#Certain parts of the fandom sure treated it like it was and you know what

[mischievouslittlecreature]

Part 22: This Misery We've Made

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Approval numbers and public perception of Tommy's personal life force him and Lucy to face some painful realities.

Word Count: 3,519

Notes: Not really sure if I'm entirely happy with this chapter, but I've been fiddling with it for so long and I just need to move on. Hope you all still like it! Warnings for depictions of insecurity and references to past abuse and polyamory.

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Chapter 1: Too Late

“No.”

Lucy sighed, looking pleadingly into Tommy’s glacial eyes as they hardened over with stubbornness. 

“Tommy, love, we both know it would fix all of these problems…”

“As we’ve already discussed to exhaustion.” His jaw ticked. “I won’t do it.”

“Sweetheart,” she broke eye contact with him to look down at the papers settled in her lap. Her hands fiddled with her rings, gaze glued  to the infernal numbers emblazoned upon the reports, as if staring at them hard enough would cause them to shift and change. “It’s not getting any better. If anything, it’s only going to get worse.”

“The constituents don’t seem to care,” he huffed, reaching into his pocket for his cigarette case. “Considering that they elected me.”

She frowned. “Because we bribed your way in. And besides, I’m not sure if a lot of them even knew then. You weren’t exactly shouting your marital status and Ruby’s parentage from the rooftops.” Not that he’d hid it, per say. He just avoided discussing it during the campaign and while in settings related to his work. “And they might not care now, but what about when your political rivals start harping about it in the press? They’re already using it to try to shut you out of certain things. Not to mention that arsehole from Oxford who keeps using it to try to cut down all your arguments in the house.”

“Fucking ridiculous,” Tommy shook his head, lighting his cigarette and releasing a puff of smoke from his lips up towards the ceiling.

They were seated in his office in the House of Commons, the big wooden double doors that led out into the workroom that she shared with the other secretary, Adam, closed. Not that they needed to be. Adam had already gone home for the evening, as had most of the other MPs and their staff. No one would be interrupting them. It was late, nothing but darkness and a flickering streetlight visible out the window. 

She was still getting used to spending her days working in the offices of the House of Commons rather than the betting shop or the office in Birmingham. While the general decor and design of the building was not all that dissimilar–outside of just being bigger–there was something distinctively different about this place. A stuffiness and sense of propriety that served as a thin veil for the egos and superiority that radiated from so many of the men who sauntered through its halls. It was a bit of a shock to go from Small Heath, where just about everyone knew her name and she was decidedly near the top of the food chain as far as both authority and respect goes, to here where she was lucky if the MP just next door could even remember her name. In these offices, she was not the Red Demon, or even Lucy Winters. Here she was just Thomas Shelby’s Assistant. And was treated as such. 

It wasn’t all bad, of course. She still got to spend most of her days at Tommy’s side, and the work was not that different from what she’d been doing for him before. 

“I agree, but that’s the way that things are, love.” She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “And your constituents do care. That’s what these numbers are all about,” she nodded to the report in her lap. “More and more of them indicated that while they’re happy with your performance and policies, they’re troubled by your conduct regarding your personal life.” She held out the papers, and he took them with a reluctant sigh, pulling his glasses from his pocket and sliding them onto his nose so he could look them over himself. 

“Doing…doing this,” Lucy swallowed, unable to bring herself to utter the thing that, ever since Ruby’s birth–and certainly ever since he was elected–hovered threateningly over them. The guillotine teetering precariously above their heads. “It would help improve your standing with the more traditional and family focused members of your constituents. And might even open up some more doors for you here with the conservative MPs. God knows we already have a hard enough time working with them.” Bunch of racist, classist dickheads was what they were. All too eager to look down their nose at the man who had clawed his way from the bowels of Small Heath’s dirty streets to the halls of power. They already had enough reasons to attempt to shut Tommy out, they really didn’t need to be giving them anymore ammunition. 

Tommy met her eyes, and she saw a crack appear in his resolve. Deep down, they both knew that she was right. This needed to be done. 

Even if it was going to break both their hearts. 

Tommy closed his eyes, head tilting up as he released another stream of smoke from his lips. His brow pinched with stress, the skin around his temples tightening. 

She forced herself to be strong. “You know just as well as I do how important image is to the people we’re now surrounded by. And to the people you’ve been elected to serve. We can’t just…shrug off what other people think of our personal lives anymore. Presenting the image of a proper family will solve nearly all the current problems outlined in those numbers.” 

His lips pursed. He was not seated behind his desk, but rather in the chair next to hers in front of it, one leg crossed over the other. One of his hands lifted to touch the side of his face, thumb moving across his lips while he examined her shrewdly and listened to her argument.

“We can’t ignore this forever. It has the potential to ruin everything you’ve worked so hard for.” She looked him hard in the eye, beseeching him to understand. He still just stared at her, clearly fighting against the knowledge that he knew she was right. “There’s only one clear solution that I can see that fixes pretty much all problems at once.”

How many times had they discussed this? Too many to count. And he always shot the idea down instantaneously. When Polly tried to push it harder on one of their more recent meetings, he’d nearly ripped her head off. 

“Look, you know what my suggestion for a solution is. If you have any others, I’m happy to hear them.” She was suddenly in dire need of a cigarette. Sensing her need, Tommy silently held out the one clutched between his fingers towards her. She took it with a noticeably unsteady hand, bringing it gratefully to her lips. Tommy watched all of her movements closely, knuckles pressed up against his lips, frown still firmly in place. Picking up the report of his approval numbers, his eyes skimmed over the front page once more before tossing it onto his desk, removing his glasses and putting them back in his pocket.

The silence while he mulled over her words seemed to stretch on forever, only interrupted by the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the mantle. Lucy had to fight back the desire to fill it with more near nonsensical babbling. 

Why was she even arguing for this so bloody hard? She should be happy that he’d instantly dismissed the suggestion the very first time that she brought it up. Hell, she was, from a purely selfish standpoint.

Tommy’s hand dropped from where it was resting against his lips to take one of hers, thumb running along her knuckles. 

“I don’t want to marry Lizzie,” he said softly.

She met his gaze sadly. “I know.” I don’t want you to marry her either. But she knew if she told him that, she would never manage to convince him to go through with it. He’d refuse forever all on account of her feelings, even if it meant that he could lose everything he’d worked so hard for.  

The idea that he could lose it all and it would be her fault made her feel sick with guilt.

“But we’re being backed into a corner here, love,” she chose her words carefully. “Being unmarried with an illegitimate child makes some of your constituents think that you don’t value families. If you want to stop your approval numbers from dipping, and even have a shot at reelection in a few years…”

“I haven’t even thought about reelection, yet.”

She gave him a look that was both stern and fond in equal measure. “Now, we both know that isn’t true.”

His lips quirked upwards slightly, eyes warming at how well she knew him. But when he scooted closer to her, sadness quickly leaked back into his expression, lips turning downwards.

“I don’t love her.”

“I know,” she repeated, feeling even worse at the spark of relief that statement brought her. Poor Lizzie. 

He shot her a look of deep, unending regret, brushing some hair out of her face. Her eyes fluttered at the warm press of his palm against her cheek when he cupped it. “I promised you that I wouldn’t marry her,” he whispered. 

“You said that you didn’t plan to,” she corrected, recalling the conversation when he first informed her of Lizzie’s pregnancy. The things he’d murmured to her whilst holding her on the floor of their bedroom while she cried. “Plans can change.”

“I am not leaving you,” there was zero room for argument in his voice, jaw shifting stubbornly. 

“Lizzie might not agree to marry you if you don’t.”

Tommy shook his head. “It’ll be a marriage of convenience only. You and me still being able to be together is non-negotiable. I’m not budging on that.”

She smiled a little in spite of herself at his devotion, leaning her face deeper into his palm. “It feels terribly unfair to her.”

“She can always say no if she really can’t handle it. We’ll be clear about what it’ll all entail, so she doesn’t get the wrong idea about any of it meaning something between me and her. Besides, she’s been warmer towards you lately.”

That was true. Though who knew how long that would actually last.

Scooting his chair closer to hers, Tommy leaned forward, holding her face with both hands, forehead resting against hers. 

“Are you sure you’re okay with it?” he asked urgently. Lucy swallowed hard. The thought of watching him stand up at an altar and make vows and promises to another woman, of having to live under the same roof as Lizzie and share him with her for the rest of their lives…

It burned harshly in her chest, cracks forming in her already fragile heart. 

But she could live with it. It was a sacrifice she was willing to make if it meant that Tommy would not lose all he’d worked so extremely hard to achieve. 

Maybe…maybe it actually wouldn’t be all that bad. He was right that Lizzie had been kinder and more amicable towards her as of late. Perhaps she would even be agreeable to all three of them sharing a bed from time to time, like they used to. And it would be nice to have Ruby in the same house as them so they could see her more. She and Charlie could be raised as proper siblings. 

“Yes,” she said, unknowingly sealing both their fates. “So long as we don’t have to break up.”

“I won’t ever let that happen,” Tommy promised. She leaned in closer to him, hands resting on his forearms. Tommy gave her a little tug. “Come here,” drawing her from her chair, he pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her and burying his face in her hair. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she murmured into his chest, arms winding around his neck. “I hate to say ‘I told you so,’ but…”

He snorted, lightly pinching her hip. “Yeah, yeah.” Lips ghosting across her temple, he silently urged her face back enough so that he could kiss her softly. “I mean it. I won’t let us be torn apart.”

A small smile pulled at her lips, his reassurance like a band-aid over her fracturing heart while he kissed her again. 

∗ ∗ ∗

“Well,” Lizzie said, adjusting her fingers around her cigarette, straightening in her chair. Even sitting down, she looked tall, the way in which she sat with her spine entirely straight only adding to the effect. She looked between Tommy and Lucy seated before her at the other side of the round table in front of the fireplace in Tommy’s Birmingham office. “That’s one hell of a way to propose to someone.”

Lucy winced a little at the underlayer of bitterness in Lizzie’s voice, looking down at her hands in shame.

“Technically you aren’t being proposed to until we know that you agree to our…conditions,” Tommy was much less phased by Lizzie’s reaction, puffing on his cigarette whilst eyeing her from around the vase of deep red roses on the table between them. 

“I’m pretty sure that I know what those are already,” Lizzie huffed, shifting in her seat, briefly glancing at the fire crackling away in the hearth. She looked back at them, and gave a little gesture with the hand holding her cigarette for him to continue. “But let’s hear them anyway.” 

Tommy adjusted himself in his seat, leaning forward with one of his arms resting on the table. When he spoke, his voice had taken on the commanding edge that Lucy had heard him use when giving orders to his men or family members. 

“After we are married, you and Ruby will come to live at Arrow House. You will enjoy all luxuries that the home and the title as my wife offers. All we expect is that you help take care of the children and manage things that have to do with the household. You can continue to hold a position on the company’s board, if you’d like. But most importantly,” he glanced over at Lucy, holding her gaze steadfastly before turning back to Lizzie, “Lucy and I will still get to be together.”

The area around Lizzie’s lips tightened slightly. “So you aren’t offering me a real marriage, but only one of convenience.”

To his credit, Tommy did not flinch away from her stern, accusing gaze. “Yes; that’s exactly what I’m offering you.” 

Lizzie leaned back into her chair, nursing at her cigarette as she contemplated. Lucy struggled to meet her gaze when it shifted periodically over to her, guilt roiling through her like a tempestuous storm. She’d never been able to shake the feeling that if she were not around, Tommy and Lizzie may have actually stood a chance together. And she was pretty certain that Lizzie thought the same exact thing. 

“I want you to promise that you will be discreet,” Lizzie finally said very slowly. “I will not be publicly humiliated by my husband openly fucking another woman.”

“Of course,” Lucy nodded. They already had toned down most displays of physical affection whilst in public, presenting instead as simply colleagues who happened to be good friends. Gestures of romance were saved for behind closed doors. It was not unlike it was prior to Grace’s death, when the three of them had to practice restraint to avoid a scandal. “And we’re willing to make accommodations to make sure you and Ruby are comfortable.”

“Within reason,” Tommy interjected quickly. 

“I want a honeymoon,” Lizzie said decisively. “A real one. With just you and me.” Her eyes wavered from Tommy to fix on Lucy, then darted back to him. Lucy thought she caught a glimpse of pleading in her face. 

The mere idea of them going on a romantic vacation together without her left insecurity brewing beneath her skin, but Lucy forced herself to ignore it. Considering what they were asking of her, it felt like it was the least that they could do. “Okay.”

Tommy shot her a glance. “We’ll have to talk about it,” he modified. 

Lizzie nodded. “Of course.” The clock on the mantle chimed. “I have to head home. I promised the nanny I’d be back by half past five. I can come by this weekend to work out more of the details if you’d like.”

“Yes, that would be good. You have a ride home?” Tommy asked, both he and Lucy standing after Lizzie stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray and rose to her feet. 

“Yes, Skudboat offered to drop me off.”

“Right. We’ll see you this weekend, then.”

“Give Ruby a kiss from us,” Lucy requested timidly. Lizzie shot her a smile that actually seemed half genuine. 

“I will.”

They bid her goodbye, Lucy waiting until the door swung shut behind her before sinking exhaustedly back into her chair. She was struck at how transactional the whole exchange had been. Like ironing out a business deal rather than arranging a marriage.  

The floorboards creaked under Tommy’s heavy footsteps as he approached her. Reaching out, he rubbed a hand up and down on her upper arm, bending to kiss her forehead. 

“Are you alright?”

She stuffed the guilt bubbling up within her back down, locking it away in a far corner of her mind. “Yeah.”

“I can get out of the honeymoon if it makes you uncomfortable. Or insist that you come along.”

“It’s fine,” she probably said it too quickly to be convincing. “It’s the least that we can do for her, considering.”

“I don’t like the idea of going without you.”

“Me neither,” she admittedly, finally looking up to meet his concerned blue orbs. “But it’s just one week.” She knew him better than to expect that he’d be willing to take more than that off work. “We’ll live.”

He stroked her face tenderly, brow furrowing slightly. “You don’t have to give her everything that she wants. I know that you feel bad, even though you really shouldn’t, but…” he trailed off, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear, thumb brushing down her cheek. “If she pushes too far, if she’s unkind to you, or asks for something you aren’t comfortable with, all you have to do is tell me, and I’ll take care of it, alright?”

Nodding, she turned her face to kiss the center of his palm. “Thank you,” covering his hand with hers, she smiled weakly. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

“Ugh,” he made a face as though he’d just been told he was sentenced to be executed, rather than engaged to be married, and dropped his head forward until it was resting against her shoulder. Lucy wrapped her arms around him, burrowing her face into his hair, breathing in the scent of his soap and cologne. “I wish it was you,” he mumbled sorrowfully against her throat, and for a dreadful moment Lucy actually thought that she might start to cry. 

“I know.” And though she did not say it–for fear that if she did, he would call the whole damn thing off and throw his reputation and all professional prospects in the bin–they both knew the words circulating within her head:

Me too.  

When he first brought up the topic of marriage, all the way back in 1918, before Grace had even walked into their lives, she had told him that it was not something she was sure that she wanted. She was still living with the trauma of being previously engaged to a monster who hurt and abused her, and the only example of marriage she’d had was the loveless, horrific mess that was her parents. It was something he’d respected, unconcernedly promising that marriage or no marriage, he would still love her forever.

After Grace died, the topic had passed briefly every once in a while across her mind. With times changing and modern perspectives growing in popularity, it was no longer a necessity that she stop working if she were married. And with the slow passage of time, the idea of marriage no longer seemed to her like a cage to be bound and gagged within. She knew that Tommy would never expect her to change simply because he placed a ring on her finger. 

But she didn’t bring it up to him, both of them were still aching too terribly from Grace’s death. It was too soon. For them personally, for Charlie, and for either of their reputations. 

And then the vendetta had happened. And for a bit of fun they took Lizzie down to the canal for a fuck like they so often did before Grace stepped into their lives. 

If only she hadn’t still been so messed up on the topic the first time that he asked. If only she’d expressed her changing feelings on the matter with him before Lizzie got pregnant. Maybe things would be different. 

She could not say anything about it now. If she did, he would abandon this plan that was poised to solve so many problems for him. Not to mention that marrying her instead of Lizzie would create a whole new set of issues for him to deal with, some with the potential to wreck everything he’d accomplished.

It was too late.  

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Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

[thateclecticbitch]

"Its bury your gays because a character struggling with internalized homophobia/repression comes out and is happy and then dies at a later time" first of all, thats whats not bury your gays or internalized homophobia is. Second of all, Stede Bonnnet is right there and also still alive and happy. You know. The main character you are supposed to care about and be invested in?

[fluentmoviequoter]

If the Bun's as Sweet as You

Part 2 of Sweet as You

Pairing: David "Deacon" Kay x pregnant!wife!baker!reader

Summary: After you find out you're pregnant, you try to use baking jokes to tell Deacon. Unfortunately, he isn't the first to understand you.

Warnings: fluff!! Street and Hondo. r is implied to have an irregular cycle?

Word Count: 1.6k+ words

Picture from Pinterest

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

A/N: I swear I could look at his smile forever. An extra special thanks to @elephants-bubbles-brachosauruses for the amazing ideas about using "bun in the oven" and Deac being oblivious!

In your bakery’s kitchen, you sit and press the back of your hand against your mouth. The last week or so, you have been nauseous, and emotional, and the smells you once found mouthwateringly amazing are now causing your stomach to churn.

“What are you making, boss?” your employee Tristan asks. “Smells amazing.”

You increase the pressure of your hand against your mouth while fighting the urge to throw up. It hits you then: you might be pregnant. What other explanation exists for a sudden sensitivity to certain smells and tastes, plus the morning sickness that has been pulling you out of bed even before Deacon wakes?

“Tristan, I need you to take over,” you say quickly. “I have a quick errand to run, and it may turn into a personal day.”

���Sure thing. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. There’s lemon snaps in the oven and cheesecake filling setting in the fridge. Schedule’s on the board, call if you need anything.”

“Of course. Don’t worry about anything, just take care of you.”

You nod in thanks, then hang your apron on its designated hook before gathering your things. There’s a pharmacy just a few blocks away, but you want to take the tests at home rather than in a public restroom.

In less than an hour, you have five tests waiting on your bathroom sink as you sit on the edge of the tub and watch your leg bounce with the timer on your phone. When it dings, you exhale before you stand. You don’t have time to wonder how you’ll feel if they’re negative before you see two pink lines. Then, a plus sign. And a digital message reading ‘Pregnant 3+.’ Every test is positive.

You smile as you gather the tests and place them in a box below the sink. Telling Deacon has to be special, but you don’t want to wait. A baker joke, you think as you prepare to return to the bakery. It will be perfect.

Your stop at the bakery is quick; you ensure Tristan and the rest of your staff are doing well, then gather an assortment of treats. You ensure that Deacon and his team’s known favorites are included before you leave for HQ.  Since marrying Deacon, you’ve been welcomed into their station more times than you can count, and they’re family to you.

“Wait,” Deacon says, dropping his guard.

“For what?” Street asks as he steps back.

“See how he perked up like a dog?” Luca points out.

“Uh, yeah.”

Hondo interrupts to explain, “That means his wife is incoming. I’d say in about, three… two…”

“Mrs. Kay!” Rocker yells around the corner.

“I’m getting pretty good at that, Deac!” Hondo brags. “Watch your back, my man.”

“Hi, guys!” you greet as you round the corner.

Rocker is carrying the boxes for you now, and Deacon’s team can’t decide whether to look at you or the baked goods you brought them.

“Dig in, they’re still warm,” you say.

Luca, Hondo, and Street tap your arm gently in thanks as they follow Rocker to a nearby table. Deacon smiles as he exits the ring and walks to your side.

“I missed you,” you murmur as he pulls you into a quick hug.

“Missed you too,” Deacon agrees. “I didn’t get to see you for long this morning. Are you feeling better?”

You nod, remembering that a few hours ago, you were sick but didn’t know why. Now, you press your hand against your thigh to keep it from resting on your nonexistent baby bump.

“I brought your favorite again,” you tell Deacon. “I’ve been thinking that I could use that flavor in some other kind of recipe, maybe make it a bit savory somehow.”

“Anything you make will be amazing.”

“Like you?” you ask, smiling as you lean against his side.

“Like you.” Deacon keeps his arm around your waist and drops his chin to kiss you quickly. He looks at the open boxes and says, “You brought more today.”

“I made a ton,” you agree. Then, you smile as you add, “Plus, there’s a bun in the oven.”

Deacon’s brows furrow, but his smile never drops as he asks, “Just one? That’s a terrible business plan.”

You laugh, caught off guard by how easily your pregnancy announcement went over his head. Deacon has been incredibly attuned to you and your needs since long before you were married. Yet, when you tell him you’re pregnant, he thinks you’re talking about your bakery.

“I’m going to go get some before it’s all gone,” Deacon whispers, carefully removing his arm from around you.

“Enjoy,” you murmur, shaking your head in amusement.

“The weekly visits may have been a terrible idea,” Deacon announces when he returns home after his shift. “It’s just enough time to make me want you around more.”

“I’m sure Hondo feels the same,” you agree.

“What are you up to?”

Deacon wraps his arms around your waist and drops his chin to your shoulder, pressing a kiss against your neck. You lean against him and set your pen aside, the beginnings of a new recipe jotted down in your favorite recipe binder.

“I started baking a new recipe,” you begin carefully, “but it won’t be ready for 8 months, give or take.”

Deacon hums, then asks, “How do you get your recipes so perfect? Besides being brilliant and all the time you put in?”

You close your eyes, smile, and drop your head against his shoulder. Deacon is smart, but it seems he’s entirely oblivious when it comes to a baby.

“Mostly time, trial and error,” you answer. “Which hopefully only applies to baking and not making other things.”

“Are you going to work tomorrow?” Deacon asks.

“No. Why? Did you get called in?”

“You’re stuck with me.”

You hum and decide to try a more direct approach. “I promise that if I jump out of bed and run to the bathroom to be sick, it’s not because of you,” you joke. “The bun in my oven just doesn’t seem to like mornings.”

Deacon nods against you before he steps back and offers to make dinner. You consider showing him the positive tests, but now you want to see how long it will take for Deacon to realize what you’ve been trying to tell him all day.

Forty-eight hours after learning that you are expecting a baby with your husband, Deacon, he has yet to catch on to a single one of your hints. You’ve tried every version of the ‘bun in the oven’ line, mentioned that you shouldn’t have rum cake, made jokes about your morning sickness, and even pointed out that being a baker is the perfect occupation to make it easier to eat for two. Deacon Kay is oblivious, you’ve discovered.

So, to get your mind off the dilemma of how to tell your husband without just blurting out I’m pregnant, you’ve taken to experimenting in the kitchen. When the third batch of your sweet and savory cookie crisps is finished, you carry the tray around the bakery and ask for your employees’ opinions. After six of them give you a thumbs up and one admits that she doesn’t like crunchy cookies, you package the new item and wave goodbye to your kitchen assistant.

You’re going over your weekly visit to SWAT HQ, but you don’t care. As you walk in, you hear Deacon talking.

“Hello, beautiful,” Hondo calls. “I finally beat Deacon to you.”

“Not by much,” Deacon points out as he walks to your side. “Whoa, what are those?”

“They don’t have a name yet,” you answer, passing the box to him. “They’re a twist on a savory chocolate chip cookie crisp.”

“I’m sorry,” Hondo tells you, laying his hand on your shoulder. “Your husband was distracted by the cookies. How are you feeling?”

Deacon rolls his eyes and passes the box of cookies to Street.

“How did you come up with this recipe?” Luca inquires.

You decide that now, surrounded by your friends, is as good a time as any to try one more time.

“I think the bun in the oven is making me a better baker,” you admit.

The men around you freeze, and everything is silent for several seconds.

“Congratulations!” Luca exclaims, hugging you tightly.

Hondo points at you with a bright smile and says, “You can’t give me that look when I call you Mama now!”

“Oh my gosh,” Street murmurs, reaching toward your stomach. “Can we call them Cookie?”

You laugh and say, “Sounds like I’m bloated, but sure.”

“What?” Deacon asks slowly. When you look back at him, his eyes are wide, and his brows are raised high on his forehead. “What?” he repeats.

“I’ve been telling you for two days, Deacon!”

“No, you haven’t!”

You smile and take Deacon’s hand. “You’re way too pretty to be this oblivious.”

“Hey, if pretty’s all you’re after,” Hondo interjects, shrugging as he raises a cookie toward his mouth.

“Back off,” Deacon chides playfully. He looks at you and asks, “You’re pregnant?”

You smile and nod as you raise your hands to his shoulders. “You’re going to be a dad, Sergeant Kay.”

Deacon’s eyes brighten as he smiles. Then, his smile drops long enough for him to mumble, “Oh.”

“You just caught on to everything I’ve been saying,” you accuse.

Deacon kisses you rather than admitting you’re right but pulls back quickly when Street asks, “Hey, can I be the godfather?”

“Over my dead body,” Hondo answers lowly.

“I feel like we’re interrupting something,” you whisper to Deacon.

“I love you,” Deacon replies.

“I love you, too. And if this baby is anywhere near as sweet as you, everyone here is going to love them, too.”

“We'll love Cookie, you mean,” Street calls.

[manicpixiefelix]

head, heart, hand. {Felix Catton/Reader/Oliver Quick}

Part 3.

Summary: Your second year at Oxford brings with it Farleigh, much to your delight, and you get to learn about Farleigh's personal nemesis (which he rolls his eyes at every time you call him that) Oliver. It turns out Oliver's actually very lovely, and does Felix quite the favour one unassuming morning. Farleigh's not happy to see him again, but Felix is.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

Warnings: heavy drinking by everyone at the pub including the reader, and 'dog' being used to demean the reader once.

A/N: 5101 words. much longer than the last ones, and we finally have oliver!! very excited to FINALLY be able to write their weird little fuckin dynamic at oxford, i love them all very much. im a bit unhappy with the pacing of the beginning but i like how it picks up once oli is introduced, but also the bar scene is SO LONG and i will not apologise i love them your honour. id be mighty grateful for any feedback or if you have any thoughts in general about the story, i stare at so many kind asks in my inbox lovingly, i will answer them very soon i promise!! also this is so unedited, sorry lol.

Taglist: @strangemaximoff @renaissance-mama @tsach @malscorner @xhoneymoonx134 @yelchinweasleylothbrok @tarriea @florencediet @butitsbetterifyoudoittoem @belladonnadarksshade @fandom-multiamory @snazzynacho @jubileexoxo @soocore @be-lla-vie @nightingale2124 @willow-sages @null4ndv0id @gracieluvthemoon @day2dream @marvellover98 @navixfr @bitxhinthecomments @daintylovers @alesunsets @noturningbacknow @d0llysposts @alilcloudy @callsignwidow @moviequotes23 @325575 @bonnieblue0606 @osoqueen125 @hot-dino-nuggies @darkness-falls-xo @mattymurderdocks @flowerecs @weepingwitchofthewest @ilovemydinoboi @marsmallow433 @king0flies @cashtons-wife

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At first you don't notice him for who he is. At first you hear about Farleigh's insufferable tutoring partner. At first, Oliver Quick means absolutely nothing to you.

The most important part of your second year of college is that Farleigh has finally conceded to joining you and Felix at Oxford. Once, during the last Summer break, while Felix had been off confronting his at-the-time good friend Eddie, after Farleigh had told him Eddie and Venetia had been sleeping together, you and Farleigh had gotten high in the maze to avoid the fallout.

Since the Cattons were paying for his education, he'd admitted that he wanted to remove himself as much as possible from his mother's legacy and memory and the guilt Sir James held about his sister. It would be hard to do at a college where he would be a legacy student because of his mother's attendance. You think you partly understood; certain people, usually staff, liked to kiss your ass when they found out about your own legacy status and the people your parents became, you're not so sure they'd treat Farleigh the same, all things considered.

But he's out of options.

Sometimes you're not sure what to make of Farleigh; his strange place in the Catton family was never something they seemed to like to discuss around you, but Farleigh was far more candid about it. So when he pulls these stunts, gets himself kicked out of schools, puts himself in precarious positions despite how you knew he genuinely enjoyed academics, especially literature, you can't help but wonder why.

"Don't try and pathologize it," you could hear him rolling his eyes as he attempted to scale the minotaur statue in the middle of the maze. Looking up at him from where you're laying in the grass, you watch him rise above the walls into the sunshine. Maybe it's dangerous, maybe he should stop, get down, be safe, but he looks far more content up there, on the edge. Maybe he feels freer up there, even if he knows it's not true.

So now he's with you and Felix at Oxford, a first year only academically, he slots perfectly into the group of friends you'd both already managed to collect.

The point is, you have no idea that of everything that happens in those first few weeks of your second year, the parties, the hook ups, the social dances you found yourself doing, that the guy Farleigh likes to complain about from his tutoring sessions - Oliver, Farleigh always says it with an eye roll - would mean so much more to you than you'd ever expect.

Everything about the man you would come to find extraordinary, from the outside, was completely, and charmingly, ordinary. Including how you'd met him.

Felix had overslept again, and threw a pillow at the door when you'd stuck your head into his room to remind him that he had classes. You'd left yourself enough time to walk, but Felix would have to at least run if he didn't get his ass up soon, or would ride his bike instead. Its on your way, so you duck your head in to at least check it there.

What you don't expect is the unassuming man with dark hair to have a gentle, almost caressing hand on the tire of Felix's bike. When you make a confused noise, he about jumps a foot in the air.

"Sorry," he seems to shrink in from himself, recoiling from the bike like he'd been caught red handed, "just admiring." He babbles, but can't meet your eyes. For a moment, you look over him, before turning your attention to the ludicrously expensive mountain bike that Felix has always taken for granted.

"It is a nice bike," you find yourself grinning, stepping towards the bike and giving the tire a squeeze, both as a show of your own appreciation, and to test the pressure, just in case, "didn't mean to spook you..." And you trail off, prompting for his name, holding your hand out.

It hangs in the air for a moment, and the man before you gives you a proper look over. The way he holds himself, as if trying to take up as little space as physically possible, but his eyes, his gaze, oh it longed to swallow whole every detail of everything he cast it upon.

"Oliver," he says after a very long moment. Despite his demure voice, there's something deliberate, unwavering about it, "Quick," he follows it up with, "I'm Oliver Quick." And he ducks his gaze, sparing you from his intensity as you shake his hand.

"Oliver Quick," you turn the name over on your tongue; the same Oliver that Farleigh's been complaining about, you ponder, before giving him a smile, "I'm Y/N." As soon as the handshake drops, Oliver's doing that thing again, shrinking back and looking uncomfortable in the space.

"Yeah, I think I've seen you around," Oliver nods but can't meet your gaze, "around campus, I mean -" Which reminds you -

"Fuck, I'm almost running late," you hissed, spinning on your heel, "sorry to run Ollie, you seem lovely!" You call over your shoulder as you bolt to class, hearing him calling out;

"No trouble," and awkwardly trailing off the further away you get, "you seem... very nice too..."

Bursting through the door to your tutorial with five minutes to spare, your lecture looks up from his desk for a brief moment. Giving him a nod, you try and slip past him to grab a seat by one of your friends, chatting near the back, when he raises his voice.

"No Mister Catton today either, I presume," he says with a sigh, and you again check you watch before plastering on an apologetic smile.

"He'll be here," you assured, "promise." The professor did not seem impressed.

Sitting next to India, she immediately greets you with a hug.

"Felix hung over?" She grins, and you anyway in respond with a smirk.

"After last night? I'd assume so."

"King's Arms tonight?"

"Of course."

When he does eventually show up, it's ten minutes late with an apology about how his bike had gotten a flat tire. The professor, just tells him to take a seat, and Felix does with many placating thanks, sliding into one of the open few open seats in the row in front of yours. Ruffling his hair, he throws a faintly guilty grin over his shoulder at you and India, telling you both not to start.

After the tutorial, you fully intend of having lunch with India, as the two of you don't have any other classes until the afternoon, the two of you walk with Felix to where he'd stashed his bike before his next lecture. Except -

"That's not yours," you look at the bicycle curiously, "I thought you had a flat."

"Had," Felix agrees, wheeling the unfamiliar bike from the rack with a grin, "bloody angel of a man lent me his."

"Of course someone just gave you their bike," India chuckles, reaching out to give Felix's shoulder a squeeze before he mounts the bike with intent to take off.

"Lent," Felix grinned back, "I'm gonna give it back."

"And what about yours?" You asked, eyebrows raised.

"He took it back for me."

"Your hero," you laughed, shaking your head at him.

"My absolute hero," Felix agreed, "I'll tell you about it later, okay? King's Arms tonight?"

And once he's away, and you and India are on your way to the campus cafe, her arm tucked in hers, she gives you a knowing, almost exasperated smile.

"You're already trying to figure out how to fix his tire, aren't you?" Her nails dig a little too much and her smile's a little too sly and her tone almost grates against a thought you don't like to consider, so you push it to the back of your mind and give an embarrassed little smile.

"Was it that obvious?"

"No, but you are," she leans in, lips almost against your ear, smile in her voice, "endearingly predictable," she murmurs against the shell of your ear, "you're always wrapped up in him."

"Right now I seem to be rather wrapped up in you," you rest your free hand on hers, tucked into the crook of her elbow, taking her hint and lowering your voice to something flirty.

"And make darling Felix wait?" She teased in response. Instead of answering her properly, you ask her back to your dorm under the guise of lunch and she happily accepts.

The bike shop is closed and Felix has class and you can't even be sure if this supposed bike saviour has even returned Felix's bike by now; there's no waiting, but India likes feeling prioritised, so you keep all that to your self. India likes to feel important in Felix's life. Anyone who Felix spends even a little of his time and attention on ends up rather addicted to that feeling, to feeling special to Felix Catton, and India is one of the many who have picked up on your own importance to the man himself.

So you're not dating India. You're also not not dating India; you're a placeholder of sorts, which would be cruel to you if you didn't like her well enough or if you weren't satisfied taking your fun with her. It would also probably be cruel to India if she knew the truth, that Felix thought she was hot and wasn't ready to commit to maybe dating her, but that he was getting that way he sometimes got about people, that he wanted them around, wanting to not share them, but without devoting himself to them. That's where you come in. A placeholder. A proxy. An almost. Someone who makes this pretty girl feel important and close to Felix. Someone Felix isn't worried about falling in love with India even while keeping her happy and around.

When you arrive late to the King's Arms with your own around India's shoulders, Felix lights up while Farleigh, from beside him, narrows his eyes with a smirk.

"Cute shade of lipstick," he says slyly, even as he moves over at Felix's insistence to fit both yourself and India in the booth beside him. Farleigh flicks the collar of the shirt you'd thrown on in a rush to get dressed for afternoon classes, "on both of you."

"Are you jealous, Farleigh?" India grins, taking it all in stride as you pull your collar out with your thumb to try and inspect it. India's lipstick was smeared faintly against the collar from where she'd been enthusiastically kissing her way down your jaw a few hours earlier.

"Of course," Farleigh's sly smile widens to a cocky grin, and he winks at her, while she leans over you to plant a kiss on the corner of his mouth with a wicked grin.

"Right in front of her partner?" Annabel, Felix's latest fling was on his other side, reaching over Felix to shove Farleigh's shoulder with a scandalised laugh.

"Not really together," India mused, even as she shifted to lean heavily against you, her arm around you and tucking herself up by your side. You nodded in kind, shrugging as Felix had to hide his laughter in his pint.

"And besides," Farleigh declares in a voice you knew all too well, "if anyone knows how to share it's Y/N," with a cheshire-cat smile and making a show of putting his hand far up your thigh under the table. Surprised by the outright boldness of it all, Felix, who had been trying to take a sip to cover his amusement, ends up snorting beer out of his nose as he laughs, which sets the whole table off.

It's later in the night, several rounds of drinks and plates of chips, when you finally remember to ask Felix about his bike. There's this look in his eyes as he recounts the details, how he'd somehow gotten on the wrong side of something small and sharp when he'd been found by his 'absolute hero'.

"Ollie," he says brightly, "Ollie - Oliver - something, I don't -" he's babbling, and though he doesn't at the time, both yourself and Farleigh react, though in vastly different ways.

"Oliver?" Farleigh draws out the name with disdain, like it's done him some sort of personal affront, or set off a bad smell, judging by his expression.

"Don't make that face," Felix rolls his eyes, giving Farleigh a good-natured shove, but it's all becoming background noise to you as you glance over your shoulder. In your mind, all you can focus on the brief but captivating moments you shared with a blue-eyed Oliver just this morning. As if by fate, when you finally come back to reality, and realise you're staring at the bar, you see those same blue eyes staring back at you, intense and surprised.

"There he is!" Behind you, Felix's voice raises above the din of the pub with barely restrained glee, "Ollie! Oliver! Oliver!" And immediately those blue eyes snap to your attention-grabbing best friend, "come over here, mate!" Felix insists, and you drop your gaze with a faint smile.

As Felix loudly and insistently vies for Oliver's attention and company, you briefly raise your gaze, only to see the disdain on Farleigh's face having grown immensely.

Oliver. Farleigh's classmate Oliver. Insufferable tutoring Oliver. Know-it-all Oliver. 'Thus' Oliver. No regard for style in his academics or his wardrobe Oliver.

Felix's hero, Oliver.

Considering how much joy Farleigh took from ribbing you at every given opportunity, just to see your squirm for his amusement, you supposed you could take some joy from his discomfort in this moment. When he sees your smug smile he scowls at you.

"This guy's my fucking hero," you've heard that warmth in Felix's voice a hundred times over, "just telling everyone how you saved my ass today," you wonder how long it will take Oliver to fall for him too.

Oliver, for his part, plays at being abashed as the rest of the group gives him faint compliments, gaze surprisingly shallow as he takes you all in. Keeping your own eyes down for the moment, you take the cigarette from India that you'd been sharing with her. You quickly reach into Felix's jean pocket beside you for the lighter you know is there, and when you look up to light it, cigarette poised between your lips, you see Oliver's gaze momentarily focused on the lack of space between yourself and Felix, where your hand had disappeared. Felix, you know without even having to look at him, hasn't even looked away from Oliver once.

"Take a seat, I owe you a drink," Felix grins, and is already shoving the few people on his left, before you put a hand on his arm to get him to settle down.

"Could you get the next round, India?" You ask her quietly, and though she hesitates for a moment, she relents, considering it was meant to be her shout after all.

Oliver is hesitating as India stands and smooths out her skirt, heading for the bar, and finally Felix remembers that most people's worlds don't revolve around him.

"Oh, sorry, are you with friends?"

Another moment of deliberation from Oliver, before he finally relents to Felix, and agrees to join them. Looking around, there's a chair next to a table behind Farleigh that was going unused, or -

When you pat the now empty seat at the end of the booth beside yourself, you're not looking at Oliver. Chin in your hand and cigarette poised between your fingers, you're giving Farleigh a grin that's all teeth, while he looks like he's trying to stave off a sudden tension headache.

"Come here, Oliver Quick," you refuse to explain your smug smile, "I don't bite."

"Yes they do," Farleigh huffs in irate response, to which most of the rest of the group cracks up. The leather beside you shifts, and you can feel the heat Oliver radiates before you even look at him.

"Quick, Oliver Quick!" Felix, behind you, is muttering almost to himself, before adding, "wait, how did you know that?" And throwing himself practically over your shoulder as you'd turned to face Oliver properly.

"We met this morning," you say quietly, gaze fixed on Oliver's, on the way he's taking you both in. With Felix's chin on your shoulder, the two of you cheek to cheek and watching him with interest, it could be enough to send anyone else running. But his gaze isn't the shallow one he'd ghosted across the others, he's drinking this moment, and the both of you, in. Smile stretching wide across your face and you tip your head against Felix's, "just as lovely as I thought," and turning your face even slightly towards Felix means your lips against his temple, not that either of you seem to mind, "your hero."

"My fuckin' hero," Felix agrees adamantly, though you and he sit back as India approaches with a tray of pints and an exasperated look.

"And you've given up my seat," she sighs, placing the drinks on the table for everyone else to take their share. Farleigh's already passive-aggressively reached behind himself to grab the extra empty chair, and you promise to make it up to her with a heavy layer of implications that the rest of the table snickers at.

Introductions are made and drinks are had and the night carries on apace until you, at the very least, felt like you could call yourself reasonably wasted. Despite how quiet Oliver is in the general conversation, Felix makes a point of always including him, arm around your shoulders so he can lean across you to talk to him, while Oliver just tried to keep up.

Everything about Oliver shouted that these people weren't his people; his clothes, his accent, his vernacular, his very unfamiliarity with who so many of them were considering their families were often titans of industry. Still, you respected the effort he was making to keep up. Whenever even the hint of a joke at Oliver's expense could be felt in the air, Felix shut it down, and though it started out subtle, it became less so as the night wore on; the grateful look on Oliver's face, even as he tried to duck to hide it, said how much he appreciated the gesture.

It's decided almost unanimously by the time you have to buy a round that it should be the first round of shots for the table. Several more would be to come, but you were getting tequila, and all the fanfare that came with it.

Getting back to the table you find Oliver's slid into your spot by Felix. Though he tries to apologise and get up, you shush him, insisting it's fine as you sit down next to him with the tray of shots topped with lime wedges, and the shot glass half full of salt for the table the bartender had kindly provided.

"You do know this is why I was late to my tutorial this morning," Felix still helped himself to a shot glass with lime as the salt was being passed around the table.

"Salt?" Oliver frowned at the glass in front of him, "lime?"

"You've never done tequila shots before?" Farleigh scoffed, holding India's hand up in front of himself where she'd offered it to him to apply salt.

"No, I haven't," is all Oliver can say awkwardly, watching as Farleigh sprinkled a line of salt across the back of India's aloft hand, licking it up in one swift motion before he took the shot and bit the lime in quick succession.

"Salt, shot, lime," you give Oliver a nudge to bring his attention back to you.

"Salt, shot, lime," Oliver repeats, looking from his glass to the glass full of salt that Felix had reached over and brought to your side of the table, "do I have to lick the salt off of someone else?"

"Not necessarily," Felix says from his other side, while Annabel giggled and allowed him to apply salt to her hand.

"More fun that way," she adds coyly.

"Not unless you want to," your own shot glass sits untouched, salt now sitting between both your glasses.

"Do you- should I-" Oliver's stumbling over his words, fidgeting with the end of the lime.

"Lick it off their neck," Farleigh barked from across the table, and though you tried to tell Oliver that he didn't have to do anything like that, and Felix's disappointed admonishment of his cousin, the entire rest of the table, who had finished their own shots and were now invested in the drama, light up with agreement.

"You're so crass, you're gonna give him the wrong idea," Felix groaned, rolling his eyes with frustration.

"I love Y/N but I don't think there is a wrong idea about them -"

"Watch what the fuck you say about them, Farleigh -"

"Watch what I say about your fucking dog-?"

"I'll lick their neck!" Oliver announces at the top of his lungs, interrupting the vicious barb, and the way Felix had practically leapt across half the table in a sudden fury. For a long moment, tense silence hangs in the air, Farleigh half out of his chair, wearing a sneer, and Felix braced over the table with white-knuckled fists pressed into the woodgrain. Then, as Felix sits back down and things begin to ease, once again all eyes return to Oliver, who's shifting in his seat, looking at you with almost apology in his eyes, "if- if you're okay with that."

After a beat, you break into a self deprecating smile.

"I do like getting my neck licked," you laughed, and immediately angled your head and pulled the collar of your shirt to the side so he could have a better angle and more of your shoulder to apply salt. The tension dropped almost entirely as everyone but Farleigh and Felix burst out in cheers. Chatter arose again as Oliver fumbled with the salt, but you caught Felix's eyes from behind him. Tension in his brow that you longed to smooth away, and discomfort in his gaze, but when you smiled you could see him take a breath, and smile back.

"I won't bite," it comes as a surprise when you hear Oliver say this, so quiet only you can hear as he diligently applies a sprinkle of salt to the soft skin of where your throat meets your shoulder, "promise," you can't see his expression but you think you can hear him smirking. It actually sounds almost like flirting.

India's been glaring at you across the table whenever she hasn't been flirting overtly with Farleigh for the past half an hour. So you flirt back.

"Not even if I ask nicely?" You murmur back, trying to repress the thrill that the whole moment was giving you. You hear the faintest, momentary rumble of a laugh from Oliver before you feel his hand on your thigh as if to steady himself, and his tongue on your neck. It's barely a second of contact, the delicate caress of his mouth as he licked the line of salt clear from your skin. Quickly, he then takes the shot, and swallows before biting down on the lime, making a pained face as the table cheered.

His hand is still on your thigh; his grip is tight.

As he's spluttering and grinning and Felix is clapping him on the back for the effort, he's rather abashedly offering himself to you, if you'd like to repeat the same salt process on him -

"You've done enough for your first shot, Ollie," you told him with a fond nudge, happily applying salt to the back of your own hand, completing the ritual with far less fanfare. Still, when you glance past Oliver to Felix, you see the way he's regarding the newcomer, with a kind of awe and warmth. This too you know well.

Crammed so close in the booth, Felix's arm stays around Oliver's shoulders for most of the rest of the night, and while no-one can see it, Oliver's hand remains on your thigh. Sometimes he taps along to the music of the pub that you've already tuned out, sometimes he's rubbing small circles with his thumb, or give you a squeeze when he's laughing at a joke, but it never waivers.

The more drunk you become, the more you find yourself leaning into him, and you begin to tune out the conversation, focusing only on your drink, the warmth of Oliver and his hand on you, and on the sensation of Felix's hand playing with your hair since his arm was around Oliver's shoulders, and you're leaning your head against him.

Everything's become blurry, your brain is still trying to catch up after you take another shot from muscle memory alone when Farleigh starts insisting on Oliver shout the next round, and for that round to be jaeger bombs.

"We just did shots," you shake your head with a faint frown, but the movement makes you feel all kind of queasy.

"You tapping out?" Farleigh, in much better spirits considering how many he'd consumed, is all wide, challenging smiles full of teeth.

"Nope," you again shake your head, against your better judgement, "never ever ever." Everything is spinning, even with your eyes closed.

"Then you shouldn't be letting Ollie snake his way out of paying for his round," Farleigh sounds all kinds of smug, and despite how you're all kind of done with him for tonight, and Oliver is trying to insist that he's not trying to wiggle out of paying for a round, the rest of the table have apparently taken up Farleigh's crusade. They're booing him, hissing at him, while Farleigh's smugness screams social triumph; you can feel Oliver's fingers twitching on your thigh, like he wants to be fidgeting but can't bring himself to let you go.

"Fine," Oliver relents to the peer pressure, letting you go and throwing his hands in the air, "can you move a sec?" He asks, and you shuffle out to let him past, before scooting back in and back beside a once more frustrated Felix.

Farleigh argues that it's the rules of the pub when Felix asks him to give Oliver a break, but you don't really hear them. You've cleared enough space on the table in front of you to be able to cross your arms on the table, laying your head on your arms to try and see if it would help. Felix is rubbing soothing circles on your back as he argues with Farleigh, probably out of pure habit, so you try and focus on that sensation, and picking a point that you see that you can focus on.

Everything's sideways, the bar, the people, the street outside, but it doesn't matter. In the moments you find yourself focusing on Oliver in the cool light of the bar, everything else falls away. He looks antsy and uncomfortable, watching the bartender pour the shots, wallet in his hand. You'd have paid in a heartbeat if Farleigh hadn't been so insistent on attacking Oliver's pride. Everything else about him was so charmingly ordinary, perhaps that's why Farleigh was infuriated by him, and why he'd attacked Oliver's pride, one of the few things that Farleigh probably believed Oliver had of value to himself.

Tomorrow, you and Farleigh were having words.

Tonight, you wanted to somehow help Oliver without making any kind of big deal about it. Problem was, you weren't sure how. You weren't even sure if you were capable of walking in straight line right now.

"Fi -" when you turn your head to your other side, you see Felix, half finished a cigarette, with a pensive look on his face as he too was watching Oliver. When he looks at you there's a moment that the two of you share, of understanding, of compassion and a shared goal, "can you get me a glass of water?" You asked, knowing he'd take the hint. Thankfully, he smiles at you, the two of you shuffling once more so he could get out of the booth and head towards Oliver and the bar.

Leaning on the end of the booth, you wait for Felix to return before you sit back down, instead focusing on the interaction between the two men at the bar. It's not that you can hear them, but you can see the grateful but anxious look in Oliver's eyes, and the way he can't look away from Felix's smile, and something sharp and bright and intrigued lights up in your chest.

There's a moment as the interaction begins winding down, when Felix takes the tray of drinks, and looks back at your gathered group of friends. His eyes meet yours, faint flicker of familiar affection passing in the next moment as he says something else to Oliver before he's making a beeline back to the group.

"Thank you, Ollie!" He announces brightly, much to the cheer and delight of the rest of the group once the jaeger bombs are set down at the table. Caught up in the sudden influx of joy, you chant Ollie's name, clapping along, not even realising that since you'd let go of the booth you were starting to take on a lean.

"You're fucking legless," Felix crows with laughter, who had already slid back into the booth and was now taking you by the arm and sitting you back down beside himself, "I'm cutting you off, you're on the waters now," he joked, arm around you to steady you, though you weren't inclined to disagree. Thankfully, in the next moment, a water was being placed in front of you, and a cheer was once again rising from the group as Oliver rejoined you all, bashful smile on his face as everyone was lavishing praise on him for following through with buying the round.

The glass was cold and clear and faintly frosted, few ice cubes floating delicately on top of the pint of water before you, looking absolutely perfect in this golden, humid pub. Even just reaching out and holding the cold glass of water in your hands seemed to make everything a little less blurry at the edges.

As you dragged the glass towards you, surprised by your sudden craving for fresh, cold water, praise tumbles from your lips, words half blurring together, and Oliver takes his seat once more beside you.

"Ollie, you're my fucking hero."

[lukolabrainrot]

Calm theory Anon here 🩷🩷🩷

Guys today has been a glorious day filled with so many gems. From Luke photo shoot to the tik tok to Nic commenting. So many great things happening. I want to touch on a couple things. First thing Luke's new found confidence when speaking. His body language and his tone showed me he was so much more confident in his speech and thoughts. That happens when you're confident in yourself. Before if we think back he would wait for Nic to speak and agree with whatever she said. I'm not saying he never spoke what he felt. But the man was holding part of himself back. He was comfortable letting Nic take charge in interviews. Now his tone is strong and his answers are well thought out. That only comes with inner growth which happens by a lot of self reflection. Our boy Lukey did the work he needed to grow. And I'm here for this Luke which just makes him hotter in my opinion. Now I wanted to touch on Luke and Nic presence online with each other. Do I believe more going on positively then we think? Yes. I think they are together. Do I know for sure? Nope I (unlike cough others cough) will never say something as fact when I'm not apart of either of their inner circles. But one thing I'm going to keep stressing is these photos are a moment in time that was capture correct. As you know a moment is fleeting and we can't really tell any type of story using moments right. So do we know what is happening BTS? Nope we have no clue but we do know from their own mouths that they have a special relationship. Do we see that online? Nope and until they come out officially as a couple we won't. We will get the likes and comments if we are lucky because let's be honest the way the fandom has treated them both we don't deserve that. They are not going to be lovey Dovey online. They just aren't. They won't until they announce that they are a couple. Now one thing we have to remember is Luke and Nic are their own people. Luke has his own projects and goals outside of Nicola. Nicola has her own goals and projects outside of luke. They have both worked their asses off to get where they are in life. But because they blew up on the same show and as a couple it's so easy for fans to link them as one. They have to show they are individuals. So yes we will get content where Luke doesn't mention Nic and times Nic doesn't mentioning Luke. This is normal and healthy. They are their own person. Also I have to remind people Nic has Luke number she knows him. She can call him and congratulate him in person. So that comment she left wasn't in my opinion just for him. It was for the Lukola fans and to show her support. She doesn't have to like or comment on his stuff. It was to show the haters that they are good. That's what they want us to know at this time.

Exactly, agreed!

Today was a great day for Lukola fans imo, and I'm still riding the high!

And I found it particularly interesting that a certain subsection had to come in LOUD with their bs today in the more positive Lukola spaces. Could everything we got today been so L/N coded that it made this subsection anxious... hmmmm, I wonder 🤔

[mirnilop]

𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ wally darling

⚠ tags: sfw, mob au, yandere!wally, gn!singer!reader, power imbalance, discussions of violence

♡ synopsis: you’d be surprised how many fans you accrue as a small-time lounge singer. while this is usually a good thing, one of yours happens to rule half the city, so he isn’t exactly receptive to the word “no”.

♡ word count: 5,310

⛧ﾐ‧*･ﾟ the following content may be triggering to some. please proceed with caution! ･ﾟ*‧ミ⛧

a/n: hello!! ₍ᐢ.ˬ.⑅ᐢ₎ goshh, my very first post on this acc!! i haven’t posted fanfic in a hot minute but i’m suuuper excited to get back into it!! 💞 i have sooo many wips for this fandom, it was difficult to choose which one to finish first! credit to @/clownsuu for creating the au and for the lovely art!! i tweaked the concept a wee bit so that it takes place in a roger rabbit-esque world where puppets and humans live together unharmoniously (with a jessica rabbit inspired reader ofc >v>). it was a lot of fun trying to marry wally's canon personality with a Scary Mob Boss (*´ 艸`) i can't wait to post more!! what are y'all's favourite aus? let me know!! ･*･:≡(　ε:)

There’s a rose on your vanity.

The sight of it snuffs out your high spirits, irritation igniting in its place– and it was such a good day, too! You and the girls were perfectly in sync for your entire performance, bolstered by the unusually affable audience; you even rewarded them with a sneak peek of new material, which made them go wild!

Dreams of stomping it beneath your heel stew in your head as you drop it in the faience vase at the rim of the mirror, where a crinkled, beige-tipped rose droops against the rim. Why not break the vase too? An idea that’s crossed your mind too many times, and while it gets harder to resist with each flower, you endure it. They’re presents, after all, and you doubt your admirer would take kindly to the news that you’ve trashed them. You’re certain one of his minions would obtain the evidence, if not witness you do it; you can’t pinpoint the extent to which they survey you, but the crawling sensation of eyes on your back crops up often, and obviously they have no problem barging into your dressing room to play delivery service.

Sighing, you comb through your rolling rack to pick a suitable outfit to change into. Most of the articles hanging are also gifts, but you’ve made sure to keep some of your own hard-earned clothes here out of sheer spite. A burgundy cashmere number has just slipped into your grasp when the door bursts open.

“How’s that for a show?! And what a great crowd, a whole buncha dolls! Or– well, puppets– and humans! Hahaha!”

Lottie skips in with her usual energy, the bell on her collar jingling alongside the clack of her Mary Janes. You hate that their manager mandates the bells as a part of their costumes, as if puppets being treated like second-class citizens wasn’t enough. “You wanna make money or not? It’s part of the appeal! You know, Mary Had A Little Lamb and all that!” is what he told you after one of your countless tirades regarding his treatment of them, but the sleazy smirk wrapped around his cheap cigarette allowed you to read between the lines. As much as you despise that man, it’s not your business to judge the trio for staying contracted with him. Mottie’s recalled to you how difficult it was to hire a manager at all, and you suppose you have to (begrudgingly) thank him for bringing them into your life, since he’s the one who bagged them the backup singer gig.

A swell of color in your peripheral lets you know that she’s come near, but you don’t bother diverting attention from your search. This is such a common occurrence between you two that pleasantries are no longer required.

“And they were mighty generous with the tips! So me and the gals was thinking we should go somewhere to… celebrate…”

Hearing her trail off, you turn to find her staring at the new rose, her once-perky ears fallen limp. You click your tongue, remorse prickling your heart, though you’ve done nothing wrong.

“I’ll be alright, Lottie. Here,” You grab a wad of bills from your personal tip jar and fold them into her hand. “You take your sisters somewhere nice, my treat. As an apology for having to skip out tonight.”

When she doesn’t move from her spot, merely pouting at you with big, glistening eyes full of concern, you swaddle her in a hug. Fleecy strands of shell pink hair tickle your nose as she nestles her snout into your shoulder, squeezing you like a lifebuoy. Having her in your arms is a vital reminder as to why you continue to put up with everything. Lottie, Dottie and Mottie are your beloved friends– your family when you had none– and you are willing to do whatever is necessary to build a life with them.

“Are ya sure?”

“Positive. And if that bug gives you even a whiff of trouble, you come get me right away, got it?”

She laughs, the sound a balm to the ache of your worries. “He never gives us any trouble– n’fact, I haven’t heard ‘im say a single word!”

“Good. At least one of them has manners. Now go have fun!”

After a few more hugs and a promise to relay your apology to her sisters, she trots towards the entrance. Halfway through it, she pauses.

“Promise ya’ll play nice?”

An involuntary grimace twists your face, which you smooth immediately.

“I was planning on it,” you concede, earning an exhale of relief from Lottie.

“Thanks. Honestly, I’m kinda worried...” She leans against the doorframe, gaze trained on the checkered floor. “I see more and more of that Napoleon-wannabe’s goons lately. Do ya think he’s gettin’ antsy? It’s been real quiet since that incident with Dorelaine.”

Ah, the incident. It happened a handful of months ago; he refused to go into specifics, but what you’ve gathered from his gnomic recount and various news stories is that their rival organization– led by Ronald Dorelaine, a human man– planted explosives somewhere important, racking up thousands in damages and dismembering several puppets, left to be mended with those horrific stitches. You didn’t receive another rose until several weeks afterwards.

“I can’t be sure,” you admit. “He doesn’t tell me much about the goings-on of the ‘family’, not that I care to know. But I noticed he’s been more wound up lately… maybe they’re going to retaliate?”

A visible shudder travels through Lottie, and she tosses her head as if to ward off the gravity of your predicament. It was easier to ignore the implications when there wasn’t an active turf battle.

“You’re right, we should stay as far as we can from that nasty business. Wear the red, then. To butter ‘im up a little.” She offers you a conflicted half-smile, most likely holding herself back from proposing a makeover, before sidling out the door.

Glowering, you follow the advice, shucking your tight, shimmering stage outfit for the cozy cashmere you were eyeing before. Like I need to be reminded of his favorite color. I’ve practically lived in red since I met him. It inexplicably fits like a glove, as do all of the clothes you've been bestowed; for the sake of your sanity, you prevent yourself from delving too far into that subject.

As you fix the little bits of your appearance that got mussed up during your performance, you can’t help but contemplate hiding in your room until morning, even though you know it wouldn’t work– and you’d have to pay for a broken front door. Once every speck of lint has been removed and your ensemble is flawless, you steel your resolve with a hard look in the mirror. If things go south, at least you’ll make a gorgeous open casket.

You step into your shoes and out of the dressing room, swiping your bag and a matching hat from the plethora that dangle on knobs affixed to the wall along the way. The haze that eternally permeates the lounge envelops you as you walk, no longer springing tears to your eyes like it did so long ago, when you were a starry-eyed fledgling. Upon entering the foyer, you call out to the owner, Gene, who’s counting the register behind the bar.

“Hey, I’m heading out!”

“Geez, you’re in a hurry! Got a hot date or what?”

“Something like that,” you breathe, your nerves relighting tenfold now that you’re so close to the outside.

“Ahh, I getcha.” His amusement is clear, construing an innuendo within your words that is absolutely not there, but you’d rather die than clarify. “You did a great job today, you deserve it!”

Somehow, your admirer has managed to limbo directly under Gene’s nose; thus far he’s made no indication that he’s aware he has a very important patron. For a moment, you observe him, and see how he absentmindedly rubs the pocket of his button-up– where a polaroid of his two children is safely tucked away– and you decide that it’s probably for the best.

“Thanks, Gene. Have a good one.”

“You too!”

His reply barely reaches you as you cross the threshold from the comfort of your work into the cold, pensive night. A luckier soul may have suffered a fright when greeted with the colossal figure standing below the street light, carved with shadow, but it’s a familiar sight to you now. An inconspicuous black car is parked behind him.

“Hi Howdy.”

“Evening, Mx.” He bows slightly, whisking open the sleek passenger door which you reluctantly slide inside.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I do have a name.” It’s true. Being addressed formally by such an important figure imbues you a with a sick feeling, like he’s won, and you’ve already been initiated into this fucked up institution.

Though he waits for you to finish speaking before shutting you in, he doesn’t grace you with a response; not that you were expecting one. In all the times he’s escorted you to these duress-dates, as you’ve taken to calling them, he’s remained stoic to a mechanical degree, acknowledging your presence and nothing more. Thrashing, crying, screaming– you’ve tried everything to escape, and have never elicited a reaction more severe than that of a tired parent handling a tantrum. If you resist, he simply manhandles you. It’s hardly a fair match, with him having 4 arms and several feet of height on you, so you opt to reserve your energy for dealing with his headache of a boss.

When he hauls his many limbs onto the driver’s seat, the car lurches, too small to accommodate a puppet of his stature; he has to hunch forward to see the windshield, antennae pushed flat. You lean back and vacantly turn towards the window, wondering if cars big enough for someone like him to drive comfortably even exist while the engine rumbles to life.

The umbrous cityscape passes you by, inklings of humans and puppets flashing in and out of the darkness like ghosts. Thick boughs of red and green tinsel are strung across a few lamp posts, but by the end of the season they’ll all be covered. Dottie’s already triple checked that you and her sisters have one day of the annual Christmas market off, even though you strike the same deal with Gene every year; the four of you get Saturday, then he gets Sunday to take his family. It’s one of your favorite times of the year, if only because you get to experience the aura of wonder that enlivens Lottie when the first snow falls, Mottie’s timid wheedling to attend The Nutcracker, and Dottie’s alphabetically-organized checklist of fun winter activities.

Those cheerful thoughts are wiped away as Howdy turns into a private garage attached to a sleek, angular skyscraper. He parks in the spot nearest to the entrance, the first in a row of spaces labeled with metal “Reserved for Staff” signs, and circles the car to let you out. The sensation of him gingerly lifting you comes with no alarm; he always assists you up the concrete stairs leading to the elevator, as if you’re so physically inept you can’t handle 3 tiny steps. You assume his needless precaution is for the same reason he hasn’t beaten you yet despite defying him so often: boss’s orders.

With a reedy knell, the elevator glides open, and Howdy signals for you to go ahead. Once you’re both inside, he inserts a key and presses the button for the uppermost level. Expecting a noiseless ride, you tune into the low muzak emitting from the speakers, which makes you miss the first time he calls you.

“Mx.”

Startled, you swivel towards him. His steadfast profile is unreadable.

“Boss doesn’t know you’ve opposed him so vehemently in the past. Please keep that in mind tonight.”

The entrance broaches before you can interrogate him as to what the hell he means, granting you entry to a luxury penthouse laved in gold, ivory, and– of course– red. A glimmering chandelier suspends from the ornamental ceiling, bathing the antique furniture in an amber glow. If you hadn’t just ridden up the elevator, you would have assumed such a lavish drawing room belonged to an old mansion.

It’s something straight out of a romance novel, except instead of a chiseled, broody Italian, it’s a short puppet sitting at the marble-topped dining table. He lounges at the head in a slate blue silk suit with its jacket buttoned to the top; an honor seemingly reserved solely for you, because it’s the only way you’ve seen him wear it, despite street tales describing the way it billows from his shoulders as he stalks the town. Revealed by its plunged neckline is the collar of a white dress shirt embossed with rainbow pinstripes, and a red ascot neatly tied and pulled askant around his throat.

Wally Darling, in the felt: kingpin of The Neighborhood, and resident thorn in your side.

When you arrive, he rises to meet you, dismissing Howdy with a pointed glance; you’ve learned that the relationship between a crime lord and his loyal bandog transcends language. You watch him as he leaves through a pair of swinging doors to the left, his cryptic advice-slash-warning heavy on your mind.

And so, you find yourself alone with the most dangerous man in the city– puppet or otherwise.

“Good evening, dearest. I hope my gift found you well.”

The concept of personal space might as well be Greek to Wally, since he hasn’t once respected it from the day you had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. He crowds so close that you have to crane your neck to see his face, the heat emanating from him eliciting shivers in your chill-soaked body.

“Yes, thank you. It was quite a lively night,” you chirp, wielding a civil smile.

Although the contours of his wispy, coiffed curls only reach your ribs, he extends his arm to you, which you take with such a featherlight hold that you barely brush his sleeve. Rather than leading you to the dining table like you expected, you’re guided towards a small lounge area to the side, the crackling croon of Billie Holiday wafting over from a refurbished stereo console in the corner. Oh, great. He’s feeling sentimental.

“Would you indulge me with a dance before dinner?”

Don't have much of a choice, do I?

“I’d love to.”

Dancing with Wally is funny, in an ironic sort of way; it certainly caught you off guard the first time he asked. When you envision dancing with a powerful, deadly mobster, you think of being swept away, wrapped snugly by strong arms and a dastardly smirk, or perhaps something more courtly, like a waltz steered by a polite hand on your waist. Turns out both versions are incorrect.

Muscle memory ushers your arms open, and Wally falls into the space in between them– literally. Slack against you, his full weight is heftier than his height would imply, but not physically uncomfortable– emotionally and morally, however, are another story. An air of pure peace washes over him as his cheek nuzzles the underside of your chest, arms limp at his sides; you swear you even hear a little trill. Your face burns, but you say nothing as you begin to sway faintly to the beat, tracing a loop with your feet as you traipse along. Wally follows easily, tethered by the reluctant cage of your embrace.

“Do you remember the night we met?”

The query is felt more than heard, his gentle monotone muffled by the downy fabric of your garb. You huff softly to yourself, rustling a few gel-slick strands atop his pompadour.

“How could I forget?”

The day the infamous Mr. Darling appeared in your club, his two largest henchmen in tow, is burned into your brain like a regrettable tattoo; Gene was off, so you were covering entertainment for the night while the sisters managed the bar and floor. As you were singing the very song playing now, you detected a curious hush that had overtaken the throng of guests, and strained to cut through the stage glare and cigarette fog to locate the cause. Tracking the audience, who were all regarding the bar with varying amounts of subtlety, you nearly dropped the microphone when you saw the broad blue back of Barnaby B. Beagle, someone you’d only heard of in gossip. He gesticulated as he spoke boisterously to poor Mottie, who was as white as a sheet behind the counter. Situated a slight ways away was Howdy Pillar, who stood as motionless as a statue with both sets of forelimbs fastened behind him.

And then you noticed him. A puppet no more than 4 feet tall, but whose oppressive presence commanded full attention. He paid no mind to the (one-sided) conversation between his colleague and your friend– no, he was staring right at you. Boring into you so acutely that you felt pinned, compelled somehow to continue singing until the final note trickled away.

As if a spell had been broken, you leapt from the platform and scurried to Mottie, who stayed petrified even when you tried to covertly nudge her to the side. How avidly you wished a fissure would open beneath their shoes and swallow them whole; but, armed with years of appeasing difficult and sordid customers, you spoke.

“Evening, fellas. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Barnaby, who had stopped talking when you rounded the bar, bellowed a laugh.

“Fellas?! Is that any way to greet the boss and I?"

He tilted forward with menacing glee, propped up by furry elbows as his claws scraped the laminate countertop. Each of his fangs were as big as your nose.

"Dontcha know who we are, toots? Or do ya just need a refresher on respect?"

The acrid smoke from his cigar blew directly into your face, making spikes of anger bubble in your belly as you choked back a cough. Just when you felt composed enough to reply, a surprisingly mellow voice chimed in.

"It's alright, Barnaby."

The shock slacking his jaw mirrored yours, although you hid it under a mask of cool indifference. You dared a glance at Mr. Darling, but the pressure of his peer chased your gaze back to Barnaby, who grumbled as he straightened back up. It was difficult to stay trained on his good eye, but you soldiered on. Fear was not something you could afford to show, and you knew you'd crumble if you peeked at the fabled gaping socket that he stapled open himself.

"I don't suppose you're Gene Clifton, aged 54, father of two, owner of this joint?" He joked, recovered from the flub.

"No, sir, but my banker would sure be happy if I was. Can I take down a message?"

"A message! I love this bird!" Snickering cruelly, he waved a flippant paw. "Y'should try that material on stage sometime, might bring ya more customers than the singing bit."

You sucked a sharp inhale up your nose. Serenity now.

"See, here's the problem. This is family territory, and in return for our protection, we charge a teensy fee. Now, we ain't unreasonable– we've sent ole Gene a few letters. And what’s our thanks for such humble hospitality? Zilch."

Oh dear. Gene doesn't bother investigating any mail the lounge receives before tossing it because it’s typically adverts. He definitely would've noted The Neighborhood's seal if he did. Regardless, the frank abuse of power only fanned your annoyance, obscuring your better judgment.

"What protection? I don't recall seeing any of your members patrolling outside. Besides, we didn’t ask for protection."

Mottie snapped towards you, looking as though she might faint. The corner of Barnaby's mouth twitched skyward, like he was hoping you'd argue, but his boss beat him to the punch.

"We can reach an agreement, I’m sure. I'd hate to see a family establishment go under, especially when they have such lovely entertainment."

Apparently Wally was so smitten that he'd accept your company in lieu of money, and so the agreement (if you can even call it that, since you were coerced) was this– whenever a rose was delivered to you, you'd attend a rendezvous with him. When you returned to your dressing room later that evening, you discovered the first gift of several: your vase.

“I knew because of your eyes.”

The floral wallpaper in front of you shifts back into focus, Wally’s voice shaking you from your recollection.

“Pardon?”

“That night, you drew me in; I couldn’t concentrate on anything else, least of all a petty protection tax. And I knew I had to have you when I met your eyes.” He sounds dreamy, reminiscing as you were before, though his framing of events is worlds apart from your own; he recalls a destined encounter with his future partner, whereas you mark it the day your wings were clipped for good.

“They shone like stars, even through the smog.”

It’s only after he’s finished that you realize you’ve stopped moving, wrapped in an intimate hug like true lovers. A strange mix of pride and disgust floods you at the compliment, stomach flip-flopping rapidly.

He untangles from you, receding so that only your hands remain connected. The newfound distance eases some of your tension, but to your horror, you find yourself mourning the loss of the husky scent of his cologne. Loath as you are to admit it, the bastard smells amazing: a dark, leathery swirl of apples and saffron that you’d buy out if someone turned it into a candle.

“Let’s not delay any longer. You must be starving.”

True to his gentlemanly veneer, he seats you at the table before settling himself. You don’t see him call, but a server emerges immediately from the doors through which Howdy left with a tray of appetizers.

There are two graces you award Wally Darling: his excellent taste in cologne, and his staff’s Michelen-quality fare. Though they adopt the four courses typical of fine dining, the dishes are more grounded, toeing the border between grandma and Gordon Ramsay perfectly. Truthfully, you’re not even sure what to categorize it as; virtually everything is transfigured into a jello, pie, or salad, harkening back to the post-war cookbooks you used to gawk at as a child in your late mother’s library. The yellowed pictures in those books appeared extremely unappetizing, but somehow The Neighborhood makes it work.

It could be because of an illusive member named Poppy, one of the 7 who make up Wally’s illustrious inner circle. She’s scarcely seen due to her fretful and skittish nature, but Wally lauds her cooking and baking skills, regaling you in the past with plenty of kitchen mishaps that occurred when she tried to decompress by experimenting with recipes and was interrupted by their more excitable comrades. If you remember correctly, he once told you that most of the menus in rotation were created by her.

The nature of these duress-dates is wholly dependent on Wally’s mood– if he’s happy, then he’ll gladly chat your ear off about frivolous happenings in his and his friends’ private lives, though he takes care to be shrewd with any details that dive too deep into the murky underbelly lying just below. If he’s unhappy, then they can be utterly unbearable; his mere existence puts you on edge, so it’s exponentially worse when he’s out of sorts, tone curt and glare fierce.

Thankfully, he’s amiable tonight. The first 3 courses march on without incident, and painless conversation flows between the two of you, even if he does most of the talking– you’re not exactly eager to share more than you have to. It’s when the server presents dessert that things go awry.

“Say, how are those triplets you work with doing?” Wally says, spooning at the Bananas Foster. “I haven’t had the pleasure of catching a performance since our mishap a while back. So much paperwork, so little time, you know how it is.”

The mention of both your friends and the aforementioned Dorelaine incident have you bristling reflexively, but you do your best to tamp it down.

“They’re well, overall. Sometimes it’s difficult for them– their manager’s a real piece of work, and we get all types at the lounge.”

“I see…”

He lets out a long “hmmmm”, like he’s reflecting on this information.

“My family has also come upon hard times. It can be… trying, sometimes, to guide my children. Especially now, when we are under unjust attack.” He confesses, wistfully resting his chin on a thread-scarred palm. “Every family requires a head, but what is a head without a neck?”

Unjust my ass. Still, the weird metaphor confuses you.

“A neck?”

At that, his catlike grin only grows. What is he talking about?

“Yes, a neck; that is, someone who supports the head. I care for my family, so it’s only right I am cared for in return, wouldn’t you say?”

Though the phrasing is puzzling, you’re fairly confident you can infer what he’s purposefully dangling in front of you, and oh, it makes your stomach plummet. Sweat breaks out underneath your suddenly-sweltering outfit; it's as if you've been tied to a railroad and have managed to divert the train through pure will for a year, but now it's steamrolling square for you. The anxiety of impending doom renders you mute, unable to piece together a coherent thought.

Taking your silence in stride, Wally leans forward, intense as he grasps your hand in both of his own. The yellow fuzz does nothing to help how clammy you feel.

“What I mean to say is, I think that it’s time to settle down."

No.

“Wh– what? Settle down how?”

“To get married, silly.”

You’re unable to help the gasp that escapes you. No, no, no!

“Get married? You mean– to me?!”

“Of course. I’ve been courting you all this time, haven’t I?”

You sputter, and he rubs your hand as if to soothe you. His many gold rings gleam under the chandelier, teasing a glimpse of your fate.

“I know in the beginning you weren’t receptive to the idea of this life, but I've shown you that I can provide for you better than anyone else.”

Your expression must betray your surprise, because he chuckles– a slow, stilted sound that sends gooseflesh blooming across your skin.

“You thought I didn’t know? Howdy may not have reported it– which I’ll rectify in due time– but I have eyes everywhere, dear. You’re quite the talented actor, though.”

That trademark simper melts into something beguiling; he cradles you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“I love you, and I will take care of you, as I ask you to do for me. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

An inviting facade of genuine affection, so ardent that you almost want to believe it. Wouldn’t that be the easiest path to take? To surrender to the hand that feeds, because where it strangles others, it caresses you sweetly? It’s more tempting than you’d ever divulge, because underneath the armor of aplomb you've so carefully forged, you're exhausted. This burden has been yours alone to bear– and what a bear it is, because if you mess up, the people you love could be injured, or worse. So much worse.

Perhaps sensing an opening, Wally continues.

“Be reasonable. The family welcomes you with open arms! Haven’t you missed having a family?"

The words stab you right through the heart, and your waning resolve springs back tenfold by the fury that ruddies your vision. When you rip your hand away, he makes no move to stop you.

"My friends are my family. I don’t want anyone else, especially not murderers!” You snarl. “You kill people– and torture and maim them! How can you expect me to accept this?!"

"All in a day's work when cleaning up the city, unfortunately," Wally hums. "I wish we didn't have to resort to such things, but you must understand. As it is, puppets are treated as less than, and hardship runs rampant for both humans and puppets alike. You’ve experienced these firsthand.” With the elegance of a master conman, he touches his chest in mock respire. “All we wish to do is provide a safe haven for those in need– somewhere to rest your bones, enjoy a hot meal, and where everyone accepts you as their own. A home.”

You abruptly stand up, feeling like you’re wound so taut that you could erupt at any moment. The mahogany chair behind you tips over from the force, striking the floor with a leaden thud, though the sound is deafened by the blood rushing in your ears.

“Bullshit! You don’t have to start a gang to combat discrimination or help suffering people! Maybe that spiel works on the poor saps you trick into doing your dirty work, but it won’t work on me. The answer is no.”

All is still for a moment as you struggle to calm your heaving breaths, trembling and locked in a quiet stalemate with Wally, who’s as relaxed as ever. Your attention flits from his right eye to where the left would be, if not for the lesion carved from a notch above his eyelid to an inch below, giving the illusion that what lies beneath is impaled.

Oh shit.

The magnitude of what just transpired comes crashing down as your adrenaline flushes out. After playing it safe for months– stomaching unwanted exorbitant gifts, being tailed by his employees, and rousted to innumerous “dates”– you just rejected Wally Darling in the most aggressive way possible. So you do the only thing that might garner you a chance to make it out of this alive: run.

You’re halfway across the room when 4 thick arms suddenly wrangle and force you to halt, a scream ripping itself from your throat out of fear. Can this motherfucker teleport now?! How the hell did he get here so fast?? Thrashing, you throw your head back to search Howdy’s face, desperate for an ounce of the sympathy he’d offered in the elevator, but it is in vain; his stony visage is impenetrable, as though it had never wavered.

“How about you sleep on it, hm? Think about all of your options. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to those little lambs when their adorable shepherd isn’t around to protect them.”

Delicate fingers cup your jaw, making you freeze as Wally stretches up to plant a faux-kiss on your cheek, complete with a small “mwah!”. You scowl daggers at him as he collects your hat from where it flew to the floor, dusts it off, and lovingly places it back on your head before giving you a few pats.

“Aw, don’t be that way, darling. I truly meant what I said; you have beautiful eyes. I can hardly wait to try one on.”

With a snap, you’re hauled over Howdy’s back and spirited out of the room, presumably to be transported to wherever you’ll be staying. Hopefully not Wally’s quarters.

It’s all too much; you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare. How else did you expect this to end? You’re not sure. With all of the awful things he’s done, forcing you into marriage is not beyond him. You just thought you’d have more time: to plan, to save up enough money to take the girls and race to the hills.

Tears gather on your waterlines, and the minute your mouth wobbles, they spill ceaselessly. Full-bodied sobs wrack you, the pain of Howdy’s shoulder jutting into your midsection compounding the profound ache of sorrow. All this time, you’ve been trying to fight, but there was no fight to be had; it ended the moment his eyes found yours across the lounge that day.

[sitp-recs]

July reads ☀️

Happy August! Last month was incredibly busy so I thought of doing a lil July wrapped to celebrate the few treats I got to chance to indulge. They kept my fandom flame alive and gave me a much needed comfort during a really stressful time, so I’m beyond grateful to these works and authors. What about you, what have you been reading lately?

💦 A Two-Fold Light by @lqtraintracks (E, 2k) - Teddy/Draco, Drarry, future Tedrarry

Teddy is hot, in all that statement's permutations. Or: Everybody's falling in love with one another.

🤠 Your Hot Hands by @starquestingfordrarry (E, 7.5k)

Draco always wanted to know where Harry Potter disappeared to. This is not what he expected.

🩲 If The Boxers Fit (A Cinderella Story) by @lettersbyelise (E, 8k)

When Draco ends up shagging a hot, mysterious stranger in a broken Ministry lift and is left with nothing but a sexy pair of red boxers to remember them by, Draco’s friends go sleuthing.

🪞 Crush by @citrusses (E, 8k)

Harry Potter has a secret admirer. Harry's pretty sure that if this person figures out what an idiot he's capable of making of himself, they'll lose interest. So he turns to Draco Malfoy, reformed nemesis and stylish lawyer, for guidance.

🚙 ready, able by @garagepaperback (E, 9.5k)

“Well, even if we went through with it, it wouldn’t work. But thanks for the grand heroic rushing in. A certain element of purity is needed to break it." Malfoy licks his lips, "You’d have to be a virgin.” Malfoy has a problem, Harry wants to help.

⚖️ When the Flood Comes, Anonymous (E, 10k)

Nine years on from the war, Auror Potter is upholding the Ministry of Magic's rule of law. Senior legal counsel Draco Malfoy is challenging it. And absolutely nothing is as it seems.

🇫🇷 The most he’s ever said, Anonymous (E, 16k)

It takes them twenty years.

🩸 on the divine agony of longing by @flimsi (E, 25k)

Speaking to Draco is like poking a beehive - and Harry is a glutton for punishment. In which Harry makes some serious blunders and then tries to fix it. Somehow.

📓 this heaven of mud by @garagepaperback (E, 94k)

winter, 2002: Draco Malfoy is absolutely fine, thank you very much. summer, 2008: Harry Potter is, er- well, not good exactly, but definitely better. Yeah. Better than before. A love story told in two somewhat unreliable parts, over six years.

Bonus: WIP I’m currently reading

🎄 Heavenstruck! by @epitomereally (E)

One and a half years after the war, Draco Malfoy shows up to the Burrow for Christmas.

Next on my list!

🏠 Two Houses, Anonymous (E, 11k)

Two households, both alike in... meddling Floo connections, apparently? Draco Malfoy is a highly professional and well-respected Ministry official, with a demanding schedule, a loving son, and—through no fault of his own—a faulty Floo connection that keeps regurgitating the Minister for Magic through his fireplace.

🪩 Closing Time, Anonymous (E, 18k)

Draco’s been invited to Neville’s stag party in Bristol, and he's confident he knows what to expect. There’ll be too many Gryffindors, for starters, plus a few humiliating team-building activities, some dodgy clubs, and a truly preposterous level of alcohol consumption. But… a drunken Harry Potter climbing into Draco's bed when he’s having a wank? No, he definitely didn't see that coming...

[lemotmo]

Hi!! First, I just wanted to say I always enjoy checking out your posts because you have such great takes and treat every single ask with such respect. Even when it’s something that you may disagree with, you always take the time to ensure everyone that it’s just your opinion and respect the other person’s point of view! :) It’s so refreshing to see because I feel like over hiatus especially the fandom has become somewhat of a dumpster fire…lol.

Also, I agree completely about Oliver. He always says that he trusts Tim and his writing so I don’t think he would necessarily ask to have Lou leave or for BT to end abruptly or anything. And as much as we all say “oh he hates that man” we truly don’t know. What we do know, at least by his tweets at the time, was there was some tension in his friendship with Ryan several years back. Like it’s crazy to think during the shooting arc and will scene and Eddie breakdown arc in s5 that there was so much tension offscreen. It just goes to show how much of a professional he is! I also don’t think the other side is true either where Oliver is apparently purposely not promoting BT or interacting with Lou on social media to “protect him from the buddie fans.” I just think Oliver isn’t super active on social media for his own reasons and people look waaayyyy too much into things. Anyway, sorry this was so long winded LOL I just wanted to point out that we truly don’t know Oliver or his thoughts and feelings and some people making these inferences sound almost more like headcanons and it’s giving parasocial.

First of all, thank you Nonny. That means a lot to me. I always do my very best to try to stay respectful towards people and ships on my blog. That doesn’t mean that I don’t give my very honest opinions and critical takes on certain topics, but I don’t feel the need to yell over it and use more explicit language. I also avoid specific shipping tags for ships I don’t like and character tags for characters I don't like. I find that being respectful like that ultimately gets you further.

Now, that also doesn’t mean that I don’t get frustrated with some takes in fandom. But I mostly -and wisely- choose to rant about that to some of my Tumblr mutuals/friends in private. Throwing out all of my more hateful frustrations in public would only generate more hate and I try to avoid that. My inbox is so much more interesting when I get positive asks. I admit that I get so many asks these days that it has become impossible to answer them all.

Now, I do want to reply to your ask because you talk about a few topics that are near and dear to my heart and -of course- I have some opinions about. 😊

I first want to address The Ryan part of your ask. I was around in fandom during those days. It wasn’t pretty, but the way people talk about this now is a complete overreaction. The cast’s reaction to this event totally gets blown out of proportion. There was some tension for a while there, sure. Oliver deleted some of his tweets/Instagram posts that had to do with Ryan and then he unfollowed him.

But it was obvious that it didn’t take Oliver and the rest of the cast too long to move on. I’m pretty sure that, by the time the shooting arc came along, followed closely by the breaking down arc, Oliver and Ryan were on good terms again. Maybe not as close as they were before at that specific moment, but still on good terms. Both men are professionals and they did such a fantastic job when it came to those amazing scenes.

Now, don’t get me wrong, what Ryan said was inappropriate and disrespectful, I agree. However, the man apologised immediately and he has been working hard since then to become a better and lighter version of himself. And he has succeeded as we can all see how well he gets along with the entire cast and especially the POC in the cast that have completely moved past his mistake.

These days Ryan and Oliver are like two peas in a pod. They have always been close and they have always had insane chemistry, but ever since the beginning of season 7 it has all been ramped up. I’m one of the people convinced that they got the news that Buddie is finally happening. That they got the green light to go there. Which is something they have wanted for a long time now.

Now, second… as to Oliver not liking Lou? I’m afraid that I’m going to have to disagree with you on this one. I really do think that Oliver doesn’t like Lou all that much. If he was upset and angry over what Ryan said in one video a couple of years ago, I can only imagine his horrified reaction to all those terrible, disrespectful and inappropriate Instagram posts Lou made, for which he hasn’t apologised at all by the way. That interview he did with Lou also doesn’t help. Oliver wasn’t comfortable at all. His body language screamed: “I don’t want to be here.” And Lou just kept on talking about himself. I don’t know why Oliver was even there. BT was hardly even mentioned.

So, while I don’t think that Oliver would ask Tim to get rid of Lou, I only think he wouldn’t ask in function of the Buddie arc they are telling. If Tommy’s presence is necessary in that arc? Oliver will suck it up like the professional he is, because if there is one thing he wants more than anything for Buck, it’s Eddie. If Tim were to tell Oliver that he wanted to take the BT relationship further in any way, I do think he would protest and say ‘no’.

Oliver not promoting BT or Tommy has to do with the fact that he knows that Tommy isn’t sticking around as Buck’s love interest. Tommy is a plot device. He has always been a plot device. That is the way the show set him up. He is meant to have a purpose in the Buddie arc. What that purpose is? We don’t know. But it’s all there in the narrative for those who are willing to look at it logically and from a writer’s point of view.

A few seasons ago Oliver just stopped talking about Buddie. In some of his latest interviews he confessed that he stopped talking about them because he didn’t want to lead the fans on. He knew it would never happen under FOX. As soon as the show came into the hands of ABC, he started yapping about Buddie again. Him and Ryan were so vocal about them. It was clear that something had shifted. They knew that they were finally going there. Buddie was happening, but it would take some time to get there.

When they got renewed it was obvious that Tim decided to take his time for Buddie and put a temporary break on their development, so he could do it right in season 8. That didn’t stop him from putting them together in every other scene they were in. 😉

Now, like with all good slow burn couples there has to be a narrative foil. And in comes Tommy. Tommy who seems interested in Eddie. Buck who clearly gets jealous over the fact that Tommy is stealing Eddie (and Chris) from him. And then Tommy realising that he won’t get far with Eddie, but Buck (who is completely confused about his own emotions at this point) seems a little interested, so why not give it a go?

So, why is Oliver not talking about Tommy or engaging with anything BT while he still talks about Buddie and interacted with Buddie stuff up until the finale? Because he knows where the story is heading. History is repeating itself. Oliver doesn’t want to lead the BT fans on, so he simply doesn’t react or interact with anything Tommy or BT. And there is also the element that it is very clear right now that both Oliver and Ryan are actively rooting for Buddie and only Buddie. They know what their characters need. Love that for us! 😊

None of this is about headcanons by the way. It has been said -in words- time and time again, by Oliver himself (and Ryan as well) that he would love Buddie to happen, if it was written well. He shows it in everything he does on social media. Him and Ryan talked about reading fan fiction and watching video edits. I mean, he couldn’t make it anymore clear that he wants Buddie and not BT. So, this is not a headcanon. This is fact.

This is also not about parasocial relationships. We all like Oliver and Ryan, but most of us admire them from afar. We don’t go into their inboxes to message them or we don’t send them weird messages. I know that there are always some more outspoken fanatics in every fandom and the Buddie fandom is not an exception to that. It sadly cannot be avoided, but overall we have been pretty good as a fandom I would say.

That brings us to Lou and his army of goons…

Mind you, I’m not talking about the many normal and lovely sane BT fans and multi-shippers who genuinly like Tommy. Ship and let ship and all. Most of these fans fully realise that Tommy’s time on the show is probably limited. Anonymous OP shoutout!

I’m talking about the select few (the more outspoken and loud fandom fanatics I mentioned before) who accused Buddie fans of hacking one of their Twitter accounts and who thought it was a swell idea to DM Tim with a too long video about strings of fate (which Tim later admitted to never watching)  and ask him about Tommy’s age and other stuff. That is just crazy and a big no no in any fandom. Leave the show runners and actors alone. I don’t care who you ship. Just leave them alone.

The biggest problem is this: Lou made up a bunch of nonsensical headcanons about Tommy and BT that go against every single thing we have seen in canon so far. Canon has shown us, time and time again, that Tommy isn’t really interested in Buck for a loving relationship. Everything he says is reduced to sexual innuendo. And no, I am not a little quivering virgin lady who is afraid of sex and who doesn’t understand the dynamics between two adults in a sexual relationship. I am, in fact, an adult who has had sexual relationships and who knows exactly how relationships work between two adults in their thirties or forties.

Fully grown adults have paid hundreds of dollars to listen to Lou spout his nonsense. These people have all bought the same shirt Lou was wearing in one of his cameos. They call it the Louniform. These people believe every single thing that comes out of Lou’s mouth and take it as gospel. They have extensively hated on Ryan and Eddie. And lately they have even been hating on Oliver because he doesn’t support BT enough in their eyes.

Now that, THAT is a textbook example of a parasocial relationship with an actor.

They call the Buddie shippers ‘homophobic’ for not liking a character. I myself have received some asks in my inbox accusing me of being homophobic. I’m sorry, But WHAT? Look, I have never lied about not vibing with Tommy. I don’t like him as a character. I’m not hateful about it. I don’t spew my dislike for Tommy all over the BT tag or something like that. I just respectfully talk about how he isn’t right for Buck on my own personal blog. This is called ‘Having an opinion and sharing it.’

Tommy is just not my kind of guy at all. I don’t vibe with his demeanour and behaviour. I don’t think he is a good match for Buck. I don’t like the way he treats Buck. And yes! I am a Buddie shipper! So of course a part of why I don’t like him is rooted in the opinion that he is the wrong guy for Buck. But there is so much more to it than only that. Now all of this is not me being homophobic. It is just me being critical and actually using my brain to understand what the show is ultimately really trying to tell me: Tommy is a plot device and we are not supposed to like him!

I’m tired of being accused of something that I am not, over disliking a character that we aren’t even supposed to like in the first place. It’s crazy behaviour. It needs to stop!

Anyway, I’m sorry Nonny. I didn’t mean to end up venting like this on your ask, but it just happened. Now I’m the one being long winded. Sorry.😊 I’m not mad at you or anything like that. Don’t worry.

On the contrary, you helped me get some of these things out in a well written, but still respectful way. You got me writing about all of the fandom things that have been bugging me lately. I was on fire. So, in a weird way: Thank you for your assistance. ❤️

[greyspirehollow]

Vesuvia weekly ; The courtiers' Guilty Pleasures !

Pairing : The courtiers x reader Fandom : The Arcana visual novel Warnings : none. Pure fluff.

Volta :

I like to believe she loves dancing, like ballet, and the opera ; she loves the pretty dresses and the music,, and will secretly try and get some costumes custom tailored for herself, which she'll keep preciously in her closet and put on when she's alone, to admire herself in the mirror and imagine being on stage, amidst the crowd of pretty dancing people and musicians.

I'm pretty sure she would love to be able to fight. Being short comes with a lot of disadvantages,, I'm pretty sure she would like placing a few punches or kicks just right in people sometimes. Maybe she's already asked Vulgora to train her in the past, too.

Loves going to Portia's cottage. Loves Pepi. The flowers. The leaves. It's all so pretty ! And Portia's so nice !

She'll get all flustered and stutter if you ever ask about those secret hobbies of hers, but she'd want to share too, and even get a little frustrated by her conflicting emotions.

Vulgora :

I think they like being calmer and softer when no one's around, and to be treated calmly and with kindness (I'm sure they like being hugged, but you will never for the life of them see them admit it).

They like to play chess with the Countess, even if they loose systematically.

I have a feeling they'd love to go hunting too, with or without a falcon/dogs, or someone else's company.

I think behind their very loud and impulsive facade, they're a rather secretive person, not used to open up about things other than the plainly obvious, and so their little hobbies would be hard to discover unless you look into them a little, or generally get interested in them.

Valdemar :

I think they can play the violin, and some forgotten old instruments. They like how they have to make their finders dance over the instruments to make music.

They're a pretty manual person I think, and can craft little things here and there when they're bored ; pretty sure they tried embroidery even. Very steady hands (heh.)

and fashion. No one can convince me otherwise ; they have a sense of fashion and just don't exploit it. They don't dress often, if ever, or openly comment on people's outfits. but they COULD. IF ONLY THEY DID ARGH-

Secretive person as well. But you'd have no way of discovering any of that if they didn't want you to.

Vlastomil :

Always loved the sound a harp makes. He'd kill to learn how to play it, but he's never dared to take that initiative. It's just such a beautiful instrument, so calming, and it looks really nice to have it lean against you...

I think he'd also enjoy taking walks in the forest, and go lay down in some fresh and humid dirt, listening to the little river nearby, the chirp of birds, the leaves in the wind, the rays of sunlight peeking through...

We know how much he loves his worms, but what if he liked other things as well? what about isopods? tiny lil things.

You may surprise him indulging once or twice, but he'll always stammer a half-made-up excuse and shift the topic of the conversation quickly

Valerius :

Cat person. Loves cats. Wants cats just so he can sit in a big chair and have one on his lap and pet it menacingly while he sips his wine. Will not admit it.

LOVES velvet. Would wear velvet every day of his life if he could ; but he feels it's maybe a little too much in certain scenarios, so avoids it. He does have a cape in the back of his closet, which he wears sometimes when the halls of the Palace are desert.

Actually like to let his hair down ; thinks it gives him a mysterious charm (which yeah, if he styled it a little better), and one time you caught him mindlessly twirling his fingers into his strands.

He's not necessarily secretive, it's just he's learned court etiquette a lot, and so has taken the habit of hiding and bottling his personality down. That part at least.

[stupidlittlespirit]

Hey this was the anon who said you made Ford a cutie patootie 🥺🥺

I really agree with the whole 'bill and Ford were never romantic' vibe. I do believe Ford cared for Bill in a way, but Bill in general is also the abusive partner that enjoys having you in his arms and the moment you try to leave will make your life a living hell.

I think that's honestly why I hate most asshole!Ford fics lately. Except for your of course! Society really sees abuses victims horribly and especially men. Theres a pretty big part of the Fandom that vilifies Ford in a hateful way. Like I know he's done horrible and yes he treated Stanley and Fiddleford bad. But I wouldn't be surprised if his father never brought up Stanley after he kicked out, and expected his wife and Ford to follow. He if he did it was only negative talk on how useless he was. Ford was a child at the time and as he grew up he probably missed Stanley but was too prideful to pick up the phone first. And then he met Bill.

Someone who praised him and told him he was in the right no matter what. Yes he was awful to Fiddleford. But that's what abusers do. They tear down everyone else who can help you until it's only the two of you against the entire world. And honestly, I'm sorry but Fiddleford needs to get some hate for just leaving Standford like that. Being a friend to someone in an abusive relationship is awful. But if you know that they don't have anyone else, you have to put boundaries, you don't just leave! But I also can't blame Fiddleford all the way.

Idk idk I'm sorry for rambling, but honestly I think that's why most of the fanfic writers who write about Ford really forget that he was so horrifically abused and when as he got older all he felt was shame and he was alone for 30 years with that feeling.

First of all, sorry it took me so long to answer this! My PC is fucked and I needed to sit my ass down and type out a proper answer for you because I have so many feelings on this, anon.

This is all below a cut because it's looooong.

tl;dr if you don't care: Bill put a noose around Ford's neck the moment they met and convinced him it was a scarf until Ford was hanging from the rafters, feet twitching, face blue.

TW: Abuse, suicide.

Anyway, the kitchen is open so let's cook!

Bill is an absolutely horrific being.

I fear that sometimes (oftentimes) he gets the fandom woobification treatment where he becomes entirely The Meme or somebody's silly widdle guy and when it happens so much, especially when certain groups of people are hellbent on saying 'this is canon!' dead seriously, it warps perceptions around him.

He effectively manipulates his audience just as he manipulated Dipper and Ford.

Bill is a demon. Not just any old demon, either: The Demon. THE guy. He's vicious and powerful and manipulative, and sure in TboB we get to see that he carries some significant trauma with him but it doesn't mean he is any less than what he is: Evil.

Some trauma influenced behaviours can be explained, but they can never be excused.

Bill is a push-pull, hot-cold, jerk around asshole who gets off on hurting people because he's so badly hurt himself that it makes him feel good to see others suffer even a fraction of what he experiences. There are two types of people who go through trauma: 1. It happened to me and I was nearly destroyed, I'll never see it happen to another person for so long as I live. OR 2. I suffered so why shouldn't they?

It's pretty clear which category Bill fits into, right? So, while he hurts because he's hurting, he has also just grown accustomed to enjoying the suffering of others. It's sustenance to him.

I remember watching GF for the first time and seeing Bipper, and it awoke something within me: That demon is torturing a child. A CHILD. I hadn't been allowed to watch horror movies much as a kid and seeing this line be crossed where something was literally throwing a 12 year old boy down the stairs, stabbing him with forks, threatening to kill him, was incredible to me. I was floored.

Partially because I think it's good to show kids suffering trauma; they're not immune and they're more often than not the main victims. It's a disservice to make adults comfortable by protecting the children in media imo. Even nowadays I'm pissed off when the child character escapes unscathed from the 'all knowing totally evil demonic force' in a movie because I still crave that rawness and cruelty I saw in Bipper when I was younger.

But I digress. It's also because here was a being so nasty that he'd play GTA 5 in a kid's body just for funsies and to get something that he wants. He'd bully and torture and tease and humiliate. That's rough, man. Real rough. Especially knowing the kid was watching it all happen, completely helpless.

Anyway; Bill memes are fun, but not at the cost of forgetting just what Bill actually is.

When it comes to Ford, Bill does the same thing we saw with Dipper, except Dipper has morals. Dipper has love and light and people to keep him grounded.

Ford had none of that. Ford was abused, just like Stan (though I could go on for hours about the differences), and grew up equating love to success and respect to fear. He was set up for social failure. He was put on a very different track to his peers almost immediately and he was isolated from everyone bar Stan from the moment he was born. Stan grounded Ford and kept him human.

Ford had no chance right from the start. The equation of being smart, knowing you're smart, and then having people Grima Wormtongue in your ear your whole childhood, when you're most malleable, that you're responsible for lifting your family out of poverty, you're the Good Son, you're meant for more, you're the one we love the most but only because you serve a purpose so you better not fail or we'll snatch everything away from you and you'll be just like your purposeless brother.... And you don't want to be like your loser brother who we hate, do you Fordsy?

He doesn't start lost in the sauce, but his head is held under until he has no choice but to breathe it in, and when someone is drowning it's hard to tell from the shore if they're having fun or if they're in trouble. Nobody noticed his distress and if they did, they didn't care. He was vulnerable right from the start.

And you're right about people hating male abuse victims. The stats are really skewed on the amount because there's such shame around coming out about it as a guy that we'll never really know just how prolific it is. The same as sexual assault stats for men. But what I can say is almost every male friend I've ever had has told me about a partner of theirs or an old relationship that is just plain old black and white abusive. Most of the time, they shrug it off or don't even know that's what they suffered, and if I have to watch the light change in another man's eyes when I gently tell him "hey, you know that what you're telling me is that he/she abused you, right?" then I'm going to scream. They're looked down on for coming out about it; considered weak and less manly for it. Humiliated for it.

Now imagine how it was when Ford was a boy in the 40's (or whenever he was born, there are no solid dates afaik). He'll have been raised to believe men are strong and that they don't cry, they don't let people push them around, mental illness isn't real you're just pathetic. It's everything I just mentioned but 1000x more intense. Nowadays, men are laughed at. Back then, you'd be ostracised and made the joke of the town until you killed yourself.

So poor old Ford, who is already on the back foot, ends up suffering for his genius and throwing himself into his work when it becomes apparent to him that he 'has no other uses' as a person. He isn't funny, he isn't handsome, he's a freak, he can't hold conversations (all his opinions and from others) etc etc. All he has is his research and his brain.

He loses himself in it. In his excitement (which is innocent and genuine by the way, I don't believe he had bad intentions), he drags his best friend along (and we'll get to Fidds in a minute, I have a lotta thoughts on him too) and ignores other people's distress because he's having fun and 'doing the right thing' in his opinion, he's driving innovation and he's always been told by other, more prestigious people that he's justified in his cause.

His father probably enforced at a young age that people that get in his way are just trying to hold him back (ie. Stan), so; If the hillbillies in this damn town don't have the IQ to understand me, then they're idiots. It couldn't possibly be that I might be encroaching on their lives or causing them problems and getting in their way whilst they try to work as labourers or whatever, it's because they're wrong and I'm right.

And of course, there were times when Ford didn't really actually do anything wrong and was met with animosity, but he didn't have the social skills to diffuse the situation and explain himself in layman terms, so it fed into this Ouroboros of try to be nice and social - fail - create friction - get lost in research - create friction - try to be social - fail etc.

So he's not getting socialisation from others, he's pushing Fiddleford as hard as he can and Fiddleford understandably has other interests to balance which makes him slowly seem less invested, and then, conveniently, up pops Bill.

Bill, who agrees with everything Ford says. Bill, who justifies all the thoughts and feelings Ford has ever had. Bill, who tells Ford everything he's ever wanted to hear from his father and his peers and his brother and his wildest dreams.

Bill, who knows how isolation and flattery works to weaken prey.

You have to admit: Bill's work was impressive. He spent a year, maybe even longer, committing to the bit over Ford. Giving him everything he wanted, feeding his ego, making it seem like all he was doing was helping him and encouraging him and propping him up.

Ford had had a weak form of that before from other people, but those people were parasites. Bill presented as the host and he offered Ford a crutch for the first time in his life. A friend, an equal, possibly someone of even higher standing.

And Ford, who has NO social skills, no street smarts, no emotional awareness, had no idea that nothing comes for free from somebody like Bill, so he jumped into the shallow pool from the 100 meter board with both feet down, eyes shut and hands off the wheel. Ford was desperate for someone to meet him on his level and the moment somebody did, he let himself be swept away by it.

Which, of course, was Bill's plan all along. Bill had probably always been around Ford when he'd first come to Gravity Falls. He'd been watching and waiting for the right time to strike, as ambush predators do, and the moment Ford had stumbled on a metaphorical crack in the path and exposed a weak spot, up pops Bill to hold his hand and tell him that the pavement was in the wrong the whole time and really, Ford shouldn't have to look where he's putting his feet, the whole world should just move for him instead.

From there, it would have been easy.

I think Ford likes to think he's complex and hard to read, and he probably is to people who don't recognise his type, but he's a fucking picture book to the people that do. That's why he works so hard to make himself seem cool and mysterious: because he's really obviously none of those things but simple smoke and mirrors go a long way to confuse people who don't care to look any deeper or are too naïve to do so. If people see the real him, they'd laugh at him (in his opinion).

So Bill, with all his flattery and gassing up, would have let Ford think the ball was in his court for a while, and Ford, emboldened by lies and a literal god-like being telling him he was right (plus everyone else from his past telling him the same thing), got bolder and more intense and lost himself without even really realising it was happening.

Ford, in his enthusiasm, pressed on Fidds even harder and was disappointed that the only man he cared about (other than his brother, because we know he still loved Stan dearly) wasn't able to match his stride. After all, I think Ford probably thought Fidds was the closest thing to an equal he'd ever had, and Bill used Fidds' hesitation to push Ford further away from him.

Once Ford was fully blinded, Bill began to cut off the blood to the other parts of Ford's lifeforce (and there weren't many to begin with) with delicate expertise that even the most prolific of abusers would die to achieve.

And don't forget that Bill also loves attention (he's a genuine egotistical maniac, whereas I don't think Ford is inherently egotistical, I think he's a product of his environment) and Ford gave him that unconditionally because Ford thought that blind worship equates to love, which is only possible through fear and forced, submissive respect. By cutting off Ford's other connections, Bill got all the attention to himself.

That's where the fun part started for Bill. Bill started to make him second guess himself. He tricked him under the guise of helping and then, without Fidds to ground him, Ford bought into all of it. He told Ford the townsfolk hated him because he was better than them, he told Ford he was too good for everyone else, his brother, etc. Bill effectively became Filbrick's voice in Ford's head. He needed to control Ford.

People think 'seduction' is inherently sexual or romantic, but it isn't. Seduction is manipulation in its purest form. Seduction is negative. It is used to pull people away from their path in order to convince them to give up or go against the part of themselves that knows better. It lowers one's guard. It gets under someone's skin and convinces them it belongs there. I've been a sex worker for 10 years; trust me when I tell you I have a PhD in both doing this and being victim to it. (I'm also an abuse survivor and my abusers trained me well in this which is hard to unlearn at times.)

Bill seduced Ford into thinking he was safe and in control right up until the last moment when Bill could strike. He put a noose around Ford's neck the moment they met and convinced him it was a scarf until Ford was hanging from the rafters, feet twitching, face blue.

Ford was never in love with him and Bill wasn't with Ford. You can't be in a situation like that. Ford respected Bill and to command the respect of someone like Ford? Well, you'd have to be pretty special, in Ford's opinion.

Bill only wanted to possess Ford, literally and figuratively. He wanted something to control and use and keep as a pet while he got what he wanted. Every king needs a jester.

There are signs that Bill also, deep down, might have wanted a friend and to be understood in the same way Ford did, but it was a small part of him that came second to his desire to hurt. Bill was also an outcast and he knew how vulnerable that makes a person; why else are all his henchmaniacs outcasts too? Because it's easy to persuade a person with no support into a perceived 'found family' than it is to do it to someone who is grounded by love. It becomes a game of in-group out-group.

Ford saying no to Bill would have taken great strength after all that time and as soon as Bill doesn't get what he wants, he destroys. It would have been an immediate punishment and that whiplash would have been vicious.

Ford, with no real friends, would have considered Bill his bestie, effectively.

Now, idk if you've ever been betrayed by someone you love as a best friend, but it is INFINITELY more painful than a regular breakup. Like, impossibly so. Especially when you don't have many to begin with and you're already damaged by abuse.

My love for my best friends runs deeper than any romantic partner I have ever had and will ever have. To be betrayed (and for me, it was seriously significant) was the worst feeling in the world and I wouldn't wish it on anyone. I attempted suicide (conflated by other things but also because of this friend betraying me) and I will never get over their betrayal. I am wary of getting close to others now because of that and I don't think I'd ever be friends with someone so intimately again, beyond the best friend I have currently (shout out @/ghostbu, i love u).

So to experience a rug pull of astronomical proportion would have been devastating for Ford. We see Ford try to leave, try to say no again and again, literally begging, only to have his life threatened, his body violated, his work destroyed, his entire existence made into nothing. Which is a hard enough fall for someone with a big ego, but for someone who is also vulnerable and frankly, quite very emotional alongside being intelligent, would be gutting. Some people miss Ford's emotionality and reduce him to being The Smart Guy and I think that's a disservice.

So Ford was utterly ripped to shreds, both physically and emotionally, until he could only turn to the person he knew would still come running: Stan.

Stan adores his brother, so of course he came when Ford clicked his fingers. Ford, I think, also adores Stan, but is so manipulated by everybody else in his life that he convinces himself that his emotions do him a disservice and make him weak (as mentioned before about old attitudes), so he can't 'lower' himself to examine them. Bill doesn't help with that, either.

Stan came running and we all know what happened next.

Ford then spends 30 years NOT being the smartest guy in the room and realising he never really was the smartest guy in the room outside of academia. That kind of ego death is brutal and he would have gone through some incredible soul searching in that time period, which is why I think there are several versions of Ford that exist. Childhood/College!Ford, Research-era!Ford and Post portal!Ford. They all different men to me, personally.

So yeah, he's a deeply difficult character to understand imo and he's often a paradox because he doesn't know how to hold all these emotions in tandem; he's black and white, not grey.

Now, onto Fidds:

You gotta remember, Fidds had no idea what Bill was doing to his beloved friend.

Ford kept him a secret because in his view (a view manipulated by Bill), 'they'd never understand us. They'd separate us'. A common sentiment by people being abused. 'They' being really anybody with half a brain who saw how dangerous Bill was and cared about Ford.

Fidds was already absolutely terrified by the stuff he was seeing. My guy grew up on a pig farm in the country, he wasn't prepared for all this stuff to be real. Even Ford didn't know the supernatural was provably real before he came to Gravity Falls.

Now, I love cryptids but if I came across a dogman or bigfoot in real life, I'd fucking shit myself. They're scary! They'll kill you!

He also saw his best friend fucking lose his mind and that's really frightening too, especially with no one around to help.

Fidds had people that loved him back home (and I know he wasn't great to them, that's a different kettle etc) and relied on him. He had a life outside of his research; a son, a wife, a family and probably other friends. He had something to lose. If he died, it would have an effect.

Ford was cavalier because the only thing he thought he had to lose at that point was his work (not true, of course, but in head I think his life came second to his work).

Fiddleford was a victim of Ford's unintentional abuse. And Ford did abuse people, even if he was also being abused. The cycle of abuse is, unfortunately, very very real and it can't be justified just because someone who inflicts it was also a victim: Manson was abused, but no one excuses his crimes.

Explanation, not excuse, remember?

I think Ford was turned into a bad person temporarily and Fidds bore the brunt of that and went on to neglect his own family because he was also being isolated by Ford.

It's so fucking tragic and I could go on for hours about this (I already have, this took me two hours to write). They're really complex people and it does frustrate me when people pooh-pooh them as silly yaoi babies or as just plain bad people. It's never that simple.

And disclaimer: Everyone is entitled to their interpretations, obviously. They're not my characters and this is my own interpretation, so it isn't 'right', it's just how I see them as somebody who experienced similar things as Ford and Stan (minus the literal demonic element).

Whew sorry for rambling!

[dreamingofep]

Sinned Awakening pt. 21🩸

An AU Elvis fic

(Vampire!Elvis/Vampire Austin! Elvis × reader)

Character/Fandom: Elvis - Elvis (2022)

Prompt: Getting promoted to be Elvis full time housekeeper, you realize the man holds secrets beyond beliet and your undeniable attraction makes you tear the unknown. [Fem!Reader]

TW: Cussing, SMUTTT, mentions of blood/gore!!!

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 7.1k

A/N: Hello everyone happy Sunday! Thanks for convincing me to keep writing! The support over this fic is amazing so thank you so so much! Exciting stuff is happening in this part and really hope you enjoy where I’ve taken this! Please comment, message, and reblog if you feel so inclined ❤️

A reminder, this is Vampire!Elvis so there is going to be mentions of blood/gore from here on out. If that's not your thing, sorry but it's needed for the story.

If you'd like to start from the beginning, start here I hope you enjoy and message and comment what you think.

May 1973

Spoiled was an understatement of how you were getting treated by Elvis these last few weeks. You didn’t deserve such things, but he was insistent. You two flew around the country, getting to see things you never thought you’d get the chance to in this life. Elvis canceled his upcoming tour to spend time with you and his manager just about lost his head about it. Elvis gave him one look that just about drained all the color out of his face when he said no to him. He never got questioned about it after that.

Elvis was sure he was going to give you every human experience you wanted to have. Part of you was excited to try new things, taste new foods, and see places you never knew existed. There was another small part of you would miss certain things. You’d miss the warmth of the sun, and the comfort of a soft blanket wrapped around you. All of it would be so different for you. An unknown world was going to be unleashed and it was going to be a huge adjustment. Elvis was gracious and patient with you, assuring you everything was going to be alright. You believed every word he said, knowing he would be by your side through the entire time. 

He kept you up all night making deep, passionate love to you at all hours of the night. You weren’t going to miss sleep that’s for sure. He was making up for lost time and was worshiping you any chance he could. Making love to him was like a song, something that started slow and sultry, then crescendos into something electric and thrilling. He knew how to make you sing and hit all the right notes. You were indeed his favorite song to play. 

You knew he tried to ignore the bite marks on your body, but you felt when his eyes would stare at them in frustration. You suggested to him to feed from those scarred spots, hoping that maybe his bite would heal them in some way but he wouldn’t let himself do that. The shame and guilt he had inside him was still present and it was going to take time to get through those feelings. 

But you’d let him feed when he wanted and he began to not be as shy about asking if he could. The more he did it, the more you found it insanely attractive. The pain was still prominent when he initially sunk his teeth in you but it faded away after a short period of time. It was something he needed to survive and you were more than happy to give that to him. Each time he fed, there was a small part of you that wanted him to finish the process so you could turn. But he wouldn’t let himself do that to you. He was adamant about keeping you human til your birthday like you wanted. 

He took you to Hawaii the week of your birthday and you think that this has to be your new favorite place in this world. It was more stunning than you could ever imagine. Elvis would tell you stories of the times he’s visited and the movies he’s made there. He was here earlier in the year recording the first worldwide concert via satellite. He was so proud of the concert, every time he brought it up, he had this big smile on his face and was so happy he got to do it. He couldn’t help but marvel over the fact he made history doing that concert. He definitely had a love for this place and you could see why. The waters were more blue than you could have dreamed and cool enough to relax your body after laying out on the beach for too long. 

Elvis would watch you enjoy your time here while he stayed underneath the shade of an umbrella. He would come and join you for a bit in the water and keep his shirt on to shield him as much as possible from the sun. It made his skin hurt though and he couldn’t stay out there that long with you. You understood and thought it was cute he still wanted to be out there with you regardless. After your legs get tired from swimming, you get out of the water and receive a devious look from him, his eyes eating you up as water dripped off your body. You smirk at him and shake your head gently.

“What do we have here,” he says softly.

“It’s just me,” you say shyly.

“No, I think it’s the love of my life,” he says pulling you on top of him.

He scoops you into his arms, holding you tightly and taking a deep breath in, giving you kisses on your cheek. His cool body temperature gives you goosebumps after getting out of the water and need a towel to dry off. He senses you’re cold and wraps a towel around you that was lying out in the sun getting warm. It felt so nice on your skin, making you feel cozy and warm.

“Let's go back to the room for a bit hmm?” He says softly. You nod your head and he takes your hand as you walk toward the hotel. You had the penthouse suites, of course, to give you and Elvis the most amount of privacy while you stayed here. He would get awestruck looks while you went through the lobby and a few people stopped him for an autograph.

You took the elevator all the way up to the top floor, holding him around his waist. The mood felt tense like he was nervous for you. Once you both are in the room, he locks the door behind him and looks at you softly, his eyes looking unwaveringly. You smile at him and turn to go on the balcony, looking out at the light blue waters on the horizon. You don’t hear him walk your way, but feel his hands wrap around your waist, pulling you back into his body. You sigh at the feeling of him, loving him more than you could have possibly imagined.

“Are you having a good birthday honey?” He asks low into your ear.

“Yes, I am. The best one ever,” you hum softly.

“Well, if you wanted to have more birthdays, you can always have that option…” he trails off. You squeeze at his hand, turn around to face him, and pull him in for a kiss. 

“No, I don’t need any other special days when I get to have you forever,” you assure him. 

“Mhmm… okay baby, as long as you’re happy. Was there anything else you wanted?” He asks, slowly trailing his hand down your back.

You can’t help that your heart gallops at the sight of him or how he has that look on his face that could make you do anything he wants. He smirks at the sound of your fluttering heart and pulls you in closer. Your bodies melt into each other and your brain begins to fog over at any logical thinking. You repeat the question he asked in your head and smirk at him.

“N-no, there’s nothing else I could possibly want. Was there anything you wanted to give me?” You ask cheekily.

He chuckles amused, tucking your hair behind your ear, “yes there was. There was one more human thing I wanted to give you…” he says. You look at him a bit confused, not sure what he’s getting at.

“When I first told you about our bond, I knew it was hard for you. The notion of giving up your human life and being part of a vampire one was a lot to handle. I know you said you were scared and had a future to look forward to and make for yourself. That’s why we’ve been traveling so much, getting you to see new things you never have before. And that will never stop, I’ll keep showing you new places. I wanted to give you something else that you mentioned you were going to miss.”

He slowly bent down on one knee and pulled a ring box from his pocket. He opens the small, red velvet box and looks up at you, love overflowing his gaze. A stunning diamond ring is looking at you and sparkles in the sunlight.

“Honey, will you do the immense honor of marrying me?” He says as his voice trembles.

You hold your breath, not believing this is really happening. The diamond was huge. You’d never seen something so extravagant other than the rings Elvis wears. It was an emerald cut with a pavé band in yellow gold and was the most beautiful ring you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my God, honey, are you serious?!” You breathe.

“Yes baby, I want you. In every possible way, in the human way, by making you my wife, but also as my Chosen and make you mine forever,” he confesses.

Tears well up in your eyes and your heart leaps out with joy and love for him.

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you,” you say, your voice shaky and in disbelief.

He stands up to wrap you in his arms and hug you tightly. He kisses you with so much love and passion it makes you dizzy. You pull at his arms to have him somehow hold you tighter and it leaves you breathless. He pulls away to look at you, smiling and taking the ring out of the box.

You shakily hold your hand out and he slips the ring on your finger. It was a perfect fit and looked more beautiful than you could have ever imagined any ring could have looked on you.

“We can go get married whenever you want. Just tell me when and I’ll make it happen,” he tells you.

“What about the press? Won’t it look weird if you just suddenly get married after just getting divorced?” You ask worried.

“I don’t care about that darlin’. You’re all I care about and what makes you happy. We can do it whenever you want.”

“What about right now? Just go to city hall and do it right there? What do you think?” You say.

He looks at you a little shocked, not expecting you to be so ready for this.

“Yeah, baby? You don’t want a big wedding with your family and friends? There’s no rush,” he says softly. 

“Yeah, that’s what I want. And besides, I want my husband to turn me later,” you press, knowing he’s going to like the sound of that. A low emitted growl comes from his chest and he squeezes your arms.

“Mhmm… that sounds like the most perfect way to go about it,” he says pulling you in for another kiss.

He called his guys and had them arrange everything and get a car ready to head down to city hall. He had enough connections that it wasn’t an issue to put everything together and get a marriage license ready for him. Everyone came to city hall and witnessed you both say your vows and celebrate with you.

It was just enough, it was special but there wasn’t too much attention drawn to you which sounded like your worst nightmare for a wedding. At that moment, it was just you and Elvis. You all quickly got out of the building before the word got leaked that Elvis is now married to a new mystery woman no one’s ever seen him with. For a split second, you think of your mom and Anna finding out this news in the newspaper without a heads up from you. You knew it wasn’t the best way to go about it but you’d deal with them later and knew they’d understand. 

Everyone celebrates up in the penthouse with you both, happiness filling the room and joyful laughter. Elvis kept his arm around you the entire night, not letting you leave his side. He looked down at you from time to time and would just mutter something under his breath you couldn’t hear. You reach up for a kiss and he gives you a soft and tender one.

The sun was starting to set and the sky filled with a beautiful golden-orange sky. As you’re looking out the window, he bends down slightly so he can whisper something in your ear, “I think it’s time to kick everyone out and let me enjoy time with just my wife,” he says softly. Your heart gallops at the notion and you nod your head in agreement. Elvis gets everyone to leave and makes sure to tell them that no one disturb us. The door closes and you shiver at the way he’s looking at you.

He walks slowly to you, not having to say a word to get you to come to him.

“I love you,” he whispers, pulling you into his arms.

“I love you too,” you say back, pulling at his collar and getting him to kiss you. His lips crash into yours and your hands roam freely on his body.

“What did you want to do now?” You ask cheekily.

“It’s your day, you tell me what you need from me,” he says. His tone of voice and the way the slightest touch makes you unravel has to be one of the best things in the world. You would never get enough of him.

You pull him in closer by his arms, “I think you know what I want…I want you to change me,” you plead.

He takes a sharp breath, looking down at you with lust, need, and apprehension in his eyes.

“Are you sure about this? You don’t have to rush anything. It doesn’t have to be today. You could just enjoy being married as a human for a bit,” he assures.

“I’m positive. I want this more than you know. I’m ready to be completely yours,” you hum into his ear. He lets out a pleased grumble and squeezes you tighter, nearly knocking the wind out of you. He quickly releases the grip he has on your waist.

“Sorry baby didn’t mean to squeeze ya so tight,” he snickers, his hands consuming your body.

“Was there a certain way you wanted to do this? I want to make this as painless as possible,” he says softly, concern filling his eyes.

“No, I thought you would know how to do this the best,” you say jokingly.

“Well, yes, I’ve turned people before. I’ve just never turned someone I love so dearly… this is all new to me too,” he jests.

Your heart thumps faster, anxiety and intrigue filling your veins. A million things run through your head and you don’t know what to do exactly. There isn’t a play-by-play of how to become a vampire exactly. Would you go into a blood frenzy the second he bites you? Could it be contained? What would this all feel like? You sort through your scattered thoughts and try to ask them calmly.

“And where should I… bite you?” You say softly. He looks at you intensely, liking the sound of that proposition already.

“Anywhere you want baby, your instincts will take over and you’ll know what to do, trust me,” he coos, softly touching the side of your neck with his fingertips. 

You push at his chest, leading him to the edge of the bed where he sits down when he feels the plush mattress hit the back of his knees. You stand in front of him and want to devour him. A shiver runs through you at that thought and you sit on his lap.

“Kiss me,” you plead, your heart racing against him. He wraps his arms around your waist with a grunt and pulls you even closer to his body. His hand caresses the back of your head and kisses your lips, tenderness and need filling you. You wrap your arms around him tightly and melt into his cool touch. He kisses down your cheek and onto your neck, nipping there causing an airy moan to escape from your lips.

“I wanna fuck you. I want to fuck my wife,” he growls, grinding your core on his bulge. You grumble in his neck and bite there, making him groan.

“Turn me first. Then I’ll be able to keep you up all night and fuck you how you like,” you tease. He bites his lower lip, his large hands cupping your supple breasts.

“You promise? Do you think you can take that all night? Even if you’re a vampire?” he growls. Your cheeks redden, unable to denounce his godawful seductive ways you were sure even in immortal life, you would never be able to handle normally. You sigh at the notion and you feel yourself melt into him.

“Yes, I promise you.” You moan into his mouth, going in for another kiss.

“No, let me make you feel good first. Please let me give you this and I will turn you after,” he tells you.

You don’t want to fight him over this and the way he’s looking at you with these dark and hungry eyes, you can’t say no to him. He beckons you to get closer to him and he crawls back on the bed, slowly unbuttoning his shirt and throwing it to the side. You crawl in between his legs and unbutton his pants, needing to feel his naked body on yours.

He lays down on the bed and you unzip your dress, watching how he looks at you with big, needy eyes. You start to pepper kisses up his naked body, making his chest huff with anticipation. Your eyes never leave his as your mouth gets dangerously close to his cock. Your tongue licks the underside of his shaft in one long swipe and he groans in agony. You gently rub his cock in your hand and look up at him innocently.

“Let me make you feel good. Just like this,” you coo, sucking on his head, moving the rest of his length with your hand. 

“Goddamn baby, no,” he commands. You stop and he pulls at your arms to make you get on top of him. You look up at him unsure what he’s doing.

“I need to take care of you, the way I want to,” he grumbles, his hand slithering up to your neck and squeezing there. “Let me take care of my wife real nice now.”

You grab onto his wrist and your eyes roll back at the pressure closed around your neck. 

“You know I’ll be just as strong as you when you turn me. Enjoy getting your way with me now while I can’t put up a good fight,” you tease. He grunts at that notion and gives you his hungry stare, his eyes slowly devouring your body. 

“Oh, darlin’ what makes you think you’ll want to put up a fight? Do you think you’ll be able to fight how much you want me when you’re turned? It’ll be even worse than it is now.” He smirks devilishly. You stare at him drunkenly, not imagining you could want him any more than you do now. 

“Goddamn it, don’t start,” you say holding his jaw, knowing it’s going to fuel him more. You bite the inside of your cheek and feel your core flutter. Fire ignites in his eyes and he pulls by you closer to his face.

“Hmm,” he hums to himself smugly, “I’m not doing anything. I’m just stating mere facts. And by the looks of it,” he pauses and his hand finds your dripping heat, “you like the idea of wanting me more. You like the idea of having my cock ruin you hmm? Just ruining my favorite places to be inside of all night, like this one,” he says as his fingers tease through your folds and circles your entrance.

“And this one,” he coos, pressing his index finger to your lips and you can’t help but lick the pad of it. 

He lets out a satisfied grumble,” Mhmm, I love it when you beg for it, ” He teases, his fingers picking up pace and gathering more of the slick that has accumulated there. You gasp at the friction he gives you and try your best to not give him the satisfaction of showing how good it feels.

“God, I know you do. You just love to hear your name screamed, don’t you? Thought you’d get enough from all the audiences screaming your name,” You hiss. In the blink of an eye, his eyes are dark and ravenous. Two of his fingers plunge into your wet heat and curl them deep inside you. You gasp at the sensation and your eyes roll back.

“I wonder if you’ll be this insolent as a vampire too? I wonder if you’ll always test me and keep having me punish you for saying such things to me,” He says as he gives your ass a swift spank. “You’re going to be exhausted at the rate you don’t listen.” He moves his fingers and twists them deeper inside you and you groan, your hips moving with his hand.

“Elvis,” you hiss at him, his fingers continuing to make you fall apart.

“That’s right honey, you can be louder if you want to, no one’s in the penthouse. Say it one more time for me, nice and loud,” he teases devilishly. You shut your eyes in agony, pleasure skyrocketing into your body and making everything else seem meaningless. 

“Elvisss, please! Please,” you whimper louder. 

“Let me please you, baby. Let me give you more,” he coos. Your heart races a million miles per hour and you give in. Your body stiffens and you feel your core flutter at the notion.

“Yes, I’ll let you take me however you want,” you moan.

“Mhmm, good girl. Turn around and get on me,” he commands.

You look at him unsure, if you’re understanding correctly, you’ve never done this kind of thing and it made you feel like you’re about to die. You do as you’re told though and turn around on him straddling his torso, taking his long length in your hand, getting ready to take him inside your dripping heat. You suddenly feel his hands on your hips and makes you angle them back to his face. You look over your shoulder at him in disbelief. He makes your breathing hitch and your body begins to tremble.

“That’s it, baby, just relax,” he says low. You feel his thumb swipe through your dripping heat and you whine. You felt so exposed, so naughty for doing this sort of thing. You’ve never done this! The most intimate parts of you were just in his face and there was no being modest about anything now. 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath as he plays with you, his thumb gathering your seeping arousal.

“Fuck baby this little pussy just dripping for me? Lookin’ absolutely delicious,” he groans.

That’s when you feel his tongue start to lap through your folds, groaning deeply as he tastes you. His low grumbling sounds made you wetter by the second. God damn him and his perfect mouth. Your chest heaves and you can’t keep your eyes open as he gives you the most intense wave of pleasure. He focuses on teasing you, not staying in one particular place for too long. His hands have a firm grip on your hips, keeping you as still as possible as his mouth does the work.

You open your eyes and find his cock hard and dripping with precum in front of your face. You could barely function with his mouth on you like this but you were going to try to please him too. Your hand gathers the slick on his head and you slowly start to spread it along his length. He lets out a low grumble that sends a vibration through you and you gasp. You do this slowly and try to tease him as much as he did to you but there’s no point. He always wins the teasing game.

You lean your upper body lower and start to swirl your tongue around his head. Another deep moan comes from him and it makes your body feel limp. 

His tongue works faster on you and you let more of his cock slip into your mouth. You both moan together and his hips move up very faintly with your movements. You had never experienced anything like this and it was incredibly fervid getting to get fucked by his perfect mouth and you do the same to him.

You suddenly feel his tongue enter your core and you gasp for air. Your hips can’t help but rock back into his face. It felt too good not to and after all the teasing he’s done, you needed him inside you. 

“Oh God, baby yes. Oh yes, fuck me,” You pant. He responds to you with a moan as his mouth is on you, sucking on your clit and then moving his tongue back inside you.

You try to focus on him more and suck more of his length. He helps you as he moves his cock in and out of you more and your tongue does the rest. But you couldn’t last much longer, not with the way he was devouring your pussy. You can barely catch your breath and his cock was hitting the back of your throat, making the most vile noises. 

He moans again and you are about to get off of him when he stops you and grabs your thighs with his hands.

“Stay on me. Turn around and come sit on my face,” he growls, his voice exhibiting an unparalleled amount of dominance. You do as you’re told and turn around, placing your knees on either side of his head. He greedily grabs your hips, sitting you down, putting his mouth back on your core. It doesn’t take long for him to make you see stars with the way he’s eating you, like it was the first time, making it all too much to handle. Your walls flutter and your body shakes on top of him. Your hips roll on his face, chasing the high of your orgasm and your hand rakes through your hair, looking up to the ceiling. 

 “Oh my God baby,” you cry out, gasping for breath. 

He teases at your entrance, too sensitive after all this but he doesn’t care, he wants to watch you squirm on top of him. It was one of his favorite things to do. Your body keeps shaking and he looks up at you with lust lighting up his dark eyes. 

He lifts you up off his face so that you’re hovering above him on your knees and he turns his face to the inside of your thigh to kiss it but groans slightly instead. The scar from where Daniel bit you was still very prominent there and you were sure it killed Elvis to look at. He groans uncomfortably the more he looks at it. You place your hand on his face, making him look up at you. 

“I’m all yours, no one else's. Feed baby, right there, it’s all yours,” you pant. His hands grip on your thighs tighter and he lets out a frustrated grunt before he sinks his teeth into your scarred flesh. You gasp as his sharp fangs pierce into your fragile skin, all too close to your over-sensitive core. 

You try to stifle the groan that comes out of you, the sharp pain of his fangs making you wince. He’d never fed here before, it was all so new and fragile. Maybe the scar from the previous bite made it ultra-sensitive. Either way, it was all such a new sensation, and pain spread through you.

He swallows your blood delightedly and has a grip around your thighs that makes you immovable. Small groans come from the back of his throat as he feeds, and it just about makes you want to faint. The way he sounds when he’s with you will never be something you’ll ever get tired of. It’s like he’s never touched you before. Never gotten to see you naked. Never tasted any part of you and gets to experience it for the first time.

Your legs begin to quiver and you feel your arousal spill out of you and run down your thigh. He drinks a few more gulps and slowly stops, gently taking his fangs out of you so he doesn’t tear your skin harshly. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and his tongue is back on your thigh, licking the remaining blood that is seeping out of the wound and licking up your spilled arousal. You curse at him, looking down and watching how his hungry eyes light up when he sees you panting above him.

In a flash, he has you pinned on the bed with your arms above your head and his hands firmly pinning you there. “Fuckin’ hell baby,” he grunts. You feel the tip of his cock tease your entrance and you moan, already too overworked to be teased.

“Honey please,” you whimper. 

He gently puts his cock all the way inside you, making you cry out his name, fucking you slow and powerfully.

“Tell me what you want,” he coos, his voice sending shivers through you, moving his hips the way only he can. 

You can’t rationally speak, everything was so overwhelming and your mind couldn’t put together what you wanted to say.

“I w-want…. I- oh please honey I-,” you mutter, unable to put together any cohesive thoughts together. 

His hips snap into you, powerful and claiming, making you want to see stars once again. You groan in torment, unable to focus on anything else but his hard cock fucking you into the bed. 

“Come on baby girl you can say it,” growls, slowing his thrusts to let you catch your breath but still making it difficult. 

“Change me, please. I’m ready,” you tell him. He lets go of your arms and covers your body in kisses, smothering you with his love. He reaches your face and kisses your lips softly, the mood of the room changing dramatically. He fucks you slow and controlled, taking his time in enjoying all of you. 

He takes a sharp breath and glides his finger along the side of your neck where your scar resides. His eyes wander down to the other scars on your chest, your tummy, and the inside of your thigh that is still leaking blood. You wished he wouldn’t look there, those scars a constant reminder of what awful things were done to you. His fingers trace every outline of the bite marks left on you and he looks back up at you.

“Okay baby,” he softly murmurs. Your nails rake down his arms in fear, anticipation, and nervousness. You try to pull him close but he stays hovering above you. His eyes darken again and he licks his bottom lip. You want him closer, kissing you with passion and distract you from the pain that will ensue. 

“Elvis, please,” you whimper.

“Hold onto me tight okay? Don’t let go,” he tells you. You nod your head immediately and your chest heaves looking at his sharp fangs.

“I love you,” he whimpers.

“I love you too,” you breathe.

He lets out a grunt before leaning down and kissing your neck. Sparks of electricity run through you and hold onto his back. He swivels his hips into you making you gasp for air and you turn your head to the side. A pleased groan comes from Elvis’ mouth as your neck is fully exposed to him, right where he needs to bite. You whimper in agony for him, ready to be completely his and start anew.

A deep growl comes from his throat and you feel his hand grip at your jaw, keeping you still. Your heart pounds in your ears and that's when you feel his sharp fangs pierce into your neck. You cry out, the pain rippling through you like a tidal wave. He was right, this hurt worse than any other bite. The skin here was so much more sensitive and thin, it felt like his bite was fifty sets of fangs inside you all at once. Your nails embed themselves into his back, the pain increasing with every moment he was drinking out of your neck. You hear him moaning as he’s drinking more of your blood than he ever has before. But he has to for his venom to enter your bloodstream. 

You feel tears puddling from the corners of your eyes, unable to catch your breath. Your gasps and groans fill the room as Elvis is groaning, drinking from your neck in a focused manner. He pulls you up from the bed, sitting back with you sitting on him, holding you close as he swallows your blood with you two still connected.

Then you feel it; his venom. It was like wildfire burning and coursing through your veins. It made your entire body feel stiff and paralyzed. All you could manage to do was groan in agony, the pain paralyzing the rest of your senses. Your eyes started to feel the pain too and could only see large black specs in your vision. It was hurting to keep them open and each blink made it worse. Every movement you made made your body cry out in agony. Elvis was still feeding, holding the back of your head with his hand to support you. It felt like a long strain of time passed before he finally stopped and took his fangs out of you. You couldn’t see and the only thing keeping you in this moment was Elvis’ vice grip he had around your body that you were sure was going to break your bones. He doesn’t say anything and you suddenly feel both of his hands on your face. You can barely keep your head up and the searing flame burning in your eyes makes it unbearable.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes out, his tone scared and trembling. Your brain couldn’t compute what he meant or what he was seeing but it couldn’t have been good.

“Baby, it’s gonna be alright. I know it hurts I’m so sorry. Please forgive me,” he says trembling. His voice seemed so far away from you, like in another void of time. You feel his tongue lick your open wound and his hand placed on your cheek.

“You need to bite me now honey. Right now,” he demands, but to you, his voice sounds so far away and almost like an angelic whisper and you don’t move. His hand leads your head to his neck and this sweet, savory scent fills your nose. You groan in misery and press your lips to his neck. You could feel his light pulse on his neck and that sweet scent hit you again like a train. You open your mouth and let this new found instinct take over your senses. You bite down on Elvis’ neck hard and feel his normal rigid flesh give way to much more soft and supple skin. He pushes the back of your head into his neck more, encouraging you to keep going. You sink your teeth deeper into him and you taste the first taste of blood hit your tongue. It was strange at first, it didn’t taste like much and almost tasted metallic. Then you start to suck more and that’s when it hit you; the most savory and decadent thing you’ve ever put on your lips. His blood ran down your throat and your body thanked you for it. You were still weak but it felt good to drink from his neck. You had enough strength to pull yourself closer to him and feed more. You faintly hear him moan, clutching to your body and breathing heavily. Your hunger worsens and you drink bigger gulps, you have never felt hunger like this. This ravenous appetite Elvis would describe to you was very much real and worse than you realized. But your head throbbed and your eyes still burned, unable to see anything. 

You take your mouth off his neck and gasp for air. Everything felt like it was on fire and you didn’t know what to do. Your body went limp and your hearing went out.

Black. 

*

Your eyes flutter open and the air is still, almost too still. You look at the white ceiling and it feels like you’re looking at it through a magnifying lens. You saw every single texture and line that went through the ceiling and it confused you. Your eyes shift to somewhere else and a piece of lint floats into your vision. You were able to discern every wave and bend of the fiber it was bizarre. 

“Hey darlin’,” a smooth baritone voice whispers at the other end of the room. 

You slowly sit up in the bed and see Elvis sitting in a chair in the corner with sunglasses on and a silk shirt unbuttoned. 

You take a deep breath through your nose and the most heavenly scent fills your head. It was mouth-watering good. It was sweet and savory, warm and delicious with each breath you took. Breathing felt peculiar, almost like it wasn’t needed. 

Your hands move on the sheets and you can feel the softness of them through every thread. A robe was wrapped around you and tied at your waist. The silk fabric felt nice around you and smelled just as great as the room.

Your legs swivel to the edge of the bed and slowly gain your bearings. Elvis gets up and cautiously walks to you. Everything felt off and way too sensitive. The plush carpet was grainy and soft at the same time. It went in between your toes and made it tickle. 

You look up at Elvis and your breath nearly gets sucked out of you. 

You’ve never seen such a beautiful man in your life. 

Every single detail was perfect. His hair, his nose, his pouty lips.

All of it.

It was like you saw him for the first time and it makes you feel entranced. He changed from the last memory you had of him. He had a brighter glow about him, his hair shorter, and his face looked more flawless if that’s even possible. 

You raise your hand to touch his face and the warmth of his skin radiates through you. His skin felt perfect and near obsessional. There wasn’t a flaw on his face and you never felt so in awe. You place your other hand on his chest and the course little hairs that resided there felt nice underneath your fingertips. And then it hits you; you can feel his warmth. He’s not cold and instead melts into your touch.

He places his hand on the back of your head to have you look at him. He lets out a sigh of relief and smiles at you lovingly.

“Hi beautiful, I missed you,” he coos, leaning in to kiss you. God those lips were perfection, devouring yours with intense need and the utmost importance. You sigh softly into him, loving how incredible he feels. He pulls away to look you over again, and bites his bottom lip slowly, making it pop.

“Jesus, you’re perfect. How was it possible for you to become even more beautiful…” he says dazed. You smirk at him and shake your head. “Come here, you need to look at yourself,” he says, leading you over to the large mirror in the corner of the room.

He holds your hand as he leads you over but you couldn’t care how you looked right now. All you wanted to do was study every detail of his face because you felt like you’d never seen him like this before. Stunning and perfect in every way. Elvis steps behind you and turns you around toward the mirror. You slowly turn your focus to your reflection and cock your head in confusion. You barely recognize yourself and look up at Elvis in the mirror.

You stare back at your golden, gleaming eyes and your long fanning lashes. You were in shock by what you were seeing, you had almost prepared yourself to see red eyes whenever you thought of changing into a vampire. The golden hue was like sunlight; bright, warm, and full of life. Your hair’s natural waves became more defined and the auburn color was vibrant and lustrous. Your skin was also smooth and pale like his and all your senses felt heightened. Every breath you took was intense and you rubbed your thumb against his hand and felt the hairs that were there. 

The robe you’re wearing is not tightly tied around your waist so it exposes your chest and neck. As you look closer, you realize the scars from the bite marks are gone, and all that’s left behind is glass-smooth skin. Elvis’ hand is around your torso, melting into you and making you realize this is all real and not some delusion.

You twist your body around to face him and don’t know where to begin.

“What happened? Why are m-my eyes…” you trail off. He starts to take off his sunglasses and chuckles softly, looking down at the ground. He shoots his gaze back up to you and you gasp.

The same golden eyes stare back at you and look even more beautiful. You caress his face, lightly rubbing your thumb across his cheek.

“Oh my God, they’re stunning honey. God, how can you look better than before? What- What does this mean? Is this normal?” You ask.

He smiles at you as he tries to soothe your worries away.

“Shh baby it’s okay. I think it's because… we’re one. In heart and soul, we are one.” He smiles. 

•

•

•

Tagging 🖤: @powerofelvis @burninlovebutler @neptuneismysister @velvetelvis @ccab @presleyenterprise @loving-elvis @theresalwaysep

@prompted-wordsmith @sillybookmarks @dkayfixates @ellie-24 @rktismylife-blog . @myradiaz @tacozebra051

@thatbanditqueen

@18lkpeters @flwrs4aust @emma181873

@austinswhitewolf @eliseinmemphis

@everythingelvispresley @chasingwildflowers @idontwanttoputanything @ohjustpeachy

@elvisalltheway101 @austinsmutler @kingdomforapony . @generoustreemystic @claire-elvisgirl

@ashtag6887 @burnthheparaphilia @richardslady121

@jaqueline19997

@returntopresley . @iloveelvis @rjmartin11 @that-hotdog @louisejoy86 @misspresley @cattcb @annapresley8

@arrolyn1114 @raginginkedslut @epthedream69

@mh777ep1938 @50sexyshadesfashionista

@oldh0llyw0od @hooked-on-elvis @livelovedilfs

[fluentmoviequoter]

Real-Life Prince

Requested Here! 🎃👻

Pairing: Jim Street x fem!reader

Summary: You go to a Halloween party and meet Street, who happens to complete your costume. When the party goes wrong, you learn that his costume isn't what makes him a prince.

Warnings: hostage situation, fluff!

Word Count: 1.8k+ words

A/N: I have some backstory I didn't include. For the purposes of this fic, Street knows about The Little Mermaid because he lived with a foster sister who watched it. :)

A/N2 (while proofreading): Does this have no breaks in it or did I just miss them? I'm reading it as one real-time scene and that rarely happens.

Masterlist Directory | Jim Street Masterlist | Request Info\Fandom List

“Trick or treat!” your friend calls as her neighbor Dominique Luca opens his door.

“You two must be the treats,” he jokes.

“Thanks for the invite and for letting me tag along,” you tell him as you enter his house.

“Least I could do for a princess like yourself, Ariel. There’s food, drinks, in the kitchen, help yourself to anything. And have fun!”

You salute and smile as you reply, “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, Ariel,” your friend says. She straightens the fake fork – dinglehopper – fastened in your hair and murmurs, “I see a certain superhero over there who might need a new sidekick.”

“See you later,” you reply, shaking your head as she crosses the room to talk to a man dressed as Spider-Man.

She waves over her shoulder, and you navigate the growing crowd to reach the kitchen. As you enter the kitchen, someone asks, “Get your voice back yet?”

You smile, a reply ready as you turn, but the words disappear when you see Prince Eric. You don’t recognize the man as any of your friend’s friends from the neighborhood, but there’s no denying he is attractive.

“I’ll take that as a no,” he jokes.

“Still getting used to land I guess,” you respond softly.

“Jim Street,” he introduces, lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.

You say your name and move closer to him as three more people enter the kitchen. When you agreed to come to this party with your friend, you weren’t expecting to meet a prince, and as you look into Jim’s eyes, you think he might be a real-life prince, just like the ones in the movies.

“Do you live around here?” Jim inquires.

“No, my friend does,” you answer. “You?”

“I live here. Luca just refuses to put my name on invitations because he knows people would come just for me.”

You laugh, and Street watches you like he’s in the presence of royalty, and part of him begs for the chance to treat you like the princess he’s sure you are. Street decides his fate is sealed when you look into the living room and roll your eyes, capturing his attention with every move you make.

“See Spider-Man and Wonder Woman over there?” you ask him, gesturing with your chin.

It takes a moment, but Street pulls his eyes away from your face and locates the people in question. He nods, and you say, “That’s my friend. She lives around the corner and has a thing for superheroes.”

“You don’t?”

When you turn your chin, you’re surprised that Street’s focus is back on you. He watches you intently as you answer, “I guess I’ve always been looking for more of a prince, not his superpowers.”

“Those are hard to find,” he muses. He drops his gaze to your lips, and you fight not to smile.

“But not impossible.”

Someone rings the doorbell, and when Luca whoops a moment later, Street places his hand on your arm and asks you to excuse him for a moment. You nod and watch as he meets Luca and two other men at the front door. Three kids and their parents are at the door, and the kids hold up candy buckets as they say, “Trick or treat!”

“Ain’t that Kay?” someone mumbles behind you.

Looking over your shoulder, you see two men and a woman huddled in the corner of Luca’s kitchen. The shorter of the men is watching the door intently, and the woman is shaking her head and whispering quickly.

“What?” the other man asks. “You ain’t got a warrant, right?” When his friend shrugs, he rubs his chin and mutters, “Get out of here, man.”

“No.” Raising his chin, he says, “Kay isn’t taking me in again.”

“Don’t be stupid, George!” the woman hisses.

“Out of my way,” he demands as he steps around her. He pulls a gun from the back of his waistband and holds it at his side as the man you assume is Kay steps inside to speak to Luca, Street, and the men with them.

“C’mon, Deac, no costume?” Luca chides. “What are you teaching the kids?”

Deacon shakes his head, and his eyes catch on George. He looks away quickly and says something to Luca, who shrugs and glances toward the kitchen.

“What?” George demands.

“Nothing, George,” Luca calls. “Just some trick or treaters.”

The man standing by Luca dressed as a ninja mouths George’s full name, and you close your eyes briefly. If George wasn’t feeling threatened before, he is now.

“Car,” Deacon says over his shoulder. “Annie, go.”

Deacon closes the door while his wife leads his children away from the front porch. When he turns toward the kitchen, George shakes his head and raises the gun. Several people shriek, and George reaches out.

You grunt as you’re pulled against George’s chest, but when he raises the barrel of his gun to your temple, you bite your tongue and try to remain still and silent. Your eyes meet Street’s, and he holds your attention. He nods once, and you take it as a promise that he will get you out of this. However, he’s dressed as a prince and seems to fit the part, so you’re unsure what he plans to do.

“George, I’m Hondo,” one of Luca’s friends introduces, stepping forward with his fingers spread to show his hands are empty. “I’m LAPD, but listen, no one needs to get hurt and no one has to go to jail tonight. We’re just trying to enjoy the party like you, man.”

“Yeah, sure,” George replies. “I’m not falling for it.”

Your eyes are still on Street, and he examines your position against George, dragging his eyes slowly before he looks back to your face. You furrow your brows when he taps Deacon’s shoulder without breaking eye contact. Focusing on him keeps your mind off the gun aimed directly at your head, but you’re growing concerned that he’s going to get hurt in his attempt to save you. When Deacon, already identified as a police officer, nods at Street’s nonverbal communication, you realize that you chose the right Halloween party to get held at gunpoint.

George wraps his arm around your shoulders and shifts you to stand directly before him. He drops the gun to your chest, and you continue to watch Street. Luca says something to him, and Street’s shoulders drop. Whatever they decided on or what George just did must have been a good thing.

“It’s not worth it,” Hondo points out, and you realize he has been talking to George the entire time. With your focus on Street and the silence of the rest of the party, it was easy to tune him out, and you’re hoping that he either gets through to George or that someone does something soon.

“Then maybe I should show you it is,” George seethes, raising his arm to place pressure on your neck. You flinch, and George takes it as an invitation to rest the gun against your stomach and pull you uncomfortably tight against him.

Street moves forward, and your eyes widen as you watch him. He smiles before he disappears behind a partygoer. Your eyes bounce between the people across from you until George harshly pulls you back to reality by tightening his arm around your neck. Your chest tightens as your breath shortens, and just as you begin to panic, George’s arm is pulled away from your neck. You stumble to the side and right yourself as Street shoves George against the counter. The gun hits the floor as Street flips George so his ribcage is against the side of the island and pushes his arm up between his shoulder blades.

“Deacon?” he asks.

“Gladly,” Deacon agrees, stepping forward with handcuffs while Hondo makes a call.

Once Street has passed George to Deacon – with noticeable force stemming from his anger – he moves to your side. You don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around Street, and he gladly returns the hug as he whispers in your ear that you’ll be okay.

“I know,” you answer, smiling as you pull back to look at him. “You’re the only reason I didn’t freak out and get myself killed. Thank you.”

Street shrugs and replies, “It’s my princely duty.”

“Well…” Luca begins. “That was fun, but we’ve got more food and a party to keep going!”

People cheer before the music starts again, and the police car transporting George to the station pulls away from the curb. As the party resumes, almost as if nothing happened, your friend lifts her arms in question from across the room. You smile before you face Street, missing how she raises her eyebrows, impressed and happy for you.

“So, you’re a cop,” you muse.

“SWAT officer,” he corrects. “Savior, I’ve got a lot of titles.”

You hum and brush your hand over his shoulder before you ask, “Ever thought of getting a new one?”

Street smiles and places his hand on your waist. “Occasionally. More than once tonight.”

“Ladies, gentlemen, neighbors, zombies, friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears!” Luca announces dramatically, pausing the music. “We’ve got a best costume prize to give away!”

“What’s the prize?” someone asks.

“It better be free food at the food truck for a week!” another adds.

Luca pauses before he murmurs, “Should’ve thought of that.” He returns to his previous dramatics to say, “A ride in SWAT’s APC, Black Betty!”

“I do that every day,” Street grumbles beside you.

“That’s cool,” you whisper to him. He smiles and wraps his arm around your waist, relaxing when you lean against him.

“The best costume is… Prince Eric and Ariel!” Luca yells.

Your friend leads the applause, followed shortly by Street’s SWAT team as they clap and yell. Walking hand-in-hand with Street, you move to the middle of the room and accept medals from Luca.

“Listen,” Street begins, causing Luca to roll his eyes. “I get to ride in Black Betty a lot, so how ‘bout you let me drive once?”

You raise your brows and look between them. After a moment, Luca sighs and answers, “Yeah, okay.”

Street raises his fist in victory, then circles his arms around your waist and spins you. Laughing, you hug him in the air and celebrate your victory as if there’s no one around. You’re not entirely sure if the real win is the best costume prize or meeting Jim Street, but despite the hostage situation, this is the best Halloween of your life.

“You wanna get out of here?” Street asks after the music is turned on once more.

“Uhm,” you murmur, rising to your tiptoes to find your friend. Tucked in a corner, she’s lip locked with Spider-Man, and you take Street’s hand. “I’d love to.”

Outside, the music fades as you follow Street to his motorcycle. He stops beside it, turning to face you with a smile.

“Thanks for saving me,” you tell him, standing only a breath apart. “I know, it’s your princely duty, but… you did more than get him away from me. I really appreciate it. I appreciated what you were doing before that.”

“Then maybe we should pick up there.”

You lean forward, placing your hands on Street’s chest as you kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth. “What can I say?” you whisper, “I’d love to be part of your world.”

[eisforeidolon]

Destiel has definitely soured my opinion on Misha especially since he continues to feed into it. It would not be so bad if he didn't make everything so sexual in relation to this ship. It seems like out of the entire cast Jensen is definitely the one who is sexualized the most and destiel fans continue to act like that is ok because JA and Misha are friends. Not one of them care how Jensen might feel if he knew they look at him at this sexual fantasy to make their ship cannon. These people are not his fans no matter how much they like to claim they are. The ship only bothers me because the fans seem unhinged. Maybe if they shipped for fun instead of trying to make a statement that none of them even believe in other fans would take them more seriously.

Yeah, the hellers have annoyed me from the start, even way back when I shipped D/C in fandom over their disregard for other fans, the show, the actors, and basically anyone who didn't see their ship as an important cause/inevitable canon rather than just a fanon ship. But there also just came a point where I could no longer give Misha the benefit of the doubt either. Not because he's talking about shipping, or even specifically a non-canon ship? That could be fine! It's because of the specific way he talks about it and how a certain loud, batshit part of the fandom reacts to what he says.

Hellers want to pretend, despite everything Jensen has consistently said over the years about not wanting to talk about shipping in general and specifically not seeing D/C as any part of his character's canon story? That it's no big deal to keep dragging him into it. Actually, he's really into D/C and RPF of him and Misha - or it's at least a-okay because they're friends!

We'll ignore the part of that which is obviously deluded self-serving fetishistic bullshit. But it also pointedly ignores that there is a world of difference between joking with someone versus making someone the butt of your jokes. Especially regarding a subject you know they want no part of. Especially when you so specifically do it where they aren't present or active. The way he talks about the ship frequently treats Jensen and/or Dean like a subservient sexual object. It's often pointedly about laughably trying to make himself sound dominant. It's often pointedly crass and vulgar. It's often dishonestly contradictory to what Jensen and others have publicly said about the ship. They want to pretend like it's friendly banter/ribbing between him and Jensen, but it clearly isn't. It doesn't have the right tone, context, or level of interaction for that. It's him performing to his audience at Jensen's (and the show's) expense. As I've said many a time in regards to Misha, with friends like that ...

The thing is, both sides of that coin are about treating Jensen like a blow up doll. Any opinion or feelings he has don't matter, he's just a vehicle to project onto in the hopes it will get them what they want. In the fanatic shippers' case, the ship made canon. In Misha's case, continued money and attention. Funny how right when he needs to re-open Cameo for extra funds, this is how Grifter McQueerbait spent a J2-less con, huh?

Which is why Misha gets no benefit of the doubt from me. He doesn't care about his supposed friend getting called a homophobe for not playing along. He doesn't care about any of his other coworkers or the network who were very good to him getting similar blowback accusations from his lies and sly imprecations. He sure as hell doesn't care about his fans as he keeps setting them up to be disappointed over and over and over again. Hell, he doesn't even care enough about any of it to be consistent from con to con, because he changes his story according to his mood and whoever else is on stage.

Hey, if he keeps getting money and attention for it and someone else always faces the consequences, why change? Friendship? Integrity? Being gainfully employable? Pfft. Who needs it! There's $$$ to be made right now, baby! So I also just think he's a fucking idiot. Although I'll give him this, I didn't think even the hellers were daft enough to keep signing up to be fleeced this transparently with the same recycled material 3+ years post-show.

[fandom-imagines]

Price taking care of future s/o (headcanons)

Fandom: Call of Duty

Pairing: John Price x Reader

Words: 1.2k

Warnings: Abusive relationship (readers ex), crying

Anyone interested in a full one shot of this premise?

Price knows your boyfriend isn’t good enough for you, you’re way too good for him and Price can’t stand seeing you waste your time on a man like your boyfriend, but he with himself that he’s simply jealous that you’re not with him.

He almost feels bad for wishing that you would come and be with him rather than your boyfriend, almost. He used to feel bad until he met your partner and saw just how bad he treats you.

You don’t see it, nobody would unless they were really good at reading people and relationships like Price is, especially those close to him, and you were close to him.

So, when you show up at his house in the pouring rain, tears staining your cheeks, one bruised with an obvious handprint, he immediately knows what has happened.

He’s raging internally, but he knows you need to be comforted first, and with gritted teeth and a frown, he opens his door to you and, in turn, his heart; not that you would know it yet, of course.

He asks what happened, despite already knowing, and lets you just vent to him. He knows you need to get it all off your chest and he doesn’t interrupt once.

Throughout it all, he’s listening to every word, squeezing your shoulder in a comforting manner, passing you tissues, and hugging you once you’re done and wiping your tears, apologies falling from your lips.

“Don’t be silly, love. You’re part of my team, you’re always welcome here. Just don’t let Laswell know, all right?” Whilst the last part is an attempt to make you laugh, it is partially true; she was already beginning to notice how he favoured you.

“Thanks, Cap.”

“No need to thank me, love.”

He’s glad you trusted him enough to come to him just as much as he’s glad you’re starting to smile. Oh, how he loves your smile.

A comfortable silence falls over you two and he just stares at you.

He sits there, admiring your beauty, both inside and out and it just clicks: he loves you.

“Oh fuck,” he mutters, so quiet that you don’t hear.

This isn’t good, he thinks to himself, but brushes it off for now; he needs to take care of you.

“I don’t know where to go, John.” You sniffle and he’s enjoying the way his name sounds on your tongue the same way he always does, and immediately offers you a place in his home until you’re back on his feet. He’ll even go pick you some things up tomorrow, so you don’t have to face him.

You’re hesitant, not wanting to disturb his peace and intrude on his home but one look from your captain has you agreeing; you could never be a burden to him.

He tells you to take a bath and gives you one of his biggest shirts and some shorts that he didn’t even know he owned and for the first time in a while, you felt good.

The night is spent with you two watching crappy telly and talking about anything and everything. You’re both on leave for the next month so it was oddly enough good timing, and you didn’t have to sleep in the uncomfortable bed on base.

Eventually, your words becoming slurred and slower and before either of you realise, you had fallen asleep on John’s shoulder.

His heart rate quickens, and he can’t stop the light blush on his face, but his main focus is making sure you were comfortable.

He does his best to relax, and once he was 100% certain you were asleep, he carefully adjusts you to lay on his lap, hand playing with your hair, enjoying the content sighs you let out, despite being asleep.

The mark on your cheek pains him to look at but he can’t help himself gently running a finger across the mark.

“I’ll never let him hurt you again,” he mumbles quietly, doing his best to not disturb you from your peaceful slumber.

After about an hour, he also ends up falling asleep, soft snores falling from his lips.

You’re the first to wake, eyes wide and cheeks hot, cursing yourself for falling asleep.

Price is still fast asleep, clearly having the best sleep he had in a while, despite not being in his own bed and you can’t help but remain in his lap, snuggling into his thighs.

The safe feeling that your captain always gave you was one you had tried to fight, but now, you never wanted it to fade; he would look after you.

“Morning, love,” the morning voice of the man you had fallen asleep on makes your cheeks even hotter. “Sleep well?”

You’re unsure what to say, so you simply nod. He smiles and tells you he’s glad.

He cooks you both breakfast and sneaks glances at you in his clothes every chance he gets without the risk of you noticing; you just look so good that he can’t help but admire you.

You’re unsure why your chest feels so warm as you look at him flipping pancakes at 8 in the morning, but you’re not against it, it’s just strange. You had never felt that with your ex.

Over the weeks that you’re staying at his house, you grow closer than you were before.

Your days are spent together and anybody you saw in public simply assumed you were a couple.

Price, however, was finding it difficult to hide his feelings for you as they grew even stronger, and you were the same.

You had realised why you felt the way you did for all those months now, why you were nervous around him and why he made you so happy: you loved him.

One day, as the two of you rushed inside, away from the harsh rain outside, the feelings overwhelmed you both.

As you leaned against the front door, both of you laughing, Price’s arms pressed on the wall either side of you, both of your laughter having calmed down and changed to a happy smile.

His eyes stared into yours, and yours his.

As he leaned in loser, you spoke.

“We shouldn’t do this,”

He didn’t know what to say, so he simply said what he was thinking, dropping one arm from beside you so you’d have room to leave if you wanted. You didn’t move.

“I know, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to.”

“John…”

“Yes, doll?”

“Kiss me.”

And so he did, every emotion that he had kept bottled up pouring into the kiss.

Your arms wrapped around his neck and one of his arms snaked around your waist, the other cupping your cheek.

As he pulled away, both of you panting, you couldn’t help but smile.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he whispers.

“I think I do now…” You giggled, hugging him, both of you smiling as he hugs you back.

Neither of you knew where you were going to go from here, but all you wanted was to be together; it’s all you guys had ever wanted.

[argowrites]

Deathless, Part 1

“There is no body,” Caitlyn said quietly.

The tears that had finally been about to come dried up. Caitlyn was not quite looking at him. Maybe that was fair. Maybe she saw him as a monster now and maybe he was one. He hadn’t been able to look Viktor in the eye at the end.

“Yes, there is. I saw it. I saw him fall when…”

“We looked. There was no sign of him. Are you certain he’s dead?”

The question haunted him. He had to be dead. He had shot him, it, that thing, the Hexcore, out of his chest. He had cleaned up his mess. Whatever horrible fate that awaited them all had been averted. Mel, Caitlyn, his mother, they would all be safe. Viktor’s memory wouldn’t be ruined. He would make sure of it, donate money for new labs in his honor, statues, scholarships, anything he could think of. They’d remember Viktor, the real Viktor. He had been planning it since he knew what would have to be done.

He didn’t like to think of his time in the Arcane. It had been bad. That was an understatement, but he had come to a very clear understanding. Viktor was gone. The thing that had taken his place would enslave humanity to its will, take their free will, and treat it as a gift. Heimerdinger had warned them ages ago, and they had been stupid not to listen. He wished he’d let Viktor die in the explosion, held him, not let him face it alone, mourned and did what he could to cement his legacy.

He had done the right thing. He did not doubt. He still didn’t cry.

His mother came next. He pretended to be asleep. She stayed for a while and then left. He couldn’t face her yet. She loved Viktor too. Maybe she didn’t know what he had done.

He still didn’t cry.

Fandom: Arcane: League of Legends

Rating: Teen

One Shot

Characters: Jayce, Viktor, Caitlyn, Mel

Relationships: Jayce/Viktor, Mel/Jayce

[selarina]

Dusty-Eyed Thief

-> Levi Ackerman x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: He was a thief, she was a princess. Can I make it any more obvious?

Content Warnings: royalty!au, enemies to lovers, fluff, banter, a budding forbidden romance, class differences, strained father-daughter relationship, mild violence, very unedited

Words: 3.5k words

Author's Notes: I know the Levi fandom is dead but I wrote this so so long ago, figured I'd give it a place here

The kitchen is your sanctuary. It engulfs you with its tranquility, the blaring sound of clanking pots only adding to the rhythmic routine of it all.

The steam from the cooking dishes hugs you on this cold, cold night as you weave your way through the maze of workers. You smile as you're hit with the first blend of splendid smells. You make your way further into the kitchen to find the buttery treat that's meticulously packed by Niccolo and placed beneath a hidden, faulty tile on the floor. Niccolo is truly a blessing sent from the Gods.

Despite its tranquility, it is an unusual place for a lady to spend her time, yet you frequently find yourself here – costumed in an apron, playing the part like you belong.

At first, you were naturally worried about being caught, but that only lasted for a spare few minutes as you soon grew accustomed to the sequence of it all. And you found that while dressed as a commoner, you were nearly invisible in this castle. You took full use of it, maybe to the point of misusing it.

A few workers recognise you on occasion, but they refuse to report you to the King in an attempt to protect their own peace. Arguments between you and your father elicited a barrage of petty retorts, coming in from both ends, which heavily affected the workers that were unfortunate enough to be witnessing it.

You're certain your father would not approve of your ventures, despite the peep of fondness he has reserved for you. Actually, you're convinced that it is deep disdain he holds for you; it's only been coated with fondness to suit his purposes.

You actively have to stop yourself from thinking about him; you do not want those thoughts to permeate through into your sacred space. And besides, you have to stay alert.

Applying gentle pressure on the strings, you open the package to discover that he made you some cookies today. You have to contain yourself from jumping in glee, settling for a wide grin for now.

You want to procure some milk to have with the cookies. You close the package, although not packing it fully as you place it near the nearest window. It seems safe placed in a fairly unoccupied corner of the kitchen.

As you return with the milk, a pair of hands cover your eyes. The hands are roughly placed against your eyes, and you feel out worldly for a second — blank, confused, intrigued before you push him off, digging your nails into the culprit's hand.

You hear him yelp before you catch his face, the culprit. He is a boy with dusty blonde hair. He pulls his hands back into his chest, soothing it over with his other hand.

Another deep voice reaches your ears, and you perk up, your eyes flitting over to the open window as you try to find him. Was that window always open? What is happening?

“Why do you keep making this easy for us?” The other man's voice is adorned with pure mockery.

You’ve never moved faster in your life. (Well, except for that time you were on the verge of being traded for an assassin’s payment.) You rush up close to the window, looking down before you see him, he's standing on… you're not sure. He seems to be standing on thin air, but you know that is not the case.

Your eyes flit over to his blue eyes; you find hints of green in them as you stand there for a second, just staring at him. You're not sure what to do. He's probably a thief, a thief with pretty eyes. As you stare you think his eyes might be green, although you conclude a moment later that it could be a play of light. You can't tell if his eyes are green or blue.

He’s handsome too; you made that conclusion as soon as you saw the rest of his face, and you curse yourself for thinking that when you’re literally in front of a thief that has stolen your only source of joy. He's standing beneath you, but he holds a gaze that makes you feel like you're being towered by him; he seems a bit intimidating. Instinctively, you mold your eyes to mirror his, sharpening them as you were taught, as you practice.

You feel liquid trickling down your hand, and you realize you’ve dropped your milk. You only make note of it when feeling his eyes trail down.

You immediately rush to squat down to pick up the broken pieces of glass; you do not wish for any of the kitchen staff to get into trouble, although you are certain they will when they have to tally up the kitchenware by the end of this week. You make a quick note to discreetly pay Hange to buy it and replace it for you.

In your haste and state of disorientation, you prick your hand against the pointy edge of a fallen piece. And you instantly curse yourself.

"PRINCESS," Niccolo yells out to you, and your identity is out within mere seconds. You can guarantee Niccolo would have been more discreet if the situation hadn't been so strenuous. You look down and see a tinge of vermillion seeping out of the cut in your hand.

You look up to catch a glimpse of the two men, who appear to be leaving amidst the chaos. You see them in your peripheral sight, but you’re too late by the time you turn to look, all you witness is a retreating figure, making it out the window with a swift leap.

You are waiting for the sound – his body hitting the ground, broken bones, anything.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five seconds, and still nothing. You scramble to the window, only to see trees and utensils that are washed and stacked on a white cloth left to dry under the scorching sun.

“It’s the princess, get the doctor," a couple of kitchen staff make it to your side.

There’s an immediate sense of panic seeping out from within you. You’re certain your father is going to make your life difficult if he were to find out, which would happen if you were to be tended by the palace doctor. The prickling sensation grows; you need to see a doctor. You decide you’ll deal with it.

You’re also plagued with a sudden sense of intrigue. You can’t place it quite well, not at this moment, but you want to know what the color of his eyes were. You want to ask him why he stole your food but also, you want to be him. In most ways, it's all you've yearned for. You want to leap out that window and disappear into nowhere, wherever that is.

—

You run straight towards the arriving horses. You're greeted with a smile and a frown. You focus on the smile, one that adorns your brother’s face, giving him a quick hug before you move to face the frown. "I heard about your little culinary mishap, my dear. To make reparations, you are to attend the ballroom event tomorrow evening, and you must ensure that you do not flee as you have done these last several times that you believe I have not noticed," your mother’s voice is stern, declaring it as finality.

You decidedly agree, knowing you will find ways to leave halfway through the event, and she will ignore it as she always does. For, unlike your father, she does not believe you to be the bane of her existence.

"Now, come here and give me a hug, my lovely and incredibly irritating daughter," as though she was reading your mind and cementing your notions about her.

You reach your arms out to embrace her. You place your chin towards the crevice of her neck and you’re hit with the smell of rose and iris, maybe even amber. It smells distinctly the same as when she embraced you after the first of your many disagreements with your father. You remember how you kept a straight face during the altercation, but immediately broke down at the sign of him finally leaving, only to find comfort due to her presence.

“I shall arrive at the stupid ballroom floor and I shall look pretty doing it. I shall catch the eye of every person in the room and you will forgive me for any mishaps I will ever commit. Won’t you, mother?”

“You’re to catch the eye of every person at a secret debutante, are you?”

“Debutante? Why is it a secret?”

“It’s a secret for it adds an element of sincerity, does it not? Your brother can court an honest woman.”

“I hardly think any woman’s honest in a society that is designed against the very notion of honesty, and especially not in a room that is swarmed with eyes waiting for any acts that are even slightly misplaced. But, I do wish you the very best, brother.”

“Thank you for your wishes. If opportunity permits, we may even find someone for our dear older sister. You’ll be next in line for picking then. Isn’t that ever-so enthralling to hear?”, the mockery reaches your ears crisply. Maybe much too crisply, because you find your mother glaring up at him.

You laugh at that, knowing that you are within the shields of the walls of your castle, but most importantly with your mother.

“I implore you to take your time, brother. You will need it to court for a suitable wife, would you not?” You try to hide your obvious nervousness at the breach of a topic you have been avoiding for much of your life.

“I suppose you are right, sister,” he looks down at you with a reassuring smile.

You do not want to be tied down by marriage any time soon. You have yet to process the fact that this is not your forever home. Your forever home is beside a man that sees you as a china piece to display, apparently. But you find brief solace in the fact that you come from the most reputable family in this kingdom and you will not be disrespected in any form, for it would not bode well for them.

—

The ball is the pinnacle of opulence. It's primarily filled with tones of rose gold, complementing the white and golden hues of your ballroom. You sense the presence of grey and teal amongst the crowd; you presume they're worn by accolades to instate their titles. The royal family, on the other hand, is required to constantly stand out, which is why you find yourself snug in a golden embroidered gown.

You suspect your mother has overstepped the mark with her preparations. You move the curtain that separates you from the ballroom slightly to catch a glimpse of her. Her strong and ethereal countenance reveals little about who she is, simply asserting that she should be feared and admired in equal measure.

You think of your sister’s tales of a knight in shining armor that might have reached you, if only for a fleeting moment, it’s enough for you to believe that maybe you could find a man who is respectful, charming, and filled with the tender ache to cherish you and only you, always. It only lasts for a transient moment of weakness. You’re drawn back to reality when your sister reaches for your arm and loops it with her own.

"You look absolutely lovely," she remarks, as a matter of fact, whilst sporting a sweet smile. "Who are you, and what have you done to my unlovely wretched sister?"

"Very amusing," you quip promptly as if it's habitual to do so.

"Sister, if you were to stray away early this evening, I certainly would not ask for you to procure some pastries. Although, I would most definitely not mind them after a night as strenuous as this.”

“Only if you help me escape”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” she quips letting go of your hand. She has a faint smile on her face as she straightens her posture. And just like that, she transforms herself to be the elegant first daughter of the King, the one every maiden in the kingdom is taught to be like.

“You look radiant, sister. I’m sure there isn’t a man in this kingdom who wouldn’t fall head over heels to court you, and yet again, I implore you to take your time. I’m not saying this for my sake, not this time at least. I hope you find a kind man, the one you always told me you wished for” You try to smile, but it is hard to ignore the bleak truth that’s hidden within your words.

“Thank you for saying that” She seems to sense it too but her smile doesn’t waver; in fact, it grows, as though your words made a difference to her. That would be a first. You too can’t help but genuinely smile.

After about an hour of dancing and chatting away with people, you find that it would not be that hard for you to escape all on your own. You’re not the first diamond of a daughter or the most eligible bachelor of this season. You’re the second daughter and fourth child of the royal family that people will worry about impressing next season.

To not frighten your sister, you make it through the swarm of men waiting for their turn to dance with her; you inform her that you will take your leave, as discreetly as you can. You meet your mother’s eyes one last time before you leave. Every single time you escape you try to meet her eye, just to catch her when she sees you leaving but somehow you’ve never caught her.

You make your way to the kitchen, briefly showcasing your teeth to perform the act of duplicating a smile at every passerby that meets your eyes. There are a lot of people. You're frankly exhausted and your head is throbbing. Maybe some tea will help with the ailment.

You know that there won’t be kitchen staff present there since there is an exclusive kitchen for events as grand as this since it requires a massive scale of utensils.

You make it and it is murky. You reach out for the candle holder, placed at the entrance. You wince at the coldness of the brass. It holds three candles. You light all three of them, with muscle memory.

"Is your hand okay?", you hear the same deep voice and you frantically look around to spot him.

"Where are you?"

"Princess," you hear from behind you. This is honestly more frightening than the stuff you've read from your brother's atrocious shelf of literature.

You compose yourself. You will not falter and show weakness in front of a thief. "You are to greet me with respect. I am of the royal family," you punctuated every last word.

"I called you princess, didn't I?", he walks over to face you eye to eye, face to face.

"Gray'', you blurt out. You blurt it out far too quickly to calculate the embarrassment it would cause you. You feel it but you don't show it. It's one thing being part of a higher society has taught you.

His eyes are a stark sterling gray and that was rather unexpected to you. You thought about it extensively, maybe too extensively for the last two days. You concluded and expected it to be either green or blue.

His eyes remind you so much of thunderstorms. You happen to like them. They're distinctly heavy in color, but there's a variation that resonates something akin to…gentleness?

You're not why you're focusing much too much on his eyes, but they are beautiful and you could stare at them all day and night if you were allowed to. Maybe that's not an exaggeration.

"What?" he blurts out, rather confused. His eyebrows are bunched together like he's trying so hard to make sense of what you said. You refuse to bring ruin to your already faltering dignity, so you ignore the questions altogether to make room for your many questions.

You do not like not knowing things, not having reasoning for things. It bothers you immensely, for everything has a reason, does it not?

"Why are you here? Why were you here yesterday? Why did you steal my food? Do you do that often? How did you survive the jump?” Not giving him time to interject, you continue with your ramblings. “I have been thinking about what you said to me yesterday and it came to my attention that you implied this act of yours happens often. If so, why?"

This person bores a blank statement to their face. Either his facial features are impaired or he’s blatantly disrespecting you.

"You will answer me," you beseech him to answer. No, you're insistent. He doesn't budge, so you assemble all of your memories of your mother's severe glances to replicate it. You demand.

"Yes, I do it frequently, and no, I'm not answering the rest of your questions." You wait for a few seconds to see if he would budge. He does not.

"What motivates you to steal anyway?"

He stares, "Why was a princess like yourself dressed in a commoner's clothes?"

"I inquired first."

"I think you're more interested in my response than I am in yours." His eyes glint as he ever so slightly smirks, "Would you really like to play this out?"

"Very well. Just wanted some sweets really.” His mouth twitched upwards at the sight of you losing your temper. What a haughty man. “Does that answer satisfy you enough to answer mine?”

"Okay, princess.” He tilts his head a little when he mentions your title, it doesn’t sit right with you. And his tone is only a little condescending, you ignore it.

“Well, go on.” You urge.

"I was stealing food for my fellow people. The cookies were quite delicious. We thank the royal family for their utmost generosity," he says. His face is blank as you’re left baffled. You don't have time to be annoyed by his obvious mockery for something that could be seen as trivial as your long-gone cookies, for you find the way he said it interesting, to say the least.

"What do you mean?"

"Hmm? Dunno, we wanted something to sweeten the whole meal of dust and dirt we had for lunch. Do you get it now?” For the first time, there’s a hint of annoyance with you.

“I’m sorry. I–” You pause, your posture slackens for the first time today. “I don’t understand.”

His brows raise, but his face remains blank. “Yeah, I don’t expect anything else from a ditzy princess with all of her dresses and her little castles.”

You cinch your brows, “I am not ditzy,” you enunciate every single word of that sentence.

You only get a little dumb when you’re angry really and you’re trying not to get there right now as you force yourself to breathe through your nose. For some reason, you feel the need to prove you’re smart and capable. It’s odd, this may be the first time you have felt this way. You don’t generally feel someone asking for more of you. They expect you to be ditzy, not the opposite. “And we only have 3 castles…” Your voice trails out as he stares back at you. You said the wrong thing, you know how shallow you sound. You think his eyes must be hurting with the way he seems to narrow them down in judgment, every time you seem to speak.

“Well, since you seem to have 3 castles. You wouldn’t mind if we decided to take a small share of what you have, would you?”

“I don’t mind, I didn’t— I don’t— Uh—” You hear a noise, someone’s outside the door. You swivel your head to look.

No one. Nothing. An empty corridor is all that meets your eyes.

You sigh as you turn back, only — you see nothing. Your eyes squint around skimming the dimly lit kitchen. It’s almost like you were talking to a ghost of a man. Only the plain utensils and leftover food seem to be proof of his existence.

You blink in confusion, your heart racing as you search the dimly lit kitchen for any sign of the gray-eyed man. "What in the world..." you mutter to yourself.