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#this got away from me...

its-alittleobssessed · 27 days

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Orpheus and Eurydice but it's Dean and Castiel coming out of the empty. Jesus Christ. JESUS. is there a fic like that?

Like imagine Dean, smack dab in the middle of nothing. Pitch black for miles and miles and the empty speaks to him, says, "I'll give him back on one condition."

And Dean nodding, desperate to it, "Anything."

And the empty smiles, though it doesn't have a face or body or soul, Dean can hear it smile, can feel it in the molecules around him, when it says, "Do not look back."

There's a small light at the end of nothing, so miniscule it looks like a grain of rice. The empty points it out, commands, "Go."

And Dean doesn't move. The grain of rice is so small and it is so quiet around him. "Go?"

"Yes, go."

The empty is nothing. It is nothing in nothing. A black hole sucking up another black hole—that is what the empty is. Dean’s inside it, inside the hole inside another hole, looking for a guy who shines brighter than the sun on a cloudless day.

It’s so fucking quiet. Dean shakes his head, “I don’t—”

“You don’t trust that I’ve placed him behind you?” The empty snarls, groans, and festers, “You don’t trust that he’ll follow you?”

The first step he takes is heavy. It weighs and echoes across the great expanse of hollowness. It is not followed by another immediate step. He is the only thing breathing, the only noise rising, and he asks, because he has to know, “Cas?”

There is no reply.

“He’s behind you.” The empty assures. There’s a tilt to its voice like it might be lying. Or maybe it’s amused. Dean can’t tell, his heart’s beating too loudly in his ears to tell the difference.

The second, third, and fourth steps are just as earth quaking as the first. He walks—drags his feet below him, closer to the blinding light leading them home, still so far away, still the size of a mere flame.

“It was really fucked up. What you did.” Dean says, because he can’t look, and he can’t hear, but he can still talk. “What kind of an asshole does that? What kind of a—” He swallows, keeps a steady rhythm foot after foot, “You said. What you said. Why’d you say it?”

He’d practiced this in his room a few times. What he’d say if he ever saw Cas again. At least then, the walls would hum back. They'd stare back and hold him up if he couldn’t keep his knees from buckling. But here, in this vacuum, what is there to rely on?

“Thought I was dyin’. ” Dean confesses, the light has turned into the size of a dime, and he keeps staring it down, determined, “Watchin’ you get taken, I mean. Felt like—felt like you took my heart with you down here, y’know?”

There aren’t any footsteps behind him. There’s no flutter of wings or exhale or exasperated sigh. He’s—he feels alone.

“Couldn’t go on without you, man. S’why I’m here.” Why is it so fucking quiet? Dean wasn’t this quiet when Cas said his piece. He’d been frozen, maybe, but not quiet. Never quiet. “I—I need you to be there. I can’t—don’t know how I’m supposed to go on if you aren't there.”

The empty’s stopped replying, too. The rice turned into dime and now it’s the size of a baseball and it’s still so fucking. Hollow. And the empty likes to play games doesn’t it? Likes to trick poor schmucks like Dean who are desperate hopeful bastards.

With Cas in the room, there’d be electricity around them. A spark of something. But now, Jesus, now, there isn’t—the air’s so fucking stiff and horrible.

Dean reaches an arm back, still walking, “Gimme your hand.”

No one touches him.

“Empty didn’t say nothin’ about skin on skin, man. C’mon.” His steps stutter and his hand shakes, “C’mon.”

The light is the size of a window. He’s getting closer—no, no, no they’re getting closer. Both of them. ‘Cause Cas is there. He’s right there. He’s—

“I just wanna know you’re okay.” He looks at the ground, tries to cheat, tries to find another set of feet with his peripheral vision. “M’not leavin’ without you, you dick. So you better—you better gimme a fuckn’ sign or I’ll stay here. Forever if I gotta.”

His voice doesn’t even bounce off the fucking walls. There are no walls. Or feet or breaths or hands touching his own. There is no answer to any of his questions. And he stretches his arm as far as it can go behind him, as far as his broken muscles can, he begs, “Please, Cas.”

The light has grown to the size of a door and it’s too quiet. Too vacant and blank. So unlike Cas at the end of everything. And Dean can’t leave—he can’t just—he came here for someone and if he’s not—if this is a trick then, then—

“Please.”

One more step. That’s all he needs. He’s one step away, just one step, but Cas isn’t answering—he isn’t answering or touching Dean’s hand and the empty lies.

It’s too quiet, the empty lies, and Dean can’t leave without him, he can’t, he can’t, he can’t, and the door is right there, it’s right there but Dean can’t leave, he can’t leave ‘cause Cas isn’t behind him, he was never behind him, and he turns, oh God, Dean turns around and—

Cas smiles, that soft deep smile of his that edges on a little sad, he tilts his head, so loving and forgiving, “I love you too.”

And then he’s gone. Ripped away one more time.

#and then he's gone #ripped away for the second time #this got away from me...#This was not meant to be a fic.#I was actually gonna ask for fic recomendations lmao #dean winchester #destiel #supernatural #ao3 #fanfiction #spn #fanfic #castiel #deancas #writing #oh well #alittleobssessed fic #myfic

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madelinetess · 4 months

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Wouldn't it be nice?

“There are only ten minutes remaining till the end of this match and Richmond players seem to be in quite the pickle.”

“You are right Arlo, it does appear to be a dangerous situation for the greyhounds. As of now the score is 1:1 but Chelsea’s in possession and it looks like they may score the winning goal after all.”

“A beautiful pass from number 11, getting through Richmond’s defence, the only thing between the Chelsea Striker and leaving the match victorious is Richmond’s goalie, Zoreaux, who seems to be having a tough day today.”

“The greyhounds are relying quite heavily on their defence players today… What’s this? A beautiful kick by the Chelsea attacker! It’s soaring through the air and… By God, Arlo, did you see that?”

“If you are referring to the brilliant dive by Richmond’s number 13, then yes, I most definitely saw it. We simply have to look at it again, the way he got in there just in time to kick the ball right back into the stands, simply marvellous.”

A slow motion replay of Jan’s desperate save displayed on the screen accompanied by the cheers of the fans in the stands and the live commentary by both Chris Powell and Arlo White.

“The Dutchman did it again. He has definitely been the backbone of today's defence, foiling most of the scoring attempts. But back to the game, it is now time for Nelson Road residents to either try and keep the ball for the remaining four minutes, or to shock us with some clever closing play.”

“You never know what to expect from them, and they’ve been continually pulling all kinds of tricks from their sleeves. Chris, what do you think is going to happen?”

“It remains to be seen, Arlo, we’ll just have to wait.”

“Bumbercatch passes to Montlaur, Montlaur goes in to score, but no! It was a feint and it’s Jamie Tartt now with the ball. Tartt passes to Rojas who gets through Chelsea’s defence and gets the ball straight to number 12 and it’s a goal! A beautiful play by the Greyhounds mere seconds before the final whistle! Richmond winds up victorious with two goals from Tartt and Hughes respectively.”

“A beautiful display of teamwork indeed. It’s games like this one that truly highlight the unity of the Nelson Road Team, the famous ‘Richmond Way’ a term coined by Trent Crimm in his best selling book…”

The commentary was now fading away as the team exited the pitch, still euphoric after the win. Jan walked feeling exhausted but hyped up and was now heading to the locker room to celebrate along with the entirety of the team. The coaches were already there, waiting for them.

Everyone got seated and the room fell into silence, awaiting Roy’s words.

“Allright, I’ll make it quick. Good job Jamie, Colin,” He nodded at each respective player but then turned towards Jan “Jan Maas. You are the main reason we didn’t fuckin’ lose today!” Excitement in their manager’s voice crystal clear.

Dani was the first one to cheer, but soon everyone joined in and the whole locker room was once again filled with excited footballers. Shoulder pats and bear hugs were exchanged once again before Roy had to shout to get them to settle down and listen to the announcements.

“Oi! You have fifteen minutes to celebrate here, and after that I expect to see you all on the bus, ready to head to the hotel.”

With that Roy left to support Rebecca handling the interviews, and both Beard and Nate followed him out of the room, probably to settle some other matters.

The team changed quickly and it wasn’t even twenty minutes later that Jan sat next to Richard on the way to the hotel. The Dutchman pulled out a well loved book that was given to him for his birthday by the man sitting right next to him out of his bag. Richard himself could never read while in a moving vehicle, so as usual he opted for listening to music and looking out the window, completely zoned out.

The ride itself was short, and soon enough they all stood in the hotel lobby waiting to get their keys.

“Listen up people!” Coach Beard could be heard over the general ruckus “You get settled and then at 8PM sharp we meet in conference room 3 for our movie night! Jan Maas, today you get the honours of drawing the movie from our box of suggestions.”

A collective choir of whoops and whistles filled the foyer.

The movie night tradition became a thing when Ted was still their manager and it was one of the many things that stuck around even after he didn’t. Of course pillow fights also kept on happening, but the clean-up after a movie night is undoubtedly easier, and watching a silly movie is definitely a great way of winding down after a difficult match.

The box of suggestions though, was Phoebe’s idea that Roy decided to implement. At the beginning of the season each player got to write down one movie name on a post-it and put it in a purple glittery shoebox. Then, every movie night someone from the team would draw a piece of paper from said box and whatever it said, that was the movie they were going to watch.

The suggestions were obviously restricted, to the disappointment of both Moe and Richard. Richard’s, because almost everyone voted no, on classic French cinema, and Bumbercatch’s for reasons unspecified. The only other rule was no one was supposed to know who suggested what.

So obviously Jan and Richard turned into a game to see if they could guess who wrote down which movie. So far they were pretty sure that Dani suggested Night at the Museum and Sam was definitely the one who pitched Ratatouille, as for the other ones they were based purely on speculation. Both of them were pretty positive that Thierry picked How to lose a guy in 10 days. Richard kept disagreeing with him about who suggested Baby Driver, it was a tie between Jamie and Isaac, but for some reason the same disagreement also occurred while debating who picked Ocean’s Eleven.

Some other movies they watched included classics such as Jojo Rabbit, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, Legally Blonde, The Greatest Showman, and Knives Out. The jury was still out on all of these.

They agreed not to disclose what movie they themselves suggested, to keep the game more interesting.

Jan however knew exactly what Richard picked. He remembers the first practice of the season, he remembers the weather outside, and the exact button up shirt that Richard wore that day.

Why does he remember that? Well, because he spent the entire after-practice meeting staring at the four undone upper buttons, and not thinking about what movie he should put down as his suggestion. That in turn meant he caught a glimpse of Richard’s post-it and the two titles written in neat handwriting. Duplex and 50 First Dates sat right there being deeply analysed by the Frenchman struggling to pick one. That’s when Jan decided, whichever one his friend doesn’t pick, he was going to write down.

The jangle of the room keys brought the Dutchman back to Earth. Richard has already gone and picked them up from coach Beard and was now motioning for Jan to follow him to their accommodations.

Most of the team roomed on the same floor, but the coaches made sure to get themselves settled the furthest away from the rest of the team. The rooms were nice enough, with a small balcony, two beds, wardrobe, a table with some chairs and an adjacent bathroom. Enough for a one night stay.

Richard immediately threw his things onto the bed by the window and sat down on it. After dozens of times sharing a room at away games Jan already knew that the Frenchman loved being woken up by the sun.

The Dutchman took the other bed and unpacked some of their bathroom things. There was no use taking two tubes of toothpaste, so they both agreed beforehand who was going to take one, same with soap and shampoo. Neither of them trusted the ones provided by the hotels.

After they were done unpacking they headed down to the dining room to grab some dinner before coming back up to their room to get changed into some sweatpants and comfy t-shirts and whatnot. Then the only thing left was to locate conference room number 3.

On the stairway they were joined by Colin, Isaac, Moe and a couple of the reserves. They already went up a flight before Reynolds stopped them to ask a question.

“Hold up, does anyone know where we are supposed to go?”

“Conference room 3, duh” Colin answered.

“Yeah, but do any of you actually know where that is?”

Everyone stopped in the middle of the stairway and shook their heads.

“Then where the hell are we going?” Goodman piped up.

“O'Brien, didn't you say that your roommate stayed back to ask the receptionist about it?”

“Yeah, he did.” Tom turned around as if to locate said roommate and didn’t seem to find him. Then he turned around again, hoping for a different result. That clearly didn’t seem to help. “I forgot Bhargava!” he yelled out and dashed down the stairs back to the rooms.

“Do you guys think he just locked him inside their room?” Colin asked, looking after the goalkeeper.

“Maybe he just forgot to tell him we were going already..?” Isaac supplied.

“Nah, he totally locked him in,” Richard laughed heartily and looked at Jan smiling which he reciprocated.

“Isn’t there a floorplan somewhere maybe?” Jan asked no one in particular. The Dutchman looked around trying to find something that would tell them where to go. While they were still standing around on the stairs they all heard O’Brien shouting.

“Lads! We got to go downstairs, not up!” A chorus of groans lasted a good ten seconds it took them to get downstairs and back to the lobby.

Once they finally reached the conference room Roy looked at them, then at his watch, and then back at them.

“What took you so long, you got fuckin’ lost, or something?”

“Well, what matters is that we are all here now.” Reynolds said after a beat of silence.

“That is the bare minimum, we said at 8, it’s 8:20”

“Actually, it’s only 8:17 so it’s closer to…” Goodman started but one look from their former captain turned manager shut him up.

"We need to learn how to appreciate the little things, like finding our way, or Richard…" Jan said, throwing an arm around his friend, who was standing right next to him.

The Frenchman was not amused, and rolled his eyes pointedly exaggerating the movement.

"Laugh all you want, I'm not the one that had to ask the hotel desk to get another duvet, because I didn't fit under the one that comes with the room."

“Fuckin’ hell… Enough of that, get inside, sit down and get ready to watch the movie.” Roy stopped them before they could drag the conversation out even longer. “Jan, come with me to pick the movie.”

Inside the conference room a projector was set up, along with a few rows of nice cushioned chairs to sit on. Roy stood in front of the chairs waiting for the footballers to settle down on their seats.

“Today's match was hard,”Roy began his speech. “but we pulled through. And we fuckin’ won!” Here Roy paused, waiting for the cheers to die down. “And we owe it not only to the ones scoring the goals, but to our defence as well, especially to Jan Maas over here, so Nate,” Here Roy turned to the shorter man, “Bring in the Box!”

Nate approached with the glittery shoebox and dramatically opened the lid before turning to Jan waiting for the Dutchman to pick out a post-it note with the title of today’s movie.

Jan covered his eyes and reached into the box pulling out a piece of paper folded twice, handing it to Roy and walking off to sit down on an empty chair next to Richard that the shorter man saved for him.

“And the movie of the evening is… 50 First Dates!”

Some people whooped, some looked around confused. Richard turned to look at Jan grinning. Jan returned the gesture for the second time today and turned to the screen waiting for the movie to start. He has never seen it before, but since Richard enjoyed it, then it must be nice.

The snack bowls were passed around, the light turned off, and the movie put on. Jan held onto the popcorn he was handed. For the next hour and a half every now and then the Frenchman would nudge him to get the bowl within his reach.

From time to time someone would snicker at some joke, Jamie definitely winced at the scene where Lucy beat Henry up, Thierry pointed out the fact that the dolphins were named Mary Kate and Ashley and Dani shot up during the diary burning scene to exclaim that it’s almost like that time when they were getting rid of the ghosts from the treatment room.

They all bawled their eyes out at the break up scene, and tissues had to be passed around during the final one. Jan ended up liking the movie and judging by the fact that by the end most of the players were trying to hold back tears, so did they.

Once the light came back on the coaches gave them ten minutes to tidy up, and get back to their rooms. Isaac and Sam stayed the longest to make sure everything was back to how it was beforehand, which meant Colin was stuck outside the doors waiting for his room key that his best friend held on to, Jan and Richard decided to keep him company.

“How’d you like the movie?” the Welshman asked, noticing how the two of them decided to wait around with him.

“I liked it” Jan simply answered “And you, Richard, you’ve seen it before, right?”

“Yeah, but I still find it enjoyable.”

“Yeah? Is it because Henry reminds you of… well, you?” Colin laughed

“Why? Because Dickie here is a shameless flirt, or actually a softie that cares a lot about penguins?” Colin joked as Isaac joined their group while Sam was locking up the conference room.

“I’ll have you know, penguins are actually great animals.”

“Yeah, and they are also the best secret agents in the world” the Nigerian finally joined their tiny circle, and they were able to start moving towards their rooms.

They all stopped in front of Sam and Dani’s room to talk a bit more before retiring for the night. Jan couldn’t help but notice how short Richard looked standing next to them all, well, maybe not next to Colin, but the rest of them towered over the Frenchman a little.

After about ten minutes of idle lounging around Colin yawned loudly prompting their discussion to halt.

“Need your beauty sleep?” Isaac asked.

“Better not, because he would need a lot of it.” Richard quipped.

“And remember, we have to be up early tomorrow.” Jan replied without missing a beat.

Colin flipped them both off as they bid the group farewell and took off in the direction of their room.

Back in their room they got ready to sleep taking turns in the bathroom. Richard went in first so when Jan exited after his own shower he was surprised to see his friend still up clearly waiting for him. As soon as the Frenchman noticed Jan was done in the bathroom he motioned for him to join him on the bed, so Jan did.

“So, who do you think picked the movie? I’m pretty sure both Dixon and Goodman recognised it but I’m not sure any of them would have picked it as their one choice.”

“How about Tommy Winchester?” Jan suggested trying to seem oblivious.

“Nah, that’s also not it…Maybe Reynolds?” the shorter man continued to speculate.

“How do I know it wasn’t you?” It might have been a bit of a risky move there, but it wasn’t unsound to assume that. “After all you did know the movie and I remember you mentioning something about liking Drew Barrymore romantic comedies…”

“It does make sense, but let me tell you a secret. I wanted to put that one down, but ended up picking a different movie.” Richard winked at him and it took all the self control Jan had to not reveal to him that he knows. “Also, you remembered that comment about Drew Barrymore? I didn’t even remember it until you mentioned it.”

“We are friends, I remember things about you. Things like your favourite actress… Maybe not the French cinema ones, because most of them I’ve never heard of, but you know… other ones…”

“Give French cinematography a try, you may end up liking it. We could put a film on during our next charcuterie night?”

“How did you end up liking it? I didn’t think goat farms had access to a lot of fancy French cinemas.”

“Well, my maman had a big city soul and I got it from her. She never did get out of the farm, but I did and have been living with splendour for the two of us ever since. Never looked back…”

“You never talked about her before… She sounds like a lovely woman.”

“She was… She was the only one who would get my father to dance with her. He was the most stern man you’ve ever met, but when she put on an old record and asked him to dance he would, just like that… Bought them an Adele record for their 20th wedding anniversary with the money I earned in my first job because that was the only new release at the local store. Père and I listen to it every time I visit him back home.”

They were now both lying down, propped up on the big pillow and looking at the ceiling, Richard leaning on him.

“What is your family like? I don’t think I ever heard you talking about them either…”

“Well, I have a brother and a sister, both older than me, and my parents own a small corner shop…”

Jan woke up in the middle of the night disoriented. He looked around and noticed someone lying on top of him.

Richard’s rhythmic breaths and the rise and fall of his chest calmly brought Jan back to Earth and stopped him from panicking lest he wake up the smaller man. They must have fallen asleep whilst talking.

The Dutchman looked back at his friend and smiled softly at how the other man curled up into him. He made a move to reach for the blanket at the foot of the bed without stirring the Frenchman but was unsuccessful in his attempt as the other man stirred awake.

“Morning… Well, not morning, but there isn’t really a greeting for the middle of the night…”

“Hello to you too… Can we go back to sleep, or are you gonna move some more?”

“I… Well, uh… Sure, let’s, let’s get back to sleeping.” Before lying back down Jan draped the blanket over the both of them and spared one last look at his best friend. He waited before Richard’s breathing slowed down again before speaking.

“I was the one who put down that movie… Because I saw you struggling to pick one, and I decided to pick the one you wrote off.” He was now absentmindedly tracing patterns on Richard’s right shoulder and arm while spilling some stuff he’d be too scared to admit in the daylight. “I couldn’t stop looking at you that day… And many days before and after that. It’s been a thing for quite some time. And now I’m thinking that I’d like to buy a gramophone so that we could get a vinyl of some Adele album and dance to it, and maybe visit your dad on the farm… You could show me the goats. I've never touched a goat before… And maybe we could grow older together, but not as friends… As something…”

“Just so you know, I’m not asleep yet…”Richard whispered softly as Jan's face dropped. “And I think I would like that too, but maybe we could talk about it more in the morning?” Jan’s face went from horrified to touched to happy as he hugged the man lying next to him.

He pressed a soft kiss to the top of Richard’s head and burrowed his face in his hair. Richard in turn kissed his neck before turning to find a comfortable position and go back to sleep.

“Goodnight Richard”

“Goodnight Jan”

#janchard #richard montlaur #jan maas #it was supposed to be a short fic #long post #ted lasso #richmond movie night tradition #It was mentioned once that Richard likes romantic comedies with Drew Barrymore and here we are now #“I FORGOT BHARGAVA” is now immortalized in a fic #richmond boys #this got away from me...#spoilers for 50 first dates ig #Writing football commentary as both not a fan of the sport and not a native english speaker was... fun? Yeah it was fun.#I hope I did okay #I'll add the ao3 link in a reblog as soon as I post the fic on there

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xenasaur · 2 months

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some of you have had your perception of mommy dommes warped by the popular advent of people simply using "mommy" as a title devoid of all context. I am not that kind of mommy domme. I am the kind that Acts Like Your Mom (or, how your mom should've acted). I am going to be so sugary-sweet and gentle and kind with you. I'm going to refer to all of your injuries as booboos and offer to kiss them better. I am going to make you little snacks and make sure you're hydrated. I am going to snuggle you so softly yet so tightly and kiss your forehead so gently and tell you that you make mommy proud every single day. that you are the best kid a gal like me could ask for. that I love you. I love you.

#this post kinda got away from me at the end there

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inkskinned · 1 year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

#this got away from me #but like #u know #reading is a form of creation #and sometimes the choice that the author makes might SEEM random #but it's like. bro that's telling u something.#also hate the vibe where authors/artists mock their audience for finding meaning in something #nahhhh #if u make art u need to be okay with people finding their own reflection in it

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chaos-bringer-13 · 1 month

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

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

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

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

Then Dani steals the talons.

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

Dani steals Scarecrow's chemicals.

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

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

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

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

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

Here, have a shitty meme showing the moment.

Danny: I left you here fOR ONE MONTH

Vlad: It's not my fault!

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

Dani: What kind of candy?

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

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

#prompt #actually this is like a whole fanfic plot #this got away from me #the initial idea was “Dan and Dani live with Vlad and accidentally convince everyone that they're a crime family”#dpxdc #dcxdp #dp x dc #dc x dp #redeemed!Dan #redeemed!Vlad #Dan and Dani are Vlad's kids #they're also chaos gremlins

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padmestrilogy · 5 months

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

#this got away from me #mace windu #star wars

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bi-writes · 1 month

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"you may kiss your bride."

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

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

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

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

there he is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"all yours, simon."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"is this where i will live, too?"

he shakes his head, a no.

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

you tilt your head to the side.

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

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

"then what are you so afraid of?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"w-what...what?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

matched by design, together by choice.

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

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

"y-you did?"

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

you shake your head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he laughs again, smiling wide, and he nods.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"simon--"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

he shrugs.

"would've killed ya, luv."

"just like that?"

"just like tha'."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"until death do we part, yeah?"

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ghouljams · 2 months

Text

Does anyone want to hear about android!Ghost's dick? No?

OK well I wanna talk about it so...

Starting off strong with the "he doesn't have one" argument because what use does he have for one when he's literally built for active duty? Well. First of all who build a robot you can't fuck? Second of all shhhhhhhh.

As it stands he doesn't have one. Not that he doesn't want one or wouldn't use one but the military can be so stingy... so obviously he's gotta enlist his favorite mechanic to make him one. Which is a fun in person request to make. Just showing up to your workshop and telling you he wants a dick while you studiously do not look at his crotch. You can feel him smirking when you ask what he plans to do with it. (He'd get by pretty well with his fingers and *redacted* but nothing beats dick)

So you gotta design a dick for this guy, take measurements, get input, spend hours agonizing over the neuropathways and how you're going to link this in to his synthetic nervous system. Plus like... are you gonna make this thing come? You probably should. If Ghost is going to be using it he should get something out of it.

So now you have to design an orgasm program. Which is easier said than done because how do you quantify that, and how do you code it, and most importantly how do you test it?

Well you test it by hooking Ghost up to the computer and setting the program to run, watching him stiffen and arch his hips into the feeling, swearing in that low mechanically filtered voice as he humps the air. Fuck he looks good. UNPROFESSIONAL THOUGHT. OK you stare at your screen and run a few more variations, asking him to describe each one and rank them. Great orgasm locked and loaded, now you have to set up trigger scenarios.

Which also means when you actually get the android dick to a solid prototype you have to call Ghost in and install it. You reserve the day, clear it with Price (new parts testing, custom made, you tell him. Giving no other details. He doesn't ask) and keep a fire extinguisher and a kill switch nearby while you tell Ghost to... jerk off.

And then you watch him stroke the gorgeous, big, cock you custom designed for him with thick, deft, fingers. And you wait for the orgasm program to trigger. And hope that nothing glitches and he doesn't rip your beautiful masterpiece of a dick off, and also that the come you designed actually comes out at the right time. So you sit there and watch him, press your thighs together and try not to shift in your seat even though you can hear the click of Ghost's cameras as he watches you watching him.

You don't wonder what he's thinking about. You don't focus on the grunt of pleasure he lets out. You do tap at your screen to check the sensitivity levels on the synthskin you used. You do reach to make sure he isn't squeezing too tight or stroking too rough and end up with lube based come spurting onto your face.

Which you suppose means it works.

Which means moving on to partner trials, and your hand tentatively wrapped around Ghost's fat cock. You don't remember why you made it so thick, but it doesn't help the ache between your legs. You try to keep a professional look on your face as you reset the program and start to stroke him with much gentler fingers. You ignore the come staining your face until Ghost swipes his fingers through it and pushes those same fingers into your mouth.

You end up on the workbench with him, grinding your clothed cunt against his firm thigh as you stroke his cock and he pumps his fingers into your drooling mouth. Mutter all manner of filth to you. Greedy whore, desperate piece of meat for him to fuck now that you've made equipment for him. Aren't you a smart little toy to make him exactly what he asked for, and so big too. "That what you want love," he asks, "you want a fat cock to split you open? Look'it you drool, probably tried it out before you stuck it on me."

Even if you didn't you can't say you didn't think about it, didn't drag your fingers over the dick appreciatively. All the scaling in the world, trying to make sure it would look right, fit right, on Ghost's body and you still made it with your preferences in mind. He knows it too. That's why he reminds you what a cock hungry toy you are. "All cooped up in here with no one to show you your place," you drag your tongue along his fingers, work your cunt against him, hope you leave a wet spot on his synth skin, hope he can feel you through the coveralls, "bet you dream about one of your bots holding you down and giving you what you deserve."

You can try and shake your head but he just holds your cheeks, twisting the fingers in your mouth to accommodate. Ghost makes a noise, a sort of clicking sound you can't parse, and tips his head. "Can't lie to me, deserve better than I could give ya, but now?" He pulls his fingers from your mouth and fists your coveralls, pulling purposefully at the material, "Now I've got all day."

#cod x reader #x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost mw2 #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #mw2 ghost #ghost cod #android!ghost #cyberpunk au #you know this got away from me #this is also like... a few chapter into their relationship #he cant knock us up but he can try

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blackbearmagic · 11 months

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so ya boi has been super depressed, like clinically, for way longer than usual and it led to me heading down to the local psych urgent care for an evaluation today

During the eval, which was over zoom, the person assessing me asked me if I keep any "gods or ancestral gods" in the house.

I'm thinking "weird question for a psych eval, but okay sure", and I get about two sentences into describing my weird pagan ways before she leans into her screen and says "GUNS. Do you keep any G U N S or have ACCESS TO GUNS in the house."

so that's probably the funniest thing that's happened to me recently

#the bear roars #I'm safe #I got a referral to their outpatient day program #I'm kinda looking forward to it?#it's time away from work but it'll be structured and dedicated to figuring out what went kaboom in my brain a month ago #and unkabooming it #and giving me the tools to prevent future kabooming

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