#my fucking god that face of his is insane

[blubwrryslut]

blasphemy. eren y.

𖤐⭒๋࣭⭑ preachers daughter! nsfw. lol, this is my first work so be nice ya’ll! i have a longer version of this story in the works it’s probably gonna be 10k+ works indulging in their backstory, but enjoy! merry christmas everyone! 𖤐⭒๋࣭⭑

“shit. shit. shit. c’mere.” calloused hands from years of work dig into your soft flesh, pinching, squeezing, tracing every curve and dip of your body. the rough texture of his hands contrasts sharply with your smooth skin, sending shivers down your spine. drool gathers pathetically around the corners of your pouted lips as you desperately grip his shoulders for some sort of solace, nails digging in and leaving crescent-shaped marks imprinting his skin. he takes your wide hips in his hands, guiding them in a slow, deliberate rhythm as you bounce on his dick, gasping with each movement against your velvety walls. the room is filled with the sounds of your shared pleasure, the rhythmic creaking of the wooden bed, and the soft, breathy moans escaping your mouth. it drives him fucking insane.

"kiss me, please—shit, i need you to kiss me." needy. that’s exactly what the man is but he doesn’t care. you’re like a fucking drug he can’t shake, you’re in his veins. you lean down, he kisses you once, then twice, it’s a disgusting kiss, spit dribbling from your chin as he cocks his head to the side deepening it. the feeling of your squelching pussy sliding across him is enough to make him utter those four stupid letters. “how ya think lil ol daddy would feel? seeing his perfect little girl like this all fucked out—god!” the thought alone has his eyes rolling into the back of his head, usually, you’d bite back but the way that his tip kisses your cervix each time you swivel your hips against his has your mind foggy.

your thighs ache, and eren’s holding your waist so tight that you're sure there will be bruises tomorrow. he thrusts up into you, his cock filling you over and over again. the way he moves you is sinful, his large frame underneath you as he fucks up into you like a toy. his fingers find their way to your swollen clit and you can barely hold yourself up. you're fucking putty in his hands, whimpering and mewling for more as you feel the knot in your stomach growing tighter. "oh my god, ren” you sob, he knows exactly what to do to get a rise out of you, his voice alone could make you cum.

"fuck, you're tight. c'mon, lemme see that pretty face." he grips your hair and pulls your head back, watching the expressions flit across your pretty features as he uses you, chasing his own high. "look at me. look at me, sweetheart.” you can't deny him, your eyes meeting his dark ones. he looks so pretty, his grown out mullet usually pulled to the back falling into his sweat ridden face, rosy cheeks, eyebrows scrunched together. “s-so handsome,” you whine. that’s enough to send him over the edge, cum spurting inside of you, leaking from your used hole. “ren!” you nearly scream as your orgasm rushes over you next, spasming in his arms as he whispers sweet nothings. eren yeager was nothing but trouble, and now you’d been sucked in. shit.

[rdng1230]

Sorry op, you awoke the writing demon and it must be satiated.

—-

Sal groans into his whiskey, silently asking god why he sent him such an idiotic best friend with it seems, an equally stupid ex boyfriend.

"You asked him to move in with you? Buckley I thought he said you were smart."

Buck can't help the sad smile that invades his face. "He really said that??"

Sal ignores him, tapping on the bar like he's Columbo laying out a case. "So tell me if I got something wrong here. He kisses you, you go on a date, you pull the no homo routine, ask him for coffee, invite him to your sister's wedding, fucking insane by the way, you spend the next what, 5 or so months happy as clams not asking any deeper questions at all and you think you can just jump into cohabitating with a smile and a Stonewall Spiel?"

Sal straightens up and turns to face Buckley full on. "No foolin, is there an actual goddamn gas leak in your apartment?"

Buck stares back at him sheepishly, either shame or booze flooding his cheeks red. "I may have skipped a few steps."

"Boy you skipped so many steps you took an elevator."

Buck bites the inside of his cheek. "Tommy always made your pep talks sound like, you know, actual pep talks."

Sal takes another sip of his drink and signals for another. "Here's the thing I think you've failed to grasp about ole Tommy Boy. There is nothing more baffling to him than a compliment."

The younger man's brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

And this time Sal actually looks sad. Really sad. "I've been his friend for longer than either of us care to remember. I have seen the best and worst of him and I love him more than anyone apart from my girls. I haven't always been good at showing it, but he is my family."

Sal stares at Buck with a strange mixture of vulnerability and laying down a challenge. One Buck desperately hopes he can meet.

"The only thing I would change about Tommy Kinard is that he would believe me when I tell him that. Would believe anyone when they tell him things like that."

Buck reaches out without thinking to grab Sal's shoulder, and surprisingly the old grump doesn't recoil. Buck can't really say Sal and him are friends. In fact they may be far too similar to ever be friends. But Sal wants nothing but the best for Tommy, and for that, they're on the same team.

"The truth is kid, Tommy has a knack for picking roads he knows are dead ends. He was ready to ride the thing with you till the fucking wheels fell off, but he never expects anyone to stick around. There's nothing scarier to him than potential. To him that's the same thing as loss. And believe me, he's lost enough."

Buck stares at the foggy bar mirror. If he wasn't on his second whiskey, Sal would have made an excellent Roman Centurion. Stalwart and intimidating against anyone who would wish harm to the things he cares about. It's probably what makes him such a good Captain.

"How do I make him believe that he's not gonna lose me? How do I convince him that I want to stay."

Sal gives him a sympathetic glance. "I don't know if he'll ever believe it fully. But the best advice I can offer? Stay anyway. Love him anyway. But you gotta love the real him this time, and believe me he will fight you every step of the way on that."

Buck nods sincerely, his whole body singing at the idea of even seeing Tommy, much less being with him. "I'd fight forever if it means getting him back."

Sal grimaces and juts his chin toward the door. "Get the hell out of here and go get your man Buckley, Unless you wanna gimme a toothache on top of this hangover."

Buck grins, tossing a wad of cash on the counter and gunning it for the exit.

Sal goes up to Buck in a badge and ladder bar and asks him what the FUCK did he do to Tommy

And Buck is taken aback and looks so confused as he replies that Tommy's the one who broke up with him?

And Sal juat goes cool, that doesn't answer my fucking question. What the fuck did you do to him?

[cum-a-calla]

i have this long-running fantasy about roman needing a handler because he cant be trusted not to run his mouth in public and rather than saying you're his assistant, which is what you agreed upon when you took the job, he introduces you as his girlfriend (because he knows what an uncomfortable position it puts you in and he fucking loathes what you represent) and weaponizes it as an excuse to publicly sexually harass you at every given opportunity trying to break your spirit but it actually just makes everyone involved furiously horny :3 :3 :3

“She’s my fucking girlfriend. I can grab her however I want. Right, sweetheart?”

It’s the hardest thing you’ve had to do so far in your newly acquired position. Officially, off the books, your single priority and purpose is to watch Roman. To be his glorified babysitter, so to speak. Everything was set in place, everything went so well and so easily for weeks. Weeks. It was easy to play the role of assistant - take notes, suffer his constant moaning and groaning and bitching, his lewd jokes and incessant flirting. It’s not hard to ignore his advances and take them for what they are, Roman acting out and being an asshole. The constant forced bravado. His smirking, his wandering eye, constantly sliding over your body like oil, like hands.

But this - this you can’t ignore. You look into the surprised faces of Kendall and Shiv, their eyes bouncing between you and Roman to discern what the fuck is going on.

“Girlfriend?” Shiv scoffs. “Isn’t she your assistant? Can you - can you even legally date your assistant, Rome?”

Kendall charges into the conversation, ready to control it. “Wait, wait… is this for real?” He eyes you specifically, but the only thing you feel is internal panic. “Are you fucking with us?”

“Nah, nope. Real deal. She’s not even my assistant, I just like to keep sexy secrets around.” Roman wraps an arm around your waist and yanks you closer, watching you with his glittering, dark eyes. “Isn’t that right?”

The flush creeping up your neck paints you the most embarrassing shade of red. Roman’s smirk tells you that he could eat you alive, that he’s enjoying every awkward second of this forced exchange. And - oh fuck. Fuck. He knows.

He’s not supposed to know - nobody is. Employed specifically by the hand of God himself (which is to say, Logan and Gerri), your only job aside from watching Roman is to keep the secret. To act as his assistant, but not to let on. It’s hard enough not to move under the penetrating gaze of his siblings, too smart for their own good. It’s been even more difficult to pull the wool over Roman’s eyes. For being such a snotty little nepo-baby brat, he’s actually insanely clever. He has the eyes of a hawk, ears always open. He sees. He notices, he takes mental notes. He can put things together quickly.

You laugh nervously and try to relax into his grip. “Um - well… I didn’t think we’d be… going… public anytime soon, Roman. So, thanks for the… heads-up.”

Roman beams at you, triumphant. He stares at his siblings, skates his hand down to grope your ass, giggling when you jump.

“Wow. Wow, Rome,” Shiv says, shaking her head. She looks at you apologetically, though she snorts laughter into her glass. “I feel sorry for you. What a choice.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Yeah, it sure is."

Roman parades you around the rest of the night, ignoring your attempts to corner him and demand an explanation. He keeps the drinks coming, drinking more than usual for himself. Something simmer underneath his enthusiasm - of course, he's finding plenty of enjoyment toying with you. He takes any and every opportunity to swirl you around the room and eye-fuck you, his lips wet from the alcohol, cheeks red.

At one point, he corners you into another room. A den, a library, something, the lights shut off - a room in somebody’s rich house full of somebody’s rich things. Roman’s glazed eyes shine in the dark as he advances on you, stepping calmly forward until your ass hits the edge of a table. He leans forward, barely blinking as he rests his palms on the surface of the table. His breath smells like whiskey, but there are other smells - his sweat gliding on his aftershave, whatever he styles his hair with. A whiff of cologne. He waits a beat, riding on that delicious, nervous silence as you do your best to return his intensive gaze. He’s so close. You have never been this close to him, ever - maybe imagined it, idly, thinking about how despite all of his infuriating habits and his general attitude and how much of a fucking brat he is for a 40-something-year old man, he’s… charming. Handsome as a demon, with a tongue to match. What that tongue might do instead of attacking people. What his slim fingers might do.

“You’ve been lying to me,” he says playfully, and he isn’t playing at all. “Liar, liar.”

“Yeah,” you admit quietly. No use in denying it now. There’s an immediate satisfaction in his smirk, but it melts off, the curve of his smile sliding back down into a near scowl.

“I don’t need you. I don’t need - whatever this is. It’s fucking bullshit.”

“I don’t work for you.” Your voice so soft, so measured. It takes real effort as the alcohol clouds you, as his gaze sets you on fire, and how could it not? “I - I’m just doing my job.”

“Your job.” Roman takes this in, rolls it around on his tongue, in his mind. He tilts his head and looks away only for a moment before he’s burning into your eyes again, so bright and angry. “Right.”

“Right.”

Roman keeps his eyes trained on yours and it becomes sort of an unspoken contest. It’s easy to do, melting into his own eyes like a snapping, green fire, ringed in gold. You hadn’t really noticed before just how beautiful they are. This is your focus as the first tickling of his fingers surprise you - his hand, sneaking up your skirt. They line the inside of your thighs like silk, curious, testing. Taking barely seconds until they’re brushing against your flesh - his eyes widen and his lips part, jaw hitting the proverbial floor.

“Nothing, huh?” He laughs in a harsh, quick breath, anger sliding into something easier - the knowing, the bedroom-eyed stare. The smirk comes back, but it’s fluid this time in a way that’s hard to describe. Softer. More satisfied. “Nothing underneath your skirt. Do you always do that?”

“Not… not always,” you whisper. The hard swallow makes an audible sort of click in your throat and he laughs, a genuine laugh like bells. It makes you warm in all that dark, cloaked in it all like some kind of syrupy drug coursing through your veins. You find yourself leaning into his lazy caressing, yet to actually part the seam of your cunt. Petting, stroking, but never pushing inside.

“Mmm. But just for me, yeah?” He leans in closer, eyes darting toward your lips as he leans in. You can practically taste him. He barely moves, barely breathes, brushing his lips so close to yours you swear you can feel it, but you do nothing in return. Nothing yet. Your hips buck forward without your permission and he smiles. His fingers come away before they’ve done much of anything, and he watches as he pushes them between your lips. “You know something? I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you say that you lied to me, that you want me, and that you like me doing this to you.”

It’s not easy to talk with his knuckles between your teeth, so you don’t, opting instead to suck on them as they slowly come back out. He pushes them between his own lips, like he’s desperate to taste so much as your own mouth. He nods gently. Do it.

“I… was hired by your Dad, and -”

“No. No, try again. Just like I told you.”

His fingers come back. He waits, stroking your inner thigh, so close. So fucking close.

“I… lied to you,” you breathe. He nods encouragingly, knuckles brushing your sex once again. It’s easy to continue, so the words fall out of your mouth: “I… want…”

“C’mon,” he murmurs, and he leans into the curve of your throat, lips brushing it. The tip of his tongue traces a line of fire there, unable to stop himself from pressing his lips against your pulse and sucking you between his teeth, biting, marking you. His fingertips dip into the cleft of your cunt, teasing. “Keep going.”

“I want… you… to - oh my god…”

Roman pushes his fingers slowly inside of you, beckons them, stroking where he knows you want it. A sounds comes up through Roman’s throat, almost a purr, so delicate and needy that neither of you acknowledge it. It sets you ablaze. It has you clutching at his suit jacket, rocking into his gentle ministrations. He holds back, waiting, wanting you to say it.

“I - I want… I want a f-fucking… promise.”

“Demanding,” he teases into your throat. He kisses his way to the corner of your jaw. “Tell me what you want.”

“I - I want an office. My own. A nice one.”

“An office?” Roman barks a laugh, faltering in his movements just for a second before resuming. “An office, huh. What next? A raise? I thought you didn’t work for me.”

“Yeah, actually,” you agree breathlessly, rocking your hips a little. “I do want a raise. I want a raise, I want my own office, and I want you to keep your mouth shut about knowing - knowing what I do.”

Roman hums, and suddenly he’s pushing another finger inside, twisting them to pump into your harder, a little faster. Being mean about it. Trying to take control of the situation, to punish you, maybe. He drinks in the gasp you make, the way you tense up and go up on your tiptoes to escape such direct pressure. He takes his free hand and grasps your shoulder, pushing you back down so you’re flat on your feet and taking it. His thumb presses into your collarbone, close to your throat. A warning.

“And why in the fucking Christ would I do that?”

“B-because - because you… I-”

Roman grabs your face, digging his fingers into your jaw until it hurts. His fingers fuck into you with a brutal, unrelenting pace, and it’s getting harder to think. It’s hard to stay still, to stay quiet. Anger wars inside of you, but how turned on you are trumps everything else. You wince and whine quietly as he jerks your face around, glaring, and if it weren’t for the way he finger-fucks your wet cunt, you’d be convinced he was enraged. Furious. Absolutely ready to tear you apart. And maybe he is. The thought titillates you further and your eyes roll back as a moan ghosts its way past your lips. He shakes your head and clucks his tongue, admonishing you.

“Stop being such a desperate, stupid fucking slut and think. Use your words. If you can’t string a single coherent thought together, why would I even think of keeping you around at all, much less reward you with a new office? Explain it to me or I’ll stop.”

“No,” you protest, and the sound of desperation in your voice brings shame as heavy and deep as the rumble of laughter coming up from Roman’s belly, up through his chest as it seems to fill the room. The sheer derision in that laugh. It has you shuddering, trying to ride his fingers all the same, trying to look away. But there’s nowhere to escape. Trapped against the desk, forced to stare at him.

“You know, I should fire you. I should let everyone know I’m in on the big, bad secret and get you the fuck out of here.”

“No,” you repeat, swallowing a moan. “No. If you do, I’ll -”

“Yeah? You’ll what?”

“I’ll f-fucking tell your daddy that you forced me to drink a-and, and that you -”

“- that I..?”

“That you raped me, right here, and your whole fucking life will be upended and ruined.”

“Oh,” he coos, leaning in to brush his lips against yours. “Oh, well - hey, babe, don’t you know you need my cock for that? There are better ways of asking me to fuck you. If you weren’t such a dumb whore, you’d know that. Is that what you want? Huh?” Roman yanks his fingers out of you and the loss makes you gasp. He struggles with his pants, his belt, and suddenly his cock is out and he’s pushing your thighs apart. There are going to be bruises in the soft, generous flesh of your inner thighs in a couple days, developing bright blue and aching. “But if this is the narrative, we gotta stick to it. Right?”

He shoves inside of you with a violence that surprises you, and it’s hard to tell what’s a game and what isn’t, what he’s really feeling or thinking. All that’s clear is the molten heat between you. He pushes you down on top of the desk, scrambling papers, shoving a stack of books off of it. He presses a hand over your mouth and buries his nose into your throat, breath hot there, tickling. He grunts into your flesh as he sets a brutal pace, palm mashing your lips back against your teeth. The legs of the desk shift and creak with his thrusts.

“Should’ve confronted you earlier. This is fun.”

Fuck off. It’s mangled to near-unrecognizable against his palm, but he laughs anyway, moaning. His hips pick up the pace and he really fucks into you, like he wants to split you in half. He likes it, likes the pathetic, scared little sounds you make, like you can’t decide if you want to cum or cry. He bites down, deciding that maybe both would be really fun. You know, just to teach you a lesson. To let you know who’s really in charge.

“Tell you what - if you can cum before I do, I’ll give you what you want. You just gotta do this one thing for me - right? Hey - sshhh, stop fucking whining like that. You’re enjoying it. It’s pretend, remember? Aren’t we playing one big fun fuckin’ game? You, pretending to be my assistant? So this isn’t real, sweetheart - I can’t fuck my slutty little assistant in here if she isn’t real, right?” He grunts and stills his hips a moment, shuddering before resuming his pace, laughing. “Close one. You’re gunna have to hurry up.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and snake a hand between your thighs. Roman doesn’t stop you - in fact, he only increases the ferocity, like he’s on a mission to derail you. It only serves you to your own end - already aroused beyond belief, cunt clenching around his cock, you give in to the waves rippling through your muscles. You whine and pant against his hand, trying to stay quiet, hips rocking back to meet his inconsistent rhythm as he falls apart. He pulls out, shooting ropes of his cum against your exposed cunt - he spreads you with his free thumb, holding you open so he can cum all over your pulsing clit, your fingers before you can snatch them away, guiding yourself through the aftershocks. He pants, staring at his handiwork as he pulls his slacks back up. He takes a step back to watch you struggle, to watch you shamefully push your fingers into your mouth. There’s nowhere else to clean them, anyway - that’s what you tell yourself as he lifts his eyebrows, sneering at you.

“Wow,” he says appreciatively. “Okay. You’ll go the extra mile and everything, huh? Well - a promise is a promise, honey. You’ll get yours… as long as I keep getting mine.” He winks and turns to leave, leaving the door open as he strolls way and leaves you to straighten yourself up.

[alastor-simp-page]

Tell Me I'm Crazy

Stan Pines x OC (really just reader)

Trope: Enemies to Lovers, Con x Cop, ridiculous weird gravity falls stuff, etc.

Anyways, Stan Pines drives Officer Shepard insane and she does the same.

What little I’ve heard of Gravity Falls is that it's a sleepy town buried in Oregon state. All in all, an uneventful place with minimal crime, which is unfortunately what my job relies upon. So…as I tapped the steering wheel, speeding down an open road in Oregon country, I wondered: what is the point? Well, I know the point that Chief Thompson had drilled into my head for two straight hours. By the time, I’m sure he had even gotten to the meat of the information I probably, actually needed, I was slumped and done. 

So, here I am with the beautiful yet same sights streaming by over and over again. Redwoods, the occasional animal scurrying along somewhere within the woods. The sights that I kept hearing Rachel blabbering about for some odd minutes have grown quickly dull. I should’ve expected it. Sleepy town, in the middle of nowhere, for a favor. A favor, yeah. 

The favor being as much as I love them, Blubs and Durland going on honeymoon. Cute and all, the wedding was tedious as all weddings are. But you know, they’re happy. During the reception, the newly married grooms were already jabbering on about the next step in life: kids. Yikes. My car almost swerved across the solid yellow lines. Can’t do that, right? I rolled my eyes. I’m sure someone going about 200 miles would go speeding down on the dead road as I was crossing the line. 

Police officer. Yup, that’s what I am. The big bad rule follower with a baton and a loaded gun. The said loaded gun had been thrown in the backseat amongst the bags.

I chew the inside of my cheek as the first sign of civilization peeks over the canopy of trees: a water tower. Some pathetic attempt at vandalism is sprayed on the tower and surely committed by some bored teenager in this boring town. I squint at the amatuer graffiti drawn in stark red. A mushroom? I shrugged it off and my tired eyes peel back to the road once again. 

Gravity Falls. Blubs and Durland. Chief Thompson. Babysitting, that’s what this is. It isn’t unexpected. I’m young, inexperienced, called wide eyed by the seasoned smirking older officers. 

And look I’m not trying to be, you know, whatever the word is…ah, attention seeking but goddamn! It is not easy being a woman in the police force. Cuz you know, you get pawed off all the jobs no one else wants to do. 

My fingers tense on the steering wheel. Even that graduate, fresh out of police officer school, was on the drug bust. God, what even is his name again? John or Chad or something atypical of the new beloved newbie. I didn’t exactly get the same treatment in the office either. Fuck, was it two or three years ago? Cities of Angels they said. It’ll be swell, it’ll be progressive. So much for that. 

Because what have I been doing for the past two years of my miserable life? Wasting it away at a desk. Which is, of course, part of being a police officer but even then, it’s not everything. It’s a part of it. Where’s the action? Sure as well not being given to me. And yes, I’ve heard the speech a few million times in person and in my head when I’m hurling the shampoo at the wall, but every police officer is valued. In their own and special way, that same patronizing smile gleams at me in the rearview memory. A memory of every face that’s told me I’ve seen too many police movies. 

For fuck’s sake, I’m not a secretary. I went through the school same as everyone else and all I’m  asking for is to do…something. Anything for crying out loud. 

This is something. A nasty, petulant voice whispers unwelcomingly. It’s better than sitting at the desk. Another unwelcoming yet somewhat more cheerful, dreadfully cheerful voice chimes in. The collar of my shirt seems to be sticking to my shirt. Anger brews unhappily in my gut, spreading heat through my skin. 

Then my unfocused eyes catch something. A flash of color in a bleak misty world. I give the break a gentle tap and slow the pace of my car. Welcome to Gravity Falls! The faded welcome sign shimmers under the grey sky. It’s something. It’s something to do. A little hope lifts my heart despite the mood that’s settled within me. Maybe this is my first step to being taken seriously? Maybe this is a test? I blink. It’s a chance. A chance to prove myself to the Chief. Even if it isn’t a test, I’m alone. No, no, not alone. I’m the order within this town to sort whatever disorder there is. No Durland, no Blubs to tell me no. I have power over this town? Is that what this is? Or are they simply expecting nothing too serious to happen?

I should’ve done more research. But maybe I know enough? Minimal crime rate, a few things here and there. It’s just hillbillies and nature lovers and tourists. How bad can it be? And if something were to happen, which is unlikely, it’ll be easy. Easy to handle and easy to bring back to the Chief on the silver platter. Something to spin into something bigger than it is and maybe, just maybe prove myself. 

***

The office is almost too clean for a police station. However, it’s expected. Again, nothing happens in little old Gravity Falls. And of course, who would? The streets are clean, there seems to be an unusual amount of foot traffic (not the city type), and local businesses are bustling. It’s cute, adorable and endearing. As usual though, cute towns with little action usually get boring fast. 

The police station parking lot was a little cramped for my taste but bearable. At least, it doesn’t seem like I have to deal with other employees. Although…there was a lone car parked in the corner of the lot. And no, it didn’t look anything like the old cars buried in the junk or “abandoned” in other words. No, it was one of those badly made cars that sputtered every second, the seats were worn and it was way too claustrophobic. And is it creepy to check out someone’s car? No. Police officer status here. There’s no rules against peering into someone’s car. Except you may be called a creep. 

The only jail cell in the main office space looks rarely used. A few strange triangular symbols were scribbled on the brick wall. I leave it. I’m not a janitor, that’s for damn sure and it’s not technically my police station. I test out the chairs. Comfy enough. Extra spinny too which is a plus. 

The only plus is that unfortunately there’s only a single door in the whole small station which is locked. Not suspicious, but again my curiousness nags at me. I jingle the door a few times but the door doesn’t budge. I try to throw my body weight against it and again, nothing. I give up after a short while. I don't even have any idea how long I'll be here. I’ll figure it all out eventually. And my guess is it’s a file room or cleaning closet. However a young starry eyed child cried out it’s a supernatural mystery lying behind it: a vampire in his coffin or a cauldron simmering with a potion. I shake the thought from my hand and walk off.

I poke around which is only natural. Annoying for the people who own this place, yes. But are they here? No. And unfortunately for me, there’s nothing much to poke around in. It seems the majority of the budget for the police station was spent elsewhere. Which I learn makes sense. The desks are covered in what appears to be origami??? The shelves where there should be law related books are stacked to the brim with an obsessive amount of snow globes. The books which are supposed to be placed on the shelf are stacked in a dusty corner. A clutter of what appears to be a collage of couple selfies are covering the crime board at the center of the office. Sheriff Blubs and Deputy Durland sharing sparse and sweet kisses. 

 My eye twitches. What do they even do? 

The file room? Even in worse shape. Only about three file drawers are used and all of them are cases of roadkill??? Hell, at the beginning it seems the officers entertained murder mysteries involving the dead animals. Many remained unsolved (foreseeable). One was solved but went nowhere, of course, since how does that even hold up in court? No murders. No thievery. No arson. No nothing!

Either they aren’t doing their jobs or this may just be the most boringest town in the world. Which, of course, I’m stuck with for an unplanned period of time. I almost dialed the Chief’s number to figure out how long I have to stay here. I probably zoned out during that part. About four digits in, I snap my phone close. It’ll probably go to voicemail anyways. 

I’m by no means an expert cleaner but I do try to make this office, somewhat, presentable. And by, presentable I mean, professional. Not some recreational passion project bullshit center. I find a ring of keys in the drawer of the desk in the office. A little pride flag is dangling from the master key for the police station. I smile down at it before attaching it to my belt alongside my tazer and firearm. 

For a moment, my fingers linger over my weapons. Do I even need these? Despite my better efforts, I just tuck my jacket around them. I pin the sparkling sheriff star to my button up and take a seat. I spin for a bit, glancing up at the clock and then I lean back. My back cracks satisfyingly and I let out a little sigh. It had been a long drive. Sixteen hours in total with stops in between to nap in the car. I’ve done it more times than I’d like to.

I begin to drift off with even realizing it. 

***

I wake up to the smell of coffee. It’s soft and tangible, and it smells heavenly. My eyes slowly wink open to the fluorescent lights staring down at me. Greg, makes a good coffee but damn, he must’ve stepped up his game. I let out a little yawn, stretching out my arms and straightening my back. 

I blink, once then twice. Oh, shit, yeah. This isn’t the LA police department.. I’m in Gravity Falls. A groan slips past my lips but curiously enough the coffee smell persists. Was that smell before? A stale coffee smell would make sense but a fresh coffee smell? The smell drags me towards the source. I wander blindly, like a bear to honey through the thin halls. 

And then a sound stops me dead in my tracks. Not a sound but a hum. “Keep smiling through…” I stand lingeringly outside the threshold, listening keenly. That smell. That hum. By the tone of the voice, it must be man. Deep yet slightly lilted. 

An unease sets within me. 

I’m supposed to be alone. 

Continue reading here!

[choccorin]

OH MY LORDDDDDDD

[tboy-trash]

#god yup. my whole family is supportive and loving#but when they think i can't hear? deadname and misgender#hell sometimes they do it with me present#usually in my presence they refer to me vaguely (they have never used my actual name or pronouns but fuck it it's as good as i can get)#but sometimes when they say something about me directly - boom - deadname#making it clear that that's how they refer to me when talking to each other#at least they're vague in my presence. usually#other than that they are super supportive and loving#the dissonance from it drives me insane#and it stings so fucking bad#especially because when they deadname me it's not even... my prior names which i used for a few years each before arriving at this one#it's the deadest of deadnames. that i haven't used since i was a fucking teen. more than half my life ago#and i get stress dreams about it too? where they say it to my face#and it's just... so weird. when they're close and loving in so many ways. when they support me. mum even corrects people on my pronouns???#but when it's just them. even with me present. jesus fucking christ. what do i even do about that???#i've spoken to them about it. apparently it's no big deal and not harming anyone. good to know#and i don't want to throw up a fuss because for the first time in my entire life i've felt like u had a family these last couple of years#don't want to burn any bridges#but fuck. it stings

@myste-rae 's tags

i think a lot of times well-meaning people tell us in situations similar to this to just say "fuck it" and leave, or do an ultimatum, or whatever. that, of course, already doesn't account for the economic dependency many trans people experience, since the job market is harsher on us. but like, even leaving that aside, i don't think people who haven't cut off ties with their family understand what it means. and, honestly? i don't even think people who *have* done it because their relatives were abusive fully get how it feels when they're caring and loving -except for this one thing. ((i say that as someone who cut ties with half his family because they were cunts way before i transitioned, and it was, frankly, easy))

i 100% agree with people who insist on not minimizing how dehumanizing "innocent" misgendering/deadnaming is, how it jumps well from micro-aggression into aggression, but cutting ties with a family that has always been loving and supporting in all other areas is at least as painful. which puts you between a rock and a hard place, because you have to decide between tolerating (to various degrees) attacks to such a fundamental part of your personhood and losing people you love so much

sorry for getting real on jesus' birthday of all days but i'd take all the mouth frothing transphobes screaming in my ear for the rest of my life over catching someone i love deadnaming me behind my back. like it's not even a question.

[bertoyana]

charles and erik with each other: oh dear, oh dear. gorgeous 🥺👐 charles and erik with the villain of the week/the x-men: K1LL YOURSELF 🔥🔥🔥

X-Men: First Class (2011) | X-Men Apocalypse (2016)

[backpackingspace]

Consider young odysseus and Penelope courting by going on adventures together (committing crimes)

[vaguely-concerned]

just had the thought 'in the end the most important thing varric taught rook was how to make a home for, with, and in other people' and then I had to go lie down on the floor and clutch at my head in unceasing agony for a few hours, as you may well imagine. hawke and the kirkwall crew........ in the end you kind of saved the world a bit in the most characteristically indirect and chaotic of ways. not by anything in particular that you did or achieved or accomplished (lmao imagine!), but just by -- having existed, and by the love that was always there, despite it all, in all its imperfections, even when no one was saved by it in the end. you're not here right now and you're not quite haunting the narrative but I hear your voices bickering and arguing and laughing from the other room. (and so, I think, does varric. all the time.)

'did you think you mattered, hawke? did you think anything you ever did mattered?' yeah actually, varric says with da2 and keeps saying through the series. you were here. and I loved you. and as it turns out that mattered more than almost anything in the world, no matter how long it lasted or how fucked up it was at the time or what else happens, because varric manages to pass that feeling, that intangible... home, that echo of you all as you were together, that love, hopefully the best parts of it, on to someone else for them to bring with them on their journey, with their family. and maybe the world will be kinder this time. you never know. merrill's line of 'Everything affects everything. We were born, a bunch of things happened, and now we're in a mess with our friends.' varric's greatest fear of becoming his parents. even through the wreck and the ruin of the world, ghosts upon ghosts upon ghosts of love -- malcolm hawke, who we never even see, but his life touched hawke's and hawke's touched varric's and varric's touched rook's and rook is passing it on to the family they're creating. the unbroken legacy of love shines through in ways that are stronger and stranger than any magic. help

[blueskittlesart]

hello, did you know that there is a deku tree lego set on its way? i just found out and i don’t know if you’re a lego person but i think that’s neat

HOLY SHIT. ANYONE WANNA VENMO ME $300

[demigod-of-the-agni]

BREAKING NEWS: make sure this guy wins a card game competition so that he may SMILE and HUM THE VICTORY FANFARE TO HIMSELF

[gravelsong]

Okay.

[spaciebabie]

number one most insane award goes to me it really is christmas oh my god hallelujah

[boxwinebaddie]

🎸 happy uncneen pepinursteppermint wintereve 🍬 ❤️‍🔥

❤️🤘 + ft. how i think my styles would say HYH

[girlwiththegreenhat]

cut script bits + extended scene/acting notes from season 3's junkyard dog. because i want to make you guys cry <3 the scenes that made the final cut are already painful enough, but reading the actual notes of what vibes a scene is supposed to convey or what an actor's performance is supposed to be based around make it hit so much harder.

+ kitt upset that his mom seemingly left, and there's something about the specific description that michael closes the door softly that fucking floors me

[leatherbookmark]

our flag means death S2E3: the innkeeper