#non-binary simon

[beastwhimsy]

this would happen

[sky-is-the-limit]

I'm a Gazhoe, Gazslut, Gazwhore.

Gaz nation ain't enough anymore, I need to be put down permanently. Or be his personal sperm bank idk.

(2nd is art by @ave661)

[leithillustration]

Snow On Ice

Rating: M

Wordcount: 3881

Chapter: 1 of 12ish?

Summary:

This is it, I think to myself. This is the fresh start I wanted. I’ve left all the stress of Agatha and the press and stupid Baz back in the UK. I can really build something here and enjoy the next few months without any drama.

Pairs ice skating champion Simon Snow is looking for a fresh start. After skating with (now ex) girlfriend Agatha for almost 10 years, Snow has no idea who he is alone or what he wants to do with his life. So he’s going to America to star in a tv show about ice skating, leaving all the drama behind.

The last thing he’s prepared for is to spend the next four months sharing a rink, a hotel and a tv studio with rival skating champion Baz Pitch.

Welcome to the second fic I’ve written for @carryon-reverse-bang this year. Snow On Ice is inspired by this enthralling artwork from @iamamythologicalcreature ♥️ I loved the dynamic captured in this image, of Baz being so confident and teasing while Simon tries to keep up with him. It has accidentally sparked a multi-chapter fic which keeps growing every time I work on the outline!!

Massive thanks to @iamamythologicalcreature for not only inspiring this, but being there for spitballing ideas, sending ice skating videos and offering some great editing notes. I can’t wait to see what other artwork she’s plotting for this! Also shout out to my beta @you-remind-me-of-the-babe thank you for all the encouragement and feedback ♥️

Apparently I am incapable of writing a short fic, so this one is multi chapter. The second chapter is already way longer than the first, and I’m only part way through my plan for it 😅 So far I’ve got the outline for the first 9 chapters and I’m going to do my best to get on a semi-regular posting schedule of at least a chapter a month.

Hope you all enjoy reading! If you have any fun ice skating facts you’d be cool with me using, please let me know!! I’m learning so much writing this and I can’t wait to share it all with you XD

[captialrogers]

Guillotine (part 1)

Simon “Ghost” Riley x NonBinaryAfab!Reader

MDNI

An independent contractor for the OSCE, code name Vixen is deep undercover in an European human trafficking ring. When things hit the fan and their cover blown, Task Force 141 is sent to extract them and any surviving victims. With the traffickers on their tails the group is forced to split up and lay low. The groups aren’t even however, and Vixen isn’t given a choice. They are stuck in a safe house with the one member who could keep them alive, Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley.

CW: canon typical violence, mentions of blood and gore, human trafficking, sex trafficking, abuse, mentions of violence against women and children.

Reader discretion is advised.

————

It was bad. It was unbelievably bad. They had been compromised and now the trafficked girls were paying for it. Vixen watched as body after body fell to the ground, the acrid smell of gunpowder and blood lingering in the air. They struggled to free themselves from the too tight zip ties that bound their hands to the leg of a bolted table. This was not how it was supposed to happen. They were 3 years deep into the ring and everything they had accomplished was now worthless. If it hadn’t been for a dealer recognising them from a previous bust, they wouldn’t be in this situation.

“Ah, you know I like it when you struggle, Ma chère.” Vixen dared to look up at the voice. Before them stood the second in command of the operation, his slicked back hair making him look every part of the villain.

“Fuck you” They spat, pulling at the zip ties once more. The skin of their wrists rubbed raw and bruised.

The man sucked his teeth before walking closer to them. Once he was an arm length away, he stopped, crouched, and grabbed their face. “Is the little fox sad they got caught in the hen house? Well, that’s too bad because I’m very glad. We may have lost a few hens, but we caught the cunning fox.” Squeezing their face harder, the man pulled them closer. “There are always more in the den so this way,” the French man gestured around them to the corpses that littered the floor, “we can lure them out.”

They glared at the man and spat in his face. They knew they shouldn’t have done it. They knew that it went against training. But how could they not retaliate when dozens of innocents lay dead before them. It was their fault that it had happened. They had been compromised and the girls paid the ultimate price.

“You little!” He jerked back slightly and dropped their face before taking hold of their hair and yanking their head backwards. "Don't start what you can't finish ma chère," He pulled their head back harder, "because you will not like how I finish it." The French man released their hair and stood abruptly. "Bring the child."

At these words Vixen stiffened. One of the women had a child during her years of forced prostitution. One of the women that now lay cold on the floor of the room. Her blood was on their hands. Their heart beat hard in their chest, the sound of it in their ears muffling the wails of the boy in front of them. “You’re a fucking monster.” They struggled against the ties again, angry bruises blooming around their wrist. “Im going to kill you when I get outta here.”

“When ma chère? No no its if you get out of here.” Taking hold of the child, the French man held his glock to the boy’s head. “Now, tell me how many more are part of your operation?”

The wails of the boy echoed in their ears. “Go fuck yourself, Fabian.” the cocking of a gun sounded, and they flinched.

“I will not ask again, little fox.”

Vixen couldn’t speak. They couldn’t go against training. But could they let another innocent die? They opened their mouth to tell the man they were the only one, but shots rang out. They ducked their head and cowered as much as they could under the table. The only sign that it wasn’t Fabian’s men firing was the small body tucked against theirs.

Something hit the floor hard and with one eye open they were blinded. The explosion was deafening, and the smoke burned their lungs. “Cover your mouth and nose!” They yelled to the small boy, trying to cover his body with theirs.

As suddenly as it started the shots stopped. Once again, they chanced a look around the room and saw several pairs of boots rushing towards them. The ringing in their ears began to lessen as they saw what had hit the floor. Fabian's lifeless body was sprawled on the ground, blood pooling around his head and chest.

"What!" Vixen yelled at the crouching man in front of them, feeling the young boy cling to them harder. They watched as the man's lips moved barely understanding what he was saying. "We need help. We need to get the boy to safety!" Vixen's eyes darted around the man's face and chest. When they noticed the Union Jack plastered to his vest, Vixen sighed. "Please!"

The man said something, but they shook their head, “Forget about me. The boy…” they looked down at where the boy had been moments ago only to realise that he was gone. Vixen searched frantically around the bloodied space only noticing the boy in the arms of another soldier when they saw a mess of dark hair over the man’s shoulder.

“…turn to…hands out…” The man before them pulled a large combat knife from a holder on his shoulder and angled the blade tip between their wrists and the zip ties. With a flick of his hand, their confines were removed and Vixen all but fell forward, their legs and arms numb from their cramped position. “…get you… here.”

They could barely hear what the soldier was saying, only making out bits and pieces, and nodded as the man helped them up, catching them when they stumbled over bodies on tingling legs. once they reached the exit the thundering of gunfire echoed through the compound again. Bullets ricocheted off the walls leaving pock marks where they landed. Vixen’s head was covered and pushed down by the man supporting them and the only thing they could do was clutch onto his Kevlar vest tighter. Smoke surrounded the pair as they made their way through and out of the building, the once blinding light of the French countryside was replaced with the pitch darkness of night. Had it really been that long? Had Fabian really interrogated them for hours? Tortured them for hours?

They licked their lower lip, tasting the distinct metallic that went with blood. When had they gotten a split lip? And who had sent the soldiers to retrieve them? Vixen looked over at the man beside them finally paying attention to his appearance. His head was covered with a boonie hat and his vest held the insignia SAS in the centre.

“Where are we going?” They yelled, ringing ears making it difficult to hear how loud they were speaking.

“…soon enough… meeting point…” the SAS member motioned to a group of tactical vehicles waiting in the distance, their lights and engines off. Again, the thundering of enemy fire sounded from behind them, following the retreating group.

They quickly looked behind them and watched as the traffickers giving chase fell. Vixen turned back around just as quickly noticing a tall figure step out from behind one of the vehicles. Their breath caught in their throat. The figure morphed into the shape of a man, and they couldn’t help but stare. Looking through them was no man, but rather the image of death.

As vixen was pulled closer to the figure by their rescuer, death raised his gun and fired. He opened the back of the vehicle, weapon still raised.

“Get… no…time.” The man beside them said all but tossing them into the open doors before slamming them closed. “Ghost…” Was all they heard as the space around them grew dark and the truck rumbled to life. Feeling around the back of the truck, Vixen’s hand hit something solid and through further investigation they discovered a built-in bench. Suddenly the truck rocked and they were tossed from one side to the other. Whoever was driving clearly didn’t care that they were in the back. But neither would they if the continuous ping of bullets hitting the truck was any indication of the situation.

Again, the truck jostled them from side to side and they really hoped that the driver remember that they were there.

— — —

When the vehicle finally stopped, Vixen had lost track of time. The darkness of the back of the truck did little to help their sense of time. For all they knew it was days later. The door opened and light blinded them. They quickly raised their hand and turned their head. “Where are we?” They asked to the air and received nothing in response. “Can you at least stop shining that damned light in my face.” Vixen lowered their hand when the flashlight finally lowered and eventually turned off. Chancing a look at the other person, they noticed that it was death. Or rather a man with a death mask. The white of the skull was stark against the pitch black of night and his clothes. If they hadn’t known that the man was there, they would have thought that the skull was a floating omen of what was to come.

Having the time to fully feel their injuries Vixen hissed as they inched their way closer to the open door and slid out of the truck. Standing was something that they wished that they didn’t have to do. Their ribs ached and their legs felt as if they belonged to someone else. How had the adrenaline crash been so subtle? There was no way that they hadn’t passed out in the back of the tactical truck. Had they? Vixen couldn’t remember.

They took a step and nearly collapsed, grasping for the man beside them. He stood solid as a rock. So much so that it took Vixen by surprise when he turned his head to the left looking over their head at a dark structure in the distance. They hadn’t noticed this. They hadn’t noticed that the man pulled their hand from his arm until he was walking towards the structure.

Taking a steadying breath Vixen followed the masked stranger and held their sides trying to keep their ribs from aching as they walked. It was safe to say that they wouldn’t be getting anything from the man. Not verbally at least. Instead, he communicated in his body language. The small pauses to let them catch up or the slight look over his shoulder to make sure they were still standing.

The least the masked man could do was tell them where they were going. The structure ahead of them turned out to be a quaint house in the middle of nowhere. Safe house. They thought as they finally made it to the steps of the building. Slowly they made their way up onto the landing and behind the man. A series of beeps alerted them to the fact that the house was locked with a keypad rather than a traditional lock and key. Once the door was open, the masked man stepped aside and placed a hand onto the gun strapped to his chest. Another detail that they hadn’t noticed.

“In you get.” He spoke for the first time since leaving the trafficker’s compound. His voice was low and gruff, reverberating through the quiet night. Without a second thought, Vixen entered the house and all but collapsed to the floor. The bravado that had gotten them through the worst of the night fell and they were greeted with the dark of unconsciousness.

— —

It shouldn’t have surprised him that the UC in his care was as tough as they were, but it did. Ghost’s arm shot out to grasp the back of their shirt as soon as they started to wobble. With a grunt the Lieutenant dropped the hand on his gun and pulled them towards him and slung them over his shoulder before he pushed the door to the safe house closed.

The briefing before the mission had been interesting and something unusual for T141’s expertise. Exfill wasn’t something that was new to them but the target was. It wasn’t every day that the task force was sent to retrieve a civilian from a mission gone south. He had to give it to them, they put up a hell of a fight — the state of their body gave the impression that it wasn’t a fair one. Ghost shifted the unconscious body further up his shoulder as he trudged through the safe house. It was a one level with a cold storage turned bunker. Or so the blueprint said. The layout of the building was open concept, for the most part as it had a hallway that led to two separate rooms. One he assumed to be the bathroom and the other…

Ghost shoved the door open with his free hand. His gaze fell upon a singular bed. It was a small thing, definitely military issued, and had the bare minimum for bedding. He grunted as he entered the darkened room and made his way to the bed. Sliding the body down from his shoulder, Ghost placed the unconscious UC on to the bed. Adjusting the pillow under their head, he once again gripped the gun slung to his chest and looked to the ceiling of the safe house in a silent curse.

This was the last place he wanted to be. He didn’t want to play babysitter to anyone let alone a civilian UC regardless of their combat and intellectual prowess. The lieutenant turned away from the sleeping form and exited the room, closing the door slightly so that it wouldn’t be a hassle for either party to haul ass and go if need be. Before taking a moment of respite, Ghost walked to the front door and checked the automated lock. Satisfied with it, the man walked back into the open concept living room where he sat on the worn couch and removed the rifle from his chest, placing it across his lap for easy access.

Ghost hoped that Price knew what he was doing when he tasked him with watching the UC. This wasn’t the best use of his skill set. But, he supposed, that he was the best choice for this part of the mission given that specialized skill set. It was a contradiction to say the least and it was one that he didn’t want. They were cut off from the rest of the task force until he received notice. How or when that notice would come was a mystery the man didn’t much care for. But until that day came, the lieutenant would hold his position and ensure the target was looked after, even if that meant babysitting.

[danobaggins]

they're actually the first T4T couple in the history of television if you even care

[lake-cosay]

greetings queers i have headcanons

[eternal-moss]

When people continually whitewash my favourite characters.

[ID: A black and white, rough digital drawing of someone sitting at a desk and clutching their head in their hands. End ID.]

^thank you @describe-things

[xxfaggatronxx]

Mmmmmm Price-

But this time it’s Father’s Day related.

(Update: felt there wasn’t enough Gaz, so I added a few more blurbs of text.)

Price had a semi-normal upbringing. His parents were strict Catholics, everyone was hetero, cis, and white. He was always a little nervous talking about Father’s Day with his team though, as no one else had a Dad, or at least a good one, in Simon’s case.

Johnny’s dad walked out on them, the Scot growling whenever someone asked, but then he would proudly go on about how he helped his six younger sisters and what they were all doing now, or blab about how he didn’t need a father, he was the man of the household. But Price sometimes saw the hurt in his eyes, how Johnny would never talk about why his dad left. He explained one night, after a few beers, that he came out as transgender, female to male, and his sisters soon came out afterwards, seeing that their mother was accepting.

Johnny blamed himself for their father leaving, as the man was homophobic and transphobic, it seemed.

Simon’s father was a work all on its own; a druggie with a want for living in the past, ignoring the needs of his children just to get another quick fix, achieve a high that was as impossible as touching the stars with both feet planted firmly on the ground. Simon wasn’t closed off about this, gruffly and almost openly talking about their experiences with their shit father, how the man had turned its younger brother against them, made their job seem like it was criminal and bloodthirsty. Sometimes, if they were in the right mood, with a book in their hands and the worn baclava, it would quietly talk about their deceased nephew, Joseph.

How they would help the boy make Father’s Day cards. And near invisible tears would fill its eyes as they explained the first time Joseph was old enough to make a card on his own, he gave it to Simon instead of his father. No one mentioned how that same card was framed in their office.

Kyle. Kyle, Kyle, Kyle. Kyle didn’t have a father. Well, he did, but his father was a literal sperm donor. He was raised by his two moms, lovely women who had come to drop off brownies and other treats, how they found the secretive 141 base made Price turn to Kyle, who blushed when he asked, making a meek noise. “…My Mums track my phone,” Price was amused, his sergeant who dealt with life-or-death situations, was timid when it came to his Mums, and it was no wonder, as it seemed they put the Fear of God in that boy whenever he was slightly rude to anyone.

Price had asked about his father one time, trying to seek someone who had one, and Kyle’s nose had wrinkled, confusing Price. He had talked about two parents. The sergeant had laughed: “Mate, I grew up with my Mums, not a bloke in sight,” Price was immediately shot down, apparently having the only Non-shitty, present father figure in his life.

Gaz being anxious around two of Price’s other favorites, a certain….. couple. A couple who was looking for a third. Farah and Alex. Price could see the way Kyle near fell over his own feet in his haste to get either of their attentions, Price…. Nudging him along sometimes. Giving him pep-talks and little quizzes.

“Just talk to them! Remember, Alex likes….”

Gaz would pipe up. “Specifically rainbow-dyed Daisies, the band Green Day and Nirvana or anything considered Classic Rock, but he prefers to call it just Rock, and he takes his favorite drink, green tea, with four sugars and a spoon of cream, with Jaffa cakes!”

“Good. Farah prefers…”

Gaz would smirk, and expert in this particular subject, as he and Farah were so similar. “Farah likes daffodils, any Lofi hip-hop station, but she likes the one where the girl is writing in a book and an orange cat is on the windowsill, and she only drinks espresso on Thursdays, every other day is raspberry tea, nothing else.”

“Atta boy! Now…. Do you want a smoke?” And Kyle, he would smile at the fact Price shared his very expensive, Cuban cigars with just him. They would both watch a game of Futbol, new or old, and yell profanities at the opposing team until Soap, drowsy and pissed that they were screaming at two in the morning, with his partner Simon sleepily holding his hand, would yell. “Stop yelling at the damn box! Some of us sleep, ye ken?!”

Price fixed his boys’ views on fathers, and Father’s Day.

Fixing everyone tea in the mornings, coffee for a certain Scot who grimaced at the ‘Warm Leaf Water’ served to him. It also included going out for brunch, taking the boys to a brunch at Waffle House, Kyle grinning and going on about the waffles, and Simon who would order their single cup of coffee and too much creamer as Kyle looked on in horror at the lack of waffles. Then there was Johnny, who would steal bites from Kyle’s plate, even with his own breakfast. Price would end up apologizing to the waiter, at the end of it all, leaving a big tip.

What with Simon’s near refusal to speak to strangers, Price would order for them as they glared at the poor Waffle House server, Johnny changing the song on the old jukebox in the corner to anything Scottish, making the Brits in the Manchester Waffle House curl their lips in annoyance, to Kyle’s oddly specific order about how he wanted the eggs done a certain way and the amount of sugar in the waffles and how they needed to use oat milk in the waffle and-

“Sorry my boys are being so rowdy,” Price had sighed one day, and Kyle and Johnny had beamed, Simon blinking in surprise. Price brushed it off.

Price got used to leaving fifty dollar tips.

Then there was shopping. Simon liked the clothes at Hot Topic and Spencer’s the best, as it was mostly black. Kyle and Johnny could also find shirts they liked there too. Sometimes it was chaos, Johnny trying on the most outrageous outfits, asking if the thong he was modeling looked good or made his ass look fat, always joking. Kyle would wolf whistle and Simon would grip their knees with wide eyes, Price sighing and shaking his head.

Kyle would then follow after Johnny, putting on the crop tops and near panty-like shorts, asking if he looked gay, as Kyle himself was bisexual. Johnny would howl with laughter, “Not gay enough! I can’t see your dick-print, lose the underwear!” Simon looked horrified and would blush as people turned to stare in the dressing rooms.

Often times, Simon would follow after Price, dead eyed stare and built like a brick shithouse, and Price would have to ask for double XL shirts for his…

“Excuse me, do you have any XXL shirts? It’s for my… kid,” Price settled so it wasn’t as awkward for the employee. He didn’t notice Simon stiffen, and the employee walked away to find the requested shirt in the required size. Price turned and noticed their stared, grumbling about how they acted like kids anyways, so he might as well address them as such. He saw Simon tear up and quickly wipe their tears away, and could see a faint smile beneath their mask.

Johnny took the most of these to heart, and it wasn’t long until Price sought Johnny out, hearing soft sniffling from his room. “Son, you alright in there?” Price asked with a gentle voice each time, knowing exactly what was wrong, what was happening behind the closed door. Price would open the door, seeing Johnny in his boxers, binder off and too-big shirt, that was most definitely one of Simon’s, draped over his form.

“It’s stupid, Sir, I ken it’s just mah’ head and dumb hormones…” Johnny would mutter with grit teeth, testosterone bottle and a needle in hand, the syringe not even filled. It was a weekly dance, every Saturday like clockwork, if it could be helped. Sometimes missions got in the way though, and it was now three weeks deep, and Johnny hadn’t had his shot.

Price sat beside him, rubbing his back until Johnny handed over the needle. And they would go through the motions. He would insert the needle into the vial and draw up the thick, syrupy medication. Flick the end to get the air bubbles out, then pinch, insert, press, remove, massage. Then it was about reassuring and making sure Johnny was in a good headspace, letting him know that the team didn’t care about his body, only that he was happy.

And on Father’s Day, if he took after Simon and hung up the three handmade cards in his office, proudly displayed for all to see: rookies and bosses alike, who cared? Specially if all of them said:

‘To the Best Father I’ve had,’ From Simon

‘For my Dad,’ From John

‘To my Third Parent,’ From Kyle

[dancingcatsta]

HIYAAAAAA Just wanna pop in here cuz Rasta and Thor being pretty princesses off the pitch and also at home is so right of you and now I’m going insane/j

Cuz Rasta seems the type to love self care days (not to El Matador’s extreme tho) and often does it alone or with his spouse cuz as much as he loves the guys and the fans, he needs his well-deserved break

Thor however has to go through Batman levels of security checks to make sure that not a peep of his extracurriculars make it out to his team or the public cuz he’s supposed to be training on and off the pitch like bruh let my man wear his rose water face mask and listen to yoga music like he’s not hurting anyone (AHEMAHEMCrunchAHEMAHEM)

Also a fandom question if you wanna answer: Favourite SS Headcanon? It can also be multiple if you like!

-S Stan

Hello! I’m currently on the train back home and it’s going to be a long journey. Your ask made my evening. Thank you so much!

Dancing Rasta is a though man and we’ve excepted it many times. He’s harsh and he shouts experienced it many times. Just like a captain would. He’s too hard on his team sometimes and I think he’s just anxious about something not going the way he wants. I believe he is just simply afraid of things getting out of hand and when they do, everything happens just like in „Training Daze.”

I believe Rasta does love having self care days but it definitely took a lot of effort, both from his spouse and him. I think it actually could have taken even years for him to feel like he deserves to take care of himself! It’s not always a SPA day. Sometimes he is in the need of undoing his locs or maybe just mosturize his skin.

In my mind, you’re correct. He loves to have a good self-care day with his loved one, although it took a lot of effort too. He still don’t feel always comfortable while doing it. Dancing Rasta is an extremely awkward man with such an awkward energy. Sometimes he needs to be completely on his own and his spouse respects it too.

About Thor: Yes, until he’s done with the research, he won’t feel comfortable taking care of himself around his significant other. He is afraid of people judging him and it will take a lot of time for him to open up.

Time for questions? Time for questions! So here’s 13 of my favourite headcanons. Keep in mind? I love hurt/comfort.

Von Push Up has three daughters and eleven men-children

Rasta is insomniac with caffeine addiction even though he won’t admit it

Thor calls Rasta sometimes so does Uber. He is relatively close with the Tanks and every time Coach and Von Push Up talk, the other always ask him about DR

Thor uses „Noir de Noir” by Tom Ford

Dancing Rasta feels homesick even if he never talks about that. Once he retires, he’d live in his beloved Swiss Alps until the end of his days

„To be love is to be accepted” is Skarra. „To be love is to be considered” is Klaus. „To be loved is to be known” is Shakes. „To be loved is to be seen” is Thor. „To be loved is to be listened to” is Rasta.

„If life is a never ending loop of dirty dishes and laundry then that means life is a never ending loop of home cooked meals and comfy clean clothes” - makes me always think of Thor. I think of him warmly and I think sometimes he daydreams of having a safe space where he could safely spend his retirement, maybe by assembling models and solving puzzles; He wants to heal from the War Trauma and someone to drink tea with.

„Personalize everything or die with nothing to your name” Somehow reminds me of Dancing Rasta. He is the kind of person who wears knitted Bob Marley keychain with his keys. He wears colorful gems bracelets. All of his backpacks, tote bags are full of enamel pins and plush keychains. If something is owned by DR, it is known by everyone.

„No Surprises” by Radiohead is the Rasta Song for me. All he wants is peace, the inner peace too. He wants to take care of his garden, bake his pastries. Tender love, hand to hand. To have someone who could just accept his solitude but still be there.

Rasta is a high-functioning person on autism spectrum. I’d believe you faster if you told me Hydra’s trio is not a polycue than DR is completely neurotypical. He finds it difficult to regulate his body temperature and once the season ends, he goes completely non-verbal.

Dancing Rasta hates physical contact. He is never the one to initiate it, unless a teammate needs it really bad. If someone acts too loud, move to fast, raise their hand, Dancing Rasta is going to flinch. Always.

Acts of intimacy (not nfsw) for Thor

Puzzle putting

Forehead kisses

Models assembling together

Have a dinner date

SPA day

If their S/O is lucky enough, he’s going to let them put not only a face/lip mask on but also a whole face makeup/paint his nails

Acts of intimacy (Dancing Rasta)

It’s hard to be intimate with someone who is scared both of physical and emotional intimacy. After years of being together, his spouse just accepted it

Picking and putting his jewelry on

Gently brushing and washing his hair: touching Dancing Rasta’s hair is the highest form of intimacy between him and his partner. Only they are allowed of doing it and not always. For Rastas, their hair is something very important.

The last one, one of the most rare and most wanted ones - bathing together. Preparing him a bath.

[sagealexander]

Dust Magzine July 2024 / Ned Sims

By Adam Peter Johnson

https://dustmagazine.com/

[britishtophatwithlondon]

Hehehe,Simon Raveson's evolution!(James Raveson's brother)

(He/Them)

[insiemes]

https://archiveofourown.org/works/56024617

Roads Lead Back to You

Three weeks after he woke up in the hospital, he found himself in a nightclub.

He wasn’t really sure what motivated him to enter the club, and if someone asked him he wouldn’t have an answer. He’d been walking by and the music, the lights and the strong beat of the bass had pulled him in like a wave to shore, like a magnet was drawing him close. The club, something seedy and dark, had no bouncer. He didn’t think too long about what that said about the establishment, instead thanking small victories. He’d walked inside no problem, no one telling him to leave and no one asking him his name. For that he was grateful, for if he’d been asked to show any piece of ID he wouldn’t have been able to provide it.

He had no idea who he was.

or

Simon Eriksson wakes up from a coma after six months, with no idea who he was in his past life.

[lakeadora]

I am so fucking neurodivergent that during my breakup and the process of grappling with it to myself days prior I made about a million Petrigrof and Hamilton references that I said to my ex boyfriend’s face “you were a wonderful experience” and he knew the context. Our relationship was too upsettingly similar to Simon and Betty that I couldn’t help myself.

[oohbrother]

simon and betty are sooooo t4t lesbians

[this--is-serious-business]

Baz 7th year: What is non-binary? Like if your gay your gay, why all these terms.

Baz 20: Yea this friend from uni uses they/them pronouns, it is proper grammar in vernacular English so I don’t fuss about it.

Baz 23: gender is fake and no one may refer to me ever

[makedonsgriva]

bringing back this non-binary! Baz fic in honour of pride month.