Rest in Power Dominique Fells.

Rest in Power Riah Milton.

There’s something about Grayson Dolan and mornings that just mix perfectly. It’s his favourite time of the day and rightly so— he’s at his finest in the AM’s.

There’s something about the way his voice is a few octaves lower than normal, the way the sun his his golden skin just right, the way he sleeps in barley anything— just briefs that in all honesty he could go without too. There’s something about the way he holds you close when he’s waking, from the second he’s conscious to the world around him he wants you right by his side. There’s something dangerous about the way he kisses your neck and moans out a soft groan at the fact he can feel the throb of his shaft against the fabric of his briefs, nuzzled against your ass.

There’s something about the way he flips you over softly from your side to your back, watching as your eyes flutter open with a huff. Way to early for yourself— but like I said, there’s something about Grayson Dolan and mornings that just make so much sense.

“Do you know you look beautiful in the morning?” He’s mumbling against your skin, a shirt of his adorning your body. His hands slipping underneath to softly feel your tot, fingers pinching the bud softly before moving to the next. Leaving them erect in his wake.

“I could say the same for you.” You mumble, back arching slightly as if to be for more. Begging to Grayson touch.

It wouldn’t be long before he’s resting between your spread legs, shirt and other articles of clothing such as Graysons briefs now discarded on the floor next to the messy bed. If anyone were to walk in? They’d see Graysons ass—slightly less tan than the rest of his body. They’d see his ripped back, muscles waking as he held himself above you. They’d see your bare legs spread wide. Trembling slightly as Grayson thrust into you. Stretching you out. This first task of the day—a task he’d do a thousand time over if he had the chance.

“Kiss me—“ you’d moan. Graysons hair dangling in front of his face, leaning down to press his lips against your. Body rocking into yours at a slow and soft pass. Hips smacking. His balls gently tapping against your ass.

“I love you.” Graysons whisper moaning into your mouth—his tongue dancing with yours before his lips are trailing to your neck, sucking small marks into your skin. Marking what’s his. Adoring the sounds that escape you as you reach to tease yourself. Feeling you clench around his shaft that’s covered in arousal both his own and yours. “Fuck I love you so much—“

Maybe there’s a moment where things flip, suddenly it’s you ontop. The feeling of Graysons perfectly chiseled stomach under your hands as you lean forward and rock your hips. Bouncing softly and slowly up and down up and down on Graysons hard, incredibly large and girthy cock.

“Mmmm—“

“God, you feel so good.” His head leaning back against his pillows, hands behind his head as he’s watching with hooded eyes as you ride him so effortlessly. “An angel” your hand creeping up his chest to wrap around his neck. Softly, applying gentle pressure. A smirk on your face as you moan.

“Wanna make you cum Gray—wanna see you cum.” Your worlds bouncing off the walls inside Graysons head. Flicking every remaining switch as his load begins to pool at the base of his shaft. Hands going from behind his head to grip your hips. Knees that were once straight now bench so his heels are digging into the mattress. Pulling you down to his chest and pinning your arms behind your back—arms wrapped around you. Holding you tight.

“Keep talking.” Graysons voice is low.

“Wanna feel you flooding me baby, your cum deep inside me—maybe you’ll get me pregnant who knows? Isn’t that your wildest dream baby? To become a daddy?” You can feel Graysons licking up speed. His thrust now faster and more powerful as he chases his high.

“Fuck—keep going“ he’s loosing his mind, suddenly you feel so much warmer, tigger. He’s pounding into you with force and speed. Not wanting to create such noise so early to keep as quiet as possible although it’s near impossible.

“I know you wanna let go, come of Gray cum inside my pretty pussy.”

“Y/n—“

“Don’t make me beg to feel you cum baby I know your close.” Graysons balls slapping against your ass. So tight and full.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck—!!” Graysons on the edge. Ready to burst. “Fuck I’m cumming I’m cumming oh god yesssss—“ hot spurts of cum spilling into you, moaning as suddenly Graysons stills himself with one final thrust. “Fuckk—“

Somewhat seen as a fuckboy by some, Grayson Dolan would never leave you hanging. Dripping down into his mouth goes his recent load as he laps away at your core—pussy in his face as he holds your ass. Sitting pretty on his face first thing in the morning. Lapping away till your high is washing over you.

An artist in Baltimore wrote names of fatal victims of the police force along the sidewalk. 

She began with victims killed on May 1st of 2013 and wrote every name that was recorded until the present day.

Names stretched from Penn Station to a George Washington monument in the middle of the city, which is nearly a mile in distance.

Source

This letter reads: "I don’t like the helicopter because it shoots down and people dies [sic]“, plus a crying face. Then there’s a drawing, with the sentence “my house” pointing to a drawn house; a police helicopter is delivering and receiving gunshots from a person on the ground, besides which someone lies on a pool of blood. Standing up on the helicopter, a person with a machine gun, above whom it’s written “This is wrong”. Below the helicopter, there are three children, one of them saying “Run!”, and an adult in red clothes. Inside the house, a person is on the window, with a saying illegible (probably “run” or “out”).

Drawing description and translation: at daylight, a white angry cop repeatedly shooting at an astonished black man with box gloves and with six bullet injuries on his upper body.

This letter reads: “Good afternoon. I wished you could stop the operations because many families will be killed. Now I have no room because you destroyed it in the operation. Everyone at my school cries, my brother died from because of the cops and they beat my cousin. […] Thank you so much for reading my letter.”

This letter reads: "The bad thing about operations in the favelas is that you can’t play much. And residents in the communities also die. There’s also many violence. [sic]”. The letter also features a toothpick drawing of two people and a machine gun, with the phrases “this is wrong” and “I don’t like this!!!” pointed to both elements.

This letter reads: "Well … when there’s an operation I can’t go anywhere, I have to stay in the bathroom of my house. When there’s an operation and the helicopter goes shooting down, my aunt goes to my house because if not, shots can hit there. It’s too bad … They have to respect the hours in which the kids are at school or even on the course. Most kids leave at 3pm, 3:30 pm. They should wait between 4pm and leave at 2pm or 8pm. I also think they can’t come in between midnight and dawn because there are people who go to work or arrive then…”

This letter reads: “What I have to say is that the operations kills [sic] a lot of people and it’s very sad. Once my mother went out to see my grandmother and there were so many gunshots that I hid behind the washing machine and hat’s what I I have to say…”

This letter reads: "There are children and young people in the community who dream of becoming doctors, lawyers, teachers, sports educators, but these dreams are interrupted when police actions suspend their classes. Stop and think if your children went through the same situation every day the ‘bomb explodes’. Remember that in communities there is no ‘bandit factory’, here I am writing this letter with a pen and not with a rifle.“

This letter reads: “I would like them to change the way they enter the community. I’m terrified of hearing the noise of the helicopter, the children hide behind the rooms of the house in fear, the way they hit our residence is already scary, they beat and almost knock the door down, make a mess in the homes of the residents who are working and even when we are at home, we are hostage to this esculacho [Portuguese slang, here it seems to mean “violence”] they make with us who live in the favela. We want peace at Maré.”

Summary: [6k words] Ethan is a sex therapist who helps couples develop their sexual relationship and single girls release tension. You need help after struggling to orgasm with a boy you have been seeing, so your friend suggests Ethan to you.

Warnings: a lot of filthy smut, cursing and a little bit of angst

“Is his stroke game bad?” Your best friend, Sydney, asks you, digging into her lunch after taking a sip of her lemonade.

The sun gleams down on your face, your fork playing around with your salad as the conversation makes your mind run in circles, slowly turning you crazier and crazier. “No, it’s not that, I just don’t think I can orgasm and my gynecologist sucks, it’s like she just doesn’t listen to what I’m saying.” you sigh, shaking your head and placing down your fork with aggravation. “It’s nothing to do with Brandon, I think it’s just me.”

“You had mind-blowing orgasms with Josiah though?”

“God, that was years ago. All the one night stands I’ve had, you’re telling me I can’t squeeze out one orgasm. Brandon’s ex always talked about how great he was in bed, my body just doesn’t like him for some strange reason.” you rant, venting out your frustrations that have been building up for a while now.

For a while now, you’ve been hooking up with Brandon, he’s been a friend with benefits for months and within all these months you are yet to have one single orgasm. You’ve been craving that cloud nine feeling for so long. The one night stands you have indulged yourself in have been one-sided, guys being blinded on how to actually please a woman. Brandon actually is interested in pleasuring you, yet you don’t believe he knows how to, even if he is has given his exes joyous sex.

Sydney sighs from the other side of the table, bringing her phone out which makes you tip your head to the side in confusion. “Remember that sex therapy place I told you about?”

“Sydney, no. Who goes to sex therapy alone?”

“I do and girl, it blew my mind. It’s pricey but the orgasm he gave me with just his fingers. Girl.” she hums at her final word, tapping at her phone, sending you the contact of the guy she is talking about.

You grab your phone that lies on the table, picking up so you can enter your passcode and click onto your texts with Sydney. “Ethan Dolan?”

“Okay if you’re going to bitch about it, then continue to fake your orgasms.” she rolls her eyes, calling the waiter over to ask for the bill. “Just think about it.”

As you sit at home later on that day, your fingers are twitching against the contact that your best friend has sent you and your mind is hammering with all the pros and cons of what this sex therapy will do to you. The pros are outweighing the cons massively. You’ve reread the website over 1000 times, the reviews all positive and everything looking just as tempting as Sydney described it.

“Fuck it,” you say out loud, fingers dancing across the screen.