Sorry To Be Deluli, But Right Now He Wants Her To Be Quiet, But At Some Point He'll Be Mesmerized By

your tags for that billy/dinah post fucked me up. The actors chemistry eas wasted in season 2. instead we got a weird relationship with billy and his therapist who he didnt have half as much chemistry with as Dinah. T.T

[I think that they wanted to pull through withFrank and Billy comradery betrayed or what not first and foremost and stick tothe comic material as much as they can to please the fanboys? *lol congrats uplayed yourself cos I bet that most of TP demographic is here for KASTLE and sowho are you preaching to studio?*considering this is their swan song and we’remost probablynot getting any more content, still they went so bonkers withJigsaw retelling they could have easily dropped the connection to comic source entirelyand gave us Billy and Dinah’s excellent cat and mouse game instead, SINCE THISIS STILL WHAT MADE SEASON 1 ultimately as far as either of these charactersgo].

This is what should have happened.

He doesn’t remember much. Bits and pieces, justlike cracks on his face, crooked pieces that don’t come together at all. Hisbody is a map of scars too. He touches the bullet holes markings and remembersthe whistle of bombs, groans of pain, blood, stink of death and sleaziness ofbody tortured and broken. Did I do that? Or was it done to me? There are othermarks too that come with a voice: hoarse, ugly voice of his carers “You’resuch a pretty boy, Billy.” He screams. Inside or outside he doesn’t know. He’sso detached with himself, floating or drowning or both. And there are scratchesand bite marks too he clings to as the only shelter in this book of the historyof violence of the history of taking William Russo into pieces, his bodyis.  He remembers where they come from, She’s strong and fierce. Even thoughher body is frail and small. He towers over her and yet she grips him tight,pushes him against the wall, wraps herself around him and devours him. And heknows himself. And he feels free. And he feels good and powerful and hers.  She’s violent but passionate, she’s fast andunreachable but tender and desperate. She rarely lets him stay but sometimesshe does. And in her bed, wrapped around her, he feels like he never didbefore, like his heroin addict mother denied him to.

He follows her home. Watches her intently.Devours her words like confessions of the only truth he’s interested in, whenshe berates him.  Words like whips, god,they feel like caress to him. More, he yearns.

“You’re an asshole,” (sounds like You’re mine) “Anarcissistic bastard,” (he can almost taste venom in her voice inside his mouthlike her tongue licking into him to make him melt) “You’re gonna rot in jail, I’llsee to that, Billy,” (when she uses his name it’s a roar of fury but the soundechoes in his head like her ecstasy back then when he made her come with hismouth and she named him again  and againlike a new man, like HERS).

“I don’t remember much. But I know you. God. Iknow you,” he’s in her flat with her aiming a gun at him.  A well practicedmove, not only because she’s a CIA agent.  It’s more like they’ve been dancing like thisfor a while now.  You put a gun to myhead, I lean forward with a barrel touching my forehead like we’re foreheadkissing as I pull closer, to your gravity, to you, defenseless, in more waysthan one.

“That’s convenient, asshole,” they are moving,her hand trembles slightly (has she been drinking? For how long? Did he leavehis scars on her too? on the inside of her) and he looks like he’s bowing for her, speaking close to herface, a strange dance of lovers who want to kill each other, who want to goback to each other.

“Don’t be like them. You know more. You sawmore.  You know me. You saw me, Dinah.Say my name, like you do,” he grabs for her hand holding a gun and puts itbehind her back to pull her closer.

“Fuck you,” a breath against his lips. Afamiliar caress.

“You did, didn’t you? But it was more thanthis. It was everything I have outside this mask now. And it is everything youhave outside your bottle of scotch, Dinah,” he pins her to the kitchen counternow, she let go of the gun as it lands on its surface. She’s taunt anddefensive, like when he met her, he thinks. Thick walls surround her. But he’sbeen inside this fortress already.

“Sweet fucking words, that’s all you do, Billy.You talk, you lie, you use people. But no more. You’re on Frank’s list. You’regonna wish you ended up in prison.”

“And you’re just gonna let him take me, Dinah?You’re just gonna let him have your revenge?” he smirks, like he knows what she’sdreaming of, like he shared these dreams with her, like these weren’t dreams atall. Was he in her house, watching her and she just aimed a gun at him, neverpulling the trigger, because she needs the chase, she needs the thrill, sheneeds him, like this? Taunting her, challenging her, knowing her. He looks likeBilly back then. Like HER Billy. The walls break and she grabs his shirt, turnsthem around (she’s as strong as he remembers in his dreams) and pushes himagainst the surface now.

“You don’t know anything about me!” her growlswash over his skin like a purr.

“I know how you sound like, that wrecked sighyou do when you come. I know how you struggle to prove yourself worthy to yourdaddy every other superior you work for wears a face of. I know how you shutdown and break in silence when you were brave enough to give someone a chancebut he was taken away from you, right under your nose and you think you’regonna choke on this guilt,” he says it all to her ear, voice brimming with triumph,  and she burns inside, with shame, withlonging, with fury. He knows her. He remembers everything about her. And he hasher like this, vulnerable and HIS. She shrieks and throws a punch at his face,at his chest. Then a kick and more throws as he laughs at every hit that makescontact, like he’s drunk on her holy anger. She knocks him down (he lets hertoo) and she’s onto him with her claws, with her fists, with him lying on thefloor, giving in to her completely.  Likehe wants her to leave new marks on the ugly ones he has now on his face. Likehe wants her to rewrite those into marks that will matter. He will wear likebadges of honour. Like he belongs. Like it says: I am hers.

“Just like before. This I remember, Dinah.  I dream about it all the time. What do youdream of?” he says with mouth full of blood and she growls one more time andkisses it. Kisses him, tears his clothes, and then tries to tear his skin too(her claws leaving marks he arches to). This abandon between them is all redand black and madness, and somehow she only feels lucid then and somehow heonly feels like himself then. She growlshis name like before (naming him) and he gives in to her completely, likeletting her rewrite his blank pages.

After everything he’s a mess of half tornclothes, she didn’t even take off her pants (that’s how desperate she was, god,she feels like she’s burning again), he puts his arms around her (like a boyclinging to his mother?) and she lets him, pretending it’s a dream (even thoughit’s still admitting some of them end like this too).

“Sometimes you let me stay. I remember. No suchluck today, huh?” he chuckles to her hair, like they are lovers, like they arefamiliar, like they’ve been doing this for a long time. They have, haven’tthey?

“Frank’s coming after you, Billy,” is it awarning, to threaten him or to save him?

“More importantly, will you?” he makes her lookat him, like demanding a promise, like waiting for a confession.

“Just leave,” she untangles herself from hishold (from his hug?) and doesn’t look at him again. She’s going to see him inher dreams. She’s going to see him in her flat, again, too. And this thing betweenthem will never end, because it’s all the air in her lungs and all the memoryleft in him.

(And GOD!! What if Dinah does come after him ina way that she prevents Frank from finding him out before she does while Billyis handling all his tormentors from the past and being this rogue vigilante sortof a thing and what if it’s Dinah’s bullet that gets Billy in the end, after anentire push and pull game like this they had and she rushes to him as he bleedsout and smirks or smiles at her: “You did become an excellent shot, agentMadani. Castle’s gonna be proud of you. Don’t let him wear your father’s face,though,” she wants to kill him again but she also wants to yell for anambulance as he fucking bleeds out on her lap with that peaceful face like he’sfinally content? “I’m glad it was you. It feels like confession from you. Noone got that close,” he’s talking about himself and he’s talking about her andhe’s talking about them and her hands are covered in his blood and it doesn’tget more intimate than that. “Thanks for the memories, Dinah,” he rasps beforegoing still. Thanks for helping me remember what mattered.)

You smell a m a z i n g.

—Lana, Smallville, “Thirst”

Thank you GQ I am on my KNEES.

Ana de Armas & Chris Evans gifs

Aaron Taylor-Johnson as Ben ⤷ Savages | dir. Oliver Stone

♥  I C O N S  F A M A L E  ♥ Please, like or reblog if you use. Don’t claim as your own and not repost. Thank you, babe!

Summer will soon end, girlies. And, as a summer child, I, of course, want to make it last a little longer 🌝

So I created this challenge just cause I felt like it! It is the Summer Woes challenge.

The concept is...

You’re on your dream vacation 🥰 but something goes off the rails 😨

Maybe you lost your luggage on the way or swapped it with someone else’s? Maybe you booked the wrong flight? Maybe the hotel double books you with another guest? Maybe you get lost while touring and exploring? Maybe you somehow keep running into a suspicious stranger?

Word limit is 5k!

Time limit is December 31, 2022.

No pedophilia, bestiality or watersports, please.

18+ blogs only. No minors allowed.

Any fandom or character is cool. LGBTQA+ characters or readers are very welcome.

Use the #summerwoes2022 tag when posting the story

Three submissions per blog at most

I encourage diverse submissions and dark fics are very welcome

I won’t interact with content I find uncomfortable or suspicious for any reason I damn well please

You don’t have to follow me to enter, but tag me for sure.

I literally don’t know what other rules to put in this...

Good luck!

⛱☀️🏝

I feel like she's trying to have the illusion of control over something, trying to cling to the false hope of being able to control him because now he lets her guide him, but sometimes even I fool myself into thinking that she has a fraction of dominance here.

Mission Control 23

Warnings: non/dubcon, violence, blood, stalking, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: Captain Hydra

Summary: a man marches into your life on a mission

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You let your hands drift down to the soldier’s neck. You’re shaking. Stop thinking. That hasn’t done you any good. It can’t. They say when you’re in life and death moment, your body takes over. That’s what you need to do right now.  

You touch his high collar and feel along the front of his arm. You press your hands flat to his chest. He takes a deep breath as his hands hover around your hips. He toys with the light linen as you trace the straps of his harness. He lets you unbuckle one side, then the other. 

He does stop you. He is entirely still but for the tilt of his head. He watches you strip away the leather harness and then his belt. He doesn’t react as you hand catches the pistol. Even if you were fast, you’re not a marksman and by the scars on his body, it wouldn’t be that effective. 

You set it aside as his arms fall straight. You go back to him and remove his body arm, a piece at a time; shoulders, forearms, chest, thighs, calves. You didn’t realise before how much he layers on. You stack it all then take his hand. You bring him to the couch and have him sit. 

You get down to undo his boots. It’s another task to keep you busy. One piece at a time. That’s it. Like counting. You set his boots aside and peel off his socks. You hiss at the sight of his bruised toe. He doesn’t flinch. 

You tuck the fabric into the top of the boots and turn back to him. You stand and unzip his jacket? Shirt. It’s thick, a layer of mesh over something heavy. The high collar splits and you pull down the tab to reveal his muscled chest. You push the sleeves down and he brings his arms slightly back to help. 

The weight of his gaze drapes over you. You stop and frown, touching the black and blue chafed around his shoulder, a slender gash at the center. You daintily flutter your fingers over the edge. 

“Ouch.” You look at him and he blinks. You’re not sure he can feel even that. 

You finish taking the jacket off. He shifts on the cushion as you lay the fabric over the rest of his things. As you return to him. He stands and tears open the front of his pants. You gulp. He’s bulging to escape. 

You near and he reaches for you, keeping one hand on his fly as he squeezes the back of your neck. You whimper and grasp his wrist, patting his stomach at the same time. You show your teeth in pain. 

“Ow, hurt,” you say. “Soft.” 

You spread your hand over his and he slackens his hold on you. He stretches his fingers across the back of your head instead and you slide your palm up to his chest. You reach for his other hand and move it away from his fly. He resists but lets you take over. 

You tug his pants down little by little. He exhales deeply and you push the fabric past his thick thighs. It catches at his knees. You look down and gently brush along his swollen length. He twitches and clutches your hair even tighter. 

“I’ll be nice if you are,” you say. 

He doesn’t react. Not that you expect a vocal answer. He just stands there, still. You reach to move his hand from your hair and urge him to sit with a careful nudge and finish removing his pants. 

He is rigid and upright. You rub along his chest and shoulders. You feel his heart beating. You lightly push until he leans back. 

“That’s good,” you tell him, “relax.” You meet his eyes again. They cling to you. You trail your hands down and his stomach clench. You hush and coo at him. “I said relax.” 

He tenses then slowly, you feel him easing. You trace along his pelvis and thighs. He flexes but quickly shakes his head and grips the muscle along his legs as if to force them to release. You bring your hand up along his shaft and tickle up his length. 

You’re alight in that moment. Do or die. No thinking. Keep going. 

He goes stiff again. You put your other hand on his shoulder. You tell him again, “relax.” 

His jaw squares as he watches you stroke him. Your gaze falls to the easy motion of your hand. A raspy noise rises in his throat and he pulls his hand back to brace the couch cushions. 

You lean in and lift your knee onto the couch, then the other. You straddle him as you keep yourself above your hand, pumping him as he grunts. He rips his hands from the cushions and grabs the front of your dress. 

He stops himself from tearing it open and instead, plucks the top button carefully. He continues down the front until your chest is exposed. He spreads a large hand over your tit and kneads. His breath rises and falls shallowly. The feel of his rough palm against your nipple plucks at you. 

You balance on your knees and yank up your skirt. He keeps his hand on your chest, fondling eagerly, as his other frames your hip. He urges you down and you lead his tip along your folds. You bite your lip as you push him to your entrance and lower yourself little by little. 

His fingertips dig into you and a strangle sound catches in his throat. You sink down as you drone, your nerves unwinding as you give into instinct. You clasp onto his thick arm as you take him as deep as you can and blow out between your lips. 

You tilt and moan. He’s big and you’re not quite wet enough. You put your hand over his and move it from your hip along your pelvis. You guide his thumb to your clit and wiggle it, letting out a squeak at the flicker of heat. He presses more firmly and you slip your hand up your stomach. 

You rock your hips and push your head back as you let the rhythm coax you. Your eyes roll into your skull and you sigh.

There is nothing but the promise of relief. No unanswered questions, no bloodstains on the floor, no wailing winds or desolate house. There is only that fleeting release that will let you feel anything but horror, if only for a split second. 

“Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray, stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a better day. Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray, soothe the wrath and tame the fury, teach us all a kinder way.”