What If Jess And Lupe Go To The Bar To Get Lit And Lupe Gets Into An Argument That Spirals Into An Altercation?

back to being that annoying yjs fan who points out that it is odd to want to live vicariously through a violent, thoughtless, and delusional character like shauna shipman. the weight of her loss isn’t equitable to her actions because it’s not supposed to be. before anything else, shauna shipman was an insecure teenage girl who lost her best friend and her baby. a pure extension of her was taken before she ever learned to understand the novelty of what she had. that loss turned her into the woman who recollects on her time in the wilderness as fun. that loss turned her into a negligent, impulsive hypocrite who died with the things tethering her to her already compromised humanity. not fully, but enough that she would rather propel herself as a warrior and try to reclaim any of what was taken from her. that immense pain turned her into a wounded person, a wounded animal, and the narrative should absolutely allow her to be that with no apology; however, the people praising shauna for hurting others and wanting to glorify the projection of her pain onto characters like mari or callie are odd. you guys don’t want women to be angry in the narrative because you get mad when taissa is angry. you got mad when mari was angry. you guys want shauna to be angry and take it out on travis by antagonizing him with his dead brother (notice the pattern there) while everyone claps for her.

disliking shauna ≠ misunderstanding shauna.

you all are the ones misunderstanding that we can feel bad for the people shauna has hurt without minimizing her pain. you all are the ones who suddenly become hypercritical of a character’s rage and how it manifests when they’re a person of color, and i’m not going to sugarcoat it because that’s what it is. disliking taissa, mari, travis, or any other character on this show is not unreasonable. i’m not saying disliking them is racist. i’m saying that applauding the tyrannical white character and demonizing any poc character for displaying the same rage (without the main character treatment) is weird.

it’s even weirder to suggest that recognizing shauna’s presence in the story and disliking her actions means that we don’t deserve to watch the evil cannibalism show the same as you. at the end of the day, this narrative is not meant to be a pleasant one, and shauna’s pain has shaped her into an unpleasant person. the issue is parading around as emotionally or literarily superior because you have empathy for shauna and no other character on the show. the same people who endorse shauna villainize any other character who operates out of pain when the point is not to villainize them at all. these characters are full of nuance, full of cruelty and even their own forms of gentleness after the relentless jaws of the wilderness. people can recognize that and recognize character’s actions as objectively wrong and it is that deep when microaggressive attitudes materialize out of thin air when the narrative allows characters like taissa to operate in their pain.

it’s not just microaggressions though. the same fans screaming for people to just have “fun” with the show crucify others for disagreeing with them in any capacity. it’s going beyond enjoyment on the basis of complexity, entertainment value, etc. that’s dumb.

hello stranger in the void??

how do people make friends on here, i feel so isolated.. hi everyone! hello! talking into the void here

just reread ppp on ao3 send help

  A HELPING HAND

summary: it's the last night at mark rebelatto's tennis academy for art and patrick. the last night of being bunkmates, the last night of staying up to talk about tennis, the last night before art is off to stanford and patrick goes on tour. when art falls asleep, patrick usually jerks off like any regular guy with needs. it's not weird of course. he taught art how to jerk off in this very room afterall. but tonight is different. patrick would already be finishing into a sock if it weren't for arts quiet little sobs.

pairing: patrick zweig x art donaldson

content warning: 18+ mdni mlm mutual masturbation mutual handjob internalized homophobia?

word count: 2.4k

authors note: ahh this is my first fic! i was inspired by a post i saw a week or two ago but i can't remember what the @ was. the concept stuck with me and i just had to write something. i hope it's enjoyable... if it is i'll make a part two. happy reading!!

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @glassmermaids @zionna @femme-lusts

for the last hour, patricks hand has progessively slid lower and lower until it's found purchase at the waistband of his boxers. he'll occasionaly dip his fingers beneath it out of boredom, but he can't find it in him to go any further. not when the room is practically calling out to him. each corner holds a different memory. the walls, which have heard all of the late the night conversations between him and art. the trophies, that they've both worked their asses off for. the beds, where patrick taught art how to jerk off when they were younger. where they talked about kat zimmerman. where they came at the same time. it was underlined with a sensuality both of them would take to the grave. he can't believe it but he might miss the place. not the constant pressure nor his judgy peers. just the memories. all of which are with art.

speaking of, patrick looks across the room in an attempt to make out arts figure in the dark. his eyes have a hard time adjusting and he can only hope he's asleep. he opens his mouth to check but thinks better of it and looks up at the ceiling. his fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers once more, sliding more downwards than before. he's about to wrap a hand around his growing hardness when he hears something. he yanks his hand back and sits up slightly, eyes searching the darkness.

if patrick strains his ears enough he can hear the muffled cries coming from the direction of arts bed. he sits up completely and plants his feet on the floor, causing it to creak under the new weight. patrick curses inwardly to himself when it goes quiet. "art? are you uh.. are you awake?" he whispers loudly in hopes that his best friend won't ignore him.

"...yeah, sorry if i woke you up." art whispers back after a beat. patrick almost laughs at how pathetic he sounds. like he always does. but the sniffle that follows is enough to have him crossing the room and sitting down on arts bed.

the silence that follows is uncomfortable and long. uncomfortably long, if you will. patrick has never been good at comfort. he can't even think of an instance where he's actually comforted someone. he tends to just make a joke in hopes of lightening the mood. that or he aborts the scene before tears fall. too late now. "what's wrong?" the words don't even sound like his own and it takes him by surprise. it's something he's never asked before in his life. apparently it surprises art even more because he sits up and gives him a curious look. "why do you care? it doesn't even matter." patrick scoffs at that. "it does matter." his tone is uncharacteristically soft. "but you're also keeping me up, so either talk to me or spare me the trouble." he redeems himself before art has more questions that he can't answer. why does it even matter?

another beat. "i'm just— i don't know— i'm sad, i guess. about leaving. we grew up here and now we're moving on. leaving it in the past." he shrugs and looks down at his lap like a kicked puppy. patrick only sighs because art's right. he himself was reminiscing for the last hour, barely even able to get hard because of the memories plaguing him. "i get it, this place means a lot to us. but you got accepted into stanford and i'm going on tour. we're going further than we ever dreamed of. we'll finally have more to our names than this shitty academy." he laughs and ruffles arts curls, settling for the joking tactic. "yeah.. you're right." his tear stained eyes finally meet patricks and he offers a sad smile. patrick offers one back and it's far different than his customary smirk or grin.

but it was gone as quick as it came. "are we done here? 'cause you kinda ruined my me time, if you catch my drift." patrick makes a jerking off gesture with his hand, as if his words weren't comprehendable alone. "right..." arts smile falters when he notices the tent in patricks boxers. was that there the whole time?

he should be disgusted if it was. here he is, crying and in need of comfort. maybe even a lullaby. all the while his best friend is harboring a boner and can't even offer him a hug. but if the way his own cock is filling out says anything about what he's feeling, it's definitely not disgust.

and of course patrick catches on immediately, eyes watching the quickening growth in arts boxers. it's only then that he's reminded of his own which he left aching and wanting. their attention shifts from their dicks to each other once again. it's even quieter than before. so quiet that the gears in patricks mind can almost be heard working overtime.

eventually, he voices what he was thinking so hard about. "i could help you take your mind off of things if you want—" art shakes his head vigorously as if he'd rather die. "no, i don't want." patrick scoffs "really? well, i didn't know you were the type to get a random boner." he nods to the tent in arts boxers that now matches his own. "i'm not— i don't— it's a natural reaction—" art stammers, a flush already rising to his cheeks. "a natural reaction to what? my dick?" patrick grins, fully aware he has him cornered. all art can do is grab one of his pillows and plant it firmly over his lap, avoiding patricks gaze yet again.

there's that gleam in patricks eye. the one that shines when he's planning something regrettable, which is often. "come on, art." patrick drawls and leisurely crawls over him. he rips the pillow from his grip and sets it off to the side. "do you remember when i taught you how to jerk off? we did it together, right here in this room. you on this bed, a whimpering mess." he smiles down at art, dimples making him look slightly less devilish. "it's our last night here. you really wanna spend it sulking? let's just.. give each other a hand." his fingers trail down arts bare torso before he finds and palms his buldge, relishing in the whine it pulls from him. "for old times sake." he adds, as if that will make it any better. "f—for old times sake?" art asks hesitantly, unsure how he's even able to form words at this point. "yeah, for old times sake." patrick echoes and his palm presses down harder.

when art bucks his hips up instead of telling him off, patrick takes it as a yes and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of arts boxers. he tugs them down slowly as if to prolong his discomfort. when they're finally off, he tosses them into the void and his own follow suit. patrick props one hand beside arts head for support as the other finds his hip. art is staring between them, to which patrick follows his line of sight. their cocks are rock solid and straining against their stomachs, arts leaking pre-cum already. patrick removes his hand from its place on arts hip and wraps it around his base, avoiding arts at all costs. you see, palming and actually touching are totally different things. to the two of them at least.

he strokes himself once. twice. by the third, art is grabbing his own and mimicking patricks motions. they set a pace with their hands in sync whether it's purposeful or not. the previous silence of the night is now filled with ragged breathing and the occasional moan. patrick focuses his eyes on the headboard while art shuts his every now and then. they never make eye contact. it's an unspoken rule. one that would be way weird if broken. although, patrick does take the chances when arts eyes are closed to admire him. he watches the slight flutter of his eyelids, or how his eyebrows scrunch with pleasure, but mainly the way his lips part to let out sounds that go straight to patricks gut.

he doesn't even realize that his hand is leaving his cock and wrapping around arts until it's too late. arts eyes fly open and his hand stills. he wants to pull his hand away and ask him what he's doing. but they're making eye contact—dammit they're making eye contact—and all rational thoughts flee his mind. especially when patrick slowly moves their hands, guiding arts strokes. he's not even touching him and yet it's enough to make him lose it. "please—" art chokes out, staring into patricks eyes pleadingly. "please what?" it almost comes out tauntingly but it's far from it. "let's just... help each other out, like you said." the words leave a weird taste in arts mouth but he ignores it. patrick stops the movement of their hands and stares at art in contemplation. his eyes flick from arts to his lips then back. "alright. no kissing though, i'm not gay or anything." patricks words are laced with underlying meaning but they're both too lost in the moment to acknowledge it. arts insistent head nodding speaks for itself.

arts hand slips out from under patricks, allowing him to truly grip his cock. the moans they both let out is an obscene combination. patrick should've have stopped it from going this far. he knew that. but when arts hand wraps around his own ache he can't find any reason why he would.

they resume the pace of earlier but it quickly turns frenzied. hands pump, thumbs rub tips, free hands grab balls. their noses either drag across the others cheek or smush against one another. they share the same breath but they never kiss and they maintain their eye contact rule (with the exception of earlier.)

it isn't long before they're both thrusting into each others fists. art mostly, the needy thing. "fuck yeah— just like that." patrick moans into arts ear, so very tempted to pull the lobe into his mouth and suck on it. "like this?" arts tone is almost innocent even as he flicks his wrist. "mmmh exactly." patricks movements get sloppier, so do arts. the heat between them is boiling but the feeling is so good it feels like they're in heaven and hell all at once.

their climaxes rise at the same time, art working through his faster. "please pat— oh shit— patrick i'm gonna—" his words are cut off by a moan that sounds like it was extorted straight from his soul. patricks name on arts lips is enough to have his orgasm following right after. "yes— just like that art- fuuuuck-" ropes of white come shoot out from their swollen tips, crossing paths before landing on each others stomachs.

patrick collapses onto his back next to art, both boys covered in the others release and gasping for air. they don't find it in themselves to look at each other, at the damage they've done. they just stare at the ceiling and relish in the left over pleasure.

patrick is the first one to make a move, getting up and looking around for his boxers. art sits up to watch him. definitely not to stare at his naked form. once he finds them, patrick pulls them on and tosses arts to him. he takes a moment to let what they just did sink in. he looks over art from head to toe as he tugs his boxers on himself. his eyes linger a little too long on the mess on arts stomach. his mess on arts stomach. arts mess on his stomach. a strange feeling of pride swells in his chest and it makes him feel sick. he knows art must feel just as sick, if not more. it's not like patrick has never thought about this before. he has. more times than he'd like to admit. it's that he knows art hasn't and never will. so he deems it best to avoid it.

he walks into their bathroom and comes back with two cloths. he carelessly throws one to art and walks back to his side of the room to clean himself off in the mirror. however, he keeps an eye on art in the reflection. he watches as he quickly wipes off the liquid as if it was toxic waste. patrick does it himself, and they discard them in their trash bins.

art fixes his pillows and pulls the sheets over him whilst patrick settles himself back in his own bed. they don't exchange looks or even a goodnight. they simply turn over and fall asleep.

  —

in the morning, patrick and art are up at their typical time. aka the ass crack of dawn. they're both tired, like usual, but more so from their late night activities. they each mutter a goodmorning and make small talk here and there while they get ready for the day. "how'd you sleep?" "good, you?" "pretty good." "nice."

when the time comes for packing, patrick almost expects to see art crying as he brings in empty boxes. but he's not. his demeanor is entirely different than how it was last night. before... everything.

"want some help?" patrick offers when art begins to stuff his respective boxes. "sure, if you don't mind." they spend an hour packing all of arts stuff, nice and neat, and another hour packing patricks stuff, unorganized and an overall mess.

by the end of it the room looks empty, but they both know it's not. it's full. full of memories and shared moments. full of secrets that will never leave. full of whatever happened between them last night.

patrick is the one to break the heavy silence. "wanna play a match later? i'll even buy us some beer after." art switches his focus, eyes locking with patricks (now that the rule isn't in place) and grins. "only if you get the good stuff."

"when have I ever not gotten the good stuff?" from the smiles on both of their faces, you wouldn't think that they were leaving a big chunk of their lives behind. you also wouldn't think that they jerked each other off the night prior.

i aim to please, but my aim aint that good!

So who’s gonna supply me with James potter rugby fics

jo i love you so much for giving me exactly what i wanted here

also it's crazy the way everyone tries to act like patrick is solely a dom!top! when this is lit patrick

like yeah he's switchy but this is a brat. to me.

retweet. do i think he can dom and rail the shit out of you?? yes. is he the biggest brat to ever walk the earth?? ALSO YES

like the way he literally drags her fingers into his mouth... fuck !!!

slapping spitting choking. all of it. wants you to yank his hair and force him to make eye contact as you sink down onto him. hands obediently curled into fists by his sides bc you said he couldn't touch you until you got off first. "c'mon, harder. you're slapping like a girl. can barely even feel it" when you hit him. 'accidentally loses count' of how many just to prolong the entire thing. completely shameless about wearing the red brand on his cheek afterwards

or him acting up just to get a rise out of you. like you're in the middle of studying n just letting him toy with your fingers to shut him up for once. except he just ends up sliding them into his warm mouth, coating them in saliva and biting down on your knuckles. gives an innocent smile as he starts to pump them in and out, tongue circling keenly around your digits. he takes them all the way down to the second knuckle without so much as a gag. he's bored and just wants to get fucked!! n he knows the sight of drool spilling down his chin and your fingers curled in his mouth will get him what he wants.

definitely antagonises the shit out of you while he's getting pegged. "that all you got?" "i can feel you getting tired. y'giving up that easily?" his idea of a good time is you smothering his face in your pillows to shut him up, ass in the air and legs trembling under your spitefully rough thrusts. or the way he hooks his legs around art to pull him closer in the gif?? like ugh strong thighs urging him deeper, heels pressed into his ass to force him to bottom out. trying to sound smug but he's whining like a little bitch. he might be bottoming but he certainly doesn't act like it !!!

idk i think he just likes the game of "fighting for power." he knows it'll end w you riding him until he's begging to cum but he wouldn't be patrick if he wasn't difficult first. it's hotter to watch you get all pissed at him. put that little slut in his place

also he was Not joking ab the racket fucking thing. he'd let her do it. in fact he'd beg her to

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saw a cockatoo that looked exactly like the evil bird from rio today. didn't even get to take a picture.

..I fear Thunderbolts bought out the most annoying John Walker fans..ever.

"He killed a terrorist! Hes better than Sam" you either didnt watch Falcon and the Winter soldier at ALL, or you're a weird, illiterate loser who just hates black characters. Like..people who think John is this cool character who did nothing wrong piss me the hell off.

He has an inferiority complex and he thinks he deserves the shield and a better title simply cuz he was a good SOLDIER. Like..that was his damn job. He didnt do it cuz he cared about helping and he doesnt deserve the fucking shield.

Also..the flag smasher he killed wasn't a terrorist, like..the whole point was they were being forgotten and shoved away cuz everyone who got snapped came back AND THEY HAD NO WHERE TO GO, then John, killed him even AFTER HE WAS ACTIVELY SURROUNDING. John was a giant fucking baby throughout the entire show and made Sam's life WAY harder cuz he couldn't deal with the fact he wasn't Captain America.

And then he goes up and he neglects his fucking son cuz hes reading articles about himself, and he screams at his wife??? And..this is your goat?? Really. You cant bash Sam for fucking existing and then claim John is this complex, interesting hero when he fucking isn't.

John was FUNNY in Thunderbolts and useful on the occasion. That doesnt make him the new Captain America, nor does it even make him good. Like..if you hate Sam and love John, Im just gonna assume you're racist cuz..aint no other explanation 🤨