Tumgik
#John Boyega fan fic
megamindsecretlair · 2 months
Note
Could you do a one shot with mob boss Tyrone?
A/N: My sweet Anon, you asked for one and I present to you seven. Why am I like this?
Blackbird, Part 1: Lust
Pairing: Mob Boss!Fontaine x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. Smut, fluff, angst, cursing, PIV, oral (female and male receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, all consensual. Use of n-word and non-inclusive language. Minor OC backstory.
Summary: You are a dancer trying to make it in a world not built for your body type. Fontaine is a gangster trying to rise through the ranks of a prominent gang. Will love truly conquer all?
Word Count: 10,810k
Interested in a Blackbird playlist? I'm not the greatest at curating songs but these remind me of these two. I may add or remove songs at my discretion.
A/N: Listen, I know. I couldn't get this idea out of my head and just kept writing. I'm trying something new here, so any feedback is welcome! Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!
Taglist: @planetblaque @dayjlovesromance @sevikasblackgf @melaninpov @amyhennessyhouse @henneseyhoe @justheretostan @black-fairy3 @superhoeva @jarfulloftears @hereformiles @montysstuffs @westside-rot @blackerthings @blowmymbackout @euphoric05 @miyuhpapayuh @nicolexnight @judymfmoody @notapradagurl7 @soft-persephone @justabovewater20 @soapjay @heyauntieeee @theyscreamsannii @eggnox @honeytoffee @thadelightfulone @tranquilfandomer @kindofaintrovert @l-auteuse @browngirldominion @sunkissedebony97 @lovedlover @issahyland @longpause-awkwardsmile @insburner @slippinninque @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide @babybratzmaraj @iv0rysoap @misskiki90 @harmshake @sageispunk @ciaqui @ms-angiealsina @satoruya @hopefulromantic1 @itsbackwoodsbby
Moodboard by the sweestes person ever, planetblaque 🥹🥹🥹
Tumblr media Tumblr media
You looked at your watch on your delicate wrist. Night chased the afternoon out of the sky, taking over in their delicate push and pull. Night was safer for confessions. For reflection. 
The sun’s rays slanted through the blinds and you blinked against the bitter light. “My apologies, would you like me to close them?” Your lawyer, Mr. Gates, asked you. 
“Please,” you said. You sighed and adjusted your neat teal dress across your knees. There was nothing to fix, but you supposed you were nervous. After all these years, you thought that you would carry these secrets to the grave. Everything was different now. 
Mr. Gates moved to the window and shut the blinds more fully, draping you in the safe comfort of his office. Mr. Gates had been part of the family for years now, a profession he took seriously. It was refreshing to speak to someone who couldn’t be bought. Who would never fold, not even under threat of death. 
The office had been cleared especially for you, per your request. People liked to gossip. Busybodies, your grandmother called them. The only sound was the low hum of the AC blowing cool air into the room and Mr. Gates shuffling around. 
He finally sat down at his desk, the chair creaking under his weight. He pulled out a small recorder and showed it to you, the exact model you requested. You dipped your chin in acknowledgement. He took out a notebook, new and clean of any writing. You hoped he had enough pens. 
“Are you sure you want to do this?” He asked.
You adjusted your dress once more, running your hands along the fine, silken material. You licked your lips and looked back up at him. “I don’t wanna die without marking the occasion first,” you said with a clipped smile. 
Each day it drew closer to the date, you got used to the idea of dying. You had a good run. It could have been better. But you weren’t one to be greedy. 
Mr. Gates smiled softly, perhaps a little sad. It was nice to know someone would miss you. There would be one person on this earth who’d care if you were gone. That was something. 
Mr. Gates wrote down something on his notepad and pressed a button on the recorder. He cleared his throat and introduced himself, the date, and the time. He asked you to state your name for the record. 
“...of sound mind and body do declare this to be read as my last will and testament.” 
Tumblr media
“Goddammit!” You yelled. Your fists thumped against the rough wood of the door as it finished slamming into your face. The asshole on the other side was just as faceless as the long stream of dance companies that tossed you out on your ass. There were plenty more, sure, but this one had been reputable. Fair. 
They took one look at your raggedy dance clothes, worn from too many times around the washer. At your hair, styled high above your head in braids they didn’t understand but were obsessed with. You didn’t have the time or the money to go to a salon. Just once, you’d like someone else to bother with your thick hair and its maintenance. You couldn’t be bothered. 
You’d shave it all off but you didn’t want to deal with the mean and hurtful comments about you looking like a boy. Your knuckles were just getting over being bruised and tender from the last mu’fucka that tried to talk out the side of their neck. 
“Asshole!” You screamed. It was open auditions. Open. Auditions. That meant that anyone could come in and try their hand. You had killed the routine. You only needed to watch something once to get it down. To feel it move through your body like a live wire and your muscles respond. To mimic it to near perfection and add your spin on it. Nothing fancy, just an extra oomph that these companies seemed to lack. 
You had waited to the side with the other girls, all wispy, wafer thin girls who took one look at your curves and deemed you less than. A joke. That you couldn’t possibly move your body like they could.
One had the audacity to allude to that, calling it doing you a favor. Next thing you knew, your fist was flying and she was crying foul, blood running down her aristocratic nose. You just gave her a little more character, honest.
You cursed under your breath and moved away from the building. To hell with them. You shifted your dance bag over your shoulder and walked backwards. The marquee above the door announced an upcoming performance. Below it, there was the name of the headliner, Gabriella Greywood. 
One day, and one day soon, your name would be up there. In bright lights. And no amount of racist, fatphobic fucks were going to stop you. 
You turned and headed down the street, running head first into a person, solidly built by the feel of them. 
“My bad, sweetheart,” a deep, rumbling voice greeted you. 
Your mouth was already fixing to give him hell for not watching where he was going and that you were nobody’s “sweetheart”. The words dried on your tongue as you looked up into a deep set of brown eyes that crinkled a bit in the corner when he smiled. 
He had a low fade and short beard, shaved close to his strong jaw. Pretty, long eyelashes that fanned across his cheeks whenever he blinked. He smirked, checking you out while you ogled him. 
“S’okay,” you said, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. He took in your tights and oversized gray sweatshirt. 
“You heading inside?” He asked. 
“Away from it. Those fucks wouldn’t know talent if it bit them in the ass,” you said.
The man chuckled and nodded, like he liked your honesty. Your words. “Fuck ‘em,” he said, gifting you with another smirk. You wondered what he’d look like when he really smiled. When he let it take up his whole face. 
Too bad you didn’t have time for men. You may be behind most of your friends in that department. Their heads were full of getting married and popping out babies while they were still young. Like they were checking off boxes handed down to them through the generations. Grow up, learn just enough, get married, pop out babies, and then your real life starts once they are grown up with babies of their own. Fuuuck that.
“Where you headed then?” He asked. A noise to his left made you look up and see an entire other man standing next to him. He was a bit taller, broader around the shoulders, with a narrow face and a mischievous look in his eye.
“Home, I guess. Until I find the next studio giving out auditions,” you said. Your attention was solely fixated on the man in front of you. His friend grinned and moved away, lighting up a joint. He put a foot on top of a fire hydrant and pretended to ignore you both. 
“Let me give you a ride,” he said. You couldn’t stop staring at his face. He was magnetic. Like he commanded attention whether you wanted to give it or not. 
You giggled, stomach doing tiny flips. “I don’t know you,” you said, giving him a hint of the attitude you’re famous for. None of this, giggly, braid around your finger nonsense. 
“Get to know me. Let me take you to Scarlet Lounge,” he said. His voice was smooth. Too smooth. 
You crossed your arms and tilted your head. “That’s a gangster bar,” you said. 
“What you got against gangstas?” He asked.
“They’re mean, amoral, kill for no reason, run drugs, and turn out little girls. They’re nothing but bad news,” you said.
“Damn, amoral. That’s a big one,” he said. He chuckled and licked his lips, calling attention to his mouth once more. Your body heated instantly, wanting to know what they taste like. What they feel like on your skin. What his hands would feel like on your skin. 
“Not all gangstas are the same. Maybe some just wanna get over in a life hellbent on kicking them in the teeth,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets and you finally noticed what he was wearing. Simple jeans and a black hoodie, faded from too many washes like your clothes. You felt a sudden kinship with him, an understanding passed between you in being in similar situations. Just two mu’fuckas trying to make it.
“Are you saying you’re a gangsta?” You asked.
“If I say yes, you gon’ hold it against me?” Oh, he was dangerous. Absolutely dangerous. 
You had gone on entire tirades about the level of crime in LA. It was insidious. The dangerous, hopeless underbelly that all kids from the hood grew up with was like a giant dome that prevented anyone from truly getting out. Truly making something of yourself. You either joined a gang, married into a gang, or rode the struggle bus ‘till God called you home.  
You could leave. You could find some area where the people would treat you like a freak or like you didn’t belong but you would be safe. None of them would look like you. Or understand you. Change had to start in the hood. There had to be hope some-fucking-where.
“Probably,” you said. 
He smirked and shook his head. “Cold game. What’s your name, sweetheart?” He asked.
You should walk away. There was no way you could entertain someone like him. No way. Your feet felt rooted to the spot, unwilling to walk away from him or this moment. The more you looked at him, the more you felt connected to him. That each minute you spent in his presence, you felt tiny stitches being woven in between you.  
“I’ll tell you what gangsta boy. We bump into each other again and I’ll tell you my name,” you said. You turned on the balls of your feet, walking backwards away from him.
“You gon’ do me like that? Forreal?” He asked. The corner of his gorgeous mouth lifted higher. It was almost worth staying to see if you could get a real smile out of him. 
“Byeee,” you sang. You giggled, heading towards the train station. You turned around and gave your hips a little extra swish. 
“I’m Fontaine!” He called after you. It took all of your strength not to turn back around. You waved your fingers high in the air but kept walking. You didn’t really think you’d bump into him again. You couldn’t afford the distraction even if you did. You’d head back home to your shitty apartment that you shared with your best friend and regroup. 
You needed to keep your eyes on the prize. You had a future to secure. And it did not involve pretty corner boys who talked smooth.
Tumblr media
You finished doing your makeup in the vanity, touching up the bright red lipstick one more time and checked over your outfit. Muted music and cheers reached you into the backroom, from the set before yours. 
Other dancers were touching up their outfits as well, skimpy little things that barely qualified as a costume. The leotards were black with thin stripes, sparkly silver edges that dug into your groin and under your arms. The designer, an evil little bitch with too much hair and a permanent sour expression, thought she was so damn important. Half the time, it was clear that she thought she was too good to design clothes en masse for a dance club. 
You wore fishnet stockings like the others, black leather heeled boots, and a tiny black hat in your hair. You had sparkly glitter dusted across your cheeks so that your eyes would pop. Not that anyone would see you. You were relegated to the back in every single fucking number. 
Everyone here had the same dream as you. It just came down to who was hungrier. Who was going to stick it out. You had been dancing your whole life and you’d be damned to let some wide-eyed, bushy tail ho from Minnesota steal your dream. You’d put in the work, you’d put in your dues, and soon, you’d be headlining your own show. Working with top directors and choreographers. Maybe even get into dancing on TV.
“One minute!” One of the stagehands called into the room. Kimmy approached you and looked at you in the mirror. 
“Another day?” She asked.
“Another dollar,” you said back. 
You both grinned and stood up, heading out of the dressing room and into the chaos backstage. Stagehands moved in a dance all their own, carefully moving around each other with headsets squawking with directions you couldn’t hear. Coordinating the lights and music, curtains, and set decorations. 
The previous music was coming to a close, ending on a loud roaring beat that you felt down to your toes. Adrenaline thumped through you. Despite whatever else you went through, this made sense. This was the time that your mind finally shut up. That your focus on your dreams drifted to the back and all you had to do was feel the music. The euphoria that came with losing all sense of identity while dancing.
You stood on the stairs on the left side of the stage, too far away to see the current set; you’d seen the performance so many times you had it memorized. The group before you had done a circus themed dance, full of contortionists, flips, and tumbles. The performers worked hard to make it look so seamless, you were in awe every time. 
They were due to exit on the right, to not interrupt your group. Their song ended, the curtains closing and claps echoing throughout the club. You were shuffled on stage, getting into position in the far back. Haters. Whatever. 
Stagehands used pulleys to change the scenery behind you, to an alleyway facade. There was a fake brick wall beside you getting rolled in. The announcer, the sleazeball Rusty, was on stage and getting everyone pumped up. 
You looked at Kimmy and made a face and she giggled, waving you off. The music for your number started to play, a slow and sexy jam. You were supposed to be a lady mafia, punishing men in a cold dark alley. 
Once the curtains were open and the spotlight hit you in the face, you were gone. There was only the part you played, filling in the background while the lead dazzled the audience. You told yourself not to care, but deep down you did. It was disheartening to know that in your heart of hearts, you were more talented. You were a better dancer. You just refused to suck Rusty’s dick to get to the top. 
So you focused on the music, on the dance, and executed it flawlessly. You were in the back now, but you weren’t going to stay there. You didn’t see the audience, you didn’t see the idiots at the bar, and you didn’t see any of the VIPs in the back, scoping out the dancers to see which ones they wanted to bring to the private backrooms for a “dance”. 
You didn’t play that shit. You were too spiteful, too hateful, too outspoken. And you’d continue to do so. You had to take a pay cut to not be involved with that shit. It was illegal and unfair, but it beat spreading your legs for dirty cops and gangstas. 
As you danced, your mind was partially split between what you were doing and the man you met the other day. Fontaine. You couldn’t stop saying his name. It rolled so well off of the tongue. Fontaaaine. 
You nearly missed a step and mentally slapped yourself. You focused on the dance, lots of gyrating and popping your hips. Lots of slow glides down to the floor and rolling your back. Invisible prop assistants threw you all fake uzis and you ended the dance facing away from the crowd. You jerked your hand to pretend like you were shooting a gun into the alleyway while a group of male dancers pretended to die.
The crowd cheered behind you but your mind was already beating yourself up. Already going over what you could have done better. It’d help if your performances were recorded but for the “privacy of its patrons”, Rusty wouldn’t let anyone record inside. Phones had to be off or silent and there were plenty of bouncers willing to break expensive phones to ensure everyone’s “safety”. 
Among the last to leave the stage, you turned to walk back to the dressing room. It didn’t feel like thirty minutes went by. You were sweating buckets though. Fat little droplets soaking your leotard and dripping from your temples. 
“Aye!” You turned to the sound. “Over here!” 
You knew better than to follow some strange sound around backstage, but the voice sounded familiar. Like warm caramel. You looked towards the front, where a bouncer stood to ensure that no one slipped past the curtain. 
“Over here!” You walked towards the darkened back, following the sound. There stood Fontaine, standing behind a storage door. He smirked when he saw you. 
“What are you doing back here?” You rushed over to him, pushing him into the storage room. You looked for people behind you. This area was where dancers left so it was hardly used for anything else. There were old decorations here, forgotten sets that needed to be stripped and repainted. 
Fontaine’s callused hands pulled you into the storage room. Somehow, he found the lone lamp that worked and the soft light filled the room. It was junky. Full of chairs, tables, tablecloths. The overflow supplies. 
“You said if we bumped into each other again, you’d tell me your name,” he said. 
“This isn’t bumping into each other,” you pointed out. Your hands were still around his arms and his hands had relocated your hips. 
“Sheeit, this is better,” he said. 
You shook your head. “What are you doing here, gangsta boy?” You asked.
“Tell me your name first,” he said. He cocked his head to the side, letting you get a glimpse of his dark eyes. 
A deal was a deal, you guessed. You told him your name and he rolled it around his tongue like cotton candy. “I like that, suits you,” he said.
“Your turn,” you said.
“Scarlets run this place, you ain’t know?” He asked.
“You work for Porter Sommer?” You asked. Porter Sommer was a ruthless drug kingpin that ran all of South Central. There wasn’t shit that went down in the hood that he didn’t have a fat little finger in. You’d only seen him once and it was enough to turn your stomach. He had dead eyes like a shark. 
“He ain’t all that, I swear,” Fontaine said, shaking his head. “He the only nigga that give back ‘round here.”
“Give back? He got kids doing drugs in the parking lot before their parents pick them up. He shake niggas down for every last nickel they got,” you said. 
“That ain’t us. That’s that bitch Shayne,” Fontaine said. He shook his head. “I ain’t come here for all that. I saw you on stage and I had to tell you that you were amazing.”
Now that you knew who he worked for, you weren’t sure if you wanted to continue dealing with him. You hadn’t given much thought to which side of the street he fell on. The Crips and the Bloods thought they were the top bosses in LA, aggressively defending square blocks they didn't own.
Porter Sommer and Shayne Blandford were the real OGs. They actually bought up the houses and stores on the blocks, doing their hardest to outbid each other at every opportunity. They both preyed on the weak and didn’t care who got caught in their crossfires. 
Fontaine looked at you with such admiration though. Like he saw you. Like you weren’t just another dancer on stage. That he saw you with the same lights shining on you that you pictured in your head. 
You stepped away from him to try to get some clarity. Obviously, touching him and getting that close to him was addling your brain. You were seriously thinking about entertaining a bad boy. One of the worst.
“What do you do for Porter then?” You asked. You crossed your arms. 
Fontaine sighed and leaned back against an old desk. It wobbled under his weight and he looked down at it but then turned his attention back to you. “Do it matter? You gon’ judge me for it anyway,” he said.
“I’m not judging that you’re a corner boy. I’m judging that you work for Porter. That man is…scary,” you said.
“He a’ight,” Fontaine said with a shrug. “And I ain’t no corner boy no mo. Ya boy moved up and shit,” he said. He smirked and you could see him puffing his chest out. You giggled. He looked so proud of that fact. 
You wanted to keep up your defenses against him. You wanted to walk out of the room and tell him to get lost. You could not get your head turned out by a gangsta. You didn’t have the heart for that kind of life. Why did you have to meet someone like him and he was bad news? 
“Moved up how?” You asked. 
“Protection services,” he said and waggled his eyebrows. You rolled your eyes playfully and couldn’t fight the grin that ran across your face. Whether he was outside or in this dingy ass room, he carried the same level of magnetism. Charisma. 
“I cannot with you,” you said. 
Fontaine stood up and slowly walked over to you. He had a mean ass lean to it that caused your stomach to flip in response. He was the total package, both in looks and wit. But, but, but. 
He stood before you and clasped his hands behind his back. “I feel something. And I know you feel something too. I’d like to get to know you, sweetheart. Let me change your mind about gangstas,” he said.
“I don’t pay attention to words, gangsta boy. Your world is dangerous,” you said. 
“You watch too many movies. Real gangstas talk and shit,” he said. He smirked and swayed from side to side. He was hypnotic. You swayed with him like he casted a spell on your body. Each word he spoke wove magic through your veins. 
“Oh, really? Bunch of backroom deals and offers people can’t refuse?” You asked. You began to back towards the door. The only way to survive Fontaine was to escape. To remove yourself from the situation. With his voice and the way he spun words, he’d be liable to talk you right off of the City Hall building. 
“Let me find out you like gangsta movies and you just giving me a hard time,” he said. He looked at you and slowly began to approach you. You had nowhere left to go. Your back was against the door. 
“Maybe I just like giving you a hard time,” you said. You moved your hand behind you until your hand touched the cool metal of the doorknob. Fontaine’s mouth twitched but it wasn’t a smile. Dammit, you wanted to see him smile. 
His minty breath fanned across your face as he leaned closer. You bit your lip. “I’on know if you heard me, but I’m in the protection game now. You don’t have to worry about anything ever again, I’m gon’ give you the world,” he said.
You smiled, letting his words fill up your head like fresh, doughy clouds after a storm. Plenty of people talked a good game. There was a long line of disappointing men who talked and talked but never backed it up. Starting with your daddy. Fontaine’s voice had the deep rumble of conviction behind it. He meant every single word. And you had no doubt that he could back it up. 
But, but, but.
“I can’t be bought, Fontaine. I never asked for the world,” you said. 
“I know. I’m gon’ give it to you anyway. With a matching moon,” he said. 
You dropped your eyes from his intense gaze. The light didn’t quite reach this far, so you two practically stood in shadow. He blended into the shadow. Welcomed it. Like he lived and breathed in it. 
“I’m a man of action. And I’ll prove it.” He dropped his head and kissed you. Electricity zapped your lips. His kiss was languid. Slow. Tongue already working its way inside your mouth like it owned it. Your hands came around his neck to pull him closer. 
The kiss was intense, disconcerting. He knew exactly what to do too, alternating kisses and little nibbles. Your wet lips smacked against his and your pussy throbbed. He pushed you into the door, hands gripping onto your hips like he was holding on for dear life. 
If he was magnetic before, it paled in comparison to touching him. Feeling him. You felt him everywhere. Each kiss sucked you further down into the shadows with him and you never wanted to taste the light again.
Tumblr media
You paused here and took a deep breath. Mr. Gates cleared his throat and paused the recorder. “Do you want to skip this part?” He asked.
So kind. Mr. Gates was always so kind. He was a rare breed compared to all the men in your life. Especially when compared to Fontaine. However, Fontaine had no equal. There was no one who came close. 
That first kiss ought to have been where you drew the line. You knew better than to sit in storage rooms with strange men and let them kiss you. Let them feel on your booty. Just remembering it, brought heat to your cheeks and to your core. You felt the ghost of Fontaine’s hands on your legs, on your hips. That playful smirk tickling your neck.
You shook your head. “I just need a minute. I-I need him to know that it was always real for me. That I went into it with both eyes open,” you said. 
Mr. Gates nodded and got up, leaving his office for a moment. Your mind wandered, thinking back to those early days. From bumping into Fontaine to everything that followed after. Like the Hand of God tripped you over Fontaine’s feet so that you would meet. Would know. So that you would know each other and know what it was like to love with your entire body. 
Moments later, you collected yourself. Mr. Gates seemed to know exactly when. He came back into the office without any prodding from you. You smiled at his kind, grandfatherly face. He had white hair sticking out the sides of his head. You bet he was a player when he was younger. 
“Would you like to continue?” He asked.
You took a deep breath. “Yes, where was I? Um…so, Fontaine did exactly that. He proved with more than his words that we had something songs got written about…”
Tumblr media
Fontaine attended every performance every night you worked. You were still in the background and he looked at you as if the spotlight was on you. He didn’t help your ego at all. 
After every night, he’d somehow sneak backstage with a single red rose to tell you that you were the best dancer up there. He stole kisses after each one too. At this point, you didn’t know why you were still resisting him. You weren’t some prude waiting for a man to drop to one knee; you didn’t believe in that shit. 
There was something a little hot about making him sweat it out. Something a little erotic about heavy petting and making out and living in the moment spent with your lips colliding and tongues exploring. With his hands around your ass and your hand rubbing him over his jeans. 
You hadn’t had many occasions to lust after someone. Sometimes guys made you crane your neck, but you had a single minded focus that saw you through your shitty childhood, through your awkward teenage years, through screaming matches, and slammed doors. You got what you needed from guys, the only things they were really good for, and you left them high and dry. You left them while spit flew from their mouths as they called you bitches, hos, and anything else their little brains could think of.
Funny how once you treated boys how they treated you, you were suddenly the devil incarnate. 
But you lusted. Every dip of Fontaine’s hips made your body respond in kind. Like he had a direct line to your pussy and constantly tugged on it to drive you crazy. He knew the effect he had on you too. 
He always made sure to blow you a kiss while you were on stage. When he smirked, he liked to look at you out of the corner of his eyes. He made sure to grab your ass while making out, squeezing them like trying to get juice from a lemon. Oh and when he got to rubbing his stubble along your neck, your eyes would roll back and he’d tell you to quit being so cute before he dicked you down. 
Fontaine made you hot and bothered. In more ways than one. As much as you were interested in him, you still hated what he had to do to survive. You understood the game, but it didn’t mean you had to love it. 
When you weren’t on stage and you were taking your break, waiting for the next set, you would sneak out to the front of the house so that you could see the performances, see what worked and what didn’t. Sometimes you’d grab a drink and wait for Fontaine to sneak away to kiss you. 
And sometimes you’d see him heading to the private rooms, escorting your fellow dancers and whichever powerful men wanted to use them for the night. Rusty was always there with a grin on his face and dollar signs in his eyes. It was disgusting. 
Rusty never touched anyone but your best friend Kimmy. He took one look at her and fell ass over teakettle for your sweet friend who had a kid to look after. On top of paying her a little more, Rusty rented an apartment for Kimmy and her kid. She didn’t think anything of the little bargain. One man was better than a revolving door. 
Sometimes anger boiled in your veins at the mere thought. You wanted to burn this place to the ground. It was true that you chose to come here, night after night. However, dancing was the only thing that kept the anger at bay. Well, that wasn’t entirely true anymore. 
As Fontaine walked around the tables on his way to you, you found unexpectedly that his presence tamed the wildness of your anger. It wasn’t completely gone. The slightest thing would set you off. Until you bubbled over like a volcanic eruption, burning everything and everyone in your path. You weren’t like that with Fontaine. You didn’t want to be like that with Fontaine. And all it took was a few dozen roses and sweet stolen kisses. 
“Hey sweetheart,” he said, one corner of his mouth lifting. He was starting to grow his hair out. Since he moved to protection, he started dressing a little fancier. Dickies instead of jeans, plain T-shirts instead of whatever graphic tee caught his fancy. 
Fontaine dressed all in black did things to your libido that wasn’t fit for mixed company. The short sleeved black tee seemed like he bought a size down on purpose, to emphasize his muscles. 
“Hey you,” you said. 
“Isaac was telling me about the Fair. We should go,” he said. 
“The Fair? What we gonna do there?” You asked. 
“I’on know. Fair shit,” he said, that damn smirk. You were going to get him to smile if it was going to be the last thing you did on this earth. 
“You gon’ win me a teddy bear?” The question popped out before you could think about it and snatch it right back. You wished you could swallow the words, unring the bell, and ask him something different. Something that wasn’t a little too close to home. You always wanted someone to win you a teddy bear from one of those Fair games, carry it around for you. 
But that shit was for other, softer girls and men who actually gave a damn. For TV movies and shows with people who didn’t look like you. 
“I’m gon’ win the biggest one. So Friday night?” He asked. 
“Friday night,” you agreed, little butterflies taking flight in your stomach. 
“It’s a date sweetheart,” he said. He kissed your cheek and you watched his generous backside as he went back to the backrooms, making sure your friends were safe. As much as they could be. 
When he approached the door, Issac came out of it looking self satisfied. The corner of your mouth lifted in a grimace. Isaac was attractive but something was throwing you off about him. Whether it was his vibe or the oily way he looked at everybody, Fontaine included, you made a mental note to get the full story behind them.
It was obvious that they were close and did next to everything together. Issac said something to Fontaine who shook his head but bumped fists with Isaac. It’d have to be none of your business for now. 
Friday night rolled around and Fontaine was punctual in his champagne colored 90s Cadillac. You didn’t know much about cars, but you knew enough to appreciate the craftsmanship and that Fontaine lovingly took care of it.
It was shined to gleaming, silver chrome glinting from the streetlamps. Night was fast approaching and you had a long drive to Pomona, to the Fairgrounds. It was the first time in his car and you had to admit, you were a little nervous. 
Fontaine got out of the car and you had to whistle at him. He wore black jeans, black boots, and a red flannel buttoned up. The top two buttons were out, giving you a peek of a black tank underneath. He wore his signature jacket, the same one he wore when you met. You had half a mind to say fuck the Fair and invite him inside. 
“I know where yo nasty ass mind is at,” he said as he came around to the street to greet you with a kiss on your cheek. He handed you a single red rose.
“What you talkin’ ‘bout?” You asked.
“I know I look good,” he said. He smirked and stepped out, showing you his outfit. He dusted invisible lint from the front of his shirt and you laughed. 
“You really do look good,” you said. 
“But you look good enough to lick on,” he said. He bit his lip and eyed your outfit, a spaghetti strap dress with a modestly low neckline and blue and red ombre colors. It started out royal blue at the top until it began to lighten around the hips, turning into a jam red at the bottom. 
“And you call me nasty,” you said. You tapped his shoulder and his cheeks puffed up. You half thought you were going to get a smile but he stopped himself at the last minute. 
“Just telling the truth. Matter of fact, you look too damn good. I’on wanna spend the night catching bodies behind yo cute ass,” he said.
“Shut up!” You giggled. Fontaine said the cutest shit sometimes. Threatening murder behind you was not sexy, but when it dropped from his lips it was. It was a type of possession you didn’t think you craved, but you did. You wanted to belong to him in every sense of the word. 
Fontaine escorted you into the street and opened the door for you. You slid inside his car, smoothing your dress over the leather seats. It smelled clean, like some type of mountain scent laced with the particular smell of weed. Fontaine closed the door and walked around the front, climbing in himself. 
Low, thumping hip hop music was on in his car and you looked at him. This was different. He was different. And you only wanted to see where the night took you. 
As Fontaine got onto the 10 freeway, he got comfortable and leaned back in his seat. The seat was further back still and you got the sense that it stayed a little too far back on purpose. He kept his left hand on the wheel and dropped his other hand to your knee. 
You looked at it and it felt right. His hand was warm across your knee and you sunk into the seat, placing your hand over his. The corner of his mouth lifted as you began to speak and get to know each other beyond just his kisses. 
“How long you think you gon’ be a gangsta?” You asked.
“Damn girl. Not even gon’ ask me what my favorite color is?” He asked. The red lights from the cars in front of you lit up his face and you found that red suited him well. The starkness of the color played across his features in a way that made him seem timeless. 
“I already know what yo favorite color is,” you said.
“What?” He asked. He rubbed this thumb across your knee and you lost the ability to think for a minute. 
Everybody Loves the Sunshine played on his stereo and you shook your thoughts loose finally. “It’s purple,” you said.
Fontaine chuckled and shook his head. “Oh, you been paying attention to a nigga, huh?” He asked. 
“Whatever, Fontaine,” you said.
“Love it when you say my name. You draw it out and shit,” he said. 
“I do not! Just answer my question!” 
Fontaine was silent for a moment, weaving in and out of crazy LA traffic. Every year it got worse and worse. To the point that you almost didn’t want to leave the house most days. It was why you started taking the train more. It sucked, but it beat dealing with the mu’fuckas that continued to flock here chasing their paper dreams. 
“I’on know how to do anything else. That 9-5 ain’t me,” he finally said, his voice smooth and low. “I need to know if that’s ever going to be a problem. If you can ever accept that this is the life I’m in.”
He slanted his eyes towards you. This was the most serious you’d ever seen him. And Fontaine was a pretty serious person more often than not. He got this look in his eyes, like he saw the world burning before him and didn’t want to bother grabbing a bucket of water to help. Like he liked it. 
“I won’t promise to never speak on it. I’m…scared to lose you,” you said. You were surprised it was true. You made him sweat for a month, turning down his date ideas just to see what he would do. Testing him, you supposed. If he was in it for you or for what you had between your legs. Usually you could tell the difference with perfect accuracy.
When it came to Fontaine, nothing was certain. And you didn’t know if that scared you to the point of attraction, or turned you on to the point of fear. 
Fontaine squeezed your knee. “You don’t gotta worry about that, sweetheart. It’s me and you,” he said.
Me and you. Those three little words planted themselves inside you, taking root and growing vines around your bones. Sprouting leaves in your lungs and stretched towards your brain, filling it with the oxygen you needed to breathe. Three little words. The wonder of it brought unexpected tears to your eyes. 
You grinned at Fontaine. For the rest of the car ride, you got to know more about him. More about his little brother who was killed and why he joined the Scarlets. Why he took up a gun and was never putting it down again.
It made more sense in context. The circumstances were always fucked in the hood. And the tender heart you tried so hard to guard against all evil only broke more for Fontaine. He told you about how his mother retreated into herself. Only got herself together long enough to fake the funk at work and then disappeared into her room. 
With mounting bills and not wanting to live off anyone, Fontaine did what any other Black male did in his situation. He grew up. 
You told him about your toxic childhood. How your parents alternated between fighting and fucking. That when your dad was lost to the drink, he’d look at you like you were a stranger. And when he sobered up, he looked at you like you were a princess atop a castle. You never knew which side you were going to wake up to.
You told him about your mother and how she always seemed to be jealous of you. Like there was some aspect about how she raised you that she didn’t like. That it was your fault for taking her instruction to heart and not giving a fuck about what anyone said. You wanted something, you went after it. 
There was no love in your house so you got out when you were 17 and never looked back. Fuck them. You didn’t want to stay in that house anyway. 
Reaching the Fairgrounds, you and Fontaine turned to lighter subjects. How or why you got into dancing. Your favorite dancer was Debbie Allen. You wanted to be her so badly that you studied every move she ever made. That you went for ballet because that was where she started. 
She was able to get into TV but that wasn’t really where you wanted to be. Maybe when you got older and your knees started to rebel. For right now, you just wanted to dance. To be free. 
You held hands with Fontaine, talking and laughing while you pulled each other around the Fairgrounds. You’d only been once, when you were younger, and hadn’t bothered since then. 
There were rides and the sizzling smells of meat that made your mouth water. Desserts, weird food combinations like a Krispy Kreme donut burger, and the sounds of children’s laughter. The ground was littered with wrappers, coupons, and papers. 
Fontaine paid for your play cards, dropping a wad of money that made your eyes bug out. He kissed your cheek and told you to go nuts. Anything you wanted to do or try. There was no limit. You told him that he was crazy. 
“The world and the moon to match, sweetheart,” he whispered against your lips. You grinned and dragged him everywhere. On the ferris wheel, on the spinning ride, and on the zero gravity one until your stomach hurt so badly that you had to sit down. Your head spun painfully and Fontaine rubbed your hand while you giggled about it.
You went into the funhouse with its crazy mirrors. Fontaine only had one request, that you go on the haunted ride with him. You were determined to stay far away from it. You hated the feeling of being scared. He peppered your cheeks with kisses until you relented and got on with him.
You suspected that was his plan all along. To have you clutch onto him for dear life. He chuckled at your theatrics but didn’t make you feel bad.
“Come on, girl, I got you,” he said. He kissed your cheek and pulled you into the safe embrace of his arms. You giggled. You was gon’ have his babies if he kept doing cute shit like this. 
After that ride, you settled on Pink’s for dinner. The smoke from the truck was whipped into the sky by a bitter breeze. You should have brought a jacket. You forgot how fucking cold it got at night out here. 
Without saying a word, Fontaine made you wear his jacket. You attempted to tell him that it was okay, if nothing else yo mama ain’t raise no bitch, but he refused to take it back. “I’m hot anyway,” he said. 
You grinned, looking up at him. He winked at you and ordered you food. You ate and laughed and talked about nothing in particular. Shit you found on TV. Movies you happened across. Books you’ve read. Music you listened to. 
You yawned and leaned your head against him after another round of rides and dessert. A huge funnel cake topped with ice cream and chocolate drizzle. Fontaine had to help you finish it in the end.
“You gon’ have to roll me out of here after all this,” you said, licking your spoon for every wayward swipe of chocolate and smacking your lips with a loud pop. When Fontaine didn’t say anything, you turned towards him. His gaze was fixed on your mouth. 
“Fontaine?” You asked. 
He gripped your chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing you closer. He licked the corner of your mouth and you moaned, feeling his hot tongue on your cold face. He hummed in the back of his throat. 
“Delicious,” he said. 
He pulled back with a smirk, rubbed your chin, and pulled back. Your whole body heated. Cascading down your body in waves. You rubbed your thighs together, wetness starting to pool in your panties. 
“We got a little more to spend before we dip. Let’s get you that teddy bear,” he said.
“I was just joking about that,” you said. You gulped around the tension. So thick, it stuck in your throat. 
“I wasn’t,” he said. He stood up from the bench and held out his hand. You took it, hand fitting his like a glove. He threw out the plate you finished up and tucked you into his side while he walked.
In the middle of the grounds, there was a row of carnival games like ring toss and popping balloons. There was also a basketball hoop. Fontaine made a beeline for it, rolling up the sleeves of his flannel. A staff member scanned the play card and loaded up the basketballs for Fontaine.
He tested the balls and soon, started sinking ball after ball. Your mouth dropped open. He could’ve been a basketball player with that lethal game! The staff member told you to pick out a small teddy bear. Fontaine stopped you. 
“One game is a small teddy bear, but three mediums is a big one right?” Fontaine asked.
The staff member, some pimply kid, popped his gum and nodded. Fontaine loaded up more games, winning each and every one until you had three medium ones and exchanged it for a giant fuzzy teddy bear. It was so big! You squealed when the staff member handed it to Fontaine. He chuckled at your reaction. 
You squeezed one of the arms and couldn’t help jumping up and down. You were happy to take the small teddy bear. But the fact that he kept going made your heart soar. “Worth it just to see your face,” he said. You kissed his cheek a hundred times and he finally smiled.
It felt like your world narrowed to that expression on his face. Watching his whole face light up and eyes crinkle. He had a wide smile that took up his whole face. His smile was infectious but you were too dumbstruck to smile back. 
“Come on,” you said. You grabbed his hand and pulled him forward.
“Where we going?” He asked.
“I wanna remember tonight. And you better smile!” He chuckled while you pulled him to the nearest photobooth. You probably should have done this before winning the bear, but fuck it. Tonight had been nothing short of perfect and you wanted to capture this moment the best way you could think of. Like those shows and movies did. With something real. Not just something captured on your phone. 
You wanted it in your hands. You wanted to slide it into a binder so that you could look at it over and over while in class. Daydream about him in between lockers and free time. Glance at him from across the way on the courtyard. Dance with him at Homecoming. He made you feel young, like you were back in high school with your first crush. Fontaine was everything. Absolutely everything. 
The teddy did fit, and you scooted in first. Fontaine chuckled and sat down next to you. He swiped the card and it began to give you instructions. Fontaine was serious the first go around, mean mugging the camera. 
“Forreal this time!” You giggled. 
Fontaine sighed and rubbed his head. “A’ight, a’ight,” he said. He loaded it up once more. He kissed you in the first picture. Then you did a few silly ones. He tickled you for one of them. On the last one, you couldn’t think of what to do next. So you just looked at him. He looked at you. The camera flashed and you saw it reflected in his beautiful eyes. 
You continued staring at each other until the booth buzzed, wanting to know how many copies you wanted. You printed two and finally scooted out. Fontaine scooped up the two cards and you placed your head on his shoulder to look at them. 
“Thank you, Fontaine. For everything,” you said. He just…he had no fucking clue what tonight meant to you.
“The world and the moon to match, sweetheart. You ain’t gotta thank me for this,” he said.
“Yes, I do. And I know just how to thank you,” you said. Your voice turned a little flirty and you lifted your head to look at him. He looked down at you and smirked. 
“Is that right?” He asked, licking his lips. 
“Yup. We better get back to my place before my roommate gets home,” you said. 
Fontaine took your hand and tugged you towards the entrance. You giggled the entire way, feeling giddy and light in a way you hadn’t in a really long time. Fontaine gave you that. Gave you that freeing feeling back. You thought you’d lost it when you accepted that your parents didn’t know how to love you. 
His Cadiallac sped down the open freeway, too late for the out of town mu’fuckas to fuck it up for everyone else. The windows were down and the wind rushed through the car with wild abandon. He drove safely, but fast towards your place, hand on your knee the whole way. 
The tension was back with a vengeance. Like you were both standing on top of a cliff somewhere ready to dive off. Heat pooled along with your arousal between your thighs and you couldn’t stop clenching them. 
Lust. Lust was a powerful thing. Detonating bombs in your core until you were practically drunk on them. Looking forward to them. Until there was only the dirty thoughts running through your mind and the feel of his callused hand on your knee. 
Fontaine managed to find a spot on your street. You were on the wrong side of Stocker, where you had to get to the spot faster than your neighbor. Fontaine got out first and then opened the door for you. He even grabbed the teddy for you so he didn’t have to come back outside for it. 
You pulled him into your crappy apartment that you shared with Kimmy. Considering Rusty was paying for it, it could have been worse. You still owed rent to him and had to clear out when he wanted to ditch his wife and come mess with Kimmy. She was out with her son and likely wouldn’t be back until sometime Sunday. You didn’t tell Fontaine this. You didn’t want him to think that you were plotting on him. 
But you were. You weren’t sure if he was the type to stay after sex, or once he got off, he was already looking for his pants. You wouldn’t really bring him upstairs if it was the latter. You got the feeling that he was a little clingy under that hard facade. 
You only turned on enough light to get across the living room and into your room. You turned on the lamp. Both of you were breathing heavily. Bodies preparing to experience an unparalleled pleasure. 
Fontaine gripped your hips and you giggled, accepting the kiss he laid on you. The ones before had been tame. He had been holding himself back. These were wilder. Crazier. Lips smashing into yours with a desperate plea to get closer and stay closer. 
He pushed his jacket off of your shoulders and you worked on the buttons of his flannel. He helped you pull it off of him and you licked your lips at your first real look at his body. At the tattoos down both sides of his arms. You didn’t have time to catalog them all, but you would eventually. You were going to lick and trace every single one of them.
He was thick in all the right places. A hard stomach and big arms. His stubble tickled your chin while he started to kiss your cheeks and your neck. You were a twisting mess of flailing arms and legs trying to get out of your sandals, his shoes, and his pants while working your way over to the bed.
You pushed him to sit on it and he bounced with a small chuckle. You dropped to your knees, tugging at the zipper of his jeans. “Yo, what you doin’? Ladies first,” he said.
You leaned up and kissed him. “I appreciate that, but I said I wanted to thank you proper,” you said. 
“Sheeit, don’t let me stop you then,” he said. He grinned, gifting you with another rare smile from him. It fueled your desire. 
You tore desperately at his pants and briefs, freeing his long, thick dick. You moaned at the sight of it. The tip already weeped, precum beading. You swiped your tongue at it and Fontaine moaned, rolling his neck. 
You continued to please him, licking him in certain spots trying to learn what turned him on. What made his dick twitch in your hands or his balls jerk. You wrapped your lips around his thick head and sucked him down. 
“Fuck! Just like that!” Fontaine groaned. His hands disappeared into your braids, tugging on it. You groaned around his dick and he hissed in return. You batted your eyes at him and sucked him for real this time. No more teasing. No more games. No more tests.
You drooled on his dick, growing wetter at the act. You could practically feel him inside you already, ruining you for any other man. You used both of your hands to please him where your mouth couldn’t reach. 
Sputtered words and soft commands filled your ears on top of you gulping him down. “Mm, suck that shit down, sweetheart,” he groaned.
That spurred you on, that you were doing a good job. You gripped his thighs and leaned up to take more of him. “Gah damn,” he said and licked his lips. 
You took him in deeper, as far as you were able without using your hands. You breathed where you could. The only thing that mattered was letting him know what this night meant to you. What he meant to you. 
You slurped on his dick, letting the spit lube up more of his dick for you to slide on him. His moans grew louder, fingers clutching your braids harder. “I’m finna bust,” he groaned.
You kept going. As if that was supposed to stop you? That was the goal! You wanted him to bust. You wanted to empty his balls into your mouth. You wanted to taste every ounce of his cum in the back of your throat.
He gasped and he was unleashing himself inside you, filling your mouth with him. You swallowed him down and moaned, arousal leaking from you. Pussy throbbing. 
Fontaine grabbed his dick and pulled him from your mouth, tapping the head against your lips. You kissed him and he smirked. “You a bad one, ain’t you?” He asked.
You shook your head. “Oh? You a good girl?” He asked.
You nodded. He hummed, the low vibration sending signals down to your pussy. “Good girls get rewards don’t they?” 
You nodded, too struck dumb by him to say anything else. What was there to say? If you opened your mouth, all kinds of sticky, gooey, lovey dovey shit would fall out and you’d never been good at that. 
Fontaine stood up and helped you to stand, he kissed you, not caring that he just finished in your mouth. You loved a nasty nigga. He unzipped your dress and kissed your shoulders while it fell from your body.
He unhooked your strapless bra, freeing your titties and licking his lips at the look of you. “Like two little chocolate kisses for me,” he said. His lips descended on them, suckling each one and learning the shape and feel of them in his mouth. 
His hands worked your panties off, pushing them off your legs. He kissed on your chest as he laid you down and now it was his turn to get on his knees. His turn to push his head between your legs and suckle his way past your pussy lips. 
“Oh fuck!” You moaned. His tongue was a gift from the gods. Long and big, he flattened it against your pussy and moved his head in circles. Your breaths shuddered and your body twisted, legs shaking. 
He pulled the orgasm from you like it was his divine right and you screamed out, lungs burning with the effort. Fontaine kissed your thighs and your belly, wiping your essence off on you.
“Let me taste,” you begged. Fontaine chuckled and climbed up your body and kissed you, letting you taste just how wild he made you. You scratched up and down his chest and back, pulling him closer. 
“Let me feed you this dick,” he said.
“Feed it to me, baby,” you moaned.
He gifted you with another grin. Wide smile and crinkly eyes that you wanted to swim in. He pushed his jeans completely off and next went his black tank. He didn’t have any tattoos across his spacious chest and you ran your hands over him, learning every mole or scratch on him. 
He had a faint scar across his shoulder and you traced it with your thumb. You didn’t have time to ask him about it before his dick was pushing at your entrance.
You hissed and pushed on his chest. You were sure you were wet enough, but he was still massive. “Slow! Slow!” You cried.
He tilted his head and moved his hips, pushing deeper into you. Once the tip was in, he shoved all the way in with one hard thrust. You gasped, your mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ as he stretched you out with a bite of pain.
You slapped at his shoulder. “I said slow!” 
He chuckled and kissed you, trying to ease the sting. “I can’t help it. You so fuckin’ wet. I need you,” he moaned. He fed you long, deep strokes touching a deep, sweet place inside of you that might’ve been your soul. Like he wanted to write his name in the very fabric of you and never lose you. 
You gasped as he delivered these strokes, hissing when he hit that deep spot again and again. Your legs began to shake in earnest. “Mhm, don’t hold it, sweetheart. Let that shit go and lemme feel it.”
“Fon-tai–” you moaned.
“Shhh, I know you wanna call my name. I know you do. But all you gotta do is focus on that nut. Focus on my voice,” he asked.
He stretched you perfectly. And from how much arousal there was, it was staining your sheets. You were sliding up and down on his dick now, titties flapping from the strength of his strokes. 
He moaned, watching the expressions play out over your face. He cupped one of your titties, pushing down to hold you in place while he fucked you. “Mhm, doing so good, sweetheart. So good, focusing on you. Focusing on what I’m giving you.”
“Oh god, oh god,” you moaned, eyes rolling back in your head.
“Shit, just like that baby. Grip it just like that,” he moaned. 
Your cries turned wild, keening, and loud while you gripped onto him and shook and twitched through your orgasm. He hummed while you did so. Satisfied with himself. 
“You-you didn’t…” 
“I know, turn over,” he said. His deep voice let you know that he wasn’t playing. Somehow, you found the strength to flip over. He smacked your ass, watching it jiggle.
He entered you once more and you cried out. You would never get used to his size. Never get used to him slamming and stroking inside of you. 
“Fuck!” You moaned. 
“Yeah, I know,” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice. Hear how he knew exactly what you needed.
He gripped big chunks of your ass and used it like handles to slam you down on his dick, faster, and harder. Your elbows ached from trying to brace yourself against him. You slammed back, giving as much as you were taking.
“Ouue, that’s my good girl. You show me what you got,” he encouraged.
You continued to throw it back, craning your neck in time to see him throw his head back, surrendering to your pussy. It was enough to make you cry out, back bowing to another powerful, earth-shattering, world-altering orgasm. 
“Take that shit, baby,” he moaned and then finally climaxed, pumping you full of his delicious cum. 
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, I need it, baby,” you moaned. 
“I know you do,” he grunted as his dick stopped pulsing. His cum leaked out of you as he pulled out. He spread your ass cheeks to watch. He slapped your ass when you were sure no more would come out. You were thoroughly stuffed like a twinkie. 
Fontaine left the room and you collapsed forward onto the bed, strength leaving you. A bit of nervousness crept in its place though. You wanted to ask him to stay. You wanted to roll over and be all sexy and enticing. As much game as you talked, sometimes you had moments where you couldn’t make your mouth move. 
Fontaine came back into the room with a warm rag to clean you off. You moaned and he rubbed your ass as he cleaned off your thighs as well. You sluggishly rolled over and smiled at him.
“You’re so damn cute,” he said. 
“You are,” you said and smiled.
“When yo roommate getting home?” He asked. 
You shrugged and looked away from him. “Um, I think she said she doing something this weekend,” you said. 
“So you gon’ be home alone?” He asked.
You shrugged again and played with the edge of a pillow. “Yeah, I think so.” 
The bed dipped as Fontaine sat down on it. He grabbed your chin and made you look at him. You didn’t want to. You tried to fight him. But he only smirked and held on. You looked at him and he tilted his head.
“Do you want me to stay, sweetheart?” He asked.
“Only if you want to,” you said.
He shook his head and pecked your lips. “Be a good girl for me and tell me you want me to stay,” he said.
He smiled and you rolled your eyes. He got on your damn nerves. But you couldn’t quit him. 
“I want you to stay, please.”
He nodded and kissed you. Then he pulled you further onto the bed and tucked you under the covers. He defied any expectation you had of his gender. He really was killing it for anyone else. 
Though, as sweet as he was being, you knew that there would never be anyone else.
Me and you. 
Tumblr media
You stopped here and wiped a runaway tear sliding down your cheek. You sniffled. You were both a couple of fools. Two fools in love. In a love that blinded you to anything else.
You should have told him to go. Should have told him that one night was all you could have. Even thinking that, your chest seized like your heart was being compressed under a massive weight. 
There was no you without Fontaine. And there was no Fontaine without you, you hoped.
Tumblr media
Check out the Tyrone masterlist if you need more in your life! The Secret Tyrone Files
Graphics by saradika-graphics
171 notes · View notes
thetimelordbatgirl · 12 days
Text
Generally envy the bitches on twitter right now trying to insist Mace Windu and Martha Jones and Finn won't victims of racist hatred in fandoms, because what fucking reality are they in and how can I get in.
11 notes · View notes
kingpreciouswrld · 1 year
Text
Vanity Fair
Pairing: Gwendoline Christie x Celebrity!Reader
Word Count: <1k
Genre: Fluff
A/N: Just a little something to hold you fiends over until I get some Larissa fics out. Y'all get to play 'Whats in The Box' with Gwen. Have funnn!
Tumblr media
“I’m Y/n L/n and I’m gonna put my hand in a box...”
When Vanity Fair contacted your agent about playing the box game, you immediately asked them to take the offer. You’ve been a huge fan of the show on YouTube having watched some of your favorites play the game. One favorite including your girlfriend, Gwendoline Christie. 
When Gwen played, she (luckily) had her co-star John Boyega to play with her and it just so happened that Vanity Fair wanted you and only you. You didn’t really want to go through it alone so, Gwen decided to come with you if it helped your anxiety. However, before you started acting you used to work with animals so you weren’t that worried…right?
The team had you turn around so they could set up the box and whatever they were gonna put in it.
“Alright y/n, you’re all set.”
You turned around and took a deep breath before looking at the crew in front of you, “I can do this right? Right? I got this…”
You slowly inched your hand in the box before snatching it back out, shuddering at the thought of what could be in there. “I….I don’t…SHIT I think I changed my mind about this.” You looked over to your right and gave your girlfriend puppy dog eyes.
Gwen laughed and shook her head in defeat as she came to your aid, “C’mon y/n/n, just put your hand in very very slowly, you got this.” The older woman held your hand and stroked her thumb over your hand.
You whined and lightly stomped your feet before shaking yourself off. “Okay, okay, whew I- GOD why did I decide to do this?!”
You finally got your hand in (slowly) and gently laid your hand down flat on the object. 
It was rough.
Kinda sharp? 
DID IT JUST MOVE?!
You yelped and yeeted your hand out of the box, tried to run away but Gwen held you steady. “I got you love, you just gotta do it nice and easy. Gently! Very gently…” she said as she tried to stifle her laugh.
“IT MOVED! IT’S ALIVE ISN’T IT! It’s a living creature! That’s my guess!”
Gwen laughed and grabbed you by the waist before leading you to the front of the box. 
“It’s….” 
You picked it up fully, sending Gwen to back up as she was skeptical of the creature. 
“It’s just a beardie! What the fuck? Hiya fella!”
You held him close to your body, supporting its tail before petting him gently, “I’m sorry I freaked out on you baby…” You showed him off to the camera before trying to show him to Gwen.
“Look at him love! Isn’t he the healthiest boy?”
Gwen watched in awe as you handled the bearded dragon but, from afar of course, “He’s definitely a big boy darling.”
You handed him off to one of the crew members before going back into place.
“Gwen, we’d love a shot of you going at it again. How about it?”
You stifled a laugh as Gwen looked wide eyed at the director, “I’ve had my turn, thank you though. I’m good!”
Rolling your eyes, you pulled Gwen to face away from the camera and it was her turn to whine in distress. The blonde immediately grabbed your hand and you gladly held it, “I’ve got you love,” you whispered before giving her a kiss on the cheek.
When everything was set up, you spun her around and held her hand on top of the box as you stood in front of it so you could guide her. 
Oh.
Wait.
Why does Gwen get a stuffed animal and I get a real one?
“Okay, you’re gonna have to be gentle Gwen, like…reaally gentle.”
She took a deep breath and slowly stuck her hand in the box. “Am I touching it? Is it there?”
“Just a bit further, but make your hand flat, use the tips of your fingers.”
You felt her hand grip yours a bit tighter as she touched the stuffy. She screamed and yanked her hand out but just as she did with you, you held her firm with your conjoined hands, “You can do this babe, I got you okay? You’re okay.”
“Shitshitshitshitshit! I already did this! Why do I have to do this again?!” Gwen whined.
“Language love! C’mon we’re almost done, you’re strong. You got this!” You gently guided her hand in the box and she sporadically pet the stuffy all while you giggled.
It seemed as she came to a realization as she gave you a knowing look. Huffing, she grabbed the stuffy by the head and yanked it out of the box, “IT’S THE SAME ONE TOO!”
You died laughing as you hugged her, “You did it love! I’m so proud of you,” you playfully gushed over her. Gwen huffed and hugged you back before throwing the stuffed chewbacca off the set. 
Still within Gwen’s arms, you looked to the camera and waved, “I’m Y/n L/n, it’s been fun, buutt I think I’m done.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A/N: aaanndddd thats it. yup. thats everything. anyways- requests are still open!
292 notes · View notes
tokkionline · 3 months
Note
racism and r*ylos are like two peas in a pod to me. i'm really never gonna forget them terrorizing john boyega.
honestly john boyega deserves financial compensation bc those shippers are VILE...
also i saw ur reaction on my post so i was talking abt this book and its speculated that a once super popular r*ylo fan wrote it because 1. the writing style is eerily similar and 2. the author's previous book apparently has the same plot as one of their fics
honestly published fic is a common phenomenon lately so i dont rly care that it used to be a fic but it turns out that the fanfic author has written really racist shit about finn and openly hated his character, going as far as making him gaston in an omegaverse beauty and the beast au. they basically took gaston's personality and gave it to finn, which resulted to... this
Tumblr media
so obviously the author got called out and their reaction was... questionable
Tumblr media
so yeah... this person might possibly have published a straight omegaverse fic based on r*ylo. yippeee. heres a whole thread
2 notes · View notes
levitatingbiscuits · 8 months
Note
I found your take in the height difference discourse interesting, mainly because I agree, but also because the exact opposite is also true (at least in my experience).
I get the ick a lot of the time Cody is portrayed as the short one in the relationship, mostly due to the connotations that come with being the short one as people have detailed many times before. It’s the exact same problem with Obi Wan being the short one, as in that they’re woobified or even viewed as the submissive one in the relationship or even as the ‘woman’ (and I can’t even begin to get into how many layers of fucked up that is) but what also happens with Cody is it feels a lot more exploitative and sinister than it does with Obi Wan. The difference in their ranks is an interesting thing to explore when it comes to them, but the problem comes when younger or less experienced writers end up portraying them with a power imbalance.
Would canon Obi Wan ever take advantage of anyone, especially in that way? Of course not. But that doesn’t stop some writers. It just feels a lot grosser when Cody is the one being babied, at least to me. Especially since a lot of these people go out of their way to make Obi Wan bigger and more powerful than Cody.
To be clear: you are absolutely right, but I just wanted to throw my two cents in. I think any portrayal of a ship has the capacity to be problematic, we just need to be careful we don’t resort to relying on stereotypes or overused tropes that come with shipping dynamics. Cody or Obi Wan being noticeably taller isn’t inherently bad, but the internal biases of the writer are what could potentially make them that way. All rational people know height has absolutely nothing to do with any of this, and it’s strange that we’re gotten to the point where this inevitably ends up being a problem in every single fandom.
Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem. I've never encountered a fan work where Cody is a smol uwu bean, but that could get pretty weird for different reasons. Codywan is a ship I enjoy for the devotion and fluffiness and old married couple/coworkers vibes, so I tend to avoid fic that specifically revolves around the power imbalance or the age difference, which is likely why I've never encountered this.
I have encountered clone fics where the chronological ages and "sheltered" upbringing (for lack of a better adjective) is leaned into HARD, which can give me the ick if they're portrayed as sexy or appealing rather than tragic or an obstacle to romance. Maybe the ultra smol Cody trend is an extension of that?
And yeah, not all exaggerated size differences are problematic. Some of the clones have canonically turned out extremely large due to cloning mishaps, like Wrecker. Often it's just because the writer or artist thinks it's cute. I've read some very interesting fics that lean into the sci-fi body horror aspect of cloning and even how being genetically engineered to be extremely large can be an obstacle to the clones being seen as anything other than weapons. Sometimes fics can discuss epigenetic factors to explain height alterations, which is very plausible because Jango didn't always get adequate nutrition and rest growing up and the clones were all standardized and specifically made to be at his physical peak.
But the fact that these trends keep happening in this fandom makes them worth examining and dissecting. For example, I remember a lot of stormpilot discourse about why Finn was so often depicted as significantly larger and more muscular than uwu smol Poe, when that's not what John Boyega and Oscar Isaac look like. I've even read some Han/Lando fics that did the same thing to Lando, even though you could just write Skyrissian or Solorgana or Lando/Leia or Skysolo if you want a big size difference in your ship. Considering the star wars fandom's history of racism, I think that it's worth examining why it's so often characters of color that this happens to.
4 notes · View notes
boasamishipper · 2 years
Note
EMILY YOUR TAGS IN THE LATEST POSTSS I'M DYING!! SPILL THE TEA - Sanji aka allkinds-oftrash
Okay.
So I was in the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy fandom for five whole years. From 2015 to 2020. Finn was my favorite character and Finnrey was my preferred ship, and if you know anything about the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy and what an enormous flaming shitshow it became (thanks a lot Rian Johnson and Kathleen Kennedy; I refuse to blame JJ Abrams because he did his best cleaning up their messes), you Know that I - and my fellow Finnreys and Finn stan mutuals - deserve So Much Financial Compensation.
How does this relate to my tags on that tg2 post the other day, you ask? Well......
So being an active Finn stan and Finnrey shipper in the Star Wars Sequel Trilogy fandom for so long (hereafter referred to as the SWST fandom) means that I saw the best of fandom (incredible fic and art and meta and graphics) and the worst of fandom (racism, sexism, misogynoir, I cannot emphasize enough how mindbogglingly, infuriatingly racist some of these fans were) all in one place. What I learned from those five years is something that I've seen in every fandom I've been in since (and in retrospect): characters of color (particularly Black characters) are consistently ignored and overlooked in favor of white characters. Whether this is purposeful or accidental bias is another question entirely that I honestly do not have the spoons to look into. All I'm gonna do is lay out the facts as I see them.
Back to the SWST. We have Rey, our female lead (played by Daisy Ridley, a white woman), introduced to us in The Force Awakens (2015). In TFA, TLJ, and TROS, we are shown that she is closest with Finn (played by John Boyega, a Black man), a former Stormtrooper turned Resistance hero who saved her life, and Kylo Ren, once known as Ben Solo, (played by Adam Driver, a white man) has been trying to manipulate her to the Dark Side (and when that fails, tries to kill her - and also mindraped / tortured her / killed her father figure in TFA).
Who does fandom ship Rey with the most?
Tumblr media
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Which brings me to Top Gun: Maverick (2022), which came out a little under two months ago as I write this. Our characters with the most screentime (and who they are shown ON SCREEN to be closest to) are as follows:
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (Tom Cruise), shown to be closest to Iceman Kazansky (Val Kilmer), his wingman from the first movie; Hondo Coleman (Bashir Salahuddin), a close friend of his who worked with him on the Darkstar project; Warlock Bates (Charles Parnell), NAWDC commander, who Mav is stated to already be acquainted with pre-movie; Penny Benjamin (Jennifer Connelly), his old flame and on-again / off-again love interest; and Rooster Bradshaw (Miles Teller), who he views like a son ("I was trying to be the father he lost."). Mav has an antagonistic relationship with Cyclone (Jon Hamm), who does not hide his dislike of him for the majority of the movie. Mav was also very close with his RIO Goose Bradshaw (Anthony Edwards), who died in an accident when they were at TOPGUN in the first movie.
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw (Miles Teller), shown to be closest to Phoenix Trace (Monica Barbaro), who knows him best, and Maverick Mitchell, who was a father figure to him after his father Goose's tragic death. He has a longstanding antagonistic relationship with Hangman Seresin (Glen Powell), who insults the way he flies (and vice versa) and insinuates that Rooster's father figure was responsible for the death of his father; he and Hangman do come to respect each other at the end of the film, after Hangman saves his and Mav's lives.
Jake "Hangman" Seresin (Glen Powell), shown to be actively disliked by many of the pilots, including Rooster, Phoenix, her WSO Bob Floyd (Lewis Pullman), and Payback's WSO Fanboy (Danny Ramirez). He is shown to be most comfortable around Coyote Machado (Greg Tarzan Davis), whom he holds in as high of a regard as he holds himself ("And here I thought we were special, Coyote."). See above for his relationship with Rooster.
Other close relationships shown to us onscreen include Bob and Phoenix's relationship and Payback (Jay Ellis) and Fanboy's relationship. Payback, Fanboy, Coyote, Warlock, and Hondo are the main characters of color. Halo (Kara Wang), Fritz (Manny Jacinto), and Yale (Raymond Lee) are pilots of color, but have few (if any) speaking lines.
There have been 1005 fics posted under Top Gun: Maverick (2020) - the fact that the tags were combined is a rant for another day - since May 24, 2022, which is the date of the early access premiere. Let's see our most popular ships. (This list excludes x reader fics and does not distinguish whether the ship listed is the Main Ship of a fic.)
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Jake "Hangman" Seresin (397)
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (148)
Robert "Bob" Floyd/Jake "Hangman" Seresin (116)
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (105)
Tom "Iceman" Kazansky/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (76)
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw & Natasha "Phoenix" Trace (62)
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw/Natasha "Phoenix" Trace (52)
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Jake "Hangman" Seresin (28)
Penny Benjamin/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (27)
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell/Beau "Cyclone" Simpson (26)
Now let's take a look at the relationships laid out above that are missing from this list and see how many fics they have.
Bernie "Hondo" Coleman & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (2)
Bernie "Hondo" Coleman/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (0)
Solomon "Warlock" Bates & Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (0)
Solomon "Warlock" Bates/Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (0)
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell & Beau "Cyclone" Simpson (1)
Reuben "Payback" Fitch/Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia (12)
Reuben "Payback" Fitch & Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia (4)
Javy "Coyote" Machado & Jake "Hangman" Seresin (24)
Javy "Coyote" Machado/Jake "Hangman" Seresin (8)
Robert "Bob" Floyd & Natasha "Phoenix" Trace (21)
Robert "Bob" Floyd/Natasha "Phoenix" Trace (17)
And who is being written about the most?
Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw (743)
Jake "Hangman" Seresin (666)
Pete "Maverick" Mitchell (533)
Natasha "Phoenix" Trace (402)
Robert "Bob" Floyd (346)
Javy "Coyote" Machado (197)
Reuben "Payback" Fitch (142)
Mickey "Fanboy" Garcia (138)
Tom "Iceman" Kazansky (119)
Beau "Cyclone" Simpson (80)
Penny Benjamin (79)
Solomon "Warlock" Bates (33)
Bernie "Hondo" Coleman (26)
Notice a pattern here?
This post is not meant to make anybody feel guilty for choosing to write about one ship or another, nor is it arguing that anybody who does focus on one ship (ex. Hangster) over another (ex. Macheresin) is inherently racist. You can't choose what you're into. What I am saying is a fact: the characters of color in Top Gun: Maverick (no matter who their relationships are with) are not being written about as often as the white characters. And though I haven't personally delved into all 1005 fics in this tag, I can guarantee you that the vast majority of the fics in which these characters of color are being tagged in do not feature these characters in a leading role.
Just something to think about.
25 notes · View notes
griseldagimpel · 2 years
Text
I've seen Izzy (Our Flag Means Death) compared to Kylo Ren (Star Wars) and written about why that's not a good or accurate comparison. But it got me thinking, and, here's the thing:
The issues with some Kylo Ren/Reylo fans was that they were being racist towards Finn in fan fic and meta, harassing John Boyega, and harassing fans (and especially fans of color) for speaking out about that.
Not that they liked Kylo Ren/Reylo.
And not being Like That is a standard Izzy fans should hold ourselves to.
(Note: I've got no doubt that some people were shitty towards Kylo Ren/Relyo fans just because they were fans. I'm talking about what the issues were with some members of the fandom; I'm aware there's no shortage of bad takes and shitty behavior on the internet. [While this isn't a fandom I'd count myself as a member of, I did write a Kylo Ren-centric Reylo fic, and it's not something I've been harassed for. Just my personal experience, of course.])
1 note · View note
etherealperrie · 4 years
Photo
Tumblr media
Star Wars Modern Insta AU // Rey Skywalker 
more? Finn
94 notes · View notes
olderthannetfic · 2 years
Note
Old topic, but what are people referring to when they say something is "fandom racism?" Is it people harrasing actors on twitter? Ignoring non-white characters in stories? Someone's fic getting less attention than others? I have spent YEARS reading peoples blogs trying to figure this out and honestly, while I figure there probably are some real problems of people being dicks, a lot of the accusations just seem to be shipping wank. Just, I want to believe people, but the talk seems empty/bitter.
--
Depends on the context.
When they're trying to score points off of other fanfic types, they generally conflate non-fanfic fans being massive shitheads to John Boyega on twitter with shipping statistics on AO3.
(My personal stance is that the laying pipe thing was mildly tasteless at worst and people need to chill about it, that the way the internet at large lobs racist invective at him is outrageous, and that AO3 shipping stats are not activism... but also Kylo sucks and you should ship finnpoe because it's objectively hotter, not because it's more morally pure.)
And yes, your suspicions are extremely justified. There is some fic on AO3 that I think any reasonable person would agree is race kink of the 'big black cock' variety. It's pretty rare, and you really have to go looking for it, but it's there. There's some fic that's unconsciously casually racist in how it treats the background POC in fics focusing on their white castmates.
And I don't mean the fact that they're in the background. I mean shit like those old SGA fics lierdumoa always uses as examples where the white people are scientists and the nonwhite people are janitors or the white people are dog walkers and the nonwhite people are... yes... the dogs in the AU. (Author, why?!) Those particular ones are pretty old, but that kind of pattern shows up on newer fics on AO3 all the time.
But most things linked to directly during wank are not clear cases like this. Often, the accusation will be that the fic is about BBC, but the content is the partner having a size kink for feeling full. Or one character tops in all the fic, and I agree the pattern suggests some underlying racism, but the individual fics treat the character fine.
It's usually just 'wrong guy topped' and 'wrong ship is popular' wank.
Pretending otherwise does nothing to make fans of color safer or AO3 better.
194 notes · View notes
megamindsecretlair · 2 months
Text
Wrong For It
Pairing: Toxic!Tyrone x Black!Fem!/ Plus Size reader
Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, You are in charge of your own reading experience. Intentional use of AAVE. FILTH. PWP, cursing, PIV, oral (female receiving), dirty talk, praise kink, all consensual. Corruption kink if you squint. ONE SHOT.
Summary: Follower Celebration: You voted for Slice of Life with a Toxic Tyrone! While hanging out with your best friend, her big brother Tyrone comes home unexpectedly. You've had a terrible crush on him for as long as you could remember. You're both a little tipsy and feeling each other. You absolutely shouldn't....right?
Word Count: 6,014k
A/N: Happy Follower Celebration!!!!! It's because of YOU that I've enjoyed (19!!!!) Tyrone fics! Not including the multiple parts. I've written sweet, toxic, disrespectful, AU, and spooky Tyrone fics and ya'll still want more! I LOVE YA'LL FRFR!!!! I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it! Special, special shout out to @planetblaque! I could NOT have finished this without you, ILY!!! Please, please consider commenting and reblogging to help support writers! And please put ages in bios! Or get blockt!
Taglist: @planetblaque @dayjlovesromance @sevikasblackgf @melaninpov @amyhennessyhouse @henneseyhoe @honeyoriginalz @justheretostan @black-fairy3 @superhoeva @jarfulloftears @hereformiles @montysstuffs @westside-rot @blackerthings @blowmymbackout @euphoric05 @miyuhpapayuh @nicolexnight @judymfmoody @notapradagurl7 @soft-persephone @justabovewater20 @soapjay @heyauntieeee @theyscreamsannii @mybonafidefeelings @eggnox @honeytoffee @thadelightfulone @tranquilfandomer @kindofaintrovert @l-auteuse @browngirldominion @sunkissedebony97 @lovedlover @issahyland @longpause-awkwardsmile @insburner @slippinninque @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide @babybratzmaraj @iv0rysoap @misskiki90 @harmshake @sageispunk @ciaqui
Tumblr media Tumblr media
“Girl, you never want to hang at my place anymore,” your best friend, Camille, said. 
You sighed and switched your phone to your other ear, grateful that she can’t see your guilty eye roll. “That’s not true, I was just over there…” You trailed off, trying to think of when you were last over there.
Fourth of July. She had a small party, which of course meant that everybody and they mama was invited. It was easy to disappear during the party. Easy to dodge Tyrone, her brother. He wasn’t a bad guy, he was just the neighborhood fuck boy and you had a terrible crush on him.
You’d known Camille and Tyrone all their lives, having grown up right next door to them. You never stood a chance when it came to what type of guy you were interested in. Camille spent many a day complaining about her annoying older brother and how women always tried to be nice to her in order to get to him.
You didn’t have the heart to tell her that during puberty, when you really started to notice boys, you had the misfortune of seeing Tyrone workout with his shirt off. Your summers were spent looking out of your bedroom window and into their backyard where he often hung out with friends. The no shirt/black shorts/towel hanging out of his back pocket combo unlocked something in you. 
You’d been changed. Altered. The fabric of your mind had been ripped apart and you spent the rest of your days trying to find someone who held a candle to Tyrone. None ever did. 
“That’s right, yo bitch ass don’t even remember when. Please? I got the house to myself for once,” Camille said. 
You sighed through your nose and looked at your phone. It was late in the afternoon and you didn’t have anything to do. Still. There was always the possibility of running into Tyrone. 
“You sure you got the house to yourself?” You asked.
“Yes! Now come on! We can make fun of that new movie on Netflix,” she said. 
“Let me get decent and I’ll be over,” you said. You held the phone away from your ear as Camille squealed loud enough to be heard around the corner. 
“Bring snacks!” She said. She signed off and you groaned, flopping back onto your bed. You were an adult. Tyrone came home later and later and sometimes not at all. He was either lamped up with his latest conquest or he was out selling weed. He still sold premium shit compared to the shops and you had no idea where he got it from. 
You got yourself together and raided your pantry for your favorite snacks. Chips, cookies, and pieces of candy. You were going to have a terrible sugar rush but fuck it, it was the weekend. 
Soon, you were locking your door behind you and crossing the dry lawn towards Camille’s house. You checked her driveway. There was only her busted Toyota Camry out front. You could breathe easier. Eventually, you’d have to get over him. Eventually, you’d have to stop letting your avoidance of him get in the way of your friendship with Camille. You just needed more time.
You shivered with the roaring wind outside. You hadn’t expected to go to her place tonight and you were comfortable in the heated house with your shorts, long sleeved shirt, and fuzzy socks. Outside though, you were exposed to the elements. Once it dropped below 70 in LA, it was freezing.
Camille finally opened the door, her deep ebony skin almost a match for her brother’s. She had thick, curled hair that was tied up into a high ponytail at the moment. She wore a tie-dye graphic tee with the sleeves cut off and gray joggers.
She squealed when she saw you and threw her arms around you, pulling you into a big hug. You giggled and braced yourself from the added weight of her. “You act like I died,” you said.
“I thought you did. How you still live next door and I, like, never see you unless we go out?” She asked. She took some of the snacks from your hands and let you into the house. You followed behind her, closing and locking the door, and moved into the living room. Since no one was there, you had the chance to watch TV on the big screen. 
You always loved being at their house. It wasn’t much. And it was just as grungy as your place growing up, but it was clean and full of love. Their mom was like a second mom to you, always making sure you were fed and gave you dolls on your birthdays. 
Camille already had an assortment of liquor lined up on the table like you were pre-gaming back during your clubbing days. “Damn girl,” you said, noticing it. 
Camille dumped the snacks onto the table and grinned at you. “Been so damn long, I forgot what you drink!” 
“Stop. We talk all the time,” you said.
Camilled sat down on the brown, weathered couch with a big sigh. She avoided looking at you and picked at something on the cushion. “Don’t feel like it, is all,” she said.
Shit. Now you were feeling guilty. You sat down next to her and pulled her into a hug. “I just been busy at work, bestie. I’m sorry I’ve been MIA,” you said.
She grinned and shrugged. “I get it. Work is a bitch! Now let’s get drunk like we used to!” 
You shook your head and again, something was telling you to throw caution to the wind. Before long, she was queuing up a movie on Netflix. She popped the top to the tequila and lined up two shots for you and two for her. 
You both shot it back, howling at the burn of alcohol. “Gahh damn!” You said when your throat calmed down enough. 
“Woo! Shall we play a game?” Camille lowered her voice and waggled her eyebrows. You laughed and shoved her away.
“The last time we played one of your drinking games, I was up till 3am puking my guts out!” 
“That was on me. We probably shouldn’t have taken a shot every time that man licked his lips. Trevante is sex on a stick!” Camille said and cackled. 
The sweet burn of alcohol dropped to your stomach and warmed you up from the inside out. You only shook your head and agreed. 
Soon, you both were falling back into your normal routine. You laughed, made fun of the trash ass movie, and drank and ate your way through the night. You yawned for the tenth time in as many minutes. Fuck, you missed this. You missed hanging with your best friend. 
Guilt wrapped an icy tentacle around your gut. It was your fault that you hadn’t had many times to unwind and catch up with your bestie. You had been so focused on work, so focused on keeping your mind busy, that you hadn’t realized just how long it’s been. 
You vowed to change it. You were not going to let some man get in the way of your friendship. No matter how fine he was.
Camille’s soft snores made you turn towards her. You giggled and shook your head. She always fell asleep first. And she fell hard. It would take an earthquake to wake her up. And even then, you both were desensitized by them by now. The rough rocking was akin to being rocked as a baby at this point.
You were sleepy but not ready to fall asleep just yet. You decided to help her clean, not wanting to be a pig in someone else’s house, best friend or not. You swept up crumbs, wrappers, and carried shot glasses over to the kitchen. Fuck. Everything was still familiar to you.
The light over the stove was on so you didn’t turn on the overhead lights. An ache beat in your head and you didn’t need the extra tension. The kitchen had peeling sky blue paint, tile countertop, and there were clean cups and bills overtaking the counter top. 
You hummed slightly as you cleaned up, knowing exactly where they kept everything. You set the shot glasses upside down on the drying mat. The humming was just loud enough to not hear the door open and close. Or hear someone approaching behind you.
The circle of arms around your waist made you squeal in fear and tense up, throwing your elbow behind you. You connected with something soft but solid, and there was a tiny “oomf”. 
You moved away and turned around, chest on fire. You held up your hands. You couldn’t fight worth a damn but whoever it was didn’t need to know that.
“Damn girl, watch where you throwing them elbows!” Tyrone groaned, rubbing his stomach.
“Tyrone?” You asked.
Tyrone winked at you and smiled. You scoffed and rolled your eyes. It took a few, deep breaths for your body to catch up to the fact that you weren’t in danger. Not physical danger anyway. You placed your hand over your heart and the rapid thumbs began to slow down. 
Tyrone leaned back against the counter and shoved his hands into his oatmeal colored hoodie. He wore a matching beanie and the hood was pulled up, hiding his beautiful hair that he lovingly took care of. You were brought back to plenty of days spent on their porch while Camille braided his hair and he talked shit. 
He considered himself an expert on relationships, despite never really being in one, and he never wasted an opportunity to educate you on men. He always told you that niggas weren’t shit and you were better off getting in, getting off, and getting out. 
Tyrone licked his lips and looked over your body, tilting his head. He grinned as he did so and you suddenly felt naked. Like he stripped you with his eyes and you were now exposed. Of course, it only got you thinking about being naked with him. Of being underneath him while he did all kinds of nasty shit to you. 
You cleared your throat, thankful that your rich brown skin didn’t show when you were embarrassed or flustered. The tips of your ears did burn something fierce though. “What are you doing here?” You crossed your arms. You sounded a little breathy, but that was okay. You were still trying to calm down from being scared.
“Live here,” he said. 
You sighed. Yes, you walked into that one. “Camille said you were gone tonight,” you said.
“Decided to come home early. Guess I just knew that yo pretty ass was in my kitchen,” he said.
No, no, that did not make your stomach flutter. That did not have an answering throb in your pussy. You shifted from one foot to the other, nails digging into your sides. 
“More like you got in a fight with your latest squeeze,” you said. You huffed a laugh, trying to break the sudden tension. Their kitchen wasn’t that big and Tyrone had a habit of making it seem like he was the only person in the room. He approached you, getting into your personal space. You tried to lean back, but your back was already against the counter.
Tyrone’s eyes were at half mast, likely high. He shifted closer until you were nearly chest to chest. He leaned down. Your lips parted. What was happening right now? Was he going to kiss you? Right now? Right here? With Camille in the next room? 
He reached out his hand and you did your best to prepare. You pinched your side. Were you really going to let this man kiss you? 
He reached next to you and grabbed one of the shot glasses you just cleaned off. He grinned. “Jealous?” He asked. He moved away, opening a small pantry next to the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of Hennessy. 
“No,” you scoffed, injecting enough venom in your voice to fell an elephant. Your chest hurt for entirely different reasons now, a type of burning working its way through your lungs. You wanted to hit him. You wanted to slap that smug grin off of his face. 
“Who still says ‘squeeze’? When did you turn into an old lady?” He asked. He poured himself a shot and knocked it back. You were a fool but you watched the way his throat worked down the liquid. You wanted to lick him. Wanted to plant your nose right at the hollow of his throat and kiss him. 
You rubbed your head and moved away from the sink. “I’ve always been an old soul,” you tossed over to him as you passed him. He tugged on your long-sleeved navy shirt, pulling you back into the kitchen.
“Hol’ up, where you going? Shit, I ain’t seen you in a cool minute,” he said. 
You shrugged out of his embrace and refolded your arms. As long as you had a barrier against Tyrone, he couldn’t see how fast you were breathing. You were thankful for the low light as well. That he couldn’t see the way you followed his every move. That your eyes darted to his lips whenever he spoke. 
 “I been around,” you said and shrugged. 
“Naw, you were, like, always over here. Then you up and dipped, what’s that about?” He asked. He poured himself another shot and knocked it back, eyeing you over the rim. You held eye contact for a beat, perhaps two, before grinning and shrugging once more.
“Been busy. Why you giving me the third degree?” You asked.
“Damn, can’t a nigga make conversation?” He asked.
The giggle left you before you had a chance to snatch it back and hold it inside. Giggling would lead to flirting, which would lead to dangerous thoughts. You were a bit tipsy, feeling loose and unencumbered. It was a dangerous position to be in. Especially around Tyrone. 
“I better go wake your sister up before she go looking for me,” you said. You smiled and moved past him once more. Again, he grabbed the back of your shirt and pulled you back in front of him.
He invaded your space, moving closer. Close enough to smell the Henny on his breath. “Why you keep trynna escape?” 
“I’m not,” you said. 
“You look too damn good in them shorts,” he said. He tilted his whole body to the side, exaggerating his movements to look at your legs. You laughed and shoved at his shoulder. 
“You need to stop!” You said. Any minute now, Camille was going to wake up. The last thing she needed to see was you flirting with her damn brother in her kitchen. You came over here to hang out with her, not make googly eyes at Tyrone. 
That color looked damn good on him though. It stood stark against his dark skin, but it suited him. It was rare that you saw him in bright colors, and the muted oatmeal color just worked on him. Everything worked on him. He was one of those annoying men that never had a bad day.
“Why I need to stop?” He asked. He straightened up and tugged on the front of your shirt, pulling you closer. You were trying to resist, trying to tug yourself backwards. But he was stronger. He pulled you forward and you braced yourself by grabbing his upper arms. You were chest to chest now, staring up into his dark eyes. 
“You’re Camille’s brother,” you whispered. 
“You’re Camille’s best friend. Fuck that mean?” He asked. 
You grinned but immediately squashed it, poking the sides of your cheek with your tongue. You mentally slapped yourself, knowing full well you should not be enjoying this. Should not enjoy the way he grinned slowly, hand still clutching your shirt to keep you in front of him. Like he wanted you there.
“Tyrone…”
“Shhh,” he said. He licked his lips and leaned forward, rubbing his cheek against yours. You sighed. He had a bit of prickly stubble there and it felt good against your smooth skin. He kissed your cheek. “Let me kiss you.” 
You shook your head, looking down at his hand on your shirt. “We shouldn’t…”
“You say ‘should or shouldn’t’ one more time and I’ma kiss you anyway,” he said.
You shook your head, looking back up at him. “Tyrone, Camille will kill us,” you whispered.
“All you gotta say is that you don’t wanna kiss me. You just keep giving me bullshit excuses,” he said.
“Fine, I don’t wanna kiss you,” you said.
“Bullshit,” he said. He leaned forward and kissed you anyway. You squealed and gripped his arms harder, intent on pushing him away. But his lips were warm and wet. Sexy. He kissed like he walked; lazy, smooth, in control. 
The kiss made your pussy flutter, growing wetter by the second. He moved his hands to your waist, pulling you closer. It was like you weren’t close enough or something because he pushed you against the countertop. He ground his hips into yours and you moaned quietly, feeling something hard press into your belly. He grabbed two handfuls of your ass and squeezed.
His tongue explored your mouth, licking along your bottom lip. You hissed and ended on a sigh. When there was a natural break, you took the opportunity to pull back. Tyrone opened his eyes and grinned.
“Tyrone! You know we shouldn’t–”
Tyrone’s lips found yours once more, hands gripping your hips and digging in like he was looking for lost treasure. You moaned, gripping onto him just as hard. You finally got to taste him, that subtle hit of Henny on his breath, and it was everything you pictured it to be. Only better. It was real. It was magical. 
He pulled away and tilted his head at you with a grin. You bit your lip to keep from saying what you should or shouldn’t do. You were torn between two places. On the one hand, you felt so guilty kissing Camille’s brother. Everybody grown, but it still felt taboo. Like you were breaking a sacred girl code. On the other hand, you were selfish and greedy for more.
Tyrone grabbed your hand and began to tug you into the other room. You dug your heels into the hardwood floor, stopping him in his tracks. “What are you doing?” You asked. 
“‘Bout to get into some fun with you,” he said. He winked at you and you rolled your eyes, refusing to let him see how much he was affecting you.
“Oh, no, no, no. A kiss is one thing. I’m not going to your room,” you said. You had to draw the line somewhere. No amount of good dick was going to mess up your friendship. 
Everyone’s had a spin on Tyrone’s dick. And it was just your luck to fall for the resident fuck boy who handed out orgasms like Halloween candy. There had been plenty of times that you and Camille were minding your sweet business when a group of girls would suddenly break out into an argument about who hopped on Tyrone’s dick last. You were not going to add yourself to that long list. 
Tyrone sighed and hung his head, grabbing your hips and pushing you deeper into the kitchen. You were out of sight of the living room by now, but he didn’t stop until you were at the farthest possible point, leaning against the door that led to the side porch. You yelped, not used to being manhandled quite like this. 
Tyrone dropped another kiss to your lips, hands roaming under your shirt and fiddling with the swell of your breasts. You just wanted to point out once more than you were expecting to hang out with your best friend, so no bra was required. 
Tyrone kissed your neck, warm lips pressed to your pulse point. You sighed, gripping the sleeves of his hoodie. He moved one hand lower, reaching under your shorts slowly and giving you enough time to stop him. You didn’t. 
He slipped beneath your panties and he ran his fingers through your wet slit. He hummed in the back of his throat. He kissed his way up to your ear. “I just want a little taste. There’s no harm in that right?” 
You tried to form words to tell him that there was harm. There so was. But then he planted the visual of him tasting you there. You leaned up on your tiptoes the further he explored your damp curls, dipping a long finger into you. You bit your lip to keep from moaning too loud. You were so damn afraid of getting caught that it was a weird mix of fear and arousal that kept you rooted to the spot. 
You wanted to resist him. You wanted to be strong enough to move his hand and keep him wanting more. Instead, all you could do was enjoy his fingers playing with you. “Please? Just a little taste?” He asked.
He lifted your leg to give him better access and your head thunked against the door. He had the perfect mix of pressure and rhythm that it was driving you crazy. Making your knees wobble.
You sighed choppy, breathy sounds and nodded. One little taste wouldn’t hurt that much. He grinned, kissed your ear, and then removed his fingers. He licked them while he looked you in the eye and he moaned around his fingers. 
He grabbed your hand and pulled you out of the kitchen. You tried to tiptoe around a sleeping Camille but Tyrone stomped his way through the living room. Camille snored and jerked in her sleep but made no indication that she was close to waking.
Inside Tyrone’s room, you smelled a subtle weed scent. He closed the door behind you and turned on the light. It only turned on his ceiling fan, so he worked with muted lighting. He tossed off his hoodie and beanie, revealing a plain white shirt underneath. He took that off as well and he wore a white tank underneath.
Fuck, he was so hot. You watched as his arms moved and muscles bunched beneath his skin. He moved a blanket off of his bed and then grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the edge. Before you could sit, Tyrone pulled down the sides of your shorts and revealed your racy underwear. You had plans to wash today and these were all you had in the meantime.
Tyrone grinned. “I like these,” he said. 
“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” you groaned. You covered your face, burning cheeks scalding your hands.
“Why not? Been checking you out for a while,” he said.
He ran his fingers along the gusset of your panties and you bit back a moan as his knuckles ran up against your pussy. “Liar,” you sighed.
He grabbed your hand from your face and pulled you forward so that you could cup him through his sweatpants. “This feel like I’m lyin’?” 
Your eyes widened and you lightly shook your head. No, no it did not feel like he was lying. There was still that needling thought though. “Fuck boys aren’t usually picky ‘bout who they get with,” you said.
Tyrone chuckled and shook his head. He got to his knees and released your hand. He moved in between your legs, pushing them wider around his broad shoulders. He flipped his hand and started playing with your pussy in earnest. 
“So fuckin’ wet,” he whispered. “You must not be that picky neither then.”
“Maybe I’m just horny,” you said. 
Tyrone chuckled and bit your thigh. You whined, loving the bite of pain. “We gon’ see ‘bout that,” he said. 
He moved your panties to the side and kept eye contact with you for as long as he could. You watched his tongue flick out and push past your pussy lips. You moaned, grabbing onto the back of his head. 
“Mm, don’t you taste so good,” he whispered against your pussy. This was wrong. On so many levels. But you couldn’t resist as he continued to tease you, flattening his tongue against your clit but not moving it. 
Your thighs twitched and tingled, needing him to move or do something besides be evil. You moved your hips, silently pleading with him to get a move on. You whined more, moving your hips. Tyrone chuckled, and sucked on your clit.
“Oh shit!” You said. 
“Impatient ass,” he said. 
He continued to tease, suckle, and please you until you were a whimpering, sopping mess. You’d definitely have to wash these panties immediately. They were soaked with your juices. While making out with your pussy, he pulled your panties in between your pussy lips and pulled. Your pussy lips were wedged on the outside of your panties and you leaned up in time to see a feral look cross Tyrone’s face. 
In all of your fantasies, you never quite imagined him looking so enamored with your body. “Anybody tell you that you got a fat ass pussy?” He asked. 
He licked your pussy through the fabric. All you felt was his hot tongue and your back bent off of the bed with a ragged moan. The edges of his tongue hit your lower lips and you cried out. You were ready to burst. You felt like your bones would melt. 
He moved your panties once more and swirled his tongue in the mess you were making. You licked your lips and looked at him. He was focused on some type of demon time you weren’t privy to. 
Right when you were feeling the beginnings of your orgasm, Tyrone pulled away. You huffed and got to your elbows to glare at him. He only grinned. “You said I could have a taste right?” 
You coughed and sputtered as a hundred sentences tried to leave your mouth at once. “You better not leave me like this,” you said. 
“If I did?” Tyrone asked. He tilted his head and looked at you, all hint of playfulness gone. He…wasn’t serious, was he? You stared at him and he stared at you. You were sure that if this were a meme, you’d be laughing your ass off but this was far from funny. You were unbearably wet and uncomfortable, and you needed relief now. 
“I’ll finish myself off, then,” you said. Your hands moved to your pussy so that you could get yourself off. Not like you hadn’t had plenty of practice getting yourself there. Fuck him. Sex god, pft. What a joke. You finally got a chance to hop on community dick and all he was interested in was fucking with you. 
This, you would take to your grave. You’d never fess up to this embarrassing shit. Your fingers barely grabbed your panties to move them when he grabbed your wrist painfully. You cried out and looked up at him. 
“Don’t you ever try to get yourself off when I’m standing right here,” he said in a near growl, voice low and his lip curling in absolute disgust at the thought. 
“But–” 
“I asked you a question. I ain’t say you can play with yourself,” he said. 
You gulped and sank back onto the bed. He released your wrist, tossing it away from him. It flopped onto the bed. You stared wild eyed at Tyrone, not understanding what the fuck was going on. Mark you down as scared and turned on. 
He pulled roughly at your panties, tearing them down your legs with an excited rush. Your body twisted as you wiggled your thick legs out of them. Next went your shirt and his eyes widened seeing your titties. 
He palmed them briefly, testing the weight between his hands and grinning. Then he tugged down his own sweats, freeing his dick. Shit. He was so big. Huge. He lowered his pants just enough to be able to move and then he was leaning forward, running his dick through your folds to get him nice and wet. 
“Ty-”
“Shh, I’m gon’ fit, don’t worry,” he said.
You turned your head to the side, not able to stand him. “Look at me,” he said. 
You shook your head. If you looked at him, you’d lose your damn mind. “Look at me,” he commanded, voice deeper. 
You whined and looked at him. He ain’t even do nothing yet! You only hoped that it wasn’t so obvious that you’d been in love with him forever. That he couldn’t read it all over your face. Surely, you could have this one night. This one night to torture yourself with for the next fifty years as you tried to find a suitable replacement for him. 
“I finally get in this pussy and I want you to see me do it,” he said. 
You nodded. “I see you,” you whispered. 
He placed one hand near your head to steady himself and then slowly pushed inside you. You cried out, back twisting, and he cooed at you. “You can take me,” he said. It was a matter of fact for him. Not up for debate. He said you can take him and so your body welcomed him eagerly. 
He worked his tip in and you pushed against his chest. He was too much. “I ain’t even in yet, gorgeous,” he said. 
“Too much…” you cried. 
“No, it’s not,” he said. He slowly worked himself inside, pushing deeper and deeper until you were full of his dick. He adjusted himself before moving his hand to push down on your stomach. 
Air whooshed out of you. You felt him from both sides. How did that feel so damn good? He worked his hips, giving you deep and long strokes that made you see the heavens and the earth. 
“That’s right, open up this pussy for me,” he groaned.
He leaned down over you and suckled a nipple into his mouth. Your knees pressed against his waist, pushed back by the sheer size of him. You gasped and sighed in tandem with his strokes. It was like he was feeding you the air you needed and taking it away. 
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” you moaned.
“Shh, we ain’t wanna wake Camille,” he said. He pulled on your nipple with his lips and you whined, slapping at his shoulders. 
“That hurts!” You cried. 
He only licked away the sting and did the same to your other nipple. “Shit, shit,” you said and slapped at his shoulders again. He licked all around your areola and sighed, fanning his warm breath across your wet nipple.
“Next time, I’ma tie yo ass up,” he said. 
“Next time!” You squealed. 
He thrusted and hit a sweet spot deep inside. You croaked, eyes rolling into the back of your head. It was like he hit a reset button. He hit it again and again until you were screaming and crying, twitching on his dick with the force of your orgasm. 
“I’m stretching this pussy out, huh?” He asked.
Your mouth worked but you couldn’t make any kind of coherent word come out. You could only hiss and moan with every deep stroke. “Sh–, sh–.” 
“Got this dick all up in yo stomach,” he said.
You jerked and twisted on your way down from an intense orgasm. Tyrone grinned. “Oue, give me another one.”
You hiccuped and shook your head. You couldn’t give him another one. You were only allowed one reset per day, right? 
Tyrone grabbed your ankles and straightened your legs out. He stood up and placed your legs on his shoulders. He kissed your ankle, rubbing the arch in your foot. Your back arched and your mouth dropped open. 
“Ohh, I hit a good spot,” he moaned. He increased his pace. At this angle, he felt bigger. He felt close. Like he truly was digging your stomach out. He adjusted his hips, pushing your thighs against your stomach.
Your hand flew to his arms, trying to push him away. “Why you trynna escape? Huh?” 
“Too. Much,” you said. 
“Aw, my dick too much?” He asked.
You looked at him and nodded. Yes, it was too much. You weren’t used to accommodating someone of his size.
“This dick too much? You sure? ‘Cause I feel pretty good fuckin’ you,” he said, continuing to pound into you. He was relentless, taking pleasure from your body any way he could get it. 
Tyrone licked his thumb and rubbed circles around your clit. Your eyes rolled back, seeing the depth of the universe behind your lids as you came once more.
“There it is, don’t that feel so good? Ain’t you needed that?” Tyrone pulled your legs apart so that he could look at you more clearly. He rutted into you a few more times before he pulled out and fisted his dick, stroking furiously and cumming with the most beautiful, pained expression on his face.
The moan that escaped him was low, guttural. The hot splashes of his cum painted a pretty picture on your stomach. You looked down to stare at that particular artwork. 
Tyrone dropped your legs around his hips and panted. He dug his phone out of his pocket and took a quick picture.
“What the fuck, Tyrone!” You yelled.
Tyrone grinned and put his phone away. “Don’t worry, I won’t show nobody,” he said. “Need something to get off to until I get in this pussy again.”
Your mind went blank trying to comprehend what the fuck he just said. He moved away and cleaned himself off with a red towel that was draped over his chair. He left the room and returned with a wash rag, cleaning his cum from your skin. You were still trying to compute that he wanted to do this again.
“We can’t do this again, Ty,” you said. You got up and found your shirt, pulling it over your head. You fished around his room for your panties. The floor was clean so where…?
Tyrone cleared his throat and held your panties and tiny shorts in his hand. He held it out to you and you reached to snatch it from him. He lifted it above you, way out of reach, and leaned down.
“Give me a kiss before you escape,” he said.
“Ty, no! Give me my panties!” You wanted to shout, but you were ever cautious about waking Camille. Oh god. You weren’t exactly quiet here. Did she hear? Was she outside his door fuming? 
Tyrone turned his cheek towards you and waited. You rolled your eyes and pecked him on the cheek. “Now the other side,” he said. He turned his other cheek towards you. A laugh escaped you and you huffed with the effort of trying to pull his arm down. He wouldn’t budge. So you sighed and kissed his other cheek. 
He slowly brought your clothes back down. You looked up so he was able to swoop in and steal a kiss. He grinned as he pulled back. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said.
You snatched your clothes and hurriedly put them on while Tyrone stared at you. He was so annoying! And you just had sex with him. Amazing, mind-blowing sex but still. 
Dressed, you pushed away from a laughing Tyrone and back into the living room. You sat on the couch and accidentally bumped into Camille. She yawned and stretched out on the couch. “Damn, how long we been asleep?” 
“I don’t know. I think Netflix was watching us for a minute,” you said. You chewed on your nail. You were so sure that she’d read it all over you.
“You cool to stay over like always. I’m taking my ass to my bed,” she said. She yawned again and got up from the couch, tapping your shoulder and headed towards her room. You stared at the light under Tyrone’s door and let your mind wander. 
Ultimately, you followed Camille to crash in her bed like old times.
Tumblr media
Lordy! Yes, I said 19! You can find them all here! The Secret Tyrone Files
189 notes · View notes
1eos · 4 years
Text
how long are yall gonna hold on to the belief that somehow white women aren’t predatory when they repeatedly use their race nd gender as a shield to write cp, inc*st fics, treat mlm relationships as a fetish, turn racism into a kink, nd romanticize ab*sive relationships? white women writing abt the black marvel guy getting off on st*ve r*gers calling him the n word, the way white women built whole PROLIFIC careers writing underage hp fics (most of them including inc*st), the lifting up of ab*sive ships like reylo nd then actively trying to paint john boyega as a monster just bc he’s black. these ‘fandom moms’ go out of their way to try nd groom young kids in fandom nd sexualize children in media too. like call a spade a spade. these white women love to say ‘fan fiction is where women can be free’ or whatever when they’re just using feminist rhetoric to be predators nd it needs to stop
16K notes · View notes
nico-di-genova · 2 years
Text
Nah, because this video is genuinely so absurd to me. Like girlie THIS is what you consider to be the most “disgusting and toxic” part of the Star Wars fandom???? Not the racists who hate Finn simply for being black??? Not the homophobes who freak out every time a lgbt character is hinted at because it means “Star Wars is going woke”??? Not the sexists who actually dislike Rey based on the fact that she’s simply a girl and who jumped on attacking Rose/Kelly Marie Tran simply for existing???
Tumblr media
No. This. This fic right here is what you consider to be the most “disgusting” part of Star Wars fandom? It “makes the lgbt community look bad”? Because there are people out there who dislike Kylo and wish for Rey to be in a relationship that’s built on mutual trust and respect? Keep in mind this fic was written literally before The Last Jedi. Before Kylo was anything more than a fascist villain. When Kylos ONLY interactions with Rey were torturing and attacking her.
If this is genuinely what you consider to be the most “hateful and cruel” Star Wars content, then I literally beg for you to approach the series through a more critical lens. Remove shipping wars from the equation. And realize real people were hurt and discriminated against throughout the sequel trilogy. Oscar Isaac went from a massive Star Wars fan to someone who has stated he has no interest in returning. Daisy Ridley and Kelly Marie Tran had to delete their instagrams due to the hate they were getting. John Boyega has spoken out again and again about the hate he faced while making these movies. Real people were hurt here. Your sad little emo boy getting dumped in the trash in a two second fic that we meant as a joke is not at all close to the most hateful content that exists within Star Wars fan space. Think critically. Do better. And honestly, get the fuck over yourself.
54 notes · View notes
nevermindirah · 3 years
Note
Do you have any thoughts on the use of AAVE for Nile (or lack thereof) in TOG fanfiction? I've been reading some Book of Nile fic and some writers seem to write her as a Millennial™ (using words like "fave" and "woke") but never acknowledge her Blackness in her patterns of speech. I know we don't see her use as much AAVE in the films, but I would argue she's in situations where code-switching would be valued (first in a "professional" environment in the army, then around a group of non-Black strangers).
Hi anon! I have many thoughts on this and I'm honored you asked me! But I should start by saying I'm white and any thoughts Black fans and especially Black American fans have on this that they want to share would be beyond lovely. (I'm not gonna tag anybody bc that feels rude but please add onto this post if any of y'all see this and want to!)
The main reason I personally avoid AAVE for Nile in my own fics is because I'm not Black. But Nile-centric fics by Black writers tend to avoid using much of it too, at least from what I've noticed/understood, and my guess is it's largely for the reason you mention, that she's in situations that encourage code-switching.
In movie canon Nile is highly competent at tailoring her language to each situation she finds herself in. This fantastic linguistics analysis meta shows how skillfully Nile chooses her vocabulary and grammar to meet her goals with different conversation partners in different contexts. In comics canon Nile had a bunch of different civilian jobs before joining the Marines, so she would've had experience code-switching in the ways that made sense for all those different contexts as well as the Marines and her family and high school and wherever else she spent her time before we met her. And now she's spending her time with a handful of immortals none of whom are native English speakers and a fellow Black American but one with a Queen's English UK accent whose professional experience is in the CIA where high-status code-switching is often an absolute must for success or even survival.
Fics featuring Nile are charged with extrapolating from that to how it might show up in her use of language that she's coping with a traumatic separation from her family and her career and pretty much everything she's ever known and now she needs to be able to make herself understood to people who seem to care about her and each other but are super duper in crisis, three (soon to be four) of whom predate Modern English entirely and the only one who's anywhere near her contemporary she's not supposed to talk to for a century. All of these people are telling her that pretty much any contact with any mortals poses an existential threat to her and the rest of the group. How the FUCK is she supposed to cope with that, like, generally? And would it be a more effective way for her to cope if she talked to Andy Joe and Nicky using the speech patterns that she used to use with her mom and brother, to at least retain that part of her identity even if it means having to do a lot of explaining, or would it meet her needs better to prioritize Andy Joe and Nicky understanding what she means with her words over using the particular words and grammar forms she used with her family?
I've seen several fics, both Nile-centric / BoN and otherwise, explore this a little bit in how/whether Nile uses Millennial™ speak. It's often a theme in Nile texting Booker despite the exile because of the popular headcanon that he as The Tech Guy is the only other immortal who understands memes. But Nile's much-younger-than-Booker mom probably uses Boomer and/or Gen X memes and Andy has been adapting to new communication styles for forever as evidenced by her canon high level of fluency with standard-American-accented English.
Which brings us back to people avoiding AAVE because they're not Black and they don't want to make mistakes (or they're not Black and they don't want to get yelled at for making mistakes, though I think many people overestimate how much they'll get yelled at while underestimating how much these mistakes can hurt). I can imagine some Black fans hold back from using much AAVE in fic because they don't want to share in-group stuff with white people who are likely to then adopt and ruin it, as white people so often do with Black cultural stuff. Some links about this including a great Khadija Mbowe video. I'm saying this gently, anon, because you might not know: woke, an example you cited as Millennial™ speak, is AAVE, and that's gotten erased by so many white people appropriating it and using it incorrectly online.
And also there's the part where fandom is a hobby and you never know when you're reading a fic that's the very first thing someone's ever written outside of a school assignment. This cultural considerations of language shit takes a level of effort and skill that not everybody puts into every fic, or even could if they wanted to because they haven't had time to build their skills yet. It's definitely easier for non-Black fans to project our millennial feels onto Nile than to do the layers of research and self-reflection it requires to depict what Blackness might mean to Nile, and it's not surprising that often people sharing their hobby creations on the internet have gone the easier route. There's not even necessarily shame in doing what's easier. It's just frustrating and often hurtful when structural white supremacy means that 3-dimensional Black characters are rare in media and thoughtful explorations of them in fandom are seen by the majority of fans as not-easy to make and therefore Nile Freeman, the main character in The Old Guard (2020) dir. Gina Prince-Bythewood, has the least fic and meta and art made about her of our 5 main immortals.
I've been active in different fandoms off and on for twenty years and I barely managed to write 5,000 words about Sam Wilson across multiple different fics in the 7 years since I fell in love with him. There's an alchemy to which characters we connect with, and on top of that which characters we connect with in a way that causes us to create stuff about them. Something about Nile Freeman finally tipped me over the edge from a voracious reader to a voracious writer. It's not for me to judge which characters speak to other individuals to the level of creating content about them, but I do think it's important for us to notice, and then work to fight, the pattern where across this fandom as a whole Nile gets way less content, and way less depth in so much of the content that's in theory about her, than any of these other characters.
Anyway, back to language. My two long fics feature Nile with several Black friends — Copley and OCs and cameos from other media — but all of those characters except Alec Hardison from Leverage aren't American. It's very possible I'm guilty of stereotyping Black British speech patterns in I See Your Eyes Seek a Distant Shore. I watched hours and hours of Black haircare YouTube videos in the research for that fic and I modeled my OCs' speech patterns on what I heard from some of those YouTubers as well as what I've heard people like John Boyega and Idris Elba saying in interviews, but the thing about doing your best is you still might fuck up.
I'm slowly making progress on my WIP where Nile and Sam Wilson are cousins, and what ways of talking with a family member might be authentic for Nile is a major question I need to figure out. For that, I'm largely modeling my writing choices on how I hear my Black friends and colleagues talking to each other. I haven't overheard colleagues talking in an office in a long-ass time, but back when that was a thing, I remember seeing a ton of nuance in the different ways many of my Black colleagues would talk to each other. Different people have different personalities! And backgrounds! And priorities! A few jobs ago my department was about 1/3 Black and we worked closely with Obama administration staff many of whom were Black and there was SO MUCH VARIETY in how Black people talked to each other, about work and workplace-appropriate personal stuff, where I and other white coworkers could hear. There are a few work friends in particular who I have in my head when I'm trying to imagine how Sam and Nile might talk to each other. From the outside looking in, God DAMN is shit complicated, intellectually and interpersonally and spiritually, for Black people who are devoting their professional lives to public service in the United States.
One more aspect of this that I have big thoughts on but I need to take extra care in talking about is the idea of acknowledging Nile's Blackness in her patterns of speech. There's no one right way to be Black, and Nile's a fictional character created by a white dude but there are plenty of real-life Black Americans who don't use much or even any AAVE, for reasons that are complicated because of white supremacy. (Highly highly recommend this video by Shanspeare on the harms of the Oreo stereotype.)
Something that's not the same but has enough similarity that I think it's worth talking about is my personal experience with authenticity and American Jewish speech patterns. My Jewish family members don't talk like they're in The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and I've known lots of people who do talk that way (or the millennial version of it), some of whom have questioned my Jewishness because I don't talk that way. That hurts me. Sometimes when another Jew tells me some shit like "I've never heard a Jew say y'all'd've," I can respond with "well now you have asshole, bless your Yankee-ass heart," because the myth of Dixie is a racist lie but I will totally call white Northerners Yankees when they're being shitty to me for being Southern, and this particular Jew fucking revels in using "bless your heart" with maximum polite aggression, especially with said Yankees. But sometimes I don't have it in me to say anything and it just quietly hurts having an important part of me disbelieved by someone who shares that important part of me. The sting isn't quite the same when non-Jews disbelieve or discount my Jewishness, but that hurts too.
Who counts as authentically Jewish is a messy in-group conversation and it doesn't really make sense to explain it all here. Who counts as authentically Jewish is a matter of legal status for immigration, citizenship, and civil rights in Israel, and it's my number 2 reason after horrific treatment of Palestinians that I'm antizionist. But outside that extremely high-stakes legal situation, it can just feel really shitty to not be recognized as One Of Us, especially by your own people.
It can also feel really shitty to be The Only One of Your Kind in a group, even if that group is an immortal chosen family who all loves each other dearly. Sometimes especially in a situation like that where you know those people love you but there are certain things they don't get about you and will never quite be able to. I'm definitely projecting at least a little bit of my "lonely Jew who will be alone again for yet another Jewish holiday" stuff onto Nile when at the end of I See Your Eyes Seek a Distant Shore she's thinking about being the only Black immortal and moving away from the community she'd built with a mostly-Black group of mortals in that fic. Maybe that tracks, or maybe that's fucked up of me.
Basically, this got very long but it's complicated, writing about experiences that aren't your own takes skill which in turn takes time and practice to build, writing about experiences not your own that our society maligns can cause a lot of harm if done badly, it can also cause a lot of harm when a large enough portion of a fandom just decides to nope out of something that's difficult and risky because then there's just not much content about a character who deserves just a shit ton of loving and nuanced content, people are individuals and two people who come from the exact same cultural context might show that influence in all kinds of different ways, identity is complicated, language is complicated, writing is hard, and empathy and humility and doing our best aren't a guarantee of avoiding harm but they do go a long way in helping people create thoughtful content about a character as awesome and powerful and kind and messy and scared and curious and WORTHY as Nile Freeman.
229 notes · View notes
wistfulrat · 3 years
Text
it’s the katie leung john boyega kelly marie tran [insert other poc here] experience of somehow being at the center of white media and getting none of the supposed satisfaction bc at the end of the day, you’re not meant to be in those spaces. you’re just meant to be props for white escapism. and if you think transformative spaces like fanfic communities are immune to that exact method of silencing poc, you’re not paying attention.
every day i think about hp and other globally popular western media as conduits for cultural colonialism and the prevalence of whiteness in fandom and the america-centric internet and the inaccessibility of escapism when most fantasy is just another word for euro/western/anglo dreamscapes.
this is the context of what you’re responding to. most of the time being a fan is fun and harmless and i think 99% of people here have good intentions so this post isn’t even targeted at anyone specific and more just the culture itself. bc god, fandom is so very white. i love it here but when u come across posts comparing targeted cyber bullying to the witch burnings of actual indigenous people and the impacts of colonialism that killed off thousands upon thousands of us before imperialists ever reached salem. when u come across discourse that says fandom is an inherently inclusive space because women and lgbtq+ communities built it and yet, it only takes being here for a couple months to be reminded that when they mean inclusive, they mean white. when the attempt at solidarity is tainted by minimizing non-white oppression in progressive spaces. it’s exhausting.
im not a book burner, i like ao3, i read the brit lit canon. i like hp for what it is—a british children’s series about magic, war, found fam, etc. but these are colonial texts and holy fuck the compulsory whiteness of it all. and the way we never enjoy things in a vacuum bc the rest of the world outside western nations were explicitly forced to elevate white aesthetics since the dawn of imperialism. you think subcultures aren’t affected by that? ao3 is growing rapidly as fannish works move closer to mainstream. and yes, i know that this is explicitly because marginalized people have worked hard to fight for freedom of thought/speech/creativity. i am not interested in policing that space because the net positive outweighs the shit bits in my perspective.
but it’s the way the slightest hint of criticism against popular media and the fan works created for it is silenced with a swift “let people enjoy things” when the Thing that is being perpetuated and enjoyed is the very center of white media and white fantasy and white imagination and even white queerness. people will rally against a resurgence of harmful purity culture (as they should) but in the same breath, talk about that as if it’s akin to systematic genocide against non-white people groups. i don’t understand the need to conflate those experiences when the danger you face online as a white woman is still inherently protected by your whiteness. and like yes, marginalized people have made a home out of fic spaces. yes, your fear of that space being taken away is completely valid. but this is still a predominantly white community. and white grief is always, always the priority. that is a safety that you can count on because no social class can match that power of being at the center of culture creating.
so it’s just exhausting as poc in fandom, when you see how non-white creators and fans are treated, and always having to be the nicest, sweetest, most docile version of ourselves because we’re constantly being painted as toxic bullies with an inability to relax/unclench around problematic art. like you all wonder why fandom remains a predominately white space. it’s just wildly uncomfortable being here when you want to enjoy women and lgbtq+ art and transgressive works in general but knowing that support is just not reciprocated.
edit: i wrote a better/more thorough follow up post to talk about good faith discussions vs. shipping wars, colonialism, unhelpful anti/pro discourse, and the role of cultural criticism in transformative spaces if any of you are interested
444 notes · View notes
runawaymarbles · 3 years
Text
A list of canonically queer characters, sorted by how much psychic damage i took adding them to the blog is-there-gay-in-it
7. The City Council and Station Management, from Welcome to Night Vale. Poly? Sort of? They’re definitely not straight. 1 point of damage for the amount of time we spent discussing it.
6. Harley Quinn from the Birds of Prey movie. Blink-and-you-miss-it confirmation. is she queer in my heart? yes. is she queer in movie canon? t e ch n i c al l y i guess. 3 points damage.
5. God, from
Supernatural.
Who appears as a scruffy white man named Chuck. God is bi but Dean Winchester couldn’t be. 7 points damage.
4. The Sad Baseball Fan from Endgame. That was it. That was their Queer Moment. I sat in that theater and endured every word out of his mouth while I thought about Daisy Johnson and Jemma Simmons kissing. 8 points damage but only because they tried to hype it up beforehand.
3. Whatshername and her faceless girlfriend in The Rise of Skywalker. Most of the damage here comes from the fact that they also went out of their way to make us understand that Poe likes women, ok, he really does, look, he wants to kiss this one. But hey, they hope everyone feels represented? I felt really represented by how annoyed John Boyega looked about the entire storyline. 9 points of damage.
2. Castiel, from Supernatural. No further questions your honor. 10 points of damage and 900,000 words of fix-it fic.
1. Albus Dumbledore, but not Albus Dumbledore from the Harry Potter books or Harry Potter/Fantastic Beasts movies. Just the Albus Dumbledore from A Very Potter Musical, because this is the only version of Dumbledore that is actually, canonically, a homo. 30 points of damage, because it’s 10 points from each source.
828 notes · View notes
battlestar-royco · 4 years
Note
hi! would you like to explain why lindsay ellis is problematic? i'm genuinely not trying to be agressive, i'm a fan of hers and i want to be aware of the content i'm consuming! thanks!
I would provide receipts but she deletes tweets and I really don’t care to give her videos views, so if you know the videos and tweets I’m talking about you can find them for yourself if you like and use your best judgment. I used to enjoy how she put film theory/analysis into an accessible YT video format with a left-leaning lens. But around 2 years ago, either I started waking up or her takes started getting worse.
The first red flag was the “I’m Sorry St*phenie M*yer” video. Her thesis was Tw*light Wasn’t Bad Actually We Were All Just Misogynistic to Teen Girls. To be fair, a lot of the contemporaneous pushback was based in misogyny. But in the video there was little to no acknowledgment of the extremely troubling issues that PLAGUE the series (100 year age gap, abuse, Jacob/R*nesmee messiness, blatant anti black and anti Native racism, sexism, homophobia etc). To this obtusely privileged and self-important take, a bunch of POC of course said DO NOT CITE THE DEEP MAGIC TO ME WITCH I WAS THERE WHEN IT WAS WRITTEN because we have *been* saying for years that the books are fucking wack.
She later tried to backpedal by saying she didn’t feel comfortable speaking over Native and black critics by going into the Quileutes, Laurent, the Confederate propaganda etc, but that excuse just seems hm inch resting considering the fact that she made a whole other video essay on indigenous rep in Pocahontas AND Moana using arguments previously made by POC. So we thoroughly have Lindsey and her huge platform to thank for this edgy white feminist Tw*light Wasn’t Bad You’re Sexist Renaissance that’s been going on for 2 years and she won’t even take responsibility.
After that was the post-GOT video, which I haven’t watched but have heard about. To my understanding she also rolls over the colonialism in Dany’s storyline and blames a lot of shit on Starks being “xenophobic” and “isolationist” despite tweeting super positively about the show's horrendous writing throughout the final season until Dany burned King’s Landing. Anyway I won’t get into it because I just don’t think it’s fair for me to do so without having watched, but it’s takes like these that have rendered me unable to take Dany stans seriously since like 2017. Then there was also the “Woke Disney” video decrying Disney’s attempts at diversity, which suspiciously popped up around the time that Halle Bailey was cast as the first black live action princess.
The latest fuckery was her and Jenny N*cholson claiming all sorts of, again, obtusely privileged and blatantly untrue nonsense in support of R***o, such as that most women who like and create content for SW are R***os, that R***o hate is rooted in misogyny, that R***os aren’t racist, that Finnreys are part of the “alt left,” that John Boyega cyberbullies R***os.... And finally, she thought it would be funny to tweet about how she wanted to read R***o-themed fic about Harriet Tubman and the master she escaped from. TL;DR, generally I find it very suspect that this woman who cultivated her platform around media literacy only seems to believe in it when it’s convenient for her, and she uses “woke” and “witty” language to present lukewarm/bad and self-contradictory takes as whip-smart feminism and media commentary.
2K notes · View notes