#Runaway mayhem

[nodplus50pts]

my comic drops tomorrowwww (technically this morning) exclusively at shortbox comics fair !!

[cartoonistcoop]

ShortBox Comics Member Interview: Zen K.

Throughout the month of October, the Cartoonist Cooperative will be sharing interviews with members of the Co-op who have a new comic available at the ShortBox Comics Fair 2024! 

NOTE: The Cartoonist Cooperative is not affiliated, associated, authorized, endorsed by, or in any way formally connected with ShortBox.  

Today’s spotlight is Zen K a.k.a @nodplus50pts and their new comic for ShortBox, Runaway Mayhem.

We’d love it if you could introduce yourself and tell us about your background in comics.

Zenab Khan: My name is Zenab Khan, I go by Zen K. online too! I’m a freelance illustrator and designer based in the UK who’s been drawing ever since I could hold a pencil! I started out drawing Pokémon when I was a kid before discovering manga in middle school, where I mostly just drew very short and silly fancomics. I’m someone who’s always wanted to venture into making comics, and I think by now it’s been nearly 10 years since I told myself that I’d write a doujinshi (self published fanwork) one day, but always found it daunting to commit to it because of impostor syndrome and whatnot. I finally decided to challenge myself and do a complete one-shot for my thesis project on cosmic horror last year and how it’s utilized in a visual medium like comics. It’s called The House on 52 Carlton Street and it basically ended up being the catalyst for me to really fall in love with making comics!

Tell us more about your new comic?

ZK: My comic for ShortBox Comics Fair 2024 is called Runaway Mayhem: it’s a sort of sci-fi story that I wanted to explore the human condition with. I feel like a lot of its themes are fairly topical with the direction tech seems to be headed. I still wanted a more grounded feel to it despite it being a post apocalyptic sci-fi setting, only with the added perk of “things were bad but they’re pretty OK now.” I poured a lot of love into the characters and would love to explore their story and universe again eventually!

Read the rest of the interview here!

[dilatorywriting]

Monster Mayhem: Siren's Song [Part 5]

Gender Neutral Reader x Vil Schoenheit Word Count: 6.8k

Summary: 'Rule 27: It’s a poor choice to help a hare at high noon, but it will certainly appreciate you if you do.'

WARNING for some descriptions of violence

[PART 1] [PART 1.5] [PART 2] [PART 3] [PART 4] [PART 5]

You’d first set foot on The Rose Queen when you were the tender age of eleven. Or, well, something close to that. It wasn’t like most peasant orphans were taught numbers, let alone how to interpret calendars well enough to mark the passing of years.

It was the first ship you’d ever seen up close—sleek, and salt-stained, and creaking beneath your toes. The Boy King at its helm had turned his nose up at you in his too big coat, with his too big boots and tricorn hat that kept slipping down over his eyes. It was a ragtag crew that you’d wandered into, made of nothing but runaways and street rats. The ship itself was just as unusual and fresh-faced. It was built in a very impractical sort of way, with hallways that led to nowhere and portholes that opened up into endless seas of shadow where you could tumble down, down, down for hours and never see an end (or so you’d been warned). There were paintings on the walls, all off-centered and hanging on crooked nails that wobbled with every dip in the waves. The masts and rails were stained a deep, bloody red, in honor of its title. And no matter how the raging winds and waves battered at those petals, your Captain would have you out there the next morning to paint them anew. The Rose Queen was the finest pirate ship in all the ocean, and you only half-said that out of personal bias.

The vessel of the Silver Songbirds was… not like that.

It was grand, certainly. But there was a barren cleanliness to it that didn’t feel lived in. Sure, Riddle’d had you literally scrubbing stains out of the deck with a toothbrush and pot of turpentine, but this was different. Sterile, rather than squeaky. The wood planks didn’t whine with a weary, seaworthy groan beneath your feet that you could feel through the heel of your boots—as if to reassure you it was there. The air smelled of salt, sure, and you could see a group of gulls circling overhead, but the whole of it felt… empty. Lonely.

The black haired man led you to a small, private room in the ship’s hull. That alone was strange. You’d been sharing quarters for the whole of your seafaring career. This new little suite of yours had a bed, and white paint on the walls, and a porthole for a window. He gently coaxed you into sitting at the foot of the mattress and readjusted the coat resting along your shoulders. His smile was soft, kind. The sort of warm, pretty expression that you could read about in a love poem.

You remembered your Siren’s vicious, pointed smirk—red, and haughty, and sharp enough to cut glass—and fought a pang of something you absolutely refused to put a name to.

When you blinked back into focus, his lips were moving in a slow, steady flow and you focused your best on the shape of them. It was hard, with how placid his expression was—with how little there was to make out of anything he was attempting to get across. And whether it be your furrowed brow or a sudden memory that oh right, you’d told him your ears worked as well as a three-legged horse pulling a one-wheeled cart, he startled into silence. His face twisted up with chagrin, and he offered you an apologetic smile with round, pink cheeks.

He fumbled around in his pockets for a piece of paper and scribbled out a hasty note to press into your palms.

‘My name is Neige Leblanche, and I’ll be taking care of you for this journey.’

You paused, fingers worrying at the sides of the neat, square bit of parchment. It felt right to offer your own name in return. That would be the polite thing, surely. But you paused, throat tight with uncertainty and a prickling, unpleasant sort of heat. Because you’d never even told your Siren your name, had you? Not even once.

And beneath that sudden, sour gut punch was something else.

‘Rule 116, your name is not a number, but it is your value. Do not offer it to any whose own interests are undue.’

The first time Ace had found himself with a wanted poster (‘Ugly,’ he’d complained, bitter. ‘How am I supposed to hook any tail with this? I look like a mutant potato. This stupid portrait is worse than prison.’), Riddle had taken your handwritten Book of Rules and underlined that one thrice over. You hadn’t thought much of it until you’d had to cut a hangman’s noose from around your idiot, foxy friend’s throat—the handiwork of the tavern folk he’d been boasting to only an afternoon before. And then it had made sense. Ace had survived (with a new, grand tale of woe that he liked to repeat ad nauseum until you wished you’d left him strung up), but the lesson had remained.

Carefully you swallowed the words resting on your tongue and offered a polite-ish nod in their place.

“Nice to meet you, sir. Thank you. For saving me.”

Neige shook his head in a panicked sort of rush, hands waving back and forth with a clear ‘none of that! None of that!’ before reaching back into his pockets to search for another note.

‘It was my honor,’ he wrote, words jumbled and sloppy in his haste. ‘It’s the duty of all officers to help those in need.’

Your brow pinched. Officer? Officer of what?

Your Siren had called these Songbirds dangerous. ‘Not safe’ written into the sand over and over again with his curled claws. You didn’t know much of mainland politics and other such nonsense, but maybe there was some sort of… Siren Hunting Order? Soldiers of the King sent out to scour the seas and keep them safe for a host of weary, would-be-merman-meals? That would make sense. It would make a lot of sense, actually.

Another note was pressed into your hands.

‘How did you end up stranded on that island?’

Islet, you wanted to correct petulantly. Riddle would have. Your Siren would have.

You opened your mouth and hesitated. Telling Nigel, or Nergal, or whatever his name was that your ship had been besieged by a pod of ravenous mers (and one fair-faced asshole who you already missed far, far too—) was as good as serving them up on a silver platter, wasn’t it? Siren hunters probably traded information like how pirates traded maps or merchants traded gold. And you’d be damned if your loose tongue was what led to your friend companion co-strandee’s family being hunted for sport just after he’d finally managed to make his way home again.

So you stiffened your upper lip and turned to look your savior in the eye.

“I fell overboard,” you said, firm. “Because I’m an idiot.”

He blinked, startled, and you could recognize the spluttered ‘…oh’ shaping his lips.

He handed you another scribbled bit of parchment, gaze averted and awkward.

‘I’m sorry.’

“Never apologize to the half-wit for whatever fallacy of their own led to them falling into the pit,” you recited naturally, and Nigel startled. His doe eyes went round with confusion and he tilted his head at you like a curious hound. Nothing intimidating, more like some kind of fluffy cocker spaniel or primped up lapdog staring up at you with too-long-lashes and too-few-thoughts.

You shrugged.

“Just a rule I was supposed to follow,” you shrugged off. You offered a slanted grin. “Though when you’re the idiot in question, it can be pretty hard to avoid.”

Neville smiled at you with a soft sort of laugh that you swore you could feel dancing along your skin.

Another note.

‘I’ll be back in a bit. Please enjoy the amenities here and get some rest. If you need anything, let us know and I’ll get it sorted personally.’

You dipped your chin in thanks and collapsed back against the small, flat mattress in the corner. It was soft, sturdy, probably good for your back and all that nonsense. The sheets were crisp and white, and they rubbed blandly at your weary hide. You could smell the lingering, sharp fragrance of some kind of tacky soap in the cotton. Totally not unpleasant at all. Theoretically, it should have actually been the best bed you’d ever slept in. But a part of you missed swaying back and forth in a net hammock, and an even bigger part missed plopping down in the sand with the heat of a crackling fire at your front and the even steadier warmth of the long, curling, press of gemstone scales at your back.

You flopped over onto your side and stared at the empty, carefully manicured surface of the desk opposite you and wished more than anything that you’d brought your shell.

.

.

The room was cold when you next woke, and you shivered into the jacket Neige had draped along your shoulders (because it was ‘Neige.’ It had been signed on the bottom of the note he’d left you that morning alongside your breakfast. Which was stupid. The dumbest name you’d ever heard). The starched fabric of it all wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it was better than shivering through the chilly ocean mists that were seeping in through the porthole.

You burrowed into the swathe of white and blue wool like a rabbit in a hole, and then winced in irritation when another of those stupid, gaudy pins dug into your cheek.

You plucked the first from its place—the duo of silver songbirds. It really was quite pretty, despite the ominous undertones and all. Two, graceful, delicate sets of feathered wings arching up into the sky—forever frozen in a dance to the clouds. You dropped it into the little, dark crevice between your bed and the wall. Good riddance.

Next came a crest that was familiar in a distant sort of way—a memory that tickled that back of your brain from days long past. You hadn’t noticed it before, what with the echoes of ‘not safe, not safe, not safe’ blaring in your head like an alarm, but it was just as neatly polished as the birds pinned above. It was diamond shaped, the edges embossed in twining lines like the cut of a rope. At its head sat a strange sort of crown, with the arches and more familiar pointed designs replaced by the billowing arcs of sails.  All of that gallantry surrounded a pair of rearing stallions—hooves crossed along a golden edged sword and circled with blue ivy.

You twisted it between your fingers, watching the metal glint in the low light. You hadn’t set foot in proper society since Riddle had let your young, dumb self abscond into the ocean all those years ago. You could hardly remember the flag of our home country, let alone the specifics.

You frowned and the edges of the badge pricked at your fingers.

You dropped this one behind the bed too, with a petulant flick of your wrist to make sure it really stuck.

.

.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been around more often, there’s some business I’ve been having to take care of.’

You handed the note back with a shrug.

“It’s no bother.”

Neige offered an apologetic grimace nonetheless and another of those smiles that looked a bit too sweet to be real.

‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’

You bristled before you could help it, thoughts spiraling away to harpoons, and nets, and hunting parties. And then you settled your shoulders into a polite, easy line and offered one of your own too-put-together smiles in return.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, you saved me after all.”

Neige smiled again, easy and comfortable, and pressed another slip of parchment into your palms.

‘Where were you headed? When you fell overboard?’

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck you with a barbed cactus branch dipped in—

Ahem.

You cleared your throat in a way that was surely a Very Normal Person Thing To Do, and tried to ignore the fact that he was so brazenly attempting to map out his plan of attack—to pinpoint the route that the sirens had been chasing and run after it like hounds tracking a fresh scent. Which, to be fair, sirens were a scourge on the seas. Hundreds upon hundreds of good men and women had been lost to their crooning songs and wickedly sharp teeth. They were vicious, often cruel, and so much stronger than any mortal sailor that of course the world above would fear them. You’d been very much of the same opinion until only quite recently, and now—now you just couldn’t.

“I don’t know where we were going,” you lied, and Neige’s brow pinched in a dour, rejected kind of way. “But,” you tried, sprinkling in a touch of truth to make the lie go down easier, “I know we were coming from Port o'Bliss.”

He nodded, that uncongenial expression slipping off his face as easily as it’d settled there.

He rattled off something quick and bubbly, and you pointedly arched a brow. The brunette blushed bright pink and hastily scrabbled for another bit of paper.

‘Thank you for being so helpful. I know it can’t be easy.’

Your neutral expression froze on your face and when you smiled it felt more like a polite bearing of teeth. Did he know? Could he see right through you? Or worse, was he getting all the answers he wanted from you either way, no matter how you tried to coat it in a veneer of misdirection.

“Sure thing.”

He handed you another note, this time for his pocket. Crumpled and soft, the ink a bit smeared along the curling letters.

‘It’s a poor choice to help a heron at high noon,’ it said, ‘but it will certainly appreciate you if you do. So my thanks to you.’

Something settled in your gut at the familiarity, something deceptively warm and homey.

“It’s a hare,” you said, without much thought. “Not a heron.”

Neige nodded with a polite, smiling mumble that looked like another apology, and then left you to your own devices.

That night, a veritable feast was delivered to your tiny, white-walled cabin. A grand spread of food fit for a king. There was roasted fowl, pools of thick, spiced gravies, mountains of vegetables that you’d never even seen before. And tarts. So many colorful, fruity tarts that were so sweet they almost made your tongue curl.

“What’s the occasion?” you asked as Neige took a seat at your desk to nibble at the meal alongside you—a cloth napkin folded neatly across his nap and a clear glass flute for wine placed a bit precariously by his elbow.

He smiled, honey warm, and offered you another note.

‘For helping the hare.’

.

.

Neige didn’t come to visit you the next morning, and his absence had the hair at the nape of your neck standing on end.

You paced and paced around your cube of a barrack. It was maybe four steps from one end to the next, but the constant bumping your toes against the wall was better than just sitting there doing nothing. The worst part was the silence. Not the one in your head. Yes, yes, you were more than used to that. On and on, yada yada. But the silence of the ship. The Rose Queen had always felt like a living thing, a great, wooden beast with a pulse you could feel thrumming beneath your toes, your palms. All you had to do was lay a hand against its side and you could feel the rumble of the tide beyond, the rushing footsteps of sailors sprinting about to meet one of Riddle’s orders or other, the thump of heavy, wet mop heads smacking the deck overhead. It was quiet, but it wasn’t quiet. This ship? No matter how you laid against the boards or pressed flat to the walls, there was nothing. And it made you feel like you were trapped aboard a vessel full of ghosts.

The sun had long begun to set by the time Neige returned, and by then you were nothing but a livewire of nerves.

Had they found him? Your Siren? Was he there somewhere, just a few floors above—strung up like a fish in a net? Caught and displayed like a fine trophy? Or had they killed him outright? Had they found his pod? Had he put up a fight? Had he—

A piece of rolled parchment was held out for you to take, a satin blue ribbon tied along its belly. Neige’s soft, brown gaze was glued to the floor and you snatched the paper from his hands like a rabid cat and tore it open. You could barely keep your eyes steady to read it all—fine, pointed print done up in a neat hand.

‘—danger to those who venture—'

‘—for the safety of the people—’

‘—therefore, the decision has been made—'

‘—with the greatest consideration—’

‘—with immediate effect—'

‘—we have declared the extermination of—'

“You can’t!” you wailed, and Neige’s doe eyes darted up to yours and immediately away once more in guilt. “He’s—he’s not bad. I swear! I know how things look—and—and I know he’s not—that’s he’s a—but you can’t—”

Neige’s wavering stared jumped back to you in open surprise, and you saw his lips twitch on one word—delicate brows pinching in question.

‘He?’

You frowned and fought the urge to stomp your feet. Because, okay, fine. Sure, you were arguing tooth and nail for someone whose name you maybe didn’t even know. Someone who had swum away from your stupidly sentimental ass with all the power and grace of a beast fit to rule the depths of the oceans while you could barely flounder at its surface. And sure, sirens killed people and ate them. But this one was—he was special, and you’d be damned if you let some primped up fishermen try to reel him in on a hook just because he’d maybe eaten a few people. And—

There was a hand on your shoulder, and Neige was staring down at you with an expression not dissimilar to that of a parent about to tell their child that the cat had got out and met a terrible, squishy end beneath the wheels of your neighbor’s carriage. He sighed, dark lashes brushing along his cheeks, and then reached out with his other hand to tap a finger between your collar bones.

“What?” you snapped, and he tapped again. “Me? What about me?”

He paused, gaze meeting yours with a pointed sort of melancholy.

Oh.

Oh.

You remembered the pins you’d dropped behind your bed, one by one. You remembered the strange coat of arms crowned with golden sails and bearing a great, shining sword. Something regal, something imperial that a commoner like you would have only caught fleeting glimpses of in parades, and marches, and war calls.

Something like, say, Pyroxene’s Royal Naval Fleet.

You glanced down at the parchment again, crumpled between your fists, and smoothed it out into something legible beneath your fingers. You reread the text with careful focus.

‘For the Crime of Piracy’ it said. Right at the tippity top. In red ink.

“…ah,” you blinked. “That makes a lot more sense.”

.

.

You were to walk the plank on the ‘morrow.

Which honestly, you hadn’t even thought was really a Thing—walking the plank, argh. Fiddly dee and a yo-ho-ho. That sort of storybook nonsense. The parables that parents passed onto their children to try and scare them away from a life of villainy. Real pirates were put to the rack, or hanged in the town squares to scare the adults away from doing the same.

But you supposed it was practical, at least. Blood was hard to scrub out of wooden decks, so beheading would have been a bit of a mess. Bullets were best to be conserved out on the high seas where stocks were already low, and honestly, your body would just have to be thrown overboard anyways before it stunk up the barracks. So, like, doing it all in one would be quite efficient. You could appreciate that. 

Your hands would be bound at your back and you’d be given three breaths, three steps, and then you’d be tumbling down into the waves below. Claimed by the waters that you’d patrolled for so many years now. Fitting, honestly. Riddle would be proud (beneath the raging, spitting indignation of you being caught at all, but that was another matter). At least you wouldn’t be going out from food poisoning or something mundane like that, so that was a win. And who knew. Maybe your Siren would find you again when you were nestled to rest in some seabed not too far from here, and he could finally make a meal of your dumb ass yet. Happy endings abound.

You wondered idly at the dual branches of fate you’d wandered along in these past weeks, and if it would have been better to hide away when you’d first seen those sails on the horizon. To keep to the little, crescent island you’d found yourself on and slowly starved to death. Alone, abandoned, and sitting in a forever stillness worse than any silence you’d known before.  Forever staring out over the horizon for a glance of amethyst fins that you knew you’d never see again.

If given the choice between the two, you’d take the plank.

.

Neige brought you another feast that night, and you gorged on it merrily. 

When he nervously kept piling your plate with choice cuts after choice cuts, gaze diverted to the floor and looking like a kicked puppy dog with its tail between its legs, you rolled your eyes and swatted at his fingers.

“Unclench yourself,” you huffed, and he puffed up stuttery and pink in horror. “It’s not the end of the world. You’re just doing your job, right? If we’d met under different circumstances I bet I would have shot you first. So, really. All’s fair.”

He worried his lower lip between his teeth, guilt still swimming heavy and warm in those doe eyes of his.

He said something under his breath, something that you’d bet even if your ears were working at full capacity you wouldn’t have been able to parse out. He leaned forward to scrawl a note on the napkin beside your plate.

‘You’re happier now? After all this? I don’t get it.’

You reached out to pat him merrily on the shoulder, more a smack smack smack then anything really pleasant. He could see him fighting a wince with all the trembling sort of bravery of a field mouse. Poor dear. What was the Royal Navy thinking? Hiring on someone who looked like they belonged on an advert for rouge and sweets. This was the last face a pirate was expected to jeer into? This one? Really? It was a wonder this little, squirrely man hadn’t keeled over the first time someone spat on his boots.

“It’s a poor choice to help the fish at high noon,” you said around a mouthful of crumbs. “But it’s my choice. And I’m happy to do it.”

“Fish?” you saw him mouth, brow pinched, and you batted at his shoulder again before reaching for another of those too-sweet tarts.

.

.

There was a whole procession for your execution. With speeches. Which even with the slowly encroaching panic worming into your guts, you couldn’t help but think was at least a little funny.  

The whole crew was lined up in solemn formation, listening stalwartly to some judge, or high ranking officer, or whatever rattle off who even knew what. Your crimes? A homily? The lunch menu? Fuck if you had any clue. And you were the one being fed to the sharks. There had to be some joke hidden in here, right? The scoundrel pirate who could never be tried, simply because they couldn’t hear their own sentencing. You wouldn’t even know when to stand up and shout ‘I object!’ It would probably be pretty funny, right? If you just did that out of nowhere. And what was the worst that could happen? Oh, no. A fine. Please, sir. Add it to the list of debts I owe from beyond my watery grave. Amen.

A hand at your lower back gave you a gentle nudge forward and you shifted against the ropes binding your wrists. They were nicer than your own stores aboard the Rose Queen. Not nearly as itchy, the fibers neat and clearly expensive. Neige stepped up beside you and offered you a look that was likely meant to be kind, but your growing nerves had started to eat through your willingness to play friendly. You could feel the weight of the crew around you, even if you couldn’t hear them. The creak of the deck beneath your toes as they shifted about, the way their bulk must have been shielding you from the worst of the wind. Unlike with your own mismatched family of castaways, their presence wasn’t reassuring. And you kept your eyes locked forward and away from the field of sharp gazes eating into your hide.

The plank was narrow, and immediately you were fighting the urge to sway on your toes. Having your hands bound at your rear only made it worse. It threw off the whole of your center of gravity and had you feeling dizzy and seasick.

You took one breath, stuttery, and one step. The wood whined beneath your heels in a vibration you could feel all the way up to your knees.

Another breath, another step. You could feel the salt soaked board starting to bend now. Clearly it wasn’t meant to support much of anything, let alone a whole person. And for some reason the idea of it breaking beneath you was so much worse than taking that last step all on your own. A sudden plunge that was out of your control. It had your heart hammering in your throat and cold nausea bubbling in your belly.

You looked down. You didn’t want to, but it was like your gaze was a weighted, magnetic thing. Pulled down into the salty depths below. The water looked rougher than it had a moment ago, or maybe you were just really starting to panic. You could see the white froth of the wake breaking against the ship’s hull. It churned like the start of a storm, which was really, terribly inconvenient. Seeing as it’d been so still and calm just a few minutes before. And, y’know, the fact that you had to fall into that mess of sharp peaks and rocking waves. You swore you could see dark shapes flitting about just beneath the surface, a flash of grey, or maybe green. It was hard to tell, with the brightness of the early morning sun in your eyes.

No one was poking at your back, urging you forward, which you thought was quite odd. You’d been taking your sweet ol’ time sauntering to your demise. You’d assumed they’d have less patience for a pirate with cold feet. Instead, the world around you was just silent and still. Shifting with the raging waves below, but empty and quiet as a tomb for all you knew otherwise.

You took your last breath, your last step.

And then the ship lurched and you were plummeting towards the water. The dissonance between having something beneath your feet—no matter how frail—and then nothing was jarring, and it had you gasping on impulse. Hair whipping at your cheeks and lungs squeezing tight as the air screamed past your throat. It felt like you were drowning before you even hit the water.

When you did finally crash into the waves, it hurt. You’d always been a fairly proficient swimmer, but whether it be the mind numbing panic or the ropes binding you tight, tight, tight, you just started to sink. The salt stung like an open wound, and the water was cold. Frigid. Like being tossed into the jagged side of a glacier. You at least had the sense not to gulp down a mouthful of water out of reflex, but that didn’t make things much better.

You screwed your eyes shut, bubbles frothing at your nose, and tried to find that peace that you’d clung to all night long. A life for a life, one catch for another. No one was going to miss you anyways. And if you had to meet the reaper some way, then of all the ends the universe could have spun for you, at least this one had some meaning to it.

You sighed into the darkness, soft, but when your lips parted next around what should have been a mouthful of icy saltwater, all you could taste was air.

Your eyes shot open in the gloom to a mess of familiar golds and purples that you’d thought you’d never see again.

Your Siren pulled back, bubbles curling from the edge of his lips into a soft stream of warmth between the two of you. Nestling as deep as a full breath all the way in the tightest corners of your lungs. You could feel the dip of his claws as he settled his hands at your shoulders—keeping you in place. And immediately you shrieked and flailed in your bindings.

“You—!”

You promptly choked on another mouthful of sea water and your Siren wailed—all that molten fondness in those lovely amethyst eyes of his sharpening into familiar, pissy exasperation from one second to the next. He dragged your face back to his, slotting his mouth against yours and pushing more air into your lungs. You leaned into it before you could help yourself. Half for the whole oxygen thing, and half, because, well—

When he pulled away this time he smacked a hand over your mouth with a sneer, his thumb and index finger hooked upward to pinch at your nose. He jabbed a claw in your face with a clear ‘stay put’ and immediately went to work cutting through the bindings twined along your arms. The ropes fell away beneath his talons like butter to a hot blade, and he fretfully ran his palms up and down your limbs—looking for any stray bits of netting like a compulsion. Once he seemed certain that you’d been properly freed from your ties, he hauled you up against his chest in a grip that had you losing all the air in your lungs all over again. You could feel the cool jut of the sea glass around his neck pressing into your collar, and he buried his head down into your throat until you didn’t know where he ended and you began. The frills of his tail fluttered in the water, and the bulk of those twining strands curled up and around your legs like a barnacle.

He was warm. Warmer than you’d been expecting, for a creature who spent his life patrolling the darkest depths of the ocean. It wasn’t the same sort of heat that would beat off a human’s hide, but it was more comforting than any you’d ever known. You burrowed down against his shoulder, nose scrunching against the side of his neck and the fins at his ears brushing your temple. You could feel his claws flexing at your sides, feel the shift of his scales against your skin. And just as your lungs were starting to burn, he ducked forward to pull you into another kiss—filling your chest with wonderful, wonderful oxygen all over again.

You blinked blearily past the sting of salt in your eyes and he scrubbed a thumb against your cheek.

Now that those high, wonderful, heart bursting emotions were settling back into something manageable beneath your ribs, you took a moment to look at him. Really look at him. Because you’d sent him on his way, hadn’t you? Waved him off with well wishes and a hope for his happiness. And all that aside, how had he even managed to find you—

Bubbles streamed from your nose as that newest shared breath began to run dry, and your Siren hooked an arm around your waist to propel you upwards.

You crested the surface with a gasp, paddling instinctively against the churning wake. When all that did was leave you smack, smack, smacking at your Siren’s chest like a flailing toddler, he hissed—a spitting, pissy thing you could feel on the breeze—and hauled you back up against him. Just like he had all those times you’d swum together in your cove. You forced yourself to settle, bobbing gently against the tide as he kept you both aloft.

Once your body had managed to catch up with your brain to realize that it was, in fact, not drowning, all of the adrenaline rushed out of you like a broken spicket. You slumped against the Siren’s chest, fuzzy headed and dizzy. Because he’d saved you. Which made no sense in the least. But you’d almost died, and he’d saved you—

Your gaze drifted back up to the ship from which you’d only so recently taken your Cannonball of Doom and startled.

There was blood everywhere.

Staining the railings, splashed along the low flying flags, dripping along the deck. A macabre mess of gore and claw marks gutting the once grand vessel like a beached whale. Some of the crew still seemed to be hanging onto the life rafts, others were taking running leaps into the water like they were under compulsion—eyes glazed over and distant. There was a prickling all along your skin, something twisting familiar and strange in your gut, and oh. Oh.

One of the grander looking officers (the one who had been giving your pre-execution speech, perhaps? He looked similar enough) was shouting something from his place at the bow of one of the life rafts—arm extended in a grand show of valor and sword glinting into the light of the morning. And then a great, emerald siren was rearing over the side of that tiny vessel with a sharp grin on his face and sharper talons on display. The officer was dragged overboard, and the siren’s tail came down on the guardrails with a force that had the wood splintering and the already haphazard little boat rock, rock, rocking until it caught on a high wave and capsized.

You could see the flash of colorful scales and the tips of even brighter fins all around. Cresting above the water just long enough to grab hold of another wailing victim and drag them down to the depths. There was enough blood in the water that you could smell it. Acrid and copper against the ocean’s already sharp, salty musk. And sure, you were a pirate. You’d been in raids, you’d seen death. Plenty of it. But this. Well. It was unfamiliar. In a strange, detached sort of way. These assholes had chucked you overboard, after all. So you only really had a teensy, tiny pinch of sympathy for the fact that being eaten alive probably hurt like a sonofabitch.

It was more strange, you supposed, to be at the center of a sirens’ hunt and not be the one facing down the angry, bitey end.

You kicked in the water, nose scrunching when the red tide lapped against your chin.

“This isn’t going to attract sharks, is it?”

Because if you were saved from drowning at the hands of a royal militia only to wind up as a fish’s dinner, you would be terribly annoyed.

Your Siren rolled his eyes at you, like you were just the most ridiculous and stupid creature in all of creation. And then he made a languid swipe of his large, fully-healed tail and began to swim away from the literal bloodbath he and his pod had wrought. With you and all your silly, fragile humanness in tow.

It was far too relaxing, being pulled along against his side. The gentle rocking of his tail beneath you as he swam at the surface—always ensuring to keep your head above the water as he did so. You could feel your eyes starting to dip, feel a yawn cracking along your lips. Maybe it was just the adrenaline crash hitting, or maybe it was the relief that you hadn’t even wanted to address. He’d come back. For you.

The earless pirate who never seemed to do much but stumble into one conundrum after another. Who had only annoyed him at best and shorn his fins to shredded, useless bits at worst. Who had thrown shells at his head and only nicked him a little when you cut the ropes from his hide.

Who had made him human foods with fire and taught him your language in a messy scrawl of sand and snark. Who swam with him in the bay and twined a necklace of shining, purple sea glass around his neck. Who braided his hair, and laughed at his pouting, and—

There was a rough roll of surf that splashed in your face and you spluttered against the white froth.

The Siren paused and beat his tail against the deeper waters, propping you upright as you hacked and fretfully patting at your back. You could see his mouth moving as he mumbled something, brow pinched, and stared back at him with your own wobbly frown—confused.

“Why did you come back?” you asked, and the Siren’s brows jumped up into his hairline. He looked startled, genuinely. And that only had you even more befuddled. “And how did you even find me?”

This time when he huffed, there was a subtle sort of irritation there that you’d learn to recognize well.

He was pouting.

Something brushed against your fingers in the water, soft and fleeting. You glanced down just in time to catch a blur of lavender flitting nervously below the choppy waves, never dipping close enough again to touch, but looking hesitant to keep much further either.

The Siren followed your gaze only to narrow his eyes, pointed teeth bared as he swatted at the poor, round, little octopus with his tail. A clear shoo, shoo if you’d ever seen one. The octopus squeaked, sending bubbles spiraling in all directions, and frantically looped out of the way of the mer’s petulant tantrum. You whacked him right back, indignant on your teeny friend’s behalf. Because—!

“You followed me,” you burbled, and the little octopus spun in a fretful circle. If you didn’t know better, you’d say the poor, little dear was wringing its hands. Your Siren bared his teeth and smacked out again. “Hey! Don’t be an ass! He saved me,” you argued, and your bitch of a merman just snapped his fangs in your face like a feral cat.

You gawked.

“No way. You can’t be annoyed that you were beat out by a baby, purple octopus the size of an orange.”

He huffed and turned up his nose, and you burst out into laughter for the first time since you’d watched him swim out of your cove all those days ago.

You laughed and laughed until tears were beading at the corners of your eyes, and your Siren was grumbling in complaint and pinching your sides with his curved claws. There wasn’t real malevolence in that stern glare of his, though—just more of the prickly, teasing sort of snide side eye he’d given you in your latter weeks together. Fondness, you realized. That’s what was softening it all. The same sort of warmth you held for him.

Your favorite, pissy, preening, self-righteous goldfish.

You snorted into his shoulder, still shaking on giggles, and you could feel his sigh against your temple. You burrowed down against his side, feeling his fins brush along your hips as he kept the both of you afloat.

“Thanks,” you said, soft. “For coming back.”

You were expecting another melodramatic sigh, another plaintive roll of the eyes. Instead, his fingers came up to twine with yours and tugged your hand to rest against the pendant at his throat. You blinked, confused, and he just curled your palm around that little, sand-smoothed piece of glass.

You arched a brow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

This time he did roll his eyes at you, and when he spoke he mouthed the word dramatic and wide so he was sure that you could see it.

‘Moron.’

You whined in complaint and smacked his fingers away. “But I’m your moron.”

Another huff, soft against the nape of your neck. And you could see the barest twitch of a smile on his red lips as he turned back into the tide and continued his trek home.

.

.

.

[TAG LIST - CLOSED]

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[monzamash]

off the record — lando norris

"the line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it." lando norris x you (femreader) | 2.1k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language, drug references) masterlist

The media pen was mayhem after what had been an eventful morning on track. Cameras hoisted every which way, journalists vying for their chance to get front row. And then there was you; little old you trying your best to muscle into every nook and cranny available, wrestling with the big boys and girls. You were a bit of a hot shot now, rising through the ranks online as a media personality and bringing it to the stalwarts of mainstream media.

And you were good – really good. An exceptional storyteller and an extractor of sorts when it came to getting the scoop, something you had honed in on during your days working freelance before eventually realising your potential. Somehow, you’d made it here. Reporting for Sky Sports. Coming to you live from Monaco. Dream shit.

“Lando Norris…” You started, microphone locked and loaded in front of the sweaty, nonchalant McLaren driver.

“Felt like you left a little bit out on track in practice this morning. P10 – where do you think you can get the car in qualifying this afternoon?”

“P1 obviously,” Lando quipped, chewing through his comically large drinking straw in an attempt to hide his smirk. Mocking.

“Yeah?”

“What do you reckon?” He asked, leaning forward ever so slightly with a mischievous glint in his eye that had you rolling yours.

You shrugged, “Wouldn’t count the McLaren car out, that’s for sure.”

“The car and…” Lando smirk widened, lips still pursed and baiting.

“The driver too? Maybe?” Dickhead.

“Maybe that too…” You gave in with a sigh, eliciting a wide smile from the man standing in front of a gaggle of reporters, waiting for your next question with snickering expressions.

“So high expectations going into quali then?”

It had always been like this with Lando from the moment you stuck your little hand held recorder in his face at Bahrain last year to now. He knew he could wind you up and find levity in whatever situation he found himself in at the end of a session – good or bad. It was always a friendly back and forth between journalist and driver. Harmless banter to make the monotony of the media pen just that little bit more bearable. Professional, until it wasn’t.

“The flirting is getting out of hand,” You whispered into his kiss, teeth clashing, hands fumbling as you fell back on your hotel bed with a huff.

“But you look so fucking cute asking me questions like that,” He growled in retort, hands making quick work of the jeans clinging to your hips – the ones that had been taunting him all day.

Everywhere he turned he saw you swaying from side to side, aching to have this moment with you now.

“Well duh,” You quipped confidently, eyes fluttering shut as his feverish lips ghosted above the damp patch of excitement between your thighs. Focus.

“But it has to stop.”

“Oh you want me to stop right now?”

“I’m not talking about…” You stopped mid-sentence when you caught the mischievous glimmer in Lando’s eyes, lips pulled into a smirk, “Okay, fuck you.”

“You love it,” He breathed out in barely a whisper, leaving a trail of marks down the inside of your thigh before finally giving you what you were waiting for. 

“And don’t pretend like the thought of me going down on you when you’re asking me those silly little questions doesn’t turn you on.”

Well he fucking had you there.

Lando punctuated his point with a long, teasing stripe to your cunt before burying himself between your thighs, only coming up for air when you tugged on his curls and demanded a kiss. He knew how you were, how needy and insatiable you could be. This was a thing now; a god forsaken mistake in Australia that had turned into a runaway train. Neither of you could stop it.

“I can’t live without this.”

The desperation spilled from your mouth in a guttural moan as you titled you hips upwards and let the twisted knots in the depths of your stomach unravel. The sight of you thrashing in pleasure below knocked the wind out of Lando, eyes and mind focused solely on fucking you through your high so perfectly, fingers bruising the buttery flesh of your thighs.

“God – fuck…” He could barely breathe, “Don’t – you don’t have to.”

And with one last pump, he was coming into the condom he’d slipped on without you even knowing. It was second-hand now, muscle memory and so fucking good. But it didn’t start that way – no, it was awkward goodbyes and a cold ‘thanks for that’ which made you regret ever answering your hotel door. The situation had changed in the blink of an eye – now he was lingering, kissing you in places that had you melting into the mussed sheets and begging him to stay a little bit longer.

It was pathetic how reliant you’d become and how distant you could be when he had to leave. The leaving part was the thing that changed and had you questioning all of it. It used to be that you could go shower and come back to an empty bed and not even flinch. Four months of he is just a causal fuck, no hard feelings to now not being so stoic on that sentiment but you wouldn’t admit that. Not to yourself and especially not to the man peering down at you – all lazy smiles and dimples and ocean eyes. You were fucked.

“I gotta go,” Lando whispered, brushing the stray strands of hair from your flushed face, pout present and needy.

“You don’t really though.”

“If I don’t go now I’ll never leave.”

The little voice in your head was monologuing – screaming out all of the reasons why he should stay because maybe deep down that’s what you wanted. But you couldn’t have that. The line between personal and professional was already so blurred; so incomprehensibly faint that anyone looking in would have to squint to see it. It was the devil on your shoulder that tormented you when it came to Lando, pushing the boundaries more and more every time you had him in your clutches. Risking it all.

“Kiss me before you go.”

And he did. Passionately, like a man in love because maybe he was. Maybe he had been for a lot longer than he’d realised – somewhere between Miami and now he let his guard down too far, too soon. You were flawless though, unattainably perfect that he couldn’t be blamed for falling victim to your allure – sharp eyes following you around the paddock, wishing he was the little notebook in your back pocket that garnered all your attention on race weekends.

“See you tomorrow?”

“If you’re lucky,” Lando quipped, knowing he would be the one curled up in his cold, lonely bed for the rest of the night waiting impatiently for tomorrow.

In any other circumstance you would think the two of you were like magnets, drawn together amongst the travelling circus that was your workplace. But you had a job to do and that was to seek out drivers and team principals, digging deep for any story you could find. There was a trust that you’d built with the teams, all of them respected your work and knew that you weren’t malicious; in fact you were the opposite.

“I really appreciate you not writing about my drunkenness last weekend… It wasn’t my finest moment unfortunately.”

Oscar was a rookie driver but also a total sweetheart, who admittedly had found himself in a precarious late night adventure in a Miami nightclub post-grand prix. How he ended up that drunk, you had no idea but you saved him from himself with the help of Lando, who Oscar would’ve thought was suspiciously close by if he wasn’t black out drunk.

“I got you, buddy but I think your Australian citizenship might have to be revoked after an effort like that… Very disappointing,” You teased in jest, both smiling into the blistering Monacan sun as you walked side by side into the paddock.

“I woke up with an L on my forehead which I can only assume Lando put there so I think my ego’s bruised enough thank you very much.”

“Oh yeah,” You cringed, “That might’ve been my eyeliner.”

“Is that right…”

Oscar’s tone was laced with suspicion but before he could quiz you on why you were still there that night and that he had started to notice the budding friendship between you and his teammate, he was being whisked away by one of his McLaren publicists. You were thankful that they'd taken his curious questions away – how the tables had turned.

Lando was watching you wander through the paddock behind his dark sunglasses, as had been the trend all weekend. Every time you glanced around he was there, wondering if he could sneak over and say hello. Sure, you were friends with a few of the drivers outside of work but when you stepped over that white line, the barriers of professionalism came up again. They had to, otherwise you would end up in a situation like this – gawking at someone you shouldn’t be.

But god he looked good.

He wore what he knew was your biggest weakness – a backwards cap and the black denim jacket he slung over your shoulders on that dark, stormy night in London a few weeks ago when Imola was cancelled and you needed a fix. Hotel hook-ups only. And all of this had you asking yourself, how on earth could you deny a good morning from the man who was the subject of your every desire?

“Good morning.”

“Well it’s not a bad one,” You smiled, more energised than Lando who was yawning into the crook of his arm, “Late night?”

He loved it when you did that. Sneaking little inside jokes into seemingly innocent conversation, naughty reminders of the nights you shared together when nobody was watching. The cheeky grin tugging on his lips a definite tell-tale that he enjoyed it – the tells getting easier and easier to spot the more you got to know him. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought that maybe he was into this as much as you. Little did you know.

“Yeah just squeezed in a late cardio sesh – you know how it is…”

A soft ahh slipped from your smirking lips, eyes trained on your path ahead as Lando strolled alongside, “What’s on the agenda today?”

You shrugged, half out of genuine cluelessness and the other half deflecting how nervous you were. Working in the media was your dream but walking through the hallowed halls of a sport you had loved for your entire life and that dream coming true made your stomach churn with every emotion under the sun. Especially in Monaco.

“You nervous?” Lando asked quietly, shaking you from your thoughts and panicked that you were talking out loud.

“Huh? Oh…” You waved him off and chuckled, “No – I mean, yeah but I always feel like this on race morning… But obviously you’re probably a lot more nervous than me so it’s nothing…” You were a stuttering mess and all Lando wanted to do was reach out and give you a hug.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. This was your little secret, a delicious secret that only the two of you knew and he didn’t want to ruin that. Instead, he dug his hands into his jean pockets a little deeper and gave you a reassuring nudge. Shoulder to shoulder, the same way you laid together the night before after what could only be described as the best sex of your life. Lives.

“My mum always said that nerves mean you care,” Lando’s voice was lower than before – a seriousness taking over, “You’ll do great, as always.”

“Thank you,” You matched his tone, “Hopefully I’m interviewing Lando Norris, Monaco Grand Prix winner…”

That’s all you really wanted deep down. Not the breaking story of the weekend or the drama surrounding contract talks at Red Bull. Just for the guy you had grown profoundly fond of to have some semblance of good luck for once. He’d worked hard for it, you’d seen it first hand and you’d seen the heartbreak when things weren’t going his way. Alas, that was what started this whole situation – frustrated post-race sex. Chef’s kiss.

Lando simply rolled his eyes and sighed loudly before leaning in a tiny bit closer than what you considered a safe workplace distance, “Kiss for good luck then?”

“Get the fuck out of here!” You laughed, kicking his calf with your platform boot as his infectious cackle of a laugh echoed through the growing crowd.

You watched him disappear somewhere between the motorhomes, searching for his team. The lingering feeling in your stomach made you slightly nauseous and a little excited for the next run-in with him. It was like a game of cat and mouse and you weren’t sure who was who but you liked it. More than you wanted to admit because he was Lando fucking Norris – f1's most eligible bachelor, the naughty boy from Bristol, all curls and dimples and undeniable charm. You couldn't help but wonder how many others he had wrapped around his finger like you.

He's just a casual fuck, you mumbled under your breath as you flicked open your notebook and got to work.

masterlist | askbox

[cynic-spirit]

The Red Lipstick

The dim lighting and plush décor of Bucky’s club exuded an air of sophistication and exclusivity. Yn sat at a small table near the bar, casually touching up her red lipstick. Her glasses, hung elegantly on the waistband of her skirt, gave her a bookish allure that contrasted with her sultry lips, making her irresistibly captivating.

From a distance, Bucky watched her intently, utterly captivated by the simple act. Every time Yn touched up her lipstick, it was a process he enjoyed immensely and made sure never to miss. The way her fingers delicately held the lipstick, the precise movements of her hand, and the way her lips transformed into an even more enticing shade of red always mesmerized him.

Nearby, a waiter named Jake balanced a tray laden with beers, his eyes wandering towards Yn. Her effortless beauty caught his attention, and for a moment, he forgot about the tray in his hand. At the same time, another waiter, Tim, approached from the opposite direction, carrying a tray of fries. He too was mesmerized by Yn’s presence.

Their distracted states led to an inevitable collision. Jake and Tim crashed into each other, sending beers and fries flying through the air. The trays clattered to the floor, and Jake stumbled backward, bumping into a tray with wheels that was laden with more drinks. The tray careened forward, rolling uncontrollably across the floor.

The runaway tray slammed into Hal, the bartender, who was expertly mixing cocktails. Hal lost his balance, and the shaker flew from his hands, knocking over a bottle of expensive whiskey. The bottle spun off the counter and smashed into the intricate display of champagne glasses behind the bar. The glasses cascaded down like a waterfall, shattering into a thousand glittering pieces upon impact with the floor.

As if that weren't enough, the commotion startled a nearby group of patrons. One of them, in a startled attempt to avoid the flying shards of glass, knocked over a barstool, which clattered loudly against the floor. The barstool hit another table, causing a domino effect that toppled over several more drinks and glasses. Patrons jumped out of their seats, spilling their own drinks in the process. A couple of them tripped over each other in the chaos, adding to the mayhem.

Meanwhile, a server carrying a towering cake for a birthday celebration was so distracted by the noise that she misstepped, sending the cake crashing to the floor. The vibrant frosting splattered across the polished wooden floors, adding a colorful, sticky mess to the already chaotic scene.

Through all this, Yn remained oblivious to the chaos she had unintentionally caused. She turned slightly, surprised by the sudden noise but unaware of the chain reaction her presence had sparked.

From across the room, Bucky watched the spectacle unfold. His initial concern for the disruption quickly gave way to amusement. Leaning against the wall with a smirk, he shook his head slightly. "That's almost 30 grand worth of ruin that happened in 20 seconds," he thought to himself, his gaze lingering on Yn with a mix of admiration and affection.

The staff scrambled to clean up the mess, Jake and Tim apologizing profusely as they picked up shards of glass and wiped up spilled drinks. Hal, trying to salvage what remained of his station, shot a bemused glance at Bucky, who simply shrugged in response. The birthday server, now holding a ruined cake, sighed deeply and started cleaning up the frosting with the help of another waiter.

Finally, the chaos subsided, and the club returned to its usual rhythm. Bucky made his way over to Yn, who was still blissfully unaware of the havoc she had caused. He leaned in close, his eyes twinkling with humor.

"Having fun over here?" he asked, a playful tone in his voice.

Yn looked up, puzzled. "I was just touching up my lipstick. What happened?"

Bucky chuckled. "Let's just say your red lips caused quite a stir."

Yn raised an eyebrow, but Bucky didn't elaborate. Instead, he took her hand and led her to a quieter corner of the club, leaving the staff to deal with the aftermath of her unintended allure. As they walked away, Bucky couldn't help but feel even more enchanted by Yn, her beauty and obliviousness making her all the more endearing to him.

As they settled into a secluded spot, Bucky glanced at Yn with a teasing smile. "You're quite the troublemaker, you know that?"

Yn, still confused, asked, "What do you mean?"

Bucky laughed softly, his admiration for her growing even more. "Nothing, doll. Just keep being you."

[ilovetoxicfictionalmen]

RUNAWAY FROM ME - CHAPTER 2

Pairing - Tommy Shelby x oc

Summary - Deirdre ran from her life of misery for her own safety. However, she managed to run back into the arms of an angel she once knew, now known as The Peaky Blinder Devil. In which he has no intentions of letting her run away from him again.

Warnings - Dark content, non con, dub con, explicit themes, lovers to enemies to lovers, slow burn kinda, Tommy needs a hug.

Word count - 4.7k

The Garrison, Small Heath - Evening, January 20th 1915

Drunk, filthy, vain. That was Deirdre’s code for her carefully picked victims of her acts of deviance. Never the good, poor and innocent. Not that there were many of those around here in a town like this. 

Of all places to end up, she found her tired feet in the dust, muck and filth grounds of Small Heath. In between the brick walls of the city of fire, brimstone and smoke. A town in which all men had a life long sentence of being trapped in the working class. No thoughts and dreams in their futures, only merely hoping to make it to the next day. 

Deirdre was far from home. The furthest she had ever made it. It was a shock, wandering this far after many failed attempts. But her future entity being locked to a filthy man over twice her age pushed her to run. The window was quickly closing, Deirdre had to flee before she was trapped to another savage. 

Her home was a palace in comparison to here. The life that many would dream of replacing her absence in. But regardless of it all, she preferred Small Heath over being trapped between rough hands in Dublin. 

None of her father’s men would ever suspect her to end up in a place like this, she was free. Living day to day, nights slept in a ramshackled home felt far more secure than sleeping in a comfortable bed, underneath the roof of the man that abused her daily. 

It was another typical day of work. Here she was, sitting by the bar, accompanied by a drunken bastard whose hands got too touchy too quickly. Just a few more minutes, she’d let him finish his drink and then slide her small hands into the pockets. Always hoping for more than she’d actually grab. 

Deirdre did this a lot, she didn’t have any options for work. She had no papers, no identity, no proof of her existence. All she had was the two dresses she took with her and the pretty face that many desired. She’d pop into a random pub, she had to keep her appearances cautious. It was questioning how she’d been surviving off this for weeks now. But many men would give her a shilling just to smile at them. These were times of mayhem and anguish.

Most women would sell their bodies, a man’s shilling was far more valuable than their reputation in a town like this. There was no blame in it, but Deirdre refused to drop her innocence for anyone. Because in the back of her head, she heard her father’s gruesome threats if she ever committed such an act. It was traumatic, replaying those menacing memories. 

Tonight was a bad choice. Deirdre felt her heart thud against her chest as the older man’s hands roughly gripped onto her slim waist. It was as if he knew her ploy. Deirdre tried not to pull attention, her hands pushed against his, but it made no difference. 

“Sweetheart, going shy on me now aye?” the man grinned, a front tooth missing, the rest yellow. Before she could say a word, a man approached them.  

“Oi” a strong, intimidating voice boomed as his hand clamped over the man’s shoulder, it bent under his hold. The man turned his back to look at the younger man. He snarled and shoved his hold off of him. 

Deirdre had seen him, only one or twice here, in Small Heath. He had a shorter height than most, a small frame underneath his thick coat, but his eyes were captivating. His soft pale skin outlined his jawline. A slight undercut of his brunette hair. For a working man, he was beautiful. Deirdre had forced herself away from watching him in the swift glance. 

“Leave the poor girl alone, would ya?” The stranger threatened in an intimidatingly kind manner. His Birmingham accent was thick yet as smooth as velvet. 

“Who the fuck are you to-” the man paused, his blurred vision clearing as he stared into his blue orbs. The drunk’s sight flicked over to the table in the corner, the men in peaked caps watched him. With a snort, the man finished his drink and stormed out of the pub. 

Deirdre gulped to herself as she kept her sight low. She heard whispers of the men in the peaked caps. They swarmed at the opportunity of the war to build society as their own. Without a word, she slipped off of the barstool and went to turn her heel towards the door. 

“No” the blue eyed man opposed, his arm shooting out to gently grab ahold of her forearm. “Stay for a drink, my offer” he grinned softly as he turned his attention back to the barman. Deirdre was lost for words, simply nodded in agreement as he ordered two glasses of whisky. 

“I’ve seen you around here a couple of times. Always by yourself, your hands tend to slip into men’s dirty pockets and you’re gone” he chuckled as he slid a glass towards her. 

Deirdre laughed, she had been caught out. Finally, she’d be paying the price for her crimes. But he merely laughed lightly at her acts and took a sip of his drink. 

“What’s your name?” He asked as he sat on the bar stool and gestured for her to do the same. 

“Deirdre” she answered without thinking, she’d never told anyone her name out of caution. The paranoia was setting like paint on her skin. 

“Deirdre… The name of the broken-hearted, sorrowful and the wanderers” he nodded to himself, those piercing blue eyes of his lingered over her features as she slowly climbed onto the seat. 

She couldn’t help but to gently laugh at the accuracy. But he didn’t know that, he didn't know anything about her. No one around here did. 

“How old are ya?” He continued his questions and consumption of his drink. 

“Eighteen years old, sir” she nodded, her fingers traced the rim of the glass. 

“Thomas, but everyone calls me Tommy” he corrected with a gentle smile. A soft smile grew on her lips as she finally took a sip. “Where are you from?”

“Galway” she lied, a short nod. Her eyes struggled to remain still. 

“Is it green over there?” He hummed. 

“Very” she replied shortly. 

Tommy bobbed his head to her. “Come, sit with me mates. It’ll be more comfortable there” he suggested, or ordered. Deirdre couldn’t exactly tell.

But she knew that her stay was over welcomed, and all she wanted to do was disappear again. She knows the lifestyle of gangsters, traumatized by the brutal actions that can snap out of nowhere. Deirdre would be damned if she allowed herself into that again, even for a night. 

“It’s alright, I was thinking of leaving anyway. Thank you for the drink” she opposed, pushing the half full glass away from her. 

“No, no. We will have another after this one” he said in a determined and decided tone as he pushed the glass back towards her.

“I must reject your kind offer” she sighed softly. 

“I ain’t going to do anything to ya if that’s what you believe. I swear on my family’s name” Tommy swore, holding his hand over his heart. 

They did, have another after another. She sat squished between Tommy and another, his older brother Arthur. The table was surrounded by peaked caps, the room echoing the cheers and disputes between the men. Tommy watched her as she sipped on her liquor. None of the others dared to say more than a couple of words to her. 

His arm wrapped around her waist, her guard was down and she relaxed into his hold surprisingly. Deirdre had never drunk, her father would allow a modest woman to act in such a way in his house. The effects came onto her quickly for she had hardly eaten in days. Her head swayed lightly, cheeks reddened and an innocent smile on her lips. With one last swig, Tommy finished his drink and it clinked on the wooden top.  

“So, are you going to tell me? What brought you deep in the grime streets of Small Heath?” He questioned through a whisper, his mouth pressed against her ear. 

Deirdre chuckled lightly, this question was bound to come up. “Change of scenery” she answered calmly. 

“A runaway huh?” Tommy laughed, his fingers brushing over hers. “I know one when I see one” he stated.

It felt nice, a bit too nice for her. It was unfamiliar and it made her anxious, waiting for the punch line or the trap to be triggered. She never knew physical touch could feel so lovely, so calming, so affectionate. 

“Yeah you caught me” she breathed out, almost ready to wave the flag of surrender, prepared for her father to walk in at any moment.

He could see the trouble in her eyes, the despair, how badly she wanted to forget her past. There was no denying the connection he felt to that, how badly he felt the urge to help her overlook those thoughts. 

“Well, no one will find you here. Nobody suspects Small Heath as a new beginning. It’s a cursed city where men are punished with working their lives away. But I intend to change that for my family, I will end our line of despair. Put our family name in the good” Tommy promised, his eyes glancing over at his brothers in the room. 

Deirdre smiled at him, she admired his ambition. Many working men were cold and broken. But him, it seemed that his eyes were wide open to his calling, to charge at what was rightfully his. Or, maybe he was just so desperate to chase after a kingdom to free his mind of anguish. 

“Well, I’ll walk you home” Tommy said as they slowly walked out of The Garrison. 

A wave of embarrassment of him seeing the dump she confined herself in crashed over her. It didn’t matter how drunk she was, what would he think of her? Even worse, what could he do? 

“No Tommy, it’s alright” she protested, her hands raised in fear. 

His expression was stern as he slowly shook his head to her. Many men were still wandering the dark, minacious streets of Small Heath. Best believe Tommy would not allow her to walk those dangerous grounds. 

“Nonsense, a woman needs to be cautious. Especially in these streets” he objected, his tone dripping of order. 

“Please, I must-” she sighed, lowering her head in defeat and embarrassment. 

“Do you have a place to call home?” He cocked an eyebrow to her. 

“Not really” she mumbled. 

“How long do you intend to stay in Small Heath for? Better yet, how long have you been here for?” Tommy crossed his arms over his chest, leaning towards her. 

Deirdre scratched the back of her head uneasily. 

“I, I don’t know” she answered. Tommy slid off his coat and laid it over her shoulders. 

“Alright, come with me” he encouraged, gently holding onto her hand. 

They walked silently, her body leaning towards him whenever she saw people walking nearby. But they all remained away from him, the infamous man in the peaked cap.

They stopped in front of a door, the porchlight off. Tommy opened the door slowly and looked down to her. 

“Tommy?” Deirdre asked timidly. 

“Come in” he said quietly. 

With her silent protest failing, he led her into the dark building, and they went straight upstairs. The door creaked open and Deirdre stared at the unmade single bed illuminated in the moonlight. 

“This is my room” he made known. 

There was no shame in the size or state of his room in his tone. Tommy Shelby was still a working man after all, he had to make do with what he had. 

All was heard as a small exhale from her lips. Slowly, she looked up to him with doe eyes. 

“Uh, Tommy I don’t know” she spoke, her nerves stabbing at her skin. 

“Shh, it’s okay. I’m merely offering you somewhere more comfortable to sleep. I’ll sleep on the floor, or I can sleep in the kitchen if that makes you more comfortable” he offered as he slid the coat off of her shoulders. 

“No have your bed, I can’t accept your generosity” she shook her head. 

Tommy chuckled at her demeanor and leant closer to her. Gently, he took her hands into his as he tilted his head towards her. 

“How about we share the bed?” Tommy suggested. Through the dark, Tommy could still see her eyes widen and heard her lightly gasp. “You’re so shy” he chuckled as he moved slightly closer to her and brushed her hair to the side. “I don’t expect to have sex with you tonight, if that makes you feel better” he assured her kindly. 

Of course that was the first thought that crossed Deidre’s mind. It passed through the moment he told her to stay for a drink. In the back of her mind, she felt her father hold a knife to her back for even thinking of such a thing. But he wasn’t here, Deirdre needed to keep on reminding herself of that. 

Deirdre stiffly nodded and Tommy slowly led her to the bed. They both laid stiffly on the bed. Complete silence, except for Deirdre’s heavy breathing and rapidly heartbeat. Tommy looked down at her and sighed. 

“Let’s get more comfortable, eh?” Tommy told her as he shifted his body to the side

They turned around on the small mattress, his arms wrapped around her timid body and held her close underneath the thin sheets. Quickly, her stiff frame softened against his hold, a feeling she had never felt before, or at least remembered. Their bodies molded as one as she finally drifted off into a comfortable sleep. 

Eden Club, Soho - Night, 23rd July 1924

“You’ve been in my dreams, my love. Have I been in yours?” Tommy tilted his head, gun still pointed to hers as she slowly stood up and leaned against the desk in defeat. 

The tension was as clear as day, they both listened to each other's breathing as she slowly batted her eyes to the familiar stranger. All Deirdre could do was laugh at her predicament. There were no cards she could lay down. All options exhausted for the time being. Unless, she could get her hands on that pistol. 

“How are you Tommy?” Deirdre inquired, raising an eyebrow to him, her body leaning back over the desk as her eyes looked him up and down slowly. He set the pistol back into his holster and took one last inhale before flicking the stick away. 

Time had certainly changed him, despite his beauty remaining the same. It was beginning to age like the finest bottle of whisky. The softness of his skin had roughened. Those perfect blue eyes have darkened whilst his jawline grew sharper. He was a lot more built now, an old part of Deirdre tortured her mind to wonder what he looked like underneath. 

“I’m spectacular now, such a lovely surprise for you to visit me at my club of all places” Tommy smiled wickedly as he shuffled closer towards her.

His hands planted on the desk around her hips as he looked down to her, his mouth ajar open. It wasn’t known by either of them if he was trying to intimidate her or seduce her at that moment. Deirdre batted her lashes once more and went doe eyed to him. 

“Did you miss me Tommy?” Deirdre asked softly, as her body drew closer to his. 

“A part of me hoped you were dead” he admitted without hesitation, his hands resting on her smooth hips now. 

“That’s sweet” Deirdre bobbed her head, her teeth biting on her inner lips. 

Tommy’s hand rubbing gently against her cheek. A wave of remembrance of her beauty crashed over him. After all of these years, all he had was his memory of her. Her maturity aged like fine wine, and Tommy was currently resisting the urge to taste her. He miscalculated his belief that his urges would be restrained by his anger. 

The only card that has deemed relevance was to seduce him, tempt him, fuck him. The old Deirdre would never demean her body like this. But the world against her had turned her desperate. Her legs spreaded as she slowly lifted her body onto the desk. His body molded to hers as he pressed his crotch against hers. There was a few inch distance between their lips, she could smell the whisky on his breath and he could smell the gin on hers. 

“So, are you going to fuck me with your eyes or your cock?” Deirdre cocked an eyebrow to him. 

“Trying to fucking seduce me” Tommy huffed as his hand slipped around her throat. Gently he tested how firmly he could squeeze her skin before she reacted.  

“Would you rather I scream for mercy?” Deirdre shot back, a cheeky grin plastered on her. 

A firm warning squeeze was fired by his hand, Tommy’s head tilted as he gently shrugged his shoulders to her. 

“It doesn’t matter, it’s all the same” he spoke slowly. 

“Which is?” She asked.  

“You won’t run away again, you’re staying with me” he spoke firmly, nodding his head at the plan which was building in his mind. Deirdre couldn’t help but to pout towards him and softly shake her head at that idea. 

Of course he was holding onto the past. Thomas Shelby was always holding onto it, even though he pretended he didn’t care about anything. He couldn’t help himself, these things kept him awake at night, consumed his dreams and tried to bring down his ambition. 

“That’s so boring Thomas, for the both of us” she sighed. 

“That’s marriage” he countered. Deirdre responded back swiftly, a bit too without thought. 

“Where’s your honor to your dead wife?” she spat, irritated with his arrogance. 

Deirdre choked out as his hand tightened roughly around her neck. His free hand held her back in place as she tried to thrash in his hold. Even though her fingers were trying to claw underneath his, they wouldn’t budge. 

“Have some fucking respect” he spat by her ear before abruptly letting go. “Should have been you anyways” he snarled as he stepped back and spun around.

Tommy cursed to himself as he felt his erection in his pants. Shaking his head firmly, he blinked away the idea of her and brushed his hand through his hair. When he turned back around to her, Deidre was staring at the ground. Tommy opened his mouth to speak when there was a heavy knock on the door.

The door swung open with Arthur on the other side. “Tommy! She’s not fucking-” Arthur paused as he stared blankly at Deirdre. “Ah! Deirdre!” Arthur exclaimed as he rushed over to her and hugged her tightly. 

A heavy exhale left Deidre’s lips as she embraced Arthur, her arms instinctively wrapped around him for security. Tommy frowned at the sight before him, especially with how Deidre’s eyes shut with ease. Quickly his blood began to boil again. 

“Arthur get out” Tommy ordered, his jaw clenched, his hands on his hips.  

“Oh Deirdre!” John boomed as he entered the room, her belongings in hand as he strided over to them. “Your purse Deirdre” John offered the bag to Deirdre but Tommy snatched it so Deirdre could even reach out for it. 

Quickly, Tommy’s hand scrambled through the small bag and he tutted to Deirdre at the small vial he discovered. “Still up to your old games…” Tommy commented as he slipped the vial back in. 

With a heavy breath, she hugged John tightly, he hummed against her as he patted her back to reassure her. She had forgotten how badly she missed them. It was shocking to see how they were still the same men from before the war. For once, she felt a brief sensation of relief to see the brothers that she adored dearly. 

A dramatic sigh left Tommy’s lips as he slammed her purse onto the desk. “Ah, no papers yet again. No identity for Miss Deirdre” Tommy mocked, his teeth gritted as he stepped closer to her. 

Deirdre looked up to him as he returned in between her thighs. Those cold paws of his rested on her waist as his eyes analyzed every inch of her body. 

“Get out, I’m still talking to my wife” Tommy demanded, his blue eyes shooting from brother to brother. Arthur muttered whilst John remained silent, a stern expression locked on as he lit a fresh cigarette. 

“Tommy, it’s roaring out there. How about we all just enjoy the night how we intended to. Then tomorrow, we can-”

“Get the car ready” Tommy cut Arthur off. 

John frowned and leant forward, his arms crossed over his chest. 

“The car?” John butted in, his light hanging from his lip. 

“Yes John, the car” Tommy spoke dumbfoundedly. “We are returning to Arrow House immediately” he disclosed as he tugged Deirdre to her feet. 

John moaned out dramatically as he shook his head at Tommy’s desires. 

“Oh Tommy, you can’t be serious!” John argued. “This is our last fookin night!” He hissed, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“I won’t repeat myself” Tommy spoke firmly as John huffed in annoyance. 

John stood closely to Tommy, his lips near his ears. 

“Fuck off… I won’t be involved with anymore family affairs tonight” John whispered before abruptly leaving the room. 

Arthur gulped as his eyes darted from Tommy to the open door. Whilst Tommy stood expressionless as his eyes slowly moved to Deirdre’s. Arthur began to stammer as he awkwardly stood before the pair. 

“Go make sure he doesn’t do anything reckless. I’ll see you both back tomorrow” Tommy finalized as he harshly tightened his hold onto Deirdre’s arm and pulled her towards the exit.

Deirdre latched out for her coat and purse quickly as Tommy strided into the hall. A worker stood there with Tommy’s coat and cap. A firm finger pointed to Deirdre in warning as he slid on his coat and peaked cap, his eyes not even shifted an inch off of her. She kept her head low as they exited through the back door into an isolated dark alley, his hand still tight on her bicep.

Her eyes shot to the light to her left and she gulped at the sight of countless bystanders continuing on with their night. Unknowingly, she slowed in her steps, causing Tommy to frown and look back to her. A snort came from Tommy as he shook his head and leant close to her ear.  

“Don’t be foolish, my love” he warned as he tugged her into the darkness. 

Tommy opened the passenger door to his Bently and pushed Deirdre in. As he slammed the door, he again raised his finger in warning before he hurried over to the other side. Another cigarette was lit as Tommy turned on the engine. 

“Will you let me grab my belongings?” Deirdre spoke quietly, her head pointed out the window. 

Tommy’s head snapped towards her. 

“What fucking valuables could you possibly have” he commented, his tone dripping with irritation. 

“Please Tommy” she pleaded, her eyes glistening in the moonlight. 

Tommy muttered, wagging his head to her. When his eyes snapped to hers, he exhaled at her doe eyes accompanied by her anxious hands fiddling together. 

“It better be on the way” he grunted to her. 

As he parked the car outside of the hotel, Tommy was quick to jump out before her. His hand held onto the handle firmly as he yanked the door open for her. Deirdre muttered her gratitude as she slipped out of the car. 

Likewise to a prisoner, Tommy escorted her up to her room. With a shaking hold, Deirdre slid the key into the lock and opened her room. When she tried to slip into the room alone, his foot wedged between the door and frame. 

“Can I not have a moment of privacy” she pressed, muttering curses to herself shortly after. 

Deirdre let go of the door and walked away from Tommy. The door creaked shut as Tommy continued to watch her like a hawk

“You will not run from me again Deirdre…” Tommy reminded her through a cold glare whilst slipping out a cigarette. 

“We’re on the third floor” Deirdre countered with scrunched eyebrows. 

“You have your ways” Tommy murmured as he brushed the end in between his lips before lighting it. 

Tommy’s eyes lingered over the cheap room, his hands firmly on his hips as Deirdre quickly tried to pack up her belongings. Right as she was going to zip up the bag, Tommy nudged her out of the way and pulled it wide open. 

“Oh Thomas… You’re so immature” Deirdre bickered, her arms crossed over her chest as she huffed to him. 

The only response she got was a huff as his hands rambled through her clothing. Until he stopped when he felt something firm. Tommy frowned as he pulled it out, hidden in one of her dresses. Slowly, he lifted up a small piece of silver to her. To his surprise, her back was turned towards him. 

“Do you have a child Deirdre?” Tommy cocked an eyebrow to her as he dangled the shining rattle at her. The sound from the toy teased her, he knew it. 

“No” she swallowed, her throat instantly feeling like it was closing in on her. 

“Fucking liar” Tommy snarled as he dropped it back into the bag. 

“I don’t” Deirdre snapped back as her body spun back to him. 

“Sure” Tommy smirked. 

He watched the fire light inside of her as she walked up to him. It was amusing to him, seeing how she walked on a tightrope of emotions. 

“I don’t Thomas” she spoke firmly, her tone sending a warning to him. 

“Alright…” Tommy spoke quietly as he watched her body unknowingly begin to shake. The rattle fell into the bag as Tommy zipped it up. 

Without another word, Tommy led her back to the car. As if they were on a tight schedule, Tommy sped off down the quiet roads. When they were far from the city, the only sources of light being the headlights and moon, Deirdre looked over to him. 

“Where are you taking me Thomas?” She asked. 

It was ignored by him as his hands tightened on the wheel. 

Deirdre rolled her eyes and rested her head against the window. Slowly she fell into an uneasy sleep. 

She dreamt of her husband. Using his belt on her yet again. At this point, Deirdre laid hopelessly on the tiled flooring as he spat out every cruel word from the book to her. She was crying out, begging for mercy, her hands clenched to her stomach.

When she looked down, she screamed at the sight of blood pooled at her legs. Her body trembled, her temperature low as her eyes darted around for her husband. But he was gone. As she looked up, she saw Tommy, watching her with an emotionless face. 

Deirdre called out his name, begged him to help her. But her words were falling silent, her throat tight as she reached out for him. When she tried to crawl to him, her body ached and she fell back onto the tiling. Keeping her hand out in one last attempt of mercy, Tommy took a step back, gradually being consumed by darkness. 

“Deirdre” Tommy whispered. 

Faintly, the back of his hand brushed over her cold cheek. Deirdre mumbled out, but remained asleep against the side of the door. 

“Deirdre, my love… Wake up” Tommy urged, speaking more forcefully now. His hand tapped her cheeks until her tired eyes fluttered open. 

The remembrance of her situation pressed back onto her mind. Deirdre yawned out as she looked out to the mansion, lit majestically in the night sky. Tommy slid closer to her, his lips pressed to her ear as they both looked out. 

“Welcome home, my love” Tommy spoke faintly as she took in her new prison.

[mollysunder]

Does Sevika Have What it Takes to Run Zaun?

The power vacuum in Zaun is sure to be a major source of conflict next season. There will be plenty of figures, both known and unknown, that will try to gain control of what's left of Silco's Shimmer empire and thus the center of Zaun's black market. Of all the candidates that could possibly replace Silco, one of the strongest contenders is Silco's right hand, Sevika. Sevika has many of the qualities that make her an excellent candidate to take Silco's place. Sevika is one of few key players that is trusted by the members of Silco's organization, brutally competent at her job, and genuinely believes in Zaun's independence. The real question is, can Sevika handle Silco's mantle?

Sevika has a lot going for her, but just as much against her, and one of her main problems is that she uses Jinx as a crutch for her shortcomings. When the Firelights destroyed the shipment of Shimmer that was supposed to go out on Progress Day, she laid the blame for the operation's failure squarely on Jinx. It's true that Jinx did injure at least one member of her team in friendly fire and failed to protect the cargo, but everyone else failed too, including Sevika. Not only were all of the crew easily ambushed, none of them had any countermeasures for a known enemy. One guy grabbed a harpoon gun and missed miserably with each shot. Jinx herself wouldn't have gotten involved if Sevika and the crew were better able to work proactively, maybe by investing in a net gun.

Worse still, Sevika claimed she could have handled the situation without Jinx, which is practically a lie. Without Jinx, the Shimmer would have been destroyed much faster, there would have been no one to delay the Firelights or take down 5 of the 8 that were present. But Sevika would rather use the situation to cast more focus on Jinx to undermine her position rather than manage the critical failure in defense that the rest of the team demonstrated under pressure. Silco even pointed this out, the audience was just more inclined to see his opinion as biased.

You can't let Jinx be the excuse for why everything goes wrong, all it does is make everyone zero-in on just Jinx's mistakes rather than take a few steps back to examine why things went wrong. If that actually happened, then someone might actually ask, "How did the did the Firelights know there'd be an important shipment going out on Progress Day?". Or "How did they know which ship they'd be using if they obscure any identifying information on the ship manifests?". And more importantly, "Is there a mole?". Instead, you get a team that drinks and parties after a real shitshow because their direct boss confirms that all their problems are just one person.

This all bleeds into another main issue of hers. Every time Sevika's in a confrontation, she thinks like an individual rather than a leader. The first time she fights Vi, she let's two of her underlings runaway rather than help her. When Vi comes back for round 2 with the same special hextech that caused so much mayhem at the Shimmer Refinery, Sevika tells the entire crew there to leave so they can go 1-v-1. Everytime something comes up, Sevika chooses not to delegate work or strategize with others around an obstacle, she'd rather take on the responsibility for problems like this by herself.

You could argue that Sevika was the only one capable of fending off Vi, especially with Sevika's new prosthetic's enhancements. But Sevika left no room for support in the background to at least distract Vi or give Sevika cover. If we go way back to the Cannery, Silco has to hold back Sevika from fighting Vi because he thought it was a better idea to use Deckard than do the same thing over again. And he was right! It was better to throw a Shimmer'ed up Deckard at Vi, and reserve Sevika when everyone else lost to Vi. If he hadn't Sevika wouldn't have saved him from the explosion.

If all this wasn't enough, the way Sevika is portrayed in terms of power, doesn't bode well for her potential as a leader. Plenty have pointed out that smoking is a symbol of power in Zaun, those with even a modicum of power smoke. What isn't always pointed out is how anyone who's interrupted smoking, inevitably loses power.

The first time it happened was with Vander, Marcus snatched his pipe and extinguished Vander's flame in his drink. The next episode Marcus' deal with Silco sealed the end of Vander's regime. A man on a smoke break at Silco's refinery (probably a manager) is immediately held at gunpoint by an enforcer part of the raid, where everyone caught was likely arrested and lost their jobs. Silco never actually lost his cigar, and so when he was killed, it wasn't politically motivated, it was an accident.

Curiously, Sevika and the Enforcers from the Progress Day attack actually smoke the same kind of cigarillos. These enforcers happen to be the only Piltovans we see smoke in the series, maybe because they're lower class or former Zaunites themselves. Unlike all the the other times, no one had to directly force them to stop smoking, Jinx made them drop it by simply terrifying them. And Jinx would go on to kill at least a score of enforcers including the Sheriff. Jinx likely threw the chain of command in disarray, doubly so if she killed at least 5 councilmen who the Sheriff would report to.

It makes for an interesting parallel when Vi first attacks Sevika and knocks out her symbol of power. In that scene Sevika managed to win her card game with Trump cards that heavily resembles Jinx and Viktor, but even when she wins, she still loses her cigarillo. All Vi needed to do was catch Sevika off guard and apply force, the same as the other enforcers (and even the Firelights). Later she'll let Finn light up her cigarillo while he affirms her strengths in Zaun.

By the finale, we see her after she's been beaten by Vi, Sevika chooses to go to Silco's office to smoke one of Silco's cigars while he'sgone, but she can't light it on her own. While this might foreshadow that she'll try to take Silco's place, Sevika struggles to light the cigar because if you notice in her hand is a lighter with a fancy "F" on it, Sevika's using Finn's lighter. Silco, Vander, and Finn all had their own matches and lighters. To light Silco's cigar, Sevika uses means by which she took from Finn, a man she just killed for an ill planned selfish gambit for power.

This alone wouldn't look too bad, because as I see it, in Zaun, it's not the act of smoking but the imagery of smoke itself that's associated with power, and you don't need to smoke to have smoke. Look at Jinx and Vi, both command considerable influence on the ongoing developments between the two cities and align with strong figures. Neither of the two smoke, instead they cover themselves in smokelike tattoos, Jinx's tattoos literally resembles the blue smoke of her first succesful bomb. In contrast to their predecessors both manage to embody their power more wholly onto their person in a way that's less vulnerable than the smoking tradition to usurpation. Sevika herself also wears smoke like patterns on her collar, which are less prominent or permanent than Jinx and Vi's tattoos.

Each issue alone is cause for concern in the viability of Sevika's potential leadership role, but altogether they create a solid line of doubt for if she can pull it off. To make it work she needs to shape up Silco's former crew because she can't be the only one pulling any weight. They're all going to face a conflict that will only grow more complex, demanding, and fast changing as time goes on. A situation like that prior to Jinx's rocket would have easily have incapacitated them, now it's all going to happen on a larger scale. Sevika needs to recognize what went right and wrong for Silco, Vander, and Finn.

Tldr: The chance for Sevika to be Zaun's new leader will be an uphill climb for her for sure. Her biggest problems is that she takes the lead rather than utilizing the team, she gets easily caught off guard, and Jinx can put blinders on her perspective. She's kind of like an older more seasoned Vi that never gave up on Zaun's independence warts and all.

[queen0fm0nsterz]

I wanted to ask your ask the lady blog but I can't find it.

Do you think the lady's library is organised at all? There are some parts which you obviously wouldn't be able to reach unless you can fly, and I wonder what kind of books are in a pile if she's the only one reading them. Maybe she has someone or something put her books away or shelve new books, but they don't always do a great job?

OH... MY LADY BLOG... MY POOR LADY BLOG THAT'S SITTING ON A SHELF TAKING DUST...

Alright, so! This is actually a very interesting questions because the answer is a very contraddictory one: kiiiiiinda? There's definitely... a lot pointing to it not being as organized these days...

But, in contrast, I will also say that there seems to be a method to the madness -- as there usually is with the Lady.

The books I pointed out up there are just a few piles of the ones that can be found out of place, and somehow their scattered and overwhelming presence seems to be invoking the exact opposite feeling her bedroom does: whereas her private space feels barren and sombre, the rest of her quarters are full of mayhem in a way that feels almost quietly frenetic. Those books look like they've been taking dust for a while... however, there is a few things of interest to note.

In the part of the Residence with the Book Puzzle, you'll notice that the bookshelf has different kind of eyes depicted at the bottom of each.

(Images are a courtesy of @/dailylittlenightmares, go follow them)

These are meant to match up with the respective books, who also have the same symbols. Their shapes match the ones underneath the three statuettes RK has to retrieve, so I came to assume these books/bookshelves specifically are each tied to one specific predecessor. Maybe some of them were their belongings, books from their era, or this is simply another method to categorize specific topics so that it's easy to not mix them up.

This is of course open to interpretation - especially considering there's no eye with the shape of an exagon (which is under the green statuette), but all other bookshelves in that room have this symbol underneath:

... indicating that the books in them might have miscellaneous subjects.

I'm pretty sure, however, that this method of categorization only counts for this specific room as I was not able to find any other bookshelf that has any of these symbols outside of it.

Considering this is also where you find the book with the Lady's mask on the cover, my current interpretation is that the books in this room are all tied to her magical practices. Now, whether this room in the library was actually made by her or by someone before her, that's up for debate: I'm leaning towards the latter honestly. The entire Residence feels like a joint effort, put together through a few generations -- which is probably why it feels more chaotic as opposed to the Lady's own bedroom... but digressing.

There are items here which suggest that, at one point, she did need furniture in order to reach the higher shelves.

I wonder if she still uses it to this day... admittedly she's rather tall now, and as you pointed out she can fly.

(Imagining a little Lady trying to make her way thru the tall bookshelves :( )

I honestly don't think there's anyone here doing the organizing besides herself. Which is probably why it doesn't look very organized at all. The Lady is very precise, but only when it comes to mantaining the very fragile structure of the chaos she's grown accustomed to. At this point there's no reason in putting the books away as long as she can still use them. It's a controlled mayhem, and when something becomes out of place - like the Runaway Kid - she disposes of it. In a way, it reflects how she rules the Maw, right?

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

could you do a tom x reader and its late night drives with the tokio hotel band like after they won an award maybe and myabe its just absolutely chaos lov ur writting btw

(I love this idea but sorry I didn't add a Tom x reader, much, just the band but anyways, enjoy!)

Award Mayhem

"Fuck all yall we just won an award bitches!"

You had no care or worries as adrenaline ran through your veins, sticking out the sunroof of the car as you yelled into the wind.

The boys all yelled with you, Bill holding you by your thighs in the passenger seat as he himself hung outside his window.

"You guys are gonna fall!" Tom laughed, yelling as he drove his car as Gustav and Georg almost proved his point.

They both sat in the back, sitting their asses on the car outside with their bodies outside the windows, holding hands across the roof as they went over a speed bump and almost fell off.

The music played from the radio, blasting in the middle of nowhere as Tom sped, Bill yelling the lyrics along with Gustav and Georg.

Georg and Gustav acted dramatically, holding hands across the roof like that painting in the chistene chalape, star crossed lovers or some shit they couldn't remember.

Monsoon came on the radio, all of you looking at each other with wide eyes, a drink in you all except for Tom, and he laughed along as you all screamed the lyrics.

"Ich muss durch den Monsunn!" Gustav dragged out, leaning back with one hand with his body out the window, singing before he burped out alcohol.

"Now we know why Bill's the singer!" You laughed at your friend as you saw him about to throw up the liquor.

You yelled the lyrics, holding up the ball award you guys had won before Tom went over another speed bump, almost sending you all airborne due to the speed.

"Ah, shit!"

"(Name)!"

"Ow!"

Everyone yelled in panic as your hands slipped on the award, hitting Georg in the face as it slid off the car and onto the road.

Tom hit the brakes, sending you all into something as Georg and Gustav fell out the windows, onto their backs on the pavement as Bill was doubled over the passenger door and stuck out the window as he barfed out his alcohol, still mumbling the lyrics.

"Get it, get it, get it!" You yelled at Tom as he got out the car quickly to try and retrieve the runaway award as it rolled down the road.

It was hard as it looked like he was wobbling instead of running due to his pants.

"Faster!"

"I'm trying!"

"Not hard enough!"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

@billsjum6ie @bigbootahjudy @ilovebill-and-gustav @r3dheadedw0rld @kiwitsune @V4mpyboyy @novaaisstupid @billybabeskaulitz @yas-v @iischafer @dilfverz @ahswhore0 @graciegizmo3184 @sweetpuffy12 @80s-tingz @ryiana @yuriayato5 @bunnysenpai31 @banshailey @bellastoner420 @victryzvv9 @stxngnr @killed-kiss @stilesandjames @m00nzyblogs @sylisan @lyzit @trixiekaulitz @laylasbunbunny @5hyslv7 @limaswife

[sadly-never-after]

Music in the EAH Universe and who listens to them Part 6.

This is just an excuse to try to make music puns and share music I think the characters would listen to. (Some of these are even canon by the books!) I don't even like a majority of these musicians but I am fully convinced of my choices here. I marked in colours the one that are canonically part of the EAH Universe.

Since Tumblr only allows 100 inline links for a post I have to make different parts.

Part 1 (Alistair, Apple, Ashlynn, Blondie, Briar, Bunny)

Part 2 (Cupid, Cedar, Cerise, Chase, Courtly, Daring)

Part 3 (Darling, Dexter, Duchess, Farrah, Faybelle, Ginger)

Part 4 (Holly, Hopper, Humphrey, Hunter, Jillian, Justine)

Part 5 (Kitty, Lizzie, Maddie, Meeshell, Melody, Nina)

Part 6 (Poppy, Ramona, Raven, Rosabella, Sparrow, Tucker)

(❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈☁︎‎‎‧₊˚ Poppy O'Hair (❀❛ ֊ ❛„)♡-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈☁︎‎‎‧₊˚

Mayhem! in the Ballroom (Emperor's New Clothes, Victorious, She Had The World)

Lady Yaga (Born this way, Alejandro, Bad Romance)

Katy Fairy (Firework, Part of Me, Roar)

April Vineyard (Girlfriend, Sk8er Boi (if you guys listen to the entire song instead of only the first verses you'll understand), I Fell In Love With The Devil)

Truelove (Raspberry, Tongue Tied, Schoolboy)

·:¨༺ ♱🐺♱ ༻¨:· Ramona Badwolf ·:¨༺ ♱🐺♱ ༻¨:·

Rabbit Hole (Jennifer's Body, Credit In The Straight World, Northern Star)

Corset Suffocation (Feels Blind, Rebel Girl, Alien She)

Incandescence (Bring Me To Life, Everybody's Fool, Sweet Sacrifice)

Fall Out Book (Centuries, I Don't Care, Fake Out)

Writtin Park (Bleed It Out, Burning in the Skies, Runaway)

⋆˖⁺‧₊☽🔮☾₊‧⁺˖⋆ Raven Queen ⋆˖⁺‧₊☽🔮☾₊‧⁺˖⋆

Taylor Quick (Anti-Hero, Enchanted, You're On Your Own Kid)

Royale (Royals, 400 Lux, Ladder Song)

Lady Yaga (Bloody Mary, Monster, Government Hooker)

I DONT KNOW HOW BUT THEY CURSED ME (Mad IQs, New Invention, Absinthe)

Spellannah Joffe (Die Your Daughter, Nobody Wants Me Tonight, My Dog Died)

༉‧₊˚🕯️🥀❀༉‧₊˚. Rosabella Beauty ༉‧₊˚🕯️🥀❀༉‧₊˚.

Penelorepe Scott (Rät, Dead girls, American Healthcare)

Bob Dalan-a-Dale (Blowin' in the wind, The Times They Are A-Changing, A Hard Rain's A Gonna Fall)

Joan Bard (We Shall Overcome, Diamonds & Rust, Girl of Constant Sorrow)

Mirra Simone (Sinnerman, Mississippi Goddam, Revolution)

Sam Book (A Change is gonna come, Mean Old World, Jesus gave me water)

🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆♪ °˖➴જ⁀➴ Sparrow Hood 🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆♪ °˖➴જ⁀➴

Knight Chloe (Too Close, Hooves, Michelle)

Black Rebel Carriage Club (Beat the Devil's Tattoo, American X, Weapon of Choice)

Wolf Killer Kids (Hang Me Up To Dry, First, Robbers)

The Legacy Keys (Lonely Boy, Weight of love, Little Black Submarines)

Prince Ferdinand (Take Me Out, Love Illumination, Lazy Boy)

Wands N' Roses (Paradise City, Sympathy for the devil, Sweet Child O' Mine)

He gets an extra one because the Knight Chloe ones are all very shippy.

✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆ Tucker ✩°｡ ⋆⸜ 🎧✮🎸⋆⭒˚｡⋆

Giantz (Feel Good Inc., Kids With Guns, Momentary Bliss)

The Spells (Little Girl, Is This It?, The Adults Are Talking)

The Legacy Keys (Fever, Go, Psychotic Girl)

Black Rebel Carriage Club (Red Eyes And Tears, Going Under, Restless Sinner)

Prince Ferdinand (The Dark of the Matinee, Curious, Billy Goodbye)

You are trapped on an eight-hour long road trip with these guys and you have to give one of them the aux chord.

[nodplus50pts]

Thought i'd post this here too..!! my comics are now available in print with Koguchi Press!! i've been so excited to share this with everyone 😭✨ please check them out!!

links below!

the house on 52 carlton street (horror)

runaway mayhem (sci-fi)

[lolliepops-rox]

Okay imma just make a post of a bunch of Electronic Mayhem headcanons

Zoot has chronic pain, particularly in his joints. He 'self medicates' and is partly why he's much more spacey than the rest of the band.

Janice really likes caring for Zoot on bad pain days. She'll be all up in his business even if he insists she doesn't need to, but it's not often he complains anyways, Janice is a great nurse :D

Zoot loves bugs. He doesn't keep any collections/pets because the band spends so much time living out of the van. He does always read up on bugs common to the cities they visit, and loves showing off the ones he finds. Except to Floyd, who can't handle bugs. Zoot also checks if a bug could be poisonous, because Animal tends to eat the bugs Zoot shows off.

Animal uses he/it. People have a tendency to use it/its for Animal which doesn't bother it.

If any of them knew or cared about labels: Pansexual for Animal & Teeth; Bi for Lips, Zoot, Janice and Floyd. But they are all literally just vibing.

Teeth talks like that actually because of a speech impediment (from dyspraxia). He didn't talk much when he was younger cause he was self-conscious. Part of what drew him to music is it doesn't tend to affect him as much when he sings (or so he thinks). These days it doesn't bother him cause his band loved out his stresses about it.

Teeth, Floyd, Animal, and Janice are all runaways.

Floyd left his home at about 15 cause of his drunken abusive father. His mum wouldn't leave with him and he regrets it everyday.

Teeth had his overbearing mum. He left home at 17 after graduating high school and met Floyd. When Teeth bumped into his parents he regressed and fled with them, and attended uni to become a qualified dentist. (This is when Floyd joins the army to not think about being abandoned)

Janice had the same sort of thing, but with a lot of emphasis on being A Proper Young Lady and getting married and having at least four kids. She ditched home at 19 to avoid what was basically an arranged marriage. She still has plenty of religious trauma and was fairly socially stunted from a lack of friends her own age growing up.

Animal was in & out of care homes and medical institutions cos AuDHD making it high needs. It got sick of that shit sometime in its late teens then met Floyd and Teeth, rest is history.

Despite Floyd being a very gruff, sarcastic and rude, he's actually the best at handling Animal. Love makes him patient. He'll also tell you to 'go fuck yourself' if you point out how much he cares, because god forbid people acknowledge that he's a very caring boyfriend.

The band formed before working for The Muppet, minus Lips. He is the youngest of the band and joined after they were already performing for The Muppets. Zoot met Lips while he was busking, and the rest is history <3

Okay this has been sitting in my drafts for long enough. Time to post.

[leel-writes]

𝑰𝑵𝑻𝑹𝑶 𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑮 — SUP

✮ ʟᴇᴇ ✮ ꜱʜᴇ/ʜᴇʀ ✮ ʙɪʟɪɴɢᴜᴀʟ ✮ ʟᴇᴏ

- ʙᴀꜱɪᴄ ᴅɴɪ -

ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ/ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇꜱ: Dexter, Sheldon, Arcane, Witcher, Scream 1, Heavy Trip, Deathgasm, Lords of Chaos, Metal Lords, You, IT, Dune 1&2, The Dirt, Dune 1&2, Seinfeld, 8 Mile, TEOTFW, Malmhaus, Childs Play etc.

ᴍᴜꜱɪᴄ: Guns N Roses, Hanoi Rocks, Nirvana, The Smith, Alice In Chains, Megadeth, David Bowie, The Runaways, Mötley Crüe, Eminem, Deftones, Lovejoy, Ramones, Mayhem, Darkthrone, Emperor, Etc (I don’t stick to just one genre :)

ʜᴏʙʙɪᴇꜱ: Drawing, reading, playing instruments, being with friends, puzzles, watercolor, collecting things.

ᴇxᴛʀᴀ: I like to write so I’ll be writing for any of my fav music band, tv show/movies. love new friends :) cats are my fav animal. dc > marvel both r prefect. REQUEST OPEN

“Be yourself; everyone else is already taken.”-Oscar Wilde.

[yourfavealbumisgender]

Welcome to Your Fave Album Is Gender

Requests are currently closed! For info on the progress of a request check here! Rules and info below the cut.

What are the rules?

Send requests through the ask box.

All genders and sexualities are allowed as long as there’s a flag I can use to overlay the album cover.

However, I will not accept requests for cis/straight albums (“____ by ____ is cisgender”) (This includes polyamorous by itself. I am happy to do polyamorous with a queer identity included.)

No more than two requests at a time please!

No more than two flags on an album please! (Not that I don't support using multiple labels, it's just hard for me to edit more than two flags!)

YOU HAVE TO TELL ME WHAT SEXUALITY/GENDER YOU WANT THE ALBUM TO BE OTHERWISE I CAN'T DO YOUR REQUEST!!!!

Please let me know if there's a specific flag you'd like me to use in your request (gay mlm flag vs rainbow, transfem/masc vs transgender, etc) Otherwise I'll use my best judgement to pick whichever fits best. (I use the Gilbert Baker flag as a default for the rainbow/gay flag, please let me know if you'd like a different version of the rainbow flag or the homosexual/mlm flag) (I will NOT use the original bigender flag with the white stripe in the middle on this blog. The creator is a transphobic abusive groomer.)

All albums or singles from any genre and language are allowed as long as they have official album art.

However, I have the right to not accept any request for whatever reason. The blacklist is below. If you send requests for the artists or albums on my blacklist, your request will be deleted.

Requests take awhile to upload depending on how many I have. I only post 2 per day. Please be patient.

Yes, you can use any of my edits as icons but please do not repost them without credit.

What artists will I not make edits for?

Alice Cooper All Time Low Anti-Flag As I Lay Dying Avenged Sevenfold Azealia Banks Brand New Call Me Karizma Cardi B Cherie Currie Chris Brown Cobra Starship Dance Gavin Dance Destroy Boys Diddy Disturbed Doja Cat Drake Falling In Reverse Harry Styles Hanson Hazbin Hotel/ Helluva Boss/ Vivziepop Heisei Project Jack Off Jill John Hinckley Kanye West Kublai Khan TX Lana Del Rey Lostprophets Lovejoy Machine Gun Kelly Marilyn Manson Mayhem Melanie Martinez Midtown Mindless Self Indulgence Miracle Musical (Joe Hawley) Morningwood Noa Kirel New Found Glory Palaye Royale Pusu/Zips R Kelly Slaughter to Prevail SWMRS The Used TUYU Twenty One Pilots TX2 Wilbur Soot XXXTentacion Yung Miami

What albums will I not make edits for?

Anything by any of the artist above Dying is Your Latest Fashion - Escape The Fate album Escape The Fate - Escape The Fate EP There's No Sympathy for the Dead - Escape The Fate EP Joe's Garage - Frank Zappa album Girls/Girls/Boys - Panic! At The Disco single Death Of A Bachelor - Panic! At The Disco album Pray For The Wicked - Panic! At The Disco album Viva Las Vengeance - Panic! At The Disco album Live in Japan - The Runaways live album Queens of Noise - The Runaways album The Runaways - The Runaways album No Phun Intended - Tyler Joseph release

Note: These lists may be added to at any time.

Who is allowed to interact?

Anyone can interact as long as you are not one of the following:

TERF/SWERF/Radfem/Truscum/Transmed/“Gender critical”/Exclusionist

LGBTQA+ phobic/Racist/Nazi/Anti-Vax/Republican/All/Blue Lives Matter/Pro-Life/Misogynist/Zionist

Rape Apologist/MAP/NOMAP/Pedo

Who are you?

My name is Hades, my pronouns are they/them, I’m 25, and I'm gendervoid! My main is @sp1n​ I am a my chemical romance, j-pop, and vocaloid enjoyer!  I hope you enjoy this blog!

credit for dividers goes to theprideful

[naavispider]

Welcome! My name is Crocs, 26, UK ✨ This is a space for all my little avatar ideas and headcanons, but most of all 💙 fanfic 😊

Below is a masterlist of all my works, though you can find them all on AO3 as well (@Naavispider). I also write oneshots which are often not long enough to post on AO3, so follow the blog for those! Or you can find them by searching the tags 'my stuff' or 'oneshot' 💞

I am so chill, asks and DMs are always open, as are requests and prompts (Spider or Spider+Quaritch centric, cannot promise to get around to it!) 🥰💙

The big three:

💞💙 If You Playing Me That Mean My Home Aint Home 💙💞 95k (41 chapters + an epilogue), atwow from Spider's perspective. Missing scenes, fluff and angst, Hurt/Comfort.

Caught ❤️🤧 84k (27 chapters + an epilogue). AU where Spider gets caught in the net with Lo'ak, Tsireya and Tuk during the Battle of the Three Brothers Rocks. Evil!Quaritch, heavy angst, prisoner of war, psychological horror. Hurt/no comfort, Angst with a happy ending

The Cat’s in the Cradle 83k, 14 chapters, Modern au, focusing on Spider as he gets fostered by the Sullys, and tries to navigate his past creeping up on him in the form of a disgraced ex marine. Fluff and angst.

Other smaller stories:

Survivor Oneshot, 15k, Quaritch is a high ranking police officer who keeps running into Spider, a runaway foster kid who keeps making the wrong choices. Eventually they both work it out - but how will they react?

Noodle 🏄🏼‍♂️ 6k, Spider gets lost in bridgehead and gets up to… mayhem. Fluff and angst (but mostly fluff).

Trigger Spider will to anything to stop Jake and Quaritch’s battle to the death. One shot, 2k. Angst.

Oh No Modern au, Spider is kidnapped by Quaritch. Angst. 10k, wip

Cold Spider is majorly wounded while in the forest with the recoms. Angst, gore, 5k

Smoke Spider meets Quaritch for the first time as the recoms raid High Camp. 3.1k, angst

Merciless An au where John Mercer from Frontiers of Pandora finds out Spider is being held by the RDA. Angst, 5k, wip

Prisoner Spider has been captured by the RDA for a while before Quaritch finds out. When he does, the recom takes drastic action. 13k, angst and good!quaritch

Obstinate Quaritch’s POV of a late night conversation with Spider. 1.7k, fluff

Egghead Lyle Wainfleet accidentally shoots Spider. 3k

[blazinghotfoggynights]

I hope the 9-1-1 TPTB bring the drama.

There. I said it. I want to see angst, struggling, emotional turmoil, crying, maybe a few holes punched in the wall, again, screaming, arguing. Everything.

They have been freed from the conservative prison that is the you know what network. Why not go big or go home?

Now, some people will say read this and say I'm messy.

Okay. If you think that bothers me, good for you. (It doesn't. IRL, I am the most drama-free, non-confrontational person ever, but I like my entertainment to be a runaway rollercoaster. Don't keep it mentally stable and happy. So boring.)

I've been pretty open about wanting Buddie endgame. But we don't have to take the romantic, sweet, easy route. We can go offroad, turn on the 4x4, and hit the bumps full speed.

So, if Minear and crew (or Oliver and Ryan *waves*) see this, let me throw some messy ideas your way. You want mayhem and chaos? Let's look for some!

Everything below can be supported by canon up to ep 7x5.

1- Have Eddie question why his romantic interactions with women are always forced, initiated or encouraged by someone else, and unfulfilling. Shannon pursued him. Ana was there and familiar. Marisol was there and familiar. Eddie never pursues women due to good old basic attraction. He falls into relationships with those who send him signals they like him and are kind of shameless and thirsty.

We have NEVER seen Eddie actually genuinely excited to go on a date or spend time with a woman. There was always some ulterior reason. He was trying to give Christopher the stable home he thought his son deserved, or Bobby gave some cryptic advice, or Buck said Natalia is the only person who sees him. Ahem.

But Eddie was was all smiles to go hang out with Tommy. The man was bouncing. Bouncing! And every time he has hung out with Buck, he's relaxed and happy. Ijs.

2- I want to remind you that you created the character of Tommy Kinard, so his canonical history is not fandom's ideas. *points to show writers* They did it!

Tommy is canonically a racist, misogynist dbag. (See Hen Begins.) Sure, you can say he did it to fit in, but that also makes him a hypocrite now. He was always the first to follow in the former captain's footsteps when harassing Hen. Tommy wasn't a kid. He knew what he was doing was totally wrong and chose to be racist, misogynist, and possibly homophobic. I mean, I see that you have Hen and Chim forgiving him, which is fodder for a whole different post on retconning, backtracking, the forgiveness from minorities trope etc, but I digress.

I have always lived by the rule that when people show me who they are, I believe them. If you wanted to refer back to past Tommy Kinard, you could make him a total dbag.

It was obvious in 7x3 Tommy was not into Buck. At all. He didn't acknowledge Buck at all until Buck grabbed him. He barely spared Buck a glance when Buck grabbed his arm, pushing Buck's hand away, then looking back toward the direction Eddie exit the scene. That man was blinded by Eddie, who, see number 1, didn't give him the time of day. You could build on that and bring massive amounts of drama and pain.

3- If you really want to blow minds, have fandom go into a collective meltdown, be edgy, and create a storyline that would open the doors to all the main characters being involved, new bonds being cemented between characters who rarely interact, and serious emotional wreckage... just hear me out..

Give us an infidelity arc.

There are multiple options for this one. Some are pretty straightforward and relatively tame, such as Eddie and Buck realizing they are completely in love with each other and kissing, and some are just this side of being banished to Skinimax and HBHo, such as uncovering hidden facts that are scandalous, lying, and intentionally misleading others for your own purposes.

Those ideas could lead to enough material for seasons 8, 9, AND 10 if done properly. 😂 Certain watchdog groups and politicians will condemn you, but smart people don't like them anyway.

Fandom, what say you?

If you have an idea not up there, don't be shy about posting it in a response.

P.S.- I will not apologize for loving messiness. If others didn't enjoy watching messy situations, reality TV would not exist. So, I am not alone.