header: @wolflyndraws ♥ cursed being a shy and awkward ball of nervousnesswill babble in excited french sometimes
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some of you really aren’t gonna like this, but a creator’s wishes should never dictate what fan content is produced for a piece of media.
in the past, authors like anne rice have tried to limit the production of fanfiction. but at least rice was honest - she thought this infringed on her copywrite. back in the day, this was considered a valid argument to not create any fanfiction at all for her works.
do you understand what i’m saying? while you may sound valiant for placing a creator’s “discomfort” above the fan’s natural proclivities in fandom, really you’re just continuing to advocate for censorship in fan spaces.
and for anyone who is a creator, or who wants to become one - get comfortable with the rules of the internet. there will be erotic content made of your characters, there will be weird AUs made with your characters. there will be strange pairings and headcanons, no matter if you interact religiously with the fans or not. you cannot stop people from connecting with and wanting to be creative with your characters.
#we live in a world where the 4th wall has been obliterated and we'll have to get use to it#crazy tinhatting has won there's no more peace in rpf anymore
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Dear Beatrice
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yoooo le crush sur zerator est réel
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I just realised that George's problem with the 'is it a bird?' achievement might just be that he has chronically no clue what the hell a bird is 😐 like, I would be not surprised if he thought his parrots were mammals....
#this is funny because one of the rare moment i've seen from these stream is him calling the parrot bird#so i'd say no#it just hasn't connect yet and it's hilarious
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When a male moth courts, he “dances” around its mate in the air, showing fitness and physical ability while exuding pheromones. Just to say, Ghost subconsciously shows off strength around Soap and doesn’t know why. Also Soap just thinks Ghost is wearing a new cologne??
ehehehe >:3 gigglin and kickin my feet.
Soap isn’t subtle. Little fucker never has been. But even he’s making an effort to be discreet when it comes to this.
He’s leaned against the wall with Gaz, both of them pretending to scroll through their phones while Ghost demolishes the weights in the corner of the gym. Head to toe in black workout gear, gloves, compression sleeves, and of course the damn mask is on, but his wings are out.
Soap’s seen them plenty of times around the base before, of course. White as moonlight, broad and tapered, torn in places at the edges but still obscene in their softness. Today they’re spread wider than usual, shifting faintly every time Ghost pulls another rep. They flare on the upstroke, fold slow on the release, each movement as deliberate as breath.
And Soap cannot look away.
Christ, he’s moving. Soap swears he's not just lifting, but showing off almost. Push-ups with perfect form, pull-ups with no sound but the slow drag of breath through his mask, core work that makes every line of him taut and dangerous. The wings keep twitching like punctuation, like he can’t hold them still, like every flex has to be seen.
It’s fucking ridiculous. It’s fucking hot.
And the smell. Jesus. Soap doesn’t know what’s going on, but Ghost reeks of something new. Not sweat. Not soap. Something sharp and earthy, like cedar, smoke, and spice all at once. It hits the back of Soap’s throat every time Ghost passes close, gets his pulse spiking before he even realizes it.
He nearly blurts, when the hell did he start wearing cologne?
Next to him, Gaz mutters, “He’s really goin’ at it today.”
Soap manages a grunt, casual as he can fake. “Aye.”
“Bit much, innit?”
Soap’s eyes track the wings as they flare again, pale flicks catching the gym light. Bit much, his arse.
When Ghost finally finishes his set, he doesn’t stop to towel off. Just pulls his mask straight, wings folding tight against his back, and stalks past them with all the stride of a man who knows he’s being watched.
“Don’t you lot have something to do?”
Gaz straightens immediately. “Yes, sir.”
Soap echoes, “Aye, sir,” but his head’s still spinning, pupils blown wide, and the only thought left rattling in his skull is:
Christ above, he smells so fuckin’ good.
Gaz nudges him with an elbow. “You alright, mate?”
Soap blinks. “What?”
“You’ve been breathin’ like you ran a mile. Over him doing some pull-ups.”
Soap scowls, heat rising in his ears. “He just—he smells different, aye? Like he’s wearin’ something new.”
Gaz stares at him. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“I’m sayin’—” Soap drops his voice, whsipering, “—he’s got some cologne on or somethin’. You dinnae smell that? Like bloody cedar and smoke?”
Gaz’s brows shoot up. “Cologne?”
“Aye!”
“Mate.” Gaz snorts, shaking his head. “He’s a moth hybrid. That’s not Dior Sauvage you’re smellin’.”
Soap freezes. “...What d’you mean?”
“I mean,” Gaz says, dragging the words out, “if you’re catchin’ some kind of scent off him, it’s not perfume. It’s him.”
Soap’s brain short-circuits.
Gaz smirks. “Why don’t you go ask him, Johnny-boy?”
Soap, like the absolute fool he is, takes that suggestion literally.
He finds Ghost in the locker room, stripped down to compression shorts, balaclava still on, wings hanging loose and heavy like they’ve finally given up their stiffness for the day. He’s pulling tape off his wrists when Soap barges in, heart hammering like a jackhammer.
“Ghost.”
Ghost glances over. “Soap.”
Soap clears his throat, suddenly very aware that the man is half-naked and still glistening from the workout. Focus, Johnny.
“You, uh… you wearin’ something new?”
There's a long pause. “What?”
“You know.” Soap gestures vaguely at him, heat flooding his face. “Cologne. Or whatever.”
Ghost just stares.
Soap swallows. “You smell… good. Like, real good. Better’n usual.”
There’s silence. Then: “…You followed me in here to ask if I’m wearin’ cologne?”
Soap grimaces. “When you put it like that—”
Ghost tilts his head. “I’m not wearin’ anything.”
And then it hits Ghost like a brick. His wings being out, needing to be out. The itch to workout hitting differently. His smell he knows has been curling, just not how much.
He’s been showing off, broadcasting without realizing. Every single rep, every flare of his wings, every molecule of pheromone he couldn’t lock down.
Courting. And more specifically, courting one Soap fucking MacTavish.
He goes still, tape falling from his hands.
Soap, bless him, hasn’t quite pieced it together yet. He just stands there, red-faced, running a hand through his hair like he’s lost. “So… that’s just… you?”
Ghost can't answer because the weight of the realization is slamming into his chest, he’s been courting Soap, out loud, in public.
Like a great winged idiot.
And Soap’s just standing there, looking at him like he might actually like it.
Ghost drags a hand down his mask and mutters, “Bloody hell,” under his breath.
Soap tilts his head. Gears clicking once. Twice. Thrice. Then a grin starts spreading slow and crooked. “...Oh. Ohhh.”
Ghost doesn’t move, he has no idea what to do now.
And Soap’s still smiling, stepping closer. “Well. That explains a lot.”
He doesn't move too close too fast, just steady enough that Ghost can feel the heat of him now. His grin is still crooked, but there’s a glint in his eyes that’s softer than the usual bite.
“Y’ve been struttin’ around like a prizefighter,” Soap murmurs. “And here I was thinkin’ it was just new aftershave.”
Ghost stays still, jaw locked, but his wings twitch behind him, betraying him.
Soap notices. Of course he notices.
Slowly, he lifts a hand and lays it against Ghost’s bare shoulder. Warm skin to skin. “Smell bloody brilliant, by the way.”
Ghost exhales hard through his mask, every muscle taut. His mind is a churn of instinct and mortification, tangled in equal measure. He should pull back. He should shut this down before it runs any further.
But Soap just leaves his hand there, thumb brushing lightly across the line of Ghost’s collarbone, patient as anything. A quiet offering.
And Ghost’s brain finally catches up with his body.
“Johnny,” he mutters, voice low and rough.
Soap tilts his head, smile twitching smaller, waiting.
Ghost leans down, catches Soap’s mouth with his, tugging his mask up just enough to bare his lips. It’s clumsy, sudden, but Soap melts into him, hand sliding up from his shoulder to the back of his neck, drawing him closer. Ghost wings subtly shift forward, wrapping at their sides.
The smell between them thickens instinct and want and the ache of weeks’ worth of tension finally evaporating in the steam.
When they break for air, Soap’s grinning again, breathless now. “So it wasn’t cologne, then.”
Ghost huffs, forehead pressed to his. “That'll do, Sergeant.”
Soap chuckles, thumb stroking the edge of his jaw. “Aye, sir.”
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Do you ever see something and think, yeah I'll support that delusion, and then reblog?
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I'm so glad to see AO3 making it absolutely clear that none of these things are allowed to even be HINTED at.
Here's some of the language from the new post about AO3's police on commercial promotion:
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There is a wide variety of things that are not allowed under AO3's non-commercialization rules.
Any other language which one might interpret as requesting or having requested financial contributions, whether for yourself or others. This covers indirect references, euphemisms, or other language intended to get around the TOS. Some examples of this include:
Thanks for the coffee!
My ☕ username is the same as my username here
This chapter is brought to you by my patrons
You know where to find me if you want early or bonus chapters
Check out my Twitter to learn how you can donate to me since I'm not allowed to discuss it here
If you want to hear more about my ideas, talk about fandom, or find more of my stuff for a coin, visit my Tumblr
Solicitation is not allowed, whether it's for yourself or on behalf of someone else.
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Reblog to give prev the power to write their fanfiction
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bbc merlin - 04x05 His Father's Son
you must understand that merlin has been telling him he's wrong the entire time. you must understand that as soon as arthur figured it out for himself merlin still tried to soften the blow, because he knows arthur cares, knows he was only doing what he thought was right, knows how heavy the realisation is. and yeah, he looks merlin in the eye and essentially says "you were right", but he also simply confesses to the one person he can confess to.
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It's important to drink a lot of fluids when you're sick so that your body has the raw materials to generate gallons of snot.
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