#and please forgive any errors

[strawberriemarswrites]

CHAPTER 10-A : PIPE DREAM

Chapter Summary: You confront Bartolomeo about everything he's done. Pairing: Bartolomeo x F!Reader Rating: Explicit (18+ only, NSFW Chapter; PiV sex, biting, a more submissive Barto, slight breeding kink) TW: References to past violence, stalking Ao3 Link: Chapter 10-A (3,903 words)

Bartolomeo was silent for a long time, staring between you and the shirt in your hand. Of course. Of all the things to forget about in the heat of the moment. Now you had it, and everything he ever wanted was going to come crashing down around him.

Fuck.

“Barto,” you pressed, “how long have you had my shirt?”

He leaned against the doorframe, avoiding eye contact. After a long moment he swallowed the lump in his throat and answered, “Few months.”

You abruptly stood from the bed, getting directly in front of him and forcing yourself into his line of sight. “It was you. This whole time. And you had me thinking it wasn’t.” Your eyes began to water. “What the fuck, Barto?! What else have you stolen?!”

He would have flinched, were he not distracted by the fact that you looked hotter when you were angry. The thought was enough to make him flush as he confessed, “A few things.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, once more catching a whiff of strawberries and vanilla on your stolen shirt. “My fucking perfume. What the hell did you do — steal that and put it back every time?”

“No! Just. Just once...” His eyes flicked to his dresser, where the new bottle was hidden in the top drawer. “Then... I bought my own.”

“Oh, well that makes it so much better.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t,” you huffed. “Just don’t. I need...”

You paused, biting your lip. What did you need? Time? To do what exactly — think about how the guy you’d been crushing on was stalking you like you feared? You should be calling someone about this, not hesitating!

Bartolomeo’s chest felt like it was about to burst. He’d been ignoring it, but on some level he’d known it was inevitable that if you got together, you would discover what he had done. He convinced himself he could make it okay, give you his perspective on it, but he never thought that the need to do that would come before you even had a chance to go through the honeymoon phase. Slowly, he reached out and put his hands on your shoulders, the slightest bit of relief easing the chest pain when you didn’t try to pull away.

“Sweetheart,” he said again, “I already told you... All that stuff about you bein’ good, and soft, how I’m none of that—”

“Barto,” you interrupted, running a frustrated hand through your hair, “you realize that nothing you could say about this is going to make it okay. You broke into my room. You stole my stuff. You followed me home!” You paused, then gasped, taking a step back. “Did you have something to do with Cavendish not showing?!”

He shrank back, letting go of you and once again avoiding eye contact. “I might’ve... busted his car a little. And his ribs.”

You took another step back, shaking your head before starting to pick your clothes up from the floor.

He began to panic. “Wait — what are you doing?”

“Putting on clothes,” you sighed. “I can’t keep having this conversation naked.”

You paced the floor of Bartolomeo’s living room, running a hand through your hair while he watched trepidatiously from the couch. He’d confessed extensively, further adding to his earlier list of admissions. Laying in your bed, watching you sleep, hunting down Cavendish — he even admitted that after the man from the bar roofied himself, he followed him out and stabbed his hand.

(You would never admit out loud that you were thrilled by the idea of Bartolomeo beating creeps to a bloody pulp like some unhinged vigilante.)

With a heavy sigh you stopped in front of him, your arms folded. “I’m not gonna tell anyone about what you did.”

Bartolomeo straightened up slightly. “Really?”

“But,” you continued, “you’re gonna give me my stuff back.”

He nodded, just relieved that you weren’t immediately ditching him. “You got it.”

“I don’t have the funds to move right now, so I’m still living across the hall for the foreseeable future.” You took a step closer. “If you ever break into my apartment again, I will call the cops.”

He nodded again, and you took it as a small victory. If you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you could make good on that threat. A tiny part of you felt guilty at the thought of having him arrested, but you couldn’t afford to let him see through you.

You let out another heavy sigh, your posture relaxing slightly. “What were you thinking, Barto? Why didn’t you say something from the start?”

Bartolomeo ran a hand through his hair, his face flushed. “I-I dunno... it’s like I said. You’re so good, and normally people who go around lookin’ and actin’ like you don’t talk to people like me. I ain’t ever really... fell for anyone before, and I couldn’t help myself from doin’ stuff that was wrong. Then when you said we were friends, I got scared that maybe you’d never see me the way I saw you.” He kept his gaze downward, the flush spreading down his neck and shoulders. “I started clingin’ to what I could just to feel close to ya.”

Your heart lurched at the confession, and you smothered the urge to let out a soft “aww”. That should not have been cute — how the hell did he manage to twist what he did into something that sounded so innocent?

You cleared your throat, holding your ground. “I don’t know that I can just forgive you for this. You know that, right?”

Bartolomeo seemed to shrink into himself. Yes, he’d known that was a possibility. Did he ever want to admit that? Absolutely not.

“We’re back to just neighbors,” you finally said. “I don’t care if we say ‘hi’ or whatever, but I’m not talking to you until I’m ready to be friends again. If I’m ready.” You hated that you were giving him hope, but you were kidding yourself if you thought you’d be able to keep yourself from peeking over the walls you were building.

He nodded in a way that betrayed his restrained eagerness. “You got it. Just neighbors.”

With another long look and one final sigh, you texted Robin for your keys.

The days passed by painfully slow. Routine made them bleed into weeks, and before you knew it, two months had gone by.

You occasionally caught Bartolomeo peeking out of his door whenever you got off the elevator. You could tolerate that.

He would hold the building door open for you whenever he happened (“happened”) to be there. You decided you could tolerate that, too.

When the landlord came around with suspicions about Luffy’s existence again, he was there, looming across the hall. And when you could no longer deny that yes, you had a cat, Bartolomeo’s presence kept the landlord from charging backpay. The moment the coast was clear, he quickly retreated, blushing all the way up to his ears.

Try as you might to resist the urge, you ended up leaving a bag of cookies in front of his door as thanks.

Shortly after, packages you ordered ended up at your door instead of the front desk. Sometimes there were flowers that were clearly picked from some poor soul’s window box. You’d wake up or come home to find a few dollars had been slipped under your door, with notes reading “subway”, “cat food”, and “drinks”.

You probably shouldn’t have tolerated that.

Bartolomeo eventually gained enough courage to greet you one morning as you were leaving for work. You gave him a small nod, and he blushed, quickly stepping back into his apartment. He took it as a sign that he could at least do that much, letting out a sheepish “hey” or “morning” whenever he saw you. Soon it grew into asking how you were, to which you didn’t answer with more than a shrug or a “fine”, despite wanting to answer with more. You found you had missed talking to him, but you were doing your best to stand firm.

Your resolve was tested further when he started having one-sided conversations with you. He’d tell you about his day, about how he heard Luffy running around, how Gambia was doing, almost like whatever came to mind he had to get out of his head just so he could spend more time talking to you. You kept your responses short, if you responded at all, though you struggled to hide your smile and stifle laughter.

You’d given him the inch. It was all he needed to pry his way back in.

The signs Bartolomeo was breaking in again slowly but surely returned. Rumpled bedsheets, haphazardly closed drawers, debris by the window. It made your stomach turn, but your chest fluttered. You shouldn’t have been so tolerant. It was only a matter of time, after all, and you should have kept to your word and put your foot down.

But you missed him. You found yourself lying awake longer at night, watching your window as you fell asleep. You would sit on your bed and look over the slightly untidied sheets and wonder why Bartolomeo didn’t just pull the pillows off and sit with them on the floor. Luffy’s treat bag wouldn’t be closed all the way and you were tempted to scold him for leaving it open, or for giving Luffy treats in the first place, instead of getting furious that he was in the apartment to start with.

It took some time, but you finally caught him.

You’d been curled up under your bedsheets, watching the window, when you saw a familiar silhouette take up his post on the fire escape. He had his back to the room, leaning his head back against the pane. Quietly, you crawled out of bed and across the floor, and tapped on the window.

Bartolomeo jumped up, ready to flee down the stairs, before you pushed the window open and grabbed the edge of his fur-lined vest, staring up into his fiery eyes.

“Stay.”

It had been two months since you’d said something first.

Bartolomeo blinked, then let you pull him into the bedroom. You took him by the wrists, gently guiding him to the bed before pushing him down onto it, crawling on top of him and pinning his hands down to either side of his head. He gave in with surprising ease, a mixture of shock and anticipation on his face as you started running your hands up and down his forearms.

“What were you going to do out there?” you asked, your voice low.

He swallowed, his eyes flicking back and forth as he struggled to focus on yours. “I was... going to watch you sleep.”

You couldn’t help the soft “tch” that left your lips. “Course you were. Just watching, right?”

He nodded frantically, his face turning redder by the second. “Yeah, just watching. I swear.”

Your hands drifted lower, ghosting his vest’s fur lining. “You weren’t planning on breaking in like you have been? After I’ve already told you to stop?”

All the color that had crept into his face immediately drained. He shook his head, “I wasn’t — I just — ...I really tried —”

“Barto?”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

You put your hands on either side of his face, lifting it to meet yours. “Shut up.”

His eyes went wide before he nodded.

You released his head, letting it drop back down on the pillow with a satisfying whumpf. You returned to letting your hands wander downward, eventually reaching the hem of his shirt. “I should be calling the cops on you and kicking your ass right now. You know that, right?”

You felt his chest heave. “Why aren’t you?”

You shrugged, rolling his shirt up. “I’m still debating.”

A dusting of green hair was exposed at his waist line. As you traced a finger over it, Bartolomeo said, “What do I gotta do to convince you not to?”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Shut up and let me fuck you.”

Color returned to his face with a vengeance. Your hands slid lower, ghosting your fingers along the waistband of his ratty jeans before undoing them. When you tugged at them, he lifted his hips, but you didn’t pull them off all the way, stopping when they were just below the curve of his ass. You then brushed your hand over the obvious bulge in his boxers.

It was at that moment, with how easily he was complying, that you realized how much power you really had over Bartolomeo. He might’ve been the one stalking you and violently hurting people to keep them away, but you could probably step on him and he’d thank you. You could pull his hair, punch him in the gut, probably even kick him where it’d really, really hurt, and he’d still come crawling after you. It might even encourage him.

Maybe he was just as masochistic as you were, for letting him get away with his antics.

You broke the silence with a harsh, “You’re a real freak, you know that?”

Bartolomeo only whimpered in response.

Power thrummed under your fingers as you started fondling him through his boxers. “You start pining after a girl, and your first instinct is to start stalking her.” You gave him a light squeeze, barely even a twitch of your muscles, and his breath hitched. “How much did it hurt not knowing if I returned your feelings?”

He only whimpered again, his body starting to shiver under your touch.

You squeezed a little harder. “Answer me, Barto.”

“Badly,” he choked out, as if he’d been holding his breath from the moment you started touching him.

You hummed, rubbing him a little harder. “How long do you think you could have kept it up?”

He swallowed, trying to look anywhere but your eyes. “I-I dunno.”

Your grip on him tightened and he grunted, his hips bucking. You continued, “You ever jerk off into my shirt? The one you stole?”

Bartolomeo frantically shook his head. “No, not — not really — I mean —”

It was then that he finally met your gaze, and he froze. Was this a trap? He didn’t want to answer, but something about the look in your eyes dissuaded him from keeping the truth to himself. 

“I smelled it while jackin’ off.”

You nodded, loosening your hold. “You ever think of me?”

He moaned, rolling his eyes back. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

“You ever think about stealing my panties?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Would you have jerked off with those?”

“...yeah.”

You abruptly let go of his cock. The high-pitched groan that came from Bartolomeo made you shudder as you said, “What if I tried to go on another date? What would you have done to them?”

His eyes widened. “Wha—”

“You heard me,” you cut him off. “Would you have tracked them down and hurt them, too?”

After a moment of struggling to find his words, he finally said, “Yes.”

You put your hand back over his groin, lightly tracing a finger along the concealed length. “That guy from the train. What would you have done if he’d managed to hurt me?”

He clenched his fists around the bedsheets. “Y-you don’t really wanna know that.”

“I do,” you said, now tugging his cock free from his boxers and ghosting your fingers over the head, leaking with precum. “I want you to confess to all the depraved shit you’ve been thinking since you met me. I want to know how far you would’ve gone before you couldn’t take it anymore.”

Bartolomeo stared up at you for a long moment, his heart pounding. This had to be a dream. There was no way you were indulging him like this for real. On top of him, making demands, tormenting him like this. He’d hit his head on one of the ladder rungs and this was an unconscious fantasy. That was the only explanation for the twisted web of paradise and damnation he was currently caught in.

Still, this fantasy version of you was glowering down at him, one hand teasing his cock and starting to pull away. He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing your wrist to keep you there, and you flinched, but otherwise kept your steely gaze on him.

The message was clear. He had to answer, or you’d stop.

And Bartolomeo really didn’t want this dream to end.

“That shitstain would’ve been dead,” he growled. “Nobody hurts what’s mine.”

You smirked and swatted his hand away, returning yours to the head of his cock. “Good answer.”

You resumed with languidly stroking him, watching as his eyes rolled back and he struggled to keep them open. For the most part you kept your pace even, occasionally spitting on him to keep him sufficiently lubricated. He let out a long, obscene groan, throwing an arm over his eyes, whimpering your name. “Please...”

A shiver shot through you. After everything he put you through, knowing the violence he was capable of — hearing him start to crumble beneath you was immensely satisfying. “Please what?”

“Stop teasin’,” he groaned, his cock twitching in your hand. “I need you... so bad...”

“You need me, huh?” You slowed down, making him whine. “Beg for me, then.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes snapped back to meet your gaze, his pupils dilating until his irises were thin amber rings. His mouth went dry as he found himself unable to do anything except stare at you looming over him. After an eternity had passed, and he was positive he heard you correctly, he propped himself up on his elbows. 

With flushed cheeks and a look that made you think he might cry, he said, “Please, sweetheart. I’ll do anything.”

You stopped, tilting your head. “Anything?”

He nodded, gaze flicking back and forth as he tried to focus on yours, his tongue darting out between his teeth.

You gently pushed him back into laying down, finally shimmying out of your shorts and underwear. You held yourself over his cock, keeping one hand on him to guide him inside, but not yet. 

“Beg.”

His voice strained, “Please, please, please— I need you. I need to be inside you—”

“Just inside me?”

“Around you, with you, part of you —” his hands started gripping your waist to try and pull you down onto him. “I’ll be your slave if you ask me, just please—”

You gave in, spearing yourself on his cock and relishing in the sudden guttural moan it elicited from him. You slowly sank down onto his length, unable to stop the whine once you felt like it wouldn’t go any further. You felt his nails dig into your skin — you wouldn’t be surprised if his grip left bruises to find in the morning.

“Ohh, fuck,” he groaned. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, “and start fucking me.”

Bartolomeo bit his lip and obeyed, lifting you by the waist to slide himself out, then pulling you back down onto his shaft. You whined again as he stopped just shy of pushing himself entirely inside you, savoring being pushed to your very limit. He repeated the motion, moving you with such ease it had you reeling for a moment. You steadied yourself by putting your hands on his chest, your fingers slipping into the fur lining of his vest. Another thrust and you weren’t able to stifle your moans, stuttering with each push inside you.

“My girl,” he growled, lifting his hips as he pulled you down. “Mine.”

A giggle escaped you in between moans. He could claim that all he wanted, but all things considered, it was you who had him wrapped around your finger. Current physical positions notwithstanding.

Heat began coiling in your core, and your hips started moving of their own accord, rolling in sync with every push and pull of his hands. Bartolomeo let go of one side to bring his hand up to your face, caressing your cheek. His eyes were blown so wide you couldn’t see the amber anymore, leaving behind a mixture of lust and adoration in their depths. He started moving you faster, the hand on your cheek moving into your hair and pulling you closer down to him. Your chest now within range, he started placing kisses on your shoulders and between the valley of your breasts. He circled his tongue around each nipple before latching onto one, rolling the sensitive bud between his sharp teeth. You let out a keening moan, your hands tightening into fists in the synthetic fur as you struggled to keep pace with him.

“Mine,” he growled again around your breast, his teeth threatening to pierce flesh as he frantically increased his pace.

You groaned, sitting up and pulling free of his bite, moving your hands to either side of his face. “That’s it, Barto. So good for me.”

Bartolomeo’s pace faltered for just a moment. “Y-yeah?”

You nodded, kissing his forehead. “Good boy.”

The responding guttural groan sent a shudder down your spine, and he pushed himself into an upright position, making you grind yourself along his length as he continued to thrust up into you.

You cussed harshly, allowing him to take over completely and fuck up into you like his own personal fleshlight. You latched onto his response, encouraging him further. “That’s it, Barto. Be a good boy and cum for me.”

He choked, eyes wide. “O-on you? Like this?”

You shook your head, running one thumb along his lip. “In me.”

“R-really—?”

“What?” you panted, sticking your thumb in his mouth and pulling at the corner, revealing more of his sharp fangs. “Don’t act like you’ve never thought of breeding me, fucking stalker.”

He moaned, his tongue chasing after your thumb as you removed it from his mouth. He hadn’t thought of it, not until the moment you said it. His desperation to please you however had him all too willing to accept the thought as his own, and he flipped both of you over, throwing your legs over his shoulders and folding you in half beneath him. 

You screamed at the now impossible speed he moved, your hands tangling in his hair as the knot building in your loins started unraveling. You cried out his name over and over, barely aware of him growling out yours in your ear until he slammed into you one final time, biting down on your shoulder to keep himself from crying out.

You both came crashing down from your ecstacy, tangled up in one another, panting and sweating and reeling from the whole ordeal. Eventually, and with no small amount of hesitation, Bartolomeo pulled himself out, pulling you as close to him as he possibly could as he lay himself beside you. As you slowly caught your breath, you curled into his embrace, allowing him to almost envelope you as the afterglow began to settle.

A moment passed in silence, before Bartolomeo muttered into your hair, “I love you. I don’t ever wanna let you go."

“...I love you, too,” you finally responded. Before adding, “Stop feeding Luffy treats.”

Bartolomeo thought his heart would burst from his chest, and he proceeded to cuddle you even closer. You let out a deep breath through your nose. You really shouldn’t have encouraged him, and you really shouldn’t have indulged yourself.

That didn’t stop you from smiling as you fell asleep in his arms.

[egophiliac]

get 'em before they melt!

(the flavors are 99% vibes + first thought only thought, don't take them too seriously)

[myeagleexpert]

A story about the director and Grim, who are very close friends <3

Translation from fan to fan, all credits go to the appropriate artist, see the source in the pin below:https://br.pinterest.com/pin/902690319055568233/

Who else wants to see Grim's final form? but…. What cost would this have?

[sparklychimecho]

UnovaChampion!Emmet AU/Victini AU

Finally I get another part done! Hopefully I can update this more soon!

Victini disappears in between pages, since in the movie Victini hides from most people except the ones they trust.

prologue/part 1/part 2/part 3/part 4/part 5/part 6

[libelelle]

New to the Time Twins AU? no problem, heres a quick overview! Baseline knowledge to know before diving into the tag.

Made for the @sonic-au-collision

[juperder]

rambles about the g-man and his connection with adrian shephard, because a recent conversation with a friend had me thinking about it

something hardly anyone ever mentions is that, while we call him "the g-man," his name is never actually dropped across the games. however, adrian himself has referred to him as a "g-man," the slang term for government man or FBI agent

what's interesting about this is that "g-man" as slang is rarely used today nor at the time of the black mesa incident, and especially not something any of the major characters in opposing force would say. it's like, thirties slang, being used by a twenty-two-year-old marine.

it might not mean anything, but i like to look at it as a little insight into adrian's personality, as even these diary entries written by him don't give us a lot to work with.

the tutorial chapter of opposing force shows us that g-man was making the rounds around the boot camp adrian was at,

it seems g-man was arguing for adrian's spot on the advanced training list, likely to prime him for indoor combat inside black mesa

the thing is, this was two months before the resonance cascade happened. why would g-man have done all this if he didn't consider adrian a critical resource? it was because adrian was his initially his primary candidate. he was the original "gordon freeman" in a sense

you can sort of see this in the contrast between g-man sightings between both games, as in half-life's beginning chapters, g-man is typically observing gordon from a casually approachable distance, like behind a door or from a catwalk gordon is able to cross

^ this is after the resonance cascade, adrian hasn't been deployed yet

as gordon is forced back underground by the presence of the HECU, g-man's sightings have become much more distant and sporadic

^ this is around the same time that adrian regains consciousness after his osprey crashed. gordon is much closer to xen by this point

why is this important? it shows a shift in g-man's demeanor the moment that gordon gains a reputation among the other survivors, meanwhile adrian is left behind on the surface, g-man doing the bare minimum to ensure he doesn't step out of line.

^ this is after gordon has become a hot ticket item. note that g-man is not trying to be discreet at all here lol

i believe g-man's physical distance between a potential hire can signify their value as an asset to him, with g-man becoming harder to reach once he takes interest in somebody, potentially in order to prevent himself from distracting them or inspiring them to get closer.

the speech g-man gives at the end of opposing force also has some interesting implications about how he views adrian

think about how g-man makes you, the player, feel. the answer you get will depend on who you ask, but most often you see people say they become curious, uncertain, or even just weirded out.

now, think about someone like gordon or even alyx here. people who at a glance, are just that; ordinary people. g-man speaks to them individually, with either emotional appeal or appeal to rationale.

g-man is awfully formal with gordon, much as his superiors at black mesa were. g-man also gives gordon something that he's rarely had over the course of the game's plot, that being a choice. he is allowed to refuse the offer of employment, even if doing so would be a guaranteed death. and canonically, gordon did accept the offer.

the difference between adrian and gordon's survival to g-man is that, despite his success in combat, gordon was hardly ever trained in it. gordon freeman is the everyman. this makes him easier to grasp, given that g-man can generally assume what gordon would want based on his quality of life. with this in mind, here me out:

adrian is unpredictable by being predictable. think about it,

adrian shephard is a combat soldier. he signed on, aware of the kind of situations he would be getting himself into, and he made it out of black mesa alive. all according to g-man's original plan, right? wrong.

people enlist in the military for many reasons. some are simply scooped up by recruiters. it would be a HUGE gamble for g-man to give adrian the same type of privilege as gordon by hiring him, since g-man doesn't know what there is to appeal to within adrian. for all we know, adrian might not have cared what happened either way!

not that i mean to suggest adrian is passively suicidal or anything like that, but we really don't know what would've been his ideal outcome for himself regarding the situation. we don't even know his motivation for fighting to survive black mesa, aside from his writing from beforehand which says he wants "change and adventure"

adrian being dangerous and hard to read conflicts with his potential as an asset to g-man, making g-man unsure on how to approach him. since there's not much he can infer about adrian, what does he do? he plays the "im just the messenger, it isn't my fault" card

all of this puts adrian's evaluation into question, specifically his status

it's as blunt as the rest, but choice of wording almost insinuates adrian is a criminal. not "delayed" or "on hold" but "detained"

[falling-star-cygnus]

thinking about Charles’ earring

there’s NO WAY he got away with just the one right? like, considering his time period and his dad and his just- overall circumstance?

SUMMARY: Official boyfriends Edwin and Charles relax on their couch, a thing scarcely big enough for one of them but just right for a snug cuddle, after a long case. It’s nice, it’s them, but as the pale boy’s hand wanders down to the shell of his boyfriend’s ear and further still to the lobe, he finds something peculiar. Something he hadn’t noticed before..

ao3 fic: here please leave a comment or reblog if you enjoy!!!

•-•-•

This was nice.

Charles thought it was, at least, the feel of Edwin’s hand in his curls and the steady thrum under his cheek- born from his boyfriend’s [boyfriend’s!] smooth voice. So, unbelievably nice. And just for him.

Who would’ve thought it, Charles Rowland on the receiving end of gentle affection instead of the giving. Not Charles, that’s for sure.

Their position was comfy, as far as comfort for ghosts go, and he found himself hoping he’d never have to move. His head was pillowed against Edwin’s chest, his arms lazily strewn on either side of his waist- the Edwardian’s legs bracketing both sides of his hips.

One of them was bent upwards, the one not against the back of couch, to prevent a tumble down onto their floorboards.

Which was slightly mortifying and slightly sweet, when one considered that that very thing had happened last week. All embarrassment he feels at remembering such a mishap fades away under the gentle scratch of Edwin’s nails upon his scalp, though.

Like a breeze over light dust.

Charles sighs contentedly, relishing in the feel of his boyfriend’s [and that title will always make him giddy] ungloved hands and burrowing closer to it.

Edwin pauses, and then repeats the motion, “I take it you like that, then?”

“Mhm. Don’t stop, yeah? Please? Unless you’re getting tired of cuddling.”

He can practically hear the Edwardian’s fond eye roll.

“Do be serious, Charles.”

He can’t help the smile that overtakes his face, boyish and so so pleased, “My bad, then.”

Like all good things, however, it must come to an end. Edwin’s hand meanders down his head, thoughtless and nice, to the curve of his ear- still reading from the book held above them.

It traces over the shell next, and maps out the old cartilage hole that had never quite closed up, right down to the clunky clasp of his gold star earring.

He tugs at it, playfully- teasingly- and.. and…

Charles flinches.

He doesn’t mean to. Logically- as logically as he can be really- he knows that Edwin would never hurt him, knows it deep in his now nonexistent bones. He’d never.. never do what- well.

He just wouldn’t. So there was no reason for his chest to be clenching up so suddenly. For him to be so scared.

Edwin’s hand backs off, just as his voice does when he registers the muffled mip of discomfort his boyfriend makes.

“Charles?” he ventures, worry coloring his tone.

“I’m alright,” Charles is quick to throw out, quick to assure, “You just caught me a bit off guard, yeah? No worries.”

That slender, pale hand cautiously comes back down- slowly, as if attempting not to spook a wild animal- and gently traces its knuckle down the apple of his cheek. Feather light.

"I'm terribly sorry," he murmurs, brushing so so tenderly over that same ear, "I hadn't thought- ...oh."

And there it is.

It was a small thing to notice, near impossible really unless you were that close or that touchy [although Edwin typically was neither] but Charles' earring sat just slightly too right- just slightly too close to the edge of the lobe for what was typically recommended.

"May I?"

Charles really rather he didn't. This was usually the part where he would pull away, after all, when he would skitter off to wherever would worry people the least and wait them out.

But this was Edwin. And he'd made a promise to start talking about these things. Sharing. So-

He nods.

These things were easier with his nose buried in soft- er, probably soft- fabric anyway.

Edwin's fingers apply just the barest hint of pressure to his lobe, to the split that ran down its center. Almost reverent. Far too gentle for what Charles deserves.

His dad- obviously his dad, it was always his dad- hadn't been pleased when he'd shown up with only the one pale silver stud, which he'd got through.. admittedly less than safe means, looking back on it. How he wished that was the reason he'd been angry about. Worry.

Sometimes the salt of the sweat on his palms still lingered on Charles' lip- from where hands much crueler than Edwin's had held him down and ripped it clean out.

Clean in- well a subjective sense, anyhow. Those meaty digits had held the clasp closed when tearing it out, either on purpose or uncaringly, so.. it was safe to say the stud hadn't remained silver looking for very long when it was left in a puddle of his own blood.

He hadn't let that stop him from getting one, though, clearly. Went out the next day, sore and determined, and got himself the one he wore now. A star on a hoop and a chain to match.

Gold went much better with red anyway, he'd learned.

"Fascinating," Edwin says, almost playing with the disconnected pieces in morbid curiosity.

Still, though, Charles nestles closer. Like he could make himself a new home in Edwin's ribcage and soak up all this affection like a greedy sponge. He lets his boyfriend examine him, lets himself think he could deserve this reverence one day- in it's terrifying entirety.

"You think so?"

"Oh, Charles.."

With the book long abandoned, the Edwardian has a hand free to tip his lover's head up. And his eyes.. they boast of nothing but adoration.

"That was never in question."

[daleearnhardt]

The Bus Bros apparently breaking up Oo

(24 hrs of daytona 2024) (gallagher gp 2022) (april 2023 speed street ep) (bus bros ep 22) (bus bros ep 14) (josef interview recap) (bus bros ep 18) (texas gp 2022) (prophetic perfect tense) (scott tweet sept 22) (24hrs of daytona 2023) (richard siken) (scott tweet sept 22) (josef tweet sept 22) (tumblr tragedy post) (100 days to indy) (anne carson)

[dearlawdimasimp]

Master Sorcerer of Kindness and Humility

Pairings: MK System x Sorcerer!Reader, Khonshu x Sorcerer!Reader

Warnings: English isn't my first language, Spanish is from google translate

Word Count: 2.2k+ words

Summary: Things in the Sanctum Santorum has been…pretty fucking hectic lately. To put it simply, chaos is in every fucking corner and as a Master Sorcerer of one of the Sanctums in the world, you have to assist the Sorcerer Supreme. Some things are still the usual, but double the effort. Like teaching the new recruits, now, from three different Sanctums instead of one, keep said recruits from the restricted area of the library, guarding the said restricted area of the library and the whole library itself.

With your growing exhaustion, so did the worry of the moon boys grew.

a/n: Hai so uh it has been awhile since i posted eheh I just noticed i have MANY rotting fics in my docs so decided to post now ( ´∀`)/~~ Enjoy lovelies! (^o^)／~💜 (this fic is crossposted on AO3 under the same title and author name ^-^)

Things in the Sanctum Santorum has been…pretty fucking hectic lately. To put it simply, chaos is in every fucking corner and as a Master Sorcerer of one of the Sanctums in the world, you have to assist the Sorcerer Supreme. Some things are still the usual, but double the effort. Like teaching the new recruits, now, from three different Sanctums instead of one, keep said recruits from the restricted area of the library, guarding the said restricted area of the library and the whole library itself.

The supposed assigned sorcerers for each class told you that they are needed on a mission across the globe and are in need of a substitute, of course being the kind soul that you are you agreed on subbing them for the meantime while they're off to save humanity. The library duty has always been yours though, you volunteered on the job when Wong said he needed someone to take his place as he takes the Sorcerer Supreme, and ever since the world has gone back to its normal state, you remained as the librarian.

Your overloaded schedule leads to early mornings and late nights, and less time with your moon boys™.

To say that they are concerned of your health is a bit of an understatement, they're fucking worried as every time they see you, your eyebags grow darker and puffier than the last time.

But, somehow, even with all the things going on with you (only knowing what you are allowed to talk about), you still insert a little bit of your time to cook Steven his favorite breakfast before he goes to work, you still brew up Mark's favorite coffee, prepare Jake's uniform for his side-job during the night as a limo driver, and bring Khonshu offerings on the small altar you've made for him that is purposefully placed on the windowsill where the moon usually shines.

They are thoroughly impressed, but at the same time endlessly worried as your eyes grow weary and exhausted each time you enter the flat.

However, you still have the same warming smile on your lips every time you greet them after work. Joy was etched into your tone as you kissed them and mingled with them for a few hours, dismissing their worries with gentle eyes and kept on insisting that you love your job. You even still have the fiery stare whenever they tell you to rest and let them handle the dishes, which diminishes when Khonshu lays his hand on your shoulders, coaxing you to rest. The god pulls you to the shared bed and once your head hits the plush white pillows, you're out like a light.

The system continues to take care of cleaning the kitchen before joining their sorcerer in deep sleep and joining you in the dreamworld for a while before the Lunar deity of Egypt pulls them to another night of being his fist of vengeance. They would be back and join you once more in bed, and let sleep pull them to its cocoon. And you wake up not an hour later to start the day.

And this went on for a few more days before the moon boys decided to put an end to this. Their last straw was when you had fallen asleep mid-conversation while in front of your food. You were in that level of exhaustion to the point that you couldn't keep yourself awake while eating. They drew the line at that.

They carefully laid your slumbering self down on the bed before donning on the suit, “We'll be back, hermosa.” Jake held your hand and kissed your knuckles tenderly. “We just need to have a bit of a word with them, love, don't worry.” Steven gently lays your hand down on your stomach and leaves a kiss on your forehead before Marc leaps out of the window and out to the London air as Khonshu guides them with his wind to the London Sanctum.

The trip wasn't long before they landed on the Sanctum's roof. The place was brimming with magic and the system could feel it. Marc tries to enter through the window but the scenery changes before his foot lands on the stained glass. A confused and ungraceful landing led him to curse under his breath as he observed his surroundings.

“Be vigilant, Spector.” The god throws caution to the wind, his rumbling voice echoing in the minds of the system. Marc keeps his snarky remark to the god to himself, wanting to tell the god he knows what he's doing. He rolled his eyes instead as he composures himself, and inspects the room they are in.

The place is reminiscent of those temples that houses holy relics, it was old but in tip-top shape. The floor below him looks furnished and one that can be compared closed to an old mansion, and the slabs holding what he thinks are relics had intricate wood carvings were carefully placed on both sides of the hallway he's in. It was leading to an illuminated room and so he took no more than a second to head to the light.

His eyes wandered around the hallway he's walking down in, Steven was gushing at the designs while he and Jake kept silent and kept an eye for any threat.

The room they entered was spacious, save for the relics enclosed in glass and the big circle window that allowed the moonlight to fill the space. It had intricate swirls which Marc remembers, was the same design of the brooch you have on your collar.

However, it wasn't the window that had caught their attention but rather the man behind it, who was eerily calm while peering out the glass. The London night visible to the man that had a red cape that's barely touching the wooden floors.

“An unexpected visit from the Knight of Khonshu himself. You know, you're lucky you're under the protection of the Master Sorcerer here in London.” The man states with a booming voice, bouncing off the walls and glass in the room. It was humorous, but full of threat.

“Or else what?” Marc quips inattentively, keeping distance from the sorcerer who had yet introduced himself.

“Or else I would have thrown you to the ocean the moment you stepped foot on the Sanctum.” The man's baritone voice lowered an octave as he turned to finally meet Moon Knight's glowing eyes.

He had a goatee and the robes he wore were akin to their beloved but in the deep shade of blue instead of your favorite color.

Goatee. Red cloak. This was the Stephen Strange you can't stop complaining about.

A dry chuckle escaped his lips through his masked face. He believes the sorcerer's powers alright, he just can't keep a straight face after the memory of you audibly cussing Strange out had just played in their minds.

“Right,” Marc takes out his crescent daggers from his chest, “I'm only here-”

“Trust me you don't want to fight me.”

“Let us finish, pendejo!” Jake growls as he fronts, not wanting to waste more time and to get out of the place as soon as possible.

They weren't planning to fight. They weren't stupid. They can feel every ounce of energy and magic in the building. They stepped into a lion's den. But if it is what it needs for these sorcerers to hear them? They will face these magic wielders head on.

It seemed that Strange was a bit perplexed at the alter's rage or maybe it was the suit change, but they couldn't care less.

“We're only here because that Master Sorcerer you talked about is always on the verge of passing out every time they go home.” Marc's jaw clenches under the mask as he continues with a step forward to the sorcerer—who promptly took a step back— as his fingers flex around the sharp gold crescent on his hand, “For the past weeks they have been wrung out and just a while ago, had passed out while eating.” When he finished his sentence the room was suddenly swept with a wild draft, with no windows open.

They were not able to notice the confused and worried squint of the former sorcerer supreme's eyes as Marc continues, his tone nothing but purely scathing.

“My point is, We will not be allowing them to come to work tomorrow and until she gets the proper rest she deserves, and not until you fix her schedule that is ethical and appropriate hours of work.” He ends his spiel right in front of the sorcerer, looking up to him with a keen glare, his glowing ivory eyes illuminating the sharpened features of Stephen Strange.

“Or else?” The sorcerer rasps as he stares right back at the avatar, standing his ground, and using the exact words back to the stark white cloaked man.

As if on cue, stronger gusts of wind shakes the glass covers and uncovered relics. The Egyptian God of the Moon materializes behind the sorcerer and with a booming, bitter voice, he answers, “Then you will face the consequences of causing harm to one of whom is under my protection, Stephen Strange.”

The said sorcerer turns his body to the side to glance at the moon god. In all his glory he was towering over him, moonlight was illuminating his monstrously tall and slender figure as the bronzed crescent end of his staff that is nearly scratching the ceiling reflected it. His loose, darkened, silk robe was flowing and whipping around without the presence of the wind, his crouched figure wrinkling the bandages on his torso as his bleached bird skull head tilted down and gave Stephen a hollowed stare.

With a sigh, which had displeased the moon collective and took it as an insult, he nodded to accept their terms. He honestly had no idea you had worked yourself to the bone and will consult the other Master Sorcerers and Wong of your schedule. He knew you were humble and kind, but he didn't know it would be up to the point that your.. acquaintances.. had to show up and tell them of your over-extended goodwill.

“I will inform our masters of such, thank you for bringing this to our attention.” He ends the conversation as he does not want to deal with whatever this is. He was not intimidated, not one bit—okay maybe a bit but he has faced much worse! What's intimidating him is the fact that a literal god has taken you under his wing and has gone out of his way to announce his displeasure.

“As you should.” And with that, the moon party calmed down before they vanished in a swirl of blur and whirling sand. Let's just say you were confused when you woke up late, about to dash to the bathroom before you were stopped by your moon god and gave you a letter that was sent by the Sorcerer Supreme that basically said take a break. You were perplexed as you stared at the paper then up to the moon god, who ushered you back to bed and lulled you to sleep. When you woke up you were pampered by the boys with food and cuddles, all gently forcing you to stay in bed and to let them service you for the day as they had also taken the day off. You couldn't help but tear up at their tender loving care all day and being such gentlemen for doing such. Your love for them was overflowing and you kept promising them that you would do the same to them if ever need be, which they dismissed because as they said, “Today is all about you, love. So you better descansar(take a rest), and we'll take care of the rest, sweetheart. And not just today, up until the last day of the week or maybe next couple of weeks, you got that baby?”

This has earned a heartful laugh from you and an affectionate shake of your head before pulling them into a kiss. You were puzzled and have a lot of questions as to how or why you were given a large amount of time off but you really couldn't complain especially if it meant more time with your moon boys.

Back to the sanctum however, the former sorcerer supreme was fuming at the how fucked up your schedule was and how fucked up you were for taking it even though you were literally doing the impossible, and the fact that none of the other masters pointed it out to Wong, who was also equally fuming to the masters that had asked you to cover for them for a ‘mission’ when they were just taking a fucking vacation.

"You are lucky their patron didn't know of your whereabouts, or gods knows what he will do to you.” Wong warned them, displeased and infuriated, written all over his features.

Oh but Khonshu heard, of course he did, and made those masters’ month a living hell through inconveniencing them at every chance he gets. To which Strange and Wong only but gave them a deadpanned stare of ‘deal with it’ when they asked for their help.

[prettycalla]

|| good to me ||

Pairing: Ralph Penbury/Reader

Summary: Ralph had been not so subtly sneaking around the house with a camera. You had to find out what he was up to.

Word count: 2.4k

Tags and warnings: Fluff, little slice of (married) life, Ralph is a nuisance (affectionate), reader is she/her, no use of Y/N.

(This was absolutely inspired by the iconic "I have some pictures I took of you when you weren't looking" line. Stay classy, Ralph. The research I had to put in for this tiny fic was unreal, I swear. But look at this gorgeous photo that absolutely saved me when I'd written myself into a corner.)

Ralph Masterlist || Fic Masterlist || Taglist

It was a beautiful morning, in the midst of the sunniest June you had yet seen. Dappled sunlight streamed through the ivory voile curtains, and a gentle breeze whispered through the open bedroom window. The lavender were already in full bloom in the gardens below, their faint scent floating up through the warm air.

This time of the morning was always your favourite. Not so early that you felt as though you had been robbed of sleep, and not so late that the day felt as though it was already slipping out of your grasp.

You sat at your vanity table, still dressed in your pyjamas, as you meticulously removed each little duckbill clip that had held your hair in place overnight. Normally at this time, Ralph would be going through his usual routine of opening and closing one of the clips with little quacking noises to make you laugh, but today he was distracted with something else. You could see a little of what he was doing in the reflection of the mirror that sat in front of you.

“Ralphie,” you called, gently teasing your curls loose with your fingers. “What are you doing?”

The clattering coming from behind you suddenly stopped.

“Oh! I forgot to show you, didn’t I? Silly me. I was in the attic just yesterday, and I found this!” he said excitedly.

He crossed the room to you, holding the object out for you to see with a wide smile on his face.

It was a camera. A slight older model of one, from the looks of it.

“Oh, how lovely,” you said. “Does it still work?”

He turned the camera carefully in his hands as he looked at it.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out,” he replied with a little frown. “I’m not entirely sure.”

“Well, as long as you’re not trying to take pictures of me while I'm getting ready,” you said with a little laugh, turning your attention back to your hair.

Ralph laughed too. A little too loudly, you noticed.

“Yes, of course,” he replied quickly. “How…vulgar that would be of me.”

He laughed again, nervously this time, before promptly turning on his heel and walking out of the room.

Your eyes narrowed briefly, and then you thought no more of it.

The next few days passed with Ralph absolutely infatuated with his new find. He had managed to figure out how it worked, which he was delighted with, and had insisted upon showing it all to you.

At first, you thought it was quite sweet that he’d taken such a liking to it. But now, you were beginning to find it rather irksome. For starters, he never seemed to put the bloody thing down. You wouldn't mind so much, but trying to have even a simple conversation with him as he was right now was like trying to wade through treacle.

“Ralph,” you said, attempting to keep your tone light. “Do you think perhaps we could have dinner without your new toy on the table?”

His cheeks flushed in embarrassment, and he quickly slid the camera under the tablecloth out of sight.

“Yes, darling, of course,” he muttered, not quite able to meet your eye.

Not only that, but he seemed to be getting more and more underfoot. Quite literally, at times. More than once, you found yourself tripping over him as he attempted to set up a shot of the garden, or of a flower in a vase. He really was all limbs sometimes, particularly as he was now, splayed out on the rug a few metres away from where you sat.

Afternoons like these, when the sun was a little too high for the gardens to be a comfortable resting spot, were perfect for retiring to the library with a book for a few hours, and so that is what you had decided to do.

Of course, it does always help to have quiet when reading, and well...

Ralph, as usual, was anything but quiet. He was rather fond of mumbling to himself as he went about his everyday tasks, and right now was no different. You found yourself peering more and more over the top of your book, entirely unable to concentrate.

By the third time he had distracted you, you were quick to notice that the camera in his hands was now aimed at you.

Ralph's eyes met yours, and he only just managed to stop himself from shattering the camera on the floor in his clumsiness.

"Are you alright?" you asked, placing your now quite forgotten book down in your lap.

Ralph stood up a little too straight, looking every which way but at you.

"Yes! Yes, of course," he answered, in that nervous way you had become all too familiar with.

The one that said he was definitely up to something, and was not about to admit to it.

"Are you sure?" you persisted gently, your hands now folded on top of your book as you watched him.

Ralph turned his head quickly. You knew that if he'd had a hand to spare, he would have been pulling at the collar of his shirt in a fretful manner.

Your dear old Ralphie always was so predictable.

"Of course, of course I am," he replied, his laugh more of a nervous titter. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He cleared his throat loudly, looking down at the camera.

"Well now, I must be- I should-"

He trailed off into a non-committal mumble before swiftly leaving the room.

You sat for a moment, your gaze fixed on the door that Ralph had almost fallen through in his haste to leave.

What on earth was wrong with him?

Being married meant that you were more than familiar with Ralph's little quirks - one of them being that he was rather prone to picking up new hobbies and dropping them again as quickly as that. You surmised that in no more than a week, this silly camera business would be long forgotten about, and he would be causing a commotion with some other fad or trinket.

Oh, how wrong you were.

Ralph seemed more enthused with his new pastime than ever, and it was becoming increasingly obvious that that blasted camera seemed to be pointed more and more at you.

While you had to admit to yourself that it was rather endearing in a manner of speaking, it also left you feeling quite uneasy. Couldn't he just ask you, instead of sneaking around as he evidently was? Granted, you never had been the most comfortable with having your photograph taken, but even so. It would be nice for him to ask for your permission.

Perhaps you were overthinking things, you tried to reason with yourself. Perhaps it was simply a coincidence that Ralph seemed to follow you around with his camera. The two of you did spend quite a lot of time together, as married couples tend to do, and so it made sense that it would seem that way.

Besides, there really wasn't a bad bone in Ralph's body, so even if he was up to something, surely no harm would come of it.

Somewhat reassured, you tried to put it to rest.

Until you caught him at it again.

You were in the midst of getting ready for bed one evening, make-up washed off and hair reset for the next day. You had just finished tying your dressing robe around your waist when Ralph had walked in with, unsurprisingly, his camera in tow.

He had been very well behaved the past few days, and so you had thought nothing of it. Until you had turned to adjust one of your hair clips in the mirror of your vanity, and he was doing it again.

You felt your jaw clench. You had tried to give him the benefit of the doubt, but this was getting ridiculous now.

Twice was a coincidence, but thrice was certainly a pattern, and by now, you had had quite enough of his odd behaviour. You marched across the room, and Ralph's eyes widened, almost comically, as he saw you approach.

"Give me the camera," you demanded, holding out your hand.

Ralph clutched it to his chest protectively.

"Why?" he asked in a wavering voice.

"Now, Ralph," you insisted.

Hesitantly, he handed it over to you.

"Follow me," you said.

Before he had the chance to reply, you had grabbed his hand and all but pulled him across the room to your vanity table. You sat down on the little velvet bench in front of it, placing the camera on the table so that the lens was facing the mirror.

Ralph stood next to you nervously, unsure as to what to do with himself. You patted the space next to you.

"Sit," you said firmly.

Thankfully, he did as he was told without argument. It was a bit of a tight squeeze, but it would more than suffice for what you had in mind.

You placed your hand on top of the camera, positioning your index finger over the shutter button.

"Ralphie," you called in your sweetest voice.

Immediately, Ralph turned his attention to you. Hook, line and sinker, as always. You reached out with your free hand, grabbing him by the collar of his pyjama shirt, and dragged him forward to kiss him. You could hardly stop yourself from smiling as you felt him gasp against your mouth, while your finger pressed down on the button. The camera made a whirring sound, followed by a loud click, and it was only then that you released Ralph from your vice-like grip.

"There," you said with a satisfied smile. "Are you happy now?"

Ralph just stared at you, with the same dazed expression he often had after one too many glasses of sherry.

"I- Well- What?" he managed to stammer.

You tilted your head to one side, feeling rather pleased with yourself. It wasn't the easiest task to render your husband speechless, and so you were always quick to bask in it the rare time you were able to manage it.

"Do you really think I'm stupid?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "You've been about as subtle as a brick tossed through a window."

Ralph's cheeks turned a faint shade of pink at that.

"Darling, if you'd let me explain," he said quietly, as he fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve.

"Go on, then," you replied, unable to hide your amusement.

"Well, you see I- It's just-"

He stopped himself, taking a little breath.

"I know that you don't particularly enjoy having your photograph taken, and while I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, I don't like pushing you to do things that make you uncomfortable. But..."

He trailed off, as if choosing his next words carefully. You said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

"Well, I...I thought perhaps I might take some candid photographs of you. You know, whilst you were preoccupied. That way, I wouldn't be bothering you."

Only Ralph could make something as odd as trying to sneak photographs of you sound so...romantic.

"I know I've been quite a pain these past few days," he continued, shyly glancing up at you. "I do hope you'll be able to forgive me."

Now more than ever, you were grateful that Ralph hadn't quite figured out how to make a weapon out of the look he was giving you right now, otherwise you'd be in serious trouble. For how could you possibly remain angry at such a sweet face?

You took his hands in yours, squeezing them gently.

"From now on, just ask me, alright?" you asked. "No more of this 'sneaking around' business. I might not always say yes, but...well, now that I know it means so much to you, I'm certainly willing to try a little more."

Ralph's face lit up at that, and he leaned in to kiss you again.

"Thank you, dear," he replied, his forehead pressed lightly against yours. "I couldn't possibly ask for more."

It was a week or so before Ralph returned home with his developed photographs. He almost tripped over the threshold of the door in his haste to bring them to you. Without warning, he all but threw himself into the space on the settee next to you. You wisely set aside the embroidery you had been working on.

"They're here!" he said excitedly. "I just picked them up an hour ago. I haven't opened them yet, even though I've been just dying to."

As contagious as Ralph's excitement always was, you found yourself feeling a little nervous as he tore through the large brown envelope and began eagerly flipping through each print. A good deal of them were out of focus or off-centre, but he had definitely begun to improve as time went on.

Then he stopped suddenly, and you felt your heart stammer against your ribcage.

There it was. The photograph you had taken together. Of the two of you kissing, framed by the gilded mirror. Ralph's eyes were wide open in surprise, and yours were shut just a little too tight. It was a little blurred, and the camera took up a great deal of room, but...

You carefully reached out to lift it, looking over each and every little detail.

It was perfect.

"You certainly have the makings of a photographer in you, darling," Ralph said softly.

You turned to look at him, and the fond look on his face set your heart aflutter all over again.

"Perhaps we might keep this one to ourselves," you replied shyly. "Think of the scandal it would cause, hanging it in the sitting room."

You laughed nervously, expecting Ralph to do the same, but instead he shook his head.

"Oh, let people talk," he murmured, with quiet sincerity in his voice. "As if it's a scandal to love my beautiful wife as much as I do."

You could feel yourself becoming rather overcome with emotion, and you turned your attention back to the photograph in your hands.

He was right. What did it matter, really?

You felt Ralph's arm wrap carefully around your waist, his hand giving your hip a gentle squeeze. You laid your head on his shoulder, expelling a soft breath, and allowed yourself a rare moment of quiet together.

Perhaps Ralph's ridiculous notions for hobbies weren't always quite so ridiculous after all.

Taglist: @glassbxttless @getaapologist @robinbuckleywife @bib200

(You can join the taglist here! If you wish to be removed, please let me know!)

[chronurgy]

Gortash wakes up.

He shouldn't, of course, but he's heard that enough times that it's gotten rather meaningless. He's always possesed some scuttling instinct that points him always to survival the same way a compass always finds north. Has it made him paranoid? Some would certainly claim so. But by now they're all mouldering in various basements, decorative urns, and the bottom at the Chionthar. But not him. He's still breathing, still alive, still here.

Wherever here is.

He tries and fails to sit up, to take in more of his utterly fantastical surroundings. He feels like death warmed over. He is death warmed over. But it's the warmed over part that matters.

He reaches a shaky hand, unsurprised to see it relieved of its gauntlet and Netherstone both, to rub at his chest. They never were particularly sentimental. There's a deep, throbbing ache behind his ribcage that he suspects will not dissapate easily, not after what he's done.

The device was a marvel, truly. Absolutely one of its kind, something never before dreamed of. He'd poured more gold into it than most would have considered wise, but small men will always quail before the ideas of a true genius.

And only a visionary such as himself could ever hope to do as he had done. No lesser being could have conceptualized it, dragged it forth from dreamscape to cold metal reality, had the guts to endure the pain for the beautiful truth of it. An electro-psionic charge set neatly at the bottom tip of his breastbone, embedded below skin and above sinew, trailing whip-thin wires around his ribs, between artery and vein to end, tips ruthlessly embedded, in what might be called in other men a heart. And with every beat of the thing it jostled the wires just a touch in the most perfect of frequencies, sending soothing chimes through the metal and crystal prison of that elegantly suspended charge - until it didn't, of course. Until his heart had stopped and the pressure had started to build and build in its chamber, perfectly designed to contain that charge as long as possible, all the better to give the impression of his death, while not holding it so long as to leave him permanently damaged after the amplified, unstable charge burst free from its prison and shot its way into the reanimation centers of his heart.

He was surprised by how much it hurt. He'd seen the reanimation process before, of course, when he'd had the prototypes implanted in various subjects to put them through their paces. He'd seen them lay there after, weakened and gasping, and had known to expect that. He knew it would take him roughly fifteen minutes to see the return of his fine motor functions, and nigh in half an hour to regain enough strength to sit upright on his own. But he had not expected how hard and fast his heart was now beating, as though it were making up for lost time and the deep, unshiftable ache in his chest.

It's a duller pain than the insertion, at least. He'd been awake through the whole thing, half untrusting, half desirous of seeing the dexterous hands of a master play so sweetly in the cavity of his chest. He had borne each slice of the scalpel with gritted teeth, recited formulas to ignore the wind and tug of wires through his ribs, and gasped, finally, in ecstatic pain as their hands had held him down firmly on the table and thrust the sharpened wires into his heart. He was glad to have fought them to remain awake, for all their comments on human frailty, for all the searing pain of it, for all their insistence on restraints and a local paralytic. There had been an uncanny beauty in watching them work, watching them help him slip the bonds of dull and uninspired mortality. He had known it would have to be them from the start, known there was no other he could bear to have rummage around his chest, and become only more convinced of it after he had shown them his designs, demonstrated the effects of the prototypes for them, and seen the delight flash through their gaze as they had turned to him and begun interrogating him in that charmingly intense way of theirs. Question after question, suggestion after suggestion, stinging comment after stinging comment about how he could have possibly failed to consider such obvious improvements. It had been intoxicating, as their presence ever was.

And perhaps more importantly, useful. After all, here he is, having spat in the face of what had once claimed to be the fate of all mortal men. He grins up at the strange stars above him, giddy with the thrill of it. He pushes himself up to a sitting position, panting with the effort of it, and feels something stab at his upper belly. Tucked just below the vee of his shirt he finds a hastily folded strip of paper. Gone to clean up your mess, it reads in familiar, spidery handwriting. Perhaps one day you'll learn. Though unlike you, I'm disinclined to hold my breath waiting for such an event.

Bastard, he thinks, as he tucks the note in his pocket before staggering upright, clutching on to a nearby spire of rock to keep himself upright. It will take him time to struggle his way down to the swirling glow of lights he assumes must be a portal out of what is almost certainly an interdimentional space, given its spacial oddities. But struggle he will. He has a challenge to answer, after all. And a world that will complacently believe him dead, left ripe for the picking.

[vagueeyes]

INSIDE NO. 9 | Director Guillem Morales + challenges

From the commentary - S3E5 "Diddle Diddle Dumpling":

Steve: Oh, it was painstaking. This really was, the sort of classical structure of this. Reece: I think it did pain Guillem a lot, because he didn't like ever doing things orderly–full on, sort of–in such a symmetrical way. It was always oblique angles he liked using, so it was a–every time, it sort of– Steve: –A challenge. Reece: –Yeah, it struck a nerve with him to do it.

From the BBC Sounds pod - S6E5 "How Do You Plead?":

Reece: When you got this script, […] what's the thought that goes into–do you read it and then imagine how you would want to tell the story? How do you sort of go about first processing how you're going to direct it? Guillem: Well, I think that in each episode, there's a challenge. That's INSIDE NO. 9, isn't it? So I think that [...] trying to find that challenge in every script; and if there isn't a challenge, you know, I like to create them anyway. (Steve laughs) [...] Steve: You used light a lot, didn't you? In this episode. And reduced it as you were going along. And that was one of your strong images as well, wasn't it? To end in near darkness. Guillem: Yeah, see, that was one of the challenges that I created for myself (all laugh) and for the team.

[deadfish-archive]

it is done! 🙌 six pcs (plus a bonus Dahlia, hehe 🥰)

tags under the cut!

@uselessdolblog's Shiloh

@itsmahblebaby's Caspar

@vibrant-dol's Canto (requested by anon! 🫶)

@dol-dogboy's Percy (I apologise. I gave him woo-woo puppy eyes...)

@eleanordol's Eleanor

@ladyofalabyrinth's Angel

@doledition's Dahlia

thank you once again everyone for your requests!! 😊 you helped me keep my hands busy on a snow day lmao

[uhbasicallyjustmilex]

Title: The Tradition of You and Me

Pairing: Alex Turner/Miles Kane

Summary: One summer, Alex and Miles watch the Euro Cup together. It becomes something of a tradition. Tags: Fluff, Smut, Developing Relationship

⨯ . ⁺ ✦ ⊹ ꙳ ⁺ ‧ ⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . * ꙳ ✦ ⊹

so a couple of months ago @daddy-long-legssss made this post about miles and alex watching the euro cup together in miles's mr bridger designs and... well, this happened. it was meant to be a short drabble fic, but it's me, so naturally feelings got involved and it's now 4,000+ words 😅

i know it's been taking forever for me to post the next chapter of four walls (i'm so sorry, it really is SO nearly there, but it probably will still be about a week before it's actually ready for posting), so i thought i'd share this in the meantime! i hope you enjoy, if you feel like it then feedback would absolutely make my day 🥰

[pfhwrittes]

the aftermath.

rating: mature audiences.

pairing: john "soap" mactavish x simon "ghost" riley.

word count: 1.8k

notable tags / warnings: transgender john "soap" mactavish, fluff, humour, very light angst, references to offscreen sex, egregious use of scots, banter, swearing.

A/N: i wrote this instead of sleeping, it was meant to be the set up for another part of my trans!soap drabbles but it took a wild left turn into feelsville and so no actual smut occurs in this fic. however, it is funny and fluffy (in my opinion). as always this can be considered to be very lightly edited so typos and weird grammatical goofs are likely to remain so for that i apologise.

–––

unsurprisingly, it’s kyle that catches on and confronts him the following afternoon as johnny pushes some truly god awful looking peas around his tray in the mess. 

“so, who’d you fuck last night then mate?” 

kyle plunks himself into the seat opposite johnny, dropping his tray with a clatter. the shepherd’s pie on his tray sags slightly and johnny feels a disarming bolt of empathy for the oozing mince and potato blob. sue him, he’s still feeling a little tender in places, alright? not that he’ll be admitting that to garrick of all people. 

“dunno what you’re oan about pal.” johnny sniffs and pokes a particularly dehydrated pea with his fork. there we go, nice and breezy. no need to give the game away son. 

kyle scoffs and aims a kick at johnny’s shin under the table. 

“oi! ya fuckin’ roaster, the fuck wis that for!” 

“i know you fucked someone last night. price was complaining about the stink in his office this morning.” kyle points his fork at johnny’s chest accusingly.

well, shit. johnny knew he should’ve got simon to crack the window before he got fucked seven ways from sunday. again, not that garrick needed to know that particular practical tid-bit of organising a secret rendez-vouz with your superior officer. 

johnny clears his throat nonchalantly and picks the spot over kyle’s left ear to address. 

“who’s to say it wasnae the captain gettin’ some last night?” 

the look kyle directs at johnny could probably be used to store clean cut finnish ice directly from fucking lapland with how freezing it is. 

“because he was with me, you tosspot.” 

johnny can’t help the way his face slips from carefully blank neutrality into something a wee bit more salacious. 

“oh aye, is that right?” johnny abandons looking at kyle’s ear to shoot him the dirtiest smirk he can muster. 

“fuck off mactavish.” kyle scowls, “you know what i meant. he was watching the bloody footie with me.”

“is that what you kids are callin’ it these days, eh?” johnny waggles his eyebrows knowingly just to watch kyle glare even harder as he leans forwards to stab johnny in the chest with his fork. 

“hey! mind the nipples, they’re fuckin’ custom! i spent money on these things!” johnny pouts and rubs gingerly at his top, pulling a face as he smears mashed potato into the fabric. gross garrick. 

“shut up, you got ‘em on the NHS like everyone else, you dickhead.” kyle shoots back.

what was sure to be a brilliantly witty retort gets silenced as price appears from nowhere, glowering down at his two sergeants like he’s just found two of his wayward puppies rolling in something long dead and incredibly pungent. 

“mactavish. a word.” 

johnny gulps and shoots kyle a betrayed look as soon as price’s back is turned. 

“oh sorry mate. must’ve slipped my mind. captain’s looking for you.” kyle grins, looking for all the world like butter wouldn’t melt in that clever wee mouth of his. 

bastard. 

––

johnny does not fidget. not even once. he’s cool, he’s calm, he’s co-

“it was reported that you were seen leaving this office - my office - at 0300 hours this morning, sergeant.” price rumbles from behind the - his - desk. 

-mpletely and utterly fucked. 

and not in the way he was only twelve hours previous. in this very room. over that very same desk. steamin’ jesus. 

johnny pointedly does not meet price’s gaze, instead he continues staring at the cinderblock behind his captain’s shoulder like it contains the secrets of the universe. or perhaps a false brick that when nudged just right would open a portal to hell under his feet. 

the chair under price’s bulk creaks as he settles back, watching for any sign of guilt or admission. the cigar propped on the edge of the cut glass ashtray sends a smoky tendril into the air as it drifts lazily to the window that johnny can see is cracked open a fraction in his peripheral vision. 

“nothing to say, sergeant?” price’s voice is deceptively soft and a shudder runs up johnny’s spine unbidden. fuuuuuuck. the way he sees it, he’s either fucked once if he admits to being somewhere he very much shouldn’t have been with company he definitely shouldn’t have been fraternising with, or fucked twice if he tries to deny it without knowing all the facts. he is, as the big bastard himself would say, in a spot tighter than a nun’s cunt. 

johnny swallows drily, preparing to take possibly the stupidest risk of his career and possibly his life so far, when a solid knock on the closed door saves him. thank christ. his heart soars - 

“enter.” price commands. 

almost immediately the hulking figure and current cause of johnny’s predicament steps through the door near silently to stand shoulder to shoulder with johnny. just a hair too close to be considered professional.

“lieutenant riley, good of you to join us.” 

- and promptly falls out his arse. 

good to know that there was a third and far worse option available to him. 

––

centuries or possibly even aeons later, a knock rouses johnny from the light doze he’d slipped into immediately after clambering into the tiny twin bed provided in his room. sent away from price’s office in disgrace, the sounds of his shouting still ringing in his ears. but even worse, the way that simon - ghost - simon had refused to even look at johnny before he turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor. away from him.

“nngh.” johnny grunts intelligently and swipes a slightly tacky palm over his face before letting it drop to brush against the worn carpet tiles. fuck getting up to let price in here to yell at him some more, or to deal with gaz’s kicked puppy look. he’ll stay exactly where he is ta very much, despite the way a spring in the lumpy mattress is poking into his right kidney something fierce. and the fact that now he’s awake he could do with a drink to rinse away the gummy feeling in his mouth. eurgh. 

the knock sounds again. 

“fer fucks sake, come in then ya -” johnny calls out grumpily, lifting his head from the pillow and his eyes flying open so he can glare at the door from his supine position.

and once again, simon “here to make shit worse for him specifically” riley steps through the door.

“- prick.” johnny finishes weakly. oh. well this is awkward. 

simon hums quietly in agreement and quietly shuts the door with his foot. johnny blinks, not entirely sure if he’s agreeing with being called a prick or if the situation is awkward. 

“bit o’ both really.” simon rumbles. ah, right yeah. johnny’s always had a habit of saying the first few thoughts that pop into his head immediately after being woken up. always makes one night stands a bit awkward in the mornings. 

“hm. is that the reason you’ve never let me stay the night then?” simon asks as he drops heavily into the tactically acquired chair in the corner of the room paying no mind to the fact he’s sitting on johnny’s freshly laundered skivvies. 

“somethin’ like that, aye.” johnny swallows awkwardly, christ he needs a drink of water, “that an’ i thought we’d get -” 

“caught.” simon finishes tiredly. 

johnny huffs out a sound that if he was being charitable could be considered a laugh under the right circumstances. this isn’t the right circumstances. obviously.  

“aye. yeah. that an’ all.” 

a silence stretches between the two of them then. it’s uncomfortable to say the least, aching in a similar way to johnny’s neck as he continues to peer at simon, who is sagging like a half-empty rucksack. johnny lets his head drop back onto the flat pillow underneath him so he can gaze sightlessly up at the water stained ceiling tile. what a fuckin’ mess. 

“‘m sorry.” 

it’s said so quietly johnny could half believe he imagined it. 

“‘s not yer fault, don’t worry about it.” johnny says flatly to the water mark on the ceiling. he closes one eye and squints, hm. looks a bit like a pair of knickers like that. johnny hears simon take a steadying breath from across the space. oh. johnny opens both eyes and lifts his head, his expression carefully blank. 

simon is hunched over now, his elbows resting on his thick thighs and he’s staring fixedly at the carpet just in front of his boots, purposefully avoiding johnny’s eyes. 

“simon?” it’s a gentle nudge but johnny watches as simon’s broad shoulders tense up, his biceps flexing as he fidgets with his clasped hands. oh. that’s more of an admission of guilt or responsibility than anything simon could say. johnny knows this man, inside and out at this point. he’s economical with movement in a way that can only ever be learned through being completely aware of your size and surroundings. never a fidgeter. always still. always controlled. 

“‘m sorry.” simon repeats quietly, allowing his head to hang down and exposing the soft nape of his neck where his balaclava gapes away from his shirt. in better circumstances johnny would get up and chance a kiss on his exposed skin just to hear him make a soft pleased noise that always reminds johnny of a cat purring out a raspy mrrr of contentment.

“did ye go to price an’ tell him then?” johnny asks levelly despite the way his heart has suddenly decided to reside in his large intestine again for the second time today.

simon’s head jerks up and he frowns. 

“no - i - no.” simon states firmly and johnny takes a shuddering breath. good. 

“good.” he says out loud. “i didnae think ye would.” johnny tacks on just to watch some of the tension in simon’s shoulders leak away. the urge to comfort simon wells up behind johnny’s ribs, it’s a tender thing and it makes johnny’s breath hitch a little unsteadily. he sighs dramatically to cover it and flops his head back onto the pillow again. 

“c’mon then, get over here ya big bastard.” johnny orders faux-peevishly. 

“what.” 

johnny groans and rolls his eyes. simon can be unbelievably dense when it comes to intimacy that doesn’t involve being bent over the nearest suitable surface sometimes. 

“‘mon then, i want a cuddle before price decides to split us up for the rest of our careers.” johnny raises his arms and makes a grabbing motion much like a wee toddler would to demand being picked up. johnny tries not to be insulted when that seems to be the reason that simon hefts himself to his feet to stand awkwardly at the side of the bed. 

“‘m not gonna fit.” he states and johnny rolls his eyes again. 

“sure ye will, just don’t squash my tits, alright?”

there’s a pause before simon states in his usual blunt manner - 

“how th’ fuck am i meant to do that, you ‘ad ‘em chopped off at eighteen.” 

and for some reason that makes johnny burst into relieved laughter. 

aye, they’ll be alright.

[timecaptcha]

Oh my clematis...

Can't you stay here by my side?

[CLICK FOR BETTER QUALITY]

BABY IVAN BABY IVAN BABY IVAN-

Lineart :P