#this ran away with me a bit

[red-dead-sakharine]

Tickles

gn!tav, RaphaelPOV, humor, sfw until Haarlep shows up, ace, body worship Cover art by the wonderful @octarinecat!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 & 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8

"And what did-ihihihihi!" he paused, confused. He looked down at Korrilla, who was just reporting to him. She stared at him with a bewildered expression, "Boss?"

"Yes? I don't-teeheeheeheehee!" he clutched his side, confused, irritated. What was this? What was- "Hhhhahahaha!" the laughter escaped him, despite his best efforts. It felt like something was poking his side. It was irritating. It was... it was.... "Heeheehihihihihi!" he giggled. This was embarrassing - he hated it!

Korrilla stared at him wide-eyed, then looked around. Searching for someone who might be casting a spell - but there was nobody nearby. They were alone in the devil's den. "Eeheeheeheehihihihi!" his knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, snickering and giggling. He couldn't help himself. This was ridiculous! What in the hells was going on!? He flinched involuntarily as he felt his side poked particularly hard, and another laugh escaped him.

He looked at the dwarf and she looked at him - it hit them both at the same time: "Haarlep", they said in unison. Followed by another particularly strong giggle from Raphael.

"Go and stop, whatever he'sheeheeheeheeheehee!" He screamed in rage at the involuntarily giggles.

"I got it, boss." Korrilla assured him and vanished.

The minutes following dragged on like an eternity, interspersed with soft giggles and violent laughter, so debilitating that it left him prone on the floor.

"I'm going to kihihihihihihill him!" he screamed in rage, not even able to utter a threat without being interrupted by laughter.

What was taking Korrilla so long!? His sides hurt. After some time Korrilla appeared again,... smirking?

"What are you-hoohoohihihihihihihi! AHHRR! What have you been doing!? You didn't fix it!" He would've lashed out, if he'd been able to get up for long enough.

"I am very, very sorry, boss." Korrilla exclaimed, walking over to him, "I fear you'll have to see for yourself." she offered herself to help him up, and he looked at her with murder in his eyes. Then he giggled like a little school girl and dismayed.

"GRAH fine! Bring me to him!" he demanded, and used her shoulder to push himself up, then he doubled over in another fit of laughter.

One enlarge spell later, the dwarf was just tall enough to be a serviceable crutch, as they teleported back to the House of Hope. Never before had the walk from the entrance, to his boudoir felt so long. They had to stop multiple times, because his knees gave in, as another strong attack of giggles befell him.

"I'm going to kill Haarlep and whoever he's with!" he growled ...and snickered.

After an excruciatingly long walk, they finally reached the boudoir. Rounding the pool counter-clockwise, he noticed a few figures standing to the left near the bed. And they noticed him.

"Well, here he is. It was nice, knowing you!" he heard the vampire spawn's voice from across the pool. "Chk! I hope this was worth it." the githyanki's voice added. Then he saw the gathered companions hurry towards the exit, keeping the pool between him and them.

That's right, he thought, the moment I have control over my body again, I'll shred you all to pieces! Run as fast as you can! His inner thoughts were disrupted by another silly giggle, and he growled in rage.

"There you are. Finally!" Tav was straddling Haarlep on top of the large bed. An impish smile on their face, Haarlep below them with tears of laughter in their eyes and a big smile on their face. They were still clothed, and the incubus was still wearing their leathers.

Raphael's face was the opposite of Haarlep's. Red from anger - and laughter - contorted in rage to a furious grimace. He let go of Korrilla and stood up tall to stare Tav down. They smiled at him mischievously and poked into Haarlep's side. Haarlep snickered, Raphael flinched with a grin. No! This was not what he wanted to be doing! He hated not having control over his body. These involuntary happy noises coming from his own mouth made him sick!

"Cut this out at once!" he demanded.

He could see Haarlep's tail swish across the bed in excitement. Just you wait, he thought, you're in just as much trouble as they are!

"Or what?" Tav replied, grinning from ear to ear and poked Haarlep's side again several times. Both, the incubus and Raphael started snickering.

"STOP!" Raphael commanded in between giggles, but Tav didn't listen. His knees were buckling again and he ended up on the ground, clutching his side. Korrilla shuffled away from him and the bed, towards the exit. Not leaving entirely, but she got out of the danger zone for now.

Eventually Tav stopped, looking back to him as he sat on the ground. Clutching his side in a hopeless attempt of stopping the tickles. But it wasn't his body that was being tickled. He's never felt so embarrassed, so powerless, so... helpless. He tried to catch his breath and glared at Tav with all the fury of the nine hells. He's going to flay that grin off their face for this humiliation!

"Alright. You don't like being tickled, I get it." they eventually said, as if it hadn't been obvious before, "What about this?" He inhaled to tell them to stop whatever they were planning to do, but before he could say something, Tav bent down over Haarlep and gently sucked on one of his nipples. Raphael took a shuddered breath. No! He would not be manipulated like that! He got ready to push himself up but froze when he saw - felt - Tav's hands run gently across Haarlep's - his - chest. Lovingly. Adoringly. Kisses followed - from one nipple, across the chest to the other. Now this one was being loved, gently sucked. Caressed by Tav's tongue. Raphael couldn't get himself to stand up. Haarlep wriggled slightly underneath the mortal intruder, clearly enjoying themself.

This wasn't right. He shouldn't be enjoying this! He hated this! He hated being manipulated. His body being misused like this. Never mind, that he had thought of Tav in this manner before. But he should be the one initiating. Not Tav. Not that filthy creature Haarlep. He felt Tav's hands caressing his sides - no more tickles, only love. And kisses trail down his chest towards his bellybutton. His brows pulled together and he leaned back involuntarily, enjoying the sensation. And then it stopped. He blinked to refocus, and looked to Tav and Haarlep on the bed. That stupid mortal was looking at him, smiling. They'd seen that he enjoyed this. He felt exposed.

"You know," Tav began, "the tickles were just meant to get you to come here. Because," they got off Haarlep and sat beside them on the bed, facing Raphael, "I'd much rather be doing this with the real thing." Raphael shuddered slightly. He wanted them for a long while now, though he's been hiding it behind flirtations that were too obvious, too over the top, to be taken as genuine. He never expected that his favorite misadventurer would actually think of him like this. Think of him the way he thought of them.

He pushed himself up and began moving towards the bed. Haarlep crawled up into a sitting position, grinning with mischief. He shot the incubus a death glare. It got the point across and Haarlep slid off the bed and moved towards the exit. "Have fun," they whispered as they passed Raphael, who just growled in response.

Both the incubus and Korrilla made themselves scarce now, to leave the other two to their devices. They knew Raphael wanted, nay, needed this. He had been talking about Tav nonstop, after all.

"I should flay you alive for your insolence," Raphael growled as he came to a stop before the bed. "Then I wouldn't be able to worship you, though." Tav replied matter-of-factly, then added "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I just wanted you to come here." Raphael wrinkled his nose in anger. He wanted to scoff and be angry, but he couldn't quite manage. Not with Tav sitting on his bed in front of him. "Worship me?" he echoed, raising a brow in question. Tav simply pat the bed next to them in response.

[mood music]

He hesitated. He didn't want to relinquish control - ignoring the fact that he never had it in this situation. After a moment, he relented and climbed on the bed where Haarlep had been before. Tav smiled at him and his insides melted. Damn this stupid mortal! His frustrated thoughts dispersed into the void when Tav's hands appeared on his shoulders. They had crawled up behind him and their arms were snaking their way from his shoulders to his chest. Wrapping him in their embrace as they found the buttons of his doublet and started opening them. Slowly, one by one. It was exciting and agonizing at the same time. He wished they'd hurry up, but he didn't voice it. He just closed his eyes, feeling Tav's chest press against his back, and their arms around him, and their hands working their way through the buttons down his chest.

The doublet came off, then the shirt. Kisses on the back of his neck. He got goosebumps and cursed that his body was betraying him like this. He could feel Tav's smile as they kissed him again, and he knew they noticed. They trailed kisses along his shoulders and down his shoulder blades; their hands gently roaming across his chest, his belly, his sides. This was nothing like what Haarlep did to him. Haarlep would do foreplay if commanded to, but it was never with love nor care. This... this felt different. He felt... appreciated.

The bed shifted and he opened his eyes to see Tav crawl in front of him now. Hands on his chest, on his side. Kisses in the nape of his neck, on his chest. They ran their nose through the fluff of hair on his chest. He sighed. Damnit, he didn't mean to! More kisses on his chest. His nipples - o they were being spoiled. Sucked and caressed with a tongue. Not like Haarlep. Not rough and bitey and angry. This was unlike anything he knew. This was soft and caring and wonderful. His brows drew together again and he lifted his head involuntarily. This was nice. He felt appreciated. Kisses on his sides - where the annoying tickles had been before - yes good. An apology to his sensitive flanks. He accepted it. Kisses snaking towards his bellybutton again. He couldn't help but lift a hand to run it through Tav's hair. Soft. So soft. More kisses. He felt good.

Kisses up his chest again, paying taxes to his nipples in passing, going further up. Kisses on his neck again. He moaned. Gods be damned, he didn't mean to! A nibble on his ear, his breath hitched.

"Do you trust me?"

He nodded. Should he? His mind was fuzzy. He wanted more. More worship. That's what they called it, right?

He felt the buckle of his belt open, felt his fly unbutton. He opened one eye, looked at Tav. They gently pushed him to the side and onto his belly, sprawled across the bed. He was confused, but complied.

His pants went down. Why was he letting himself be exposed like this? He should be the one in control! He should be the one- hands on his bum. He paused. A kiss on his right butt cheek. He let his head drop onto the bed. A kiss on the left. Hands caressing his rear lovingly. He was dead and this was heaven.

More kisses up and down his butt. Then up his spine. He shuddered. Loving hands caressing his back. Kisses on his shoulders again. He could feel Tav's body brush against his rear, their legs against his, as they loomed over him. Worshiped him. Kisses up the back of his neck. A hand in his hair. He hummed in pleasure. A kiss on his cheek. He felt hot. He was sure he was blushing. Damn his body. Damn this mortal! He never felt like this with Haarlep.

Hands gently running over his torso. Another gentle kiss on his temple. He stifled a sigh. Hands trailing down his back again. Stroking his butt. Stroking his thighs. Kisses following them. A gentle lick on his right butt cheek. He shivered. What was this mortal doing to him. His little mouse. His little-- Another lick. His mind flew away to someplace else. More kisses on his rear. Loving. Caring. Not rough. Not savage with lust. Just affection. Not like Haarlep. Not possessive. Not with a single goal in mind. He grabbed the sheets, balled his fists and shuddered. This was all too much. Too much gentleness. Violence he knew. Rough he could handle. Bites and scratches and hungry humping, he knew. That's all he knew. Not this. Not these hands that stroked his body like it was a holy icon to be praised. Another kiss between his shoulder blades. Another moan escaped him. He pushed his face into the bedding, embarrassed, exposed. He should kill Tav for seeing him like this. Causing him to be like this. A hand in his hair again. A kiss on his temple. "Shhh," they whispered in his ear, and stroked his hair. Another kiss. So loving. So caring. He didn't know what to do with this affection. This gentleness. "I can't touch your wings, when you're in human form." a barely audible whisper in his other ear. He whined into the bedding in exasperation. Most mortals shied away from his true form. Were scared of it - found it monstrous. But his little mouse wanted to see it. Love it. He acquiesced and relinquished his human guise. He felt Tav dodge the wings as they appeared.

"Magnificent," he heard them breathe in awe. That's right, he thought, I am. Hands on his back. His thoughts flew away again. The hands felt smaller, now that he was bigger. But they felt just as good. As kind. They roamed up his back and towards his wings. Kisses following them up his spine again. At the base of his wings.

He felt the bed shift with Tav's weight as they climbed off him and to one side. Caring hands slowly ran along his wing. From the base up to where the joints connected, then down on the outermost spine. He shuddered at the gentle touch. It was wonderful. Too wonderful. It made him feel fuzzy. He stretched his other wing out to compensate. Kisses on his wings. He moaned. More kisses followed. Up and down the spines. Gentle hands stroking the membrane in between. This was bliss. This was rapture.

The weight in the bed shifted again, and he felt hands on his other wing. He was being tortured. Tortured with love. He didn't know what to do with it. With the affection. It was maddening and wonderful.

The hands and kisses repeated their ministrations on this wing, then moved towards his torso again. Gently wandering down his back. Like they couldn't just move to another place without touching and loving every bit of his body between here and there. A kiss on the base of his tail. He gasped, clutching the sheets more tightly. The reaction was not lost on his worshiper. Another kiss. Lips gliding down his tail, hands stroking it, kisses following it. A gentle lick. His body shook with pleasure. He couldn't think anymore. His brain had left his body. More gentle kisses. Another lick further down the tail. Hands gently kneading his tail muscles. He moaned again. He didn't care. A kiss at the very tip of his tail. A gentle suck. He was sure this wasn't reality anymore. Lips and hands working their way back up to the base of his tail, then down next to it. Another kiss on his right butt cheek. Then on his left. Hands roaming over his body. He was shivering uncontrollably now. He didn't know what to do with all these wonderful feelings. He wished someone would punch him. He knew what to do with pain. He didn't know what to do with love. Tav sank onto the bed next to him. A hand still caressing his back. He looked up - looked at them. His little mouse. They were lying next to him, head propped up with one hand, while the other was still stroking his back. He looked at them and he was powerless. They smiled at him and leaned in. A kiss on his forehead. On his nose. On his cheek. On his lips.

He could cry from bliss.

He's never been loved like this.

👉 Part 2

[semperama]

Omg ok like maxiel sensory deprivation (???) blindfold situation or however u wanna take that

cw for a very brief mention of off-screen watersports and fisting

"How will I know if I'm hurting you? Or if you want to stop?" Daniel asks, sliding the slippery satin back and forth across his palm. He'll tie the blindfold himself. The idea of Max doing it for him...Nah. Nope.

"I will pinch you," Max says. He's grinning, like none of this is a big deal. "Really hard. Right here." He taps Daniel's side, just above his hipbone. "But you will not hurt me."

Daniel wrinkles his nose, shakes his head. "You don't know that.

"Yes, I do," Max says, and pulls him in for a slow, sweet kiss that melts some of the tension between his shoulder blades.

He's not sure how he let Max talk him into this, but then again, he's felt that way about pretty much everything Max has ever asked him for in bed. Between the two of them, Max is definitely the freak. Still, Daniel rarely has complaints after the fact. Okay, he never has complaints, except for sometimes a sick-sweet shame he feels--at the sight of a red handprint on Max's ass; at the feeling of Max's hand wrapped around his dick, directing a stream of piss onto his own chest; at the sound of Max whimpering his name while he clenches around Daniel's whole fucking fist.

"Please," Max says when he pulls away, and--yeah, that's why Daniel always agrees. Always says yes.

He kisses Max one more time, then closes his eyes--nonsensically, considering what he's about to do--and lifts the scarf to tie it around the top half of his face. When he opens his eyes again, he can still see a little bit--just light and shapes--but he can't make out Max's expression, and he supposes that's the point.

"We can skip the headphones," Daniel says. "This is probably enough."

"No," Max says. Then, again, "Please, Daniel."

He can't pretend he fully grocks Max's logic in this one. Max was a little stammery when he explained it, the ends of half of his sentences bitten off. Something about wanting Daniel to worry about him less. I do not think you think so much when you are driving. I want you to be with me like that. It sounded fucking terrifying to Daniel at the time, and even now that he's had time to sit with it, his heart is pounding. What if Max doesn't end up liking whatever version of Daniel comes out when he's not trying to please Max? If Daniel worries, or if he thinks too much, it's because that's what makes it good, right?

But this is what Max wants and--and Max has never steered him wrong, so--

Daniel already queued up his pre-race playlist, so when Max slips the headphones on him and the music fills his ears, he immediately goes to that place, his anxiety morphing into that familiar adrenaline-pumping, ready-for-attack feeling he gets when he's on the starting grid, the car hot and vibrating underneath him.

It's strange, though, to have his senses so cut off. When he's in the car, his vision feels hyper-sharp, and his hearing is tuned to the radio and the sound of the engine. Now, the music fills up all the spaces inside him, every facet of his attention. It's disorienting--but only for a moment. Only until Max takes his hand, squeezes it, and then brings it up to cup his own cheek.

Daniel kisses him carefully at first, like he needs to relearn his mouth. And maybe he does, because he's never experienced it quite like this. The music recedes a little into the background, edged out by the feeling of the stubble against Daniel's lips, and of Max's tongue sliding against his, and of Max's fingers digging into his shoulders. It's tempting to focus on those fingers, to try to gain some clue from them, but as if Max is reading his mind, his grip relaxes suddenly, his fingers petting the hair at the back of Daniel's neck instead.

They got Max ready ahead of time, so when Daniel lets his hand drift down between Max's legs, he can dip two fingers inside him easily. He immediately feels a pang of regret at the lack of feedback. He knows Max will have let out a little moan just then, but he couldn't hear it.

Max wants him to follow his instincts though, so he takes a deep breath and tries to get out of his head, focusing instead on the throb of the bass in his ears and on the way Max feels around him, how hot he is inside, how he clenches when Daniel tugs a little on his rim. After a minute, he withdraws and lets his hands smooth up the inside of Max's thighs, enjoying the breadth of them, the soft hair against his palms. On impulse, he leans down a bites down gently on the meatiest part, his hips rolling against the bed. It wouldn't even take him long to come like this, he thinks. Just worshipping Max's thighs and humping the sheets.

But that isn't what Max wants. And if Daniel's being honest, it's not what he wants now either. His heart is still pounding, his hands sweaty. All this adrenaline needs somewhere to go, and if Max wants it to go into him, then Daniel's going to give him exactly that.

He can't ask Max if he's ready, and he knows--yes, he reminds himself, he knows--that Max is ready, so he lines himself up and lets himself sink into him in one smooth, unbroken motion a groan he can't even hear rumbling its way through his chest and out of his mouth.

Daniel rarely fucks with music on. He's too susceptible to getting lost in the music and forgetting to set the right pace. But this time, he doesn't have to worry about that. All he has is the music--and the flex of Max's thighs and abs under his palms, and the narrowing spiral of pleasure deep in his gut. There's something almost disturbingly primal about it, about pushing his way into Max again and again and having nothing else to set his attention on but chasing his own high. He fucking sucks at meditation, no matter how he tries, but this is the closest he's come to quieting his mind in as long as he can remember.

It's not just about him, though. It's Max. Max all around him. Knees hooked around his waist. Fingers fluttering up and down his back as they try--obviously--not to clutch too hard at him. Daniel fucking loves him so much. He loves that Max wanted this and trusted him with this. He loves that Max makes this kind of thing happen for them. Max mind works in ways Daniel will never understand, but honestly, thank fucking God for that.

He can feel it when Max comes--not just the way Max clenches around him, but the sudden wetness that first hits Daniel's chest and then his stomach. Without thinking, he swipes his fingers through the mess and then gropes for Max's mouth, getting his cheek first before pushing inside. Max sucks hard, licks him clean, and Daniel has to pull away and fall to his elbows, tucking his face into Max's neck like he can hide from the wave of pleasure that breaks over him, pulling him under.

As soon as he can breathe again, he rips the headphones off, then the blindfold, and pushes himself up to look at Max's face. What he sees there is much the same as always: Max's cheeks are red, his eyes slightly wet, his mouth slack and his lips shiny-plump. He looks happy, thank fuck, and--

"Hey," Daniel says, frowning, "are you laughing?"

A snort escapes from Max, his chest visibly vibrating with it now. Daniel supposes there are worse reactions he could have, but this isn't exactly the evaluation of his performance he was hoping for.

"You started humming, toward the end," Max says, his voice pitched high with mirth. "It must have been a good song."

Daniel groans, burying his face in Max's neck again as the blood rushes to his face. "You're a good song," he says, pure nonsense, but also maybe not. "I hate you."

"I love you too," Max says, and turns his head to press a kiss to Daniel's temple. Daniel sighs and closes his eyes and lets himself feel only Max for a little while longer.

[bibxrbie]

"Luke Skywalker isn’t like the old Jedi. He saves Vader with his attachments!”

Wrong!

Luke Skywalker, at the end of Return of the Jedi, after his confrontation with the Emperor drags Darth Vader through the destructing Death Star. He’s desperate, knuckles white under the heavy weight of his father’s body, a little boy dragging his dad to safety. He sets Vader down for a moment, to catch his breath or maybe to get a better grip. He goes to grab Vader again, but Vader, uncomfortable and in pain, asks Luke to take off the mask. He wants to see Luke through his eyes instead of the eyes Palpatine built for him. Luke refuses, says that removing the mask is a sure way for Vader to die. Luke doesn’t want Vader dead, he wants Vader alive. Not to hold him accountable for his many evil acts, but for the same reason why Luke Skywalker can’t kill Darth Vader; Vader is his father and Luke loves him.

And yet, after a moment, Luke removes Vader’s mask. He doesn’t want to, he hesitates, but he removes the mask with enough slowness to allow Vader to take it back. In that moment, Luke sets aside his desire for Vader in his life, sets aside his desire to see him live, and sets aside his entire mission, the reason he was even on the Death Star in the place. In his compassion for his father, Luke stays with Vader until he dies. It is this moment where we see him be the best damn Jedi he can be. I’d even argue that this moment is the greatest example of non-attached love we see. Because Luke lets Vader go! He lets his father die, and in some ways, by removing the mask, he too kills Vader, he stays with him until his last moment, gives him the kindness of granting his last wish and finally chooses Vader.

And Luke doesn’t have to do this. If Luke Skywalker’s love for his father was an attachment, he would ignore Vader and continue dragging him to the escape pod, put his desire for a father as his central focus and ignore Vader’s wants and discomfort. Maybe he would even save him. But he doesn’t. Instead, he watches as Vader dies.

He builds a Jedi burial for his father and watches it burn the remnants of Vader and Anakin Skywalker away. He mourns Vader, he mourns what they could’ve had as father and son, considers what ifs and maybe-if-I-did-this. Vader/ Anakin is released from his mortal body, from his ‘crude matter’ and Luke lets him go. He says one final goodbye to Anakin. Then, he joins Leia, Han, Chewie, Lando, and the rest of the Rebels and celebrates their victory. He lives in the present and celebrates what he has instead of what he lost.

Luke Skywalker is THE Jedi. Everything about Luke Skywalker serves as the foundational cornerstone of the Jedi, everything about the Jedi as a culture and philosophy is reflected in his character. Luke’s desire for the New Jedi Order isn’t to throw away the values of the old Order, but to vitalise them, breathe life back into dying lungs, and rebuild a path that people set out on their way to destroy. (Yes, his Order is different from the Old, but that’s because it has to be. He doesn’t have the resources or the safety of the Old Order.) The philosophies of the Jedi are difficult and they aren’t for everyone, and like the perfect Jedi that Luke is, he struggles and stumbles and sometimes he even rejects it. But, no matter how far he falls, it is a way of life he chooses again and again and again. It is a way of life that welcomes him back each time

[crunchchute]

My Sam & Max cosplay I debuted at a local con during the weekend!

[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."

[papanowo]

honestly getting to see spock go crazy go stupid saves this whole movie for me

[crimeronan]

this is exactly what i sound like talking about Every fictional relationship i'm obsessed with.

[medicalunprofessional]

never change, man !

[expelliarmus]

[warlenys]

people involved in house md who shipped hilson: hugh laurie (actor), doris egan (writer), liz friedman and sara hess (lesbian writers), whoever was in charge of choosing the songs that play over their scenes (we might kiss when we’re alone, love will make you do right/wrong, that one porny john mayer one during “i was worried your wings might melt” that starts playing when house leans back against the door of wilson’s office and makes the whole scene feel violently sensual and like they’re actually genuinely gonna fuck), hugh laurie (director), hugh laurie (executive producer), lin manuel miranda

[ryllen]

Look what came through the mail today! The letters & ( •̀ω•́ )σ 3 little gremlins from letterstoear.

Just wanna say i adore the flower stickers on the letters too much, they are that much worth mentioning.

[ima-ghost-art]

Does he want this cure to work?

inspired by this post <3

[tonydaddingham]

it goes something like this: this is a demon that isn't a very good demon and has survived this far by not allowing anyone to see other than himself that he's not a very good demon. after all, he's been in this position before, hasn't he? he's shown Someone who he truly is, what is in his mind and heart so to speak, and was ruined because of it. but he still can't shake off the feeling of doing the right thing, regardless of whether it goes against heaven or hell.

and then appears this angel that has already told him on that wall that it would be awful if he, the angel, were to do the wrong thing and he, the demon, to do the right thing. it's meant to be the other way around, simply by the will of someone they haven't heard a voice from in centuries, millennia, let alone be able to even understand. this angel who the demon knows is going to be set on doing the divine thing, wrong thing, so he can't trust him to know that he's doing the right thing. he has to keep his cover, make this angel fear him, so he doesn't get close enough to see beyond the facade. because to thwart him as a demon is the good thing, but he can't trust the angel to see that he's doing the right thing.

but this angel accosts him, tells him that he doesn't think this is right, that it can't be what god intended; well, close, but no cigar. the angel beseeches to the demon to do the right thing this time, that the goats were one thing, but please, please, don't harm the children. and it's a close call, but how could he trust this angel? trust the angel to have some sliver of faith in him? trust him to re-examine his prejudice and see him as more than a demon, and all its preconceptions? but the angel does work it out, does see, and it perhaps births the hope that this angel won't stop him from doing the right thing.

it goes something like this: this angel is now a smug but tentative temporary ally. he's seen through him, and he hasn't been thwarted yet, so maybe he has the room to continue with his plan, his agenda, to do the right thing. but he doesn't have the full measure of this angel yet; how mercurial is he? will he change his mind? he seemed hesitant at the flood, but he doesn't get consulted on policy decisions; will actually saving the children be a step too far for the angel? will the angel baulk, and run back to the comfort of just following orders?

he sets the house on fire, and the angel initially doesn't seem to realise that it's a mirage, a magic trick. the demon's just setting the stage. the angel is shocked, momentarily panicking that his faith in this demon was misplaced. but the angel doesn't understand that it's a test, that the demon is scrutinising where his allegiance lies, that he won't thwart this trick, believing it a genuine attempt to harm the children. he offers deniable plausibility; offers the version that he is naturally a bad person because he's a demon - but fear me, stay away, you can't beat me; if you have changed your mind, don't try to stop me because i won't let you win.

but the angel shows again where his moral compass lies, and resolves that he does know this demon, and knows that he won't do what he's threatening to do. that he will do the right thing, and push him to follow it through. so he picks up the gauntlet. he knows that the demon lied before, and he would stake his faith on the fact that he's lying now. that he's not reneging on the true him that was revealed to the angel, that that was the important bit that wasn't a lie.

it goes something like this: now it's the angel's turn. this demon, this good person who does the right thing, is staring him down. setting up the challenge, and silently pleading that he does the right thing too. but the demon knows the stakes are higher for this angel; the demon operates alone, has had the freedom to somewhat pave his own way, and do whatever he wants, and only truly cares about answering to himself. this angel is literally surrounded, backed into the corner. the demon wants to know what he'll choose; will he choose the good thing - telling the truth, and bring down the fledgling trust they've just set up between them? or will he choose the right thing - to lie and ensure that this family, that has done nothing to warrant any of these horrors, can continue to exist in peace?

not only does the angel lie, but he stakes it on everything that he is. he stakes it on being an angel. a direct wager that if the other angels see through the lie, that is the price the angel will need to pay. the demon is suitably impressed, he applauds the performance and the sacrifice, and possibly even feels some degree of sympathy. because whilst this demon's existence isn't easy, he doesn't have much else to lose. he's already lost it, and still feeling the waves crashing on the shore, but it doesn't knock anything down. for this angel, this is everything he embodies and believes himself to be. he still has everything to lose. the demon has been there before, facing the risk of, and survived, losing that, and knows that conflict and pain. but is the price worth it? is it worth doing the right thing?

it goes something like this: the demon goes to the angel. they're not friends, not even really allies, but they've shared the same experience. the demon is surprised that the angel thought he'd fall, but he understands that fear. he recognises and respects that vulnerability, to show the shards of yourself to someone else knowing that they could either help to put them back together, or further trample them into dust. so he comforts the angel with not an assurance that they are still good, because that would be a lie. instead he offers the truth - that he did the right thing, and whilst its a lonely and thankless path to walk, a dangerous moral ground to tread, he won't be alone in walking it.

he lets the angel in on a little secret: that he too is vulnerable. that he is lonely. he has a weakness that at any given moment this angel could exploit if he were so minded. that this angel could experience is a one-off, and he could revert to seeing the demon as someone incapable of doing the right thing by nature of what he is. but he trusts that he won't. the demon recognises and acknowledges what the angel risked for a greater purpose, for helping him achieve that purpose, and for seeing who this demon actually is. he is showing the angel behind the curtain screen, the murky and unknowable that lies ahead when stepping out of the light. showing that they can be, and are, more than the labels they are assigned, and that doing the right thing is the only thing that truly matters.

it goes something like this: the demon trusts the angel enough to admit, unequivocally, out loud, that he lied.

[sqtorux]

guys im having a moment reading all the backstory about gojo i think ... im way too attached to him omfg this is so bad *sits in judgmental silence*

[dustykneed]

perennial (how many five-year missions does it take for a kid to grow into a young adult?)

i feel sorta bad for being mean to poor ol bones but i don't have the energy for a bonus doodle so here's the sketch from my soft spones painting because i like it almost as much as the rendered thing ^^

(yeah bones is totally doing the ozh'esta unconciously haha. im so tired rn but they are SO soft with each other ok. they have my heart <3333)

[quietwingsinthesky]

Dean is such a paradox for me because on the one hand, I have been actively triggered by him in the show, there are moments where, intentionally or not, the writers managed to create a portrayal of manipulation and abuse and control issues that it sets off actual alarms for me. And on the other hand, I would not have him any other way. There is something — not comforting, that’s too soft a word — about knowing where Dean’s actions stem from, having seen and learned all that we do about his childhood neglect and parentification and the trauma he goes through repeatedly in the show, and that he doesn’t come out clean. He comes out a goddamn mess who ends up hurting the people around him in reaction to his own pain!

There’s a reality there that’s. Almost nice, actually. Distressing to watch, but it is a fucking mess, it’s a good mess! He’s got zero healthy coping skills and a healthy relationship with say, his brother, is terrifying because it leaves him open to abandonment!

I’m not sure I’m wording this correctly. There is a way to be a good abuse victim. Take the pain, martyr yourself on it, and then, even if you have no support or idea how to, then you have to become a Good Person who never hurts anyone the way you have been learning to your entire life. Simply toss everything that shaped you out the door and emerge a saint with a tragic backstory. And Dean is not that. And that’s so fucking good. Everything that he has gone through continues to effect the way he treats the people around him, and he can’t fight the behaviors he might recognize as harmful because he also sees them as protecting him (or protecting Sam by keeping Sam with him.)

And sometimes, idk. It feels good to see a guy who didn’t heal the “right way.” Who mostly didn’t heal at all, just keeps the wound open because it’s easier that way.