#porcelain chips

[tachyonblu]

Hannah Zamora explains why she she made an anti-GamerGate video, recalls her conversations with GamerGate supporters like Tachyon and Porcelain Chips. "I felt like it could be a fair discussion. I like discussing things. Especially at the time, it was more of a thing I was doing."

[guiiay]

mercenary’s scar

[cuteiemonster]

I would love a dl pearl doodle

idk why but the thought of her being some sort of doll popped into my head and im too tired to think of something else.

[wereonourwayhome]

i’m so glad people don’t send me asks trying to make me pick sides with any particular beatle! i literally don’t care who was right or who was just in their actions! they are all maladjusted little freaks (read: real people) and the only villain of this story is fame

[eye-coded-rat]

(ep4) CAT3C7494-19111831-29012024

Collection (blood) -/- musical [letter]

Dear old grandpa Augustus, thank you for introducing this gentleman with a bag of tricks! In the olden days we didn't sell dangerous artifacts in the black market, we just traveled the world gifting Hungry Violins to people!

Also, sidenote that Gentleman with Bag asked Uncle Violin about himself and Uncle casually divulged his Entire Life Story. as you do.

Hungry Object that will make your performances GREAT... just gotta pay the price. Your options are:

Don't Feed (everyone who hears your music will get Very Violent, this may lead to eating eyes and the peeling of flesh)

Feed It Yourself (ouchie fingers, blood everywhere, not ideal)

Outsource (so a couple music students go missing, no biggie!)

And last note: this case was filed by Gwen, as far as I can tell all the others up to now have been Sam's.

[miwtual]

[goldpilot22]

I've been obsessed with customizing dolls lately... gonna get some supplies for it today so I can do more than just sewing clothes!

[polysyndetonaddictsupportgroup]

i've rotated glazed defects in my mind about once a month since i read it and i want you to know that matt murdock fanfiction is now my favorite method to learn about supreme court cases and if you ever want to write another supreme court crossover i will gladly show up to your lecture with my three-ring binder and different colored pens

oh thank fuck I have truly found my target audience thank you beautiful readers i am absolutely going to be writing more about the Supreme Court in my fanfiction

[boogiewoogieweeb]

#personally i never understood why jopson got the haunted porcelain doll title when this guy looks and acts the part #right down to the wispy blonde hair

The Terror + Lt. George Hodgson

If I were a braver man, I’d kill Mr. Hickey, though it would mean my death too. But I’m hungry. I’m hungry, and I want to live.

[gb-dentistry]

Porcelain Veneers Services in Memorial

[wyllwithay]

I also write original fiction btw

It's mostly about transness and isolation in closed communities

But if y'all want to see it just let me know

[swagbitch666]

my dad is so cute

[akumanoken]

Look at this babe OMG

[romanceyourdemons]

the concept of a throne of porcelain is really quite a poetic one. a gilded throne can have an iron core, and a wooden throne can be borne across a battlefield, but for a throne made of porcelain—although it may be a thing of beauty and a show of wealth, particularly in europe, to commission and import something so intricate from so far away—it can only be heavy and fragile, and, if it chips even once, it can never be made whole again. it’s beautiful if you think about it. unfortunately the phrase “porcelain throne” refers exclusively to the toilet

[rememberwren]

Just a Ghoap/military!fem!reader little sex pollen drabble for the anon who requested it ages ago :) dub con, fingering. Reader is carried by Ghost but otherwise featureless and without description.

-

Ghost can take the screams. He can take the cries, the pleas, the begging. He does take it, planting himself outside the singular bedroom door of the safehouse they’re holed up in until the storm passes, his dark eyes watching Johnny pace a hole in the goddamn floor, ready to come between you and the Sergeant should needs must.

But it’s the silence that breaks him.

It’s even caught Johnny’s attention. The man stops his pacing and stands facing the bedroom, his face somber, both of their ears cocked toward the door as they listen for any sign of you on the other side. Maybe the wet sounds of you fucking yourself on your own fingers. Maybe more begging—begging for Ghost or Johnny or both at once to come in and stuff you full with their cocks.

No sound comes.

“Fuck it,” Ghost says, beginning to strip. “I’m going in there.”

“The hell you are,” Johnny says, stepping into Ghost’s space. He points a finger towards your pointed silence. “She’s been compromised; she cannot consent!”

“She’s in there dying, Johnny,” Ghost says, the sound of ripping velcro loud in the quiet of the house. “She needs to get fucked or she’ll die. I’ll take the fucking discharge.”

“She’ll hate you for this.”

“She’ll be alive to do it; that’s good enough for me.”

Johnny grips his bare arm once he’s stripped out of his kit, fingertips digging into scarred skin. “You’re not going in there without me. If one of us has to do it, then the other has to help him keep his head, aye? You’ll do no more than what you have to do to keep her alive.”

Ghost brushes off Johnny’s touch, something which is normally welcome. He’d break Johnny’s wrist for suggesting otherwise if he didn’t think Johnny might need both hands for what’s to come.

When they unlock and open the door to the bedroom the silence is near eerie. You’re not on the bed where they left you, and it takes a moment for their eyes to adjust to the darkness of the room and find you laying on the floor beside the bed, like you had rolled out of it or fallen in your attempts to make it to the door. Your body is still except for the bone-deep shivers that wrack your figure. Ghost goes to your side and rolls you over onto your back, puts a hand to your forehead and withdraws from the way your skin burns with fever.

“Go start the shower. Tepid, Johnny. Not cold,” Ghost instructs him.

“Aye,” says Johnny, rushing into the tiny adjoined bathroom. The sound of water follows.

“Come on,” Ghost mutters to you softly. He tries to work his hand between your legs, but they are clamped shut tightly, the muscles seized up. It reminds him too much of the stiffness of a dead body. Instead he begins the arduous work of stripping you down, unlacing your boots, working your pants down your wide hips and thighs. It’s good enough.

Johnny reappears. “Shower’s ready. How is she?”

“Brain’s turning into a nice golden chip,” Ghost mutters, standing and hauling you up with him. You’re heavier than you look, especially when your body refuses to go limp in his arms. He steps into the bathroom and takes brief stock of it: the small, dirty porcelain tub, the shower faucet that is more of a dribble than a spray. He climbs into the tub with his clothes on and lays with you, both your bodies filling it to the brim as the cool water rains down on your figures.

Johnny kneels at the tubside. “What’s she need?”

“To cum,” Ghost says. He tries to work his hand between your thighs again, but your body actively fights against him, muscles trembling from the strain. At last he can work his fingers between your legs and he finds you sodden, soaked, dripping from the burning heat of your core. All he has to do is brush his fingers over the swollen knot of your clit and your body seizes against him, your jaw unclenching around a shriek as you cum for the first time. You arch against him like a cat, groaning like the frantic touch is the best thing you’ve ever felt. Pure pleasure to your frying synapses.

“Jesus,” Johnny mutters.

“Good girl,” Ghost mutters, unsure if you can even hear him. You’re still fighting against him, but not as much—or perhaps your body is growing tired, weak. He can work his hand between your thighs now, gathering your slick onto his three middlemost fingers and dragging the wetness up over your aching clit, rubbing in soft, rapid circles. This time when you cum, your knees snap open wide, cracking against the sides of the porcelain tub as your hips thrust upwards, chasing his fingers. The sounds that pour from your mouth combined with the way you writhe against him has his cock hardening against your back. Ghost takes even, measured breaths, trying to leave his body behind and focus on your own.

Johnny is fairing no better, shifting on his knees, cock pressed against the side of the porcelain tub. He reaches a hand down and adjusts himself, but lingers too long, until it’s impossible to call it anything but what it is: playing with himself.

A groan rips from your throat, forming syllables, nonsensical. You roll in Ghost’s grasp, your clothes clinging to your wet skin until your clothed breasts are pressed to his chest. Your eyes are open now but so frighteningly empty, glossy with fever and bloodshot. Your gaze doesn’t focus on him as you struggle to grind yourself against the hardening tent in his pants, fingers stiff and useless even as you grab at and cling to him.

“Give her some fingers,” Johnny insists. Your head turns toward the sound, and you scramble out of the tub, flinging water everywhere as you push him backwards off balance, pin him to the ceramic tile floor, and grind your cunt against his cock.

“Fu-uck,” Johnny groans, hands finding your hips. He stills you, the muscles in his arms straining as you put all your strength into defying him. “Lass, you don’t know what you’re doing—!”

Ghost climbs out of the tub, dripping wet. He turns the water off—hopeful that your fever is already beginning to abate now that they are giving in to your body’s needs—and loops an arm around your waist, wrenching you off of Johnny. Some help his Sergeant is. (Ghost had expected him to be about this useless.)

“Sit up,” Ghost barks. Johnny can still follow orders, sitting up and scooting back until his back is braced against the wall. Ghost puts you between his legs, facing away from him. “Hold her open.”

Johnny grips your thighs, fingers dimpling the soft flesh. His face is pained—whether that pain is coming from his cock or from his soft bleeding heart, Ghost doesn’t know. Doesn’t really care. He searches the soaked space between your thighs, finding your entrance and slipping two thick fingers into you.

You howl, body bowing against Johnny’s. Inside, you are like burning silk, soft and molten, squeezing tight around the girth of his fingers. He hooks them softly, aiming for that spongy area behind your pubic bone and works to fuck you with vigor, the wet squelches of your cunt nearly obscene in the enclosed, tiled space.

Your mouth forms words, simple ones: “Yes, yes, yesyesyesyes,” until you are hissing the word, your head thrown back to rest on Johnny’s shoulder and expose your corded throat, shirt sticking to your skin. When you run out of breath, you can’t draw in more, your body frozen in time, trembling with need. When you cum, you fucking squirt, a rush of wetness that follows his fingers when he trails them out of you and skims them over your clit to prolong the orgasm.

“Jesus,” Johnny mutters again, burying his face against your neck.

“No gods here,” Ghost reminds him. He reaches up and taps his wet fingers against Johnny’s cheek, thrills as Johnny turns his head and opens his mouth to take them, to suck them clean, groaning.

“No,” you shriek, wrapping both hands around Ghost’s wrist. You tug with all your strength, his fingers slipping wetly from Johnny’s mouth. “No—back inside, please put them back, please—”

But Ghost knows that these are only temporary fixes to get you off of death’s doorstep. If he wants to truly save your life, he knows the cost. What’s the use in prolonging your pain?

Ghost should pay up.

“I’ve got something better for you,” Ghost promises. To Johnny, he says: “Help me get her to the bed.”

[voleuri]

Bathroom - Modern Bathroom Example of a mid-sized minimalist master beige tile and porcelain tile porcelain tile and beige floor bathroom design with open cabinets, white cabinets, beige walls, a vessel sink and tile countertops