#goddamn its not that deep

[rookamell]

Look people are driving me insane with this discourse I have never liked the whole dragon age if you don't romance this companion they end up with someone else thing but if you're going to let a hypothetical romance in a game in a playthrough you're not even doing impact your enjoyment of the romance you're playign maybe grow up?

[lungthief]

listen. i know it's not 2014 anymore and i know it's just a throwaway line and that the russo brothers didnt intend for marvel action blockbuster captain america the winter soldier to become the tragic gay love story that never was but man. having steve say "it's kind of hard to find someone with shared life experience" in a conversation about romantic relationships right before the bucky reveal is so cruel. it's not just about steve and bucky obviously having the shared experience of being "out of time," it's the fact that they've both been stripped of their humanity in opposite directions. steve is a legend, he is an american hero and a national icon before he is a human being the same way that bucky is a weapon and a killing machine before he is a human being. steve knows that anyone who falls in love with him in the 21st century fell in love with captain america first, and that's just not him. but then the one person who knew him first and knew him best and loved him (not captain america, that little guy from brooklyn) so much he died for it is alive, impossibly. and it's a miracle because he's back and it's horrific because he's back under the worst possible circumstances. but to steve, the winter soldier is worth tearing the world apart for because he's always been bucky first. they find each other and suddenly they're human again. and maybe, despite it all, being "out of time" becomes a blessing, because in this century they'd finally be allowed to love each other the way they've always wanted to. like real people do.

like. no. the captain america trilogy isn't about two queer men traumatized and alienated by war and modern life rediscovering and reclaiming their humanity through their love for each other. but. i mean. it couldve been

[s0fter-sin]

ghost who was chemically castrated by roba and soap who wants to help him to regain his sexual autonomy

nsfw, angst, roba, unnegotiated unsafe but consensual gun play, hopeful ending

💀🧼

ghost walks like it hangs low.

there’s a tilt to his hips and a spread in his thighs and johnny’s never been able to stop staring.

and ghost’s never asked him to.

he knows he’s seen him; he’s not exactly discreet. he swears he’s even seen him cock his hips out before to give him a better view. but he always pulls back just as they toe the line; verbal cold water on the tentative heat they almost can’t help but spark when they’re together.

it’s never a no; johnny’s not so selfish of a cunt that he’d push when he knows he isn’t welcome. it’s always a reluctance; an “i wish i could,” never in so many words. an open ended “but…” as ghost circles the reason without ever actually saying it. johnny knows it’s something personal, something more than a difference in rank could ever excuse.

so he backs off when ghost does, jokes instead of flirts and holds his breath through the agonising wait until ghost lets him in close again. waits to know if he’ll let him close again.

it’s almost anticlimactic, the end of their dance; his delicate steps and looping logic to work out why bulldozed as ghost comes out and says one random night, “i can’t fuck.”

it’s not bitter. it doesn’t grate coming out of his throat; he doesn’t spit it like it’s something to be ashamed, not twisted with insecurity as if it’s an accusation by an ex.

it’s a statement of fact.

“you can’t fuck,” johnny echoes anyway because even if it is the reason, the big why… it still doesn’t really answer anything.

“i can’t get it up,” he elaborates, this horrid blankness in his eyes like he’s reading from a script. “whatever you’re looking for, whatever you want- i can’t give it to you.”

johnny just looks at him, the chill air prickling his skin. “right,” he nods calmly. “because my interest in you starts and ends with your dick.”

that blank calm shatters. “johnny…” he warns.

“do you really think i’m that shallow?” he cuts in, curing himself for the way his voice breaks but he never thought ghost would think so low of him; that this whole time, ghost’s thought that’s the only thing he wants from him. “like i’d take you for a ride ‘n just drop you?”

“there’s a difference between not gettin’ it for one night and never gettin’ it at all,” ghost growls, turning his back on him to lean against the edge of the roof. his shoulders heave and the anger seeps from him in one long breath. “it’s not a hitch, johnny. not a performance issue or ptsd or whatever the fuck you’re thinkin’. it’s permanent. irreversible.”

irreversible.

johnny stops, cold creeping up his limbs and dousing his defensive anger. ghost is many things and when it comes to his words, chief amongst them all is deliberate. he didn’t say it’s unfixable. incurable.

irreversible.

johnny buries his selfish hurt and scuffs his boots, an unobtrusive warning of movement, and comes up beside him; just enough distance between them to catch their breaths. he leans back against the ledge and looks over the opposite side of the roof at the dark sky.

“mexico,” he murmurs. not an accusation. not even really a question but ghost collapses in on himself anyway; sinking into his crossed arms digging into the ledge.

“mexico,” he agrees just as quietly. “‘pparently, roba found it more entertaining to let me keep it but- cut the cords. more demeaning that way; cock’s gone, at least you don’t feel the urge. don’t have to look at the fuckin’ thing hang there when nothin’ fuckin’ works.

“it’s not ‘bout how i see you, johnny,” ghost promises and it’s almost apologetic. “but you like sex. eventually, you’ll want it. and i can’t give it to you. easier to just… not let it get to that point.”

johnny’s jaw flexes. everything in him wants to reject it, wants to protest that something as trivial as an orgasm is more important to him than ghost.

but he also knows words are useless here.

they stand there looking out into the gathering dark, tense silence hanging between them, and the only thing johnny knows is if he isn’t careful, he could lose the one person he cares about most.

💀🧼

ghost’s been uneasy since his abrupt confession.

he knows it was sudden, borderline cruel to dump his shit on johnny with no warning but he just couldn’t take it anymore; couldn’t take the back and forth when he knew it would never go anywhere, couldn’t take johnny’s hope when he knew he’d have to watch it twist into disgust and pity.

into disappointment.

he figures that’s the end of it; there’ll be no more flirting now, no more staring or heated looks, no more teasing him by spreading his knees out just to see the flash of hunger in his eyes. the control he felt playing with johnny knowing it was welcome, just because he could- he’ll never feel that again. not now that johnny knows the truth.

then he steps into his room to find johnny laying naked on his bed.

he’s not spread out like an offering, not throwing him some cheap sultry glance as he plays with himself. he’s not even hard; his cock limp over the cradle of his balls, his legs bent loosely together, arms under his head as if he’s settling down for the night.

ghost sighs and shuts the door behind him. “johnny…”

“i know,” johnny says and it’s gentle; not cutting him off, just getting his attention. “just… hear me out?”

there’s nothing else to say. there’s nothing johnny can say or do to fix his violated body. but ghost still crosses his arms and leans back against the door like he can anyway.

johnny pushes himself up and off the bed, closing the distance between them but still giving him enough space to breathe; to open the door behind him, to escape.

“i can never know what was taken from you,” he starts and ghost’s fingers dig into his arms. “i can never know what it means to you. and i can never get it back.”

he doesn’t break eye contact and slowly lowers himself to his knees. “but i can give you something else.”

“you?” ghost guesses flatly and as much as it warms his blood, as much as he’s imagined having johnny look up at him just like this… it’s still not enough to offset the sickening swoop in his gut when his cock doesn’t so much as twitch.

“i’m a nice bonus,” johnny purrs but his smile remains gentle. “but i’m not the main event.”

he lifts a hand and ghost readies to smack it away when he reaches for his thigh holster instead of his belt. he flicks the closing strap open and pulls his handgun, his favourite, free.

“you told me you can’t fuck,” he murmurs, popping out the clip. he taps it against the side and loads it back in with a practiced hit with the butt of his palm. “but fucking isn’t all there is.”

“johnny, what…” ghost starts just to cut himself off as johnny thumbs off the safety and loads a round into the chamber.

“you trust me?” johnny asks and it’s as loaded as the gun in his hand.

good then, that ghost knows the answer. “always have.”

johnny’s smile blooms with warmth, with pride, and it chases away any reluctance he could possibly feel. he lets him take his hands in his, wrapping them around the gun with his finger on the trigger guard. he brings the barrel up beside his temple, holding it steady before his hands fall away.

until it’s only ghost between him and a bullet.

johnny’s hands go to his belt, his movements slow enough for ghost to stop him long before he reaches his cock, forever hanging limp in his pants. but he just rubs the muzzle along his temple, almost nuzzling him with the gun as he pulls down his jeans and boxers.

he waits for johnny to take him in hand, maybe try and pantomime a handy, and his hips almost recoil at the thought.

but he doesn’t try to touch him.

instead, he takes his wrist and guides the gun to sit in front of his cock; angling it to follow the same slight curve he has then holds his hands behind his back like he’s standing at attention. he splays his knees wide, sinking deeper and ghost sucks in a harsh breath as johnny ducks under the gun; his eyes locked on his as he curls his tongue under the barrel and brings it into his mouth.

it takes every ounce of will he has to not let his hand shake around the gun as johnny gives it the slowest, messiest blowjob he’s ever seen; slowly rising higher on his knees, guiding the gun up with him as if it’s his cock hardening. his cheeks hollow as he sucks, tongue laving up the barrel and flicking out to play with the muzzle like a cockhead, moaning with every bob of his head until saliva drips off the metal and makes a mess of his chin.

ghost’s never felt so powerful as he does watching johnny hang off the end of his gun; watching his cock harden and drool between his legs without a single touch, knowing he could pull the trigger at any time and johnny would not only let him but he’d thank him.

the thought breaks him from his paralysis, drawing the gun from his lips and johnny immediately stills; rolling his wide eyes up like he’s trying to check on him. ghost pushes every ounce of heat into his gaze and cocks the gun to the side, slowly pushing it back in until johnny’s lips meet the trigger guard.

johnny whines as he fucks his mouth, thrusting his hips along with each long drag like the gun is an extension of his body; almost too rough as tears prick his eyes and his lips redden and bruise but he never asks him to stop; his cock leaking a puddle on the floor beneath him.

“you gonna cum for me, johnny?” ghost croons, holding back a groan when just his voice is enough to make him shiver. “gonna cum with my fucking gun down your throat?”

he gives a broken whimper, as close to an agreement as he can make, and ghost crowds in close. he grips the base of his mohawk, wrenching his head back until his throat is flush to the front of his thigh. johnny lets out a choked cry, eyes rolling back and he doesn’t hold back as he brutally fucks his face; feeling the bulge of his gun in his throat against his leg.

“come on, johnny; you wanna be my good little holster?” he growls and makes sure he’s watching as his finger moves from the guard to the trigger. “then take my fucking load.”

he forces the gun as deep as he can and johnny gags, his shaking body locking up as he cums untouched; painting the floor and ghost’s boot, cock twitching and pulsing hard enough to bump against his belly and leave a string of cum threading from it to his cock.

ghost watches him spasm and moan, his throat convulsing around the gun and a heated knot of satisfaction tightens in his gut; so close to the memory of an orgasm, he’s almost dizzy with it.

johnny slumps forward, his hands slipping from behind his back, and ghost quickly flicks the safety back on and drops to his knees. he slides the gun away and pulls johnny forward to collapse into his chest, taking his weight off his knees; his whole body trembling with aftershocks.

“you’re crazy, johnny,” ghost whispers, awed, and feels him smile against his chest.

“aye,” he agrees, voice raspy from his gun scraping up his throat. “how else am i supposed to prove that i mean it?”

ghost tries not to tense up; tries not to let hope sink its cruel roots into his chest. “mean it?”

johnny pulls back, his cheeks still flushed and sticky with spilled tears. “i’m yours, ghost; in any and every way you’ll have me,” he promises. “sex or no sex. this can never happen again and i’ll still never stop wanting you. it doesn’t matter to me as much as you do. you’re everythin’ to me, ghost. not your body; not what you can give me. just you.”

a knot crowds in his throat. “and you needed to deep throat my pistol to prove that?” he deflects.

and just like always, johnny lets him. “worked, didn’t it?” he winks. “you fucked my brains out.”

ghost rolls his eyes to hide the softness he knows is flooding them and helps johnny up and gets him into his shower; cleaning him of the sweat and cum and spit covering his body.

that ghost covered his body in.

his chest hitches at the reminder as he strips himself down to a single layer and all but falls into bed, tugging johnny in after him when he hesitates just slightly at the edge of the bed; splaying his still naked body over him, sated and loose.

“i really do mean it,” johnny whispers into the crook of his neck sometime later; when their breaths have settled and synced.

ghost sweeps his fingers up and down the length of his spine, skin he’s never seen. skin he now knows every inch of. “i know you do,” he whispers back.

and for once, he thinks it might be enough.

[bakudekublogblog]

talking to normal people about mha is always so enlightening because someone told me they didn't like season six and i was like???? THE BIBLE??????? YOU DONT LIKE THE BIBLE??? BAKUGOU KATSUKI RISING?? THE APOLOGY??? THE CHASING AFTER HIM TO FIGHT SHIGARAKI, THE REVEAL KATSUKI HAS BEEN WORRIED ABOUT IZUKU, IZUKU'S FERAL RAGE WHEN KATSUKI IS STABBED, KATSUKI BEING THE ONE TO FIND IZUKU AND THEN THE ONE TO BRING HIM HOME??? YOU DONT ENJOY THE SACRED TEXTS?? and then i'm like oh right not everyone is a fujoshi high on that sweet, sweet bkdk yaoi

[lucyvaleheart]

hey y'all! got a, uh... I dunno, a plea for a small thing, i guess?

... My ex, Jake, is losing his housing; and is struggling tremendously to handle the things coming his way.

I won't go into the nitty-gritty details- he's got a gofundme, linked below, that has all of that in his own words and story- but... Whatever the circumstances of our relationship may be, good, bad, neutral, distant, close, nobody deserves to lose their home

I can't do much on my own to help, so... you know. if you're willing to pitch him a few bucks to ease his struggles, willing to share this post to get more eyes on it? any of that would be amazing.

Thank you so much for your time reading this. <3

The gofundme, as promised (Please note, the deadline is now may 30th, not 10th):

[onceinawhilemoon]

Mycroft loved his mother. He loved her so fucking much. Hell, it was because of that love that he put up with Richter’s shit for as long as he did, because he wanted to believe that she might get better, that he and Sherlock (ESPECIALLY Sherlock) might have their mother back.

He took it upon himself to oversee her treatment, hiring a psychiatrist and relocating to a beautiful Mediterranean island so she could have some peace and quiet. A change of scenery far away from the prying eyes of those who had known them in London. He took her out of the place where she'd lost the love of her life and suffered greatly because of it.

“I always wanted such a nice pond in London. It looks so peaceful.”

“Mycroft knew you would like it.”

He knew exactly what she liked and provided it. He knew how much she'd wanted a pond in London and gave her one in Cordona. I can only imagine how many other things Violet had wished for, which he made possible with the advantage of moving to a new home in a new location. The Cabinet of Curiosities is one that comes to mind..

He didn’t let her suffer the public humiliation and stigma of mental illness. He went out of his way to keep it a secret so she could take her time and recuperate in the privacy of her own home, no doubt employing all his resources and connections to smother any spark of gossip before it even started.

He never thought of abandoning her until she became a serious threat to Sherlock.

The sheer protectiveness in his confrontation with Richter, “I’m not letting you anywhere near my mother again,” breaks my heart. Even after being pushed to the brink and seeing with his own eyes how much worse she'd gotten, he still hoped to fix things and help her get better..

I’ve thought long and hard about the moment he said, “She must be sent to a legitimate medical facility,” and I really don’t think he was sugarcoating the word “asylum” here. He'd already chosen in-home care over committing her to indignity. He witnessed Richter’s charlatan methods. He knew that what awaited her in asylums would have been even worse. When he said “legitimate medical facility,” I believe he meant it literally. With his high position in the government and generational wealth, he could have arranged for exclusive medical care far removed from any traditional psychiatric institution at the time to ensure his mother received the best and most humane treatment possible, because he now had a solid example of what INHUMANE treatment looked and sounded like.

He'd been going the extra mile for her and Sherlock almost all his life. This would have been just another stretch of the road for him, but for better or worse, it was never meant to be.

Even after her death, he still honored her memory. A single word to Yasmin Sertel and the Chronicle would publish the most beautiful and celebratory of obituaries despite all the harsh realities behind closed doors. He made sure the world remembered her brilliance, charm, and sense of humor, not the mental illness that had consumed her. Most importantly, he made sure that she remained in the loving memory of Sherlock. Her baby boy.

He did his best to have her positively remembered by everyone else, except maybe by himself.

The way he speaks of her years later stands out to me when it's compared to Sherlock. It’s always “her” or “she,” rarely, if ever, “mother” or “our mother” except for that one time in his letter to Sherlock “One presumes by now you have visited our mother’s final resting place” and even that feels distant and formal..

“Your are YOUR mother’s son” I can’t help but read detachment here. He’s acknowledging Sherlock’s closer bond with her while at the same time distancing himself from his own identity as her son. The way he said “SHE did this to you” also betrays his internalized resentment.

Her attempt to drown his brother, her own child, (IN THE VERY SAME POND MYCROFT HAD GIFTED HER I MUST STRESS), was a grave personal betrayal that I don’t think Mycroft will ever fully recover from.

He keeps reminding Sherlock to consider the bigger picture of her death and Richter’s malpractice, but I think Mycroft himself struggles to do the same when it comes to that moment. He blames Richter’s treatment, but he can’t separate her final act from the mother he loved.

Selling all her possessions and keeping nothing feels like a visceral, almost misguided reaction to that betrayal. It’s as if he didn’t want any reminders of her to stay. Heirlooms like her pocket watch went to strangers and vultures instead of their rightful heirs, which is just... sad. At least he sold them to the highest bidders, which hopefully made more than enough money to fund Sherlock’s education and upbringing. And I like to think he let Sherlock keep a few things because he knew better than anyone just how much he still loved her, even if Mycroft lost some of his own love and respect for her. (My personal canon is that the locket thing Sherlock wears on his wrist used to belong to Violet)

It’s much harder for Mycroft to reconcile the loving mother of his childhood with the detached, abusive woman she became. He never had a Jon to help him cope and filter out the pain, so the aweful memories linger and sting. Even in very rare moments when he tried to bridge the gap (*cough* preparing for the play *cough*), Violet rejected him. However well-meaning that rejection may have been (prioritizing her youngest), coming from her of all people seriously hurt him.

Sherlock was at least able to find joy and make some happy memories in Cordona, but for Mycroft, that entire year was a bleak and dark chapter in his life. I can't blame him for wanting to leave it behind as quickly as possible or for resenting it, especially the parts about his mother.

The love we feel for someone becomes overshadowed by the hurt they caused, even if it was unintentional. The heartbreaking irony here is that Mycroft is now on the other end of this stick. Sherlock is unable to look past the fact that he lied to him, unable to see his good intentions or lifelong sacrifices. Much like Mycroft with Violet, Sherlock also clings to resentment. Talk about generational dysfunction..

To Sherlock, Mycroft’s avoidance coping looks like cold-heartedness. It makes it seem as though he didn’t care about their mother, and the moment she died, he packed up and left dragging Sherlock along like he'd been finally relieved of the burden of caring for her, when in reality, what happened was traumatic for Mycroft, too.

Especially because Mycroft loved him and loved his mother, so very deeply and in his own selfless, thankless, and practical ways.

[the-headless-horsedude]

Nature always has a way of balancing itself. The only question is, what part will we play?

[akkivee]

THE MOOD THE BANGERS DONT STOP

[aperfecttimeforscreaming]

Do not reply actively against haters. Dunking on haters with essays they don't have the attention span to read is the mind killer. Essays are the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my reactionary venom. I will permit it to pass over me and through me.

[thewardenisonthecase]

it bothers me the way some people talk about leandra

[bbaked-beans]

I have to get this off my chest, but the new page. I can't look at it without thinking Dainix is about to roll his ankle. every time I see that panel I start tweaking. that thing is ABOUT to be rolled spectacularly

LOOK AT IT. THAT THING HEADED STRAIGHT FOR THE FLOOR

[jasperthejester]

the only thing motivating me to do all my missing english assignments is that when i finish them i can watch arcane and once i finish arcane i can rewatch spies are forever and ive been missing these fucking spies so much lately

[chaeyapper]

i actually do NOT give a fuck about childe. he's so ugly, the color of his hair hurts my eyes and wtf are those goofy ahh clothes? he's a stupid attention seeker, that ugly smile won't make anyone like you lmaooo

/j

[kerizaret]

You've got to be fucking kidding me

[canadianno]

The pug sounds like it's being flayed alive downstairs. I won't be getting any sleep for the next week

[teighveepao]

atp paoyu is just an oc deprived from all of my worst traits 💔