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#sneaky tom
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Me, playing a stealth-only heist in Payday 2:
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bebe-benzenheimer · 1 year
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the guys: 'kay let's leave Mina here while we go find Dracula, it's too dangerous for a woman to join us
that bat outside the window earlier who in no way is Dracula in disguise:
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antvnger · 4 months
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Hey Ant-Mun, you know that scene from Tom & Jerry where Tom slowly closes a door while giving an evil laugh? That’s how I feel sometimes when I mess with Scott.
-Meme Lord
((You mean like this?
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Yeah, that’s pretty fitting. 😂 ))
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rexwrendraws · 3 months
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jumping on the 'redrawing michael zulli's sandman stuff' bandwagon a year and half-ish later with some loose scribbles :]
references/original art by michael zulli under the cut:
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callsignthirsty · 2 months
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Chapter 2: On the Roof
Shit weather can only stop me for so long! Here's chapter 2
Pairing: Tom “Iceman” Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron “Slider” Kerner Summary: The boys receive their commendations, and you keep your legs crossed. Should be easy, right? Wrong. Word Count: 3680 Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, semi-public sex, fingering, oral sex (female receiving) Chapter: 2/4 Minors DNI Previous Chapter
“Sooo,” Maria Cortell leans as far forward as her bump will allow, drawing out the word with a smile on her lips. It’s become apparent that you’ll be waiting a while for your stolen tablemates to walk onto the stage and receive their commendations. “Are wedding bells ringing?”
Your poor heart, which had only just slowed, skips an unsteady beat. Maria’s question, for as simple as it is, packs one helluva wallop.
The thought hasn’t crossed your mind. You haven’t even said I love you—not for a lack of love, but because you’ve lost many of the ones you love over your life. Admitting the depth of your feelings—whether for family, friends, or beaus—always seems to precede an abrupt departure of said person from your life. But now that Maria has mentioned it, what are you supposed to do?
Distracted, you twist your cloth napkin between clammy hands. It’s not like you can marry Ice and Slider, but you can’t date Ice forever, either. especially not if he’s trying to climb the ladder. He’s expected to marry. To have kids. The white picket fence experience. A wife to come home to.
“They must be,” Merlin’s wife jumps in.
Maria nods with the enthusiasm you wish you felt. “Bill and I were looking at houses after three months. I’m sure you’ve at least talked about it.”
Goose throws back a full glass of wine.
They think they’re being supportive, and it would be nice if it weren’t so terrifying. “I–”
“And now’s the perfect time,” Maria doesn’t even realize she’s cut you off. “Who knows how long he’ll be stationed at Miramar?”
“Ooh! You could get married on the beach.”
Cougar catches your lack of participation. “Don’t scare her off, now,” Cougar says, placing his hand on top of his wife’s to get her attention.
“Oh please,” Laura brushes Cougar aside, “they’ve been practically wrapped around each other all night. Ron said they’ve been inseparable.”
Maria sighs. “Poor Ron.” Carole chokes, but the only one who pays her any mind is Goose, who smacks her between her shoulder blades and refills her water. “I remember how close he and Tom were at Pensacola, must be hard for him to watch his friend settle down–“ something must flit across your face because she hesitates mid-sentence, her eyes widen a little as she realizes the insinuation, and she all but lunges for the distraction of her sentry of a water glass, “–but, um, I’m sure you have a friend you could set him up with?”
“Oh,” Goose interjects loud enough to turn a couple of heads and incite a stern look from Jester, “I think this is them.”
It isn’t.
“That would be fun,” Laura coos back to Maria without skipping a beat. “Think of the double dates.”
“Come on,” Goose tries again, “you don’t want to set someone up with Kerner, do you?” And didn’t Goose know it. He squawks when Carole catches him in the ribs with her elbow, but Maria and Laura are off to the races, passing the idea back and forth and painting a picture of your future while you struggle to keep up.
“You’ll always have someone to keep you company when they end up on a carrier halfway around the world.” Maria.
A sly look from Laura. “You know, if you time it right, your kids can grow up together.”
“Community is so important,” Maria agrees, ducking around a waiter’s arm as dinner plates are settled.
“Sam and I were lucky enough to be stationed near my family when we had the girls.”
“I don’t know what I’d have done without the wives’ group while I was pregnant with Robbie.” Maria gives her husband a tender smile and smoothes a hand over her belly. Whatever she says next is drowned out by applause.
This time—as Goose breathes an “Oh, thank god”—a familiar group of flyboys are led onto the stage. The commander keeps it brief; says some words about the Layton mission and the courageous efforts of the aviators who defended the boat from enemy MiGs. Everyone gets a pin on their lapel before they’re all ushered off the stage. Your legs are crossed by the time they make it back to the table.
The rest of the dinner passes without issue. Plates are cleared. The program comes to a close with the cutting of a cake. A cacophony of music and conversation erupts as the masses are released from their seats and the event finally catches its second wind. More immediately around you, the flyboys spill into the space between their tables and continue catching up.
Hollywood and Sundown introduce their dates—fiancée and wife, respectively—to the larger group. Jester and his wife sneak off, presumably to find Viper but definitely different company. It’s a relief to gain more social padding between yourself, Maria, and Laura, well-meaning though they may be.
It’s while you’re reacquainting yourself with the rest of the group when Hollywood asks Slider if he’s flying solo these days.
“What’s it look like?” Slider grumbles.
Wolfman slings an arm around his fellow RIO’s shoulders to pull him close. “Aw, man. What happened?”
Slider gives him a half-shrug, looking otherwise unaffected. “You know how it is. Couldn’t handle the job.”
“But that doesn’t make any sense,” Chipper chimes in. “You’re still at Miramar.”
“So she dumped you?” Wolf’s winces as he looks up at Slider, taking his silence for confirmation. “Yikes.”
“Hey, it wasn’t like that–”
“Don’t mind them,” Sundown says, an arm wrapped around his wife. She beams at him when he assures Slider,“The right one will stick around.”
And the conversation could’ve ended there. Wolf, Chip, and Sli could’ve spent the rest of the night wingmanning each other until it was time to turn in and Slider would slip into your quarters.
Maria Cortell had other plans. “Don’t be ridiculous! We were just talking about how the future missus must have a friend she can set you up with.” Cheeks flaming, you tuck into Ice’s side in an attempt to escape his gaze. “Future missus?” His tone gives nothing away, but the stiffening of his arm beneath your hand speaks volumes.
Beside Ice, Slider raises a brow. “Were you, now?” This is a conversation you were hoping to avoid.
“Please,” Pete scoffs. “I wouldn’t wish Kerner on anyone.”
Slider sneers, but it doesn’t have any real heat behind it. “Bite me, Mitchell.”
And bless Carole Bradshaw because she sees Pete opening his mouth to say, “Which one?” from a mile away and deploys a very loud countermeasure: “I wanna dance!”
Goose grabs his wife’s hand and pulls her to sit across his lap. “Great idea, honey!” he crows, earning a kiss on the cheek.
For as long as you’ve known him, Goose has always been a darling. Everyone knows it, too. The sun is hot. Water is wet. Everyone loves Goose. His close call on Hop 31 only cemented that last truth. Nick Bradshaw is magnetic in a way few others are, and he could pull a crowd just as easily at the piano as he could, apparently, at his wife’s beck-and-call.
The display of eager, honeyed affection drawing the eyes and smiles of the group.
“C’mon, Mav, give us a push!” Goose loops his arms around Carole as she makes herself comfortable in his lap for the taxi to the dancefloor. “Should be a—what did you call it?—a target-rich environment.”
“Wait. You not seeing Blackwood anymore?” Hollywood asks, receiving ‘oohs’ from the rest of the men. Pete’s shoulder’s bunch, but otherwise, he ignores his friends. Though she was a civilian contractor, Charlie did work for the DoD, and after her relocation to D.C., Pete was technically on her turf tonight.
“He doesn’t like to talk about it,” Ice deflects.
Pete grabs hold of Goose’s wheelchair, finding it more difficult to maneuver with two passengers.  “I wonder if Penny’s here.”
Carole throws her head back with a guffaw. “After your little joyride? I’d be surprised if her daddy lets her within a thousand feet of you!”
The group doesn’t stick together much longer, inevitably breaking up as they go their separate ways.
“What do you say?” Ice asks, nodding after the group headed to the dancefloor. Eventually, Ice needs to go back to rubbing shoulders with the brass, but there’s no harm in a quick dance or two to break up the monotony.
“That’s okay, Ice,” Slider butts in, a wicked glimmer in his eyes. You repress a shiver when the same hand that had been between your legs squeezes your shoulder, fingers ghosting over the velvet near your collarbone. “You go keep Mav out of trouble. We’ll grab dessert and meet you there.”
The twitch at the corner of his lips gives away how hard Slider is fighting to keep the wolfish grin off his lips. Your ears burn, but Ice’s only reaction is an unenthused, dismissive sound. Both of you know what Slider is playing. That doesn’t stop the pinpricks of arousal from returning as you imagine Slider’s hands—both of them this time—working to finish what he’d started under the table.
“How long have we known each other?” Ice asks Slider.
“Going on ten years.”
“And I can count the number of times I’ve seen you eat cake on one hand,” Ice muses.
Undeterred, Slider offers you a lopsided, wolfish grin, his fingers tracing down your arm and raising goosebumps in their wake. “Who said anything about cake?”
“There it is.” Ice flicks Slider’s fingers from their path and threads his fingers through your own. The same Iceman mask he wears around the tarmac is firmly in place when he levels Slider with a look. “You’re incorrigible.”
“You’re pissy because I had this in the bag before I was interrupted.”
“And how were you planning on getting away with it?” Ice hisses with a glance to make sure the three of you are well enough alone. “Sitting at a table full of people.”
“I had a plan,” Slider scoffs.
“A plan to get caught with your hand up her skirt.”
“You’re just upset you walked right into it.” Ice clenches his teeth. He doesn’t have a responding quip, and Slider knows it. Ice had been too excited by the sudden appearance of Cougar to realize Slider was gunning for a quick win. “All it takes is one mistake,” Slider needles.
Wearing down the competition with technical precision is a page straight out of Ice’s book and his fingers twitch ever so slightly in your grasp, Slider rubbing it in his face that he’s fallen prey to his own game. It’s a mistake he won’t make twice.
Ice takes a deep breath and looks to the barrel-vaulted ceiling as if he’ll find the answers he’s looking for among the gold leafing. “We’re leaving now.”
“C’mon, don’t be like that,” Slider taunts, but Ice is back on his game. He serves Slider a smug look as he wraps his arm around your waist.
“Goodbye, Kerner.”
In the dance hall, you’re a single drop in a rolling sea. The band is louder here, the floor tacky with spilled beverages, but you find a pocket of space as the music slows. Pete hangs onto the edge of the crowd with Goose and Carole, his face pressed between Goose’s shoulder blades as he helps his best friend stand to dance with his wife—Carole, you’re sure, is crying.
Gentle hands bring your focus back to your partner as he encourages you to step with him to the rhythm. When you look up at him through your lashes, you almost forget the rest of the room. Taken by the flint of his eyes in the low light. A smile bubbles to life on your rouged lips is an inevitability.
You spin beneath his arm and let Ice reel you in until his breath tickles your ear. “You’re stunning.” You glow under the praise, fingers playing with the short hairs at his nape. High praise.
It makes you wonder: does Ice even know what he looks like?
The ever-present tan of his skin highlighted by the contrasting white of his uniform. The smarts. The confidence. A beauty mark on his jaw. High cheekbones. The way he moves.
He has to know. Not for vanity, but for fact. 
“How’re you holding up?” He must pick up on the restless twitch of your muscles or maybe the flutter of your heart in your palm.
You paint on a smile. ”I’m fine.”
You can’t suppress the shudder that wracks you or the sharp intake of breath when he lifts your chin with a finger, lashes brushing your cheeks as a kiss is pressed to your forehead. When he tugs you closer, you go easily, but you’re unable to fully relax into the embrace.
“Did you know you only say you’re fine when you aren’t?” He shifts his hold so it feels more like a hug, a soft quirk to his lips. It’s easier for him to hold you like this when you fade into the crowd. There’s less pressure. Fewer eyes on him when his hand shifts lower, dexterous fingers tracing over the knobs of your spine and raising goosebumps beneath the luxurious drape of your gown.
The band does wonders to mute your gasp, but Ice doesn’t miss the way you jerk in his grasp. Sensitive.
“Was it…?” He doesn’t finish in an overabundance of caution for who may or may not be eavesdropping. The hand you’d let linger near his nape comes to fidget against his chest as you lay your head against his shoulder and nod while focusing on the ba-dum of his heart. “Do you need to leave?”
“No.” Sure, you tingle with each brush of skin on skin. Yes, you’re eager to soak up each touch. But, as you meet his eyes, you mean it. “I’m just a little overwhelmed by all of this,” you fib.
Slider may be pushing the boundaries of decency—may have definitely blown past them during the dinner— and you may be wound tight after so many days without either of their company, but you can do this. Tonight is about Ice, and you intend to see it through.
“But I don’t want to leave.”
Ice keeps you close as the song fades out and the band counts in a fast-paced number. “Look,” Ice concedes when you break free of the dancing. Playtime is over, you can practically see the cogs turning in the metal of his eyes as Ice comes up with a revised plan. “There are still some people I need to talk to, but after, I’ll get us out of–”
“Just the man I was looking for.” Ice stops so abruptly that you stumble into him. “Admiral John Benjamin,” Penny’s father introduces himself, taking Ice’s hand in a firm shake. “Really good stuff on the Enterprise.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The praise, though sparing, is well-deserved. But the obsequious nature of his comment is revealed in the way the admiral’s eyes scan the nearby crowd. Ice isn’t his target.
“Say,” the admiral drawls as he drops all pretenses, “you wouldn’t happen to know where your wingman is? I want to congratulate him on a job well done.”
You very much doubt that, but as you glance over to where Pete had been with Goose and Carole earlier, he’s long gone—Carole helping her husband back into his wheelchair, the only evidence Pete had been there at all. And Ice knows enough through retellings of Pete’s past run-ins with Admiral Benjamin that you trust him not to sell your brother out. At least, not if he doesn’t have to.
“I haven’t seen him since we received our commendation.”
“Of course. Congratulations again on those,” Benjamin clips. “But you must have some sort of idea of his whereabouts.”
“I–”
“Ice. Admiral, sir.” It never ceases to amaze you how someone as large as Slider can so easily fly under the radar when he wants to. “I need to borrow her for a minute,” he says before Ice can say anything, and because he can’t do anything when Admiral Benjamin continues to squeeze for information on Pete, Slider steers you out of the dance hall.
It had been a crisp 66 degrees in DC, the setting of the sun taking what remained of the day’s warmth with it. The cold creeps beneath your skin as Slider beckons you up the roof access, shimming the door with a wad of folded cocktail napkins so you can slip back to the party later.
Though shrouded in darkness on the flat of the rooftop, the bright lights of the capital might as well be a hair’s breadth away. Too close for comfort. Before you can protest, Slider engulfs your hand in his and looks for a more suitable, more private corner. It won’t do to be caught, though Slider doubts anyone will come looking. But it pays to be cautious.
“You have any idea how good you look in this?” Slider rumbles, voice resonating from deep within his chest in a way that makes your insides quake. He lets you know with a demanding kiss, his lips lightly stained with your rouge when he pulls back so you can suck in a breath.
“Sli.” The wind carries your whine toward the street, where it’s drowned by the brassy horns of street traffic. When goosebumps erupt along your arms, your fingers scrabble for his shoulder boards in a bid to keep him close.
It takes next to nothing to convince Slider to give in to your plea. Crowding close as he smears kisses and color down your neck. “It’s been so hard to keep my hands off you.” Said hands grab fistfuls of you over the velvet of your gown; the smooth rasp of the fabric over tender skin makes you gasp.
“You didn’t,” you point out.
“No,” he agrees, fingers reacquainting themselves with the gusset of your panties. “But can you blame me?”
“Who else would I blame?”
Dizzy with desire, you bite the inside of your cheek to keep a heady whine locked away when fingers slip between your pussy lips to tease around your entrance. “Do you want me to stop?” Slider asks with a lopsided, teasing grin.
“Don’t you dare.”
Instead of giving you what you want—two fingers to fill you where you feel hopelessly empty—Slider’s hand withdraws from your panties. You’re a second from demanding he put his hand right back where he had it when Slider lowers himself to the ground. “Wait–!” you exclaim as his first knee touches down on the unkempt rooftop floor “–your pants.”
“Don’t worry,” he says as both of his hands slip under your dress, eager fingers drawing the lacy elastic of your panties down your legs. “That’s what drycleaning’s for.” But his other knee stays decidedly off the ground.
Slider scoots himself closer, impatient hands rucking up your tight-fitting dress until he can take advantage of the slit in your skirt. He hikes your leg over his shoulder, soft skin exposed to the night, but you’re far from cold as he chases the fabric with scorching kisses up the inside of your thigh. Deliberately leaving marks where no one else at this stuffy party will see them.
His hair is just long enough that the tips begin to curl. You spear your fingers through the short waves and fist what you can. Normally, you’d hold him close as he litters your hip with hungry kisses and sharp, rosey blooms, but with the way he’d worked you up earlier, you pull his head toward the apex of your thighs. You can go back to being Ice’s pretty trophy girlfriend after you cum on Slider’s tongue.
Slider lets out a gruff rumble of a chuckle as if he’s read your mind. A nip makes your leg jump in his grasp, your heel knocking against his back, but he’s as eager to get this show on the road as you are.
Face half-obscured by black velvet, Slider’s tongue laps over your clit. Eyes slamming shut, whole body pulsing in time with your heart, head thunking back against the wall. Slack-jawed, you encourage him to do it again with a shuttered but wanton noise in the back of your throat.
“That’s it,” Slider encourages, his other hand reaching up to massage your ass and drag your hips forward in a slick grind against his mouth. You tremble in his grasp as he continues to roll your hips against his face before he opts for a new angle of attack.
A quick reposition of the leg over Slider’s shoulder grants him better access for a more thorough assault on your cunt, and your back arches when his tongue prods at your entrance. Blood roars in your ears while your walls clench around nothing at the promise of his tongue, but it only teases at your lips.
You try to drag him closer with your one leg, letting go of Slider’s hair with one hand to steady yourself against the wall. Sli takes that moment to dive in, tongue finally fucking into you and his nose bumping into your clit in a way that has your heart stuttering and limbs shaky. Your hips jolt at the touch, back arching off the wall.
It’s messy, the pinpricks of Slider’s stubble eased by the mix of arousal and spit coating the apex of your thighs. The barely muffled slurp as he parts your lips and delves his tongue inside before engulfing your clit in the wet heat of his mouth and giving it a suck.
Slider’s eyes are half-lidded when he meets your gaze. “You’re close,” he breathes, calloused fingers petting up your leg directly to your clit and drinking in the shiver it knocks loose, your lips red as you bite back a moan. “Don’t worry,” he says, two fingers dipping the slightest bit into your cunt before drawing back to rub at the opening, “we’ll get you there this time.”
Against your back, the wall rattles as the roof access bangs open.
Next Chapter
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parkercore-69 · 9 days
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i was a victim of the gravity falls to transgenderism/buzzfeed unsolved (+watcher) pipeline and i made a visual representation for it.
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sylvies-chen · 10 months
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and so it ends as it began: with a man not born into wealth having stumbled his way to the top
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thornescratch · 6 months
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I desperately want to know who Tom was yelling this at.
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sebastianswallows · 1 year
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👀 *slithers in*
Just sharing the Tom Riddle AI chatbot I made now. He’s written as being a bit older, at the stage where he was working for Borgin and Burkes, and is equally as likely to flirt as he is to avada kadavra you.
Keep in mind the tips and tricks shared earlier for the optimal writing experience.
*slithers out*
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sneakyblinders · 1 year
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19, 27, and 37 from the OTP asks for Tommy and his darling wife 🥰
Eek thank you for requesting these 🤩 OTP relationship asks link
19 - How do they deal with being away from each other for a long time?
The Mrs. is alright. She often feels safer when he is around, so his absence makes her a little more anxious than normal. (Being married to a gangster is anxiety inducing stuff I'd imagine) She doesn’t sleep quite as well without him there. She hates eating alone. However she does take advantage of the nights she has alone to get caught up on reading (Tommy often distracts her) and after they have their children, she plans little activities to do with the children, who are also missing their father. She usually comes up with sweet ways to welcome him home that involve his babies. He gets the biggest smile on his face when he sees the little projects they've made for him while he was away. (And this is super top secret, but he's never thrown a single thing away that they've made for him. He'd never admit that to anybody though. The Mrs. only found out about it one day when she was shuffling through boxes in his closet trying to find a very specific chain for his watch.) Tommy though… after a few days of being away, he gets quite irritable. His men hate when he has to be away for more than two or three days at a time with him. His temper is shorter and it doesn’t take much for him to lose it on somebody. Patience is super thin on trips when he’s away from his beloved. When he gets home he just wants to snuggle and be close to her. He tells her every time he returns home that it'll be the last time he's away for that long. (Which, inevitably never happens but he swears one day he'll never have to go away again.)
27 - What random everyday object/activity makes them think of each other?
When Tommy was in his rather serious accident the first few years of their marriage, and he had cracked some ribs, it was difficult for him to bend for a while--it caused him some pretty severe pain. And so, tying his shoes was nearly impossible for a long while. So for those months when he was healing, his wife knelt in front of him in the mornings and tied his shoes. The first few times he was embarrassed beyond belief. I can't even tie my own laces, he'd think to himself. But she'd look up at him with those eyes and he'd have to look away, overcome with emotion. And after the embarrassment faded, an overwhelming feeling comes over him and tears spring to his eyes. Whether it's because he can't believe he got this gem, or because he can't believe he was almost robbed of so many more years with her, so many more memories with her, he can't figure out. But he thinks of her every time he ties his laces now. For their first anniversary, Tommy got his beloved a locket with his initials engraved on the back, and a photo of them on their wedding day tucked safely inside. Whenever she was lost in thought, whether concentrating or finding herself nervous, she would start fumbling with the locket, anxiously running her thumb over the engraving on the back, and instantly thinking of her husband--every fear disappearing.
37 - What do they like the least about each other?
Aah jeez. The Mrs. has some serious issues with how arrogant Tommy can be--with how above death he seems at times. Most of their fights revolve around her reminding him he is not immortal and that one day his arrogance and pride will take him to the grave. Tommy has some serious issues with how trusting his bride can be with others. She, despite all the evil she has seen in this world he has brought her into, has never seemed to be able to shake the ability to see the good and the best in people, which much to his annoyance, she manages to find in everybody. It's gotten her into some pretty sticky situations before. (In her defense, Tommy is skeptical about everything and everyone... any time she tries to tell him about a new person she met at the market or the store he narrows his eyes and tries to see it from every angle. How they could be trying to take advantage of her. Sometimes its worked in her favor and others... not so much.)
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Tom saying Greg’s name approximately one hundred and twenty six times
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allyaestheticx · 11 months
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Heres a rant.
If anyone has ever read about a narcissist… but was still confused on how one acts or how to tell the difference between a real narcissist and just a shitty person …. Watch Vanderpump rules from the beginning and just focus on Tom Sandoval…… bc he is literally the best example…. It’s unbelievable. Never has seen someone so delusional.
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baddingtonbitch · 5 days
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i do believe that andrew scott-land is a european sister state to ribisi nation and brother, i'm about to summer on the continent.
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tackyyyyyyyyy · 8 days
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I think whats so interesting about tom at hogwarts is the mask that he'd constantly wear. Like he was described as charming, and through that he would have charmed people into doing/giving him what he wanted. And thats why he's terrifying in a way bc you'd think he was a nice smart student and if you saw that mask drop away like itd be terrifying. And its that part i love of him.
When he becomes voldemort i suspect he got what he wanted from purely through his power and intimidation rather than subtly manipulating people
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callsignthirsty · 29 days
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Chapter 3: Behind the Door
Pairing: Tom "Iceman" Kazansky x F!Reader x Ron "Slider" Kerner Summary: Interrupting Iceman. Word Count: 4100 Warnings: Smut, bets and wagers, semi-public sex, fingering Chapter: 3/4 Minors DNI Previous Chapter
Slider's head whips around, shoulders drawn tight toward his ears as the crash of the door startles you both.
"Kerner!"
The split-second of terror subsides with that voice.
Ice.
Slider grunts, stubbornly diving back between your thighs. A man on a mission.
"I know you're up here, and I'm giving you to the count of three."
"No," you whimper, hips rocking against Slider's fingers, urging them to work faster. "Don't stop."
"One."
Instead of responding, Slider's breath ghosts over your clit as he presses two fingers into your cunt, curling them to pinpoint your sweet spot and hurtle you toward the edge.
The click of Ice's shoes is loud as he stalks toward you. "Two."
"So good," Slider hums against your slick skin. You squeeze your eyes closed, keening at the praise. "Almost there, baby."
Sli hisses as fingers fist in his short hair and yank him from between your legs.
"Three."
You whimper at the sudden loss of stimulation and the pour of cool night air over heated skin.
Slider has the audacity to flash Ice a smug smile. "Oh," he says as if he hadn't known the two of you were no longer alone. "Hey, Ice."
Pale eyes narrow as if asking Slider if that's the game they're going to play, then Ice pulls a tissue from his pocket and holds it to his RIO. "You've got lipstick on your face."
Slider's tongue peeks out to lick his lips. "That's not the only thing on my face."
Ice doesn't dignify him with a response, only releasing Slider when he stands and steps back to give you enough space for Ice to resettle you—steadying you on your own two feet and smoothing wrinkled velvet before procuring another tissue to help clean up the rouge smudged beyond the bounds of your lips.
Once you're deemed presentable, Ice descends the steps with his hand wrapped around your wrist, guiding you with an insistent tug that makes you feel more like an insolent child than his date. You want to stamp your feet as Ice assures you that he only needs to talk to a couple more officers he wants to speak with before you can get out of there.
Between the forced separation through staggered travel to D.C. and the night's two encounters—both of which had taken you to the very edge before leaving you high and dry—you're at your limit. So, to say you aren't paying attention to the conversation is an understatement. How are you supposed to pay attention to anything when you're oscillating between the jitters of unsated arousal and lightly filtered frustration?
Because who the hell does he think he is—do they think they are—to draw you into their little macho pissing contest? It's a wonder Iceman and Slider can both fit into the cockpit with their egos so blown out of proportion.
What should it matter in the end? They know you're going home with both of them.
Not that you get to say any of this. Instead, you're left to stew with empty eyes, a pinched smile, and a clenched fist at Ice's side as he makes a good impression on a commander. You're scraping the barrel with each half-hearted laugh at the officer's dull jokes, the Brut in your glass swirling between your fingers untouched. Each shift of your legs brings you closer to angry tears as the spit between them turns tacky, the microabrasions from Slider's stubble smarts reminding you of your lack of undergarment and the dissatisfied, borderline painful feeling of emptiness.
But it'll be a cold day in hell before you let any tears fall. You have your own pride to manage, and besides, no one wants to mingle with the serviceman whose date's eyes burn a tear-stung red.
"How much longer?" you ask Ice once the commander leaves.
Ice gives you an assessing look, eyebrows pulled down, and his head lightly tilted. You can't tell if he feels bad about what he's putting you through or is confused by your shortness of tone. "Impatient?"
You scoff, barely repressing the urge to cross your arms. Instead, you take a sip of your Brut, nose wrinkling as it bursts bitter across your tongue. "Whatever," you huff, done with the conversation and resigning yourself to more of the same. Ice had said there were "a couple" officers he wanted to talk with, after all.
Ice draws a deep breath in through his nose; lips pursed as he looks up to the ceiling. You know he's looking for the right words. You're still determining what those words would be. You know for a fact he won't find them painted on the ceiling.
Lucky for you—because you're not done being upset with him yet—Ice can't pinpoint what he's looking for before you're interrupted.
"Woah!" a familiar blonde excuses, bumbling into Ice and nearly spilling his beer on matching whites. "Sorry about that, still got my sea le– oh! Ice, hey!" Excuse dropped as a beamish grin overtakes Wolfman's face, cheeks tinged pink with drink.
"Wolf," you giggle as Wolf pulls you into a better mood with a friendly hug. It's hard to be all doom and gloom when Wolf's involved; he's a veritable ray of sunshine. "Where's 'Wood?"
"Pfft," he snorts. "Where's anyone? I mean, 'Wood's somewhere with his girl, but one minute I'm with Sli and Chip, the next Sli's gone and Chip's found himself a pretty little thing to dance with." He shrugs, not looking too plussed about his situation.
"I'll dance with you, Wolfie," you jump to offer. "Ice is being boring anyway."
Ice frowns. Wolf laughs. "Who am I to say no to a lady?" he asks, pulling you into an off-kilter twirl. "Don't worry, Ice, she's in good hands!" he calls over his shoulder as you practically drag him toward the dancefloor.
What Wolfman lacks in prowess, he makes up for in enthusiasm. By the time Hollywood and his fiancée find the two of you on the dancefloor—not a surprise since 'Wood and Wolf are practically connected at the hip—you're a little breathless from trying to keep up.
It's a good time, but you can only be so distracted, and it's only a matter of time before you begin scanning the crowd. Either you'll find Slider, or he'll find you, but you'll be damned if he doesn't finish what he started.
You know Ice has people he wants to impress and a ladder he's trying to climb, but shouldn't you be at the top of his list? With this thought at the helm, it isn't long before you spot a head of brown curls that towers above the rest. You rock onto your tiptoes to feed Wolf a lie—bathroom—and push through the crowd alone.
Except as you get closer, it becomes glaringly apparent that this tall brunet is not Slider.
You scowl at no one in particular when you come up empty-handed.
As you decide to keep searching until you find Slider—and, ultimately, relief—someone grabs you from behind.
You whirl around, ready to smack the person's hands off of you.
It's Pete.
You smack him anyway.
"Ow!" Pete yelps, more from surprise than pain. You didn't hit him that hard. "What the hell?!"
"Pete Mitchell, who do you think you are grabbing a lady–"
"You're hardly a lady."
"–from behind like that. You almost gave me a heart attack!"
Pete disarms you with a light pinch to your side that has you clamping your arms against your sides to protect against further tickling. "Where're Tweedledee and Tweedledum? Didn't think I'd catch you without one or the other."
You suppress a roll of your eyes. "Who knows."
"Sooo," Pete drawls a bit awkwardly, "does this have anything to do with the weirdness going on between the three of you?"
"Oh my god. You know," you groan, unable to stop yourself from hiding your face in your hands. How embarrassing.
"I don't know-know," Pete's quick to correct, "and I don't want to. But I know something's up."
This isn't something you're delving into with your brother. "It's nothing. Forget it."
"Doesn't seem like nothing if you're avoiding them."
"Like you're avoiding Penny's dad?" you snark back. Deflecting. "I'm surprised you decided to stick around."
"He's old. It's probably past his bedtime," Pete says confidently, a smile tugging at his lips. "The night's mine."
"Whatever will you do with this newfound freedom?" you tease.
Pete gives a half-shrug, surveying the room. "I'm sure some poor officer brought his daughter so she could meet the love of her life."
You don't bother holding in a mocking laugh. "And that's you?"
"No." Pete makes a face. "But I can be her something for the night."
"Ew," you grunt because you so do not want to get into that with your brother. "I need a drink."
A hand catches your elbow as you turn. "Going somewhere?"
You refuse to look as you shake Ice's hand off and continue walking.
"So you're going to ignore me." It's a statement.
"Don't you have other people to talk to?"
Ice reaches for your elbow again, turning you so he can meet your eyes with his own. "I want to talk to you."
"That's my cue," Pete mumbles as he slinks into the crowd, presumably to find trouble.
Neither you nor Ice move, and your stomach roils as his jaw sets, his Adam's apple bobbing. "You're mad at me."
Part of you wants to tell him off. Instead, you shake your head. "I'm not mad. I'm frustrated."
"Okay," Ice says, with a curt nod, his shoulders—which had been bunched—rolling back as he becomes more sure of himself. "I can work with that."
Something about the way he says it rankles you, and you sneer. Earlier, you'd been all aboard hanging off Ice's arm, but now you're wound tight enough to burst, and all you want to do is take a hot bath. And now that he's made you this way, you're something that needs to be dealt with.
"Let's grab some fresh air," Ice says, loud enough to settle any eavesdroppers as he leads you toward the outdoor courtyard with a gentle but commanding grasp on your elbow.
But you pass by the turn for the courtyard.
"Where are you taking me?" The smell of cigar smoke thins as you walk along less-traveled hallways.
"I'm taking care of it," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world and continues to drag you after him.
Venturing further from the intended party spaces, the lights dim. You doubt the venue means for you to be down here.
Instead of voicing these thoughts, you scoff. "Helpful."
Making sure you're alone, Ice pulls you down a deserted hallway. "You're frustrated. I have people to talk to," he says slowly, sparing you a glance.
You frown. There goes Ice, talking about other people. Again.
He beelines for two unassuming doors, reaching out to the first, but its handle jiggles. Catches. Locked.
"I'm taking care of it."
Before you can challenge that assertion, Ice steps to the side and grabs the handle to the second door, marked STAFF ONLY.
It clicks.
Ice pushes you inside, following close behind.
The light coming through the foot of the door isn't enough to tell you where you are. But the clinical, electric-orange antiseptic smell of cleaning supplies invading your nose, singeing the hairs, is more than enough to give it away.
When you cross your arms over your chest, something falls to the ground with a wooden clack! "By dragging me into a janitor's closet?"
"Well, you said you'd be good for me, but that didn't last long."
You reach for where the handle must be, but Ice anticipates your moodiness and moves to intercept, deflecting your hand. "But the bet was that Slider couldn't get you off." His breath fans your face as he leans in, so you tilt your head away to avoid his lips. Stubborn. Undeterred, he kisses the long line of your neck, and the ghost of soft lips has you holding back a gasp. "So I'm taking care of it."
"What if it doesn't want to be taken care of?"
Sharp teeth are a shock beneath the hinge of your jaw. "Don't be a brat."
A strangled moan trips past your lips as he catches you off guard.
You don't have to see Ice to know he's smirking. "Noted." Then his hand is cupping your breast. "So, are you going to let me take care of you or not?"
You're not proud of how quickly you crumble, but it's like a switch flips. You hope Ice is okay with the whiplash because after an entire night of teasing, you're desperate for relief. "Please," you whimper, pushing yourself further into his orbit. You want so bad it hurts.
"Don't worry, sweetheart. I've got you." Ice captures your lips in a heated kiss—nipping at your bottom lip so you hiss and open up for him. He knows what you need, and he's (apparently) going to give it to you.
Your fingers, clumsy in their haste, scramble for Ice's belt, but he brushes them aside. "This is about you. I'll get mine later," he says, tilting your head to the side so he can track wet kisses up to the spot just below your ear, electricity sparking down your spine as teeth tug at the lobe. "When I lay you out on my bed."
A high-pitched, excited moan is your answer, interrupted by Ice's fingers over your lips. "You've gotta be quiet," he purrs, voice low in your ear. "Wouldn't want anyone to hear us."
"Then kiss me." He does. And as you breathe in deep, the whole situation makes you feel like you're back in high school: shelving digging into your lower back like you're sneaking around, trading uncoordinated kisses in the janitor's closet with David Hodges until your brother finds you and rips poor David away for an ass-beating. But infinitely better.
Ice's lips are familiar. Urgent and addictive against your own as he swallows your whimper—nothing like David.
Ice pinches your fat bottom lip between his teeth before releasing it with a slick smack. You suck in a sharp breath, lashes fluttering open to look up at the shadow of him in the dark. "So pretty," he growls, fabric rustling as he hastily cuffs the sleeve of his jacket and pushes it up to his elbow to keep it safe from what he has planned.
Handfuls of velvet are bunched around your waist so you can spread your legs more freely, and Ice can slot his hand between them.
Threading your fingers through his hair, you return his lips to yours. You both groan from the kiss—you from the relief of his hands on you, the promise of a sweet release; him from how wet and needy you are (Slider's work, really, but Ice seems keen to reap the benefits).
When you break apart to gasp for air, Ice husks, "I'd get my mouth on you." And it conjures the image of Slider's wicked brown eyes looking up at you from between your legs, your cunt throbs. God, you want that. "Too bad I can't smell like pussy while I'm talking to the brass." But he allows himself the indulgence of a single taste, bringing fingers slick with your arousal to his lips.
You shake your head, unsure if his eyes have adjusted enough to see you. "Unprofessional," you agree, dizzy as his fingers plunge back into your heat. The heel of his palm grinds deliciously against your clit, his fingers working with the frantic cant of your hips as you chase a high that's walking the line of pain in its evasion of you. A steady, unignorable ache.
Ice drags his nails over the dense fabric covering your tits, your nipples pebbling at the faux cool sensation. "Tell me what you need," he whispers against your lips.
Relief is so close the air is thick with it. It tastes like Lysol. You stutter out a breath, and it morphs into a quiet whine. "Just like that," you mewl. "Keep touching me like that."
"Yeah?" Ice teases, a third finger sneaking into you and zeroing in on your sweet spot, thumb coming up to rub circles into your clit. What little light there is in the closet glints off the sharp point of his teeth as his lips part. "You're going to cum on my fingers," he declares, and your heart skips a beat when it jumps into your throat. "Then, you're going to go back to being my good, pretty girlfriend while I talk business," he presses a teasing kiss to the corner of your lips, and you can't contain a needy, lilting whine, "and no one will know you needed to cum on my fingers just to make it through the night."
"Oh god," you sob, nails digging into the starched fabric of Ice's jacket. You're right there. Liquid flames lick at your core, your tummy tied in knots and thighs jumpy as Ice speeds up his fingers, a muffled squelch each time his fingers bottom out, knuckles pressed tight to your cunt.
The two of you are so distracted that you don't hear the frantic footsteps until they're almost on top of you.
Ice jerks his fingers from you, yanking your dress back into place at the same time as he steps between you and the door to the closet, blocking you from whoever's about to fling the door open.
But it doesn't stop your eyes from meeting your brother's over his shoulder.
Pete slams the door shut.
Silence. Then: "You still dressed?"
Posture going rigid, Ice shoots the door a barbed look. "Maverick–" Pete shushes him through the door. He must be pressed up against the wood. Ice gives in but doesn't give up, continuing with a more hushed, "–what the hell?"
A pause. "That's not a no," your brother mulls. "Scoot over. I'm coming in."
"No!" You and Ice hiss simultaneously, but Pete is already squeezing himself into the closet with the two of you, pressed tight against Ice's back as he shuts the door firmly but with as much care as he gives his Kawasaki.
"Look," Pete whispers, and maybe his hands would be up in a placating manner if there were enough room, "I either hide in here with you two or hack it out there with Admiral Benjamin."
Without the distraction of each other, you and Ice hear far more measured footsteps hesitate at the far end of the hall before heading in your direction.
"I like your chances," Ice bites. "Leave."
Pete jostles all three of you as he turns to get into Ice's face as much as he can, given the confines of the closet. A shelf creaks, but nothing falls. "Well, it won't look good on you either," he whispers furiously. "Huh? Ice-cold, no mistakes, making out with your date in a closet like you're at junior pr–" Ice slaps a hand over his mouth, and the three of you fall deathly still.
The tension thickens until the footsteps pass you by.
No one dares to let out a quiet, adrenaline-shaken breath, even when the footsteps sound like they must have reached the other end of the hallway. Pete does, however, allow his shoulders to sag in relief.
Then, the footsteps pause.
They grow closer—louder—once more. This time, the muffled chaf of dress shoes on the carpet sounds like it's purposefully approaching the closet. Each step ratchets the tension up exponentially. You hold still, certain that if you shift your weight, something on the open shelving will give away your location. Ice, still shielding you from the door, brings a hand up to pet the back of your neck; the cool metal of his Academy ring—grounding any other time—sends a nervous trickle down your spine.
Benjamin is obviously after Pete, but how bad will it look that the two of you are in the closet with him?
There's a mechanical squeal of metal catching, handle turning, getting stuck. Jiggle. A grunt as he encounters the locking mechanism of the next door over.
Two shadows block the ambient light at the bottom of the door.
Well, you pinch your eyes closed. This will be embarrassing.
"Admiral Benjamin," someone calls from further away.
"Ah," the response comes uncomfortably close to your door. "Lieutenant…?"
"Kerner, sir." Slider. "I was with Lieutenant Kazansky earlier. Did you ever find Mitchell?
Two quick raps on the door. Pete flinches. "I believe I have." And Admiral Benjamin sounds smug.
The statement hangs in the air.
"In a closet, sir?" You can see the skeptical raise of Slider's brow in your mind's eye.
The shadow shifts. "I'm sure he came this way."
"Well, I just saw his RIO headed toward the taxis." A pause. "He's a slippery little shit. If he was here, he's long gone by now."
"Hm." Admiral Benjamin doesn't move, but from the sound of things, neither does Slider. "Well, Lieutenant. Really good stuff on the Enterprise."
Slider thanks him as the shadows disappear from the doorway and footsteps hurry off on a Goose chase.
When you're sure the admiral has left the vicinity—thankfully not asking Slider why he decided to stick around—Pete stumbles out of the closet with all the grace of a baby giraffe but none of the height. "Aw, Kerner," he teases with a dopey grin, "you do like me."
Slider snorts. "Don't thank me yet. The Geese are waiting for a taxi."
Pete's chin falls to his chest, and he mumbles a "goddammit" before hurrying to see if he can avoid Admiral Benjamin by sneaking through the courtyard.
"They're not the only ones," Slider tells Ice, nodding in the general direction of what remains of the Ball's attendees. "If you want to talk to anyone else, now's the time."
But as you practically tremble between them, Ice looks at you—really looks at you—and his features soften. He cups your shoulder, offering but not pulling you into his side. "I think I've networked enough for one night," he declares, tone light. His thumb rubbing back and forth, soothing.
Then those gray-blue eyes are on you, and his lips stretch into a slow, soft smile. "No one I can't talk with some other time."
"You sure?" Slider asks. Then, hushed, "I can take care of her while you finish up."
There is quite literally nothing you want less. The venue is clearly cursed, and you don't plan on sticking around long enough to find out what other ways you can get caught or edged tonight. 
"The bet's off," Ice states before you can say 'no,' and your heart flutters. If Ice wasn't going to stick around for one last round of shoulder-rubbing, then winning was only a matter of getting you in a taxi.
For his part, Slider doesn't seem as shocked as you are by Ice's declaration.
Ice feathers a kiss to your temple before you can second-guess his decision. It's the most relaxed you've seen him all evening. "Let's get you a taxi."
"Wait." Slider pushes off the wall. He procures a key from his pocket and presses it into Ice's hand. "Holiday Inn. K Street. Leave in 10 minutes."
Ice fiddles with the thick plastic of the keychain but pays it no real mind.
"Don't give me that look," Slider boos.
Ice licks his lips. "You know our rooms were comped, right?" It's a perk of being summoned to the event, you're sure.
Slider takes a half step forward, the three of you the closest you've been all night. From this distance, Ice has to look up ever so slightly to meet Slider's cocky gaze. "You want to what?" he asks, voice going deep and quiet enough no one else could hear if they happened by you. "Pile into a single room at the same hotel everyone else is staying at?" He motions between the three of you. "How's that going to work?"
Some like to write Slider off as all muscle, no brain. But it's his job to see things others don't—things Ice doesn't. He knew they couldn't take you back to their fancy hotel rooms even before he came to the event tonight. The safest solution had been to shell out for a lesser room somewhere you were less likely to turn heads.
"She isn't exactly known for being quiet," Sli stresses.
Ice ponders the key for long seconds before he pockets it with a nod.
Slider smirks. "That's what I thought."
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unfinishedbow · 27 days
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What this a sneak peak 🙃
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