#parallel-circuit

[polepositioned]

like father, like son.

[mick schumacher celebrates his F2 maiden win in the sprint race at the hungaroring / his father, seven-time world champion michael schumacher, celebrates podiums at montmeló (2003) and the hungaroring (2004) respectively]

[scribeofmorpheus]

I'm trying to plug the plothole that is "Elgar'nan and Ghilly have left the Fade Prison used to sustain the Veil but the Veil doesn't fall/collapse" but Solas has to sustain the Veil from inside the prison with the dagger (in bad end)... and it's boggling my brain.

Elgar'nan and Ghilly are battery packs

Solas is immediately "thrust" into the Fade prison from residual magic backfiring at the ritual sight (he becomes a temporary battery to stabilise the Veil magic but the Evanuris remain the primary spellbinders?)

So Elgar and Ghilly can roam as long as the spare battery remains trapped in the Fade prison...

But they also want the blight... so wouldn't they eventually need to destroy the fade prison?

Then Rook powers the regrets prison by being a temporary generator when Solas gets free (a fuse kinda??)

And then no one is acting as a fuse for the Veil once Rook is pulled out, but it stays up because Elgar's immortality is still intact (is he able to keep the Veil up but not keep it stable)??

Then when both Elgar and Ghilly are killed, the Veil tears, but doesn't come down despite nothing powering the Veil (the ritual needs to be completed)

This is where things get murky: Solavellan ending, Solas gives Rook the Wolf's Fang, removing a chance for him to pierce out of the Veil by force; atonement on his own ending is the same I think. But both "bad endings" GIVE HIM THE DAGGER?! He's also only forcefully dragged into the Fade in those endings (what changes? will? intent of the wielder of the dagger?--that doesn't make sense if the dagger is placed back in Solas' possession! or is it Solas' fear of his own regrets that drags him back?--this makes more sense seeing as how he isn't redeemed by Mythal and is probably petrified of being trapped by his regrets again!)

The Wolf's Fang is at once a lock and a key (can tear holes through the Veil and pierce it or it can ??? lock Solas in the Fade prison if he's tricked into it?)

The only way the dagger sealing away and/or being drawn in with Solas behind the Fade (forcefully) makes sense is if Rook uses the fake dagger in that scene...??

I dunno this was like trying to do mechanics in ap math man...

Like i'm trying to "Raiders of the Lost Ark" Ghilly, Elgar, Solas and Rook on the scales of the Veil staying up/coming down mechanics and it isn't working!!!

[ryo-hirakawa]

barcelona smiles on her sons 🥰

(1) mari boya takes his maiden f3 win at the circuit de barcelona-catalunya, 22 june 2024

(2) pepe marti takes his first f3 feature race win at the circuit de barcelona-catalunya, 4 june 2023

[timeofjuly]

Hello! Ive recently started reading your work and its soooo good! Falling back into my undertale fixation since elementary lmaooo. I was wondering if you have any hcs based on the 3rd chapter when Quinn asked mc if they were in a relationship but what if they were 😳 like for a month now or just seeing someone. What would be the game changer or will she let it go? Im just rlly interested and loveee a jealous moment tbh 🤧 (quinn always number one in my heart though)

Thank you so much, I’m so happy that you’re enjoying! I also have randomly found myself back in the fandom after years, but it’s been really fun!

I can do you one better than headcanons – I love this idea and I love pining, jealous Quinn (I am also procrastinating finishing an assignment but shhhhh), so here’s a little ficlet 😊

truths that bleed through the universes

“What about you? Are you seeing anyone?” Quinn asks. She’s afraid to ask the question; a preexisting partner would be the ultimate complication.

At the question, your face brightens, a smile rising to your lips. It’s not the sad expression of before, all downcast eyes and a furrow between your brows. This smile is her favourite, one that she’d once seen daily, a smile that makes you seem as though you’re almost taken aback by your own delight. Quinn wants to make a home in the warm depths of it, burrow so deep into the happiness that you’ll both lose track of where she ends and you begin.

“Well,” you say, and that sunshine is in your voice, too, each word tinged with gold. “I was single for ages, but I actually met someone just over a month ago, and we’ve been seeing each other since.”

“Oh, nice!’ she says and god, she hopes she doesn’t sound as crushed as she feels. Her mind scrabbles for purchase against the jagged edges of the dismay that fossilises in her chest. “What’s their name?”

“Seraphine. Hang on, I’ll show you a picture,” you say, reaching into your tote bag. “You’d really like her. She lives in the apartment below mine. We met because Steven’s a fucking Houdini and managed to escape from my balcony down onto hers, it’s a really cute story. She reckons that Steven’s our cat-cupid. Oh, here you go-.”

Quinn accepts your phone. On the screen – it’s your fucking lock screen, shit -there’s a photo of you and a monster woman, grinning into the camera. It’s a selfie-style picture and the woman’s cheek, a vivid royal purple covered in fine, downy fluff, is pressed to yours, smooshing your smile into an adorable, fishy pout.

“Cute,” she says weakly. “A month, huh?’

“Yep. We’re taking it slow, but I’m not seeing anyone else, and I don’t think she is either. I’ve even deleted Tinder off of my phone.” The words are said with raised eyebrows and enough seriousness for her to realise that that’s apparently a big deal.

Something ugly sits on her tongue and she’s self-aware enough to name it jealousy. The irrationality and unfairness of it – she has no leg to stand on, since she’s in a relationship with eight other people – doesn’t make the feeling any less potent. It writhes in her, a living creature, filthy and starved and pacing the length of its cage, gnawing at the bars.

Does she make you feel as good as I can? Does she know you like I know you? There’s nobody who can love you like I can love you. I know you agree. You agree, right? I know you’ve been chasing my shadow for five years, just like I used to chase yours. We’re both a little wrong without the other.

Quinn takes a deep breath and fixes a smile to her face, cooing appropriately when you begin telling her the story of Steven’s jaunt to the downstairs balcony. This is a setback, yes, but all isn’t lost. She really does think that you’re at your happiest when you’re with her, and you’ve always agreed. Reminding you of that might be tricky, but it won’t be impossible, and once you remember? This girlfriend will just be another notch in your bedpost. Countless people have made their mark on your past, a blur of friends and enemies and lovers, and she’s fine with that, because all of that lived experience is what makes you you.

But your present? Your future? That’s all hers, just like hers is yours, if you want it. She’ll give it time, show you how good it feels to with her datemates and remind you how well you fit with her, and let you make up your own mind. Let you choose.

If there’s one thing that all of the dimension fuckery she’s been exposed to has taught her, it’s that some things are universal truths. Every Sans has a Papyrus. The humans trapped monsters Underground. The sky is blue. The grass is green. These are principles that permeate everything, bleeding through whatever separates each universe.

This is another one of those truths. There is no universe where Quinn Lawson isn’t in love with her version of you, or a universe where you aren’t in love with your Quinn Lawson. You always choose each other, in the end.

Quinn’s already made her choice. She just has to wait for you to make yours.

[spikes-got-anger-issues]

Do you ever feel like you're taking a course for your major/minor that just feels like a side quest?

[5mind]

It may not snow in Tripol but it does 'snow' in the waters surrounding it. We're talking marine snow - detritus from the upper parts of the ocean to the lower parts. For those living in the ocean depths like the Abyssals I'd imagine the amount and nature of what falls from above would be the equivalent of a seasonal change. Migratory animals like seals and cetacens probably the biggest indicators.

To some extent it also contributes to how the passage of time (like on a month/ year scale) would be recorded. Since it would be easily effected by things like human activity and climate change, its not the only thing though. Temperature, sunlight, and tides would also have to be factored in...hm....

[mando-din-lorian]

Does anyone else thing the pirates in season 3 were severely underutilized?

Like, we had these guys with a vendetta against Din. They tried to space ambush him because he killed a few of their people. The Pirate King wanted Din’s head. They had a huge ship with more ships and who knows how many pirates in his employ.

I thought these guys were gonna be a real problem in the show, but like…

They were defeated so easily. It wasn’t hard at all. There were no stakes whatsoever. We saw them in the first episode, saw them again in episode 5 and defeated them that same episode. We didn’t even get to see the Pirate King fight! I wanted to see more of that mossy, seaweed face motherfucker! And then he just upped and died on his ship.

Idk just feeling salty tonight that they set up these great antagonists that looked so interesting, and then just…didn’t do much with them.

Honestly, it would’ve been interesting if the pirates were hunting Din much like the bounty hunters were hunting Grogu in season 1. Only this time it’s just Din they’re after. Hell, you know how interesting it would be if Din had gotten captured by them? Or cornered? Or something.

It’s just me being salty about season 3 hours

[bmpmp3]

ffffffuuuuuuuck i need to learn baby's first circuit board. i neeed to do baby's first soldering job. i neeeeeed to inhale the lead in the solder.

[snailvibes]

Fnaf tism rambling time

Personally a big fan of the idea of Nightmarionne being a part of Charlie’s soul that’s haunting the fazbear technology connected to the pizzaplex with the goal of stopping the mimic, with her also acting as a grim reaper of sorts as the opposite of puppet. The puppet gave life to the souls, Nightmarionne hypothetically instead just guides them to rest. The puppet didn’t try to directly stop William, just helped the souls, Nightmarionne is trying to directly take the mimic down from the source, aka the AR systems (he’s only found in both help wanted games and the AR space in ruin).

[bereft-of-frogs]

For my ‘boring tasks at work’ audiobook I’m listening to Emma Mieko Candon’s Ronin, which I’ve had forever because I downloaded it for a long bus ride and then just decided to do the ‘listen to sad music and stare out the window’ thing instead, but now that I’m caught up on THR, I’m branching out, and I AM enjoying it so far…

I just wish it was *slightly* more in line with canon. Don’t get me wrong, the flexibility on worldbuilding is some of why Visions is one of my favorites, I loved the creativity of not being beholden to #lore…but there’s definitely a difference between a 15 minute visual medium and a 12 hour audiobook.

So just every once in a while my brain shorts out trying to place this in the canon history lol. I’m mostly able to ignore it but yeah every once in a while I’m like wait when is this set

[quichecat]

they are like barbie dolls to me

[auto2mation1]

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[mr-snailman]

sooooo close. just not motivated at all. its technically due tomorrow so i have time but if i finish it tonight i can start the stats bullshit tomorrow... ok time to see if i actually do have that bandage lying around still.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

GYM CRUSH SIMON

sfw + nsfw. unsafe sex. womb fucking. no condom.

you never planned on becoming a late-night gym rat. it just …happened. like most things in your life, it started with good intentions and spiraled into something you weren’t entirely in control of.

you’d made a new year’s resolution to get in shape— because health, discipline, all that crap— and, in a moment of overzealous optimism, you splurged on a gym membership. a pricey one, to add. the kind that made your bank account cry, which meant quitting wasn’t an option.

there was only one problem. you were busy. between classes, assignments, and the absolute joke that was your sleep schedule, the only time you could consistently work out was well past normal human hours.

at first, the idea of hitting the gym at midnight felt… weird. like stepping into a parallel universe where only insomniacs and questionable life choices existed. but then you considered the alternative— going during peak hours and getting judged for your piss-poor form, or worse, waiting in line for machines behind a dude who was live-streaming his workout.

midnight schedule it was.

it grew on you eventually. the routine became second nature. drag yourself in after class, half-asleep, toss your bag into a locker, and start on the treadmill to wake yourself up. a slow warm-up, music blasting through your headphones, then a mostly half-hearted attempt at strength training.

the people who showed up at this hour were predictable. a few other students— dead-eyed, running on caffeine fumes. a handful of older folks, the dedicated ones who treated the gym like a sacred temple.

and then there was him.

tall. broad. built like something out of a military recruitment ad.

the first time you noticed him, you’d nearly tripped on the treadmill. one second, you were zoning out, staring at the clock, and the next— there he was. buzz cut barely visible beneath the hood of his sweatshirt, arms thick with muscle, veins running down his forearms in stark lines. tattoos peeked from under his sleeves, black ink tracing the ridges of his skin.

(the combat boots were what threw you off. who the hell wore combat boots to the gym?)

he moved through his workout with terrifying

efficiency. no wasted movements, no unnecessary pauses. heavyweights. circuits. the kind of training that looked more like preparation for war than casual fitness. he never looked winded either. no gasping for breath, no pausing to rest, just relentless, controlled effort.

you developed a— not a crush— an appreciation for him. admiration. respect. that was it. not the way his hoodie stretched across his shoulders when he adjusted his grip on the barbell. not the way his jaw clenched in concentration. not the way his fingers wrapped around the weights with an ease that made you feel woefully inadequate.

“it’s a crush,” your friend announced one evening, stabbing a straw into his juice box.

you scoffed, flipping through your notes. “it’s not.”

“it is. i’m fit too, but i don’t see you staring at me like you wanna lick salt off my abs.”

you made a disgusted noise. “jesus, shut up.”

he grinned, tipping his juice box back dramatically. “i’m just saying. the fact that you haven’t even talked to him and yet know his entire workout routine is very-"

“i do not know his entire workout routine.”

your friend raised a brow.

you sighed. “…he does back and legs on tuesdays.”

his brow lifted higher.

“…and arms on thursdays.”

silence.

“right.”

“shut up.”

you’d considered talking to him. maybe asking for tips or making some awkward joke about his frankly ridiculous choice of gym footwear. but he didn’t exactly radiate approachable.

the man looked like he’d rather be waterboarded than engage in small talk.

and you? you weren’t some plucky rom-com protagonist who could charm the brooding loner into friendship with a dazzling smile and sheer force of personality. so, you kept your distance. which was fine. totally fine.

What the hell would you even say? “hey, nice pecs, can I bury my face between them?” he’d call the police on you.

so, you stayed quiet..

until the night you made the monumentally stupid decision to start lifting weights.

in your defense, it wasn’t entirely your idea. you were perfectly content with your usual treadmill-and-machines routine. but then your friend had to go and mock you.

“you’re paying for a full gym membership,” he said, flicking a fry at your forehead, “and you’re not even using the weight room?”

“i use it,” you protested.

“you walk through it.”

okay, fine. he had a point. which was how you ended up here, standing in front of a barbell, mentally preparing yourself to lift it like you were about to perform brain surgery.

you’d done your research— watched some youtube tutorials, read some articles. you knew the basics. foot placement. core engagement. not arching your back like a possessed demon.

you took a deep breath, squared your stance, wrapped your hands around the bar, and— nothing.

the bar didn’t budge.

you frowned, adjusted your grip. another deep breath. still nothing.

okay. you could do this. just, more force. maybe a little momentum. you planted your feet, sucked in a breath, and heaved—

"y’need a spotter?"

you startle so hard you nearly fall backward, breath catching as you whip around. close— he’s close, and jesus, he’s even bigger up close. broad shoulders, thick arms crossed over his chest, pale eyes flicking between you and the barbell like he’s already making peace with witnessing an injury. his hoodie is pulled up like always, shadows cutting sharp over the edges of his jaw, but there’s something vaguely unimpressed about his expression. braced for disaster.

you swallow. "uh."

his brow lifts, expectant, as if this is some kind of trick question. "that a yes or a no?"

"i-" your brain short-circuits. every ounce of confidence you had a second ago shrivels up and dies. "i totally got this."

he exhales sharply, something between a scoff and a sigh. he shifts his weight, one foot bracing slightly forward. "sure you do.

your face heats. you turn back to the barbell, fingers tightening around the metal, and pull. it lifts— barely. your arms burn, hands already sweating, but you’re stubborn. you have it. almost.

"you’re about to smash your fucking face in," he mutters.

you falter— just for a second— but that’s all it takes. your grip slips, the weight tilting. shit, shit, shit!

he moves fast. faster than you expect. before you can even panic properly, his hands brace yours, steadying the bar with zero effort. he’s strong, fingers wrapping over yours for a brief moment before smoothly guiding the weight back onto the rack like it weighs nothing. you stumble back, arms trembling from the strain, but he doesn’t step away yet, just watches you catch your breath.

"right," he says after a beat, stepping back. "now that you’ve definitely got it, mind if i give you some actual pointers?"

you blink up at him, still processing the fact that you almost died, and this guy just saved your life like it was nothing. "you train people?"

"no. just rather not watch someone crush their skull in." which is… fair, you suppose.

you wipe your sweaty palms on your leggings, trying not to look as embarrassed as you feel. "okay. please. teach me."

you and simon— you learn his name by the third day!— slowly fall into a routine, much to his chagrin. he hadn’t expected offering to help you not splatter brain matter across the gym floor would lead to... this. a persistent presence. a shadow in his periphery.

he doesn’t know how it happened, how you managed to wedge yourself into the one place he thought was untouchable, but somehow, you did. and now, you’re there. always. not in an overbearing way. you don’t talk his ear off or force yourself on him. if anything, you’re surprisingly easy to be around. and worse— comfortable. which is fucking dangerous.

a routine starts forming. he hadn’t expected that offering to help you not crush your own skull under a barbell would lead to… this. hadn’t expected that you’d still be here, three days later, four, a week, waving at him when he walks in, bright-eyed and warm despite the ungodly hour. he tries to keep you at arm’s length, really, he does.

but you’re not loud. you don’t force yourself on him. you don’t pry or try to push past his walls— you just exist, alongside him, like it’s a natural thing in the world. you ask him questions, ease him into conversations so seamlessly that sometimes he doesn’t even notice he’s talking until he’s already halfway into answering.

"you ever listen to anything in those headphones?"

he glances at you, then down at his battered over-ear set, blinking like he’d forgotten they were even on. "sometimes."

you hum, stepping up to adjust your weights. "what kinda music?

he hesitates. "depends."

"on?"

"the day."

you narrow your eyes. "that’s not an answer."

"sure it is."

you mutter something under your breath about how “everyone in this gym is allergic to giving a straight answer,” but drop it— he notices that about you. you ask, but you never push. never press. you’re content with whatever he gives, and somehow that makes him want to give you more.

it’s little things at first. small details. he learns that you hate most protein juices but drink it anyway, that you run cold so you always wear a hoodie even when you’re sweating through it, that you hate country music and give him a long, horrified look when you learn that he doesn’t. ("not all of it," he defends, rolling his eyes. "some of it’s alright." you just shake your head at him like he’s beyond saving.)

you learn things too. that his tattoos are actually a full sleeve ("when’d you get these?" "over time." "wow, thanks, that clears so much up."), that he has an endless supply of grey hoodies and sweatpants that he refuses to explain.

"you ever heard of color?" you ask, plucking at his sleeve, and he swats your hand away. "practical," he grunts. "s’not a fuckin’ fashion show."

and then— of course— you fixate on the boots. the combat boots. “okay, but why?” you prod, nudging the toe of his boot with yours. “you know you can wear actual gym shoes, right?”

he gives you a flat look, expression unreadable under the shadow of his hood. “they’re my only pair.”

you freeze. your face twists, and there’s this flicker of genuine horror in your eyes that throws him completely off guard. “simon... are you... homeless?” your voice drops to a whisper, hesitant, like you’re afraid to even ask. his brain short-circuits. he smacks you lightly over the head, more shocked than anything.

"what the fuck- no, i'm not homeless, jesus."

you rub the spot with a pout, still eyeing him like you're not completely convinced. “well, i don’t know,” you mumble.

“you wear the same thing every day, never see you with a bag or a wallet or-”

“drop it.”

“-you don’t even buy pre-workout, simon, who does that-”

“drop it.”

some days, he comes into the gym in a mood. the kind where his head is full of static, his skin prickling with the restless need to exhaust himself into oblivion. those are the days he doesn’t want to talk. doesn’t want to be seen. and you— you notice. you don’t come up to him, don’t pester him or try to joke around like normal. instead, you just stand off to the side, watching him with this soft, wide-eyed expression like some kind of kicked puppy.

it’s unbearable.

like an itch under his skin that won’t go away. it eats at him, gnaws at the edges of his concentration, and before he can help it, he’s groaning and gesturing you over with a sharp flick of his fingers. “for fuck’s sake, just get over here already.”

you grin like you’ve won something, practically bouncing on the balls of your feet as you jog over, and he regrets it immediately.

you bring him coffee sometimes. at first, he doesn’t know how to react. he just stares at it when you shove the cup into his hands, blinking down at the little scribbled name on the side like it’s some kind of foreign object. he doesn’t even like sugary coffee, but he drinks it anyway.

the next day, guilt eats at him, so he shoves a protein shake into your hands, unwilling to meet your eyes. "s’only fair."

you squint at it, shake the bottle, listening to the liquid inside slosh around. “what’s in it?”

he scoffs. "fuckin’ cyanide."

you take an exaggerated sniff before grinning. “smells like peanut butter.”

his eye twitches. “just drink it.”

and then, somehow, that becomes a thing, too. a habit. every other day, one of you brings the other something— coffee, protein shakes, the occasional energy drink when you can tell he’s running on fumes.

one night, the gym is nearly empty. just the hum of air conditioning, the occasional clink of metal, the low buzz of some forgotten playlist over the speakers. the late hour has driven most people out, leaving only you and simon.

you’re exhausted, arms shaking, muscles burning with that deep, satisfying ache, but you’re pushing for one more rep. just one.

simon stands behind you, watching through the mirror. arms crossed, weight shifted slightly forward. tracking every movement, every shift in your stance, the way your hands tighten around the bar.

"you're on fumes," he mutters, but steps closer anyway, close enough that the heat of him presses against your back.

you roll your shoulders, shake out your wrists. “i got it.”

he exhales sharp through his nose, scoff and sigh rolled into one, but he doesn’t argue. just moves in, bracketing your sides, his presence steadying.

"alright," he murmurs, watching as you adjust your grip.

you brace yourself, pull, and the weight barely moves. your arms burn immediately, tendons screaming under the strain. your grip shifts, fingers trembling, slipping—

his hands are there. firm and certain, sliding just beneath yours, adjusting your hold without taking over. his chest nearly against your back, his breath warm against the top of your head.

"fix that grip, sweetheart."

you do, fingers locking down harder, shoulders bracing. he doesn’t let go, not fully, his palms ghosting over your forearms, steadying you just enough.

"lock it out," he says, quiet but insistent. his hands shift, one flattening against your stomach, the other hovering at your ribs, like he can feel where the tension is pulling wrong, where you need to engage. "push through. i’ve got you."

your breath stutters, something curling low in your stomach, and you force everything into that last pull, dragging the bar up, arms shaking, until you finally lock it out.

his fingers press in, just briefly, a quick squeeze at your ribs. "good."

you hold it for a second before guiding the weight back down, slow and controlled. the second it racks, your body gives, arms dead, shoulders screaming.

you stumble, just a little, and his hands are already there, catching at your waist. warm. solid. fingers pressing in just enough to steady you. they linger, just a second too long.

and then— "good girl."

barely above a murmur, just breath and heat against your skin, but it slams through you all the same.

your stomach tightens. your pulse jumps. you freeze.

you turn, still breathless, muscles trembling from exertion.

and he’s right there. solid. massive. crowding you. broad chest rising and falling, sweat clinging to the fabric stretched over muscle. too close, heat rolling off him, sinking into your skin, and making your stomach twist. up close, he’s all sharp lines and thick muscle, biceps flexing slightly as he rolls his shoulders back, tilting his head down to look at you.

"don’t-" your voice breaks. you swallow hard. "don’t do that."

simon’s brow lifts, lazy. "don’t do what, sweetheart?"

your fingers twitch at your sides. you gesture vaguely, heat curling up your spine. "that. the- the praise."

his mouth quirks, amusement flickering at the edges. "what, telling you you’re doing good?"

"yes."

he makes a sound low in his throat. "why? thought you liked it."

you try to start a defense, but he steps closer, and fuck, there’s nowhere to go.

"you did so good," he murmurs. his hand lifts, brushing over the curve of your waist. "pushed yourself real hard. took every single rep like a good girl."

your breath catches and oh, does he catch on to that.

"you like hearing that, don’t you?" his fingers curl, pressing into your hip. "knowing i’m right there, watching you, making sure you finish strong."

low, warm, approving—

"bet that’s why you pushed so hard," he continues, like he’s musing to himself. "just to hear me say it. just to make me proud."

simon’s eyes flicker to the vein in your neck. his other hand lifts, brushing a damp strand of hair away from your face, slow, almost tender.

"say it, sweetheart," he murmurs. "let me take care of you.”

“please.”

the rest of the gym is a blur. you don’t even register leaving, don’t remember how you end up outside, only that simon’s hand is wrapped tight around your wrist, dragging you through the parking lot with a single-minded purpose. the concrete expanse is empty except for simon’s truck parked just underneath a street lamp.

simon hauls you into the backseat, the door slamming shut behind him. the truck rocks with the force of it, windows already fogging, the stale scent of leather and the last remnants of his cologne in the air. the streetlights outside cast a dim glow that cuts through the darkness in thin streaks, glinting off the sweat at his temples.

his hands are on you before you can think. rough, impatient. he grabs your hips, yanks you into his lap, drags you down until you crash against him. the heat of him burns through every layer between you.

his hips roll up.

you jolt, hands flying to his shoulders, gripping tight as the thick shape of him grinds against your clit. even through the fabric, you feel everything— the ridges, the weight, the solid pressure slotting perfectly against you.

he does it again.

your breath catches, legs tensing where they straddle his thighs. you try to move, to adjust, but his hands flex, fingers digging in, keeping you pinned where he wants you.

"shh," simon hushes, arm against your skin, grip tightening as he forces you down harder, thighs flexing beneath you. "let me feel you."

his hips drag against you and you react before your brain can catch up, instinct driving you forward, grinding down, chasing the pressure.

his breath stutters, shoulders tensing as he watches you move. the friction grows slicker, hotter, the damp fabric sticking between you.

you glance down— and then you see it. his sweats, darkened, soaked where you grind against him, your arousal leaking through, making a mess of him.

"fuck-"

he exhales sharply, hands shifting, one palm smoothing down your thigh before gripping, pulling you into him.

"that’s it." he’s almost slurring his words now, his hips rolling up to meet yours. "so fuckin’ wet..."

your nails bite into his arms, your body working without thought, hips rolling, pressing down harder. the truck shifts with every movement, the worn leather seat creaking beneath you.

"fuck, baby." his lips brush your jaw. "so messy. feel that?"

you nod frantically and his cock jumps at your eagerness.

his patience snaps.

one moment you’re grinding down against him, chasing the delicious friction, and the next you're scrambling for purchase as he lifts you.

simon shoves his sweats down, and his cock springs free, slapping up against his stomach. it's thick. throbbing. the flushed tip leaking pre, smearing along the ridges of his abs, catching in the dim of the streetlights.

he’s big. not just in length— though fuck, he’s long enough to make your stomach clench— but thick, too. veins run along the shaft, disappearing beneath the flushed, ruddy skin. the head is a deep, aching red, fat and swollen, leaking so much it dribbles down, streaking along his cock, mixing with the slick mess you’ve already made on him.

the weight of him makes his cock hang low even as it twitches, pulsing with the rush of blood. it looks almost angry, the veins along the base throbbing, his whole cock flexing with each slow pump of his fist as he strokes himself, spreading the mess of precum along his length.

simon watches your expression shift, pleased. "knew you’d like that.”

he's teasing but you barely hear it. your eyes stay locked on him, pulse hammering as you take in the sheer size, the stretch you’re about to take—

he shifts his grip, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other around his cock. your hips twitch, instinct making you reach for him, trying to press forward, but he holds you back, squeezes to get your attention.

"look at that..” simon presses the head of his cock against your stomach, dragging it up, smearing wet along your skin. "gonna take all this, yeah? let me stretch that little cunt open?"

"yes- yes, please-"

"fuck." his breath shudders, his hold on you tightening. "greedy thing."

he yanks you forward, spreads your legs wider, fits himself between your thighs, grinds his cock through your slit.

the first press makes you jolt, your whole body twitching, a choked sound slipping from your throat. he groans, gripping your waist, shoving you down, rubbing your swollen clit against the head, dragging himself through your slick over and over again.

"desperate," he muses, almost cruel. "thought you could take me just like that?"

you try to answer, try to say something, but your brain doesn't work, body too busy chasing relief, hips jerking, cunt aching, a mess of whimpers spilling from your lips.

his cock is heavy against your stomach, his tip leaving a damp streak along your skin as he drags it upward. the grip he has on your waist is firm, fingers pressing deep into your flesh, keeping you still, making sure you see exactly how much of him is about to disappear inside you.

“look at that,” he murmurs, lilted by something dark and pleased. “gonna fit all this inside, yeah? stretch that little cunt open real nice for me?”

your breath shudders in your throat. the weight of him, the sheer size, sends a pulse of heat through you, thighs trembling where he holds them apart. he presses his cock higher, smearing himself over your navel, dragging slow just to watch the way your stomach flexes beneath him.

simon's fingers tighten at your hips, anchoring you in place. his eyes flick up, locking onto yours. “still want it?”

you can’t nod fast enough, hands fisting in the hard muscle of his shoulders, your pulse drumming against your ribs. “yes-”

he huffs a quiet laugh before shaking his head. then he moves, his hands shifting to your waistband. simon doesn’t take his time, doesn’t tease— just yanks your shorts down in one rough motion, shoving them past your thighs, tossing them aside like they’re nothing.

your panties are soaked through, the thin fabric clinging to your skin, darker where arousal has seeped into it. his gaze drops, and he groans, fingers flexing against your thighs.

his eyes practically shine as he reaches down, hooking two fingers into the waistband, pulling the fabric to the side instead of taking it off completely. “how long have you been sittin’ here all wet for me, huh?”

then, without warning, he lifts his cock and slaps it against your cunt. the obscene sound echoes between you.

you jolt, a sharp gasp catching in your throat. the weight of him presses down, drags over your swollen folds, smearing your slick along the length of him, leaving him just as messy as you.

simon's breath hitches, jaw going tight for a moment before he grins. “feel that?” he rocks his hips, slow and deliberate, the ridge of his head catching against your clit with every motion. “soaked for me. filthy girl.”

he keeps at it, rutting through your folds, dragging his cock against you in long, teasing glides. every lazy roll of his hips spreads more wetness between you, slick growing messier, needier, your arousal coating every inch of him.

his voice drops lower, almost awed. “you always this wet?”

you shake your head. you're not even sure why you're this wet. it’s obscene, every slow slide of him making a sticky, wet sound, the kind that makes your face burn with embarrassment.

his grip on your thighs tightens. he presses against you harder, lets his cock drag through the mess, smearing it everywhere, making it worse.

“just for me then?” he asks, watching the way his cock glistens, slick with everything you’ve given him. “i kind of like that.”

he lines himself up, pressing the thick, leaking tip against your aching entrance. he lets it catch there for a second, teasing, before dragging it up one last time, rubbing against your clit, watching you twitch beneath him.

then he settles back down, pressing again, the heavy weight of him poised to sink inside.

his eyes flick back to yours. “gonna let me in now, yeah?”

the first push is a mistake. he realizes it the second you tense up, sucking in a sharp breath, thighs trembling where they’re spread over his lap. his cock barely breaches you— just the tip, barely an inch— and your body locks up, refusing to take more.

simon grits his teeth, hands firm on your waist, trying to ease you down, but you’re too tight, squeezing around him like you’re trying to push him out. the head of his cock throbs where it’s barely inside you, thick and unyielding, stretching you too much, too fast.

he exhales through his nose, slow and measured, and tries again. rocks his hips, nudging deeper, letting you feel the weight of him pressing in. but you whimper, body trembling, nails biting into his skin. your walls clench down hard, resisting, and—

he stops. groans, and drops his head back against the seat.

"jesus christ." his palm drags over his face. "knew you were tight, but- fuck. you’re not gonna take me like this."

your face burns. your throat aches. frustration coils hot in your chest. "i’m sorry-"

"oh, sweetheart." simon's hands slide up your back, rough palms smoothing over your skin before he leans back, head tilting, eyes flicking over you. half amused, half exasperated. "you apologizing for having a cunt this tight?"

you sniffle, shifting in his lap, arousal sticky between your thighs. "but i wanted to-"

"you will." his voice is steady, calm, but his grip on your hips tightens. "just gotta take my time, yeah? don’t want you cryin’ when i finally get this cock in you."

you sniff again, blinking up at him, vision blurred, lips parted. "too late."

he huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "fuckin’ hell."

then his hands are moving again, trailing lower, fingers slipping between your slick folds, pressing in slow.

you jolt at the touch, a sharp, wrecked little sound catching in your throat. simon groans, watching the way you twitch in his lap.

"fuck, baby. so sensitive. all worked up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

you nod, heat crawling up your neck, hips jerking as he rubs slow, lazy circles over your clit. his fingers are thick, rough, dragging through the mess between your thighs, teasing, pressing just enough to make your breath stutter.

"s’not fair," you mumble.

"life’s not fair, sweetheart." his fingers press in again, pushing deeper. one first, stretching you open, curling inside. then another. then a third. his other hand stays on your thigh, keeping you spread, holding you open so he can watch the way you take him.

"gotta get you nice and open." his voice low and warm. "don’t want you breakin’ on me just yet."

you whimper, rocking into his hand, clenching down around his fingers. your clit throbs under his thumb, swollen and aching, every slow grind of his palm sending another shudder through you.

"shh. just let me do this for you, yeah?"

you do. trembling, gasping, grinding down, taking everything he gives until you’re loose, slick, ready.

when he pulls his fingers out, you whine, walls fluttering around nothing.

then his cock is back, pressing against your entrance, thick and hot, teasing for only a moment before he pushes in—

you take him.

the stretch is unbearable. every inch forces you open, slow and deliberate, the thick drag of him pressing deeper than anything ever has. your breath stutters, body shaking, thighs trembling where they rest over his.

"fuck, sweetheart," he groans, voice tight, hands gripping your hips, keeping you still, keeping you from pulling away. "you feel that? squeezing me so fuckin’ tight."

you do. every ridge, every vein, the slow, impossible push of him splitting you open, inch by inch, pressing deep— then he stops.

breath stuttering, you blink at him, dazed, confused, still so empty. "w-why-"

"baby," his voice is almost pained. "m’pressing right up against your cervix. can’t go any deeper."

but it’s not enough. you whimper, hips twitching, shifting to take more, to sink lower. "but i still feel empty, si.."

his jaw clenches, fingers digging into your thighs, trying to keep you still, stopping you from punching a fucking hole through your guts. "jesus, sweetheart. you don’t know what you’re askin."

"please," you breathe, eyes glassy, desperate. "si, please, want all of you-"

he groans, head dropping back against the seat, restraint hanging by a thread. "fuck."

then his grip tightens, and before you can say another word, he forces you down the rest of the way.

"oh-oh my god-" your whole body shakes, a strangled moan ripping from your throat as the thick head of his cock breaches your cervix, slipping into your womb, stuffing you full.

simon grunts, the squeeze of you making his vision blur for a second. "jesus fuckin’ christ."

the moment he bottoms out, your walls clamp down, fluttering, pulsing around him— the pleasure snaps without warning, white-hot, rolling through you all at once.

"fuck- fuck, baby." he curses, the squeeze of your cunt almost painful. his half-lidded eyes are trained on where the two of you connect, the way you gush around him, soaking his cock. "just from takin’ me all the way? filthy fuckin’ thing-"

he huffs a rough laugh, fingers flexing against your hips, appreciating the extra slick easing the way. "makes it easier, at least," he mutters, then starts to move.

it’s slow at first— just enough to let you feel it, to make you ache through the thick drag of him pulling back, just enough to let you whimper at the sheer pressure of his cock pressing against every swollen, overstimulated inch of your cunt.

but you’re already gone.

your lashes flutter, your lips part around soft, wrecked little sounds, your hips twitching even though he’s holding you down, even though you’re already stuffed so fucking full.

"look at you," he murmurs, dragging a palm up your belly, pressing down right where he’s so deep, groaning when he feels the outline of himself inside you. "fuckin’ cock-drunk already, sweetheart?"

you sob, thighs squeezing around his waist, hands grasping at him, trying to find something to hold onto as your hips jerk, rolling forward mindlessly, instinct driving you to take more, take everything.

he groans, gripping your jaw, tilting your face up so he can see all of it.

"can’t even talk, can you? too fuckin’ dumb to think straight."

"s-simon-"

"what, love? too far gone already?"

his smirk is wicked, his grip tight as he presses his hips up, spearing you open all over again.

you scream, body jerking, back arching, thighs trembling around him. "ohh- oh fuck-"

"there we go." his voice is full of praise, full of something dark and indulgent. "there’s my good girl."

he sets a slow rhythm, dragging his cock out until only the thick head is inside you before slamming all the way back in, spearing you open, making sure you feel it, making sure you take every inch.

"bloody hell," he mutterd, feeling the way your walls squeeze him, the way you shudder, the way you drip around him, slick gushing, soaking his cock, ruining his seats.

"listen to that, sweetheart," he groans, shifting his grip, spreading his knees just a little wider to pin you in place. "fuckin’ mess you’re makin."

he glances down, eyes nearly rolling at the sight— your cunt stretched wide around him, slick dripping down to his balls, pooling beneath you.

"christ, love." he has to gasp for breath. "fuckin’ leaking all over me- ruinin’ my fuckin’ truck-"

"s-simon-" you lose your train of thought, babbling incomprehensible strings of words.

"can't think?" simon's grin sharpens. "good. don’t need you thinkin."

then he fucks you properly.

[timeofjuly]

Resolutions

Note: Reader's POV of the New Year's Eve when they met Red. So sorry for the wait to the anon who requested this! As a warning, reader is very much in an altered state of mind due to drug use in this one, so proceed with caution.

Tags: Drug use, implied sexual content, angst, self-hatred.

Read it on AO3 or read it below :)

It’s New Year's Eve and you feel fucking fantastic.

You look hot. You feel hot, both in terms of your confidence in your appearance and the temperature; it’s sweltering in Izzy’s apartment. Too many people crammed into a too small space. It feels like there’s hands everywhere. Your skin is alight with warmth and touch, so many people close to you. They grow on you like vines, like weeds, like ivy, weaving ‘round and ‘round until you’re all bound together, one pulsing, living organism.

The music is so loud that it’s an almost palpable presence in the air; you can viscerally feel it filling your ears, pressing against your skin, pouring down your mouth when you open it to sing. It clings to you like plastic wrap as you dance, shaping your movements.

Sweat runs down your back and between your breasts. But you’re the hottest fucking thing in this room, right, so it just gives you a mysterious, sexy sheen, like you’re a fucking nymph or some shit, stepping out from behind a waterfall, batting your eyelashes at the Olympian raging to fuck you. You’re ready to be drowned in ambrosia. To choke on nectar. Swallow swallow swallow.

Fuck, your mouth is dry. Your tongue feels like sandpaper. Is this how cats feel, with their arid, pointysharp little tongues? You hope not, the poor things. This sucks.

“I need a drink,” you shout against the music, jaw clicking around the words, “anyone else want one?”

Izzy, your host, nods enthusiastically. She springs up from where she’d been dancing low to the floor and grasps your sweaty hand in her own cooler, scaly one. “I’ll come with you! I need a piss.”

You let her drag you from the throng of bodies into the bathroom, where you scroll on your phone as she sits down to pee. Your vision’s pleasantly blurry, but you manage to successfully reply to a few messages and send a few of your own. You then examine yourself in the bathroom mirror, mostly pleased with the way your hair falls, the way your makeup makes your eyes look dark and sultry. You apply a fresh coat of lipstick and smack your lips together, making faces at your reflection. The skin on your cheekbones stretches tightly, almost too-taunt, casting a sharp shadow.

For a moment, you don’t feel as pretty as you had before, but then your thirst returns with a vengeance, and you forget all about it. You stick your head in the sink, mouth poised and open beneath the tap, and drink deeply from the cool, refreshing water. Probably should’ve waited to do your lipstick, but ah well.

“You look like a horse,” Izzy snorts at you, hip-checking you to the side so that she can wash her hands. “When you said you wanted a drink, I thought you meant booze, bunny, not water.”

“A girl can want two things,” you say. Have enough and it all tastes the same, anyway.

Bunny is what this particular social circle likes to call you. You don’t really get it, but nicknames aren’t ever chosen by the person, are they, and it’s hardly the worst name in the world. You like bunnies, anyway. They’re cute. Fluffy, funny little things. They’re either pets or pests or lab animals, too, and somedays you feel like a mangled amalgamation of all three, so you guess it’s fitting.

Izzy washes and dries her hands and then does a line of coke off of the countertop. She offers you a bump, but you decline – tonight, you’re pacing yourself.

This year, you want to watch the time tick over to midnight, and you want to remember it. You’d gotten too fucked-up last year too early and had been out like a light by ten, so being awake and cognizant for this one is your resolution, or some shit. You don’t really do resolutions, but this one seems achievable enough. Stay up and ring in the New Year. Yeah, you can do that, you beautiful, gorgeous, magical creature. The world is ready to be bent to your whims. Midnight’s a piece of cake.

You follow Izzy back out into the party and to the kitchen, riffling through her fridge for a decent mixer. You end up pouring orange juice into two glasses, along with a healthy serve of tequila. If you had any grenadine on hand, you’d have yourself a proper sunrise.

You sit on the kitchen countertop to drink it, bare legs swinging lazily in the air. Izzy sits next to you, her hip pressed against your own. Her hand rests atop your thigh, drawing little patterns with the tip of her claw. The sensation makes ticklish goosebumps erupt all over your legs.

Your head is buzzing like it’s full of bees and it’s making your vision go a little funny. You blink a few times, then scan the apartment in an attempt to refocus your eyes. The party is still a writhing, pulsating mass, moving with the thrum of the music. Everyone looks so beautiful. You wish that you could live in this moment forever.

You know everyone – at least, you think you do – so you’re surprised when your eyes fall on someone you’ve never met before. He’s a monster, a skeleton monster, dressed in an oversized, dark jacket with a furry hood. He’s reclined on Izzy’s shitty sofa, looking easy and relaxed. His legs are spread wide, which you normally find obnoxious, but he’s really making it work for him. As you watch, he brings a bottle of something to his skull, and scarlet magic flickers to life inside of his mouth as he drinks. You watch, eyes wide.

The red of his magic looks hot – red-hot, you think, holding back a snort at your creativity. You knew someone, once, who would’ve had a far better, more eloquent, poetic way of describing it, but you’re refusing to think of her tonight. Even that tiny little reminder sends cold skittering through you, so you wrench your focus back to the guy and his magic. You wonder if it’s as warm as it looks. It looks like it’d heat you up from the outside-in.

That sounds amazing right now.

“Who’s that?” you say, transfixed. There’s an eager breathiness in your voice.

“What?” Izzy says, tapping the side of her head.

“Who is that?” you shout in Izzy’s ear, loud enough to be heard over the music. You gesture towards the sofa with your chin.

“He’s a friend of one of the birds, I think,” she says dismissively, “can’t remember his name right now.”

“He’s hot as fuck. Please tell me he’s single. It’ll ruin my whole year and the next ones if he’s not.”

She cackles. Her laughter takes up her whole face, splitting it down the middle like an axe wound to the head. You have the urge to shove your finger into her open mouth, but she probably won’t find it funny. She’d probably bite you, actually, with her sharp little teeth, and the Tylenol and antibiotics you’d get as a result are hardly worth the hospital trip. Now, if she took off your whole finger, you’d get oxycodone or hydromorphone at the very least, but they probably wouldn’t mix well with the rest of the pharmacy’s worth of drugs in your bloodstream.

And you’d also miss midnight. You can’t have that.

“You’re so funny, bunny,” Izzy giggles at you. She throws her arm around you and tugs you to her side. “I love you soooo much.”

You hug her back, pressing your face into the cool hollow of her neck. You choke on your muffled laughter. The hug feels really nice. “Love you too.”

You do, in this moment. You’re full of enough love that you’re afraid it’s all going to spill out of you, tear through your skin and flood the entire apartment. You love love. So much. Feels so good.

Izzy pulls back from the hug, then brings her own glass to your lips. You drink greedily. She doesn’t pull it away until you’ve drained the whole thing.

“Pretty sure he’s single, so go ring in the New Year the right way,” she says, pulling you from the countertop and giving you a friendly smack on the ass to spur you on.

Not that you need a lot of encouragement. You fix your sexiest smile to your face and do your best impression of a lingerie model’s saunter down the runway as you stride towards him, snagging a pair of shot glasses as you go.

…

Opening your eyes is a fucking ordeal.

The ceiling of Izzy’s darkened guest bedroom greets your dry, crusty vision. The fan on the ceiling spins in slow, lazy rotations, sending cool wafts of air over your bare body.

Your muscles ache, in a good way, as you pull yourself up into a sitting position, your legs stretched out in front of you. You look down at your chest and find it decorated with several pretty red marks and the memory of receiving them sends remembered pleasure shivering through you. You knew that the guy would be a great fuck; maybe you’ve just got a sixth sense for shit like this.

Speaking of the guy, he’s still asleep. Ha, you must’ve worn him out, just like he did to you. He’s lying on his back, skull turned to the side, so his face is half buried into the pillow. The sheets are kicked messily around his feet.

You watch the way his ribcage expands and contracts with his breathing. So strange, breathing with no lungs. What purpose does it serve? Does he have to do it, the way you do?

You imagine, for a moment, your own lungs, wet and pulpy and probably black with tar and pockmarked with holes, imagine them filling and deflating with air. You hold your breath until your vision goes fuzzy just to feel the way they strain against the confines of your chest. The burn reminds you that there’s something inside of you. Something warm and real.

You look back at your bedpartner, at all of that empty space inside of him. You wonder if he feels the hole as part of himself, if he walks and talks and eats and fucks, all the while perceiving that absence. You wonder if he feels like you do sometimes, like a discarded orange rind, all of your insides scooped out until just the smooth outside remains.

Something prickles at your eyes. You feel dizzy. A little sick.

You exhale in a deep, desperate rush, suddenly remembering that you have to breath. You take a few ragged inhales, deep ones, to make up for the oxygen you’d been deprived of.

Your chest hurts. Your head hurts, too, a dull throb. Either you’ve just accidently almost asphyxiated yourself, or it’s time for a top-up. The ecstasy’s probably worn off by now; that’s probably why you’re feeling this way. Yeah, that’s it. The comedown always sucks.

You have no other reason to be sad, after all. You sit here, freshly fucked, muscles aching pleasantly. The party downstairs still beats on, a riotous chorus of early two thousands throwback music and laughter. You can feel the thrum of the base in your blood. The world is alive around you. Revel in that. Be happy for that. This is your life. You chose it. You made it this way. You have to live it, now.

Yep, definitely time for a top-up. Izzy owes you; you can scum a little extra off of her. You don’t remember why she owes you, exactly, but a favour’s a favour. S’not like you to look a gift horse in the mouth. Take the goodness as it comes and let go of the bad. Breath in again. Breath out. Keep reminding yourself to do it, so you don’t forget.

You fumble underneath the pillows and retrieve your phone. The cracked screen reads 12:36am. You have a dozen unread messages, drunken New Years well-wishes from names you can’t put a face to.

Your mom and dad used to always stay up late on New Years Eve, drinking port wine and watching Christmas movies until they’d fall asleep on the couch together. It was their tradition. As a kid, you begged them to let you stay up with them, but you always fell asleep before the clock struck midnight and you’d wake up on January first in your bedroom, your dad having carried you to bed.

Every year, your New Years resolution was to stay awake next time long enough to watch the clock tick over to midnight. There was something magical about it as a child, the idea of peeling away the old paint of the past year to reveal the shiny, fresh surface of the new.

You wonder if your parents are awake now, watching the end of the Polar Express and drinking out of those funny little port glasses.

Your bedpartner stirs, murmuring sleepily into his pillow. He’s drooling. It’s cute. You get the feeling, from the way that he’d fucked you, that he’s not the kinda guy who appreciate being called that, though.

Those type of guys are always the cutest.

If he’d woken up, you would’ve told him that, but he doesn’t. He just settles back into the pillow. You do throw the blanket over his naked pelvis, though, because you’re considerate like that. Nice girl. Sweet girl. Bunny. Everyone likes you. You’re so much fun. And you’re having fun. Buckets of it. Enough to drown in it.

You slide your bare feet onto the cold floor and begin the search for your shoes. Happy New Year to me.

[shinmiyovvi]

Me: Can you please give me some time to draw?

School: No :3