#bordelon

[henneseyhoe]

USE ME.

Ralph angel X BLACK!PLUSSIZE!reader

WARNINGS: Sir kink, Unprotected sex(wrap it df up!), slight choking, SUB!reader, overstimulation, bondage, dirty talk, no plot, short smut smut smutty smut lol.

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I laid there still as pleasure spread throughout my body, my muscles aching worse than it would have if I went on a twenty minute run. I was sweaty, thirsty, but most importantly, wetter than water itself. "m-more" I stuttered out, the dark-skinned, naked adonis that stood before me caressing my body. He took his time as his hands made its way down to my breast, squeezing them before continuing his way down to my stomach "more? you'll listen this time?" He asked, his deep voice sending shivers down my spine.

"Yes, sir!" I nodded with anticipation and groaned, feeling the pressure of his thumb back on my swollen, hard clit. I arched my back and pulled at the cuffs attached to both my wrists and the headboard, the cold metal it was made from digging at my skin. The subtle pain felt nice, so nice that I moaned louder and continued to pull at the chains, my thighs clenching together tightly as my clit throbbed against his fingers. Forcing my legs back open, only for them to be spread wider than they were before, he glared at me "keep it open for me, Ma. I wanna see that pretty pussy cum when I let it"

my eyes rolled back at his nasty words. I could cum right then and there, but I knew that'd end with this whole session starting over from square one until I learned how to listen. "I wanna cum, sir" I announced, a whine lingering in my tone of voice, which made a sly smirk appear on the man's face, his golden grillz shining bright. "What did I just say? This pussy gon cum when I tell it to. And I haven't said shit yet"

I bit back my complaints to assure he'd keep playing nice with me, my bottom lip now being stuck between my teeth so no noise that could be mistaken as impatience was let out, even though that's exactly what I was. Releasing my eyes from the clench my lids held, I opened them a little, peeking up at his figure. To my surprise, he looked back at me with lust filled eyes, last time striking me with a hand to my ass when I made eye contact with him.

"You've been waiting so long to cum, I wonder what you'd do if I just left you here like this" he leaned down close to my face, my eyes traveling down to his lips, that same smirk still written all on his mug. I shook my head, getting ready to do whatever it took to finally release the pressure I had pent up inside of me for the past hour.

"Please, sir. I need it" I begged, attempting not to sound so needy, which was quite impossible in this situation. He laid a kiss on my red stained lips, residue of my own release and lipstick being stuck to the plump flesh.

I moaned into the kiss, my head almost moving closer for more before I quickly caught myself and pulled away, praying he let that slide. Gripping my thigh with one of his hands, he kissed my lips again, this time taking control. Softly sucking on my bottom lip, he pulls away and sticks his tongue out, begging to flick the tip of it over the lip he had just let go while his hands skillfully move to the leg opening of my panties, his fingers sliding in and gripping the lace before pulling, the material splitting right down the middle to leave just an opening for him that he would use well.

Without another word from him, I suddenly felt an intense pressure on my abdomen as he slowly slid inside of me, taking his time to make sure I took all of him. He groaned lowly while watching, my arousal leaving a clear, sticky coat around him, which he saw when his hips retreated, his dick now just as shiny as the golds in his mouth. "I know she been ready, and you been so patient, baby" he spoke against my lips with his hands pushing my legs up to my chest, my fists clenching. I felt nothing but inches gliding inside of me, the tip of his dick hitting the hilt of my pussy with every stroke he made.

My body felt light as a feather, as if I was floating through darkness while he thrusted inside of me at a slow, but sensual pace. One of his hands let go of my leg and threw it over his shoulder instead, that same hand feeling down my curvy body, as he gave me loving kisses across my neck and face despite the degrading words he spoke in my ear just a few minutes ago.

Creeping his hand down to my clit and rubbing it in a circular motion as I moaned out repeatedly, tears welled up and prickled my eyes, my whole being fighting the urge to let go, that task alone getting harder and harder. I could only hope that I would be strong enough to actually clock into work tomorrow after this.

"Oh— oh shit!" I shouted, my chest rising and falling quickly as he sped his thrusts up to his liking, giving me strokes that got harder by the seconds. I couldn't take much more with the way every thrust he made took away my breath, each one making me suck in air, but struggle to let it go until I shouted again.

"You wanna cum? I think my girl deserves to cum" He whispers in my ear. His words bounced around my head for what seems like hours, the man removing his other hand from my thigh and wrapping it around my throat, now drilling into me while whispering more nasty affirmations that were disguised in a sweet tone.

"please, Sir!" I begged, moaning out so loud that I was sure the neighbors heard. "Go head, baby. Get that nut. I wanna feel you cum" he sucked in air through his teeth, slowly blowing it back out against the skin of my neck. My legs began to shake vigorously and I felt my core tighten as I creamed around him with a loud, quivering moan.

"Gahdamn, baby. Fuuuck!" he cursed, slamming into me once more before quickly pulling out with a groan, his hand stroking himself as he came, the white ribbons landing on top of my aching clit.

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

x g l a s g o w g r i n n e r

Johnny “Soap” MacTavish x f!OC / 2.1k words

Soap’s always been a little too comfortable playing at violence, always gone-bright when he can turn the threat of it into a promise. Joke’s on the world at large: Special Agent Bordelon’s into that shit.

Or: Soap pulls a knife on a stranger for being a creep, because he’s from the brutal street stabbing capitol of the UK and that’s just how you say “Hi, hey, hello—back the fuck off.” And a million kisses to @lunarvicar for encouraging my bullshit! LOVE YOU NAT 🫶

It is never hard to run with Soap and keep his breakneck pace—the only thing that had been difficult was adjusting to the fact that someone else could finally keep up with hers. It’s a stomach-thrilling shock to look from the corner of her eye, and find the blur of his burly shape there, winking and clicking his tongue without breaking a sweat.

Bordelon is soft for the Scot sook, god forsake the shit out of her.

He’s landed in D.C. on medical leave, a broken collarbone leaving his arm in a sling, and the first thing he’d done—after kissing his way up her neck to the spot behind her ear that made her skin sing and her palms sweat—was sling his good arm around her neck, pulling her in close, and nibbling her earlobe. “Christ, s’it always pishin’ it doon here, too?”

“Naw,” she laughed back, reaching to tangle their fingers together on her chest, his backpack slung over her shoulder, “just October, couillon.”

“Ohh, talk that dirty, fake French to me, mah cherry,” he mock-growled, which just earnt himself a pap! of the palm to his cheek. All play, no sting, and he beamed.

That night burns down to the coals—traipsing back to her apartment, showing off the ugly bruise that bleeds does from his neck to his bottom-rung rib, kissing and touching and figuring out a way to fuck that doesn’t hurt him too-too much.

(The man likes a little ache in it, here and there. Calls dichotomy in that blessed, rock-fall accent. Ratios of sweet to sour, black to white, sun and night. As if he had any more concept of balance and moderation than she.)

He lies across the bed in that silly-ass sling, watching her bitch her smart TV a blue-streak while wearing one of his threadbare navy t-shirts and nothing else. Rubs the spot at the bottom of his sternum, listening to rain slap heavy sheets against the old windows, and says, “Perdita.”

“Don’t you full name me,” she warns, shaking her head, because it is an ill-fitted address. For him, she is Hen, or Perdie, in much the same way he is her Johnny, Jean, or John-boy. A thing you love is all in how you name it, and their names are softened and held close; in the way of lovers who began as friends, once they were strangers no more.

“We’re getting married ‘fore I ship back tae Glasgow,” is how he finishes his thought, and Bordelon turns on her hips, back and forth, vaguely pointing the remote at the screen. He gives her a challenging tooth-sharp smirk. “Thought I should warn you.”

“Mhm. Yeah.” She wonders if she should count this a proposal, or call his bluff, and then she thinks—might as well nail both options to the fuckin’ wall while she’s got the knife. “We go our way onto the courthouse tomorrow. Keep it simple, ça c’est bon?”

International marriage is never that simple, though, and they’re both the wiser to it. But the sentiment is pretty, and it sparks amongst the hard-bought bonfire that lives in the depths of her chest, flames rising and licking to glorify his name. So, they call it an engagement, and Soap pulls a turn-around she doesn’t expect, turning his phone off to pull a shade of night over only the two of their heads.

He’s no family to call, apart from his 141, and even then, there’s a hesitance to his hands. Her man—her bombastic, beautiful bastard—could not stand to be a burden, no. A nightmare that is for him, himself. Even if he were to reach out with the utterly, desolately rare delivery of good news (a phenomenon grown so rare that Neptune would sooner complete circuits around the sun these days), it would make his skin crawl.

Were he to have his way, his burdens would never leave the span of his shoulders to weigh down another’s back, even something as small as what might be an inconveniently timed but otherwise benign or even welcome call.

Come the gray and misting morning, he’s handsy and all-paws, even short a limb, groping for Bordelon as the woman rolls upright on the edge of the bed, pushing her sleep-tangled hair away from her face before it irritates her to death. His hand is warm, callused, and heavy with insistence as it settles into the dip of her violin hip, trying to pull her back into the warm expanse of his hard-packed body.

“Perdie, Hen,” he grunts, tone shading toward playful complaint, “the fuck’re y’doin’ awake?”

“Startin’ off,” she croaks, shaking her head, pushing at his fingers as they crawl closer to her cunt. “Stop that—arrête ça! You’re mangy this morning, T’Jean,” she laughs, pushing more firmly at his grip. “No, get up. Got a friend, knows her way ‘round immigration policy, and she always got an envie for brunch.”

“Brunch?” he questions, flat as buried flounder, falling back into her mountains of mismatched pillows with a dreadful look on that handsome face of his. “Darlin’, am no getting my fat ass outta bed, even for brunch. Feel kinda fruity even sayin’ it.”

“Even for to get us married?” she darts back, turning to look at him, drawing her fingers in circles through the hair on his lower stomach, cooing ridiculously in her rasp-rough drawl, “Even for me.”

“Goddamn,” he groans, throwing baby-dog eyes her way. “I mean, was hopin’ you’d take it serious—cannae tell wi’ your ass—but.” He swallows, one of those corny, I’m-about-to-fuck smiles threatening the corner of his mouth, the one that makes him all coy and keen, looking down at her pale, spidery fingers drifting closer and closer through his thick, dark body hair to his fattening cock. “Wouldn’t you rather stay in bed? Cold morning like this, I could keep you warm.”

She just barely brushes her fingers over his cock before she’s snap-sliding out of bed, copperhead quick, tossing over her shoulder, “Nope! Already sent an email, she knows we on the schedule,” on her way to the shower.

Soap drops back against the bed, rubbing his stubbled face, grunting, “Bordelon, you arsehole.”

But he can’t withstand the siren call of watching her in the shower, so, ever-faithful and ever-horned up, he follows after.

D.C. is about as filthied up with the sorrows of addiction and homelessness as any other place, Bordelon supposes. Can’t tell if it’s better or worse than any of the time she spent down New Orleans or Baton Rouge way. Colder, mostly. But it’s not all the time you need to know about the homeless or the drug addicts—keepin’ eyes on them, keepin’ them in your ears, at least at the sides.

Sometimes, it’s the fella in the khakis, with a puffer jacket and prescription glasses, his behaviors making his Rolex look cheap shit.

Bordelon and Soap slide last into the car before the doors pull shut, close to standing-room early in Crystal City as lunch hour approaches. All the suits are out their offices, scrounging for edibles, droning loud and monotone on their cells. Whole car is damp and humid from the downpour, human body heat causing an intense mugginess that crawls under the clothes to irritate the skin. It’s damn near enough to make Bordelon’s head spin, neck uncomfortable with sweat the way it was all them years down deep, deep in the south.

“No, sit doon,” Soap says, flapping the good arm great and wide, trying to get her to pop a squat on the only empty seat left, shaking his head. “Dinnae try bossin’ me, talkin’ wi’ that spooky-arse agency voice. Want away from you a minute.”

He dresses up chivalry as dismissal, and she can’t help but grin, even as she dawdles on sitting.

“What? You don’t like how Tiffany sounds? I swear, she’s perfectly nice. And outstanding in her field. She’s an accomplished agent, and her superiors are recommending her for a promotion,” she says, in that self-same agency voice of which he’d complained—rich and clear, dialect: nonregional, speech pattern: nondescript.

“Oof, fuckin’ hate that, stop,” he snorts, faking a shiver, but he does complain, “Hey, what? Where you goin’?” when she actually does move to sit down, tugging her up by the collar of her shirt just a bit to pop a grinning kiss against her mouth.

She doesn’t realize, at least not right away, that the tug at her collar disrupted her shirt. Just enough to make a few buttons slip, exposing more of her right tit under her open coat. Wore a thin top today, loose, but figured the dark fabric would hide any transparency. Hated tight clothes, hated bras, and never wore one; just figured her rack had spent thirty-three years being nothing to comment on.

Well. More than half a tit exposed was enough to catch the attention of the man who cheapens his Rolex by being the one to wear it.

Soap likes strange things because he, himself, is a strange thing, and Bordelon had thought to take him the two hours north to Philly to hit the Mütter Museum to see their medical abnormalities, because once their brunch is out, they’ll have an entire day to themselves. She’s busy showing him pictures, enticing him, when the woman next to her taps her thigh.

Like an alarm hollerin’ in her head, she starts running two tracks instant-like, leaning without looking as she whispers, “Yeah, chere?”

The woman is older, in maroon scrubs—some kinda tech, smell of jelly on her says maybe ultrasound—and nonslip clogs. Can’t quite see her name badge, but that seems on purpose, covered up by her fleece.

“That man over there—he’s takin’ pictures of you,” she whispers back, straightening her jacket needlessly as a hint, “just wanted you to know. Maybe tell your man?”

“Oh, no,” Bordelon hums, smoothly pulling her shirt back into place, “I tell him, he gonna light that stupid bastard up like a candle.”

“Who’s lightin’ me up like a candle?” Soap stage-whispers, all play, and Bordelon knows exactly how the next ten seconds are gonna go, and it plays out picture perfect to her premonition. Bordelon tells him don’t worry, I got it, the Good Samaritan in maroon scrubs informs him of the creep, and the smile on Soap’s face turns into a flesh-ripper grin as all the fun burns outta his gaze like a gas fire in a hyperbaric chamber.

“Oh?”

“MacTavish,” she warns him, “wait til the stop.”

“Naw, naw, naw. I’ll play nice, Hen.” That means, sure as shit, he won’t.

The switch knife he takes out his back pocket is deadly smooth, and so is his broad step to the stranger and his budget, Amazon-bought phone case, pushing straight into his man-spread legs.

The fact there isn’t an immediate uproar, but the man’s face is blanched and staring up at him with a shitload of oh fuck on his face speaks to Soap’s own scary-ass career, and Bordelon can barely see the tip of the knife pressing into the spot just below the stranger’s ribs.

“Hey, pal, mornin’,” Soap says, bright and easy as anything, voice not droppin’ even a note, head tilted real friendly. “Do me a favor, eh? Just drop your phone next t’my boot, yeah? We’ll just get this little creeper session done and dusted.”

Can’t even hear the clunk when it slides out of the man’s limp hand, and it’s even quieter when the heel of Soap’s boot shifts over to destroy the screen, grinding it to dust.

“Good man,” he says, pulling the knife back to close it and slide it into his sling. “Next stop, you’re off. But you’re gonna leave your phone on the floor. Hope you dinnae eat shet on the way home to your ol’ lady.”

Bordelon resists the urge to slap a hand over her face, but when Soap kicks the phone back to her, she catches it under the toe of her boot, catching the expression of the tech to her side, unsurprised but impressed. Must have herself a man like Soap, waiting for her to make it home.

“Sorry ‘bout the screen, Perdie. Think you can get in there and delete his shet still?” Soap asks, tone a bottom lip pout, and Bordelon nods, tucking her fingers into the back of his belt before snaking them up under his shirt, swirling her fingertips into his back dimples.

“Hah. You know it, Johnny,” she hums, looking up at him from under her lashes. It’s a tenderness, sweet and true, taking up space between her lungs. Mad bastard. Crazy motherfucker. Loony bitch. When he looks back at her, he curls his fingers under her jaw, looking relieved. Poor thing knows hit dog hollers, and he long ago stopped yelping when he was struck. He’s looking to be told he didn’t do something bad. But she finds his pace, she always does. Of course, she did.

But that goes beggin’ the question: what’s a hellhole-heart like her supposed to do with a love like this?

Tag List: @alittleposhtoad @skinnyazn @dotcie @snail-eggs @parttimeprophet @kastlequill 💖💖

[ririchonne]

👀 If you squeeze your eyes you may be looking at a Richonne’s deleted scenes…

[xothemedia]

Queen Sugar 4x8 | “All The Borders”

[cyarskj52]

KOFI SIRIBOE AS RALPH ANGEL BORDELON └ Queen Sugar - Season 04 • Episode 03

[thundergrace]

I do appreciate the love for Rutina Wesley in the tags but they're all like "welcome back" vibes and so I just want to let y'all know Rutina was a lead in a very successful series called Queen Sugar that JUST ended last year after SEVEN seasons.

She's not been out of work from True Blood until now lol

I very much recommend the series. By the way, Rutina is bisexual and so was her character on Queen Sugar.

[maxcarson]

closed: @pcrdita max: any chance i can leave early friday?

[blackmensuited]

[bonobochick]

Queen Sugar ep 7x13 

Calvin & Nova’s happily ever after 👶🏽 💓

[birds-that-screm]

Bald Eagle (Haliaeetus leucocephalus)

© Bruce Bordelon

[sapphiccharacterstournament]

Canon Sapphic Characters Tournament Round 1 (Bracket 6)

[willxmeyers]

who: @pcrdita where: pit stop garage, jude's office

While Will had made his casual stop by known before he arrived, Jude had still been bent over an engine when he arrived. With a casual wave of a hand, he'd strode straight into Jude's office to wait until his friend was finished. It had barely been ten minutes but his friend opened the office door to see Will sitting behind the desk as if he owned the place.

"Someone needs to speak with this crossword writer," Will says, eyes glued to the Aurora Bay Times newspaper that had been nearby "I'm pretty sure Lucky's five year old could solve this thing."

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

🍀, 🧠 & ✨️ for Bordelon pls I need to know more !! <3

BLESS THANK YOU FOR ASKING ABOUT MY AWFUL SHITHEEL CHILD KEZ 🥹🥹💖💖

🍀 - What originally inspired the OC?

From her OG character tag on my old blog teehee: : I was playing RDR2 when I heard this dialogue come up in camp, and I got so offended by the resignation in Arthur’s voice that I went “there needs to be someone standing off to the side getting royally pissed on his behalf FOR him.” And I kept listening to Dutch and went “okay but what if that same someone had thoughts that were pretty much in line with that, too?” And finally, what if Dutch asked them how they thought they’d act when the time comes, and they answered, “I can’t die, but when I do, I’m coming back bigger and worse.”

As for CoD, my bestie, Wards, put me onto the Sawney Bean cannibalism case, and it really dovetailed beautifully into a CoD dream I had that I wanted (and still want to) develop into a full plot. But without going into the plot other than cannibals in the sticks, I had this image of Soap meeting Bordelon, who is the FBI agent assigned to the case, at a five bar the night before the initial brief, and they don't really acquaint themselves, just have a fun night. The next morning, who blasts into the Sheriff 's office parking lot in a white Corvette Stingray, blasting the speakers, than the crazy lady he met last night?

🧠 - What do you like most about the OC?

Ohhhh. So the thing about Bordelon is she is cold, not unlike Rivka, but she's not indifferent to it, she fully embraces and glories in it. She has the capacity to be an awful, cutthroat person, and she knows she's more often than not unpalatable, frightening, and ruthless, but she gets the fuckin job done. Basically this quote from Djuna Barnes:

✨- How did you come up with the OC’s name?

HEEHEE. So her full name is Perdita 'Wildwood' Bordelon. Wildwood came from the Walk the Line cover of Wildwood Flower, I just love the song. Perdita I chose bc her canon family had VEEERY Greek/Latin names as a tradition (her horrible eldest brother was named Atlas), but hers basically means lost or eternal damnation, at least for perdition which for some reason I have sewn into my head as a very southern concept lol. Bordelon I got from a Cajun last name list lol.

[lowcountry-gothic]

The Remarkable Legacy of Queen Sugar, by Charles Chaisson.

[nomadjones]

closed for: @pcrdita

"Oh, fuck." For the second time within the hour, Dallas had been spooked by suddenly finding himself face to face with Ghostface when he had thought he was going to turn around and see Wren there. The costume did what it needed to, keeping the person wearing it shrouded in anonymity but he had an inkling whoever was beneath the mask was someone that he knew.

"Who are you?" He prods, verbally and in a more literal sense as he pokes the elongated white chin once.

[cherryxkoch]

who: @pcrditawhere: pit stop garage (also).

Cherry had been working and saving like a dog to pay for the regular repairs her vintage car needed. A new commission plus some art lessons (and moving in with a new roommate) had meant that all her scrimping had paid off. She pulled into the garage, jingling keys in hand as she exited the vehicle and skulked up to the front desk. "Hello," she announce herself politely, a little sing-song in her voice. "I had a booking for Cherry. 1967 Mustang in desperate need of a tune up."