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bloatedandalone04 · 1 year ago

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One Missed Call

➪the one where bradley hasn’t won a match since you left him, and he finally decides to break his promise to himself.

Warnings: boxer bradley, mentions of blood, mentions of injuries, descriptions of injuries, mentions of fighting, swearing, bradley is kind of a dick in this ngl, angst all the way, could have another part if i get inspired (just watched bleed for this and i need an outlet), probably the quickest piece i have ever written, so sorry if it sucks

Word Count: 2k

Do not repost this anywhere, reblogs are fine ♡

“Six time champ, Bradley Bradshaw, faces his fifth loss since getting back into the ring,”

That single sentence played on repeat in Bradley’s head as he sat on the couch of his living room.

His best friend rushed around him as she tried her best to patch up the mess his opponent made of his face an hour or so ago. Her hands held multiple blood stained towels and her face was twisted up in concern, but he didn’t pay her any attention as he watched himself get the shit beaten out of him on the TV screen.

“You shouldn’t be watching that right now,” she muttered as she wiped away a fresh stream of blood rather roughly. He winced, his mind instantly comparing her harshness to the way you used to clean him up much more gently. And now he was thinking about you again, and how fucking disappointed he made you. “You might have a concussion, and the screen will fuck with your eyes.”

He grunted as she stuck a white bandaid on his left temple. “Enough, Nat,” he grunted, gently pushing her hands away from his face. “I’m fine.”

She glared at him as she stood to her full height. “You’re fine? Bradley, you haven’t been fine since Y/n left. You haven’t won a match in months. And you think you’re fine?”

He narrowed his eyes at her, a scoff leaving his mouth afterwards. “Whatever, mom,”

Nat laughed humorlessly as she tossed the towels onto the coffee table in front of him. “Okay,” she muttered, grabbing her bag and bending down to press a harsh kiss to the bruise that formed on his cheek. “Let me know when you locate the guy who isn’t a grumpy prick. That’s the version of you we all miss. I’ll text you tomorrow, if I feel like it.” They both knew she would, whether she felt like it or not.

And then she left and Bradley was refraining from throwing the remote directly at the TV screen. His face ached beyond belief, and he knew the trash talking he did in between punches did not help his case as that guy really did a number on him.

In a way, he felt like he deserved to feel more pain than he did right now. He knew this was nothing compared to the amount of pain he put you through, and he wanted himself to hurt just as bad.

He watched himself take the final punch of the night that had him down on the mat within seconds, and how Hansen Carpenter lifted his hand in victory and grinned as if he won the lottery.

Congrats, man. You beat Bradley Bradshaw. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last, so take a fucking chill pill.

Bradley scoffed again and turned the TV off, tossing the remote aside and leaning back against the couch. As he sat in the quiet house, his mind betrayed him as he began to think about you again.

How he had managed to fuck up the best thing in his life, he’d never know.

You really were the only thing he had going for him other than his career and title, and he let you go without a fight. It was his fucking job to fight, yet he couldn’t even do it for you.

The house felt empty, even though you had only been living with him - officially - for about three months before he broke up with you. Despite being with you for nearly five years, you hadn’t decided to move in together until around half a year ago.

You practically lived with him, anyway, but it was official for only a few months before he let himself get too caught up in his own head, which later resulted in him taking it out on you.

Really, he was a coward. He never jumped at the countless opportunities he had with you, and instead put all his focus on boxing.

Oh, there was a high chance he could win within the first five rounds? Sign him up.

Someone was betting half a million dollars on him? Tell him a time and place.

You wanted to take the next step and put a downpayment on a house together? Maybe sometime within the next few years or so.

He really didn’t deserve you, and it was a wonder how you put up with him for half a decade.

Bradley looked down at his phone that was on the couch beside him, and without thinking much of it, he grabbed it and held it between his sore fingers. He didn’t need to scroll far to find your number since he hadn’t changed you from his top contact yet, and he probably never would.

When you walked out and left him in this exact room all those months ago, Bradley promised himself that he wouldn’t call you or try to win you back. If you couldn’t understand him and his career choice, then you clearly weren’t the right girl for him.

But he knew you were. You are the right girl for him, but he was too hung up on his own ego to actually try to get you back. And now he feared he was too late.

He was already feeling embarrassed, so why not go all the way?

He clicked on the call button and brought his phone up to his ear, waiting what felt like a lifetime before he was forwarded to your inbox.

Of course he got your voicemail. He wasn’t expecting you to actually answer him, so he wasn’t super disappointed that he was met with your sweet voice asking him to leave you a message.

And, God, was your voice sweet. It was probably the sweetest sound he had ever heard in his entire life, and it matched well with your overall personality. You were far too kind for your own good, and had been way too understanding with him throughout your relationship.

Though he really wanted to, he couldn’t blame you for leaving, especially since he practically forced you out the door.

Bradley looked ahead at his beaten and bruised face through the screen of the TV, and he felt as pathetic and worn out as he looked. “Y/n,” he mumbled after he heard the obnoxious beep that indicated he should probably start talking before the call hung up itself. What did he have to lose? “I miss you, babygirl.”

He had no right to be calling you right now, nor did he have the right to be saying that he misses you when he’s the reason you’re gone.

But he was selfish. He always had been when it came to you.

He wanted you to support him and didn’t care much for your concerns about his well being. He wanted you there and in his corner at every single match and wasn’t fazed by the way you cowered away every time he took a punch. He wanted you all to himself, but never gave you the time of day when he really needed to get his act together and progress his relationship with you.

Bradley was selfish before you, while he was with you, and now after you.

You were right. He will never change.

“I fucked up tonight, again,” he muttered as he looked down at the blood stained towels in front of him. His mouth tasted like metal and he could smell the rustic scent of copper every time he inhaled, and he truly could not believe how much of a mess he is. “I really thought I could win this one, but you know how I talk out of my ass whenever I’m in that ring, and I did it tonight.”

He wasn’t sure what he was hoping to get out of this, but the thought of you maybe listening to it was what had him continuing this embarrassing show of emotions.

“I told this Hansen guy that he fights like my old man, and how he’s dead, and then I got my ass handed to me,” he grunted, rubbing his sore nose and wincing at the sharp pain he felt because of it. “It was going fine before that. I went eight rounds straight with the guy before he fucking floored me, and all it took was me thinking about you.”

He felt like a complete loser for admitting this, but it also felt easier to be open with himself when it came to you. It had always been like that, and he was fucking stupid for thinking he could find someone better than you.

Truly, there was no one else he wanted other than you, and he’s known that pretty much since the day he met you, so why couldn’t he swallow his pride and fight for you instead of with you was another thing he’d never know.

“One single thought about you and I got too into my own head to realize what was going on around me,” he shamelessly informed you of the hold you still had, and probably will always have, over him. “I think about you all the time, baby. All the fucking time. You should’ve been there tonight. You should’ve been there last time. You should be here right now. But I know why you’re not.”

His face burned from both the impacts of Hansen’s gloves and from the way he was getting caught up in the thought of you.

Everything reminded him of you. Even this exact couch held far too many memories with you to count. The amount of nights he spent with you on these very cushions had him shifting uncomfortably as he tried to push away those thoughts.

He didn’t even deserve to be talking to you right now, let alone thinking about all the ways he’s gotten you off on this old and worn out piece of furniture. “I know it’s my own fucking fault, I know that, but it still fucking hurts,” he laughed and pressed his arm against his abs that were just as sore as his face. “The amount of fights I’ve been in, the amount of hits I’ve taken, none of them compare to how much it hurt to lose you. How much it still hurts.”

While he wasn’t one to cry at all, Bradley felt his eyes beginning to burn as he replayed the exact moment you left him, as well as the exact words he said to you.

“I know what I told you, okay? I know what I said. I was wrong, babygirl,” he rasped, curling in on himself as he tried to find the right words to say. “I didn’t mean it. I should have never told you to leave. I should have never yelled at you. I feel so bad, baby, all the time.”

He moved to lay on his side, his cheek pressing against the armrest a bit uncomfortably, but he didn’t care. This was the first time he allowed himself to really get it all out since breaking up with you, and he hated how he couldn’t find the courage to actually say all of this to you in person. Not that you’d let him, anyway.

“I want you back, Y/n,” he finally admitted to what he’s been too full of himself to say out loud. “I want you so bad. You were my girl, baby. You were so good to me, and I fucked it up. I miss you so much, and I promise you I’ll do better. I’ll be better for you, I swear, just please…come back to me.”

He ended the call after that and tossed his phone onto the table next to the towels he would definitely have to throw out since no amount of cold water and bleach could save them.

Bradley felt beyond pathetic now, but it was nothing compared to the feeling that took over his body when he woke up the next morning, still on the couch, and with a single notification on his phone.

One Missed Call from My Girl.

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ahhnini · 7 months ago

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I wish you love - cheater!ex! rafe cameron x reader

pt 2 to better things!

part one / part three

synopsis - rafe has finally moved on, and he wants the best for you.

warnings - drug & alcohol consumption, rafe goes to rehab, happy ending

word count - 745

likes and reblogs are appreciated!

ask box is open!

a/n - from rafe’s perspective! also this is so canon divergent im sorry 😭

divider credits - roseraris on tumblr

he needed you. it was one of those nights again, one of those nights where he’s snorting lines up his nose and drinking himself away at barry’s.

rafe was a coward when it came to you, it was so hard seeing you be so happy with someone who wasn’t him. but at the same time, he was…relived for you? he didn’t know how to describe it, there was a pang in his heart every time he would see you smile, but, there was also some kind of happiness and sense of pride he felt when he would see you so cheerful.

maybe it was the remaining love he had for you in his heart.

his family noticed, of course, he was getting back into his old habits again. they noticed the white powder residue under his nose, him being gone without notice for days on end, and his behavior becoming more aggressive.

ward and rose made the hard decision of sending their own son to rehab. he was too young to be making decisions like this, they thought.

rafe struggled, so many things ran through his mind. the rehab center was away on the mainland. although he had the staff being supportive, guiding him through his problems, he felt more alone than ever.

you heard about rafe being sent to rehab by your mom. rose told her the news during their weekly brunch. you didn’t give her much of a reaction, just nodding your head with a simple hum.

rafe was in rehab for a while, when he was finally discharged, ward was waiting for him. ward had his arms crossed and rafe couldn’t read the expression on his face. he looked out the window as his dad drove them back to the port.

when he got back to the obx, he felt…different. like he didn’t belong there anymore. rafe wasn’t the same person, and the stares he was receiving confirmed that even more. he felt like an outcast, once ruling one side of the island, to turning into a naïve tourist.

the smell of the ocean and salty breeze reminded him of his past, and, you.

he wondered how you were doing, no longer longing for your affection. it was a problem he talked about during intervention, surprised that he opened up about his problems so fast.

when the familiar white paint of tannyhill comes into view, he gets hit with nostalgia. suddenly rafe tenses up, sucking in a deep breath. ward pulls up to the driveway while rafe is hit with memories he’s repressed.

ward helps him unload, carrying his luggage as rafe carries his backpack. they both enter the mansion, ward leaves the luggage in the foyer, mumbling about something while he walks away to his study.

the girls aren’t home, and rafe moves his things back into his bedroom, but he doesn’t want to unpack yet.

he lays down on the bed, which he regrets because a thin layer of dust sweeps up his nose. he coughs and stands back up, dusting the bed.

he decides to dust the other parts of his room, it’s obvious no one has been here since he’s left. as he walks around his room, he can’t help but feel as if he’s at a museum. a museum of his past. he opens the window, letting in the breeze. the birds sing, and the leaves of the trees harmonize with them.

he takes a moment to look out the window, as his mind drifted to you once again.

he loved you, but unfortunately, he had a messed up way of giving you his love. he thought if he could take control of you, use you while you’re broken, he could mend you. mend you so you’d never leave him, mend you so both of your hearts become one.

he sighed, reflecting. he’s come to terms with the fact that he’ll never be with you again.

but he can’t help but wonder what you’re up to.

he hopes your still in a happy relationship, you deserve to be in one. he hopes you’re taking care of yourself, your health and your wellbeing. a part of him still wishes he could be with you, there’s no denying that. a part of him fantasizes about what could have been. he shakes his head, hearing a knock on the door. he takes one last glance out the window, seeing a dove fly out to the ocean.

he’s setting you free.

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aroacesafeplaceforall · 1 year ago

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You’re pissed that no one took any accountability for their supposed “aphobia/arophobia” but where is the accountability for the constant inhumane and disgusting homophobia, biphobia and transphobia STILL spewing out of ace spaces like puss? When will you all realize you feel that way because you are directly adjacent to the oppressor class and have next to nothing in common with the LGBT community as a whole but nearly everything in common with the average cishet? Y’all aren’t queer for not wanting to fuck, only fucking sometimes “if you emotionally connect”, or being emotionally unavailable to romantic partnership. And if you aren’t also gay, trans, or bisexual, you never will be.

I got my laptop out for this, goddamn. Where would i even start?

"You’re pissed that no one took any accountability for their supposed “aphobia/arophobia”" This tells me everything about you, you possibly don't believe in aro/ace identities. You don't believe people can hate on, or be hateful to, aro/ace spec people. And yes I am pissed. Because it was fucked up.

I would try to justify it with "if this was transphobic/homophobia you wouldn't be acting this way" but im guess you don't care about that as you obviously don't see it the same way.

you were also probably someone who sent asks like this (but more hateful) in 2016 and before, you were probably also someone who posted and reblogged aphobic content and said it was "just a joke" later while still sending asks like this to people. Take of that anon and show your face coward.

"where is the accountability for the constant inhumane and disgusting homophobia, biphobia and transphobia STILL spewing out of ace spaces like puss?"

where is the accountability for the homophobia, biphobia and transphobia still spewing out of ALL lgbtqia+ spaces? Where is the accountability in the REAL world? Where is it anon? Where is the accountability for the acephobia, the arophobia and so many other "not real sexualities/gender identities" -phobias?

You saw a post about aphobia, and instead of being like "yeah that was f-ed up" or "i dont care" you went "but what about meeeeee" which is very all lives matter of you. (I am not comparing racism to homophobia, however the "what about me" bs can be summed up very easily using all lives matter as an example) For the fucking record, all spaces have assholes, all of them. On behalf of the "normal" aro/ace spec folks, i apologise for any homophobia, biphobia and/or transphobia you have experienced from us. "When will you all realize you feel that way because you are directly adjacent to the oppressor class and have next to nothing in common with the LGBT community as a whole but nearly everything in common with the average cishet?" This is a main aphobe talking point so thank you for doing this by the text book so i can break it down easier!

Three pages about asexual hate crimes which im sure every average cishet has to deal with (assuming their white and male) 1 2 (a booklet for asexual people to be actually fucking included) 3

An incredible interview is here but im going to quote a few things from it as theres a 99.9% chance aphobes wont click a link

"We know aromantics and asexuals have existed for as long as humans have. However, it’s only through the terminology recently going mainstream"

"Because of Freud’s influence, many of us grew up learning that our sex drive is the primary motivator of human behavior, but that isn’t the case."

"That mindset replicates itself within the community so that when a new identity emerges, or when people try to explain themselves, there is resistance and pushback from within the community with the mindset that “if we let these kinds of people in, then that will dilute the access to power and resources we have.” And it forces the community to maintain adjacency to white supremacy, patriarchy, capitalism, ableism and classism, all while leaving behind entire groups of people."

" Do you think there will be more identities joining the LGBTQIA+ acronym? JP: Yes. The more words we have to describe ourselves, the better we are understood."

"The biggest comparisons are the lack of visibility and exclusion from communities on the basis that they’re weird, different, othered or “don’t belong in this space.” Every queer person has experienced this narrative and as more join under the umbrella, the newbie will experience the same challenges, discrimination and misunderstandings as those who came before." and here is another article that has a quote i just live by

"When did trauma become the mark of queerness?"

but back to the aphobe ->

"Y’all aren’t queer for not wanting to fuck, only fucking sometimes “if you emotionally connect”, or being emotionally unavailable to romantic partnership. "

if you think queer = sex then so help me. queer does not equal sex, queer is sexuality. and guess what that is NOT always sexual. sexuality is who your attracted to, whether it be romantically OR sexually.

and Asexuality is a spectrum, some asexuals never have sex, some don't want to have sex but have had it due to trauma or peer pressure, some don't care for it, some did it for a partner but just dont care about it.

same with aromantic. Its a spectrum. By your process here, so so so so so many people are removed from the lgbtqia+ community but you couldn't possibly mean that-

"And if you aren’t also gay, trans, or bisexual, you never will be."

-oh you did.

So none of these are part of the community either then? Agender, Bigender, Intersex, genderfluid, pansexual, omnisexual, Omnigender, Questioning, transgender and queer?

interesting anon.

Anyways i hope my followers enjoyed that! Let me know what you think if you finished reading all this!

Love;

An aegosexual, pansexual, aromantic, trans guy with to much fucking time on his hands.

#tw apobia #ask #asks #aromantic #asexual #aroace #aro #ace #aro pride #pride #lgbtqia #ace pride #ace problems #aro problems #cw aphobia #aphobia

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stealth-liberal · 1 year ago

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Anyone who reblogs and adds antisemitic rhetoric to my posts about what's going on in Israel will be reported and blocked. Anyone who comments on my posts about what's going on in Israel with antisemitic rhetoric will be reported and blocked. It's already started happening, and the reporting and blocking have begun. I will not engage with a single one of you. I don't give turds with a pulse what they want.

And if you're too stupid to realize that saying that indiscriminate killing of civilian targets, of running down fleeing on foot and unarmed civilians at a picnic in trucks and shooting them like fish in a barrel and laughing about it, of abducting civilians (including CHILDREN) to bring them back to Gaza and then release videos of their mistreatment, of parading captured women in various states of undress (videos of that too) and lastly of sexually desecrateing female Jewish corpses (video of a naked Jewish female corpse being desecrated in an act of NECEOPHILIA), if you think that all of that is ok, then you're guilty of Jew hatred. You are a Jew hater pure and simple.

Don't deny it. SAY IT WITH YOUR FULL CHESTS YOU MOTHERFUCKING COWARDS!!! Don't hide behind Palestinians as your shield, grab your tiny balls or your dried up tits and be public with your bigotry and hatred of the Jewish people.

If this was happening in ANY other country but Israel, in ANY other country but the only one on Earth that's run by Jews, you'd be decrying the actions of the war criminals doing this. Because guess what? What Hamas* is doing right now is classified by the United Nations as war crimes. But that's OK when you hate Jews, all Jews, any Jews, and the thought of dead Jews gets you off.

*I am wise enough to know that Hamas is not synonymous with all Palestinians. I've done the work to educate myself on the extremely varied worldwide Palestinian community. And unlike Jew haters, I don't assume every Palestinian I meet wants me dead because I'm a Jew. As an aside, I have also never once thought that about any Muslim dominant group. Unlike the violence as for pleasure seeking Hamas and other Jew Haters (like many over privileged white Europeans, Canadians, and Americans on here) I don't cheer when Palestinian civilians are killed or mistreated. Because I'm not a monster.

#sl speaks #jumblr #jewish #the jewish people #isreal

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novashelby · 16 hours ago

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Evie: The Origin Story-Chapter One

Chapter Summary: Tommy didn't think twice about the girl with ragged clothes and broken shoes. Girls like Evie weren't a rarity in Birmingham. But what happens when little Evie breaks into the Shelby stable? Word Count: 3,675 Warning(s): Mention of abuse, mention of drugs(once), mention of alcoholism, poverty, neglect, prostitution. Links: ->Wattpad ->Ao3

If you enjoyed this chapter, please reblog and leave a comment. I'd like to hear what you think.

The little girl pounded pavement with her broken sole shoes. The rain from that morning soaked through to her lace trimmed white socks. Birmingham puddles were like any other city puddles; filled with grime and soot. They blackened her socks and made her feet all pruny. She looked behind her, and on her tail were three boys. They were the rascals that lived in the tennant housing across the street, but because they had dads that could afford hot water, Evie was below them. Under her arm was tucked her sacred little drawing book that held all her secrets in images. She tried to quicken her pace, feeling her lungs burn and her legs get wobbly. Without thinking, she darted between two buildings, but she found herself at a dead end. The boys’ laughter grew louder and their running slowed as they approached the dead alleyway.

Evie tried to tuck herself behind the trash, but they could easily spot her glancing over. Stinky Evie, stinky Evie. That’s what they’d call her. Every single day it was stinky Evie, stinky Evie. Nothing original, nothing she wasn’t already aware of. Her hair was never kept, her clothing was hardly washed between uses, and dirt always rested under her nails. None of the girls at school wanted to play with her and the nuns gave her blatant looks of disgust.

The bigger of the three boys stepped forward, a snide smirk on his face. Evie never understood their distaste for her. Their shoes had holes, too. Evie coward, clinging to her drawing book. “Stinky Evie,” he said, and the other two boys follow suit. She attempted to push further back, but the brick wall left no more room. All the poor girl could do was pray. They boys shared elbow nudges, silently agreeing on the next step when the boy said, “you look like a girl, but you stink like a pig.”

“Ugly like one, too,” the other boy said, spitting. It nearly landed on her and when she tried to wiggle away, whining and grunting, the front boy kicked her legs.

The third boy laughed. “Uglier than one and your mum’s a filthy whore-”

“That gets paid shite to fuck pigs-”

“Leave me alone!” she yelled, kicking her feet. “Just leave me alone.” But poor Evelyn Walsh was smaller than all the other kids, especially the boys. They easily overpowered her, keeping her in place as they hovered over her. Her fingers clutching tightly against her drawing book that had already seen too much. “Give it back!” She tugged as hard as she could, the spine weakening anymore. In the rustle and tussle, pages tore and fell out, landing in muddy alley grime. “It’s mine, it’s mine!”

The larger boy yelled, “they ain’t nothing special. My arse can do better.” Her fingers slipped and the book was in their hands. She sobbed a bit, sniffling and choking. It was the last of it; all she had besides three broken pencils. Their dads could afford wooden train sets and balls, her mom could only afford what made her own brain sane; alcohol and the white stuff that left nasty residue on the dinner table. The boys sarcastically hummed, flipping through the pages that fell from the spine before running off with it yelling in unison, stinky Evie, stinky Evie.

Evie watched as they disappeared. Her chin numbed a bit as she tried to fight back all the crying she wanted to do. Her drawing book. The only thing I have-had. She slowly stood from her spot as the sun started to leave, and a purple-orange haze took over. Her mother would start to wake up for her work and if Evie wasn’t home-well, it depended. Sometimes Cindy Walsh wouldn’t notice and other days she would. But in the rare case that she would, Evie hurriedly along, trying to sing herself out of sadness. And despite the water seeping to her feet, she danced in every puddle that said ‘hi’ on her way. It wasn’t a long walk, but it always felt long because everything was so in reach, but not obtainable. Like the warm places, the bakeries and restaurants that sold warm food. Or how she’d see pretty dresses in the window and Mary Jane shoes that didn’t have broken soles.

She paused at a boutique, pressing her hands against the window. It was closed for the evening, but just on the other side of the glass were shoes. As her feet shivered in her dirty socks, unshielded from her shoes, a nice, pretty new pair were right before her eyes. Evie never believed she could be like other girls. The girls that wore bows in their hair and had pretty coats. Or the white gloves that matched their mother’s. When she tucked her hands in her pockets, on the window glass rested two handprints. A memory of her wants and desires. She continued onward, trying her best to keep her nose down. The more she smelled the stench, the less she smelt the food.

It was nearing six at night. Pubs were bustling and jazz clubs were starting to open, restaurants were welcoming people. The streets cleared of school children, and filled with those running home from work or chiming with glee as the nightlife took over. At home, all that was waiting for her was a piece of stale bread and porridge.

She was in her own thoughts, weaving in and out of people who hardly noticed she was there. But above all the clatter, in the distance she heard laughter. She paused and saw the three boys. They were sharing a smoke that they probably bummed from the bins. In their hands was her drawing book. Her breath hitched, and quickly she scanned for cover. But just as she was about to dodge, the boy that led the pack spotted her. Evie cursed and ran, weaving in and out of crowds until they had met her on her side of the street.

“Where ya’ goin’, stinky Evie?” One hollered, and she wasn’t even sure who. Their voices all blended after a while. Stinky Evie, stinky Evie. Your mum’s a whore.

She kept running, hearing their chants until they stopped and the footsteps stopped. Except her’s, they kept going until her body banged into something much sturdier. “Oof!” she yelped, falling to the ground. The three boys were behind her, but none of them said anything. Evie looked at what she bumped into and what she saw were a pair of legs. That of which she followed up until meeting the eyes of an older man in a neat three piece suit. Between his gloved fingers, he held a smoke up to his lips and inhaled. His expression was neutral and unassuming, but every one that walked by seemed to regard him. Evie crawled back a bit, cowering under his stare. They were outside a pub that glistened with drunk laughter and cheers. Mostly men. No, only men. There wasn’t a single female laugh in the mix.

His eyes shifted to the boys and nodded, “you boys up to something, eh?” Evie turned to look at them. All three stiffened like soldiers in boot camp. They shared looks before mumbling a stream of no, sir. No, Mr. Shelby. Nu uh, Mr. Shelby. He nodded and looked back down at Evie. “What about you, eh? Behaving yourself?” He outreached his gloved hand and she met it, feeling him tug her to her feet. He looked over the girl in pity and back at the boys.

In a small voice, Evie said, “can you get my drawing book? They took my drawing book.”

His eyes raised and he nodded to the boys, who then presumed guilty stances. Pointedly, he asked, “you boys steal this girl’s drawing book?” Evie was so shocked as to how much hold this man had over them. She watched as they swallowed, nearly pissing themselves. One nodded. “Give it back, eh? What fathers teach their sons to push around a little girl, huh?” The boys immediately handed it to her. The man tilted his chin. “Now fuck off, eh? Yer mums probably done with dinner about now.”

When the boys left, Evie slowly looked up at the man, blinking before widening her smile. “Thank you, sir.”

He nodded, tilting his hat. “Go on home, yeah? It’s getting late. You bastards shouldn’t be on the street at this time.” With that, he left her there with her drawing book. The next time those boys saw her, they ran off, wanting nothing to do with the girl that Mr. Shelby helped.

Evie got home. As she always did, she opened the door slowly and peaked in first to scope out the situation. Then slipped in, closing the door for it’d make nothing more than a slight click. As she kicked off her shoes and shoes, a groan came from the bedroom. She paused to listen. Cindy had just woken up a few minutes prior. Evie went to the sink, filling her glass with water when her mother groaned out, “Evs?” Her eyes shot to the door. Immediately, she felt this utter dread. Her mother slipped from their one bed, and walked from their room. Yawning, groggily looking around and running her eyes, she said, “Evs?” She swung her house coat over her cotton slip.

“Yes-”

“You know, you don’t have to fucking bang shit around when you want water,” she said, sighing. Evie yelped slightly as her mother pushed her off to the side as she got down a coffee cup. Her stomach cramped as she watched her mother slowly look at the moka pot. Irritated, she picked it up and flipped it over before tossing it back on the counter. It banged with a clang and Evie jumped back as he mother glared at her, “what the fuck, Evs, you could have made me a fucking cup of coffee.” She scratched irritatedly at her scalp, shaking her head. “I don’t ask you to anything for me, but I work my fucking ass off to support us and…fuck!” Her eyes drifted to the clock.

Evie quickly scrambled to get the moka pot going and pulled out a chair for her mother. “I’m sorry, mama. After school I went to see if the ducks were in the canal. Of course they weren’t, but I wanted to see them because, Mama, they’re…they’re…they’re my friends. But they weren’t in the canal. Sister Esther says ducks don’t have friends, but I think they do. But anyway, then I started skipping puddles, but then these real mean boys found me and chased me. They stole my drawing book. But mama!” She turned to her mother with wide eyes. The woman had already resorted to sinking in the chair, rubbing her temples.

She rolled her eyes and looked at the girl. “Yeah?”

Evie laughed as she stood on the chair to grab something from the cabinet. “There was a real classy looking man and he got my drawing book back-”

“And was he rich?” she asked, almost sarcastically as she grabbed a cigarette and lit it.

Evie thought for a moment, noting how her and her mother’s idea of rich were very different. Evie saw food and clothes as wealthy, and her mother? Saw luxuries that no one could take six feet under. Evie supposed by her standards, yes, he’d be rich. “I think so…a real handsome looker, too. Not like your boyfriends, mama.”

She let out a long sigh before slipping from the chair and closing herself back into the room. Cindy Walsh was born in Boston in 1895. It was a cold winter, and the running idea in the family was, the blizzard must have frozen her heart. Unlike her family, Cindy was always unpredictable and self-motivated. Evie looked at the closed door wondering what she did, but if only there was someone to tell Evie that she hadn’t done anything, but be a child who yearned for a mother who cared.

She finished making her mother’s coffee when Cindy exited the room wearing a different set of night clothes with her hair pinned. Just as she grabbed the cup and placed her lips on the rim, the door called for her; a loud, rapid knock. As Cindy would call them, one of her boyfriends arrived. Normally she’d add a joke. Maybe this one will be rich and buy us shit.

Evie watched as a tall, but aging man walked in. They neither spoke or hugged like Evie would imagine boyfriend-girlfriends doing. Simply, Cindy held his hand and brought him to the bedroom. The man hardly noticed the young girl soaking her break in water to soften it. But Cindy looked at her and placed her fingers to her lips. “In here,” she told the man. “And please make yourself comfortable.” But he was familiar with her. Evie could tell by the way he walked. He knew their small flat.

At the table, Evie tried to ignore the giggles and whispers of ‘mean nothings’, but pretending to be ‘sweet somethings’. She dipped her bread in the water and suckled at its crust, hoping for it to soften. But she got just a few bites in before the noises began. She hated the noises. They were awful noises and they were to happen all night. One boyfriend after the other. Evie frowned and slipped from her chair, grabbing her coat and slipping on her shoes, disregarding the sock. And even though it was dark, she slipped out the door and went for the streets.

There was nowhere she could go. The library was closed and her empty pockets hardly permitted her entry to any place. Besides, who would want a stinky kid in their place of business? Evie walked along the lonely pavement, kicking street rubbish as she hummed. Everyone had someone, but Evie. She thought about a lot of things to prevent herself from crying. Usually the ducks that sometimes occupied the canal or the funny things Father Michael would say at school mass. She walked down a long dark road. The stench of manure and hay tickling her nose, causing her to sneeze. But off in the distance, there was a glimpse of something that made her smile. Stables. Stables? Had she walked that far? She looked behind her before deciding she didn't care. She ran until she was met with a lock and chain.

Frowning, she sighed, plopping herself on the crates before grinning. She stacked them on top of one another before she reached the gap between the roof and the wooden door. It’d hurt, but it felt warm. The horses on the inside looked over, making a slight fuss in their pods. There were two or so…Evie couldn’t count well. She whined as she wedged herself in and plop! “Ow!” She whined, meeting the ground. She laid there for a moment, groaning as her little body ached. Slowly, she gathered herself on her feet and looked around, eyes landing on a black horse. She grabbed a crate and stood on it, outreaching her hand to touch its nose. She nervously hesitated, but the horse huffed and nodded, leaning its head forward to meet her hand. Evie’s heart fluttered, and slowly, she smiled. The nose was cold, but everything felt warm. For the first time, something introduced her to unconditional affection.

Evie laughed, looking around to get something to feed it. In a bucket of slop, there was a somewhat rotten carrot. She hopped from the crate and grabbed it. Her eyes scanned over it and she sighed, “you’re eating better than me, tonight.” She climbed back up and put it to his lips. The horse generously took a bite and Evie pulled it back. “I suppose we can share.” Evie took a bite of carrot. Of course, one would never suggest sharing food with a horse. Especially a carrot that’d been laying in a pocket of other food waste. It tasted repulsive, but she focused on the only bit of sweetness the carrot had left over. One bite for her, a big bite for him. All the while, her hand was stroking his cheek.

“You’re nicer than my school friends,” she whispered, touching her cheek to his and closing her eyes. “But I don’t think my school friends like me very much…only Quack, Diddle, and Poe. Those are the ducks that I am friends with. They like seeds and grapes. I don’t like raisins. I eat them sometimes…You know, I don’t think I could imagine you eating raisins with your big teeth.” Evie pulled back and eyed the horse, pinching its lip and pulling it up to look. The horse didn’t like that very much, scoffing. Saliva and snot sprayed against her face, and she whined. “Hey!” Evie wiped her face against her sleeve before giving the horse a look. “You’re lucky I can’t be picky with my friends….”

The lock on the stable clicked open. But Evie had been so distracted by the very large animal before her. She combed its mane, giving him nose kisses. The man walked in and paused, surprised to see a young girl there. He looked around, calculating how she could have gotten in. His eyes scanned over her, making note of her impoverished appearance. Slowly, he moved forward, watching her antics. Normally, he would have been angered, but what could a little girl do? Maybe a lot seeing as she slipped in the stable without even unlocking the door. He drew an inhale from his smoke before reaching her. His eyes followed how sweetly her hand tended to his horse’s affection, and he smiled thinking of his youth. His first horse and how amazed he was by it. Just like her. His gloved hand met her’s and guided it. “Like this,” he said softly.

When Evie felt his hand touch her own, she jumped from the crate, feeling her heart pound against her chest. She moved back, swallowing. Her eyes drifted to the stable door and to him. It had been the man from earlier. “I-I’m sorry-”

“Come here,” he told her, softly. He ignored the panic in her voice, clearly startled from his sudden appearance. Perhaps she thought she’d get into trouble for trespassing. She nodded, hoping back on the crate, his gloved hand took hers. “Give me your hand.” He brought her small hand in his hand up to the horse’s nose, softly guiding her how to pet. “There you go,” he whispered, looking at her. She smiled in a dream and her hand went along with his. His direction turned back to the horse as he asked, “how did you manage to get in here?” There was no tone of annoyance or anger, just curiosity. When she had told him, he was equally impressed and worried. “You shouldn’t do that. You could have gotten hurt-”

“I didn’t,” she said with a shrug.

He let out a sigh, tongue swiping at his bottom lip. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, but the girl looked so happy. He recognized that happiness. It was the type that only came with sadness. This was a moment for her. Something to overshadow what was in the background. In sacrifice of his own curiosity, he dropped it. “What is your name?”

Without looking at him, she replied, “Evelyn-”

“And your last?” Walsh. When she asked for his name, she already knew what the folk called him. It was Mr. Shelby. And when he said that, she looked over at him with a grin, shaking her head. She requested his real name. His brows arched and he smiled. “That is my real name.”

“No,” she laughed.

“No!? And what do you mean by real name, eh?”

“The name your mama calls you when she’s mad at you…I get Evelyn Walsh, you come here right now-and she stomps her feet like this….” He laughed at her and let out a sigh.

“Well, if I tell you, you can’t tell anyone else, okay?” He leaned in real close, and put his gloved finger to his lips then to hers. She nodded and widened her eyes. “Thomas. But you have to call me Mr. Shelby-”

“Always?”

“Every single time,” he said, nodding to her before looking back at his horse. She asked the horse’s name. “What do you think it is?” And she shrugged. “Well, what would you name him?”

That is when her face went real bright. “Oh, jeez, well I dunno know, Mr. Shelby. I don’t know his personally! You see, I named Quacker at the canal Quacker because he makes the most fuss and Poe…he looks like how I imagine a guy named Poe would look-”

“Who?”

“The ducks,” she explained. “They’re my only friends.” Tommy hadn’t felt much since the war, but his smile slipped from his face and he swallowed, feeling something for the girl. His hand rested affectionately on her head, patting it. She noticed his frown and smiled, “but it’s okay. The ducks at least are kind to me. They’re good friends, Mr. Shelby. Like your horse. Can he be my friend, too?”

He let out a small laugh, and gave her a short nod. “Sure.”

“And you, Mr. Shelby, are you my friend?” “Yeah,” he agreed. “I’ll be your friend. Now, it’s getting real late. Where are your parents? You should get home.” He already knew. Tommy knew too much about life to allow pieces to go unconnected. Evie got real quiet again and went back to the horse. Mama’s working with her boyfriends. He understood and asked for no more explanation. The poor girl was a mess. He studied everything from the ragged clothing, her matted hair, the dirt under her nails, and the smell. The poor girl smelled. Despite how mean the boys were, they were right. “I can’t leave you in here, love,” he said, regrettably. “I’ll walk you home and perhaps your mother can say goodbye to her boyfriends for just one night, eh?”

#Tommy Shelby #Tommy Shelby & OC #Oc #peaky blinders #peaky blinders oc #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders fanfic #fanfiction #fanfic #angst #Tommy Shelby fanfic #Evie verse #Tommy Shelby fanfiction

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horizon-verizon · 4 months ago

Text

Lyanna & Rhaegar "Master Post"

*Will be updated probably many times*

Yes, this is narratively/IN-WORLD a love story and a love pairing. This post gives the reasons why it is meant to be so, and does so from a Watsonian vs a Doylist approach.

A List of Different Posts to Consider

hamliet's Rhaegar as Hubristically Idealistic & Relyin on Prophecy to Carry the Day [reblog]

ozymalek/Phoenix Ashes's Breakdown of How the story of Rhaegar and Lyanna is MEANT to be a Love Story, with Evidence from Text

A Claim that they were similar to Aemond and Alys under the War Prize = R*pe Context

My Reblog of a Thread: The Actual Timeline of Rhaegar, Lyanna, Aerys, etc to show how Aerys and not Rhaegar is Responsible for Elia's being in KL; Elia's Possible Reactions to Lyanna and Rhaegar; Political Marriage; The Dornish's Relationship w/the rest of Westeros

la-pheacienne's Words abt how fallacious it is to expect war from Rhaegar's actions alone....Aerys caused the war, not Rhaegar; The Queen of Love and Beuaty; "Ethical Authenticity" when Rhaegar Ran Off w/Lyanna // MY REBLOG OF IT -- this post

la-pheacienne's Response to my question: "What do you think about Rhaegar and Lyanna?"

Duty vs Love in ASoIaF

Consummation & Age of Majority in Westeros

An ask to ladymorgana91: "Do you think that Lyanna and Rhaegar were seriously in love?" -> ORIG // MY REBLOG

Cersei vs Elia & Fandom's Love for the Dead Ladies

More Reiterations of Certain Textual and Contextual Evidence for it Being a Romance Pair

An ask about how Game of Thrones Muddled People's View of Legitimization vs Acknowledgement, Polygamy, and Jon Snow being Rhaegar's Heir or Named "Aegon"

Elia is not PoC, bc the Dornish are not "PoC" but "spicy whites" even with there being discrimination against Dornish people..."white" people can be racist/ethnically dehumanizing against certain other "white" people; but even with all that, Rhaegar the man himself has never displayed any disfavor towards Elia purely or partly from her being Dornish just because Aerys did...we must remember that these two (Aerys and Rhaegar) had a very strained relationship, possibly and likely abusive, so it's very unlikely that Rhaegar shared his father's complete disregard for others in this way, esp when all his description form both not-so-great to pretty moral characters have thus far described Rhaegar as melancholy do-gooder

an ask to dragonsfromthemoon: "It says a lot about the hypocrisy of fandom when they hate Rhaegar for "abandoning" his wife and kids to fight in war but don't hate Ned for doing the same to his pregnant bride Catelyn. Rhaegar was an able-bodied prince who knew how to fight and ride a horse; to not fight would have branded him a coward. The reason Jaime and the other Kingsguard stayed behind is because they are sworn to protect the royal family which is why Rhaegar tasked them to protect Lyanna and Elia." // MY REBLOG

a reblog about Wuthering Heights and how people tend to approach Love in fiction, by la-pheacienne // MY REBLOG of it

Further Notes

One can argue that there is a power imbalance for every single relationship or relationship-to-be in this world, because women almost never have the same authorities or access to resources that a man automatically can inherit and use to exert authority over women...that's how feudal-monarchial hierarchies work. Rhaegar and Lyanna's age difference reflects a common Westerosi phenomenon that comes form this particular real-world and Westerosi phenomenon. Dany's relationship to Irri doesn't have an age difference nor a gender inequality factor, but many have also cited how Dany's position over Irri (both are former sex slaves but Dany is Irri's queen and Irri is Dany's handmaid) has troubling possible issues for Irri anyway....but this relationship is very clearly written to be 100% consensual, and just bc Irri/people might not be exactly in love or attracted to Dany or other people, doesn't mean she can't consent to sex (as many asexuals are not attracted to their partners but they can def consent).

Obviously, when we are trying to say what actually happens in the story (not from a writer's perspective, but literally what are the characters-as-if-Westeros-were-real), we need to look at the books/the "text" with some degree of remove from out own world to understand what the characters are doing and why they do it. Our own expectations of social context is not going to inform the entire text...bc this is not a text/work/series set in the modern era, thus that characters are not going to have lived under your modern context for them to really think X is this and that. That's not to say predators don't exist in Westeros & Planetos; GRRM gives very clear examples (Robert, Craster, Roose Bolton, Walder Frey, those slave masters who have child slaves, etc.). It's to say do not rush to label some characters as a very specific sort of predator when some textual details tell us both directly and indirectly that some situations show they functionally cannot.

All in all, yes GRRM frequently includes large age differences in romantic relationships as he wrote during a time where he and many others weren't really thinking about how such a power imbalance often spells trouble for the much younger (esp teenaged) partner, esp when its older boy/man and younger woman/girl...

BUT

"I don't think GRRM should have presented a 16 yr old and 22-24 year old as a tragic love story, esp when it resulted in her being physically separated from her family & dying from childbirth at such a young age."

DOES NOT EQUAL

"Rhaegar groomed, raped, & imprisoned her in a tower to force her to have his child or just because he's a pedophile and left her to die. He didn't understand true responsibility and duty. And he hated his wife and kids.

because the latter says that this actually happens in the actual narrative. The first one says GRRM PRESENTS a story that:

they think could have detrimental effects on some readers' perception of real-life relationships

or/and it makes them too uncomfortable with the very notion of such a age difference for what they know would be a power imbalance out of context/the story (esp when people frequently ignore context, which leads to misunderstandings to misunderstand)

Both readings still don't really absorb or consider the textual and ASoIaF/Westerosi social contexts both out and in the specific events before Robert's Rebellion, but they still aren't the same bc the second one is claiming that it is what is actually happening in-world.

What specific details prevent LyannaxRhaegar from being straight up grooming/rape? Because:

Lyanna clearly did not want to marry Robert; she was very likely the Knight of the Laughing Tree, who Aerys was looking for to likely kill; Rhaegar is very much her type, considering how she had a specific outlook on justice compatible with Rhaegar's goal towards refashioning Westeros from its destructive historical actions, including in the hands of his own family -- she more than likely (read "definitely") ran away with Rhaegar

we know intimately abt how power imbalances where there's a teen involved has disastrous effects we take measures against it with laws preventing what we've constructed are "teens" marrying non-teen adults (bc the concept of "teen" didn't exist until very recently in human history) and these people do not have such a concept to even be held accountable for staying away from 16 year olds, who were considered adults [however, even for them and I mean Westeros not real history, certain age differences are not favorable or good]; this is a fantasy series set in a pseudo-medieval feudalistic society whose characters cannot exist in their own world without the author's intent...they literally do not exist in our world]

You can dislike some of the characters & GRRM, but to misinterpret them as searching for teens for the mere sake of searching for teens in the way real pedos and groomers do and thus make Rhaegar the same as someone like Craster is ridiculous. The story is about particular nuances of feudalistic duty vs romantic/platonic/altruistic/self love versus how one approaches "fixing" the world/people but bungling it up bc you left too much up to a grand sense of "purpose".

Rhaegar failed bc he was way too idealistic that he let ideas of heroism carry him away from observing issues with is own acrions or how e implemented a lot of them. So he was both irresponsible in one sense and was obsessed w/fufilling an ultimate level of "responsibility" through a prophecy I think he took as way to justify/redeem te corruption around him. Yes, he wanted to be "authentic", but went about it unfairly & disastrously under that inevitable weight.

#lyanna and rhaegar #asoiaf writing #lyanna stark #rhaegar targaryen #agot master post #asoiaf love & duty #rhaegar's characterization #lyanna stark's characterization #asoiaf age gaps #westerosi age of majority #fiction vs reality #asoiaf love #rhaelya #asoiaf #agot

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rosietrace · 3 months ago

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『 “All eyes on you” 』

| Aldrich Edelweiss and Victoria Shard | 🗡️ + 🪞 |

✎ᝰ. synopsis : “I love you the first time, I love you the last time— Yo soy la princesa, comprende mis white lines.”

✎ᝰ. content warnings : aldrich himself, dark romance, stalking (from both parties), allusions to murder

✎ᝰ. genre : romance of the dark variety, fluff but in a messed up way, oc x oc

( ˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥) a/n : As the president and only member of the Aldrich Edelweiss fanclub, I miss writing for his silly demented ass 😔 so I hope Revington is able to enjoy this piece, even through the potential ooc moments, just as it had been an enjoyable (yet tortuous) process writing it 🥰

✎ᝰ. : reblogs > likes

Aldrich found entertainment in a great, many ways. A more recent one came in staring at a respectable distance— close enough to see her, far enough to not be deemed conspicuous.

Marvelous, he thought behind one of the trees of Pomefiore’s forests, having slaughtered every woodland critter who'd tried making his presence known to her. Absolutely marvelous.

Over the past week, Victoria Shard had caught the attention of Aldrich Edelweiss; prince of Edelweiss, and leader of his troop of witch hunters.

Aldrich couldn't recall when this fascination with her began, but the prince couldn't be bothered to retrace his footsteps as to when it had happened— his focus remained on her, her and her alone.

He quietly sighed, blissful and dreamy at the sight of her. Sat atop a rock, humoring the desires of the woodland critters fortunate enough to encounter her, and not him.

Her movements were poised, precise. As swift as a blade slicing through to the apex of the heart, and aiming as true as any arrow. Akin to a princess, Aldrich thought with eerie satisfaction.

“So, so beautiful... so perfect...” he complimented her in a hushed voice, his canines digging into the flesh of his bottom lip, and yet he didn't care.

Inevitably, his lips bled the longer his teeth stabbed into its flesh. And as his blood slowly slipped down from his chin and onto the grass below his feet— finally, Victoria felt the ever-distant feeling that she was being watched.

A rabbit laid asleep on her lap, its snow white fur gently caressed in between the fingers that combed through it. “How sweet…”

“Although, I have this feeling,” Victoria said, her free hand below the chin of a doe, as if expecting it to react or reply to her observation. “Am I being watched? Or have I truly come to my wit's end?”

Aldrich felt the hitch of his breath against his throat, one foot taking a step back. Should he dare approach? Profess his loyalties and all that he desired unto her?

Or would he remain a twisted, broken-minded coward — whether he acknowledged that as fact or not — and flee like a stray?

He fled. Of course he did, it was his only option left on the table. The last time an encounter in the forest happened between him and his savior, she'd threatened him; used her magic against him while he'd been vulnerable, without a knife strapped to his side.

It was the most gorgeous sight; the way the sun’s bright fixtures illuminated her at her back, looming over him as though she were a goddess reborn. A saint exempting him from the land of promise to repent for his sins.

He'd wanted to kill her, then. Strangled her throat until her face was comparable to the purple of her hair, until her eyes ceased to open again, and until he could cut out her heart and display it in his room for only him to see.

Since then, he'd dreamed again, and again. Of her. In the good dreams, he'd hunted her down like a starved cat on a search for its next meal.

In the bad dreams, he embraced her and never wanted to let go; her fingers in his hair, her lips against his, their arms wrapped eternally around each other.

In the far off distance from where Victoria stood, her words somehow echoed throughout the forest— reaching far enough for him to hear her and the melodious song her voice had elicited.

“Strange… ever strange, indeed.”

“He's looking… again.”

“Pay no mind to him,” said Victoria to Zenith, the former appetizing on a box of dark chocolate brownies as her dessert. “I can assure you, he isn't of your concern.”

But Zen was not so easily convinced. “Sure he isn't.”

“He is of little importance, Zen.”

“Yeah, well, important or not, I am not enjoying the way he's looking at you.”

Victoria sighed. “... You want me to send Mephisto after him, don't you?”

Now that got Zen to grin a little more than before. Maybe, his eyes suggested, filled with mischief and a need for entertainment.

“No.”

“What? Why not??”

“Aldrich isn't a threat.”

“Aldrich Edelweiss. Not a threat.” He looked like he could burst into laughter any minute now after a statement like that. “Very funny, Tori.”

Victoria deadpanned. “He isn't.”

But it isn't looking like he's going to relent, she thought with a tiny and barely concealed frown as she assessed Zen and his expressions.

Mephisto— Victoria's loyal, obedient, little corvid she'd inherited from her late grandmother — was exclusive to keeping an eye on those Victoria personally deemed a threat.

To her, Aldrich didn't qualify as one. He checked off some boxes, sure, but a threat? That's the last thing Victoria would ever call him.

But Zen was relentless. After this, she knew he'd continue to pester and convince her into spying on Aldrich through Mephisto— a nice sentiment on his end, but one she'd consider inconvenient.

Inconvenience, however, wasn't enough to stop a sigh from escaping her lips at what she was to say next.

“... I'll see what I can do about Mephisto.”

Zen smiled. Satisfied, she'd call the expression, and before she could mumble at how he wouldn't allow a no out of her, he pulled her in for a hug.

“Good to know, Tori,” Zen murmured in relief.

And that was enough to prevent her from getting any more annoyed than she already was.

This damn bird, Aldrich thought to himself the more it became clear that Mephisto just wouldn't leave him alone.

For the past four weeks, he hadn't been able to get even a fraction close enough to where he wanted to be— to keep his sights on Victoria was a form of entertainment as much as it was a twisted show of his devotion, and he couldn't even have that.

His patience thinned, as did his sanity. Clueless to who the crow that's been stalking him like a circling vulture waiting to take whatever's left, Aldrich had taken a few extra measures into making sure it stopped following him.

He'd shot arrows, dabbled in throwing his blades right at the damn creature, hoping that one of them could land a hit.

But it wouldn't let up, always somehow returning to him unscathed when he'd been so sure that he'd targeted them dead more than once.

The damn bird even stole his prized dagger right out of his grasp. And every night since, he dreamed of cutting it open with that same blade, presenting the contents to his savior as a sacrifice worthily presented.

He found solace tonight, knowing that Mephisto was seemingly nowhere as he watched Victoria. At first he found it odd, considering a forest deep into the long hours of midnight would be an almost perfect location for a crow to lurk and sneer.

Aldrich Edelweiss, however, hadn't bothered to care too much about it. Not while he admired Victoria — a closer distance than they'd usually be — singing a symphony even the coral sea sirens knew never to compete with.

The animals adored her, sitting by her, having the pleasure of having their head on her lap with their fur combed through by her fingers.

His hand twitched, a wave of longing crashing over him as it always did; the temptations of reaching out and having the attention of all those fur-faced and like-minded winged creatures taken away and directed unto him.

His compromise was a quiet sigh, a hand over his heart. A silent duet they shared, a wordless melody only they knew the lyrics of, even when one didn't notice the presence of the other.

But the sound of a familiar caw brought an end to a moment of entrancing quiet. Bringing Victoria to her feet, and Aldrich with his guard up, bow and arrow in hand and a quiver strapped to his back.

This time, he'd make the shot.

“Mephisto.”

So that was its name. Even so, all too late, Aldrich didn't even process the hand that reached out to the corvid as he fired a single shot.

Just as it was about to pierce through his tormentor, it froze like ice and dropped to the ground. Shattering like broken glass in its place.

The prince's broken, lovesick heart sank at the sight of his savior’s hand reaching out to let his tormentor perch on it like a throne, her fingertips gently caressing the underside of its beak.

“There you are…” Victoria hummed. “I should feed you more, you've been flying slower as of late. Do you think Pallas has any spares left?”

Mephisto gave out another caw straight from its hazardous beak. Victoria frowned. “I forgot to restock. I've been… busy. You know that.”

At long last, Aldrich's heart stopped in its beat. And yet as quickly as he did, Victoria and her corvid’s heads whipped to his direction— staring down at the trees he'd been using to keep cover.

Victoria scrutinized it, her sharp sapphires for eyes suddenly squinting. She scoffed, her soft fingertip tickling Mephisto's beak.

“Go.”

Then and there, Aldrich bolted the opposite direction, racing into the darkness of the forest with no way of knowing where he'd end up— his eardrums ringing in torment, his breathing shallow as he pushed his legs past their limits.

Mephisto followed suit, its crowing mocking at him like laughter. Aldrich shrieked, hands going to the sides of his head to pull at the hairs in hopes that would distract him; little success came of that.

He felt tired. So tired. His chest heaved while his throat burned the longer he ran.

You could imagine the drop of his heart when he — mid-sprint — had all of a sudden, frozen in place. Aldrich's breath finally came to a prolonged, shallow halt.

Her footsteps were so slow and she drew nearer, and nearer. As though she were taunting him, she also took her time in getting closer.

Slowly, treacherous, and calculatingly, she finally reached him; her chest to his back, a shadow towering over his own.

Her arms weaved seamlessly on to his shoulders, a tight hold on them under the impression that if she didn't, he'd run off.

Is this it? Aldrich brought that thought to the forefront. If it were, he supposed it wasn't the worst way to die.

To die by the hands of his savior was better than to die dishonorably by a heretic. But she'd once been that for him, too.

“Kill me,” Aldrich demanded in a soft, tight voice. He clenched his fists at his sides and closed his eyes shut. “Kill me, if you must.”

“I don't plan on killing you, anytime soon.”

Her grip loosened. And with it, her melodious voice went lower in its octave, barely counting as a whisper with each word she spoke.

“I know you've been watching me, Edelweiss.”

The dagger Mephisto had stolen away from him returned to him, at long last. Slowly, Victoria gave a sideways glance to Aldrich while he remained in her grasp with his dagger back in its sheath.

Aldrich shuddered under her grasp— not from her admission, nor from the familiarity of his dagger back in his possession, but the feeling of her breath against the shell of his ear. “I—”

“You don't need to explain yourself for me,” said Victoria. “I'd be a hypocrite if I judged you for it.”

Her hand gently caressed his jaw, adjusting it until his eyes met hers right above. She towered over him, a titaness overcasting him— an undeserving mortal.

She smiled wryly, as though the dazed look in the prince's eyes were humorous. She turned him on his heel and pinned him to a tree, one hand right over his head.

A sight so beautiful it made him want to reach out in ways he'd never even think of doing leading up to this.

In a flash, her eyes broke their gaze with his and looked above at Mephisto circling them from above. “If you must know…”

“... I've been having a certain bird, a confidant if you want to call it that, keep tabs on you for the past… what was it, four weeks?”

At the sudden question, Aldrich nodded rapidly. He couldn't get a word out; that, on its own, was worth his own shock.

“... Why?” His voice was soft, too soft. From one moment to the next, his gaze shifted between meeting her cold gaze and the soft lips mere inches away from his face.

“Why?...” It disappointed Aldrich to see her pull back from the question. He'd expected many things to happen next, not a single one of them equating to an unnatural chorus of laughter.

Her cackles echoed about the forest. Maybe it scared the animals that treated her like a princess, or maybe it didn't. He didn't know.

And he didn't want to care.

“Let's just say a friend saw you as a threat, and I humored them by keeping Mephisto's eyes on you.” Thinking over it, Victoria shook her head. “In retrospect, I can understand the uncomfortable undertones of stalking someone, even if they were watching you back.”

“Admittedly, however… you've instead brought on an interest for me to take apart until every meticulous detail is truly understood.”

“... I do not quite follow.” He did. He absolutely did, and it thrilled him more than it should have, and he wanted nothing more but to hear it from her lips.

Victoria could read that bluff from a mile away. Why she didn't address that, Aldrich didn't understand. He much rather focused on what she said next.

“What I mean… is that I find you interesting, your highness.” Your highness, a silent scoff left her. Unfit for a man so cruel, and twisted. And yet…

“You're a twisted, broken mess. One doomed of disrepair with no one befitting enough of your standards to give you peace.”

The words pierced at his heart. But then… “Unfortunately, I suppose I am equally irredeemable.”

One hand, the one that wasn't resting above his head, intertwined with the limp hand hanging by his side. She smiled at him, and for once, he knew it was sincere.

His eyes flickered from different directions, all trying to pull at his puppet strings and direct his attention onto them.

The moonless sky, the stars that danced over it.

The shadow it cast over Victoria's form; her eyes, sapphires deeper than the abyss of the first water, shining brighter than starlight.

He only had one thought, then. Beautiful as the moon.

A moon that wasn't there to guard either of them. And never will.

“Because a part of me is as cruel, and broken, and imperfect as you are. And if you'll have me… we can both be broken together.”

【 Taglist / Credits 】

↳ In order of OC appearances/mentions

Aldrich Edelweiss – @revivemyreverie · @revolllutionary

Victoria Shard – Me 😈

Zenith Devi – Also Me 😈

Mephisto – Also (2) Me 😈

#twisted wonderland oc #twst oc #mutuals <3 #twst ocs #victoria shard #aldrich edelweiss #『 vic ♢ 』#oc x oc #mutuals' ocs #mutual's oc #twisted wonderland ocs #shrimpnetwrk #pomefiore #pomefiore oc #twst pomefiore #zenith devi #✎ᝰ. : short story writing house #rosie writings! (💖)

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kairiscorner · 1 year ago

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I sort of have an idea for an imagine. What about a Filipino!reader where she loves to eat and her favorite is puto(the spiders probably always see her eating). So one time somebody like Miguel asks her what she was eating and she says "puto" with a warm smile and all and then Miguel is just baffled 😨 (you add like the other spiders who understand spanish in the scene).

The thing is puto is literally a cuss word in Spanish-speaking countries. It can either mean a rude word for a coward, a prostitute, or a slur for a gay man. And puto in Filipino is just rice cakes 😋.

And so Miguel and the others thought you were cussing him when in reality you were painfully oblivious and unaware. And miscommunication and culture clash/shock.

Also, pasukan sa eskwelahan na naman 😭😭.

LOL HI POOOOOO, for real, nasa bakasyon mode pa me mgee, also omg that reminds me of the cute ass yt short i saw of a filipino mom teaching her kid about the dessert in front of her colombian dad LMAOOOOO i love it and I HOPE YOU LOVE THIS <333

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

you said... what? — miguel o'hara x filipino!reader

you were happily snacking on your favorite childhood classic snack, a steamed plump rice cake that you bought from your home dimension before heading over to HQ. as you were just minding your own business, stuffing your face with the delightful treat, miguel had noticed you being at peace eating. he looked at the box of assorted colored rice cakes, some were white while others were purple, with some having bits of cheese on them.

"whaddya got there?" he asked as he looked at the rice cakes you had with you. you stopped biting into the food and looked up at miguel with a bright smile. "ah, my favorite dessert snack from back home in the philippines." you explained. miguel nodded as he looked at you. "what's it called?" "ah, puto." you answered him with a sweet smile, which starkly contrasted with miguel's contorted wince. "um... come again?" he asked you in a softer voice this time. "ah, i said it's called 'puto'." you repeated, but miguel staggered backwards a little as he was still in disbelief that he heard what he thought he heard. you handed him a piece, asking him to try it. "i love having some puto in my mouth, y'know? it fills me up just right after a long day." you said with a sigh of contentment as you dug into the rice cake again, smiling widely as miguel looked at the snack and back at you, unsure if he's comfortable with saying the snack's name.

he took a bite and could agree with you, the snack certainly was delicious... though the name kind of made miguel a little taken aback. he does respect that you and your people call it as it is, he'll just remind himself it isn't a dirty word, it's the name of this quaint little dessert that you loved dearly in this context. but if he's being honest right now, he doesn't wanna think at the moment, he just wants to savor the goodness of this snack you really love with you, regardless of what it was named.

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spot-the-ableism · 4 months ago

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to set the record straight, as I have zero things to hide.

[IMAGE ID: a tumblr post by user crippled-peeper, it is a reblog chain of 3 posts. It reads “accuses me of “race faking” because I talked about being a refugee from Katrina checks my bio again first line: white man” next reblog reads “idk what’s more fucked up, that these bloggers are named “spot the antisemitism” or “ spot the ableism” or the fact that they are so racist and ableist they think the only way a white person could be a refugee is if they’re making it up” next post reads “ “you can’t be a refugee and disagree with me!!! Everyone knows that I am the arbiter of who is and isn’t a refugee as someone who lives in a gated community in the USA !!! Don’t you know I RUN A BLOG?!?!?” The tags read “#I’m so glad other people are im agreement that these kids are actual clowns not to be taken seriously at all” END ID:]

I never said or insinuated that you were not a climate refugee, nor that you were a racefaker

above is proof, I have not edited the posts nor want to. You have the reblogs to prove I in fact did not edit anything.

the things you are claiming I “did” were things that spot-the-antisemitism did and said.

intracommunity ableism is still ableism, hate speech against both Jewish and other disabled people is not okay, you can be both completely totally right to call out spot-the-antisemitism’s ableism and commit hate speech against random Jewish and disabled people. You can do both, nuance exists.

me calling you out on harmful behaviour and inciting hate speech is not a bad nor immoral thing I’d hope you would do it to me.

Link 1

Link 2

Link 3

Link 4

if you are mad at me swearing at you may I remind you that you have committed way worse acts of hate speech and yet I gave you benefit of the doubt. People are allowed to swear at people.

i have said you may be having a horrible time right now due to medication troubles and that people should not harass you regardless. And that they should keep in mind that you have been through a lot and do not want harassment. I do also humbly apologise for swearing it was wrong of me to and not conducive to anything helpful.

if anything I have been way too forgiving, what you have said to many well meaning and non-ableist/normal disabled people has been utterly vile and yet do I use that against you? Yet do I say those same things towards you? Yet do I mean to hurt or harass you? No.

I live my life, you live yours, I care about you enough to actually call out people who do wish to hurt you. I shouldn’t, but I do. If you return my very calm and sincere response with the same energy and hatred that you usually do it is not in good faith.

you are having a hard time, a hard time always. And I do not wish to contribute to that. But I cannot stay silent and let others be hurt by what you do and you say. Words do effect reality, there are people behind these screens and I am one, and I am writing this sincerely.

again why am I ableist when I was the one to in fact call out and hold spot-the-antisemitism accountable, and explain why it was bad? I spotted the ableism, simple as that.

I am no wimp, or coward if you wish to call me horrible things I am proud to Bare it.

As I do with all things.

sincerely a disabled person who was told way worse things than this over the course of my childhood.

if you do say "KYS" or any variation of it I will be reporting you.

as that. is. hate. speech. and violent speech which. is. not. legal.

I have not discriminated against you nor malgendered you, I have only sweared at you at the worst (and called out that fakeclaiming and spewing violent hate speech is unacceptable), if anything I have been on your side on most of this.

this comes from a place of love, not hatred.

#ableism #cripplepunk #spot-the-ableism | important info #The crippled-peeper saga #context and my thoughts #if you wish to say something about me I would rather it not be swears #I am already at my wits end due to real life things. and will not accept any violent or hateful speech.#I am not a “zionist” I am not a “genocidal murderer who hates brown refugees” I am not anything.#if you wish to take it up with me I will be getting the moderators involved.#thank you. I know my rights.#not screenreader safe

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olive-pup · 4 months ago

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Anyway reblog for increased sample size

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 2 years ago

Text

Drawn Together 17

Warnings: non/dubcon, obsession, intimidation, spanking, and other dark elements.

Character: Steve Rogers

Summary: You get a tattoo on an impulse to break your routine, but you walk away with something else as permanent as the ink.

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

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The night sees you in much the same trap as the one before. You’ve appeased Steve. For now. You know deep down, it won’t last. That it won’t be enough. Not in the end.

You sleep in the white satin he chose. He embraces you from behind, his hand cradles your chest as his breath whispers across your scalp. You’re suffocated by his warmth. You don’t move, the only time you’re truly alone is when he’s asleep.

You close your eyes to keep the tear from slipping past. You wiggle your nose as it tingles. The night breeze rustles the tree outside the window and carries the chirps of lively crickets. The song of the night is in disorder just as those that play in your head.

“Middle C,” the order comes and you set your hands just so. “Very good.” Professor Zemo praises as he flicks the metronome into a steady beat, “Begin.”

You hear the melody before your fingers pluck it out. It’s that magical sensation that overtakes you. The way your body moves naturally to create the music. As if it’s a part of you. You smile as you read the music, following along as the world pinpoints to the keys and nothing else.

“Posture,” Zemo squeezes your shoulder.

You fix your position and keep on, not missing a note. His hum underlines your symphony as you proudly play. He stays close by the bench, hand lingering on your sleeve, rubbing the fluttery fabric between his fingertips. You follow the highs and lows until you reach the end, hitting that final key with a flourish.

“You are improving,” he moves to stand behind you, close so that you feel the heat of him radiating around you. His other hand rests upon your second shoulder. “My dear, I must confess you are talented, if not the most talented student I’ve ever taught,” he bends and your skin pricks. What is he doing?

He presses his lips to your crown, “when you play,” he speaks into your hair, “you are the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

His hands wander down your blouse and he hooks beneath your arms. Your hands tamp down on the keys in surprise, a clatter of ugly notes all at once. He cups your chest through the layers of frills. You don’t know what to do so you do nothing. What can you do? He is your professor.

He pinches a button between his fingers and slowly undoes it, then another, and another. You shiver as he opens the front of your blouse. He stands straight to guide your sleeves down your arms. He steps closer and something hard presses to your back. You put your chin down as your lip trembles.

Coward.

You squeak as your eyes snap open. There is no relief to be found in waking. It’s not a dream but a memory. You feel a squeeze on your chest and your heart leaps into your throat. That speckling flame razes up your neck and across your cheeks. A furor you cannot bear.

You tear Steve’s arm away and push yourself out of the bed. You fall onto the floor, crawling away desperately as panic thrums against your ribs. Your arms shake and you fight not to collapse into a heap.

“Sweetheart,” Steve groans, his deep tones laced with fatigue and confusion. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you stop and turn over, sitting on your bottom, “I just have to pee.”

You don’t move though. You can’t. You sit against the footboard and smother your mouth to keep your shallow breaths quiet.

“Hurry back…” his voice drifts off to a snore.

You shake your head as your eyes sting. You haven’t cried about this in years, so why now? Why do the ghosts have to come back and haunt you?

🌹

A rush of cool air flows over you as the blankets are torn away. Your shallow sleep cracks as you mutter cluelessly and fall onto your back. You squeak as you find Steve staring down at you, a hand planted on the mattress as he leans on one arm. You squeeze your legs together and cross your arms.

He caresses your shoulder, toying with the nightgown’s strap, twisting it as his fingertips brush your skin. Little specks of heat linger as he follows the lacy trim along your chest. You hold in a breath quivering at the intensity of his gaze as it trails his touch.

He pulls your arm away from your chest and the other slips down limply to your side. You’re paralysed. You’re too afraid to resist him as you watch his eyes. They are dark and distant as if possessed.

“You’re so sweet,” he tugs down the soft satin cup. You whimper as he bares half your chest. He cups your tit, fondling you as he groans. His thumb rolls around your nipple and you shiver. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’ve been good.”

He gropes you as he purrs and slides down the bed. He stretches his arm up and lifts himself to his knees. He forces your legs apart and settles between them. His other hand traces along your thigh as he lets out a deep breath.

He kneads your chest as he slowly bends. You’re terrified as his hand crawls beneath the hem of your nightie and inches it up. He spreads out on his stomach, keeping his arm snaked up your torso as he pulls your leg over his shoulder. He bows his head to nuzzle the front of your panties and you twitch.

He hums and squeezes your chest again. A warning. You grab onto his thick arm as he inhales you and presses his nose against the cotton. The vivid ink that stains his skin contrasts with your own. You grip him tighter as he hums, sending a ripple through you.

Your breath hitches as he wiggles his head against you. A damp heat permeates the front of your panties and he tickles you through the fabric with his tongue. His saliva soaks through as he pushes the cotton against your folds, suckling through the layer hungrily.

He traces his fingers down the crease of your leg and drags your panties to the side. His cool tongue meets your hot cunt and you gasp. His nails dig into your skin as he blindly gropes your chest, thumb catching on the slack satin.

You're helpless. Just like before. Too weak to fight. You just let it happen. You wince as the sheets brush against your bruises. What else can you do? He's not hurting you. Yet.

He laps between your folds as your legs quiver. You close your eyes as your grasp drifts down his arm, reaching weakly for his head. You feel completely exposed to him. You want him to stop but the flick of his tongue has you spasming. He swirls around your clit so that a pluck coils in your muscles.

You’re completely disarmed as spreads his tongue wide and tastes you. He slowly drags his tongue up and back down. Your thighs tingle as he seals his lips around your tender bud and the sudden pressure has you writhing. He groans as he uses the tip of his tongue to tease you.

Your back arches as you push your thigh against his head. His beard tickles you, another wave rolling through you. It’s too much and not enough. You want him desperately to stop yet fear that he will.

You moan and sink your head back in the pillow. Your hips rock as he flutters his fingertips along your ass, adding to the storm of sensation. Shame bubbles with something else. Something hotter. Irresistible.

You cry out as you lose control. As you succumb to him. No, he’s conquered you. You surrender in a spasm of delight, mewling between heavy puffs as you clamp your thighs around his head and twist wildly.

He doesn’t stop. He drinks you in desperately as you cum. He keeps on until you can’t. Your legs splay and your arms fall down limply. You lay quaking and whimpering as he sucks and licks at your cunt. He does so noisily rubbing his beard against your sopping cunt until you whine.

“Please,” you squeal as you reach for him, lifting your head dizzily, “please… Steve…” His eyes flick up as he swipes his tongue around your clit, “sir… I can’t… I can’t take…”

You drop your head back down as your hips jerk. Your voice swells out of you, blooming into moans and drones. You feel it again, the tempo building and building, until you can’t stand it. Your nerves scatter again in a violent chorus that has you clawing at the sheets.

He does not relent. Even as you writhe, even as you push on his head and beg. Please, please, please.

#steve rogers #dark steve rogers #dark!steve rogers #drabble #drabble series #au #tattoo au #drawn together #mcu #marvel #captain america #avengers #steve rogers x reader

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thesandsofelsweyr · 10 months ago

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THE FINAL TESTAMENT OF JASON PETER TODD

《 READ ON AO3 》

Now it all made sense. The bath, the haircut, the script, the suit, the camera… Joker was going to send a video to Batman, and Batman was gonna know that Robin was a traitor, that Bruce was justified when he picked a new kid for the job instead of rescuing the old one.

《RATING》 Teen 《WORDS》 1,544

《CHARACTERS》 Jason Todd/Robin, Joker, Bruce Wayne (mentioned)

《TROPES》 Heavy Angst

《WARNINGS》 Implied/Referenced Torture, Self-Loathing, Swearing

《SERIES》 Part 5 of My Arkhamverse, Part 5 of Ruined

《TAGLIST》 @aaliyah-wayne @ladytauria @betty-1880 @deans-spinster-witch @hlg8 @plantixst

《NOTES》

This is the final flashback scene from Jason's POV.

This is actually the prologue to an upcoming fic, but I felt like it worked better as a standalone (when you see the tags for the upcoming fic you’ll understand 🤡)

Shoutout to @1dragon-mustard1 for beta-ing this for me 🥰

If you enjoy the read please kudos, comment, and reblog 💚

《 READ ON AO3 》 (excerpt below the cut)

He was back in the suit.

Sure, it was nice to be dressed in something more than a pair of ragged boxer briefs, but why couldn’t it have been anything other than this goddamned suit. The Clown had had the suit for days/weeks/months now; the least he could’ve done was wash it. But no, dried blood still stained the chestpiece a darker shade of red, the green undersuit still reeked of an amalgam of bodily fluids.

He’d lost so much weight in this shithole that the suit barely fit him now. But in truth, had this suit ever really fit him? He was nothing but a thug, a loser, a corner boy from the streets of Crime Alley; a wannabe gangster, like his deadbeat dad, the bastard he’d helped send to an early grave. Robin doesn’t sell his own blood to the mob. Robin doesn’t sneak off to murder a man. Robin doesn’t get his dumbass captured by that very same man. He should never have donned this suit. It was meant for a better man than he ever was, a better man than he could ever dream of being.

He’d had a sackful of cash that day, had thrown the cops. He should’ve kept walking, should’ve minded his own business as usual. Instead he’d decided to play the hero for some damn reason. If he hadn’t dragged Batman to safety, he might’ve moved from the corner to a crew, or maybe he’d wound up in a ditch with his head blown off. Either way, he wouldn’t be here suffering every day of his life, wouldn’t have been reduced to a psycho’s sniveling pet.

I wish I’d never met Bruce Wayne…

Sweat was pouring off him as he sat simmering under the heat of the two spotlights Joker had his goons wheel in. He was parked in a new storage room. All the junk had been hauled out—wheelchairs, gurneys, screens, metal tables, assorted medical equipment—everything except the spotlights, his wooden chair from the torture chamber, a single flickering candle at his feet, and a video camera atop a tripod. An attempt to disguise his location, he presumed. A waste of time. No one was looking for him. No one cared if he lived or died.

The Clown was behind the camera, muttering about wires and other shit Jason couldn’t care less about. He sat as straight as his ruined shoulders would allow (which was to say, hunched over like an old man) and stared down at the cracked black-and-white tiles while he waited for the camera to start rolling. He’d rehearsed this scene with Joker many times, always with a cattle prod on hand to make certain he didn’t forget his lines. He tried to ignore the panic rising inside him, tried concentrating on his breathing instead. This video was certain to end up in Batman’s hands. He had no intention of showing Bruce who he truly was: a terrified little coward, the Clown’s despicable creature.

Soon would be the moment of truth. “His name. Tell me.” Each time they rehearsed Joker would shock him with the prod before he could answer. But it was showtime now. Would he betray his former partner to the Clown? The man who’d scooped him up off the street, who’d given him a home, a family, a chance at a better life? The man who’d adopted him, who’d actually believed in him? Bullshit. He never believed in you. You were a stopgap. A charity case, that’s all you ever were to the man. Another PR stunt for Gotham’s sweetheart Bruce Wayne.

“Man alive, you gotta be crazy to figure these newfangled gadgets out, am I right?” Joker’s nasally voice cut through his thoughts, which was good. He needed to be ready to perform at his best. If he fucked this up, there’d be more pain waiting for him. He just wanted to get this over with so he could crawl back into his photo-covered corner and maybe, if he was lucky, snatch an hour or two of restless sleep before it all began again.

“All right, I think I got it!” Joker exclaimed, and Jason’s heart crawled into his throat. “Just act natural, kid. You’re going to be my shining star! Now,

“three…

“two…

“one…

“action!”

Read the rest on AO3→

#sands writes #my arkhamverse #series: ruined #jason todd #joker #robin #arkham asylum #arkham knight #arkhamverse #jason todd fanfiction #dcu #whump

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