Manicure Tip #1: If you ever flood your cuticles or get too much nail polish under your nails while you’re wrapping the tips, or don’t have the dexterity to paint a smooth, intentional gap, you can just take an orange stick or something and kind of run it along the edge of your cuticle while the polish is still wet to make a “cut” that separates the polish from your skin. This is helpful because if you “glue” your cuticle to your nail bed, the polish will peel right off because it didn’t adhere correctly. You want a slight gap, even if it’s just enough that the area still moves slightly without being stuck in place by polish.
Manicure Tip #2: If you pull out your pocket knife and use the flathead screwdriver to clear nail polish out of your cuticles in front of a straight dude, he WILL lecture you about how that’s not what it’s for, as though he legitimately thinks you don’t know what the fuck a MANLY, MANLY screwdriver is and were such a HORRIBLE, FEMININE airhead that you assumed your cute little knifey poo came with nail care tools just because it also has a file.
Manicure Tip #3: Like, seriously, who insults the intelligence of someone with a knife.
Manicure Tip #4: I mean, I didn’t stab the dude, but I super could’ve.
Manicure Tip #5: Seriously, man, you think I don’t know what a screwdriver is because I wear nail polish? It’s called overcoming functional fixedness, ya’ dick.
Manicure Tip #6: It should be legal to stab people, but just like. A little bit. Like maybe you cut a button off of their shirt or fuck up their bangs and you go to court like, “This fucker for reals thought I didn’t know what a screwdriver was.”
Manicure Tip #7: The L.A. Colors “Color Last” nail polishes are really nice if you go for the lighter colours, but the dark ones have that kind of jelly-looking transparency that makes them hard to get opaque in under four coats. But at less than two dollars a bottle, you really can’t be too upset about it. Brush size is a little much, hence the cuticle flooding, but still a good product for the price point.
So after Michael Chu confirmed that the details on the tv in the background of the Pharah panel in Reflections were not only deliberate but also meant to hint about her location and her father’s nationality -
This tinyass image -
On a page with this much other stuff -
It made me curious about any other potential details I previously overlooked or wrote off as “just a funny coincidence” and rather surprisingly, I might have kinda found something??
I mean, there’s a shitton here but what I originally wrote off as being “just another background piece” is the map -
…These are not Watchpoints.
These are the Watchpoints that still exist at the time of Recall - you can find this map on Watchpoint: Gibraltar (I did not write these locations, but this is the clearest, head-on image I could find.)
The image from the Uprising comic
Are active missions or points of interest.
Locations that I can determine are:
Cairo, Egypt (based on the other screen discussing the “Cairo Incident”)
They’re in Bellefleur, Oregon, and they’re making a mistake.
Rain crashes into the window, the motel mattress groans. Skin on skin, illuminated in restless candlelight, a rush of pulsing shadows passing over them, between them, betwixt. Fucking her feels primal, ancient, vital. He can almost hear the Beltane drums.
She’s hot and slick under the slow sway of his hips, cheeks cherry-wine, fingernails thrusting tiny crescent moons into his ass. Her rain-ruined hair unfurls on the pillow like ink in water. Her kisses are voluptuous, hedonistic, her soft tongue, her lazy lips. They lock eyes and can’t seem to break away.
Don’t trust her, he tells himself, but she’s so tender and proud and something within him aches with profound excitement when he looks at her. They’re just worked up from the case, he tells himself. They’re just blowing off steam. Just this once.
(He can’t afford the distraction. He doesn’t deserve to be touched. She has a boyfriend, he thinks. And anyway, she’s not his type.)
Her orgasm is heartbreakingly earnest. She gasps and laughs in surprise and spasms around his cock and calls him Fox. He’s too wired to come, but after they’re showered and dressed and after they’ve made their sheepish vows not to let it or anything like it happen again, he does something far more intimate.
Cop on a power trip gets grilled by a judge....and tries to shit talk me, then gets probably fired/moved away.
Okay so background: my house is literally connected to my elementary school’s perimeter. I occasionally used to go there at the ripe age of 15 to rip around with my RC nitro cars on weekends. No cars, actually the parking gates were closed but not the human entrances.
Rinse and repeat for 2 years with no problems. I even had patrolling RCMP officers come over and try out my kewl toys. In return, they would oull out a HUGE drone from their car and fly it around me to show me what drones are like and what speeds they can go at.
This went well till 2015. 2016 June comes and I am still doing that stuff while suddenly I hear police sirens. Out comes a cop, gives me a HUGE lecture about how I’m on federal property and I need to IMMEDIATELY get off because I do not have permission. This hot shot acted like I was stealing shit or something, he even looked through my bag without permission and found a pack of “dangerous liquid packs” which turned out to be rubbing alcohol for my hands.
Anyways, he issues me a $187 ticket for unlawfully operating a remote controlled blah blah (I forgot).
I was thinking, f*ck this. I’ll fight it in court. I did my research and the ticket he gave me was actually for people who rip around in their oil powered RC planes in private spaces without permission. This was obviously some bullshit. I even got the recording of his car dealing with me.
A few months later, I go to the court to contest it (that’s the set date). A**hole cop is there, and he tells me that before I go to the court, he can make my fine half if I plead guilty. I say no and I am pretty sure he said “f*cking b*tch” under his breath.
We go inside the court room, a**hole is all loud and proud when giving his statement. He straight up LIES, saying I was being belligerent and I almost ran away in fear.
Well, cameras don’t lie a**hole! When it was my turn to give my statement, I played back his cruiser dashcam, which CLEARLY showed him being a dick, pointing his hands away as if he’s going to fight a 17 year old puny 5 foot 8 guy.
The judge f*cking grilled him. She constantly said this was an abuse of power, a waste of resources, and that recommended the officer to read up on what public and federal restricted property was. The whole ordeal was embarrassing for him and I kind of felt bad because people were giving him dagger eyes the whole time.
Anyways, ticket is thrown out and I head out the room. I see the cop on the parking lot, and right as I pass by, he says exactly “f*cking brown motherf*cker, get f*cked”. I was f*cking shocked by this, so I went home and filed a complaint at his Depot.
No response for 7 days, then 15. So I call them back about it.
“Yes, he is not working at this branch anymore, we can still assist you with anything pertaining to this report sir.”
“No it’s alright, thanks”.
That was it. A**hole either got fired, or got moved away.
Stiles quits the FBI program upon seeing Derek in the FBI watchlist files and decides to find him and help him hide. It takes a couple months, but when Stiles finally sees Derek boarding a bus, he feels a sort of peace fall on him and he realizes that what he did was the best decision. This is where he should be, this is his calling. To be with Derek and to live in the supernatural world.
He and Derek spend a long night talking and arguing in a hotel room and in the early hours of the morning, they finally settle on hiding from the cops together. Stiles wouldn’t have had it any other way, he had to fight long and hard on his way to Derek and he wasn’t going to back down easily. Derek knows Stiles had realized his feelings and he knows that Stiles will never leave or let Derek leave; not when Stiles proved that he can fight for himself and fight for Derek if need be.
The Dozens of Times Eddie Kapbrak Came Home, and the One Time He Didn’t
(A Story in Sonia’s POV)
–There was the one time Eddie came home angry. Slamming doors, cursing under his breath. I was upset at the language, but more worried he’d catch a little finger, or a toe in the cabinets or doors. I asked why and he pushed me away. He had always been doing that lately. Am I being too much of a worrier? Maybe I am. He’s older now, and doesn’t need me as much. As much as that hurts to admit, seventeen is old enough to be independent.
–He came home crying again. He’d been doing a lot of that, too. Something was different. He came to me for once. I was selfishly happy, but that left me when I saw him. He had a bruise under his left eye. His lip was cut, and his hands were shaking and red, a sign that he’d had a panic attack again. Those signs used to be foreign to me until he told me those weren’t asthma like I had thought for years. I’d like to think of myself as an almost expert on them now. The only thing hard for me to tell anymore is what might cause them. He has them so often. Eddie comes to me, and sits down, panting. He looks worn down and sad and resigned, as if he’s accepted a heavy fate, or like he was waiting for a piano to fall on him.
This time when I ask him what’s wrong, he crumbles and starts to cry again. He tells me Henry and his psychopath friends cornered him in the locker room, and roughed him up. He shows me his ribs, and I see red. Partly the dried blood, partly rage. That little freak carved the word “Fag” into Eddie’s little side. It takes everything in me not to take him to the hospital, but Eddie insists he cleaned and dressed it as much as it needed, and it wasn’t deep, no stitches needed. I prayed with everything in me that it wouldn’t scar. When I asked him why they would choose that word, he becomes silent again. He seems to be trying to find the right words to say, and eventually he does. He tells me, stuttering more than the elder Denbrough boy, that it’s because they saw him kissing Richard Tozier. I had nothing to say, and he goes to his room before I could find the right words. I did eventually, over dinner. I tried to make a lighthearted joke, and said he could do better than little Richie Tozier, and that I loved him. He did laugh, but he also cried. This time it was the good way.
–One time he came home excited, his feet barely touching the ground as he ran upstairs. I called out to him to get the door, but he was down just as fast heading out again. His cheeks are pink and his eyes are bright, and I can’t help but to think that just a few months ago this same boy was crying in shame over what had happened. He was a lot happier in general, due in part I suppose to coming out, but mostly Richard. Richie, Richie this, and Richie that. I almost wanted to tell him I was tired of hearing it, but his happiness wasn’t something I could get tired of. Despite being a trouble maker and a bad mouth, he did take care of Eddie. I did tell him to stop coming home with love marks- unsanitary and shameless little things. I tried not to think about the fact that he still probably got them where I couldn’t see them. He may be an adult next month but he’s still my little angel.
He tells me he’s finally going out on a real date, just the two of them. That they’re going to see a movie, and he tells me not to wait up. I know I’ll try to, but he always manages to come home after I fall asleep. Sneaky little boy. He tells me he’s already left the name, address, and number of the movie theatre on the counter, and that he’ll be with Richie who can be reached as well. I have his number in my Rolodex, as I do his parents, and the rest of his friends- you never know when you might need them. He kisses my cheek and practically skips out to the beat up truck Richard drives. It has a bench seat and the driver seatbelt doesn’t work most of the time, and I cringe thinking about Richie just sitting on it so he doesn’t get a ticket for not actually wearing it. Eddie promised me he’d never drive it, so at least there’s that.
–He came home today, silent. It’s almost worse when he does that instead of crying. Eddie was pale, and he had dark circles under his eyes. I asked if he was okay, and he just stares at me. It feels like an eternity when he opens and says “The school won’t let Richie and I go to prom together… They said if we showed up they’d kick us out.” His voice sounds so fragile and small, like he doesn’t feel like a real person. I’m furious. I tell him I’ll call the school, but he begs me not to. He says it’s okay, he knew it would happen, that this is just the way things are. I, however, will not stand this. As soon as he goes to his room, I call his principle. I can’t remember exactly what I said, though I am equal parts embarrassed and proud to have used foul language in place of his name. “Mr. Shitstain” and I came to an agreement that they may attend as long as they are within a larger group. He will not allow them to have couple’s pictures, but he did reluctantly allow that they dance together. I tell Eddie in the morning and he cries and hugs me. He goes to Richie to give him good news.
–He comes home after prom with a photo- the whole group is in it, all holding a sign that says “Loser’s Club”. I cringed at the name, but they chose it for themselves years ago. Eddie and Richie are next to each other, and I suppress an eye roll that Richard had ripped open his shirt to reveal an exclamation point painted on his pale abdomen at the last moment. The picture is slightly blurred, and Eddie confirms my theory when he laughs and says the camera guy was startled and tried to lunge at Richard to put all of his clothes back on. Despite this, I see the stars in his eyes. He is happy, so I am happy.
–Lately he’s been coming home with heaps of papers, college letters, essays, SATs, tests. I try not to think about him leaving. I turn up the volume on the TV or the radio when he uses the phone to talk to his friends about it. It hurts and he knows it hurts. I’ve never been good at not worrying. This goes on for weeks. I fail to keep my tears in when he’s at school or out with friends, but at the same time, I’m immensely proud. He’s such a good boy.
–This time he comes home, and he doesn’t say a word, and I can’t see him from the kitchen but I know something is wrong. His feet are dragging and his breathing sounds funny. I drop the spoon into the soup when I hear a crash. He’s laying on the floor and crying. Despite him being curled up in a ball I can see he’s covered in bruises and cuts, and bleeding badly. I try not to scream but when I rush to him I can’t hold it, he’s been cut up badly again, more words carved into his soft belly and his thighs. I can see the word “Queer” seeping through his khaki pantleg as he sobs. This time, he does need stitches. In many places. The only thing he says to me from the hospital bed is that he is oh so tired of this town. Richard never leaves his side, growling at anyone who causes him pain or wakes him up, like a wild animal. I’ve decided that I am incredibly grateful that he is who he is.
He’s in the hospital for three days. Night one was cleaning and stitching and recounting what happened. The police had been called to file a report. He hesitantly confesses that Henry, Patrick, and the other cretins did this to him. Chief Bowers is red with rage. I hear him in the hallway calling my son a “flamer” but that his boy was “going to get it”. This is the first and only time I’ve yelled at a cop. Richie laughs and holds up his hand for a high five, something I wouldn’t usually reciprocate, but tonight is a night of firsts. Night two was observation and tests to see how bad the internal injuries might be. He has a concussion, but they found no internal damage aside from bruises and a cracked rib. They send him home wrapped in Ace bandages and taped up like Richard’s glasses. That night he tells me he needs to leave, that he can’t take this anymore. I’m angry, and admittedly irrational. We do not speak to each other for a week.
–When we speak again, he walks in the door with Richie, William, and Michael. Out of his friends, Michael is my favorite despite where he lives being so messy. He brings me flowers and fresh fruits and vegetables. He washes them himself, but only once he gets here so I can see it. He’s a very well mannered and intelligent man. William is wonderful too, but I feel guilt in having trouble understanding him, and he has a habit of talking with his mouth full. He’s not as messy as Richard, so at least there is that. Eddie has healed nicely so far, most of the stitches are out already, and the scars he has, though sadly legible, are hidden under clothes. His lip and eyebrow have small scars, but they are hard to notice. The boys have folded boxes in their hands. I knew this was coming, but I still couldn’t bear it. I stubbornly told him I wouldn’t help him, and that I wouldn’t watch him either. He only nods his head, looking down.
They pack up his belongings, and I step out into the yard, smoking my first cigarette in years. I swiped one from the Marsh girl months ago, when Eddie was starting to talk about college. I thought that was the worst, but this hurts more. He’s leaving too soon, and I can’t stop him. He promised me he’d finish high school, and go to college, but that he would not live here, in Derry. Because we weren’t completely speaking, I have no idea where he’s moving, and now I’m too embarrassed to ask. When I go back inside, William hands me a piece of paper, his handwriting surprisingly neat, with Eddie’s address, and number. He was moving just outside of the city, into the matchbox apartments. With Richard. I can’t help it. When he walks out of the front door with his things, he kisses my cheek. I can’t help it. When the car drives away, their silhouettes in the windshield. I can’t help it. I sit down on the porch, and I begin to cry. I can’t help it.
–He doesn’t come in the door anymore. Not the way he used to. No angry slams, no excited pops as the door hits the wall. No silent entries when he’s tired. No little footsteps. He doesn’t come home. He visits, sometimes with Richard, and with his friends. He calls frequently, too. He’s a good boy. Time passes, and he came to visit after graduation. He got accepted to a college in Maine. I try to hide how happy that makes me. I promise I won’t go to the dorms too much. He and Richie talk about their lease ending and moving on campus. His little group of friends are trying their best to stick together. They all got accepted to the same school, and will try to attend until their majors take them elsewhere. It’s nice knowing that he’ll have so many friends.
He doesn’t come home, but he visits. Holidays he even stays in his old room. Sometimes. Other times he stays with William in his new house, just down the street from mine. Sometimes they visit Richie’s parents, or Michael’s farm. It’s a lot like it used to be, but it isn’t the same. I know it never will be, and while I’m sad, I’m happy too. He doesn’t come home, but he gets married in the same church I was married in. They make the paper as the first same sex couple to get married in Derry. Someone booed them as they walked to their car, but before anyone said anything, Richard flipped them off. I don’t tell Eddie, but I caught it on camera. It’s framed in my room, shameful but endearing. He doesn’t come home, but he visits often, asking for advice. We’ll have lunch together and talk about stain removal, and he’s picked up cross stitching for Richard’s anniversary gift. He’s going to make a sign that says “Tozier-Kaspbrak” for their sitting room.
He doesn’t come home, but he visits often. Many times with Richard, and even more happily with their new daughter. I’ve always wanted a daughter, so I spoil her rotten. I try not to be so overbearing as I was with Eddie. I know it had the wrong impression on him, and I don’t want her to feel the same. I give her sweets when they aren’t looking, and I teach her all about keeping a good home, and let her watch football with me when they need a babysitter. Eddie doesn’t know, but sports are a guilty pleasure of mine. I want her well rounded, too- to know that girls can like whatever they please. Her name is Amelia Isabelle, and she grows so fast. He doesn’t come home anymore, not like he used to. And I’m so, so grateful. He’s leading a good and proud life, and I’ve never been more proud to be the mother of Edward Tozier-Kaspbrak. He doesn’t come anymore, but when he visits, it’s like he never left at all.I’ve lived a good little life, I feel.
“Sonia Kaspbrak, 65, passed in her sleep in her home of Derry, Maine. Natural causes. She leaves her son, son-in-law, and granddaughter. Funeral to be held this Saturday, July 17th at the First Church of Derry. She will be fondly remembered by all who knew her. Everyone is welcome to attend the open service ceremony being held to celebrate her life. Thank you, Richard Tozier-Kaspbrak”
Author’s Notes: I’ve been having a pretty shitty week, so I created a world where pretty men like Roman make life better by praising you and giving you lots of orgasms. Also, thank you so much for all the support and kind words about parts 1 and 2, I really appreciate it! There may be a part 4? I got more ideas.
Word Count: 2,888 (sorry it’s so much shorter than last time, I didn’t have a lot of free time this week).
Warnings: Smut. I mean have we seen Roman Godfrey/ Bill Skarsgard?? He deserves all the smut he can get! Also grammar mistakes, cause I’m human.
It was a backhanded comment, something most people would overlook and laugh off, but Roman couldn’t let it slide. He hated anytime you put yourself down. He could feel his blood boil in his veins out of anger because to him, you were the only part of his life that was good and wholesome. Being with you made him proud of the man he was for the first time in his whole life. It was unfathomable to him that you could somehow see the goodness in him and not be able to see it in yourself.
Roman was standing by the window in his office at home, going over the presentation he was going to have to suffer through the next day, when you came in. He looked up from his file, his eyes slowly gazing up the length of your legs, to the bottom of your tight black pencil skirt, that stopped midthigh, dragging along the flowy silk top that showcased your cleave tastefully, and then to your beautiful face. Your hair slicked back to the messy bun with wisp pieces falling down effortlessly. A vision of you as a sexy teacher or librarian had him biting his lips. You plopped your stuff down on one of the armchairs by the door and made your way over to him. Taking your hair down in a huff of annoyance at the day’s events. The billionaire watched your every step as your black leather pumps clicked against the hardwood.
“Well, I fucked up yet another job interview. Maybe I’m destined to work minimum wage for the rest of my life” you declared, flopping down ungracefully in the chair at his desk. You spun around to face him. He was leaning against the glass like a god, hair slicked back and sporting a dark purple dress shirt, black vest, and pressed slacks, despite working at home. Slowly, Roman closed the yellow manila folder and gave you his full attention. “Who knows, maybe one day I’ll win waitress of the year! Most fries served in a single hour! You think I’d still look good in that skirt once my legs get all wrinkly?” you teased, lifting your legs up and pretending to give them a good look. Roman scoffed, shaking his head and telling you to knock it off.
“You’re the smartest person I know. Anyone with half a brain can see that.” He turned back to his file and proceeded to continue his work. You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, and what good has that gotten me,” you mumbled under your breath. The tone of your voice made Roman realize he was finished with the files and that you were pressing task at hand. You sat there, not paying the young CEO very much attention, instead envisioning yourself at a desk like this one at your own company. Calling the shots, walking down the street with your head held high, knowing that you earned everything you had and that your hard work and determination got you there. Roman moved in front of you, leaning down and resting both hands on the arms of the chair so he was eye level with you, which snapped you out of your daydreams.
“You need to believe me. You’ll get the job. All those dreams you told me about will come true.” His big green eyes that you love didn’t blink once. He tried desperately to be a source of encouragement for you. Roman didn’t work to get where he was and he was paying for that now. Having to work twice as hard as everyone just to understand what the board members were talking about, trying to understand the financial statements that everyone thought he was too dumb to read. But he knew you could make it because you had put in the work while he was busy being a playboy. However, the mocking smile you sported was starting to wear down his patience. You rolled your eyes at him and laughed. “Oh Roman, next you’re gonna say Prince Charming is going to burst through those doors and rescue me from this evil world. I know you bought me a ball gown and everything, but we have to get back to reality.” You pressed your hand on his chest so you could get up from the chair. But Roman wasn’t giving up that easily. His large hand took a hold of your shoulder and pushed you back down in the chair gently, but forcefully.
“You told me that you believed in me and my strength. Then believe me now. You’ll make it.” Roman whispered, searching your face to ensure you were listening to him. You shook your head, still not believing you deserved his belief in you. For one, you never did anything to deserve or earn it and you knew deep down that you weren’t good enough for him. “Roman, you’re wasting your time on me. Maybe Olivia was right, maybe you do deserve better”, you confessed defeatedly. “The type of woman you should be with is accomplished and beautiful. She’s someone worthy enough to stand by your side. That woman isn’t coming home smelling like bacon grease every night.” You let out a breath of exhaustion and got up once more. This nagging voice has been in your head since the day he came into your room and gave you the most intense pleasure you had ever felt in your entire life. And the more he did for you, the more gifts and praises he showered on you, the louder the voice became. You wanted him, yes, but you also wanted him to move on. You were honored to be part of his list of conquests, but he deserved someone better. You pushed Roman out of your way and walked around Godfrey’s towering frame.
“That’s bullshit”, He growled.
Taking hold of your arm and freezing your movements, Roman pulled you back into his chest. You could almost feel the anger rumbling inside of him, his breathing was getting heavier. “Do you think I would have just any woman stand by my side in front of all those investors? Do you think I would spoil anyone with jewelry and French lingerie? Do you-“ he took a deep breath trying to calm his fury. His words started slipping through clenched teeth. “Do you really think I would give anything with two breasts and a pussy an orgasm cause they asked?” Roman’s large hands slid up your back, taking a strong grip of your hair and pulling your head up to face him, the strength of his hands made your heart race with excitement and he made sure he had your complete attention. “You’re mine. And if I own it, you speak about it with the utmost respect. Am I clear?”
Slowly, you nodded your head and Roman let go of your hair. Your eyes blinked rapidly in shock, but the throbbing in between your thighs shocked you even more than his words or actions. His strength, his dominance, and his claim over you, left you breathless. Furthermore, you had never seen him this angry before. Yeah, you’d see him make a snide remark at Olivia from time to time, but the way his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed should make fear run down your spine. But instead, he just left you breathless. Deep in your heart, you knew the brunette would never hurt you, no matter how strong his build was.
Roman started pacing back and forth. He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, and took a few quick puffs before putting on the ashtray on the windowsill behind him. It was still lit, the red tip leaked smoke as its owner abandoned it to his thoughts. You weren’t sure if you should stay or not, so you opted to take your stuff and go. As you started to walk away, Roman took a quick glance at you, then back at his desk, before haphazardly pushing everything onto the floor. Important documents, books, and random desk supplies came crashing down, making you freeze midstep and jump out of nervousness.
“Get over here” he pointed to the spot in front of him, breathing heavily. You could feel his eyes on the back of your head as you turned on your heel. He ran his smooth hands through his hair, messing up the nearly perfect cut, as he watched you approach him. Once you two were inches apart, he took hold of your face and claimed your lips. He moved roughly, biting at your lips and pressing his body against yours. You were so engrossed with the efforts his lips to leave a bruise on your own, that you didn’t even notice him unbuttoning his vest and shirt, ridding himself of the garments. He broke the kiss, leaving you heaving against his desk, as he leaned over to make sure he cleared the last few items from its glass surface. And when he returned his attention back to you, he had no problems lifting you onto the desk’s edge and wrapping your legs around his waist. Once again, he leaned down to capture your lips, slipping his fingers through the strands of your hair and pulling your head up to his level. Roman’s unoccupied hand slid down to the bottom of your shirt to lift the garment free from the skirt’s constraints and pulling it over your head, unfortunately breaking the kiss once again. In seconds he moved to your neck, nipping and teasing the area just under your ear, turning you into a moaning mess.
“You don’t think you deserve me? Baby, do you even know how wrong you are?” His body moved so fluidly against yours as he took hold of neck giving him better access to kiss its smooth skin once more. “I’ll prove it. Would you like that sweetheart? Would you like me to prove how much I want you?” he whispered, teasingly, in your ear. Roman’s hands graze up your thighs under your skirt, rubbing circles with his thumbs, before taking hold of your damp panties and guiding them down the length of your legs, making sure your heels were undisturbed. Once freed, he held the dampened piece of lace fabric in his hand, marveling at it, before looking back at you.
“You know,” he started to confess his eyes focused intently on the darkened spot, “after that night at the ball, I kept those panties I gave you. I could smell you on them for days. It would get me so hard. Seeing you around town, knowing that when I got home at night I would jack off to the smell of you. The proof of how much you wanted me.” You moaned at his words, he bit his lips as his hands pried your legs open as far as they would go under the limitations of the skirt. A single finger slipped inside you, not all the way, but enough for the tycoon to feel his affects on you. Your breath hitched as he pushed it a little further before letting it slip out. He grazed the finger across his swollen pink lips before slipping it completely in his mouth. He let his eyes close momentarily savoring your taste before looking up at you through his lashes.
“And now I get to taste it from the source”
Mouth open wide, and chest heaving, you groaned at the sight before you. If Roman didn’t touch you soon, you might just cum from witnessing his sinful behaviors. Smoothly, his fingers reached behind you and took hold of the skirt’s zipper, nothing but the sound of it coming undone and heavy breathing could be heard echoing off the dark grey walls. You lifted yourself from the table, allowing him to rid you of the garment before he fell to his knees before you. Like a knight indebted to his queen, Roman was more than willing to satisfy any and all of your desires. His large hands slowly slid up your calf, pausing at your knew to give each one a soft kiss, before continuing up your thigh. He pried your legs open easily and placed one of your legs over his broad shoulder. You let out a soft hiss as he bit the soft skin of your thigh, leaving a small indentation that he soothed quickly with his tongue.
The sight before you was something you prayed you would never forget. Roman Godfrey, the most powerful man in Hemlock Grove, on his knees looking up at you. His sturdy frame that usually towered and intimidated all who stood by him, was now in service to you. Large green eyes stared up at you, watching you as he let his broad tongue glide over your opening before moving upwards towards your clit. Circling the swollen nub and giving it an open kiss. A shiver ran through you as you realized that he was warming you up and you were already tingling all over. And with no more reservations, Roman held both your legs open and buried his face between them. Sucking your clit between his swollen lips, he began alternating to broad strokes of his tongue. Instinctually, your legs started quaking around his head and the heel of your pumps began to dig angry red marks into his shoulders. Roman let out a satisfied moan before releasing you from his mouth. He watched you for a second, head thrown back in pleasure and grasping at your lace covered cleavage.
“Take it off. And open those pretty lips” he ordered. You two moved in unison. He sat up higher so two fingers could slip easily into your mouth, as you reached behind you and freed yourself from the bra’s constraint. He pulled his fingers out and drew small circles around your opening, smearing your arousal around in tight circles. He kept circling into you met his gaze, his green eyes locked onto yours. He wanted to watch you as he slipped inside. And the sight he was greeted with was better than he fantasized. The long digits slipped inside causing your eyes rolled back in ecstasy and your mouth to fall open.
“Fuck, Roman” you praised. He was able to reach your sweetest spot in one thrust of his fingers. The Godfrey smiled up at you before returning those gorgeous pink lips to those bundle of nerves he was so fond of. Once he curved his fingers, your orgasm was now only seconds away. “Roman, I can’t hold it,” you warned him, turning your head back and forth. Your fingers took firm hold of his hair, ensuring he stayed anchored at your most tender spot. He groaned, encouraging to pull at it harder. Before you knew it, your thighs were shaking, your heart was racing, so fast you could hear it in your head, and you started clenching around his fingers. Something else was building up inside you that you weren’t familiar with, but Roman refused to let up. You made a soft whine that was caught off by your body’s attempt to breathe, but his fingers stayed curved, manipulating the nerves inside of you.
And then it hit you. Your thighs snapped closed around Roman’s head and your heels dug so deep into his shoulder that he was convinced you drew blood, but he didn’t give a fuck about that. No, what he cared about is the burst of wetness that coated his finger and lips. All he thought about for days was seeing if it was possible to make you cum so hard that he would be able to taste you all over him. He lifted himself up from the floor to take your still quivering body into his arms. You convulsed a few more times as he circled your clit once more and then released you. He continued to hold you until you came down from your high. The billionaire’s heart was racing out of his chest, but he ignored his desires in order to make sure you were ok. Once you’re breathing was somewhat normalized, Roman lifted your chin so you could look at him. His green eyes were blown with arousal and the evidence of how much he wanted you was poking into your stomach. Both your legs were still wrapped around his naked hips and your arms circled around his neck so he could kiss you deeply. You leased Roman from your lips’ hold and he opted to rest his forehead on yours.
“Do you have any idea how badly I wanted to do that? God, there are so many things I want to do to you, for you.” He breathed out. “Please let me” he looked down at the floor, almost ashamed that he was begging. You nodded in agreement, making Roman look up with a smile. You were done letting everyone else dictate who you should and should not be with. This man wanted you so badly it hurt. The evidence was written all over his face and his body and you were tired of denying his, and your, affections. So with a big sinful smirk, you took hold of him through his slacks, making his eyes close and his jaw go slack in pleasure, you quipped an eyebrow and whispered teasingly,
I am so tired of the “fish are products” mentality that corporate pet stores have. Employees cannot refuse to sell fish, even if someone wants to put a goddamn koi in a bowl.
I just had a customer get pissed at me because I told him that keeping two goldfish in a ten is akin to keeping a dog in a closet, and it’s literally animal abuse and they’ll spend maybe two years in massive amounts of pain. He got pissed, made the manager do it, and got mad when I said we can’t replace the fish if it dies.
Literally RIGHT AFTER HIM is a lady with a ten gallon, a pleco, and four goldfish, getting a fifth goldfish. “But it’s okay because they’re babies.”
They didn’t care. I told them that all of our fish have minimum space requirements and that goldfish (per policy) need 30. They went and got the manager and made him do it when I told them all it’s animal abuse.
Fish are living, breathing, feeling creatures. They can feel pain, loneliness, hunger, cold. If someone told me they wanted me to sell them a canary for a mason jar, a chameleon for a critter keeper, a rabbit for a cat carrier, I could refuse every single one. Because a mason jar, a critter keeper, a cat carrier are not proper habitats for those animals, and they will spend their lives in abusive conditions. If you go to a shelter and try to adopt a dog because “I want him to live in his crate and make the room look pretty,” people would riot.
Please. Please help me stop committing disgusting abuse at my store. Help other employees stop committing abuse at their stores. Customers do not listen to us. If you overhear an interaction like the ones I had today, step in and tell that person the truth. That what they’re doing is animal abuse. Back up everything the employee says, if the employee knows their shit or educate them if they are clueless. You’re right, many pet store employees know jack shit about animals. But some of us care, some of us spend hours outside of work researching animals to give customers the best information possible, some of us are passionate about those often neglected and abused pets (hamsters, fish, any reptile) and risk being fired if we don’t do what the customer wants. Sell this fish into an environment that will 100% murder it or you’re fired. How fucked up is that?
Please. Call your local pet stores. The lfs mom and pop shop, Pet’s Plus, Fins Feathers. PLEASE call your PetSmarts and your Petcos and ask to speak to a manager. Tell them that their store policy dictates that fish are allowed to be sold into abusive conditions and employees have no way to stop it. PLEASE call the actual corporate numbers and file a complaint. File so many complaints. Please. I love my job and I love animals and most customers are normal human beings who care about animals but every so often I get people like this and it crushes me.
One of my managers has gone to battle against corporate four times for the right to refuse fish to improper homes. He has lost four times. He is only one person and he works for the company. Maybe if the CUSTOMERS, the source of our money, start complaining, corporate will take things seriously. Maybe then we’ll stop having to sell shitty 0.8 gallon tanks for goldfish and giving fucking plecos to 5g tanks. Maybe if this changes, we can get fish bowls banned. Maybe if this changes, we can work on improper care for other animals.
Dean… every notebook on this particular shelf tells a version of how you die. You specifically… heart attack, burned by a red-haired witch, stabbed by a ghoul in a graveyard, and on and on. But which one is right? That depends on you, on the choices you make.
I find so fascinating that everything in the Supernatural universe, is, ultimately, a story. Everyone with enough power to interfere with free will writes something: God had Metatron write the tablets and prophets write the Bible, then he wrote the Winchester gospels himself; Amara had the nun Agnes write the Book of the Damned, that allowed her to get free and start telling her own version of the story; Metatron harnessed the power of the Angel tablet to write the scripts of his own story… and even on a micro scale, we have John’s journal (mentioned in 13x02 and 13x04), representative of John ‘writing’ the story of the Winchester family, taking free will away from his sons. Last season, we had the British Men of Letters telling their “story” and writing their reports - they also represented a force that tried to impose their own worldview and their own decisions on the American hunter community.
And now we find out that death, each of our deaths, is also a story. But unlike the stories written by God and by Metatron in his attempt to cover God’s role, it’s not a single, coercive story. It’s almost a choose-your-own-adventure kind of story - the ending is death, of course, that’s fixed; but how and when it happens, that depends on your choices. Sure, the amount of possible options seems to be a finite number, but there seems to still be a wide array of different possibilities.
It seems like Death is not a force as restrictive/suppressing of free will as the other story-writing entities we’ve seen in the show. Dean, Sam, Cas, Bobby, Crowley and all their allies fought against God’s script, they ripped the script. There was only one story written on there, one possibility. It was either follow that path, or reject it altogether.
Death, on the other hand, has a fixed destination, but you can choose your own path. The path depends on you, and the time and modality of the destination depend on you, on your choices. Ironically, death is both an inescapable destiny, and a force that allows you your own choices.
And now I’m thinking about what this means about the storytelling choices of the current showrunner. God/Chuck and the Supernatural books represented Kripke, Metatron’s scripts represented Carver - what represents Dabb? I thought it would be Mick Davies with his reports, but now I’m wondering whether it’s the books in Death’s quarters.
The shelves labelled W also remind me of something very Andrew Dabb. His episode Dark Side of the Moon established the structure of heaven, and suggested that “Winchesters” have heavens in the same section of heaven. In his episode Inside Man, he confirmed that heaven is structured in alphabetical order. All people called Robert Singer have heavens in the same corridor. Now, season 13 shows that Death also organizes people’s files in alphabetical order.
@elizabethrobertajones has written a post about Dabb’s storytelling being “poetic” like Billie mentions the universe being; and I wonder if Death’s notebooks are the narrative allegory for the current showrunner’s work. The destination is fixed, but the modality of how to get there, that depends on the characters and their choices. It’s not the showrunner writing the story for the characters, making them move on the chessboard of the story, but the showrunner waits while the characters make their own choices. The characters’ choices have also counted in the past, but in an oppositional way. Cas has smashed tablets. Now it seems to be no more conflict. The showrunner lets the story unroll. He puts the rhymes, but the characters make the choices.
Being someone who struggles with their chronic pain and mental illnesses on a daily basis, I often find myself updating my self-care routines quite frequently. What may work for me for one week, may need to evolve, change or be completely reworked for another. Today has been a wonderful day of renovating my self-care regimen. I wanted to share with you all my Tarot self-care kit and how I utilize it in my life. Over the course of a few years, one of my therapists helped me to compartmentalize my self-care process into six areas of focus in my life; mental, emotional, physical, practical, spiritual and social. Sometimes I only have the energy to work on one area or half of an area and other times I am able to do up to three at one time. The important thing for me is to not stress myself and take an even bigger toll on my health by trying to accomplish more than I can.
In my Tarot Self-Care Kit, I have a few things that I know will help me during the trying times in my life.
The Happy Tarot: This Tarot deck is one that I always go to during any type of self-care regimen. The images make me smile and it is such a cute deck to work with whenever I am feeling anxious or upset. This deck was gifted to me by my parents during a really rough time in my life so it holds extra special value to me.
The Amethyst Oracle: This oracle deck has quickly become a staple in my kit. It’s straightforward answers and intuitive nature really helps me tune into what I need to focus on. The artwork is beautiful and has become one of the decks I use whenever I need a balanced reading.
Journal: My journal is an important part of my self-care kit. I utilize it to write down my energy levels, my interpretation to my self-care Tarot spread, as a tracker for my water intake, a gratitude journal and any prayers to God.
Smile File: I have a section in the back of my journal for something called a Smile File. I was first introduced to this idea from one of my first therapists many years ago. A smile file is a place where you keep nice messages others have sent you, compliments from others and things you have accomplished in your life. The premise of it is to make you smile and remind you of the good in your life. I use my smile file to remind me that my life is worth living and that people love and appreciate me.
Palo Santo: I utilize palo santo before and after my self-care regimen. My aunt who lives in South America brings me some when she comes to visit. Each little stick reminds me of the love she has for me. I burn a little bit of it as it helps to clear the air from any previous negative emotions and energy from past depression or anxiety episodes I have had. I burn some after I have finished my self-care regimen to promote a positive flow of energy.
Manifestation Candle: I like to set positive intentions during my self-care regimen. I usually pray over the candle asking for clarity of mind and to help with my chronic pain. I then like to do a Tarot trick where I find the sun card and use it to help me with the best plan of action concerning my self-care regimen. The card to the left of the sun is one way I can care for myself with the help of my wellness team and the right is a way I can care for myself on my own. I leave the three cards in front of my manifestation candle to amplify its energies. I often use positive affirmations such as I love, accept and appreciate myself, I choose to let go of negative self-talk, I am a priority in my own life.
Violet Salt And Lavender Buds: I use both violet salt and lavender buds to help bring comfort and peace to me whenever I am triggered by past traumas. I make my own room spray with those two ingredients to calm me down. It also makes a perfect pillow spray before I go to sleep. I also use the violet salt and lavender buds if I feel that my decks need a cleansing after using them. I don’t do this often as I don’t really feel the need to cleanse my decks but when I do, I pray over the salt to remove any negativity and then pray over the lavender to calm the energies down of the deck. I then keep the deck in question in a small bowl with the mixture for 24 hours.
Tea and Mug: I try to stay hydrated as best as I can but I am not perfect. I like to treat myself to my favorite tea in one of my favorite mugs and sip contently as I work on myself.
Crystals: In my toolkit, I like to keep three crystals: Amethyst, Rose Quartz, and a Rose Quartz Seer Stone. Those three stones help to generate positive vibrations of love, healing, and acceptance.
Himalayan Salt Tea Light Holder: I utilize this to help remove any negativity that is around me and to help clear the air in my bedroom. The soft glow from this lamp is also soothing for me to watch and relaxes me whenever I am having an anxiety episode.
Tarot Spread: I created this Tarot Spread to help me with my self-care regimen. It is one I have used and tweaked throughout the years and still helps me on days like today.
Summary- The reader was
made from Tony’s DNA (and an unknown inhuman). Fury brings her to Tony after
the civil war. The reader is 5 and
doesn’t speak due to the trauma she has faced in her life. But Tony finds out
she can control machines.
Message- There is going
to be a part two that includes more Stony.
Word Count- 1103
“So she’s my..?” Tony
“Daughter. Yeah.” Fury
says and Tony just stares at you with wide eyes. “I thought it best to bring
her to you, but if you don’t want to deal with this…”
“No, I-I’ll take her.
W-What’s her…?” Then he turns to you and kneels down in front of you. “What’s your
name, sweetie.” You just blink up at him, unsure of his intentions.
“She doesn’t speak, her
file says her name is Y/N.” Fury says. “We don’t know much about her, the group
that created her deleted most of the files, before we could get there. Here’s
what we could find.” Fury finishes as he hands Tony a file. The two men shook
hands and Fury left, leaving you alone with your Dad.