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infiniteglitterfall · 6 months ago

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I guess this might be why the UK seemed to go so antisemitic so quickly

I'm researching the 1947 pogroms in the UK. (Actually, I'm researching all the pogroms and massacres of Jews in the past 200 years. Which today led me to discover that there were pogroms in the UK in 1947.)

From an article on "The Postwar Revival of British Fascism," all emphasis mine:

Given the rising antisemitism and widespread ignorance about Zionism [in the UK in 1947], fascists were easily able to conflate Zionist paramilitary attacks with Judaism in their speeches, meaning British Jews came to be seen as complicit in violence in Palestine.

Bertrand Duke Pile, a key member of Hamm’s League, informed a cheering crowd that “the Jews have no right to Palestine and the Jews have no right to the power which they hold in this country of ours.” Denouncing Zionism as a way to introduce a wider domestic antisemitic stance was common to many speakers at fascist events and rallies. Fascists hid their ideology and ideological antisemitism behind the rhetorical facade of preaching against paramilitary violence in Palestine.

One of the league’s speakers called for retribution against “the Jews” for the death of British soldiers in Palestine. This was, he told his audience, hardly an antisemitic expression. “Is it antisemitism to denounce the murderers of your own flesh and blood in Palestine?” he asked his audience. Many audience members, fascist or not, may well have felt the speaker had a point. ...[The photo of two British sergeants hanged by the Irgun in retaliation for the Brits hanging three of their members] promptly made numerous appearances at fascist meetings, often attached to the speaker’s platform. In at least one meeting, several British soldiers on leave from serving in Palestine attended Hamm’s speech, giving further legitimacy to his remarks. And with soldiers and policemen in Palestine showing increasing signs of overt antisemitism as a result of their experiences, the director of public prosecutions warned that the fascists might receive a steady stream of new recruits.

MI5, the U.K. domestic security service, noted with some alarm that “as a general rule, the crowd is now sympathetic and even spontaneously enthusiastic.” Opposition, it was noted in the same Home Office Bulletin of 1947, “is only met when there is an organized group of Jews or Communists in the audience.”

The major opposition came from the 43 Group, formed by the British-Jewish ex-paratrooper Gerry Flamberg and his friends in September 1946 to fight the fascists using the only language they felt fascists understood — violence. The group disrupted fascist meetings for two purposes: to get them shut down by the police for disorder, and to discourage attendance in the future by doling out beatings with fists and blunt instruments. By the summer of 1947, the group had around 500 active members who took part in such activities. Among these was a young hairdresser by the name of Vidal Sassoon, who would often turn up armed with his hairdressing scissors.

The 43 Group had considerable success with these actions, but public anger was spreading faster than they could counter the hate that accompanied it. The deaths of Martin and Paice had touched a nerve with the populace. On Aug. 1, 1947, the beginning of the bank holiday weekend and two days after the deaths of the sergeants, anti-Jewish rioting began in Liverpool. The violence lasted for five days. Across the country, the scene was repeated: London, Manchester, Hull, Brighton and Glasgow all saw widespread violence. Isolated instances were also recorded in Plymouth, Birmingham, Cardiff, Swansea, Newcastle and Davenport. Elsewhere, antisemitic graffiti and threatening phone calls to Jewish places of worship stood in for physical violence. Jewish-owned shops had their windows smashed, Jewish homes were targeted, an attempt was made to burn down Liverpool Crown Street Synagogue while a wooden synagogue in Glasgow was set alight. In a handful of cases, individuals were personally intimidated or assaulted. A Jewish man was threatened with a pistol in Northampton and an empty mine was placed in a Jewish-owned tailor shop in Davenport.

And an important addendum:

I've read a whole bunch of articles about the pogroms in Liverpool, Manchester, Salford, Eccles, Glasgow, etc.

Not one of them has mentioned that the Irgun, though clearly a terrorist group, was formed in response to 18 years of openly antisemitic terrorism, including multiple incredibly violent massacres. Or that it consistently acted in response to the murders of Jewish civilians, not on the offensive. Or that at this point, militant Arab Nationalist groups with volunteers and arms from the Arab League countries had been attacking Jewish and mixed Arab-Jewish neighborhoods for months.

I just think the "Jewish militants had been attacking the British occupiers" angle is incredibly Anglocentric.

Yeah, they were attacking the British occupiers. But also, that's barely the tip of the iceberg.

Everyone involved hated the Brits at this point. If only al-Husseini and his ilk had hated the Brits more than they hated the Jews, Britain could at least have united them by giving them a common enemy.

#jewish history #jumblr #fascism #antisemitism #when anti-zionism IS antisemitism #seriously if you declare that something is never ever antisemitism we know you're writing yourself a blank check to be antisemitic #like. you may not consciously be aware of it #but the more you're emotionally invested in the idea that anything said or done in the name of anti-zionism isn't antisemitic #the more you will ignore or fail to notice or outright defend things that other anti-zionists do that ARE antisemitic #not to mention things that YOU do or say or believe that are antisemitic #especially because most people aren't very aware of the details of different antisemitic tropes #you're not an expert on what is antisemitic and why to begin with and now you're buying into a belief that muffles your perception of it #and gives you motivation to disbelieve and deny it #and there's already psychological motivation to disbelieve and deny it when it's coming from you or your peers or people you admire #and then there's the belief that jews just cry antisemitism to silence valid criticism #aka the exact thing that we always say marginalized groups don't do. and that it's offensive to claim marginalized groups do. that one.#the entire discourse has been set up to protect and propagate antisemitic beliefs from the start #which is not particularly progressive nor is it necessary if you actually want to support palestinians but go off etc #wall of words

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nikidontsurf · 1 year ago

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GEORGE HARRISON and PATTIE BOYD leave Kinfauns to go to the Walton and Esher Magistrates Court, March 18, 1969.

She was at Kinfauns, their bungalow home in Esher, Surrey, playing genial hostess to a group of visitors from Scotland Yard’s drug squad. She recalled the events in her memoir Wonderful Tonight: ‘Suddenly I heard a lot of cars on the gravel in the drive – far too many for it to be just George. My first thought was that maybe Paul and Linda wanted to party after the wedding. Then the bell rang. I opened the door to find a policewoman and a dog standing outside. At that moment the back-doorbell rang and I thought, Oh, my God, this is so scary! I’m surrounded by police.

The man in charge introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Pilcher, from Scotland Yard, and handed me a piece of paper. I knew why he was there: he thought we had drugs, and he said he was going to search the house. In they came, about eight policemen through the front, another five or six through the back and there were more in the greenhouse. The policewoman said she would follow me while the others searched and didn’t let me out of her sight. I said, ‘Why are you doing this? We don’t have any drugs. I’m going to phone my husband.’ I rang George at Apple. ‘George, it’s your worst nightmare. Come home.’

The officers clearly thought the Harrisons would be at Paul’s wedding. The timing was not a coincidence. (...) Pilcher had already busted Mick Jagger, Brian Jones and Donovan, as well as Lennon and Yoko the previous year. National treasures or not, The Beatles were no longer protected from the law. - ‘And in the End: The Last Days of The Beatles’ Ken McNab

I was with George in the office when that call came through. It was the end of a long day at Apple. Pattie rang and said, ‘They’re here – the law is here,’ and we knew what to do by then. We phoned Release’s lawyer, Martin Polden. We had a routine: he came round to Apple, and we all went down by limousine to Esher, where the police were well ensconced by then – and I stood bail for George and Pattie. They went off to the police station. We were all extremely indignant because it was the day of Paul’s wedding, a poor way to celebrate it. The police can be so nice.

George was calm about it. George is always calm – he sometimes gets a grump, but he’s always calm – and he was extremely calm that night, and very, very indignant. He went into the house and looked around at all these men and one woman, and said something like. ‘Birds have nests and animals have holes, but man has nowhere to lay his head.’ – ‘Oh, really, sir? Sorry to tell you we have to…’ and then into the police routine.

That’s how calm and how cross he was, because, as he said, he kept his dope in the box where dope went, and his joss sticks went in the joss stick box. He was a man who ran an orderly late-Sixties household, with beautiful things and some nice stuff to smoke.

In my opinion he didn’t have to be busted because he was doing nobody any harm. I still believe what they did was an intrusion into personal life. - Derek Taylor in ‘The Beatles Anthology’

#i think pete shotton's recollection of that event involved george chasing one of the photographers #through his garden with police running after them and the whole thing looked like a slapstick comedy #and i believe it did in fact look like that #mustard yellow turtleneck jumper you know it's serious #they look so good #pattie boyd #george harrison #the beatles #beatlesedit #thebeatlesedit

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foxmulderautism · 11 months ago

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just got the first date with bobby experience which was witnessing a guys asshole prolapse in a john waters film

bobby as a movie head kind of hilarious to me because unlike beau he’s not fixated on one specific genre so his canon fave movies of all time are so varied. you start dating bobby and he’s excited to show you all his fave movies and it’s like midnight cowboy, strangers on a train because he thinks farley granger is hot, videodrome, suspiria, a really mid romance drama because it has al pacino playing a character named bobby, the evil dead, every david cronenberg and john waters movie and also the muppets take manhattan

#the way i had to stop and think about which was the worst part to draw attention too #absolutely horrible movie. five stars.#bobbys favorite scene is when they kill and cannibalise the policemen at the birthday party #I think he would put on some shit like pink flamingos as like a test LOL

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evermoredeluxe · 7 months ago

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How Taylor Swift’s Eras Tour Took Over the Entire World

By Chris Willman

By Alissa Gao for Variety

On the morning that Taylor Swift’s “Eras Tour” is about to begin a three-night stand in Dublin, the older gentleman taking charge of my passport at airport customs has clearly had his fill of Swifties, probably processing them by the hundreds already today. When I reveal myself to be one too — despite being arguably the wrong gender, inarguably old and lacking a telltale “Lover” mascara star over my right eye — his disdain is palpable. Suddenly, I’m getting way more screening questions than anyone not on a watch list should. “What do you like about her?” he sneers, peering up over specs.

This is probably the wrong time for me to point out Swift’s Irish heritage, or to assert that she is this generation’s James Joyce. (The original king of the Easter eggs, right?) I wouldn’t really go that far — I’m only on record as doing my best to certify her as this century’s Beatles. Trying to figure out how to answer him, the past 18 years of extolling Swift in print flash before my eyes. I end up murmuring the bare minimum: “Um, her songwriting.” This seems to disturb him further. He snaps back: “Aren’t they all the same song” — a slight pause, and I know what’s coming next — “about her breakups?” Then, abruptly, he stamps me through, sparing me a detour to Interpol for more grilling.

In the cab into town, the driver is blasting a local talk-radio personality sharing his dismay about the fans of an awful superstar taking over his country. The host reads an email sent in from a hater who says, “A year ago, when tickets went on sale, my partner and I made a reservation to take our kids out of the country this Friday morning. … Thank you for creating a safe space with your show.” I start to wonder if Swift might have met her match at the Cliffs of Moher.

But from my drop-off forward, the next three days are like living in a Swift-topia. The mile and a half to Aviva Stadium each night is like Disneyland when it shuts its doors early for an affinity group. Whether stopping in the pubs or walking through the charming neighborhood of Victorian brick homes adjoining the fancy new stadium, there’s that warm feeling of people who are united by one quality: They are all super in touch with their feelings — or else they wouldn’t be Swift fans. And they all are happy to stop on the street or over pints to talk about poetical expression. (Well, except for the occasional taciturn, invariably straight young male who has signified his supportive-plus-one status by wearing a jersey bearing the name of Swift’s Super Bowl beau, Travis Kelce.)

So it is that I end up chatting with a middle-aged gay man in a sequin-covered shirt whose female companion whispers to me, while he steps away to trade friendship bracelets with a 10-year-old girl and her mum, that Swift’s music just helped him through a difficult breakup. The girl then runs off to trade her homemade bracelets with a pair of high-helmeted Dublin policemen loaded up to their own elbows with friendship swag — unexpected accessories for long arms of the law.

All the stories about American Swifties swarming overseas to catch “The Eras Tour” turn out to be true: You couldn’t swing a neon golf club around here without hitting a Yank. Approximately one out of every five fans I approach is visiting from the States — and the jubilation they’re feeling about the night’s impending concert is compounded by the fact that nearly all of them financed a European vacation and a concert ticket for roughly the same amount they would have paid on a secondary ticketing site for a typical four-figure ticket to one of last year’s predatorily repriced U.S. shows.

Remember the venerable stereotype of the Ugly Americans, brusquely trampling over refined Europeans in their travels? Thanks to Taylor Swift, who has a gift for laying out global welcome mats, this is the summer of the Spangly American.

At the stadium on night one, just down the row from me are a group of millennials from New Jersey, several in glam unitards inspired by the “Lover” or “1989” portions of the career-spanning show and looking like they were costumed by Swift’s own designer, with fake jewel-encrusted microphones to match. I ask how many hours went into perfecting these nearly pro-grade outfits.

“About 80 hours for mine,” says Megan McLaughlin. “Hers probably longer,” she adds, nodding toward one of her sisters, Margo Steinberg. “She knows all the glues and the best gems.” Indeed, confirms Steinberg, “I was working on mine since January. And, yes, I did quit my job to finish it!” She adds, when I ask if she cares to share any secrets to a particularly good look, “You have to use the B-7000 glue.” (A third sister, Amelia McLaughlin, admits she resorted to buying her spangly dress off Etsy — “I was doing a PhD, but I had to match these girls’ enthusiasm” — while a fourth, Carolyn McLaughlin, skipped the glitter and went for a red dress that matches Swift’s from the “I Bet You Think About Me” video.)

Certainly, there is an element of cosplay to many of the fans’ outfits. Some have seen footage of the new segment Swift added to the tour beginning in April 2024 — devoted to her most recent album, the 31-song “Tortured Poets Department” — and have managed to manufacture gowns that look like they’re made of paper and feature lyric excerpts printed on them in script, à la Swift’s custom-made Vivienne Westwood dress. I meet a group of American women who became friends as literature majors in college who have “Tortured Poets”-themed outfits, one duplicating the Westwood dress and the other with handmade printouts of the latest album’s lyrics pinned all over her black dress, as if she were literally pulling pages out of Swift’s playbook.

It’s the devotion to lyrics, even more than glitter, that is most impressive about the bespoke outfits fans have concocted for the occasion. There are scores and scores of Swifties wearing homemade T-shirts — sometimes singular, sometimes matching with a friend, like walking Burma-Shave signs. Some of the messages are obvious, like the dozens of laddies wearing “It’s me, hi, I’m the husband/boyfriend/father, it’s me” shirts. (Bet that seemed really original at one time.) But a lot of them refer to more obscure songs or stanzas, as if every nearby street or stadium loge section is full of human Easter eggs, begging to be unpacked. It’s hard to think of any other superstar in the history of stadium tours who could have inspired as much fan-crafted clothing rooted in the power of words.

Combos of middle-aged mothers and their teen or 20-something daughters abound; some of them have seized on Swift’s mentions of her own mother, Andrea, to come up with their T-shirt ideas. On Lansdowne Road, I talk to a mum whose red-on-black shirt says, “Had to listen to all this drama,” accompanied by a daughter bearing the legend, “And here’s to my mama.” (This is a reference to Swift’s song “This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.”)

Later, in a stadium Guinness line, I chat up a pair of thirsty locals, the daughter’s shirt reading “I call my mom, she said …,” with the mom’s shirt completing the thought: “It was for the best.” (Damn it, I had to Google to recall that’s from a “1989” Vault track that came out last year.) I ask the daughter if she had to explain to her mom what she was wearing. “She’s 52,” she replies. “I don’t think she knows.”

Age is really no guarantor of not getting it — the popular #SwiftieOver50 hashtag on X proves that. Although outnumbered, plenty of older people are unaccompanied by a minor, or by anyone who has been a minor in the past 20 years. I approach a middle-aged couple, Jean Sebastian Conley and Natasha Gagne, again bidden by their matching shirts — “Who’s Taylor Swift?” and “Who’s Travis Kelce?” They turn out to be French Canadians who found their 206-euro SRO tickets to be a steal compared with the extravagant resale prices they briefly considered back home after being shut out of the initial on-sale. I ask what attracted them to Swift since, unlike so many others here, they didn’t grow up with her.

“I really fell in love with her with the ‘Folklore’ album,” Conley says, referring to her low-key Grammy-winning album recorded during the early months of the pandemic. “I think different audiences and older audiences found her through that and ‘Evermore’ because they were more singer-songwriter, a little bit rougher indie music, and that’s what we like most. So that’s how I got hooked.” For her part, Gagne says, “I like everything she represents. And when she redid all her masters, that’s where I thought she was a lady boss.”

It’s a reminder that, for however many mini-narratives Swift packs into the three hours and 20 minutes of an “Eras” show, there are really four or five years of backstory that feed into the audience’s shared awareness. When she sings the ominous ballad “My Tears Ricochet,” accompanied by a coven of stone-faced dancers, at least some fans will understand it as a distant reflection of her very public feelings about the men she considers her business bêtes noires, Scooter Braun and Scott Borchetta, who bought and sold (respectively) the rights to her first six albums, spawning much vitriol as well as four “Taylor’s Version” rerecorded albums to date.

When the dancers put their grins back on, Swift plays an ebullient excerpt of a very recent “Poets” bonus track, “So High School,” which every person in the crowd will know is inspired by Kelce. There are some breakup songs of recent vintage too — yes, Mr. Customs Man! — like “The Smallest Man in the World,” which may or may not have cost Matty Healy, the 1975 frontman and former Swift paramour, a night of sleep.

The whole tour is themed around not just the newer records but the rerecordings that have made every older album in her catalog feel improbably fresh. It was, quite possibly, the single most baller move in the history of the record industry … and led to the career-retrospective concept for what is already unquestionably the biggest tour in the history of popular music.

Any discussion of the charms of fandom isn’t meant to forestall discussion of “The Eras Tour” as big business. The numbers are fuzzy because Swift’s camp does not release grosses from her shows, unlike nearly every other artist at the stadium or arena level. Even when the tour wraps after 20 months on Dec. 8 in Vancouver, it seems likely those numbers will continue to be guarded with a zeal on par with the government of North Korea’s. Many industry experts believe the gross will approach or even surpass $2 billion.

What is known for certain — even without a confirmation from Swift World — is that she broke the all-time tour-gross figure when she hit the $1 billion mark, whenever exactly that might have been. The two trade publications that specialize in the touring industry have slightly differing estimates: Billboard calculated a cumulative gross of approximately $900 million when she took a break at the end of 2023, figuring that she would crack $1 billion shortly into the tour’s resumption in April, while Pollstar estimated that she had passed $1 billion by the conclusion of last year. Any way you guesstimate it, Swift took less than a year to break the previous record of $939.1 million, which Elton John grossed with his “Farewell Yellow Brick Road” tour across nearly three years of shows.

One source close to the production said early in the “Eras Tour” era that her average gross each night is $14 million. Others believe that is a highly conservative estimate, with a possible total that on at least some nights edges closer to $17 million. One remarkable aspect is that this does not include the revenue from any inflated resale tickets — which, as anyone who has tried to get tickets through Vivid Seats or StubHub knows, mostly have gone for several times their face value. It was little publicized, but Swift had “dynamic pricing” turned off for her ticket sales, possibly to avoid the controversies Bruce Springsteen encountered when the face value on some of his tickets leaped to the four-figure range upon their first sale. Swift left money on the table by not participating in the scalping of her own tickets, which had an average price of around $230 and topped out at $499, excepting VIP packages, which zenithed at $899 — all well short of what some other superstars ask nowadays. Of course, neither Argentina nor anyone at Wembley Stadium ahead of Swift’s opening night performance in June will be crying for her when she’s in reach of $2 billion without the resale inflation … not to mention the hundreds of millions of dollars in merch.

(This is extraordinary also because Swift hasn’t done any press to promote the tour, except for when she was selected as Time Magazine’s Person of the Year in December. But she doesn’t need to — the tour is constantly being celebrated on social media with every outfit change. And it’s also become so huge, it’s featured more A-list sightings than the Oscars, from Julia Roberts to Tom Cruise to Stevie Nicks, who had the surprise song “You’re on Your Own, Kid” dedicated to her in Dublin.)

Benson Boone, whose “Beautiful Things” is the most-streamed song of 2024 in the U.S. and the world, says he felt dwarfed when performing as the opening act at one of Swift’s seven shows at London’s Wembley Stadium. He has forever committed to memory the exact attendance figure he was given for the night: “89,497,” he says. “Just her stage alone is bigger than anything I’ve ever seen — 300 feet of it!” he says. “I took in every moment. It was cool for me to experience another artist’s world and learn from it. I want to work that hard and be the captain of my ship.”

Although it’s maddening to a media that likes official box office reports and can’t get them, it’s easy to see the wisdom in not flaunting those figures if you’re a superstar artist who counts on being seen as relatable. Swift certainly is proud of breaking records — she posted a tweet when “The Tortured Poets Department” spent its first 12 weeks at No. 1 on the album chart, one of only three albums in history to do so. But she’d rather count fan impressions than dollars. By the same token, she doesn’t publicize or confirm acts of generosity that leak out, like the sizable food-bank donations she makes in every city she tours, or the $100,000 bonuses that the tour’s 50 truck drivers reportedly got for Christmas.

An addendum to all this is how the “Eras Tour” film — released last fall, less than halfway through the actual tour — grossed just over $180 million domestically and $261 million globally, beating the records set by Justin Bieber’s concert film in the U.S. and Michael Jackson’s globally. Massive big-screen spoilers only heightened, rather than diminished, resale demand for the shows yet to come on the 152-date tour and helped precipitate the movement among Americans to head overseas, to make up for the supply found sorely lacking at home.

“She is the torchbearer for the live industry,” says Andy Gensler, editor of Pollstar. “It’s nothing we’ve ever seen before, and it’ll be a long time before we see it again. Her timing was exquisite: The pandemic created this yearning and hunger for live entertainment like nothing else in our history, so she couldn’t have picked a better time to go out.” Pollstar called last year a “historic golden age” for touring, as the top 100 global tours collectively surpassed $9 billion — up 46% from 2022 — with Swift obviously contributing a significant chunk of that total. (This year, the trade reports that overall tour attendance is down, with flat grosses, representing a slight reckoning for the live industry that, obviously, isn’t impacting “Eras.”)

“What my partners and I talk a lot about is how it’s one thing to have a big tour in North America. It’s another thing to have an equally big tour wherever you are in the world and to do doubles and triples in these markets,” says Bernie Cahill, an Activist founding partner and manager of acts including the Grateful Dead and the Lumineers. “It’s an anomaly. It’s not normal. And don’t forget, you’re going into what I call asymmetric venues, which are venues that are not really built for music; these are venues that are built for football games or soccer games and can be very challenging to do music. And they get it right every time — Louis Messina [Swift’s tour promoter since her earliest days] and his team are world-class.” But for all that globe-trotting, he notes, “there are some artists that you see do a show and you know they don’t even know what city they’re in. I always feel like Taylor knows exactly where she is. She has a relationship with that city or that market and those fans and she’s connected to them in ways that are very authentic, that you can’t fake.”

The one big snafu in the rollout of “The Eras Tour” occurred in November 2022 when the Ticketmaster system melted down after too many North American dates went on sale at once, causing thousands of fans to experience long delays. The on-sale broke the all-time record for tickets sold in a single day at 2 million, but it also nearly broke the world’s largest ticketing platform. Swift herself was Teflon in this situation, as the blame fell on a ticketing system not capable of handling so much of the Swift-loving world at once. And although most of the problems people have with Ticketmaster are different from what fans faced in the “Eras Tour” debacle — mainly, hidden fees and monopolistic practices — it could have big legislative consequences anyway. Dean Budnick, co-author of “Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped,” believes that the Swift hullabaloo was the main catalyst for Congress enacting reform. “There’s no question that perhaps there’s gonna be some meaningful change in ticketing as a result of what people experienced with that on-sale.”

That sense Cahill spoke about of the singer making it clear to an audience she knows exactly where she’s at is in full force in Dublin. Swift introduces the “Folklore”/”Evermore” segment by suggesting that she had a spiritual locale in mind when she started writing that more intimate material, locked in during the first part of the pandemic. “It keeps me up at night all year long: Which era is the most Irish?” she half-jokes to the crowd. “I’m gonna make a case for it being ‘Folklore’ … This album’s imaginary world had a whole aesthetic — like I lived in this cabin in a really green, nature-y, moss-covered landscape. You see where I’m going?… Another thing that I think makes it more Irish than the other eras is, ‘Folklore’ was all about storytelling. And I know you hear this a lot, but you guys are naturally gifted storytellers, right?”

Later on, Swift will cement the local connection by playing, as a “secret” surprise acoustic song, “Sweet Nothing.” She doesn’t have to give the crowd any explanation for that: From the first notes, Irish Swifties will immediately recall that the lyrics reference to the coastal town of Wicklow. The real cherry on top of the show for locals at any international Eras Tour stop, though, comes with a customized moment each night during “We Are Never Getting Back Together” when the spotlight is put on backing dancer Kameron Saunders for a couple of seconds, as he blurts out something locally appropriate, and cheeky. One night in Dublin, it’s the Irish catchphrase “the neck of ye!”; on another, he yells out “pog mo thoin,” meaning “kiss my ass!”; the massive, knowing laugh that inside joke gets makes it clear this isn’t entirely an audience of American tourists after all.

But the basic theatrics and emotional currents remain consistent from show to show. If Swift is surprisingly reticent to make her “Eras Tour” numbers public, that may be, in part, her desire to keep the focus primarily on a personal fan connection. Music industry veterans are taken aback by Swift’s ability to be giant and intimate onstage. “She’s a master marketer of herself — and she is not afraid to be vulnerable to her fans,” says Michele Bernstein, who runs a consultancy that works with stars like Drake. Bernstein could almost be quoting the lyrics of “Mastermind,” where Swift describes herself in almost comically omniscient terms, then dives into a bridge about how no one would play with her as a little girl.

People like my guardian of the customs gate may complain about Swift’s songs centering on her romantic splits, but that subject matter magnifies her own insecurities and weaknesses, expressed in genuinely eccentric wordplay, in ways that keep the audience in thrall to someone they perceive as a humble underdog as well as a veritable cage fighter. She could do a $10 billion tour someday and still keep the crowd enraptured by how she measures up to, or rallies to exceed, the smallest man — or men, or Kardashians — in the world.

This plays out in the “Eras” show in all sorts of symbolic ways, like the new segment in the “Tortured Poets” section where she seems to have fainted from the vapors of failed romance. Dancers in tuxedos try to revive her while a swing version of “I Can Do It With a Broken Heart” plays over the PA. A pair of women dressed as nurses fit her with what looks like a majorette’s uniform — or, with all its off-white stripes, is it really meant to resemble a straitjacket? The resemblance is probably not coincidental. Swift fans know there’s nothing like a mad woman.

The most exhilarating moment that has been added to the show this year has her gliding down the ramp on a platform, appearing to anyone at floor level like she is levitating like the witch she makes herself out to be in “Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?” Taylor Swift: She was Agatha all along!

Yes, there is much to unpack. But in Dublin and in every other city where “Eras” has alighted, there is also pure inspiration for those who maybe haven’t always felt like they’ve had a voice, whether it’s her LGBTQ+ fan base or, well, women. It’s a modern transmutation of Beatlemania in which Swift manages to be all four Fabs, and a mirror, as well as object, of that gaze. You don’t have to be a woman to experience the explosion of pure female joy that takes place on a mass scale at an “Eras” gig, but for men, it doesn’t hurt to have a healthy sense of where you might sit on the female spectrum.

Outside Aviva Stadium, two young Londoners have formed their own two-woman straight-gay alliance: One is wearing a shirt with the hand- drawn words “You’re obsessive and crazy,” and the other’s shirt has the phrase “You’re gay,” each with an arrow pointing to the other. This echoes the original lyrics to Swift’s 2006 oldie “Picture to Burn,” which was rerecorded after some were offended by “gay” as a possible teen epithet. “I am obsessive and crazy, and she is gay,” laughs Zoe Gibson, pointing to her friend, India Day. “We want to bring back the original lyrics. We never found them homophobic — we want to reclaim it.” Day adds, “We’ve listened to her since we were 4 years old, so obviously there’s the nostalgia factor. But for me, she speaks on quite a lot of issues like gay rights and feminism, and all of her songs perfectly sum up the experience of being a woman.”

Some of the shirts are apropos for Pride Month. Seeing a boy of no older than 15 or 16 wearing a homemade “But Daddy I Love Him” shirt (the title of a “Tortured Poets” fan favorite), it’s easy to imagine some courage was required to don that apparel. Along the same lines, I spot any number of women making their own statement in shirts with the modified exclamation “But Daddy I Love Her.”

Gay or straight, 6 years old or 60-something, female or just female-allied, the crowd inside gets its sway on early in the show, with the arrival of the gentle, waltz-time “Lover.” It’s not one of the big set-pieces of this nonstop Broadway-style production — the spotlight is just on Swift and her acoustic guitar — but it might be the one where the entire audience feels like it’s at a four-minute campfire. No wicked witchiness here, just winsomeness.

Down on the floor, I’m seeing what amounts to a Taylor Swift mosh pit: gangs of two or three or five young women, ignoring the fact that Swift herself is just yards away from them on the ramp. They’re singing and acting out every last line to each other, as if the superstar isn’t even towering right over them. A waste of their euros? Hardly. Swift will capture their full attention again as the show proceeds, but in the moment, she isn’t just a superstar — she might be the world’s greatest community organizer.

#variety 2024 #variety #eras tour #taylor swift

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keyaho · 2 months ago

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Can I request male exotic dancer 🕺🏾 Terry Richmond.

ʀɪᴄʜʏ ʀɪᴄʜ

𝕤𝕦𝕞𝕞𝕒𝕣𝕪 : Anya joins her friends for a night out.

Carmines was the top exotic strip club in Atlanta. Somehow, Anya found herself dolled up by her friends and entering the club for a girls night. Shirtless, sweaty and glistening, men danced up on individual stages with hordes of women flocking around them with singles in their hands. The same singles Anya had stuffed into her clutch. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose, they fogged slightly from the warmer temperature in the room and her quickening breath. This was out of her element and she, though dressed to the 9s, was out of place.

"Shots!" Stephanie, her best friend and bride to be, waved over a bartender and ordered shots.

Anya was confused as they left the bar and towards a long hallways. As they walked down, Anya noticed there were private rooms. Filing in one by one, the group of five girls found a suite stocked with food, a mini bar, and stage that could fit at least six of the dancers. Their hostess was all smiles and laughter as their group joked around with her.

"Alright, alright,' the hostess said, calming them down, 'you arranged the full experiences with our top guys, so we have it all planned out for you."

"Where is he!" One of their group members asked.

Anya learned they had specifically requested a dancer known as Rich. She hadn't been able to look up the dancers on the website, but it wasn't hard finding his videos online. He was tall, thick frame and muscular with a low cut hair, blue-green eyes and caramel colored skin. His smile was goofy and infectious and the way women literally drooled when he walked into the room wasn't a bad look either. Anya ws anticipating his set.

"He's here of course,' she replied, 'he's up first actually. You know he's in high demand. So get settled we'll start in a few."

In another room, Terry was half dressed, watching the cameras of the room he was booked for first. Every patron knew the rooms were being recorded for safety and that agreement was in effect as soon as they entered the club. Brushing down his waves, Terry rolled a piece of gum around his mouth as he chewed. He could hear the thumping of music and though there was no sound, he knew the suite was full of chatter and excitement. His eyes scanned the screen and he spotted the bride quickly among the girls, her demeanor and outfit were hard to miss.

He always picked one girl from groups to give a special attention to and he made the decision before going into the room. He wanted to see them at ease. He was about to turn from the screen when he noticed her. She was in all black; a cropped one shoulder top that showed off her stomach with a matching skirt with a slit that went dangerously high up her thigh. Terry watched her tug on it and he smirked. The way she pushed the clear frames up her face as she bounced between two girls trying to toss shots down her throat made him laugh. It was clear she was out of her element and that was exactly what he wanted to play with.

Terry left the monitors and finished dressing. He opted for his usual aesthetic. Tight jeans, boots, and a cowboy hat. Southern through and through he stood out in his standard uniform among the firefighters, policemen, and whatever else the guys here would pick. Being able to be himself made the job easier. He rubbed oil and a light scented body butter into his skin, making his fresh tanned skin glisten. He slid gum into his mouth, Winterfresh, to help with his budding nerves. It kept him grounded and he knew it drew focus to his thick pink lips.

While most here stripped down completely naked, Terry didn't. That was his signature. He'd unbutton and unzip his jeans, take a soft dainty hand and rub it just to the tuff of black hairs peeking through, but he never went full nude. Not that he wasn't comfortable or lacking, but some things were better seen up close in private.

As he was scrolling his phone, taking a few Snaps as he did for the night, the hostess knocked on his dressing room door. He pulled it open to see Savannah's face, her bright smile greeting him as she held up his itinerary for the night. The current group of ladies in the suite and a few lap dances later tonight, but he was surprisingly free.

"They are probably drunk, but know the rules." She said, stepping in while passing him his cut for the night. He required pay prior to performing.

"Yeah,' he licks his lips, 'I watched them for a few on the screens. Rowdy."

"Bachelorette party, you know the usual. A two song set, some chocolate and fruit feeding, you know, the normal drunk girl shenanigans." She sighed. "It's going to be a long night."

"It's all in good fun,' he laughs. "I got it handled Savannah."

The lights in the suite suddenly went low and Anya took a seat behind her friends who had piled on the couch. The room was warm as she sat on the stool and swung her feet in anticipation.

She recognized Ludacris's voice as the song began instantly.

I'm 'bout to throw some game, they both one and the same…..

Anya like her friends began reaching into her purse. As she was tugging out the wad of ones a large hand covered hers, lips right beside her ear as a deep voice sang the next lyric and sent chills down her spine.

"Cupid's the one to blame, say it,' he hummed.

Anya's mouth slacked as he smirked and stepped around her. Still shrouded in darkness, she could see the outline of his chest and abs, the thickness in his arms and the slope of his broad shoulders. She lifted her hand instinctively, a few inches from touching him, and Terry stepped froward, letting her grazed her fingers down his chest.

"Oh,' she pulled back, cheeks hot as he winked.

The music played on and he circled the couch, catching the attention of her friends. They cheered his name while she was trying to catch her breath.

Rich! Rich! Rich!

Between Ludacris and his dance moves, Anya was drenched the seat of her thong, soaking the stool and hoping when she stood up there wasn't a puddle. Terry moved to the stage in a low crouch, slinking his body up and the cords in his back flexed, his shoulders slithered to the beat of Ludacris's rap. She wanted to see every molecule of him and leaned froward, her elbows on the back of the couch in admiration. A low fuck slipped from her lips as he looked over his shoulder at them…..at her.

He was lightyears ahead of the Magic Mike dancers, grinding around the stage with hips that made Anya wonder what it felt like to be under him. The way he was able to hold his body up as he rolled his hips towards the floor to the beat of the music while money rained down on him had her memorized. She felt something wet on her arms and looked down, realizing she was drooling on herself. Her glasses were fogged up and she almost missed the way he crawled to the couch, palming the bride to be as she cheered and shoved a few bills into the front of his pants.

More money fell from their hands as Anya made eye contact with Terry as he climbed into her friends lap. Straddling her, he let her rub up and down his torso while pulling her in by her chin. She noticed then the strawberry in his mouth. The green hull was on his end and he leaned in, the tip of the fruit brushing against Anya's lips. His hand dropped to her neck, holding her in place as he bit the fruit and pushed the rest into her mouth with his tongue.

"Oh…..he nasty."

She barely heard it as the blood pumped behind her ears.

Taglist:

@nayaesworld @peachbuttetfly @harmshake @heauxvibez @avoidthings @mymindisneverhere @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @eilujion @heytaewrites @browngirldominion @insidefeelingofanadult @blackerthings @gwenda-fav @brandithecrystalgem

@captainwithoutmakingitlove @dremmmm @kindofaintrovert @thegreatlibraryofalex @jimmybutlrr @beenathembo @kuromiish @virgomess @bbyxgall @theereina @randomhood @ash-ketchumzzz @dundienominated

@swavydadon wabi-sabi1090 Blackgurlkillinit prawspektn iterum-incipi chiachia14 liquorlaughslove L0vesicktimes kinginwithbreezy-blog eilujion Atomicqueenbitch-blog gabbywontlose Heytaewrites 1333286ab-blog Keyera-jackson deja-r

Solunaseira 1thrasherkookie1 moooonluvr ashykneee cocogoddess0g zoey101-2 reignsboy19 cicici03 Elizablu lous-house-of-thoughtsl reci1996 romansglow mjcurlsss yana3sworld chloeijuana nun0ir simplyzeeka taureanstargirl mzv11

Disc0fair browngirldominion Murrylove venusesworld uceyliyah Venusesworld prettyfilmz simplyzeeka heytaewrites Liquorlaughslove

#terry richmond x black!reader #terry richmond x black reader #terry richmond x black oc

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tsvwords · 4 months ago

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If you try and seed this supposed god amongst comfortable people, amongst well-off people, you’re gonna get a deeply unhappy lesson in just how many good citizens will skim over your pamphlet once and then turn it over to the police.

And then all your hard stapling work? That’ll be for absolutely nothing.

Stop thinking like a fucking mark. You’re smarter than this.

This isn’t a god for people like you. It’s not there to offer comfort.

It’s a god for the desperate, the hopeless - all the poor bastards across the Straits who’ve had to confront the material reality that they could be seized by five armed policemen, dragged down a corridor and hallowed any second from now.

Set your god loose in the prisons. Not the libraries, not the care homes - the prisons.

That’s where it can circulate - if there’s anything to it.

— Chapter 26: My Song, My Sorrow and I.

#the silt verses #quotes #tsv 26

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instinct-wild-dc-irl · 2 months ago

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OPEN ENDED RP, ANYONE WANNA RP OFF THIS?

A 9-year-old Swift -who sometimes wandered in-mask as Instinct- darted through the alleys, 20 dollars clutched in hand.

He'd filched it off some rich guy -he didn't look to see which one, he'd just grabbed the bill and bolted- and was headed somewhere specific.

To an old gangster's hideout. Out here the street people betted with each other over the craziest things, street people, and while little Swift didn't trust adults that much, he did make bets every now and then.

Anyway....

Swift darted over to a small shack hidden in a cluster of abandoned apartments. He banged on the door until a old grizzled hobo with an eye patch, dark orangish dyed hair, and torn clothes opened it.

"What'd ya want, pipsqueak?" The man hissed in an Australian accent.

Swift waved the 20 dollars in his face. "Remember that bet we had on how long it'd take Kango to run off from that foster home? And i lost? You said i had two weeks to get you the fifteen bucks. Well, I managed to find a 20 bill and it's all i got, so you get 5 bucks extra!"

The gangster snatched the 20 bill, and inspected it. "Where'd you get this, you little gremlin?"

Swift rolled his eyes. "Not telling."

Dingo narrowed his eyes, clearly guessing that Swift had stolen it, but he snorted and threw a five dollar bill in Swift's face.

"I asked for 15, not 20, kid."

Swift looked surprised, but nodded quickly and pocketed the money. "Well, i'm off."

The old hobo's hand shot out and he scruffed the younger street dweller. "And where would you be going? Last i heard some of the Motor Speed Gang saw you sleepin' out on the roofs near the higher-class area."

Swift tried to wriggle free. "And? It's quieter there."

Dingo sighed. "Kid, I know it is, just be careful. It's a tad dangerous in that area. The odd policeman is huntin' those grounds again... and so are the Bats. Keep careful."

Swift nodded. "I'll steer clear. Cya, Dingo!"

And off the little boy went.

---

Swift darted through the alleys a few nights later, having just dodged some policemen by the park. His not-human senses were up and at it, and he could hear a gang fight somewhere to his right.

Suddenly he ran into someone and fell back. The person swore and looked down at him.

Siwft froze, blinking in and out of scent-sight as he did sometimes.

It was one of the Bats.

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maxispixels · 3 days ago

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HANDPICKED

PART ELEVEN.

Hobie Brown x GN!Reader

2.7k words

You work at a flower shop in late 70s London and Hobie's being a menace. Slowburn? Probably will be around (more) 10 parts. Strangers to reluctant acquaintances to friends to something more. Maybe a lil' messy ? (very)

CW/TW: Really mean guy, rude/crude/suggestive talk, murder talk, no actual physical violence happening but psychological violence (?) (Tell me if I should add something?)

Part one. Part two. Part three. Part four. Part five. Part six. Part seven. Part eight. Part nine. Part ten. Part eleven. Part twelve.

The city hummed with energy, the streets thrumming under your feet as the protest swelled like a living thing. In many ways, it reminded you of the concert. The crowd, the music, the vibrations going through every fiber of your being, syncing with your pulse.

People moved slowly, shoulder to shoulder. You’d expected to struggle to keep up, but the dragging pace exhausted you more than a sprint would. Voices were raised, slogans like a chorus. Carried along by the crowd, you felt like a swarm of bees, your ears buzzing.

Hobie moved with the same ease you had come to know him for. Once again you felt a pang of sadness, seeing him so comfortable in a world you didn't belong to. It reminded you of how much he kept slipping away from you. Out of reach, fleeting, elusive. People recognized him, clapped his shoulder, called his name. Some held two fingers in salute, others simply nodded, but almost everyone acknowledged him. He wasn’t just attending.

You followed closely, wide-eyed, lost, overwhelmed but not in a bad way. He never looked back to check if you were keeping up. He didn’t need to, it’s like he could hear your steps distinct from others, and if you were to fall he’d catch you before you’d hit the ground. Without turning his gaze.

The music cut through the air, sharp and electric. A band played on the back of a pickup truck, like some kind of guerilla gig. You doubted it was legal, but for now, policemen were few and not too threatening. It was still early.

A strange feeling of being watched settled in your heart. You turned instinctively, and there he was.

A scruffy man in a beat-up cowboy hat, leaning against the side of a building, just watching. The second your eyes met, he tipped his chin at you. Not a greeting, not a threat, just acknowledgement, before vanishing in the crowd like he had never been there at all.

You swallowed hard, shaking it off. Hobie hadn’t noticed.

Your attention came back to the band playing on a truck. You wanted to get closer, but you didn’t want to get separated from Hobie, so, sheepishly, like a kid with their mother, you pulled at his sleeves and asked to go see them.

He cracked a laugh, not mocking, but still amused with that behavior. He laced his fingers with yours and carefully made his way through the crowd. People parted on instinct, and you felt like he was parting the sea for a moment. You peeked from behind, watching the show. You couldn’t really understand the lyrics, the singer was barely enunciating her words and her voice was so rough it sounded like she had been screaming all day straight. Maybe she had. Eventually, you both made your way somewhere else, until something else grabbed your attention.

Your eyes met the one of the person behind the mask, as he checked his surroundings before quickly lettering something on a closed storefront. His stature was quite small, probably someone young.

You heard Hobie click his tongue behind you, and like on cue, a policeman showed up, screaming on the boy about vandalism, agitating his baton. Hobie let go of your hand, and you felt him tense, but before he could move, the boy had ran away, too fast and agile for the cop to even get close to him, climbing and disappearing in an alleyway. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, and Hobie put his hand on the middle of your back.

“Let’s go,” he just said, leading you away and back in the crowd.

As the afternoon stretched on, the protest bled into the streets, people spitting off into smaller groups, heading toward familiar places, planning the next actions, art performances or gigs.

Hobie didn’t hesitate when someone called his name, a tall girl with sharp eyes and a denim jacket waving him over toward a dimly lit doorway, half-hidden in an alley. He just nodded at you, wordless, before slipping inside. You didn’t hesitate either before following.

The squat was very different from the open air protest. It felt darker, more suffocating. The walls were covered in graffiti and peeling flyers, and furniture were scattered, half broken and shoved into corners.

The smell of beer, paint and something smokey and herbal went straight to your head, almost making you dizzy. In one corner, a group of people were talking, bent over newspaper articles, in another, people were sitting on the floor painting revanchist signs.

And Hobie belonged there, too. A girl with short curls and dark lipstick, you recognized her as Riri, part of his band, was already pulling him in a heated conversation, hands gesturing vividly.

"—can’t just sit back while fascists crawl out their holes—"

"‘course not, but we gotta be smart, not just loud—"

The words came fast, sharp, overlapping. This wasn’t just a debate, it was planning, strategy. The kind of conversation that made things happen.

You stood there, uncertain, out of place. You didn’t really have anything to add of value there. You watched Hobie. He was leaning forward, one arm propped on his knee, speaking low and fast. People listened when he talked.

You drifted away from the group, toward the corner where a few people sat painting. You plopped down on an old, worn couch and let your form rest over the armrest, your eyes tracing the bold letters. It was relaxing seeing people work like that, from away, despite all the rage and resistance that went into coming up with those slogans.

Then, you felt the cushion shift under you, as someone sat next to you. You turned your head, only to be face to face with the man with the cowboy hat. Up close, he looked even rougher, stubble shadowing his jaw, the lines on his face too deep for his age. His hands, resting against his knees, were bruised, knuckles raw, and a cigarette was balanced over his fingers.

"Not too loud for you?" His voice was rugged, but soft, and for a second it was enough to calm your growing nerves.

"It’s fine." You just said politely, not looking to make small talk. He didn’t seem to want to leave you alone, though.

"You sure?" He tilted his head slightly. "You want some water? Ya look tired."

"Yeah, no thank you. I’m fine." You uttered a small smile, and it made him pause, like he was going to just leave you alone after all.

He hummed, tapping his cigarette against his knee, flicking the ash onto the floor.

"Bit of a wallflower, ain’t ya?" He paused. "You new here, I s’pose?"

"Guess so." You were barely giving him one word answer, he did make you a little uneasy. Like he was playing a game, and you refused to take part. He didn’t need you to, though.

He just grinned. "Good. Fresh blood’s always good for the cause." He stretched, rolling his shoulders like he had all the time in the world. "Although," he added, glancing at you sideways, "you don’t really seem the type."

"Type for what?"

"For this." He gestured loosely around the room, then took a slow drag of his cigarette. "I bet," he murmured, "you don’t even know what you’re getting into."

You were sure he was trying to rail you up. Maybe test you? You side eyed him. "I know exactly why I'm here," you said, forcing your voice even.

The man raised a brow, waiting, smirking. "Yeah? And what’s that?"

You swallowed. Your eyes looked for Hobie, the urge to just leave the man talking to the wall itching at you. "Change." You gave something generic, hoping he’d just leave you alone, but the word came out too quick, too rehearsed. His smirk widened, something flickering beneath it, amusement, maybe, or something worse.

"Right," he murmured. "S’nothing to do with a tall, pretty boy with a voice like fuckin’ sandpaper."

You felt the back of your neck burn. You immediately knew.

"That's not—"

"Everybody can see it." He cut you, clicking his tongue and shaking his head. "You follow him around like a dog on a leash."

His insults weren’t even backhanded anymore. You hitched at his rudeness.

He grinned. "Proper lost little thing."

You glared at him. "I'm not—"

"C’mon, don’t gimme that look." His grin widened, lazy and sharp. He wouldn’t let you get a word in edgewise. "You tellin’ me he ain’t got you weak in the knees?"

Your throat went tight. You had no time to speak back or process what he was implying before he was at it again.

"No shame in it, really." He tapped his boot against the floor, mock sympathy in his voice. "Bloke’s built like temptation. Hell, I’d be jealous if I thought I had a chance."

Every nerve in your body itched with the urge to hit him, to wipe that smug fucking look off his face.

“Dunno. Just got that feel, yeah? The kinda bloke that knows how to make a person forget their own name.”

You were never one for violence, but he was riling you up. You hated how he talked about Hobie, not out of jealousy, just how disgusting it was to talk about anyone like that, like a piece of meat. The way he tried to put those words into your mouth, it repulsed you.

He exhaled through his nose, watching you carefully.

"Bet he’s real nice about it," he mused, "Real patient, yeah? Slow hands. Soft words. Or maybe—"

He tilted his head slightly, looking you over.

"—Maybe the opposite," he murmured, like it was a playful secret between the both of you, "bet that’s exactly your thing, huh?"

Something inside you snapped. Your nails dug into your palms. You didn’t feel like giving him a reaction for his stupid innuendos, but this was way past the line.

"Shut the fuck up," you spat. "What is wrong with you?" Your voice didn’t come out as assertive as you hoped it would, but the venom was real.

He just chuckled. "Don’t be mad," he murmured. "Figured you’d know best. You’re the one shaggin’ him.”

“I’m not—” you tried to defend, but it only made his smirk grow sharper.

“You aren’t?”

You recoiled. Your stomach turned violently. He gave a toothy grin, like he was relishing this, your discomfort, the shame bubbling in your stomach. Not that you had any reason to be ashamed, if anything, he should be for having the audacity to spit out abhorrent garbage.

"But I bet that’s the edge that does it for you, huh?" he continued, voice slow, taunting. "The danger? Like when he fights, yeah? Like when he gets his hands on someone and—"

You felt your eyes slowly widen as you glared at him, your blood boiling over, your fingers twitching with the need to do something. He saw it, and he grinned, his voice dipping lower. You could barely hear him, and he was already making sure you were the only one able to.

"Ya ever wonder what those hands have done before they were holdin’ yours, sweetheart?"

His voice was almost thoughtful, as if the words weren’t meant to sleep inside your bones and break them from the marrow out, like mold spreading from your spine to your limbs. He tapped his cigarette, watching you from the corner of his eye, waiting to see if you’d take the bait.

You didn’t. Didn’t bite, didn’t move, didn’t breathe.

"The blue laces mean somethin’, y’know that?"

His tone shifted, not just teasing anymore. Calculated. He had to be spewing nonsense, you wanted to laugh at him for mentioning his laces. He could’ve stolen them from the Queen for all you cared.

He sighed through his nose, shaking his head. "Fuckin’ shame, really. Thought you’d know."

He stretched his legs out in front of him, rolling his shoulders like he had all the time in the world. Then, he exhaled, long and slow, almost like he was thinking real hard about something. You didn’t try to speak, you knew words wouldn’t come out right, and a small part of you wanted to see where he was going.

"Not sayin’ it’s a bad thing, though," he mused. Then, lower, softer, slow enough to make your stomach churn. "Some people deserve to go."

Your pulse stuttered. You swore the air grew thicker, he wasn’t just trying to mess with you anymore, this felt too close to reality. His words landed too sharp, too deliberate, too fucking heavy. His mouth twitched, pleased, like he had been waiting for this.

"Mmh," he sighed, “Ya ever ask him about it?"

You looked away from him, barely processing his words. He was messing with you bad. You should’ve left. You should’ve left before, and you should’ve left right that moment, but you were stuck to the cushion, like your clothes had been sewn into it. Maybe it was the smell of the paint, of gasoline, of a badly ventilated space that made you dizzy, feeling like gravity was too strong.

The man huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah. ’Course you didn’t."

Then he turned to you fully, dragging his eyes over your face, his smirk fading into something unreadable.

"Your boy’s a fuckin’ hero, y’know." His voice dragged, his eyes squinting just slightly, like he was visualizing it. It didn’t land right, because you couldn’t tell if he was mocking or not.

Then, slow, deliberate, voice dripping with something thick and sticky. "Killed a cop and everything."

He didn’t laugh or mocked, he just looked at you, looked at your face ever so slowly falling, as if you wore your feelings out for him to dissect and relish in.

And when it hit, when he saw the moment you understood, his mouth twitched. Not smug. Not cruel. Just pitying, like he had to tell you, like he was putting down a wounded animal.

"Fuckin’ hell," he muttered, shaking his head. "You really didn’t know."

This was different. He had spent the whole time dragging you through the filth, feeding you taunts and cruelty, but this wasn’t that. This wasn’t mocking, this was real.

You tried to swallow, tried to form words, but there was nothing. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw. He sucked at his teeth, glancing at the dying embers of his cigarette. "It’s a good thing, really," he murmured, tapping his foot against the floor.

Cold sweat ran down your spine, he just wouldn’t shut his mouth, it was like he didn’t let you breathe, not for one moment. You barely digested his words that he came and assaulted you with new ones. It felt like being strangled.

"What?" He hummed. "Not many people are willing to act like he does,” a pause. “Some people just deserve to go,” he repeated, as if to drill it in your brain.

You didn’t want to believe him, nothing about him was trustworthy, yet you couldn’t help it. This felt true, like something that was always lurking in Hobie’s shadow, in his silences, in his absences. He didn’t look at you, just stared ahead like he was saying something normal.

"And some people just have to get it done."

Your throat felt tight, like there was something lodged in it. He exhaled, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, turning his head slightly to look at you.

"He’s real," he said simply. "That’s not something anyone can take from him." He flicked his cigarette to the floor, crushing it under his boot. "Nothing he does is for show."

You wanted to tell him to shut up again, to leave you alone, but you couldn’t.

He stretched, rolling his shoulders, looking satisfied, not smug, not cruel. He stood, done with this conversation now.

"Go on, then," he muttered, voice quieter now, almost distant. "Look him in the eye. See if he looks guilty." He gave you a little pat on the shoulder, like he would a kid before a sports match, and it made you twitch and recoil in disgust.

And then he was gone, like he had never been there at all.

Part twelve.

*anxiously click publish and crawl back*

@hoe-bie

#hobie brown #hobie brown fanfiction #hobie brown x gn!reader #hobie brown x reader #hobie x reader #x reader #spiderpunk #handpicked #atsv fanfic #atsv fanfiction

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powerupcomicstonight · 6 months ago

Text

More Woosterposting

“You!” growled the diminutive aggressor, eyeing me as a graphic designer might regard a client who’s taken his work and swapped Comic Sans in for all the fonts. “So this is the degenerate manchild with designs on corrupting my innocent daughter!”

This took me squarely aback. I had not expected to cherish Sir Watkyn Bassett’s company, strictly speaking, but it had not occurred to me that the old patriarch might go aggro at the very sight of me.

“What-ho, Sir Watkyn!” I replied with a bright situation-diffusing smile. “So this is the kindly old bean who Madeline’s always praising to the high heavens!”

“Don’t what-ho me, Wooster!” Sir Watkyn snapped. “I’ve seen your videos, you know! You are a violent and lawless young man! I shudder to contemplate the irreparable fissures in the moral foundation of an individual who would award a score of 9.5 to a video game which allows the player to simulate, of all unsavory acts, stealing a policeman’s uniform!”

It would be a stretch to say that the pieces were falling into place, but there were pieces, and they were working their way clumsily down the y-axis. Madeline’s old ancestor had evidently vetted my Youtube channel, and found something that disagreed with his aged sensibilities.

“I’m sorry, Sir Watykn. Are you referring to my Grand Theft Auto review?”

“So, he admits it!” Cried Sir Watkyn of the Bassets in triumph.

“And that bit about stealing policemen’s uniforms, was that really the worst thing you saw me do in that game?”

“I had no appetite for further demonstrations of anarchy and mayhem,” he declared firmly. “I can readily imagine that this so-called game allowed you to escalate the situation to still higher levels of hooliganism, perhaps by vandalizing a police vehicle, or even shooting out the windows of a police station. What I saw made me feel sick, and I was forced to stop the video.”

...

I located Jeeves in a quiet corner of Sir Waykyn’s library, serenely editing Wikipedia on his laptop.

“It’s worse than I thought, Jeeves," I announced. "Sinister, in fact. I’ve broken bread with Sir Watkyn Bassett, and it’s come to light that he’s the boomer who reported my Youtube channel.”

“Would this be the excitable party whose censure resulted in the five-day suspension, sir?”

“The very same. I have taken damage, Jeeves. Bring me a whiskey-soda, and my new camouflage Crocs.”

#Jeeves and Wooster #Woosterposting #Sir Watkyn Bassett #Camouflage Crocs #GTA

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jackiequick · 1 year ago

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Meet The Crew | Fast Five Fanfic 🇧🇷

Pairing: Brian O’Conner x Mia Toretto, Han x Soffi

Pre-relationship: Valentina Toretto x Deckard Shaw

Setting: Fast Five (2011)

Summary: Being the run for more than 2 years going from country to country, city to city, just to run away and survive. But what happens when Dom comes up with a plan to get their lives on track? Steal from the biggest man in Brazil. Then your gonna need a crew.

Characters: Dom, Brian, Mia, Tej, Roman, Val and etc.

Click here to see information for the rest of her story.

——

The last few days have ran cold. After arriving in Brazil, everything took a turn and keeping bigger lives at stack.

First with Val finding out what Mia is pregnant, having not told Brian yet. Then the heist they went on that Vince planned going haywire with Val, Dom and Brian getting caught then running to the safe house. To the argument between everyone on Vince not playing fair, where he left to go do his own thing.

And now!

They were being chased by policemen and Reye’s men across the streets and on top of the building finding themselves hiding out. Dom wanted to spilt up until Mia announced that it wasn’t the best idea.

Brian agreed with Dom, until Val said, “Tell ‘em sis..”

“I’m pregnant.” She said with a smile, out of breath from running across the bay.

Dom and Brian were shocked but happy. Hell, Brian was overwhelmed with joy fulling his best girl into a kiss. Val told them that they needed to stick together cause they’re family just got bigger.

It was settled that night by the boys while the girls slept that they had to stop running now. Make a life for themselves. So it was made to get their earning attention and some cash. Buy they’re freedom.

But they needed a team.

The next day, they planned as well as they could looking above the city.

“Okay let’s run through the basics.” Brian said leaning against his girl with a smile.

“First we need a chameleon. Someone who can blend in.” Dom said winking at Val and added, “Anywhere and can handle themselves.”

Soffi and Han were on they’re mind from the last heist.

“What else?” Mia asked.

“Hmm. A fast talker.” Dom said, “Someone who can bullshit they’re way out of anything.”

“I got that!” Brian announced with a smile.

His mind went to Roman.

“This guy has a lot of surveillance, so we need someone who’s good with circuits.” Mia added, meaning Tej could do the job.

“And with those circuits, Reyes is gonna have walls. We’re gonna need guys to punch through those walls.” Val told them with a nod.

Leo and Santos could do it.

“Hmm. Weapons and utilities.” Val added smiling.

Giselle was skilled for that.

“And last but not least. Two precision drivers. Two guys who won’t crack under pressure.” Dom said with such pride in his voice and a grin at only grew by the second.

“Oh you know we got that!” Brain repiled with a teasing grin that match his friends.

That left Val and Mia with research and experienced planning.

———

24 hours later. The team came together.

Roman and Tej walked in jokingly insulting each other.

“When you gonna give Martin Luther King his car back?” Roman asked, putting his bag down.

Tej scoffed, “As soon as you give Rick James his jacket back.”

They both cracked a smile, giving one another a bro hug. That was when a motorcycle rolled in, parking right in front of them. It was a women who was riding. The said women got off, removing her helmet as she shake her hair with hearing the guys.

“Sexy legs babygirl, what time they open?” Roman asked with a half smirk.

That was when a handheld gun landed right in between they’re faces, resulting in both men to back up a second.

“They open the same time i pull this trigger. Want me to open them?” Said Giselle with a small grin.

As if on cue, Leo and Santos walked in joking around in Spanish. Roman felt offended as him and Santos started bickering. Tej and Leo brought themselves into the conversation too as Giselle rolled her eyes.

“I thought cock fight were illegal in Brazil.” Han said walking with his girlfriend who smiled at his comment.

“I guess not.” Add Soffi with a smile, glancing up at Giselle.

That was when Dom announced himself with a smile, “I see you all met!” Mia, Val and Brian walked in behind him greeting they’re friends.

Val and Mia ran into Leo and Santos arms for a tight hug, having not seen each other in a while. Brian noticed Soffi standing off to the side, grinning to introduce himself.

“Hey.” He said with a toothy grin, welcoming her to the group.

“Hi..” She replies with a soft smile, noticing a warmth to the blonde that eased her.

“I heard about you.”

“R-really? F-from who?”

“Dom. He talks a lot about his time in the D.R. He said you and Han help him pull a heist there.”

“Oh yeah! It was burning there but we got the job done. I just don’t know why we were called here. I mean, what can i do to help?”

“Dom and his sister said you were like a chameleon. Trying to handle the situation and blend into the crowd?”

That was when Dom spoke over them saying they got a job to do, leading them to a group to debrief. Brian and Dom explained their target along the issues as everyone cut into the conversation.

“Sounds crazy. You brings us to a whole other country so we can rob the dude who runs it? I thought this was business, sounds personal to me. Is this was it is? I got love for y’all but personal ain’t good business. I can’t do this homie.” Roman said turning to walk out.

Val shared a smirk with her brother as she said, “So what we’re talking about is 100 million dollars.”

That’s when Roman stopped in his tracks, spinning around flabbergasted as he exclaimed, “Y-you say wha-? A-a-huna—you see sometimes i be overthinking man. And i know we just met girl, but you just kinda gotta..”

“Roman stop talking.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Soffi couldn’t help but snort at his reaction, being a little surprised herself by the announcement of that much money. Brian shared a smile with Mia as Dom kept explaining saying whatever they can take, they split it evenly. It surprised everyone.

Then Soffi stopped to think and spoke up, “As soon as you hit the first one. They’re gonna do everything they can to protect them.”

Giselle and Han added something else, as everyone nodded to their reason.

“Exactly.” Dom simply said with a smile, planning on what to do.

With that being said, the guys went to Reyes underground place to make themselves known, that they mean business. Burning his money and coming up with the next part of the plan. As well as keeping eyes on the police department scanners. Then the plans were set into motion.

The guys did the heavy duty part like breaking into police station to see the safe they would steal, placing extra cameras around town, and searching for extra ways to get around the city. Han and Val even ordered in a replica of the safe to replace with during the heist.

Because he’s hella rich.

Roman was eating while watching them work. Tej looked over his shoulder to see Val sitting by the stairs holding a pin and needle. She was pulling some fabric together, having a placement made for their safe.

“Girl what are you doing?” Tej asked, holding up his stack of paperwork.

“Isn’t it obvious? Tini is going to the beach later haha!” Roman exclaimed with a laugh, which earned him a glare.

“Who told you that nickname?” Val said glaring at him playfully.

“Brian. I think he told the others too.”

“Remind me to whoop his ass later.”

“What? Its cute!”

“What’s cute?” Said a voice that belong to Soffi, who was snacking on a bag of chips.

“Tini!” Roman yelled.

“Who’s Tini?”

“Vally over here!”

Val groaned shared a look with Tej who snorted at her annoyance.

It clicked for Soffi as she gasped with a smile, “That’s you nickname? I didn’t know that!”

“I’mma kill Brian..” She muttered, “Only he ever used that nickname before. Now y’all know.”

Tej chuckled, “Welcome to my world! Roman will never shut up about it now.”

“It’s cute! I-I like it.” Soffi said, noticing the fabric in her hand, “Uh, w-what’s with the bikini? A-are you going to beach?”

“That’s what i said!” Roman yelled once again chuckling, “If so babygirl, can i come?”

“No, I ain’t going to be beach. Someone else will. Since Tej said the safe needs Reyes fingerprints, and we can’t exactly get them..” Val said, looking at the tech genius.

“…you’re gonna swipe his handprints to use it against the piggy bank’s system. Smart girl!” Tej said, finishing her sentence.

“Exactly! Han and Soffi are up.”

“Wait seriously? R-right now?” Soffi said, looking over her shoulder to see Han.

He leaning against the wall with a smirk hearing his name as he chatted with Giselle.

“Nice. I like the easy stuff.” Han added with a smirk and kissing his girlfriend’s cheek, “See you outside babe.”

“I-i-wait! Han! Ugh!”

“Time to work our magic baby!”

He walked out with a grin that made her blush. Roman and Tej teased the girl for blushing. Soffi was a little confused about the actions she would take until Val pulled her aside into a room to change. Soffi was gonna wear the purple bikini and Giselle was gonna be there in the background as back up, just in case.

But it was her case to do.

She was a little worried it won’t go well however she saw the look in Val’s eye. A look of bravery and courage that would result in confidence for the task.

Val even joked, “Honey i seen you in action. It’s easy.”

“Alright, alright. Give me the towel.” Soffi replies joking, snatching the towel out of her hands and run out.

All Val can do was laugh as she went back to hanging out with Tej and Roman. She knew Soffi, Han and Giselle would get the job done they’re own way, but it was time for that to wait.

However that didn’t mean Val wasn’t gonna have some fun herself, heading out to buy extra drinks and catching a ride to the exact spot where Giselle told there they would be.

She stayed nearby the palm tree with Giselle watching them, reading the room then quickly walked away.

Han was snacking on some chips and chatting with Soffi who sipped her drink. They were eyeing Reye and the group on the high deck of the guesthouse across of the low end the beach. The pair were flirting and chuckling, wondering what was the man’s plan.

“I make six bodyguards.” Han said, glancing over his the guest shoulder.

“Seven.” Soffi added watching them, “The guy with the fanny pack is a tourist.”

“You think we should stay here after this is over?”

“Sure! I like the beaches here but you should watch your habits first.”

“Huh? What did i do?”

“You quit smoking, babe. I’m happy you did! But the snacks you were eating today, a lot more than usual.”

“I know. I’m handling it. I’m getting better.”

“I know and I’m glad you are.”

Han noticed the men on the stairs and sighed, “Well this is a real bust. We can’t get his fingerprints out here. Call Val, do some more reconstruction on the plan.”

“No..I don’t want to do that.” Soffi said, looking at the house and her outfit for a moment.

“She will understand. Giselle is here, we can try to do something else as we figure something out.”

“Or..um..uh-l-let me t-try something here. P-please?”

“Y-you sure?”

“Y-yeah. Watch out for me.”

Soffi took a breath, not wasting a second as she let the towel fall off her body and onto the floor. She smiled to herself feeling good swaying her hips walking away from the table in her purple bikini.

At that same time, Giselle followed beside her with a wink wearing her own valued bikini.

Han was left with his jaw dropped onto the ground, his fingertips stopped before ever reaching his mouth with the bag of nuts. He smiled softly to himself, biting his lower lip chuckling.

“Damn.” He muttered to himself.

The man speechless in place as both women walked over to the open house party, past the guardsmen smiling.

Soffi sat on the armrest of the chair where Reyes sat with a smile, as Giselle rested her hands on the shoulder of Reyes friends. She laughed at his jokes. Meanwhile Soffi smiled chatting with Reyes as he placed his hand on her bottom against the fabric of the bikini.

Han raised an eyebrow at his movements, rolled his eyes at the action with a grin.

She got the handprint.

“Nice.” Han muttered with a nod, waiting for them to finish to head over to the beach.

———

Later on the trio returned back to the bunker to find Roman and Tej working on the vault. They were confused once they returned with nothing but two bikinis in hand. One purple and one red.

Both men looked confused. Until Soffi lit a flashlight over the bikinis Giselle and Han were holding. Two handprints for extra measurements. In result the guys smirked and joked.

Tej smirked, “So did he just smack the ass or did he grab and hold on to it?”

Roman laughed as Soffi smirked waving the flashlight at both men jokingly.

————

Some stuff happened afterwards. Almost getting caught by the cops resulting in them putting a tracking on their trucks and testing how fast they were in the cars for the heist drifting away as quick as possible. But no one was fast enough, but it’s because they need certain cars to get past the city with ease.

Police cars.

So the boys went off, expect for Santos and Leo, to search for them. Meanwhile the girls stayed by relaxing, chatting about what they would do with their money.

Giselle wanted to go sightseeing without watching her back. Valentina wished for the ability to travel the word and have her own small adventure. Soffi wanted to open up a small shop to bake and sell her favorite treats, using the money left over for something special. Mia just wanted to relax at a small beach house and have her own little thing going on before she left to go to the store.

If only they could clear they’re names just as quickly.

By the same time she returned from the store as the boys did. They were racing in cop cars, with Brian winning against Dom. But Mia returned with a certain someone. Vince.

Everyone stood up in defense and confusion about his return. Some didn’t even know who Vince was but stood up to protest against against the man. Mia was trying to explain what exactly happened as they thankfully listened.

But Val was ready to pounce at Vince, it took Soffi and Tej to hold her back as she yelled at her oldest friend. Brian was about to get in Vince’s face wanting some more answers until Dom shut both of them up. Calling his oldest friends over to help him fix the car to talk, letting everyone cool down and allow Vince to eventually join in their plans.

Eventually everyone did. Cooking dinner for one another, bringing out more chairs and couches to sit on, extra tables and a radio. Some sat around tinkering with items, Dom was fixing one of the cars with Vince and Brian meanwhile Roman, Tej and Han talked. Everyone was speaking with the idea what would they do with their millions of dollars.

—————

Everyone had plenty of ideas. Some traveling, going to Las Vegas, getting cooking classes, buying houses and so much more. Tej wanted to start his own business to fix cars and not let people get ripped off.

“You peoples dreams are to start day jobs?!” Roman exclaimed, looking at them like they crazy.

Mostly looking Tej like he was just talking crazy for suggesting that idea in the first place.

Soffi crossed her arms, “What’s so wrong about that, Roman?”

“Everything! Y’all got money, use to the buy luxury gifts and items like you couldn’t afford before.” Roman said, sipping his drink.

“So what will you do then, Roman?” Valentina added, standing next to her friends with Giselle behind her grinning.

So in result the man explained how he do plenty of things, from buying himself suits to his very own plane. All the girls smirked and laughed, teasing Roman that they will try to steal the planes and jets for they’re own plans. Tej and a few of the others rolled their eyes chuckling.

Val grinned saying she will use Roman’s jets to travel the world and such. From Italy to Cuba to Hawaii and a sweet return to the Dominican Republic. Soffi and Giselle saying they will join her, suggesting France as well. A mini girls trip, including Mia and the others.

Roman jokingly got offended and rolled his eyes teasing them back, going to get everyone refills as they waited for dinner to be served. However once he stopped at Brian and Mia, he got hella confused. Mia kept saying she can’t drink and Brian insisted, leaving Roman with odd look on his face.

Until Brian rubbing his girlfriend’s nonexistent bump as Roman’s eyes lit up. It clicked.

“Ohh! Are you serious right now?” Roman exclaimed with bug eyes and a cheeky grin turning to Dom, “Is that the reason you let him beat you in the quarter mile? Hahaha that was a baby gift!”

Mia was giggling brightly.

Brain looked at his best friend, trying to defend himself and said, “No, that’s messed up.”

“That was a baby gift.” Roman repeated with a growing grin

“No, your not taking that from me.”

Tej walked up with a smirk acting all chill and asked, “Wait wait wait, hold on a second. So, did he just smack that ass or did he grab it?”

Val smirked bursting into laughter as she rubbed Brian’s shoulder jokingly and walked over to Dom. She grinned seeing they’re friends all congratulate Brian and Mia on the pregnancy.

Mia stayed hugging Soffi and Giselle the longest.

“Baby gift, huh?” She asked teasing him smiling, “Wanna explained?”

Brian followed behind her giving Dom a look, wondering the same thing as they both shared a matching smile.

“Baby gift?” Brian repeated.

“I have no idea what they’re talking about.” Dom replies with a smile, shrugging.

“Yeah sure.” Val added.

Once everything died down still celebrating the new, Dom called everyone to circle back for he can give a small toast.

Everyone chuckled, giving small smile to each other and leaned against the other person enjoying the moment.

Each member had a drink in their hands as they looked up to listen to the man who put all of this together.

Dom took a breath took as he look around the room and then spoke, “Money all come and go, you know that. But the most important thing in life will always be the people in this room. Right here. Right now. Salute mi familia.”

“Salute.” Said everyone raising their beer bottles, as you heard the light cling once they were brought together in a circle.

Everyone smiles, some sipping their drinks and others lean against the person next to them for a tight squeeze.

It was real.

They’re all here in Brazil.

Together.

And they’re finish off the week pulling off an heist.

It’s gonna be nuts.

Thank you so much for reading this fic! It’s one of my favorite films and it was a great treat to toss theses characters into it.

What did you think about it? Let me know in the comments below.

Please reblog, like and share for more stuff like this

Tags; @hanlueluver @gaminggirlsstuff @gcthvile @whitewiccan @msrochelleromanofffelton @starkleila @thisgirlisonfayeeer @meiramel @gcthvile @yetanotherwells @rooster-84 @rickb-chaos @mandylove1000 @sherloquestea and etc

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imsobadatnicknames2 · 6 months ago

Note

wrt your post about US elections influencing the whole world and the "European privilege" we exhibit: yes and? The dogshit american empire rules us. Before them it was the soviets. Before that it was the nazis and before them it the austrians and hungarians and turks. What is your fucking point? we KNOW your ratfucker private-sector-imported political class is salivating to make us work 7 days a week for 14 hours, and cook us in our cities by burning 30 trillion times more petrol. We have to see your fucking politicians' faces on every social media site and be swamped with gofundmes for black folks shot dead by your SS policemen. Are you trying to say politics is a distraction from labour disputes? WHAT? It's the same. Politics IS labour dispute. None of us are free until we all are, we KNOW. FUCK. Like no bitch, we KNOW the IMF is fucking us in the ass because a bunch of US economists normalized the Ayn Rand ideas of market capitalism 50 years ago. Yeah we would machinegun them for christmas if we could but we CAN'T. We can't even vote for the slightly less gaza genociding party but you can. SO SHUT UP! Don't you fucking understand we're governed by your economic power with no recourse or representation? That everything comes from you because you're at the top? Even fucking LEFTISM is INFESTED by tankie shitheads from america whose only idea of communism is that it must be good because they've reversed american exceptionalism in their heads and think anything opposing the US must be better? I can't even go online without some redfash LA shithead telling me about the virtues of Ho Chi Minh and Ceaușescu. GOD. If Trump pulls NATO out of europe Putin will be at my doorstep TOMORROW. Shut the FUCK up about europeans complaining that you english ratfucker colonists are governing us. Vote blue no matter who, strike, kill your bosses, guillotine your politicians and maybe our children - which we wont have - can live in peace one day. And for the love of gun-toting truck-driving hillbilly american Jesus shut the FUCK up and let europeans complain. CHRIST.

I love when I get five paragraphs long asks that can be completely invalidated with the following words:

I live in the global south.

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berrymoos · 12 days ago

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♡.°୭̥ ୨୧ ٭ sew up your skull, take your time

feat: cg. derek morgan && rg. elle greenaway [criminal minds]

ꨄ. SYNOPSIS . bad days aren't new, but they're never pleasant—with a little help, elle can get over it

ꨄ. CW(S) . hurt / comfort!! nothing supes serious X3

ꨄ. A/N . happy 3rd @regressuary fill yippiiiiee !! there was sposed to be a prompt but the fic strayed suuuuper away from it so there isn't one ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ dis was sposed to be out yesterday but it got rlly long & rlly late so i saved the rest 4 2day ʕ≧ᴥ≦ʔ guys this boy exceeds 1200 words im so serious, i tried to end it but the end wouldn't come. may or may not have smth else out for a proper 4th fill today buuuut no promises teehee >//< [cross–posted on ao3!]

it's always the small things that do it in.

elle can take a lot—that much she knows and that much has been proven again and again since proving her worth to the BAU, since proving her worth to the FBI. an ankle sprained is nothing compared to the stink of the dead. a broken arm doesn't matter when an auction is dangled above a child's head. a bullet to the chest pales in the face of a kidnapped woman.

elle can take a lot. she knows this. she has lived it and she has died learning it. bad days in the office are irrelevant splotches in a painted picture; ages better than bad days on the field. she can take it—it's nothing.

so what if she woke up late and burned the sleeve of her shirt while ironing it so she had to change and wasted ten minutes hunting down her misplaced keys and realized she forgot her badge halfway into the drive thus needed to turn back around to retrieve it and got to work an entire twenty–five minutes late and bunchered the profile for their scumbag of the day in front of policemen who stood atop their high–horses the entirety of the case and watched the son of a bitch walk away from potential charges due to a lack of physical evidence?

she can take it.

it's nothing.

it is always the small things that do it in.

sitting at her desk, massaging away the dull throb knawing her temples (querido dios, can these lights be any goddamn brighter?) elle squints at her cursive handwriting tangling itself into numerous knots of jesus knows what, presses the tip of her fountain pen to the blinding paper white, and jolts back to life when a murky puddle of ink bubbles across previous words. she wrinkles her nose against the sudden chemical smell of aniline dye and swallows the mysterious lump that clogs her throat.

a moment passes in which elle doesn't believe her eyes. she stares at the voided blotch, blinks a few times, then sighs. white–out can fix it. her work isn't lost—it never began its tumultuous journey in the first place, what with all of maybe four words eliminated by the spill. white–out can fix it.

again, elle sighs. her bottom lip wobbles. then, they form a thin line. white–out can fix it.

a small bottle clinks upon the desk and slides into view as though on cue. derek leans against it, smiling something playful.

white–out can fix it.

"i'm telling ya," he teases, "fountain pens suck."

in a better world, on a better day, derek is funny. in a better world, on a better day, elle retorts sharply in the goodness of banter and continues her file with a brownie point tossed to the white–colored help.

in a better world, on a better day, elle would not care about any such shortcoming—the harsh reality is that “better day” is not today.

what is once a string of elegance contorts itself beyond a rope of incoherence and instead into abstract art with no rhyme. sentences no longer make sense; are they still sentences? words are fuzzy. hazy. wobbly. inky.

derek says something, then something more, sprinkled with a bit of other, but in one ear and out of the other they go. water splatters onto the paper—only then do the quiet bees in her brain evolve into enraged wasps and the icky squid in the pit of her tummy breaches containment. think of something, anything to say back, to give a half–hearted attempt to pretend she heard him, but the lump springs back and a strangled whine of a completely different context arises, instead.

"dee–dee!"

in a blur of shoulder–length hair, striped brown–and–white fabric, and an uncoordinated batch of limbs, elle all but lunges from her chair, crashes into his chest on uncooperative legs. distantly, she recognizes she is far from the only agent in the room, but after caring about one thing one minute, another thing the next, then a cluster of many more things after that all day . . . she doesn't have the brainpower to do it anymore.

derek's strength encompasses her smaller stature. there's a part of her that squares her shoulders and cocks her chin against unsubs who are bigger than she is—never again will she be afraid of any man, not with her wit and most definitely not with her guns—but dee–dee isn't an unsub because dee–dee is safe, so she burrows herself farther into his arms and allows the scent of fabric softener and woody cologne to embrace her, too. smothered against his chest, his voice is much, much clearer:

"woah, hey, baby, it's alright. i'm right here."

dee–dee is warm and dee–dee is nice and dee–dee is safe. they shift a small bit here and a tiny bit there, but elle is too far away to truly recognize it. face hidden against his heartbeat, there are no more bright lights to burn her eyes.

"elle?"

elle's fingers, curled in her friend's shirt, tighten around the red fabric. "no," she whines. "no."

dee–dee doesn't speak for a second, but he finds his voice before it gets too quiet. too quiet? when did everyone leave? "no, hey—" he chuckles. "—you don't gotta move, i promise, i just wanna know: code white?"

no, elle's gut says this time, we are at work. never at work.

elle's body can't even attempt to forge the lie. instinctively, she brings the sleeve of her jacket to her teeth for nibbling—she's (very) partial to her binkie, but cotton has to suffice—and bobs her head up and down after a blink of pondering, wiping some of her tears on his shirt by accident. suddenly, her waterline glistens again just as her expression falls timid. she dares turns her gaze up to him, but all she finds is concern. "’m sowry. in– in t’ouble?"

"trouble?" her friend scoffs and laughs at the same time; her tummy flips the icky squid right on its head. "okay. clearly, you don't know me. when was the last time you were ever in trouble by me, huh?"

elle scrunches her nose, furrows her brows, bites down harder on her brown sleeve—

"sweetness, you are thinkin’ way too hard."

"uh—" her voice squeaks despite herself, a faint pink dusting her wet cheeks. "—dunno. neb– never?"

"see?" dee–dee nudges her not–too–harshly. "and you ain't got nothin’ to apologize for, either, not a single thing. it happens."

"not– no’ at work," elle protests; shame looms like a shadow over her shoulders, pushing her back into her previous hunched position. code whites should be at home, or in private, or, or—

brown, feather–light fingers brush her cheeks, clearing the rest of her tears and anchoring her to reality. "it happens when it happens, babygirl," dee–dee says and, oh, his tone is like the soothing balm she so desperately needed. she hiccups, turning her ear to his heartbeat. ba–doom. ba–doom. ba–doom."there's a reason we have a code."

because it happens too often, the icky squid murmurs. dee–dee's heartbeat is louder, so she listens to that, instead. ba–doom. ba–doom. ba–doom.

"now—" her other cheek on display, dee–dee wipes away those tears, too. "—what's got you so bent up, huh? don't like it when you're all sad ’nd stuff, pretty girl."

woke up late burned my shirt lost my keys left my badge showed up late scolded by hotch messed up profile policemen were stupid scumbag is free—

the headache comes back. elle squeezes her eyes shut. ba–doom. ba–doom. ba–doom.

"pen's mean," comes her warbled declaration from the warmth of his chest, muffled around her sleeve. her eyes burn, her head pulses, but at least her icky squid has begun to swim away. dee–dee is there and dee–dee gets it. "messed . . . m–messed up w–work."

he knows there's more to it, elle recognizes. however, the act of caring has eluded her once more.

graciously, dee–dee doesn't pry. "oh, i saw, sweetheart," is his response, tender and tranquil in its nature. gentle is his hand when it smooths out the bunched–up muscles in her shoulders and twirls a short curl around a finger; elle's breath skips under the brief contact. "am i gonna have to beat up the pen ’cause it made you sad?"

revenge is the sweetest music to her ears. she snivels, peeks from her hiding spot to stare dejectedly at the roundtable—oh; they moved. not the people. "mhm," elle huffs as she flicks a lone pen with her free hand. it spins twice, rolls across the wood, and falls with a faint clack. that particular one is not the offender, but even the smallest of vengeance is rejuvenating. "pen's a dummy."

"that pen is a dummy," dee–dee agrees, solemnly nodding his head; his laughter is like a big cat, purring not–so–loudly but purring all the same. elle looks toward dee–dee's face, full of love, patience, generosity . . .

. . . and then he reaches across the table, nabs a pen sitting unassumingly in its holder among others, and flings it onto the other side of the room. "that one was extra stupid."

the otherwise quiet room splits with elle's giggle. watery, weak, but there all the same. wiggling a bit out of her friend's hug, she, too, nabs a pen and throws it over the roundtable. "’nd dat one . . ." her body sinks back into dee–dee's chest, chews thoughtfully at her sleeve. ". . . doesn't w’ite good."

dee–dee chucks a pen at the wall. "that one doesn't have any ink in it. why we keep it, i have no idea."

elle tosses a pen into the air and watches it plummet before her feet. "dat one's too big."

a pen flies dangerously close to the tv. "that one's too small."

soon, every pen ever deposited into the cup finds its new place upon the floor, rolling about in search of shelter while elle and derek laugh themselves raw at the silliness of it all.

dee–dee is warm, dee–dee is nice, and dee–dee scared her icky squid away.

(and the reason elle grins from ear to ear when she finds a brand new pack of ballpoint pens sitting on her desk the next day? well—

Ballpoint pens are better! ;-)

–DeeDee

—that's between her and derek.)

#criminal minds agere #agere fic #agere fanfic #regressuary #regressuary 2025 #fandom agere #sfw agere #🧸．berry's fics #FILL 3 LETS ROLL OUT COME GET YALL FOOD 🗣️🗣️#also i think i should stop writing angst for elle #not cus i don't enjoy it but bc this morning i also started having a bad day & thought wow is this karma #hopin prayin i got derek's dialect right it'd be a damn shame if i (a black person) did not get a fellow black person's dialect correct /lh

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thenightsmercy · 1 month ago

Text

[ „once unknowing.“ ] a.m

a high honor arthur morgan x fem!original character oneshot

summary; adeline lincoln and arthur morgan. a skilled, yet impulsive thief and a troubled outlaw. after one stirs up trouble, the two ride out to clean the aftermath—despite barely conversing in the past. a campfire is shared after months of jading work and small talk, leaving gnawing feelings that need to be released.

word count; 3.4k

a.n; first tumblr fic, please dont be a silent reader! this takes place during chapter two :) and this a slowburn, please treat the story as so. lowercase intended. enjoy!

✦ ✦ ✦

A WARNING FROM THE POLICE DEPT. ; SAINT DENIS, NH

To all persons in the state of New Hanover, the Saint Denis Police Department bring you a warning of the twice-escaped convict ADELINE LINCOLN, otherwise known as THE SILENT SHOT, a dangerous thief WANTED for the robbery of two shops, the murder of four policemen and one civilian.

{drawn picture}

If you know the whereabouts of this individual, REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE, OR SAINT DENIS POLICE DEPARTMENT.

$100 DEAD OR ALIVE $100

✦ ✦ ✦

the morning dew hung in the air like small particles of light, flying around the camp like dancers in a town show. small murmurs of conversation rattled adeline’s brain, forcing her eyes open from the sleepless slumber. she rolled over onto her back, placing her hands behind her head and looking up at the blue sheet serving as her roof.

flashbacks of yesterday trotted around in the girl’s brain. usually she didn’t fuck up this badly, but recently too many things have been weighing on her mind. it caused her to lose focus; become distracted.

‘dutch is going to shoot me for this.’ she thought.

just as she sat up from her cot, the devil himself blocked the light coming into her makeshift room. adeline looked up and saw him lean his shoulder on the log of wood holding up the sheet. he had a yellow-tinted paper in his hand. from the light, she could see her inverted face drawn onto it.

she silently cursed and looked down at the ground.

“so… i know you didn’t do this on purpose, adeline. care to explain what happened?” he dropped the paper gracefully from his hands, making it land right in front of her eyesight. she picked it up and examined it. If there was a large hole full of shit, she would be at the deepest point.

but, like most times, she stayed completely silent, looking over to dutch’s face slowly changing from placid to animosity.

“now, I want you to hear this loud and clear,” he walked over and sat next to her on the shitty cot, pointing at the money on the wanted poster. “you and arthur are gonna go to valentine, and you two are gonna, discreetly, pay off this bounty. stay there for a couple of days so the air can clear, then come back at night.”

adeline nodded once, and dutch seemed satisfied after a couple of seconds. he got up and walked out of the shade, and turned his head to acknowledge her. “and adeline, no ‘jobs’ on this run, you’re in deep enough shit already.”

she swore he could read her mind. adeline knew he wanted her to pay with her own money, but she didn’t have enough, only half. she contemplated asking arthur, but she also knew he would probably give her more than needed. sighing, she got up, stretched her legs, and left the sweet bliss of shade to go find arthur.

adeline didn’t care for him that much. she didn’t mind him coming on runs with her, and she also didn’t mind having a conversation with him. they were at the brink of being friends, if you call having five-word-talks with each other being ‘friends’. there wasn’t anything stopping them, either, they just never have actually talked.

what she didn’t like, however, was his kindness. adeline had the stern mindset that being good won’t do any good in the world she was wrapped up in. she doesn’t take gifts strangers benevolently give her after helping them, nor does she accept any money they try to throw at her. why would she need any of it, when she steals all of the stuff she acquires anyway?

walking through the forest trail carved by horses and wagons, she spotted the familiar hat laying on top of a thin stick by a lake a couple of feet away. she made her way over to the rippling bits of light on the water, admiring the small fish leaping out and diving back.

she looked over to the right and spotted arthur, sitting against a large rock with one leg stretched out, the other acting as a stand to let the journal that he was drawing in lay on top of it. adeline walked up to see he was smoking a red rocket cigarette, using a rock to flick the ashes into the bright green grass. she tried to see what he was drawing, but he caught notice of her presence next to him, shutting the book quickly and putting down the pencil and looking up at her.

“it’s sunny out, why ain’t you wearing your hat?” adeline mumbled the question, her accent showing through.

arthur’s eyebrows raised up. “ ‘think this is the first time you started the conversation.” he chuckled.

she rolled her eyes, smiling slightly. “funny.”

she walked up to the rock, leaning on the open spot next to him. adeline looked at the small lake again. the sun shined down on the water and made it almost blinding to look at. she wondered how arthur could stand to be out here like this. she also thought about her next words, and how to make it as condensed as possible.

“we have to go to valentine.”

“and why is that?”

she looked down at his light brown hair, shining golden in the sun. he was smirking, like he had known about the run already.

“payin’ a bounty” she grumbled petulantly.

arthur ripped his eyes from her and shifted them to the ground, a grin stretched across his face. “alright. let’s get the horses.”

✦ ✦ ✦

the ride to valentine was filled with silence other than the bugs buzzing around the air around them. arthur started singing a quiet, happy tune as they got closer to the town. adeline didn’t mind it; the song distracted her from thinking too much about yesterday.

the cozy town was already bustling by the time they got there. they followed dutch’s orders and went straight to the post office first. arthur ended up paying for it all, with plenty of protest from adeline. “shut your mouth.” was all he told her as he went inside. after they were done, they hitched their horses and went to check into the hotel.

“it’s nice.” adeline mumbled to arthur.

they ended up having to share a room on account of almost all of them being full. arthur walked up to the bed on the left side of the room, placing his satchel and hat down. adeline went to the right side and mimicked his actions, pulling out a flask from her pocket.

“wanna have some fun?” she held up the flask.

“what-” he shifted his eyes over and saw the small steel container, “oh, sure.” arthur murmured, a sheepish rose tint blooming across his cheeks.

he reached his hand out. adeline threw it over and he caught it, opening the flask and taking a large gulp out of it. he tried to take another one, but only a drop came out. “shit.”

“what is it?” adeline asked.

“ ‘think you got a little bored on the way here.” he threw the small container back.

she caught it, noticed the lack of sound coming from inside the bottle, and muttered an apology. maybe arthur’s singing wasn’t that distracting.

“ you wanna head to the saloon nearby?” arthur started, “maybe they won’t run out.”

she noticed the teasing in his voice. adeline got up and walked over and flicked his hat off with a subtle smile. “sure, but i’ll pay, as compensation for drinkin’ all of mine.”

arthur agreed after a beat, and they walked out of the room and down the stairs.

✦ ✦ ✦

the saloon boomed with the echoes of intoxication. as soon as they entered, a man was already laying on the wooden floor in front of them. stepping over the drunk man, adeline made her way over to the front bar, arthur following in tow.

they ordered their drinks. adeline got a stronger one than arthur, of which he had to say something about. arthur drank a few of his own, but adeline could only have one since she was already feeling the effects of her previous session.

as adeline was taking her last sip from the glass, she felt a rough tap on her shoulder.

she turned, and saw a shorter woman with brown curls look up at her, brows furrowed with anger.

“i think i recognize you from saint denis.” the woman stated, a vexing tone booming in the noisy saloon.

adeline sighed and turned completely to her. she was wearing a simple dress with a brown belt tied around her waist. on the belt, adeline spotted a small knife.

“ma’am,” she looked into the woman’s eyes, “i don’t know you, and ‘m just trying to have a couple drinks with my friend here.” adeline pointed to arthur with her thumb.

the woman looked at arthur, and then looked back to adeline with a threatening glare.

the woman took a step up, face to face with adeline, malice lacing her voice “my name’s lucy. that woman you killed yesterday, charlotte? that was my sister.”

that was all she said before she punched adeline in the nose, making blood shoot out immediately. adeline stumbled back into arthur’s chest in which he grabbed her arm.

she looked back at him and he whispered, “need help?”

“lucy just needs to let off some steam.” she whispered back, looking at the woman. she already had tears coming out and dripping onto the knife she was now holding.

lucy swung with steel. adeline dodged it by stepping back, but the knife struck her arm as she was moving. she cursed out loud.

“ma’am,” she started, “i really don’t want to have to hurt you. just step outside and we can talk this out.”

but the woman only became more violent. she tried swinging at adeline with her fist again. learning from her last mistake, adeline grabbed her wrist and used it to throw the woman back. lucy made a large thud on the ground as she fell.

“ ‘m sorry, lady.” she said earnestly.

lucy stood back up and ran for adeline once again. this time, adeline threw the punch. her fist landed on her jaw, sending her onto a wooden pillar. lucy’s knife went flying and skid across the floor.

adeline ambled up to the knife, then to lucy’s stationary form. she leaned down and spoke in her ear.

“are you done now?” she softly pressed the knife against lucy’s cheek.

lucy grabbed adeline’s hand. she swung the hand and adeline had little time to dodge it before the blade cut her eye. still, it grazed across her left cheek. adeline stood up and stepped back, a groan escaping her lips as she caressed the now bleeding wound. adeline folded her arm and slammed her elbow into lucy’s forehead, knocking her unconscious and dropping to the floor.

“i think you just like causing trouble.” adeline heard a voice behind her. when she turned, arthur was walking up with a sly smile and a chuckle.

adeline scoffed with a playful grin. “i think…” she walked behind him and grabbed his newly filled glass. “…im ready to get the hell out of here.” she downed the rest of the spirits and passed it back to the bartender, making for the door.

“well, let’s go then.” he passed the amount of money due to the bartender on the desk as adeline walked out.

✦ ✦ ✦

conversations were exchanged as adeline and arthur ventured down the street. the lanterns had a dim glow and there were barely any people on the road. it must’ve been leading on into the morning by now. adeline walked up to the door of the hotel, when she noticed arthur wasn’t following.

“what’re you doing?” she mumbled out in the dark. he was at the foot of the stairs, looking up at her with something adeline couldn’t make out in her tipsy state.

“i don’t think it’s gonna be safe staying in a place with so many people who just saw that tussle.” arthur spoke clearly into the night. maybe he wasn’t as drunk as she thought he was. “we should, i don’t know, ride a little and find a spot to camp?”

she took a second to ponder. it was busy tonight at the saloon, and the bounty was just paid off, so it would be better to just play safe and spend the night in a non-populated place.

“alright, boss. let's get the horses.” adeline joked, recalling arthur’s words. the smile and scarlet tint on his face was missed as she turned around.

✦ ✦ ✦

the pair slowly made their way southeast of valentine, towards the bottom part of citadel rock. they were traveling at a medium pace; wanting to get there quickly, but leaving time to talk. also, it was allowing adeline to let her current state of mind wear off.

adeline looked to her right at her temporary partner.

‘he looks good at night, she thought’. she knew it was her messed-up judgement leaking into her brain. but for the moment, she let herself enjoy the eye candy. once golden hair now a medium brown under the illusion of the moon.

he was focused on something, a deep furrow in his brows as he looked down at his grey and black spotted horse. the leather on the expensive mammal being grasped by muscular hands and strong arms; arms strong enough to hold a rifle and barely have any kickback. hands skilled enough to do things adeline can only ima-

“what is it?” arthur’s voice boomed through the woman’s thoughts, exploding them out of mind. adeline looked up to his face, his brows now upward as if he was concerned over something. adeline was taken aback, not realizing the moon was that bright. she tried to search her scattered brain for some plausible response.

“ah, it’s just…” she noticed a loose buckle on the reins of the horse, “your reins aren’t tightened.” she internally thanked whatever divine intervention helped her.

he turned his head down and noticed the buckle. he thanked adeline quietly after fixing it. the smooth conversation allowed the entrance of a comfortable silence.

✦ ✦ ✦

the sounds of a campfire echoed into the darkness, combining with leaves brushing against each other from the soft wind blowing. beyond the fires reach, a large rock formation gave the illusion of a wall being used to guard from anything dangerous. the wall of rock was like a shadow being casted from the harsh lack of light. the air was chilly and filled with the smell of cooking meat and smoke.

a tense man and an oblivious, ragged woman smoking a cigarette sat on the cots surrounding the campfire. arthur sat cross-legged, a certain fidgety behavior to his every movement. adeline’s thoughts continued well into the night. she turned them over, wondering what he was so apprehensive about.

she studied the newly refilled flask he was downing, debating if it was empty, and if the way his eyes kept shifting over to her face signaled that there was something stuck on it. out of nervousness, she wiped her cheeks with her shirt sleeve.

“you know you can say what you’re thinking about.” adeline stated. the tension got the best of her; it lingered in the air like the stuffy smoke entering her nose and lungs. she stared at the sparkling flames slowly cooking the small pieces of bird meat they had caught on the way to valentine.

arthur reacted with a scoff, similar to the one adeline gave at the saloon. “i don’t think these thoughts are for… casual conversation.” a laugh was stifled near the end of his sentence.

adeline’s nose twitched in confusion. she turned her body left so she could face the tipsy man.“what in the world could you be thinking about that isn’t fit for ‘casual conversation’ ?”

arthur just stared at her. in that moment, the distance between their cots didn’t feel that far and his green eyes seemed to glow in the bright orange of the fire. “well, i was gonna ask, for one, why there was still blood on your face.”

the question was one of evasion, and adeline was far too tired and hungry to continue the game any longer. she looked at her cigarette, and noticed the crimson stained filter adorning her hand. she shrugged as a response, and arthur shook his head with a smirk.

after a small beat, he spoke up again. “for two, i was uh… gonna ask if you would let me clean it,” he slid his large frame closer to hers and reached to your side for her cigarettes. “i think it looks better when it ain’t all dirty, anyway.”

a simple statement, yet leaving an attracting and swaying affect on adeline’s jaded mind. she grabbed the flask on the floor, chugging a decent amount of it. it wasn’t empty after all. half of arthur’s words were those of intoxication. adeline’s choice of drink was on the stronger side, and it was very interesting to see how it affected him. he didn’t behave as if he was too drunk, though, so she knew he was just feeling a little extra confident with his words.

“well, i would’ve told you to do what you want.” she replied, trying to play it cool.

he chuckled again, a raspy sound that hypnotized the woman’s brain. “it’s a good thing i didn’t ask then.”

adeline’s brows furrowed. “why’s that?”

arthur had a certain driven look to his face. he made sure she was looking and attentive, or his confidence boost would all be for nothing. “if you told me that, i would’ve done more than help you clean your face.”

it was as if all time stopped for a minute. adeline and arthur’s eyes locked and got tangled together in the various hues of each others irises. adeline couldn’t believe what arthur was saying now, and by the look on his face, he was trying to comprehend his own.

adeline took this moment as the time to gamble the beginnings of her and arthur’s friendship to try and win something much more. “like what?” she maintained the previous firm eye contact, and so did he.

in a rush, arthur leaned forward, risking everything even more than adeline. he cupped her bloodied cheek gently and used his other arm to get closer to her warm body, finally giving in and kissing her lips. smoke twirled around them as she became used to the movement of his mouth. adeline removed her hat and used one hand to grab the flustered man’s locks, that of which made arthur kiss her harder. soft and hidden feelings emerging as the two shared a moment only they would ever know. arthur ended up pushing the girl to the ground with the force of his body leaning onto hers. adeline only laughed and wrapped her arms around his neck.

after a moment, arthur pulled his lips off of adeline and took a moment to examine her face. adeline took this time to do the same. his defiant eyes changed color with the soft flicker of the flame next to them. there was something in them adeline could see now. desire. a desire for her, for her lips and to be on top of her like this. a smile matched the lust that was finally clear to the once unknowing girl.

adeline put both of her hands on the side arthur’s face. he leaned into the touch like he had never felt it before.

“i had always thought you were beautiful,” arthur whispered out of the blue. it only made the moment more significant to adeline. “ so beautiful.”

the pair spent the night in one cot. their legs twisted together as well as their souls. in the morning, they'll be cautious to leave the moment, but the awkwardness of the previous night will make them pack up camp and head back to horseshoe overlook. they might spend a night resurfacing what happened, and some new things might be experienced. but adeline can only imagine as her horse trots the trail down south.

hope you enjoyed the oneshot :) lmk if a part 2 should be made!

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan x reader #friends to lovers #red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #arthur morgan x original character #rdr2 #rdr2 arthur #arthur morgan rdr2

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