#this ..... got away from me

[moonypears-blog]

I think Cedric will have incredibly mixed feelings about Sofia growing up and becoming an adult like himself.

On one hand, he loves getting to see her skills and strengths change over time, watching how her brilliant young mind manifests into adolescence, how her passion grew and she fought harder for what she wanted.

On the other, it's a cruel reminder, that just like everyone else in the world, including himself, his princess would come to pass, coming with cruel thoughts, like things he wouldn't be able to comfort her through, he barely comforts himself with the fact he's interacted with the spirits of those before him, and that unless taken by force, he'll always be there with her.

And, Sofia didn't have a normal childhood, not the kind a child needed to grow without mental complications and scars. He sees her through her rage outbursts, her tears, her frustration, her pain, he watches as the trauma of her childhood arises.

But, that rage and frustration towards her adult figures sometimes manifests into something beautiful, like when she would snap at the protectors, tell them to their place, remind them that they managed without her for many years, they could do so again for a few hours so she could fucking exist outside them. Or when a frustrating King went on and on about some stupid traditions, talking about this and that, that princesses never wielded swords in his kingdom, and that he'd "hate to see battle scars ruin a princess," and she snaps, listing off moments of purposefully forgotten history, talking about how the land his kingdom was built on could have been shaped by women from before his lineage even began, and how half of the kingdoms on the world map, including his own, would be in ruins should she not have subjected herself to scars. Both of which had Cedric smirking behind his fan.

I believe he'll still think about the little girl she used to be, but also admire the woman she is now.

[bi-writes]

what you want you cannot find. so you let someone else find it for you. (18+, dark!simon x curvy!fem!reader, arranged marriage)

you don't really know what you were thinking when you answered the ad. it is many things, maybe, why you chose to apply. why you were grateful to be chosen.

the loneliness, it aches. you cannot find yourself in anyone else, you cannot find the thing that should move you and hold you. you cannot find what it is that should ignite what is asleep, the thing nestled between your ribs that feels like it beats to a rhythm that you cannot hear.

the bitterness, too. there is something sour that you taste. there is acid under your tongue, something rotten between your teeth, and you wish for anything that you would stop tasting it because it reminds you of how alone you are, how alone you'll remain, the inevitable thing that you wish you weren't but that you unfortunately are.

it is the thing you cannot die for because there isn't anything to die for. you live, and you breathe, and you exist, but there isn't anything there. this is nothing that makes you want to gnaw on your own flesh, there is no life you would take in sake of another, there is no purpose to your existence except the hope that perhaps there is still time to have what you want more than anything.

but you don't know what you want. you don't know because everything that you thought you wanted, you do not want any longer. you never feel anything with other men. they are beneath you. they maim what they shouldn't. they complain about things that they can fix. they stare at a problem head-on, with the solution at their back, and they chase their tails. they do not know their right from their left. you hate them. but you want it. you want something. you want one of them, but you don't know which, so maybe if you don't choose, you will find what it is that you don't know you're looking for.

you're alone in the room. they gave you a bouquet of white roses. you hold them nervously between clammy palms. you wear a silk white dress that skims the floor, fabric falling soft over the curve of your waist and gentle along the swell of your cleavage. your hair is loose, and there is a short veil over your head, covering your face.

you stare at your handler. he's dressed in his military fatigues, tactical vest still strapped with the Union Jack across his chest. he has introduced himself as captain john price, and he is the one who arranged for your arrival. he is the one who told you to wear white, and he is the one who gave you the roses.

captain john price is rugged. captain john price is kind. and captain john price is not what you want. you are grateful that you are not yet disappointed with your match.

the door opens behind you. you straighten your posture that extra inch when you hear his heavy gait. there is a pause as the door shuts behind him, and you see his captain nod to a figure that you cannot see. his boots hit the floor low, and you swallow when the sunlight that comes through the window is blocked entirely by the size of him as he stands at your side.

the vows are short. you say your i do first, soft voice that hits his ears in a way that makes him nearly purr. when it is his turn to say i do, your eyes sparkle. he speaks in such a low voice, a Manchester accent that makes your toes curl in the white kitten heels that you wear. a drawl that you can feel in your chest, an accent that ticks a corner of your brain you did not know was there.

"you may kiss your bride."

you turn away from the captain. you tilt your head to look up at him, and you let out a soft breath when you realize the sheer breadth of this man.

he is barely a man. he must be something else. he is dressed all in black, and he wears all of his gear. his tactical vest is stocked well, magazines tucked into their pockets, a grenade dangling from one strap, a handgun tucked into its holster on his chest and around his thick thigh. his belt is heavy with more, knives in sheathes, devices in their places. even without all of the weight, you know the size of him won't shrink.

you cannot see his face. he covers it with a mask, one that resembles the front face of a skull. it is dirty. you aren't certain if it is blood or soot or dirt. maybe it is all of that and more. you cannot see his eyes through the veil either, but they are dark, and they are intense.

you keep your eyes fixed on his as he lifts your veil. the delicate fabric settles over your head, and you see him without obstruction.

there he is.

it is like seeing a man for the first time. it is like being in the presence of the dream you've always had and could never remember.

he tilts his head to the side, curious. he is seeing your face for the first time, too. soft eyes. glossy lips. the curve of your mouth. the untouched skin of your cheeks, the unmarred flesh that you wear. he follows the line of your throat to the peek of your tits dressed in silk. you are a present wrapped in luxury. hand delivered goods, of the finest quality.

his bride. his wife. something he will have forever. he does not know if he has ever been able to say that about anything else. he's never had anything except for his life. nothing except for himself has ever belonged to him, but even now, not even his life is his own, it belongs to someone far away, someone in an office somewhere, who moves the chess pieces of his world around, where he cannot do anything but follow.

you stand on your toes to get closer to him. he thinks for just a second you will ask him to remove his mask, but you don't. you cant your head, and you kiss him over the mask, sticky gloss leaving a light imprint on the fabric. you settle back onto your heels, and your breath hitches when one of his gloved hands comes to settle at the dip of your waist.

"she's all mine now, eh, cap'n?"

you blink, your eyes still on his. you don't move, and you don't say anything. you wonder, if you could see his face, if he would smile.

"all yours, simon."

you let him drag you closer, shuffling on your feet until your hips press against his. your back arches gently as he uses both hands, gripping you around the middle and feeling the soft flesh underneath your silk dress. he is a rabid dog, his next meal at his fingertips. she is his, and he wants to take her home. if his captain was not standing at his back, he knows he would take you on this very floor.

she is mine. she is mine. she is mine.

he has studied your picture. he has memorized your name. he has been waiting for you. he is too awkward to leave base. he is too quiet to attract birds, birds that matter, birds that sing. he is too ravenous to be anything but permanent, he isn't capable of the mundane, of casual. it is everything or nothing at all, and at the sound of permanence, he foamed at the mouth.

at the thought of something to keep, he was blinded. when beasts lose control, they call their keeper, and he had none. this change could be good. this change would do him well. when he ignores the order of a commanding officer, he will bend to yours, because he is bound, wrapped, tied to you with something invisible that weaves between his bones.

you do not know what you were before, but you know what you are now.

you follow after him. he turns to leave, and you let him lead. your heels click as you walk, and when it is hard for you to keep up, you reach for his hand. he grunts when you do, but he doesn't push you away. you hold wilting roses in one hand, and you clutch him in the other. recruits and privates stop to salute or step out of your way, and they stare when they see a trailing angel behind their lieutenant, a pretty girl in a pretty white dress with a veil fluttering against the breeze as you try and keep up with your husband's long strides.

the door he stops in front of is plain and unmarked. he fits a key into the lock, turning it and opening it, and he invites you over a threshold that no one else has ever stepped over. you stand on the other side, holding the roses to your chest. he turns when you don't follow him inside. you get a glimpse of him as a whole, the man that he is, big and menacing and taken. you wonder if he will wear his ring under his glove or if he will put it on the chain that holds his dog tags.

"is this where you live?" you ask. you stay on the other side, looking in, a little timid as you stand there.

he nods, silent. he crosses his arms over his chest, and you admire the bulge of them, the paint of skeleton bones along the fingers of his gloves. you look him up and down before smiling a little.

"is this where i will live, too?"

he shakes his head, a no.

"can't have a thing like y'here," he murmurs. "boys'll eat y'up."

you tilt your head to the side.

"i find that hard to believe," you quip. "do people often eat what's yours, lieutenant?"

he snarls, narrowing his eyes. "no one takes wot's mine."

"then what are you so afraid of?"

"that 'f y'r 'ere, i won't get any fuckin' work done."

you break out into a big smile, pearly white teeth flashing, and he clicks his tongue at your reaction. he reaches up and lifts his mask, pushing it up until it rests over his nose. his nose is crooked from being broken so many times. his face is scarred, as if someone took a blade and carved out the skin and muscle. a deep one stretches from somewhere under the mask to his lip, where it looks as if the skin was haphazardly stitched back together. another long jagged grey streak comes over the line of his cheek down his jaw, as if someone tried to peel his face off.

he grins. it's ugly and unsettling, as if he sees prey that he knows he will catch. your own smile does not fade. his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and you want to taste him. beast, bear, killing machine, the boogeyman, a ghost that haunts, you do not know exactly what he is, but you know, immediately, that he is what you have been searching for.

you do not know him. you do not love him yet, but you will. you are sure of this. you are sure that he is missing piece. he will fill the spaces that you have always felt hollow. he will scratch a place in your head that has always itched. there is something in his eyes, you're not exactly sure what it is, but you can't wait to discover it. you can't wait to explore, to indulge, to lick the salt of his skin and know that everything he is has been waiting for something like you.

you did not choose him, but he chose you, and now you see it clearly. you see this thing, and you know the truth of what's been hiding from you all your life. the curtain has been taken down. the veil is off. the walls are invisible.

"come 'ere," he says lowly. "won't ask so nicely next time."

you drop the flowers onto the floor, crossing the doorway. you kick the door shut, hearing it click, and he comes closer, until you can feel his breath fanning your nose.

"will you love me?" you ask, wringing your hands together nervously. "do you think maybe...do you think maybe that's possible?"

he licks over his teeth, humming. he leans down, knocking your chin up, and your breath hitches when he licks up the side of your jaw, taking in a whiff of your perfume and the sweetness of his bride.

"what a stupid word," he mutters, biting at the curve of your bottom lip. "meaningless. love. bloody hell."

"w-what...what?"

"a meaningless fuckin' word for the things i would do for ya," he continues. "the things i would kill. the heads i would step on. the sorry fucks i would get rid of...just to see y'smile."

your eyes flutter. yes, yes, yes--the unconditional devotion. the terrifyingly beautiful reality of through sickness and in health, until death do us part.

"is it really that easy, simon?" you ask. his gloved hands slip over your throat, sliding low and skimming the silk of your dress before he cups both sides of your ass and squeezes, drawing you closer until you are uncomfortably pressed up against him. his gear digs into your softness, sharp edges cutting into you, but you ignore it as he begins to draw up the skirt of your dress. "is it really that easy to say you'll do all of that for me? isn't it...it's wrong, isn't it? to do those things for me?"

he laughs. humorless, condescending. as if that is the stupidest thing you could have ever said.

"'s olright, swee'eart. gonna take all those ideas outta y'r pretty lil' head."

you relax when you feel his gloved hand under the hem of your white lace panties. your eyes shut, and you reach forward and grip his vest for stability.

"christ..." he hisses. "y'r soaked..."

you are. you have been since you first laid eyes on him, on everything he is. you know why you are here, and he knows why he is here, and that is because there were two people so desperate to find one another, that they let someone else choose. the gods, fate, whatever they want to be called.

matched by design, together by choice.

you lean forward and kiss beside his lips, and you whine when his big fingers slide between your folds, soft on your clit before he fits two fingers inside of you. his gloves are warm, and you wet them easily.

"wot a good girl," he breathes. "knew y'were the right one."

"y-you did?"

"could see it in y'r eyes, dove. could see wot y'needed. could see it plain as fuckin' day. dyin' inside, just like me, aye?"

you shake your head.

"n-not anymore...not anymore..." you gasp, and he tsks as he steps backward, the weight of him heavy as he takes a seat on his perfectly made bed, bringing you with him. you fall into his lap, unafraid to because you know someone of his size can carry you easily, and he hums as you spread your thighs apart. you straddle him, pressed up against the gun holstered to his chest, and you moan softly against his scarred face as he fucks you open with three unforgiving fingers.

"not anymore," he echos, baring his teeth as he pumps his hand. the squelch of it is filthy, but it isn't enough. he wants you to soak his arm, his thighs, his bed, let the slick of you stain him from the outside in. "not anymore. not as my wife."

you scramble. you rip the veil out of your hair, untie the corset of your dress. there's a naked angel in his lap, perky tits and soft figure, giving way to the gorgeous place you keep hidden by white, wet lace. the place that is his, the place that belongs to him, a pretty pussy that will keep him satiated until he breathes no longer.

after he tears apart his enemy, he will have you. after he tastes the blood he desires to see run, he will have you. the adrenaline, the fire, the shout of every order and the sound of their cries, it won't exist anymore in this place, he knows it.

"y'll never want for anythin'," he mutters. "y'll never be lonely. always get wot y'want...wot y'need...wot y'deserve..."

you reach up and cup his cheeks gently, pressing your mouth to his as you ride his fingers eagerly. you want him, you want this, you want all of it, even if it isn't what's right. but something brought you here, right into his arms, and this is what you deserve.

he's not even human, you don't think. he must be something else. with how good he makes you feel, with the sheer precision that he rocks his fingers into you, the way he smiles, he must be made of only something synthetic, something not organic.

you feel so small underneath him. he tosses you onto the bed, your head hitting the pillow gently. you giggle, and his grin widens. he has a warm pink tongue, and it's between his teeth, and you giggle again when he moves his head from side to side, staring down at you. he's studying you. you assume he has seen photos of you, but this is his first time seeing his bride for all that she is. soft, pretty, unscathed by war. at least on the outside--but on the inside, you are not as you seem.

there's a parasite in you. something that slithers behind your eyes and settles in that corner of your brain that only he can touch. he knows that feeling well. he feels it every time he is in the field, and he feels it now, with you. he chases this tick when he works. it knocks his senses just right, makes him feel good and big, like the reaper that he really is. he can be this with a rifle in his hand, and he can be this without it, with the weight of his wife in his hands.

you smile, biting your lip, and you spread your legs for him. his eyes fall between your thighs, and he chuckles. he brings his gloved hand up to his mouth, the one that smells like you, and you watch as he slips it inside, sucking on it for a moment before he uses his teeth to take both gloves off.

he bends, still in all his military glory, and he sticks his tongue out, licking a fat stripe up the seam of your cunt, using one thumb to pull the puffy lip apart and suckle on your clit for just a moment.

you gasp, arching your back, and he stands to his full height again, laughing.

"oh, y'taste sweet," he purrs. "y'taste good. hard t'believe i'll have this cunny for m'whole fuckin' life."

"believe it, baby," you coo, and he sighs. he nods his head, reaching low, gripping himself through his cargo pants and squeezing his cock. you follow his movements, watching him pay special attention to the tip of him, running his finger over where you guess the slit is as he watches you squirm. "why are you so far away, simon? don't you want me?"

he laughs again, smiling wide, and he nods.

"course i want ya, swee'eart. who wouldn't want ya, huh? who wouldn't want this?"

you meet his eyes. the question is a sound one, but it never mattered that you were wanted, what mattered is that you never wanted. not really. not until now.

you watch him as he reaches for his zipper. he undoes it easily, unbuttoning his pants and shoving them low. they won't go very low, thanks to the holsters around his thighs, but it's enough that you watch his cock stand at attention, the red tip of him leaking down the sides, making the bulging vein on the underside of him shine.

you whine a little, and he growls happily, watching as you cup the swell of your tits and squeeze them in anticipation. perfect, perfect, perfect girl, practically a mail-order bride that checks every single fucking box.

he grips you by the thighs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. you whimper when he slides the tip through your folds, letting it catch at the entrance before smirking down at you.

"'s big," you hiccup, and he tsks, shaking his head.

"y'can take it, swee'eart," he murmurs. "y'r a riley now, luvvie. y'know what tha' means?" you shake your head, your eyes a little watery, and he smooths a hand up your sternum, gripping you around the throat gently. "gonna find out...gonna find out how well a riley takes wot they're given."

"simon--"

"'s alright, luv, we'll start nice, yeah?" he breathes. you grip onto his forearms when he feeds you his cock, slowly, and your back bows at a sharp angle as you squeeze him for everything he is. "fuckin' hell...yeah, just the tip, yeah? oh, good girl..."

good girl, yeah...i'm a good girl--

you cry out, digging your nails into him when he mutters fuck it and bottoms out. his palm flattens just under your belly button, a choked groan leaving him as he presses down, a rush of something fucking glorious running down his spine. it's a high--he's so fucking high, as if he is popping fucking pills.

"feel me here, yeah?" he drags his hips back, smoothing a hand further up your stomach until he paws one of your tits, squeezing it firmly. you nod, sliding your hands up his arms, fisting the fabric of his mask at the base of his neck. you feel him everywhere, you feel him in your chest, running down your spine, you feel him in your mouth and in your head, and it feels so good, it feels so so so so good.

"yes--yes!" you gasp. fuck, he's huge, he's putting a shadow over you. you're naked, bare underneath him, and his gear rocks with every thrust, and it's filthy because you wonder if he worked, you wonder if he didn't even change before he went to marry his perfectly-picked bride, you wonder if he got off the tarmac not even an hour after killing his target to go and take what is his.

how long ago was it that he last fired his weapon? the gun on his chest, did he use it before he saw you?

i bet he did. i bet he used it. i bet he smoked the cigarette that i smell on him, and i bet he came here, and then he married me, and now he's all mine, and he's fucking me six ways to fucking sunday--

you think you're drooling. your lips are wet, and with every smack of his hips against yours, you feel a little more trickle down the side of your face. you're moaning, gripping his neck, pulling him further down on top of you. you want him all around you, you want him inside, you want him to come every day wearing this terrifying fucking uniform and to fuck you so stupid, you forget everything except for the name he has given you.

you want to know nothing except for his name. simon. riley. simon. riley.

you want to know nothing except for what you are. his wife. his wife. his wife.

it's so hard to remember to breathe. his hands grip you tight around the hips, and he's losing momentum, hissing, letting out choked groans as he brands the shape of his cock into you. he never wants you to forget what he feels like--he never wants you to know anything except for him, for the rest of your life.

"simon--" you whine, and he smirks, reaching up to hold your face in one big hand, keeping you still as you chase the grind of his pelvis against your puffy clit. "simon--!"

"tha'sit, luvvie...yeah..." he nods, "look at me--look at me," he leans down, a big weight over you, suffocating you, "good girl, yeah..." he clicks his tongue, "cum f'me, swee'eart. cum f'y'r husband, yeah?"

you lean up, chasing after him, gripping onto the sides of his face as you kiss him hard. it is the first time you really kiss him. slotting your mouth over his, slipping your tongue into his mouth, the sting of your wedding ring cooling his warm face as you taste him for the very first time.

it is gone. the bitterness that you always taste, the acid and the sourness and everything that always is so unpleasant under your tongue, it is gone when you have him. he takes it out of your mouth completely, and you chase after this just as you chase after the harsh grind of your clit against his pelvis.

he is carrying you. you're lifting, coming over some kind of sweet, exhilarating euphoria, and you're blinded by it, by the feeling, by him. you want more, more, you want it all, and he said you could have anything you want, that you'll never need anything ever again, he said, he said, he said--!

he laughs when you come. he swallows your moans, hisses when you soak his pants. you are the prettiest thing he could ever hope for, the personification of the things he does not deserve and could never have, and it is selfish that he has taken you this way, but he does not fucking care.

the things we cannot have are the sweetest, the most desirable. and simon is nothing if he isn't a thief.

he is nothing if he doesn't just take what he wants. he likes to think that perhaps he adopts the "ask for forgiveness, and not for permission" philosophy, but he does not ask for forgiveness. and he has never asked for permission.

"please--simon--" you gasp, looking up at him. your eyes are wet, and a few tears wet his hand around your face. "please--inside me, please..."

"'s olright, luv--" he grunts, pumping faster, his pretty little wife just begging for him, for more, and how could he say no to that? "easy, baby...i'll give it t'ya, don't worry, fuck--" he hisses, "lieutenant's wife gets woteva she wants..."

"please--inside--" you choke. "simon, inside, i-i want it inside--"

fuck, that is all he needed. he nestles deep, pressing his hips to yours, and you kiss him once more when you go blind again. a second high, when he stuffs you full. just as you should be. just as you always should be.

"yeah, fuck--" he breathes. "tha' wot y'wanted, yeah? nice and full, good girl..." he licks his lips, standing up straight, and just when you think he is pulling out, he yanks you back towards him, cum leaking down your thighs as you cry out from being so sensitive.

"simon!" you gasp, giggling, and he grins, patting your ass gently before pulling out. you let your knees fall onto the cot, swallowing hard as you watch him tuck himself back into his pants and zip them up. he brings the mask back down, and you watch as he slips his gloves back on. "hmm..."

he tilts his head to the side, sighing as he watches you settle there. something warm settles in his stomach, something satisfied.

"like havin' y'in my bed," he says lowly. "look nice there."

you smile, and he holds out one hand, beckoning you to sit up. you do, slowly, a little shaky as you try and compose yourself, and he leans down and kisses you through the mask. you close your eyes, humming, leaning into his touch.

"so i can stay?" you ask, and he chuckles.

"mmm...y'r so cute, luvvie..." he rumbles. "a doll, yeah? can't say no to ya."

you look down at the ring on your finger, a solid gold band complete with a precious diamond. you will have to get used to this--you are his wife, you can ask things of him, and you don't think he'll say no.

you look up at him when he tosses something at you. an army green shirt of his, and you slip it on, letting the fabric fall, and you lay back down in his cot as he moves around his room. you lay in comfortable silence, watching as the thing that calls himself your husband looks for files on his desk, adjusts the gun strapped to his thigh, shuffles his boots across the linoleum. you are mesmerized by what he is, and you haven't known him even a day.

you don't believe this is your vision askew. the honeymoon phase. the sugary sweet moments in time at the beginning where nothing is wrong, where all is well. simon riley is a practical man. he does not lie. he does not do things he does not want to do, and he does not say things he does not want to say. he is not in the business of comfort and ease, that much is clear to you.

simon riley is practical and resourceful. you think maybe he counts his words. that he doesn't say more than he has to. waste his energy on things that don't require it.

his wife. i'm his wife. his wife.

"why..." you swallow. "why...why did you pick me?"

he pauses as he stands in front of a locker. when he opens it, you see shelves of personal weapons stashed away, handguns of different sizes and shapes, knives of differing steel, toys that with a small push of a finger could destroy whatever building they went off inside. you don't flinch, don't blink, don't feel fear. you don't know why, but you just don't. you don't think it's possible.

he doesn't look at you as he surveys what lines the walls of it.

"just knew y'were the one f'me, swee'eart," he mutters. he shuts the locker, and the lock clicks. he comes closer, twirling a small blade between his fingers, and you don't cower away when he flicks it towards you, holding your chin up with the sharp tip of it. he hums appreciatively at this. "in all honesty, had no idea really until i saw ya, 'f you'd be mine."

he bends down, leans close, and you follow the curve of the blade with your head, keeping your eyes on his. there is no timidness in your gaze, and for that, he beams under the mask. perfection in one woman.

"and what would you have done if i wasn't the one?"

he shrugs.

"would've killed ya, luv."

"just like that?"

"just like tha'."

the tip of his blade drags, sliding up the length of your throat, along the line of your jaw. your lips part as he traces your mouth with it, and you tilt your head to the side as you trace the edge of it with your tongue. he leans forward more, pressing his forehead to yours, and you can see where the eye-black around his eyes fades into his pale skin under the balaclava. you see yourself in those eyes. the you that you have been waiting for. the you that you have missed for your entire life. the you that has been hiding, too scared to come out, too afraid of what might be said if someone saw the real you.

she had not been hiding. just lying dormant, in someone else, waiting for you to come home.

you smile, big, and simon presses his mouth to yours again through the mask, kissing you there, growling from deep in his chest, a purr that only emanates the contentment and the relief he feels because he has found that thing to live for. it is so easy to die. it is so easy to give oneself for what they believe. it is not hard to give the best of yourself away, he knows that.

what he has never been able to do is find something that will keep him alive. he has only ever lived because he found dying pathetic. he found it cowardly. but the alternative had been just as unforgiving, just as unfulfilling. but not this. not you.

you will make it difficult to die. you will make death a challenge. and when he eyes that smile, this one that you give only to him, he is happy to be given this new objective.

"but don't worry y'r pretty head about all tha', luv."

you give him those eyes, and he drinks it all in, all that you are. finally, finally, finally--

"until death do we part, yeah?"

NEXT

[chaos-bringer-13]

Vlad, Dan and Dani move across dimensions to Gotham because of some bad stuff happening in their own dimension. Vlad has a lot of his money with him in cash, and they quickly get themselves fake id's as father and his two children. Vlad's plan is to keep low profile, wait it out and then return. Dan and Dani don't care about Vlad's plan.

Vlad is shady, Dan and Dani are causing shenanigans, and a bunch of coincidences leads to people believing that they're some sort of mafia family.

Some idiots try to rob Dani and she blurts out "Do you know who my dad is?". Dan emerges from the shadows, sends Dani off and makes extremely specific and detailed threats of slow and painful death to the would-be robbers. He finishes the speech by adding that they would be wishing for him to do all of that if his and Dani's father found out about the robbery.

Then Dan accidentally recruits a group of goons by beating up their boss and feeling kinda responsible for the henchmen.

Then Dani steals the talons.

Dan has a fight over territory with one of the smaller rogues.

Dani steals Scarecrow's chemicals.

All the while they keep convincing people that this is all a part of some bigger plan of Masters family. First it's just a misunderstanding, then they keep doing it to annoy Vlad. Some people think that Masters is just a surname, some think that Master is a rogue's name. After a while everyone knows that there's an up-and-coming crime family.

Vlad is entirely oblivious. He doesn't know shit. He ends up making a small organisation (restaurant? car repair shop?) to hire people who keep coming to him. He's not sure why his children tell all these people that he can help but they are in trouble, so he helps. And then helps again, and again. All the places he opens look like crime fronts.

Vlad is still unaware that he's a mob boss.

Maybe at some point Dan and Dani think that Vlad figured this out (because its obvious) but doesn't say anything because the police has bugged their house or because he wants plausible deniability.

Obviously all of this ends with the Bats deciding to confront Masters. It's also the perfect moment for Danny to enter.

Here, have a shitty meme showing the moment.

Danny: I left you here fOR ONE MONTH

Vlad: It's not my fault!

Danny: I figured. Dani, if I give you a candy, will you tell me what the hell you've done?

Dani: What kind of candy?

Danny, handing out a Yellow Lantern ring: A Ring Pop.

Dani, snatching it: We accidentally started a mob family :D

[ghast1yghosts]

one thing eddie doesn’t expect when they move to a ranch, is for steve to become a straight up cowboy.

he only realizes it’s happened when steve walks in, boots clinking, dirt smudged on his cheek, flannel completely unbuttoned, and his chunky belt buckle on display.

eddie shakes his head and clears his throat, completely missing whatever steve’s just said to him.

“sorry- what?” his voice absolutely doesn’t not crack at the end, refuses to believe it did. steve crosses his arms and leans against that counter. eddie can feel himself gulp.

steve must’ve notice it too, one side of his mouth quirked up. “i *said,* i fixed the gate. shouldn’t give us any hassle anymore.”

“the gate.. uh huh. good to know.” that chest hair is unforgivable. god he’s covered in a thin layer of sweat too.

steve laughs at him, “earth to eddie,” he snaps his fingers once or twice.

“sorry- i-“ eddie pauses. steve raises his brows at him, waiting. “you can’t do this to me.”

steve looks taken aback. “do what?”

eddie gestures to him, “look like- that.”

hands out, steve turns in a circle, “like this?”

“yes.”

“i’m just in my clothes eds.”

“you look like you’re out of some wet cowboy dream i had when i was 13,” a laugh bursts out of steve, “it’s frankly unfair i’ve only just realized i have my own cowboy now.” someone should’ve told him he’s got the literal fucking dream boat at his fingertips. steve hums and steps toward him. he reaches out and fixes the collar eddie’s own flannel.

“you do, yeah.”

“is this where i make the very obvious joke of suddenly needing to save a horse.” steve cackles at that, hiding his face in eddie’s shoulder.

“you’re insufferable.”

“i try.”

[padmestrilogy]

i’m not into “who’s the most powerful jedi” “who’s the best duelist” stuff but if i was, mace windu would be my man. who the fuck defeats palpatine. in a 1v1 . every other time someone has to fight palpatine in this saga they’re like “noooo i’ll turn to dark side there must be another way 😔😔” mace just does it. he beat the shit out of that old man what the fuck

[inkskinned]

"the curtains weren't blue on purpose. why should we care?"

my love! let me ask you this - did you eat breakfast today? this tiny moment in your life. just think about it. did you?

for some of you, the answer is yes and for some of you it is technically and for some of you it is does coffee count. some of you reached for cereal or gmo-free overnight oats or frozen waffles or 3-day-old pizza. sometimes we eat the same thing, every day, for weeks. i get tired of eggs randomly, only to go back to craving them desperately. i'm cuban; i take my coffee like my father showed me, very milky and sweet.

some of us ate in a hurry. some of us hate eating breakfast but if we don't we will get nauseous later. some of us took our meds first or took our meds after. some of us have a kitchen 5 feet wide and sometimes it's the biggest room in the house. some of us are confident there will be food in the pantry and some of us flinch and say well, the paycheck is coming. some of us turn on a podcast while we eat or we scroll our phones or write in our diaries.

some of us are choosing, specifically, not to eat breakfast. some of us are too busy. some of us are pretending we "just forgot," but we are ignoring the warning signs that everything feels too-heavy. some of us are so consumed with anxiety or grief that we can't eat. some of us can't stand up long enough to make our coffee. some of us have no table to sit down and eat.

i cannot tell you what an artist "meant" by their choices. but they did have to make a choice, conscious or otherwise, to give you information. to give you a little bit more light. each of these choices are little stars of data; connecting speckles for you to weave through, drawing a line.

you cannot use a mirror in a dark room. for some of us; we will not care that the curtains are blue, because that will just be a data point and not enough light to see by. for some of us, the blue curtains will be the same as our childhood bedroom. it will make us seasick. for some of us, blue will be the color of frostbite. it might look like a pixel up close; but from a distance, oh! the picture blooms.

i cannot tell you what will stick out for you. what will carry meaning. some of you will read the sentence "i didn't have breakfast today" and say "this means nothing." some of you will read that and say "oh, me neither." some of you will say "this means the character is probably a little grouchy." some of you will say "oh, i wonder if they're okay. why didn't they eat anything?" ... art is a mirror. i am holding hands with you, over space and time, and asking you to feel something with me.

i want you to read my work and find a blue pair of curtains. i want you to read my work and find things in it that i never imagined placing. i have no way of knowing what will resonate with you, that's true. and maybe i just was hungry while i wrote this, and thinking about the eggs in my fridge. but if you found meaning, that meaning is yours. it cannot be erased just because i didn't "intend" it. you created a different world by interpreting my work. it's collaborative! that's beautiful! that's stunning!

just! imagine looking at the night sky and saying - it's stupid to have a favorite constellation or a favorite star. they're just there.

because here's the thing - across centuries and cultures, we look up. we still find meaning in the stars. these beautiful, lovely scattered accidents. are you looking? they call. and we look back and say oh! of course we are!

[waves-against-a-cliff]

Kink negations and make it sexy

Free use and somnophilia with Ghost would go so hard. Imagine this:

Getting home from a day at work, normally you're exhausted. Absolutely ready to collapse into the bed with your boyfriend and sleep until your alarm goes off. But sometimes you aren't worn out.

Sometimes you feel like you're bouncing off the walls with energy.

After he kept being woken up by you playing with yourself (you didn't want to bother him, he works so hard and gets very little sleep out in the field) he sits you down to talk.

"You don't have ta keep usin' your toys sweetheart," he says and chuckles when he sees the confused look on your face. "When you're all pent up," his big hands come to rest on your hips and pull you into his lap, your thighs spread wide to accommodate his own, "you can just use me."

You gnawed on your bottom lip, one part of you wanted to accept immediately. Being able to fuck your super hot boyfriend instead of using your fingers or vibrator? Hell yeah. But the other part of you spoke logic.

You knew some of his past. Of how he endured SA and your heart squeezed a little at the thought that he trusts you this much. While you kept mulling his offer over his hands crept under your shirt and he pulled you out of your head when his fingers brushed over your nipples.

You jerked back a little and looked up into his brown eyes. "Simon-"

"What is it? Do you not want it?" He asked as he squeezed and massaged your tits within his hands, pinching and rolling your nipples in between his fingers.

"I-" a breathy moan escapes and you squeeze your thighs around his own, "this isn't fair," you complain. He just hummed and looked at you with anticipation while a whine clawed up your throat from his awful teasing. "What if-" another whine, "how am I supposed to know if you don't want it?" You managed to eek out.

He paused for just a moment and rolled your nipples absentmindedly as your hips jerked against your own will. "You know how I sometimes sleep without pants on?" He asked and one of his hands wandered away from your sore nipple and down into your pants. His fingers circled over your clothes clit and he had a spark of humor in his eyes when your hips rolled to meet his movements.

You nodded and mumbled out a "Yeah."

"If I don't want it then I'll wear my pants to bed," he pushed your wet panties to the side and dipped his fingers low to gather your slick onto them before he moved them back up to circle your clit with more lube. "Okay?"

You nodded, your fingers digging into his shoulders as you bucked your hips against his fingers as the warmth that had begun to build within your lower abdomen started to spread to all of your limbs.

Your orgasm was not violent, it was gently and softly pulled forward and over you, like being tucked in after a long day. A series of shaky moans and your entire body going ridged from the pleasure that gently rolled in like a calm tide all while he whispered praise into your ear and mumbled it into the skin of your neck as he littered kisses.

A couple nights later you come home, energy still buzzed within your veins and you hardly even thought about your boyfriends offer until you wandered into the bedroom. You had stripped while walking towards the comfort of your bed with the plan of getting off with your fingers again until you saw his pale ass. Then you recalled all that he had said and negotiated.

With a shaky hand you turned him over onto his back, grateful for how he seemed to absolutely die whenever he slept at home with you. Sure enough, he was absolutely naked and his dick was already hard like it had been waiting for you.

You licked your lips and slipped your panties off, testing just how wet you were with your fingers. You weren't surprised to feel that slick had begun at just the sight of Simon. It really was unfair how he got your body Pavlov'd to react.

You swung your hips over his and settled down. His cock nestled between the folds of your cunt as began to grind against his hardened length. You bit down on your bottom lip to keep quiet as the tip of his cock kissed your clit over and over again, sending sparks up your spine.

You rolled your hips until you were sure your own slick coated his cock and you were on the precipice of an orgasm from just humping against his cock like an animal in heat. You sat up on your knees as your hand wrapped around his cock and lined yourself up with him.

When you felt the tip notch against the entrance to your weeping pussy you shuddered a little. You looked down at your still sleeping boyfriend, Simon completely unaware his body was being used for this.

You couldn't deny the thrill it gave you.

Taking Simon's cock was always, always, a challenge. No amount of prep seemed to remove the stretch completely and you hadn't even done anything to stretch yourself out for him.

You bit down on your lower lip harder as you sank slowly, oh so slowly, onto his cock. Each inch was a bit of a challenge as you rolled your hips and lifted yourself up and lowered yourself back down to ease onto it.

Heat prickled up your spine when you finally sat flush against his hips, your chest heaved from the effort and the burn of the stretch.

You rolled your hips, testing the waters, and couldn't hold back the soft moan that left your lips. You kept watching his face as his brows pinched together as you rolled your hips a second time and then a third until you found a rhythm that made pleasure claw at your insides.

Each movement shoved you closer to the edge, faster than you would have with just your fingers.

Still you kept your eyes locked onto his face, even while you let out soft moans and clenched around his cock. It wasn't until your orgasm slammed into you with full force, when your pussy began to pulse around his cock, did he finally wake up.

And god he could have sworn he was in heaven. He woke up to sight of your face mid orgasm and the feeling of you cumming around his cock. His hands immediately found your hips on instinct and he bucked up.

You squealed and landed against his chest, your hands on his pecs as he bucked up into you. "Such a pretty girl," he muttered. At the same time his tongue felt so heavy from sleep but loose from his pleasure. "Wakin' me up in the best way," he murmured as your moans filled the room, punched out with each thrust of his hips.

"Simon," you moaned and his stomach clenched at just how fucked out you sounded.

"Yeah tha's right, moan my name baby," he encouraged as he picked up the pace, selfishly seeking his own orgasm.

You repeated his name like a mantra, your nails dug into his pecs as he spilled inside you with a groan. He pushed himself to the verge of painful overstimulation as he kept fucking his cock into you even while his cum dripped out.

For a moment you both laid there breathless and in the afterglow of your own orgasms. Then a smile spread across your face and you looked up at Simon who wore a similar expression. "Thank you," you whispered while he dragged his hands up and down your naked form slowly in a soothing fashion.

[peachesofteal]

Lieutenant Riley and his favorite thing (physio!reader) 18+ mdni - series crossover, alcohol, rough blowjob.

You've decided the Lieutenant is certifiable.

After he takes you home and babies you through your period, he disappears. You don't see him for weeks. The 141 is still on base, but he's turned into a ghost. The Ghost, you guess, the whispers circling around and around, twisting and turning into gruesome stories, long drawn out tales told between pints in a bar.

You don't see him, but there is something else. A feeling, a creepy, crawly sixth sense that comes from the sensation of being watched.

It's beyond weird. Like him.

The worst of it all is you find yourself looking for him now. Wondering about him. Almost wanting to know where he is, the question of why he hasn't come to see you again flourishing from a small niggling thought in the back of your mind to a full blown distraction.

It's unnerving. He's unnerving.

Because you don't want him, right? And clearly, since he's MIA for weeks now, he doesn't want you.

Right.

Your thoughts do stray though, to the night he tucked you in with a heating pad, the way he sat at the edge of your bed until you fell asleep, stroking rough, calloused fingers down your cheek when he thought you were completely out. He was murmuring under his breath, grit and grain in his throat impossible to make out, the sandpaper strain of it finally pulling you under.

Weird.

The weather is finally starting to turn. No longer boiling, the breeze is now crisp, and cool, a welcome reprieve considering the standard issue pants that suffocate your thighs at every turn.

You bask in it. Enjoying it so much, you're lost in breathing it in as you trek back to your place, not paying attention to where you're going-

until you physically run into another girl.

"Oh my god-" She bounces away from you, bag spilling over her shoulder, stumbling to the side. "Oh my god I am so sorry!" You snatch her by the arm, trying to keep her steady, and once she rights herself, she gives you a half panicked, half flustered look, eyes focused past your ears.

"It's okay, I'm okay." You recognize her. She's the big deal analyst, the one apparently flew in by the station chief. What do they call her? Cypher? She gives you a weak smile.

"I'm sorry," you apologize again, and she shrugs. "Really, I wasn't paying attention to where I was going."

"Oh," she looks down, "I do that all the time." Her fingers twist at the bottom of her jacket, gaze snapping back to your face after it leaves her feet. Something clicks in her eyes, some sort of recognition. "You're the physio." It's not a question. It's a statement, and the vowels turn downward, almost a hushed pitch. Weird.

"Um, yeah. My office is over there." You nod, and so does she. There's awkward silence for a beat, and you extend your hand, giving her your name.

"Right, Sorry." She smiles sheepishly. She is really cute, you realize, looking her up and down quickly. She returns the favor, giving you her name, but follows up just as fast. "- but most people call me Cypher."

"It's nice to meet you."

"You too!" She chirps, and then something catches her eye. Sergeant MacTavish of the 141. You blanche, trying to you school your face into a neutral expression. "Ah well, that's my... my uh..." she's flustered, words jumbled, before just giving up. "It was nice to meet you."

"Likewise." You call to her retreating form, but she's already out of earshot.

Weird. Again.

"He's so fuckin' annoying!" Your friend half shouts over the raucous pub, and you giggle.

"You're the one who dated him." You spit back, jostling your shoulder against her where you're both crammed into a corner table, two others still at the bar, getting another round.

You're drunk. You haven't stumbled into unreasonable territory yet, but the blood in your veins is thinning, world starting to wobble at the edges. There's no caution in you now, common sense quickly slipping away, but you're not worried. With four of you here, there's safety in numbers, and you're just off base.

"Alright, four tequilas," shots filled to the rim with golden sweet liquor slosh across the table, small plate of salt and quartered limes following. "Bottoms up."

Some guy across the room by the pool table lifts his pint to you as you swallow down the citrus rich burn, and your cheeks warm. Your friend leans in. "He's checking you out."

"No he's not."

"Without a doubt. He's practically-" she burps, and you laugh. "practically undressing you with his eyes. You should go over there."

"And do what?" Your focus shifts, remembering the Lieutenant stroking your cheek in the dark, surprisingly gentle but still rough on the edges. You shove it away.

"Talk to him!" She nudges, shoves, you with her hip towards the edge of the booth, and you hiss.

"Knock it off."

"No. You need to get laid. It's been years." She makes it sound like you're an old maid. "I know for a fact you haven't slept with anyone since you moved here. Time to dip your toes in, or at least flirt a little." Drunk, you're having a hard time combatting her badgering, and the insistence is shifting the tide, convincing you it's a good idea.

A little flirting won't hurt, right?

The floor squeaks under your shoes, sticky already, and the guy lights up when he sees you coming his way.

"Hey." It's lame, but what else can you say?

"Hey, beautiful." Okay, a little thick there bud. "Haven't seen you around before." It's loud, but he manages to push his voice out over the noise.

"Oh I uh... I don't come here often." His mouth opens, but whatever he's going to say dies before it can break free, his eyes widening in panic. There's real fear in his expression, and he stumbles back a step.

You feel the Lieutenant before you see him. Instinctively, you take a step away, like he's going to materialize in front of you, tipping off balance to one side as an arm, a giant arm, an arm you know well, one you've studied while it's laid on your table, traced it's tattoos again and again, wraps around your waist and jerks.

Oh my god, ohmygodohmyg-

"Fuck off," he snarls, full of venom, and you've never seen someone scamper away so fast. Everything spins. "Let's go pet."

"Wh-what?" You protest, but he's steering you out of the bar with a hand on your shoulder, past your friends who watch with flabbergasted, stunned expressions dropping their mouths in perfect circles. "Lieutenant-" You dig your heels in, but you're no match for him, not even close. Where are we going?

You get your answer. Swiftly.

It's the bathroom.

The lock clicks at your back as he shepherds you inside, and twists you to face him by your hips.

Fear slithers through the air like a snake. The look on his face is starved. Feral as a wolf in a barren winter. It’s unbridled, raw.

And not rooted in any kind of sanity.

It only swells when he folds his paws over your shoulders and forces you to your knees on the dirty, disgusting bathroom floor.

"Lieutenant..." Your voice is wary, but he only shakes his head.

"Simon." You're not sure what you're expecting. You're frozen, watching a movie play out before you, trying to determine what the characters are going to do next, except the main character is you, and she's thoroughly confused-

Until the Lieutenant unzip his jeans and fishes the heaviest cock she's ever seen out from his pants.

Your mouth drops open, and because you're flailing in this moment, free falling through every emotion known to man, you bark out a laugh. It's obscene. Too long, too thick, swollen red tip drooling milky white spend. He's stroking it, jaw clenching when he squeezes the base.

He steps forward, you jerk back. His lips twist into a scowl.

"Not gon' hurt ya." You look up and down, trying to put the puzzle together, thought the answer is glaringly obvious and literally staring you in the face. You peer upward, and his gaze snaps to yours.

What you find in his eyes... steals your breath.

The foreboding, carnal hunger is still there, almost akin to rage, but beneath it, so far beneath you can hardly recognize it, lurks something else.

Vulnerability. There one moment, chased away the next, but it changes everything about this. He's hesitant, lost, studying you for something, a cue, an indication, like he's not sure how to proceed.

You wrap your fingers around his length and repeat his own motions, a stroke and a squeeze, his shoulders stiffening at first, and then slumping with relaxation. The peace last only so long before he steps forward, and you lean into it, into him, and as he smears the head of cock against your lips, you don't pull away. You just open your mouth like a good little girl. His.

You stretch your jaw wide, and you swear it clicks. He's in the back of your throat with still more to go, but you try as hard as you can to take him, take it all, sucking hard, encouraged by the warm palm at the back of your skull. He grunts.

"Hold still." He covers your ears with both hands, unintentionally, you think, palms on your cheeks, and flexes his hips, forcing himself as far as he can down your throat. You gag on it, holding onto to his thighs for dear life, and when he does it again, your throat tightening with the reflex, he groans. He likes it.

You're totally fucked. He's going to suffocate you.

"Gon' be fast," he pulls back, allowing you a gasp of air, before shoving back in, "breathe when y'can." You fist his pants, and cling to him. He's rough with it, shoving your nose into the curls of his pubic hair, thumbs rubbing through the tears streaming down your face.

It should feel wrong, to have someone take their pleasure from you so violently, but it doesn't. Your clit throbs, thighs pressing together instinctively, wet, desperate sounds echoing off the tile in the room. There's a rugged rush of words flowing from his mouth, things you're only catching bits and pieces of, but you've got the gist.

Needed this. Needed you.

Pretty thing. Takin’ it. Good girl.

You do. You take it through your tears, through the drool slipping over your chin to your neck, you take everything he gives you, even the rush of hot, salted come spilling down your throat.

He hauls you to your feet after, and you catch yourself in the mirror, horrified. Your makeup is everywhere but your eyes, mouth swollen, lips raw. "I should wash my-"

"No." He tucks you into his side. "Want you to stay like this 'til we get home." Home? We get home?

"Lieutenant, I'm not sure what's going on but-" He twists your shoulders back and tips your face up to his so fast your head spins.

"Simon. It's Simon, pet."

[whineandcheese24]

thinking about a universe where Buck never went to the basketball game, or at least never body-checked Eddie. Buck still has this weird feeling, but he goes home and he tries not to think about it, and he goes to work and he tries not to think about it, and Eddie tells him about the drinks he and Tommy grabbed after the game and he tries not to think too much about the twist in his gut or the shiver down his spine. but then he gets a call from Tommy asking if he was serious about those flying lessons, and Buck says yes before he even processes the question because all he hears is that he'll get to spend time with Tommy without anyone else there. he doesn't quite understand why but he knows that's what wants. So he and Tommy meet up at the hangar for a lesson, and one lesson turns into two turns into four turns into drinks after shifts and Tommy's karaoke bar trivia. And he and Tommy are friends now but that fluttery feeling in his stomach never quite goes away. One day Tommy offers to show him some muay thai moves and Buck doesn't think anything of it until Tommy is shirtless and sweaty and Buck loses focus long enough for Tommy to end up on top of him and Buck's face is burning up in a way he knows is from more than the workout but he doesn't know why. Buck goes home after that hot and bothered and really confused and maybe he just needs to start dating again. It has been a while since he and Natalia broke up, but he scrolls through a dating app for a half hour, and none of the women that show up are appealing so he goes to sleep unsatisfied, mind drifting to hard muscles and big arms and a crinkly smile that he doesn't remember in the morning. This goes on for a little while, where he hangs out with Tommy, and his stomach flutters in a way he can't explain. Until one day after flying lessons, Tommy comes up to his apartment, and Buck hands him a beer, and the two of them are sitting next to each other at the kitchen island just talking about life and work and flying, and the whole time Buck is hanging on Tommy's every word, looking directly in his eyes, ever so slightly tilting his head, moving his arm closer, scooting forward in his chair, and he doesn't even realize what he's doing except Tommy's voice is low and gravelly, and Buck's face is heating up again, and it's getting hard to keep looking at him so he goes to get another beer, and when he comes back Tommy is standing. And he's just a hair taller than Buck, but it's enough to make his breath catch in his throat. In this universe, when Tommy leans in, his fingers guiding Buck's chin up to his lips, he's slow and deliberate. In this universe, Buck kisses him back harder and hungrier, because even though he still wasn't sure what it was Tommy was making him feel, he can't say he's surprised this is where they ended up. In this universe, Tommy takes weeks to kiss him, but it's longer and hotter and doesn't just stop at a peck.

[hippolotamus]

I’m thinking about how Tommy just visibly relaxes when Buck assures him the kiss was ok. How he got all flirty and ‘came in a car today so I actually have to worry about traffic’. The whole finger guns and Call Eddie thing with his adorable nose scrunch.

So cut to the moment he closes the door and is standing in the hallway (while Buck is all smiley faced/shocked Pikachu just inside). I just imagine Tommy sagging against the wall and like letting his head fall back and his eyes close. And he’s thinking to himself *holy fuck. that’s a Thing that just happened. I just kissed that beautiful guy.* And maybe he makes this hysterical little breathy laugh about that because the whole thing could have gone massively sideways. He could have ruined things with Eddie’s Best Friend and Chris’s idol.

He takes the steps 2 at a time down to his car because he has this extra spring in his step and feels lighter than air and life is Good™️ Even shitty crosstown traffic isn’t enough to sour his mood. When he gets to Harbor, Lucy and his team tease him, asking if he got lucky before shift and he just rolls with it, ignoring them pressing for details.

Later, after a few calls and they have a little downtime, it finally really hits him. He decided to shoot his shot and he kissed Evan.

Now, Tommy is an experienced guy and this isn’t exactly new territory. But. Tommy of 10+ years ago… Tommy working under Gerrard and the macho bravado BS of the LAFD, Tommy who had to listen to all the horrible ignorant comments when DOMA was passed, Tommy who didn’t know yet what Right was supposed to feel like and didn’t get what all those RomComs were trying to sell — he’s proud of himself. Because he didn’t think this would ever happen. He didn’t think this — living open and free and loving how he wanted — was even a possibility for him. But it is. It’s his life and he gets to have it. He huffs out a wet chuckle, glad no one’s really paying attention to his epiphany.

And jfc he can’t fucking wait until Saturday.

[cirrus-grey]

Sorry just thinking about how Jon starts off episode 22 by asking "Martin, are you sure about this?" and it sounds like a bit of a dickish question but then you remember he took Naomi Herne's statement two months before and he's still having nightmares about it.

And he tries to tell himself they're not real. They can't be real, it's just his subconscious mind throwing this disturbing conversation back in his face every night. But part of him knows Naomi is dreaming this too, part of him knows that they're real, part of him knows.

And he doesn't want to inflict that on Martin. He doesn't want to inflict it on himself, seeing Martin in his dreams every night. But Martin insists, so he takes his statement.

The sheer relief he must feel that night when there are no worms in his dreams. The release of tension, the realization that what happened with Naomi was just a one-off. He's still seeing her, of course, but his nightmares are blessedly Martin-free.

Sasha, he just asks if she wants to wait. He's not worried about giving her nightmares, now.

And then Melanie comes in. And he takes her statement. And when he closes his eyes that night, he finds himself in the halls of an old, crumbling hospital, watching the ghost hunter hold her camera up to the crack in a door, and peer inside.

[stevesbipanic]

@steddielovemonth Day 24: Love is the only thing we can take with us. 

@thefreakandthehair

Steve looked around his room, it would be the last time he did. He could hear his parents still arguing downstairs. He knew he didn't have a lot of time, soon he'd hear his father's footsteps coming up the stairs.

"You're no son of mine!"

Steve hadn't felt like his son in a long time anyway. When he thought of dads he thought of Hopper at his graduation or Wayne watching the game with him. He'd called Hopper, Dad, when he woke up in the hospital and saw the previously dead police chief at his bedside. No, Steve Harrington hadn't been Richard Harrington's son in a long time.

He knew he didn't have much time, but he'd been planning for this moment, the day they would find out. It was inevitable, small town, nosy neighbours. Steve kept his room impersonal for a reason, it wouldn't last forever. Kneeling quickly he grabbed his box, it was all he would need.

The clothes he actually liked wearing weren't in this closet anymore, the beemer had always been in his name. Nothing else in the house mattered but this box. The last piece of Steve in these four walls.

"Steven?"

He'd asked her to call him Steve all his life, she didn't.

"Can't you see what you're doing to your mother?"

Maria Harrington hadn't been Steve's mother in a long time. Mothers were there for their kids when they woke up from nightmares. Claudia never judged when he woke up screaming on the couch. A true mother looked after their son when he was sick in bed, soup and comfort and love. Joyce brought him soup last winter, when the flu had him stuck in bed, he didn't even call, she just knew.

"I know, I'm leaving now."

"Please, Steven, there are places we can go to fix you," she cried. Mothers don't think their kid's heart needs fixing.

"You were supposed to be a real man!" Richard yelled as he passed him down the stairs. Fathers are proud of their sons growing into protectors and carers.

"This will never be your home again!" Was the last thing Steve heard as he closed his car door and placed the small box on the passenger seat. Parents always have a home waiting for you, even when they think you're wrong.

"Steve?"

Wayne is the first one to spot him as he arrives at the trailer. It's sunday, family dinner at the rotating family table. Tonight was meant to be at the Munsons.

"Steve, honey? You ok?" Joyce is the first one to touch him, worry in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, son." Hopper is the first one to read his teary eyes like a book. They all knew where he'd been.

Claudia gingerly took the box from him, "I'll put this in your room, sweetheart, let Eddie know you're back home."

Steve could hear the kids yelling around the picnic table outside; could smell dinner cooking. Robins laughter piercing though the air and Eddie's boombox playing loudly.

"Baby?"

There he was.

"Hey, Eds, think we'll have to move up that moving date, if it's ok?"

Eddie's features softened from worry to sympathy, "Course, sunshine, although I'm still surprised Joyce and Hop didn't kidnap you months ago.

Later, when he'd given everyone hugs goodbye, some were a bit tighter than others, he sat on the bed with his box.

"You wanna unpack that alone, or want help?"

"You can look, it's not a secret, just special," Steve replied, patting the space next to him. Eddie plopped himself down beside his boyfriend, lifting the lid.

Inside was a mess of bits and pieces. Eddie reached in and took out a stack of photos. Steve at his graduation, a big smile with Hopper's arm around his shoulders, Dustin beaming beside him. Robin putting Steve in a headlock at the quarry last summer, he refuses to say he let her win. Eddie at his first show back, scars on full display. And countless other memories.

There were also little toys from the arcade and pebbles and ticket stubs and letters and a full life story of one Steve Harrington told through the love of his family.

"This was all I went back to get, all I needed. Wasn't expecting them to know about you already, but I knew they'd find out one day. Couldn't let them have this, not after they spent so long trying to take my heart from me."

"I think it's high time we clear some space around here for all this, Stevie, time to let your love be out on full display."

When Steve fell asleep that night, wrapped in the arms of a boy who went to hell from him and staring at the new photos on the wall, he truly felt home.

[dreamofbecoming]

listen i know we all love steve “completely ignorant of queer culture to the point that bisexuality is a surprise” harrington being roasted and educated in turns by robin and eddie, yadda yadda, good stuff. i read “they made a horror version of rocky?” in a fic recently and cackled. also a big fan of “he knew he was bi from the start and just never talked about it” as a trope, love it excellent well done

but what about steve who realizes after starcourt that the most important person in his life now has this thing that’s a major part of her life that he knows nothing about, and what if he fucks it up? what if he says something ignorant or rude by accident, and hurts her? what if he loses her because he didn’t know the right thing to say? what if he can’t keep her safe because he doesn’t know what to look out for? absolutely fucking not, this steve says

and listen she’d never say anything, because she can tell that he can tell how much she likes teasing him and teaching him things, so he plays dumb, and she thinks it’s very sweet. but she notices when the zines she keeps under her bed that she buys at that one secret bookshop in indy when she can sneak away on family trips start going missing, always one at a time, and replaced in a few days with another disappearing. and she finds the new ones he must have gone to buy the weekend she was at her aunt’s house hidden in the back of his closet when she goes to steal one of his sweaters. and she notices when he slips more of her queerer movie recommendations into his personal take home pile rather than the movie night stack when he thinks she’s not looking.

she doesn’t notice when he drives to indianapolis after she tries to explain to him why she can’t just ask out a cute girl, tries to impress on him the fear attached to every moment of attraction that he simply has never had to feel, but later she finds a crumpled receipt from a diner in one of his jacket pockets when she’s looking for his keys, and the address is across the street from the bar the gorgeous woman at the bookstore told her about, the one she memorized the address of but hasn’t worked up the guts to think about visiting, and she knows he must have gone looking for a place like that, must have been trying to understand, must have been scoping it out to make sure it was somewhere she could feel safe, after she told him she never had.

so when eddie nearly pops a blood vessel when they clock each other and she mentions that steve is the only person she’s ever come out to before, her hackles come up. because she gets it, she does, he’s only known king steve until recently, so it makes sense that he would be afraid, be concerned for her safety.

but steve is her person, and no one- no one- has ever made her feel as protected or as cared for as he does. no one has ever tried as hard to understand her, no one has ever put so much work into making her feel safe and seen and loved. and she thinks maybe even if no one else ever does, that’s ok. because she has steve, and more importantly steve has her, and that means no one gets to question his ally credentials in her presence without a dressing down to remember, no matter how well they mean or how recently they helped save the world.

(and maybe she’s not as surprised as she could be when he figures out bisexuality all on his own, because she’s been reading all the same pamphlets he has, after all. and she’s seen the way he looks at eddie, i mean come on. maybe no one else has noticed, but then, nobody knows steve harrington like she does.)

[worrynoodle]

I don't believe Aziraphale had a choice. I don't believe Aziraphale felt he had a choice.

He was offered one of the highest positions of power in the universe. Literally. The same universe where he has been afraid since before the beginning of losing what he loves most. Their entire existence something has been hanging over their heads whether it's heaven casting you out, hell torturing or destroying you, you destroying yourself, or the end of the world. They've always been afraid of losing one another.

Then, Michael, after Gabriel and beelzebub have left, decides that she has the power of erasing Aziraphale/Crowley from the book of life. That because she is the duty officer she's next in line for the Supreme Archangel position.

But instead it's offered to Aziraphale.

Now he sees that maybe he can save the world and change the universe so that finally, finally his beloved is safe for real. That he can finally let himself get close, let himself love crowley. That they can finally be together. Safe.

But crowley says no. Crowley doesn't want him to go and doesn't want to go with him and aziraphale doesn't get it because 'we could make a difference' isn't that what you want? He's slipping away from Aziraphale so suddenly and he's trying to hold on trying all his tricks of getting crowley on board and nothing is working and suddenly he's kissing him.

Suddenly the silent, unspoken words are screaming at him and he doesn't know where to go from here. Crowley is all he's ever wanted and it's all out on the table and he wants to stay.

But if he does Micheal might be Supreme Archangel. Or someone worse. Someone who doesn't want to make heaven better. Who won't allow he and crowley to be together. Who might push them back to how they were before. The arrangement, hidden glances, the briefest of touches, closet door shut tight.

No.

He will do this. He will prove it to himself. To heaven. To hell. To humanity and to Crowley that he will literally move heaven and earth to love him out loud.

But he has to let go of Crowley to do that.

[specific-dreamer]

stay gold is for darry too

“when you’re young and the world is new / it’s easy to forget when you’re trying just to make it through”

bc, cmon guys, darry is twenty. 20, two-zero. idk how different college was back then, so bare with me.

he’s from tulsa oklahoma, the south, and he’s twenty years old. assuming he didn’t take a gap year (i’m going off the musical sayin he had to drop out, instead of not go all together) he would’ve been in his second year of school.

(i’m putting a break here because this turned more into a headcanon than an analysis i fear)

and we know darry’s a lil extroverted social butterfly, i’m sure he made so many friends. do you think he told them he was going home for the weekend but would totally be back for that frat party? or do you think he had a best friend on campus that he couldn’t wait to introduce to his family and the gang because he just knew how’d great they’d get on?

because he’s at a state college likely, there’s gonna be greaser/soc rivalries still but chances are so high that the max tension will be arguments. so it’s likely he even got to (freely, and guilt free) make friends with socs.

his biggest worries sophomore year was if he would finish his homework and papers before the weekend so he could go home for his birthday. his biggest worry was working up the nerve to still his dad he blew his allowance that month on some girl. his biggest worry was struggling with being a first gen college student, juggling his papers and football practice, and his work study.

i’m willing to bet he didn’t even tell his parents he’d be home that weekend. i’m thinkin he told dally, because dally would likely forget to tell the others he was comin and everyone else can’t keep their mouths shut for shit.

i think he went to Oklahoma State, which is only 2 hours from tulsa. so, i’m thinking he caught the greyhound really really early that morning, like crackass of dawn early. and when he gets there it’s probably 6:00 and through the window darry can see his parents rousing soda and pony up for school. (school may start at 8:30, but they got two rowdy teenage boys one of whom hates school to get ready, they’ll wake up an hour earlier than necessary)

darry, in all his older brother glory, probably waits for the perfect moment to make his grand entrance. he’d wait until he hears ponyboy loudly complaining that “darry doesn’t have to wake up this early” and he fuckin grins because that’s the most perfect entry for him.

but he can’t get excited, not yet. he’s gotta act like it’s no big deal that he’s here, so he opens the door all casual like and starts toeing off shoes as he closes it behind him. and in his arrogant, i’m-the-eldest-of-course-i’m-right voice he says, “you’re so right, little brother. i actually woke up three hours ago.” and darry tries his damndest he really does, but he can’t help the way his chest loosens and his grin widens and it feels like every stressful thing he’d been worried about rolls off back when he hears the gasps and “sweet mother mary” from his family when he announces himself.

he probably doesn’t even get his second shoe off before he’s knocked to ground by pony (soda would have too, if he was anymore awake, instead he’s just staring at darry in confusion).

i’m gonna write a fic BUT BACK TO WHAT I WAS SAYING

do you think darry feels guilty for not having called ahead of time? do you think he wishes he stayed at school that weekend so parents wouldn’t have gotten in that wreck? do you think a small of darry, a part that he hates as each day passes, wishes that he let the social workers take his brothers? only to instantly regret that train of thought when his brothers crawl into his bed at 10pm trying to stop shaking and crying so they don’t “wake” darry

do you think that it was in that moment, that all those childhood jokes with his parents and phony arguments with paul suddenly became real. that sodapop and ponyboy are his babies. they may not be his in the same way that curly and angela are tim’s kids, but his friends at school are always sayin darry needs to stop referring to pony as his “littlest”.

we know darry didn’t cry at the funeral (or at all, at least to pony’s knowledge) but i really think college was such a breath of fresh air for darry that he was probably holding back sobs when he called his schools admission office to drop out.

i think before they could bury their parents properly, darry had to convince his brothers to go down to school with him so he could pack his things up. (i say convince because i think pony might’ve cried himself hoarse thinking that darry was going back to school and leaving them alone)

do you think darry cried the night before they went down to oklahoma state? because his friends were finally going to meet his littles that he could never seem to stop talking about. he’d have to find some way to apologize for missin the frat party (and his 20th birthday, hell, darry thinks his might’ve been more excited than he was) because saying his parents just died and he legally became a father of two is a little too comedic to sound real despite things.

or do you think he avoided his friends like the plague because he knows he’d break down if he saw their pitying eyes? he knew he’d break down if that one girl he couldn’t keep his eyes off of from his psych class saw him and soda carry his boxes to the car and stopped and ask him why he was leaving.

do you think after the funeral when darry made sure his brothers were alright, tucked in for bed and knew they could go find him if they needed anything at all, instead of going to his room he went to his parents room? just to feel their presence one last time. he probably went under their covers too, in the middle like when he was a kid so he could turn left and smell his daddy’s cologne or turn right and smell his mamas rosy perfume, just so he could get one more hug from them. just one more hug before he had to let them go

(do you think when ponyboy inevitably came lookin for darry to scare his nightmares away later that night he got scared when darry wasn’t in his room? do you think he started crying all over again unable to be tough because what if darry’s dead too or worse what if he really did leave them? do you think that’s when pony started sleeping with soda instead. that that’s when his image of darry being a hero cracked because what kind of hero leaves when people are still needing to be saved?)

[inkskinned]

one of the things that's so frustrating is how often the arguments against us are actually happening to us. we said - you need to watch out, this will evolve into allowing fascism into legal statute. and we were told: you're a sensitive snowflake. you're annoying and stupid and have no concept of reality. nobody really believes that stuff.

but it's indoctrination for kids to even see queer people. it's grooming for kids to even be around queer people. it's disgusting to even put rainbows on kids clothes. it's inappropriate, shameful, still-an-argument. like any of this is new - we know already. for you, even seeing someone unashamed is the same thing as "forcing" it onto you. because god-forbid you confront any internal thought you have. because god-forbid you practice empathy. rage is better, i guess. it keeps you pretty.

this has always been the way of some people - a while ago, it would have been "sinful" for my white mom to marry my hispanic dad. once, in the year of our lord 2015, someone told me that "mutts" deserve a woodchipper. that one particular insult stayed with me - not because it was the first or last, but because there was something so unbelievably violent about it that i couldn't figure out how to hold it. the idea that someone is so assured of their bigotry and rage that they would paint this kind of a picture. even jokingly, even with the anonymity of the internet, it kind of centered things for me. a sense that, for some people, their rage burned so unimaginably large that it blocked even the basic fact of my humanity.

at one point, while i still had enough fire in me to get into long arguments, one of the bigots i was "debating" (being harassed by) said: to be honest, it's about the sex, not the love. between you, me, and the four walls of this blue hellsite, i actually didn't really care for "love is love" as the slogan of our community. it seemed so placid, so gentle, so ally-focused. where was the vitriol? where was the hours i spent agonizing over myself? where was the quiet moments of my life, filled with the sound of other people's hatred? this static that settles over everything; even for the action of holding her hand.

the world is unfair. i am an adult, and without the veneer and small-pond syndrome of my teenage years, the slogan has started sounding more desperate. the more places i went, the more people i met. love is love. love is defending him on a rooftop bar. the drink she throws at me goes down into my shoes while i stand there, wishing i had a better retort than what the fuck. love is both of us, keeping our heads down, the black SUV full of frat boys (?) pulled up next to us, howling, for five whole blocks, until we both gave up and had to stick our bare legs into the thicket by the side of the road, giving over into tick country rather than let it go on any longer. love is a lazy spring afternoon, my hand on her belly, the fan spinning overhead. did you hear the whole thing about target?

did you hear about being the target? that's a fun little parallel, isn't it. it almost feels like the game that-is-about-me is being played without-my-participation. someone wants to set fire to my life, and i have to wait for a response from a capitalist institution. i am watching a tiktok where a white woman under white lights complains about adult swimsuits, even though i think a lot of people would benefit from having swimming options that are not "instagram-inspired bikini" or "impossible to move in but otherwise pretty".

sometimes it just seems so fucking stupid. like, just to check, the rage you feel and the hatred - you could really just avoid all of that by minding your fucking business. sometimes (and this is true): it's not about you, and people don't need your permission. like, i don't understand any obsession with sports, but it seems to make other people happy. american football literally results in grievous bodily injury - and yet there are onesies for babies that say future quarterback. i personally don't love it, so i just don't buy that stuff. i walk by it, and don't let it bother me. there have been so, so, so many times that i was told - "so what if he's a little bit homophobic, if you don't like him, don't watch his movies." "so what if they fired her. don't buy their product." "so what if they wouldn't make a rainbow cake. just don't support them."

sometimes i feel the meaning of it scud against my body, an orca whale inside of me, threatening the boat. it is too large to see from my place; this shadow of a thing that dwarfs my petty other-concerns. i need to find a dress for an event, and florida is passing more anti-gay legislation. i need to text my friend back and confirm our plans, and someone is throwing beer bottles to the floor in a walmart because a different case had rainbows on them. it is a long fall, if i look down into it; this sense like the bottom doesn't exist. like i have only ever dipped my toes in.

sometimes i am unbelievably tired of talking about it. it feels like it has become too trite in my own poetry - queer writer complains about the state of the world! how original! - and then something else happens, and i am here again. i remember that it isn't a moment. i remember it isn't a scattered population of cartoon evil-doers, intent on world domination from behind handlebar mustaches. it is a concerted effort of real people with real power who really-do want to see my end. it is a lifetime of dodging the beercan as it sails out of the back of the van. it is a lifetime of not-kissing once we leave the apartment. it is a lifetime of watching someone protest our existence and then, very slowly, giving them the finger. it is a lifetime of holding my friends' hands and hearing the same agony in their life that i lived through. it is us, together, our faces turned upwards, the night sky so vast, milky way overhead like a lacework zipper.

it is a lifetime of staring down woodchippers.