#DRAW SOMETHING ELSE YOU FAG !!!!!

[corkscrewrawks]

hi ......

#postal #postal2 #postal 2 #postal dude #corkscrew rules #shtopor #штопор жжОт #sillay art #p2 x corkscrew #corkdude #DRAW SOMETHING ELSE YOU FAG !!!!! #breh

[humanityinahandbag]

Steddie: Sticker Fic (Part 1)

“Hey, Munson?” Eddie turned and Steve was there, in his space, leaning forward until Eddie was pressed back into the kitchen island. He could smell Steve’s cologne, could see the moles and freckles across his face, could taste the air around him, like honey and butter and frosting. And then Steve reached out and pressed his fingers to Eddie’s chest, drawing back just as quickly, leaving Eddie’s skin warm and tingling. He’d also left something else on Eddie’s shirt. He barely registered what had happened until he was sitting back down, and Dustin's eyes were on him along with the rest of the kids. "No fair!" Dustin pointed, scowling at Eddie's shirt. "How come you got that one!" "Uh," said Eddie and looked down. I Did an Amooooozing Job Today! said a cow in a cowboy hat.

Eddie Munson was doing his best to push down his absolutely tragic crush on Steve Harrington. He'd been doing a pretty good job of it, too.

And then Steve brought out the goddamn stickers.

(or: Steve flirts using stickers. The kids go feral for them. Puns are everywhere and they are terrible. And Eddie is losing his goddamned mind.)

-

The first sticker appeared on a Tuesday.

Hellfire Club had been tentatively invited back into the school as a sort of withering olive branch, most of the school officials and adults shamefaced about the whole almost killing a kid in a jock-led Satanic Panic Mob thing. They’d put on their best faces and tried to appeal to Eddie’s mercy (even Principal Higgins had swallowed down his repulsion to say mistakes were made). 

But in the end it hadn't made much of a difference, and Eddie Munson got to watch each and every one of their faces fall deeper into sticky guilt when he said “no thank you”. 

It wasn't easy. Hellfire had been held in the back of the theater room since he'd started the club. Through bullies, black eyes, and the burning stares of teachers, that room had given Hawkins High at least one space he could be himself without apology. Without danger of being called a fag. Of being too slow to dodge a punch.

It was him, his friends, the stories they crafted.

And giving it up was like leaving a piece of himself behind.

But the fumbled apologies from adults (who should have known better, who'd never liked him, who'd been completely okay throwing words and stones and demanding his head, who suddenly looked to him to absolve their sins) made him feel skeevy. The guilt was warranted, but as his Uncle firmly told him it wasn’t his job to make a bunch of no-good-kid-hunting adults feel better.

"You ain't their priest, son. If they can hunt my boy so easily, then they shouldn't have any problems hunting down someone to listen to their goddamn confession, too."

Eddie had the scars along his body, a chunk of flesh eaten from his thigh, and a missing left nipple to show for their mistake . He had nightmares and flashbacks and nights where he woke up in a cold sweat expecting to see a mob outside his window shouting vile, obscene words to cut him deep or vines crawling across his ceiling to cut him even deeper. 

So he’d said no, even if it meant he might have needed to give up one of his most sacred spaces in the world. 

And then Steve Harrington (with his perfect smile and whiskey eyes and warm touch) had stepped in and said, “why don’t you just have Hellfire at my house?” and that was that. 

Steve Harrington's house provided safety, a giant ass dining room table, from-scratch cookies and cakes that Steve insisted on baking each and every time they met. 

It also provided Steve, who was wonderful and sweet and kind and-

And.

And.

And whatever the reason (that Eddie was definitely not avoiding, not at all), it was enough for Eddie to wind up at the head of Steve's dining room table, leering at the small group from behind his screen.

It was snickerdoodle that day; Jeff's favorite. Eddie had already put back two and was happily considering a third. The rest of Hellfire looked like they were regretting eating any as Eddie hunched forward in the ridiculous oak dining chair. Dustin was green in the face, staring down at his miniature like he might as well have dug a tiny grave right then and there.

"You arrive at a door." Eddie steepled his fingers, resting his chin against the points. "Ancient symbols are carved throughout. Runes from another time, another place." 

"Shit," Gareth murmured. "God, not another fucking door."

"Your only other escape is through the tunnels where you came, but you can already hear the Orc armies clashing their way through. What do you do, oh mighty heroes?"

"We're fucked." Dustin threw up his hands, pressing the heels against his eyes. "Oh Jesus we're so fucked."

"We're not fucked!" Lucas said, even if his face said otherwise. "We need- shit, we need a strategy! Will-?"

"I'm barely hanging on!" Will stared down at his character sheet, scribbling notes down furiously. "We could do an observation check-"

Dustin groaned. "We don't have time for that!" 

"Well then what are we supposed to do, Genius," Erica snapped. "Sit here and die?"

The table erupted into an argument, insults and strategies twisting together through the fray, Eddie watching it all delighted. 

From the corner of his eye he could see Steve leaving the kitchen with a fresh plate of what looked like carrot sticks. He walked carefully and silently through, mostly ignored by the still bickering group as he began to collect the empty cookie plates and gather napkins, stepping from spot to spot to curiously look over shoulders. 

"Enjoying the peace and quiet, Harrington?"

Steve snorted, dropping the plate of carrots by Eddie's elbow. "Oh yeah. Getting in a quick meditation." 

Eddie laughed, glancing back down at his notes to hide the blush already crawling up his collar, scribbling out a quick direction on the paper.

And then-

“What the hell is that?”

-the table fell silent. 

There could have been a million reasons for those words to be said by any one of the Hellfire Club, and so Eddie wasn't much phased by the squawk from the other side of the table beyond the sea of miniatures and D20s. It was only when the other kids began to grumble that he looked up from behind his screen. 

What he found was a scene that didn’t fully belong at the table of dark cloth and menacing figurines and leather clad nerds who were all now staring at Mike Wheeler holding up his character sheet, staring at Steve who had been coming over to grab empty plates from the middle of the miniature battle. 

The character sheet, which was now adorned with a circle just bigger than a quarter. 

Eddie squinted. The circle was a bright, neon green with a star in the middle. And the star was wearing- Huh. He squinted again, and, yup. The star was wearing sunglasses. 

Steve turned back, empty stack of plates in one hand. “It’s a sticker.” 

“No shit, Steve,” said Mike. “What’s it doing here though.” 

Steve shrugged. “I thought your little dude was cool. So.” He reached into his pocket with his free hand and held up a roll of stickers. Eddie could see more sunglass wearing stars scattered in between a small galaxy of suns giving them the thumbs up and a moon with a backwards hat.

"We're not babies, Steve."

Steve rolled his eyes. “You don’t have to be a dick about it. Just say thank you.” 

“Whatever,” said Mike, which was as close to thanks as he ever got. “I’m throwing it away.”

“Do what you want,” said Steve. He rolled his eyes and looked down at Eddie. “So ungrateful,” he said, as if Eddie was meant to commiserate somehow with a freshman. 

Then again, Eddie was always happy to play along. “Oh yeah. Kid doesn’t know how good he’s got it. Crowning achievement, that prize.”

“You jealous, Munson?” 

Eddie snorted. “Sure, Harrignton. Whatever you want to tell yourself. Now stop distracting my sheepies. We’ve got stuff to- to…”

He trailed off when Steve leaned closer. His cologne was woodsy and dark and from the angle where he leaned, Eddie could see chest hair poking from the open neck of his polo shirt. He reached out and pressed his fingers against Eddie’s shoulder. His touch was firm and sure and Eddie wanted to sink against it. “Well,” he said, “I’d hate to be a distraction.” And then he leaned back like nothing had happened, getting the kids’ attention with a sharp whistle and a call for pizza orders. 

When Eddie looked down, there was a sticker on his shoulder. 

Eyes on the Prize said a festive looking potato. 

Eddie did his best to scoff, swallowing back the thrumming in his chest. 

.

.

.

Though if he put the stupid thing inside his binder afterwards. Well. That was no one else's business but his own. 

-

Want to read the rest of this fic? This is only a part of chapter 1! The rest of it (as well as the next three chapters) can be found on AO3!

If you want to watch Steve Harrington woo Eddie Munson with stickers, then this might be the right story for you.

Warning: (Slaps story) This baby can hold so many bad puns.

#my writing #fic #stranger things fic #steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #virgin eddie munson #writing #fanfiction #Warning: (Slaps story) This baby can hold so many bad puns

[ofsappho]

Heartless, Chapter 5

🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, SMUT

-

You get into trouble and Ghost disciplines you for it.

CHECK TRIGGER WARNINGS/TAGS UNDER READ MORE

-

TRIGGER WARNINGS: in the first part of this chapter, homophobic slurs (fag, faggot) and insults are tossed around. From an inconsequential side character towards Soap. I want to note that I myself am queer/nonbinary, and I have been harassed/attacked/bullied for being queer. Additionally, this scene is directly inspired by real events. A friend of mine, who is queer + nb AND is a veteran, got into a fight during their service with another Marine on their base for saying vile homophobic shit. My friend dropped the guy in an instant. My friend knows I am interpreting their story in this chapter, and they approve.

SMUT TAGS: degradation (a lot of it), humiliation, spanking, bondage, dumbification, edging, spit kink, dacryphilia, bratting/brat taming, choking, face slapping, praise kink, overstimulation, squirting, care taking (tbc next chapter!). Knife kink. All consensual. By degradation, I mean degradation in the context of the smut.

Everything goes wrong like this:

You’re out with Ghost and Johnny to explore the base. 

They show you the fields where people like to play soccer. “It’s football,” your friend insists in his thick Scottish brogue. Ghost agrees with a grunt like the traitor he is.

Your heavy, exasperated sigh draws out chuckles from them both. “I’ll stop calling it soccer on the day you beat us at football.” And you don’t even like football. But fuck the British if they think they can get one over you. Well, the British and Scottish. Whatever.

The two of them start chattering- correction, Johnny chatters, and Ghost genuinely listens, you can tell, about sports and teams, and you regret bringing up the topic at all because you can barely follow.

What’s the difference between Manchester City and Manchester United? Isn’t that, like, the same thing?

As your husband discusses a recent game, a few guys kick around a ball, and some people smoke a few feet outside the designated smoking area. You watch a guy stub out his cigarette on the sign that says not to smoke elsewhere.

You’ve gotten too comfortable referring to Ghost as ‘your husband.’ Hm. You should check that impulse before it spirals into something that might validate Alejandro and Gaz’s conspiracy theories about love at first sight. Gross.

Do you know what else isn’t helping? Ghost’s refusal to let you be alone with them again. He doesn’t try to stop you or interfere, but you can’t ignore him lurking in the background like a little stalker whenever you socialize.

It’s… kind of cute.

Oh, and you finally encountered Roach in the wild. You spotted him in the mess a couple of days back, collecting the randomest assortment of snacks (Cool Ranch Doritos, a pre-workout drink for balance, you guess, a chocolate milk, and three lemon sugar cookie flavored energy bars).

He had on some interesting cat ear headphones, so you just waved and wordlessly gestured that you liked his headgear. He waved back, then shot you a thumbs up.

You tap back into your surroundings. Ghost has wandered into the smoking area to light up, and you might as well join him.

When you stretch out your hand, he plucks a smoke from his pack and places it delicately in your palm. He even lights it for you from a Zippo engraved with skulls, with one scarred hand cupped around the flame to keep it steady.

Johnny wrinkles his nose. “That’s gonna kill you in five years, you ken?” He stands on the other side of the painted smoking area line to hang while letting his disapproval be known.

You take a drag instead of laughing in his face. After all, he was the one who charmed every convenience store clerk at the young age of 17 into buying what he wanted without getting carded, smokes included.

“Since when have you been so health conscious?” You say as you blow the smoke away from Soap’s face.

Ghost does the same without thinking - like he’s stood somewhere and smoked while chatting with Soap enough times to make it a routine.

You envy the easy way they complement each other. You used to be like that with Johnny, and you wish… you want your own routines with your new husband, to know that he goes out into the world and does something different for the rest of his life because of you.

Distance is only natural, you tell yourself. You’re new to their friendship.

But Soap has been one of yours for so long, and Ghost is becoming yours faster than you thought possible. Like a rapacious strangler vine or fungal colony occupying a rotted tree, you find that you’re plotting all the ways you can twist yourself around and into Ghost.

Soap laughs. “Aye, well. You try getting shot a couple o’ times. Am not goin’ down over one of them cancer sticks.”

You hear it just as you tap some of the ash off the end of your cigarette.

“...can’t believe they let those fuckin’ fags…”

You bring the smoke to your mouth to conceal your grimace before turning ever-so-slowly. You’ve learned this lesson many times over; gathering further context is important— no need to bring a knife to a situation that does not call for knives.

The same guy you heard before continues with his little rant.

He’s a miserable-looking dude with a pasty milk face, no defined chin, a bad haircut, and a shitty name tag on his shitty uniform that says ‘Pvt. Langford.’

But somehow, despite lacking any discernible charisma, he holds rapt court with a bunch of other similarly-miserable peeons. “They’re a bunch of pussies, like, it’s pathetic, bro. Gonna give me fuckin’ AIDS or some shit if I gotta be in the same room. Criminal.” By now, he’s seen you watching him.

The corner of his thin-lipped mouth lifts as if he’s said something funny.

Eh. He’s maybe got half of a foot on you. At most. There are worse odds.

Then he slides his smarmy, revolting gaze from you to just over your shoulder, and his smirk grows. He’s looking at Soap.

You’ve seen this exact look before. You know what it means, what nerves motherfucking Langford is trying to trample on.

Before anyone can stop you, you’re across the smoking area and in Pvt. Langford’s face in about five seconds.

-

Soap thinks he’s about as level-headed and reasonable as the average man, but Langford has been getting on his nerves for way too fuckin’ long. For the whole time they’ve been stationed at this base, so, weeks.

Everyone knows Langford is a little shit. Everyone hates him and his bitch boys.

You’re just the first person willing to do something about it.

So while Johnny has never felt the urge to personally handle the Private’s homophobia because swatting flies is beneath him, he’s content to sit back and watch the show.

Naturally, Ghost tries to follow you. You’ve got the poor fellow whipped and wrapped firmly around your little finger.

He supposes he shouldn’t have expected any less.

Soap holds your husband back with an outstretched arm. “Let the lass do her thing,” He advises. You won’t appreciate it, and Soap has no intention of being on the receiving end of your wrath.

Ghost rolls his shoulders back. “Not gonna stop her?”

The Lt. doesn’t know, does he? “D’ya really think ya can?” Even more reason to let you go off. This will be fun and, frankly, a necessary introduction.

Ghost stills. “…” Not so new, then.

What a bloody buzzkill. Now look who’s fussing and clucking? Like a rooster.

Soap watches his teammate flex and crack his knuckles and decides that you owe him for what he’s about to say. “If she needs it, we’ll grab her before it goes too far,” He reassures Ghost before leaning against the ‘Smoking Area’ sign.

It’ll work out one way or another. No big deal.

The scowl on your face as you stare down Langford is somethin’ real ferocious. “What the fuck did you just say?” You demand, voice low and proud and loud enough to catch the attention of everyone in a ten-foot radius.

Langford laughs and tries to play it off. “That’s classified.” Oh, haha. Real fuckin’ original. Like half the girls in town haven’t heard soldiers try that line a million times.

The Army sure didn’t take Private Langford for his brain cells.

Next to him, Riley shifts from foot to foot. “She always like this?” He asks as if the words are throwing themselves against his mask and demanding to be let out.

“Mmm. Since we were wee mates.” From here, Soap can see how viciously you throw your cigarette to the ground and grind out the lit ember with your heel like the poor thing did something to you.

“No. Say it again,” You snap, cracking the sentiment over Langford’s thick head like you’re breaking a chalkboard in two.

Ghost stiffens up even further, and behind the mask, his eyes glint in the sunlight like that flame you just put out.

Is it possible that he’s…  impressed by you? “Go on. I just want to make sure that I heard you correctly. That we all heard you correctly,” You say icily.

Global warming would be solved in a day if they could translate your tone into real ice.

Watching Langford take a small step back without realizing it is funny as hell. Even his minions have backed away as your aura of menace sets off their self-preservation instincts with the subtlety of a pulled fire alarm.

Lt. Riley’s eyes narrow as he memorizes your scowl and how you crowd Langford forward without letting up. “Spitfire.” Damn. That’s some bloody high praise coming from him.

Heh.

Riley’s hood can’t hide the shadowy hickies on his throat; one would think that Ghost has realized it by now.

Are those teeth marks he spots? “You sound surprised. Figured she was teachin’ ya that already,” Johnny leers.

Ah, the expression he can make out under the skull mask. He wishes he had a camera so he could show you later.

Ghost closes his eyes for a long moment. “Shut your face.”

Across the way, Langford musters up a little courage. “Aw, are you mad? Did I make you mad ‘cause I spoke the truth, snowflake? Did those faggots get to you already?”

In the aftermath, even the birds stop chirping.

“Fighting words. Surprised you’re not out there with her,” Ghost says.

Only a fool would think the Lieutenant is relaxed right now; Johnny can tell that his breathing has slowed, that he’s holding perfectly still with an unbreaking focus on his prey.

That’s part of how Ghost manages to disappear in broad daylight. When those subtle signs of life go away, it’s easy to overlook him, unsubtle mask and all. 

He’d best save it for the field, but that’s none of Johnny’s business.

You two are so well-suited. “That’s the thing. About bein’ her friend. That bird- that bird’s a psycho.” If your marriage outlasts the bets everyone’s placed on an irrevocable breakdown, Soap figures he could make a killing on a matchmaking side hustle.

You take a deep breath. “I didn’t hear the truth. I heard a bunch of yapping from a little boy who a recruiter conned into signing his life away to lick the boots of his COs because he was a complete waste of resources otherwise.”

Yikes.

Occasionally, Johnny regrets quitting. He regrets quitting now, specifically; he could use the calming rush of nicotine. You’ve never ended fights in a good way, but this will end… spectacularly badly. He can see it already.

Ghost lets out a low whistle. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Then the Lieutenant looks around, and Soap realizes he’s checking for their Captain or any other superior officer.

Soap was planning on doing that anyway, and your new husband wins another point of approval in his book for thinking of it on his own.

“Pretty nice though, canny lie. Who else d’ya know that would fuck up a man for you without hesitatin’?” He says as he watches you open your mouth again.

“How does it feel to know you’re just that worthless?” Your voice rises and rises, acrid enough to melt paint, and it keeps Langford frozen in place.

“How long have you known her?” Lt. Riley asks.

“Eh… give or take sum’ ten years, prolly.”

“She like this the whole time?”

You go in for another round. “Thank God you’re not deployed anywhere important. It would be like the Bay of fucking Pigs all over again.” You’re close enough to spit on the Private, right fuckin’ close to his sallow face, and as your lip curls up, Johnny knows you’re definitely considering it.

Anger thrums in the air as bitter as gunpowder; it’s infecting Lt. Riley, churning in his posture, and it’s (unfortunately) starting to break through Langford’s shock.

“Aye. Never seen a law, or a rule, or a fuckin’ polis stop her. It’s nice not to fight alone, an’ if she had her way, I wouldn’t have lifted a finger in school.” He pauses, then looks at Ghost.

Johnny picks his following words with care. “Bet that one could carry the world on her shoulders if we’d let her. You know that she’s taken to you right quick?”

And then…

“Shut the fuck up, you dumb whore. Who even are you? Some slut whose only accomplishment is spreading your legs for a uniform? I’m not afraid to hit a little girl.”

Fucking Langford. Way to ruin a moment between mates, when Soap was just trying to help you.

God knows you need it; Lt. Riley is a piece of work.

The other man puts out his cigarette.

Now Soap has to think about how many soldiers he needs to threaten into silence after Ghost is through and how Soap will hide Langford’s body once he gets the final hit. “Lieutenant-“

They start moving in tandem, trying to get to you as fast as possible, like sharks circling after tasting blood in the water.

“Yeah, well, that’s funny ‘cause ‘little girl’ is what your mom calls me when we fuck,” You jeer before raising your hand.

Johnny loves you a lot, but man, do you make stupid choices sometimes.

-

Private Langford stumbles to the ground like a little bitch.

Damn. You didn’t backhand him that hard, and you’re not wearing any rings.

You can take a slap way better.

You stand over him as he clutches his face, practically cowering on the ground, and your knuckles are stinging, and all you feel is the adrenaline flash-flooding through your veins like cocaine or a really good fuck.

And then- strong, immovable arms clasp around your waist and yank you away.

Your hair’s in your eyes, and you can’t tell who’s holding you back, but whoever they are… you’re gonna make them regret it.

“Fuck you!” You howl at Langford, kicking and thrashing against the stranger’s grip.

You try to get an elbow in the side of whoever it is, but they evade it with ease. “Let go of me! I’m going to fucking kill you, you inbred motherfucker!” You scream as Langford gets to his feet.

The stranger carries you a few steps back and eliminates your chances of getting your nails in Langford’s face.

You redouble your efforts to free yourself. “Let me go! Let me at him! I’ll rip his fucking head off!”

The person shakes you like a rag doll. “Calm down. Calm the fuck down, lass. It’s me, Johnny. Stop your fucking fighting,” Soap hisses.

Oops. You stop moving all at once, causing Soap to almost drop you.

The adrenaline levels off, leaving you empty, and you drag breath after breath into your lungs to make up for it.

You shove your hair behind your ears just in time to watch Ghost put Langford in a headlock with beautiful, immaculate, careless ease.

It’s the first time you’ve ever seen him take anyone down, and it takes away the breath you just found. Like, your mouth goes dry, and you forget Soap is restraining you.

Just… holy shit. He moves like the hand of God, eyes flashing and skull mask fierce.

Langford blacks out the same second Ghost gets his arm around the other man’s neck, crumpling to the ground like a chewed-up paper doll.

Oh. Oh no.

Now you understand why Soap keeps you in place because Ghost tosses Langford’s unconscious body to the side without blinking twice and then beelines straight. towards. you.

Your hands push and hit Johnny’s arms. You need to- you need to run this time, get away, and get out of Ghost’s path.

Flee. You need to flee before he unpicks you with his teeth and eats your fucking bones like a fairy tale monster.

God fucking damn it, why won’t Soap let you go?

A rush, you can’t breathe, oof, your stomach hurts, have you been swept onto Ghost’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes?

The upside-down sight of his very well-formed ass in his jeans tells you that, yes, you are hanging from his shoulder as he takes you to a secondary location.

All the blood in your body surges to your head. “Ghost. Ghost, let me down,” You tell him, voice jostling with each step he takes.

No reaction.

If you could just breathe, an action obstructed by his stupid shoulder jabbing into your stomach, and clear the fuzz from your mind (thanks hanging upside down!), you’d make him regret this.

“Put me the fuck down. I’m not fucking kidding.” Again, nothing.

If anything, Ghost actually tightens the hold he has on your hips, accurately predicting that you’re seconds away from kicking him.

Fuuuuuck this. “PUT ME DOWN, YOU OAF. I AM YOUR WIFE, YOU CAN’T JUST-“ You try to be as loud as possible, so maybe someone will hear and save you? Or irritating enough to make him set you on the ground?

Ghost keeps walking. “No,” He tells you before digging fingers into the back of your thigh. It’s painful, and you inadvertently shut your mouth, teeth grinding together. For now.

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU DON’T SET ME DOWN THIS INSTANT-“

Once Ghost unlocks your front door, he shoves it open viciously with his boot and locks it behind you without letting you go.

You fully expect him to unceremoniously drop you on the bed, but he- he doesn’t.

He pulls you into his arms like a husband carries his wife on their wedding night and lays you down gently.

Then he backs away as if burned by your skin, backs all the way to the other side of the room.

Shit. Shit. You’re in trouble. You’re in so much trouble, Ghost leans against the wall and crosses his arms, and you can’t meet his gaze; you can only look at his shoes.

He sighs. “You know what’s gonna happen next. Nod if you know.”

You nod, still looking at the ground, and feel the humiliation and anticipation trying to strangle each other in your stomach.

“If you don’t want it, you need to get the fuck outta my sight. Right now. I can’t look at you,” Ghost tells you.

You’re not sure how to find the right words. Do you want to beg? Resist? Ask him if he’s proud of you? You end up shaking your head in a negative and propping yourself up on elbows planted firmly in the bed.

He doesn’t say or do anything for a few minutes. You know he can see you squirm, how your fingers flex and feet tap the ground.

You pick yourself off the bed and walk towards him like a moth drawn to a flame.

Ghost moves as soon as you cave. He plants his large hands on your shoulders and pushes you back, back, back, until your back slams into the wall with his body boxing you in.

Before your head can hit the wall, he slides his palm around the back of your skull to cushion you.

He braces that same arm on the wall as he speaks. “That was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen. And I’ve seen some stupid shit.” You’re not really listening because his flexed bicep is right there, above your head, and he has to tap your cheek to get you to focus.

You look up into Ghost’s mask and his eyes- his eyes burn, greedily eating up your blush and your throat bobbing as you swallow your nerves.

His other hand trails along your neck and then wraps around it. “Thought you were s’posed to be smart. My smart, clever girl,” Ghost croons, all condescending like he’s talking to a misbehaving animal.

Then his voice deepens to a sound that’s just a touch inhuman. “You could’ve gotten hurt. That fuckin’ wanker almost laid a finger on you.”

Your heartbeat pounds fast, screaming in your chest. “I got him first,” You point out.

Ghost’s eyes crinkle at the ends. “That you did. You were brilliant there, love, won’t deny it.” Here’s where your flush brightens, where the praise makes you look away. “I see that went straight to your pretty little head.”

He falls silent when your tongue darts out to wet your lips.

“But oh my fuckin’ god. You can’t go ‘round gettin’ into fights like that.”

“It was for Johnny,” You protest weakly. You don’t regret a single thing, but you find yourself caving at the slightest pressure.

The hand on your throat tightens, not tight enough to do anything other than remind you that you’re his. “I don’t bloody care if it was for Jesus Christ himself. Nothing is more important than you. Than your safety,” Ghost amends.

But you heard him. Nothing is more important than you, he says.

Why does he care?

Ghost sees the fight flare up in your face. “Listen to me. Nothing. Not Soap, not me. You- you are…” He’s supposed to be scaring you right now. He’s meant to be reading you the Riot Act, and the part you play is the frightened doe he teaches a lesson to.

You’re scared for a whole different reason.

Ghost is looking at you, looking through you, and it’s like you’re a little girl again, learning that the only time people give a fuck is when you do something for them.

‘Nothing is more important than you’ plays over and over in your mind.

He lets go of your throat to grab your hand, the one you hit Langford with, and his gaze drops to your reddened, bruised knuckles.

When he talks, his voice sounds odd, like he’s shaking the rust off his vocal cords. “Fuck. I was so-“ Ghost cuts himself off.

His fingers are gentle with your fingers. He turns them over, runs his thumb along your palm. You’re not used to people touching you like that.

You find your words as fast as you can. “What? You were so what?” You challenge him.

You feel him drop your hand in favor of digging his fingers into your jaw. “You’ve talked a lot today, doll. The next thing you say better be a fuckin’ apology.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That’s how you wanna play this?” Ghost asks, eyes flat and unreadable.

You let him apply more pressure so your mouth lolls open, you let him think he’s got you. “Yep.” Then you poke your tongue out and lick the side of the finger pressed into the corner of your lips.

“Another stupid choice,” He tells you before letting go.

He wears holsters strapped on his back and jeans, and for the first time, you’ll get to meet what he keeps in them. “See, I was gonna be nice. Was gonna… fuckin’, I dunno, say some sappy shit, be real sweet, make sure you were okay…” Ghost says matter-of-factly as he finds a single-edged switchblade that is definitely illegal for civilian carry.

There are rules for that sort of thing. The blade is an inch too long, and that popping mechanism was outlawed in 1958.

You know that he keeps bigger knives on him, ones that look like they violate the Geneva Convention. In comparison, this is small fry.

Ghost deliberately pinches the collar of your shirt between his fingers. “But you’re gonna be a bitch about this, aren’t you? I’m gonna have to get it through your thick fuckin’ skull?” He asks, moving far slower than he’s capable of, slow enough that you can stop him if you want to.

You hear yourself pant desperately, you look at him with wide, vulnerable eyes, then hold perfectly still so that he won’t nick you.

The tip of the sharpened knife pokes a tiny hole in the fabric. “Hope you’re not too attached to these, doll,” Ghost tells you before slicing a clean line down the middle.

It’s cold in your bedroom, you had the air conditioner running earlier, and you blame your instinctual shivers on that instead of the need brewing under your skin (and between your legs).

When he pulls the tattered remnants of your shirt from your shoulders, you let him.

Your bra goes next. A swift rip and then your tits hang free and bare, nipples already beginning to harden.

He makes sure to click the blade back into the handle before reaching out to caress the heavy swell of your breasts, unable to resist stroking your soft skin even when he’s mad.

You picked a good day to wear a skirt that falls just past your ass with a hemline that dances teasingly around your thighs. To be clear, it’s not a good day for your skirt itself.

When the blade comes out again, Ghost cuts your skirt with steady fingers that brush your curved stomach.

Then he slips the knife between your underwear and your skin, carefully aiming the sharpened edge out so you feel the cool metal press into your heated skin without risking an accidental cut.

He doesn’t react to how your panties stick to your cunt when he takes them off you, most likely to deprive you of the satisfaction of any reaction at all.

You see part of his balaclava twitch, and after a moment, you realize he’s raising an eyebrow.

Right. Shoes. You kick them off with far too much eagerness.

He returns the closed knife to its designated holster. It’s very safe of him, very proper.

“I won’t go easily,” You remind Ghost.

He answers by covering your eyes with his hand and kissing you, his mask bunched over his nose and pressing awkwardly into your skin.

Each kiss makes you dizzier, hazier, you forget why you’re fighting, he ravages your mouth with his, and when you moan, it makes him even more feral.

He sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, and you shout at the pain and try to curl away. But the hand over your eyes keeps you in place, and you shudder against him, naked and helpless.

The webbed straps of his chest holster grind into your breasts and leave rough streaks of chafe wherever they touch your skin.

His tongue slips against yours, Ghost tastes like smoke and something uniquely him, it feels like he’s pouring nicotine into your synapses, and your spine relaxes, your muscles soft and compliant.

When you try to bite his lip back, he pulls away without acknowledging your unhappy whine.

“Open your fucking mouth,” Ghost snaps.

You do that and even stick your tongue out for good measure. You might not be able to see him, but he can see the little tease of how good you can be.

You hear him spit before you feel the glob of his saliva land messy and hot on your outstretched tongue. Your legs shift, and you press them together, anything to help with the pressure beginning to build in your core and the arousal trickling down your thigh.

Cloth rustles, and then Ghost removes the hand covering your eyes. His mask is back in place like he never lifted it at all. “Step away. Hands behind your back.”

You turn around on unsteady legs, then put your wrists together behind your back as ordered.

Something unclicks behind you, and then he pulls it off his… pants? His belt - he’s cuffing you with his belt, deftly weaving the nylon strap between your wrists and securing it into place.

As you test the strength and make sure he’s restrained your hands in a way that doesn’t cut off circulation, Ghost gathers your hair and drapes it neatly over one shoulder so it won’t bother you.

He touches your back and neck with an almost unbearable fondness. Fuck.

You feel him kiss your shoulder through the mask, closed-mouthed and chaste. “This isn’t coming off until you’re ready to behave,” He murmurs into your skin before sliding an arm around your waist, pulling the mask down, and biting the place he just kissed.

You struggle and twist in his grasp, but he holds fast, and you slump into him with a pained moan. Is he trying to fucking brand you? It sure feels like it.

When Ghost releases you, he turns you around with a hand on your bound wrists and then walks backward faster than you can keep up.

Then he sits on the bed as proudly as a king on a throne and beckons for you.

Without your arms free to help you balance, you stumble a few times, and Ghost watches you with a pleased glint in his gaze. That may be the point.

By the time you get to him, you’re thoroughly unbalanced. “Come on. Yeah, over my lap.” You kneel without complaint, too busy avoiding eating shit to consider resisting.

He helps you lower your torso with an arm placed below your collarbones and a hand flat on your stomach so you don’t face plant into the sheets.

“Are you going to-“ You feel him guide your hips up, encouraging you to place most of your weight on your face and shoulders.

Conveniently leaving your ass exposed. And- and he can see your dripping folds, see proof that you crave him.

He goes on as casually as if he were describing the weather. “Spank you? Yes, I am. A slag like you can’t see reason, obviously. Got to train it in ya.” You practically jump out of your skin when you feel him drag a finger along the inside of your thigh, tracing the rivulets of slick trickling from your pussy.

You feel like a thing, like putty in his hands that he can bat about and talk to like you’re not even there.

“Don’t act like you don’t fucking get off on this. Be honest. Or are you too stupid to do that?” Ghost asks as if he’s just remembered that you can answer questions.

You clench around nothing and desperately wish he’d take that finger playing with the sensitive skin of your thighs, and do something useful with it. “…I do.”

“There’s my needy girl.” He neatly fists a hand in your hair, somehow mindful that you won’t appreciate losing a few strands without you telling him.

His free hand caresses your ass, then up and down the backs of your thighs. You feel him grab one cheek tightly, grinding down with his fingers so he can see red marks bloom under his touch.

You jerk forward with a cry when he hits you the first time, though the hand in your hair keeps you from going very far. Ghost doesn’t spank you hard, more of a warning tap than anything.

The shock smarts more than the blow did. But you’re determined to show that you can, in fact, take a hit better than Langford, so you dig your knees in and psych yourself up for the next spank.

“Fuck is wrong with you?” His voice cracks like thunder, then he follows it with another spank.

This one hurts. Hot, hot pain radiates from the spot he hit, but your body wrenches with a different sensation as your body processes that pain as… well… pleasure.

When he spanks you again, he takes the time to force your head further down into the blankets. “Hm? Running your dumb fucking mouth, talkin’ all that big shit?” Ghost snaps at you.

Each time he spanks you, you cry out, your eyes roll back, and it hurts, and he keeps hitting the same spots, so even when he isn’t touching you, you’re sore. 

Another set of blows, each one harder than the last.

You gotta- you gotta tell him- you push back against his grip, and he lets you lift your head. “God, Ghost, please-“ Your voice is choked-up and pleading, mirroring your thighs trembling with want and your aroused, needy core that he’s fucking ignoring.

He slaps your ass again, this time right where your ass cheek meets your thigh, close but not close enough.

“Please, what? Please, what, doll? Come on. Dumb little doll doesn’t know how to talk?”

Your breaths are ragged, labored, you’re shivering and there’s so much pain that you can’t tell where it stops and where the want begins.

“Harder-“ You cut yourself off with a gasp when he does just that.

That one burns. That one feels like an open flame, like Ghost’s touch is burrowing into your muscles, down down down, like it will leave a lingering mark that you don’t want to fade.

He rubs over your heated skin, massaging away the worst of the soreness. “You’re welcome. Now listen to me,” Ghost speaks in a low, reassuring tone like he’s gentling a startled animal.

He notices the exact moment you get lost in the feeling, when you push back and fucking present yourself in the hopes that he’ll give you more.

Then he cracks his hand against your ass; the sound is louder than your answering shriek. “Listen. You are going to apologize for almost getting hurt. You’re going to mean it. You’re going to swear you’ll never get into a fight again.” Ghost tightens his hold on your hair and twists his wrist to push your face back into the bed, taking back the advantage he granted.

“Or what?” You won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week at least, the ache and the bruises forming have you strung out for the tiniest scrap of pleasure… but you did tell him you wouldn’t go easily.

“Or…” Ghost trails off slowly. Your scalp begins to tingle as his grip grows even tighter.

It’s so painful that you almost miss the two thick fingers he slips into your pussy. Almost.

“Fuck!” You keen, your mouth open as your nails dig into your palms.

He thrusts them into you slowly, lazily, totally unsympathetic to your pleading noises and your muscles quivering around his fingers as he drags them in and out of you.

Your cunt has to stretch to accommodate them, and he grinds into you each time he gets knuckle-deep. And then he holds your head down like you don’t get the privilege of looking at him… Your pussy clenches around him at the thought.

Eventually, Ghost stops moving at all, but you’re gone, you’ve been gone, and when you start fucking yourself on his hand, he lets you.

You can tell he’s rock hard, you can feel his dick through his jeans, but he has far more willpower than you could even imagine, and brushing up against it does nothing. “Oh- oh my god, fuck, that feels…” You pant as you chase the sweetness, chase the tension twisting up your guts that’s so close to boiling over, so close.

Your clit is aching, screaming for pressure, for stimulation, but he doesn’t grant it to you. You can only work your hips against his hand, over and over.

Your eyes close as you speed up, you’re whining, you’re gonna come any second, your cunt can’t stop twitching. “I’m so close, wait what-“

Ghost pulls his fingers out before you tip over the edge.

“Or you’re not coming tonight,” He informs you, and you can hear the stupid fucking grin in his stupid fucking voice.

When you try to protest, to get up and fucking bite him or some shit because that’s not fair, Ghost spanks you with the hand you soaked.

You’re sort of blissed-out, sort of pissed, and a lot horny. “I’m sorry-“ You start in the hopes that Ghost will fold and give you what you fucking want.

His mask rustles as he shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”

Then he slides you off his lap like you weigh nothing so he can stand.

Ghost keeps you in the same position, head down, ass up, and nudges your thighs open a bit wider.

You can’t see him through any of this. That seems to be something he’s taking full advantage of. You can’t touch him, you have no idea what’s happening next.

The only clue you have that he’s taken his mask off again is when he puts his tongue on your sensitive, aroused clit.

(He really should just take the damn thing off more regularly. This is inconvenient, and it’s not like there’s anything under there that could make him less attractive.)

He laps at your swollen folds with his hands on your hips to steady you, and the thoughts melt straight out of your head and drool from the corner of your mouth.

You struggle against the belt in earnest this time, maybe you can loosen it enough to slip your hands out and get away from Ghost and his planned torment. As much as your body pleads to stay put, as much as you want to push yourself back and let him consume you, let him fuck you stupid with his tongue, you know it will end soon.

And he’s going to be fucking mean about it.

Ghost takes his breathing break as an opportunity to taunt you. “You’re not goin’ anywhere,” He promises, leaving handprint bruises on your thighs.

Your stomach churns as he sucks on your clit, like there’s a knife slicing through you, and it’s the hot, burning pleasure pulsing through your body.

You’re not sure you can hold yourself up any longer, your knees waver like you’re a baby deer, and oh God, you’re going to come again, you can feel the spasms in your cunt grow stronger and stronger.

The beginnings of your orgasm tremble through your muscles, so close that you can taste it, you feel it throbbing with every beat of your heart.

He keeps sucking, his wet mouth relentless and dragging you painfully to the edge of the cliff. “Ghost, please, please let me- Fuck!” You wail as he backs off. 

Tears well in your eyes as the tremors fade into nothing.

You get yourself upright before he can stop you. “Why are you being such a dick?” You blurt out, lurching forward on your knees like if you can get to him, you can do… something. You’re not sure what, other than that you want to kill him.

Ghost blinks a couple of times.

In the silence that follows, the deadly, threatening silence, you realize your mistake. “Just- just let me come, I’ll be good. I promise. Just wanna come.” You beg, you sit down and tilt your head up like a dog doing a trick, and you pray he gives you grace.

He gets his hand around your throat faster than a snake striking its prey. This time, Ghost squeezes the sides hard enough to make you see white lights. “I am being a dick,” He agrees congenially. “But that’s not what you need to say, is it?”

“…no,” You mumble.

The next thing you feel after he releases you is his palm meeting your cheek. Hard.

“Have I spoiled you that much? You think you can fuckin’ ignore me?” Ghost sounds so calm, so authoritative.

After the ringing in your ears clears, you’re proud to see that you’re still upright. “No, no, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” You stretch your jaw a few times to release the ache from his slap.

He hunches over, puts his hands on his knees, and gets right in your face. “Oh, but you did,” Ghost whispers. 

There’s something about the fogginess clinging to your eyelashes and the inside of your ears and the folds of your brain that makes his skull mask seem more than real.

A hovering specter of exposed bone, hollow eye sockets with no end, and a gaping, horrifying maw.

You’re starting to understand why people call him Ghost and mean it.

Your mouth goes dry. “Please, I’m begging you,” You whimper, eyes round with awe and flustered blood rising in your cheeks.

He nods, and you swear there must be hearts in your eyes at his approval. “Mm. I like that. Beg again.”

“Ghost. Husband. I’ll be so good. Anything. I’ll do anything. I can’t take it, I need to come so badly.” You lean forward to touch your forehead to his, making yourself as obedient as possible. For the most part.

“That’s not an apology.” Then he sighs, long and drawn-out and aggravated. “Anything, you say?” Ghost asks.

“Y-yeah.”

“Alright. You can come…. When you promise not to fight. And you’re gonna wait until you do,” He tells you as he slips his hand between your slick thighs.

“No…” You moan. He’s doing it again, torturing you again, you just want to give up, you feel him play with your throbbing clit, and it hurts so good.

Ghost clamps a hand on your shoulder, forcing you to roll your hips against his hand. “Sounds like you weren’t listening. Now that makes me think you don’t care.” Shit. Shiiiiit. He pushes a single finger into you, and you collapse into him as you start to ride it, hips jerking unconsciously.

He laughs when he hears you squeal. “You’re just a mindless whore who’d let half the fuckin’ base run through you, aren’t ya?” He’s found your g-spot, he rubs the patch of ridged flesh inside your cunt over and over.

Sweat beads on the back of your neck and drips down your spine, your fucked-out gaze can hardly focus on him, you feel like you’re burning alive in your skin.

“Don’t even need me at this point…” He circles your clit one more time and your mouth hangs open and you want to beg, but you can’t focus-

Tears fall down your cheeks when he wipes his fingers on your heaving breasts.

“No, no, no, Ghost, I need you. I want you. No-nobody else. I do care, please, you’re the only one,” You sob into his chest, pushing your nose into the fabric of his hoodie because it’s soft and smells like him, warm and like home.

“Yeah?”

You feel him rub your back, then slip a few fingers between the belt and your wrists to test your comfort.

You nod without lifting your head. “I- I was- I’m listening, promise, I can’t- you gotta make me come, don’t want anybody else.” You’re so tired, so worn out. There’s a patch of dampness on his jacket from your weeping, and you let out little high-pitched whimpers like a neglected kitten.

He frees your hands in an instant. “If I gotta repeat myself, I’m gonna leave you here,” Ghost tells you, though his voice isn’t as mean as before.

Your arms cling to his neck as you nuzzle your face into the space below his sharp jaw. “Ghost. Don’t go.” The edge of his balaclava muffles your words, but you don’t have the strength to say them to him straight.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for being so stupid,” You sniffle before bringing a hand to your nose to wipe a little snot.

Ghost gently knocks your fingers away and replaces them with the edge of his sleeve, delicately cleaning the mucus from your upper lip.

Next, he dries your cheeks with the shadow-black fabric.

You protest when he unhooks your arms from his neck, and your hands scrabble for purchase in the hood of his jacket.

One soft look, his fingers brush your chafed wrists, and you let him lay you down. “Took you long enough,” Ghost quips as he unbuttons his pants and pulls out his dick, mouthwateringly hard and long. He pumps his cock a few times.

You’re in a daze, hovering in that raw space on the other side of crying but wanting him anyways, needing him more than anything.

“Spread your legs, love.”

Ghost leans in like he’s about to kiss you. Then he remembers his mask and changes his mind, having lifted it enough today.

He taps your sensitive clit with the fat head of his cock, and you suppress your shudders, how your legs automatically try to close and get away from the feeling. “I won’t do it again,” You tell him, voice breathless and sweet.

Once he’s coated in enough of your arousal, he keeps one hand flat on your pelvis as he pushes in. “Fuck- fuck, I…” You groan. There’s never any room in your body left for air when he fucks you. Never.

He’s so large that it hurts a little when he’s bottomed out, you can hardly twitch or clamp down like you desperately want because of how fucking full you are.

You can feel every inch of him, you’re on the brink of crying again because all of those denied orgasms are tearing at your insides, and your painfully aroused cunt screams that you can’t take it, that it’s too much, too good, he’s too big.

You have to be good. “Uh, I won’t fight, aah-“ That’s the only thing that gets you to say the words he wants through numb lips, especially when Ghost starts to thrust, and your pussy convulses around him each time.

He moves slowly, really slowly, shallow at first, your tits bouncing in time, and you’re crying out underneath him, so used to all that edging that you subdue your pleasure on instinct.

The slick sounds of his cock sliding in and out are loud and profane, filling the room more than your weak, almost pathetic whines do.

The solid, imposing weight of his body settles you down so you can enjoy his faster, harder pace, and his balls slap against your ass as he fucks you open. “Promise?” Ghost pants, his hands pressing your knees almost to your chest.

He’s looking for something. He moves your legs every few thrusts, opens you up a little more, tilts your pelvis up and-

When his dick catches on your g-spot, your tears cover your cheeks and trickle into your hair in earnest. “Yes, yes, shit, hngh- I promise…” You’re so wet that you can feel it dripping down to the bed and pooling under you, you feel that familiar pressure building, except this time it’s stronger, it’s got a stranglehold on you.

Every time the fly of his pants brushes your engorged clit, your eyes go large and you hiccup, unable to moan properly because it’s like electricity is coursing down your spine.

He kisses the side of your face before nailing that sensitive spot with terrifying, mind-breaking accuracy.

“Come on. You can do it,” Ghost groans, cursing under his breath when you squeeze him so tightly that he almost loses his grip on your thighs.

Oh. Oh. He wants- he’s trying to make you…

“I can’t, I don’t know how, I, I-“ You sob, the pleasure is so intense that you feel nauseous, he’s rutting into your body furiously, and you’re stuck on a horrible knife’s edge of needing to come or you’ll die, but it’s not happening.

He nudges your knee until you wrap one leg around his hips. “It’s alright, love. Let me help you. That’s it, that’s a good girl,” Ghost shushes you before slowing down so he can place his hand on your throat and restrict the blood rushing to your head.

Everything goes sweet and hazy, and you give him a cock-drunk smile in return, eyes rolling back and drool stuck to the corner of your lips.

Once you’re suitably pliant, he slides that hand between you and finds your aching clit. “Just focus on me.” He’s pressing his forehead to yours, you look into his dark, fathomless eyes ringed with pale lashes.

The coil tightens, and you arch into him, gasping and biting down on your lip so hard that you draw blood. 

“Ghost, fuck, can I-“ You beg, voice choked and strung out as his fingers move faster on your clit, circling it in tandem with his cock pounding you so deep that it feels like he never ends.

“Go on. Come for me. I know you can.” Ghost pinches your clit, and you come with a wail, thighs shaking, your cunt seizing and it fucking gushes out of you, you soak his jeans, you clamp down so tightly that he slips out.

He replaces his dick with three fingers slotted right on your g-spot, moving in quick, jerky thrusts to see you through it. “Holy fuck. Did you just…” He mutters as your eyes screw shut, and your nails snag his shoulders. 

You feel like you’re dying, you can’t stop fucking squirting, the waves grow and grow-

Your hips jerk for the last time, and you’re left a whimpering, quivering mess of oversensitive nerves, the last of the aftershocks still simmering in your muscles.

Ghost kisses your forehead as he carefully withdraws his fingers. “You’re too good to me,” He tells you with something like awe in his rough voice.

You slump to the bed, boneless and empty, not even giving a fuck that the sheets are all messy with sweat and… squirt?

That’s new, you think blearily. That kind of shit only happens in porn? Right?

Your head lolls to the side so you can watch him through lidded eyes.

He moves you out of the wet patch with one arm under your back and the other under your knees, then tucks himself back into his boxers.

“Wait… you didn’t- you didn’t come…” Your voice is fucked up and hoarse, and maybe you should give in to the overwhelming urge to sleep, but…

Did he not want to? You did everything he asked.

He shakes his head. “Nah. Don’t need to. You were perfect, you learned your lesson.” He splays a hand out on your stomach, luxuriating in your squishiness.

Your brow furrows. “Ghost…” Then you rub the sweat and crusted tears from your eyes and set your mouth in a mulish, determined line.

He watches you like a hawk. “Yeah?”

“Please? Fuck me?” You ask as you touch his forearm with a weak hand.

A beat passes. “You’re crying. And you drenched me, the bed too,” He tries to reason with you. You see him swallow harshly, you know he’s shifting where he sits because he’s given himself blue balls.

Your eyes flutter when the exhaustion almost gets you, but you power through it. “It’s okay. I- I’m tough. I want you to come.”

“Yeah. Alright… Tough girl.” Then Ghost reaches for your hips with all kinds of enthusiasm that tells you the truth.

It was sweet of him to try and be gallant. You’d rather he break you open and fill you up.

To be extra nice, you even hold your knees apart so he can push back in.

You’re not going to come again, you’re too fried for that, but it still feels… incredible. You’re glad for all the extra lubrication and that you can make him feel good.

Ghost fucks you with abandon, and deep, animalistic groans echo from his throat. “Shit- I could fuck you forever, you’re squeezin’ me so tight, fuckin-“ He grunts, head tilted back the tiniest bit and composure gone.

Breathe, you tell yourself, breathe. Do it for him.

“God, you’re beautiful.” Your swollen pussy spasms from the praise, constricting him so tight that he cries out. You just can’t help yourself when he says shit like that, especially when he’s making you ache in such an addictive way.

His hips move faster. “You like that? You like it when I tell you how good this fuckin’ pussy feels?” Yeah. Yeah, you do.

“Fuck, fuck fuck-“ You feel him orgasm, he paints your walls with his cum, then grinds those last few thrusts so deep that you cry out.

His pelvis bumps the backs of your thighs like he’s trying fuck his cum in as deep as it will go.

Ghost catches his breath as he softens inside you, panting as raggedly as you are.

He pulls out before dropping his chest harness to the side and unzipping his hoodie so he can clean you up.

You can’t stand the thought of anything touching anywhere near your beat the fuck up pussy right now, so you shove his hands away and drag Ghost down to snuggle.

Of course, he obliges you and helps you rest your head on his shoulder as you curl into his muscular frame like a little bug.

“What happens if the fight comes to me?” You ask. 

He’s running a hand up and down your spine, soft touches to bring you back to earth in a gentle, comforting way.

His hand stops until you kick his shin, gently, then he starts up again. “You run,” Ghost says.

“What happens if I can’t run?” You press your cheek into his t-shirt, so close that you can feel the heat of his skin through it. And a little rhythm that must be his heartbeat.

Next, Ghost threads his fingers through your sweaty, messy hair and attentively smooths it away from your face. “You call me. I’ll come get you. Every time.”

-

Hope y'all liked this one! Next chapter will be super soft/sweet/fluffy with lots of caretaking, I promise.

Tagging:

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[alienelvisobsession]

The David Bowie Connection

David Jones’s very first performance was not as David Bowie, Ziggy Stardust, or the Thin White Duke, but as an Elvis impersonator in front of a crowd of Boy Scouts in Bromley. The year was 1958, David was 11 years old, and among the songs that he sang for his audience there was probably “Hound Dog”, which his cousin Kristina remembers as one of the records he owned, and to which they danced to “like possessed elves”. It’s important to remember that it was difficult to get American records back then in England, but through his work as a promoter, David’s father managed to bring home a collection of American 45s, which included Little Richard, Fats Domino and, obviously, Elvis. Rock ‘n roll was like a ray of sunshine in David’s grey postwar world, still plagued with food rations and the rubble of bomb sites.

In high school, David liked jamming with his guitar, like Elvis did, and he was also interested in fashion and science fiction like him. Rock ‘n roll was elusive in England, but there were cafés with a jukebox where you could hear it as if it were some secret information. David liked oddities and stagecraft, like Elvis’ gyrations and extravagant clothes. He also loved Little Richard, whom he thought would die on stage because of the energy he put during his concerts. He would later say: “Elvis had the choreography, he had a way of looking at the world that was totally original, totally naïve, and totally available as a blueprint. Who wouldn’t want to copy Elvis? Elvis had it all. It wasn’t just the music that was interesting, it was everything else. And he had a lot of everything else.”

After a few unsuccessful albums, David Jones – now using the name David Bowie, like the knife – started experimenting with what the press called “glam rock”, that a lot of people thought was decadent and deviant. In 1972, when questioned about young boys with glitter makeup attending concerts, he said: “What about Elvis Presley? If his image wasn’t bisexual then I don’t know what is. People talk about fag rock, but that’s an unwieldy term at the best of times.” You could say that Bowie, like Elvis, obliterated boundaries in music, as much as in fashion, changing forever what was permitted and accepted as a stage artist, playing with clothes, makeup and sexuality in new ways.

Bowie’s fascination with Elvis was so big that in June 1972 he attended his concert at Madison Square Garden. “I came over for a long weekend,” Bowie recalled many years later. “I remember coming straight from the airport and walking into Madison Square Garden very late. I was wearing all my clobber from the Ziggy period and I had great seats near the front. The whole place just turned to look at me and I felt like a right cunt. I had brilliant red hair, some huge padded space suit and those red boots with big black soles. I wished I’d gone for something quiet, because I must have registered with him. He was well into his set.”

That was the concert that triggered the famous New York Times headline “Like a Prince from Another Planet”. It’s serendipitous that Bowie’s influential album “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars”, where he plays an androgynous alien rock star, came out that same month. The alter ego and stage persona of Ziggy Stardust, which he used in 1972-73, had started to form the year before, during an American tour. Like everything in his music and stagecraft, Bowie was inspired by many things, from Iggy Pop to experimental theater. Ziggy Stardust was loosely inspired by Vince Taylor, a 1950s rock ‘n roller who Bowie witnessed going off his rocker and obsessing over aliens, but it’s also reminiscent of Elvis (whose fall from grace had already started, according to many, and whose mythology includes being an alien). Unlike other early Elvis fans, though, Bowie loved Elvis’ 1970s jumpsuits and explicitly told his costume designer Freddie Burretti to draw inspiration from them for his stage costumes. As a result, Ziggy’s costumes are as outrageous as Elvis’, but in a different way.

To double down on his rock n’ roll opera, “Rock ‘n Roll Suicide”, the melodramatic song with which Ziggy closed his concerts, is essentially about a washed-up rockstar. Ziggy literally sang it in an Elvis-style jumpsuit, and a solemn voice announced at the end of the concert: “Mr. Bowie has left the building”. Ziggy is an archetypal messiah rockstar who arrives on earth from Mars, becomes a prophet of rock ‘n roll, and then literally destroys himself. You can argue that Ziggy Stardust was a departure from hippies: a postmodern interpretation of a rockstar, and a meditation on superstar status.

The following album, “Aladdin Sane”, where Bowie continues the story of Ziggy Stardust, features the rockstar with a lightning bolt drawn across his face, which many say is a reference to Elvis’ TCB logo.

Elvis and Bowie, who share the same birthday, are very different artists, but if Elvis was the sacrificial lamb of rock ‘n roll, Bowie had his example to become a master in brand renewal, and studied deaths and rebirths. After killing his Ziggy Stardust alter ego, Bowie had other inspirations and continued to create extravagant personas to use on stage and off stage, not without controversies.

Bowie’s connection with Elvis went further than just liking his early hits: he had an awareness of his own fallibility that made him empathize with Elvis on a more profound level. Of his disastrous 1978 movie “Just a Gigolo”, for example, he said that it was “thirty-two Elvis movies rolled into one.” He was still very much fascinated with him in 1975-76, to such a degree that he pitched his song “Golden Years”, which incorporates elements of 1950s doo-wop into a funk tune, to him. Although it’s unclear if Elvis ever heard the song, Bowie’s office did contact Colonel Parker for a possible collaboration, maybe as a producer for one of Elvis’ albums.

Even Bowie’s last song, “Black Star”, references Elvis. Written at a time when Bowie knew he was dying, the song has the same title as an an alternative version of the title track for his 1960 western movie “Flaming Star”. It’s a song about death, as in the movie Pacer knows his time has come and Elvis sings: “Every man has a black star / A black star over his shoulder / And when a man sees his black star / He knows his time, his time has come”. It seems to me that Bowie intended to close a circle with this reference: since they were born on the same day, it seemed only natural to reference Elvis’ fictional death in one of his movies. Only, in one of his most clever postmodern games, Bowie’s death wasn’t fictional after all.

Here is David Bowie imitating Elvis’ voice for a Christmas message on BBC radio 6 Music in 2013:

August 16, 2002 marked the 25th anniversary of Elvis’ death and Bowie opened the concert with “I Feel So Bad” and “One Night”, and told the story of what he was doing when Elvis died:

Here is a link with my other connection posts. I have written about many artists who were inspired by Elvis, from Jimi Hendrix to Quentin Tarantino. If you have any suggestions about artists who have an Elvis connection worth exploring let me know, and I’ll do some research for my next post.

#elvis presley #elvis #david bowie #ziggy stardust #70s music #rock and roll #rock n roll history #Youtube

[piplupod]

okay hang on i am dissecting this in my head still and also a little bit with a friend on discord lol. but I think where i'm getting tripped up is that I'm not understanding the harm in any of this. who is it hurting exactly?

if it's hurting lesbians by muddying the definition of lesbian, WHY is that hurting lesbians?

(im going to put this under a cut because idk if anyone actually cares about all of this LMAO but i'm just trying to figure it out and if someone wants to chime in then they can read this and get back to me fdsjkl)

,,, okay we have to take a step back here to look at the big picture, stay with me fdsjkl. so. the queer community, as a whole, to my understanding (feel free to correct me if i'm wrong), exists so that anyone who is not strictly cishet+perisex+allosexual/alloromantic can have a community where they are safe and accepted and loved for who they are, even when the wider world does not accept us. we are all fags and freaks to the queerphobes who want to see us dead, etc etc.

so... why is there an issue with a label being muddied a bit? why is this hurting people? are we really that different that we need to keep our individual labels pristine like that? <- genuine questions (also this only applies to the queer community, do not try to draw comparisons to other communities because I am not talking about those and I do not think comparisons work here, but I suppose if you have something then let 'er rip and I'll let you know if I think its comparative at all)

the people identifying as mspec lesbians or lesboys or whatever else are obviously not cishet - I feel like if they were they'd just... not be labelling themselves this way - so why is it such an issue that they find community here? why are we trying to tell them they are wrong to make the labels fit their individual internal experience (that nobody other than themselves can fully see and understand)?

also i'm only speaking on this one label right now, I don't know what to think about other labels because those have other considerations to take into account (but maybe i'm missing some for this topic, lmk if i am lol)

again! all these questions i am asking are genuine questions, i'm not just putting question marks at the end to try to sound all hoity toity or anything LMAO I am genuinely puzzling this out right now and will gladly hear people out if they have insight or thoughts or anything !!! i am only one person (well. technically speaking anyways LMFAOOO) with this one brain with its one set of life experiences, so I could easily be missing something or not thinking of something!!

#should i tag these posts with something? if u want me to tag these lmk and i will but i doubt it'll come up again after this fdsjkl #i just want to figure this out finally bc its been confusing me for months fdsjkl #i am really really worried im sticking my foot in my mouth with this but i just... want to understand fdsjkl #and i dont think im ever going to understand unless i talk to other ppl so this is my one way to do that really #pippen needs 2nd breakfast

[aroaceconfessions]

TW: slurs, death threats, typical bullying stuff

on my 11th birthday, during 5th grade, there was this giant fight between my classmates because a friend of my bully told my friend that he liked her but because she was associated with me, his friends got mad at him and then my friend's friend got mad at him which caused his friends to be mad at her and it sorta spiraled from there with my classmates getting into fights over crushes and I watched the chaos unfold

at the time, I didn't know that I was aro, and both at the time and now I thought it was an over-exaggeration, but I still don't quite think that would've been the normal situation if my bullies weren't so dramatic so it's probably not an allo thing and was just a "these specific people are weird" kinda thing

anyway, because of this fight, people started making assumptions about who had a crush on who, it was weird, but eventually someone got to me and assumed I had a crush on my bully and I was so genuinely hurt by that that I almost punched the guy in the face, the only thing stopping me was school rules against physical violence (verbal death threats and drawing yourself murdering a classmate are okay but tag is banned bc someone tagged a little too hard once).

I've seen so many other aros talk about how enemies to lovers is the superior trope, but as someone with experience of having someone that wanted me dead, tried to get everyone else to turn against me, and frankly made my life a living hell while I also hated him for what he would do to me and wanted so badly for him to disappear (aka, an enemy), I could never get behind the enemies to lovers trope. To me, it sounds like rebranded "he's only bullying you because he likes you!" I see nothing wrong with liking stories like that but the amount of the conversation that goes "it is objective fact that enemies to lover is the only good romance trope" is troubling to me (or even worse: "much more relatable/realistic"). It's never "I like enemies to lovers more than other tropes," it is always objective language used. It feels like that classmate telling me that I must have a crush on the guy that called me dyke and fag because that's "just how it works." I'm not mad at anyone who likes the enemies to lovers trope, there is no possible way they could know who I am or how it affects me and I'm not gonna tell someone to stop enjoying something because I don't like it. I know people are going to get defensive about this so I want to make it very clear that I have no ill will to anyone and maybe you don't see this trope this way and that's fine, fiction is very much open to interpretation. I just wanted to get my thoughts about it out there and maybe there will be someone who can relate, maybe I can help others who feel the same feel less alone.

this is also not a invitation to argue or debate this with me, I could never be in the right headspace to defend how my trauma affected me, so please don't tell me I'm wrong about something this subjective and personal. I'm not trying to say anyone who likes enemies to lovers is wrong or morally corrupted or that they've never been bullied or harassed, this is just my experience. I know I sound like a broken record with that but I really just want to make it clear.

#aromantic #aro #arospec #aspec #amatonormativity #violence #bullying #trauma #enemies to lovers #fiction #trope #tropes

[mclennonlgbt]

John queering and Paul un-queering the Beatles

TW: f*g slur

Reading and watching the various statements by John and Paul, I've noticed that Lennon loves to refer to the Beatles as "four fags" - and if he talks about himself and Paul, he is also heavily queer-coding - and McCartney is very distant from the subject. He doesn't feel comfortable with it and tries to convince himself that the Beatles were 100% heterosexual.

Everyone can draw conclusions for themselves. Here I wanted to put a compilation of those statements.

JOHN LENNON

1971: "The laugh is that nobody ever said – they did say to us Beatles, as Beatles: „Don’t you get on each other’s nerves?” I suppose that was the same question, but they didn’t really… Now they’re howling because we are parted. But there were times that I spent as much time with George, Paul and Ringo as I did with Yoko. I mean I slept with them in the same room – in twin beds of course – on tour… And I lived and breathed with them for 5 or 10 years or something. Nobody said that about 4 young fags living together, right? Not a word!"

1972: "It’s a strange thing, though, that the whole of the world would like 4 men to stay together. In blissful youthfullness – all shaking their heads and being the Fab Four, and never having any women in the scene. Very strange seeing the whole world wants 4 fags to go on together, you know, forever”.

I don't know the year (from the book "The Beatles: Off the Record"): "“The Beatles’ tours were like Fellini’s Satyricon. [...] I mean, we had that image, but man, our tours were likes something else. If you could get on our tours, you were in. Australia, just everywhere! Just Satyricon. Just think of Satyricon with four musicians going through it. Wherever we went, there was always a whole scene going on. We had our four bedrooms separate and Derek and Neil’s rooms were always full of fuck knows what, and policemen and everything. Satyricon! We had to do something, and what do you do when the pill doesn’t wear off, when it’s time to go? I used to be up all night with Derek, whether there was anybody there or not. I could never sleep, such a scene it was". "Satyricon" is s a 1969 Italian fantasy drama film by Federico Fellini. The movie contains quite a bit of sexual innuendo, but very little, if any, is heterosexual.

1980: "Still, in the early days, we didn’t care about lyrics as long as the song had some vague theme… she loves you, he loves him, they all love each other.”

1980: "Nobody ever said anything about Paul's having a spell on me or my having one on Paul! They never thought that was abnormal in those days, two guys together, or four guys together! Why didn't they ever say, 'How come those guys don't split up? I mean, what's going on backstage? What is this Paul and John business? How can they be together so long?' We spent more time together in the early days than John and Yoko: the four of us sleeping in the same room, practically in the same bed, in the same truck, living together night and day, eating, shitting and pissing together! All right? Doing everything together! Nobody said a damn thing about being under a spell. Maybe they said we were under the spell of Brian Epstein or George Martin”.

PAUL MCCARTNEY

The Beatles Anthology, 2000: "It was always obvious Brian was gay and we could talk to him about gay things, but he would never come out with, 'Hello, Paul, you're looking nice today.' I was quite obviously un-gay, due to my haunting of the female hordes, and I think we all must have given the same impression".

1997, Paul talking about the script of „Up Against It”, the movie the Beatles were supposed to star in, but that never happened, to Roy Carr: "We weren’t gay and really that was all there was to it. It was quite simple, really. Brian was gay… and so he and the gay crowd could appreciate it. Now, it wasn’t that we were anti-gay - just that we, The Beatles, weren’t gay".

I don't know the year: “But John, I loved him as a brother, but I’m not writing a love song to him".

Disclaimer: I'm aware that John is mildly homophobic in his statements and that Howard Stern is very pushy on Paul, which really sucks (Howard Stern sucks in general).

#mclennon #queer beatles #interviews #a lot to think about

[guitarmasterx7]

Thots on all the members and their dynamics?

good ask, i've been mentally chewing on it for a number of days. this list won't include the past two co-hosts jsyk

chris - the absolute goat, THE oney player. i find his overall dynamic shifting to either counter guests or match their energy really interesting. i enjoy that he seems to play more of a straight man around the sillier guys (cory and adam namely), and it's sweet how much he cracks up over zach's and cory's jokes. when he feels the need to play the role of 'the silly one' he can be kinda overbearing, i appreciate his humor much more when it's unforced. he's very indigo, fuchsia and cyan colored to me

zach - THE funnyman, he's undeniably the highlight of whatever video he's in and i'm here for it. he's got great chemistry with chris and lyle, he works off both of them the best. he can definitely overshadow the others jokes, but i wouldn't say i dislike the dynamics he brings to the table regardless. i'm also a huge fan of his political/pop culture trivia, it's like taking a peak into his brain. he's the colors of autumn; orange, red, brown AND green, what more could you want?

tomar - i'll be honest i'm not as autistic about this guy but i really appreciate how he responds to scenarios. he's like the backbone of the lets plays he's in, he's got the straight man charm without being completely dismissive of jokes. it is still really funny when he's oblivious to joke setups tho i feel like those are the best moments. he's one of those guys you can introduce to anybody and have them get along no matter how different their personalities are. also his voice acting is fucking stellar. he's THE coolest tones of purple ever, and he's got that emerald association to him

lyle - he makes me feel fucking crazy. his humor can come off as disconnected from the others, but i appreciate how he rolls with his own jokes and how willing he is to "yes and" literally any scenario. he builds off the others well without drawing attention away from conversations or gameplay, he's the perfect balance of silly jokester and straight man when it's called for. fits in like a goddamn chameleon that motherfucker. extremely red coded, with hints of green and silver. (a royal purple is in there if you squint!)

cory - i'm in the 1% of people who enjoy the FUCK outta cory, maybe even moreso since he became a regular. i love seeing how his scatterbrain connects dots that don't align, and it's really endearing when he infodumps about sonic or whatever else. he isn't given enough credit for the times in recent years where he catches himself during a tangent, and actually steers the conversation back to something relevant. people talk about him as if he's a contestant on a reality show who's about to be voted off. he's fun, and he radiates a mix of indigo, hot pink and orangey yellow colors

adam - swedish motherfucker who i hate(love). his life fascinates me, it's surreal that he's an actual human being who exists. i love how he makes cory seem normal in comparison to him lmfao. chris acts more mature around him and i fuck with it heavy as a longstanding oneyfan. i think fondly about the time during a now deleted runescape stream he addressed a group of fans as fags (which caused chris to delete the entire video). it can be hard to watch the videos where he's paired up with cory, but sometimes i do need pure brain slop. he's all the primaries, red yellow and blue.

niall - fucking LOVE this guy. wish he had more self esteem, he always pairs well with the others due to their friendship and i think frequently about his living situations between ireland, sleepycabin and rooming with adam. i am really looking forward to whatever content him and adam are cooking up. he's a forest green with some maroon and pinkish purples thrown in.

dave - less on my radar than the others but he's really funny, i appreciate seeing him around more regularly. i LOVE the chemistry between him, jeff, cory and adam. he's my favorite unironic fortniter. you know the classic colors of skittles? he's all of those, specifically the yellow ones. also like, neon green when paired with black.

#ask #oney plays #long post #not tagging this #feel free to ask abt whoever i missed

[calciumdeficientt]

hello clockwork orange community. do you like nadsat? i have nadsat (old commission)

Welly welly welly well my brothers it is time once again it would appear, for uncle Alex to tell you a story. An omission from the tale of my previous exploits and this, my dear brothers, is my way of sending my deepest appy polly logies to you all; twas a nochy like any other I suppose, my little droogies and I out in the thick of it. A routine trip to the korova milk bar was well underway, my cancer now barely a nub of ash and orange filter when suddenly, like some great divine inspiration from bog or whoever else may be lurking up above us in the great black nowhere. Dim opened his great big maw as if to say something, noticing the shift in my expression no doubt, a raised hand from myself soon silenced him and he fell quickly back into submission. This was our second visit of the evening, our nightcap until we four parted and I found myself headed bedways to municipal flatblock 18-a, but tonight brothers I found that this second bout of moloko plus had done me no good at all; no indeed my brothers, all it seemed to achieve was to further stir me for another few hours out to myself, the other three could follow me or not. Georgie had a funny look about his glazzies,shagged fagged, fashed and downright useless. In no state for any more of the ultraviolence tonight. No indeed.

“Dobby nochy, brothers”

I found myself humming absentmindedly, staring through the film of moloko left at the bottom of my glass and adjusting the hat placed atop my gulliver, stood up to take my leave

“Bedways so soon, Alex?”

Pete guffawed, leaned so far back in his chair I was almost certain he would disappear into it. Despite questioning my quick exit, he looked in no way prepared to leave himself

“Quite the opposite, o my brother. Much fun is yet to be had, although it is now clearer than crystal to me that our earlier fillying hath done all tree of you in, and with thus I must bid you adieu”

Outside it was bitter cold, much much bitterer and colder than I had remembered it. Soon enough the knives that I had ingested would begin to work their magic, brothers and I would become all the more aware of the lewdies, or lackthereof out and about on the streets. I had bid my little droogies a dobby nochy, that much was true but it was now more apparent than ever that night would soon be over and was bleeding over into the young hours of the morning. Luckily for little old me, I had my maskiwask in my clutches from an earlier spree of shop crasting under full, glorious anonymity hidden, too under the cover of darkest and most mysterious night. Black sky was now a very deep blue and as the moloko plus paid its due dividends I feel, o dear brothers, that the sand in my own ultraviolent hourglass was running out, running thinly like the krovvy of a malchick low on his iron. A rustle from an abandoned gazetta pricked mine ears as I trudged carefully through the street, waiting patiently for any sign of life.Caution was the key in these night-time affairs as the threat of the barry place was ever present, and while I did not fear the stripy hole I did fear for what it may have done to me old pee and em.

I took some liberties with my route home, opting for small alleys as opposed to wider, much more open streets. An unorthodox decision considering I had found myself droogless and after yet another clash with Billy boy and his other eunuch jellies could have even put myself at risk of an ambush but having no one but myself beside me makes this victory mine alone. My pocket jingled with pretty polly, distended from the volume of it. The noise seemed to draw out a devotchka. She looked poogly, her dress hanging off her as though it had been thrown on in a hurry. Big brown glazzies met mine and I could see the glimmer of tears in them, clearly she had been boo hoo hooing and for why I did not know. The old in-out always went down a treat when the urge was still around, nagging even after a whole nochy of fillying. I fancied I could slooshy her heart hammering against her ribs and what a pleasant sound it was, strands of dark brown glory flopped limply over her pale, moonish face as she looked up at me all, like expectant. I watched her back herself up against the wall, making it clear to me that someone had gotten to her first. Had I been a bit more present, I might have left her to find some other dama for myself. There were plenty about after all but mostly I was glad to have found her in the state I had. All warmed up, brothers. Relaxed despite her best wishes not to be. I fancied myself to be a kot, I did. Quite right. This is what, dear reader, cats of the street are so fond of doing. Breeding, filling the streets with as many filthy beasts as their malenky bodies might let them before bog gets them as he does all things. Never one for lubbilubbing was dear uncle Alex, brothers. Not one care for it at all I must attest.

Now, where were we? Ah yes, the devotchka with the moony litso. Very very pretty, yes yes there was no denying that brothers and droogs alike, she was beautiful. I fancied the krovvy on her might have tasted like jammiwam but I didn't bother to test it, most of it was staining her dress. Beginning to dry that horrible old blood brown as opposed to that gorgeous red that sent shivers through me when even the tiniest bead dropped from a lewdie. Not so rare and yet far more precious to me than any jewel in the world.

What happened next, brothers, was something I could be nothing but proud of. I let my face drop a little bit so I wasn’t scowling so much, it helps to lessen resistance in devotchkas I find. Despite my partiality to a bit of chase and find, that fateful nochy I was not in the mood, no autos were crasted that night so my poor dear feet were so achy that any more fillying about may have caused them to drop off. I stood there for a bit, chumbling to myself before I pounced. Her creeching was low and half-hearted as if she knew herself that it wasn't going to garner a drop of sympathy from me. This certainly was not the fault of the devotchka, most persons would be in the mindset to creech for their life, especially this one. The creetching soon stopped when, from out of my pocket I brough out my most trusted nozh. Hardly used that night, nice and clean, or at least as clean as a knife could be. It was sharp, cold, so tantalising I could feel my pan handle straining against my neezhnies at the thought of how pretty she might look under it. How still she might be if i teased it against her neck… if I teased it somewhere else. Brothers I found myself drooling at the concept. Just as I suspected, the creeching ceased and was replaced with silent weeping. I watched her chest jerk up and down as she tried to keep herself nice and quiet for me, as I pressed the blade into her neck, gently so it would only barely nick the skin. I would press harder elsewhere when she was nagoy, I thought to myself with deepest delight, watching this devotchka, already poogly from another encounter, half dressed as it were, struggling to undress herself at my command was too much. Then, out came the kot, slashiwashing with my knife the dress was out of the picture.

Ah. Nothing underneath. The cry at the sudden cold made me believe this was not something she had chosen for herself. Fearing the millicents on their early morning beats I worked quickly to strip myself of anything below my waist and get cracking on with the in-out-in out. She would have to warm up to it or suffer the consequences, most devotchkas did when I was with my droogies. On my oddy knocky I was not so sure but she would have to put up with it, my pan handle was now growing too hard to ignore. Her nogas were clasped tight, a feeble attempt for her to keep her dignity. Unlikely to work when I was in such a beastly temperament, every second wasted only seemed to make me angrier. Like when you flap a red cloth at a bull. I parted the clasped legs, it took a lot, mind, but the trembling of the muscles and the purple, pulsing, cables under her pale skin let me know she wouldn’t try and close them again.

Something possessed me to speak to her. A small slip of the tongue to keep her quiet at the world woke up. An angry throb below the belt led my mind elsewhere. I figured the nozh would be enough to keep her quiet, little drops of blood beaded around where the pressure was. Even the lowest whimper made her delicate skin press against the blade. My free hand circled a glazz, and pinched it. Her cry sent me jolting into her on just instinct alone, sheathing myself comfortably. It was clear that someone had been at her before me as there was no resistance, no horrible gravelly feeling and I pushed my way into her. In-out-in-out, smooth as if we were luddilubbing. Her face was scrunched up as if she was trying to build the nerve to start creeching. I wouldn’t have minded, sometimes I find, it really eggiwegs me to keep going.

As I moved. The hand that had been cupping her bezoomny had moved to firmly grip her waist, the hand with the knife had done the same. I made a real show of that one, creating a fine red line down from the centre of the neck all the way down her middle. Like I was a surgeon about to cut her up and perform the old in-out-in out on her guttiwuts. The krovvy only made me harder, so maybe, oh my brothers, it was a mistake to cut her as I did. But oh, it was heaven. Bog new damned. I cast my eyes toward her grahzny dress, and then back to her naked frame. I noted, brothers, that she looked like a doll more than she did a living, breathing lewdie. In and out I moved over and over, listening out for any millicents that may have interrupted such an intimate interaction. Eventually, I noticed that the shirt of my koshtoom was sticking to my back. Clinging to the skin, adhered by pearls of sweat. I could taste that irony taste fizzling in the back of my throat, it was almost time for the big finale brothers. My muscles were shouting this from the rooftops too, make no doubt about that little droogies, they burned so fiercely that even knives devoid of moloko could not quell the sensation.

The devotchka had quite visibly relaxed under my touch. As I, your dear and most trustworthy uncle Alex, kept tight firm hold of her bony waist I pondered the possibility that in some way shape or form she was thoroughly enjoying this feeling. Having accepted it she might have allowed herself to take pleasure in this. A twitch from my pan handle let me know the end was upon us and acting yet again on my most trusted friend, animal instinct, I grabbed a fistful of her luscious glory and tugged as hard as I could muster. Her creech of pain as her hair departed from her scalp was more than enough noise to conceal the low groan that accompanied my orgasm. As I slid out of her I relished in the fact that she seemed too full to move from my seed.

I cleaned myself off using her dress and dropped it on her nagoy frame. Dressing my lower half swiftly and nimbly, the deliberately quiet platching of the young girl was terribly terribly moving. I threw some coins at her litso, knowing I only had a minoota or two until the millicent’s found her or even worse that she found them. Wordlessly I left her, nudging her with my boot as she left just to check that she was ticking away nicely and the pol hadn’t killed her. When she groaned, I knew at once it was bedways for me, and quickly.

A nochy to remember indeed. O my brothers.

#a clockwork orange #acwo #aco #nadsat

[shiosworld]

Pretty Little Physco.

pretty little physco - paring ; henry bowers x patrick hockstetter type ; dark fic/smut requested? requested ( personal ) . warnings ; sex, self harm, manipulation, mentioned child abuse, patrick hockstetter is his own warning to be honest, animal abuse, mentioned s/a. degrading slurs, implied s/a and rape. - ", Baby strike a pose i want your, ", Henry sobbed, curling into a feral position onto his bed, crying out ugly, his face dwelling red and tears pouring out of his eyes, while snot had dripped out of his nose too. god, was he an ugly crier. Patrick hadn't minded, watching closely from the window, before tapping onto it, wondering if Henry could hear from all that muffled screaming and crying. one. two. three. the third knock had caused Henry to shoot up, wiping the tears and snot away with a random sweater on the floor. he looked like death - , tugging the blade that laid next to him onto the side-table, and sluggishly turning towards the window and scrunching his eyebrows and nose, trying to figure out who was out there - within a few minutes, he found Patrick coming into his eyesight, and Henry sighed. he then walked over, and opened the window. ", pretty little psycho! . " god, was patrick pretty? long dark hair and pale skin, making him look like an angel, but oh no - he was nothing close to that, something far beyond . . something far more cruel and careless, something that'd shove you further into the dirt after trying to 'help', you. and well, henry - he knew that more then anyone else. he had the 'won't take no for an answer' mindset, and no matter how many times henry would say , no, i'm not comfortable, he'd never stop. but, henry - he was a loser. no, not the losers club - an actual loser, bullying younger children, smoking and drinking, having only three friends - and only two actually cared for him.

victor, - where was victor? usually, if he didn't feel like being torn apart, or feeling like a kicked-one-too-many-times puppy, or - if he was looking for actual comfort, he'd find himself in victor's home, sitting down on the couch or bed, sniffling and trying to cover up his pathetic expression. victor, he always cared, or tried to help. patrick, did not - patrick got off on the horror and made henry aswell, finding the traumatized, broken and complex boy a beauty, something that should be torn further. like his father, ", you hanging out with that fag again? i swear, henry, you always manage to be such a fucking dissapointment. go grab me a beer, would you, and make yourself useful? ", ", you look like your mother. expect, she was more helpful, henry. that's pathetic, you fairy, yeah - i know you've been hanging out with those damned queers, can't hide from me, boy. ", those taunting sentences - words, played out in his head. he wouldn't be like this if patrick wasn't here. he had to get rid of pat someday. one day. ", there's something about you i've got to have. ", patrick sat close, putting a ', comforting ', hand on henry's back, a sick grin being held back from the raven-headed twat. ", shh, i've got you, hens. ", he muttered, drawing his mouth closer to the other's ear, and his sickening smirk had come out fully, showing his more dark demeanor. to him, this was all some fantasy game, others emotions hadn't felt. no, he could do whatever he'd like, and no one would know, or maybe they'd think they did. ", sh - shut up, you fucking freak! ", Henry stuttered, in a weak voice, making patrick's grin somehow - become even more wide. henry glared daggers at him, trying again. ", shut up, patrick! ", now - his voice was more confident, or wannabe confident. he was so . . uncomfortable, knowing all the dark shit that patrick could do, and had done before. ", patrick, i told you. no, i don't want to- ", ", get the fuck off me, freak! ", "stop, stop touching me - stop, please! ", ", i told you no, stop! please- ah, stop! ", henry cringed, tears welling up further into his eyes, scooting away from patrick. ", i hate you. ", he coughed, patrick raising a brow and grinning further at him. ", what'd i do now, sweetheart? your daddy call me queer 'gain?, ", henry remained silent, and patrick took this as a chance to egg on. he know he shouldn't - toying with something already so,, broken - could mess up the entire plan.

yet he did anyways, ", does your daddy know i've turned you into a freak, henry? is that why he beat poor you, up again? want me to get rid of him, hens? do you gotta depend on me, again? ", patrick continuously asked, knowing it would plunge deep into henry's head. yet, to his surprise, henry didn't hit or punch him, not even shove patrick away as he drew closer. he just - cried. patrick now smiled, finding it so hilarious how henry was deeply broken.

", black-lickstip just like a cat, have you purrin' on your back. ", henry cried out, tears spilling from his eyes - sobbing and shrieking, while patrick rolled his eyes and leaned over henry, stuffing himself deeper inside the other boy. ", p- patrick,ithurtswait!! ", he shrieked, speaking so fast, no one would be able to understand. ", Shh, hens, it'll feel good in a minute, alright. ", it didn't even sound like ressurance, just balant talking. henry took a deep breath, and winced, while patrick had drawn himself in and out of the other. ", shutthefuckup,youfreakihateyou!! ", he screamed into his hand.

this went on for a while, before the stink of sex had filled the entire room, sweat and tears staining henry's face, - and body. Patrick, on the other hand, had already gotten dressed again, and was climbing out of the window, leaving a sore henry alone. he sighed, standing up and grabbing a new pair of boxers, shorts and a t-shirt. henry stepped into the bathroom, putting his clothes on the counter, and leaning into the water, scorching hot. he hoped it would burn off the feeling of hands on his body. he cried in the shower again.

/////////// IF YOU READ THIS IM SO SORRY. also, fuck you risa for requesting this in dms man. you a fake real one for real.. but also this was i guess fun to write with music or something, yeah i write for it(2017) now. i apologize for this monstrosity of angst and hurt.

#it 2017 #henpat #henry bowers #patrick hockstetter #this is why we cant have anything nice #rewatched it 2017 and now im obsessed #help me #cannot stop #help #gross #dear god #jesus fucking christ #what the fuck #kys risa

[tales-from-the-badge-shiner]

Trucker’s Call Part 1

(This story was before cell phones were common, & almost everyone carried a calling card starting with ‘ten-ten...’)

i was guarding a manufacturing plant with a warehouse on the grounds, and it was a blazing Sunday in summer, meaning i was literally the only person around. i look up from the desk in the guardshack to see a semi sitting there idling, the driver out of the cab at the gate. i stepped out of the shack, as i walked to the gate i could see the sizable bulge in his jeans, even from about ten feet away. i approached & tried not to look but...clearly i didn’t succeed.

“Can i help you?” ‘Yeah, I’m trying to find Company C-I was given bad directions so I had to reroute because of a low bridge..(he adjusts his bulge as he talks, drawing my eyes)”You’re in luck, you’re in the right area-‘(adjusts again)...’aaah, yeah it’s on the side street-‘ (adjusts but lingers)...’side street just ahead’ (gives his bulge a squeeze, showing how packed it is, & that it’s beginning to expand)....’what was i saying?’ He knew he had me at that point. “Before I head over can I use a pay phone to call in’ he locks eyes with me ‘and I need to take a wicked piss’ at that he gets a smirk;he’s playing with me, like a cat with a mouse. “Okay, which do you want first?”as i start unlocking the gate to let him in. ‘Whichever is further away’ “the payphone is in the warehouse-i can only call local from the shack’(there was a bypass code, but i wanted privacy) i grabbed my company radio from the shack & looked at him. He squeezed his bulge at me again and said ‘lead the way..sweet cheeks’ As i walked a few steps ahead of him i could feel his eyes on my ass, & i knew he planned to drop several loads into me before he left.

Once we got to the warehouse i had him wait outside while i disarmed the building, then brought him inside & pointed out the payphone. Once he dialed the number he put a booted foot on a nearby box, then motioned me over as he started talking & pulled down his zipper. That was all the invitation i needed & was on my knees before he had fished out his cock. He wasn’t that long, only around 6 inches, but it was thick enough that i knew my jaw would be aching by the time he done using it. As i started bobbing on him he casually rested his hand on my head. i was now clearly just an appliance to him, no longer a person, used to empty his balls. He tasted of sweat and piss with a bit of funk... clearly he hadn’t had a chance to shower in a few days. Suddenly i realized what he was saying on the phone. ‘Yeah, the little fag is bobbing on me right now....no, he doesn’t seem to mind how rank I am. In fact, I think the bitch is enjoying it....how is he? Hungry I’ll say that much....yeah, he’s working to get my load....no,he won’t get it quick, I gotta piss first.....(i paused on his dick, looking up at him but he completely ignored me)...the fag just stopped, i think it’s thirsty....aaaah(the acrid tasting piss is flowing, i’m swallowing fast trying not to taste it)he chuckled...’yeah, don’t think the bitch likes it....he has no idea how much he has to swallow tho....my giant drink cup is done, so he’s gotta take all of it (my eyes went wide, but i continue to swallow) ...yeah, he’s listening, the bitch seems to be enjoying hearing what I think of it.The little cocksucker seems at home servicing Men. ...Not surprised it’s guarding a building, probably spends all it’s free time at a dirty bookstore hoovering men thru a hole in the wall (i wondered if i’d serviced him at a gloryhole in the past, as he was pretty accurate)....’yeah, almost done pissing, if nothing else he makes a good urinal’...he laughs at something the other person said that i couldn’t hear, as his stream finally slows...’yeah, he’ll be licking that too. It’s gonna be a while tho, after i drop my load in the bitch i need to wait until later to drop off the load...I mean the truck, wiseass!...ok, I’ll call later then’ and hangs up. ‘Now’ He finally addresses me ‘to dump a load in a cocksucking faggot’ as he grabs my head to begin skullfucking me like an out of control piston.

[headless-angel-writes]

Just Today

Summary: Nico and Fiona share a moment alone during their wedding. Characters belong to Rainbow Rowell

Words:  502

Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43353228

@carryon-countdown​

Nico was not used to being around so many people anymore. Being a vampire tended to be isolating. He felt like he was going to suffocate. He had only recently rejoined the world of mages.  Sometimes it was overwhelming.

Also, the music was so loud it was hurting his ears.

He walked out of the ballroom towards a garden. Out there, the only illumination was garlands of lights strung on the trees. The noise here was less loud. 

He sighed, all he needed was a little break and then he'd go back inside. He would smoke a fag and be done.

"I thought you'd given up smoking. Again."

Nicodemus turned around. There was his girlfriend. No, she was his wife now. She was looking at him with concern and a strange softness on her face.

"I'm sorry, Fi. I felt slightly dazed."

 "You could have asked the DJ to turn it down a bit. It's your party too, after all."

"I didn't want to interrupt you, you and the others were enjoying dancing. I just needed a rest."

Fiona raised an eyebrow. She took the cigarette from him and took a puff before proceeding.

"I can't blame you. Weddings are exhausting. I guess you deserve a little smoking today, but just today."

"I promise I'll keep on trying".

He did. Fiona would panic every time she saw him near sources of fire. She feared losing him again. Especially now that they were building a new life together.

"I know. And I'm  so proud of you"

He knew she would never lie to him. Now that they were on their own he looked at her again in detail. She was wearing a white leather jacket, which contrasted with her flowing dress.  Instead of heels, she wore her classic Doc Martens boots.

She looked magnificent. He reached up to wrap his arm around her waist and draw the woman closer to him.

"Have I told you how menacing you look today?"

She laughed and smoked some more before handing the cigarette back to him.

"It's strange to see you wearing white, but it suits you" she replied, glancing to one side. Her face had a barely perceptible blush.

They had decided to wear matching white leather jackets for the wedding. Surprisingly, it had been Baz's idea.

"Don't get used to it, it's a pain in the ass to get bloodstains out of pale fabrics."

Fiona didn't answer him but asked again for the cigarette. They stood there, alone, sharing it. Leaving their wedding for a moment to smoke was something quite worthy of them. 

"You know, Fiona, I miss Ebb. I miss Ebb," Nico blurted out of nowhere

It was sad not having his beloved twin on such an important day. Mentioning her made him feel that she was a little present.

"I miss her too. "

They didn't say anything else, what could they say? The cigarette had already been consumed. They gave one last glance at the moon before returning to the ballroom.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………….

Hello!

Look, ever since it was hinted that Fiona and Nicodemus had a thing, I fell in love with this ship. I was happy to see that on AWTWB they were thinking about getting married. 

The outfits for their wedding are a reference to Metal Family (watch that show, please).

Thank you so much for reading~

Ciao!

Pd: Mexico has already been eliminated from the world cup :( 

#carry on countdown #carry on countdown 2022 #carry on simon #carry on rainbow rowell #coc 2022 #fiona pitch #Nicodemus petty #baz pitch #not snowbaz

[nysocboy]

Gemstones Episode 3.4, Continued: Mistaking dependency for love, two breakups, and some Cantonese guys

Previous: Episode 3.4: Wieners, betrayals, a burning a-hole, and Kelvin at his jerkiest. With a nude Steve Zahn bonus

Earlier in this episode, Stephen stepped up his harassment of Judy and BJ, Jesse sparred with Pontius, and Kelvin refused to accept responsibility for the Smut Busters Scandal.  Now things are getting worse.

The fag: Stephen plays pickleball with BJ, who doesn't know about the affair.  He describes sex with the girl he's seeing in disgustingly graphic detail, including something that I have never heard anyone but Judy mention.  But BJ doesn't get it, merely objecting to the disrespectful talk. 

Stephen counters: "You're a weak little fag."  No, BJ protests, he is a straight cis male, "but I don't believe that queer people should be referenced in that way." 

 Stephen's fag and the earlier "trash talk" are the only homophobic references since the first episode of Season 2.  While neither refers specifically to Kelvin, they are structurally placed to draw attention to the "rumors swirling around" him, and the effect that coming out may have on his career. 

We cut to Eli and May-May in the garden, joking and bonding.  She tells him: "I was never jealous of your riches, but I'm jealous that your kids still love you."  Eli: "Don't mistake love for dependency."  Remember that Kelvin and Judy have never been in romantic relationships before, and aren't sure how to go about it.  Are they really in love with their partners, or using them for power, control, social status, and sex?  It's time for Kelvin's descent into the darkness.

Church leaders got to think about the optics: This scene is very difficult to read.  It seems to go in three directions at once. We begin with the Siblings and Martin in the executive board room.  Kelvin is still wearing his virginal-white sweater: this is shortly after the food-court parents meeting. Jesse states that they are here to discuss  "When people think people are molesting people."  

Wait -- no parent has accused Keefe of child molestation.  Jesse is jumping to conclusions. Or maybe he's responding to the gay rumors, but he can't admit that to Kelvin.  

Without asking for the guys' side of the story, the Siblings and Martin have decided to move Keefe into Immigrant Outreach.  It sounds like a great job -- doubtless with more money, more responsibility, and duties more closely aligned with Keefe's interests.  And it seems quite benevolent. They could have hidden Keefe away in a file room somewhere, or just fired him.  

But are they responding to a pedophilia accusation?  Martin tells Kelvin that "this is not the hill to die on": it is trivial, purely cosmetic. Keefe will still play a valuable role in the church. That sounds like a response to Keefe being outed as gay.

Judy agrees: "Church leaders have to think about the optics." Kelvin cannot stay closeted with an assistant youth minister who is "openly gay."  So what if they're separated during work hours?:  "You need to suck it up."  A gay joke, har-har.  Kelvin replies: "Like you sucked it up on tour?"  

After that dig at Judy betraying BJ, Kelvin run away, proclaiming that he's voting "no" on everything else on the agenda.  Next up: funding a battered women's shelter.  "I vote no!"

We switch to BJ and Judy having sushi, perhaps later on the same day.  BJ notes that he ran into her guitarist Stephen at the pickeball court, but got turned off by the explicit descriptions of his girlfriend's...you know. But he still doesn't catch on that Stephen was talking about Judy.

The Dining Room Tomb: At home, Kelvin is looking for Keefe.  He tries the bedroom, then comes downstairs. Notice that one of the pictures on the wall depicts a stylized naked man.

 Keefe is sitting at the dining room table, wearing a BDSM sub outfit, cutting out crosses for the youth group bulletin board, but they all turn into daggers.  I get it - - the church has betrayed you.

 This must be the same day as the parents' meeting and the board meeting, but Kelvin has changed from his virginal-white sweater into a ridiculous plaid poncho with a super-exaggerated top wave.  He has never looked more unattractive. Will being unattractive make things easier?

Check out the room decor: dark, oppressive, tomb-like.  Does it even have windows?  In this depressing, troubling space, Kelvin says: "I have to talk to you about something, and it's not easy to talk about." "Sexual stuff?" Keefe asks, thinking that he wants to discuss their less-than-satisfactory sex life.

No, it's about the job offer.  Kelvin tries to get him excited about it - "you can use your Cantonese!" -- but he can't put a positive spin on something that he introduced with "it's not easy to talk about" rather than "I have fantastic news!"  Keefe thinks that the job offer is a slap in the face, caused entirely by Kelvin refusing to take responsibility for the Smut Busters scandal.

The breakup after the break

On to the breakup: Keefe is going to move out "so the air can be cleared," to alleviate the gay rumors that could cost Kelvin his career (Dude, they just cost you your career).As he speaks, he deliberately hides his "wedding ring," to signal that the relationship is over.  In his next scene, it will be gone altogether.

He continues "You Gemstones are stars, destined to burn bright. Best that I step aside."  

Although he acts like he's being benevolent, thinking of Kelvin's career, it's obvious that Keefe has had enough. Kelvin treats him as a boyfriend, buddy, assistant, and valet from moment to moment, ignoring his needs and desires (how many times has he puckered up for a kiss that never came?), yelling at him when he tries to help, standing by while he is ignored by the family, tortured by the God Squad, accused of child molestation. Don't mistake dependency for love: it's time to move on.

Another Breakup: Shortly after the sushi, I guess -- the chronology is confused here -- Judy is meeting Stephen at some sort of arcade.  She orders him to stop stalking her husband, but he resists: "You want me!" 

Nope, "I'm BJ Barnes' bitch and no one else's!" 

Uh-oh, Stephen invited BJ, too!  He forces Judy to come clean about their affair.

And a threat: Cut to Eli convincing the Montgomery Boys to sing for their mother -- they've refused for several years.  The song they choose is "Sinner, You'd Better Get Ready."   Not exactly spreading the love, are you, boys?  But it's apropos to several of the relationships crumbling before our eyes.

Love is lost:  Late at night, Jesse catches his son Pontius having sex with his girlfriend (beefcake alert: we see Kelton Dumont's actual butt, not a stunt double).  This is a direct violation of his agreement to not have sex in the house.  

Jesse lectures: "When you allow yourself to trust another person, it stings extra when that trust is betrayed. Love can be lost. Relationships can be damaged forever." His speech is interspliced with Judy crying as BJ prepares to leave, and Kelvin crying as Keefe drives away.

In the last shot, the Montgomery Boys are stockpiling ammonium nitrate, a powerful explosive. They returned to their father after all. They're going to betray the Gemstones! We never find out what Uncle Peter wants the explosives for.  He starts on a scheme that doesn't require them, and when that falls through, decides to use the explosives for a new scheme.

Shortly after this episode aired, someone -- I don't know if it was a showrunner or a fan -- posted on Tumblr that "everything is going according to plan."  But for now, and through the next three episodes, the Gemstones are in ruins. The end.

The full review, with nude photos and explicit sexual discussions, is on RG Beefcake and Boyfriends

#the righteous gemstones #kelvin gemstone #keefe chambers #tony cavalero #adam devine #BJ Barnes #Judy Gemstone

[investoptionwin]

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#fashion trends #fashion photography #fashion #western wear for women #western wear for girls #western wear dresses #western wear #western

[lumoschildextra]

I got tagged by @artiststarme to share some stuff about me, so let's go!

1. Are you named after anyone? As far as I can remember, no. My middle name is the same as my aunt's though!

2. When was the last time you cried? Like last week I think. Existential crisis, wooo! 🙃

3. Do you have kids? From mine womb? No. A bunch of kids I adopted from my high school years? Yes.

4. Do you use sarcasm a lot? I don't think so. I'd like to think I do, but I'm ultimately not super great at it so I keep it to my few close friends, ha ha.

5. What sports do you/have you played? I played soccer when I was in elementary school and cheerleading in elementary and middle school. I dabbled in swimming when I was in high school and did shot put and discus my last two years. My two favorites from high school were dance team and color guard. And yes, color guard/marching band is a sport, go look up the definition. 😌

6. What's the first thing you notice about people? Their mouths/smiles. I had jaw surgery a few years ago so I tend to focus on the way people's mouths move when they talk.

7. What's your eye color? Brown, but they get a little hazel in the summer.

8. Scary movies or happy endings? Happy endings 100%. I'm such a wimp when it comes to horror movies lol.

9. Any special talents? I can do a bunch of cool tosses with my color guard flag. I made my own toss and most of the team learned it! What's even cooler is one of the girls added a catch behind the back and it was so cool to see everyone learning it. 🥰

10. Where were you born? Virginia. My dad was in the military so he and my mom were moved around whenever he was stationed somewhere else.

11. What are your hobbies? Reading, writing, crocheting, and drawing.

12. Do you have any pets? Yep! I have two silly chihuahuas, one short hair and one long hair. And no, they're not ankle biters...most of the time.

13. How tall are you? About 5' 3".

14. Favorite subject in school? I enjoyed math. I liked that there was a definite answer to the problem. The worksheets were also super pleasing to look at with all the equations neatly typed out on the paper. 😌

15. Dream job? Streamer! I'd love to be able to make people laugh and simultaneously doing something I enjoy, such as gaming, crocheting, etc.

Thanks for tagging me @artiststarme, I had fun! Join us if you'd like! (I know most of you aren't mutuals, but I don't have 15 mutual ha ha)

@chalkymoon @cloud-za @outraged-original @anxiousandafraid @videodrome-fag @poppedbubblgum @goose-of-chaos @cutepotatook @lovebugism @henderdads @eliascolorkidd @time-woods @somerandomdudelmao @fernandesart @m0nomercy

#15 questions #15 mutuals

[falsebooles123]

An Incredible Long Couple of Weeks. Diary of a Big Ole Gay.

Hey Whores, this is going to be a really long post because I may not have the energy to finish this this week.

So I guess I haven't done one of these in about two weeks and a lot of that is me being very busy. Last week of March I was working on like fifteen million different articles and videos and other content creation thingies and the first week of April literally started with my co-worker HAVING A MENTAL BREAK AND LEAVING TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE LITERAL COUNTRY.

(i'm posting a funny GIF but I'm actually kinda pissed)

so instead of having a lot of great help to ease into running a full ass kitchen by myself doing 70 heads a day. I was doing this with exactly one other person doing the bare minimum to help me. It was a lot of hard work, and of course it went great. But I was extremly exhausted.

I also didn't watch that many queer films because of it.

but lets get into it.

Reflections in a Golden Eye (1967) dir. John Huston

OK so I don't remember a lot about any of these films because I watched this one in particular, *checks notes* the 27th of last month. Yeah theres a reason why theres no date on this one.

So this one I think is based on a book or something and features Marlon Brando being a CLOSET HOMOSEXUAL. oh also he stays right in that closet.

(god this gif is something else. so creepy)

Hes like yeah I'm going to spend this entire movie staring at this naked guys ass, (yeah I'm not going to explain the plot your'll either love this movie or hate it but you can't say it doesn't have a plot), but I ain't going to act on it. I'm just going to fight with my beautiful neglected wife who beats my ass for beating her horse.

See the relationship is super toxic but its liz taylor and Marlon Brando so its also the hottest thing ever.

anyway lot of repressed homos in the background of the entire rest of the plot. One of the more fun dramas I watched cause it was MESSY!

Flesh (1968) dir. Paul Morrissey

ok so Flesh is one of those weird cineme verite movies that Morrissey made and it is very artsy and very gay but there isn't actually any guy on guy stuff. The main actor spends most of his time naked, and some of that is like eroticized but also its kinda meant to desexualize nudity. Or rather the film is using casual nudity as a way to lampshade the way we objectify people because after we see this long scene were hes just laying in bed with his dick out (relatable), we get a 5 minutes scene of him starting his day buck ass naked feeding his 1 year old real daughter a muffin. they actually use that as one of the posters

so like yeah hes naked but hes clearly not erotised in that moment in fact even though the main character is a hustler he never actually has gay sex on screen. His only client is a man who wants to draw him for like classical sculpture. Hes someone whose literally objectified scene for his body and not as a living person.

OMFG am I a film critic or something.

anyway this is another pretty cool film and especially something gay people should watch even through there isn't that much PDA.

Funeral Parade of Roses (1969) dir. Toshio Matsumoto

ok first look at this iconic photo.

Pretty this follows a bunch of transwoman in like Tokyo just honestly vibing and being faggot punks. We love, we stan, we support.

theres a lot to enjoy about this film and honestly just iconic trans woman you need to watch this. oh also all these ladies are straight so theres no gay kissing.

My Hustler (1966) dir. Andy Warhol, Chuck Wein

NOTE: This is a clip from the 1961 SPORTS THRILLER "The Hustler" but also this is pretty good dupe to the experience of My Hustler

Yeah so My Hustler is the story of a rich gay bringing a gay whore for his vacation and then having his fag hag friend and then the hustler friend show up and they all get in to this contest about whos going to fuck him. So I guess more objectification of men through the queer lens. Noone actually fucks him and its a lot of naturalistic dialogue. Its warhol you get it.

The Children's Hour (1961) dir. William Wyler

Ok so Childrens Hour is about Audrey Hepburn and her GAL PAL Shirley McClaine who run a school together. They are in fact just roommates but doesn't stop snot nose little brats from spreading rumors that like she totally saw Mrs. Hepburn drowning in pussy. So yeah they have there lives ruined and there not even dykes da fuck. Its very Tea and Sympathy in that regard about how homophobia hurts those that arn't even faggots. Y'know the innocent. /s

except it turns out that Shirley McClaine is in fact like a totally LESBIAN HAROLD. and this was the push she needed to admit how fucking gay she is for audrey hepburn, (which like we get it girl it audrey), oh and then she fucking kills herself. Thanks I hate it.

The movie up to that points pretty good.

The Leather Boys (1964) dir. Sidney J. Furie

ok so this is another British New Wave movie and it manly follows this newly married couple. And like the wife Dot, is literally the worst fucking person. She spends all her money on her hair which 1. He doens't like and 2. Doesn't even look good on her. She doesn't have a job and she doesn't keep the house. And then she won't move into his mom's house after his dad fucking dies and his mom literally can't take care of herself which like sorry girl I get if you don't like your mother-in-law but um kinda a consequence of marrying someone at some point you kinda have to deal with there parents getting old and dying. Oh also shes cheating on him. SPOILERS.

Anyway so they spend most of the time seperated while this guy sleeps with his best friend.... in like the same bed. hahaha not like in a gay way that would be ..... gay.

Also I'm totally sure his best friend isn't like a faggot or something.

Yeah, basically this guy was sleeping next to a gay guy the whole time and everytime his friend was like "omg babe lets ditch your looser wife, (can confirm she sucks), and move to america together" that he meant it in like a gay way.

and so the dude just fucking leaves. Honestly I would try sucking dick just once if I was him. You guys have a great relationship and your wifes a bitch.

Advise & Consent (1962) dir. Otto Preminger

The Best Man (1964) dir. Franklin J. Schaffner

just going to throw these together. Basically there both about some future were the president wants to nominate some dude and people are like ew no. also some random other person is getting blackmailed for being a faggot in the war. Yeah both of these movies have like the same exact plot.

I like The Best Man a little bit more but there both kinda awful. Also Betty White is in the first one and SHES A SENATOR. yaaaas girl.

Manji (1964) dir. Yasuzo Masumura

THESE LESBIANS ARE TOXIC.

Like don't get me wrong they kiss, they suck, they fuck. Lot of Women absolutely just being the most, this is the most lesbian thing I've seen.

Oh also eventually they start a death cult it goes to some really weird places. Also theres like three remakes.

anyway whores, sorry that its taking so long for me to post this diary update. I'm going to draft the next post and try to get it out by the end of the month. Thanks love you.

#diary #queer cinema #early queer cinema #firstgaykiss #reflections in a golden eye #flesh 1968 #funeral parade of roses 1969 #my hustler 1966 #the childrens hour 1961 #The Leather Boys #Advise & Consent 1962 #The Best Man 1964 #Manji 1964 #slurs(reclaimed) #Buried Gays #CW Suicide