My love Dump

This is just my dump of a blog. No theme, just straight-up random shit. 25

[butterflikisses]

This page supports BLACK WOMEN being loved, soft, happy, cherished, admired, uplifted, supported, respected, spoiled, and feminine.

[ceilidho]

TWO OF CUPS | Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x Reader

MOODBOARD · AO3

You can’t remember wanting anything with ease. Certainly not the man of your dreams.

or: the anxious avoidant au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB Reader, Mildly Dubious Consent, Anxious Avoidant Character, Coffee Shop AU, Strangers to Lovers

You can’t remember wanting anything with ease.

It always hurts in that big, bright way, like a thousand sticks of dynamite blowing a tunnel open through a mountain, giving you a way to pass to the other side. Like whispering the same wish over and over again until your lips go numb and your voice goes hoarse, your plea still unheard after all these years.

Perhaps it would hurt less to desire if you could fill that hole every once in a while. If you could wet your tongue with the taste of satisfaction, of a want fulfilled, of the opportunity to say to someone, “Oh, look what I got” or “Look at what all my work has amounted to.”

That’s never been the case though, has it? Never been lucky enough for a wish to come true. You work like a dog for the barest scraps of what you know you’re worth (what you know and what every day seems less and less true).

Vacations that you never had enough money to take, jobs that never came to fruition, mistakes that couldn’t be undone, memories that you could never remake, friendships that grew apart or that never materialized altogether. 

It’s not all doom and gloom. You have a good job and a decent network of friends and acquaintances, parties you attend on occasion and warm nights at home curled up in bed. You have a roof over your head. There's more than enough in your life to be grateful for.

But the wanting never goes away. That, you have in spades. That, you have in heaps and bounds. That multiplies itself tenfold. 

And it happens that way with your heart too.

There’s a coffee shop down the street from your office with a decent amount of seating and an app to order your drink ahead of time, and every day at around two, you order your coffee ahead of time and walk over to pick it up, rain or shine. 

It’s always busy to some degree when you walk in, a handful of people waiting by the counter and a short line at the register snaking around the merchandise display. The whirr of the coffee grinder hums in the background, just a touch louder than the music, always filling the café with the rich, pleasing scent of freshly ground coffee.

The same chairs are always filled by the same people. Plenty of them you’ve even grown to recognize over time—students bent over thick textbooks, elderly men creasing newspapers in ink-stained hands, and laptop screens glowing with blank Word documents, scarcely a sentence added in the time it took to order and finish their coffee.

You recognize most of the takeaway regulars as well.

They’re harder to remember at first. Quick to come and quick to go. Hard to commit their faces to memory. But some give you no choice—some boisterously loud or ostentatious in dress, eye-catching enough to hook you like a fish, drag your attention down river with them. 

Then, to him. 

He, like you, comes in every day around two for his afternoon coffee. He, unlike you, comes striding in full-chested, confidence nipping at his heels, no world-weariness weighing him down. 

Hard not to notice him. Of course you notice him. He takes up space like a living sun, all bright smiles and radiant energy, handsome in the way that, when men are, they draw people in like moths. You feel no better than a moth sometimes, particularly in his presence. 

Tea-coloured eyes. What you notice at first is that there’s a beautiful man waiting for his coffee next to you, a tall man with the sculpted physique of an athlete, all long limbs and broad shoulders tapering into a lean frame, and what you notice next are those tea-coloured eyes, honeying under the sun. 

You stare so long that you only realize how dry your eyes have gone when the door swings shut behind him. 

It’s no wonder then, that you latch onto his presence like so, a little flutter in your chest on your way to the coffee shop every time after that first time, hoping that you’ll cross paths again. 

And you do. Cross paths again, that is. Only a few times those first couple of weeks, and then seemingly all the time, the two of you always in at the same time. 

That isn’t unusual. There are plenty of other familiar faces picking up their afternoon coffees at the same time as you, people that you recognize at the mobile ordering station and laptop stickers that you’ve come to memorize, the same people sitting at the same seats. People like routine; you’re no different. Neither is he. 

It comes over you like an ague, a desperate, eager thing, quiet enough at first when you’ve only seen him in bits and pieces, not studied him at length yet, but it—

It grows.

It grows like a vine in your chest, weaving around your heart and squeezing until you can feel it with every beat. 

You don’t entirely blame yourself. How could you? You swear you’ve never seen anyone even half as good-looking as him—broad-shouldered and lean, perfect smile, perfect teeth. Haircut always fresh, his edges neat. He squints with the force of his smile, always effusive with his gratitude and praise, so earnest in his kindness that it makes your teeth ache. 

He’s objectively a handsome man. Perhaps the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. What else could you do but go a bit crazy? 

Want may not be a strong enough word for what you’re experiencing. It’s more of a torsion of the soul. A desperate, yearning ache that both releases and constricts when he walks into the café to order his coffee. 

You don’t know what to do with yourself when he doesn’t show up at the same time as you. Your schedules are so in sync that you’ve grown to expect him, fattened and spoiled by the timeliness of his presence. But he doesn’t owe it to you to show up, and there are days when he doesn’t, held up for some reason, or maybe simply not in the mood for a coffee.

You practically drag your feet on the walk back to the office, a sorry sight. Pathetically despondent. You hardly know what to do with yourself the rest of the afternoon, oscillating between dejection and self-reproach. It’s pathetic that the mere absence of your crush would reduce you to such a state, hardly able to concentrate on your work because the stranger that you’ve become infatuated with wasn’t at the coffee shop where you see him for a total of twenty seconds every other day. 

Forgive yourself though. Nothing you’ve ever wanted has come without pain.

What you don’t expect is for him to finally notice you. 

It happens on a day when you cross paths rather than arriving at the same time, him leaving the coffee shop as you’re about to enter. Your heart skips a beat when you look up and see him staring down at you, both of you taken by surprise when you go to pull the door open and he’s already pushing on the other side. 

“Traffic jam,” he laughs when you both lean left and then right at the same time, trying to let the other go around. “Here, I’ve got you.”

He extends an arm to hold the door wide open and angles his body to let you pass through. You thank him as you pass, your heart pounding against your ribs. His gaze follows you as you step inside, and you nearly jump when his voice calls a farewell after you, leaving through the same door.

You stand near the doorway for far too long, other customers coming in and going around you, cutting you annoyed looks on their way to the cash. Your drink must already be waiting for you on the counter and still you can’t move. It takes someone actually stumbling into you to jolt you back into the present. 

That wasn’t part of the plan. It’s thrilling, initially, a rush so overwhelming, so kaleidoscopic, that you ride it all the way back to the office and all the way home, replaying the memory again and again in your head until even you start to tire of belabouring it. 

And still you roll around in bed that night thinking about it, heart racing even hours after your short little conversation, picturing it over again in your mind—the crinkle of the corners of his eyes, the smile nearly pulling across his face, all white teeth and soft, supple lips. 

The only problem is—

Now he knows who you are.

You don’t expect him to remember you after such a quick encounter. He’s not the one that’s been pining these past few weeks. He’s not the one that’s been beating himself up for crushing on a stranger. 

But he does remember you. And not only does he remember you, but he looks for you the next time he’s in. 

It’s one of those days when you get there first, coffee already ordered and paid for by the time he walks in, in dark trousers and a quarter-zip today, and filling them both out nicely, the sweater clinging to the muscles of his arms. You expect him to head straight for the cash like he normally does, blessedly and lamentably unaware of your presence.

Instead, your breath hitches when his eyes drift across the café and settle on you, a spark of recognition glinting in them.

His gaze immobilizes you, stronger than any paralytic. It’s what holds you in place as he approaches, the distance between you halved in an instant, and then fully collapsed, the gorgeous man in front of you doing what Zeno’s Achilles never could. 

“Hey stranger, no dance today, huh?” he asks, clearly addressing you.  

You don’t know what to say. This is your worst case scenario, your category five emergency. In the weeks you’ve spent crushing on him from afar, you hadn’t considered the possibility of him ever noticing you in return. 

“Sorry?” you croak.

He gestures with his thumb towards the door. “From the other day, remember?”

You don’t know how you’ll make it through this interaction without making a fool of yourself. “Right. Haha. I guess the dance floor’s closed today.”

You could throw up on the spot. Of all the abysmal conversation rejoinders there have ever been in the history of humanity, the one you just offered must rank comfortably near the top.

For whatever reason though, whether divine intervention or something more dastardly, he chuckles, amused. He seems to like talking to you. Seems to like you even. That only becomes clearer when he approaches you the next day, and then the day after that, and then every day when you stop by at two p.m. for your afternoon coffee, your coffees now handed out together by the barista, as if you had ordered them that way. 

The small talk alone almost makes you consider switching to a different coffee shop. It’s too much pressure. You feel sick with anxiety at the thought of him figuring you out. 

And he will figure you out. You haven’t exactly played it subtle. 

Then he gets your number. Somehow. And your name too, pried so easily from you that you don’t even notice, like freeing a pearl from a clam; barely a flick of his wrist and you offer it up without a second thought, embarrassingly malleable. 

You get his too. Kyle Garrick. He spells it for you as he watches you save his number into your phone from over your shoulder, so close to you that your fingers fumble with the keypad, mistyping it almost four times before getting it right.  

Kyle doesn’t seem to care that you can barely seem to string together a sentence in front of him. If anything, it seems to endear him to you.  

His attraction makes itself apparent in tender words and a new penchant for touch, a hand always reaching out for you. 

At first, it’s nothing more than the casual brush of his fingers against yours as he picks up your coffee from the bar and passes it to you, no different than a handshake or a high five. Ostensibly perfunctory. But that too changes over time. A fleeting touch becomes a hand at the small of your back as he guides you to a table for a quick chat before heading back to work, fingers squeezing your shoulder when he laughs at a joke you didn’t realize you made, and quick hugs that grow a little longer each time.

Maybe. Or maybe you’re imagining it. 

“So when are you gonna let me take you out for real?” 

That snaps you out of the daydream, reality crashing down with such force that it leaves your ears ringing. His words leave you dumbfounded, gaping up at him in that stupid way that you can’t seem to suppress. 

“For real?” you repeat.

“On a date,” Kyle clarifies, as if the word alone weren’t enough to wreck you. 

“Oh.” 

You tell him yes because the word no evaporates from your vocabulary. By the time it returns, he’s already gone, disappearing into the world (likely an office building around the corner from yours, but it might as well be Timbuktu). 

This isn’t what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to pine in agony until you died. 

It’s everything you ever wanted, and yet, you couldn’t want it less in the moment, terrified for some reason that you can’t quite articulate. You count down the days with growing apprehension, jitters giving way to a full-body sweat. 

You’ll break it off at a later date. That thought comforts you to a point. At some point, there will be a moment for you to bail entirely. 

The problem is the longer you say nothing, the harder it is to say anything at all. Already guilt stays your tongue when all you want to do is tell him that you can’t do this anymore. You need to leave—go anywhere else, run home and lock the door behind you, never go back to the coffee shop again.

But there’s a text in your phone telling you the time and place, and every time you look at it, it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Sea legs without leaving dry land. 

What is it about you that you feel the need to run as soon as you get too close? What about this isn’t what you want? Do you even know what you want?

Of course you know what you want. You want love and affection. 

But having is not wanting. Wanting is safe. It’s the having that’s dangerous. 

You contemplate cancelling on him about a dozen times until suddenly it’s too late, the man in question standing in the lobby of your building to pick you up. He must know someone in the building because he’s deep in conversation when you spot him, his head turning to meet yours at the same time, as if even in conversation, he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted enough to miss you. Your heart squeezes when he wraps it up in the same breath, crossing the lobby to meet you. 

Dinner is a restaurant in a different part of town, one you’ve seldom spent time in before, trendy in the way that would unnerve you were it not for the abrupt realization that to everyone else, this is simply a familiar part of town. 

To some, the restaurant must be familiar as well. There might even be regulars. To you however, the small, dimly lit room with the booths on one side and the chairs lining the bar at the other, an eclectic assortment of framed photos and decorative porcelain plates on the wall beside you, is lovely, uncharted territory. 

Over dinner, Kyle peppers you with question after question until your head spins, each answer that leaves your lips betraying some nervous tendency towards clandestinity. You have to keep some things to yourself. You have to keep some things private.

You have to shut your mouth before you—

“A long time,” you reply without thinking, the whole world blowing open when you admit it. You hadn't even consciously registered the question before answering. When was your last date? 

Kyle doesn’t seem phased by it though, warm smile somehow warmer than the blood boiling under your skin. “I must be one lucky man then.”

He sweet talks you into agreeing to a drink after dinner, probably sensing the nervous animal in you, the fear about to take flight. 

You assume he means a drink at a bar until you’re standing in the kitchen of your apartment, Kyle standing behind the island with a bottle of wine in one hand, uncorking it with practiced ease. When it pops out, you flinch. 

What a strange thing, to lose time like that. You lose it again after he pours you both a glass, coming to on the couch with his arm around your shoulders, pinned between him and the side of the couch. 

He turned the television on, you notice distantly, staring at it through your glass, red wine sloshing from side to side. It’s not a program either of you would care to pay much attention to, possibly by design. 

“Do you have, um…any plans tomorrow?” you ask, swallowing when he drags his fingers over the bare skin of your upper arm. 

“Nope,” he answers, playing with the sleeve of your shirt now. 

You can hear it coming from a mile away. He makes it too obvious with his fingers trailing over your skin and the heat of his gaze searing into the side of your face.

The sky outside your window is black, the moon only a sliver of its usual brilliance, but your living room is bright, turning the window into a mirror reflecting the two of you, the picture of a couple in repose. 

You watch his reflection lean over yours in the window, his lips grazing your double’s ears, your breath catching when his touch yours as well. “If I give you an inch, you’re going to run a mile, aren’t you?” he murmurs. 

There’s a lump in your throat when you swallow. “No,” you lie.

He must see right through you though. Must see the creature inside you about to succumb to its instincts. 

He must be good at chess, you think to yourself, staring down at him with a stupid look on your face as he lowers himself to lie flat on the bed between your legs, spreading your thighs wide enough to wedge his shoulders between them. Any game of strategy. 

If you never give your opponent a moment to breathe, they can’t gather themselves enough to retreat. 

That thought crumbles to dust when he makes you watch him lick the first stripe up the seam of your pussy, crudely spreading your lips with his tongue. Nothing more substantial materializes after that. 

He eats pussy like he hasn’t had enough to eat. Lips and tongue and hollowed cheeks when he sucks your clit into his mouth and your back nearly arches right off the bed, twisted into such a complex shape that you almost don’t know how to unravel yourself. Fingers grasping at his head, his ears; rasping over the coils of his hair, fingers committing the texture to memory. 

Your thighs tremble and squeeze, pried open again and again every time you try to shut him out. The muscles in his arms barely even bulge with the effort it takes to keep your thighs spread. 

You are wound up in ways that would be a challenge to anyone, but Kyle doesn’t seem to care. He just holds you down and forces you to come on his tongue, rolling it over your clit until you actually start crying. Big, belting caterwauls. His poor baby, he croons. 

When have you been someone’s ‘poor baby’? Someone’s darling, sweetheart, honey, that’s it, I’ve got you, that felt good, didn’t it? God, you’re so pretty, I can’t believe you let me—

He flicks his tongue over your sensitive clit and you yelp, reaching down to slide your hand between his mouth and your swollen sex only for him to lace your fingers together and pull your hand to the side and lick it again. 

“It’s still sensitive,” you complain, and he lifts a brow, unmoved by your bellyaching. 

“So what, you got twitchy little orgasm legs, that means I’m not allowed to lick your pussy anymore?”

“No,” you hiss, embarrassment warming the blood already pooled under your cheeks. 

Warm hands rest on either side of your face as he eases his cock in for the first time, holding your gaze in place as sinks in to the root. All you can do is squeeze your eyes shut. 

They don’t stay shut for long. He pries them open without words, without touch, every ounce of his ardor poured into you and lifting your own to the surface. 

Sweat drips from his forehead onto yours. The sweat makes his hands slip up and down your face with the force of his thrusts, fingers tugging on your lips and pulling them apart, sliding over your gums and teeth.

“You are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Kyle pants, sweat dripping off his forehead and onto yours, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, glassy and feverish.

“Don’t—don’t say that,” you gasp.

He dips his head down to press his forehead against yours. “You can’t tell me that. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Whatever this is, it’s nothing like anything you’ve experienced before. Proper lovemaking. Real kisses with passion, with fervor, with delight; the messiness contained between you, in the sweat rolling down your back and soaking into the sheets, the saliva dripping from his mouth into yours, the squelch of his shaft splitting you over and over, never giving you a second to catch your breath. 

Coming a second, no, third time is painful, like a thing wrested unwillingly from you, and you fall back on the bed windburned. Kyle follows you down, hips bucking into yours faster and faster, his own end nearly on his heels. 

He comes with a grunt, without warning; a sudden surge of heat and warmth, his fingers biting into your cheeks where he holds your face in his hands, his lip curling up into a snarl that you swear you can almost hear, and—

You expect it to be over after that. For him to roll out of bed and pull on his pants, maybe give you a courtesy kiss for a job well done before leaving you to stew in the mire of another rejection, the small win eclipsed by the enormity of losing him. 

What you don’t expect is for him to lay down beside you and pull you into him. Kyle laughs softly when he notices your stiffness, jostling you slightly in an attempt to coax you into relaxing.

“That’s right, baby,” he chuckles a touch breathlessly, pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose before relaxing back down. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Coffee the next day is different than usual. Early for one, the sun still a syrupy morning gold, not yet the starchy afternoon white, and in a different location than usual, the coffee machine on your kitchen counter hissing through its second cup of the day. 

Kyle maneuvers around your apartment too naturally, a stark contrast to the way you scurry from the bedroom to the bathroom like a stowaway. He’s entirely at home in your space though, helping himself to coffee and breakfast, only glancing at you for permission, the slightest cock of his head and arch of his brow, and you fold under the pressure instantly. 

When you try to skirt around him, he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you into his side, the touch of his lips against your chest shocking you still, electrical impulses still skittering under your skin. 

“I can feel your heart racing,” Kyle teases, caramel-smooth voice sending a low vibration through your chest.

And why shouldn’t he? Your heart is racing after all. “I’m nervous.”

“I know you are, baby,” he murmurs. “This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

It is. A few too many years on your own have turned you to stone, the slightest touch almost too much to handle. You’ve long learned to expect anything you touch to shock you. 

“Want me to make this easier on you?” he asks gently. You’re not sure what he means by that, but you have an inkling. 

And wouldn’t it be nice to not have to worry? To not have to second guess what you really want or what you should do? 

You nod. 

“Okay, honey. Then you don’t have to do it. No telling me to go away. I’ve got it from here.” 

When Kyle takes your phone from your hand, you don’t stop him, even typing in your password for him when he turns it towards you, watching over his shoulder as he shares your location with his phone. 

You exhale shakily, the tightness in your shoulders easing. There he goes with that oyster shucker again, opening you up. 

So be it. What use is there in protecting something that’s already his? 

Besides, when have you wanted anything with ease?

[alchemyfreak321]

"No more rules" Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 4 - Reveal Trailer

[loverifle]

new MW4A trailer. No Gaz. First soap now him. What else can infinityward take from me.

[nottsnymph]

HELLO???????

[soapcloth]

Soap x reader

Being mortified that your teen brother’s online gaming buddy is a man in his late thirties when it comes up that they wanna meet for a convention to attend some panels relating to their current favourite game.

Getting on the headset (much to your brother’s horror) and giving him an earful about the whole situation when the man on the other end offers in his low Scottish timbre to buy you a ticket to the con. He’s happy to pay for the hotel, transportation, meals, the whole lot— You pause and think about it… That’s not the worst idea, you’ve taken him to other events. This could work.

Cut to the convention and he’s making desperate passes at you anytime you’re alone, constantly has a hand on you ‘-so a’dinnae lose ye’’, and is more than happy to shell out on merch for your brother just to see your quiet smile when he gets all excited.

Somehow the two of you end up alone way past midnight, two halls down in Johnny’s hotel room with the big man babbling on into your neck about how he saw you in the corner of some family gathering photos that got sent his way and decided he couldn’t live without you in his life.

[silverlullabies]

Ghost stared at the doctor until the man's voice faltered. They were briefing him in the hallway, stumbling around and over words about a contingency nobody in the military ever actually expected to need to use. This was the kind of thing that got joked about in barracks after one too many beers. Not a real thing.

Except it was real, and you were in the isolation room behind him, shaking apart on the reinforced cot.

"Exposure confirmed. It's... aggressive. But the consent forms are on file and the subject listed you as their primary..."

Ghost let out a slow breath.

He'd seen the forms, everyone had. The brass, in their infinite paranoia, had made everyone fill them out after a classified briefing no one was supposed to talk about.

-In the event of exposure to aerosolized aphrodisiacs or similar incapacitating agents, designate personnel you consent to receive assistance from-

Most people had listed their closest teammates. Johnny had put Ghost down without hesitation- "Ye'd do it for me LT, ye big softie-" which had earned him a punch from the Lieutenant. Ghost, himself had stared at the paper for a long minute before scribbling down immediate lethal intervention.

He didn't believe in sex pollen. Didn't believe in fairy tale bullshit that turned harden soldiers into animals. But regardless, the form had been filed and then promptly forgotten.

And now the doctor was waiting for an answer, and something- curiosity, maybe, or the fact that you had put his name down- made Ghost nod once, curt.

"I'll do it."

The door hissed open and sealed shut behind him with a heavy click.

Low amber lights cast long shadows across the reinforced cot, and there you were, clothing already thrown elsewhere in the room, hips grinding frantically against the thin mattress. Drool slicked the pillow under your cheek, your mouth open on soft, broken whimpers as you humped the cot, the only relief you could find.

Ghost's breath caught behind the mask at the sight and his cock twitched hard in his pants.

Fuck.

The second you heard the door, your head snapped up. Glassy, tear filled eyes locked onto him. A raw, needy sound tore from your throat and you lunged, pushing off the cot with shaky limbs, hands reaching for his shirt, body slamming into his with single minded hunger.

Ghost caught you easy, strong arms wrapping around your waist as your legs tried to hook around his hips. Your mouth crashed against the fabric of his balaclava, hips grinding desperately against his thigh, leaving a wet streak on his trousers. The pollen had you burning up, skin fever hot, chest scars gleaming faintly under the lights with every heaving breath.

"Easy- " he started, but you were past easy. Your hands fumbled at his belt, a sob slipping out as you tried to climb him right there against the wall.

He moved then, one arm banding around your back, the other hooking under your thigh as he spun and pinned you down onto the cot. The mattress dipped under your combined weight. Ghost's body covered yours, heavy and solid, keeping you from writhing away or humping anything else. His knee pressed between your thighs, holding them open while his hand caught both of yours and pinned them above your head.

You whined, arching up against him, tears spilling fresh down your flushed cheeks. You throbbed hot, leaking against his stomach where your bodies pressed together. Ghost shifted his hips, letting his clothed cock drag against you, already dripping from the pollen's effects.

Didn't mean for this, he thought, even as his free hand slid down to free himself from his pants. Probably never expected the freak to actually walk through that door.

But the forms said you had. And he would ask your why later when you were coherent and in your right mind and could handle being interrogated by him, but until then, he had more important things to attend to. Like you crying so sweetly underneath him, every broken sound hitting him and making his cock throb harder.

He pushed in slow and deep, inch by thick inch, stretching your around him until he bottomed out with a low groan. Your back bowed off the cot, a shattered moan ripping from your throat as your walls fluttered wildly around his cock. Ghost stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting you adjust while his thumb brushed over the silvery scars on your chest.

"Tha's it," he murmured. "Taking me so well."

You keened at the praise, clenching so hard around his cock that his vision whited out for half a second. Ghost’s hips jerked before he could stop them, punching the breath out of you and sending more tears spilling down your face. Your cock twitched hard against your belly, another bead of pre sliding down the shaft.

Fuck, yes. That was it. That was exactly what he liked. The surrender. The way you looked up at him like he was the only thing keeping you from flying apart. He’d always been a sick bastard under the mask; he knew it. But you were making it feel like something holy.

He rocked into you again, slower this time, letting you feel every inch. Your mouth fell open on a broken moan, head tipping back against the pillow, throat bared. Ghost’s gaze dropped to the frantic flutter of your pulse there, then lower to the scars across your chest rising and falling with every ragged breath, to where your cock throbbed untouched and needy, to where you were stretched wide and glistening around the thick base of him.

"Cryin' so sweet for me," he rasped and your nails dug into his hand hard enough to leave marks he'd feel for days. Another sob tore out of you, half relief and half overwhelmed, and Ghost felt the last of his restraint snap like a cheap cord.

He fucked you hard then, deep, steady strokes that dragged against every sensitive place inside you and made your voice climb higher. The cot creaked beneath you both. Your thighs trembled around his waist. And still you looked up at him with those wet, glassy eyes, lips parted, your cock leaking steadily between your bodies.

Ghost didn’t know how long he had. Realistically, the pollen probably didn’t care about aftercare or morning after awkwardness. It only cared about relief.

And he was going to give you everything he had while he was here.

[cantfightfatetoo]

The Racist Fandom Starter Pack

A canon interracial couple exists "I just don't see their chemistry" proceeds to fanon ship [insert white character] instead, claiming they have more of a connection.

"It's not their skin color, I just don't like them for some reason, btw, here are my top 5 [insert white actors] I think are better suited"

"Not everything is about race". They say, as they prop up every white character over any character of color.

"Please stop bring race drama into the fandom". Which translates to, I'm comfortable in my racism and don't appreciate any criticism, thanks!

White person, "Yeah, I wrote character of color as an animal, doesn't make me racist".

"I love character of color, here's a fic where they act like as [insert white characters] servant/therapist".

Character of color is such a bad friend for having opinions of their own/taking care of themselves instead of putting their friend [insert white character] first.

A character of color is morally ambiguous or a villain, gets redemption arc. "They're awful and haven't been condemned enough of their crimes". Stans [insert white characters] who did the exact same crimes or was a villain who's redemption arc is praised.

"Can't believe that character of color had the nerve not to die as a selfless sacrifice for [insert white character]".

"POC actress/actor is too ethnic and they'd ruin the character".

"I haven't seen racism in the fandom therefore it isn't there".

"Character of color is the main character of the show sure, but let's be honest, everyone came for [insert white character]

"Character of color is alright but I can only relate to [insert white character]".

Feel free to add more, that you've come across. Sadly, it all runs together after awhile of being in a lot of fandoms. Special shout out to all who helped me with these comments!

[creatingblackcharacters]

"making character Black is inaccurate/offensive! I'm not racist, it's just facts!"

[prof-grace-aspen]

I really think everyone needs to truly internalize this:

Fictional characters are objects.

They are not people. You cannot "objectify" them, because they have no personhood to be deprived of. They have no humanity to be erased. You cannot "disrespect" them, because they are not real.

[nope-the-weeb-deactivated202408]

I know this has good intentions, so I will just add the "how you treat them, even as objects of fiction, can speak about your own character, be careful out there"

[prof-grace-aspen]

Your addition is actually completely antithetical to my message. It is literally the opposite of what I am conveying.

Stop telling people to encourage the cop inside their head.

How you treat fictional characters, given they are entirely objects of fiction, does NOT necessarily speak to your own character, and you do not need to be "careful".

It is not dangerous to imagine dark things happening to fictional characters. It does not mean you are secretly a bad person. It does not mean you unconsciously want to hurt people in real life. It is not a "slippery slope" to doing bad things to people in real life. You cannot damage your brain or turn yourself into a bad person by consuming "dark" fanfic.

I can write tentacle noncon of my favorite character all day long and be a fierce anti-sexual assault advocate in real life because what I do in my head is not the same thing as what I do in real life.

[askinfresh]

These tags were too perfect to not include

[kawaii-pigeon]

In case y'all need pictures sorry it aint in crayon 🖍️-

[shrucelium]

He’s like, my favourite guy

[the-korova]

Harry Potter is trending at #1 on tumblr so I thought I’d take the opportunity to say fuck JKR, fuck transphobes, fuck her stupid books, her theme park, her endless landfill fodder merch slop, and her fucking castle on a hill. Read another book yall!! Read another book!!!!!!!

[wolfcry77]

Did 2 commissions, super fun. Now, writers, link a story of yours and I’ll draw a scene that speaks to me…

Work is getting intense and I want to draw more in general, but my brain is fried so I need help getting my creative juices flowing.

[wolfcry77]

Look, a commission I did for @superpixie !!!

It’s Prince Fiyero, never seen wicked before but maybe I should?

[wolfcry77]

Commission I did for @fawn-eyed-girl !!!

I wonder what they’re listening too? 🤔

[pittofdespair]

I'm still furious that they turned Samira Mohan from a complex character with compelling motivations into nothing more than a reflection of Robby he could abuse without consequence and then discarded her when she'd fulfilled that role as a prop.

[apricustar]

so much of what happened in 2x5 really sharpened robby for me. there’s a bit of a jagged, almost intentional cruelty to the way he moves this episode. from his blatant distrust of frank, to the comment about dana needing a cigarette, to almost giving a beer to louie—it all starts to feel like a deliberate sabotage of hope.

robby seems to operate under a kind of fatalistic existentialism: the belief that once you are something—an addict, a failure, a lost cause—that is all you will ever be. but the deeper truth is that he’s terrified of the alternative. because if frank can get clean and stay clean, or if dana can function without a crutch, then robby loses his greatest armor: his excuses.

he treats his own flaws as set in stone, unmovable and unavoidable. he’s decided he’s finished—fixed in place—and because of that, watching anyone attempt the grueling, unglamorous work of change feels like a personal indictment. he validates the worst impulses of those around him because their failure makes him feel safe in his brokenness. if everyone stays stuck in the mud, he doesn’t have to ask himself why he stopped trying to climb out; he doesn’t have to face the fact he’s still down there by his own design. hurting is familiar, a known quality, something robby feels he’s earned. he has fundamentally decided he is incapable of betterment and the concept of anyone else changing, growing, healing??? feels improbable! impossible, even.

it’s the same reason therapy never quite works for him, why he can’t find a therapist he likes. he doesn’t want a nice person to challenge his delusions of worthlessness; he wants a witness to his self-hatred—someone who will confirm every ugly thing he believes about himself so he can finally stop fighting the urge to give up. he hoards his mistakes like relics, blaming himself for things that aren’t even his to carry, simply because it’s easier to be a guilty man than to face the raw uncertainty of trying to heal.

knowing he sleeps with the tv on feels like another piece of the puzzle slotting into place. here is a man who the entire ED looks to for guidance, yet he is incapable of being alone with the person he is when the work stops. he gets through the day full of sounds and nonstop motion; the pitt keeps his head full so it never has to be empty.

he needs the noise the tv provides because he is paralyzed by the honesty silence forces on him. he can’t let a thought even begin to form, because if he does, the feelings start. the grief, the PTSD, the sheer weight of everything—it’s all too loud, too much. he has to keep the volume up at all times so he doesn’t have to hear himself think.

which makes his upcoming three-month sabbatical feel less like a getaway and more like a slow-motion collision. he’s a man who can’t survive a quiet evening in his own apartment, yet he’s planning to drive straight into the wilderness alone. it’s the ultimate contradiction: fleeing from himself by heading toward the only place where there’s nowhere left to hide.

it makes you wonder what it is he’s chasing. if we know the sabbatical isn’t ‘vacation’ and we know he’s spent years outrunning himself—outrunning grief, guilt, the quiet, the parts of him he doesn’t like—then what is it he’s going to find in the face of all that silence? all that time alone? nothing but the open stretch of road ahead of him?

[lissa]

"Night shift's on Crus control."