Hi Gang 🧍

Scrumptious. Drinking this like fine wine

my body sleeps on your boredom

SUGAR DADDY!PRICE X READER

18+ | sugar daddy/baby relationship. age gap. (implied) mafia au. dom!Price. (slight) dubcon breeding. breeding kink one so insane you can hear Mormons applauding in the distance. contraceptive control. implied financial control. rough sex. infidelity*. dad!John Price. cheating (not between reader and John). Old Money Rich.

What you have with Price is entirely transactional.

His job—the nuances of which he keeps out of the bedroom, the bed—eats up the bulk of his time, and you—pretty little tchotchke that warms his sheets, keeping him cradled between soft thighs, head nestled on the enticing swell of your chest (weary heads and all, you suppose); a homecoming he can sink his stress into—lap up the scraps.

It's an arrangement that works for both of you, really.

Your rent is paid. Closet bursting with clothing. Always tripping over more shoes than you know what to do with. Food in the fridge. Financial worries are swallowed down quickly when they arise (along with a whiskey-tinged glob of spit when he grips your throat and tells you to open wide). He takes care of you. And you—

You take care of him, too.

a simple creature, really: he just wants dinner on the table when he comes over (home), a pretty thing to stare at while he eats, humming around a mouthful as you prattle on about your day (non-negotiable—his appetite is archaic, oppressive: the man grunts around a piece of meat his woman cooked for him as her bare feet slide teasingly up and down his leg, and she fills the stifling silence with inane chatter), and at the end of the obligatory meal, he gets to vent his frustrations out on the wet, warm embrace of your cunt as it squeezes his bare cock (also non-negotiable).

It's an effortless synchronicity.

When you need money, you send a picture of yourself in lingerie he bought above a coy pretty please, daddy to soften the grump up, and after a few exchanges of him lamenting the unnecessary purchase (a part of you, wishful, idealistic, clings to the idea that maybe he just wants an excuse to talk to you, to let you lap at more of his time than think he can afford to give), he relents. The money is sent to your account. You walk out of the department store with an ache in your belly that no amount of expensive wine or truffle could ever hope of filling and bags dangling on the crook of your finger, and he gets to thicken in his trousers over the idea of spending his money on a pretty little thing he can bury his cock inside of whenever the mood strikes. A patriarchal sort of preening. Masculine ego stroke. The role of a dutiful provider all wrapped up nice under the hum of ownership, sex.

(Then he really gets his money's worth when he bends you over the settee. Bought and paid for.)

And you're fine with it. It works. It makes sense because this is the only way that the two of you, together, do.

He's older than you are (salt peppers his hairline; wisps of smoke slither out of the tips of wry, umbre curls. No laugh lines, but his eyes crinkle when he smiles). He has a career. A good one. The second bottle of Violet Sapphire he bought on a whim for you after you whined about running out of the first (a gift—sales lady said you'd like it, sweetheart) isn't cheap. Neither are the handbags. The Tuscan leather shoes. The teardrop pearls. A good man, too. Upstanding citizen, and all that—

(the thin line of pale, creamy skin against ripened peach: a married man. a crayon shoved in the pocket of his trousers: a father.

blood under his nails. ghosts in his eyes. the smell of gunfire and madness clinging to his skin: a monster, too.)

—and you barely finished community college. Scraped by with a degree you're almost entirely certain he paid for, too. But you get to float around a meaningless job doing empty, vapid things to fill your days when he isn't around. 

(An ornament doesn't serve a purpose if it isn't being gawked at.)

An imbalance, you suppose. Or a ballad: the timeless tale of a stupid, greedy girl sinking her teeth into a grown man's wallet like a dog with a bone. In his hand, the leash. A tug. Be good.

And you are.

You let him slide inside of you as many times as he wants, and pretend the burnished seaglass staring down at you isn't filled with longing. Kneel on your satin cushion at his feet as he stretches out on his throne, and guides your pretty, empty head to his cock. Good girl.

Always.

Even when you shouldn't be. Even when he's gone for long periods of time. don't wait up, peppering the air as he goes. Nothing but an empty bed. Rumpled sheets. The scent of sex and tobacco. Leather and motor oil. Smoke. Sage and stale sweat on your pillowcase. An ache between your thighs. The tattoo of his teeth seared into your skin. An envelope full of cash (just in case). The card he left behind (anythin' you want).

Little tchotchke put back on the shelf. Tucked away so the reason for that pale strip of skin and the broken crayon in his pocket won't ever see you. A dirty secret. Another skeleton in an overstuffed closet.

Predictable, really.

You know your place in his world even if he doesn't say it.

(until he does—)

Just not in so many words—a paradox considering how much he loves to boss you around, growling commands under his breath (on your knees, open up, suck my cock, pretty girl, want me bad, mm, missed my cock inside your cunt, didn't you? show me how much)—in fact, they don't even come from him.

It comes from the pharmacist when you duck inside to pick up your prescription for birth control, and instead of handing it over, he just shakes his head.

"You don't have any refills for this month."

He's gone for two months.

MayoClinic warns that this is the estimated window needed for the hormones to dissolve from your system. The risk of a pregnancy after this, it reads, is likely.

You ponder that in a penthouse suite, sitting pretty amongst shredded wrapping paper. A Dior Turtleneck Sweater wrapped around your throat instead of his hands. An apology—according to the embroidered card, the tight, messy pen strokes mention something about an unexpected business trip.

The return address on the box is in Liverpool.

It's listed for sale on Zillow. The asking price is just over a million dollars. A family home on a vast plot, it reads. Six bedrooms—five in the main home and an additional inside a detached coach house. A gated driveway. A secluded courtyard with a suntrap. Something called a self-contained annex seems to be the main focal point of the sale. It has five reception rooms and a sprawling garden.

Perfect for a family, it adds.

You thumb the alpaca wool on your knit sweater, and wonder if this is the leash being cut—

Or pulled tighter.

He doesn't bring it up.

And so, neither do you.

It sits like an oafish, gaudy elephant in the background as he walks into the apartment, fingers digging into his tie. Ignored. Dismissed. He grunts when the knot loosens. Shoulders falling lax. Calmed without the clench of something around his neck.

You place his plate on the table when he wanders closer, offering one of those simpering 50s era housewife smiles when his big, bearish hand swallows up your waist. The scent of char and gunsmoke clings to his collar when he leans in, pressing a kiss to your temple. Acrid. Metallic. Beneath it, you catch stale sweat. Animalic. Unwashed man, leather.

And nothing else.

There's old, greasy sweat on his nose. His hair is slicker than usual. Darker. Blood under his nails. Smoke between his teeth when he hums, offering a low, rasping missed you, sweetheart that scratches along your skin.

He didn't shower before he came to see you.

You hide the notion of it behind your teeth, letting it grace your smile with something that feels less plastic, rigid. More real. Artless. Clumsy. Like the dress he sent ahead of himself and the matching pair of designer heels that still sit inside their box. You'd never wear shoes in the house, but John Price isn't a man who does things in halves.

(a purse sits on the settee: a complete set.)

His eyes are dark—pelagic: the ocean at night; all dark, no stars, moonless—and when he looks at you (in the clothes he bought, in the penthouse he owns, cooking the dinner he wanted), something ripples across the surface. A frisson. Underwater quake. Deep and dark, and darkly possessive. Hungry. 

You like the look on him right now. Maybe even more than anything else he'd ever bought for you, done to you, because Price is, above all else, fundamentally human.

He has rules. Expectations. It's rare he's ever driven by instinct beyond anger—that thrilling thing you'd only ever glimpsed when he peeled back the curtain, tearing the skin he wore with you kneeling at his feet and growled into the phone at whoever stroke his ire. He's controlled chaos. Gruff and uncompromisable.

But the look on his face right now splits that staunch control down the middle until it falls, shattering into pieces at his feet.

He growls m’hungry, sweetheart, and you barely have a second to push the risotto aside before he lifts you onto the table, barely sparing a minute to swipe his hand across the surface, sending dishware and untouched food tumbling to the ground with that same little growl he gave to the man on the phone who disturbed him from the comfort of keeping his cock warmed on your tongue all day long. 

You're laid over the jacket he'd thrown down—rich with gunsmoke, tobacco, and something sharp and metallic—legs squeezed together, ankles tossed over his right shoulder.

It's messy. Artless. All animal despite the cocoon of finery bracketed around you.

Plates shake from the jarring force of his thrusts. Cups tip, spilling your glass of Roumier across the table. Something shatters when it hits the ground. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't even notice the chaos happening around him—as if the world ceases to exist beyond the sight of you taking his cock like a good girl. Spread out for his leisure. His pleasure.

He certainly looks like a hellish king as he stands above you. Towering. Terrifying. One hand wrapped around your throat, keeping you still as he slides his gaze from the tilt of your thighs to the tears puddling in the corner of your eyes as he stretches you open with the thick of him. The other looped under your knees, holding firm. Fingers digging into your flesh. Tight. Rutting like a beast.

There's sweat on his brow. His chest heaves. The hand around your throat slides down your collarbones in a damp spill of heat that makes your toes curl above his shoulder. Rough. Sticky with sweat. With you from when he pried your cunt open on three thick, scarred fingers, grunting at the sloppy mess he found between your thighs. Always so fuckin' wet for him.

It wasn't enough, but you think he likes that. Indulges in something archaic, sinister, when he catches the wince on your face as his too-big cock notches against your too-tight hole. Forcing himself inside with a grunt that sometimes sounds like a laugh when you whimper. When you cry and claw at the sheets and beg for mercy—just a minute to adjust, a second to get used to the burning stretch. The poignant ache when he slides down to the root—so deep, you sometimes think you can taste him in your throat.

He gives no quarter then, and he doesn't now.

Price likes fucking you rough. Edging on painful, bordering on too much. It's the juxtaposition, you think, from the way he treats you like a spoiled little princess who has daddy wrapped around her finger to the dressed up little whore he lays out on a table, bends over a settee, and brands your throat with the clench of his paw as he pounds into you like a beast. A little mean, a little cruel—just enough to balance out the rasp in his voice when he hands you his credit card and says buy whatever you want, sweetheart.

(and miss you, sweetheart—when he's tired and alone and already four glasses of whiskey deep; voice ground down to ash from the cigars he burned through. As soft as a man like him could ever get. Can't stop thinkin' about you, sweetheart. Need to see you, sweetheart. Need your pussy. Your cunt. Your mouth. That tight little ass. Want to fuck your throat until you can't speak for days, sweetheart.

(Want to push m'self so deep inside of you that you forget yourself, love. Forget who you are without my cock inside of you. Can't—can't live without me—)

Ash and soot. The next morning, another ten grand sits in your account. A knife slides cleanly, neatly, into your guts when the accompanying text says for listenin' to the nonsense of a drunk old man. don't take it to heart.)

Balance, maybe.

the thin strip of skin on his finger. the broken crayon in his pocket.

Maybe tonight was supposed to be the end. A clean break.

It makes you wonder if she found out about the tchotchke he keeps in his closet. The pretty little thing he begs to stay when he's drunk and alone, and then rips into pieces the next morning when money is promptly deposited into your account. A cruel-edged don't forget yourself, sweetheart.

But he's snarling as he peaks, grunting above you as sweat drips down his brow, heaving. Panting. Lips twisted up into a snarl. Eyes furious. Mad. His hand is a brand over your mound, possessive as he holds you in his palm, feels the way his cock splits you apart. Owned.

Bought and paid for.

Another grunt, and his thumb dips down to rub at your clit, barking at you to come—come on my cock, sweetheart, need to feel it—until you howl, clenching up so tight around him that it rips a molten, liquid purr from his chest. A throaty moan that breaks you into pieces. Tears the veneer of flesh and bone from your consciousness until your body liquifies, spilling out over the table, mingling with the Chambolle Musigny Amoureuses soaking into your back. Wrapped tight around him, as he batters into you without any finesse. Clumsy ruts. Sloppy. Animal. And then—

His cock swells. Throbs.

Over the roar in your ears, you hear him groan low in his throat, deep and brutal; the rumbling of a well-fed bear burying its dinner in the dirt. It sounds like mine now. Like ain't you, mm, sweetheart? gonna keep you nice and full. got all those rooms to fill, don't we—

wishful thinking.

But he comes inside of you. Bare. Raw. Your hands untangle from around his wrist, palm still wrapped around your throat, and drop down to your belly.

Price sees it and groans—

"that's it, sweetheart—"

(ain't gonna be empty for long.)

He's always had this little fantasy of knocking you up.

Used to growl in your ear about how badly he wanted to see you swell with his babies. Little broodmare he'd keep chained to his bed like a queen. Giving him five sons and five daughters because he could never seem to make up his mind on what he wanted—only that it was a lot.

(An improbable thing, really—he might yank on the leash, but you easily talked him down to four; two boys and two girls.)

He comes back (home) some days with fire in his eyes and sets on you like a man possessed, starved. Smothering you into the mattress with the thick of his body, grunting into your ear about knocking you up. Getting you fat and needy with his babies until you forget what it felt like not to be nursing, to be pregnant.

A terrifying concept. Something that made you rush a little faster to pick up your contraceptives, comparing the pill in your palm to pictures online just to make sure they were the same. And maybe at some point, it just became a game.

He'd press you into sheets and fuck you all day long, making you keep count. Each time he came inside of you was another baby to this empty house. A crazy thing, really. Midlife crisis, perhaps.

But you indulged.

Let him press his hairy, thick chest against yours as he folded your knees up to your ears and pounded inside of your aching, messy cunt, gasping out a tally into his sweat-slicked jaw. Laughed as he kept your legs bent and your hips tilted up, eyes riveted to the split of your sore, aching cunt. Growling an awful amalgamation of primal, masculine satisfaction at the sight of him spilling out of you and in anger at the fuckin' waste.

("gonna plug you up next time," he seethed, two fingers buried inside your bruised hole to stem the flood. "Wastin' it all, sweetheart.")

But that was before.

When he'd shower before he came to see you. Sometimes waiting days after he landed before he was back in your bed, grunting around the idea of another trip you wanted him to take you on, pretending to think about it despite the tickets to Egypt already booked. When he'd play house with you. I Love Lucy on the television, dinner in the oven. His hand curled over your nape as you bobbed your head up and down his cock. A dutiful wife taking care of her overworked husband.

Making babies in the dead of night. When he'd grunt say it, sweetheart into your ear, and you'd beg him to give you another one. Tears in your eyes, lachrymal, as you tried to convince your husband that the baby you put to bed in the empty room needs a sibling.

His hand on the leash, but your voice in his ear—paper soft—pleading don't make our child grow up as an only child, John.

(two weeks in Portofino booked. First class. Luxury resort. A Wolf & Badger swimsuit laying on your bed, one with a gold zipper on the front that he wears out by the sixth day and has to run to town to buy you a new one.)

But that was before. When it was just a rich, dangerous man's fantasy. When you had birth control to keep the unrepentant baby fever he had just a dream. Never a possibility. Never a reality.

MayoClinic says the possibility of conception is high.

The period tracker you glimpse on his phone one evening warns that you have two days before it comes.

When you swallow around the idea of it, half dizzy, half sick (six bedrooms), he rests his hand over your nape, tugging on the leash. His eyes are dark again. Midnight blue, almost black. Hadal.

He keeps them fixed on you. A ravenous black hole. Calmly closing the app as if nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t have your cycle locked into his phone. Rough, calloused thumb brushing over the soft patch of skin beneath your ear. Steady and soothing. Like calming a skittish mare. 

Unflinching. Unbothered. Entirely unconcerned when he kicks his foot over the line of what's expected, what you want, and fucks you again that night, bare. Raw. Groaning when he comes. Huffing into your ear about how he'll take such good care of you—both of you.

And when he tucks a pillow under your hips, you drag your hand down to your wet, swollen cunt in a clumsy, enticing attempt to keep him inside of you until he fills the empty space with the thick split of his scarred knuckles.

A performance, you think, when he groans like you gutted him. Bought and paid for. 

That's all this is.

But he doesn’t book a trip for this performance.

And he's gone when you wake (business, he says, in a messily scrawled note left on the end table), but there's a gift bag on the dining room table, sitting next to the stain you left when he pulled out of you. Dried come. Slick. Tinged slightly pink because he was rough with you last night. Hurried. 

The black box inside is an apology for hurting you even though you know he likes it when his come is a little pink as it leaks out of you. When you wince when you sit, and have to press a icepack against your sore, swollen cunt.

(it doesn't surprise you to find a pack already left out for you. coffee in a pot. breakfast warm on the stove.)

But the next thing he left is the real gift.

Divorce papers—already signed by him, the gold band he never let you see on top—sits on a stamped envelope, awaiting another signature. It just has to be mailed out. When you sift through them, the cause for the divorce is irreconcilable differences.

Balm to the shame is the little fact that he hasn't lived with his wife for the last year. The date of separation coincides neatly with that drunken phone call when he told you he wanted to bury himself so deep inside of you that you couldn't breathe without him saying you could. 

Domineering. Grossly possessive. 

He has you already, but that's not enough. 

It'll never be enough.

("wanna—mm, wanna give you everything, sweetheart. and I want everything, too. every part of you. wanna change your fuckin' name to mine—")

You tap your nail against the page labeled custody agreement, not even a little surprised that this docket has everything outlined, itemised. The table of contents says you'll find the prenup on page fifty-six and the proposed split of assets on page sixty-seven. It's thorough and every bit as intimidating and uncompromising as the man is wont to be. 

He's serious.

And John wants his kid. Non-negotiable.

That, too, doesn't really surprise you. Even when you were playing house, he'd always been a rather doting father—

("I don't want them to just have a sibling," he'd growl, firm and immutable, adding (intractable as always): "I want them to have a fuckin' team.”)

The address he gives for his primary residence, however, does give you pause. Liverpool. Chestnut Avenue, Moor Park. Six bedrooms. A guesthouse. 

The envelope is filled out, too. All it needs is to be tucked inside and mailed out. 

Already separated, his lawyer says, neat and tidy, like everything else in the pages. This was the most inevitable course of action, and my client, John Price, is ready to move on with his new life. 

Ready to move on. You scrape your tongue against your teeth, hand settling over your belly as you think about that. It's just—

He's always been a rather obstinate man. Stubborn. Once he gets his head around an idea, very little can change his mind. You'd seen it countless times before, but never this cold. Callous. 

Dismissive. 

Not to you, anyway. Not that you can remember. It's always been silk sheets, gifts from stores that would deny you entrance based on your credit score alone. A new wardrobe. A new place to stay. And that's—

That's kind of odd, you think. Maybe. 

He cut your lease the day after you dragged him home from the bar, back when he was just a bad choice after a terrible night out. Had the locks changed. A new lease in your hands—in his name—and a key under the mat beside a housewarming gift. An expensive espresso machine that would be a little too bourgeois in Starbucks. A penthouse that overlooks the ocean. Members only. 

There's a valet. A gym. A swimming pool. He joked one night that you'd feel right at home with the sauna it housed. Jus’ like a lodge, mm. 

You're not sure how he knew. It's one of those things that he just does. Like your name. The real one you grew up hearing before you moved to the city and changed it to fit in. How many siblings you have. Your parents. Their birthdays. A gift always sent out in your name, arriving just on time. 

All of your old things were donated. You didn't need them anymore—not when he ordered a whole new wardrobe from Loro Piana for you. Handed you his card and told you to fill the house up with whatever would make you happy. 

(Fitting, you suppose, since you barely have to think about anything except how to make him happy.)

He turned in your resignation less than three hours after you fell asleep on your lumpy mattress, worn out after a night of drinking. A night of him. More animal than man. Too tired to kick him out before you passed out under the weight of him still burying you into the mattress, hips flexing as he fucked you again for the third time. 

(the fourth, fifth while you were still sleeping. waking up to the sixth: him inside of you, a slow grind as he rocks in and out; he's bigger than you. too big. with your thighs wrapped snug around his hips, the top of your head barely clips the ledge of his shoulder. he wrapped an arm around your upper back, the other reaching out, gripping the pillows above you. panting into the thick bed of curls covering his chest as he threads his hand over your crown and presses you tighter against him. groaning into your ear. ducking his head down to rasp out how badly he wants to feel your messy little pussy squeeze him tight—

before he leaves, he hooks two thick fingers inside, and fucks his come into you. makes you come on his cum-soaked fingers before he wanders off with a small smile, the scent of tobacco and sex pungent in the air.)

And the ring—

You thought he never wore it because of some misguided sense of propriety. Decorum. The Madonna—a thin strip of pale skin, waterlilies and cashmere, a crayon in his pocket; tabloids dressing her up as a modern day Diana; a divot between his brow that grows and grows and—

and the Whore—

A penthouse. Dior sunglasses. Cucinelli heels. Colombo jackets. Loro Piana outfits that cost more than your parents make in a year. His credit cards left on your bedside table. Trips in a snap of a finger. Luxury a phone call away. 

(his voice pitched low. a smoldering rasp. stay, sweetheart, don't go. don't leave—)

—the divot melting into a brooding, heated stare. Desire drenched across his brow; want so thick, so palpable, you can feel his need throbbing between your legs. Dissolving into ash after, when he loops an arm under your body, cradling you close to his sweat-slicked chest as he leans against the headboard, smoking a cigar. Basking in the scent of sex. Satiety. Your finger curling around a thick whorl of damp, coarse hair. Content. 

It’s selfishness. Teeth digging into the man, refusing to let go. But beyond that, you know you’re good for him. 

Better for him, you think, and jog the papers on the table, right above that ugly little stain, to neaten up the pile. 

It takes five minutes to slip them inside the sleeve, peel the adhesive off of the sticky tab, and walk them down to the mailbox just outside of the lobby. Five minutes to initiate a divorce. 

If you had any qualms about falling into bed with a married man—not that he really gave you much room to think about it since he never showed up with his ring, just the mark of her around his neck like a noose; a constant guessing game—it’s put to rest when the metal flap snaps shut. 

Shame feels like an elephant. Something in the background. Ignorable. 

And besides—

(you place your hand over your belly and hum)

—you have other things to think about, to worry over, than a crumbling marriage.

He must have gotten the notice that you mailed the documents because a text comes later that night. Simple. Succinct. 

Good girl. 

The elephant slinks away into the moonless night as you pull open the catalogue of engagement rings he left on his bedside table, and circle a few that catch your eye. 

All of them sapphire. The same blue as the broken crayon in his pocket.

(The period tracker on his phone chimes a few weeks later.

You don't even bother peeking over his shoulder to know you're late.

You have more things to worry about, after all. Like moving to Liverpool next week when his divorce is finalised, and planning a wedding for the spring.)

psa clint isn’t joel miller and if you’re flattening him into a joel archetype we need to talk about race again

i’m aware they both wear plaid, have a daughter, battle with grief, and are hot covered in blood and enacting violence

this isn’t a callout i just don’t remember where i saw these specific posts about the red handkerchief and clint as a ‘blue collar’ man. but i know i’ve seen plenty of clint = joel posts floating around. 

AND i wasn’t going to say anything bc i thought i was just being gatekeepy bc i didn’t wanna see clint get the dbf treatment which would be my personal problem and i can happily write about him on my own blog how i want etc etc and i know i don’t have to read anyone else’s takes BUT then i thought about it and once again…it’s always about race… re: the post i saw somewhere about someone having a head canon about clint having a red handkerchief as a snot rag - sorry i forgot where i saw it and this isn’t an attack on whoever wrote that, but an fyi to anyone thinking about him the same way… if you’re writing a latino man in 1987 oakland—especially someone working street-level jobs or tied to criminal economies—and you think a red bandana is just a ‘snot rag,’ you’re missing major context

fyi, in 1987, color politics were not optional if you were a man of color in california. even though bloods (red) and crips (blue) originated in LA, their color codes and the larger gang culture around them were already known across the state. in northern california specifically, norteños (tied to the nuestra familia prison gang) wore red. their rivals, sureños (tied to the mexican mafia), wore blue. 

who cares? well, even though oakland wasn’t dominated by bloods and crips the way LA was (in part due to the black panthers), it had its own street crews, plus a heavy norteño/sureño influence by the mid-80s. even outside organized gangs, the association between red and gang affiliation was strong enough that wearing a red bandana could get you profiled, targeted, or attacked—by cops, by other crews, or by random people trying to read your allegiance.

if you were a latino man in oakland in the 80s—like clint—you wouldn’t carry a red bandana by accident. it would be flagging. even if you weren’t affiliated. as a street smart guy, survival would mean being hyper-aware of how you present yourself, especially in neighborhoods policed by gang dynamics and racial profiling. cops would use color displays like a bandana as probable cause for harassment searches or worse during the height of the ‘war on drugs’ and the crack epidemic. 

characters like clint—latino, working-class, street-adjacent—would have understood the consequences of being read wrong. this doesn’t mean no one ever had cloths, handkerchiefs, or functional rags. it means the color and the way you carried it mattered: what pocket, what visibility, how deliberate it looked.

throwing a red bandana in your pocket wasn’t neutral. it wasn’t folksy. it wasn’t just blue-collar roughness. it was a risk, and survival was about reading the street, not walking through it like color codes didn’t apply to you.

clint wouldn’t casually rock a red bandana like a cowboy. latino men have never had the privilege of being casual about how they're read in public, especially not in a city like oakland, especially not in the 1980s.

re: clint as a ‘blue collar’ character there’s a difference between being ‘blue collar’ and being trapped in criminalized labor. wearing a plaid shirt and working with your hands doesn’t automatically make someone a blue-collar worker in the traditional sense. 

blue collar historically refers to wage labor—construction, manufacturing, trade work—where the worker is paid (poorly) but still operating within the boundaries of legal employment. union jobs. often unionized labor, tied to systems that, at least in theory, protected workers through collective bargaining, benefits, and job security. those protections were never equally available, especially to workers of color, but they existed as part of the larger working-class structure. 

clint’s labor isn’t protected. it isn’t recognized. it’s criminalized. he’s not just a man doing rough work for low pay—he’s disposable labor, surviving in a system that sees him as expendable from the start. calling him ‘blue collar’ erases the fact that he’s not inside the working class safety net. he’s on the outside, paying off debt with violence he didn’t choose.

it carries a specific context of class exploitation, yes, but it’s still different from the kind of criminal coercion characters like clint are caught in.

clint is not a proud working man making an honest living. his entire arc in freaky tales is about being forced into violent labor to pay off inherited debt he had no choice in. he is not rough and gritty because he chose a rugged life. 

he is rough because he was born into a system designed to keep him indebted, desperate, and expendable. he’s not working a blue collar job—he’s surviving in a criminal economy that feeds off people like him, using violence he doesn’t even want to enact just to stay afloat.

flattening clint into a vague ‘marlboro man’ archetype (joel coded)—rough clothes, kind heart, good intentions—it strips away everything sharp and painful about his actual story. it whitewashes the complexity of being a latino man criminalized by birth and survival, not by choice. it reframes his struggle as a generic americana fantasy about working-class virtue, when what’s actually at stake is how structural violence forces people into roles they never asked for.

especially when it’s a latino character, this flattening isn’t neutral. it erases the realities of racialized labor, racialized criminalization, and survival. clint’s tragedy isn’t that he’s a gruff tough guy with a soft interior. his tragedy is that he was forced to become violent in order to pay off a life he was never allowed to own, and he carries that weight without any guarantee of getting free.

you can’t understand clint if you don’t understand that. and if you’re not willing to sit with that discomfort, what you’re writing isn’t really him—it’s just a projection of a character he was never allowed to be.

clint and joel might overlap in aesthetics, being single girl dads, and physical strength—but reducing clint to a copy of joel misses everything that actually defines who he is, and why his story matters.

joel miller is a texas man—a man shaped by frontier mythology, southern survivalism, deep mistrust, and violent individualism. he is, by his own admission, a man whose grief and guilt hollowed him out so badly that even his brother was scared of him. he’s not just traumatized; he’s actively dangerous, closed off, and isolated. his story is about losing his humanity and clawing parts of it back, maybe too late.

clint is not that. clint is an oakland man—east bay, west coast, working-class and criminalized, not because he chose violence but because he was born into debt he could never pay off. he’s an underdog, not an antihero. 

he’s soft with his woman, he lights up under her attention. he’s goofy in the video store with the clerk. he’s not some hardened loner who scares everyone around him. he’s just a man trying to survive a system that was designed to use him up.

when you flatten clint into joel, you’re misreading two characters with different emotional cores and fetishizing the aesthetics of pain and ruggedness while ignoring race, class, place, and survival context.

clint isn't a texas cowboy. he’s not steeped in frontier violence or manifest destiny myths. he’s a west coast underdog who knows every step he takes could get him crushed, and he still tries to protect the people he loves without letting it rot him from the inside out.

the tragedy of joel is that the world took everything from him and he let it turn him into something colder, crueler.

the tragedy of clint is that the world gave him no choice- he says he was born into breaking bones to pay off his father’s debt, and he still tries to hold onto his softness anyway.

if you can’t tell the difference, you’re not seeing clint, you’re just projecting a fetishized joel trope onto another character… 

Seeing alot of people get devastated by the last of us season 2 and I'm kinda just over here as someone who decided to just simply not watch season 2. Gotta say...love my side of the fence coz I really don't wanna be sad rn. No thanks. I got depression, I don't need more sadness

I already know spoilers and tbh I just simply have no interest in what I know of the story. That's not really why I liked season 1 and got into the story and from the games, yeah I came here for humans healing and the cycle of life even after the world dies. Not murder spree McGee

Sorry for all the people who watched it or are watching it and getting in their feels. I will be staring at you from this side and throwing tissues your way. If you decide to jump over my side of the fence and join me I'm avoiding it all, we can watch something nice and eat food together. Maybe even sleepover

It's out for anyone interested ♥️ The Fic

AAA good to see it's exciting!! I hope y'all like it!

Hi gang 🧍

So...yeah 💕 @gilverrwrites posts and their anons yapping about Guy Gardner Being sweaty and fucking in full Nelson, I took it upon myself to write for him. I am also posting this so I am forced to finish this.

Tackling writers block one bit of peer pressure at a time / HJ

Sugar sweet

Pairing: John price x assistant! Reader

Warning: unspecified age gap, 'bratty' reader, brief description of past, implied emotional neglect, mild/tame bits of angst, reader is kinda pathetic but we salute her, AFAB/female! Reader, suggestive content at the end, Mild NSFW at end, brief sexual fantasies (oral - male receiving) , John is pining in his own way

Tag: msil

Apologies. I've never written for Price so please bare with me if he's ooc. This is my firt time posting writing on here 🙏 but I got a spark of courage from some encouragement!I absolutely love this idea and couldn't help but be inspired. Full credit to Dante for the prompt. I just got writing fuel from it.

Was it so wrong to want some praise for your hard work? To want to hear “good job” for once in your life? You did a good job, and you know that. Your salary reflects it, along with a few appreciative pats from others. You often hear murmurs from colleagues who say, “You just work too hard; take a break,” along with their well-meaning concerns. But you liked being busy—helping those who sacrificed so much for everyone else, often with little reward, just paperwork, bruises, and bleeding wounds. Your hands were rough from the grit on your gun grinding against your palms and fingertips.

You were just being grateful. Helpful.

And a helpful little bird you were—always fluttering around Price’s office. This time, you brought him a fresh cup of coffee and a bagel: egg, sausage, and spinach. You left it at his desk to the side so his arm wouldn’t knock it over. Taking a silent breath, you stood there, lingering, hands clasped behind you, as your eyes flitted over the man currently hunched over his desk and the food you had brought.

Another beat passed. Nothing.

He let out a small grunt as he shifted in his seat, giving a small sniff as he continued to drag his eyes along each word, scratching a few out with a thick black Sharpie. His thick brows were pinched tight, creasing his forehead—a look you were all too familiar with when it came to Price. It always made him look older, though the air he gave off already did that just fine, making the wrinkles forming around his eyes and on his forehead more prominent. He squinted at the words as if each one were an offense.

“I thought you’d like something to eat; I haven’t seen you have anything for a few hours, so—” you gestured to the bagel, a smile curled on your lips. The tinted lip balm gave them a pleasant shine and a healthy hue, and a faint taste of strawberries lingered on your tongue from when you had licked your lips, nerves tight in your core before entering his office.

And once again—nothing.

He only vaguely acknowledged it, barely glancing before he reached for the coffee and took a sip. A small gruff sound escaped him as the warmth pooled down his throat.

You faltered, but your smile remained brave in the face of his stoic behavior. “Well, I’ll leave you be,” you said, the words coming out cheery in your desperate attempt to not sound as awkward as you felt.

You shuffled toward the door after a few more seconds of waiting. Maybe, just maybe-

“Love?”

Instantly, you whipped around, chest puffing out as your heels squeaked against the floor. “Yes, sir?”

“Blue suits you.”

Your face twisted as you paused, about to ask what he meant. Looking down at yourself, you saw a crisp white blouse snugly tucked into a black pencil skirt—one that was smaller than you had anticipated. You had noticed it seemed to draw his attention more often than not, so the purchase didn’t seem to be all for nothing. There was only a single hint of blue on you, except for your—

Blood rushed to your cheeks as you let out a sharp gasp. Immediately, you twisted around to see that the skirt had ridden up, revealing the edge of your baby blue panties stretched across your backside. The lace trim was exposed for all to see. Hastily, you pushed down the fabric of your skirt, adjusting it to sit better on your hips. Smoothing it down was when you saw it: his eyes finally lifted from the paper, a steaming mug pressed to his lips. A pleased crinkle appeared in his eye as he took in everything.

You had never left his office faster. Your face was too warm—much too warm. Before you knew it, you were stumbling into the bathroom, splashing water onto your face to cool down. Lifting your head to stare at your reflection, you cursed. Your mascara had smudged, streaking down your cheeks as if you had cried. The light, natural shade of your eyeshadow was now splotchy and smeared around your eyes. You pressed your lips together in a tight purse, scolding yourself for your forgetfulness.

Yanking rough tissues from the dispenser, you dabbed at your face, trying to salvage what makeup remained.

Standing amid the dim lighting of the bathroom, you couldn’t help but stare. What were you doing? A woman your age prancing around in short skirts and makeup? Sure, you had always been inclined to doll yourself up, but it had usually been a treat—something to anticipate after a rough week. Now, it felt like a routine, ensuring you had a pretty glow and your best features enhanced. When did you become so desperate for such minimal attention?

Perhaps it was when your father always hummed in stiff, dry tones whenever you spoke. Or when your mother would glance up from her phone, scrolling while you tried to show her something you were proud of, only for her to finally respond to something you had said five sentences ago.

Maybe it was when you did your best at everything—school work, getting a job as soon as possible, and even landing an office position mere months after finishing your education. Always made sure the house is clean and never ask your parents for help, despite feeling sickly and overwhelmed. Always doing your very best to remain as pleasant as possible and chase any spontaneous kiss to your head and word of approval from either of them. But the majority of the time, it was nothing. After all, you were expected to do well. So independent and mature at such a young age. How well they must have raised you to be so self-sufficient. They would praise so highly to their friends. Expected to have a good job and a happy air to you.

After all, you were so lucky. They were people having it worse than you. Why would you ever feel so low you wanted to quit everything and grovel in your bed?

Or it could have started when friends would always have an excuse to decline your plans or something last minute came up. Dates always having you carry the conversation after having to endure hours of dry texting and inconsistent messages.

A nagging need to just hear one satisfied hum. To feel a ruffle to your hair or a firm pat on your shoulder. The sweet euphoria of hearing a pleased “Good girl”. You craved it like how a chef always twitched to snag a cigarette between their lips. An itch you could never scratch no matter how many times you self-affirmed with loving post-stick notes on your bedroom mirror and muttered endless approval to yourself for the most simple of things.

You huffed as you shook your head. Why bother with such a man like Price? The only time he seemed to even bat an eye in your direction was when you flashed your legs or your shirt hugged your breasts too tight. You were mere meat and he was a hungry dog. A frown grew on your lips as you patted your cheeks. Glaring at your reflection as you fixed yourself up and pushed out of the bathroom.

It started with your wardrobe; wearing trousers that looked smart enough for your job but gave your shape no compliments. Its rigid seams even making your hips look boxier and your legs shorter as you trade your polished heels for simple flats. Your blouses no longer hugged the curve of your chest. And if you wanted the relief skirts gave then it was unshapely skirts – pleated or plain and sleek – that ended half way down to your calf.

And then it was the coffee. It tasted the same? Then why bother with saving an extra palmful of cash for the fancy brand. You served it in John’s signature mug with the same beaming smile and didn’t waste your time to linger. To wait for any response. Bustling down the halls with files tucked to your chest. With the extra cash now staying in your pockets you treated yourself to paying for a nice cake or an overpriced coffee of your own that gave you that needed rush for the busy day.

Head held high as you gave up your pursuit. You were always such a independent girl.

And Price? Well, as soon as he tasted the bland blend of coffee he frowned. Lips smacking as the familiar graininess of the bases blend hit his tongue. His head lifting but you were already gone. Huffing like a bull every time he drank from it. In the end, it went cold half drunk and staining the white mug.

And your clothes; what happened to his pretty bird? Sure, your beauty wasn’t easy to conceal and the lack of powder to your face didn’t change the natural charm of your features. But he had to hide his scowl of disapproval as he saw you were in another long skirt. It was flowy and dull. Those pretty legs hidden from his view. His hand digging against the scratch of his facial hair as he glared at the skirt. Half tempted to make a house call and strip every offending cloth out of your wardrobe. His jaw twitching as it clenched tight.

That smile. That sickly sweet smile you always flashed his way. He wondered if you’d smile like that to him after he’s lodged his cock from your bruised throat, cum and spit smearing on those perfect lips. Glossier than any lip balm or lip gloss you insisted to wear. A breathy ‘thank you, sir’ spilling out with tears making those insistent eyes of yours sparkle. He almost thought he went crazy when he couldn’t feel your expectant gaze boring into his skull.

He was much too old to be entertaining a sweet thing like you. Always making sure his boots were polished, his office tidied when he was gone for too many weeks, adding sticky notes to files and color coding each one to make sure they were in perfect order. Treating him to good coffee and pleasant meals. It took everything in him to keep himself glued to his paperwork when you came in and was so kind. So needy. You didn’t need a grump like him. A man with too many burdens on his sunken shoulders and blood staining more than his hands.

He tried to dismiss your quirks by giving it no attention. Mutters of disapproval whenever you spent money on him. But it just made you more keen. Trying again and again to get him to say something. To look at you but he knew if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. But now he was finally getting what he wanted? He couldn’t help but swallow each bitter grain of his efforts.

His day was long. His team giving him their usual shit but it was giving him a bigger headache than ever. Any bark of demand towards him had his hand clenching in a tight fist behind his back. Most of his paperwork had fallen to you and this time, it was his turn to come into your little space, knocking on the door with a coffee much too sugary for any of his teeth to withstand.

There you were, cramped in your chair with a flood of paperwork looming high to your shoulder. He cleared his throat and you snapped your head up, perking in surprise at his appearance. Wide doe eyes blinking at him as didn’t stop at your desk. No, he pressed a big calloused hand to the back of your neck, his thumb caressing the peek of skin between your hair and your shirt collar. Pressing the coffee down as he looked down to see how much you’ve done. His breath warm against your ear making your whole body turn to stone.

“atta girl. That’s it, love.” John murmured as he gave the back of your neck a small squeeze and stood back up. Leaving you gawking at the door as he left just like that. The warmth of his hand lingering on your skin. A blood that was meant to go to your cheeks oozed down, pouring between your legs as your sex throbbed at the simple praise.

It didn't take long, no, It only took the next day for you to be back in those little pencil skirts and a new blouse that embraced your figure nicely. Heels on your feet signaling your arrival as you leave a fresh mug of coffee on his desk and a small pile of files. All colored and checked, sticky notes paper clipped to each.

One file slipped from the stack making you bend down and scramble it back into your hands giving John a beautiful eyeful of those baby blue panties hugging your ass and a small chub of your sex teasing him as it peered between your thighs. A pleased growl, deep from his chest rumbling out as he took the file from your hand.

“good girl.”

something about mean old bastard price and his sweet new assistant who just wants his approval so bad but can never seem to get a positive response from him

your sweet gestures, like using your own money to buy him fancy coffee instead of the generic brand on base are only met with an unappreciative grunt followed with, “fuckin’ waste of money. tastes exactly the same.”

barely looks up at you when you drop folders on his desk, only nudges his empty cup towards you. a silent way of commanding you to make yourself useful

until one day when you catch him shameless checking out your ass in the new skirt you bought, his usual grunting response actually seems to be out of approval for once. doesn’t even acknowledge your eyes watching him as he rakes his own down your legs before adjusting himself in his trousers and going back to his paperwork

Rundown

Babysitter reader accidentally falling asleep in Price’s bed only to wake up to a big man crawling up behind her and shoving her legs apart while murmuring his wife’s name :\\ too bad she can’t correct him because the pillow keeps muffling her screams. - prompt by ceilidho

Warning: dubcon/noncon themes (reader doesn't verbally agree to sex but has wanted to fuck John secretly), somno kink, dirty talk, drunk! Price, implied age gap, babysitter! Reader, Wife is named, cheating, p in v sex, no protection, John's a nasty dog, Price is sloshed and can barely hold off his orgasm

Did i write this instead of sleeping? Yes. Do I have regrets? Many. I just couldn't stop thinking about this and knew I had to atleast try my hand.

Reblogs, likes and comments are much appreciated! Part two is available!

Part 1 | part 2

You've been babysitting for the price family for almost a month now. A small bundle of joy surprisingly docile in your arms after the wailinig for the baby boy would have cradled in her embrace. You hated the glare Colleen would snap your way as soon as her son shushed. You weren't sure why, at first you chalked it up to coincidence. Just the baby being well- a baby. But then you let yourself linger in her presence and found yourself curling away from the sting in your nostrils from the strength of her perfume. A lovely brand you had no way to afford, truely she was a woman to envy. Even in her years she's aged like wine; Rosé to be exact. She was primped and refined. A polished diamond with every sharp edge pointed in your direction. The many necklaces she adorned on her neck were chunky and sparkled with real gems that surely John has gifted to her over their marriage. Though, it made an uncomfortable resting spot for the babe.

But little James had much to protest about the way his mother's nails were too long and dug into his soft skin. To cry and scream when her perfume was just too much. When her makeup smeared against his chubby cheek and the new texture roused him into another fit. Only soothed once back in the arms clad in soft cardigans and sweaters, the smell of gentle floral soap and smooth skin against his own.

You've heard Colleen before bark at John to find a new sitter making small comments about how her baby clearly hates her. How neither of the men in her life seem to want her presence always resulting in a heavy sigh from John, firm words of curt comfort but she'd just bare her teeth and curl her painted lips. Not taking his words as anything more than another spew of thoughtless support. Not stopping her cries of woe until John has enough and grit words of defence through his grinding teeth.

You tried not to listen in; it wasn't your business after all but you couldn't help but feel pity. Some days it was for Colleen, clearly stressed and trying to latch onto something she can't quite grasp. But other days you felt a deep pity for John; peering in with little James bouncing in your hold as he sat at the dining room table with his head in his hands. Shoulders sagging down with the weight of the world digging into them.

Poor little James having to hear all this. Often, you tried to keep him distracted with the jingle of your keys or read out of a storybook to drown out their thunderous voices.

There's been a time Johns found you like that, huddled up by the crib shushing and slowly rocking the baby to sleep. A storybook in your lap and a relieved slumped as you stare at James' sleeping face. And so, to avoid waking up his son, he'd get close to your ear, ruffling your hair and giving your shoulder a firm squeeze as he muttered, 'Good girl. Such a sweet girl for keeping him happy' and 'sorry you had to hear all that, love' as he insisted on slipping you another small stack of pound notes for the extra stress. No matter how many times you've tried to decline.

Just as many times you've tried to convince yourself you didn't touch yourself that night because of his words. You definitely didn't imagine him mumbling sweet nothing's of how good you are, so perfect and sweet for him. He was a married man, for God's sake!

A soon-to-be divorced one if things continued to persist the way they were.

You didn't dare let these feelings show; for fear of losing your job and the possible disdain that would cloud over his aged features that you'd have the audacity to think of him that way. Unable to bring yourself to even consider baring the thought of his disapproval. It was too much. It made your stomach twist in ways stressful university exams never did.

-- -- --

RIIIIING

You rose from your afternoon nap, a startled sound ripped from your throat. textbook and laptop discarded clumsily at the table. The sofa creaking as you pulled yourself up, eyes squinting as you tried to find your phone in the darkness. Eyes already aching from staring at your laptop screen for hours even when it grew dark. Took engrossed in finishing your assignment to care that you were in pitch black. Only napping to soothe the sting.

You plucked your phone from the floor and saw it was Colleen calling you. Your eyes widened as you hastily answered. "Mrs Price! Is everything okay?"

"I need you to come over as soon as possible, Im already running late to meet with the girls and I need someone to watch James."

Your brows pinched in confusion. Checking the time and saw it was 10 o'clock. Surely there had to be someone more local.

"where's John-?"

"being useless as always, drinking and leaving me to do all his shit for him."

Your eyes practically bulged out of your skull; sure you've heard her be nasty but this was the first time you've ever heard her be so brazen with her dislike for her husband. Her voice oozing with venomous spit as each word punched out from her throat.

You thought it would be for the best not to say anything. Swallowing what words of defence you had for John, you slid off your couch. "I'll- uh- I'll be on my way."

You slipped on your shoes and your warmest coat, thankful your keys already sat in its pocket. You rushed out of your door, having to cycle your way over. Usually you'd catch the bus and then cycle the rest of the way but night buses weren't running where you needed to go.

Never have you peddled so quickly. Your legs were on fire by the time you arrived and Colleen was hissing at you as she scurried out the door for how late you were making her. Muttering the whole time she got in her car and was driving off into the night. You stumbled into the house and immediately went upstairs to check on James and thankfully he was still sleeping.

Hours you spent waiting for John to return home or even Collen. Anyone to bid you off so you could go back home and sink into the plush of your bed. Sleeping on the sofa and then all that peddling has strung your body until you were nothing but knots. Sitting down almost the entire time as your legs protested to any further usage.

You only went into the bedroom to grab the spare baby monitor to check if it was still working, but you got nosey. Peeking around and finding colleens vanity, staring at the unflattering reflection. Your hair was a mess, and your clothes were screwed on your body. You could smell your sweat and it wasn't even hot. With great hesitance, you picked and sniffed at the collection of perfume that sat there. All were much too strong for your tastes until you found a bottle tucked into the very corner. It looked like it hadn't been touched for a while, not even half empty, but it wasn't old. The brand's logo was chipped at the edges, and the bottle was sealed the wrong way. You couldn't resist giving it a small sniff and were pleasantly surprised to find such a kind smell. It was vanilla and rose water; with a small bit to your lip and against all your better judgment. You sprayed a shy spritz on your neck and dabbed it into either side. Already feeling like a grander woman.

But your curiosity died as the king-sized bed seemed to be calling your name. Sheets are neatly folded, and pillows are fluffed. With James back asleep after some fuss and a diaper change you slinked into the covers with mumbled apologies.

Sleep claiming you faster than you ever expected, slumped heavily against the mattress as your nose was filled with John's scent. A heady mix of both his natural order and the shampoo he used. Your nose sinking into the pillow even in your dreams as you inhaled deeply. Happy hums filling the empty room before soft snores took their place.

-- -- --

John on the other hand was not so lovingly dozed off. He wasn't partying with friends and running his mouth about all his stresses. No he was haggard as he just barely pulled himself away from the sticky counter. The bartender muttering something along the lines of him getting back to the misses.

His misses.

He was nothing but a stubborn bastard. That was his ring on her finger and he couldn't swallow the uncomfortable bitter pill that was his reality. He's been finding his ring 'mistakenly' left on the bathroom counter. She was already bringing up divorce whenever he glared at her a second too long.

He couldn't have it. What kind of man would he be if he stood by and let her go prancing off. That was his wife. His.

His fist hit the counter with a determined sneer and he shoved himself away. Wobbling for a moment before he was able to muster his legs into a familiar march. His footsteps were unsteady but persistent in their journey. The bar was within walking distance and what was a little fresh air to help sober him up so he can face his woman how he should. Steel in his composure and fire burning in his eyes as he was going to-

To-

Fuck. There are so many things he's been wanting to do. It's been too long. Much too long without being in between her legs. The heat of a welcoming cunt was now foreign as he had to rub himself with the rough callouses of his hand. No amount of spit could replace the heavenly slick of a woman's arousal. Didn't sound the same when he fucked his fist. Didn't smell the same. Didn't feel the same.

She was truly a cruel woman. He could withstand her sneers and moaning, but to deprive him of the luxury of a husband was the devil's work. His own personal torment after so many years of bloodshed and muddled honors.

Perhaps if that walk was as sobering as he told himself it was, he would have noticed the car that was missing. The bike parked in its place. The tranquil quite of his home shattered, 2 am in the morning, as he heaved himself through the door and winced at the thud of the door. Pausing to hear any cries of his son or the pissed off yell of disappointment but he was met with nothing.

He lumbered through his house after kicking off his boots. His coat was thrown somewhere in the darkness as he crept up the stairs and shuffled into his bedroom. There, he saw the lump of a figure in his bed, and his brain clicked into gear. Licking his dry lips, he dusted his hands off his jeans, already undoing his belt as he stepped out of the fabric as soon as it pooled down to his ankles. Crawling onto the bed as he stared at the sleeping miss in his bed, eyes beyond blurred and too blinded by his determination, maybe he would have noticed the obvious differences between you and his wife.

He presses sloppy open mouth kisses to your shoulder. "Col- Colly, He slurred out as each kiss grew higher and higher. The untrimmed scruff of his mutton chops scratching against your cheek ear as he babbled in gruff murmurs. "Wake up, honey."

But he had no patience for his 'wife' to rise from her slumber. Your stirring only egged him on as he caged your slumbering body in with hands on either side of your shoulders. Moving the blanket down to reveal your covered form. He huffed in disapproval. "Tuckered out? Didn't even undress." He scolded but there was no heat to his words as he began to undo the buttons of your jeans and eased them down your legs. Shifting your shirt as high as he could before grunting as your unconscious form was no help.

"this why..you need me." His chest pressed heavily down onto your back as his large hands wandered along your curves. Pinching at the chub he didn't remember Colleen having but it's been so long he just dismissed it. "Keep ya nice and warm."

John couldn't wait any longer. Pushing your underwear to the side and his fingers curled against the fabric as he rutted against your silky folds through the fabric of his briefs. Like a dog in heat his hips grinded hard against your sex. His nose burying in your neck as he huffed the smell of perfume - he got her that for their anniversary. He knew she was still missing him. All that bullshit of insisting she'd never wear one of his gifts again. Throwing out jewelry that was now deemed tacky, all because he bought it, and clothes she just shunned as old news.

With a growl he yanked his boxers down as he grabbed his already half hard cock. Rubbing it through your glistening sex, already so wet for him. Perfect little wife. He didn't take long for him to chub to full mass as he huffed at the floral scent on your neck. "Gonna fix it- gonna fix everything-"

As soon as his cock pressed into your entrance you were startled awake. The sudden sting making your eyes pry open. Your breathing hitched as you heard John's voice mumbling something into your skin as you opened your mouth but he just shushed you. "None of that. Don't start, just need you tonight." He presses his hips frimer to your ass as the fat head of his cock speared your cunt. He groaned deeply with a curse knocked out of him. "So fucking tight-"

Your cheeks burned as you tried to squirm away from the blistering heat of your poor fluttering walls being pried apart by his sheer girth. Gasping into the pillow. With a huff John yanked you further down with a sharp tug on your underwear, his free hand pressing down on the back of your neck to keep you nice and arched. Any words you tried to squeak out immediately muffled.

"that's it, just open up for me, Coll." He cooed, the stretch of alcohol thick on his breath as he squeezed your neck. Feeling the way your pussy betrayed you, crying all over his big dick as you heard each grunt and groan rattle in your ears. Just able to hear it over the sound of your own heart thumping so loudly you thought for a moment it lodged itself into your skull. "Atta girl."

As soon as your ass was flush to his pelvis you let out a whimper. Clutching at the bedding your eyes squeezed shut. The pain faded into a dull numbness before the tug of a vein rubbing against your walls had you softly moaning. So full. You could barely breathe with how far it was pressed to your stomach. Surely shoving your organs up and lodging them into your throat. A knot tight in it as your eyes fluttered open.

Unable a moment to breathe as he guided you back onto his cock with every thrust that sent you jolting forward. The stitches of your underwear screamed as he set his pace. sloppy but reaching deep within. Kissing your cervix with each thrust as you trembled. Blinking you didn't even notice the tears that poured down your heated cheeks as you kept shaking your head. Any attempt of protest cut off by your own traitorous moan.

Fuck it feels good. Why must if feel so good. You've imagined what his cock would feel like but you never imagined this. Never thought you'd actually be feel it drill into your poor cunt as you sniffled and sobbed.

John could barely restrain himself. When did her pussy ever feel this good? So tight and clamping down on his cock as if it were the first time. Has it really been so long that her body became as foreign to him as it he was to her. That made his teeth grit as he panted. "Shit- gonna- fuuck-"

He didn't need to say if for you to know. Your stomach clenched as your thighs tried to squeeze tight together like that would stop anything. Not with his thick thighs spreading your legs wide and welcoming for him. "J-John-" you hiccuped.

Voice so strained it became high pitched. Needy. It made his head spin or maybe that was just the alcohol catching up to him. Groaning deep from within his chest as he flooded your tight hole with hot ropes of cum. Rolling his hips lazily with each squirt. "Sorry...been too long-" he kissed your shoulder and your cheek. "You feel like heaven, love."

But John was never a selfish lover. He let go of your underwear as he remained snugly slotted into your warmth. Relishing in its slick heat. Thick fingers finding your clit with startling ease as he rubbed in circles. Fast and his rhythm broken but with how your clit was already throbbing needily it didn't deter your body from singing out. Hands clawing at the pillow your face was buried against as you bucked into the friction. Shaking your head as you tried to fight off how good it felt.

Whines spilling out of you as you chanted pleas and curses but it all fell on deaf ears. "Ohh- oh!" You pulsed around him as your own orgasm tightened in your lower belly. No matter how much you tried to deter it, John was insistent of your pleasure.

"c'mon on, Coll, make a mess on my cock." He cooed as he pressed more of his weight down into your back to keep you from squirming too much. "Know you miss it."

You cried out as it crashed over you. Stars filling your already blurry vision as stray droplets of tears fell down. The cover of the pillow damp with your tears and specks of drool you desperately tried to swallow down.

Both of you just laying there for awhile. You were stiff as a rock and he was slowly rolling his hips. Fucking his cum deeper into you with more kisses to your sticky skin. His hand weaving up to your hair as he tugged your head from the pillow. Blinking sluggishly as he expected to be greeted with the face of his wife but instead he was met with his babysitter. Cheeks streaked with tears and your lips parted with a small gloss of drool. Sniffling as your eyes latched to his dumb stare. Just looking down at you with an unreadable expression.

"you're not my wife."

🧍 I do art and whilst my work is being really shitty at handling me and my coworker (we're severely understaffed, coworker is being worked to death meaning she's getting Ill a lot and that means I can't do work either because I'm an assistant) , I've now gotten two paychecks in the 3 digits when I should be making 4. I get no pay if the place doesn't open, id like to keep myself afloat and stable whilst I look for other work, it would mean a lot of you give me a browse or simply share

If anyone would like to check out my art on kofi, bluesky or Toyhouse. Feel free! Donations are welcome, I also do customs (custom ocs) I'll do furry or human.

Any form of support is much appreciated 👍

Examples of my work:

While I agree that white people should show their support, and have an obligation to speak up, it's not always that easy. I've shared my support and been told I was "virtue signaling". I've stayed silent and given space to people of color instead and been told I'm complicit because I didn't speak up.

Damned if I do, damned if I don't.

There is no margin for error when I as a white person want to show my support. I feel like I need to research for a PhD anytime I want to say something because I might accidentally be supporting the "wrong" opinion or the "wrong" person or supporting someone who once said something that is now considered incorrect. Or I might just be ignorant about the details but the only way for me to triple check that is to either talk to someone I trust (and then get told that people of color shouldn't have to educate me) or do research every time I want to state an opinion or show support.

It is frankly a lot easier to stay silent and pretend I didn't see any of the posts.

And yes, I'm sending this on anon because, again, the margin of error is none existent and I don't want hateful message.

Hi anon, thanks for voicing your opinion in a way that feels safe for you. I hope you take my reply in the manner in which it is intended, which is to further the conversation and shed some light on some roadblocks that many folks like yourself are coming across.

If being told you're 'virtue signaling' is the worst thing that happens to you, and still choose to turn a blind eye, that's an example of privilege in and of itself.

You don't need a pHD to boost attention on BIPOC writers within the fandom. In this case it's as easy as reblogging @almostempty incredibly articulate post about the subject, you can ensure if you do make Reader Insert stories that they are inclusive, you can reblog BIPOC writers/artists, you can be sure to message writers that include hateful imagery symbols in their stories and inform them why it's not okay.

The more we support the marginalized members in our community, the stronger our community becomes. If not everyone has a seat at the table why the fuck would anyone stay?

And yeah, you will have to do research if you want to state facts. Not just in this context but in the world. That's how we learn as a society. That's how we evolve.

And no, it is not our BIPOC folks who should be burdened with having to do that emotional labor. If we want to speak on this stuff, we need to be informed.

And you might fuck up. You might say the wrong thing and catch yourself. To err is human. I've done it. I'm sure lots of people have. I'm probably fucking up something as I type. But I will continue to learn and I will continue to be an ally. Because to not even try is extremely problematic.

When good people would rather take the easy way out, to stay comfortable because they have the privilege of that choice, it communicates that you don't care.

"It's a lot easier to stay silent" is a very dangerous perspective. Not just within this space but the world at large, so I lovingly challenge you to try and reframe moving forward.

At the end of the day you have to look yourself in the mirror, think back on your behavior and decide if you like what you see.

Anon, I so appreciate your transparency in sending me this and I hope that this reply sheds some light on why I think it's so important to be a vocal ally, even if it's something as simple as a reblog.

Love, Emma

Horny ramble for Logan..don't look at me

Just- let me sit in my corner of shame.

I want Logan to hold me down by pressing my stomach to the bed as he eats me out, calling me pup. I wanna be the lady to his tramp. The domestic dog to his feral wolf. |And I want my slick to be covering his face and in his facial hair. I want him to suck on the folds and gently nib around. Want him to make sure I don't shave beforehand coz he likes it natural.

I want Logan to hold me under my chest, my legs pressed over his thighs, spread and having to be held by the back of my thighs to keep them up in the air as he fucks me. Using me like a sex toy. I need him to rip my underwear from the band trim from the gusset, fabric moved to the side whilst he's clutching the ripped trim for security, to pull my hips closer as he fucks deep into me, already pushing atleast 3 loads of cums back in, using his other hand to smear his cum on my clit.

Need Logan's balls slapping against me as he puts me in a mating press and grunts and growls. Need him to rest his cock on my face and push my head to nuzzle against his balls and telling me to kiss them and say thank you as he smokes a cigar because without em I wouldn't get the rounds of cum he has. NEED HIM GOING "ATTA BOY" WHEN HE DOES!!!!!!!

Just....I need Logan

plagiarism. Again.

I'm not sure how old this person really is. Their blog says they're 22, but I think they might be much younger. But someone sent me a dm letting me know they stole my fic (as well as theirs), and when I reached out to them, they blocked me.

When I looked at their blog a little deeper, I realised almost all of their fics are stolen.

Do not engage with this person. Just make sure your work has not been stolen and block. They told someone else that the reason they took their fics was because of a "dare" and then told me they were going through a lot and just wanted to reblog my fic. Which is a blatant lie considering they then immediately blocked me and also tried to pass this off as their own by adding "if you dont like it go cry to mommy hoe also requested by vannthehacker910" and also changing my title.

mine:

a fic they stole from killsbil

and another they stole from mixes-archive

this is by sweet-as-an-angel