cassie here! [cass also works :) ]
she/they, 18
- ADD, anxiety
interests include art, writing, horror movies (Black Christmas, Friday the 13th etc.), video games, and the color green <3
byf - i primarily reblog stuff, but i'd love to yap (also, i'm wanting to post more art, but i tend to forget.. ._.") ! Also, you may see some age regression posts under my “little kit” tag. That tag will always be sfw, but my blog as a whole is not aimed towards agere.
dni - basic dni, maga/zionists, pro-gen ai, ddlg/abdl, maps/pedos, zoos
my primary vibe is anything reblogged under "nature" or "🌱⋆˚꩜｡"; the rest is probably either fandom stuff or cool art i found here. though, i've picked up making stimboards, so that's fun :3 (stimboard requests and askbox are open!)
They would never be able to have children. That wasn't the issue.
Skipper could never view the others as potential mates; Kowalski was a brother, and Private had the characteristics of a younger cousin that trailed behind the others like a lost puppy.
Rico, however…
God, that volatile penguin always kept Skipper on his toes. He was always full of surprises, not just from the random items he regurgitated occasionally, but from the sultry gazes he would sneak, aimed at Skipper, during missions. Skipper found a way to distract himself from his true feelings: marriage. The bobble head that "stole his heart," whom he affectionately dubbed "Dollface," was nothing but cheap plastic—literally and figuratively—in comparison to Rico. Even so, it got the job done on lonely nights, where Skipper would sulk away and imagine the face of his teammate on the inanimate piece of junk. Maybe he imagined it, in the dark of whatever place the group was staying in that night, but Skipper could have sworn he heard the familiar grunts of the penguin he yearned for from around the corner. He was losing it, surely…
Rico, on the other hand, knew exactly what he was doing. Although limited in vocabulary, he wanted to serenade his boss in other ways. The idea of having to wear a muzzle, getting down on his knees and serving Skipper in any ways he was demanded, excited him immensely. He could feel the burn of a leather collar as Skipper tugged this way and that, and Rico would crawl along obediently, trying to ignore the burning at his core until his master allowed him release. These were all, in the end, just fantasies. How could he convey these things—much less his want for more in their relationship—to Skipper? He tried to give Skipper a part of his rations, hoping that the latter would notice. Nothing. Leaving the heads of small animals, prey in Rico's eyes, by Skipper's nest. Even though Rico received a lovely scolding each time, as well as a tasteful slap across the face, he couldn't feel any real emotion behind the punishment. Disappointment, maybe, but…he couldn't sense anything else.
That was, until he met the bobble head.
Oh, that homewrecker.
Rico may have clapped at the wedding. Sure, he was happy that Skipper was happy, but he shed no tears of joy. That damned bobble head had been given a name that Skipper should be calling Rico, not her. Dollface. What a joke. He watched Skipper have his way with the thing while Private and Kowalski were asleep. It was…aggressive, desperate, and almost concerning. Rico would have intervened if he had the words to express his longing, but he simply watched. And watched. And watched.
Until the watching wasn't enough.
Rico wanted, no, needed, to be in her place; he did the only thing he knew how to do.
Her head showed up in the middle of Skipper's nest one night.
"Rico!"
Kowalski and Private were out on a separate mission, as the self-proclaimed leader had some choice words to say to his aggravator. Little did he know, Rico had waited for this moment for a long while. Just them, together. While rage burned in Skipper's mind, he couldn't deny that a small part of his fervor was comprised of need, built up after weeks, months, even years of repressed yearning.
"What kinda stunt do you think you're trying to pull? You killed my fucking wife! Do you have anything to say, you psycho?"
Although his fury extended through his entire body, Skipper didn't raise his flipper to smack Rico just yet. Rather, he continued to berate his cohort:
"You know how long I've had to deal with you with that fuckin' look in your eye? I see it, you know. I see those damn looks you give me when we're out as a team. Do you like pissing me off, you sick fuck?"
As Skipper stepped forward to get into Rico's space, he realized that it took standing on the tips of his toes to truly meet his colleague eye to eye. Rico simply smirked in return. Nothing was said, and yet that only served to rile Skipper up some more.
"What I wanna know is why you're doin' this! We've known each other since we were hatchlings, Rico. You've stuck by my side, so why are you doing this now, after I've given you my trust? What're you getting out of me yelling at you and gettin'—"
Before he could finish his sentence, an unabashed grunt left Rico's throat. Looking down, Skipper saw that he had accidentally stepped on Rico's foot, yet there was no resistance. As a test, Skipper pushed a bit harder. It was as though the action stole all the air from Rico's lungs, and his knees nearly buckled at the pressure…not necessarily due to the intensity, but because he had only thought this scenario possible in his dreams, never a reality. Now that it was truly happening, Rico couldn't predict what would happen next, and the suspense added onto his desire. Skipper found himself astonished as the dots began connecting. Disgust and confusion—for the situation as well as his own boiling emotions—swirled in his complexion, yet he attempted to put his thoughts to words with a furrowed brow.
"What do you want, Rico?"
In response, Rico gestured back to Skipper. He wanted Skipper. How much more obvious could he make it? He lived off of the attention Skipper gave him, and he wanted it all to himself. It seemed as though this fact had gotten across to the object of his attraction as Skipper stepped off of Rico's foot. A disappointed whine was cut short as Rico felt the intoxicating burn of Skipper's flipper against his cheek once more.
"You're disgusting, you know that?"
Yes, Rico could almost moan. I'm disgusting. Punish me. Make me yours. Hurt me. Whatever it takes.
Another slap. This time, the thwack from the harsh contact echoed from the two heated penguins.
"You really want this? Want me?"
Rico opened his beak to reply, only able to cough out a garbled cry. He wanted this—wanted him—and the pressure between his legs ached with a need no other being could satisfy. Skipper pushed Rico down onto his knees, a quick demand following after. It was a simple order, but Rico was always good at following orders; when Skipper told him to get down on all fours, he did so with a pleased hum. Two flippers found themselves traveling across feathers decorated with dried blood and the occasional missing patch. Skipper gave no comment to his companion's hygiene. The only thing he did give Rico was a sharp tug to the back of his head as Skipper thrust into the bird below him. This was the burn that Rico had been craving. It was finally happening. Between pulls on his feathers and Skipper drilling into him, Rico could feel the bundle of nerves in his body begin to coil, ready to spring loose in a flurry of pleasure. He could only gasp, displaying a pathetic excuse of the madman he presented himself as before this:
"Ka…kaboom?"
A nod amidst the slapping of skin. A sultry flipper caressed Rico's spine as Skipper whispered,
