#he shouldn't be this hot
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onlywifetothorin555 · 6 months ago
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CAUTION: sexy content ahead!
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😱🤤🤤
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fraxi0m · 7 months ago
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well...
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bubbarnes · 11 days ago
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“... I need to, maybe I should go back to college.”
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onlywifetothorin555 · 5 months ago
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Ah, you got the whole dance on here, nice! I couldn't help post the screen caps from it .. gosh he's sexy, wow. And they were trying to make him ugly? Didn't work, clearly. Gosh, the way he moves. 🤤Thanks for posting this!
so….I have thoughts
1. I wanna see this movie so bad
2. He’d look even hotter with nipple rings ☹️
3. god those hips 😵‍💫
4. His body shape is so….*grabs and holds*
5. I wanna pull on those nipple things and hear him whimper ☹️☹️
6. god those fawking hips….rail me like that
7. He’s wet? sweaty? Whatever i wanna lick him
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mildarka · 6 months ago
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For the art request I'd like to ask for reverted AU Night in Killer's big jacket missing the boys and Dream trying to comfort him?
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Dream's trying his best
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slutforpringles · 1 month ago
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The Anything But F1 Quiz: Daniel Ricciardo edition
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sentientcave · 6 months ago
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Retirement Party
Chapter 4 - Runaway
<<First Chapter - < Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >
Contains: No Y/N, Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Dubcon, Plus-sized reader, female reader, Poorly thought out action sequences, Guns, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me. No promises for future chapters though I might even tell y'all her name.
~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above
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You wake in the morning with your nose buried in a thick patch of chest hair, and strong arms around you. Your legs are hooked around one of his thick thighs, and something hard digs into your stomach. You start to inch away, but his arms tighten, and his hips cant against you, a thick, sleepy groan rumbling in his chest. It would be a nice way to wake up, if not for the circumstances. It’s been ages since you slept beside another person, let alone someone that feels as comfortable as John does.
“John,” you say softly. You don’t want to fully wake him up, just get him to let you go. “John, please let me go.”
He hums, one hand sliding to your waist, and then down to your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against his thigh. You squeak in protest, becoming aware that you’re already wet, like you’ve been unconsciously humping his leg in your sleep for some time. You push your slightly freer top half away a little, so you can look at him. He’s still sleeping, a little frown on his face as he’s pulled unwillingly toward consciousness. He really is handsome, especially like this, all his defences down, grumbling like a hibernating bear.
“Don’t wake up,” you tell him, as if it’ll make any difference. “I just have to pee.”
One of his blue eyes cracks open, a little unfocused. “You comin’ back?” His voice is rough from sleep, rasping like sandpaper.
“Sure,” you say, even though you have no intention of doing so. Your body seems as eager as his is for something you’re sure is dangerous. Maybe he smells good, like tobacco, warm, boozy spices and something undeniably male, and maybe he feels warm and solid against you, but you don’t want to encourage this. You just want to enough space to clear your head. His admissions last night still have you spooked, John’s words not tempered by a night of surprisingly good sleep. “I’ll just be a minute.”
He loosens his hold on you enough that you can wiggle free, his eyes opening a little more so he can watch you slip out of bed. He rolls over onto his back, and starts snoring gently before you’ve even made it to the bedroom door. You take the opportunity to snag one of the bags stacked in front of the closet and your purse off the dresser and bring both to the bathroom with you. You’re not sure what’s in the bag, but you know the larger suitcase has things from your closet in it, so you’re hoping this one has more from your dresser.
You get dressed, glad that most of your underthings and a comfortable pair of jeans and a thick sweater are inside and pack your toothbrush and makeup bag into the larger one, and creep downstairs carefully. One of them is snoring gently on the couch, but otherwise, the house is silent. You carefully fish a set of keys off the hooks by the door and sneak outside. You don’t know where any of your shoes are except the red heels, so you just leave in your sock feet, and pile your things into the pick-up truck. You’ll drive it into town and leave it there, buy a ticket on a train or a bus, and get the hell back home.
It sucks to have to leave everything you own, beyond the clothes in the one bag and the contents of your purse, but maybe you can call the cops— Well. Probably not. Better to just start over anywhere else. You have digital copies of a few pictures of your parents, and that’s better than nothing, even if their wedding album is sitting on a shelf in John’s living room, along with all the family photos that your parents took of you and them while you were growing up. Your mother’s sketchbooks too, and her camera, and your dad’s guitar.
You bite your lip, holding back tears, and start the truck.
No sense mourning things. The memories are in your head and your heart, not trapped in the pages of books or twisted into the strings of the guitar. You don’t need them.
You haven’t driven in a long time, and the truck, unfortunately, is a manual, which you haven’t driven in even longer, but you manage to pull away from the house without revving the engine too hard, and pick up speed once you get to the road, only just remembering to hit the clutch with your left foot before you change gears. You’d feel pretty pathetic if you only made it to the road before stalling out the pickup.
You’re not sure which way town is, but you figure the road has to lead somewhere no matter which way you choose, so you navigate blindly, turning onto a bigger road a little ways down the gravel one that leads to John’s house. Bigger road means more people, although the hour is still so early that there’s no one around yet. The sun is barely up, and it’s still shadowy in the woods on either side of the road. The woods give way to fields suddenly, the sun making a too-bright debut, shining right into your eyes. You flip down the visor and adjust the rear-view mirror, wincing when you see a blue car a ways behind you, approaching fast.
You didn’t notice the car when you were leaving— It must have been parked behind the bigger van that they’d used to move all your things— but it looks sporty and fast, and judging by the way it closes the gap, there’s no question that it’s them. You push the truck harder, squinting against the light, heart hammering. The car’s engine roars, loud enough that you can hear it over the blood rushing in your ears, and pulls into the lane beside you. Gaz motions for you to pull over from the passenger seat.
You slow up enough that they pull ahead a little, and you yank your steering wheel to the side and stomp down on the gas and the clutch, shifting into third gear and nailing the side of the car, shattering a tail light and making it spin, stopping just shy of the ditch.
For a moment, you’re still close enough to see the shock on their faces, but you’re moving fast and leave them in the dust, at least momentarily. It won’t take them long to recover and catch up again, and if they hit you with the same maneuver, there’s no way you’ll be able to get the truck under control. There’s not enough weight in the bed of the truck to compensate, and you’ll wind up in the ditch for certain.
Funny, how it comes back to you. Learning to drive along mountain roads way outside Aberdeen, either in your dad’s little car or your mom’s old truck (usually the car, which was the easier one to drive. Your dad was the safer driver too, the better parent to learn from), and you can almost imagine your mother in the passenger seat, laughing her head off at the insane circumstances, encouraging you to throw caution to the wind, to get a feel for the road under the wheels and the way the old truck handled. She always laughed when she was under stress, but it’s comforting to think of. Your mum would never let a couple of thick-headed military assholes get the better of her.
The car is catching up again, so you floor it and smash through a fence gate into a muddy field, where the car won’t handle as well, and speed your way across the stubbly remains of wheat, already harvested. The car follows, and, predictably, struggles, the low frame too close to the muck, bumping unhappily over the soft, uneven ground.
Laughter bubbles up in your chest, relieving some of the built-up anxiety. You smash through a segment of the fence on the other side and yank the truck back onto the road, giggling when the truck fishtails a bit, mud slicking the tires on the pavement. There’s so much adrenaline coursing through your system that you feel like you might be sick the moment you let any of this catch up with you. So you keep driving, and pray that it doesn’t.
The car gets close again when you reach another wooded section of road. Through the rearview mirror you can see Gaz pop out of the window, gun drawn, but you don’t hear the crack when it fires, you only feel the impact when the bullet strikes one of the rear tires. You shriek, slamming on the breaks as the truck spins out of your control and off the road, slamming into a tree head on.
The lurch forward as the airbags deploy, your body hitting them hard, knocking all the air out of your lungs as you’re slapped back into he seat. The seat belt bites into your shoulder painfully. You unbuckle yourself quickly, ears ringing too loudly for you to hear the screeching tires of the pursuit car. You fall to the ground when you try to get out, head spinning.
You stumble into the trees, still blinking away double vision. If you can find a good spot to hide— Maybe you can double back and take the car while they chase you blindly through the trees. You cast about, feeling every rapidly forming bruise, wishing desperately that you had shoes, and dive into the underbrush, scooting forward on your belly, brambles catching in your hair as you curl up, out of sight.
“Please come out, doll,” you hear Gaz call out, boots crunching through the woods, closer than you would like. “It’s okay, we’re not mad. Just come out and we’ll take you home, yeah?”
Johnny is yelling further off, his voice incomprehensible but sing-song, mocking. Gaz moves further into the woods. You wait until his voice grows a little more distant before you drag yourself back out, sweater streaked with mud, leaves in your hair, and quickly sneak back to the road. The car is still running, the driver door left open. You breathe a sigh of relief.
“There you are, bird.”
You scream. A gloved hand drops over your mouth, cutting off the sound, and an arm loops around your waist, picking you right up off your feet.
Fuck.
"Look what you did, bird. Wrecked up Price's truck. 'E's not goin' to be 'appy about that." He turns so you can see the slightly smoking truck, the front half of it crumpled beyond repair.
You shake your head until he pulls his hand away from your mouth. "Its not my fault I crashed. Gaz shot the tire out. I wasn't even going to steal it, just leave it in town once I'd gotten to a bus stop."
He hums. You hear the slight crackle of a radio. "Got 'er, lads. Come back to the car."
"Rog."
"Aye."
Ghost shoves you into the back seat. "Stay put," he says sternly. "You're already banged up, don't want to 'ave to tackle you."
You sigh, all the fight leaving you. You feel awful, bruised and shaken up and trembling, and you do nothing but watch as Ghost gathers your things from the truck and puts them in the boot of the car. You slump back in the seat, inspecting the scratches on your hands idly. Your head hurts, and your shoulder aches, and you feel a bit like you've been stepped on, but nothing feels broken, just bruised and tender. You got lucky.
Well, not lucky. There's very little about any of this that counts as luck. Especially considering the look on Johnny's face when he jogs out of the trees. At first he looks stormy, but he grins when he sees you and opens the back door to crawl onto the seat and on top of you.
"Steamin Jesus, where'd ye learn ta drive like tha'?" He asks. "Didnae ken ye were a racer."
"Outside Aberdeen," you reply. Your ribs hurt. Soap’s weight makes every little ache more acute.
"Price isn't gonna be happy about his truck," Gaz says, tossing himself into the driver's seat. "What were you thinking, doll? You could've been hurt."
"You didn't have to shoot the tire." You try to push Soap off, but he wraps himself around you, a bit tight, but bearably so. You’re trembling, and he’s trying to help, in a thoroughly unhelpful way. "I was just trying to get home."
"That's the wrong way. Your home's with Price now." Ghost gets into the other front seat, and Gaz reverses back out onto the road.
You sigh, leaning your head against the window, watching the countryside flash by. It takes an embarrassingly short time to get back to John's house. You didn't get as far as you would have liked, hardly got anywhere at all. Your eyes prickle with tears, but you don't want to cry in front of them. You want to go back to bed, maybe back in time to the morning. You would have been wiser just to curl up next to John again.
Soap drags you from the car, hands a bit rough on your bruises, and pulls you back to the house. John rushes out, worry creasing his face, blue eyes sweeping over you and turning furious. "What happened?" he barks, not at you, but at his men.
"Bird was makin' a run for it," Ghost says.
"Wrecked your truck," Gaz adds.
"That's not my fault!" you protest. "You shot at me!" You glare at him, frustrated tears overflowing down your cheeks. It’s like they have no idea what kind of stress they’ve put you through.
"Woah, woah, c'mere, doll." John pulls you against his chest, wrapping strong arms around you, stilling some of the tremble in your limbs. "You broken?"
You shake your head, leaning into him, gripping his t-shirt tightly. You breathe in raggedly, trying to steady yourself.
"Lads. Why did you shoot at her?"
"Trying to stop the truck."
"She's a civilian you muppets. I take it that the truck's in no shape to drive, or you would've brought it back. You could have killed her." He pets a hand over your head, plucking out a few leaves. "You should’ve let her go."
"She stole your truck!" Soap protests.
"So what? It's wrecked now anyway, innit?" The silence behind you speaks volumes. "Alright, doll, why don't you go get cleaned up? " he murmurs against the top of your head. "I need to talk to the lads, and what I have to say is not fit for a lady's ears."
He gently ushers you into the house and closes the door firmly behind you. You trudge upstairs, feeling utterly pathetic, and lock yourself into the bathroom. Still sniffling, you comb sticks and leaves out of your hair with your fingers and put yourself into a hot shower, where you give yourself the freedom to cry your eyes out, hoping that the sound of water drowns your stifled sobs.
The house is quiet when you shut off the shower and dry yourself off. You wrap the shirt you'd slept in around you and poke your head out into the hallway. John is right there, holding out a bundle of clothes. "Here, sweetheart," he says softly, like he's worried a sharp word will set you off again. He must have heard everything. "I sent the boys to deal with the truck and that tail light, so it's just us. Just come on downstairs when you're ready."
You open the door wide enough to accept the clothes, and he turns to leave again, content to leave anything else to be said when you make it downstairs.
He'd obviously taken his cue from what you'd been wearing already, because he gives you a sweater and jeans again, comfortable worn in things. You go downstairs carefully, every joint and muscle in your body aching, even after the shower.
"How do you take your coffee?" he asks. "Or do you prefer tea?"
"Coffee, please. I can make it. I'd feel better if I did, honestly." You skirt around him to the cupboard where you'd seen Gaz take mugs out, recognizing your own nestled among John's mismatched ones. You put milk and sugar in your favourite mug, and pour in coffee, stirring it throroughly. The clink of the spoon is loud, and so is the pan he sets on the stove top.
"Eggs and toast okay?" He asks.
"Um, yeah. That would be nice. Over easy?"
"Yes ma'am." He looks at you over his shoulder while butter melts in the pan, blue eyes all worry. "Did I say something to you last night? Maybe the sort of thing that made you feel like you needed to steal a truck and run as fast as you could away from here?"
"Um. Yes." You hold onto the mug with both hands. "Some stuff about wanting to start a family. With me."
His ears turn pink. "I see."
"I suppose this is where you tell me it was just the whiskey talking, right?" you ask hopefully. You like him, even if it’s ill-advised, maybe even dangerous to do so.
"Wish I could."
Your stomach twists. “Oh.”
John turns around fully, guilt and sadness written all over his handsome face. He steps closer and touches your arm gently. “I’m so sorry about what my boys have put you through, sweetheart. None of this has been right.” He sighs, brushing a few tendrils of still-wet hair away from your face, studying you, those intense blue eyes focused on you intently. “But there’s something special about you, doll. I really do want to keep you forever. Not if you’re scared, and not if you feel forced— It’s just, the thought of you leavin' and never wanting to speak to me again is— I don’t want that.”
You swallow nervously. “This is just really overwhelming.”
“I know. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have let this happen. Soap really could have just given you my number.” The smile he gives you is hopeful, and you can’t help but return it, just a little. “Now go sit down, doll. Let me take care of breakfast, hm?”
You nod and move to the table, sitting where you can watch him, and peek out the window too. The car is gone, but the van is still there for the moment, sitting idly to the side. You consider making another run for it, but your aching limbs protest even the thought. There’s not enough fight in you, and you’re not even sure you want to fight John, not the way you do the other three. His only crime has been wanting you to stay, and being a bit overzealous about it. You can’t be mad at him for that, can you? It isn’t really his fault.
Well, it might be his fault, in a roundabout way. He trained them, taught them how to ruthlessly pursue an objective. It’s just not his fault they can’t keep it from coming home with them. That’s a clear failure of whoever does their mental health assessments.
You sip your coffee and watch John crack eggs into a pan. He keeps glancing at you, and his smile flickers on a little longer each time that he catches you looking back, until he doesn’t stop smiling, and just looks happy, glad to have you there, even if you’re just keeping a silent vigil on the other side of the room.
It's not like you have anywhere to go. It'll take days at least to feel like you haven't just been in a car crash, and days more to locate everything to pack it back up. So long as you don't have to share a bed with John again, you think you could live with this, for at least a week. It can't be that terrible, so long as the others leave you alone. You rather hope they just leave. If you asked, would John send them away?
"John," you say as he sets a plate with buttered toast and a couple of eggs on it in front of you, and sets a couple tablets of paracetamol beside your plate. "If I stay… Will they be staying too?"
"I'm going to have them leave this afternoon. That alright with you? We can go for a walk to the neighbours while they pack up, if you're up for it. Maybe dr-- Well, not drive." He sets his own plate down and sits next to you, handing you a knife and a fork. “Have to get that sorted out. But the neighbours-- Rob and Melissa-- Their dog just had puppies a few weeks ago. Do you like dogs?”
You nod, breaking the yolks of one of the eggs with a corner of toast. "My parents had a dog when I was growing up. Some kind of German shepherd cross. Best boy. His name was Rob Roy, because he was a wee outlaw. Mam found him digging in the trash and--" you stop and give John a baleful look. "Sorry. That was more than you were asking."
"No, that's the most you've said at once this whole time. I'd listen to you talk all day, doll. Don't ever apologize."
"Sorry I-- Oh, shit, sorry--" you press your fingers to your mouth, cutting yourself off. "Force of habit."
"I'd like to see you lose that one. You have nothin' to apologize for. Not one damn thing, and especially not talking. I think you have the prettiest voice I've ever heard."
You roll your eyes, but you can't help smiling. "You're just saying that."
He touches your arm lightly. "You don't know me too well yet, doll, but I never just say anything."
Yet hangs in the air, heavy and deliberate. He wants you to know him, wants you to stay with him, wants you to like him. Even if it makes no sense, the offer is tempting. It's been a long time since you've let someone get close— You've had the occasional fling, and the odd reunion with an ex that you’d stayed friends with, but grief is like a canyon you can't bear to cross. What if you love someone and you lose them, the way you lost your parents? How could you live with that all over again?
Still, there's something that feels like warm sunlight in his smile, and you can't help but incline toward him, slowly but surely reaching for the light. No one can live in the shade forever. There’s no nobility in suffering.
So you let yourself talk, at least a little. And he listens, hanging on to your words like they're precious, gazing at you with something unfurling in his expression that you can't name. You're almost afraid to try.
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Image Credits: Banner
Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune
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saltsig · 5 months ago
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Herlock doodles, trying to figure out how I want to draw him♡
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littlefankingdom · 3 months ago
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Nobody know the kids of famous people, the Kardashians are well-known because they have a show (and people who don't give a fuck about it cannot name them), and some kids are known if their parents put them in the spotlight (North West, for example, but like, you could show me a picture of her and I would not recognize her).
I don't think the Wayne kids are famous. Bruce is, he is this attractive rich philanthropic guy who loves the cursed hell that is Gotham, it's his cover for Batman. But his kids? This man is overprotective, he would not let the press anywhere near his kids. If people knows barely anything about them, it's less likely they can be hurt in civics. And the more kids he gets, the less people remember them all.
A paparazzi took a picture of Dick/Jason/Damian at school? Wayne's lawyers at their front door. A rumor was published about them? Wayne's lawyers at their front door. A video of one of them filmed without consent finished online? Wayne's lawyers at their front door. Don't even dream about making some article pointing out his kids are attractive (for other teens or for adults for the adult ones), he will find you. Don't even try to say any racists or bigoted about his kids, he will ruin your life.
Some of them are very satisfied with this (Jason, all ages, and Cass, for examples). Some did dreamed of the spotlight sometimes (Dick. He is a performer, he was soooo annoying as a teen because he wanted to be famous!). But Bruce stood his ground.
In the end, Dick is a bit famous because of his position as "the heir", as he is the one stepping in Bruce's place to do damage control when Bruce dissapears. Tim is known because of his takeover bs he did when Bruce was gone in time (reminder that he is not the CEO). Bruce still doesn't let anything too personal or unprofessional about them exist.
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stopthatfool · 1 year ago
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Consistently shocked by the idea that people think Bradley Rooster Bradshaw is chill and laid back. He’s actually shockingly unchill. He is the opposite of chill. He did not inherent any of his parents chillness. He’s a loser who’s too invested in everything.
Like ya hi I’m Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw and I cut off my remaining family, surrogate father, and support system for 15 years cuz he pulled my naval academy papers because he didn’t want me to die like my biological father and because my mother wanted me to be free of the navy’s confinements and to exist outside of a system that physically uses me for their own power and political gains— gains I will never experience and feel for myself. A system that sees me as no more than a number, a soldier, something easily replaceable, as a body to be sacrificed in a war that i did not start nor will i finish.
“Bradley's chill.” No he’s not. He’s a beast. He’s a 30 something year old man whose entire purpose revolves around holding a grudge and proving his surrogate father wrong. This beast who literally said this to his surrogate father— "No wife. No kids. Nobody to mourn when you burn in." Beastly. Ghastly thing to say. 15 years and he still hates the guy who's been there for him since day one. He’s a guy who refuses to even begin to understand where Mav was coming from or to even think of what his mother wanted. He’s evil. And I love him.
Hi I’m Bradley "Rooster" Bradshaw and when someone brings up a well known, easily accessible fact that my father and surrogate father used to fly together I will try to cause physical harm against them and my friends will have to physically hold me back. I’m Bradley Bradshaw and I was willing to put my entire career on the line (the one in which I put my family aside for) so I can attack and beat this guy up.
I love his big ol’ Bambi eyes… he’s evil and fucked up and he’s not chill. Yes he wears jorts and tropical shirts, but that just means he’s gay and a fucking liar. Just cuz he looks like some surfer dude does not mean that he’s actually laid back like one. He’s lying to himself— trying to convince himself he is something that he is not and never will be. He is unchill. He’s lame. He has undiagnosed anxiety and it physically expresses itself through anger and loserly-ness. He cares so much to the point of self sabotage. He will always be unchill, no matter how much he tries to change that fact.
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Y’all ever want to cradle a grown man in your arms? (graphic design is my passion)
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conjuring-ghouls · 1 year ago
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You call on me to solve a crooked rhyme (x)
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hooked-on-elvis · 9 months ago
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Elvis' Sword Cane ⚔️
Elvis On Tour (1972)
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Watching the doc for the millionth time and I've only noticed this now. I wondered if EP's cane was actually a weapon... and it looks like I was right. Apparently, all of Elvis' canes were also swords... and he was making it clear onscreen. LOL.
Subtle message: "Don't f*** with me".
Source video: Reddit
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Elvis and Vernon Presley in Buffalo, New York. April 5, 1972.
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lokiinmediasideblog · 15 days ago
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The thing about MCU!Thor is that to me he is an A+ student whose favorite subject is mass murder. I bet he got plenty of rewards and praise for it, and it has both inflated his ego for the past millennia and become tied to his self-worth as a result.
Whenever I see Loki's manipulation discussed, it's along the lines of "Thor is stupid/gullible and shouldn't be king because of that" when it should be "Thor WANTED a war. Thor LOVES battle. He's not ready because of this." Loki knew Thor wanted to fight (and hot take: Loki's nudge would not have worked on some pacifist). Look at the murderous glee he has in anticipation during the Jotunheim incident. He's like: (\(^_^)/)
Another instance I can think of is how confident he is at first about getting Mjolnir back, and getting through all those SHIELD agents. He knows he can do it because it's what he is good at and what he ties his self-worth towards. He thinks he knows the rules to get Mjolnir back, but then he learns it didn't work, and he begins to show fear and despair. Tell me it doesn't have vibes of someone that doesn't know how to deal with failure.
I saw something in a fic where his reaction to being called "princess" was because "he thought it was aimed at Loki", and it really ruins the context and misses the point. Thor was EAGER to fight, and took the opportunity with the insult. And I hate this tendency to make pre-T1 Thor a perfect brother to Loki and ray of sunshine. The point is that he undergoes redemption in T1. To say that he didn't need it and Loki just tricked him misses the point. He also gets dumbed down because he's not allowed to be morally gray, so any bad things he did were due to gullibility(e.g. "trusting too much/loving Loki too much"<- that's a kind of flaw that annoys me in characters that are portrayed otherwise good; it's such a cop out) instead of flawed morality.
I think that by making Thor 100% good, he ends up getting very dumbed down. In my experience, unless the fic was written by some Loki stan that projects too much and ships Frostiron (or someone who has a brutish Thor kink in some AU where they're not brothers and it may be tagged with "Dark Thor"), Thor is made out to be too nice. He is basically the perfect brother to Loki and his moral flaws are basically that "he's just a gullible himbo." And I just don't think that was the case, and it also simplifies Thor as a character when his war-like tendencies are ignored.
TLDR: Thor is neither himbo nor brute. But he's not nearly as kind as he's often flattened to be. He should have a dark side.
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torchickentacos · 5 months ago
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i will always shout praises of bi4bi but given recent discourse I feel the need to say that I love bi4het too! I just love bisexuality in general in its many forms, and anyone who only likes it when it's 'queer enough' for them is biphobic. Bisexuals should be able to bring their LaMe CiShEt BoYfRiEnD to pride without being made to feel like spectators and outsiders to their own event.
#3 am queer discourse take <3#anyways hot take number two. cishets do belong at pride. everyone who wants to celebrate queerness should be welcomed at pride#if a completely cishet business major fratboy wants to come to pride and vibe with us then he should be welcomed!#not even like. oh he has a queer sibling. no. if he's just a cishet dude who wants to spend his saturday at a parade then hell yeah#like completely ignoring that you have no way to tell he's definitively those things. it shouldn't matter regardless imo#pride is not a secretive club you need to be let into. it's a feeling and a celebration and a statement and a state of being#and whatever you want it to be#burying my other related hot take under the tags readmore ksdjksdjksdj#idk. i'm just tired of a lot of the things people seem to think about bisexuality's validity relating to bi women specifically#this is frustration with the gatekeepy and straight-passing discourse of it all#I'm tired of people being expected to act and to preform and to BE queer enough for others' opinions.#am I still welcome if I haven't been with a woman in a few years? if I dress boring? if I like m/f? if I don't listen to chappell roan?#joking on that last one but like. idk. never straight enough for the straights but never gay enough for the gays#constantly some mercurial in-between that offers no comfortable easy group to put us in.#what do i have to do to not be judged as a filthy hettie? are my doc martens enough for you yet?#like oh sorry let me cuff my jeans and have a bob and wear a button up over a cami and wear etsy earrings. am I visually bi enough yet?#let me apologize for the cardinal sin of liking men too. let me wash my hands of any time a cishet man has held them.#if it was a bisexual man then just hand sanitizer is fine right? where do you draw the line on my queerness?#let me preform for you in a way that makes me queer enough.#anyways. sarcasm aside. I think I've made my distaste for this whole affair evident#if you don't want cishets at pride then what happens to those you incorrectly deem as cishet? do I need to prove myself to you?#am I passing as straight? am I passing as gay? am I enough for onlookers?#is it not enough to just show up at pride and celebrate? anyone and everyone who wants to?
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batsplat · 6 months ago
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following on from this. not to always bring marc into everything (sorry marc) but if assen 2015 had happened against jorge, valentino would have very likely pulled something similar again imo. rather than what he actually did, which is approach marc almost immediately for a nice normal friendly handshake and backing off during the podium celebrations. should be noted that during laguna seca '08, valentino was very much committed to yapping at casey on the podium with the world's biggest smuggest grin on his face
partly that disparity is because jorge not marc was the direct title rival, partly it's because valentino was treating marc with kid gloves right until the second that he wasn't, which marc was seemingly entirely oblivious to. if anyone other than marc had said what he said in that presser, had then continued on with similar rhetoric during sachsenring, valentino would quite likely have gone nuclear. he's done it over less than that. his fondness for marc made him continue to exhibit uncharacteristic restraint... except that fondness unfortunately is what left valentino feeling so very betrayed when (to his eyes) marc could not leave well enough alone
#it's so delightfully tragic isn't it. a lot of 2015 played out the way it did because valentino genuinely wasn't looking for beef#but then felt backed into a corner and decided he had no other option than to blow this shit up#if casey says 'what I think is that we won the race' valentino would've torn him a new one then and there like...#if sete had called assen his best race of the season valentino would've reached for the chalk and incense even sooner#though fwiw I do think the relationship was basically doomed from that point. something would have happened sooner or later#2015 is so funny conceptually because there was already something *off* about it most of the way through. you have the familiar beats#but they shouldn't be HAPPENING with marc. they should be happening with the actual title rival - who vale never properly fought all season#assen 2015 should've been laguna should've been catalunya hell it should've been assen 2004 but it couldn't be#valentino kept accidentally inflicting the psychological blows on the wrong guy because jorge just refused to end up in a straight fight#assen SHOULD have been a pivotal race. but of course it couldn't be because what psychological blow was jorge lorenzo being dealt?#btw the unwillingness to beef doesn't just extend to marc. valentino makes a concerted effort to be uncharacteristically friendly to jorge#still think he would've rubbed assen in his face but. overall! he was trying! which again. very ironic#funhouse mirror ass season i love it dearly#//#brr brr#slowly dipping my toes into dropping 2015 hot takes on tumblr dot com... for so long these have been between me god and my google doc#i love jorge i think he's been involved in a lot of iconic battles i think it's funny not a single one of them happened in 2015#minus kinda phillip island but even there it did feel like the other three were Doing More than him#also just a different vibe to a proper one-on-one. a WEIRD title run where the third man that whole year walks away with the trophy#idol tag
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undeadorion · 3 months ago
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Papa's smokin' hot
Edit: Fixed it so the smoke is visible on dark and light backgrounds (it's transparent)
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