#Hew Bitch

[cyarsk52-20]

[real-fire-emblem-takes]

What do you mean my team is unbalanced because I use "too many magic units" fuck you!!! I love my mages. They're so slay. I reclass all of my units to be able to use magic. You can counterattack from any range! Physical damage? Speed supplements + artificial dodge tanking + killing enemies preemptively in player phase + vantage (if they have access) + my dick's bigger than yours.

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[milfygerard]

i know we all say it all the time but tumblrs shitty search function is truly the worst and the fucking bane of my existence

[starlit-mansion]

I think pink is a really pretty color to work with in art and i've had it as a big feature in my blog colors for years but god i dont touch it for clothes irl.

[mentally-gone002]

worried on the floor

summary: spencer passes out in a moment of panic after a case that put him on edge when his girlfriend isn’t home at her usual time. 

warnings: probably some inaccuracies because i’m a child and don’t know what tf i’m talking abt

a/n: got bored and had time between writing a script so here yall go, eat up you hungry bitches💜

————————————————————————

apartment 23 had stood alone and dark ever since y/n had left for work. she usually left at the same time as spencer but he was away working a case. 

when spencer was home and the workday ended y/n was always the first one home, always there to greet him with a kiss at the door. 

today that was different. 

spencer felt something was off when he got through the door. his head was already full of the days previous case, which was filled with solving the kidnappings and murders of young women in wisconsin. they were all y/n’s age, which is what made him anxious. 

“y/n?” he still called out, “are you home?” the question floated in the air, unanswered. 

spencer toed off his shoes and put them on the mat right where they always sat beside hers. 

her shoes were missing. 

the slow acceleration of spencer’s heartbeat made his hands sweat with anxiety during his slow advance further into his apartment. 

why wasn’t she home? 

he flipped on the lights in the kitchen and the living room. everything was as they had left it that morning. he breathed shakily with the worry in his chest growing by the second. 

what if something happened to her.

is she okay?

spencer’s hands were shaking but he didn’t notice until he was pulling out the phone in his pocket to dial her number. the line rang and rang with no answer. only your voicemail. 

“hey, i can’t answer now ‘cause i’m probably doing something pretty amazing. leave your message at the beep and i’ll get back to you!” 

he tried again but it went to voicemail, again. he anxiously snapped his phone shut but kept it in his hands as he stood still in the middle of the apartment between the kitchen and the living room. 

spencer felt himself starting to panic; breath quickening and shallow, his heartbeat drumming in his ears at a pace that would be concerning to anyone monitoring it. he felt light headed from not getting enough oxygen, but he pushed the feeling down by worrying about her. that only caused his head to be filled with that swimming feeling. 

he needed to know she was okay. 

he needed to know she was coming home. 

the last thing he remembered was staring at his phone, flipping it open almost in slow motion and trying to dial morgan’s number but his fingers wouldn’t press the buttons. 

he blinked and it went dark.

y/n got home fifteen minutes later than usual. she noticed spencer’s car outside and excitedly walked up to the second story. she noticed two missed calls from him on her way up. 

when she reached the second floor she saw the soft orange hew of the lights on inside from under the door before she noticed the door wasn’t closed all the way. 

a million thoughts raced through her mind as she moved in slow motion to push the door open, looking for anything that would signal at a break in. that would be the only explanation for the door not being closed and locked; spencer was a stickler for locking the doors since he knew what monsters were out there. 

there was nothing that told her there was someone inside, but the image of spencer’s body laying on the floor made her scream. 

“spencer?” she fell to the floor right above him, a hand shakily touching his face. “spencer?” she kept calling his name but he wasn’t waking up. “baby, i need you to open your eyes! please open your eyes!” her fingers pressed into the side of his neck, feeling for a heartbeat that had her relieved to feel.

she kept trying to wake him, using all of the things she knew for a situation like this. 

she moved his body so that he was flat on his back and then grabbed his shoulders, jostling them. 

“spencer!” y/n felt her eyes burn with tears as she kept trying to wake him. “spencer, wake up! please…” she dropped her head onto the center of his chest just before sobs wracked her body. her hands squeezed the tops of his shoulders so tight that he would definitely have marks there for a day or two. she kept on moving his shoulders, lightly now.

spencer squeezed his eyes closed, breathing in with a groan. he felt a weight on his chest, not something he was imagining but a physical weight. he shifted himself on the floor. 

“spence?” he heard y/n whisper. “oh, thank god.” she sighed, sitting up to wipe tears that stained her face with one hand while the other cupped his face. 

he furrowed his brows and sat up, one arm propping him up. “are you okay?” he asked groggily, studying her face with worried eyes. “what happened?” 

she shook her head. “i came home and you were unconscious. i was so scared, spencer.” she whimpered. 

spencer frowned, pulling her into him. he was ignoring the pain in his head. “hey, everything’s alright. i’m okay.” he whispered, moving his hands to cup her face and make her look at him. “y/n, i’m okay.” 

she nodded in his hands. “i know, i know.” y/n blinked hard and breathed slow. “i’ve never known you to just… pass out. have you been taking care of yourself? you were out working on that case for a while.”

he nodded, smiling the best he could at her. “yeah, i have. i just stressed myself out, that’s all.” 

“why? what was stressing you out?” she wondered. 

spencer looked away at how they were seated in the floor. “i thought someone like our last unsub got you because you weren’t home before me.” he sighed with closed eyes. 

y/n frowned. “no one got me.” she assured.

“i’m so thankful for that.” he sighed, putting his arms around her shoulders to hide his face in her neck. “so thankful.” 

y/n put her arms around his back in return, holding onto him tight just to tell him she really was there. “i’m glad you’re okay, spencer.” she told him. 

he nodded and closed his eyes to better revel in the feeling of having her this close. 

[meanqueens]

Alicent, Lyonel, literally everyone in Westeros: Rhaenyra having bastards is a huge problem that puts us all in danger.

Rhaenyra: I have finally realized that this is indeed a huge problem. Alicent, you will hand over your only daughter to make my fuck ups your problem too.

Alicent: No.

Fandom: That power hungry bitch.

thank you for your asks, anons and @cheriealicent !

honestly, the scene where alicent vented to criston as they went down the hall was so valid, and i think it perfectly surmises alicent’s mindset at this point. i’m gonna quote it here just for reference before i go on:

“Have I lost my sanity, Ser Criston? Do my senses lead me astray, or is everyone else asleep dreaming the same woolly dream? … She flaunts the privilege of her inheritance without shame, she expects everyone in the Red Keep to deny the truth our eyes can all plainly see. And the king her father— … Of course he knows! Or did once, but has convinced himself otherwise. He'll do naught but make excuses for her! … I have to believe, that in the end, honor and decency will prevail. We need to hew to that and to each other.”

it’s as if rhaenyra is pushing her privilege to see how far it can go, and alicent, the one who has had to completely adhere to the societal womanly role, is sick of it. “why isn’t everyone being held to the same standards that i am?” how frustrating is that?!

the fact of the matter is that rheanyra’s choices are effecting everyone around her, but both she and her father refuse to fully acknowledge it. she unfortunately does not have the freedom she thinks she does, and it’s bound to come crashing down on her head (and her children’s heads!). she and viserys can play ignorant all they’d like, but word gets around, and the misogynistic and patriarchal westeros is not going to take too kindly to this “breaking of the rules”. they can skirt the line all they’d like, but that will only take them so far; they can’t execute the whole realm for having eyes.

it puts the strongs in danger (and ended up burning them, likely), it screws over alicent’s children, and it complicates the succession of driftmark. i truly do not understand how we get to villainizing the people with the justified concerns? and lest we forget the double-standard that alicent having illegitimate children would be “inexcusable”, in-universe and out.

[seat-safety-switch]

We both know that, at some point in the past, you’ve been to a town that was enjoying a carving competition. Lumber, ice, marble: it’s human nature for some incredibly talented individuals to carve a statue out of another material, and then have their fellow cattle appear to gawp at it. Recently, I was in a small town, and they were doing a chainsaw carving competition. Artisans were busy hewing classical art out of broken trees, and it really got my creative juices flowing.

When I got back home, the only thing I could think about was making art of my own. Of course, I don’t own anything as clumsy as a chainsaw, and the municipality in which I reside has only recently removed their “no tree zone” bylaw, enacted after a particularly bad weekend in 1912 in which several beavers invaded City Hall. In their place, respectively, I chose an angle grinder, and the three-sixteenths of a 1974 Chrysler Newport that had been clogging up the corner of my yard for four presidents.

Of course, as with any art form, my first attempt at it was clumsy. Inexpert. I became frustrated at not being able to get my emotions into my work. I also went through a lot of AliExpress’s best “Holy Shit Very Sharp!” brand carbide wheels, some of which fractured even as I was loading them into the white-hot grinder. I persisted. My second production would be better, I told myself, and threw myself into it. Days turned into nights, and nights turned into days, because otherwise that would be kind of weird.

There is a name for the phenomenon which I was now experiencing. “Outsider art” is the polite way that the art community refers to anyone who had not received any classical art training (I never even learned finger painting, because my pre-school teacher, Ms. Ellersly – who I cannot remember the face of, but who drove a 1958 DeSoto Adventurer in puce – got busted for pot that day) but still manages to make art. Well, bitches, I got a whole gallery full of it now, and every tuned-in patron of sculpture was lining up to tell me how brilliant I was and how I should be asking millions more.

Well, I stopped doing it shortly after that. They say you should always leave your audience wanting, but that wasn’t it at all. Between you and me, I’d probably be making more, but I got bored of the whole thing. And I definitely didn’t want to cut up any more cars. At least, not any cars that I owned, and something about the high-boron steel superstructure of the Kia Sportage that keeps parking at the end of my driveway on weekends is not conducive to my particular muse. Oh? You’re right, I can keep it on hand in case I need some rust repair panels in the future.

[littlewestern]

if you’re still taking ship asks, thomas? and if not i understand!💙 ty either way

I sat here looking at this ask for about 45 seconds with a blank expression on my face because my knee-jerk reaction to people asking what I think about about Thomas is usually, "I don't think about him at all <3". This is both rude and not true.

I like Thomas in small doses! I like early season little shit Thomas who makes life harder on everyone around him because he's new and doesn't know anything, and I like later season CGI revisits to little shit Thomas so long as it doesn't get too obnoxious. One of my favorite things about the later seasons of Little Shit Thomas is how faithfully it hews to the source material.

There are two things that remain wholly consistent across the TVS canon Thomas iterations: 1) He hates his snowplow and 2) He has zero game. He gets absolutely no bitches. Negative rizz. Maidenless behavior. The only women who love him unconditionally are his coaches. I think this is one of the funniest things about his character.

Across the board, whenever he meets a girl engine in a serial episode, Thomas immediately starts beefing with them. Emily, Rosie, Ashima, Nia, Cleo. Granted, Thomas will beef with most new engines he meets at first because he's insecure and wasn't raised right, but with the girls it goes on without exception. And it's also funny, as I mentioned.

That said, this is the foundation for what is probably my favorite Thomas ship that NO ONE has ever heard of, of which I am the sole captain and which I will probably go to my grave defending.

GINA:

For what they are, the Italian characters in BWBA are probably some of the most overdeveloped side characters I've ever seen on this show. And for basically no reason, because no one besides DJ and I watched season 23 and paid attention.

That said, you might be surprised to hear that Gina is one of my favorite characters in the entire TVS and no I'm not even joking about this lol.

I love her design, I love how pretty she is, I love that she reads as a little bit older and more experienced without watering her down to something bland. In the episodes she shows up in, she demands all of your attention and I'm happy to give it because she's got this fantastic design and colorful personality I find eminently watchable. That on it's own is enough to make me like her.

But my favorite thing about Gina is that, like all the other female character mentioned above, she frequently gets into little arguments with Thomas. The difference here is that while Emily and Rosie and Nia and Ashima don't really let Thomas's immaturity get under their skin and move on from their arguments with him easily, Gina gets so upset when Thomas argues with her.

Like magic, this transforms the relationship from scanning as "coworkers having a disagreement" to "Gina cares what Thomas thinks about her, and the fact that she cares bothers her so much". It's hard to describe without having seen the episodes, so I do encourage you to watch All Tracks Lead To Rome to see what I mean. It;s fascinating behavior from an engine who, up until the point she starts arguing with Thomas, seems like she has her shit together. Then Thomas says some dumbass shit and she immediately lets it ruin her day.

it's like. You ever develop a crush on someone who is just... Like you can't stand them sometimes? But you still have a crush on them even when you're completely done with their shit? And you're mad at yourself for still thinking their dumb face is adorable and for letting it bother you so much because you can't stop thinking about their dumb adorable face even though you're mad? No? Just me?

Well. It's like that. And that is such a funny and refreshing way to approach a character dynamic, especially in this show where most of the side characters are One Note Nobodies.

tl;dr: Gina is morosexual. Thomas asked her what the Italian word for al dente was and now she dreams of kissing him under the moonlight. And she hates that so much.

Also go watch the Italy episodes of BWBA, they're great.

[tropes-and-tales]

If You Weren’t You

Day 12:  Hate/Angry Sex (Benny “Borracho” Magalon x F!Reader)

(For the 2022 Kinktober event offered by @the-purity-pen​​.  The original post and calendar/list can be found here.)

CW:  Rude and insulting language; misogynistic language; smut (angry sex but only kinda because most of the anger is pre-sex so maybe this is a poor entry for kinktober, I dunno, your girl is struggling here; PiV, unprotected; car sex).  18+ only.

Word Count:  5513

It’s Big Nick’s fault.

He sets the tone between Major Crimes and the FBI.  He talks poorly about the federal agents, saves the worst of it for Lobbin’ Bob and his perfectly parted hair and perfectly pressed suits.  Bob and his veganism, Bob and his good, clean living.  

Big Nick sets the tone, and his detectives follow suit.  Lobbin’ Bob responds accordingly…as do the agents who work under him.  

Borracho’s thing with you actually starts because of Henderson.  It’s a string of bank robberies; the suspects are a crew out of Bakersfield working around Los Angeles.  The FBI is called in.  When Lobbin’ Bob and his field agents walk past them to get to the crime scene, Henderson elbows Borracho and snickers.

“Looks like they got an ice princess on the feds now,” he says, nodding in your direction.  You look like you’re cut from the same cloth as Bob:  neat clothing, neat ponytail, stick-in-the-ass way of walking.

You walk past, already have your back to them, but you catch Henderson’s remark.  You stop and turn, look at them.  Your eyes, for whatever reason, settle on Borracho:  matches Henderson’s words to him.

“Asshole,” you say, eyes narrowed, and you turn away.

“Got me in trouble, you dick,” Borracho snorts, shaking his head at his fellow detective.  But to your retreating back, he glares from behind his shades and thinks, what a bitch.

-----

It doesn’t get any better.

You’re the only woman on Bob’s team, and Big Nick has nearly as many comments for you as he does for your leader.  Which marks you as fair game to the rest of the guys in Major Crimes.

Borracho, for his part, has never been a complete follower—not the way Henderson and Z and Connors are—but it is easy to get swept up in the piling-on that happens when Big Nick starts on you.

You have two main approaches to the crude comments Nick lobs at you:  utter silence and snarky retorts.  You typically employ the former:  Nick may say something incredibly rude—imply that your pussy is filled with icicles, imply that a hard fuck would loosen you right up—and you only respond with an unblinking stare.  

You stare so long that it makes them squirm, makes the entire moment turn from funny to something heavy and uncomfortable.

But the latter approach, the snarky retorts?  You employ those sparingly, and to devastating effect.  And you use them mostly on the guys, Borracho included.

Most of Borracho’s insults for you hew close to Henderson’s original ice princess remark, with his own observations around you being uptight, robotic, and obsessive about proper police procedures.  Your answering insults to him seem to cast him as a drooling moron.

Borracho calls you a frosty bitch.

You call him an idiotic asshole.

He calls you an uptight cunt.

You call him tall, dark, and stupid.

He says that any guy who might try to fuck you would have his dick fall off from severe frostbite.

You snort mirthlessly, tell him that’s funny, coming from a walking STD like him.

He implies that you and Lobbin’ Bob have a thing going on, two asshole feds having bland vanilla sex together.

You reply, completely monotone, that you’d rather fuck Bob than be Nick O’Brien’s little lap dog.

He tells you to shut the fuck up.

You reply that he too should shut the fuck up.

It doesn’t get any better.  It only gets worse.

-----

It gets worse when Major Crimes and the FBI work a case together.  

It involves other departments—LAPD, ATF—but the bulk of the work is done by your respective teams.  Big Nick, unable to stand planning a multi-agency case, passes off much of the work to Borracho.

Lobbin’ Bob is juggling too many cases and hands off the FBI’s side to you.

If you weren’t…well, you…Borracho would be impressed.  All the things he and the guys from Major Case harass you about…your work ethic is the flip-side of those things.

Your frostiness could be construed as consummate professionalism.

Your uptight, robotic nature could be read as a desire to solve a case quickly and with airtight evidence.

But you’re you.  You’re the woman that called him a lap dog and a walking STD (though he’s called you things just as bad, a fact he tacitly ignores), so Borracho doesn’t let any admirable feelings for you take root, and he only does what he must to solve the case and never work with you so closely again.

*****

Despite all the new technology, sometimes things have to be old-school, which is why you find yourself setting up a listening post in an apartment building in Marina del Rey.  It’s a high-end building, full of wealthy people, but the one you are targeting is on a top floor condo.

You work with building management to take over a utility room one floor down, right under the condo in question.  It’s a cramped space, but there’s enough room for the audio equipment and recording devices.

And enough room for two chairs and two people.

You try to plan it any other possible way.  You try to pull in an LAPD detective, but they are running their own piece of this case.  Same with ATF.  

You try to get another FBI agent to sit with you on the overnight shift, but Big Nick manages to speak up long enough to throw a fit—he accuses you of icing out his team, trying to steal all the credit when the case is solved.

So you try to get any other detective from Major Crimes.  Literally any other guy.

It ends up being Tall, Dark, and Stupid.

You know his name is Magalon, just the way you know he knows your name.  But he never uses your name, not a single time, and you do him the same courtesy.

-----

You’ve run a few listening posts.  It is never as exciting as it looks in the movies, because usually there’s nothing to do but wait for that one, single clue.

Late on a Friday night, sitting in a cramped utility closet with Magalon, you wait.

And wait.  And wait.

Your partner for the evening sighs early on, slides his dark glasses over his face, then leans back in his chair.  You can’t tell if he’s asleep, but he’s silent, and that’s something.  For once he isn’t calling you a bitch or a cunt or any charming variation on the same misogynistic theme.

It doesn’t bother you when he does.  You’ve worked in law enforcement your whole adult life, and Magalon is exactly the same as the majority of men in the field.  

You’ve run listening posts before.  You know the drill.  You set the equipment high enough to hear, low enough to not be heard through the utility room door.  And then you pull your book out of your bag and start reading.

You swear you hear Magalon snort, very softly.  You can imagine what he’s thinking.  In his world, reading a book probably translates to stuck-up or boring or whatever other untrue things he thinks about you.

So you tilt your chin a little higher.  Let him think whatever he wants.

*****

Borracho is bored and moreover, the guys had a piss test earlier in the day, which means he’s missing their usual party.

They drew names to see who had to run the listening post with Queen Frostine.  Of course his name was pulled.

And of course you sit there completely composed, paging through a book, engrossed in whatever you are reading.

He watches you from behind his dark glasses.  If you weren’t you, he’d think you were okay.  Too well put-together for his tastes; Borracho prefers his women a little messy.  Women with an edge.  You’re too polished, perfectly rounded off.  No edge to you.

But you are good-looking.  He tries to picture you dressed down and finds he can’t do it.  Even now—you’re in jeans and a button-down shirt tucked in—you’re too neat.  Your eyeliner is perfect.  Your lipstick is just a shade darker than your natural color.

He can’t picture you roughed up.  He can’t picture you with eye makeup a little smeared, lipstick blurred at the edges of your lips.  Hair tousled, clothes rumpled.  

You’re probably the type of woman who sleeps in formal pajamas.  The thought makes him snort, and it pulls your eyes from your book, your cool gaze settling on him.

“Something wrong, detective?”

He doesn’t answer you.  “What are you reading?”

You look back to your page, turn it.  “A book.”

“Funny.”  A beat.  “What’s it called?”

You turn the book so he can see it, tap the cover with your forefinger.  The Devil in the White City, it says.

“What’s it about?” he asks.

“Crime.”

“Sounds fun.”

You glance at him again.  “It’s about H.H. Holmes.  Some consider him to be the first modern serial killer.”

“Sounds extra fun.”

You turn back to your book.  “About as much fun as manning a listening post with an ice princess, I imagine.”

He snorts again, this time bitter.  “Or with a walking STD.”

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corners of your lips before you school your expression.  You don’t reply to him.

-----

An hour passes.  No—it crawls by.

You read.  He scrolls through social media, and it’s punctuated from time to time with messages from the guys.

Z sends a simple Miss you, bro.

Connors says It’s only 10 and Nick is already FUKKED up.

Henderson asks how’s it going with the bitch queen?

Borracho chuckles and replies Quiet.  Listening post is dead and shes reading.

It’s Friday night and he already has that Friday night restless energy thing going on.  He sighs and counts down the time remaining until the two of you are relieved by another FBI agent and a technician from the Sheriff’s department.

Twenty minutes later, Nick sends a text.  Well, less a text than a series of pics:  the bevy of women Nick has hired for the night.  What Borracho is missing out on.  

He sighs again, and you glance at him.  You correctly guess at what’s bothering him.

“You can leave, if you want,” you say.  

He’s tempted.  He knows you can handle it, and further—he doubts you have plans on a Friday night.  He doubts you’re missing anything fun.  You’d probably be reading that same book at home.

“Big Nick wants one of us here,” he replies.  

“I’d cover for you.”

“Bullshit,” he retorts.  “You’d throw me under the bus.”

You shrug.  “Yeah, probably.”

“Then why would you even offer to cover for me?”

Another shrug.  “I like mind games.  Most bitches do.”

He huffs out a breath, crosses his arms across his chest.  He leans back in his chair and stares at you.  “I wasn’t even the one who called you an ice princess that first time, you know.  That was Henderson.”

“I thought you were Henderson.”

“Asshole.  You know my name.”

You turn another page, and he almost misses the faint smile.  If you weren’t you, he’d think you were teasing him.  

“Honestly, all of you Major Crimes detectives look the same to me,” you say.  

“All you agents look the same.  Same stick-up-the-ass.”

“Better to have a stick up the ass than to be a thug with a badge and a gun.”

“You think I’m a bad cop?”  He tightens his jaw, feels his molars grinding against each other.

“I think you’re all bad cops,” you clarify.  “I think you care more about your parties.  O’Brien certainly cares more about being the bad boy of the sheriff’s department, and the rest of you fall in line like his little ducklings.”

It stings to hear you say it out loud, though Borracho has long suspected that you’d thought that about them.  You have a way of looking at them when they are joking around, a subtle way of shaking your head like a disappointed mother.

“It’s just letting off steam,” he replies, defensive.  “How the fuck do you unwind?”

You look at him, tilt your head.  “Spoiler alert, detective, but I unwind the same way.  I drink, I fuck.  I just keep it separate from the work.  I don’t let it affect my job.”

That stings too, you obliquely saying that you’re better than him.  That you have it more together, which (in a calmer moment) he’d probably admit.  Right now, he stews—the guys are off having fun, Nick sent the pics of the honeys at the party, and Borracho is stuck sitting with you, being told that you’re better than him.

“Yeah, I can just picture it,” he snaps, his voice laced with sarcasm.  “Half a glass of white wine, then you fuck some lame asshole in missionary with the lights off.  What a fucking badass.”

You keep your head tilted, and now you pair it with an infuriating smile.

“I don’t need to prove to you if I’m cool,” you say.  A beat, and then you add, “at least I don’t have to pay for it.”

“I don’t pay for it!”  He hates how defensive he sounds, the way his voice cracks on the word pay like he’s a fucking child.

“Oh, sorry.  O’Brien pays for it.  That’s so much better.”

“I don’t…partake in that stuff.”  Not anymore, anyway.  He had a few times right after his divorce when he was in a bad way and wallowing, but he hasn’t since then.  It always left him feeling cheap and a little scummy…but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy going to the parties and looking.

“Okay.”  Your tone is clear that you don’t believe him, and you turn back to your book.

“I don’t.”

“Sure, Henderson.”

He huffs in frustration.  “Christ, you are a cunt.”

“Thanks.”

“It wasn’t a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?  Cunts are a lot of fun.  Seems like a compliment, calling me one.”

It always goes like this.  Every single fucking time.  You always respond to his insults with these infuriating responses, deliver barbs and retorts back to him without being affected at all.  

And just like always, Borracho settles on his usual closing statement.

“Shut the fuck up,” he says.

“You first,” you reply.

*****

The bickering kills off the remaining time of your shift, and before you know it, there’s a knock on the door and your relief is there to spell you.

What surprises you is Magalon doesn’t stalk away the moment he can.  He keeps his steps measured to yours, falls in beside you as you go into the parking garage under the building.  

He doesn’t speak.  He just walks beside you, and you can feel the anger still radiating off of him.  Of all of them, Magalon falls on the quieter end of the spectrum.  O’Brien is Major Crimes’ chattiest asshole, and Magalon usually sits back and listens.  You think sometimes he talks the most to you, which is probably a shame since you constantly squabble.

In the parking garage, he grumbles, “this was a lot of fucking fun.  Great way to spend a Friday night.”

It stings, faintly.  You offered to cover.  He’s the one who stayed, in the end.  There wouldn’t have been any repercussions if he left, especially from his boss.  For fuck’s sake, O’Brien is the first to break the rules.  He’d never reprimand one of his detectives for leaving their post with an FBI agent.

“Hurry along then,” you retort.  “Maybe you can make it in time and get O’Brien’s sloppy seconds.”

You expect him to tell you to fuck off.  You expect him to call you a name.  You expect his usual weak finishing move of shut the fuck up.

Thing is, he does say shut the fuck up…he just says it as he turns and squares up to you, puffs his chest out and faces you, and you stupidly think he’s challenging you to a fight.  He’s only half a head taller than you, but he’s broad through the chest and arms, and you take a defensive step back…

“Don’t you ever shut the fuck up?” he repeats, and he shakes his head at his own question, frustration writ across his face.  “Why can’t you ever just…be fucking quiet?”

You open your mouth to answer (apparently you cannot ever shut the fuck up), but he takes another step to close the gap between you, and maybe Detective Magalon hates you, but something is driving him other than hatred at the moment.  He reaches out and wraps a hand around the back of your neck, holds you steady.  His eyes dip down to look at your mouth before they slide up and gaze into your own eyes.

Oh.  Oh, shit.

You only just grasp the situation when his mouth is on yours, hot and insistent, but not cruel.  His mouth slots over yours, his tongue pries your lips apart, and you hate that you open up to him so willingly.  You try to logic out the situation—Friday nights always key you up, and the guy you had a friends-with-benefits situation moved away months ago—but the cool, logical part of your brain is falling silent.

It’s giving over to the baser part of your brain that chases pleasure, that sparks up like fireworks at the feeling of Magalon’s rough kissing, the way his lips are just a bit chapped.  The way his facial hair tickles against your face.  The way he grips your neck—firm but not too hard, and the pad of his thumb strokes the side of your neck.

Well, shit.

*****

Borracho convinces himself that he’s just worked up.  He’s just confusing the nascent lust that bloomed from Big Nick’s pictures of the women with his ongoing irritation of you.  

That when you took the mean shot about sloppy seconds, he was going to place his hand over your mouth to shut you the fuck up…but you looked at him in surprise, your lips parting, and the motion drew his eyes, and his brain (tall, dark, and stupid after all) did the wrong thing.

What surprises him is that you still for a second, but then you kiss him back.  You open your mouth to him, allow him to sweep his tongue against yours.  You breathe out through your nose, and after a beat, you reach up to circle your fingers around his wrist, around the hand that has a firm hold on you.

You don’t pry his hand away.  You only hold him steady as he holds you steady.

It’s not love.  It’s not even lust.  It’s just months and months of irritation, finally bubbling over into this.

That’s what he tells himself.  As he walks you backwards, as he presses you against your SUV.  As he grinds against you, getting steadily harder against your thigh.  As you make these little noises, these quiet whimpers.  As you kiss him back, as your other hand hooks against his belt and holds him close to you.

This is just his irritation with you.  He’s letting off steam.  That is it.

He can’t fathom what you’re doing.  If he’s constantly angry with you, then you have to feel similarly.  

Maybe you’re unwinding too.  What did you say earlier?  You unwind the same way as him?  

I drink, I fuck, you said.

Your prospects for the latter must be bleak if you’re willing to fuck him, but he’s not going to complain.

You release your hold on his wrist, and you reach down into your pocket, fumble until you pull out your keys.  You hit the fob, and you unlock your SUV.  He steps away from you, releases you from where he has you trapped against the door.  You open the door to the back, and he starts to push you in, push you onto the back seat but you murmur, wait a second.  

You turn away from him, and it’s automatic how his hands go to your waist, hold you.  It’s like if he stops touching you, the insane spell will be broken, a current halted because of a break in the circuit.

There’s a protective cover on your backseat, and it takes you a moment to get it unhooked and tossed into the far back of the vehicle, and you turn back to him with a shrug.  “Dog hair,” you say simply, and Borracho lets the comment slide over him.  He is already pulling you back to him, kissing you again, pushing you into your SUV.

You hook your hands into his belt again and pull him in with you.

Car sex is always better in theory than reality.  It’s hot in the abstract but fraught in practice.  Borracho has a fair amount of experience—the sum total of his sexual history in high school was realized in the backseat of the shitty Acura Legend he inherited from his aunt.

At least your SUV is bigger.

It’s still awkward.  Difficult to get you out of your jeans and panties, difficult to get his own pants and boxers pushed down enough.  The backseat is too short for both of you, so it takes effort to arrange your legs.  You bend one, press it against the back of the seat, and the other plants on the floorboard.  Borracho kneels clumsily, shuffles to slot himself between your thighs.

It’s dim enough in the SUV that he can pretend you’re not you.  Because aside from you murmuring yes to answer his question is this okay with you?...you don’t talk.

The thought occurs to him that maybe you’re pretending he’s someone else too.

You are far touchier than he thought you would be.  You smooth your palms over his back, his shoulders, his arms.  It makes him feel a little big-headed; he thinks maybe you like his build, maybe you’ve been studying him on the sly and are finally getting to touch him.  You run your fingers through his hair, muss it up, and the strange intimacy of the gesture makes him shudder.

You still when he pushes into you.  He reaches down and lines himself up with you, then inches his hips forward.  He’s shocked to find you ready for him—wet and hot, and as he breeches your entrance, he can feel how your pussy is already twitching against him.

The first stupid thought that comes to his head is I’ll have to tell the guys that there’s no icicles in her pussy after all.

The second, better thought:  No, this is between me and her.  I’ll never say a word to the guys.

*****

Look:  Magalon and O’Brien and their merry band of assholes can say whatever they like about you.  They can call you a bitch or a cunt or whatever rude phrase they want, but you know you’re an ace at your job.  You are efficient.  You are smart.

Sometimes you aren’t quite as smart in your personal life.

Case in point, this moment.  Magalon half-naked, you half-naked underneath him.  In your SUV that smells faintly of salt water and wet dog from the weekend trip to the beach with your retriever.  You know this is a bad idea, your great big brain screams a million warnings, but sometimes you just do dumb things.

The dumb thing you are doing right now is Magalon.

You have no idea what is driving him.  He’ll probably go running straight to the dickhead brigade at Major Crimes and spill everything, but you don’t really care.  They already say terrible things about you.  This would just give them a new avenue to explore.

If he wasn’t Magalon, it’d be easier to fall into the fantasy.  The man is not repulsive looking.  He’s broad, and you run your hands over him, can feel how he’s built under his flannel shirt.  He’s a decent kisser too, not too rough, not too soft and precious about it.  An acceptable amount of tongue without trying to map the shape of your tonsils.  

His hands are nice too—you’ve noticed them before.  You can admit to yourself that you don’t hate the way they feel when they touch you, when they grip your waist or when they cup your hip as he settles against you.

When he pushes into you, it stuns you.  You freeze underneath him, breathe in deep and shut your eyes at the sensation.

The universe is often unfair, you’ve found.  Giving an asshole like Magalon that good dick, perfectly sized.  What a waste.

Not a complete waste, not now, at least.  Not when he’s sliding into you, and not when you give way to him.  It burns just a bit, the way he stretches you, but it’s that good pain that bumps up so close to pleasure that the two are undiscernible from each other.  He must feel his own version of it because he drops his head beside yours, breathes out a harsh fuck once his hips are flush against yours.

You know he hates you, but in this moment, he’s considerate.  Almost sweet, actually.  It’s awkward in your SUV; the door handle digs against the top of your head and he notices two thrusts in.  He mutters something you can’t make out, but then he reaches up and cups the back of your head, helps hold you steady.

And he deals you gentler thrusts to keep from hurting you.

You would have never guessed he could be nice.  Especially in a moment like this.  You know it won’t last.  It will end the minute this ends, but he’s being nice, so you’re nice too.  You wrap your arm around his neck.  You pull his face to yours and you kiss him, soft.  

It must surprise him because he huffs against your lips before he kisses you back.  Presses a second gentle peck to your mouth before he breaks away, drops his head beside yours again.

“Fuck, you feel amazing,” he mutters, and he sounds almost begrudging.  Like he thought you’d feel terrible and is mildly pissed to find himself wrong.

You have no witty retort.  You are stunned to near muteness as the feeling of him, the thick drag of his cock as he fucks you at a sedate pace.  You reply, lamely, “you too.”

“Your pussy is gripping me like crazy,” he adds, and his breath against the side of your neck makes you shiver underneath him.  “Fuck, what do you need?”

“Just keep going,” you say.  You raise your hips to meet his thrusts, plant one foot firmer on the floorboard and press up.  It changes the angle, changes the drag of him inside you.  He bumps against that spot inside you, and tilting your hips like makes the base of him settle against your clit each time he bottoms out.

“Close?”  He moves his head, whispers in your ear, and it shouldn’t be hot, him whispering in your goddamned ear.  As he fucks you.  In the backseat of your SUV.  

“I can feel it,” he continues.  “Feel you getting even wetter.  You like fighting with me?  It turn you on, being mean to me?”

You laugh—an actual, genuine laugh.  “Guess so.”

“S’okay.”  He’s getting out of breath; he starts to pant as he picks up the pace.  He lifts his head to gaze down at you, and he’s actually smiling.

You didn’t think he was capable of smiling.  It’s weird to see it on him.  Magalon has actual dimples, a winning smile, and you bite back the urge to tell him that he should smile more, that he should drop the tough-guy, stone-faced routine.  

“Guess it turns me on too,” he admits.  

You can feel yourself getting close, the licking flames of your orgasm growing in heat and intensity.  It shouldn’t be so fucking hot, but it is, and Magalon is too good and you kinda hate that you’re so close already.  That the feel of him, the sound of him, the heavy press of his cock as he splits you open over and over get you so close, so quickly.  

Even the smell of him—no obvious cologne, just the lingering scent of his soap or laundry detergent, the growing scent of his arousal paired with your own.  Your SUV reeks of sex, and you wonder how long it will take to dissipate.  Will it still be noticeable on Monday morning, when you drive into the office?

He drives into you faster, harder, but he keeps his hand on your head, shelters you from hurting yourself against the door.  You feel yourself cross that threshold, the point of no return, and the heat blooms outward, consumes you as you come.

“F-fuck, right there, Magalon,” you whimper.  “Don’t s-stop, oh fuck, don’t stop—”

“Jesus,” he breathes out, and he rears back to watch your face.  His own expression is tense, his lips pressed together in a thin line, and you realize that he’s trying to hold on, trying to delay his own pleasure….

He fails.  He deals you one, final punishing thrust, and then he pulls out with a curse.  Reaches down and pumps his length, and then you feel the hot ropes of his cum as he paints your belly with his release.

“Jesus,” he says again, this time a low mutter.  He drops his head on your shoulder, and you don’t know how to act now that the moment is over.  You reach out and pat him awkwardly on the back, and you stop yourself before you say, “great work, champ.”

It’s a long moment of silence, then he lifts himself off of you.  He doesn’t quite meet your gaze, but he asks, “do you have anything?”  Trails off uncomfortably, then gestures vaguely at the mess he made of you.

“Napkins in the center console.”  You sit up; he reaches past you and snags some napkins from between the front seats.  He hands them to you, and you clean yourself up as best you can.

Then he reaches down, hands you your discarded clothing.  You dress in silence except for the exasperated grunts as you each trying to shimmy back into clothing in the cramped back seat of a vehicle.

Then the two of you climb out of the backseat, and the moment gets so damned awkward and heavy, you try to break it with a joke.

“Now you can tell the guys that there’s no ice in my pussy,” you offer.  You keep your tone light.

He glances at you but doesn’t respond.

“Or tell O’Brien that you gave me a hard fucking, see if it loosened me up or not,” you try.

Magalon shakes his head.  He slides his phone out of his pocket, checks for new messages.  He slides it back into his pocket, then mutters, “wouldn’t do that.”

“You could.  I couldn’t stop you.”

Just like that, you’re back to bickering.  Only now there’s a new weight to it, since he just had his dick in you moments ago.  Since you just swabbed his cum off of you.

“I said I wouldn’t.  I’m not a complete asshole.”

“Since when?  Since five minutes ago?”

“I don’t kiss and tell.”  He crosses his arms and his face goes stony.  The smile, the dimples are long gone.

“Okay.”

He shakes his head.  “Don’t do that shit.”

“What shit?”

“Okay.”  He mimics you, meanly.  “Don’t agree with me in that tone that says you don’t believe me at all.”  

“I don’t believe you.”

“Then don’t.  I don’t give a shit.”

“You sound like you do,” you observe.  “You still pissed you missed your party?”

“That I missed Big Nick’s sloppy seconds?”  He snorts.  “Nah, had you instead.”

“Poor guy,” you reply.  “Had to settle for an ice princess.”

“Yeah, desperate fucking times call for desperate fucking measures,” he snaps.

For some reason, that stings.  That’s a direct blow, and you don’t know why.  Of all the things he’s said to you, all the things he’s called you…this actually hurts.  Maybe because he had been nice in your interlude, that hand cradling your head, that kiss that had been gentle.  It must have been an act—a convincing one—and now he’s back to being the real him.  The him that was apparently desperate enough to fuck you as a last resort.

No wonder he won’t tell the guys.  He’s ashamed to have fucked you.  He’s embarrassed.

You’re a smart woman but you make stupid choices sometimes.

“Well, it’s over.  You survived.”  He can probably hear the hurt in your voice, but you don’t care.  

You tend to deal with the consequences of your stupid choices by fleeing.  Which is what you do now—you turn away, fumble your keys.  Open the driver’s side door, and you catch the startled expression on his face, the surprised “hey” he says, but you ignore both.  

You only climb into your SUV, turn the ignition, and then leave.  And you send up a fervent prayer that the listening post yields something useful over the weekend, because Monday morning already looms like a bank of storm clouds.

[redjaybird]

"No, no. They made it easy." Hew knew about the strawberries for obvious reasons. The shovel was also obvious. He picked up a couple things here and there. And he probably just calls them too much to bitch at them.

"You owe me fruit."

[cyarsk52-20]

[lloydfrontera]

oohh sort of building up this idea by @lunacurse but regression au where javier goes back in time after lloyd goes through the gate instead of crossing universes for him but something goes wrong and instead of replacing his younger self completely they just end up sharing body, with younger javier being behind the wheel more often and habiel only being able to take control for short amounts of time and always ending up sort of sleepy and tired afterwards

javier is extremely suspicious of this guy who claims to be him from the future and also insists that the future of the entire continent depends on his young master but habiel is so passionate about it that he more or less ends up being willing to go along with it reasoning with himself that it's ok because he has to protect lloyd anyway and he can easily take control back from habiel if needed

(and there's a small part of him that can't bring himself to distrust habiel because the way his soul just lights up when he sees lloyd... that affection, that trust, that complete and sheer devotion... that's something that can't be faked and javier is painfully curious about what could lloyd possibly do to make any version of him feel like that about him)

habiel doesn't tell him everything right away because he knows himself and he knows javier wouldn't take well to knowing lloyd is a 'fake' without first building some trust, but he makes the journey easier by explaining to javier some of lloyd's most infuriating quirks (and giving him warning that yes, lloyd will make him fight a dragon but it's ok they can do it no yeah for real) and also by convincing him to take the leaps of faith he had the most trouble with himself

basically it's just them constantly going

javier: he's a fucking ass and i won't do shit

habiel: yeah but he's right and also not as much of an ass as he can be :) so be nice and help him :)) or i'm gonna make you fall on your face once a day in front of everyone :)))

javier: ... fine >:(

and then lloyd goes and does his thing which makes habiel very smug about being proven right and leaves javier sulking a little but reluctantly pleasantly surprised until it gets to a point where he's not even longer protesting and it's just the two of them commiserating about how annoying lloyd can be sometimes

which in turn makes lloyd (who has no idea what's going on) relax and lean more on javier because it doesn't feel like javier is fighting him every step of the way nor that he has to prove himself every time he comes up with some crazy plan. and it's,, sorta nice. to have a friend someone who trusts him like that.

he's very confused about why javier seems to go from completely comfortable in joking and bantering with him one minute to sorta awkward and bewildered with him the next though. not that he cares right, as long as he's willing to go along with his plans it's fine, it's not like he cares if sometimes he goes to joke about something they were laughing about a little bit ago and instead of laughing javier just stares at him like he doesn't know why lloyd's telling him that or how he's supposed to answer, it's fine whatever lloyd doesn't care, let javier be his weird hot-and-cold-self if he wants.

and meanwhile javier and habiel are bickering inside their head because habiel keeps taking control to spend time with lloyd and then that leaves him all exhausted and sleepy which!!! it's not good!! because habiel is supposed to be there to help javier protect lloyd!! an he can't do that if he's all sleepy!!! there can only be one sleep deprived bitch in this body and it's gonna be javier dammit he only just learned what a blessing lullabies are and he's got years of sleep deprivation to make up for >:(

and then we get to the trip to hell where javier learns that lloyd is a fake and he's,,, stunned. completely dumbstruck. he asks habiel if hew knew about it and habiel finally comes clean to him, telling him he didn't tell him because 1. he wasn't ready at the beginning 2. he already doubted if habiel was from the future he would've struggled with believing lloyd was from another world and 3. he thought it'd be best if he heard it directly from lloyd instead of secondhand.

javier feels a little betrayed at first but he comes to understand why habiel had waited and then he decides he's gonna wait for lloyd to trust him enough to tell him.

except habiel goes "nope we're not doing this again get in the backseat" because he already did his waiting dammit and it got him nowhere but to a letter not meant for him and a dead master so he's not doing that again

so instead when lloyd comes back he grabs him by his stupid coat shakes him a few times and then just spills the entire truth while also berating him for being so dumb and not trusting him and for fucking dying on him and he's not allowed to do that again does he understand habiel won't allow it-

and the shock makes javier take control again because habiel never told him lloyd died that's important information what the hell habiel-

and lloyd is just reeling because that was way too much information all at once. two javiers? from the future? restoration of fate? gate of reincarnation??? what????

it's a long, long conversation lmao

[flutishly]

LBD rewatch, part 2

I’ll just update for a few episodes in one go, but in pieces.

1. Lydia in LA

Before I dive into Darcy Day whatnot, I want to pause for a moment on the way that Lydia presents herself in the two episodes between the Great Darcy Reveal. I remembered the existence of these episodes, but nothing about their content; I suspect that their placement in the story makes it hard to focus on that. I mean, DARCY is going to APPEAR in the NEXT VIDEO. And it’s hard to assign Lydia’s arc here to something fixed in the original Pride and Prejudice novel, which maybe also makes it fly under the radar a bit.

There’s an odd bit of performance happening in these videos that I again find more believable now than I did when it first aired. Lydia, notably, does not turn the camera off in “Runaway” once Jane starts pressing her, nor even once she starts answering Jane’s gently probing questions. It’s ultimately Jane who turns the camera off and forces the rest of the conversation offscreen. We don’t get a clear resolution to her line of questioning, either. The initially somewhat judgmental assumption that Lydia is skipping class in order to be with a boy is quickly supplanted by the more concerning reality that Lydia is skipping class in order to avoid a boy. But it’s reality that doesn’t get the spotlight (and I don’t believe this is raised again). Even when Lydia is controlling her own narrative, it’s not quite hers. Jane is sweet in how she talks to Lydia, but she’s still very clearly talking down from a place of “older sister” to “baby sister” (and I think it’s notable that Jane so often calls Lydia her baby sister, not just her youngest sister). And the unedited nature means that this does feel ultimately like Lydia’s approach is to let someone else decide what parts of her “image” get to go online. It’s fascinating.

And it’s also beautifully vulnerable. Lydia’s constant performance is something I associate with the first half of the show and her tiredness and isolation something I associate with the second half. Yet these two tiny episodes bridge the gap rather beautifully. I don’t think I fully appreciated it on first watch.

Interlude as “Are You Kidding Me!” begins: “Oh no, I forgot how awkward this is, I don’t want to watch thissssss”, pauses repeatedly, grimaces, writes this interlude, returns.

2. Darcy

Mm yeah, that was pretty much exactly as awkward as I remembered it. And it’s still really funny/weird to me that this episode tries to hew so closely to “familiar” phrases, because the episode overall ends up feeling the most old-fashioned and out of place. Which makes sense on Darcy, but not as much on Lizzie. It’s one of the episodes that feels most scripted and adapted, I think, which is not exactly to its favor. I’d forgotten how good some of Darcy’s expressions are, though. But yeah, super painful to watch, as expected.

3. Lizzie and Lydia reset

I did not remember this at all, but the parallels and foreshadowing in “Letter Analysis” and “The D Word” are fantastic, even a bit in the preceding “Sister, Sister”. Lizzie and Lydia both talk and joke around their great insecurities - Lizzie about driving people away, Lydia about being left alone. (Which are extremely similar insecurities! And yet they don’t see it on the other!) Lydia again displays that intense loyalty to her family, even praising Lizzie by saying “Family first, bitches!”. And her loneliness is on display again, between leaving Jane in “Sister, Sister” and missing Mary in “The D Word”. Lydia’s episodes in particular feel like they’re meant to be transition episodes, but they’re shockingly good in adding depth to her character and contextualizing everything that’s coming. And Lizzie is clearly meant to be in some sort of post-climactic breathing space, but here too it feels like she’s also coming face to face with a lot of her real concerns. She’s worried about how she’s pushing people away. She’s defensive. And she’s suddenly no longer so confident in her judgements of those around her (Darcy to the positive, Wickham - unnamed - to the negative). It’s really good character work in moments that could easily have been cut. I’m glad they weren’t.

4. Charlotte’s relationship with the Bennets

I love how Charlotte is so clearly integrated into the Bennet household, to the point where she makes a point of standing up for Jane as well (yes!! wonderful!) and Lydia talks about hanging out with her, and she’s just... an obvious part of all three’s world. It’s so great. 

[beevean]

Finally someone else say it!

https://twitter.com/Tsuenica/status/1692231444318257309?s=20

I'm hardly placated because from what I've seen, the majority of the people on Twitter like Lanolin for her cold, no-nonsense attitude :\

Just from the retweets, although I acknowledge this is not super praise. I've seen more on my dash, but forgive me, I'm not going to actively hunt for it unless necessary.

I'm not even bothering anymore. This is like me naively hoping that people would criticize Tangle for her stunt only to be inundated by "b-but she's a poow neuwodivewgent coded babygiw 🥺 just accept hew apowogy 🥺". Whatever, guess I'm a nitpicky bitch

[cyarskj1899]

Hew bitch he won because more people voted for him. That’s how you got elected to Congress! Now you’re crying “Rigged”? Can any of you so called progressives lose without calling “Rigged”? Good lord I can’t stand this WW!

[dear-mrs-otome]

I understand that these Otome Games are for women's pleasure and all but.... when can I get an event where I can dominate my man. Tie that bitch up give him the ole *suck suck slurp* or the good ole *safe a horse ride a cowboy* . Like I'm begging here. Let me throw him down on the bed and have my absolute way with him 😔

I agree. With this. So much.

I know as it is they already have to tweak a lot of the spicier stuff in otome to make it hew closer to a more western viewpoint. Give me a story where they throw canon out the window and go off the rails, or let the Eng team write a story set themselves. I'd pay good money to take the initiative just once, but also it'd be nice to just spoil some characters? Some of these men have never had a good BJ and it shows.

Top 'He Needs His Soul and A Year of His Life Sucked Out Via His Dick Before Being Ridden Off Into the Sunset' contenders, in my book:

Vincent

St. Germain

Sebastian

Isaac

Yves

Sariel

Keith

Kanetsugu

Kanetsugu

Kanetsugu