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anika-ann · 3 years

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Stockings (S.R.)

Type: Modern-college-professor AU - part of Attached series or a standalone

Pairing: Steve Rogers x reader Word count: 3000

Summary: You just wanted to decorate the apartment for a bit, you swear.

It wasn’t your fault that it was impossible to stay with your mind out of the gutter for longer than five minutes whenever Steve was around.

A/N: No knowledge of Attached needed I think 😉 Feel free to read as a standalone, you’ll find it in my masterlist as both.

A/N 2: For @wonderlandmind4 ‘s challenge. Congrats on your follower count and for coming up with this awesome challenge!

Prompt: “Those - weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind-“ (bold in text)

Warnings: suggestive themes, implied smut with tiny bit of action so 18+, nsfw, language (always), and one (1) trope that has definitely been used before

Series masterlist

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When the idea of decorating first flashed through your mind, it was, honest to God, completely innocent.

Due to loads of schoolwork, Halloween somehow passed by and you barely noticed, the most festive thing you had done being the indulgent orders of pumpkin spiced lattés and hogging some of the candy for your exam time stress-eating. Candy which just happened to be shaped like spiders, snakes, witches and other lovely stuff.

But that was it and with ditching the spooky holiday and the Thanksgiving which no one in your apartment was allowed to talk about, you itched to celebrate at least one of the holidays in peace and with everything that belonged with it.

Gifts, obviously.

Baking, perhaps.

Decorations, absolutely.

Last year, you and Penny had gone a bit overboard, fully affected by the holiday madness, and bought half the store (well, as much as your financial situation allowed anyway). Your dorm room looked as if Santa puked there, as Penny elaborately put it, but you both adored it.

Now, with Steve, you knew you had to be considerably more restrained.

Not that he would notice if your apartment turned into a damn Santa village, because he was too preoccupied with grading midterm papers. Non-stop, it seemed. The pile never ever appeared to be reducing.

However, you and Steve had set a rule that even if you were both crazy busy, you’d make time for at least one or two evenings together – simply to take few moments to fully appreciate each other’s company.

That night, Steve’s mind wandered despite trying to stay focused on you, you could tell. You felt for him, you truly did… but you missed him. Your time together, truly together, became so rare lately and--- you didn’t want to end up like the couple that kisses goodnight and good-morning just because they share quarters and a bed, and ignores one another for the rest of the day.

Rather than letting the gloomy thoughts consume you though, you tried a different approach; humour.

After all, that was how your relationship had started, along with loads of awkwardness.

“Penny says hi, by the way,” you said casually, practically feeling Steve’s absence despite his body engulfing you as you cuddled on the couch, movie on your laptop playing in the background which neither of you were watching.

Steve hummed, his fingers never ceasing the comforting strokes on your arm.

You adored him, you did – which really was the reason why you couldn’t but mess with him, tease him for his mental trip to the far-away lands.

“She and Bucky hooked up again.”

“Mm.”

“She still claims he was the best she ever had.”

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Steve muttered, almost as if he was actually listening to you.

“I’m meeting them tomorrow both, because they offered me a threesome.”

“That’s nice.”

The corners of your lips twitched. God, Steve was lucky to have you to take his mind off his job sometimes, otherwise he would work himself into the ground with how much of his brain space was filled with university matters. He was so detached from life sometimes…

“Bucky asked if he could film it, do you think I should say yes?”

“Whatever you think—wait WHAT?!” he cried out, sitting up straight, hence pushing you up too since you had been nestled on his chest.

Giggles erupted from your throat as you watched his perplexed and scandalized face, realization slowly dawning on him as he probably went over the last few sentences that left your mouth – and his expression gradually melted into an apologetic one, blending into exhaustion as he ran his hand down his face.

You cupped his cheeks then, leaning in to plant a kiss on his forehead – you would swear it was a fraction hotter than normal, his poor brain overheating – and stifled the aww threatening to spill when Steve closed his eyes contentedly, a hum vibrating in his chest.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered, kissing your lips chastely before wrapping his arms around you to hold you close again, face nuzzling your hair. “I’m listening now.”

You curled into his warmth, much more welcoming than the comforter wrapped around you.

“It’s okay, Stevie. I know you’re tired. We’ll just call it a night.”

“But you wanted to talk about something?” he protested softly, earning a hum in affirmation.

“Just wanted to ask if you’d be okay with me decorating the apartment? Just a bit, to bring a piece of the Christmas spirit in here?”

You could feel his smile against your scalp as his thumb caressed your shoulders blades, his large form shifting for a bit.

“We both live here, sweetheart,” he reminded you and you made a tiny sound of protest. Yes, he was correct, but that didn’t mean you wouldn’t consult him on stuff before messing with the interior, even if it was with the best intentions. Duh. “But I appreciate you asking. Decorations, huh?”

You withdrew, meeting his tired eyes with a barely-there twinkle. You smiled at up at him innocently, showing him a tiny space between your thumb and index finger.

“Just a little bit. Just the basics…”

“Uh-huh. The basics. So that’s what? Christmas lights, stockings, mistletoe, a tree?” he mused, his thumb moving to your chin, to your lower lip, brushing it tenderly as you nodded minutely with a smile. His irises lit up a fraction with that image he must have painted in his mind and you felt familiar warmth around your heart at the sight. “I guess we’ll have to talk about getting a tree then. But it sounds nice, babygirl. The mistletoe in particular.”

He proceeded to capture that lips with his, lazy but indulgent kiss that sent pleasant sparkles down your spine and yet made you sleepy as it was soothing, feeling like home.

“Yeah. Sounds nice,” you echoed dreamily, meeting his lips again in a short kiss before nudging him to stand up so you could begin to move to bed.

Only later it occurred to you just how nice you could do with the stuff Steve had mentioned if you tried – and you fell asleep in his arms, a menacing grin that would make Grinch green with envy on your lips.

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Carrying the box after hanging one mistletoe branchlet in the kitchen along with very few fairy lights in the window, you were ready to move onto the bedroom, where Steve was, again, working.

Not for long, you hoped – after all, you put notable effort into your appearance.

With a small smirk on your lips, you knocked on the separating wall, peeking from behind it, trying your best not reveal too much.

Steve didn’t even bother looking up, a semi-loud hum the only sign of him acknowledging your presence.

“I’m gonna decorate this room… you mind me messing around for a bit?” you asked, attempting to sound compassionate about his workload, which you were, and perfectly innocent, which you were not.

That got him eye you briefly, an unconvincing smile passing his lips.

“Sure, go ahead,” he encouraged you softly. He turned his gaze back to the papers on his desk and started writing notes before you could even respond – hence missing your victorious smile.

“Thanks!”

You gleefully walked in, steps soundless against the floor thanks to the thin fabric covering your soles, and placed the box on your own desk.

The rustle of papers and the sudden lack of scribbling sound had you biting your cheek so you wouldn’t burst out laughing.

Steve cleared his throat loudly; when you looked at him over your shoulder however, he went back to reading his damn papers.

You swallowed your disappointment, trying not to think much of it – Steve could be very patient when he wanted to be – or very impulsive. And sometimes, he was both at the same time.

So you pressed your lips together and removed the other branchlet of mistletoe from the top of the box, following with Christmas lights, putting whatever you needed on the desk.

“Sweetheart…” Steve’s voice sounded from his seat, partly amused, partly… hoarse, affected, and you had to bite your lips so the giggles wouldn’t spill out. “What are you wearing?”

You turned to him, making a show of checking your outfit, letting your palms sprawl over your barely covered thighs and slowly moving them up, the hem of Steve’s loose ivory sweater hiking up an inch and revealing the lace of your thigh-high crimson stockings; perhaps even offering a peek of the straps holding them in place due to the garter belt.

“Your old sweater… and stockings,” you offered with a one-shoulder shrug, cool as cucumber in December – or as yourself teasing your loveable boyfriend at the end of November – on the outside, giddy on the inside as his gaze trailed all over your figure, wavering at the lace and the patch of skin on display, before focusing on your face.

“Those-- those weren’t the kind of stockings I had in mind-- when I, uhm, talked about decorating this place,” he explained.

He sounded almost patient, as if it wasn’t clear as day. His irises, however, were not clear – a cloud of desire covered them, turning them a shade darker, hungrier.

It sent a pleasant shiver up your spine, heat pooling in your belly, satisfaction at inching closer to your goal causing your chest nearly puff with pride.

“Oh, my bad!” you exclaimed, chuckling self-depreciatingly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you eyed Steve from under your eyelashes, picture perfect of innocence… not. “Silly me! I’m sorry, I know how much you hate me in stockings…”

“Babygirl…”

His voice resembled a growl, a low warning not to toy with him – which was exactly what you did want to do, teasing him shamelessly when having added emphasis on him not liking your attire.

Stockings and/or his clothes on you got your boyfriend going in fact, sometimes for hours even, thank you very much.

“Yes, Steve?”

“This isn’t going to work, you know. I really have to finish these,” he stated and you most definitely didn’t imagine the impatience and his dislike towards his task sneaking into his voice.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. These are just…” you bit gently on your lower lip, sliding your palms up and down your thighs, Steve’s gaze following the motion instinctively, pupils dilating with the craving to replace your hands with his own, “…comfy, just like your sweater. You never minded when I borrowed it before—you know I love stealing it. It just… it smells like you and it’s warm. It’s like you’re all over me. It’s perfect.”

His glare zeroed on your mouth, slightly accented by a natural, yet visible shade of your lipstick. Steve didn’t say a word, simply staring – and shifting slightly in his seat, much to your glee, which hopefully didn’t show too much – and grumbling an unidentifiable noise.

You felt for him, you truly did – god knew that sometimes, you were overwhelmed with schoolwork too – but that didn’t stop you from smiling at him sweetly now, adding an apologetic tone to your next words.

“Sorry. I talk too much. Don’t let me disturb you. You have work to do and so do I. I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.”

Then you spun on your heels and went back to continue your previous activity, laying out decorations on your desk.

Steve only grunted behind you, but you could hear him as he started going through the papers again, probably trying – and hopefully failing – to ignore your presence.

It wasn’t that you wanted to be mean, there was no single drop of malice in your plan; Steve needed to get his head off his work for a bit, even if he wasn’t aware of it. The way he was overworking himself was beginning to threaten to his sanity.

You simply wanted to help and this was just the way that had crossed your mind first; it was entirely on Steve and his stupidly perfect everything that you couldn’t seem to get your head out of the gutter sometimes when in his presence.

You wished nothing more than for him to turn off his brain… and to relax and enjoy himself.

Clearly, he was enjoying the view indeed.

You caught his sharp inhale when you accidentally dropped a tacky plastic Santa and proceeded to bend over to pick it up… offering Steve a perfect view of your rear and revealing the smart garter belt you wore; with nothing as much as a thong, leaving your most intimate areas bare.

You heard him shuffling in the chair and had to smirk, mentally counting down the time until his resolve broke.

He was holding up quite bravely – nearly long enough to make you doubt your ability to seduce him. Except the shuffle of papers that followed sounded as if he was trying to make a point and you knew that the breaking point was on horizon.

So when the time came to set in motion what you assumed would be the final strike – pushing the chair from your desk to the middle of the room to get ready to put your stockings on display right in his natural line of vision – you delicately took the branchlet of mistletoe with you, climbing up and carefully tying it to the lamp.

Steve’s pen hit the desk with a click and you quickly shot him a glance, meeting his stern and yet rather amused eyes. He sighed at your ridiculously unsubtle antics, but one corner of his lips rose anyway.

“Alright, that’s it. Get down here, you little minx,” he huffed.

Oh, sweet victory.

Mirroring his expression, you retorted cheekily: “Come get me.”

There was no missing the dangerous glint in is eye as he rose to his feet and stalked to your chair, a smirk playing on his lips, every movement purposeful and precise as if he was a predator chasing his prey to the corner.

Your breathing picked up as he neared, your heart pounding, chest heaving quickly – fuck, wasn’t it an erotic sight, Steve’s figure cladded in plain t-shirt and sweats, looking up at you as if he was about to eat you alive.

Maybe it was the expression on his face, somewhere between aroused, amused, cocky and predatory at the same time. Maybe it was the outline of his semi-hard dick on his sweatpants. But shit, you knew you were in trouble, you loved it, and you might have been this close to drooling. You were glad for forgoing underwear, because it would be absolutely useless and soaked through in an instant.

And Steve hadn’t even started yet.

Stopping right in front of you, craning his neck only a bit to face you (the tall bastard), his wide palms sprawled over your calves, their heat warming you from inside out.

An appreciative hum rumbled in his chest as his touch trailed up at torturously slow pace, drinking in the sight of your ragged breaths, indulging in every inch he laid his hands on. You couldn’t withhold the shudder running through your whole body and his grin widened.

“You’re such a fucking tease….” he whispered, licking his lips as his gaze fell lower again, following the movements of his hands, clasping the back of your thighs now, inching toward their inner part, fingers brushing the hem of your stockings.

“Is it-“ You had to clear your throat against the lump that grew there, your body buzzing with anticipation, the smart remark growing heavy on your tongue. “Is it teasing when you can just take what you want?”

He chuckled, a delicious dark sound, bringing more slickness between your legs, much to his apparent satisfaction as he set eyes on his prize.

“Downright naughty…”

His mouth landed softly on the inside of your right calf, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs to nudge them few inches apart to make space for him.

“Does that… uhm, does that mean I won’t be getting any presents from Santa this year?”

You had genuinely no clue how you managed to form a sentence through the fog of arousal around your brain, only growing thicker when Steve’s teeth grazed the skin above your knee, his fingertips brushing an extremely sensitive spot so close to your core.

“You could come down now, be a very good girl and I might put in a good word for you,” he muttered, biting down some more, drawing a mewl from your lips, another one escaping you when he snapped one of the strings holding your stockings in place.

The sharp gentle pain was enough to make words roll off your tongue.

“You think that would work?”

“Oh sweetheart…” Steve chuckled again, a huff of breath warming your thighs, before his eyes, wide-blown and hungry, met yours. “If it doesn’t… you can be damn sure I’m gonna give you fucking everything I have.”

You yelped when his grip on the back of your thighs tightened and he tugged you forward, your hands instantly going to his shoulders to maintain balance as you found yourself with no surface under your feet all of sudden.

He grinned up at you – the show-off, but by God, wasn’t the demonstration of strength setting your body on fire, rendering you speechless – and slowly lowered you to the ground, half-lidded eyes zeroed on your lips. He made damn sure that you felt his erection against your body at all time as he always loosened his grip and tightened it a second later, until your feet touched the ground – and yet you felt your legs shaking, unsteady with the need to feel more of him.

It dawned to you how crazy he managed to drive you, your roles reversed, your plan backfiring. But was it? Backfiring? Because you couldn’t wait to see how it would unfold--

His hands slipped under the sweater you stole from him, one grasping your hip to hold you tight against his body, fingers of the other diving into the pool of slick between your legs, causing you to jerk forward into his hand.

He leaned down to nip at the skin of your neck right under your ear, forefinger circling your clit for a good measure, drawing a needy moan from you.

“And I bet you’re gonna take it…” he hummed into your ear, satisfied smile audible in his hoarse voice, “and thank me for it like the good girl you are.”

You barely forced the words out, heavy with desire but any less true.

“Yes, Professor Rogers. I think I will.”

“Damn right.”

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S.R. masterlist

Attached masterlist

The One Word (next in timeline)

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I really wanted to come up with an original title… and failed. Also, it was supposed to be a drabble, but you know that I tend to babble… and rhyme, apparently.

Thank you for reading and for any kind of feedback :-*

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rosesisupposes · 5 years

Text

Midnight Marauders

Part 1 of Another Goddamn Hero Story

read on ao3

Story Summary: Roman used to be a Prince. He used to be a superhero. Now, he and his fellow villain Patton are the biggest threat to the status quo of Harmony City, and there’s no pair of heroes more trusted to stop them than Logan and Virgil. What happens when they clash? Another goddamn hero story, that’s what.

taglist: @residentanchor @royally-anxious @bewarethegrammarpolice @nightmarebeforevirgil @jemthebookworm @arandompasserby @sparkly-rainbow-salt @astral-eclipse @thelowlysatsuma @monsterinatophat @turtally-pawsome @um-yes-hi-hello @idkaurl @immortaldystopia

Chapter Characters: Creativity/Roman; Morality/Patton;

Chapter Pairings: Queerplatonic Royality;

Chapter Warnings: Asphyxiation/choking, almost-murder by protagonists, theft, description of manic/depressive episodes

The sun was setting on Harmony City, gilding rooftops and glass walls in golden light. It bathed the underbellies of pink and purple clouds, and lit up the face of the dark-haired man sitting on the edge of a roof, dangling his legs off the edge. I’ll never get tired of this view, he thought. It’s the only time this goddamn city looks as good as it sounds.

A choking sound behind him made him whirl, only to see a costumed man collapse, gasping for air. Another costumed figure in grey, white, and blue walked past the man as he fell, smiling. “Sorry I interrupted your moment, Roman, he looked like he was going to push you.”

“Pat, I can fly, I would have been fine,” Roman said.

“No one messes with my family, kiddo,” Pat said with a beatific smile.

“You’re only knocking him out, right?”

“...yes?”

“Patton. Come on, we talked about this”

“Finneee,” Patton relented, waving a hand with a careless gesture. The choking noises stopped, the fallen chest rising once more, but the form didn’t appear able to rise quite yet.

“He’s just a sidekick, he won’t be a risk. Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for ages.”

“Ro, it has been five minutes at most.”

“Like I said, ages. Where have you been?”

“Just checking the perimeter behind us again. I’ve only run into this fine fella right here,” he said, gesturing to the prone form behind him.

“Weird, I wonder where his hero is. Usually they catch up much faster, even if it was just a scouting trip. Guess we’re fine to head home, then.”

Roman stepped off the roof of the skyscraper into open air, hands glowing with red light as he held himself aloft gently for the long distance towards the ground. Between the dusk light and the building’s shadow, his dark costume was only noticeable from the occasional glint of streetlights off his gold belt and embroidered accents. His black-and-red cape fluttered gently with his movement. As Patton leapt off the building and caught up with him, the fabric of his costume flapped more vigorously, pulled to and fro with the wind his partner was generating. Roman looked over and chuckled. Patton’s eyes were closed as he fell in a controlled drop, wind currents wrapped around him. Eddies in the air played around the other man’s form like excited children, whirling away and exploring only to return to his side. His long grey tunic flapped over loose white trousers, held in place at his waist by a pale blue sash. A matching blue eye cracked open as Patton looked back through silver glasses frames at Roman and grinned.

“Worrying about me, kiddo?”

“Of course not, you’ve only done this a hundred times. Why do you like falling off buildings so much, again?”

“Why, Roman, worried I don’t understand the gravity of the situation?” Patton cheesed back.

Roman had heard this exact joke a dozen times, but Patton’s glee in telling it never failed to make him laugh all the same.

They both touched down safely in the alley by the building, hidden in shadows that grew steadily darker. Roman glanced out into the street and scanned for movement. Pedestrians turned the corner up a couple blocks, shopping bags on their arms. A plastic bag blew through the gutter. A delivery truck and a handful of cars rumbled down the street. Here in the financial district, things got quiet as it became night. Roman ticked through his mental checklist of threats and oddities, confirming that all was as it should be for this part of the city. “We’re good, Pat.”

Both men stepped further into the alley as Roman lifted his arms, conjuring a wall of light. Red at first, it hardened and darkened into a black, physical construct, shielding them from view. Patton removed his loose robes to reveal his normal t-shirt and jeans, while another glow of red light removed Roman’s costume and left a similarly-normal outfit in its place. They were about to move out into the range of streetlights when Patton pointed at Roman’s face with a small shake of his head. Roman removed his black-and-gold mask with an embarrassed smile. He almost forgot he wore it at least half the time, but he had no interest in blowing his cover. It was the only non-conjured part of his costume, so that his identity could be secret even when his concentration broke.

Letting the wall-construct vanish, Roman led the way as the two friends strode out into the night, heading north and west down one of the diagonal boulevards that spread out from City Center like rays of the now-vanished sun. They chatted softly as they walked, never letting silence fall for more than a few moments as Roman led them through the grid of Harmony City towards their destination. He closed his eyes to double-check his mental map of the city, winced, and abruptly tried to steer Patton up a street heading north. He’d hesitated too long, though - Patton had already seen what Ro had been trying to avoid.

A construction site, still in progress after a year and a half, sat on the border of the north- and south-western districts. After many long delays, the crater that had once stood there was filled and new foundations had been laid. The skeleton of a growing building jutted out like a new tooth in a rotted mouth. The sight made Patton stiffen, resisting Roman’s tug on his arm.

“So they really are trying to rebuild it, are they?” he commented. His tone was too careful, too flat and uncaring, his face too stony.

“Pat-”

“Do they think rebuilding it will fix anything? That a shiny new building will make it easier to forget who died that day?”

Roman broke Patton’s line of sight to the construction, hands on both his friend’s shoulders as he spoke. “Hey. I know it’s hard to see. But we can’t stop right now, remember? What happened there will never be okay, and will never be forgotten. But we can’t do anything about it right now. Later though, I promise. We will.”

Patton stared through Roman for moment, then shook his head to clear it. His painfully blank visage morphed back into his default smile. “You’re right, Ro. I’m just being silly again. I know we’ll take care of it when the time’s right. Let’s go.”

Roman kept a careful hand on Patton’s back as he steered him north, away from the construction and closer to the more residential northwest quadrant of the city. Plate-glass covered office buildings had melted into brick rowhouses and corner stores. Sidewalks swelled wider to sprout trees, each one given its own square patch of earth with an ornamental fence. The sidewalks were fuller, too, of families and residents strolling from circle to circle of light from the antique-style streetlamps. Patton noticed their proximity to their destination first, and nudged Roman with a shoulder. There, surrounded by quaint homes and postage-stamp parks, was one of the enormous chain supermarkets of the neighborhood. Amidst the charm of the district, it looked like a sullen teenager who refused to dress for company, all sharp angles and grey concrete. It had replaced many local bodegas, both as competition and in location, with the owners taking over an entire block and flattening everything that had been there before.

Following the tide of the crowd, Patton and Roman strolled through the automatic doors and grabbed a basket. Looking for all the world like another domestic couple, they chose cereals and fruits and breads, edging in between chatting parents and tired office workers. When their basket was full, they headed straight for the doors to leave, skipping past lines to the registers and passing the theft sensors. Alarms clanged to wakefulness as security burst out of their office, charging at the pair. Patton glanced over at Roman only to see his mask already secure on his face as he smirked back and lifted a hand. A flash of red light swirled around them both as a sudden wind followed it, a moment’s time clothing them both in their costumes. Ruby banana peels dropped from Roman’s bolt of light to land right underneath the security officers’ feet, knocking them flat on their backs as they slipped. They struggled to stand, only to find the air itself preventing them from rising, pressing back against them in a stiff wind. Shoppers and bystanders scattered, screaming until they realized the two supers were focused on the security guards alone. A wall of air prevented the other employees from getting near as long red arm reached over into an open cash register. A fistful of bills made its way back to Roman, but not before a small piece detached and formed a small card.

Catching the cash, Roman gestured and lifted the shopping basket copy he’d just made out of the gliding door. “We’re Gucci,” he called to his friend. “Let’s blow this capitalist mess of a popsicle stand.” Patton grinned and zipped over, his propelling winds blowing receipts into the air. They turned to face the onlookers still staring in shock as they waved goodbye.

“Mérci beaucoup, thank you, you delightful guys, gals, and nonbinary pals! You’ve been a lovely audience,” Roman announced. “My compliments in particular to these brave souls, dedicated to defending the monetary gains of this gentrifying conglomerate of a grocery store, may your bosses recognize your efforts and give you all raises- ahaha I’m sorry, I can’t say that with a straight face, goodness. My compliments and admiration also to the lovely person who hit a high C note in their scream, please quit your job and pursue your well-deserved career on the stage at once. And to you all, if you’d ever like to be dazzled once more, I have, of course, left our calling card. Goodnight, Harmony City!” With a twirl of his cape that showed off the intricate gold embroidery, Roman followed Patton out the door, towing his glowing red basket of groceries as they both soared into the night sky, laughing in triumph.

As they vanished, the air pressure released the security guards. They scrambled to their feet and ran to the cash register that had been emptied. All that was left were some singles and an ornate card as big as the shaking hand the first guard to reach it used to pick it up. A black background was emblazoned with a bold, curling red M on one side and a stylized white hurricane on the other. In embossed writing read a greeting that was as cheeky as the villain that had conjured it.

“You’ve Had the Pleasure of Being Robbed by Gale Force and the Crimson Marauder.”

D.R.E.A.M. Index #337413 Classification: Class Z.2.iv [Secondary Tier Villain, unknown] Name: Crimson Marauder Status: ACTIVE Civilian Name: Unknown [Unregistered] //Unconfirmed report that his first name is “Roman” Affiliation: Villain Partners/Sidekicks: DI#337437 - Gale Force; Primary Foes: DI#265351 - Commander Eagle, DI#337236 - Silver Sparrow //No particular rivalries since Incident 15-Z-0632; has fought most heroes in the city Powers: Psionic Construction //Appears to create constructs along the red light spectrum only unless it is a previously-created object being stored in a psionic pocket dimension Costume: Black Suit with Red Blocks, Gold Belt, Black and Red Cape with Gold accents; Black-and-gold mask Age: Approx 25 yrs [uncertain] Height: Approx. 6’ Pronouns: He/Him H.E.A.R.T.S. Class N/A Note: Formerly known as Scarlet Prince, see DI#337321; Origin and family unknown

The pair of thieves were still laughing at another successful heist was they soared south over the city, heading home with their newly-secured food. Roman spotted the space they called home and they banked as one, zooming into to land under an overpass in the neighborhood called Sycamore Heights. Once it had been indeed a high ground covered by those graceful trees, but those days were long past. Now it was the ‘rough’ neighborhood that parents cautioned their children to avoid, where car windows were rolled up as they passed through, and any crowds vanished as the streetlights came on.

It was also Roman’s home, and had been for his entire life. He stretched out an arm as they approached the overpass. What had previously resembled a dark black concrete slab grew a door in a flash of red light. Checking their surroundings, Roman waved an arm to welcome Patton in ahead of him.

The interior revealed itself to be a small sitting room, kitchen, and bedroom. An entire home was hidden inside the dark block, complete with knick-knacks and clutter. Patton took the basket of groceries and deposited them in the tiny fridge, whirling air into a cold front in lieu of electricity.

Roman flopped onto the deep red couch with a sigh, his costume vanishing in a flash as he removed his mask.

“Another successful grocery run. I liked how you pinned the guards this time, Pat. It kept all the civilians back neatly without hurting anyone,” he said, eyes closed as he leaned back onto the cushions. I’m proud of you, he thought, but didn’t say out loud. He knew from experience that too much hinting that Patton’s typical methods were overly violent did not go over well.

“What can I say, Roro, I just want them to feel the pressure of their jobs. Literally!” Patton said, grinning as he shed his costume. He also fell onto the couch, wriggling over until he lay with his head across Roman’s lap. Roman smiled down at him. Even if his friend scared him occasionally, he was so glad to have met him. Life on the streets as a super had never been easy, but having a partner he could trust with his life made it just a bit better. And having a partner like Patton who spent 90% of his time in a blissfully sunshine state of mind was even better than he could have imagined. All Patton seemed to want in return for his perpetual optimism and protection were daily cuddles, and Roman was only too happy to oblige. Even with the high of a heist well done, the night was creeping in and with it, the dark cloud of alone again.

He hated this dark tide that refused to stay receded. Some days he felt quite literally on top of the world as he reached new heights in his flight and construct creation alike. He’d be seized by the inexorable urge to create, and create, and create, surrounding himself with new and more ambitious constructs as the haze of euphoria roared through his veins. Those days burned in red and gold, the way it should be. Just like the day he manifested his powers, when he’d filled his old room and spooked his… well. Those days were his favorite. Even if he sometimes got carried away, and felt unable to stop moving at 100 miles an hour. They were still preferable to the days when the air itself was a weight, when it was all he could do to drag himself out of bed. The world on those days looked as bleak as his head felt, all greys, no reds at all, not outside his window or at his fingertips. The only reason his home didn’t melt away on those days was because of how long it had persisted in this exact form. All other constructs lost their form, unable to maintain without his concentration or energy. He needed Patton the most those days, to make him eat, to keep him from vegetating into nothing. Pat would pull him into his lap and sing nursery rhymes both traditional and of his own invention, throwing in puns and blowing paper animals to dance around their tiny shared room.

Roman was glad he didn’t need to be in a depressive episode to get this sort of treatment, because he loved how soft his friend went when he was in this mode, a caretaker role that felt maybe like a parent, maybe an older brother. Patton’s toothy smile moved more naturally, not acting like a perpetual fixture, but a true demonstration of emotion. His voice danced and dove and trilled along stories of fairies and talking animals and pastel women from space. But his use of his powers was the most different. When Patton was in what Ro privately called ‘Puffball Mode,’ his power was no longer a weapon that could be wielded anywhere, even within others’ lungs. It wasn’t a tool or means of transportation. It was just joy. It was a puppy, flopping around the room and picking up everything that looked bright or shiny. It was a butterfly, paper wings flapping gently before coming to rest on Roman’s nose. It was a warm breeze that smelled like childhood and dreams that had yet to be abandoned.

They had fantastic powers that set them apart from the vast majority of society, but Patton and Roman were, above all, the owners of many broken things. Their lives had prepared them for this, of course. You don’t survive a life of poverty or foster care without knowing how to fix broken things, without knowing just how far you can push their use before their purpose completely fails. Shoes with holes. Teddy bears without their stuffing. Books without covers. Hearts that have been shattered. Hope that’s been all but lost.

Roman wrapped his arms tighter around Patton as the ginger-haired man removed his glasses and snuggled into his partner’s chest. Yes, they were both broken. That didn’t bother Roman one bit, though. What mattered was that together, they were just a little less so, and together, they’d show a city that called them villains just what it meant when those with the most experience came to fix a broken world.

D.R.E.A.M. Index #337437 Classification: Z.1.iv [Primary Tier Villain, unknown origin] Status: ACTIVE Name: Gale Force Civilian Name: Unknown [Unregistered] //Unconfirmed report that first name is “Pat” Affiliation: Villain Partners/Sidekicks: DI#337413 - Crimson Marauder Primary Foes: N/A //No particular rivalries, has fought most heroes in the city Powers: Air Manipulation - Broad Spectrum; Additional Powers Unknown Costume: Grey calf-length tunic, slits up to waist with loose sleeves over loose white trousers; light blue belt; matching blue symbol of a hurricane across the chest. Does not wear a mask. //First appearance - no costume, just a blue work polo, cream slacks, and gray sweater Age: Unknown //Estimates range from 18 to 26 Pronouns: [Unknown] //Believed to be he/him H.E.A.R.T.S. Class N/A Note: Highly volatile, responsible for deaths of DI#265351 and DI#337236, see Incident Report 15-Z-0632; Family and origin unknown

author notes: Welcome to Another Goddamn Hero Story!

This chapter title is from Dancing’s Not A Crime by Panic! at the Disco and if you would like to understand any future references in this story I highly recommend memorizing the entirety of their album Pray for the Wicked because I’ve been listening repeat for about 3 weeks and it’s perFECT.

#aghs #another goddamn hero story #Roses Writes Fanfic #superhero au #supervillain au #ngfblfg #it is here #it's HERE #ts roman #ts patton #sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides fic #fanfic #lil mini preview of angst here y'all #just fuckin strap in #there are NO PROMISES

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beautifulstuff617 · 5 years

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“In the days and the doing and the being”

A short phrase written in a poem by a wonderful friend. Words that have echoed in my head and heart like a thematic motif in the cinema we call life. Words like honey in the desert of a world that demands more and takes more and asks always...for more. Because the days and the doing and being are never quite enough for the culture in which we find ourselves. A culture in which a dreaded, looming, omnipresent question skulks in the corners, eager to twist the victories of yesterday into the anxieties of tomorrow. This question disguises itself in good intentions and projects apparent concern, making it all the more confusing and troubling when it leaves wounds you can’t quite explain. Its name is ordinary, mundane....expected, even. Spoken amidst sentences with other innocuous words and phrases, it builds your confidence merely to remind you that your efforts--and most decidedly, you-- are still not quite enough.

“So...what’s new?”

And I’m not talking about when you say “what’s new?” as a stand in for “what’s up?” or “how are you?” I’m talking about those moments when you’ve just completed your masters and the only thing people want to ask you is “what will you even be able to do with THAT?” Or when you just finished a huge project and people immediately want you to tell them what the next project will be. When you get married and you get asked about kids, a house, a move. This little question robs us of good and produces a persistent anxiety for more--not the good kind. It projects this expectation that we cannot truly be satisfied until we have achieved some hidden checklist of acceptable life goals thrust upon us by the society in which we live. And don’t get me wrong, I am a very strong believer that our work is never finished when it comes to the state of hearts, our character, our pursuit to become more like Jesus--but these are not the things I am addressing. It is the constant pressure, the push, the “dream” for the visible successes; and how even when we reach these, there is always another step, another expectation, another NEW. And I’m a little tired of it (if you couldn’t tell.)

This question is tricky. It poses the idea that the daily movements and patterns of our lives--the smaller moments that define the bigger things-- simply are of no concern. It reduces our worth to our biggest accomplishments and subtly devalues the wild victories made in the every day. And believe me, they are...wild victories.

So tonight, I want to take a few moments to honor those victories. The unnoticed and rarely acknowledged battles won in the stunning tapestry of the ordinary. The severe and untold story of the breath-taking in between. I do not want to discredit the mountains of life, the highlight reels and supercuts, but if you are someone like me who often finds themselves attempting to live faithfully in the middle rather than the heights or depths, this is a gift for you. I see you. I see your wild victories.

I see you. You who lost somebody you loved but still find a way to keep breathing. You who got your heart broken once, twice, fifteen times but you choose to give love anyway. I see you if you fight an addiction, where each day is a war and you know the war is coming again tomorrow, but still you stand. I see you when you study hard, when you sit with your family even though your family is a mess. You who walks with someone who can’t walk on their own.

If you’re the person on the other end of the line in the middle of the night, if you’ve got a monster in the closet, if you struggle with anxiety and sometimes you beat it and sometimes you don’t...I see you. If you’re a mom, a dad, a wife, a husband, a son, a daughter, a sister, a brother, a friend a mentor, a pastor, a teacher and everyone has an opinion of how you can be a better one...I see you. If you stuck in your heels when you didn’t want to, if you stood up for someone, if you work to be kind in a world that is often unkind....these are the wild victories.

Maybe you didn’t do something new this week, this month, this year, this decade...but maybe you took one small step out of fear and no one knows it but you. Maybe you created something lovely. Maybe you realized you needed help and you got it. Maybe you gave something away that was hard to give away. Maybe you started to fix something that has been broken and it’s not healed yet, but it’s getting there. Maybe you’re...getting there.

Maybe you don’t have something new because you are just literally trying to survive. So if you are sick and started, stopped, or are in the midst of treatment...that is enough. If you are raising a kid in ANY sense of the word...that is enough. If you’ve got heavy things in your bag but are still walking...praying...reaching. If you are so tired but won’t go down easy. If you’re in a rough season of your marriage, if you lost your job and still haven’t found one yet, if you’re having financial trouble. If you’re trying to get pregnant and can’t. If you didn’t want to be pregnant but you are. If you’re the only caretaker left. If someone you love is sick. If you are miles from who you want to be but still know who you want to be...it’s okay. You don’t need a new thing. Keep walking. And if you can’t walk, keep praying. And if you can’t pray...keep reaching.

Yes. The new things are wonderful and we should celebrate them when they come, but I want to do better. I want to do better at acknowledging not only the big moves and bold changes, but the tiny steps and daily faithfulness. I want to cheer as loud for the person who decides to stay in the mess as I do for the person who leaves everything behind for a grand adventure. So here’s to you.

You who feels so alone but sits with someone who feels alone. And you..who put your heart out there and got rejected. You who fought so hard and lost. You who laughed with someone, cried with someone, made time for someone, forgave someone. You who showed up when no one else did. You who sent a letter just because. You who took a risk...who took a step before knowing the next one. I see you. I’m cheering for you. Keep going.

When I look at the people who’s stories are preserved in the gospel, they are the stories of ordinary people who gave what they had. A boy’s lunch. Some friends carrying their friend. Hurt people reaching out for help. Lost people learning things they needed to learn and hearing things they needed to hear. People eating together, walking together, growing together. Not every day was filled with the exciting and the remarkable...and that was okay, because the small things were filled with great love. (Mother Theresa)

And so, hear me tonight. If you cooked a meal, changed diapers, or tucked someone in. If you volunteered. If you arrived earlier or stayed later than you had to. If you ran out of patience and still showed grace. If you aren’t doing exactly what you want to be doing, but are giving all of yourself anyway. If you gave someone a second, third, fourth or 20th chance. If you did something out of character only to find it was in character all along. If you had a hard conversation and didn’t run from the hard conversation. If you helped your mom, dad, aunt, or grandpa. If you mowed the lawn, cleaned the gutters or the tub, redid the bathroom, or let the in-laws stayed longer than you would have preferred. If you were open and honest. If you wanted to say something but knew it would be more harmful than helpful, so you didn’t. If you are humble enough to know you are still learning...and are still willing to learn. If you’re still waiting for an answer to a prayer you keep praying. If you spoke when you were called to speak. If you got out of an unhealthy situation. If you protected someone or fought for someone. If you have done all you can do and still feel like you didn’t do enough, or that you aren’t enough...I see you. I hear you. And what you are and who you are is good. And even if those things don’t seem as significant as that NEW THING everyone keeps asking you about...they are.

It is not only about who you are in the new things, but about who you are in the old, the repetitive, the tired, and the slow. In the days and the doing and the being. These are the windows to the wildest victories. These are the wildflowers of the soul.

Do not despise the day of small things or small beginnings.

“For in the days and the doing and the being...there is love.” -Terri Witmyer

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redorblue · 6 years

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The Goldfinch, by Donna Tartt

Boy was I hyped for this book. I read The Secret History in September (twice) and had to keep myself from making a shrine to Donna Tartt, so when I finally got my hands on The Goldfinch (which is a Pulitzer Prize winner no less) I was very, very excited. Which, as I keep forgetting, is not a good way to start a new book. So... It’s not like this book was a waste of time, and who am I to criticize a Pulitzer book anyway, but to me it’s definitely not as good as The Secret History, and at times I found it very hard to keep going.

Let’s start with what I liked though. I like how Donna Tartt writes relationships. I read an interview with her the other day where she says that she’s less interested in writing romance than other kinds of relationships. So far I’ve read two of her three novels (and at least in those two it’s very obvious that she doesn’t find romance all that interesting) and I’m very grateful to come across an author who doesn’t treat romance as the end-all-be-all. Granted, her depiction of friendship and family, and really her books in general, are rather dark and I dare say pessimistic, but still, it’s refreshing and superbly done. The main friendship here is the one between the protagonist and narrator, Theo, and his childhood friend Boris whom he meets a few weeks after his mother’s death in a terrorist attack (not committed by Islamists. Thanks, Donna). They soon become the only fixed point in each other’s lives in a solitary world of neglectful and violent fathers and absent/dead mothers. Objectively speaking, neither one is a good influence on the other: Boris is an alcoholic at the tender age of 13 and introduces Theo to a whole lot of other disreputable substances, as well as petty crime, and Theo’s self-destructive behaviour only exacerbates Boris’ tendency toward recklessness. But despite all that they form a strong friendship (with some romantic subtext here and there) based on a deep understanding of the other’s character, and morals aside, it’s really beautiful to see how far they would go for the other. I’d still say that they’re bad for each other and that their relationship is destructive at its core, but not because it’s a bad friendship - rather because their respective personal issues inadvertently make the other’s worse and also have a negative impact on their environment. Actually I think that’s true for most of Donna Tartt’s characters: They’re not really bad people (by whatever standards), and their issues don’t make them bad people either; it’s more the specific combinations in stressful situations that produce bad outcomes for them and others.

Another important relationship in The Goldfinch is the one between Theo and several parental figures: his mother (dead, which leaves him deeply scarred), Mrs Barbour who takes him in for a while after his mother’s death, his father (a relationship that haunts Theo his entire life), and Hobie, his guardian. It’s a rather tired trope to kill the protagonist’s mother in order to induce personal trauma, but I think in this case it’s very well executed and although we only meet her for a few short pages, she feels like a real, layered person instead of some sacrificial lamb meant only to create manpain. Her death, and specifically the manner of her death (the terrorist attack, during which Theo is also injured) leaves a huge hole in his heart and causes a whole bunch of mental health issues, but the reason for that is that we know first hand what a great person, and great mother, she was, and that’s what makes Theo’s pain over her death so relatable. (spoilers) His father, on the other hand, remains rather one-dimensional although he gets a lot more screen time. The only thing I know about him now is that he’s an abusive, unreliable coward, and honestly that’s enough, the less said about him the better. What’s really interesting is not him as a character, but his relationship with Theo, specifically how Theo recognizes (or thinks he recognizes) his father in his every action and urge and how it contributes to his self-loathing and carelessness about his destructive impulses.

So Theo’s biological parents are abusive and/or deceased, which is why he turns to other parent-aged people, namely Mrs. Barbour and Hobie. Especially Theo’s relationship with Mrs. Barbour becomes a bit obsessive, to the point where he mainly agrees to marry his girlfriend (Mrs. Barbour’s daughter) in order to please Mrs. Barbour, but in general they have a positive influence on Theo’s life. Theo has severe mommy/daddy issues and is very insecure toward them since subconciously he always thinks they’ll kick him out, even when he’s financially independent and an adult himself, so he always does his very best to hide his inner torment from them. Of course this is not a good thing in general, but it forces Theo to keep up appearances, to keep it together at least superficially, and I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing that keeps his drug addiction from escalating so much that it impairs his ability to function. They don’t know enough about what’s going on inside him, maybe also turned a blind eye a bit too often in an effort to see what they hoped to see and respect his privacy, but at least he didn’t end up as another body in the gutter, dead from heroin overdose, which would very likely have happened without them.

Lastly, there’s the romantic relationships, if you can call them that. The one with Kitsey (the woman he almost marries) is not really romantic; if anything, Theo’s in love with the idea of being in love with her, and the sense of normalcy that comes with it. It’s quite obvious that he doesn’t really know her, and she doesn’t really know him, and they’re both not remotely interested in changing that since it would mean letting their facades of a normal life without emotional trauma drop, and they’re both not ready for that. Not with each other anyway. They get along well enough when they’re alone although they don’t seem to share any interests, but they’re definitely not marrying for love but rather for convenience.

Theo’s relationship with Pippa, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. I dare say it’s not so much love but obsession that binds him to her, stemming from an emotional connection because of shared trauma (she was a survivor of the same terrorist attack that killed Theo’s mother and left him injured). Theo knows a lot about Pippa, they can talk to each other and they share interests - which would be perfect if in his mind she wasn’t so inextricably linked to his guilt complex about the loss of his mother, and if she reciprocated the feeling. Which thankfully she doesn’t (to that extent, at least; it leaves her enough reason to see things as they are) because she understands very well that what they both need in their lives is not another unstable person. She doesn’t cut ties with him entirely because after all they share many experiences and mean a lot ot each other, but she continually makes it clear that she doesn’t want to be with him - which doesn’t stop him from developing a more or less respectful, but very unhealthy obsession about her. However, while I don’t see anything remotely romantic or cute in this kind of relationship, I like how Donna Tartt executes it. Theo’s relationship with Pippa could very easily be turned into something that the reader is supposed to find romantic - the lonely, broken man pining for his childhood sweetheart - but it’s not. It’s shown for what it is: unhealthy, obsessive, damaging to both of them, a curse rather than a blessing. Which for me makes it all the more interesting, if painful, to observe.

So. Obviously, I liked the interactions between the characters and how they all make so much sense considering their personal backstories. What I didn’t like was mainly the length of it. For the entire 800+ pages the reader is stuck in Theo’s head, and let me tell you, it’s not pleasant in there. On the one hand, descriptions of drug abuse are simply not my thing, I don’t like spending a lot of time in the head of someone who’s constantly on alcohol, painkillers, cocaine and what have you. It’s doubly not my thing if the character in question is 13 years old. The part in Vegas dragged so much I was seriously tempted to put the book down, which goes against my every principle as a bibliophile. It got better when Theo was grown up because the problems of a twenty-something are more interesting to me than those of a teenager - but not much better. Because Theo keeps making the wrong choices (only one wrong choice, really) over and over again, and worse, he keeps whining about all the missed turns. Yes, it makes sense in terms of his character, someone who’s so cagey about personal information doesn’t just walk up to his guardian one day and tells him that he accidentally stole a 65 Mio. Dollar painting - but on the long term it’s so frustrating I kept wanting to shake some sense into him. Theo isn’t a take-charge character (even in the end it was thanks to Boris that the painting finally got back where it belonged), he’s someone who just floats along while wistfully looking at all the missed chances, but there’s only so much I can take of such an approach to life. And it’s definitely less than 800+ pages.

#2018 #the goldfinch #donna tartt #book review

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celticnoise · 7 years

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Yesterday at Ibrox the Peepul were at their running worst.

The sectarian songbook was wiped down and lips parted and throats opened to spew hatred like a drunk vomiting into the gutter outside a pub. Objects were thrown at our players. Racism reared its ugly, ignorant head. One overweight eejit got onto the pitch to have a go at our captain.

The atmosphere was as poisonous as it’s ever been.

Our success has hit this mob hard.

Their delusional existence has been shattered by it, and by a season of trauma which would never have hit them so hard if they weren’t suffering the world’s most ridiculous superiority complex. There is simply no talking these people down off the ledge and I’m no longer willing to try. If they want to believe this club is still Rangers, and all the while ignoring what Rangers really was, then I think they should be left to it.

Days like yesterday will continue to come, and continue to hurt.

That’s up to them.

But in the meantime, Scottish football should not have to suffer along with them.

Let them splash about in their cesspit as they like, but from now on whenever they decide to share with us their warped world view someone should hold them to account for it.

I am against Strict Liability; I can only guess at the form it would take and the people who would police it. The sort of illiberal morons who tell themselves and the world how open minded and tolerant they are, as long as the opinion you are expressing is one with which they agree. I am tired of these hectoring halfwits looking down their noses at the rest of us, from whatever pedestal they think they are entitled to climb onto.

I am a free speech advocate.

I don’t believe some of these people know what the term means, or if they do they choose to ignore it whenever it suits them.

But what Celtic’s players and fans had to endure yesterday was not free speech but hate speech, and we didn’t need to pass laws against that because laws already exist – and have existed for a long time – to deal with it. Sevco can preach the choir of “we do all we can and we abhor racism, sectarianism, etc” until they are bluer in the face but none of us is buying it any longer. The hatred in the stands has roots in the boardroom. The supporter’s organisations are filled to their executive rooms with people in full sympathy with the sectarianism that wafts from those stands sometimes like a rotten fish.

One look at their forums today is to enough to familiarise yourself with the reek of madness, paranoia and bigotry that runs through their support like the blood in the veins. Forget the “small minority” shit these people frequently hit you with; this is thousands, tens of thousands, we’re talking about here. If it is a minority – and I have trouble believing that – then it is a large one, and it likes to make itself heard and seen.

The club’s claim to be doing all it can is a tissue of lies, a thin tissue at that. It is not designed to fool people either, only to give feeble cover to feeble administrators who would rather this went on and on and on and on, unacknowledged, than face it and deal with it. Rules already exist. They are being pissed all over by the Ibrox club. No wonder some of our political class – always ready to aim a kick at football fans – wants to take it out of their hands.

And those people will have their way unless football acts first.

As opposed to it as I am, there are days – and this is one them – when you could sell Strict Liability to me without the need for a brown paper bag, and if that’s what it’s got to be, then why are we putting off the day of destiny one minute longer?

Make the rules robust, but clearly define what is and what isn’t allowed.

Pyrotechnics will vanish from the stands pronto when clubs are being punished for their use. We all know that. Certain songs would have to be weeded out, and I don’t mean the Irish stuff, which upsets some people but hard lines. Ban that and they better ban national anthems too, and poppies.

But yesterday, in the Kerrydale Suite, there were a group of yahoos singing Roamin’ In The Gloamin’. If that song was never heard at Celtic Park again it would be too soon … it belongs in the bin, as a piece of utter twattery with no connection to our football club at all. And if you want to sing Republic tunes then do it, but do it right. To the best of my knowledge Celtic did not give us James McGrory and Paul McStay “… and the IRA” and any halfwit who believes those words belong in a song about our best footballers needs a swift re-education and I’m not particularly bothered if it involves a quick journey down a long flight of stairs.

That aside, I think we’d have nothing to fear, nothing whatsoever, from having Strict Liability written into the SPL rules, as long as the lines were clear.

Everyone knows what those lines are and Sevco crossed them all yesterday, with the abandon of people who know there will be no accounting for any of it.

We know what sectarianism is.

We know what racism is.

We know fans throwing objects at footballers is a dire issue for which heavy penalties should be handed out.

And invading the park … if it takes forcing clubs to play matches behind closed doors then so be it.

Let them wail about the financial cost all they like; it’s a small price to pay for stamping that particular issue out once and for all.

And tell me something; how does a guy like that get on the park in the first place?

This had High Risk Fixture written all over it; I wrote on Friday morning that the reaction, on Sevco forums, to the Scott Brown appeal was hysterical verging on dangerous. You only had to spend five minutes on there to see that for yourself.

How does a scumbag get so close to him, and how is it that it took the players and the referee to intervene before stewards and police got there?

Is Ibrox already doing this “volunteer steward” nonsense?

Did that impact on the reaction time?

If that guy had a little more bottle – or if he’d supplemented his Dutch courage with a blade – we might be writing about the darkest day in the history of the game here.

Something needs to be done about that.

The SFA is going to hide behind existing regulations and this garbage they always do, but I tell you, the clubs are mugs for allowing this for one minute longer.

With the way things stand between Hearts and Hibs, between Hibs and Sevco, between Sevco and Aberdeen and, of course, with us and the derelict NewCo the level of aggression and hate is going to be even higher next season than in this one.

How long before we are writing about one of those days?

Back in the heyday of the Ibrox operation, when they were financially doped to the gills enough that they could get to strut their stuff on the big stages of European football, there was a spell when the scandalous behaviour of their supporters had me seriously concerned that before long it was going to end in a Leeds United style situation where people were going to die. Manchester must have come perilously close to fulfilling that dark prediction.

For a while their supporters got their act together sufficiently that that was no longer a major concern, when UEFA sanctions started to threaten their bottom line. All that ugliness is back, with a more vicious slant than ever, and yesterday showed the need for it to be tackled and the people involved in it banished from the stands.

Their wider support is in no mood to weed these people out; indeed their forums have expressed regret only insomuch as the guy who ran onto the pitch didn’t give Brown a dig before the cops dragged him away.

The sectarian singing is something they’re proud of; a thread by a guy who wants their new anti-Catholic anthem removed from the stands resulted in vitriol directed against him and his family – he dared to marry a Catholic, and said so, and if you think the song itself is sick you want to read some of the comments that generated.

I am sick of these people, thoroughly completely sick of them.

This is the second week in a row where I’ve had to devote an entire article to their disgraceful behaviour and unless our game has the courage to rid itself of them once and for all it will not be the last time I do. If it doesn’t then the politicians will, and their version will dwarf whatever the clubs themselves decide to do.

How much is too much?

How far is too far?

When does the SFA start to represent the interests of the game instead of pandering and fawning and scraping?

Is it really going to take a player or manager in a stretcher or rival fans in the ground?

Jesus Christ, for all our sport has come through, do you really believe it could survive that?

That it could come back from that?

This will involve soul searching, and even some compromise even on the part of our own fans.

It will necessitate a whole lot of growing the Hell up.

We are not the problem, but the problem won’t be tackled under the current regulations, or until those are amended accordingly.

Something has to be done.

It cannot go on like this.

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#CelticNoise #Celtic #CelticFC #TheCelticBlog #News

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