyn as a nurse had a simple life. She loved her work, her friends and attending church every Sunday and helping Reverend McCarthy. Her life was nothing out of the ordinary. However, it all changed one day when she bumps into the intriguing and intimidating James Barnes, Brooklyn’s notorious mafia boss and is introduced to a world of guns, lust and dominance.

Warnings: BDSM, Dom/Sub, Mafia, Violence, Gang, SMUT, Sex, Possessive Bucky, Overprotectiveness, Bondage, Sexual Themes, Dark Themes, Guns, Drugs, Gang Violence

“So how was it?” Anya couldn’t wait to ask at work the next day. She had so many questions for Mary who was still trying to come to terms with everything herself. She couldn’t get James out of her head. There was something so mysterious and seductive about him that almost felt like a sin. He was dominant and handsome and confident, everything she wasn’t. She was shy, naturally pretty and submissive. She kept wondering why he would want to even bother with a girl like her. She didn’t want to judge him or assume that he only had one type, the classic blonde on long legs, breast implants, anything surgery that could be done to the face and big ass but a man as handsome as he was would surely look for a female version on himself. But that kiss said differently. Her lips tingled for hours after, the subtle scent of his cologne lingering on her and when she went to bed that night after praying double, she couldn’t help the thoughts of the sexy man leave her head.

“It was… good” she shrugged, not quite sure how to describe the date other than that she was a nervous wreck, they skipped the line at one of the busiest restaurants in the city and he paid for everything and at the end of the night they kissed until Mary’s brain was about to explode from the excitement and nerves brewing inside her.

“What, just good, come on I want details… did you kiss?” She wiggled her brows and Mary scoffed. She was trying to get her notes done but she knew she wouldn’t achieve anything until Anya was satisfied.

“What’s this?” Peter’s voice appeared in the conversation and Mary turned on her stool. Anya was sitting on a chair behind her, sitting backwards with her legs dangling, clearly not doing her work like she should be. Peter had just returned from x-raying a patient with his notes folded under his arm.

“Mary went on a date last night” Anya grinned before Mary could even answer for herself. Mary shot her a look and Peter nodded slowly.

“Oh really… who with?” He asked surprised.

“Her future husband” Anya giggled.

“He’s not my future husband” Mary shot back and Anya laughed. She was having too much fun teasing her.

“It was the guy I bumped into the other day, he asked to take me for dinner” Mary shrugged as if it was no big deal but it was. She hadn’t been on a date for however long it was and had kissed one guy in her whole life so to go on a date with the man she met by bumping into him was very much a big deal. Not to mention the unplanned kiss at the end and the fact she could barely contain herself when she got back to her apartment. She prayed twice hard that night.

“The guy who brought you the new phone?” Peter asked and she nodded.

“James” Anya taunted, rolling his name over her tongue and spinning on the chair. Mary glared at her.

“So go on tell us what happened” Anya urged and Mary sighed, turning herself around. She knew she wouldn’t get out of this.

“Well, he picked me up and he said he was taking me to his friend's restaurant. When we got there it was packed and there was a huge line but we just walked right in, we didn’t even have to wait” Mary remembered the way he just walked right in without even a look at the line or the doorman. It was as if he owned the place, even though he didn’t. James had a natural dominance, just a look from those piercing blue eyes and he’d get whatever he wanted.

“What the fuck are you serious” Anya squealed with excitement and Mary shot her a wide eye look.

“Shhh, you’re so loud” Mary couldn’t help but giggle at the end. Her friend was getting too excited.

“Tell me more” she was practically bouncing in her chair whilst Peter stood quietly, watching Mary.

“Then we had dinner. I was literally a nervous wreck. He ordered the most expensive champagne but I just had a lemonade”.

“You should have had some, loosen you up a bit… did he pay for dinner?” Anya asked.

“Yeah, he wouldn’t let me” She frowned slightly. It wasn’t a big deal but Mary hadn’t been on a date in forever so she wasn’t sure how these things worked.

“Good… the guy always pays on the first date and then after a couple of times seeing each other you can sneak in there” Anya advised. Mary was so grateful to have her as a friend, especially now. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have even gone on the date. Anya was like her dating guide, giving her all the tips and facts she needed. James was a powerful man, intimidating but kind, a pure gentleman. Mary always imagined herself with someone a little bit nerdy and shy like herself. James was her complete opposite, bold, dark and confident.

“Then he took me home” Mary left the conversation open and Anya raised her brows.

“Aaaaand?” She teased and Mary blushed.

“Ahhhhhh!” Anya squealed. She didn’t need to be told to know what happened.

“Stop it” Mary kicked her.

“How did he kiss you, did he touch your face, did you do tongues?” She wheeled herself closer and Mary furrowed her brows.

“Tongues… no way. We just kissed” She shrugged and Anya huffed.

“Details Mary” she demanded.

“Well he sort of cupped my cheek and pulled me closer to him and then we kissed… slowly”.

“Oh my god, I’m dying… I need some air” Anya calmed her breathing, the excitement of hearing her best friend kiss on her first date becoming too much and Mary rolled her eyes with a smile.

“I am sooo happy for you… I’m running late now but this conversation isn’t over” She pointed a hard finger at Mary before dashing off out of the nurses' office. Mary chuckled softly under her breath, turning back to her papers.

“Sounds like you had a good night then?” Peter said, finally speaking up. Mary had almost forgotten he was standing there. Mary smiled sweetly, spinning in her chair to face him.

“Yeah I did, he’s a nice person,” she said.

“Do you think you’ll see him again?” He asked, pressing himself against the desk and Mary awkwardly played with her hands.

“Well I’m actually seeing him tonight, after work” she blushed again. She turned nervous just thinking about James.

“Oh cool… well I hope you have a good time… you still good for Saturday? He asked, perking up a little.

“Yeah I can’t wait, I’ll bring something over” she smiled.

“It’s a little messy at the minute but I’ll try and get it done for Saturday” he chuckled.

“Don’t worry about it, I can help if you want” she offered and Peter lit up like he saw a shooting star.

“Yeah that would be great thanks” he patted Mary on her shoulder, giving it a soft rub which Mary only passed off as a friendly caress.

Mary would be lying if she said she wasn’t nervous to be seeing James later. Not because he made her nervous… well that was wrong, he did but that wasn’t the reason. After their heated surprise kiss, she wondered if he was going to do the same. She was new to this whole dating game and wasn’t sure when to make the right moves. This is where Anya came in. She knew everything about dating men but she and Mary were too very different people. Anya was outgoing crazy and spontaneous and Mary was… innocent.

James hadn’t texted her all day, perhaps because he was busy but Mary wasn’t too bothered. She was busy herself and when it got ten minutes until seven, the nerves were kicking in. Her cheeks were already heating up and Anya was nowhere to be found. She’d just have to brave it for now. Packing her stuff away, she slung her back across her shoulder and headed out.

“Hey Mar… wait up” Peter shouted from behind her, jogging over, his trainers catching the floor and squeaking.

“So what are you doing tonight then?” She asked as they headed to the entrance of the hospital together.

“Oh, just more apartment things. You wouldn’t believe how long it takes to unpack everything” he huffed.

“Well save some for me on Saturday… I like stuff like that” she smiled.

“I know… you’re weird” he joked and she flashed a look at him but giggled afterwards.

“Girls like that sort of thing… organising” she admitted.

“Well I’ll definitely leave it for you on Saturday” he smirked and Mary rolled her eyes playfully. They headed out into the warm heat of the New York evening and it didn’t take Mary long to notice James standing by his flashy car. Leaning casually against the hood, eyes deep in his phone, legs crossed over with power reeking off him. He was dressed in a tight-fitting suit of black, hair all messy and tucked behind his ears, and polished shoes and she could already smell that cologne of his. The one that was like some sweet drug to her.

“I’ll see you on Saturday then” Mary turned to Peter and he nodded before his eyes flashed over to James.

“Is that him?” He nodded and Mary nodded quietly.

“Wow… nice car” he commented. He wasn’t what he thought he was going to be. Peter never imagined Mary going for someone like him.

“Yeah… kinda makes mine look like a hunk of junk” she joked and Peter hummed. Finally, James lifted his head and a smile pressed against his lips as he spotted Mary, pushing himself off the car.

“Yours is fine Mar” he assured.

“See ya” She smiled sweetly and skipped down the steps of the hospital, taking what felt like the shortest walk over to James, her stomach tightening with excitement and nerves as she neared him. James grinned further, his eyes running up and down Mary as he took in her in her uniform, with her hair all messy in a bun. He’d seen her before in her scrubs but having properly met her now and the desire he had for her made it even better.

“Hi,” he said softly, his voice like butter and Mary grinned, her cheeks flushing.

“Hi,” James reached over and took her bag off her shoulder, popping open the back seat and chucking it in smoothly.

“How was your day?” He asked as he did, the sound of the door closing clicking with satisfaction. It was so fancy you wouldn’t expect it to make a loud clunk… unlike Mary’s car.

“Busy… how about you?” She asked, intertwining her fingers together in front of her now that she didn’t have her bag to hold and James chuckled.

“Busy as well” he was about to continue when a voice interrupted their conversation.

“See ya Mar” Peter waved as he walked past and Mary waved back. James frowned slightly, watching intently as he walked past and when he was out of sight, turned his attention back to Mary.

“Whose that?” He asked softly, opening the door for Mary.

“Oh that’s Peter, we work together… well we don’t work together just we met at the hospital and well I guess we kinda do work together” She became all flustered and her words muddled up with one another which made James grin.

“A friend then” he clarified and she nodded. She could have just said he was her friend… which was. She slipped into the seat and the door shut behind her. James strolled to the driver's side, unknown to Mary he was clenching his fists, his rings slightly digging into his hand and his jaw slightly tighter than usual. He released his grips as he slipped into the car, instantly relaxing around Mary and firing up the engine.

“Where are we going?” She asked, sitting perfectly in the seat, her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl would.

“My place” he smirked and pulled out into the streets of New York.

Chapter 10

Hey so I hope you like it, let me know what you think in the comments

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@captainsarahscratches

@dhoruwolfie

#sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanficiton #bucky barnes smut #sebastian stan #mafia bucky barnes #dom bucky barnes

[gabessquishytum]

Sort of in the same realm as all the "Dream has only had bad sex" prompts, along with having only had shitty sex, Dream is used to whoever he's with kicking him out basically the second it's over. When he and Hob get together he wants to stay as long as he can because he's so happy, but he knows he can only stay if sex is happening.

So he sitting here, actively in bed with Hob, but his mind is miles away trying to figure out how to stretch out the experience (it's always been over so fast, there's got to be SOME way he can spend more than ten minutes all wrapped up together with Hob). The best he can come up with is just like, physically moving slow, and trying to convince Hob to let him get him off more than once.

Now Hob, he's all for marathon sex, but 1) Dream seems at a complete loss of what to do, and b) Dream doesn't seem horny, he seems desperate (and not even sexy desperate, more like bordering on panic type of desperation).

Before long Hob is putting the brakes on like "alright, T.O. my love, lets talk for a sec, I am concerned both at the fact you can't seem to come up with fun sex things to do, and also that you don't seem like you're having fun, period."

It takes some pulling teeth, but eventually it all comes out, and Hob is very very sad, and explains that, while he'd be happy to spend hours showing Dream how good it can be, Hob was actually HOPING Dream would stay afterwards (ideally forever, but at least for the night), so if Dream only wants to fool around for a little bit, or he gets tired part way through, or if he decides he doesn't want to do anything, they still get to cuddle up with each other for as long as they want.

Dream is twelve kinds of baffled. But that's okay, Hob is prepared to spoil Dream with mind blowing sex AND mind blowing cuddling. His skills are diverse.

(🦇 2.0)

Yes!!! Cuddles and snuggles for Dream!!

Of course Hob is a very tactile person! I'm sure that for him, sex is very much about intimacy and he always enjoys the snuggling part just as much as the actual sex. He wouldn't mind too much if he had a partner who wanted a bit of space after sex, of course... but that just doesn't seem to be the case for Dream?

I'm obsessed with Dream trying to come up with increasingly desperate and weird sex acts which Hob is lying there feeling awkward and increasingly embarrassed. He literally can't do anymore and he's starting to worry that Dream is expecting more than his body can reasonably provide. He's never felt worried about his sexual prowess before but he's actually getting nervous!

And then it occurs to him that Dream seems to be drawing this out for a reason... and he eventually gets the truth. Honestly he's massively relieved that he isn't just like, performing inadequately... if the case is that Dream wants cuddles then he's going to get as many as Hob can possibly provide.

Dream is pretty skittish for a while, but after months of being completely welcomed in Hob’s bed for both sexy times and snuggly times... he gets very comfortable and very much claims the space as his own. Hob loves seeing him all starfished out on the sheets, waiting patiently to be cuddled six ways to sunday <333

#🦇 2.0 anon #the sandman #dreamling #nsft

[dystopicjumpsuit]

This might be a weird ask, so please disregard if you’re not interested in answering it.

I think you mentioned once that you like to cook, and a lot of your fics have mentions of food (which I love btw). So I was wondering: Do you have specific meals/recipes that make you think of certain clones? Or, do you have any headcanons as to Earth-based meals/foods specific clones would deem their favorite?

Not a weird ask at all! I do love to cook, and I'm always down to talk about food 💚

I will always think about fresh pasta with wild mushroom ragu when I think about Waxer thanks to "The Sixth Language." I have actually made that meal, and it's delicious. (I also tried to do the sexy cooking lesson with my partner, which was... Less successful 💀)

I personally headcanon that every clone has a massive sweet tooth thanks to their enhanced metabolisms and the fact that they didn't get sweets growing up. I also think they would pretty much all enjoy spicy food. This HC is for sure influenced by how spicy Mandalorian cuisine is supposed to be.

I think a lot of family-style meals would be really appealing to the clones, just because they would appreciate the sense of community. Any meal where a big group of people gathers around a table to eat and drink and laugh and talk and bond—I think that would be a dream come true for a lot of the clones. NB I'm not necessarily talking about literal biological family here; I mean it in the sense of the people you love and care about most—whomever that may include.

As far as specific foods:

I think Gregor would have a weakness for cheeseburgers (and apparently pineapple).

Dogma seems like a risotto man to me, for some reason (the technique would appeal to him, I think). He would probably love the precision of molecular gastronomy.

We know the Bad Batch loves sushi! I think seafood would be popular with a lot of the clones because they grew up on an oceanic world (though to be honest, I don't know whether their diets actually included seafood on Kamino, or whether it was just nutrient sludge).

I think Crosshair would love ramen—if he ever got a chance to actually take a bite of it.

Jesse seems like he would be very aware of his macros, and he'd be a surprisingly good cook. Mapo tofu would be his specialty. He would tell you exactly how many grams of protein was in it.

Tup... Vegetarian. Idk why, he just gives the vibe. But he'd be sneaky about it. He'd feed you the most amazing meal of your life, and you'd never even realize it was vegan.

Fireball would probably love poke bowls. Extra avocado, please!

Kix is addicted to junk food, and if anyone teases him about it, he'll be extra shaky next time he has to give them an injection. Jesse is constantly trying to get him to do better.

Rex has been a Sunday roast fan ever since he ate dinner with Cut and Suu.

Wolffe and Hunter seem like barbecue men—legit barbecue, not burgers and hot dogs. Like cochinita pibil, Texas-style brisket, barbacoa, Carolina whole hog. FIRE🔥

Cody secretly loves cheap pizza (think Little Caesar's), but if you asked him his favorite food, he'd probably say something like coq au vin. Don't get me wrong, he likes coq au vin too; it just doesn't scratch that particular itch.

The entire Coruscant Guard loves street food. Any kind of street food. If it comes from a food truck and can be eaten while walking, they're happy.

Damn, this got out of hand! I could go on until the world ended, but I have to stop somewhere. Thank you for the amazing question, Alli! It was so much fun to think about. And I'm so happy you enjoy the way I work food into my fics! One of my upcoming multichapter stories has an OC who is an aspiring cookbook author, and there is SO. MUCH. FOOD in that fic.

#clone wars headcanons #star wars headcanons #sw tcw #clone wars #Star wars #star wars food

[multiwreckedmess]

Oral Freedom

We will get back to dom! idol in another Ateez post after this (i actually have several as that’s my personal preferred position) but honestly idk that this has any particular dynamics. Sorta maybe??? Either way welcome back to my drabble/imagines/focus series “To All The Dicks I’ve Sucked Before” aka #TATDISB

Pairing: I.N (Jeongin) x reader Genre: Smut, basically PWOP. WC: ~1.1k

As per usual, this does not represent IN/Jeongin, it is a work of fiction. All specific warnings are below the cut. I’ve tried my best to make this as gender neutral as possible but as always i am learning. I’m a cis-woman so i default to this naturally but try my best to leave pronouns at the door.

By clicking the read more you are aware and agree to the above and reading 18+ content.

-

-

TW: Free Use, somnophilia, perv!jeongin who tries to act innocent, mostly build up, implied consent (not detailed is a conversation about boundaries but it’s referenced)

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The red cord wrapped around your wrist was your idea. Small and unassuming, easily written off as a reminder bracelet or small token from a friend. Easily hidden from outsiders not privy to your agreement. 

The agreement was also your suggestion despite Jeongin. He knew he had a higher libido than most and he hated it. It wasn’t fair how even the smallest things would leave his hormones raging and blood rushing to his groin. The way you’d rub your face against the pillow as you woke up, your smell especially if you hadn’t showered yet, once even popping a boner from you stroking the knuckle of his thumb as you held hands. You really didn’t mind it, you just liked being wanted.

Free use.

You’d wear some small signal to him that he could indulge in whatever he pleased (within your rules) during the time when the item was worn. Without asking. That was important. His constant need to jerk off left him anxious to ask for your consent. Of course he’d never ever do anything without talking to you first but what was too frequent or too forceful or too...horny? The questions would swirl around his mind until he’d get so stressed out he’d get hard and have to run off to the bathroom to take care of it anyway. And you’d noticed this. It was difficult to hide the fact that you noticed it. Trying to cover his frequent dashes into other rooms with jokes about how he should go to a proctologist to get looked at or an allergist to get tested. No matter how many times you assured him that you found him sexy, handsome, attractive and that you wanted him to fuck you, it didn’t seem to sway his nerves.

You’d seen it mentioned a few times and it seemed like the answer to your prayers. No more asking, just a quiet reassurance that your body was fair game to his fantasies. It would be a relief to both of you. 

It was a sleepy Sunday afternoon that you’d spent lazing around in your pjs, an oversized shirt and microshorts, hair pulled back away from your face. Jeongin sat on the opposite en of the couch, attempting to play a new video game release. Instead he found himself watching you. Squirm, thighs rubbing and tensing together with a small whine with your face buried into the pillow. “Sounds like fun,” he thought, smiling to himself. It also didn’t escape his dick, twitching slightly in his PJ pants. He tried to refocus on his Switch, maybe it would be a funny story to tell you later. The balls of your feet pressed into his thigh as you turned yourself, distracting him again, rolling onto your belly with one knee propped up near your hip. Shorts falling open he could just see the growing wetness pooling at your crotch.

Jeongin gulped, adam's apple bobbing forcefully. Cock twitching again against his thigh, tent obvious in his pants, he tries to balance the handheld in one hand, propping the opposite side against his knee while his free hand palmed the leaking head of his erection. He swears to himself that he can get through it without jerking off. He really doesn’t want to have to make a dash to the bathroom. If you just settle down really the boner will eventually go away if he can just focus-

Jeongin thinks someone be it god or fate, must be playing a cruel joke on him. Flipping yourself onto your back with a loud moan your hand comes up to your chest, fingers splaying over a hardened nipple just poking through your soft cotton shirt. Transfixed on your fingertips his cock gives him another forceful pulse.

And that’s when he sees the little red strand tied to your wrist, pushed up your forearm in the violence of your tossing and turning but there nonetheless. 

He shudders. Your lips look beautiful in the early afternoon light. When had you even thought to put that little signal on? His game lays discarded on the ground next to the couch as his fingers dip below his elastic waistband to fist his aching member. Throbbing with his heartbeat he can’t believe how hard he is already. Don’t waste this opportunity, this moment that the start aligned, he chides himself.

Carefully he slides off the couch and pads up towards where your torso lays, barely able to control his excited breaths. His entire body tremors pulling his pants down just enough, cock jutting outwards from his pelvis, hovering over your sleeping form. Jeongin bites his lower lip, nearly tormenting himself watching the tip float so close yet so far from your loosened jaw. One hand stroking himself he grazes the thumb of his free hand gently over your lower lip, seeing how wide he can coax you. He slides his digit in easily, your entire body pliant to his touch, mouth wet and warm and waiting to be filled. Squeezing the base of his cock he prays he doesn’t cum right then.

Placing a hand on the back of the couch to stabilize he holds his breath as he places his length just barely grazing your plump lips, a groan catching in his throat.

You moan and wiggle, mouth briefly closing into a small kiss before hinging back open. Jeogin sharply pulls away in shock, heart beating wildly in his chest, ready to bolt as though he’d done something wrong.

Of course he’d done nothing wrong, you were wearing your signal. It was fine for him to do this. It was fine for him to take advantage of your soft sleeping body. You wanted him to take advantage of your vulnerable state. Little did he know the pain of unfulfilled orgasms you were experiencing, unable to escape your erotic dreams.

Composing himself he resumed his position, slowly sliding the underside of his shaft against your lips, teasing himself. Angry red turning nearly purple with engorgement his brain finally shuts off, giving over to his animal needs. Granting himself permission to fully enjoy the gift you wore on your wrist. Lining himself up with your mouth he coaxes the head in just enough to fuck himself against the inside of your cheek. Moaning, watching your cheek bulge out and suck in as he thrusts, he doesn’t care anymore that you stir under him, eyes hazy with sleep. He chases his high with wild abandon.

“Just be a good slut and take it, okay? Take it for me.” 

#skz smut #stray kids smut #i.n smut #jeongin smut #jeogin skz smut #in smut #skz hard thoughts #stray kids hard thoughts #jeongin hard thoughts #TATDISB #.queue

[blysse-and-blunder]

in lieu of a rainy day

10pm, sunday, nov 26, 2023

went to a gig for a friend's band last night, but otherwise it's been an extremely lowkey and indoor weekend. living that housecat lifestyle. aside from the sunday scaries (but, like, for the semester....for the year....) all in all the past week+ has been Okay. whoever is in charge of my calendar (which is me) made a pretty big gamble booking three-four medical-esque appointments back-to-back-to-back this week, but it paid off, we got through it, and the decks are cleared (so to speak) for writing between now and the holidays.

reading i got briefly very into freya marske's books a marvellous light and now a restless truth, though i will admit to having calmed (slowed) down a lot in reading the sequel, after tearing through the first one like there was a deadline. the world building and magic system are very fun, i am a big fan of the aesthetic; they're extremely sexy but not at the expense of plot or dialogue or characters' having their own real personalities, flaws and hobbies and all. excited to read the third one.

listening a quick skim of the previous few ilcb entries (have there really only been three all fall, dear me) to check i hadn't already posted this, and it doesn't seem like it? so, gregory alan isakov with the colorado symphony. the additional strings, the additional brass, it adds such a gorgeous dimension to this already pretty good song; the way things build from 1:20 on or so, to burst into full color and light from 1:59 to 2:14.... i've turned a few afternoons around lately just leaning into that orchestra swell in my headphones. wish it lasted a full 10 minutes, wish it had multiple movements.

watching more burrow's end; finished arcane season 1 with @hematiterings and began watching the first season of stranger things since she's never seen it; the nostalgia and affection i feel! the real satisfaction in how good season 1 is, how young they all are!! also started season 2 of slings and arrows with the housemates, which is new territory for me and which is similarly filling me with affection for characters i've known a long time, and fascination at seeing them doing new things and making new bad decisions. also started the second season of wheel of time on my own, as background while doing some unpaid graphic design/newsletter prep; my gratitude for this show making something so rich and visually interesting and real out of the books is unabated, even though i'm not feeling anyone's storyline very intensely at the moment. rand meeting logain was cool; perrin has been captured and that's bad; mat is now traveling with min, which is also cool because it's probably a set-up; i'm sorry that nynaeve had such a hard time in the arches but her romance subplot with lan has always left me extremely cold; moiraine is being frustrating! the show has a nice way of showing us other characters, minor characters, too-- moiraine's sister, for one, and starting that encounter by showing us her sister's morning routine, clarifying the difference in their ages where one is aes sedai and aging very, very differently. egwene and the daughter heir are in a magical boarding school subplot which is surprisingly delightful.

playing dnd campaign a had a session for the first time in aaaaages not too long ago, and it was good. spoke to the gods briefly, got started trying to appease them with sports as opposed to human sacrifice, and ended the night beta testing a phone-based game a friend of the dm's wanted us to try which involved a lot of bluffing and bs and laughter. campaign b, meanwhile, is in combat with some were creatures; @dimir-charmer's character has maintained this whole time that she is Not a Werewolf but circumstances may be, in fact, conspiring against her...... worrying!

making not a whole lot. i bought a box of cards since the closest thing i've come to a hobby recently has been sending a few cards (well, one and a half); i feel the pull of stickers and sealing wax and stamps.... wandered through an art supply store only a little while ago and came so close to buying the vinyl stamp making kit, but the only paint i could find to go with vinyl stamps was metallic so i decided to wait. contemplating making potato stamps, like i do every year around this time, but again the ink or paint or whatever is the limiting factor there.

working on taught my second and final guest lecture of the semester! read back through the written feedback on my conference paper! have started to look at integrating said paper back into the chapter whence it came, and had to have a little lie-down, but that's the big project remaining. at the same time, the running commentary at the back of my brain is about lecture prep for the course i'm teaching in the spring, specifically, what i'll say to situate/contextualize/prepare students to handle the material, how i'll thread various needles, which texts i'm going to ultimately assign, and on and on. i've started trying to turn this background noise into brainstorming/writing/limited, focused bursts of work on said course, in the hopes that getting a little of it out of the way will let me brain settle back in to other projects afterwards. i've also realized i've started doing the Discretionary stuff first, i.e. the reading extra articles, the looking at post docs or awards or things to apply for, the stuff that won't happen if i don't allow myself 15 min to look into it, because the Actual Work will be enforced, it will have to happen eventually, and the discretionary stuff won't. jury's very much out as to whether this will pay off, especially when it's not discretionary work at all, but discretionary attending-a-lecture time, or -coffee-with-a-friend time, or discretionary-at-the-gym time. time spent with the cat, of course, is non-discretionary.

#ilcb #in lieu of a commonplace book #a few spoilers for some early episodes of s2 wheel of time #not as long a post this time #i was quite restrained really! until the work section #Youtube

[ludi-ling]

Sunday Morning

Rogue and Gambit Week 2023, Day 6. Prompt: Valle Soleada

*A little treat for all you guys. My brain is firmly stuck on my longer form fics at the moment, but here is something I wrote back in 2004 and has never seen the light of day. No one, apart from angyxoxo almost 20 years ago, has ever read this saucy little (long?) drabble. Have fun!*

            “Remy, darlin’…”

            Her hand slides across my chest, stopping midway over my heart, fingers spreading out, one, two, three, four, five, as if to relish the simple sensation of skin upon skin.  Her face is nuzzled against my side, but her eyes are closed – I have no idea whether the words she has just spoken have been uttered while awake or asleep.

            “Oui, ma chere?”

            She doesn’t answer for a long while.  But her fingers contract, then open again, rubbing me gently, a familiar exercise in substantiating that what she touches is, in fact, real.

            “…Dontcha evah leave me, y’hear?” she finishes off, in a voice less hoarse and sleep-bound than it had been before.

            I chuckle briefly, taking her hand in mine, knitting our fingers together, holding them tight.

            “Now why’d I want t’ do dat?” I ask her.  She shifts, ever so slightly, so that one green eye pokes out sleepily from the behind a strand of white hair.

            “Ah’ve lost yah too many times before t’ take moments like this for granted, swamp snake,” she drawls huskily.  Hmm, morning conversation, you gotta love it.  There’s nothing sexier than waking up to that lazy Southern drawl of hers.

          “I don’t t’ink neither of us is likely t’ be goin’ anywhere fast de way t’ings stand now, chere,” I answer, running my free hand through her auburn locks.  Funny, this.  We’ve known one another for too long, but we’ve never known one another enough, or as much as we would’ve liked to; or at least as much as we would’ve liked in certain, shall we say, aspects.  How many years was it that this was a fantasy of mine, to wake up beside her in the morning, in a bed we called our own, lying flesh to warm, naked flesh?  And here we are now, and we’ve been waking up like this every morning for the past five months and the novelty of the fantasy-become-reality still hasn’t worn off.  I wake up beside her and it’s still the most goddamn exhilarating, whimsical, cozy, sexy and passionate thing I’ve ever experienced.  And let me tell you, this Cajun’s experienced a hell of a lot of things in his life.

            “‘Bout time,” she remarks between a yawn. “Been runnin’ away from each other enough t’ put an escapee convict t’ shame.”

            “Y’ still tired?” I ask her, brushing the tousled white strands of hair from her forehead.

            “Hmm.  Didn’ get much sleep last night.”

            Neither of us did.  There was a good reason for that.  The previous night had been Valentine’s, and we’d naturally indulged ourselves with a three course meal at a fancy restaurant, some –ah– energetic dancing to live acid jazz, naturally fuelled by rather too many bottles of vintage wine; not to mention three hours worth of gourmet lovemaking afterward...  Nope – life doesn’t get much better than that.  Or this.  And I thought I’d experienced all that Valentine’s had to offer.

            “Heh.  I hear that.”

            “Lucky it’s Sunday,” she comments, eyes closed.

            “Yeah.  We get t’ lie in an’ sleep off our hangovers.”

            “An’ have some time for other things,” she returns, rather cheekily.  And not a little suggestively.

            “Are you proposin’…?”

            “Ah ain’t proposin’ nothin’,” she retorts petulantly.  Women.  ‘When they say no they mean yes’ and all that.  But she’d already given herself away.  I let go of her hand and stroke the length of her arm with a cajoling air.

            “O’ course you weren’t, mon coeur,” I reply slyly.  Slowly my fingers creep up her arm towards her shoulder.  By the time I’ve got far enough to tickle her armpit she’s already left it too late.  With a gasp she swivels away from my grasp, pounding her fists playfully into my chest.  If there’s one thing she hates it’s being tickled under the arm.  The past few months I’ve learnt through bitter experience that if you want to make her angry, that’s the fastest way to do it.  Unfortunately for her, I happen to find her peevish expression endlessly appealing.

            As soon as she sees me laughing she knows what that ruse had been all about.

            “Damn you, Remy LeBeau, if you do that again, you are so dead!” she scowls, teeth bared.

            “You wouldn’ hurt me, an’ you know it,” I counter brazenly, looking back up at her insolently.  She glares at me, emerald eyes blazing.  Honest to God, I don’t know which version of her looks more arousing:- sleepy, angry, bed-head Rogue; or jazzed up, femme fatale Rogue, complete with lacy black underwear, stockings and suspenders, evidence of which lies about the bedroom floor from last night’s little –ahem– adventure.

            “Oh?  An’ what makes you think that Ah wouldn’t?”

            “Because, mon bijou, you love me too much to lay a finger on me.”

            “Ah’ll lay a finger on you all right,” she levels fiercely at me, although she can’t stop me from noticing the decidedly naughty sparkle that’s suddenly entered her eyes.

            “Oh, an’ now I’m so scared,” I return smoothly, goading her.

            “Forget it, Remy,” she seethes, eyes narrowed. “You ain’t gonna have your way wit’ me, not this mornin’.  Your stupid tricks don’t fool me!”

            “Maybe not by usin’ stupid tricks, chere,” I reply. “But dis t’ief always has other methods hidden up his sleeves.”

            “Oh yeah?” she half-grins. “Like what?”

            “Like bein’ the irresistible, lovable rogue that he is,” I answer with an outrageous wink.  She laughs, all trace of her anger gone.

            “Dontcha evah get tired of bein’ so full o’ yourself, Cajun?” she asks.

            “Not when I can have my fill o’ you, chere.” Technically, any man would be pushing his luck by now, but not me.  Not with my in-built charm.  It’s come in infinitely handy in the past, and now is no exception.  The thing with Rogue is, she knows when I’m using it on her.  She could just as easily turn it all round back at me.  What she doesn't admit is that she loves it when I try to seduce her.  The more suggestive I get the less she can resist.  I can see the conflict in her eyes right now.  Those gorgeous eyes… Mon Dieu, I want her right now.

            “After last night,” she begins, leaning in playfully, finally giving in to what, in the end, we both want, “Ah woulda thought you’d already had yah fill o’ me and then some, swamp rat.”

            “Chere,” I begin, chancing the risky maneuver of slipping an arm round her waist and gently rubbing the small of her back, “this Cajun ain’t never gonna get tired o’ you, no matter how many times he has his fill of you.  Or how many times he fills you, for that matter.” Another gamble and we both know it, but I ain’t called Gambit for nothing.  She doesn’t give in grudgingly.  What would be the use in that?  She’s loved me for too long, she’s been without me for too long.  Now she can have me all she wants, and Rogue’s greedy for love just as much as she’s greedy for touch.  She’ll take all she can, but she’ll never buy or sell herself cheap.  If she won’t put out, I sure as hell will.  Don’t forget, it takes two to tango, and she’s not the only one who’s been starved.

            “Remy,” she purrs, half in reaction to my innuendoes, half in reaction to my tender ministrations, at the current moment concentrated solely on her back though admittedly creeping rather dangerously low, “you are a very naughty boy.”

            “O’ course,” I murmur in agreement.  It isn’t lost upon me just how close her lips now are to mine.  And the way her breath tickles my cheek as she enunciates every little word drives me crazy.  Steady, Remy, steady.  Connoisseur of the seductive arts I may be, but Rogue has an annoying way of beating me at my own game. “And whatcha you gonna do about it, hmm?”

            “Hmm,” she pretends to think about it, tracing an intricate pattern along my cheekbone and my chin and across my lips. “It’s like they always say - one day yah have t’ make good on your innuendoes.  An’ Ah do believe you’ve made several years worth of un-acted-upon innuendoes.”

            “So how long before I work dem all off, sweet?”

            “Well, Ah think after last night, we’re probably about…hm, halfway there, shall we say?”

            “Only halfway?  Still a long ways t’ go, chere.  Might as well work off a few more while we’re here.” I bolster the suggestion by placing a tender kiss on the tip of her finger while rather adventurously groping that cute li’l butt of hers under the covers.  Goddammit I want her right now, and she knows it, she has that funny little gleam in her eyes that tells me that, once again, it’s me that’s fallen victim to her charms and not the other way round.

            “Ah don’t know, sugah, maybe we should string it out some, y’know…make it last.”

            Merde!  She definitely knows she’s killing me here!  Suggestive banter is never so goddamn fun as it is with her, but for some reason, today, this morning…I haven’t felt this horny in a good long while, and that’s saying something.  And for some reason, she’s never looked so indescribably gorgeous as she does right now.

            “Mon Dieu, you’re beautiful,” I murmur, brushing away the perpetually falling locks of that white skunk stripe from her cheek. “What’d I ever do t’ deserve you?”

            “Remy,” she murmurs back, leaning in closer. “Shuddup an’ kiss meh.”

            Me shut up?  She was the one doing all the talking.  But, in such situations, the best thing to do is not to argue.  So I shut up and let her do the rest.

            I could go on forever about what it’s like to kiss Rogue.  There’s two types of kisses that she’ll give you – the one that steals your powers, and the one that steals your soul.  Both so similar, both so different.  The first is a kiss of life and death, the second is a kiss of passion.  I’ve tasted both – I’ve tasted both mingled, so that I couldn’t even tell where love and life and death begins.  I’d never tasted anything so wonderful and sweet and deathly as the kiss she gave to me in Israel, so many years back.  I’ve danced with death before, but never in the way I danced with it when she first put her lips, her mouth, on mine.  For that one moment, I would gladly have died.  Just as, whenever I make love to her, I feel the love-death, and I can’t explain it, the feeling’s too intense, too incandescent, and yet so subtle I can hardly distinguish it from the shuddering starbursts that are our shared climaxes.

            Now she puts her mouth on mine.  Now we kiss, and it isn’t like the first time, but it’s like our first time should have been.  She has a kiss so charged it could set Antarctica ablaze – and let me tell you, I’m one of only a few who could tell you just how cold it is out there.  But it’s best not to think about that, not here, not now…  It’s only so much water under the bridge, and to be honest, mentioning Rogue and Antarctica in the same sentence usually conjures up images of a less than arousing nature…

            The kiss pushes all further thoughts of anything out of my head, let alone thoughts of Antarctica – save for the irresistible, primeval urge she always unfailingly seems to invoke in me.  Both of us are caught up in the stupid notion that somehow we can make this moment last, that it doesn't have to end, that if we kiss one another hard enough somehow we’ll stay that way forever.  I run my fingers through her hair, brush her cheek – the tactile never feels so special, so novel as it does when I touch her.  The fifth sense, so underrated, so taken for granted, is nothing short of a godsend to the two of us.

            She breaks away slowly, nipping my lower lip playfully as she does so.  She’s goading me, and I know it; she sees the understanding and lust in my eyes, smiles, nuzzles her face against my cheek, presses light kisses to the corner of my mouth.  In response to her invitation I grasp her by the waist, swivel round; she gasps as I capture her beneath me and bury my face into that soft, succulent dip between her neck and shoulder.  God, she smells good – traces of last night’s perfume still cling to her, but it’s more than that, a mingling of that lavender scent with her shampoo and that unique aroma that she continually carries around with her regardless… I think of the fine sheen of sweat on her as we danced last night, the heaving of her chest as she pants for breath and laughs in pure delight, in unadulterated elation…  The memory of her scent is tied to this recollection, this fleeting instant in time photographed so neatly in a three-dimensional imprint of touch and smell and sight and sound.

            And now taste:- I taste the memory, I lathe my tongue over her soft, warm, scented skin, I suck in the flavour of her, the flavour that’s so familiar and yet so indescribably elusive, so that every time I taste it, it seems new, it seems inspired.

            “Remy…” she begins, she wants to make it sound like a warning, but she fails – instead it comes out as a plea and a concession, a note both of supplication and permission, a giving and a taking.  Her voice is soft, wistful, whimsical; her arms encircle me, her hands rub my shoulder blades, surrendering herself yet ensnaring me in her trap, the delicious trap that is her body.

            “I want y’, chere, I want y’ so much…”

            The words come out incoherent to my own ears, an unnecessary articulation of a train of thought that involves actions, not slow and ineloquent speech.  She has already yielded to me anyhow; her thighs rub coyly against my own, she surrenders her lips to mine eagerly: we kiss, we fall.

            I thought I knew all there was to know about love.  Of all the women I ever shared my bed with, none of them were ever playthings to me – I will not lie and say I loved them, but, during those moments, those long, fervent, passionate nights that I spent with them, I cared for them, each and every one.  Maybe I even made believe I loved them.  Maybe I thought I did, or maybe I pretended I did, or maybe it seemed like love at the time.  Sex is, after all, sex, wherever or however you do it, or whoever you do it with.  How then, can I hope to convince you that with her it’s different?  That with her, it’s not just about desire, or the gratification of a sexual pleasure that one or both of us share?  That it is not even simply just a giving or a taking of one another, or that it is a mutual and intimate sharing that only we, lovers, lovemakers, can understand?  There’s nothing so safe, so secure, so warm, so personal as holding her in my arms, as relishing her flavour and her fragrance, of feeling her tender limbs against mine, the subtle delicacy of her fingers in my hair, of the warmth of her smooth skin against my flesh.  Sometimes, the quietest, most torpid of encounters are the best; they are the moments I can savour what we share in manifest form, moments when I can measure the sum and strength of our love, and I could lie there in her arms forever and try to analyse it, and the answer would never come to me.  Morning sex, sleepy sex, the languid exchange of our bodies, is the subtle equation of our love, an enactment of this strange bond we share in slow motion, a thing which opens itself as a book yet cannot be read.  I will never be able to grasp the meaning of this act – its significance eludes me – but I catch a glimpse of it, during this one precious, passionate act.

            One thing I learnt was, I never knew what love was until I met her, until I waited for her, until I touched her, until I tasted her.

            Now we are locked together.  Our kiss is slow, soft, as if the world could wait for us, as if it had already ended and no longer mattered and no longer owned us.  As I kiss her I slide into her, softly, softly: this is a pivotal moment in lovemaking, any man would tell you that; the pleasure of penetration involves no sacrifice: we infringe, we take, always.  But for her there is pain-pleasure, the beginning of love-death… I feel myself enter her, I feel her receiving me; I watch that reception on her face, in the dim pallor of her eyes drawn back; but I feel it too, on her mouth, the way she imbues our kiss with the lowest, softest of moans; it excites me, to feel the echo of her pleasure on our conjoined lips, our embracing tongues…  There is nothing so sweet.

            We barely kiss now, the kiss is broken and yet continues; our lips touch, but it is our cries that own our mouths, not one another.  We make love slowly, finding more pleasure in the analysis and synthesis of each other, in the lazy journey of mutual discovery.  My hands travel her body, her breasts, her stomach, her hips…It is always the same ritual, I never tire of it.  Sometimes, she’ll be on top; but Rogue’s an old-fashioned girl, and when it comes down to it, she prefers the good old missionary position.  Whether on top or not, I never fail in this ritual, this exploration of her body – in either instance it gives me equal pleasure (although admittedly, to see the way she arches her back when she straddles me, when I touch her there, has always been something of a personal turn-on).  The number, the equation, the perusal of her amounts to this and yet so much more.  On mornings such as this, I will take the lead, I will be on top of her in order to understand why it is that I love her the way I do.

            My hands grip her hips.  I draw back, I look into her face; I try to see in her eyes what I do to her, what she does to me, what we do to and for one another.  She looks back at me, wordless, but not voiceless – what I look for I see, but it always remains elusive and just outside my grasp.  Her expression changes.  Her eyes roll back, her pupils dilate, her breath comes short, ragged; our ministrations become more fevered now; we push, I groan, she sighs; I remember my pleasure, my lust, where I had forgotten it: and yet I exacerbate it in gazing at her beautiful, agonized face.  I bury my head into her bosom, smell the lavender scent, smell the sweat, smell her fragrance, smell our mingled fragrance…  I feel her hips beneath mine, grinding… Desperation…  The quiet wonder of our exploration has been shattered; now the journey finds itself disrupted; our movements are hurried, urgent; we have lost the importance of meaning, only the destination matters for us and we strive for it, we strive so goddamn hard…

            She laces her fingers in my hair, I hear her call my name, in a voice so far-away, so delicate it hardly seems real.        Why does she do that, why does she make it sound so beautiful?  I grunt with the exertion of my effort to take us both there, but she eases me, she holds onto me and eases me, balancing out the rhythm of our bodies, slowing me, guiding me, trusting me.  My breath shallow, regular, I lick the sweat from my upper lip, I raise my head and look into her eyes; she half smiles, encouraging.  Her legs wind about my waist, pulling me deeper into her; I gasp, but her cry is long drawn out, half wail, half moan; her hands grip my hips, my shoulders, my hair…  And as for me, I keep her rhythm, I follow the soft melody of her cries, I match the rise and fall of her hips…  Slower, more focused, in perfect harmony the pleasure increases tenfold.  I’m nearly there, I can feel it.  I’m nearly at the sum of that simple equation, that one and one makes two.

            I tell her so, or think I do.

            “Wait,” she tells me. “Oh, wait…”

            I renew my efforts, gritting my teeth, giving myself into the torture of loving and waiting for her; ten seconds seem to last forever during this one key moment when we end the equation, and, if we can, we end it together.  She presses against me hungrily, her cries as laboured as her breath – I know when she approaches the moment, when she pauses, when she clasps me to her, when she arches back; I allow her to hit the climax first because, inevitably, she draws me in; we orgasm together, bodies straining so that it is not only our very existences that seem to shatter, but everything else, the moment, the time, the space, our beings, the only things that exist inside and out of that one jangling, earth-rending instant.  I hear her voice, the triumph, the ecstasy, the bittersweetness of it all; I cannot recall what I sound like – what is important to me at that moment is the thought that, if I could die, it would be here, now, with our bodies joined…  That here, now, with our bodies joined, it feels like death, it feels like love and it feels like death, and it feels like dying and being reborn all over again.

            The moment itself is shattered, splintered – it is cut short, in the earliest seconds of its earliest stages; yet, strangely, it lasts a lifetime.  We barely know when it is over.  For a long time after, we lie there, still somewhat entwined, each privately experiencing the last vestiges of the orgasm we have gifted to one another – the present, first shared, now savoured.  Meanwhile we comfort ourselves with the security that is the cradle of our naked bodies; we nestle into one another, like birds come home and settling in for the night.  The peace, the unreality is only broken when the sound of our voices brings us home.

            “Ah love you,” she murmurs into the side of my chest, and somehow the words seem painfully inadequate; they don’t even go halfway to describing what love is, not after the both of us have seen it and felt it somewhere in the maelstrom of our fervid lovemaking.  We both know that.  But I know what she refers to when she says, ‘I love you’.  And she knows what I mean when I say ‘I love you too’ in return.

            “I love you too,” I say.

            We don’t need to prove it.  But vocalising it into these simple words, that simple sentence, somehow gravitises it; it is no longer simply something imperceptible and inexplicable, a mood, a passion, a whim that floats freely in the air and blesses whoever it may chance upon.  It is as solid and real as our bodies, it is as tangible as our flesh-to-flesh embrace.  This is how I first knew that I loved her, and that I’d never truly loved another woman before her.  In vocalising it, what I feel becomes the ultimate in expressed reality.

            She smiles.  Her expression is sleepy, full of wonder; her cheeks are still flushed.  She looks so beautiful, so radiant, so earth-bound…

            “Why do you love meh?” she drawls.  It is less a question than an expression of wonder. Her accent tends to get stronger in the mornings.  It’s undeniably sexy.

            “Does there haveta be a reason?” I whisper back.  We do this often.  Whisper.  Murmur.  Maybe it’s because we don’t want to lose a hold of the moment, because we don’t want to shatter it any more than we have to with unwieldy words.

            “There’s always a reason,” she replies seriously.  She pauses, goes into another line of questioning. “What makes me so different from all those other women?”

            I can tell she’s not going to let this one slip by.  She can be vain like that.  She loves to hear the compliments I have to give her.  I could tease her badly if I wanted.  But she’s giving me that look.  The one that could disarm a whole platoon of heavily-armed soldiers quicker than her fists could.

            “I dunno,” I answer at last, perusing her face thoughtfully. “Your eyes.  Your smile.  Your laugh.  De way you sass me.  De way you make coffee.  De way you always put de toothpaste on my brush b’fore you come out de bathroom.  De way your accent gets heavier in de mornin’s.  De way you leave de toilet seat up for me…”

            “Only ‘cos you leave it down for me, sugah,” she interrupts, grinning and stroking the dip between my chin and lower lip with an index finger.

            “…Not to mention dat gorgeous bod o’ yours.  You want me t’ go on?”

            “Ah could just listen t’ your compliments all day long, sugah,” she smiles, disengaging herself from my arms and propping her cheek up with the palm of her hand, drawing lazy circles on my chest with the other. “But Ah think we should save some up for another time, jus’ so’s you don’t run outta things t’ say.”

            I stare at her, grinning inanely.  Why do I let her toy with me so much?  If Lapin and Theoren and all those others back the Guilds heard about this, they wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.   

            “You know what Ah’ve been thinkin’?” she asks whimsically.

            “What?” I’m trying to concentrate on the patterns she’s drawing on my chest.  Right now they appear to be figure eights.

            “Do y’ reckon, if we were t’ go an’ see the different versions of ourselves in all those alternate realities out there… In how many d’you think we’d be t’ogther?  Or d’you think that this is the only reality in which we’re t’gether, an’ that us, here an’ now, in this world… that we’re just an anomaly?”

            I stare at her.  This is Rogue being unusually and overly philosophical. 

            “You t’ink dat’s possible?” I begin, running a hand through her hair pensively, “Funny dat.  I always thought it was de rest of dem realities dat were de anomalies, not ours.” I pause momentarily, start again. “I don’t believe we could be an anomaly, chere.”

            “Why not?” she asks, with the peremptoriness of a child.

            “B’cause this jus’ feels too right, p’tit,” I reply. “B’cause nothin’s ever felt so right, ‘cept for us.  We made for each other, Roguey.  I can feel it in my bones.”

            “An’ it’s that simple, huh?” she asks, a humorous smile on her face.

            “Yes, it’s dat simple,” I reply, a wry grin on my face as stroke her bare thigh playfully.  She laughs, husky, free, easy.  I love her laugh.  She never used to laugh like this.  But then, she’s never had a lot of things to laugh about until a few months ago.  Before then, simply laying a bare finger on her skin would have been impossible, nothing short of a death-wish.  It’s a miracle then, that we are both able to do this, to have a relationship in the fullest sense of the word, to be lying here, face to face, talking, laughing, being ordinary…

            “Well, if it’s so simple, then Ah guess there’s no point in me hangin’ around an’ talkin’ ‘bout it,” she replies, sitting up, but I quickly put out a hand and grasp her wrist, stopping her.

            “Aw, Rogue, y’know they say afterplay’s as important as foreplay, chere,” I whine plaintively. “Stay a few more minutes.”

            “Ah need a shower,” she pouts at me. “An’ you’re not invited.  We been goin’ at it like rabbits the past twelve hours, an’ if Ah put out anymore, it ain’t gonna be healthy.”

            “Au contraire,” I remind her suggestively. “Sex is just about one of de healthiest activities out there.”

            “In moderation,” she counters heatedly.

            “Ain’t no limit, chere, as long as it’s wit’ only one partner.” Dieu, am I sounding desperate yet or what?

            “Ah can’t believe we’re havin’ this conversation,” she sighs in irritation, getting up.  I should’ve known that last remark would only make her more mad.  I sigh.  Pushed your luck there, LeBeau.  She’s right anyhow.  We should quit while we’re ahead.  Too much of a good thing can get bad.  And we have had fun the past twelve hours…

            I watch her sashay into the bathroom.  She’s doing it on purpose to punish me, showing off that cute butt and that sexy walk of hers.  I groan as the door slams behind her and I hear her lock it.  Usually, I’d be the one carrying her into the shower; I’d tenderly wash her clean of our mingled juices; inevitably we’d become excited once more and end up making love all over again right there in the shower.  We both know that if we step into that bathroom together that’s eventually what’s going to happen.  And I don’t blame her for putting her foot down, to be honest.  After last night…  Well, like I said, too much of a good thing can get tedious after a while.  Right? 

So why am I not convincing myself?  The truth is, I could be with Rogue whenever, wherever, and however, and I still would never get bored.

            “I t’ink you misunderstood me, chere,” I shout in the general direction of the bathroom. “Gambit was only anglin’ for a hug an’ a kiss…  Chere, are you hearin’ me?  Maybe I can join you in dere, non?”

            Her only answer is to turn the shower on full blast.

            She emerges later, while I’m in the kitchen cooking breakfast.  While frying the eggs she steals up behind me with a stealthy silence that would put any ninja to shame.  I start only briefly as she wraps her arms round my waist and buries her face against my back.  Her embrace is too warm, too delicate to startle me for long.  I delight in the thrill that her touch sends across my bare skin.  I know then that all traces of our previous quarrel have been forgotten.

            “Is this good enough for you, sugah?” she asks, purposefully trailing her warm breath along the line between my shoulder blades.  I shudder involuntarily.

            “Good enough for what?” I ask, my voice suddenly thick.  See what this femme does to me!  One touch and I’m crazy for her again.  Remy LeBeau ain’t never been in a trap so helplessly reinforced before.  Especially not one built and orchestrated by a woman.  Not that I’m complaining or anything…

            “Y’ said you wanted a hug an’ a kiss, baby,” she murmurs, pressing a lingering kiss with just a hint of teeth against my right shoulder.  I get the impression that our little spat has definitely been forgotten.

            I pause, setting down the spatula and swivelling round to slide my arms about her waist.  She looks great, wet hair tousled, and wearing just a simple white T-shirt I’d left discarded somewhere about the bedroom.  And the scent of the shower gel is so soft and light it makes me want to bury by face in her neck and drift away without a care in the world.

            “Hm,” I say, passing her one of those broad, suggestive smiles that always works so well on women. “I was t’inkin’ more of me wit’ my arms around you, an’ a kiss on de lips…”

            “Ah think it’s a little too late for afterplay, Cajun,” she murmurs seductively, yielding to my embrace and sliding her arms up my shoulders and around my neck.

            “Well, howzabout we engage in a little more foreplay den?” I propose a little too optimistically, while leaning forward quickly to kiss her before she has a chance to say no.  We lock lips feverishly in a blistering kiss that takes our breaths away, while our hands wander not a little too boldly.  By the time we break apart her fresh underwear is already sopping wet, and we would probably have ended up making love again right there on the kitchen table, if not for the fact that the eggs had begun to burn, and had threatened to bring the house down in an inferno almost as heated and passionate as our own.

            Unspoken rule of the house: if it can be helped, I’m the one that does the cooking.

            Rogue is a terrible cook.  The mess I’d made of the eggs due to neglect looked more like something she’d come up with, even with unreserved concentration.  Rogue tackles food like it’s her worst enemy – she’ll hack at meat like an axe murderer and chop up potatoes instead of peeling them.  Watching such horrors in action is like torture to a culinary master such as myself; so much so that, after the first few days of our living together, I had effectively banned her from the kitchen under pain of death.  That had earned me several day’s worth of enforced celibacy as a punishment: yup, she’d actually held her body to ransom on account of that little episode.  Four days later, I was on the verge of insanity, wondering how I was ever going to compromise the idea of no sex versus food poisoning for the rest of my life.  Women are clever like that.  Rogue is no exception.  And when she’s mad, let me tell you, she’s mad.

            Eventually, we came to a compromise.  She could have access to the kitchen, under the condition that I not have to eat anything that was made by her fair hands; and/or her cooking should be a joint venture between the two of us.  Because I can tolerate hacked up veggies in my gumbo, as opposed to gumbo that leaves me bed-ridden for a week or so.  She had begrudgingly agreed to my terms; ten minutes after agreeing to them, she’d been all over me again as if nothing had happened at all – which had irked me more than just a little, and had convinced me that the best course of action was to beat her at own game and show her what a bit of enforced celibacy felt like.  This had, of course, lasted all of half an hour, by which time I had already caved in and we were making up for four days worth of abstinence very vigorously on the living room sofa.  She had had a smug smile on her face for days after that, and, being the couyon that I am, I just didn’t have the resolve to snub her, or, perhaps more humiliatingly, to keep my hands off her.

            Now she helps me clean up the burnt eggs with a vicious frown on her face that seems to be accusing the poor scorched things of ruining all the recalcitrant little schemes she had had in store for me for the day.  And there’s something oddly satisfying in the notion that her continued seduction of me has been thwarted by that most unassuming of her enemies – food.

            Yup – forget Joseph, Longshot and Mags – if there’s anything that’ll nail the two of us, it’s burnt eggs.

            Having re-cooked breakfast, we snuggle up on the sofa and watch TV.  I like to stretch out and take up as much room as I can; she, invariably, will sit in my lap and lean her head against my shoulder, while the breakfast tray teeters precariously in her own lap.  Rogue’s a sucker for French toast, and I have a feeling that’s half the reason why she decided to make it up with me.  And bad cook she may be, but she makes a mean cup of coffee.  So, all things considered, we’re pretty much quits.

            Outside the sun is shining with full force – it’s midday, and outside the bright young things are going out to play.  This is, after all, California.  Rogue, however, has pulled down the blinds – the room has a cozy atmosphere as we settle down in true bohemian fashion in front of the TV.  I’m not deceived.  She wants to snuggle, and her pulling down the blinds is a way of shutting out the world from our embrace.  Rogue’s like that – she can be capable of grandiose gestures when she wants to be, but when it comes down to it, she prefers her displays of affection to be private, secluded things, where she can secretly open them up and gorge herself on them like a box of chocolates.  Understandable, for a woman who’s had to sacrifice so many of the things we take for granted.

            I let her lower the blinds and snuggle into me without questioning.  I understand her need to close us off from the outside world, if only for a little while.  After so many years of pushing one another away, and a more or less utter inability to touch her, I am as grateful for her displays of affection as much as I enjoy them.  There is so much warmth and passion inside her that I always knew simmered beneath the surface of her Southern Belle facade – to actually experience it, after all this time, physically as well as emotionally, is something that never fails to pleasantly surprise me.  In many ways, the notion of us actually being a couple still hasn’t sunk in yet – we are living in a sort of dream period, where nothing exists but us.  We live as we please, we take what we please, we love as we please.  This is as much a new experience to me as it is to her.  I’ve never made this type of commitment to any other woman before Rogue.  I never knew that living with the girl I loved could be so fulfilling or rewarding.  To both of us, this honeymoon period is one that could never end.  We’ve spent too much of our lives running around being superheroes to appreciate the simpler things in life.  And goddammit, we ain’t gonna let go of moments like these, moments that so many other, normal couples take for granted.

            “So, I take it I’m forgiven,” I decide to blurt out, midway through breakfast, while my loving girlfriend dutifully passes toast over her left shoulder and into my mouth.

            “’Bout what?” she asks, changing the channel with the remote.  The news disappears only to be replaced by the Powerpuff Girls.

            “Y’know, dis mornin’…”

            “Oh, that.” Her voice is distracted. “That wasn’t an argument.  Ah’d already f’gotten about it.”

            Oh, of course, naturally.  While I think she’s still sore and making me suffer over it, she’s all but gone and forgotten about it.  Typical.

            “Mon Dieu, femme, dis Cajun jus’ can’t keep up wit’ you,” I groan.

            “How d’you think Ah manage t’ keep you interested?” she states slyly, giving me a wink and a grin over her shoulder.

            “No need for dat,” I reply, leaning forward to nibble the lobe of her ear playfully. “You have other assets dat keep dis Cajun more n’ jus’ interested.”

            “Like mah dancing skills?” she chuckles, switching the channel over again.

            “Dat n’ more,” I answer, more absorbed in her than in what’s on the TV screen.  It’s true though – after last night, Rogue proved once again that she is one great dancer.  She enjoys teasing me about that, for some unfathomable reason.  Okay, well maybe not so unfathomable.  Before we came to Valle Soleada, back in one of the Southern states (I forget which – I don’t think we’d reached Texas by that time) we were at this bar where they were having a dancing contest.  Now any femme that knows me knows that I dance a mean dance.  Unfortunately, I had decided to brag about it that night, and Rogue had insisted that she could beat me in a competition without even having to make any effort at all.  Naturally I’d scoffed at that, at which point she had literally dragged me onto the dance floor in order to prove her point.

            Now to be honest, I’d never really seen Rogue dance before.  Kurt had once told me that she likes to dance when she wants to cut loose, but unfortunately, I’d never been around to witness such an event.  Kurt had said she dances like a demon.  I hadn’t believed him.  Until that night.  She beat every other dancer roundly, including my own oh-so-talented self, and had even won a trophy for her troubles – which now stands conspicuously in a shelf facing the window, where it taunts me cruelly every morning when I come downstairs.

            Last night her dancing skills had been used much more to my benefit than to my shame; besides which, latin jazz is always so much sexier than country or zydeco.  She’d really jazzed (no pun intended) herself up for Valentine’s – I don’t even know how she managed to move inside that slinky green dress, let alone dance.  But hell, she did it.  It makes my heart flutter just thinking about it.  I have the feeling that half the time she enjoys torturing me whenever we find ourselves in such situations.  I’ve already had several years worth of such tortures, but she still puts me through them – I guess she knows they keep this Cajun in line.  Last night she’d flirted like hell, just enough to drive me crazy with anticipation at the innuendoes she was throwing at me.  A look, a wink, a touch, a peck on the cheek, a flick of the hair – that girl uses them all with the subtle refinement of a torturer with his bloody implements.  But when she dances – Dieu, when she presses her body against mine and moves those hips the way she does… well, let’s just say that any hot-blooded male would be slavering over her in a matter of seconds.

            Yup – my girlfriend gets a helluva lot of attention these days, especially now that she doesn’t have to worry about killing someone if they touch her.  She’s knows I’m jealous and likes to tease me about it.  But then, I know she’s jealous, although she tries to hide it – and yes, the levels of attention I get puts Rogue on the defensive whenever we go out together, wherever that happens to be.  I always tell her jokingly – you wanna keep dis Cajun in line, all you gotta do is dance wit’ him.  You dance wit’ him, he’ll be hot for you any time of de day or night.

            Last night was no exception.  In fact, the Valentine’s celebrations were effectively pretty much over the moment we’d got onto the dance floor.  As soon as we’d tired ourselves out dancing we ran out the restaurant without another word and straight back home.  And once we’d got home, well, it was straight to the bedroom.  Now, let it not be said that Remy LeBeau takes his time to wine and dine and romance his woman.  Let it not be said that he strings things out and woos a femme in the appropriate way.  Remy LeBeau is debonaire, calm, suave.  That is, unless he’s been dancing with Rogue in a slinky dress.  Then, all sense of propriety is robbed from him completely.  As soon as we’d slammed the bedroom door shut we were at it.  What can I say, we were hot for each other like a warm day in Hell.

            And once I’d unwrapped my Valentine’s present, it turned out I’d been in for a little surprise as well.  Yup – underneath that slinky green dress, Rogue – who’s usually the no-nonsense, practical type in her dress-sense – had kitted herself out in the most expensively exquisite French underwear: black lace bra, panties, suspenders, silk stockings, garter, the whole damn works.

            “Mon Dieu,” was all I could manage to splutter.

            “You like?” she’d replied, doing a coy little twirl and flashing a hint of derriere at me like only the best of those Parisian girls can do.

            “Like?” I’d repeated, giving her several eyefuls up and down. “Chere, you look simply…delectable.” So sue me, it was the only word I could find to describe her.  She looked so damn fine I could’ve eaten her.

            “Great,” she’d grinned, standing straighter again. “Now can you get these damn things offa me?  These suspenders are chafin’ like no one’s business.”

            I’d only been too happy to oblige her.

            An old rerun of Buffy is now on, but I’d be willing to forego a whole season of Buffy for mon amant belle.  She chuckles, dodging my lips so that the kiss I’d planned for her neck lands somewhere on her upper arm.

            “Lemme guess – it wasn’t the dancin’,” she says, eyes sparkling as she looks over at me slyly. “You’re thinkin’ of the underwear, aren’t yah?”

            “How’d you guess?” I answer, before leaning in to make another attempt to kiss her throat.

            “Remy, you think Ah don’t know yah?  Men are perverts.  Y’all like seein’ women dressed up in horrible underwear that makes ‘em feel uncomfortable.”

            “You didn’ look uncomfortable to me, chere,” I murmur, finally scoring a bullseye in the kissing department. “You looked like Gambit coulda eaten y’ right up.”

            “Hmmm.” She agrees on that point, her eyes suddenly wistful.  Probably because Gambit did eat her up once he’d got rid of those lacy black panties, heh heh.

            “An’ Gambit’s crazy for silk stockings,” I continue, taking advantage of the distraction to plant more kisses along her neck and shoulder. “Did he ever tell you dat?  You should dress up more, Anna, chere, we could make t’ings real fun.”

            “What, ain’t spandex good enough for yah?” she replies, her tone half-accusing, half-cajoling.  She’s allowing me to kiss her anyways, which is always a good sign.

            “Personally, Gambit prefers de leather,” I reply.

            “Ah bet he does,” she levels at me, knitting her brows and frowning.  On the one hand she’s annoyed that I’m trying it on with her again; on the other hand she’s enjoying it, so she’s having a hard time telling me where to lay off.  Speaking of hard…

            “Dammit, Cajun!” she swivels round, glaring at me. “What is it with you this mornin’?  You on viagra or somethin’??”

            I return her scathing look, somewhat offended. “Chere, does dis Cajun look like he needs viagra t’you?”

            “Hmph.” She pouts, before biting savagely into her toast.  Dieu, I could think of other places where that sweet little mouth of hers could be put to better use, but I know that if I tell her so it’ll be bad news for yours truly.

            “What?” I ask innocently, trying to put away the lewd thoughts currently running round my head and not entirely succeeding.

            “You may be Valle Soleada’s resident love machine, Remy LeBeau, but Ah ain’t your bitch, an’ Ah ain’t gonna be putting out for yah whenever yah want me to, y’hear?” she answers heatedly.

            “But I wasn’ even suggestin’…”

            “Yes, you were!”

            “No I wasn’!”

            “Oh really?!  Well that li’l friend o’ yours down south was sayin’ somethin’ else entirely!”

            I burst into laughter.  I can’t help it.  She looks so mad and sexy it’s hilarious.  And just what the hell are we arguing for?  Trust her to make an issue out of something so harmless.

            “Oh, so it’s funny now, is it?” she grumbles, not even allowing herself to join in with me.  I sober up quickly and put my arms back round her, sensing that this is more than just a little banter gone wrong.

            “I didn’ know I was Valle Soleada’s ‘resident love machine’,” I tease, cuddling into her neutrally, trying to signal to her that the white flag’s been raised.

            “You should hear what the gals in this town say about you,” she mutters darkly, still scowling.

            “What?” I ask, nuzzling my nose against her perfumy hair, but resisting the tactical error of kissing her.  I can’t help but ask.  Come on, a guy likes to know when he’s appreciated.

            “Just about what every gal thinks ‘bout you,” she replies, punching the remote and switching back to the Powerpuff Girls.  It’s on the rolling credits, but she still stares at the TV anyway.  That should’ve broadcasted to me loud and clear that she really was mad.

            “What, dat I’m an overbearing bastard?”

            “No.” She’s trying to sound patient, but the word comes out from between gritted teeth.

            “Rogue, are you jealous?” I can’t resist poking at her.

            “Hah!” Her voice is heavily lined with sarcasm. “What, like you were jealous when Joseph an’ Ah were together as friends, so much so that yah knocked the livin’ daylights outta him fer no reason whatsoever?”

            “No reason?!” I splutter.  See what I mean ‘bout femmes being clever?  My darling girlfriend’s just gone and turned everything round on me in a single sentence. “De guy was hangin’ outside your bedroom window like de regular peepin’ Tom!”

            “It was totally innocent, and you know it!” she seethes.

            “Yeah, now I know – I didn’ know den,” I mutter. “An’ besides, I wasn’ about t’ lose ma chere to a long-haired pretty boy.  Even if he was one of de only guys dat ever treated you wit’ respect.” I pause. “Not even Remy could do dat proper.” I finish on something of a sigh.  I haven’t thought about Joseph in a long time.  He was probably the only guy I was ever truly afraid of losing Rogue to.  What made the whole thing even worse was that he’d treated her with all the love and respect that she’d deserved, whereas me – who’d told her countless times he loved her like he’d loved no other woman – I couldn’t even bring myself to show her that love.  I was a fool.  Even when we’d told each other how we felt, I couldn’t stop playing the field.  I couldn’t stop hurting her.

            She sees the woebegone look on my face, swivels round and places her hands gently on my face.

            “Remy darlin’, it’s all in the past,” she murmurs. “Ah’m sorry, Ah shouldn’ have brought it up.”

            “I was an idiot back den, chere,” I mutter, not without a hint of a sulk in my features. “He deserved you more n’ I did.”

            “Ah loved you,” she says, touching her nose against my own. “An’ besides, Ah didn’t exactly treat you too kindly either.”

            We both know what she’s referring to when she says this, the words ever so delicately put.  For the moment we let the memories linger between us – painful memories, bittersweet.  But we say nothing – everything that has needed to be said about this shared memory has been said.  After a moment, she smiles sadly, presses her forehead against mine, kisses my lips chastely.  Our past has been nothing if not torrid; and at times, it has been both brutal and hurtful.  I suppose the people you love are always the ones that are easiest to hurt.  And Rogue and I, having had an inability to commit for so long, whether physically or emotionally, have hurt one another almost as violently as we have loved one another.  There were even times when I think we would have killed one another in order to express both the pain and the passion we have put each other through.  But it’s over now.  At last, we’re the way we always wanted to be – together.  It’s a privilege we know we can’t take for granted.  And now she kisses me as if to say she understands – it’s her way of saying sorry.

            She pulls away, giving me one last little peck for good measure.  The mood is still subdued; the room is quiet. 

            “So,” she begins after a short moment of silence, gently rubbing my chest, her voice nothing more than a notch above a whisper. “Y’all wanna know what the gals round here really say ‘bout you?”

            A small grin plays across my face as I wrap my arms snugly round her waist again.

            “Gambit t’inks he already knows what you’re gonna say, Roguey,” I reply in the same tone of voice, all quiet and softly-like, thinking we’re going to destroy the closeness we share otherwise.  “But you go ahead an’ indulge me anyways, chere.”

            “Well,” she begins innocently, “They think you got the most beautiful, gorgeous, cute, sexy…” She pauses momentarily as if to find another adjective, grinning broadly, “…an’ patient girlfriend they’ve evah seen, an’ they all wish they were her, b’cause…”

            “Because you got me in the sack,” I finish for her in mock exasperation, sighing theatrically. “I know, I know!  Y’know, sometimes it’s real hard playin’ de Casanova part.  De ladies don’ give y’ a moment’s peace.”

            She giggles, giving me a playful slap on the shoulder. “An’ you’d know all ‘bout that, of course,” she remarks, eyebrows knitting.

            “Chere, you know I only have eyes for a certain green-eyed, brown-haired Mississippi river rat wit’ de world’s cutest skunk-stripe in her hair, right?” I reply, brushing a few white strands of her hair back over her ear and letting my fingers linger there a moment. “Y’know, de one wit’ de cutest tush dis side of Mason-Dixie, and dat sexy li’l mole on her…”

            “Only Mason-Dixie?!” she echoes in feigned indignation, eyes wide.

            “Okay, I take it back – howzabout de galaxy?”

            “Sugah, we been a lot further than just this galaxy,” she pouts playfully. “Are you really sayin’ that Lilandra has a cuter butt than Ah do?”

            “…De universe…?”

            “An’ speakin’ of moles, you’re one t’ talk!”

            “Heh heh.” I chuckle at that one.  The whole ‘mole issue’ has landed me in some very –uh- interesting situations in the past. “You’re such a tease, p’tit.”

            “So are you,” she pouts.  It’s such a cute pout that I have to kiss it.  She mutters ‘what the hell’ and caves in.  I swear, life for us is like some crazy, deranged roller coaster.  First we’re at it, then we’re not, then we’re at it again.  Damn this girl!  She’s only the most irresistible thing I’ve ever seen.  Trouble is, she knows it.  Like I said – she’s a like torturer with his bloody implements.  Lucky for her I have a masochistic streak in me, heh heh.

            It was as things were starting to get interesting that ...

*And that's where I stopped writing! Anyone wanna finish it? You're welcome to! 😂*

#rogue/gambitweek2023 #Romy fic #Rogue and Gambit #Rogue #Gambit #Remy LeBeau #Anna Marie LeBeau #Valle Soleada #rogue/remyweek2023

[chaewon2000lover]

If you could pick a different idol to have sex with each day of the week, who would you pick for which day?

yeah boy, you’ve always got fun questions.

anywho, 7 day shawty rotation.

Monday, wony she’s just so fucking hot man, she basically prefect head to toe (except maybe the fact she’s about my height)

Tuesday, what do I do on Tuesday that’s right Dutch kick-boxing, so I’m going with the Dutch girl, SOMI she’s so fucking sexy man the amount of things I would do to her.

Wednesday, momo them fat titties man, god I would love to do some motor boarding on those, plus she’s got a very nice face.

Thursday, Giselle follow up the big tits with more big tits, plus she’s just got such a nice body.

Friday, Shen god fucking damn is her red hair era hot as fuck.

Saturday, hardest day of the week for me at the gym, so it’s got to be the sweetest of women and my PFP, Chaewon, fuck she’s so hot and adorable at times too.

Sunday, final day it’s got to be Yeji, them cat eyes ohhhh god damn that head must be so nice just looking down at her.

anyway now that my horny rating rant is over, thanks for the question I always enjoy reading and answering them, would love for some more.

#kpop #asks open #inbox #my asks #ask #To share elsewhere

[karimwillia]

Part 7

Warnings: Plot Fluff

It’s Friday and the soft launch of Shuriri has been excellent. Everyday the girls learn more about each other and they have been forming such cute habits with each other. Ri has fallen into a habit of kissing Shuri’s lips for everything. While Shuri always wants to hold hands or touch in some way. The entire school knows they belong to each other. “Girl, what are you and Bae doing for early dismissal?” Ri is putting up her books and grabbing her bag as MJ pouts on the side of her.

“We are going to the mall. My Mom set my nail appointment for today. Shuri insisted on taking me then we may do some window shopping.” “Ugh jealous but have fun my Mom wants me home. Something about needing to clean my room. Anyway I am curious. I know your Mother is ecstatic about you dating.” Riri panics because she has not told her Mother nor Sharon yet. She’s been so wrapped up in Shuri that she has skipped their sister talks the last few nights.

A warm sensation takes over Ri from behind but she is stiff from her panic still. “Hey Baby Girl...Did I startle you?” Riri chuckles at how observant her girlfriend is; it's sort of annoying how much she picks up on. “Shuri Baby it was not you.” Tipping back, Ri looks up at Shuri from below wrapped in her arms. “I just remembered that I haven't talked to my Mother or Sister about us yet. They may kill me.” Shuri nods and smiles. “Yikes! I hope they dont it would break my heart. How about I meet them when I take you out Sunday.” “Sunday? ” “Yes Rihanna Williams, I want to take you on a date Sunday afternoon. Dress cute but comfy for me please.” Riri loves when Shuri is assertive with her but in the gentle way she does it. Ri kisses Shuri on the lips. “I suppose we are going on a date Sunday. But please listen closely on how to get them to like you.”

Shutting the lockers and saying goodbye, they talk about how to prepare for “meeting the parents”. Shuri lost her Father also so she knows not to bring that up. All the facts are helpful. Pulling up to the mall with music blasting the rest of their day is full of more surprises. “So your Mom cannot wait to meet me?” Riri’s warm tone cuts through the music. “She has been expecting to meet you for years now. I talk about you all the time. Now that we are dating, finally she is over the moon.” Turning to face her girlfriend, Ri's eyes are soft, taking Shuri’s hand and she kisses the back of it. “Well I can’t wait to meet her and let her know how good a job she did with raising you.” “Oh please don’t she might cry. Also I have to change what I want to say to your Mom now. I can’t tell her how sexy her daughter is.” Riri pushes Shuri away as they laugh and get out of the car.

While at the nail shop Riri lets Shuri pick out the color she gets on her nails and is surprised to see Shuri wanted to join her and get a manicure. She even gets her right pinky painted to match. Walking out of the shop Shuri hears her name being called. “Yo Shuri! Shuri!.” It’s Xavier. He has been acting so odd the past few days. Making rude comments, about Shuri not knowing how to handle Ri and how she needs a “real man” the attitude is giving real predator vibes. To keep from beating his ass Shuri just has not spoken to him as much but it seems she couldn’t avoid him today. “Xavier what’s good.” Shuri’s hold on Riri tightens and her jaw tenses up. Xavi is wearing a sinister half smile with his eyes set on Ri. Something is not right, even Shuri’s touch does not ease her anxious feeling she gets with his eyes on her.

“What’s good with you? We haven’t spoken in a few days. I know you not icing me out over some bad jokes. You are my best friend. Can you at least just introduce me to your shawty?” Shuri is keeping her body between the two, cutting her eyes at him hard. She is pissed because she can feel how nervous Ri is. It’s time to go but what is the best way? “Hmm that’s interesting considering you've been making all types of comments about her since Tuesday. But I’ll play along. Ri this is Xavier Dalton a homie of mine and Xavi this is my Girlfriend Rihanna Williams.” Riri nods, saying hello tensely. “Hello Rihanna damn you fine. I can’t even believe Shuri was able to get you.” “That’s not how..”Shuri is cut off by Riri who is none too pleased herself. “Actually Daddy knows I’m the lucky one.” Ri turns Shuri’s face to her and kisses her deeper than she ever has. Riri does not want to make a scene but she’s over the nonsense. “It was good to meet you again Javier right?” She quips once they break apart.

Xavi’s smile drops leaving him with a dumb and angry look on his face. Ri takes the lead moving them now in the opposite direction. Shuri stops them once they are out of his sight. “Either you got pissed back there or you just were feeling yourself but Damn. You can’t just kiss me like that with no warning.” Ri was proud of herself. “Maybe a little of both. His vibe was all off. I could tell he was trying to play you and you don’t deserve that.” “He’s always been a little bit of a hater but he really is mad this time. I just don’t like how he looks at you. I wanted to knock his face in.” Riri runs her hands up Shuri’s arms. Touch is genuinely her love language. “You don’t have to stoop to that level. He’s not worth it.”

“You are correct I don’t but I will for you.” Shuri Huffs “Baby you do not have to fight. I am just glad he didn’t ruin my surprise.” Shuri’s face lights up. “You have something for me?” “I do indeed have something for you. I hope you will like it ” After a short walk Shuri and Ri arrive in the tailoring section of the department store. A saleswoman meets them and hugs Riri. The woman offers to have Shuri step into a dressing room and she comes out with a beautiful black suit that is nearly a perfect fit. Shuri is in awe, turning to look at a very comfortable Riri watching her. “I hear all the major players have tunnel fits.” “Baby Girl, when did you have time to do this? How did you know my measurements?” “Rihanna stopped in last night to pick up her honors blazer and saw it. She raved about how she had to have it for a special someone.” The saleswomen answers. Beaming Riri admires her girlfriend in the mirrors. She stands right in front of Shuri running her hands up thes down the front of the blazer.

“Your measurements were not that hard to guess after your little show the other day.” Ri has an eidetic memory, it's nerd shit. The smirk on Ri’s face says it all and Shuri just kisses her quickly as the tailor completes the last adjustments.

@somethingcleaverandwhitty @mal-urameshi @shuriris-stuff @shuriristan22

#shuri x riri #shuriri #riri x shuri #fanfic #fanfiction #riri williams #shuri udaku #spotify

[hosticaaa]

𝓓𝓪𝓫𝓲 ; Sunday headcanons from discord.

• Toya's  nervous  system  was  destroyed  after  his  childhood  accident,  which  has  dulled  and  jumbled  his  sensory  perception.  This  has  a  particular  impact  on  his  ability  to  detect  and  understand  pain  /  painful  sensations.  As  it  stands  right  now  Dabi  resembles  someone  who  suffers  from  CIP,  however  he  doesn't  actually  have  CIP  since  he  was  able  to  feel  pain  normally  before  his  burning,  but  yeah,  in  a  nutshell  his  current  condition  looks  very  much  the  same  as  CIP.  However,  this  doesn't  just  affect  his  perception  of  pain  but  also  other  senses  like  his  sense  of  taste  and  smell.

• This  also  means  he  doesn't  really  have  "erogenous  zones"  due  to  these  dulled  /  ruined  sensors  so  theres  not  really  any  physical  hacks  to  getting  him  aroused.  However,  since  sexual  simulation  is  more  complicated  than  that  and  the  human  body  is  determined  to  fuck  no  matter  the  condition  its  in,  he  can  still  become  aroused  and  feel  "pleasure"  psychologically  (  Finding  someone  attractive/finding  something  sexy  )  and  through  genital  contact/stimulation.

• He's  a  virgin  because  frankly  he's  been  busy  fighting  mental  illness  and  living  with  his  serious physical disabilities,  which  haven't  been  his  only  deterrent.  He  was  also  alone  on  the  street  as  a  teenager.  Being  in  a  coma  since  13  meant  he  was  still  13  when  he  woke  up,  despite  his  body  aging  on  him  which  also  caused  some  real  emotional  scarring/trauma.  So  the  fight  to  just  live  each  day  has  always  made  him  feel  like  he  doesn't  have  any  use  for  those  kind  of  thoughts. 

• He's  only  "clueless"  in  the  sense  he's  a  Todoroki  and  he's  dense  as  hell.  He  doesn't  really  pick  up  on  people  flirting  with  him.  Its  not  and  has  never  been  a  normal  experience  for  him.  In  fact,  he's  more  used  to  people  treating  him  with  fear  and  repulsion.  This  being  said,  he  has  had  men  proposition  him  when  his  scars  were  in  better  condition  in  the  past and he was extremely young  because  of  his  scars,  so  he  was  quickly  made  aware  this  was  part  of  a  strange  dehumanizing  fetish  these  men  wanted  him  to  be  part  of  and  that  quickly  made  him  weary  of  advances  in  a  whole  new  way.  If  someone  flirted  with  him  they'd  have  to  be  very  direct  about  it  and  even  then  he'd  probably  think  they're  just  joking  /  making  fun  of  him  or  maybe  also  looking  at  him  as  a  fetish  object  which  would  result  in  his  scorn  and  disinterest.  So  no,  Dabi's  not  one  for  hookup  culture.  If  you  flirted  with  him  he'd  have  to  trust  you  actually  mean  otherwise he has better things to do, like suicidal ideation. • Obviously  he  knows  what  sex  is.  Despite  all  this  he  knows  a  fair  bit  about  sex,  from  word  of  mouth,  environmental  things  and  from  his  phone.  This  is  also  part  of  why  he  tends  to  think  sex  is  useless  to  him  because  he  has  looked  at  porn.  He's  also  masturbated  once  or  twice. He  tends  to  think  he  gets  more  enjoyment  out  of  lighting  things  on  fire  than  he  does  yanking  his  noodle,  but  this  could  just  be  because  he's  never  been  dedicated  to  it.  This  said  watching  porn  and/or  masturbating  are  very  different  from  actually  having  sex.  This is also how he knows he's bisexual.

• He's  lived  in  net  cafes  on  and  off  due  to  their  low  cost  and  the  fact  they  provide  almost  free  food,  drink  and  access  to  showers.  One  of  the  focuses  of  these  "affordable",  often  seedy  cafes  however  is  hentai  and  porn,  to  such  an  extent  that  condoms  and  panties  were  offered  as  part  of  the  stay. Sexuality and very sexual things have been very common in Dabi's general vicinity so  Dabi  knows  about  sex.  A  lot  for  a  guy  who doesn't  consider  himself  that  interested. 

• Needless  to  say,  Dabi's  also  not  very  kinky.  Its  not  something  he  puts  a  lot  of  thought  into.  This  said,  and  as  briefly  mentioned  above,  he's  got  a  bit  of  an  issue  where  flammable  shit  is  very  appealing  to  him  and  if  it  happens  to  come  with  someone  he's  attracted  to  yeah,  wires  get  crossed  and  it  gets  erotic  for  him  pretty  easy.  In  fact  I'm  sure  some  part  of  him  realizes  that  if  he  "likes"  someone  and  still  wants  to  "burn"  them  he  probably  actually  wants  to  fuck  them. Quirks are weird like that.

• He  could  do  the  shit  out  of  some  fire  play  but  he  wont  because  his  fire  isn't  even  just  normal  fire,  given  it  tends  to  burn  at  the  temp  of  lava  by  DEFAULT,  as  in,  it  can  get  hotter  and  its  intensity  is  reliant  on  his  emotions,  and  he  struggles  to  control  it.  This  would  and  could  never  be  safe  for  a  partner  and  would  be  more  likely  lethal  than  even  just  causing  harm. 

• Its  not  really  a  kink  but  since  pain  is  jacked  up  in  his  dead  sensory  perception  if  he's  aroused  it  registers  as  pleasure  so  rough  sex  involving  things  like  scratching  and  biting  would  go  down  well  with  him.  The  problem  is  he  wouldn't  fully  notice  it  or  any  cuts  or anything sustained  during  to  have  a  proper  handle  on  aftercare  for  himself. 

• He'd  probably  be  considered  to  be  someone  with  a  praise  kink  as  long  as  it  wasn't  laid  on  too  thick  because  then  he'd  get  really  embarrassed.  This  said,  he  doesn't  want  to  confront  this  or  think  of  that  as  a  kink  because  it'd  force  him  to  know  why  that  does  it  for  him  and  he  does  not  wanna  go  into  that  because  he'd  just  find  it  too  cringey  on  his  behalf.  • He  kinda  likes  hero  costumes  too.  He'd  never  admit  it  but  yeah.  Some  of  them  are  intentionally  very  sexy  so  thats  not  a  shock.  Maybe  he  just  gets  a  little  turned  on  at  the  idea  of  fucking  heroes  in  general  ━  like  the  forbidden  fruit  factor,  the  risk  factor,  the  ego  stroke.  He  may  have  had  a  crush  on  Miss  Midnight  when  he  was  a kid,  but  that  was  probably  because  he  saw  her  on  the  news  almost  ass  nude  and  that  was  his  first  boy  feeling. 

• Maybe  he'd  be  into  some  endytophilia  /  clothed  sexual  activity  especially  for  himself  because  he'd  feel  very  antsy  about  people  seeing  the  full  extent  of  his  scars. 

• He  became  very  self-conscious  of  his  scars  in  that  way  in  general  given  there  was  a  point  where  he  was  literally  rotting  so  they  smelt  terrible  and  would  sometimes  weep  and  ooze.  The  mental  trauma  of  living  like  that  always persists  even  though  his  body  and  scars  are  in  much  better  condition  in  his  future  verses.  • He'd  probably  act  as  a  service  top.  Technically  he'd  be  a  switch  but  theres  a  lot  of  complex  things  to  unpack  here.  He  has  severe  issues  with  being  vulnerable  /  letting  himself  be  vulnerable.  *coughitstheavoidantattachmentcough*  He  also  has  some  internalized  issues  and  some  sort  of  toxic  masculinity  mixed  up  in  this  stuff  so  its  kinda  not  as  simple  as  what  position  he  likes  to  be  in.  He  COULD  bottom,  he  would  probably  really  enjoy  it  if  he  tried  it,  could  be  a  power  bottom,  even,  particularly  due  to  his  inability  to  perceive  pain  or  the  discomfort  that  is  sometimes  associated  with  bottoming,  but  he'd  have  to  feel  a  lot  of  trust  for  the  partner  he's  with.  He  couldn't  be  patronized  or  feel  patronized  in  any  way.  He  also  doesn't  really  feel  like  he'd  make  a  good  bottom  because  he  thinks  of  himself  as  kind  of  an  ugly  asshole  so  he  doesn't  view  himself  as  having  bottom  qualities,  which  he  considers  are  kind  of  like,  being  cute  and  actually  desirable. 

•  As  for  other  "position  preferences":  From  behind.  Cowgirl  too.  He'd  be  sooo  into  being  ridden  because  it  also  means  he  gets  to  be  lazy  and  just  lay  there  and  enjoy  the  view.  Thats  very  appealing  to  him  given  he  knows  he  wears  out  easy  and  giving  a  poundings  a  lot  work,  ok. 

#⊰ ° ‧: ｡* ⚘ 🥀 ━◞ 𝒯𝒶𝑔 ↝ From The Mun ⊱ #⊰ ° ‧: ｡* ⚘ 🥀 ━◞ 𝒯𝒶𝑔 ↝ Headcanons ⊱ #⊰ ° ‧: ｡* ⚘ 🥀 ━◞ ℳ𝓊𝓈𝑒 ↝ Dabi ⊱ #⊰ ° ‧: ｡* ⚘ 🥀 ━◞ ℱ𝒶𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓂 ↝ My Hero Academia ⊱ #Dabi headcanons #Ive posted about these before but you know what its the day.

[dasboligrafo]

7 Takes on The Double Life of Veronique

You know the thing where you like the same thing as a terrible person?

I guess even Lear-esque cringey edgelords like great movies and Keith McNally is not wrong about Sexy Beast and definitely definitely not wrong about the Double Life of Veronique, a movie I've now seen 3x, 2 of which ended in helpless tears (the only way I know if something is art).

This movie was a selection by McNally at a Roxy Cinema mini-festival in October 2023. As I told the crew who I invited (tricked?) to see the movie: now it's your turn to think about it for 15 years!

I love the moment after the movie when people are asking helplessly -- but what does the movie mean?!? And I really, really love the moment when people get angry at the end of the movie. These are real emotions! What's the last time a movie made you think anything other than "god, that was 45 minutes too long?" (The Double Life of Veronique is under 100 minutes! yessss)

[I didn't hear it cause I was, like, weeping, but my friend said at the end a guy behind us was angrily griping that the movie was too slow? Huh? Stuff is literally happening every moment of the movie? There is not a single wasted scene, line or frame? What even are these senses whose proofs we can so liberally ignore?]

Since it might be another 15 years until I see it again and I don't have the benefit of just having written a college thesis that was mostly about Lacan via Zizek, I thought I would type out a few thought exercises/interpretative frameworks that I think apply to this movie:

The contingent nature of the universe/the senselessness of existense -- probably the easiest to justify, especially in the context of Kieslowski's complete ouevre, in consideration of his personal history, based on the interviews he's given, etc...

What to do about emotional apocrypha — what do you do with and about feelings that seem to come from nowhere? Feelings are "real" and we know now (i.e. the science is now there to tell us, eg Lisa Feldman Barrets's fascinating work) they're not in any way subservient in value or usefulness to "reason"; like if anything the opposite, emotions are the "why" and reason is the very patched together and incomplete "how" behind what we are and what we do. Worth thinking about why it is Kieslowski's most compelling films have female protagonists given the historical association to the binary genders for emotion vs reason.

The duality and dichotomy of post-war East/West Europe -- I think this one is sorta obvious but not less resonant? There's a good article out there about how the film predicted a lot of the consequences of the EU. Elsewhere I've read that Polish critics pilloried Kieslowski for a traitor to his kind over this theme, which reminded me of the story about how Bach's works were sometimes not well received by the church patrons who got to hear a lot of it first because they thought it was too dour -- imagine you have the greatest musician who will ever live as your church musician and your biggest peeve is his music isn't fun enough for Sunday. In any event this is a major theme in Three Colors, and I'm sure there's no accident that this movie and the Trilogy are connected by the same fake composer (key work = "Song for the Unification of Europe"...)

Return to theory in film (Zizek) -- he wrote a whole book about it. I'm not sure I agree Kieslowski's films make the case for the return to Theory (ie I think you can interpret his movies without it.) But the fact that you can so unbelievably seamlessly integrate his films to a Lacanian framework gives me that feeling of the inevitability of Lacan.

Art Cinema's enduring interest in interrogating the limits of its medium -- which of course is also present in art literature for its own medium, and frequently not only present but foregrounded in theatre. The Puppetmaster is a clear analogue to the filmmaker (and of God, lmao...they can't help themselves), but also all the unbelievably uncomfortable sex scenes in this movie are a masterclass on the male gaze and how you constitute and undermine it...etc.

Space-time Travel (Zizek) -- right away, I'm going to say I don't think this one is all that interesting, but it's what Criterion chose to accompany the 15th year re-release of the movie. So...ok 🤷🏽‍♀️ I'd say that listening to physics podcasts has convinced me of the value of a literary education (those hermeneutical skills come in so handy), so I see the relevance of thinking of these two together, but I also feel like the fake math is the part of Lacan I always found a little too silly to stand.

The agony of art as vocation -- I'm sorta lazily splitting this out from #5 just because when I originally wrote this post I had 7 points and now I can only remember 6 of them, and I like the resonance of 7....There's a Badiou-esque invocation of the four types of truth procedures at work in this movie that could easily fill the pages of another unread senior thesis: science -- the zizek time travel thing, the way the movie is, actually, concerned with the explanation of what is happening and why, rather than just accepting as a premise that there can be doubles in the world; politics -- the scene where Weronika meets Veronique is at a political rally, the east/west thing mentioned above, etc; art and love, obviously.... But the key to the "plot" of Veronique's life is "Does she keep singing, even if it kills her?"

Random closing thoughts:

I'm still thinking about and cannot resolve the mystery of the subplot about Veronique testifying in her friend's divorce(?) trial. What does it mean?

One thing that always bothered me about Kieslowski is a feeling i have that his movies are slightly (high key???) exploitative of his actresses, which seems like shabby repayment for their taking considerable artistic risks. Maybe I'm just getting this feeling from applying Lacan and Zizek to his movies though (that's two dudes who definitely don't understand about women...). I'd like to think I'm wrong about this, his masterworks are all with women and "about" women. I don't think he doesn't get this, though, see again the Puppetmaster (surely one of the creepiest dudes to ever grace an art film and that's saying a lot).

#the double life of veronique #krzysztof kieslowski #kieslowski #film #movies #irene jacob #puppetmaster #zizek #lacan

[aventurine-official]

I'm doing well, thank you! I'm in a class right now but not really listening. I need some motivation.

What about you? I've seen what you did with Sunday, good job~

- 🍀

Ah, that's fair enough.

I've attended some of Veritas' lectures before, and they were sooooooooo boring, I almost fell asleep. Good thing he has a sexy voice, or my head would have become one with the desk.

Motivation? Will a hug do? I know you might not be here in person, but... air hug?

*The blonde makes the gesture of wrapping his arms around the anon, gently caressing their back.* I believe you can do anything, by the way~ Anything you can put your mind to.

Oh, that? *A soft blush appears on the gambler's cheeks.* Yes, it's quite fun... he's so very pretty, a really handsome man, in fact...

#trump card 🃏 #lucky clover anon 🍀 #angel boy 🪶 #king of diamonds ♦️ #honkai star rail #aventurine #hsr #hsr aventurine #honkai star rail rp #hsr rp #aventurine honkai star rail #dr ratio #dr ratio hsr #sunday honkai star rail #sunday hsr