When the knock falls on his door in the middle of the afternoon, Chowder is so grateful for the distraction from his homework he could cry.
He gets up, opens the door, and smiles–it’s Farmer, and she has a cardboard tray with two carry-out cups from Annie’s in her left hand. Kissing her briefly in greeting, he grabs one of the coffee cups. (It doesn’t matter which he takes, since they both drink it the same way anyway-no cream, two sugars.)
“You just saved my life, Cait,” Chowder informs her, sitting back down in his chair as she sits cross-legged on the bed. “I’m pretty sure another two minutes of staring at this screen and I’d, like, snap. Like those people on the news who are just, you know, postal workers or whatever, but then one day out of nowhere they try to stab a nun or something.”
Ya know how we all kinda yell at the attractive people when they show up on our dash being hella attractive? Re: being cute, being sexy, being silly, sleeping, being dirty, being responsible, being carefree, dancing, sing, talking, breaking, etc.
I often wonder about their reactions to our yelling.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Seb! Stop sticking your fucking tongue out. It makes me think about you eating pussy!”
“I swear to God, Christopher Robert, if I see another gif of you touching your own body, I’m going to go up in flames thinking about you masturbating!”
“Tom! For fuck’s sake! Keep your fucking hips still! All I can think of is how good that would feel during sex!”
Anyone want to write any of that? Please write it. Please tag me. Please reblog so we can get someone to write some of this.
I mean, are they aware of it? Would Seb get all apologetic? And then eat you out because he doesn’t want you to be frustrated? Would Chris just get that look in his eye and start rubbing on himself? Would Tom just move his hips closer to yours?
Warnings: SMUT. Unprotected sex(wear a condom, pee after), oral sex (m receiving), face fucking, slight choking, hair pulling, dirty talk, bossy/demanding Steve, rough sex, mentions of being tied up, ass slapping.Also, swearing
AN: I told you there’d be a part two. I’m sorry I’m such a wordy mother fucker but it’s worth it. (so fucking worth it). Enjoy.
After Steve left, you took a long, hot shower. You needed to wash the mission off your skin and you scrubbed long and hard until you felt clean. Then, you turned the water as hot as you could stand it and just stood under the stream.
You had no idea what possessed Steve to kiss you. You were kicking yourself for not kissing him back but you had been shocked into inaction. One minute he was yelling at you, the next, his lips were against yours. You brushed a finger up against your lips trying to make sense of what had happened.
You were also stalling. You didn’t want to go down to dinner and face everyone. You were upset that you’d have to sit out the next three missions. Three! You could feel yourself getting angry again and you took a deep breath trying to calm yourself. You were also embarrassed at your behaviour. You had let your anger get the better of you. But, dammit, you still didn’t know why he was so pissed during the mission.
Eventually the water turned cold and you quickly dressed and headed down to eat. You were hoping it wouldn’t be a full house since you didn’t want to have to answer any questions but luck wasn’t on your side because almost everyone was sitting around the table eating together. As soon as you into the room, everyone stopped talking. You knew they had been talking about you and it made your skin prickle.
“Oh, come on,” you muttered under your breath, taking your seat.
“Sam told us what happened,” Wanda spoke, not unkindly.
He had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Really Wilson? You couldn’t wait for me to share?”
“I’m sorry! After I came to check on you everyone wanted to know if you were okay. It just came out.”
You didn’t respond, instead, choosing to ignore him and eat in silence.
“C’mon, Y/N. Don’t be mad.”
“I’m just impressed you got him to yell at you,” piped up Natasha from the other end of the table. “He never yells.”
“Lucky me then,” you replied, sourly.
Just then, you heard someone clear their throat behind you.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” you turned around. “Does that count as subordination, too, Sir?”
Steve rolled his eyes at you, “No. That’s just you being a brat.”
You could feel your nostrils flare. Standing up abruptly, you picked up your plate, “I’m not that hungry after all,” you said leaving the table before you could get in any more trouble.
danny rand lived with no one but monks since he was 10 years old. he is probably still trying to learn how to be an adult, if not a person in general. and on the account of all the “take a shot every time danny calls himself danny rand of rand enterprises or the immortal iron fist”, what the fuck? have you considered that those are the only things he knows how to be?? like, actually??
no one is saying the kid isnt privileged as fuck, im certainly not saying that at all. but when luke gave him the speech on white privilege and having power since the moment he was born, danny didn’t have a single thing to say in argument because he knew that luke was right!!!
danny rand is a good person with a kind heart who is trying to do the right thing. he gets caught up in that sometimes, obviously. he obviously is misguided a lot of the time. but jesus christ stop making him out to be some asshole who is purposefully trying to make things hard on other people, or purposefully trying to flaunt his money or power.
if you didnt like the iron fist series for whatever reason. then fine, that’s your own opinion. but jeez, so many people are holding it against danny for not knowing how the real world works after he’s been removed from it for the past 15 years.
Claire awoke abruptly, gasping for air. The sky was still dark and the air around her small hiding place in a niche of the little hill was still and silent. Her skin was cold and clammy and she raised a trembling hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. No explosions. No screams. No suffocating weight or bone deep chill. The smell of blood was replaced by the smell of dry earth.
A dream. It had only been a dream. Breathe in. Out. Slower. In…. out…. in…. out.
She rolled onto her side, curling in on herself under the solar blanket that was her saving grace on cold nights like these. It had slipped off while she slept, which may have explained the nightmare. Claire never could sleep well when chilled, especially after her parents died in that car crash when she was small. It had been a cold night that night too. Almost as cold as her parent’s had been when she said goodbye for the last time before the funeral…
“Stop it, Beauchamp,” Claire whispered firmly, trying to relax her shaking muscles. She closed her eyes, trying to focus her mind on something to hang on to until she could relax into sleep again. Warm things. Warmth. Frank’s lips against hers…
Claire flinched involuntarily. No, too painful. Something else. Anything else. Campfires. The sun in Egypt, high and hot as a furnace over one of her Uncle Lamb’s archeological dig sites. Fresh tea. Hot baths.
Claire almost groaned at the thought. Yes, that would do. She breathed out slowly, imagining how the warmth of the water used to seep into her muscles. The steam would have coated her face like her sweat did now and she breathed in and out again, imagining the scents of candles and soap. There would have been nothing to worry over, no shifts to get to at the hospital, no dinner parties with Frank’s colleagues. Just time and space for her mind and body to go blissfully blank for a bit. Claire vaguely registered that the solar blanket was warming her again before her muddled mind gave in to sleep once more.
Claire Beauchamp Randall was never a woman to panic. Being raised by her eccentric archeologist uncle and therefore being voluntarily toted around the world from a young and impressionable age did much to dispel emotions of this type from entering her mind. Joining the British army and becoming a nurse when the Last World War was declared only solidified her ability to emotionally detach as needed. She was, however, realistic.
She bent at the edge of the stream, wanting nothing more than to drink greedily and damn the consequences. It had been almost two days without water and the mere sound of it lapping against the bank made her swallow. Claire sighed, pacifying her thirst by swishing a handful of water inside her mouth and spitting it out again before gathering small sticks for a fire. She ran her damp fingers through the curly mass of her hair, tying it back and out of her way.
If her unusual upbringing taught her anything it was that ill prepared food,drink, and medical supplies could kill just as well as a wild animal or person could, albeit much slower and sometimes more painfully. She thought the stream might be safe enough, but couldn’t take the risk. At one point, most water sources around the world had been destroyed or filled with chemicals as a weapon.
While Claire didn’t think Scotland had fallen prey to those tactics, being so far removed from the centralized sources of conflict, she had to proceed as she would anywhere else. After all, rumors still circulated of continued conflict and uses of force, despite the fallout of technological civilization. Groups of wanderers coming together to make their own new civilization and social structure of sorts. Claire avoided what appeared to be large encampments of people for that very reason.
The only person or thing she could trust was herself and, for all she felt safe in this quiet forest of trees, Claire allowed herself a rare moment to let that reality sink in. She’d come to terms with her parents’ deaths quite readily, being young and thrust into new worlds unknown. The vague memories she had of them were pleasant ones and she kept them locked safe away in what she pictured as a small, ornamental box in her mind.
Uncle Lamb had been killed in a bombing raid toward the end of the Last War while he was lecturing at University. At this point, any thought for civilian lives was shot to hell in the attacks on schools, libraries, cinemas, and any other manner of public gathering place. British military had been evacuating mainland Europe when it happened. Claire didn’t find out until she went to Uncle Lamb’s flat and found it dusty and vacant, all belongings looted. He’d died two weeks before.
Frank. The thought of her husband brought her right hand automatically to her left, fingers caressing the simple gold band on her ring finger. Claire had made it home during the evacuation. Frank had not. They’d had little contact throughout the War, partially due to the need for secrecy and partially due to the breakdown in communication technology after the data viruses were set loose. Uncle Lamb always joked that technology would be the end of man.
He was right, Claire thought. She bent to her studiously arranged pile of twigs and dry sticks, pulling the flint and small knife out of her cargo pants pocket. She was about to strike the first spark when a shot rang out, echoing through the trees overhead and all but making her heart stop.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she gasped, ducking low and gathering up her pack. Too loud to be a pistol. Not automatic though… Another shot, this one closer and accompanied by yelling from two different directions. The last thing she needed was to get caught in the middle of territory dispute.
Claire ran, keeping as low as she could while trying not to slip down the bank and into the water. She grabbed her canteen to keep it from making noise as it thumped against her side. Another shot, this one even closer….
She’d ran smack into a man hiding in the trees. He grabbed her and wrapped his arms around her to keep her from falling. Or perhaps more, as Claire discovered, to keep her from escaping. She thrashed in his arms.
“Let GO of me you bloody..”
Claire turned, ready to slash at his face, but ceased fighting abruptly. Her first thought was that he was Frank, but that thought vanished as quickly as it took him to shove her to the ground. She felt her palm scrape on a rock of some sort and her pack fell off her shoulder. She sat gaping at him like a landed trout. Seeing him now, she knew it wasn’t Frank. Still, the resemblance…. lean body, brown hair, handsome, and his eyes…
“Who are you?” Claire asked, hoping her voice sounded steady.
“I might ask you the same question and with considerably more justification,” the man replied, moving to stand menacingly over her.
“Just what do you think..?” Claire began, trying to stand up. The stranger put a hard hand on her shoulder, forcing her back down again.
“I am Captain Jonathan Randall, British Army. And you, madam, will stay put.”
Claire had to repress the urge to stand and salute. Instead, she kicked him hard in the shins and whirled to make another run for it. All the air left her lungs as he tackled her to the ground.
“Oh, like that is it? Well…” Captain Randall turned her over, gasping, onto her back and pinned her arms above her head in a viselike grip. Black dots clouded her vision as he put his face within an inch of hers. “Who are you and what are you..”
Whatever he’d been going to ask got cut short as a figure stepped out from behind the nearest tree and clocked Captain Randall in the back of the head, sending him toppling to the side. Claire gasped for breath, the dark spots overcoming her. The last thing she remembered before she gave into them was looking up and seeing a pair of slanted blue cat-like eyes.
•make simon bi
•make simon bi
•stop rizzy like Jesus Christ no thanks
•clace and FAST
•simon being bi
•the complete and instantaneous destruction of climon
•simon being bi
•more malec and no censorship jfc
•did i mention simon being bi would really improve the show
GRRM did not spend nearly three decades writing and developing hundreds of characters just for this sad excuse of fanfiction. Stop bringing up the interview, he didn’t say Jonerys was endgame. A man like George, you’ve gotta expect him to throw things at us and yet you’ve still got to question whether or not he was being honest. All he said was that the point is to have these two characters meet and therefore have their plot converge. That much is known and is sort of obvious considering they were bound to meet at one point or another.
No where did he state that this was going to be an epic romance and nothing else, no other single character matters. Whether or not Jonerys happens romantically, no one knows for sure! But even if it does happen with both characters genuinely falling for the other - it does not guarantee endgame. Please stop harassing Jonsa shippers or any other people that don’t ship Jonerys because you think GRRM ‘confirmed’ it, the same way D&D have been forcing it down our throats and trying their best to sell it. Stop acting as if they haven’t played us before by misleading us. The fact still remains; a majority of us don’t buy what we’re seeing on screen and that gives us reasonable doubt.
But more importantly, stop disrespecting GRRM’s writing by reducing it to only focus on your ship. Yes, by all means, you can ship whatever you want! Please just stop coming at everyone else and saying they’re the whole point of the series(romantically)! Because a number of things could happen, and this is Game of Thrones; GRRM had always said incest was what brought upon the downfall of the Targaryens - perhaps this is another cautionary tale! He’s also talked about how he enjoys writing about the human heart in conflict with itself - so maybe it’s of a certain someone who has to decide to deceive someone in a manner that may be taken as dishonourable for the greater good! No one knows until the very last episode is aired and the very last book is published. Please respect GRRM’s that much to not take everything as it is.
If you ship Jonerys, I’m happy for you guys that you’re finally getting the material you’ve waited for for so long! Enjoy the show, make edits, make art! Celebrate your ship! But Jesus Christ, stop coming to other people’s tags and telling them they’re salty. Not everyone watches the show for a heteronormative ship.
So, CNN publishes a piecegoing in-depth as to how antifa employs violence, is ramping up efforts/membership, and how it’s left-wing anti-capitalist violence. They say that the violence is counter-productive, goes against the stated goals of antifa, and fuels racist rhetoric. This is on top of anotherpiece published 3 days before where they explicitly say that it is a goal of antifa to gain prominence through political violence
So, how does the right-wing react?
Maybe it’s just me. But maybe people should actually read what they’re commenting on and know what the fuck they’re talking about.
Jesus Christ you fuckers are making me defend CNN. Stop.