Dev Gets Hip Surgery

plagiarism. Again.

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

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

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

mine:

a fic they stole from killsbil

and another they stole from mixes-archive

this is by sweet-as-an-angel

Pairing: Marcus Perez (oc) x AFAB! reader

(general) Warning: age gap (he's 50, reader is in mid/late twenties), virgin reader, inexperienced reader, daddy issues™, marcus is a dilf, daddy kink, angst, lots of food/baking, size difference, reader is not overly described but is implied to be skinny & small breasted, able bodied reader, hair length is not defined but will be mentioned, reader is feminine and AFAB but gender is undefined, Marcus drinks and smokes, eventual smut, slow burn-ish, series fic

Plot: Marcus seeks out a fresh start living the city life, renting an apartment above a small business bakery. That's where he met you. His sweet temptation.

Note: update schedule currently unknown.

Sunshine and whiskey:

Part 1 | ??? | ??? | ???

Daisy's are frequently associated with purity, childbirth, new beginnings, and cheerfulness. Daisy petals symbolize innocence and are commonly associated with childhood memories of collecting wildflower bouquets.

Pairing: Marcus Perez (oc) x AFAB! reader

(general) Warning: age gap (he's 50, reader is in mid/late twenties), virgin reader, inexperienced reader, daddy issues™, marcus is a dilf, daddy kink, angst, lots of food/baking, size difference, reader is not overly described but is implied to be skinny & small breasted, able bodied reader, hair length is not defined but will be mentioned, reader is feminine and AFAB but gender is undefined, Marcus drinks and smokes, eventual smut, slow burn-ish, series fic

Authors note: as always do not trust old men who wanna get in your pants! Keep sex safe and always consensual. This is purely fictional and just an expression of sexual fantasy. This chapter is just the beginning so it'll just be establishing the setting and what's going on.

I hope y'all enjoy! Idk when I'll be posting updates as this kinda me trying to grit through writer's block so I'm sorry if chapters are not consistent! Kinda just shouting into the void with this if I'm being honest 🙈 comments, reblogs and likes will always be appreciated!

Moodboard |Part 1 |

For years, Marcus lived in an empty nest, a single man trapped in an unchanging routine. Marcus quits his small-town life and heads to the city, but it's certainly no glamorous ride. Movies painted an enticing picture of freedom—packing up one's life and leaving behind the shackles of monotony, as if shaking off cobwebs layered over dusty memories. Yet, for Marcus, the reality felt more like swallowing cotton balls, each memory sheathed in layers of bubble wrap and tape, heavy boxes straining his weary back as he huffed and grunted. His work buddies rallied around him, lending their arms to help load the cramped pickup truck, but the weight of the moment lingered in his chest.

Though everyone urged him to seize this fresh start, he couldn't abandon that itch to remain in his cycle. He was set in his ways, hesitant to dip his boot-clad feet into new waters, yearning for a life with a touch of difference without completely overhauling the comfort of his past. A constant contradiction of wanting more but unable to muster the greed to take it with unyielding hands. After much contemplation, he settled into a modest apartment above a bakery, cheesily named "Whisk Me Away." Nestled not too far from the city's sprawling park, a purposeful spot he sought out. Marcneededing to venture beyond the habit of staying indoors—something he had lately become all too familiar with. Tucking himself in his solitude, waiting at the phone or rotting his mind with uninteresting TV. Exhausted from work and devoid of friends outside his occasional drink, he dreaded the thought of spending yet another night in the stench of stale beer and listening to another pointless argument or the screams of grown adults outraged by the favorite team losing.

Despite the insistence of his friends that this was his chance to step into retirement, he found it laughable. He never planned to retire. He couldn't. What would he do with himself? After a week of steady toil with boxes, however, he marched into a part-time handyman role for the bakery’s owner. They struck up a friendship, the connection based on the similarities of two middle-aged men sharing dry laughter and nostril-stuffed grunts about sports games that Marcus had little interest in. Or a comment here and there about the youth of today.

Yet, amidst the bustling streets and the chaos of the city, what truly captured his attention wasn’t the sprawling skyline or the rigorous life around him; it was something sweeter, far more delicate. As if biting into a tender sponge of a cupcake. Icing much too sweet for his aged pallet but the rush reminded him of his youth. How he ached to drag his tongue along the creamy sugar that coated this pretty treat. Curling his tongue until he lapped every last bit and got to the true flavor beneath. Untainted and heavenly.

A temptation that should have never crossed his mind at his age. He often scoffed at the very idea of a fling with someone so much younger, dismissing the notion with fierce disapproval. His friends had joked about having a young, pretty thing latched to their hip, and Marcus had rolled his eyes. Perhaps given a pal or two a smack around the head. He considered himself wiser than that—better than that. Or so he thought.

The change within him began quietly. Invading defenses the day he settled into his new life. The difference between him and his little truck and city-slinging people. It lacked the polish of the sleek vehicles roaming the city. The contrast between his humble truck and the flashing, modern cars of the city just screamed ‘fresh meat’ to the scowling, slimmer city living was looking for a bakery with a big fancy bay window - or Italia, Nate as his buddy said. Whatever the fuck that meant wasn'tsn't like he had to Google what it was, s and it wasn't like he was drifting along the busy road, phone propped up on the dashboard, threatening to fall over if he didn't grumble and keep it still, peering between the image and the buildings around him.

He parked awkwardly, the truck’s tire nudging the curb more than he would have liked, but he'd been edging back, and forth, forth trying to spot any space to park, and this was the only one that seemed to work. Cars blaring their raging horns at him. Taking a moment, he stared at the building, suddenly aware of the labor that lay ahead: unloading his entire life into a narrow s; this time, there was no team of buddies at his side.

Letting out a heavy sigh, he pressed his forehead against his palm, feeling the weight of fatigue and apprehension tug at him as if the city itself conspired against him. He glanced at his watch—still an hour until the moving crew arrived—and silently cursed. Always early to everything. That's how his parents raised him to be. But now and again it bit him in the ass just like now. His truck couldn’t possibly contain everything he owned, but he had clung onto those precious few keepsakes he couldn't bear to part with. The sheer price of it all ate into what spare funds he had on the side, meaning he'd be behind a while on groceries and emergency money. The tho ht hung in his mind like a fleeting shadow, provoking a frustrated click of his tongue.

Finally mustering the resolve to abandon the vehicle, Marcus trudged around to the back of his truck, retrieving a few boxes one by one, only to falter when he searched for an alternative entrance—be it a back or side door—anything but the front. But there was none in sight, and he didn't trust leaving his truck unattended in a new place. He's heard all the stories of what kind of hooligans we're skulking around in cities like these. With a resigned grunt, he slammed the truck door shut, trudged towards the bakery, and pushed open the front door, the chime announcing his arrival. Another curse leaving him.

He saw photos of the bakery and its interior but entering the space was a whole experience on its own. Greeted by a large square dining space with tables rowed at the walls most having four wooden chairs snuggly tucked in. All the chairs have a cushion on the seat with ruffles framing them. The tables were light wood and circular with a doily cover draped over it. Two menus in small stands on either side of each one. In the middle were small glass vases filled with daisies and baby's breath, pale yellow ribbons tied into bows at the neck of each vase. The floor creaked, covered In wooden panels. However, it was fake as it didn't have the same squeak he's used to hearing. At the windows there were white lace curtains and shutter blinds rolled and tucked out of view to let the sunlight pour in and soak the building in its natural warmth.

The rays of light bounced against the hanging ceiling lights; each one glass with various flowers engraved on a petal-like base. A turned-off bulb perched in the middle. At the edge of the dining space was a curved counter with a cash register, and a glass display case filled with various baked goods such as pastries, bread, and cakes, though it seemed to be half empty still. Behind the counter, there are shelves stocked with more baked items and different types of porcelain plates with flowers printed on them. A door sealed shut between the many cupboards and shelves.

To his relief, the bakery was empty—until a man appeared from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a faded, threadbare rag, surprise flickering across his face, soon giving way to a light-hearted chuckle. With a playful shake of his head, he approached Marcus.

“Let me help you with that! I didn’t expect to see anyone for a while,” he said, his voice laden with an unexpected warmth.

Marcus raised an eyebrow, skepticism lacing his voice as he shifted his grip on the precariously balanced boxes. “You’re the owner, right?” He knew he shouldn't be so stereotypical, but the man before him didn't seem like the type to enjoy a much…dainty interior.

“Yeah, that’s right. I’m Randal,” he replied as he took a step closer. “And you must be the new neighbor. If you had texted ahead, I could have given you better directions.”

That just made Marcus grunt. Shrugging one of his shoulders. Randal effortlessly plucked one of the heavy boxes from Marcus's arms, letting out a small grunt as he did, a look of approval crossing his features as he assessed Marcus's strong arms. A flicker of respect for a man able to keep his strength up.

“There’s an alley behind the building. If you don’t mind, I can drive around back and help you out. It’ll save you from getting honked at all day,” Randal suggested, his eyes twinkling with knowing. He's been listening to the chorus of honks since the other man's arrival.

With another sigh, Marcus hesitated but nodded. He tightened his grip on the boxes. “That would be helpful. My keys are right here,” he replied, albeit with a lingering twinge of wariness. Yet, considering Randal’s age there was a certain level of reliability. He was put in some faith another man his age would be true to his word, especially considering he'd be living above his business. With a slight pop of his hip, he revealed the keys dangling from his belt loop, which Randal deftly took after putting the box he had taken onto a nearby table.

“Oi! Honey, mind being helpful? The neighbor’s here!” Randal hollered out suddenly, narrowing his eyes as he peered expectantly at the back door, as if willing it to swing open.

A moment of stillness hung in the air, broken only by a muffled voice drifting through the closed door. At last, it swung open with a loud creak, held wide by a stout stopper. You stepped into view, cradling a tray overflowing with an array of delectable treats, the faint scent of fresh-baked pastries wafting through the air. A displeased huff escaped your lips as you expertly slid the tray into the display case at the cashier, a light dusting of flour still lingering on your fingertips.

As you looked up, your eyes finally met those of your new neighbor. A radiant smile broke across your soft features as you hurried around the desk, eager to assist him with the heavy box he was struggling with.

“Grab the one on the table,” your father commanded from behind you, his voice firm, almost dismissive he retreated further into the back.

Your arms fell, swerving around to grab the box, and let out a noise of surprise at the heavyweight. Another huff escaped you. Of course. You looked back at Marcus, and the smile returned to your features. “Let's get these up.” adjusting the box in your grasp as you began to walk to the corner of the bakery where a staircase was tucked away. You already began trudging up as the matching wooden steps became less cared for and rustic compared to the dreamy softness of the bakery.

Marcus followed behind you, his heavy footsteps echoing through the bakery as he lugged the boxes. He couldn't help but notice the way your hips swayed as you climbed the stairs. He didn't mean to stare at your ass but it was right in front of him. Nicely rounded and snug in pale blue jeans. Or at least, that was his excuse until he pried his eyes away to watch his step. Though with the two boxes clutched to his chest, it wasn't the easiest task.

"I really wish they had an elevator." You joked, hoping to clear the stiff silence between you two.

"Yeah, I bet. It would definitely make this a lot easier," he replied, his voice gruff but tinged with amusement. He shifted the box in his arms, feeling its weight pressing against his chest. After a few steps, he spoke again, glancing back toward the dim light of the building that faded into the shadows of the staircase walls.

"So, your pops owns this place?"

"Yeah," you said, your voice trailing off slightly as you nodded. "He handles the numbers and works the cash register, but the bakery is meant to be mine. It just helps to have him manage the stuff I'm not so good at." You shrugged your shoulder as you forced yourself up a few more steps with a large stretch of your leg. The box was already making your arms ache, but that could also be due to hours of mixing and the grocery crates you had hauled in that morning.

"Ah, right. Makes sense with all the—" He cut himself off and cleared his throat. "He just doesn’t seem the type," Marcus muttered hastily as he tried to maintain the good manners that had been drilled into him since he learned to talk.

Following your lead, he hurried up a bit, knowing he still had plenty more boxes to carry. These stairs were going to be well acquainted.

He couldn't help but feel a twist at the bottom of his belly. He worked as a maintenance technician before coming here. I always get calls and texts for even the smallest of issues, like a slow coffee machine. Not exactly a business his Eliana was ever interested in. God knows she wasn't even interested in staying in town once college hit.

“good that you two can do something like that together.” he tried to put a smile in his voice but each word was like a bitter tar coating his tongue.

"yeah!" You agreed but there was a strain to your voice. Finally reaching the top, there was a narrow hallway with two doors on either side and another staircase leading to the people just above. You put the box down outside his door, which was on the right. You patted around your pockets and let out a surprised noise as you felt the bulk of keys in your front one.

"Dad gave me the keys to hold onto, wasn't sure if I still had them." You breathed out, pulling them out and unlocked the front door to his apartment. A singular small window illuminated the hall.

"Thanks, kid," he muttered, stepping into the apartment. The space was small, but it was clean and well-maintained. Though he could tell it was recently gutted of most of what furniture was in it from the streaks on the floor here and there. The walls were a soft beige, and the floors were covered in a worn but comfortable-looking carpet. A small kitchenette was tucked into the corner, and a narrow hallway led to what he assumed was the bedroom and bathroom.

He set the boxes down on the floor, stretching his arms above his head. His muscles ached from the exertion, but he welcomed the pain. It was a reminder that he was still alive, still capable of hard work. He didn't like to laze about for too long. Just the drive to the city made him itch to just do something. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to smooth down the unruly strands that had come loose during the move. His heart was racing in his chest, and he couldn't quite figure out why. Maybe it was just the exertion from carrying the heavy boxes up the stairs, or maybe it was something else entirely. The daunting loom of this was it. He was really starting fresh.

You handed him the keys, a bit surprised by the rough scrape of his palm against your fingers. The hands of heavy labor were worn and built with a protective shield. You quickly retreated your hand back to your side, mouth opening to say something but then a call from downstairs echoed through.

"Hon! You up there still? C'mon! Am I doing all this lifting myself?" Your dad yelled with the sound of something heavy being smacked into.

"Shit- you get yourself sorted, we'll help you with the boxes." You were already making your way out of the apartment, switching between turning to him and the staircase. Another call from your dad made you spin back around and trot down the stairs with thunderous steps. "Yeah I'm coming-!"

Marcus watched as you hurried down the stairs, your footsteps fading away as you disappeared from view. He let out a heavy sigh, running a hand over his face. He couldn't help but feel a twinge of disappointment at your abrupt departure. Your presence would have been a nice distraction to the acid threatening to burn at his throat. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. But he just shook his head. He was being ridiculous. Empty nest syndrome or whatever they called it, that's all. Just wanting to cling to anything familiar. Anything that reminded him of who he once was.

He marched down the stairs not long after you. "My boxes, your handling, can't have you doing all the work." He called back and heard a chuckle from your father. A mutter of ‘I like this one' just caught in his ear as he marched down the steps.

And that was his day; at some point, he had to take over completely as the bakery opened u,p, and both of you had to turn your attention back to your business. The moving guys arrived 30 minutes late and well, they made up for it by their speedy rush and getting his furniture set up. And then, he was alone one more. He turned back to the boxes, unpacking them methodically. He had a system, one that he had perfected over the years. First, he would unpack the essentials - toiletries, a change of clothes, his coffee maker. Then he would move on to the more sentimental items - photos, mementos, his wife's old perfume bottle. Lastly, he would tackle the miscellaneous items - books, tools, knick-knacks. It was a process that he found comforting and familiar. It grounded him and reminded him of who he was and where he came from.

Everything was new, unfamiliar. Even the smell of the apartment was different - instead of the comforting scent of his over-burnt wood and spice candles, there was a faint whiff of vanilla and cinnamon, a remnant of the bakery below. It was disorienting, unsettling. He felt like a stranger in his own skin.

He paused, leaning against the wall as he caught his breath. His heart was pounding, his palms sweaty. He closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. He had done this for a reason, he reminded himself. He needed a change, a fresh start. He couldn't keep living in the past, couldn't keep clinging to memories that only brought him pain. He had to move on. He couldn't take staring at those empty seats at the dining room table.

He looked at the inner pocket of his jacket and sighed. Unable to bring himself to have the energy to attempt to scold himself. The nasty habit he was unable to kick. Lighting up the cigarette with practiced ease and placing the stick between his lips. Inhaling slowly as he slumped against the wall. What a fucking day.

Green Lanterns Might

Pairing: Guy Gardner x AFAB! reader

Warnings: B.O/musk kink, manhandling, ALOT of teasing , dirty talk but I mean like, Guy gets FILTHY, this is the same man who canonically called his imagination fertile, he's gonna say cringe. Full Nelson position, brief headlock, creampie, Afab! Reader but gender is not specified, 'fem' nicknames given (dolly, doll, sweetheart, babe), reader is a brat, reader has hair but texture/ length/style is unspecified, hair tugging, alot of sniffing, boob fondling, abit of cock worship, ball-sucking, M! receiving oral, fingering, mirror sex - kinda, squirting, surprisingly fluffy

I WILL BE WRITING GUY HAVING A PAINFULLY THICK BALTIMORE ACCENT BECAUSE I NEED EVERYONE TO UNDERSTAND AND KNOW THAT HE IS, INFACT, FROM BALTIMORE

This fic was originally a very self indulgent oc x Guy fic but I got embarrassed and turned it into an X reader.

Tried to edit this as much as I could but I'm bound to have missed stuff so please tell me and I'm sorry 😶‍🌫️

Guy burst through the door of your shared apartment, still buzzing with adrenaline from his intense training session. His gym clothes were drenched in sweat, a worn-out sleeveless hoodie, and some loose gym shorts as he stomped inside his apartment. Abandoning his duffle bag at the door. Kicking off his shoes clumsily behind him. He paused for a moment once the sound of his things cluttering to the floor turned to silence. Expecting to hear the sound of feet padding over to him, to feel a sweet kiss on his cheek, but there was nothing. His brows immediately knitted together, lips pressing into a pout.

He peered around with a thick brow raised, venturing further before he finally spotted you, too engrossed in your phone, just standing in the middle of the room. Ignoring his existence. Scoffing, without missing a beat, Guy charged over, suddenly yanking you backward as he pulled you into a headlock. Making you screamin surprise, dropping his phone(which fell to the floor without damage, thankfully) in the middle of the manhandling as you squirmed.

Guy snickered nasally as he squeezed lightly your face between his muscles. “Hey there, hot stuff!” Guy greeted with a wolfish grin.

“Miss me?” He wiggled his eyebrows. Guy’s heart raced and it wasn't just because of his adrenaline high.

When you gasped you were forced to breath in, making the sharp, salty scent of sweat fill your senses. Your face dangerously close to the thick curls of orange at Guy’s armpits. Your cheeks flushed your thighs pressed together. Inhaling another huff of the man’s sweaty musk. A heady scent that reeked of masculinity and potent testosterone.

You immediately whined as you tugged on Guy’s arms. “Don’t scare me like that-!”

Your reaction only just made Guy laugh, a deep rumbling sound in his chest, as he tightened his hold slightly. Not enough to hurt but enough to make you feel the sheer power and strength in his muscular arms.

“Aww, did I scare my little dolly?” He teased, his voice a low, mocking drawl.

Guy leaned in closer, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply, picking up on the scent of your shampoo mingling with his own musky aroma. Just from that whine alone, he knew you were getting worked up; it made his ego swell. His chest subconsciously puffed out like a bird.

“C’mon, dolly, don’t tell me you weren’t missin’ this.”

He suddenly pulled you into his armpit. A big smug grin on his face that made his crooked nose scrunch. One arm wrapped around the back of your head whilst the other gripped the back of his neck to keep him from squirming away.

“You smell dat, babe? Dat’s da scent of a real man.”

You let out a sound that was a mix between a scoff and a squeal. Trying to act like you weren't absolutely melting against Guy’s side, your hands twitched as they clenched and grasped at the ginger's hoodie. Your leg stomped petulantly. You could feel the course hair of Guy’s pubes tickling at your skin, the warm damp of sweat that was most definitely going to leave a shine on your nose; which was buried in the jungle of curls. Your eyes fluttered with every shaky breath as you tried to complain.

“Guy-!” you let out another whine. “Stoop-“ you weakly tried to pull your face away. “You stink!”

Guy just chuckled again. Your brattiness really was amusing. It only spurred on Guy’s desire to tease you more. His thumb rubbed circles on the back of your neck, feeling the smooth skin beneath his calloused touch. Holding you firmly in place, not allowing you to pull away. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping it lightly as he rubbed your face further into the sweat-damp curls of his armpit.

“I stink? Yeah, dat's what happens when ya out, trainin' hard.” Guy dismissively spoke, sniffing as he shrugged his shoulder like it was all no big deal that he spent hours dedicated to always keeping him and his rookies up to shape.

He finally released you but kept a hand on the back of his neck. “But yer right, I should shower-“

That made You tense. Immediately your hands were clutching at Guy tighter to keep him from leaving your side. Sucking in greedy breaths of air, keeping yourself nuzzled into his armpit. Peering up at him through low lashes as you panted softly. Too embarrassed to verbally protest but you kept tugging Guy impossibly closer to you. Silently demanding he didn’t shower.

He immediately looked down, meeting your gaze as you peered up at him with those pretty eyes. The sight of you like this, taking in his scent like it was some kind of aphrodisiac. His cock chubbed, eager and fat in his shorts as his ears went bright red, threatening to spread to his cheeks. He really couldn’t believe that someone was this into him- sure, he was a hot guy(he believed he was, but others seemed to disagree), but he wasn’t blind to the truth. He knew he was a selective choice for people; he’s had partners that have loved him, but you? You adored every single bit. Especially the parts so many have tried to fix, you embraced them. Cherished him. It made his head spin and his heart race.

Guy’s other hand slid down to the small of your back, pulling your hips flush together. He could feel the heat radiating off your body, could feel every curve and dip of your form pressed up against his. Already beginning to walk backwards towards the bedroom.

“But I stink; ya were whinin’ 'bout it a second ago; gotta clean up somehow.” He teased, eyes full of knowing and a grin permanent on his face. “So, you gonna clean me up then, huh?”

The two of you barely made it to the bedroom before you sank down to your knees, your hands dragged down the fabric of Guy’s gym shorts making

Guy stumbles back, his lower back pressing against the footboard of the bed. Biting your lip, a soft groan escaped you as he saw the big man was wearing a jockstrap; diving your face forward, nuzzling against the prominent bulge, feeling the damp spot of pre on the fabric against your cheek.

“You’re so mean to me.” you falsely complained, huffing as you pulled Guy’s jockstrap down his toned legs, marveling at the way his ass bounced when the strap got caught on the globe. Letting the man’s cock rest on your face. The heavyweight, from his girth, draped from your nose to your forehead. Your tongue happily made wet trails along the underside of the man's cock, feeling each vein that twitched against your wet muscle. Your tongue was just able to brush against the balls that were pressed to your chin.

Guy let out a low groan, his head falling back as he felt Your tongue dragging along his thick shaft. His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping it tightly as he fought the urge to thrust his hips forward.

He could feel the heat of your breath on his sensitive skin. It made his cock throb, leaking pre all over your face. He looked down, taking in the sight of his thick cock resting heavy on the your features. The sight of his balls, big and hairy, pressed against your chin. It was enough to make a strained whimper crack from his throat.

“Baby-“ he shook his head. His hips bucked as he felt another lick to his shaft.

“I’m mean to ya?” Guy growled, his voice rough with lust. Clearing his throat as he tried to ignore the whiney little sounds desperately trying to escape him.

“From up here, looks like ya dig it when I'm bein' all mean to ya.” He punctuated his words by thrusting his hips forward, rubbing his cock against your face, smearing pre all over your forehead and into your hairline.

“pretty privilege.” You state before dragging your tongue up and down Guy’s cock, tasting the salt of sweat on the skin.

He almost laughed but was cut off by his own whiney groans. Pretty privilege, huh? His chest grew warm at the teasing compliment. Wasn’t often a guy like him was considered pretty.

Your hand reached up as he pulled back the extra skin at the top, exposing the glossy red head of Guy’s leaky dick. Leaning back so you could pump his shaft. Guy's grip on your hair tightened as he felt the wet heat of your mouth enveloping his heavy balls. you sucked on one, tongue darting out to give the other some attention.

His head fell back, eyes squeezing shut as jolts of pleasure shot up his spine. His cock throbbed In your hand, the head an angry red almost purple and leaking steadily onto the your cheek. Guy’s chest heaved with each ragged breath he took, his muscles flexing and rippling beneath the skin. He was lost in the sensation, drowning in the feeling of your eager mouth. Your soft hand. The feeling of being desired without an ounce of shame or hesitation.

Guy’s other hand came up to grip the footboard of the bed, knuckles turning white as he held on for dear. His face flushed and eyes dark with lust as he stared down at the erotica sight before him. He was already so close, and you had barely even started.

'So embarrassing- c'mon Gardner ya can't be jizzing on a pretty face like a god damn virgin!'

This little tease was going to be the death of him. He licked his lips, his voice a low, husky growl. “Fuck, baby… you keep suckin’ on my balls like that, I’m gonna paint ya face white.”

That made you pull back, releasing Guy’s ball with a wet pop. Licking your own lips as you tried to soften your breaths. “and let it go to waste?” you teased back, finally guiding the man’s cock to your mouth. Feeling your lips stretch around its chub. Groaning, staring up at Guy as you bobbed your head.

Guy let out a low groan, his head falling back as he felt your lips wrap around his throbbing cock. The way the wet heat embraced his dick so perfectly, the way your tongue swirled around the sensitive head of his dick. It made his hips buck forward, pushing more of his length into your eager mouth.

Taking In the sight of your stretched lips wrapped around his thick shaft. The way your cheeks hollowed out as you sucked, the way you gazed up at Guy with those big, innocent eyes. When you were everything but. Those eyes could make you get away with anything, a bat of your lashes, and Guy would serve you the world if you asked. It was enough to make Guy’s balls tighten, his orgasm approaching faster and faster.

Guy’s fingers tightened in your hair, guiding your head as he began to thrust his hips forward. He set a steady rhythm, fucking into the wet cavern. His balls swinging and knocking into your chin. The bubble of spit and drool building up at the corner of your lips. He could feel your throat constricting around the fat head, groaning with each swallow around it. It was too much, too intense to be wanted this happily. But Guy didn’t stop, he couldn’t stop. Refused to.

He was too far gone, too lost in the sensation of your perfect mouth. He was digging his calloused fingers into every piece of loving you gave, and he would take it greedily. He wasn't going to ruin another relationship with walls drawn up.

Guy’s breath came out in short, sharp gasps. His muscles tensed, tummy flexing as he chased his release. He was close, so fucking close. Just a little more and he would-

"Oh SHIT-!"

With a loud, guttural moan, Guy’s cock pulsed and throbbed as he came hard. Thick, hot ropes of cum shot down your throat, filling your mouth and coating his tonsils. Guy’s hips jerked and spasmed, riding out the waves of his orgasm.

Finally, with a shuddering gasp, Guy pulled out of your mouth. Prying himself away reluctantly as he heard the heavy breathes through your nose clearly now. His softening cock slipped from between your lips, a strand of cum and spit connecting the tip to your glossy bottom lip. A big, happy grin spread across his face.

“C’mere doll-“ he was immediately reaching out and helping you up, pulling you flush against him. “Treatin' me so good.” He nipped at your cheek before tugging at your clothes. Eagerly stripping you down to bare skin, letting his hands wander, pinch, and grope as soon as any new part of you was shown. You Let out a giggle, wrapping his arms around Guy’s neck as he was pawed at. Kissing along the man’s cheek as he leaned into him.

“But I ain’t lettin' ya be the winner-“ Suddenly, you were hoisted up. Squealing as the ginger suddenly ran around to the side of the bed, practically throwing you both onto the bed with Guy holding you tight, falling into Guy’s lap like it was some sort of wrestling match.

“GUY-!” you shook your head, catching your reflection in the mirror.(A tall one with a simple frame. Propped up at the wall, pointed at the side of the bed.)

Guy just grinned wickedly at your surprised squeal, holding you tight in his lap. At some point chucked off his hoodie so He could feel your naked body pressed against his own, soft curves melding with his hard muscles. It made his spent cock twitch and start to harden again, nestling up against Your ass cheeks.

Guy’s hands roamed over your bare skin, squeezing and groping every inch that he could reach. He palmed your tits, rolling the stiff peaks between his fingers until you arched into his touch with a whimper. Guy’s mouth watered at the sight of your reflection in the mirror, flushed and panting, tits bouncing slightly with each movement.

He leaned In, breath hot against your ear as he growled, “You’re fuckin’ gorgeous, doll. Gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good.” He eased Your legs opened wider, presenting him to the mirror, and let out another groan. “Oh baby…look how wet you are, all dat from a bit of sniffin' and suckin'?” His arm reached around, cupping your face as he stared at you through the reflection. “You really like me, don’tcha?”

"shut up-" you flushed deeper, squirming in his lap as you pressed your back into his broad chest. Slapping at the meat of his thick thigh in protest. Panting softly with the gloss of his cum still on your lips. Your eyes fluttered as you grasped his hand, nails scratching slightly at Guy's knuckles.

Guy just smirked wider at your flustered protests, not put off in the slightest by your feeble attempts to push him away. If anything, your squirming and blushing only spurred him on more. Looking so gorgeous all flustered and needy.

"Slapping me? Can't have ya fighting me, sweetheart," Guy shook his head, his voice a low rumble in his chest that you could feel vibrating against your back. His hand on your cheek tightened slightly, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he tilted your head to the side, forcing you to hold eye contact with your reflection.

"I'm just tellin' ya the truth, you're wetter than a slip and slide." he teased, his other hand drifting down from your tits to your dripping slit. He ran a finger through your folds, purposefully curling his feelings to hear it squelch.

He teased your hole, slowly prodding it with his calloused finger before finally pushing it in. Sinking a finger into your weeping slit as he let out a growl. His eyes never left yours, watching your every reaction with a hungry intensity. Relishing in the ease as he added a second finger, pumping into you. In and out. "Drowning my fingers here, baby."

"don't be-" your words were cut off by your own moan as your hips bucked. Letting out a shaky breath as his fingers moved. "Don't be disgusting-"

you pawed at his hairy arm, nails dragging along as your shifting only made your ass wiggle against Guy's leaky cock. Landing another sharp smack to his thigh.

Guy just chuckled darkly at your breathless protest, the sound rumbling through his broad chest. His fingers never stopping their relentless pumping, plunging in and out of your soaked, clenching heat.

"Disgusting? Nah, just honest," Guy growled, his voice rough with lust. "Can't deny how fuckin' soaked you are, makin' puddles down 'ere."

He punctuated his words by curling his fingers just right, rubbing against that sensitive spot deep inside you. His thumb flicked over your clit, making your hips jerk and your pussy clench around the invading digits. His hips continuing to rut, smearing gloves of pre over your ass cheeks, groaning as it slipped between your cheeks. Catching on the rim.

"Fuck, look at ya," Guy rasped, his eyes dark with desire as he watched your reflection. "So fuckin' sexy, wigglin' against my cock, betcha you'd just let me do anythin' to this sloppy little hole of yours."

Making you moan in response with a sharp thrust of his fingers, pushing them as deep as they could go. Grinding the heel of his hand against your clit. "But I can't do it if ya keep fightin' me, slap me again and I'll restrain ya."

It was obvious bait. You were being tempted. Dared to. Challenged. It made your stomach coil. Biting down on your bottom lip, tasting the musky salt of his cock on the skin. You took it like a fish spotting a worm on a hook. Slapping his thigh again with a squeaky moans as your legs twitched and tried to snap shut but his hand was blocking the way.

Guy smirked wickedly at your squeaky moan, your legs twitching and trying to close around his hand. He took the challenge. He warned you and you immediately forced his hand.

"Uh uh uh, none of that now," Guy tutted, his voice a low, authoritative rumble. In a flash, he hooked his burly arms under your calves, lifting your legs and pressing them back towards your shoulders. The new position left you completely exposed and at his mercy.

"Guy!" you yelped, instinctively trying to grasp at him to get some balance. Opting to grip the bedsheets instead.

"I mean, you were practically beggin' for this, doll, so don't start whinin'-" he growled, his hands sliding up your thighs, over your knees, until they reached your head. Guy cradled your skull between his large, calloused hands, keeping it steady as he lined himself up. He had to adjust his hips causing his cock to spring from your ass, slapping against your folds.

"FUCK!" you screamed, your back arching as much as it could in your current position as his hips thrusted up. The sudden intrusion stretching you out, filling you up so completely. Your pussy clenched and fluttered around his thick cock, trying to adjust to the intrusion.

"That's it, take it," Guy huffed, his breath coming in harsh pants. "Fuck, you're so goddamn tight. Squeezin' my cock like a vice." starting to roll his hips, fucking into you with deep, purposeful thrusts. The wet, obscene sounds of flesh slapping against flesh filled the room as he took you hard and fast, just the way you needed.

His fingers tangled in your hair, gripping tight as he held your head still, forcing you to watch as he used your pussy. His heavy balls swung up with each deep thrust, smacking against your clit making you keen.

You felt like a doll in his grasp. Toes curling as your body jolted. Hands bunching the fabric so tight you were sure it would tear by the end of this. Eyes unable to focus; fluttering and rolling back causing your vision to blur. Your lips stick in a permanent 'O'.

"With the way you're soundin' , Bet you're making some real pretty faces." Guy teased, wishing he could see the mirror better so he could watch you but he was had to lean back to support your shared weight. Watching your back twitch and your muscles stretch as you tried to arch in his restrictive hold.

You doubt you looked pretty. You wouldn't even consider the faces you're pulling porn worthy. With the way your teeth kept tugging on your bottom lip everytime his balls slapped against your sex. The way your eyes were unable to stay still. But God- it felt too good to care.

"Ohh- ffffuck- Guy-" your words were broken between moans. Barely able to slur them out.

"Fuck yeah, dat's my name, baby. C'mon, say it louder," Guy growled, his voice dripping with lust and pride. "Whose fuckin' ya?"

"GUY!" you screamed out as he sent another pounding thrust into your velvety heat.

Guy grinned ferally at your scream, his eyes dark with lust and pride. "That's right, baby. Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his hips never stopping their relentless pace. The room filled with the erotic symphony of your moans, the creaking of the bed, and the lewd squelching of his cock driving into your soaked pussy.

"Who fucks you this good, huh?" He could feel your velvety walls fluttering and clenching around him, trying desperately to draw him deeper. It only drove him to pound into you with even more fervor.

"Guy! Fuck, Guy!" you wailed, your voice breaking on a particularly hard thrust. Your toes curled so tightly they started to cramp, and your fingers twisted the sheets into a tangled mess. Drool leaked from the corner of your slack mouth as you surrendered to the overwhelming pleasure.

"Who gets you riled up just from being sweaty and manhandling your cute ass?"

"Guy-!"

"Yeah..yeah- fuck it's me, who do you love, sweetheart, admit it," Guy snarled, his breath coming in harsh pants. Ego swelling to new heights everytime you called out his name. His cheeks as red as his ears, heart pounding against his ribs in anticipation. Sweat dripped down his chest and back from exertion, making his skin glisten in the dim light. He could feel his heavy balls tightening, his release fast approaching.

"GUY- I LOVE GUY-!" You practically screeched, high pitched and voice cracking. Your tummy unbearably tight as your orgasm grew closer and closer.

Your face was so hot you were melting. Tears of pleasure building beneath your lashes as your legs twitched in his hold.

Guy let out a roar of triumph as you screamed out your love. A giddy loud moan spilling from his lips in a mix of disbelief and pure pleasure at your admission. "Fuck yeah, you love me, baby! You fuckin' love me!" he bellowed, slamming into you with wild abandon. The bed screamed beneath you two as if I warn It'll give out under the force of his thrusts.

He could feel your warm walls starting to quiver and clench around his pistoning cock, your body tensing as your climax approached. "That's it, sweetheart. Come on my cock. I wanna feel you fuckin' explode on my dick," Guy growled, his voice a low, lustful rumble.

His body was coated in a new sheen of sweat, and twice as rewarded than any training he did today. his muscles flexing with each powerful thrust. The room was filled with the erotic symphony of your moans, the slapping of skin on skin, and the creaking of the overtaxed bed.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum, baby. I'm gonna pump you full of my hot fuckin' spunk. Gonna cum so deep in ya you'll be tasting me-" Guy snarled, his eyes wild and fevered with lust as watched your body squirm ontop of him. His hips jerked erratically as he teetered on the brink.

Your whole body seized. Gasping sharply as your body was strung taut. A curse leaving you as with one final smack to your clit, your orgasm crashed over you. A rush of liquid shooting out, walls spasming around his cock as you squirted. The clear liquid spraying at the edges of where your sexes meet, misting the air and edge of the bed.

Guy let out a guttural moan as he felt your pussy clamp down on him like a vice, your release gushing out around his him. The sensation of your slick walls rippling and milking his shaft pushed him over the edge. "FUCK! Take it all, baby! Fuckin' take my load!" he roared.

With one last powerful thrust, he buried himself to the hilt inside you, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he started to cum. Thick, hot ropes of his seed erupted from the tip, painting your insides white. He grunted and shuddered through each spurt, filling you up just like he promised.

"Unngh, so fuckin' good... Love you so much, sweetheart," Guy panted, his hips giving shallow little thrusts as the last of his release dribbled out.

Pulling you down to lay ontop of him, grunting as his cock slipped out of your sloppy sex as he nuzzled against the side of your head. Finally able to see your reflection once more. Letting your legs hang on his arms, no longer in the air as he felt the you slump against his chest. The sight of his thick cum oozing out of your gaping, well-used hole made his spent cock twitch and jump

“Looks like I really gave this pussy a workout, huh?” he teased, kissing along the side of your head to your cheek. "Look at you, all stuffed with my cream." He gripped at your thigh, showing off your puffy hole to you in the mirror. "Got my own personal eclair."

His chest heaved as he caught his breath, a sheen of sweat and a dazed grin on his face. He looked down at you with a mix of satisfaction and adoration, taking in your wrecked and blissed-out expression. He let out a low, appreciative whistle as another glob of his seed dripped out of your puffy, stretched-out sex.

Bliss fades to exasperation as you groaned at his comparison. "Don't ruin it-" you whined as your back pressed to his sweaty chest.

Guy chuckled lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest pressed against your back. "Aww, whaddya mean ruin it, sweetheart? I'm just sayin' you look fuckin' sexy as hell with my load leakin' outta ya," he murmured, nuzzling into your neck. His hands roamed over your curves possessively, one sliding up to cup and squeeze your breast.

"Can't help myself 'round you, doll. You just do somethin' to me," Guy said, voice husky and low. He pressed a trail of kisses along your shoulder blade, teeth grazing at the skin. "Tell me you didn't like it. Tell me you didn't fuckin' love havin' me inside ya, fillin' ya up," he challenged, giving your earlobe a nip.

His other hand drifted down your belly, skimming through the mess between your thighs. Smearing it a long your well fucked hole. scooping up some of the cum that had leaked out and pushing it back inside your fluttering hole. He pumped two thick fingers in and out of your sensitive entrance, feeling it clench and squeeze around the invading digits.

“Gotta keep all my cream inside this sweet cunt, don’t we?” Guy purred, scissoring his fingers and rubbing against your inner walls. “Can’t let a single drop go to waste."

You melted, cooing at the sensitivity he felt in his poor sex. “Guy-“ you whined, still trying to come down from you shared orgasm. “I need to get cleaned up.”

Guy’s fingers stilled their movements as he heard the need in your voice. He pressed a lingering kiss to your neck before gently easing you off his lap and onto the bed. Guy stood up, his muscular frame on full display, completely naked and not a hint of shame. He scooped you up into his strong arms, cradling him against his broad chest.

As the steam began to fill the bathroom, Guy knelt down in front of you. "You do what ya need to, I'll be waitin' for your fine ass in the shower, Kay?"

“Alright, sweetheart. Let’s get you cleaned up and then we can take a little nap, yeah?” Guy said with a pleased huff, carrying you towards the bathroom. He set you down gently on the open toilet seat and turned on the shower, letting the water warm up.

Im gonna be so real can yall actually talk about ways we can support trans women in the UK instead of giving all the attention to fucking JKR. I already know that Harry Poter sucks, I wanna know how to actually HELP people. Something something you have to love the oppressed more than you hate the oppressor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Any form of support is much appreciated 👍

Examples of my work:

Insane shit like this is deemed acceptable. Petty discourse should never so much importance over real issues

Genuinely disgusting behavior people have been expressing and I'm sorry you have to deal with that

not to be that person but after regularly talking about it with a few friends and nothing ever seems to change, i wanted to put my thoughts out there in hopes that people are more mindful of some things going forward.

once again one person says something negative about taboo kink and tropes in this fandom (y’all know exactly where i stand on this so don’t even play) and (rightfully) everyone comes together with their pitchforks to fight that one person.

but when other writers and i post about the perpetual racism and ableism we face in this fandom; being called racial and ableist slurs, just to give y'all a slight idea of what we have to deal with — one of my closest friends on here was told, only a month ago, that they should become a SLAVE again (you read that right), on more than one occasion hateful anons have called her the r slur — the f slur — the b slur, and i was told that my people deserve the genocide they're facing and that i have no place in this fandom and instead should "fuck goats" and was called a terrorist, and on top of all that we’re continuously sent graphic rape and death threats. and yet when one of us makes even one post about it, it is crickets from y’all — from our fellow white writers and mutuals within a predominantly white fandom.

this might just be me and it may ruffle some feathers (obvs because it directly affects me and my poc friends in this community so i’m very tired and very pissed off) but y’all can complain about the fandom being isolating, unwelcoming, and torn apart all you want but until y’all actually talk about the blatant racism and ableism that is becoming increasingly more frequent around here and unless you rally in support the same way you do when some puritanical eighteen year old freak complains about the kinks we all collectively indulge in, we won’t see real change within the fandom. and someone once told me i was “too woke” for saying this but it needs to be said. minorities quite literally make up the backbone of this (and many other fandoms) and the literal hate speech thrown at us should take priority over a post about what some naive kid has to say about kink. i’m not saying it’s not a valid concern — it is, but i just think the fact that your poc peers are battling literal nazis regularly in this fandom should be talked about as well.

so until then, your takes and think pieces about the discourse and disparities within this fandom and all your words about hope for a safe, more inclusive and welcoming community don’t hold any weight because your actions don’t align with your words and it's deeply upsetting and disappointing. your poc followers/readers/writers/friends DO notice you not saying anything in our defense — we DO notice the lack of support. and honestly, i think there needs to be some serious self-reflection and action ASAP otherwise it will result in more of us leaving — never to be heard from again and that, to me, is a real fucking tragedy.

….’Give your son a little brother’

…and if I give twin girls? My family has a propensity for twins and *girls*. My mom came from a family of 7 girls, 1 boy. 4 of those girls being twins. (The realization as an adult woman struck fear into my heart- 1 baby is scary enough but 2??? 2 girls with the potential for attitude? Good lord.)

Double the baby? Price would be thrilled. He doesn't need a son and he's secretly a total girl dad. He just doesn't know it but he's so use to be surrounded by men he never anticipated a daughter - let alone two. But this just proves why you're the perfect little wife. Giving him twice as much as he asked for in two beautiful children he can love and spoil.

Fic link🔗

It's out for anyone interested ♥️ The Fic

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

Hi gang 🧍

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

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