#the only thing done was nolan

[thedocs-in]

You cannot convince me that this didn't happen.

Also, yes, I know, said I was gonna get the second part of the fic out. But I've been busy the past few days and out of the house, so now I can finally sit down and do shit. And I draw faster than I write, and I wanted to christen my new art tablet with a meme of an art piece. And the comic was mostly started.

This thing, this damn comic, has been sitting in my folder for about two years I think. The reason I say that is cause the original version I drew that's in my old style I started like a year or so ago. Never finished it, never plan on finishing it. Looking at my old art style makes me cringe lol. But, I actually started this one like, back in July I think.

[kindlythevoid]

Oppenheimer spoilers below

Christopher Nolan.

You done it again.

I’m sure I could touch on so many things in this movie. I might later, I might not. But leaving the theater I felt so deeply unsettled, and I wanted to touch on that, from my point of view as an amateur writer and someone starting to feel comfortable talking about cinematography (although I have no current plans to do much more than talk about it).

Now I’d like to start by saying that, if you haven’t seen it or it didn’t make that big of an impact on you, this is a long movie. I, myself, am no stranger to long movies and I think it was marvelously done. That being said, my memory tends to leave things to be desired, so while I am writing this rather soon after I watched and digested it, others may have stronger points/counter points/evidence/what-have-you.

With that out of the way, I’d like to talk about one facet of the movie that Christopher Nolan, imo, harnessed in a way that I did not expect. And it wasn’t color, it wasn’t camera perspective, it wasn’t even the timeline.

It was his usage of sound.

From the very beginning, sound has always been a key factor in this movie. In the trailer, the crackling of the radiation detector is ominously present. It is used less frequently in the movie than I had predicted, but when it makes its “appearance” it most certainly put me on the edge of my seat. It brings a sense of gravity to an already serious situation. Engrossed in the movie as I was, I admit the sound mainly made me uneasy because it demonstrated the presence of radiation. Looking back, I can add to that and say it may have also been used as a foreshadowing tool.

Now, I’m sure we’ve all heard sound used a foreshadowing tool. The little girl screaming for help is actually the protagonist with a shadowy past who can’t get the sound of the daughter/random child he couldn’t save out of his head. The words of an interrogation in the beginning of a movie finally get context half-way through when the timelines finally align. It’s been used, it’s been subverted, it’s nothing new.

Except when it is. In my experience, and I am the first to admit that I haven’t seen enough movies of the genre to have a definitive say in the matter, I have never been quite as unsettled or shocked by the background noises than while watching Oppenheimer.

Let me start with the sound that will not leave my mind. Those damned boots. I’d heard it at school pep rallys when everyone would stomp in the bleachers. I had never expected to hear it in a movie about the man who made the atomic bomb. When I first heard it, I thought it was an aesthetic choice, like picking the music to evoke a certain emotion. And while it is that, all of sound is, I never actually expected for it to be from such a central scene.

When the boots were first connected to a scene, a short, split-second, blink-and-you-miss-it shot of shoes-on-bleachers, it was early enough in the movie that I thought it was a flashback of a pep rally at one of his schools, maybe as a boy genius, and I let it go. Later on, when they show the full scene, it’s terrifying.

And then you can’t hear the boots at all.

For hours, all you could hear were those boots in the back of stressful scenes and now that they’re there, now that you can see them, suddenly they’re gone. You know what they’re supposed to sound like, so why would you need to hear them again? And it helps build the suspension, the tension that Oppenheimer is feeling during that scene. And so the next time you hear it in the movie, the next time those boots are stomping on the bleacher in the background when they are in a meeting or an interrogation, it pulls you right back into the stress and horror of the bleacher speech.

And then, of course, you begin to realize that while the timelines had been so well interwoven that it seemed like you couldn’t go two scenes without hearing those boots, it was always a very specific scene, a specific timeline that the boots would make an appearance. Because, of course, in one Oppenheimer hadn’t heard them yet, and in another it’s not Oppenheimer at all.

Another prominent sound that I mentioned earlier is the Geiger Counter (I finally looked up the name!). This is a foreshadowing of a different kind, more physically consequential than mental. This, I believe, foreshadows the heavy losses suffered later in the movie by the radiation poisoning. The blast itself only killed so many people, it was the radiation, as they are so fond of pointing out in the movie, that helped round out the total killed in the bombings.

I’ll admit that it’s a bit of a stretch, but I can see it being a small detail that was added in.

On another note, I’d like to address how Nolan also utilized the absence of sound.

Oppenheimer (movie) doesn’t necessarily have jump scares, per se, but rather I jumped a lot during the movie. More startled with a side of deep-seated dread rather than scared. Any way you put it, Nolan does a very good job of keeping me at the edge of my seat. I’ve mentioned earlier the lack of sound during the bleacher scene (containing about half of the many times I jumped during the movie) so I won’t go into that again.

Another part of the movie where he employs this is the bomb test. This is the culmination of years of hard work, the pinnacle of one of three (four?) timelines. And you can’t hear a thing. You get the countdown (a staple from the trailer), the drop, and then… nothing.

It’s a beautiful flash of light and an explosion but the whole time there’s not a sound to be heard. At first it feels like it’s gone just so you can look at the view and then as you’re lulled into security… the shockwave hits.

I can’t remember the last time I jumped so high in a movie theater.

And it’s used for every time you see the shockwave. Silence, wind, and then a force pushes everything back, rattling the house, whipping up the dust. It’s really iconic imo.

Anyway, I walked out fixated on the noises of that movie. And the cackling of the neon did not help my dazed state.

[lostreverb]

not like the movies

(virgin!luke cooper x fem!reader) in where your boyfriend invites you over to his house to watch a movie, but there seems to be a change of plans not long after you arrive content: pure smut (p in v), y/n is also an intern, fluff a bit? definitely not proofread a/n: kinda got obsessed with the way luke looks like he's never felt the touch of a woman (this is a very self serving write) THIS IS A WIP FROM A VERY LONG TIME AGO and i'm not good at smut sorry

--

in an act of courage, luke had invited you over to his place to watch a movie- which meant he hovered around your desk all day pestering you until you begrudgingly asked him what he wanted.

"come to my house" the words blurted out of his mouth, more blunt than he intended. "tonight, i mean- please"

your features softened as you listened to luke's proposal, finding it absolutely endearing how his nonchalant demeanor did an 180 when he was around you. his hands were stuffed in his pockets (probably to hide the fact they were shaking) and he was looking off into the distance as he spoke to avoid eye contact. he only periodically looked down to make sure you were still listening. which, of course you were.

that's what he loved about you.

you were the only person (other than his two friends) who could stand listening to his endless ramblings about whatever movie had his attention at the moment.

and that night was no different.

luke had picked inception (how he already had the DVD you had no clue, since the movie only came out 3 months prior) and was explaining in great detail how the effects for the café scene were done.

he sat crossed legged on the couch, dark eyes vibrant as he excitedly spoke.

"so basically they took like a shitton of plate shots of all these things just flying in the air-"

you had absolutely no idea what a plate shot was but that didn't matter. you were just happy to see him so passionate. it really surprised you how talkative he could get since he was always so quiet at work. and as he rambled on your eyes got lost in his features, the way his curls lay on his head, the softness of his cheeks and his smile...

"y/n?"

"sorry- what were you saying?"

luke grabs a bit of popcorn before continuing. "i said nolan is like a fucking genius when it comes to special effects. practical is ALWAYS better. none of that CGI crap. speaking of, I went to go see transformers and-"

you cut luke off with a kiss, the popcorn in his hand immediately falling out of his grasp and onto the couch. you tongued him deeply, hands lightly tugging his hair. luke responds with a moan, somehow finding the confidence to guide you into his lap to straddle him. he'd watched enough movies to know where this was going.

but once you had reached down to the bulging crotch of his sweats, his breath hitched, and he slightly pulled away.

"oh.. sorry-" you murmured.

"uh- no it's okay it's just-"

"we can take things slow-"

"no it's- i haven't done this... before..."

oh. oh.

well that made sense. it made perfect sense actually. between the both of you, you had always initiated anything intimate. luke always completely fell apart whenever things got a little pg-13. you thought he was just shy.

he must've noticed your surprised expression, because even in the dark of the living room you could tell he was blushing. you brought your head down to put your lips against his again, caressing his cheek.

"I don't mind" you whispered.

and that's how you both ended up on the couch, half naked. luke didn't have any condoms, but luckily you had a hunch this would go down when he invited you over, so you had some in your bag.

as you lowered yourself onto him, luke let out an embarrassingly loud mewl, your wet cunt cocooning his cock.

this was nothing like the movies.

absolutely nothing like them.

no matter how it was done, no close-up montage of half naked celebrities getting it on could ever compare to the euphoric feeling of you on top of him.

and you hadn't even started moving yet.

wait, you hadn't started moving yet?

luke eyes shot open, lifting his head off the back of the couch. you tilted your head, looking down at him with an intrigued smirk.

"you okay?"

his gaze flickered over your figure once before he gulped and slowly nodded, unable to open his mouth in fear of letting out another embarrassing sound.

despite luke's assurance, you seriously considered simply getting off him and just giving him a blowjob. i mean the poor boy looked delirious, body trembling and all.

but before you could act on your thought, a shock of pleasure coursed through you. luke had begun to roll his hips, his face still wearing a strained expression as he familiarized himself with the feeling of sliding in and out of you.

in response, you matched his slow rhythm then gradually picked up speed, coaxing him to follow. immediately, his jaw fell again, his eyes shut tight.

"ah.. fuck- fuck- shi- oh my god" he heaved and groaned, gripping your hips harder to guide your movements.

with how things were going, he was about to skip to the third act and didn't want to disappoint you by pushing things along too quickly. but god you were making it hard for him to hold back.

reaching a hand to his curly mess of hair, you combed it back and kissed his forehead. "look at me.." you whispered into his ear, the hot air sending a shiver down his spine.

luke opened his eyes and stared up at you riding him. only the flashing light of the tv behind you provided any illumination, the sounds of grunting from the fight scene playing mirroring both of your own moans. the way it brought out your silhouette was almost angelic to him, like a perfect movie still.

he wished he could capture it.

but a frame is short, just like how long he could hold out.

with a couple of deep moans followed by a high-pitched whine, you felt the warmth of luke's release through the condom. your body twitched from the sensation and as you continued to grind your hips to bring him down from his high, you reached yours, your moan a perfect soundbite into his ear. something that's definitely going to echo in his mind forever. you lazily draped your arms around his shoulders trying to catch your breath, when you felt luke shift underneath you.

"oh wait fuck-" luke tapped your shoulder and pointed to the tv, turning up the volume with the remote. "this part is so good- watch watch-"

--

tags (ask to be added or removed anytime!): @fear-is-truth @juliamaximoff @jazz-berry @violetsghosts @quickreider @tiffysdeath @honeymoon8 @wcnderlnds @lacucarachapisser @xrag-dollx @oceanblvd111 @andiloveher @vi0l3tgard3ns @acrosstheunivcrse

[starkwlkr]

Hi Jen!!!❤️❤️❤️

I saw your requests were open so possibly, social media au or not, Cillian Murphy’s or Christopher Nolan’s daughter (either one would be fine, but I saw your imagine about Nolan!reader x Cillian so maybe Cillian would be better, either one is fine though) dating Charles Leclerc or lando Norris

(I don’t know if this has been done yet but it feels very random, but it I saw you wrote for F1 and Cillian so I just thought of that crossover. Couldn’t decide which driver I wanted to request for so I’ll leave it up to you between Charles and lando)

But if you do, then thank you!!!

my favorite nepo baby | lando norris

faceclaim saorsie ronan (don’t hate me, yes ik there’s more irish actresses but i love saoirse) also i love this request, mixing random fandoms is my favorite thing ever

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfans and 56,377 others

danielricciardo happy birthday, lady bird

mclarentears WHAT

dannyric333 does daniel know everyone??

bottaszz you don’t understand THIS IS IMPORTANT TO ME

landonorris my favorite nepo baby

danielricciardo the nepo baby says thank you

landonorris tell the nepo baby to make an account

danielricciardo no - the nepo baby

landonorris i tried

vettelsbees this is my roman empire

view all 23,477 comments

summer break

Y/n Murphy only knew Daniel Ricciardo because he had friends everywhere. It was only a matter of time before the Irish actress met the famous honey badger. Soon, his friends became her friends and the whole friend group was hanging out everywhere.

One of their hang out spots was the F1 paddock. Daniel insisted for Y/n to come to his favorite race, the Austin Grand Prix. It was no secret that Daniel is secretly a Texan so he wanted his new friend to experience the Texas atmosphere.

“We need to get you some boots and maybe a longhorns jersey. You’ll look so cool, trust me.” Daniel said as him, Heidi and Y/n walked into the AlphaTauri garage.

“He’s going to convert you into a Texan.” Heidi whispered to Y/n.

“Can you imagine me going home to my father speaking with a texas accent? He’ll have a stroke!” Y/n laughed.

“I bet that by the end of the day, you’ll love texas as much as I do.” Daniel smirked. “Maybe you’ll find a country boy you can take home to your old man.”

“Oh god, he’s going to have more strokes, die then come back and have more strokes.”

“Well then I can get you a British boy that won’t make your old man die.”

Y/n knew who Daniel was referring to. On the day of her birthday, which was a few days ago, Daniel showed her the comments that Lando had left on his post.

‘my favorite nepo baby’

While she told everyone she didn’t have an Instagram account, she had a secret one that only had about twenty followers which were close family and friends. She used that account to look at Lando’s account. She was going to lie, he was attractive.

“Just make an instagram! That boy keeps messaging me about you.” Daniel pleaded.

“I don’t use social media, I tried and I didn’t like it.” What a lie.

“Okay well can you at least talk to him? Wait, I should go with you, he might be the one having a stroke.”

So while Heidi stayed back in the garage, Daniel accompanied Y/n to the Mclaren garage so Lando could finally meet his favorite nepo baby. Y/n started to feel nervous, why? She didn’t know, she hardly knew Lando apart from his instagram posts.

“Hey Landoooooo!” Daniel dragged out the o.

“Is that Daniel Ric—” Lando’s voice stopped when he noticed who was standing beside Daniel.

“Is he having a stroke? I can’t tell.” Daniel whispered to Y/n.

“Hi . . . You’re y/n. Wow.” Lando tried to play it cool. “I’m Lando, but I’m guessing you already knew that because of the giant Australian yelling my name. Thank you Daniel.”

“Glad I could be of service. I have to go get ready, but you two go ahead and talk. Y/n, I’ve been told the Mclaren garage is the best spot to watch a race so . . bye!”

And all thanks to Daniel Ricciardo and his match making skills, your dad, Cillian, didn’t have a stroke when he finally met Lando.

[maidenvault]

Okay so, Crosshair’s hand.

Has anyone pointed this out? When Crosshair kills Nolan, he doesn't use his shooting hand.

He uses his left. Just as he very significantly has to in the series finale.

I don't know if the writers knew as far back as "The Outpost" that Crosshair was going to lose the use of his shooting hand and by extension everything he believed made him strong, a "superior" clone, and safe from being discarded when he was kind of fascism-pilled. But it feels extra significant in retrospect that his first action taken against the Empire is not done with the hand associated with the terrible things he did as an Imperial sniper. And it's after he just got a difficult lesson about how his own personal strength and skills aren't enough to protect him - he was saved twice by Mayday, then possibly only survived through the night because he wouldn't leave him behind and could share his body heat. He may be using his left hand when he shoots Nolan because his other arm is tired from supporting Mayday all the way back, which only adds to the symbolic touch I love that Mayday is using his rifle as a crutch to help him walk as well (and of course, he's at close range so quite meaningfully Crosshair doesn't use the rifle to shoot here either). It all supports the idea of this as the first huge moment of transformation for Crosshair when he's finally turning his fire on the real enemy out of a desire to protect others, however futile and too late it is in this particular situation.

Going back and noticing this really reinforced for me that Crosshair's hand injury probably isn't just meant as a manifestation of his trauma related to Tantiss. It would make sense considering it's his shooting hand that it also has something to do with his inner conflict regarding his changed relationship with violence and killing.

The Batch were introduced as these stereotypically macho soldier characters, an impression that's softened a little as early as the pilot of TBB but still distinguishes them a little from other clones. In a kind of funny way you can look at the whole series as being about these guys who were only brought up to fight gradually discovering and finding peace with their more traditionally feminine sides - literally because of Omega, a female version of themselves who shows them the possibilities of being a family and living for others instead of for violence.

For Crosshair this journey is much more difficult and like a painful rebirth than it is for anyone else because being a soldier was so much of his identity. He's always been the one to most pointedly distinguish his squad from regs because of their "superior" traits that he thinks will make the Empire value them, and he clearly internalized the way the Kaminoans only care about clones as weapons to be used in war. And it all betrays how little value Crosshair actually believes he has deep down. It was easy to go into S3 being especially worried about his fate because he's believed so long that he's not good for anything but fighting and he's the character it was the hardest to imagine adjusting to a different life.

But in retrospect, it was stupid to think they'd let him off that easy and of course the whole point is that it takes a lot to get him there. What exactly he went through on Tantiss beyond the electroshock torture we've seen is never delved into but personally, I think being a soldier is something that's poisoned for Crosshair after he becomes a victim of the Empire himself and subject to their attempts at reconditioning. He's not psychologically able to be that person anymore, but for a long time is still trying to largely rely on himself and his own strength. He tries to sacrifice himself for others because he's still holding onto that part of himself in a way.

But for once in Star Wars we've gotten a fully realized redemption arc showing that sometimes what's harder than giving your life in a redemptive way is to actually have to figure out how to live with the bad things you've done and be better. Some of the people Crosshair hurt were his family, and he has to learn he can only make things better by being there for them. He has to learn that he actually can survive and figure out a way forward from his life as a soldier if he lets himself rely on them, just like he only survived Barton IV with help from Mayday. As @moonstrider9904 explains so well in this post, that is what's so important about Crosshair losing the hand and making that final shot to save Omega with Hunter's support. Symbolically he's had that toxic part of himself actually cut off and it's the final, most painful part of his rebirth. But because of that he's forced to find that he can live on without it, that he's surrounded by people who love and believe in him anyway, and that having superhuman skills as a killer was never what gave him worth.

No, having his shooting hand cut off doesn't "fix" anything or mean that Crosshair is healed. He's probably only begun to recover from everything he's been through. But all we really need to see is that he's firmly found his place as part of a family instead of a squad, and he's not going to be alone as he deals with all of that.

[fluentmoviequoter]

Stay in the Car

Requested Here!

Pairing: Tim Bradford x fem!wife!cop!reader

Summary: Tim disappears from the station, and you and Aaron have to find him. After a heroic leap of faith, you save him in more ways than one.

Warnings: this is inspired by a scene in 6x10 but there's no story spoilers, angst, implied abduction and drug trafficking, injuries, fluff

Word Count: 2.3k+ words

Masterlist | Tim Bradford Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

It’s been a slow day in the Mid-Wilshire station. You and your husband Tim were called back to assist with a case, but so far, all you’ve done is sort through paperwork.

“I thought we had rookies for this kind of thing,” you whisper conspiratorially.

“They’re busy babysitting crime scenes,” Tim replies.

You nod as you slide the last form into its proper place. Tim pushes his empty box away and sighs. Now there’s truly nothing to do.

“So, this is where the party is,” Aaron teases as he and Nolan return.

“Yeah,” you agree sarcastically. “It’s a rager, as you can see.”

The detective you’ve been assisting gathers his papers and thanks you quickly. Alone and bored again, you ask Aaron how the streets are today.

“Quiet. Not so much as a speeding ticket so far,” he tells you as he collapses into the seat beside you.

“The Q-word,” Nolan reminds him. “Make sure Harper isn’t around before you use it.”

Tim shakes his head and digs his phone out of his pocket. You tap your foot against his leg under the table, but as his brows draw together, he doesn’t look up at you.

“You alright?” you ask him.

“I have to go.” Tim stands as he speaks, and only spares a glance in your direction.

“Where?”

Tim jogs toward the door as he answers, and you can’t make out part of what he says. It sounds like laundry then, "I love you."

“What’s that about?” Nolan asks.

“No idea. Someone must’ve called for backup,” you guess.

“Probably someone at Hollywood. They’re getting calls.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Aaron nods at you as you stand. When you walk out of the station you see Tim’s truck and his shop still parked in their usual spots. You walk past both vehicles, but there’s no sign of him.

“You lookin’ for the cop that just walked out?” a man on the sidewalk asks.

“Yes, I am. Did you see where he went?” you reply.

“Guy led him to a truck. Figured they were friends or somethin’.”

Your eyes widen as your heart rate increases. Tim wouldn’t have just left while on duty without telling you. To provide backup, sure, but not to get in a truck with a civilian.

“Did you see the truck? Where it went?” you question.

“Nah, miss. Sorry.”

You run back inside and straight to Aaron. Nolan is no longer waiting with him, but Aaron has nothing but time, and you need to find your husband.

“Did you drive to work today?” you ask him.

“Yeah,” he answers slowly. “Why?”

“We need to go. Tim just left and might need backup. He’s not on a call, though.”

“Just take a shop.”

“No, Aaron. I don’t know where he is or who he’s with, and I don’t need to spook anyone into killing him!” you exclaim.

Aaron makes no move to hand over his keys, but you need a personally owned vehicle to stay incognito. Tim has his truck keys, so you need to convince Aaron to help you; if not for you, for Tim.

“Aaron, keys!” you demand.

“We don’t even know where they’re going,” Aaron argues.

“And we won’t find Tim if we don’t do something.” You take a deep breath and run your thumb over your wedding band. “I can’t lose him, Aaron.”

“I know,” he assures. “But I’m going with you. Tim needs all of us. Whatever that text was must've been important.”

Aaron waves as he steps past you, and you follow him to the parking area. When he removes a leather key fob from his pocket and you see a Lamborghini sitting in his spot, you momentarily forget about Tim and his sudden disappearance.

“Aaron, we can’t…” you begin.

“Forget about the car. Let’s go!”

You climb into the passenger seat as Aaron starts the car with an obnoxious rev of the engine.

“Habit,” he murmurs as he pulls the gear shift into reverse. “Where are we going?”

“It’s been at least fifteen minutes since he walked out. They could be miles in any direction by now,” you reply.

“But they wouldn’t have gone anywhere, right?” Aaron asks as he looks both ways to turn. “It may have been last-minute, but they had a plan.”

“What did he say when he left?”

“That he loved you.”

“No, before that.”

“Oh, uhm.” Aaron pauses to think as he passes a truck going under the speed limit. “Something about a laundromat, I think.”

“Did he say laundromat, laundering, or laundry?”

“What’s the difference? Besides washing clothes and the illegal money trade, I mean.”

“Landry,” you realize aloud. “He said Landry as in Pierre Landry!”

“Okay,” Aaron replies. “Who is that?”

“Head toward the Hills.”

“Finally,” Aaron mumbles.

“One more favour?” you request.

“Anything, you know that.”

“Drive this car like you want to. Grey alerted dispatch that we took a POV.”

“Now that’s a favour I’d love to do.”

You sit back in the passenger seat as Aaron shifts into another gear. He swerves in and out of traffic as you think of your husband. Tim has to be safe, because you’ll lose yourself if he’s not.

“What exactly is the plan?” Aaron asks.

You snap yourself out of your racing thoughts of Tim to say, “I’ll know when I see it.”

Aaron nods to himself, but you can tell he’s not convinced. Your plan certainly isn’t detailed, probably not even smart, yet you have to trust that it’ll work. It has to work.

“Slow down,” you tell Aaron. “See the brown truck in the right lane, thirty yards ahead?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Aaron answers. “Oh.”

The back window is broken out and the driver is swerving within the boundaries of his lane, but you can’t see why. When the truck drifts toward the car in the next lane, they hit their brakes and lay on the horn. Aaron swings into the lane behind the truck and ignores the people who honk at him.

With the new vantage point, you see a gun in the bed of the truck. As you lean toward Aaron’s dash to get a better look, you see two people moving in the cab. The driver raises a knife, and then they duck down toward the seat again as he swerves toward the barrier between the lanes. The truck moves over a lane, and the surrounding traffic has given him plenty of room to wreck without harming anyone. The new bumper surrounding the erratic (and armed) truck driver provides the perfect opportunity.

“Get beside him,” you tell Aaron. “But not too close. Stay away from his door.”

He nods and speeds up to drive into the lane beside the truck. You toll your window down and unclip your seatbelt as Aaron’s car lines up with the truck bed.

“What are you doing?” Aaron yells over the wind.

You pull yourself through the narrow window to sit atop the door. “Saving my husband!” you answer loudly. “Keep it steady and fall back the minute I jump.”

“But you-“

“Thorsen!” you interrupt. “Fall back the minute I jump. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You raise your hands to the hood of his car and carefully pull your knees up. When your right foot reaches the door, you push yourself to stand and use your hands to stay steady. You count down in your head 3, 2, 1, and then you jump. Aaron hits the brakes and the distance between you and him increases quickly.

When you hit the truck bed, you roll before you catch yourself. With a calculated movement, you wait until it swerves again to push yourself up and toward the broken back window. Pushed against the body at the back of the cab, you reach your arms inside and grab the driver’s arm. It isn’t until you push yourself in further that you actually see Tim. Tim’s eyes meet yours, and he exhales sharply as you pull the driver back against his seat.

“Move,” you tell Tim.

He pulls himself up from the floorboard and into the passenger seat. The driver finds his knife again and begins slinging it aimlessly over his shoulder, aiming for you. Tim doesn’t hesitate to move across the cab of the truck and pull the driver’s hands away from you.

“Tim!” you warn as the truck begins drifting toward the curb.

You keep your arms locked around the driver’s shoulders but watch Tim. He takes a deep breath and leans back. As he shoves his feet against the man’s side, he grimaces in pain but doesn’t stop. The momentum knocks the driver against the door beside him and his foot slides off the gas pedal. You move your left arm to his neck and hold him tightly as you reach for the steering wheel with your right.

Tim slips forward again to avoid a punch from the driver and extends his arm toward the brake pedal. He groans as he pushes it to the floor, and you use all of your strength to pull the driver back and away from Tim. The truck lurches to a quick stop and you turn so that your side makes impact with the broken window frame rather than your face or chest.

Sirens sound behind you and grow louder quickly now that you aren’t moving. The driver reaches for something under his seat, but you grab the gun that slid forward in the truck bed and aim it at his temple.

“Drop it,” you command. “Now.”

Tim groans again as he sits up, but he keeps his eyes on the man you’re holding. You loosen your grip and open the driver’s side door so the approaching officers can get him out and into custody. He takes the opportunity to roll out, but Aaron pulls up beside him before he can push himself up and run.

“That was amazing!” Aaron applauds as he exits his car.

Tim hisses in pain, and you turn toward him quickly.

“That was dumb,” he argues.

“Are you okay?” you ask him.

Tim cradles his arm but nods. You hop over the side of the bed and open the passenger door. Tim leans toward you as you lay your hand on his shoulder.

“Where’s Landry?” Nyla asks as she and Angela run toward the truck.

“Whoa,” Angela interjects. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Driver didn’t say much, but he radioed that he would meet someone at John Anson,” Tim answers.

“Get an ambulance,” Angela tells a passing officer.

“John Anson Ford? The theater?” Nyla clarifies.

You tune out their conversation as you squat beside the truck. Tim’s boots are scuffed from breaking the window, but other than the scrapes you can see and his arm, he seems relatively fine. You release a relieved, albeit shaky, breath as you stand.

“It’s not high season for the theater,” you add. “Landry could be using it as a distribution base for his new product.”

“He’ll get suspicious when reckless back there doesn’t show,” Tim says.

“We’ll send someone in,” Nyla assures him. “You’re going to the hospital.”

“Don’t,” Angela warns when Tim opens his mouth. “Argue with your wife about it.”

She winks at you as she and Nyla walk toward the other officers waiting behind you. The ambulance navigates through the crowd of police cars and officers, and you look into Tim’s eyes.

“You scared me,” you murmur, taking his hand.

“You jumped from a moving car onto another moving car, but you want to play that card?” Tim challenges.

“Are you really okay?” you ask.

“I promise. There is one thing I’d like you to do- two, maybe.”

You nod quickly, and Tim looks over your shoulder at the approaching EMTs.

“Go finish this case, and make sure it’s over.”

“Tim, I-“

“I need to know. And you do too.”

“Okay,” you agree. “What’s the second thing?”

Tim tips his chin up, and you smile before you kiss him gently. He moves his good arm toward your waist, but you step back.

“You’re sure?” you check.

Tim nods, and you demand that he keep you updated as you step back.

“I love you,” you tell him.

“I love you,” he replies. “Get Landry.”

You salute Tim and smile when he rolls his eyes. Tim will give the paramedics a hard time, but he’s safe, and that’s all that matters.

“Grey,” you call as you enter the bullpen.

“Thank goodness,” he sighs. “Everything wrapped up?”

“Detectives are closing the case as we speak, and Landry is already booked and processed. We also grabbed two distributors who already had product on them.”

“Then get out of here.” Wade smiles as he adds, “And take your husband with you.”

You furrow your brows. Tim should be at the hospital still; it’s only been a few hours since you left him with the EMTs. Wade points toward the roll call room, and you see your husband sitting against a table with his arm in a sling.

Without another word, you walk away from Sergeant Grey and toward Tim. He looks up when you open the door, and his shoulders drop when he sees you.

“We got Landry,” you say before he asks.

“I’m fine,” Tim tells you, sensing that you have a question too.

“Good. Ready to go home?”

“As long as you’ll stay in the car this time,” Tim jokes.

He stands, and you hug under his uninjured arm. You feel him relax before his wraps his arm around you and ducks his head toward your shoulder.

“You mean more to me than you’ll ever know,” he murmurs. “Thanks for saving my life.”

“I love you, Tim,” you whisper. “But don’t ever make me do that again. You walked out and then you were gone.”

“Hey.” Tim waits until you look at him to finish, “Never again.”

You kiss him quickly and then step back and take his hand. “I promise to stay in the car all the way home if we can get food on the way.”

Tim rolls his eyes, but the way he keeps you close as you walk to his truck – which you have to drive now – makes you think he really was just as worried about you as you were for him.

[ambeauty]

thoughts on tomorrow

So I was thinking about tomorrow and how it’s filmed, and how the timeline shifting becomes a feature of the storytelling. Critically, it has been stated that it’s one of the most creative things ever done on television with storytelling. Like Storer was really in his Nolan bag with that one. I, like everyone else, enjoyed it immensely. On first watching trying to keep up with how many days between FNF and before official open and between Noma, Chef Terry’s, Daniel, and the French Laundry etc. was a little chaotic but that’s not why we’re here.

I recently rewatched the clip from Chris Storer at the premiere and what he said the episode tomorrow was about. Which is to paraphrase, “meeting the right people when you’re supposed to and legacy.” So we watch all these different timelines converging around Carmy as he thinks about everything that got him to this point. And if you’re a Loki enjoyer like me, I started to think of the timelines as branches, and it’s a Disney show so I feel like it fits, but anyway, the branches of Carmy’s timeline all converge during this episode. And everything he’s learned and every decision he’s ever made on his own, led him to Sydney. Including things out of his control. It’s always been her.

The first person he speaks to out of the fridge in one of the present timelines is Sydney. And there’s really not much dialogue in this episode but most of it in the present is coming from and to Sydney or because of Sydney.

And the episode ends with the beautiful moment of Carmy making the decision to sub the blood orange and it goes to Sydney who is beautifully centered in front of a giant tree. The tree representing the legacy that Carmy describes in legacy. Sydney is the only person in Carmy’s life who values what’s important to his legacy. Call Richie, I’ll call Marcus. Two branches of their family tree.

Sydney really is at the center of this story in all the ways that matter and all the ways that count and Chris Storer basically told us that at the premiere. This is a story about Carmen and how all of his paths converged to lead him to Sydney, his present, his future, and his legacy.

Excuse me while I go ugly cry😭

[colorisbyshe]

A lot of the response to Oppenheimer criticism has been "Clearly, you haven't watched the film, it isn't celebrating him! It shows all the things he did wrong" and I have to say... that's... still... missing the point of the criticism.

Oppenheimer occupies the same space as all the war films--like Dunkirk--that say "War is hell." While these films could and do skew towards "War is bad, let's avoid it," they still often... really end up saying "War is hell but let's pity the warriors and maybe consider the ways in which it was worth it."

The "war is hell" films end up completely missing the "anti war" mark because they choose to focus on the people waging the war, painting them in a sympathetic or at least humanizing light even when they're in the wrong. You feel bad when a soldier has to kill a kid on the other side--even if the kid is unarmed or begging for their life--because it's sooo sad that the soldier was driven to that point. And because... well, what else could they have done?

A much more effective "war is hell" film would be focused on the people whose land is ravaged by bombs. The civilians. The families. The people who lose their homes, their schools, their hospitals, their lives. Not in waging war but just in happening to live where war is happening. THEY are the real victims. They are not victimizers who might come to regret it (like warriors, like Oppenheimer) but like... actual victims.

In choosing to make a film about Oppenheimer and not about his victims--the people of New Mexico, the people of Japan, people forced into internment camps on US soil, and broader even then--you are saying "This man is responsible for great evil but let's humanize him too. Let's recognize that he didn't really have a choice or that maybe he felt bad about it. It was out of his hands."

Beyond humanizing him, it gives this history an element of inevitability. He HAD to do it. This HAD to happen. It's horrible that it happened but it was always going to happen.

If you focus instead on all the people victimized, you see all the reasons why it didn't have to happen.

And if Christopher Nolan isn't equipped to tell the story of New Mexican civilians who weren't given protective gear when the only jobs they had left were at all the labs or the stories of what a Japanese child does when his family is ravaged by American war crimes... he doesn't have to tell that story. The option isn't "Tell Oppenheimer or tell an intimate story he can't at all relate to." He could just... not tell this story.

Some stories really are not meant to have entertainment value. Some stories are not meant to be human stories but rather just facts on paper. Or told from the other human side. Sort of how like documentaries on serial killers often get it wrong but the fictionalized tv shows exploring ~what made them serial killers are ALWAYS wrong.

Some perspectives don't really need to be explored, is what I'm saying. Oppenheimer shouldn't be a grey or even dark protagonist. Some atrocities do not need to be humanized in any way, even if the humanity mostly culminates into "He was still wrong, though."

There are more efficient, less troubling ways to explore the motivation (the greed, the nationalism, the racism, the hatred, the warmongernig) behind bombings and wars like this. That would be better tools at realizing how we are repeating history, right now, in 2023.

That don't involve having to paint atrocities and the people behind them as grey or human or pathetic or pitiable.

[theodoresgirl]

hey I have a request for a Killian jones x female reader where the female reader is Emma’s twin sister (looks more like snow) and has a 3 year old daughter from a past toxic relationship, if you can’t do it that’s fine either way thank you :)

Killian jones x Emma’s twin sister

Killian jones x Fem!Reader

A/n: I did not forget about this request, Sorry it took me a few days to do! Hope you enjoy<3

—————————————————————————

Y/n was the daughter of David Nolan and Mary Margaret. She also is the twin sister of the savior Emma Swan. She grew up being bounced between foster homes in New Orleans. When she was 23 she had gotten into a really toxic relationship, at 25 she got pregnant and had a daughter.

She had been stuck in the toxic relationship until she was 28, She had packed up her and some of her daughters things and left in the middle of the night.

She had silky long black hair that was curly, brown eyes and a round face with dimples. She almost looked like a clone of Mary Margaret. Her daughter Edith had long dark brunette hair with emerald eyes.

Killian had met y/n and her daughter Edith one day when she had went to visit her sister and parents for one of the first times.

⭐️

Thursday June 25th, 12:51pm.

Y/n was sitting on the top deck of the jolly roger with Edith, They were eating some sandwiches from granny’s. They were waiting on Killian to finish cleaning his ship.

Edith was sitting on the edge of the ship walls looking out on the water, Y/n kept her view on her daughter and occasionally if he was in view, glancing at killian. Y/n finishes her sandwich and crumbles up the wrapper putting it into a bag.

Y/n looks around trying to see killian but doesn’t, “can i have your trash princess?” She holds the bag out so Edith can put her trash in it, “and I need you to be on the deck instead of railing so I can go run this up to the dumpster” Edith shakes her head as she puts her trash into the bag.

“I can’t leave you on the railing of the boat- ship? You could fall in the water” “Mermaid” edith looks over the edge. “It doesn’t work that way” She holds Edith back so she doesn’t fall. “I’ll watch her, Don’t worry about it love” Killian came up behind her, startling her. “Oh!- it’s fine- you- You don’t gotta worry about it, Weren’t you cleaning?” she nervously smiled, still not used to someone offering to help her.

“I’m done cleaning, Honestly love we could just head back to your loft if you wanted-“ “i wanna stay” the little one interrupted. Y/n sighed before nodding “i’ll be right back then” she said as she walked down and off the jolly roger.

“Alright then love” Killian smirks and she walks away. He turns towards Edith and leans against the railing of the ship and holds himself up with his elbows. “So what do you like kiddo?” He asked curiously. Edith answered back “Princess, Cartoons, Barbie-“ “I'm gonna have to cut you off there my lady, I have no idea what this ‘barbie’ is, Cartoons too?” Killian admitted. Edith looks at Killian with a confused look, “you don’t know barbie?”. Killian shook his head “what is it?”

“Barbie is movies, some of my favorites” She smiles. “You’ll have to show me one next time I’m over then” Killian pats her head with his hand.

Edith nods and giggles “we can watch a mermaid one” “oh? There’s mermaids?” Killian raises an eyebrow. “yes!! Yes!!” she nods and smiles.

⭐️

Saturday June 27th, 8:00pm

Y/n was laying in the living room with Killian and Edith. Edith was sitting in front of her mother and the pirate watching Barbie: In a Mermaid Tale 2. Killian was laying on the couch with y/n laying on his chest.

Killian had his focus on the tv, only sometimes asking questions about ‘Barbie’, and either getting an answer from the little brunette in front of him or the pale skinned woman in his arms.

After the movie was over both Y/n and Edith were asleep, Killian carefully slips himself out from under Y/n and picks her up. He carries her to her bedroom and lays her down before going out to the living room again and turning everything off. He picks up little Edith and carries her to her room and lays her down, tucking her in, “Goodnight Kiddo.” He muttered as he walked out of the room going into Y/n.

[theredofoctober]

Runt: an Omni-Man x Gender Neutral Reader Darkfic

TW: noncon, violence, blood, humiliation/verbal degredation

Synopsis: Reader's mother, the superhero Firebright, has gone into hiding. Omni-Man brutally interrogates Reader as to her whereabouts.

Reader is a Young Adult, Gender Neutral, appearance not specified

Read after the cut

✂️ ✂️ ✂️

"Where is your mother?"

There is something wrong with Omni-Man, frigidity in the barrens of his pale eyes. He stands at the door like an omen of shadows to come, his bulk filling its narrow confines immovably.

You gaze up at him, and the ice of his derision glares back.

“I asked you a question,” says Omni-Man. “Where is Firebright?”

His air of perpetual and mildly pompous congeniality has fallen away from him, perhaps had never truly been.

He's a stranger, now, come to your house with some hard purpose.

"My Mom?" you repeat, faintly. "She's out cleaning up after some crime, I think. I don't really know."

A lie, which you had promised you’d keep, come what may.

Your mother, a heroine of fire-wielding prowess, has informed you that she must go into hiding, from who or what threat she wouldn't say. You’d believed—without knowing its source—in that danger.

Now Omni-Man is at your door, and you think again of your mother's hands, how they had trembled. How thin she’d looked, and how afraid.

"I'm sorry, Nolan," you mumble. "I don't know when Mom’ll be back. She didn’t tell me."

"I don't believe that's true," says Omni-Man, and he steps forward, extending an arm to prevent you from closing the door against him. "I need you to tell me where she is immediately."

His face is handsome and severe, the jaw like a pane of white glass. The tension in it speaks of unshed violence and disdain, of loathing kept like a spider in an upturned jar, poised on release.

Fear draws you down in its dizzying pulse, and suddenly you're quite glad that your mother kept her location from you, that you can’t spit it out even under duress.

"I have no idea, really, I don’t," you say, and Omni-Man steers you back across the living room, his cloak whisking the backs of his thighs like a wind of blood. "Nolan, please. I swear I can't help you. What’s happening right now?"

You’re up against a wall, vulnerable and so very human. Unlike your parents, you’ve never developed powers of any kind to protect you or those you love, and Omni-Man knows it.

He’s been good friends with your mother since you were young, and has long comforted her with the suggestion that your abilities might one day arise. You’ve been no more a threat to this man than a moth to the devil, and yet you’d never once feared him, till now.

"Ellen must have given you some way to contact her," says Omni-Man, his mouth a joyless line beneath his moustache. "Call her immediately. Stop wasting my time with your blabber."

"I don't understand,” you say, avoiding the order. “Is something wrong?"

A gloved fist strikes the wall above your head, shaking down fragments of plaster upon you. Thinking how simply your skull might have bowed into a cave of bone beneath such pressure you cry out, a sound entirely too feeble to be called a scream.

Omni-Man looms over you, his eyes the blue of long dead flesh.

"Stop asking questions about things that have nothing to do with you. Either you hand Firebright over, or I show you what happens to those that get in my way."

There is, in a drawer in the house, a remote you could press, for the times in which your mother is otherwise unreachable. You could go to it, call her back from whatever bunker protects her from harm.

But as Omni-Man's stare bores through your anguished expression you understand, with a chilling clarity, that he means to kill your mother, and that only your stance against him preserves her life.

Gulping, you say, "Whatever you think my Mom did, she couldn't have done it. You know her, you're her friend, Nolan—"

Omni-Man’s fist grinds into the wall, his arm cutting through it to the shoulder.

"Don't use my name as though you mean anything to me, you pathetic, powerless runt. Look at the way you turned out: a snivelling weakling, not even a spark at your fingertips. No wonder your father left. You’re a disgrace to him and your mother. I'd be ashamed to have you as my child.”

Only shock halts the tears that burn behind your eyes, a wounded magma.

"Please don't say that to me,” you whisper. “I— I've always looked up to you. I love you, Nolan."

For a moment you think you see a flash of the old, kind feeling across Omni-Man’s chiselled features.

Almost at once it dies away.

"Too bad,” he says. “I don't love you, brat. Now tell me how to find your mother before I rip you into pieces."

Putting your hands on Omni-Man’s chest, you gaze up at him with beseeching eyes.

"Nolan, Nolan, tell me what happened. I’ll help you figure it out. Whatever it is, I know Mom had nothing to do with it."

Something of your gentle touch, your cringing innocence, provokes him.

"Alright,” snaps Omni-Man. “You had your chance."

In a spurt of nauseating speed he drags you upstairs by a sudden grip on your throat, your breath smacked from your lungs as you hit your bed and roll across it, head over heels, like a fallen acrobat.

Omni-Man looks about him, scoffing at your room’s dated, childish decor, the tattered stuffed animals still poised in glassy-eyed rows on your dresser.

"No wonder you don't have any powers,” he sneers. “You're stunted in every way."

His hand makes a lariat of your shirt collar, briefly throttling you until your feet kick out in twitching throes. Then he rends the cloth down the middle, repeating the act on your lower garments before you’ve enough air to protest.

You’re so stunned that you don’t think to cover yourself, only stare, jaws parted, hot from cheek to toe with shame, with horror.

A beating was the furthest you’d expected from the interrogation: the intent behind the night cliffs of eyes upon you seems, even now, quite impossible, an absurdity plucked from some sticky summer dream.

"No,” you say— you speak in a low, flat sort of murmur, as you’d address a beloved dog that turns and shows its teeth. “Omni-Man, please, please, you're like family. You can't do this to me.”

"Of course I can,” he snaps. “And I'm going to do it over and over until you tell me where Firebright is. Daily, if I have to. I'll break you down until you're no better than a drooling animal. Not that you're so far from that now."

A devastated moan spills from your tight throat as Omni-Man leans over you, his pale suit straining across his bulk. He pauses with his face close to yours, every vein in his eyes standing out like streaks of flame.

"Now, talk,” he says. “I don’t want to waste any more time here than I have to.”

Tears make glazed glass of your cheeks as you turn your face aside, unable to look at him any longer.

"This isn't like you, Nolan."

Omni-Man’s mouth is a razor’s wound across his white teeth when he answers.

"This is more me than you'll ever know."

He pins you to the bed with an abrupt and frightening strength, opening the groin of his suit with his other hand to jerk the flesh that rises through it.

"What about Debbie?" you blurt out, and Omni-Man stills, a red glove closed over the throbbing evidence of his anger.

"Don't talk about my wife!" he barks. “You’re not worthy.”

Your eyes return to his face, drawn to its savage rictus in wretched fascination. How long has Omni-Man—the husband, the father, the friend—been so twisted with this private hatred for you?

Interpreting the question from your fearful look, he answers, his hand still at work on his cock.

"I always knew you had an embarrassing crush on me. Following me around every event with puppy dog eyes, always asking if there was anything you could do for me. Degrading yourself at every turn. Laughable.

“And I ignored you. Debbie made jokes about you. Even then I knew you were just a fragile, weak-willed child, craving the adoration your father never gave you."

"Stop it,” you say, inching back across the bed on the heels of your palms. “Stop it!"

A hand traps your ankle, snatching you back under the colossus of your new enemy. His body is a cage of rigid musculature, even the smallest tendon able to kill.

"You brought this on yourself by defying me,” says Omni-Man. “Did you think I'd just walk away when you refused me information? Take pity on you?"

"Nolan—"

He cuts you off with a blow that near claims your sight in its ferocity.

"You whine like an infant. Why didn’t you ever grow up?”

You’re still attempting to process the pain across your eye socket as Omni-Man forces your legs apart around him, handling the joints with scornful disregard of their mortal delicacy.

“Where is Firebright?” asks Omni-Man again, and you can only shake your head, mumbling in a breathless stream of false denial.

“I don���t know, I don’t remember where she said she was going—”

Omni-Man’s lip curls in bald disbelief.

“Oh, sure. Well, let’s see how much you remember now.”

Your attacker opens you to him with rough, clothed fingers, tearing tight flesh ajar up to the knuckles, three of them deep. He draws them in and out of your hole like a blade across a whetstone, watching you flail and gibber beneath his merciless use with a stern and unflinching malice.

Then, as you scream Omni-Man’s name in abandoned repetition, he rallies his member to its furthest solidity and runs you through, all agony and annihilation, and you think as he does it that you may well die of his rage.

The floorboards moan with his rutting, its obscenity a crime of war. This is as much a degradation of Earth’s piteous race as a whole as of your person, your naked flesh symbolic of that which many alien societies covet to rule or else destroy.

That any human being has borne this and lived seems miraculous, yet you know it has been done and enjoyed for Debbie Grayson to stand by him. To love him.

You cry out, aware as you do so that you’ll only invite further pain.

“Really,” mocks Omni-Man. “I’m barely trying to hurt you. If I did, I'd rip you in half.”

In a jolt of violence he drags you up against a wall, the friction skimming a leaf of skin from your back as he stabs deeper in. Your breath comes in asthmatic chokes, punched from your chest by very force of his fucking.

Some wet stream warms your thigh, of what matter you don’t care to know.

“Give me the name of your mother’s location or I keep on going,” says Omni-Man. “You’re already bleeding. Your feeble body surely can’t take much more.”

His cock is a farrier’s tool, cutting with its every wrenching motion. Its length and girth alone would make you weep, but it is his wielding of it that is a thing of horror to you.

You feel Omni-Man’s hands shut about your wrists, testing the fragility of the bone.

“Aren’t you even going to fight me?” he taunts. “Go on. Show me what you’ve got in you, if anything at all.”

Closing your eyes, you try with all the force of strength and concentration in you to summon the flame you’ve long envied in your mother, and have never once achieved.

There is nothing, nothing, still, only an icicle of sweat down your brow.

Omni-Man laughs shortly, pulling you further up across the wall in another volley of thrusts.

“Just as I thought,” he comments. “Wasted genes.”

As he lets go of your arms you throw one of them forward in a weak strike across your attacker’s cheek. A mite star of fire bolts from your palm, and you yelp in both fear and surprise at the sight of it, at the thought of retribution to come.

Omni-Man rubs his face, which remains, as expected, quite unmarked.

“Is that it?” he asks. “You’re barely warm.”

“I’m not a superhero,” you cry out, as he returns to his mean handling of your body. “I’m just a human, okay? There’s nothing wrong with that.”

The blue eyes, once so lovely to you, roll in disgust.

“Of course there is. You could have been so much more. Take a look at yourself.”

Omni-Man flies you to your floor-length mirror, yanking your head back so that you might see yourself split apart on his atrocity.

How small you look, a flailing rag against the beast's taut muscle. His cock works in and out of you with the efficiency of some extra-terrestrial vehicle on a jaunt that will not end.

The sound of it is slick, explicit.

“You’re lucky that this is what I’m doing to you when I’m capable of so much worse," says Omni-Man, watching you arrogantly in your reflection.

“This is wrong,” you insist. “This isn’t you, Nolan.”

“I’m a Viltrumite,” snaps Omni-Man, and he flattens you to the bed again with a force that snaps the frame beneath it. “This is what my people are. You should be on your knees, thanking me for sparing your life.”

He turns you onto your belly, snarling as he stabs through your form from behind.

“This is the last time I’ll ask before I really injure you,” he says. “Where's Firebright?”

Only the lasting thought that you must save your mother from something more awful than this prevents you from delivering his answer.

Omni-Man grips you by the throat until your eyes stream and your pain barks from between your lips in a coughing spume of blood.

In frantic hope you turn one hand backwards, thinking to strap his hips in a band of fire.

“You think you can hurt me?” asks Omni-Man, squeezing your forearm until you sob and relent. “I don’t feel a thing. This is more humiliating than if you were entirely without powers. What use are you to your planet?”

“Nolan,” you croak. “I’m begging you to stop this.”

Somewhere in the catastrophe of sensation there is the start of pleasure, your body’s weary attempt to salve its bullied entrance. You lie quite stiff and still, praying that in doing so you won’t provoke that last ruination into being.

“You know how to end this,” says Omni-Man. “But perhaps this is what you prefer: to be shown your place by your superior. If I’d done this a year ago you would have presented yourself to me, ready and willing to be of use.”

To your despair his hand ventures to your tortured sex and makes full display of his knowledge. His strokes are coarse, efficient, in time to his cock’s quick barbarity. You smell cologne, and the fabric of his suit, and hair oil; your nose, your throat, is full of him.

Perhaps your soul will absorb his evil too, through osmosis.

Clenching your teeth across your tongue you steer back the piteous little whines his taunting abuse of your weakness brings.

“Part of you is still willing, I see,” Omni-Man comments. “Let’s see how long it can hold out against me.”

You cry, and hiss, and squeeze shut your fists until the stench of smoke greys the air between you. Still your orgasm is wrenched out on hand and cock like an eldritch birth, another plundered reward for his collection.

“Barely a minute,” jeers Omni-Man. “And all that mess. How humiliating.”

He ponders, hips grinding against yours with the approaching threat of his own end.

One of his fists arcs back your skull, forcing your tear-raw eyes to his again. What was handsome in him now seems only the frightful visage of a warlord, all pillage and pursuit of valour.

“I’m responsible for you finally developing your abilities,” says Omni-Man. “Why don’t you thank me for it?”

You stare up at him in terror and distress, your tongue swollen to near uselessness at the roof of your mouth. Omni-Man’s hand slams beneath your chin, pinching some nerve there until your vision blisters into an abomination of light.

Through blood-stringed teeth you answer.

“Thank you, Omni-Man.”

“You’re welcome, runt,” he leers, and with a gloved palm against your gut he flattens you to him, having you feel every pulse of his triumphant finish within you.

He holds you there for some time, your bare, bloody back staining the white of his suit and complimenting the red. You daren’t roll out from under him, remain, panting shallowly, adhered to your attacker by his spend.

His moustached lips scuff the back of your neck, more threatening than intimate.

“I’ll find Firebright,” he says, “whether you tell me where she is or not. But next time I drop by I expect you to be more talkative. Do you understand?”

---

Tagging @hewwokitti3 so you can find this 😇

Part 2 is now up

[about-faces]

Holy fucking shit Arkham Shadow.

I’m so mad this story is buried in a fucking VR game only a fraction of people will play. This is not only the Arkhamverse Harvey story we’ve needed this whole time, but it’s also a damn good take on Harvey that lifts from (and greatly improves upon) elements of Scott Snyder’s “My Own Worst Enemy.” It even does the thing that I so wish the Nolans had done at the climax of The Dark Knight.

God. That ending… I need to stare at a wall for a while.

I know Arkhamverse fans are gonna be divided on this one, between the format and the refreshing, dearly-needed, and almost-complete lack of Joker, so I really hope this reaches the right audiences who can appreciate it for what it is.

Holy shit, Troy Baker. Just…. holy shit.

Yeah, if you’re like most people and not gonna shell out for a fuckin’ Meta contraption, I hugely recommend watching a playthrough. At least until they consider an actually playable release.

[xxchumanixx]

kind of inexperienced reader with john nolan and he wants to try some new things. (smutttttttt)

preferably thigh or face riding

Something new

John Nolan x reader

Warnings/Tags: 18+, mdni!, reader is a little inexperienced, thigh riding, smut

Word count: 786

Authors note: Hello love, thanks for the request! I know it's short, but I'm willing to do a second part with face riding. Hope you'll like it!

Enjoy!

A while ago, you and John had decided you wanted to spice things up a little.

You were still a little inexperienced, not having done much before other than the typical sexual activities like blow jobs and fucking, so John decided to take matters into his hands and show you a few things.

Right now he was struggling to keep himself together and not bend you over the table, pounding into you until you were screaming his name backwards.

You were standing in just your bathrobe before him, just about to shower, as he came home, sitting down at the table to write a shopping list, when you entered the room.

You wanted to take his hand and guide him to the bathroom to join you in the shower, but he had other plans.

"I want to try something new." John said, stopping you in your movement, his hands holding your hips in place.

Curious, you looked down at him, waiting for him to continue. Whatever it was he wanted to try, the heat pooling in-between your thighs only intensified at the unknown.

He guided you closer towards him, making you sit down on his thigh, causing your breathing to hitch, as your naked cunt made contact with the fabric of his jeans.

It was a new sensation, rough and somehow wild. It had you shivering in anticipation, heart hammering in your chest, as he unfastened the belt on your robe.

Then his hands found their way back towards you hips, fitting like a glove. They were made for you and only you.

"Okay..." he mumbled, the grip on your hips intensifying the slightest bit, as he carefully started to guide you.

"And now, just relax."

You did as you were told, trying to relax but stiffening, when he made you move on his thigh. The rough fabric of his jeans rubbed against your clit, a moan stuck in your throat.

It wasn't as pleasant as you might have hoped for, but John hushed you, eyes meeting yours. "It'll get better, I promise." he spoke softly, pecking your lips.

His hard-on was pushing at the front if his jeans, getting more and more uncomfortable for him. But he wanted to have you come on his thigh first, wanted to show you how good it would feel.

You nodded, relaxing again, as you exhaled shakily.

John started to move you again, forwards and backwards in a steady but building rhythm, tilting you slightly and there it was-

A moan escaped your lips, heat rushing towards your center and cheeks at the sudden pleasure the new angle brought you.

John smiled to himself, repeating the motion with more pressure.

It shot through your body, into your toes and up your head. The pleasure was constantly building, tightening the familiar knot in your stomach, as you stumbled towards your first orgasm of the night.

"John!" you breathed out his name in a raspy moan and he returned it with one of his own, biting his lip to concentrate on the movements, as your hands took a hold of his shoulders.

You slowly took over, getting faster. One of his hands cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the stiff nipple.

You jolted, seeing stars.

His lips attached to it, sucking at the peaked bud, tongue swirling around it. More sparks shot through you at his actions, toes curling.

"I'm close!" you rasped out, noticing how the fabric of his jeans became wetter from your arousal. It made it easier to move, as one of your hands fisted his shirt.

His other hand found your clit, thumb drawing quick circles, matching the speed of your movement, when he let go of your nipple.

"Come for me." he muttered in your ear and you followed his command, as you came hard.

The coil snapped, sending you straight over the edge, as your fluids soaked his thigh. It blinded you momentarily, his name falling off your lips in hushed whispers.

He helped you ride out your high as your legs gave out, eventually holding you in place.

Breathing heavily you tried to calm down.

John watched you with hungry eyes, waiting for you to come down from your high, glowing like a goddess.

"Wow." you managed to breathe out, chuckling at him. "That was amazing." He grinned back at you, before he made you stand up.

Looking down at his leg he tskd, shaking his head. "My my, look what a mess you made."

You blushed at his words, his need for you making them huskier. "Gotta clean that up."

You nodded eagerly, taking his hands in yours. "And I know just how to." you told him, walking towards the bathroom.

"Just relax."

Tag List

@newobsessionweekly @laheysfilm

@rookietrek @augustvandyne

@dhunhdchrihhchrih @nachofriess

[doctorkinney]

i’ll kiss your scars

buck x eddie | 900 words | teen rating

trans buck my beloved for @steadfastsaturnsrings <3

“But y-you like men.” “Yes I do. Particularly the amazing and gorgeous man in front of me.” Buck stumbles across his words, all flustered. “But Eddie, I’m not— like I don’t have a you know.” He glances down there. “That doesn’t make you any less of a man, Buck."

read on ao3 or under the cut

Buck, Eddie and Christopher are enjoying their dinner together in comfortable silence.

Christopher finishes his plate of spaghetti and meatballs first and now that he’s not eating, the silence feels weird so he speaks up.

“I’m not the only Christopher in my class anymore.”

Eddie hums. “Oh new student?”

“Nope. His name used to be Chloe but now it’s Christopher.”

Eddie and Buck look to each other in understanding.

“So he’s…”

“Trans. Yeah, it’s not a big deal, Dad. Now people just call me Chris and him Christopher.”

“How did people react?” Buck asks curiously.

“Everyone was cool about it. Some people had questions though so Christopher answered them. Then Mr. Nolan told everyone that he will not tolerate any transphobia or homophobia but he’s happy to tell us more about it. And if we ever have to talk to him about it, we can.”

Buck blinks back tears thinking how happy he is that in school, kids can come out and people will be supportive or at least respectful enough that they won’t say anything negative. He thinks about how bad it would be if he came out in middle school. He’s so glad Christopher has a teacher like Mr. Nolan.

He should probably tell Eddie that he’s trans. It’s been over a year since they’ve been friends. He knows Eddie will be accepting and everything but it’s still hard. He doesn’t want anything to change between them.

“Buck?” Eddie and nudges his foot with his own under the table.

“You okay?” he asks.

Buck quickly nods. “Yeah no I’m good.”

Eddie thankfully doesn’t push and instead asks what movie they should watch tonight.

—

They watch Spiderman: Into the Spider-Verse and Buck suggests they watch the second one next movie night which Christopher enthusiastically agrees to.

Christopher gets ready for bed reluctantly and Buck reads him a chapter of Percy Jackson. Eddie watches them with a sickening fond smile.

Once the chapter’s done, he and Eddie both hug Christopher and tell him “good night” and Buck yearns for him to have this every night.

They walk into the living room and Buck plops onto the couch with a sigh.

Eddie sits down next to Buck and faces him.

“Hey, you know that you can tell me anything, right?” he says earnestly with his stupidly pretty eyes and it feels like Eddie's staring into his soul.

Buck breaks eye contact and nods. “Yeah of course, uh thanks.”

Eddie doesn’t reply as if he’s hoping Buck will say more.

“Just give me a moment.” he adds and to that Eddie hums and rests his hand on Buck’s thigh. Oh fuck. This isn’t helping his nerves.

Buck takes a deep breath. “I’m trans.”

A second passes.

“Thanks for telling me.” Eddie smiles, trying to act like he didn’t know this but Buck sees past it.

“You already knew. How?”

“I saw your testosterone gel thing in the bathroom once. I guess you forgot to put it away like you usually do,” Eddie answers softly.

“You’re not mad I didn’t tell you?”

“Of course not, Buck. You don’t owe me anything regarding that.”

“We’ve been best friends for months.”

“Yeah well did I come out to you as cis? No. Besides gender is fucking stupid. Am I even a man?”

Buck sighs. He supposes Eddie has a valid point.

“Uh, while we’re talking about more serious topics, I have something to tell you,” Eddie admits.

Buck doesn’t have enough time to panic before Eddie calmly says “I’m in love with you.”

Is this a fucking dream? Buck doesn’t know what to say. “I- What do you mean?”

Eddie continues, “Yeah that was one of the factors in the whole me discovering my sexuality process. Hen called me out so many times about my gay panic for you.”

“But y-you like men.”

“Yes I do. Particularly the amazing and gorgeous man in front of me.”

Buck stumbles across his words, all flustered. “But Eddie, I’m not— like I don’t have a you know.” He glances down there.

“That doesn’t make you any less of a man, Buck. I know how I feel about you. I love you beyond your body but I mean, I do really love your body too and I hope I can make you feel safe and comfortable with it.”

Yeah this is a fucking dream come true.

Eddie lifts up the bottom of his shirt. “Can I…”

Buck has no idea what he’s about to do but he’ll let Eddie do anything to him. That probably should be concerning but he doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” he says with a shaky breath.

Eddie gently takes Buck’s shirt (which actually belonged to Eddie originally) and looks at him with such adoration, it makes Buck want to cry.

He lowers his head and brings his lips to Buck’s top surgery scars. He softly kisses along the two lines, whispering “I love you” after each kiss.

Now Buck is crying. He is just so overwhelmed with love—both his love for Eddie and feeling so loved by Eddie. He manages to say, “I love you” back before the tears make unable to speak coherently

Of course Eddie understands and doesn’t tell him “No it’s okay don’t cry,” instead he embraces him into a hug that makes Buck feel all warm and fuzzy — like all hugs from Eddie do.

They stay there, holding each other and Buck realizes things have changed between them but in the best way possible.

[dangerpronebuddie]

Tease Tidbit Tuesday!!

Tagged by @wikiangela @theotherbuckley @tizniz who all shared absolutely BRILLIANT stuff y'all should show some love 🩷🩵

The writing beans are on vacation without me ರ⁠╭⁠╮⁠ರ so I haven't gotten much of anything done at. all. But! Thanks to Nolan (*forehead kiss*) I've gone back to my sub Eddie fic!! The beginning needs to be adjusted a little- anything before this snippet is... meh. So while I fix that and hopefully get to the good stuff 😏 have one of my favorite moments:

"I'd take you apart," he whispers, leaning into Eddie's space. "Tease you until you're shaking with pleasure only I can give you." Heat sparks in Eddie's chest as Buck's gaze rakes over him. He's been checked out before, it's not even uncommon, but from Buck it's… different. The space Eddie had noticed earlier is gone, replaced by Buck’s knee on the cushion, letting him lean closer. Eddie doesn't dare look away. He doesn't dare breathe. Buck can't be serious. It's all talk. For all he knows, Buck's going to lean back and laugh about the whole thing and they'll go back to their movie. But Buck keeps his gaze locked on Eddie, his pupils blown wide, his eyes darkening. He leans closer, so he's looming over Eddie, a hand on the armrest behind Eddie's back. The movement makes Eddie lean back, only slightly. He's torn between making space in case this is a joke, and closing the gap between them. Tentatively, he trails his hand up Buck's arm, to his shoulder. The smallest smirk graces Buck's lips. Normally, Eddie doesn't notice just how big Buck is. Eddie thinks he should feel boxed in. But he doesn't. He trusts Buck implicitly. All he can feel is excitement, if a little nervousness. It's not like they've been in this position before. "The only decision you have to make," Buck practically purrs, tilting his head with a smirk, "is whether or not you want it." His eyes flick to Eddie's mouth. Eddie finds himself doing the same, his gaze focused on plump pink lips. If they do this, there's no turning back. At least not for Eddie. He doesn't know if Buck's suggesting a one time thing. At the moment, he doesn't care. He leans up and closes the distance between them, slotting their lips together.

(tags under the cut. As always, please let me know if you want to be added/ removed):

@13shadesofanni @lover-of-mine @monsterrae1 @loveyouanyway

@ronordmann @steadfastsaturnsrings @daffi-990 @kitteneddiediaz

@inell @exhuastedpigeon @spagheddiediaz @hippolotamus @diazsdimples @thekristen999

@actuallyitsellie @daniwib @fortheloveofbuddie @wildlife4life

@rainbow-nerdss @alliaskisthepossibilityoflove

@lunarspark-cos @idealuk @shipperqueen6 @slowlyfoggydestiny

@misshiss727 @likeamollusconarock @lin27 @jshadow01 @orangeboxfox92

@smallandalmosthonest @thegeekcompanion @emilybahu @lemotmo @awolfnamed-nyx

@kaseysgirl86-blog @darkrose6578 @totallynotagoraphobic @dandelioncasey @bibuckbuckgoose @whatsgoodinthehood22

@lady-elaine @buckley-diaz-rules @buddiedaydreamer911 @monroemary @pirate-hunter

@nonspeakingkiku @eddiedisasterdiaz and anyone else who wants to share!! 🥰🩷

[biblio-smia]

one | two | three

when it rains, it pours.

this sentiment rings in your chest - dully, an ache you can't get rid of.

the gray clouds that had hung in the sky, over your head, began to empty themselves mercilessly over grizzly lake. this morning's soft breeze picked up into an icy wind, creating a white cloud of rain that your windshield wipers could not quite battle. you could barely see the cars you shared the road with, water pounding on the roof of your car as you finally made it into your driveway.

the relentless rain had begun as a stray raindrop in your eye as you furiously walked to your car after your chewing out of clapton davis.

despite the anger you still held on to, warm in your chest and keeping you from shivering in your soaked clothes, you hoped clapton made it home before it'd begun to storm.

your home was empty, quiet as you padded to your room, cold hands digging for cozier clothes to lounge in. as you exchanged your wet clothes for dry ones, clapton wasted no time in intruding your thoughts.

each exchange you'd had with clapton began to play like a slideshow in your head, from the first time you'd seen him around to the first time you'd actually noticed him.

the timeline of whatever had been going on between you and clapton was beginning to haunt you - it had no real definition. there was no concrete evidence of being anything more than friends. the idea had lived in the thoughts and assumptions of others, it had stopped there, never anything tangible to explain away the pain that you and clapton now shared.

the only proof that there was anything romantic lived in shy laughs exchanged and eye contact held a few seconds too long - but that was not anything real, not a confession or a date. so there was no reason to feel as heartbroken as you did now.

it wasn’t like clapton had done anything explicitly. but the way it’d felt like he was accusing you of something, of falling into a stereotype that had been pushed upon you, as if he’d thought it’d happen inevitably. had the line of thinking that, somehow, clapton davis was not cool enough to ask you out held him back from doing so?

the entire thing was beginning to make your head spin and your chest hurt, no longer able to discern what pain came from hurt and which came from anger. you could no longer tell what it was you wanted.

actually, no. it was clapton you wanted. you did still know that.

your brain forcibly showed you all the times he’d push his calculator over to you, answers sometimes right, mostly wrong, always trying to be helpful. all the times he’d sit a little too close to you, all the times he’d slump on the table when mr. kendall got too boring and his arm would slide right up against yours, his head just a few inches away. all the times you wondered what it’d be like running your hands through his curls, the moments you considered pretending that something was in clapton’s hair just to have an excuse to try it.

all the times you’ve imagined what his face would look like if you suddenly pulled him into a kiss.

clapton davis liked you. you knew this, a feeling deep in your gut. he had to, to talk and act like how he did with you. to ask you, clearly out of jealousy, if you were dating billy nolan out of all people (who was so terribly not your type).

you try to remember this about clapton as you try to calm your rage. there’s a part of you that’s glad you chewed clapton out, hopes he learned that you’re not as superficial as others might make you seem, and there’s another part that hopes you haven’t scared him off permanently.

god, you’re so glad it’s friday.

though, you wonder what it’d be like if you did have to see clapton tomorrow. would he act as he usually did, pretending like nothing had happened? would he apologize? ignore you? again, clapton had successfully begun to drive you crazy.

your head was aching and your eyes were closing, the sound of the rain still steady against your window as you drifted off, wondering what clapton would do now.

"clapton, i am seriously going to murder you."

"okay, sorry, geez," clapton sighs as he drops next to riley, weighing down the mattress. if his distress wasn't clear enough with the pacing that was driving riley crazy, it's evident with the way clapton groans hopelessly, palms rubbing his face as if to will a good idea out of his head. "i just don't know what to do." clapton admits desperately, edge in is voice muffled by his hands.

riley sighs. she's been partially annoyed when clapton appeared at her door, stomping in straight to her room without waiting for an invitation, riley grateful that her father had chosen to pass out in his room instead of the living room as she chased after clapton, awaiting an explanation. he'd given it to her as he paced, recounted every interaction, repeated every word exchanged. no, clapton davis could not remember formulas in physics, but he could remember how your face had light up when he'd complimented your sweater, how you'd proudly told him you'd thrifted it.

riley listens intently, letting clapton rant, forming her own objective opinion. she tries to take the things clapton says with a grain of salt, to imagine conversations between the two of you from an outside perspective. even then, you had to be into clapton if you let him make you listen to the music on his ipod - it was bad.

"okay," riley begins, idea suddenly striking her. "give me your phone."

"why?" clapton asks, removing his hands from his face, immediately defensive as he looks over at riley. "what are you going to do?"

"just trust me, okay?" riley puts a hand out impatiently, only content when clapton digs his small phone out of his pocket and slaps it into riley's hand. his heart is beating rapidly, eyes nervous as he glances at riley typing quickly.

"hey, i'm sorry about today," riley reads. "can we talk?"

"okay, no, that's bad," clapton says, immediately thinking of how to rework riley's words.

"too late. already sent it."

"what?" clapton shoots up in his spot, horror-stricken and mouth agape.

riley tries not to laugh.

clapton's phone buzzes and his heart sinks. that's it. it's over.

riley gasps. "now, question mark, question mark." clapton thinks you sound annoyed, while riley insists your quick response is a good sign.

"only... if... you're... not... busy," riley reads as she types. "we... can... meet... some- oh."

"what? riley, what?" clapton scoots closer, desperate to see what text from you had managed to shut her up.

but riley's smiling, flashing the small to screen to clapton. to his surprise, before clapton (riley) could even offer a location, you had sent clapton your address.

"clapton davis," riley grins. "you've got one more chance."

you know clapton lives nearby, details of some old conversation fuzzy in your brain. as soon as you text clapton your address (a very brave move, you must admit), you're in the mirror, trying to fix yourself up, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

it seems like there's a knock at your door in a time so short it couldn't possibly be clapton.

you're wrong, of course.

with a knack for proving you wrong, clapton davis stands on your doorstep, temporarily shielded by the small roof above your door from the rain that still falls. he's thoroughly soaked, his dark shirt sticking to his body, his jeans a darker color than they originally were. his hair sticks to his forehead in thick strands. there's still a few drops of water running down the bridge of this nose, down his arms, off the ends of his hair and sticking to his thin eyelashes. he's looking at you with wide eyes and his mouth slightly agape, as if he can't really believe he's here.

a drop of water makes it into his eye and clapton blinks quickly, rubbing his eyes and shaking off his hair.

"oh, my god, clapton," you exclaim, putting your hands on his shoulders, feeling the cold, wet fabric of his shirt. you keep the door open with your foot, try to lead clapton inside, but he shakes his head, rooted firmly to his spot.

"i'm gonna get your floor wet," clapton says.

you look at him exasperatedly but you can tell he's being serious. it's becoming unsettling, now, how often you've seen the boy you thought was all jokes and easy smiles turn sincere, even innocent with you.

perhaps you didn't know clapton as well as you thought you did, either.

"just hang on, okay?" your words are soft, but you don't wait around to see how clapton responds to that as you turn back inside. you wonder, as you move to the bathroom to get a fresh towel, if clapton will still be there by the time you open the front door again, or if he'd have come to his senses and made a mad dash home.

but clapton davis has waited for you, believed that you would not leave him outside in the rain.

clapton sees the towel in your hands and reaches for it but it's pulled away just as his fingers graze the material. he watches you come closer, letting the door shut slowly behind you, finding that he is unable to move as you drape the towel around his shoulders, press it against his arms to try and absorb all the extra water dripping down his limbs.

clapton wasn't sure what he was expecting. maybe more yelling? definitely annoyance. certainly not this softness.

clapton knew you liked him (though it'd taken you saying it straight to his face for him to catch on), but he'd only partially believed riley when she told him he had another chance. even as he ran to your house, even as you opened the door to see him, clapton had fully believed his jealousy had pushed you away completely.

but now, as clapton kicked off his wet shoes and did his best not to track any water into your home, clapton was starting to think that maybe he did still have a chance.

clapton sits on your bed, in a change of clothes you had scrounged your house for. you'd insisted on clapton changing into something warm and dry, refusing to get blamed if clapton got sick (as if he'd ever blame you). his roughly towel-dried hair is still a little damp and he's completely silent for what he thinks is the first time in his entire life, trying to gather his thoughts.

he feels uncomfortable, out of place. he shouldn't be here, shouldn't be sitting on your bed like it was an everyday thing. he's especially fidgety under your stare - it's not angry, clapton's sure, but it's expectant, which is worse. after all, clapton is the one who put in so much effort to be here. so, now that he's here, why can't he manage to say anything?

you've caught on to clapton's quiet dilemma and you take pity on him, sighing as you uncross your arms and move to take a seat next to him.

"sorry i got so mad at you," you say finally and you mean it. you knew some of it was misdirected, that you'd taken out annoyance at the general population of grizzly lake high on clapton davis. but you look over to see clapton shake his head, scoffing lightly.

"no, no, you shouldn't be," clapton insists. "i'm sorry. i didn't... i don't think you're some popularity-obsessed person. i just let... someone convince me that any of that mattered."

"who?" you ask a little playfully, curiously.

"sander," clapton says, rolling his eyes a little as he finally brings himself to look at you.

that makes you laugh. "sander? of all people?"

clapton laughs lightly, looking back down at his lap. "i know. stupid, huh?"

your voice softens. "completely. as stupid as thinking i would ever date billy nolan."

clapton laughs, scoffs again. "okay, yeah, that was also pretty stupid."

"but i don't think you're a stupid guy, clapton. i think you do stupid things, but i also think you're sweet. i think you're smart when you want to be, about the things you really like. you have a way of getting along with anyone and your music taste is so weird but i like it-"

"hey!" clapton exclaims, eyes on you again. but he's smiling now, not one of his signature smiles, but a i-can't-help-it smile, one that stretches wide and hurts his cheeks a little. "you know, i think i should be the one doing this."

"well, i'm not stopping you."

clapton takes a breath. "okay, well... you're stunning, obviously. but you're also so nice. you laugh at all my jokes, so you clearly have a great sense of humor. you're smart, and you have this way of this way of talking that just... is captivating."

"clapton davis, are you trying to tell me you like me?" you grin playfully.

"oh, duh. i think half the school is in love with you."

you're laughing again, one of those bright ones clapton loves, bumping clapton's shoulder gently.

"i'm sorry i was a douche. seriously, i shouldn't have believed a rumor and i shouldn't have assumed you'd like billy just because he's on the football team," clapton shakes his head.

"yeah, football players aren't really my type," you agree with a nod. "i prefer class clowns."

clapton smiles, tries not to blush, as he notices your hand in the space between the two of you, slowly inching closer. he really has no choice but to finally make a move.

he slides his hand in yours first, waiting until you clasp your fingers around his before turning his body towards you. his free hand cups your face, glancing from your eyes to your lips and back.

"please let me kiss you."

you lick your lips and nod, breathing out a quiet yes and clapton slowly places his lips on yours, thinking your lips fit perfectly together as he tilts your chin, moving his head ever-so-slightly for the perfect angle. you lean back but clapton won't let you go so easily, pulling you in for another soft kiss, and another. he can't get enough of the feeling of your lips, missing the soft pressure every time you pull away.

clapton kisses you until his lips feel weird and you're laughing too much to kiss him back properly, hands somehow in his damp hair.

"go on a date with me? please?" clapton says a little desperately, only a few inches of space between the two of you as you try to catch your breath.

"i guess you've convinced me," you respond and clapton can't help but kiss you again, deeper this time. no longer savoring the taste of your lips but hungering for the feeling of them against his.

he breaks from you only when he can barely breathe, panting softly but refusing to separate himself from you completely, his hands on your back and your hip. he's looking at you carefully, not wanting to forget what you look like after you'd let him kiss you over and over.

"still don't think we fit together?" you mumble teasingly, hand on the back of clapton's neck keeping him close.

"oh, shut up," clapton groans, though most of it gets muffled by you.

requests are open! | masterlist

[augustvandyne]

Could you write a Tim Bradford x reader where she is at a bank when it gets robbed. Worried Tim knowing she's inside and then all the comfort when he gets to her. Maybe she gets minorly injured somehow or maybe has a panic attack. TYIA!

yes yes yes!!!! i wasn’t even expecting anyone to send stuff in this early, but i’m excited to write for tim

panic attack

Today started like any other day.

You woke up beside a sleepy Tim, who ushered you both out of bed the second the both of you woke up. Although, you always made him lay with you for an extra hour.

It annoyed you most of the time, the waking up early, but you loved him anyways.

Today, you hated him for it.

You weren’t able to convince Tim to stay in bed to snuggle this morning, due to him being called in early for some follow up interrogations on a case from the night before.

It had him come home late last night, and you were asleep before he got home.

So you’d only talked to him this morning, for all of ten minutes.

To keep your mind off missing Tim today, you thought you’d do some laundry, clean around the house, made yourself breakfast.. but you’d done all that within the first two hours of the day.

You then realized you still had a check to cash at the bank, and when was a better time to do it then today, on your day off?

That was the mindset you had until you walked into the bank, a terrible feeling in your gut.

You shoot Tim a message that you had went to the bank, in case anything had happened to you. That was one thing Tim asked of you in your relationship—was to know you were safe. Not only because he’d seen things in his line of work, but also because he loves you and wants to see you’ve messaged him.

You send it to his city issued phone, that way if he didn’t have his own phone on him, he still knows where you are.

Tim was already on the way to that bank by the time you messaged him, but it was too late.

A friend of the robber had called in a tip to the station, and Tim signed him and Lucy up for it immediately.

He prayed you weren’t inside yet, but that hope died the second he saw your empty car.

Lucy has to get Sergeant Grey involved in calming Tim down, because he’s freaking out that bad.

He loves you so much. Ever since Isabel, he didn’t think he’d ever love anyone as much as he did her—but he does, and more.

Shots are fired, and he puts his thoughts aside, going into police mode. He’s going to treat this as if it were any other day.

You on the other hand, were freaking the freak out.

You hadn’t had a panic attack since you were a teenager, and you forgot how bad they knock you down.

You feel like you need an inhaler, but you don’t carry one around you anymore.

You were smart on your feet as soon as you heard the first shot. You took in your surroundings, and moved to behind the counter.

The robber was on his way behind the counter when you heard LAPD and SWAT enter the building.

You could hear Tim shouting orders, but Nolan was the one to get him to drop the gun and to calm the robber down—or so everyone thought.

Just as everyone thought the guy was gonna give up, he grabs you from behind the counter and pulls his second weapon out. A small knife, maybe used for fishing or just used as protection.

He doesn’t hold it to your neck, so they make the decision of shooting him.

When he falls to the ground, he makes a shallow slice in the side of your abdomen, to which you’re wincing about on the way out.

“Cmon, baby, lets go,” Tim is the first to your side, but everyone gives you sympathetic looks before attending to the other victims.

You let out a shaky sigh, still in the middle of your panic attack.

“It’s okay,” Tim rubs his hand over your face to wipe your tears to which you lean your full weight on him. Mentally and physically. “It’s okay. Come on, let’s get you checked out.”

“Tim-“

“I’m right here,” Tim holds your hand as they patch you up.

Your injury is minor, so all they have to do is clean it and put a bandage over your side.

●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○●○

When home, Tim won’t take his eyes off you, and you seriously doubt he’ll go in to work tomorrow, knowing the “condition” you’re in. Tim’s words, not yours.

He has you laying your head on his chest and the television on with your favorite show.

There’ll be a lot more panic attacks, and a lot of begging Tim to do all the banking from now on, but how can you deny your love for this man?

He’s holding you even when it was just a tiny run- in and a little cut!