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ginnsbaker · 3 months ago

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All Of Your Pieces (2 - Liar! Liar!)

Chapter Summary: You wake up one morning compelled to say the truth and nothing but the truth. Wanda seizes this opportunity to ensure everything remains under her control. Meanwhile, Jimmy and Darcy finally discover what happened to Agent Monica Rambeau. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags: Manipulation

A/N: Billy is my favorite twin, if that isn't obvious already :P // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

It doesn’t require a calendar to track the days here in Westview.

It's the kind of repetition that settles over suburban life, where dates fade into insignificance and days blur into a seamless loop, distinguishable only by the changing seasons. But even the current season—fall—is as predictable in its passage as ever, like storybook weather in its perfection. The birds are always chirping, the sun rises promptly at 6:40 every morning—never a minute early or a second late—and it never rains. Just endless clear skies, day after day, until the sun sets at five.

You've been chewing on this odd feeling ever since you and Wanda arrived in this part of New Jersey, but today, there's something extra. You can't pin it down, just that it's…there. Today feels different—more than usual—and you didn’t really get it until breakfast, when your mouth slipped past your usual tact with the kids.

“Mommy, do you like it?” Tommy asks, his eyes big and hopeful as he holds up a crayon drawing of what looks like the family standing outside a perfect little house.

Perfect. Honestly, you’re getting pretty tired of everything being so perfect around here.

“It's...very colorful,” you start, the usual praise ready on your tongue, but what comes out instead is, “Though it's kind of all over the place, isn’t it? Maybe you could try to stay inside the lines a bit more.”

Speaking aloud is like sending an email: once it's out there, it's out there for good. Even so, an email would have been the better option. At least then, you could just hack into Tommy’s account—if he ever figures out how to set one up—and erase your blunder for good.

Could having a magical wife somehow save you from this mess?

It’s too late though. Tommy's face crumples, and Wanda doesn't seem keen on throwing you a lifeline, just a dirty look from across the table as you sip your morning coffee.

“But if you’re going for an abstract—” you start, but your son is already sulking off to his room.

Billy digs into his cereal, blissfully unaware. Wanda, on the other hand, looks as if she's ready to rip open a portal to another realm and hurl you out of this one.

That can’t be good.

“You really upset him,” she says, arms crossing over her chest. “He was so proud of that drawing.”

“I know, I feel awful about it,” you groan, burying your face in your hands. Seeing your genuine remorse, Wanda eases up, giving you a moment to stew in your guilt before she comes back to the table with a stack of pancakes.

“Here, eat up,” she says, setting them down in front of you.

You pick up your fork, cutting into the stack. They look perfect—golden brown, with the butter melting just right. You take a bite, and before you can stop yourself, the words are out.

“They're a bit dry,” you blurt out, instantly regretting your words. But once you start, you can't seem to stop. “And this maple syrup... it tastes kind of artificial.”

Wanda gasps. “Excuse me?”

“Shit—”

“Language, Y/N!” she snaps, but it's too late, the curse is already out there, floating in the air like a bad smell.

In the next moment, something strange happens—your lips tingle, and suddenly you can't feel your mouth. Alarmed, you touch your face, finding smooth skin where your lips should be. You try to protest, but only muffled noises emerge. Fear surges as you point frantically at your face. You attempt to scream, but no sound comes out.

Seeing your flustered pantomime, Wanda’s face goes from angry to horrified. With a wave of her hand, your mouth is back in its place, and you’re gasping, both of you staring at each other, not believing what just happened. Meanwhile, Billy is giggling, clapping his tiny hands together, and gleefully repeating the S-word you accidentally let slip earlier.

You and Wanda just continue to stare at each other in shock, but then you glance at Billy, his innocent delight completely oblivious to the fact he’s saying something he shouldn’t, and you see the corners of Wanda’s mouth start to twitch. A moment later, she’s laughing unabashedly, and before you know it, you’re doing the same.

Despite the peculiarities of your life here in Westview, you don't think you've ever been this content. Before Wanda, the idea of having your own family—your own kids, two no less—seemed unthinkable. You never imagined you'd have a wife, a house in a quiet suburb, or hear one of your sons swear for the first time. Westview is far from normal, but then again, so is your family. As you watch Wanda's laughter taper into soft giggles, you think it's impossible to love her any more than you already do.

Wanda made this all conceivable for you.

“Sorry, honey,” you say, though still a bit shaken by the ordeal. “I didn't mean to be so rude.”

Wanda looks even more remorseful than you feel—which makes sense, considering she did erase your mouth, however briefly.

“And I probably shouldn't have... you know, removed your mouth,” she murmurs, guiltily picking at her cuticles.

Admittedly, it was terrifying—one of the scariest experiences you've ever had. You certainly don't want a repeat. It makes you slightly wary of your wife, but your love for Wanda outweighs your fear. Standing beside one of the most powerful beings in the universe takes courage, and you've built up plenty over the years together. You're made for this—for her, for this kind of love.

“Apology accepted,” you say, mustering a weak smile.

Wanda's face floods with relief, then quickly contorts into worry. “What’s with you today?”

“I can't seem to lie,” you confess, realizing there's no easy way to skirt the truth. “I don't know what's happening, but I just can't stop saying exactly what's on my mind.”

She stares at you, confused and a little hurt. “What do you mean you can’t lie today? So, you’re usually lying?”

Before you can smooth that over, Billy looks up from his cereal, fixing you with that stern look that’s pure Wanda. “Mommy, lying is bad.”

Wanda’s gaze softens as she looks at Billy, then back at you, the seriousness returning. “Billy, why don’t you go brush your teeth and check on your brother? Your mommy and I need to talk for a little bit.”

“Okay, mama.”

Billy scampers off, and you feel your stature shrink under your wife's gaze, suddenly feeling every bit the child.

“What’s this about not being able to lie?” Wanda asks once it’s just the two of you.

You shake your head. “Look, it’s not that I usually lie, but today, I can’t even if I wanted to. It’s like a—a truth filter permanently switched off.”

Wanda takes a few moments to mull over your words. “Oh…” she starts, sounding half-convinced. “Maybe it’s stress,” she throws out after a beat. “You’ve been working really hard lately, haven’t you? Perhaps your mind is just overwhelmed and you need a mental day off.”

You had thought of that, but the whole situation seemed too weird for such a simple explanation. Then again, maybe seeing shadows where there aren't any is just another stress symptom. So you let it slide.

“Yeah, maybe you’re right. I’ll see if I can call in sick next week,” you mumble, trying to sound cheerful about the prospect of a break.

Wanda comes around the table and cups your face in her hands. You let her pinch your cheeks together, feeling both stubborn and a bit sorry for yourself. It's silly, but all you want is for Wanda to coddle you and make you feel better, not to dish out logical reasons for why you’re not yourself today.

“Well, if you're stuck with the truth, let's have some fun with it,” Wanda says.

You swallow hard, aware that any question she might ask now would either please or upset her—and there seems to be no middle ground.

“Uhm, honey, I don’t think—”

“Do you love me?”

You smirk at her; that’s an easy one. “More than anything else.”

“Only me?”

You laugh at her silly follow-up. This reminds you of the early days of your courtship when Wanda was a bottomless well of need. You didn't mind at all, knowing she needed to hear it as often as you made her feel it. Initially, you were a bit bothered, wondering if your actions weren't speaking loudly enough for her to trust you. Eventually, it became less frequent, until the question turned into a statement—You love me—to which you responded with your own: You love me too. Since then, it quickly became how you say ‘I love you’ to each other.

“Only you. I'd sooner die than love someone else,” you confidently tell her.

Her smile in return is a beautiful riddle—a riddle you can’t figure out.

“Wanda, I—”

“Do you like living here?”

“Sometimes.” The words slip out before you can think, and you're relieved to realize that your feelings about Westview are honestly not all negative. “It’s a nice town. Quiet and cheap.”

Wanda's face does something subtle. You can't quite read her reaction, but it's clear she has more questions when she doesn't park on your answer, instead moving on to something else.

“Do you... do you remember how we got here?"

You blink at her. Initially, the question seems a bit absurd. But as you try to formulate a response, “Of course. We got married at…” you stall, your brain blanking on the when and where of your own wedding. “...then we moved into this house last…”

You try to pin down the date, but it slips through your mind like sand.

“Wanda?” A laugh escapes you, but there's a nervous edge to it. “Why can’t I remember any of the details?”

The last thing she says before flicking her wrist is, “Because you’re not supposed to.” But even that slips away, scrubbed clean from your memory by Wanda’s sweeping hand.

–

“Jimmy?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I found her.”

Jimmy hurried over to the tight corner of their camp where Darcy had practically set up shop for the past few days. Since the signals were first picked up, she's taken charge of monitoring the transmissions, her main focus being to locate Agent Monica Rambeau. They've already confirmed that many of Wanda's bizarre, sitcom-style characters are, in fact, real residents of Westview, somehow trapped inside whatever anomaly Wanda seems to be in the center of.

“That’s Monica, right?” Darcy points at the grainy image on the retro television set they've been using to watch the town's activities. The broadcasts come through at odd hours, which makes every second of surveillance crucial.

Jimmy leans in closer, squinting at the screen where a woman bearing a striking resemblance to Monica appears. “It sure looks like her,” he confirms.

The woman onscreen is dressed in distinctly 70s fashion—a bold, patterned blouse with wide lapels tucked into high-waisted bell-bottoms. Her hair is styled in voluminous, bouncy curls that softly frame her face, completing the look that is so far removed from the S.W.O.R.D. uniform Jimmy last saw her in.

“I wonder what character she’s playing in the show…” Darcy muses.

A handful of nearby crew quietly look on as Monica steps out of a Hornet, a stack of papers clutched in her hand, and strides confidently toward one of those cookie-cutter houses lining the street—yours and Wanda's.

“Stay frosty, Monica,” Darcy mutters under her breath, staring unblinkingly at the screen as they watch her knock gently on the door.

It’s Wanda who greets her with a guarded smile. “Hello, can I help you?” she asks, sizing up the stranger on her doorstep.

“Hi, there. I’m Geraldine. You must be Wanda,” Monica says. Jimmy and Darcy exchange a look, both arriving at the same conclusion: whatever spell has ensnared the other residents, Monica appears to be under it too.

“Do I know you?” Wanda asks, her teeth gritted in what she hopes passes for a smile. But Wanda, she’s got a tell. It’s never hard to see when she’s faking it. The sitcom laugh track of this Westview tries to spin it as humor, but it’s clear to anyone—she’s not thrilled about Geraldine’s arrival at all.

“Oh, I’m sorry, has Y/N not mentioned who I am?” Geraldine asks mildly, like she’s bringing up some small, casual detail—which, for Wanda, it isn’t.

“Honey, who's at the door?” Your voice drifts from the living room just before you step into view, crunching on an apple. When you spot the visitor, your face lights up with recognition, puzzling Wanda even more.

“Evening, ma'am,” Geraldine nods at you with a polite smile.

Wanda keeps darting glances between you and Geraldine, trying to piece together what's going on. And what’s frustrating her is you don’t seem privy at all to her disconcertment.

“I told you to just call me Y/N,” you admonish with a light grin. “What brings you here?”

“W-Who is she?” Wanda jumps in, keeping up her charade of a pleasant surprise.

“It’s Geraldine,” you tell Wanda, expecting her to recognize the name. Her blank, slightly annoyed expression forces you to jog your memory and that’s when it hits you that your wife has no idea what you’re talking about. “She’s my new assistant. Didn’t I tell you?” you say sheepishly.

“No, honey, you certainly did not,” Wanda replies, her smile stretched a bit too tight. She turns to Geraldine. “Aren’t offices usually closed by five?”

“They sure are, Wanda,” Geraldine replies cheerfully. It bothers Wanda how Geraldine uses ‘ma’am’ for you but casually drops her first name like they're old friends.

“So, why are you here?” Wanda asks, no longer bothering to hide her irritation.

“Oh, just dropping off some reports that Y/N needed to review tonight. Urgent stuff, you know?” Geraldine holds up the stack of papers in her hand as proof.

“Yikes,” Darcy winces at the tension practically leaking through the screen, feeling that deep cringe of secondhand embarrassment for Monica's obliviousness to Wanda's ire.

Fortunately for your assistant, you position yourself between her and Wanda, intercepting just as your wife’s temper begins to flare. You remember Wanda’s warm, almost syrupy kindness with Agnes when she first appeared, which only makes her sudden cold front toward Geraldine unreasonable.

“I completely forgot about those reports. Thanks for bringing them over, Geraldine,” you say, nudging her toward the exit. “See you Monday!”

Then, you close the door before she can add anything else, sparing both women from each other.

“So, why haven't you mentioned Geraldine before?” Wanda asks, not sparing another second to grill you about your new assistant.

You frown, thinking back. “I thought I did.”

Wanda looks at you for a long moment, her expression inscrutable. “Are you sure there’s nothing else you’re not telling me?” she demands, her eyes searching yours.

“Uh-oh, trouble in paradise,” Darcy sing-songs, stuffing a handful of popcorn into her mouth. Jimmy reaches over, trying to sneak a handful, but she swats him away.

You give her a lopsided smile, doing your best to charm your way out of the situation. The compulsive honesty from earlier isn't nagging at you anymore, but really, there's no need to sugarcoat anything in this case.

“Sounds like someone's a little jealous,” you tease lightly. And there it is again—that distant chorus of an audience, laughing on cue. You really need to talk to Wanda about this; it could be linked to all the experiments she's been doing with her powers.

Wanda barks out a forced laugh right into your smirking face. “Jealous? Me? There's no way I'm jealous of anyone, especially not Geraldine.”

“Then why did you look like you wanted to throw her out yourself when she showed up?”

Wanda's smile fades a tad, then she just shrugs. “Because she was interrupting our family dinner time. That's all.”

Normally, you'd draw this out until she admits she's jealous, but that could take all night. Right now, all you want is to kiss your beautiful wife, the only one you see. It's getting late, and not being able to touch her all day is driving you a little mad with want.

“Fine, you're not jealous,” you whisper, moving in, wrapping your arms around her waist. “Why would you be? You’re the prettiest, smartest, most amazing woman anyone could ask for.”

Wanda melts into you almost instantly. “You love me.”

“You love me too,” you say before leaning in to peck her lips. She hums happily against your lips, but just then, you hear the boys complaining about being hungry. Sharing a smile, you both head back to sort out dinner.

The episode ends, credits roll, and Darcy groans, tossing her head back. “No way. I need more of this,” she huffs, stabbing her finger at the screen. “They're perfect together. Shame Y/N’s supposedly dead. I hate spoilers.”

“She doesn’t look dead to me from here,” Jimmy says.

“My theory? That’s not actually her. I bet Wanda or someone did something to make a rando look like Y/N.”

“You think?”

Darcy nods. “With all the surreal stuff happening here? Yeah, I'd put money on it, dude.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Jimmy concedes. “Anyway, it’s a relief to see Agent Rambeau’s alive and kicking.”

“As Geraldine,” Darcy reminds him. “I wonder who chooses their names for them. Back to Y/N, what did that Howard guy have to say about Y/N being dead but so alive in Westview?”

“It’s Hayward,” Jimmy corrects her with a sigh. “He doesn’t seem interested in her or anyone else trapped inside. He’s more interested in the energy field surrounding the town.”

“And their boys?” Darcy adds, not listening to Jimmy’s rant. “We don’t have any public record of their true identities in Westview, right?”

Jimmy gives her a sidelong glance. “No records, no data. As far as Westview’s concerned, they just… appeared.”

“Typical,” she mutters, jotting down notes without looking away from the TV's static, hoping there’s a bonus episode or something.

But the screen stays blank, nothing but static for hours on end.

–

After hours of making love, Wanda lies next to you, watching you sleep. She’s used her powers on you before, but never here, never without your consent since you became a couple. Casting the hex was the easy part, the lying to you—not so much. Acting like she didn't know what was troubling you had hurt her more than she let on.

She wanted to check if you were still happy here, still content, or if doubts were starting to creep in. And knowing you—the real you—you'd probably lie to Wanda just to keep her happy, just to ensure she has everything she wants. You've always prioritized her needs over your own, always stepping aside to let her shine. She wants the same for you, but you always manage to outdo her in every act of self-sacrifice.

When you started asking her about the exact dates of the wedding you thought you two actually had, it confirmed you still had no idea why you’re here, or what she’s done. She was relieved, honestly, because it meant she could stop forcing you to tell the truth, a spell she’d put on you out of desperation more than distrust.

She isn't sure how long this will last, just that it might be the most happiness she'll ever know, even if it's a delicate, fleeting kind. How did she even do this? Wanda doesn’t even know. It just happened—like a rose that has sprouted off a barren land. And now, despite having everything she's ever wanted, there’s always this nagging fear that it could all fall apart.

Quietly, she makes a promise to herself to fix things. She promises to you and her boys, she’ll find a way to make this life real, something that won’t just vanish like everything else she’s ever loved.

#wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff imagine #wanda maximoff x you #wanda x you #wanda maximoff #unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #wanda maximoff fanfiction #oneshots #fic request #wandavision #monica rambeau #darcy lewis #jimmy woo #All Of Your Pieces #AOYP

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wutheringcaterpillar · 10 months ago

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An Act of Violation

Summary: Cillian takes advantage of you during a sex scene on set.

Warnings: Noncon, age gap (reader is 18), sense of grooming, p in v, oral (f receiving), Dark!Cillian, virgin!reader, creampie, trauma inflicted, fingering

This is purely fiction, not in relation to Cillian Murphy or his real life.

After landing your first big role at the ripe age of eighteen, your co star Cillian took you under his wing. Giving you acting lessons, taking an interest in your hobbies, sharing friendly banter. He had learned very quickly that you didn’t come from money, merely gliding by with rent and food, living from pay check to pay check. He took you on several lunches, dinner, acting as if he cared. He was calculated in his plans, earning your trust and friendship, knowing all your secrets. After your mother’s passing, you had no one, completely and utterly alone in this big, scary world.

Thanking the barista, you made your way to the set, nervous about filming your most intimate scene, although you were quite uncomfortable with having your body on display for everyone to see, you knew sex sells and you could trust Cillian to make you comfortable and guide you. After all Peaky Blinders was on the rise to popularity and emotional attachments with their viewers. The pressure to be perfect on camera waited down on you like an anchor, without this role you’d have nothing, you had to be amazing.

Cillian met you at your trailer with the script, going back and forth rehearsing your lines, suggesting motions, and sounds to make a great sex scene. You didn’t really bat an eye at it, thinking he was just being helpful, trying to ensure your comfortability but when you were on set shedding your clothes preparing, your world turned upside down.

“Action!” Going into character, acting as if you were aroused, Cillian’s hand slid seductively over your bare thighs while your breasts hung visibly present.

His thumb trailed down your bottom lip slowly, lips agape and drawn into your features.

The camera focused in on a side view, filming the intensity and chemistry from the lustful gaze, magnifying the power balance Tommy held over your character Addison.

Running your hands down his chest, there was little conversation, just pure desire. This scene was intended to be hot, electric, rough as your characters didn’t get along, it was simply Tommy being his usual self, enforcing a manipulation tactic to Addison into bed with him. She was the enemy’s daughter, and turning to Tommy when he convinced her that her family betrayed her, wanting to sell her off to the highest bidder. As much as she held a profound hatred for Tommy, her need for revenge was stronger.

He angled his head burrowing his temple to the side of your face when in that moment you felt a movement from under the sheet just barely covering your most vulnerale area. This wasn’t scripted, his arms were supposed to stay on either side of your head to show the muscular tone of his shoulders and back.

None of production batted an eye, simply trusting that Cillian was trying to make the scene more intimate, as if he might be warming your character up by fingering her when that wasn’t the case at all.

You were beginning to panic when the protective garment over your vagina was suddenly swiped down onto the mattress.

A wave of panic and fear weighed down on your chest, but what were you to do? This was your first big role, and you needed the money, Cillian knew that.

In a low, hushed tone, you leaned in toward his ear, voicing the concern.

“What are you doing?” Your question was answered when the head of his hardened cock pressed against the entrance of your dry, unwanting hole. When you tried to wiggle your hips up away from him, he simply pressed down with his strong hand, holding you in place.

“Just lay still and act your part. This is important to you isn’t it?” Sliding down beneath the sheet, you were left having to improvise and act as if this was planned. Within seconds Cillian tongue was on your heat, lapping at your folds and inserting a finger in your tight walls. Your hips bucked up from the unexpected violation, but you had to stay in character when you were internally screaming.

Curling your fists in the sheets, you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to pretend this wasn’t really happening, reminding yourself you had to keep yourself composed in Addison.

His plump, plush lips sucked at your labia as he entered another finger, drilling into your virgin aching hole relentlessly. From the camera’s perspective all they could see was the bump of his head under the sheets, more focused in on your facial expressions.

The director made a call from behind Cillian, motioning for a closer connection. Wanting Cillian to run his hand lovingly down your cheek, whispering his lines in a lustful, charismatic voice. Your eyes stayed transfixed in his corrupted gaze, hiding the impending fear portruding every part of you.

“After this moment, you’ll be my property. Only belonging to me.” Though the lines were fake, his words struck a nerve. Panic ensued, when one of his hands gripped viciously at your breast, noting the hardened state of your nipples.

“Alright now let the sheet fall down your back and look into her eyes, showing a raw passionate connection before ravishing her lips, not being able to resist her any longer.” Cillian did as he was instructed with his own take, hiding the smirk and building tension.

His cock was throbbing at the sight of your unwanting body beneath him, fully on display for his own personal view.

Clashing his lips against yours, he thrusted forward, penetrating your body with his long, girthy member.

What was meant to come out as a cry for help, came out sounding like a muffled moan from your quivering lips being captivated by him.

You needed this role, you couldn’t do anything to jeopardize this job.

You were stranded, breathing in his mint scent, and his cruel blue eyes embedded in your mind, along with the feeling of your most private area being ripped a part from how dry you were.

Your skin formed goosebumps when his hans grasped at your sides, squeezing them as he pounded you down relentlessly.

“Now Y/N, we need you to be completely enveloped. This scene needs the hatred, the aggression, but also the burning desire and attraction.”

Cillian shoved his tongue down your throat, grinning from ear to ear from the warmth of your walls deciding to take control of the scenario playing out.

He had been resisting you for awhile now, but seeing your nude body beneath him, the delicate untouched features of your skin made him think with his cock, wanting to be selfish for once in his life.

He could feel your insides starting to moisten involuntarily, turning into a rather hot, slippery slope warming his penis with each forceable movement.

You felt humiliated, used, like some inanimate object. Feeling suffocated between the weight of him on top of you, and the mattress folding beneath your battered body. Was this all he wanted?

Put yourself in Addison’s shoes you’d repeat to yourself over and over, as if that somehow justified the situation.

The burning in your downstairs intensified when with one strong thrust, he quietly literally took the air from your lungs, but you were able to form it into a glorious moan that was believable.

“Fuck, Tommy keep- oh keep going.” Sliding your hand up the nape of his warm neck, you held him down closer, trying to deepen the kiss, Addison aching for every piece of him, while you were screaming internally for this to be over.

Rhythmically, along with Cillian, feeling his whole length protrude your once virgin walls painfully, balls deep inside of your sore pussy, it had felt like a shot in the arm, only it wasn’t.

Sitting up, and fixing the sheet, he had you on his lap, wanting to see your enticing, inexperienced body ride him while adjusting the sheets so production couldn’t tell.

The pain slowly turned into pleasure when the head of his cock hit your cervix, grinding, and claiming you as he’d wanted to for so long. Taking your innocence and fragility for his own.

He could feel your heart beat rapidly against his chest, but was pleased to notice that your body was enjoying this, you were feeling pleasure and riding him all on your own.

You hid your face in his neck, biting down aggressively on his shoulder, though the pain you were causing him was nothing toward the humiliation on you felt. As your hips swayed, and the tip of his cock brushed against the sweet spot you didn’t know you had.

An unexplainable, pleasurable feeling washed over your core, toes curling, and back arching from the approaching orgasm.

“Tommy- Tommy I’m going to-“ You felt disgusted, violated, unsafe, how was no one noticing what was happening with all the changes in the script or did they just trust Cillian to that extent.

An unexpected, loud, lustful moan escaped from between your lips as your eyes fluttered shut.

Cumming onto Cillian’s shaft, you crumbled in his arms, falling week as your body convulsed. Wishing you could shield yourself from embarrassment, and shamefulness, not wanting to give the predator the satisfaction of knowing he pleased you.

Why wasn’t he pulling out? In a swift motion while you were still desperately riding out the phenomenal sensation. He layed you back down once more, his balls slapped against your bare ass as he pulsated inside of your deflowered rose, painting your insides white with his seed.

“Cut!” As the crew dispensed in search of a robe for you both, Cillian glanced down at the mess, smirking, knowing he had pushed you over the edge enough that you came for him.

Still avoiding eye contact, your co worker tossed you the robe. You flustered to put the fabric over as a shield, pulling your panties from the nightstand drawer, forcing them up to act as a shield, heading back to your trailer.

Cillian covered the stain sheets with the comforter, knowing production usually didn’t clear a set for hours and were always in too much of a hurry to notice a small little stain.

Rushing into your trailer, you slammed the door shut before falling onto the sofa, wrapping your arms around your legs, curling into a fetal position as you wept. Disgust washing over you as his seed continued to seep out from the notorious sexual assault.

What was supposed to be one of the most memorable acts of your life, something you were to decide when you were ready was taken away from you, yet you still had to act through the pain and abuse. Your skin was crawling, as the walls caved in, thought running wild on if this was really worth it if you were going to be subjected to an object.

Not being able to bare the stench of him any longer, in a fitful rush you shed yourself of your clothes, throwing the soiled panties into your bag to throw out the evidence one you were home.

Before changing, you went into the bathroom to start a shower as if you could cleanse away the damage he’s done, cleanse away the memory of his touch and intrusion, but it didn’t work.

Sitting on the toilet, you awaited for more to come out, the tears rolling more abundantly down your cheeks as you saw his semen sitting blatantly in the water.

At that moment there was a knock on the door and Cillian walked in without waiting for you to answer.

Shuffling and scrambling to put your clothes on, he peared the door open, finding you in a state of panic as you pulled a new pair of panties over your coveted area, trying to hide what he’s already seen.

“I don’t think there’s a need to be all embarrassed Y/N. You did great today, felt great might I add.” Uunable of looking him in the eyes, you turned to face away from him, wiping away the tears on your cheeks, not wanting to seem weak.

He closed in the distance, his chest pressing against your back, as his hand slid inside of the wasteband of your pants agonizingly slowly.

Flinching away from his touch, he simple backed you up against the wall leaving you stuck between the hard surface and his touch.

Your stomach churned, forming knots as tears prickled at your eyes once more when his digits combed over your clit, caressing the deflowered skin, and moaning slightly against your ear, causing you to wince away from his unwanted touch.

“Please stop…” You managed to croak out behind the pain.

But your pleads went unnoticed, moreso ignored as he began to rub circles into your overstimulated, throbbing pussy that was still burning from just moments ago.

“Why are you doing this? You- you didn’t ask or care to know if-“ He silenced your words by shoving his fingers right back up into you, allowing the warm liquid from you both to drown his fingers.

The smell of your sex making him hard once more.

“You know all I’d have to do is speak to production. They trust my judgement in character. If I happen to slip up and say I don’t think your right for the part, they’d have to replace you.” He nuzzled his head into the crook of your neck, breathing in your sweet scent while his fingers teased at your hole that belonged to him now.

“Is that what you want?”

“No! Please-please I’ll do whatever you want. I need this job desperately.” Ah there it was, he hadn’t expected you to submit so quickly. He chuckled behind your ear, placing a kiss of satisfaction beneath the lobe of your ear, before patting your dripping cunt and removing his hand.

“Atta girl. Knew you were wise. See you tomorrow then, maybe rehearse early on before everyone else arrives. Oh, don’t forget we have one more scene to film, your outfit is on the table., be ready in an hour.” He left biting his lip, turning around and winking at you with a sadistic, egotistical look on his face. You had nowhere to go, no one to turn, most of all no one to believe you.

Collapsing to the floor, you cried relentlessly onto the cold, hard tile, falling to pieces as flashbacks entered your mind of the way he touched you. The way his eyes gleamed with a sick amusement. How could you have been so stupid to believe Cillian was your friend and not noticed all the signs? He ruined your experience of possibly being famous, unable to watch your work on Peaky Blinders ever again without the constant reminder and scene of you losing your virginity.

Pulling yourself up from the floor trying to catch a breath, you did your best to shake off the feeling, clothing yourself for the final scene of the episode that was supposed to be a cliff hanger for the plot of Addison.

The makeup artist noticed your distress, asking if everything was alright to which you just shrugged it off by saying you were reading a script for a future episode and you had become emotional. When she pulled your hair back to remove it out of the way of your face, you unexpectedly flinched from her touch, unprepared for the sudden motion. Questioning you once more, you claimed she had startled you and everything was alright.

When you walked outside to join the crew, the scene before made you nauseated. Seeing Cillian laughing, and chatting with the other actors as if nothing had happened. They were all so oblivious to his charm, and having the advantage of knowing him for so long, they never blinked an eye.

Walking toward the crowd, Cillian glanced your way still laughing and smiling, watching as you stood a good lengths away from him but of course that would draw attention, wouldn’t it? Everyone believed to know how close of “friends” you were, so you made your way closer to his side, ready to act once more, pretending as if everything was okay. He massaged your shoulders, asking if you were okay as if he cared. He just wanted everyone to believe he was a good, caring, hard working man that was willing to help anyone. Taking your position in the alley in the pissing rain, Cillian stood watching your every move from the other end as he waited for his cue to come in. The constant stare was troubling, but once again, no one seemed to notice or think anything of it. Cillian was and always will be more important and a step ahead of you, he would always be the star.

#Cillian murphy #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy x you #cillian murphy imagine #ranaewrites

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lincolndjarin · 1 year ago

Text

Every Now and Then - ch. one

[ I Dream of Something Wild ]

pairing : joel miller x f!reader, platonicsoulmate!tommy & f!reader

word count : 6.4k

summary : Joel Miller destroyed you. He loved you, then he left, leaving you in the New York City, QZ. But he's a good southern gentleman, so of course he didn't leave you without a reminder of the time you spent together. Four years later you're living in Jackson, in a lovely little ranch house. (With your reminder.) The last person you want to see is Joel Miller, unfortunately you've never been particularly lucky.

tags/warnings : 18+ mdni, angst, canon typical violence, injury, language, manipulation, joel takes advantage of readers situation, eventual smut, no use of y/n, no physical description of reader, she is picked up by joel at one point but i'm a firm believer that he's strong enough to lift any one who may find themselves in the pov of our reader, joel is possessive and controlling, dark!joel miller in a sense?? like he's not really dark now but he's going to be, multiple time lines, not canon compliant, mentions of prostitution, i sorta made up my own timeline, i probs missed tags sorry!!

a/n : i really need to fix my writing schedule so i'm hoping that having a new fic to put my energy into is going to help!! also sorry if this chapter doesn't have much going on i need to set up a lot of stuff but i promise more action in future chapters

ao3 .𖥔 ݁ ˖ series masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖ main masterlist .𖥔 ݁ ˖ kofi

He crept up on you like the shadows as the sun sets in the west. An all encompassing darkness that blotted out the sun until all that was left was night. He sunk his claws into you so deep that your eyes adjusted to the dark, and you didn’t even realize how much time had passed until you shrunk away from the inevitable sunrise that made him cower away from the dawn as if he never really was big and scary.

And in the light of day you saw him for what he really was.

He was just a man, who was once a boy, who was scared of the dark.

So he made himself big, and terrifying, and he grew so accustomed to the thing he once feared that the very idea of anything else made him recoil.

You feel something akin to pity when you think of him now. That doesn’t mean you forgive him, but when you can stomach it you try to, for the sake of your peace. You’d probably be happier if you could just forgive him.

But you can’t.

So you don’t.

It’s hard when his own blood doesn’t think he’s a good man. Tommy was afraid of him. Terrified at the very thought of his big brother. You can recall several nights where you had woken up to him screaming in the sleeping bag beside you, absolutely petrified of a memory that had inevitably snuck in through the darkness. You never feared him quite like that, but seeing the effect he has on Tommy makes your stomach churn, a painful reminder of your own suffering.

Most of the time it’s easier to just not think of him at all, despite the reminders he’s branded into you forever. You ignore him when he tries to soak back into your very being, but at the end of the day he’s unavoidable. You see him in the dark brown eyes of others, hear him in Tommy’s southern drawl, taste him when you have the occasional sip of whiskey. He tries and tries relentlessly to worm his way back into you, but you never let him. You put up walls and you focus on other things, anything, that isn’t Joel Miller. And even though you can’t forget him entirely you manage to ignore the memory of the man you once loved for several years.

Until one day it’s impossible to keep the thought of him away.

Until he himself makes it impossible.

Then - NEW YORK CITY, QUARANTINE ZONE : 2019

“Stay off of it or you’re going to lose it.”

That’s what the QZ doctor had told you. A couple weeks of bed rest was the most he could offer when you came to him with your broken ankle.

A couple weeks without working is a death sentence.

If you don’t work you won’t be able to afford food. And you don’t have anybody to fall back on, no family, no friends, not even an acquaintance to borrow funds from.

Lose your leg or starve.

As appealing as it sounds, starvation isn’t an option, too painful.

So you have to work. The only issue with that is you’ve been blacklisted, the stupid doctor had you put on a no-shift list. You beg them to let you work, you’ll do anything, but they never budge.

You only have enough ration cards stocked up to make it to the end of the week so you have to consider your other options. You could sell yourself. It certainly isn’t uncommon and the money’s good but it’s too dangerous, especially if you can’t run on your leg. You’ve seen too many people get hurt in that profession to risk it. You don’t have a trade. You’re terrible at sewing, you can’t cook, there isn’t a need for much of anything else and you own nothing valuable.

So there’s only one other option for you.

You steal.

You dress inconspicuously, in your only pair of jeans and a plain shirt, both of which are getting rather tattered at this point but you have nothing else. With your jacket on you pull up your hood and you do the exact thing you aren’t supposed to do, and you walk.

The conditions in the QZ are poor enough that your limp doesn’t stand out. You walk up and down the streets all day, slow and steady, with your head down and you don’t take risks. You don’t take anything big or obvious, just little things. A single ration card peeking out of a pocket, a pocket knife off a vendor's table, stale bread, set away from the good stuff where no one is looking. And you return home each night with your pockets full and your leg aching.

By the end of your second week you’re still barely scraping by but you’re managing. What little ration cards you manage to snatch you use to buy food, but it’s still nothing compared to what you’re used to making. Your ankle feels worse by the day.

You need more.

You need to find a source of income that will let you rest or you’re going to lose your leg, which will leave you in an even worse position. It isn’t until you hear your neighbor slam his door that you come up with an idea.

Your neighbor probably has more cards than he knows what to do with, and he’s always coming and going so he probably wouldn’t even notice if you skimmed a little off the top. Nothing substantial, just enough to keep you going and give your leg time to heal.

The only problem is your neighbors reputation.

You doubt you’d have much of a chance of surviving him if you got caught. Joel Miller was a bit of an urban legend around the QZ. Of course you only knew him as your stoic neighbor, just a guy who didn’t make a lot of noise and came home at strange hours, and sometimes disappeared for days at a time.

But everyone else acted as if he was some kind of Boogey Man. You didn’t see him much in the streets but when you did children ran and people whispered, and while you had no knowledge of how he earned that reputation you knew it probably wasn’t pretty.

So you’d have to be careful.

He’s gone now, you’d heard him stopping down the hall so you decide it couldn’t hurt to take a peek, just scout out the area.

You climb out onto the fire escape, your leg aching as you do, and you use the dull little knife you’d stolen a few days ago to shimmy open his window lock. It slides open pretty easily, he’s probably rather confident that nobody would ever mess with him so he doesn’t seem to have the usual precautions taken to protect his belongings.

Lucky you.

Stepping into the room you wince as you land on your bad leg, stumbling onto the floor, knocking a board loose in the process.

“Shit.” You groan, sitting up quickly, trying to put everything back in its proper place when you catch a glimmer of something under the floor.

A revolver.

You shouldn’t be here. Joel Miller is a dangerous man, you knew that but you did this anyway, you can’t help but feel incredibly stupid as you stare at the weapon. You feel so stupid that you don’t even hear the click of a lock. You don’t even bother with the ration cards you can see peeking out from under the gun, you just want to leave and forget that you ever thought this was a good idea. It’s a struggle, getting back to your feet, your leg is throbbing, begging for a rest you can’t afford to take right now. With a groan you push the window open, eager for this silly idea to be over you try to figure out the best way to go about this. You’re starting to lose feeling in your leg, should you go bad leg first or try to balance on it while shimmying the rest of your body out the window?

You never get to decide what the best course of action is because your head is slammed against the wall, your knees crumple underneath you as you hit the floor, the room spinning as your leg bends at an angle that makes you shriek. You slap your hand over your mouth but it’s far too late for that. He’s been here the whole time. It’s dark but you can still make out the foreboding shape of his figure. The broad shouldered beast that’s glaring down at you, his boot nudging your chin roughly as you bite back a shriek of fear.

“I could report you to FEDRA for this.” The gruff voice whispers into the darkness.

You’re desperate to avoid lockup, you know you’ll die in there, or worse. Although you’re not entirely sure what’s going to happen to you either way.

“I- I’ll tell them about your contraband.” You point frantically at the loose floor board. “They’ll lock you up too.” His glare is unwavering as he stares down at you. You’re a little worried that he might just kill you himself, there would be no consequences, no one would be looking for you.

No one would look for you.

The thought makes you shudder and even though you try to stop yourself you feel your eyes beginning to water. You hear footsteps, watching his outline move across the room before you’re shrinking away from the light of a dim lamp in the corner.

“You gotta be real dumb to find yourself in this situation.” He mutters, turning back around to stare at you. His gaze makes you want to cover yourself up, it’s like he can see every single part of you within that icy glare. You’ve never taken the time to really, truly look at him before but you do now, after all this might be your last chance to look at anything at all.

He isn’t a terrible last sight.

Sure, he’s ominous enough to make you want to try and run despite the ache in your calf right now, but that doesn’t make him any less handsome. In a rugged, weathered sort of way. He’s older than you thought, gray sprinkled throughout the mess of curls framing his face. What a nice face it is. Soft where it needs to be soft, sharp where it needs to be sharp. He marches back over to you, easily taking the pocket knife from your hand and crouching down in front of you.

“Give me one good reason not to finish you off right now.” He points the blade in the direction of your leg. “Seems like it’d be a mercy at this point.”

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe it would be a mercy to just let him put you out of your misery. Why have you been fighting so hard? You can’t seem to recall a reason other than the fact that that’s what you’re supposed to do. Your mind tells you that you’re supposed to keep fighting but you can’t think of a single driving force. You’re in pain, constantly, you live in a world that wants you dead, and you have no one relying on you.

You don’t have a good reason, other than the fact that surviving is all you know how to do. So you look up at him and you nod. Taking in the sight of the pretty, frightening man one last time before closing your eyes.

It feels good. You feel good, for the first time in a long time, knowing that you won’t hurt anymore. You won’t have to be afraid of someone kicking your door in, you won’t have to worry about where your next meal is going to come from, and you won’t have to worry about turning into a monster. It’s a mercy.

So you close your eyes.

Suddenly grateful for the killer before you, your guardian angel, here to deliver you the peace you didn’t know you needed.

You wait patiently for the sting of a blade or the embrace of his hands around your throat but all you're met with is a sigh. When you finally find the courage to open your eyes he’s sitting on the edge of the bed across from you, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Just go.” He grumbles, muttering a few other words you don’t catch.

You’re almost disappointed, having accepted this was the end, and now you’re being shoved back into the cold and unforgiving world. You start to get to your feet but your knees buckle under you. You try again, willing your leg to just work but much to your dismay you can’t even straighten out your leg anymore. When you try to move it all you find yourself only able to bend your knee a few inches.

Shit.

You think of the fall you took on the way in and wonder if you finally pushed yourself to the limit. If you go back to the doctor will he remove the entire thing? Maybe you should just ask Joel to finish the job before it comes to that. It would be a kindness, between a quick death here or a slow death starving in your apartment you’ll take the quick way every time. Before you even have a chance to ask he’s on his feet. Maybe his patience has run out and you won’t have to ask at all.

“Let me.” His voice rattles around in your head, so low and commanding that you put up no resistance as he lifts you up under your arms and sets you down on the edge of the bed where he just was. He flips the knife out, going to cut your jeans off of you but you stop him.

“Wait!” He freezes in place, giving you an impatient look. “These are my only jeans, just- just pull them down.” Before you can realize how embarrassing it might be to show your neighbor your faded pink panties, you're already unbuttoning your pants, lifting your hips up so he can pull them down your legs with a roll of his eyes. It’s painful, the feeling of the denim running against your skin but it’s better than not having any pants at all.

Fuck.

It’s been a while since you’ve actually looked at your leg. You’re surprised he was able to get your jeans off with how swollen it is, the flesh bulging around your ankle and now up your calf. The skin is shiny and blotchy with shades of purple and red. The sight of it makes you want to hurl but you manage to swallow the urge, looking away as he pokes at the tender flesh.

“Christ girl, what the hell did you do?” When he grabs your ankle to lift your leg you yelp in pain, making him set your leg back down instinctively.

“I just- it’s just a broken ankle.” You mumble as he gives you an incredulous look.

“Like hell it is.” Something about the sternness of his voice demands your obedience as you nod. “Wanna tell me what really happened?”

“Well I- I fell and-” You struggle to find an excuse to justify how bad you let this get but you come up empty. So you tell the truth. “I fell off a ladder while painting over graffiti during my shift and broke my ankle. The doctor told me to stay off of it and- well, I couldn’t afford not to work so I just… didn’t” You rush through your words, staring anywhere else but into his demanding gaze as you explain yourself.

“So you turned to stealin’.” He says it like the fact it is and you can only bring yourself to nod. “You need antibiotics.” He says just as matter of factly. “You know how much that sort of thing costs?”

A lot.

More than you’d have even if you were working overtime.

He clears his throat and you finally meet his eyes.

His eyes were so dark that day they threatened to swallow you whole. Were they always that dark? Or was it just that day, the first day, when he realized that he had you.

“Look, I don’t do this kinda thing for just anybody. But I can help you.” He had sounded so kind, his hint of a smile had seemed so promising.

“I can’t afford it-”

“You can use alternative methods to pay me back.”

You told him you’d think about it.

And he hadn’t pushed you, he had simply helped you back into your jeans and carried you back to your apartment. He told you he’d check on you tomorrow and see if you had an answer for him.

So when the next day came and you had a fever and your leg was throbbing, demanding your attention you’d been all too eager to accept his help.

And just like that, it was your idea.

It wasn’t his, he was blameless, you asked him to help you. And it didn’t matter who had suggested it first, it mattered who brought it up after.

You had been certain that when he had told you you’d be using alternative methods to pay him back that his intentions were unsavory. And at that point you didn’t really care, you’d made your peace with that. The medicine you needed wasn’t cheap and you could find worse looking men who didn’t take care of themselves the way Joel did.

But he wanted nothing of the sort.

Southern Manners.

All he wanted was for you to take care of his apartment when he was out with his business partner, a woman who didn’t seem to dislike you but certainly didn’t care for you. He told you to take a week to just rest, take the medicine he brought you, eat the food that he fed you, and be good. So you did as he asked. And after a week you could move a bit more, you started spending your days at Joel’s tidying up and organizing while he was gone, it was much easier to stay off your leg for most of the day and he always made sure there was food and books for you while he was gone. And when he returned he would help you hobble back to your place and help you into bed without complaint and with a promise that he’d be back in the morning.

But you still don’t relax around him.

It doesn’t make sense. Even someone who wasn’t known for their cruelty wouldn’t just take a stranger in. You’d like to believe that there’s good in people but you know better than to have that kind of faith. There isn’t enough left of the world to share the remains. Yet Joel does. He doesn’t ask to know you better and he certainly doesn’t tell you about himself yet he shows you more kindness than anyone else in your life has before.

He must like having someone to take care of.

That’s how you explain it to yourself.

You watch him with Tess and it’s clear who’s in charge there, she barely even lets him stitch her up when she returns to the apartment. Joel gets frustrated every time, huffing and pacing around the room before finding some way to tend to you in her place. Icing your leg, or bringing you a new book to read, or feeding you.

It took a few months for your leg to heal, it had been in such bad shape a part of you worried that it might never be the same as it once was.

After the first month of your arrangement Joel told you his knees hurt and he wouldn’t be able to carry you home, you offered to just walk yourself over, your leg didn’t hurt that bad anymore and you were more than capable of walking short distances. But he insisted you stay, told you you could sleep in the bed and he’d take the couch.

But his knees hurt, you couldn’t let him do that.

And you told him you’d take the couch and he told you he wouldn’t feel right making you sleep on the couch with your leg the way it was.

So you told him you’d both just sleep in the bed. It wasn’t a big deal. You trusted him, of course you did, he had an opportunity to exploit you and he didn’t, if he was going to hurt you he would have done it already.

He had acted unsure.

You know now that it was acting.

So you had insisted. You told him it was okay, you told him you felt safe with him.

It was your idea.

Even though it hadn’t been your idea to stay that night.

You had insisted he get in the bed with you.

A fact that he would bring up often in the months to come.

He would still help you to your apartment some nights, but just as often he’d complain about his knees and you’d stay. You got used to his warmth, you got used to waking up in his arms and not talking about it in the morning.

So it made sense when he told you that you should keep your pajamas at his apartment.

It made sense when he got a toothbrush for you to keep in his bathroom cabinet.

It made sense when he told you that he couldn’t find new clothes in your size and you could just wear his.

It made sense when he told you that he and Tess had never been a thing, so you had no reason to feel weird about sleeping in his bed.

And it made sense when he told you that he’d hold onto the keys to your apartment, afterall you wouldn’t want to lose them.

Joel Miller was a glue trap. And you had waded across his sticky surface without a care in the world, never realizing that it was getting harder and harder to move until you were standing still. Until the only way you were going to escape was by biting off your own leg.

You don’t remember when you stopped returning to your own apartment completely, but you know that it happened early on, before you’d even started chewing.

Now - JACKSON, WYOMING : 2023

“Ruth?” You’re gonna be late if you don’t find her soon. The turntable in the corner of the kitchen plays a 3 Doors Down song as you lift the table cloth, searching for the little girl. “We don’t have time to play, we need to get you to school.” You groan, turning to face the boy currently sitting in a highchair he’s just about grown out of. “Do you know where she is?” You cross your arms in front of your chest, glaring at him as he shrugs.

Of course he isn’t going to tell. They look out for each other before anyone else, a fact that normally fills you with joy but not when they’re ganging up against you. Thankfully you catch his eye as he shoots a glance at the pantry. Pulling the door open you’re quickly met with the sight of Ruth, giggling on the floor. You pick her up, putting her in her own highchair before setting a plate of fruits down in front of her.

“Eat. We don’t have time to play this morning, young lady.” You poke your fork in her direction as you sit down across from them.

“Eat.” She repeats in a mocking tone, her brother erupting into a fit of giggles at the impression as you sigh. They need to be at the community center in half an hour. You make the job schedules on Friday and you need as much time as possible if you want to finish them in one day. You’re having a hard time focusing on the mess your son is making as he smashes each blueberry down onto the table before popping them into his mouth as you try to schedule your own weekend.

You need to finish all of your work today while the kids are gone so you don’t have to juggle watching them and working later, it shouldn’t be too much of an issue, scheduling should only take a few hours if you really zero in on it. You have dinner with Tommy and Maria tomorrow and you promised to bring dessert so you’ll have to take the kids to the market tonight, which also means you’re going to have to find supplies to barter with before you go.

You have nothing planned on Sunday.

You’ll have to change that.

You hate having nothing to do.

You’re snapped out of your thoughts as a blueberry hits you in the forehead. Both twins laugh now as you frown at them.

“Behave or I’ll tell your aunt that you’ve been bad.” Both children look at each other nervously before returning to their breakfast. You were never stern enough with them. You loved them too much, you couldn’t ever bring yourself to yell at them, and it wasn’t like they were troublemakers by any means, they were just kids with a lot of energy in the mornings. And when they did misbehave a small threat of telling Maria was enough to make them stop whatever it was they were doing.

You finish up your own plate and start getting ready to leave as the kids start giggling again to themselves. When their plates are empty you use a wet washcloth to clean their hands and faces before lifting each of them out of their respective seats, letting them run off a bit more energy before you head out. You set all three bags down in front of the door. Yours being the beige over the shoulder bag accompanied by two little backpacks. Ruth’s green canvas bag is covered in mud and other remnants of the yard that she’s brought in with her but Arthur’s purple backpack is kept neat and tidy. You slip into your coat before turning just in time to watch your son dive into the couch, quickly followed by his sister.

“Come on little ducks. Time for school.” You take their jackets off the hook, holding them out to them as they rush over to you, tugging their own coats on before grabbing their bags, once you pull the door open they both rush out into the cool autumn morning, talking to each other in hushed tones. Always secrets with those two. It would probably make you a little worried if these were normal circumstances, the way they don’t let anyone in except each other, with you being the only exception. But the world is a terrifying place, it brings you peace to know that they have each other.

A part of you is certain you wouldn’t have been able to handle just one.

One little person relying on you, all while you’re doing your best to hold it all together? It sounds like a nightmare. It’s better that they have each other. Once you’re standing outside the community center, busy with parents dropping off their children, you kneel down.

“Be good, if you behave today you can go to the market tonight.” The promise of the market has both of them grinning, showing off the teeth they’ve both recently had grow in. “I love you, I’ll see you in a bit.” You hold open your arms, each of them taking their respective sides as they wrap themselves around you. You take your daughter's face in your hands before pressing a kiss to her forehead, repeating the motion with your son. After a few “love you mama’s” they both run into the building, once you’re sure they’re safe inside you head off in the direction of town hall.

You have what you would call the best job in town, despite the fact that no one else seems to want to do it.

Maria understood when you arrived that you needed something that let you work from home if needed, you needed something that kept your mind busy but also gave you time with the kids. So you took care of the parts of Jackson most didn’t think about.

You document all of the citizens, you make the shift schedules, and you make sure everyone has the necessities. You take care of housing, when big hauls from scavenging come in you divide them up among the people who need them. You make the meal schedules for the dining hall, and you make the crop schedules.

You keep Jackson moving.

When you arrived all of this was Maria’s job along with her other duties, when you told her you wanted something engaging and demanding she was more than willing to pass off those duties to you. So now you’ve got to make the schedule. Town hall is nothing more than a house with several desks for people doing work similar to yours but thankfully you’ve been lucky enough to reserve your own office in one of the bedrooms.

Most Friday's Maria visits you for lunch but you know she’s on patrol currently, another perk of this job is knowing where everyone is, all the time.

No surprises.

You hate surprises. (With a few exceptions.)

One of the exceptions is waiting for you in your office, Tommy sits with his legs up on your desk, reading over this past week's schedule.

“You put me on crop harvest way more than anyone else.” He grumbles, tossing your notebook down.

“It’s the end of the season, everyones on crop harvest.” You lean down, kissing his cheek before taking your place across from him, immediately getting to work as he groans.

“Maria gets to go on patrol.”

“Council gets first dibs on patrols during harvest season.” The tip of your favorite pen is dry so you quickly bring it to your mouth, wetting it with your tongue before you start writing out jobs for this upcoming week. The second he sees how many farming related jobs you’re listing he leans back in his chair, groaning and running his fingers through his dark curls.

Today’s his day off. You always gave anyone doing more manual labor three days off instead of two.

“I can get you on one patrol shift but they’re going to need your help with the corn.” You write his name in with the Monday and Tuesday patrol squad, filling in the rest of his week with harvest as he grins.

“Thank you, darlin’.” He drawls. You hate that nickname, you hate that he isn’t the first to give it to you but you never complain, you’d let Tommy get away with murder at this point. It’s the least you can do considering everything he’s given you.

“Yeah yeah, whatever. You’re only getting a two-day weekend next week.” You mumble, searching through the list of citizens, trying to pick out the people you know won’t mind the hard work.

“Fine by me.” You have a complicated relationship with that smile of his. You can love it all you want but that doesn’t change the fact that it makes you uneasy, it doesn’t help that you’re starting to see that same smile in your son.

“I was thinking about berry cobbler for tomorrow night.” Molly twisted her ankle last week, make sure she isn’t standing. You put her down for shucking corn, she can sit in the dining hall and work.

“We have a bunch of extra sweet potatoes if you want to make sweet potato pie.” He takes your crop ledger, flipping through it, clearly not reading a thing.

“Ruth hates sweet potatoes.” Marcus insists he’s capable of doing manual labor, his pride won’t let him act his age. You put him down for pushing the wheelbarrows, he won’t have to bend down to pick anything up but hopefully he’ll still feel like he’s doing enough. You’ve told him countless times that at his age he shouldn’t be working so hard but he always insists.

“Shit, forgot about that. Maria might have some apples.”

“I’ll stop by tonight before I take the kids to the market.”

You’re thankful for Tommy.

He keeps your mind busy with conversation while you work, and he’s one of the only people you actually trust. By the time you’re almost done you know you need to go get the kids, with a conflicted glance at the clock you start to gather your things but Tommy beats you to it.

“I’ll go get them, Maria should be home from patrol soon, she’ll want to see them.” He’s already putting his coat on so you stay seated.

“Are you sure?” You already know there’s no reason to argue, he’s stubborn, just like his brother.

“It’s the least I can do to make up for bothering you all day.” He steps around the desk to give you a peck on the cheek before going to leave. “Just come by the house when you’re done, no rush.” And just like that he’s gone.

You make quick work of your remaining duties. Finishing everything within a half an hour before heading out in the direction of the Miller’s farm house on the edge of town. It’s only a few houses away from your ranch house, a fact that you couldn’t be more grateful for, if it weren’t for Tommy and Maria you aren’t sure you’d have been able to handle those first few months of parenthood. Most people in town assumed Tommy must be the father purely based on how much effort he put into taking care of not only them, but you as well. As you make your way up their porch steps and into the living room you’re also reminded of the similarities. You can’t blame people for making assumptions, even Maria thought he was the father. The twins have his eyes, (which by association means that they also have his eyes, but you try not to dwell on that.) Ruth has your nose but Arthur has that Miller curve already starting to show on his little nose. Both little ones are sitting in the big recliner with their uncle as he tries to get them to settle down while he reads to them but the second they see you, both are scrambling out of the chair to hug your legs.

And everything goes exactly how it’s supposed to.

(Of course it does, you plan every day down to the minute.)

You give Tommy the list of things you need along with a few things he can trade them for and he takes the kids down the street to the market as you sit at the kitchen counter, talking to Maria about her patrol. You had all planned to go to the market together but she’d insisted she was tired and you didn’t want her to be here alone so you stayed, helping her cook dinner. And you talked about all the things you knew you would, something cute the kids did, how her patrol went, what things you could put on the dining hall menu in the coming weeks.

It’s all exactly how it should be.

Until she frowns.

“Are you busy Sunday?” You had sensed something was wrong with her but you assumed maybe she was just a little rattled coming off of a three day patrol.

“No, did you need something?” You continue to chop up the sweet potatoes she now planned to use tonight instead of tomorrow.

“We found a couple of strays, I thought maybe we could get them settled in.”

Odd.

Normally finding survivors would be the first thing she mentioned after returning, even stranger is the fact that she’d often waste no time getting them supplies and a home to make their own. But you're not one to question Maria’s judgment.

“Sure, we can do that Sunday morning.” You want to ask questions about it but she’s already changed the subject to doing a clothing drive at the community center so you don’t press. Despite the way the look on her face is bothering you.

It wasn’t fear, or discomfort, or something you could explain away with the excuse of the strays being off putting or violent.

It’s a look of pity.

As if she feels bad for even asking.

It unsettles you enough to leave it be. Making idle chit chat with her until Tommy returns with the twins and you take them home. It unsettles you as you make your own dinner, as you give the twins a bath, and as you help them into their pajamas and read them a story. It never leaves your mind.

“Goodnight Ruthie.” You lean down to kiss her forehead, watching her eyes flutter shut as she continues to fight sleep. Always the stubborn one.

“Night Mama.” You take the stuffed bear from the foot of her bed, tucking it in beside her before quietly standing, walking across the room to your son's bed.

“Goodnight Arthur.” You lean down, kissing both of his rosy cheeks, he doesn’t fight sleep the way his sister does. So similar but so different.

“Goodnight Mama.” His little voice has the same southern drawl you know he’s been picking up from Tommy.

“I love you, little ducks.” You smile at him, turning to see that Ruth is already asleep, you tuck in the blankets around Arthur before leaving, keeping the door cracked open a bit so the light from the kitchen can act as a night light.

God, you're tired.

You’re quick to shower and slip into your own pajamas, crawling into bed with a yawn. You take the book from your nightstand, flipping through until you find where you left off yesterday.

You never really know what’s going on in the books you read, they serve a singular purpose and it isn’t entertainment.

You read until you fall asleep, they’re just a distraction to keep your mind busy with thoughts so he can’t sneak in right before you fall asleep and embed himself in your dreams.

It works.

Your dreams never feature him.

They aren’t good dreams by any means, they’re wild. Often of your journey to Jackson, the fear you felt then. But you’ll take that over Joel any day. Tonight isn’t any different, your sleep is restless as you fight the memories of fighting for survival in those woods, but instead of your usual nightmares of infected hunting you through the trees you’re faced with a sight that somehow makes you even more uneasy than the living dead.

The look on Maria’s face when she told you about the two strays.

support me on kofi!!

a/n : this fic has been bouncing around in my brain for months now and it feels so fucking good to finally start it omfg. sorry if this felt a little slow, i really needed to set a tone and a base for the story, sorry!!

#lincolndjarin #fic : every now and then #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #tlou joel #joel tlou #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fic #tlou fic #joel x reader #the last of us fic #tlou fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction

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the-cockroach-that-survived · 25 days ago

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This is something I have said about the beef between Dream and Tommy privately before this shit even happened. I think they both had some way of being in the wrong in their friendship and maybe are just not meant to be friends.

Back in the peak of the DSMP, it was also the peak of quarantine, where everyone’s social skills were worse than average. Tommy and Dream were BOTH young, still are, and yes Tommy was younger, or to put it as people’s favorite buzzword, a minor, but their age difference isn’t THAT crazy and they were FRIENDS

Tommy was immature. He was actively known as someone annoying who likes to push people’s buttons (intentionally or otherwise, though from what I’ve seen, often intentionally), whether or not people found it charming or irritating. That’s always been a main part of his humor

It is no fucking surprised that during that time he would have broken people’s boundaries or pushed things too far

Dream back then was even more reactive than he can be now. He’s been dealing with the main portion of ALL DSMP related hate since the beginning and it has actively been getting worse. He has a habit of reacting poorly, but that’s because people keep PUSHING HIM to. Pretty much every single time he has apologized afterwards for anything genuinely stupid or harmful

My WHOLE perception of their falling out was that Tommy was an immature kid who probably got on Dream’s nerves one too many times, and it’s entirely possible that as a reaction, Dream may have said hurtful things to him

But from what I’ve seen, he hasn’t

Not once

Every single thing I’ve seen of Dream communicating with Tommy in ways people have painted as mean or manipulative have literally just been him communicating in the most mature way possible: direct and honest. And now of course we know that a lot of his communication style is most likely affected by him being autistic

I’ve seen people say this and thought it may have been a stretch before, but it’s becoming more and more apparent: this is a case of an autistic person being in a friend group that has terrible communication skills and blames everything on him, thinks he’s weird, etc. because of poorly packaged ableism and the only reason it’s such a fuss is because EVERYONE involved is a popular creator and they keep making all this shit public

The fans opinions (whether genuine or rage bait) absolutely affects the way things are happening as well. Streamers are being biased, they aren’t being entirely honest, they’re all being emotionally reactive, no matter how they phrase things, and the main target of this has been Dream through seemingly no fault of his own other than having a communication style that the others didn’t like/understand

This whole thing is fucking ridiculous and every single creator who claims to no longer be friends with or wants to be associated with Dream needs to SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT HIM

None of them would have any sort of involvement or interaction with Dream anymore, like they CLAIM they want, if they would just leave the poor motherfucker alone

You guys are acting like Dream has been this terrible mastermind behind the scenes all along because a few of his ex-friends are saying shit about him with little to no proof and TONS of bias

All along he was just fucking autistic and everyone else’s PERSONALLY CREATED perceptions of him have made them borderline delusional and have completely clouded their image of him

Everyone has been immature here and I’m fucking sick and tired of it

ALL of these creators should take Tommy’s misplaced advice: get off the internet and go to therapy

All of this over fucking Minecraft and rampant cringe culture ableism, fuck all of you

#sorry I’m angy #and tired #dsmpblr #dtblr #dreamblr #mcytblr

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kinardsevan · 7 months ago

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Wait but no because now that I’ve seen it.

“I’m letting him set the pace, I’m just trying to keep up.”

So then. Part of me is like, okay we know Buck is barrel racing his way through milestones in this relationship. (Or as my friend used to say, leaping hurdles.) So I really am kinda into the concept that they’re already sleeping together (we know they’re having overnights.)

But also you guys. What if they’re not? What if that’s a season 8 moment we actually get to see. Obvs I don’t think we’d get the actual scene itself, but I *do* think we might get the discussion & maybe kissing leading up to it, maybe even the afterglow.

Because I’m also like… let’s examine this a little more closely. 🕵🏼 we have Buck having this history of (again, self-diagnosed) being a sex addict. Tommy having this history of being alone. But we also have the growth of Buck in s6 choosing to actively be celibate with the Connor/Kameron of it all for their baby.

So in my head I’m like…he’s found Tommy. He’s said he’s not sure what he’s ready for, but he’s ready for something. This is new thing for him, so as much as we discuss him being a grown man, he’s still figuring out what he likes. I could definitely see these two working through all of the “bases” together (definitely canon now that Tommy is letting Buck choose what he wants to do and when). And I’m really starting to read this now as him (or them) wanting it to mean something. They’ve both done meaningless sex. Buck with his womanizing, Tommy with his time spent in the closet. There’s something to be said for choosing to wait because you know the person you’re getting to know is matching you step for step.

I also think this gives brand new context to 710. Not only do you have the reflection of Tommy ensuring he’s okay, which doesn’t just show concern, but shows that this man, who has told his friends he’s letting Buck set the pace, isn’t just “interested” anymore. Evan matters to him.

But then there’s the “god I hope so” of it all, which the whole damn world has rendered a decision on, suddenly becoming the context of A JOKE. As in, he was just being playful. Which we kinda got with the smirk at the end of that scene.

I mean, idk y’all. I’m just speculating. But also, heaven forbid the idea that these two might actually have real feelings for each other. Lord knows Evan Buckley needs an army of people to protect him from the manipulative soul that is Tommy Kinard’s heart. There can’t possibly be a version of it all where Tommy Kinard would be such a decent person that he’d not only let his boyfriend set the pace of their relationship, but also create a protective space for him to do it in. (If you can’t read tone I’m being fucking sarcastic.)

I’m so glad this scene finally got released. It’s everything, and yet nothing like what I expected. And it gives me so much hope about the entire story being written. I literally cannot wait to see what we get in season 8.

#bucktommy #tevan #kinley #deleted scene #henren tommy scene #yall knew i was coming with the psychology of it all #Mel’s psychology breakdowns #psychoanalysis #meta #firepilot #firebeast #oops #this was longer than intended

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rouge-fauna · 19 days ago

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Some ironic/idiotic points I’ve seen way too many people say:

Tommy and Dream should have worked things out privately

How? Did you miss the part that Tommy literally blocked Dream on everything and refused to talk to Dream? How is he meant to handle it privately? Besides I’m pretty sure Tubbo in his first stream is the one that brought up things like the messages to Tommy’s mom in the first place, so if anything Tubbo is the one who brought up things to the public and made things bigger than they needed to be. Remember, his hour long stream about the meme and reasons why he dislikes Dream and how this is Dream’s “death by a thousand cuts” came first before Dream’s first stream where he reacted to parts of Tubbo’s stream.

Dream takes no accountability

He apologized for something he’s not even done, he literally took down the meme, admitted it was a bad thing to do, apologized multiple times for it, apologized for not doing a proper apology the first time and explained his reasoning. That’s literally the definition of taking accountability. Like what more do you want? Want him to beg on his knees for the internet (who called him every slur in the book) to forgive him? He made a mistake, we all do, he apologized, let’s move on, because there are parties in this drama who haven’t taken accountability or apologized so maybe we should be focused on that.

Dream and Dream Team are sexist and misogynists

Says the people who formed a nation on a role play server called L’MANberg because it didn’t allow woman (or non-Europeans). Says the guy who I get frustrated to watch because of all his sexists and inappropriate jokes (I still don’t understand how the majority of his fans are woman like heh?). Says the people who when asked why they think this only bring up recent public examples, despite a - they have always been sexists behind the scenes implication, all but one of which are bogus anyways.

Well they didn’t handle the Caiti situation properly.

What do you mean? They all responded, I’m pretty sure apologized and owned up and took Caiti’s side and made sure to tell their fandom to not go after her. Meanwhile, you think Dream should have brought her up, when she has specifically asked to not be talked about anymore. Pretty sure if he never responded he’d be bashed for not taking accountability and if he did mention her in the recent video then he’d be bashed for not respecting her wishes.

Dream’s neurodivergence (Autism and ADHD) is not important here why is it being used as an excuse.

It ain’t. I don’t think I’ve seen a single person excuse his behavior or whatever, in fact the same people pointing out the autism piece are also mostly the same neurodivergent people who are the ones upset by the use of the word. But this all blew up with the r word which Dream was told by people using it against him that it can be used by someone who’s autistic. So from the get go it’s kinda important. Then you look at the pieces, at the comments people make about Dream being weird or doing things that are socially unacceptable, is inappropriate, ridiculous…etc and then you get to a 3 hour stream of talking in circles as they can’t seem to understand eachother or at least Tubbo not understanding Dream, which afterwards Tubbo labels his Audhd way of communicating as manipulative. So yea I’d say autism, adhd and neurodivergence are pretty damn relevant and important.

Just ahhhhhsbhfnnabdnnand… I still see people condemning him for the damn r word and it’s like bruh… move on. We are way past that damn meme he apologized multiple times for at this point. Especially from the moment Tommy posted his video and weaponized his fandom against Dream. And good god, and if you didn’t watch the streams then don’t be acting like you have this hot take and posting essays and shit because damn, maybe the reason no one’s said that is because it isn’t true, something you’d known if you watched all of the streams!………….. sorry just had to get that off my chest…

#sorry… not to be obsessed with the drama or whatever it just if I see another damn post about Dream not taking accountability I will start #pulling out my hair…..#and maybe it’s a little easier to focus of this than the other things going on on the news ya know….#as an aside #dreamblr #dtblr #drema #dreamwastaken and tubbo #dreamwastaken #why js the dream Reddit filled with such morons 🤦‍♀️🙄 aren’t yall supposed to be smart and on dreams side wtf

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nomsfaultau · 11 months ago

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Hybrid AU in exile week where avian instincts can take over to a degree that is almost horrific, erasing someone’s personality and rationality when they’re panicking. First part here.

Philza flinches. He doesn’t understand why Tommy is suddenly shouting at him for supposedly exploiting his instincts. But he does understand the way Tommy’s wings puff up, bracing to be hit, and it makes Philza freeze as he watches his hatchling throw open the door and storm out of his life.

“Would it make you more comfortable if I remove your feathers?”

Tommy stumbles slightly at the threshold, then scoffs, throwing a glare over his shoulder. “As if you would. It’s too convenient to force my instincts to feel safe around you.” That would explain why Tommy isn’t looking at him. Philza can’t breathe. His chick doesn’t feel safe?

Tommy is confused and wary when Philza removes the hatchling’s feathers and hands them back. It only grows as Philza asks if he wants the ones woven into the nest removed as well. The fact he’s at a loss as to why someone would respect his boundaries hurts almost as much as ripping out where Tommy’s feathers mark him as part of the flock.

But he does it, since that’s what Tommy needs to feel safe, even if Tommy is suspicious of his attempts. Horrifically, he discovers almost every act of affection was interpreted as manipulation, especially the parental ones. Philza winces as Tommy declares he wants to self-preen from now on, decrying the bonding experience as nothing more than manipulation.

But- hadn’t Tommy liked it? Philza isn’t stupid, he’s figured it would hit close to memories of his abuser. That’s why he’d been so careful to frequently ask if he wanted to stop. But Tommy had coo’d back every time, asking him to keep petting his wings long past the point they were tidy. Like he wanted to stay in Philza’s arms forever. That’s why Philza asked to make their flock official, he’d thought… Tommy had seemed so happy…

Philza feels confused, and awful, and worried. “You know you can let me know when I’m making you uncomfortable, right mate? You can always tell me to stop and I will.”

Tommy doesn’t believe him then.

But slowly he starts to, tentatively testing the waters over the weeks and waiting with bated breath to be punished for it. As if it’s such an overreach to demand the basic bodily autonomy of people asking permission before showing physical affection. As time passes, he rejects it more and more, growing comfortable asserting his own wants. Philza aches with the desire to tuck his chick under wing, but swallows the increasing distance. It’s good that Tommy feels safe refusing what Philza wants. He’s healing. Philza’s empty arms must be a good thing.

And naturally, he becomes a little turd with it once he feels safe enough, but Philza can’t exactly resend the promise and so ends up being forced to just stand there while a zombie attacks him since “swinging that sword around makes me uncomfortable Phil, I thought you said this was a safe place.” But Tommy’s delighted laughter makes up for it, even if Philza forces him to replace the golden apples he wasted to survive. He doesn’t mind the little pranks.

But something in Philza panics when Tommy finally abandons the nest to sleep in a bed. He can’t sleep at night, tormented by the keen awareness his nest is empty. Instincts howl to find his chick, because no matter how he fights it that doesn’t change the imprinting. Verging on falling prey to parental instincts and dragging the boy to the safety of the nest, Philza sneaks out the front door and slumps against it. He can’t break that trust, he just can’t. But neither can he sleep with an empty nest.

His movement sends a few dogs barking, and it isn’t long before Techno looms over him in the cloak of midnight. Philza holds himself a little tighter. “My nest is empty,” he says hoarsely. Techno lurches to action, till assured Tommy is perfectly safe. “He doesn’t want to be my hatchling. It hurt him too deeply last time.” And yet his instincts care not, crying in panic. Philza buries his face in the knees drawn to his chest.

“Would you be able to sleep if something else filled the nest? Like, could the instincts tell the difference?” Philza has no idea, but as exhausted as he is he’s willing to try. Or, till Techno volunteers himself, because Philza really doesn’t want to make his instincts Techno’s problem. Techno shrugs. “Probably a lot less awkward for me than it is Tommy, given how long we’ve known each other. Might as well try.” Not that Techno cares to be viewed as a piglet, but his feelings were bruised when the broody Philza categorized him as a threat. “We’re a flock, aren’t we?”

“Always.” So Techno burrows into the nest, rooting it up till Philza’s feathers ruffle disapprovingly. They’re different, and Techno likes it that way, but the dozens of little instances where their instincts misalign get under his fur sometimes, like a wedge between them. But they both refuse to let it stop them. The hesitance is drowned in a yawn, and Philza nestles over him. It’s a reassuring pressure, reminding Techno of the sounder he long aged out of. Soft feathers wrap around him, and after a few sleepy coos, Philza drifts off, finally assured that his nest is barren no more. Techno smiles, glad he could help his friend. He wraps an arm around Philza’s feathered back, and likewise accepts the embrace of slumber.

Next>

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janeyseymour · 10 months ago

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Won't You Be... My Neighbor?- pt 6

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5.

Summary: Melissa is released from the hospital, meanwhile, JJ is located.

WC: ~1.65k

The little boy ends up falling asleep in the car, adrenaline leaving his body and pure exhaustion setting in. When he wakes up, he wakes up to nearly being thrown out of the seat of the car again. This time though, the seatbelt catches him, and while it burns like hell on his neck- because he shouldn’t be in the car without the seatbelt, he does not repel forward. He slams back into his seat with a loud yelp, and he hears a loud bang.

Joe just crashed the car. Joe just crashed the car into a tree on one of the back roads he was taking, and the airbags deployed- saving his life. With the fire-retardant that comes out of the airbag in a big cloud, they’re both coughing, gasping for breath. Neither of them are found by the time the sun comes up.

Almost as soon as day breaks, Melissa is awake, and hellbent on getting out of the hospital. She cannot lay here idly by while her four year old son is God knows where with her jackass of an ex-husband.

“I do not care!” she’s shouting at you. She winces is pain, but she doesn’t let the aching in her ribs put out her fire. “We have to find JJ!”

“What we have to do is get you to recount what happened last night, and then I need to find out how I’m supposed to take care of you while you recover,” you tell her as you lay a hand over hers.

“When are they going to get here?!” the redhead shouts.

“Hun, it’s…” you glance over at the clock. “6:45 in the morning. Give it time, and try to get another hour’s sleep, because once we get out, you won’t be getting the rest you need to anyway.”

She, in a fit of rage, slams her hand down on the call button on the remote attached to her bed. You close your eyes and take a deep breath at that action- so defiant. You wonder how she’s a second grade teacher sometimes, and this is a prime example.

The nurse comes in, and you just give her a sympathetic look as she’s yelled at in both English and Italian.

When the nurse leaves, somewhat terrified of what she just witnessed, Melissa just taps away on her phone before answering a call.

“Tommy, you better get your ass over here now to take my damned statement before I rip you a new one,” is what she hisses into the phone.

“Mel,” you grumble as you open one eye to look at her sleepily.

She just rolls her eyes and continues on her tirade in her second language. You don’t understand any of the words she’s saying, but you do know that she’s all but threatening this man’s life if he isn’t here in a flash.

And he is. Melissa gives her statement while the doctor comes in and explains to you her recovery plan.

“Three broken ribs is no joke, but there’s also unfortunately not a lot that we can do to help the healing process along,” he sighs as he rubs at the back of his neck. “For the first few days, icing it will help. As ridiculous as it sounds, we usually do recommend a frozen bag of peas because they’re easy to move and manipulate.”

You nod, taking notes on your phone.

“She shouldn’t sit or lay for extended periods of time, sleep sitting upright for the first few days- it’s best for her to keep moving when possible to help her breathe and clear the mucus from her lungs. If she has to cough, she should not suppress it. It will be painful for her, but we do suggest holding a pillow to her chest while she does to help absorb some of the blow. If we can prevent a chest infection, we should. And when her son is located, she should refrain from holding him as much as possible- straining herself is only going to make the recovery time that much longer.”

“How long is recovery time?”

“With the damage he did to her? I’d say four to six weeks, but that would only be if she’s taking care of herself. What does she do for work?”

“She’s a second grade teacher,” you sigh.

The doctor frowns, lines drawn into his forehead. “So I guess I should write her a doctor’s note to excuse her from work for the next few-”

“She’ll never agree to that,” you tell him. “She’s a single mother who is just doing her best to make it all work, and I can guarantee that she will want to leave her kids for that long.”

“If she’s constantly straining herself at work-”

“I can get attempt to get her to agree to teach from her chair,” you argue. “But that’s probably the best I can do.”

“I suppose that will have to do,” the doctor reluctantly agrees.

Meanwhile, JJ has woken up and is in the backseat crying, Joe passed out, who’s to say whether that be from the accident or the alcohol in his system, when a kinder gentleman who occupies the land takes note of the truck on his property. He slowly approaches it, but upon hearing the little boys wails, he picks up his pace, calling for his wife.

The woman runs up alongside of him, also speeding up when she hears the little boys loud cries. They glance into the car, and while the older man clocks the open bottle of vodka right away, the woman’s eyes go right to the little boy cowering in the backseat.

“Oh my god, Jerry,” JJ can hear. He all but curls into the backseat, terrified that whoever this is might take him even further from his momma. The door opens, and the little boy can feel a warm hand on his back- on that reminds him of his nonna’s. “Hi, sweet boy. You’re okay. You’re alright.”

JJ looks up, tears still pouring over his face, a thick trail of snot falling from his nose and into his mouth. “I want Momma!”

“Okay, honey,” the woman says softly. “We’ll get you to your momma. Can you tell me your name?” When he doesn’t respond, she says as gently as she can, “I’m Bev, this is my husband Jerry.”

“JJ,” is all the little boy offers up. She gives her husband a look and mouths, ‘9-1-1’. He trails a little further up the driveway to make the call.

“Is JJ your nickname?” Bev asks him. He nods. “What does it stand for?”

“Joe Jr.”

“And how old are you, sweetheart?”

“Four,” he whimpers out, but he holds up three fingers. The little one uncurls just slightly.

“Can I pick you up?” At JJ’s nod, she smiles softly and lifts him out of the seat. He cries out in pain at his shoulder. “Oh, sweetheart,” she whispers.

“Daddy pulled my arm,” JJ reveals softly. He lays his head on the woman’s shoulder, hoping to find some warmth and comfort- any warmth and comfort.

Jerry walks back up to the two. “They’ll be here as soon as they can.”

It’s a bit later that the police along with an ambulance show up and speak with the elderly couple and JJ. The older couple insists on riding to the nearest hospital with the little boy and his father.

Upon getting there, they ask the little boy basic questions.

“What’s your name?… How old are you?… Do you know these people that brought you here?… What happened?”

While all of this is happening, a few others work on Joe- and they find his license. Joseph Schemmenti… that name sounds-

“Is this the man that kidnapped his son after beating the living shit out of his ex-wife?” one of the cop’s eyes go wide.

“Oh my god,” another gasps softly.

“Melissa,” you say softly as you drive the two of you back to your apartment complex.

“I. Am. Fine,” she grits out as she holds an icepack- one from the hospital, to her body. “I don’t even care right now. I just need to find JJ.”

“And we will,” you promise her. “We will find him.”

The redhead in the passenger seat starts to crack as she looks over to you. “What if… what if it’s too late?”

You take a shaky breath at that before uttering the words, “It won’t be.” She can tell that you’re trying to convince yourself just as much as you’re attempting to convince her.

By the time that they’re able to locate where the little boy is with the elderly couple, JJ’s shoulder has been set into place, they’ve tended to the burns from the seat belt, and Melissa has been contacted.

“Tommy, you better have-”

“We found him and Joe in a small town out by Lancaster,” the officer gets out quickly. “They’re at Lancaster General Hospital.”

The redhead nearly jumps off the couch, and you have to catch her as she stumbles. “Y/N! they have JJ! In Lancaster! We have to-“ she wheezes for breath, gripping at her ribs. “We have to go!”

“That- that’s over an hour away,” you tell her. “You can’t possibly make that trip right now- not in your-”

“We’ll be there,” Melissa says quickly into the phone before hanging up. She’s grabbing her keys and slipping her shoes on before you can get another protest out.

“You are not driving,” you practically rip the keys out of her hand. “And you are not-”

“This is my son we are talking about!” the woman shouts at you. “I do not care!”

Knowing you aren’t going to win this fight, you grab a pillow and guide her out to the car slowly.

TAGS: @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @thesamesweetie @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @sapphicxrat @a-queen-and-her-throne @sunsol-22 @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld

#melissa schemmenti fanfiction #melissa schemmenti fanfic #melissa schemmenti x you #melissa schemmenti x reader #melissa schemmenti #abbott elementary fanfic #abbott elementary #abbott elementary fanfiction

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maxdibert · 2 months ago

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I once saw a really hot fanart of AU silco from arcane and I was like "this looks like Snape" and then from there I wondered if you liked silco. Then I stumbled across a post from you (I think, I'm sure it was otherwise this is embarrassing) simping for Silco so I was right I guess. My question is do you think you can draw any similarities between those two, if there are any? Maybe even talk about silco? You're pretty good at character analysis so..

Ahhhhh Silco, my problematic fave without a doubt. I’ve criticized Silco a lot, and I still do, because he represents a massive social and structural issue that also exists in the real world: the figure of the criminal who takes advantage of the vulnerability and lack of resources in his environment to enrich himself at the expense of the lives of the poorest, even though he comes from that same background. To top it off, he convinces himself that he’s some kind of solution for the society or community he inhabits, when in reality, he’s a cancer. But I adore him—what can I say?

It’s also true that it’s quite difficult to hate any of the main or secondary characters in Arcane, because it’s a series with a well-developed script that lets you understand everyone’s motivations and actions, even if you don’t agree with them or find them awful. A lot of people criticized Caitlyn this past season, but I’m a strong Caitlyn defender because I completely understand where her anger and radicalization come from. It’s not just about losing her mother in such a traumatic way, but also the disillusionment she feels when she realizes that her attempts at advocating for conciliation not only don’t work but also end in tragedy. She embodies the disillusioned idealist, and it’s really well done.

But anyway, let’s talk about Silco. First of all, I don’t see many similarities between Silco and Snape, aside from young Silco being super Snape-coded physically. I mean, I’d totally accept him as Snape’s image because he has features that really remind me of him (which clearly shows I have a type—shame, no shame lol). But beyond that, their backstories, personalities, and motivations are very different. Silco isn’t someone who’s manipulated or desperate to fit in and join a gang. Silco created that gang; he’s the one doing the manipulating. He’s the one promising young people a better future if they follow him, when all he’s really doing is spreading a drug that’s poison and leaving his city even more impoverished than it already was.

If I had to compare Silco to someone, it would be Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders, because of how both go from being idealistic revolutionaries to animated versions of Pablo Escobar. Both come from poor environments, both were ambitious young men dreaming of a better world, but those dreams were crushed by traumatic events. Both resorted to violence, coercion, and blackmail to achieve their goals, and both ended up as mafia leaders who climbed the social ladder but could never truly reach the upper classes because they didn’t belong in that world.

Silco is a very well-constructed character. His fight with Vander and the deaths of his friends, partly due to his own actions, shift his worldview from believing he can make the world better to seeing it as irreparably broken—but still something he can dominate, something he can reclaim if he becomes powerful enough. This leads him to become a drug lord. He’s not actually achieving Zaun’s freedom; he’s condemning it to drug addiction.

I always compare Silco to Pablo Escobar because it’s easy to see the similarities in their methods: both used the excuse of improving the people’s lives to exploit them for personal gain, both manipulated young people by offering them jobs or protection in exchange for loyalty, both turned their violent environments into even more violent war zones, and both justified themselves by believing the world owed them something.

Silco commits truly horrific acts. He uses children, spreads a drug epidemic to make his environment easier to control, and his relationship with Jinx is deeply unhealthy and manipulative. I don’t doubt that he loved her, but he loved her badly. He projected all his traumas onto her, turning her into an unstable, self-loathing ticking time bomb—so much so that she ended up causing his death (poetically brilliant, top-tier storytelling). I always say that loving someone doesn’t mean loving them well, and Silco didn’t love Jinx well. He loved her selfishly; he loved her as someone to mold in his image. But you can’t expect someone raised in that environment to know how to do things right.

People simp for him by absolving him of everything and acting like he’s just a sad boy, but he wasn’t sad—he was a massive bastard and a piece of trash. But you can love that piece of trash anyway, and I love him a lot because deep down, he’s just a pathetic man—and I adore pathetic men.

Silco’s tragedy is that his fall to the dark side is the root cause of most of the misfortunes in the story. In an ideal world, he would never have fought with Vander, and they could have been good adoptive fathers to the girls—something we see in the AU, which breaks all our hearts because it shows us what could have been but never was.

But oh well, I love him anyway—even if he’s a drug lord, a manipulator, has zero anger management, and is a traitor to the revolution. And that’s important because I don’t forgive traitors to the revolution, but I’ll let it slide this time.

My opinions on Silco are always very contradictory, but that’s because I like making it clear that he’s a piece of crap, even if I like him a lot.

(And even if he turns me on, what can I say.)

#Silco #Arcane Silco #arcane #arcane Netflix #Silco meta #Silco analysis #arcane meta

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leikeliscomet · 2 months ago

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Who's Afraid of Tenmartha?

Chapter 2 - Bad Girls Club

The Doctor isn’t a good person.

I don’t say this to say I don’t like the Doctor but to say their morals aren’t as squeaky clean as how the fandom and sometimes the show make out. They’ve destroyed dalek and cyberfleets, neglected companions, manipulated people and even killed before. Pre and post-Time War, the Doctor’s always been a timey wimey disaster. And yet, we love them all the same. Characters don’t have to be morally good in order to be likeable and in fact, it’s fully possible to enjoy a character and/or piece of media with morally grey representations and without that being a reflection of your own morals too. The Doctor isn’t the only character in the problematic fave section for a lot of fandoms. People can’t get enough of the Master and Missy. There’s Tommy Shelby of Peaky Blinders, Five Hargreeves of The Umbrella Academy, James from TEOTFW, the Roy family of Succession and even the fans who unironically stan Homelander from The Boys. Fandoms love bad boys. Always have and always will. But the concept of what’s problematic vs what’s morally grey is selective. And when you notice how selective this is, qwhite a pattern emerges. As addressed in Chapter 1, what fandom and society considers acceptable romance doesn’t exist in a vacuum and neither does its ideas of acceptable moral codes and when it’s time for them to break.

The sapphire trope/angry Black woman trope is another archetype of Black women. The sapphire is irrationally angry, controlling and dominant. This trope rebranded as the angry Black woman trope, with plenty of sass and finger snapping to go around. This trope isn’t just Black woman who’s angry, but a Black woman who’s angry for no real reason. Her fury is unjustified and something the audience makes fun of or is intimidated by. She’s the antithesis of the white, pure, Christian woman, who’s quiet and respectful. She is loud and disrespectful. She has low and poor moral character. When it came to the Fugitive Doctor, a lot of people were quick to clutch pearls at her gun despite the fact she never used it. She was called one of the most violent incarnations for her self-defence against the Judoon when, again, the Doctor has always used some form of violence, especially in self-defence. Plus the fact she never killed anyone as Gat used the gun on herself despite Fugitive telling her not to. In many other fandoms in TV and film, morally grey Black women are rarely given grace by their respective fandoms and make it into the problematic fave stan section. Harper Stern of Industry instantly comes to mind. The bank of Pierpoint is toxic and corrupt to the very core, yet, the Industry fandom sees her as uniquely evil and conveniently has more grace for Yasmin and Rob, despite their own manipulative antics. Uma from Disney Descendants is treated as uniquely the cruellest whilst protagonist Mal is the baddie with a heart of gold, even though it’s a film franchise about literal villains. From my old RWBY days, there were plenty of posts and videos making fun of Emerald for following around Cinder like a lost puppy as if she wasn’t a victim of Cinder’s abuse, carrying out her villainous orders in exchange for an escape from poverty. Even if Martha Jones was written as a morally grey character, written as jealous and aggressive as fans think she is, I very much doubt fandom would be able to handle it.

The Doctor Who fandom isn’t shy when it comes to toxic and problematic shipping, let alone supporting its #messyfaves. Whilst Tenmartha is the only ship where misogynoir plays a role in the dynamic, you can make the too-problematic-for-shipping-purposes argument about any Doctor pairing. Twelve and Clara consistently manipulate and betray each other. River was psychologically conditioned to become obsessed with the Doctor since birth and the main reason they got married was to fix the universe, not out of love. Thirteen was closed off from Yaz and didn’t let her in until it was too late. Ten and Rose were insensitive to the death and destruction that happened around them leading to the creation of Torchwood and the Battle of Canary Wharf, causing the deaths of hundreds. ElevenAmy means Amy cheating on her husband Rory. The Master is a whole murderer and abused Lucy Saxon. And yet, Tenmartha holds the crown of ‘most problematic’ out of all of these. This begs the question of why Martha isn’t allowed to have her toxic ship moment. Why does she always deserve ‘better’ than moral complexity? Martha is always held to a higher moral standard than any other companion in this show. When Rose is jealous it’s because she’s just 19, but when Martha is jealous she’s trying to replace Rose’s spot in the TARDIS. When Clara challenges the Doctor she’s the greatest companion in Doctor Who and a feminist blueprint or something, but Martha is entitled and whiny. When Donna snaps at the Doctor she’s funny, loud and brash but Martha pulling up a chair makes her aggressive and annoying. When Captain Jack is openly flirtatious he’s breaking barriers in queer representation and normalising attraction but Martha is a creep overstepping Ten’s boundaries. When Amy literally rubs herself on the Doctor’s body it’s only because she’s scared of her marriage but Martha simply being sexually attracted to the Doctor makes her perverted. River Song is sexually liberated but Martha Jones is a predator. Every other companion is messy and that’s why they’re loved, but Martha’s ‘mess’ of having a crush is what’s holding her back. I used to think Martha’s crush was a flaw that held her back from being a better companion, but as I’ve gotten older I had to stop and think why. Was her crush a flaw or were we just conditioned to see it as one because the ‘ideal woman’ for Ten according to RTD1 was Rose Tyler and Rose Tyler alone? Joan Redfern, Madame de Pompadour, Queen Elizabeth I, Lady Christina, River Song and Astrid Peth all hold the sin of crushing on Ten but this attraction is acceptable because it falls into the standard of acceptable romance; white masculine man, white feminine woman.

Romantic attraction to someone isn’t inherently wrong. How a person or character acts because of their attraction is what we can attach moral value to. For example, if a character starts to manipulate people to get their love interest, acts dismissive towards other characters to get with their love interest or considers themselves as more valuable than their love interest’s current or past partners, then we could logically make the argument for Martha’s crush being a moral bad. But Martha never did any of this. She was rightfully upset with being compared to Rose, but she never fought to replace her, called herself better than her or forced Ten to choose her instead. She stopped flirting and sucked it up and was even happy when Ten and Rose reunited. But because of tropes like the sapphire and low moral assumptions attached to Black women, Martha is seen as more morally bad than she actually was. Every discussion about Martha involves the constant lament of how she could have been a good companion and could’ve been a good character if it wasn’t for her flaw of romantic attraction. She must repent from the sin of liking the Tenth doctor and her penance is moving on with another man whether it be Tom Milligan or Mickey Smith. Only when she moves on from Ten, like her role in Torchwood and her engagement in series 4, is she then clean. Let women be messy and toxic. Just not if they’re Black. And not if they’re Martha Jones.

Moral codes and love intersect because due to amatonormativity, the idea that romance is a necessity to give characters purpose because romance is ‘intrinsic’ to the human experience, it’s common to see how romance is used as a way to establish humanity and morals in TV/Film. It’s usually a binary of a loving, romantic hero and an unromantic, cold villain. Doctor Who reinforces this heavily in RTD1 and Moffat Who as loss of romantic love tends to correlate with a character’s loss of morals and humanity, especially the Doctor’s. Ten’s bad boy antics in series 3 are justified as a result of his loss of Rose. He murders the Racnoss children in The Runaway Bride and we’re taught this is the extreme of what happens when Rose is gone from the Doctor’s life. Contrast this with the Christmas special we got post-Martha. In Voyage of the Damned, Ten’s living his best life on the Titanic and gets lipsed by another young, perky blonde called Astrid Peth. He’s rightfully upset about losing Astrid, he’s upset at the dutty capitalist antics of Max Capricorn and he hates Rickston Slade (but let’s be real, who didn’t?). But in terms of pain for Martha, he seems pretty much okay. Unlike Rose or Donna, Martha’s absence isn’t given the big dramatic loss as her white peers but is simplified by Donna’s ‘that Martha did you some good’. Whilst Martha does leave an impact on Ten’s life and it is a positive one, RTD didn’t pull out the big stops for her like he did the others. Look at the 60th specials. Rose’s psyche is imprinted in the Doctor’s brain now apparently so Rose Noble names herself after her. Donna’s back, memories and all and gets her own David Tennant to keep at home. And nothing for Martha Jones! Not even a vague name drop. Across three whole episodes. She wasn’t traumatised or loved enough to get a single line apparently. I wrote a year ago that Martha was a threat to the ideal romance of RTD1 and so she became collateral damage for the sake of Tenrose. I still stand by this. Tenrosers glorify Ten’s angst fully aware it’s at Martha’s expense because it’s an acceptable price to pay for the sake of their love. The moral complexity of Tenrose is earned because the ends justify the means. Martha is considered undesirable so she’s undeserving of love but also moral complexity. She’s romantically undesirable and so, morally impure and undeserving of grace and nuance in her character. She’s now just the bitter Black rebound. From the lens of misogynoir and the disposable Black girlfriend trope, Black women as collateral damage for shipping is justified by wider fandom as an extension of the Black woman as a ‘stage’ in white men’s romantic development. She had to be collateral to develop Ten’s moral greyness with an acceptable target to take aim and to reaffirm Rose as the ideal, desirable woman of this m/f dynamic worth causing harm for. And as long as the Doctor Who fandom was well-fed, what was the problem? Why stop the machine from running because one of the cogs complained? Love hurts, after all.

On the other hand, there’s moments in Tenmartha’s defence that feed into misogynoir but in a different way. As addressed in Chapter 1, BWWM isn’t a fix-all solution to the poor representations of Black women in romance. Whilst Tenmartha is praised for being an entertaining toxic ship, the toxicity of Tenmartha is one-sided as Ten is predominantly the instigator of their problems, contrary to RTD1 popular belief and that of RTD stans. He chose to bring up Rose constantly aka ‘Rose would know’ and ‘Not that you’re replacing her!’, he called Martha a novice, he held her knickers despite saying he wasn’t interested, he hugged her then told her off for it, he’s the reason she ended up in 1913 (John Smith notwithstanding) and yet Martha having a crush is considered just as bad or worse than any of Ten’s actions. Ten’s actions can be justified because he misses Rose, he’s grieving, he’s just a smol bean having a tough time in the TARDIS. But Martha? Bitter, jealous and non-Rose. She just doesn’t get it. The Tenth Doctor is morally grey, but Martha Jones is problematic. Along with the historic mistreatment of Black women in representations of romance, specifically, the idea of a disposable Black woman who exists for a non-Black usually white man character’s growth before he returns to his white female endgame, it’s hard for me to see Martha getting treated like this and see this solely as the spice for a toxic ship or fodder for it’s non-Black shippers. I can’t see misogynoir as toxic and messy shipping material.

Constant comments that are sometimes used to defend Tenmartha like ‘well it’s not like Martha was abused’ and ‘well it’s not like Martha died’ rub me the wrong way because Black women’s pain is consistently minimised and seen as irrelevant, largely due to the strong Black woman trope or the disposable Black girlfriend trope. When Eleven said he felt grief for Martha, the Doctor Who fandom never knew why. She’s got her life and Mickey what could she be upset about? Martha was negatively compared to her predecessor, was left to fend for herself against racism and murderous aliens in 1913, she walked the Earth in a hellish year across wastelands and countries collapsed from genocide, her family was imprisoned and tortured and she can’t say anything about the last two because the hellish year in question doesn’t even exist anymore. No, Martha Jones didn’t get an easy ride. No, Martha Jones not being domestically abused by Ten doesn’t mean there was 100% nothing wrong with the way he treated her. And no, Martha Jones didn’t need to die to experience ‘real’ suffering. Even then where cases Black women actually do die like Bill Potts, that’s minimised too. There’s loads of jokes about the massive gap in Bill’s chest plus any commentary on why Bill had to go through such extreme trauma is easily brushed off as a necessary evil for the sake of her getting with Heather. Grace was killed off right at the start of Chibnall Who to give Graham a storyline. The mistreatment of Black women is considered minor compared to what is major and when Black women’s mistreatment is major, it’s always seen as minor anyway.

How morals and ethics are applied to our faves doesn’t exist in a vacuum. In two ways I’m torn on Tenmartha. On one hand, I can’t get behind the misogynoir needed in order to make it so ‘fun’ and messy. In that sense, Martha, but also Black women as a collective, deserve better than to be punching bags and disposable love interests to feed the character development of white characters. But on the other hand, morally grey mess is what draws me to these characters and I won’t act like every character dynamic I personally like is 100% healthy. If we’re all getting behind our flawed girlbosses then why must Martha be the woman of virtue? Why does Tenmartha have to be pure in a fandom that loves its toxic little ships? The easy middle ground here is that Tenmartha doesn’t have to be either. There’s a third option between nonexistence and Martha getting the short end of the stick. This brings me to the final question - can an ‘ethical’ Tenmartha exist?

<- Chapter 1 Chapter 3 ->

#doctor who #martha jones #fandom antiblackness #doctor who fandom #nuwho #rtd era #rtd1 #new who #fandom misogynoir #tenth doctor #tenmartha #rtd critical #show analysis #doctor who analysis #doctor who series 3

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everythingelseisextra · 2 years ago

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Cain (Tommy's POV)

WARNING: This chapter contains the darkest material in Only The Wild Ones so far. This is not a fun chapter. Message me for more details if you'd like to know the specifics behind the warnings. Read at your own discretion.

Part Seventeen: The Ends Of The Earth

Description: A decision is made. Tommy goes on the hunt and learns a new respect. Warnings: Effects and mentions of drug use, implied pedophilia, abuse of a child, implied child trafficking, language Word Count: 3500 Tag List: @theshelbyslimited @ttaechi @weaponizedvirtue @majesticcmey @optimisticsandwichgladiator @zablife @princesssterek @mm0thie @callsignvenus @ay0nha @mgdixon @fairytale07 @dreamy-caramel @ce1iat @algae-tm @dragonsondragons @trentknd @nothingofsimplicity @babayaga67 @shelbydelrey @globetrotter28 @look-at-the-soul @notalxx @chaengist @cookiez56-blog

“Tommy… You—” I can hear it in her voice before she says it.

I nod and put the box back in my pocket. “So, when you’re ready, you tell me, and—”

“Your turn to listen.” She wipes the tears from her face and draws herself up, resetting herself, taking a breath. “You’re right. You’re not a good man. You made promises to me and didn’t keep them, you toyed with me, you scared the shit out of me. You say you care for me but only act like it sometimes. And I know a lot of the time, it’s not really your fault. It’s hard to care for other people when you feel fucking unwanted, trust me, I know. And I know you just experienced a blow. Probably an understatement, honestly, to what just happened. But you can’t take that out on me. You can’t exert the power you have just so you can feel in control. So, no. I won’t marry you. You’ll have to handle having a woman in your house who’s not a whore, a wife, a nanny. You’ll have to handle a woman who isn’t just a body for you.” Her eyes carry something in them, half fear, half mercy. “But, there is a bright side. I know you’re not loyal. I know you’re not always kind. I know you manipulate and act like a child when you’re grieving. I’ve seen the worst and I’m still here. I guess that says something about me.”

“You haven’t.” The words are heavy, burdened by weight in my chest, on my heart. “You haven’t seen the worst.”

“No?”

I shake my head. “I’m bloody violent.”

She chuckles. “Oh, you think I care about that? Need I remind you that I killed two men myself, one at point blank?”

I look up at her, seeking the distaste I saw in Grace when we talked of the illegal side of business. She stares back, puffy eyes and drawn skin, unafraid, unfaltering. I tilt my head.

“You won’t marry me. You won’t fuck me. You won’t let me pay for necessities. Why, then, are you staying in this house?”

Her gaze turns to an amused kind of incredulity. “For a smart man, you really can be thick sometimes, you know that?”

I smile faintly. “No one but you is ever brave enough to tell me.”

“But, still, you do know.” She sighs. “I’ve stayed with you because, in case you haven’t noticed, you’re the only person that makes me feel safe. Despite your particular neurosis, or maybe even regardless of them, you’re the first one I’ve met to know the shit I’ve been through and not back away because of it. Hell, you might’ve even gotten closer. And I owe you. I would’ve ran. My whole life, all I’ve done is run, and it was you who convinced me to stay. It was you who taught me I could fight. I probably knew all along, but you forced me to become the person I desperately needed when I was younger. You’re worth it to me to stay, even with the bullshit that comes with being Tommy Shelby.”

She says my name and it sounds kinder than when I do. I pull my legs up onto the bed and lean back a little, drawing myself up. Tommy Shelby. My reputation precedes me, always has. Not with her. Never with her. And I know with some certainty that came from almost chasing her away, that I will always be able to do the difficult things. I can be scared and carry on, I can send my family to prison and take a breath and play with my son for an hour after. But the easy things; eating when I’m hungry, drinking something other than whiskey, coaxing myself to sleep at night, speaking the truth when a lie is on my tongue, and admitting that I am hurting. Doing that without her will bring me back to that rottenness in my head, all the muck and smoke left over, the sickness from my mum.

“I don’t know what I can do that will be enough of an apology.” My hand on the sheets clenches a bit and scrunches them.

“I have a few things to start with.” She draws closer to me, blinking bleary eyes at the sad state of affairs that I’ve become. I nod for her to continue speaking, to place her demands, and her voice turns to something more authoritative, stronger, despite the tear streaks down her face. “You’ll respect our relationship and not sleep with other women. You’ll talk about what’s going on in your head instead of literally shutting me out. And, most importantly, you’ll quit playing games. I don’t like doing that. All I want is to lay my cards on the table and give you what you need, and you can’t take advantage of that. The only apology I need is proof that you actually do want me here and do value me without belonging to you, physically or metaphorically.”

It’s often that I forget about the sleepy-eyed kid I used to be. He’s in my head, somewhere, behind the gunsmoke and ignition. That boy was the definition of youth. Rebellion in his bones and impulsivity at his very fingertips, and he thinks that the world is cruel, so then, he won’t be. He’ll be kind and protective of the weak, the dying, the horses and the wild ones. That was the problem, then, that he softened himself so. He was hurt too easily. And I think that that boy loves her. Simple, yes, uncomplicated, childish love, but love nonetheless. When she asks for the apology of admiration and respect, he knows he can give it.

I worry that I cannot. That boy was before the war. That boy is a made-up voice in my head, and I am real. I am the man who has regrets piling up around him and who fears that he will never make a better mistake. I am the man who has a woman who wants him but doesn’t want him and talks about metaphors and broken promises. I am the man who has died more times than he can count and still wakes up every morning to face a cold sun.

“Okay.” I look elsewhere, unable to meet her eyes.

“That isn’t much of a promise, Tom.”

I take a breath and look up. “I promise.”

She nods. “That’s better.”

I think I’ve gotten too used to being broken. Pain tastes sweet when the knife is sharp. I like when my head is in a fight with my heart, when that conflict can distract me from the rest. I like when I’ve grown so sharp that no one can grasp me. I like when the whiskey sings away the no-man’s-land between myself and others. So, when she asks me to be a better man, to treat her with the same regard as she does me, I falter. I worry that she’ll see the rips and tears in me and decide that the healing I’ve done has been in the wrong places.

A small smile turns my lips and my eyes are on hers. “I promise you don’t need to forgive me for us to continue. I’ve never been innocent, and now you know it.”

“I’ve known.” Her lips press together. “Don’t go thinking I’ve been oblivious.”

The faint smile I managed falls away. My heart aches to tell her, to confess my sins and repent, the way Polly would want. I cannot tell her, not until I know that it’s worked, until I can tell that the business I’ve conducted has run its course. Maybe I will never tell her, simply open her cage and let her fly without another word.

—

There are men here with names that are written on a list hidden in a locked drawer. Their heavy feet creak the wooden floor, predatory stances with gazes that provoke. This darkened bar knows I’m here. The bartender catches my eyes, waiting for me to move on one of the women who walk along with low cut dresses and pupils blown unnaturally large. They serve drinks here, yes, but they’re the appetizers to the meal of women. The men pair themselves off with one or two, disappear into a backroom, or up the stairs to the small quarters above. Music from a gramophone drowns out the thumping and moans.

I’m not interested in the women. I’m not interested in the men. My attention lies on the bartender. A seedy, badly-dressed older man with yellowed eyes from years of using cocaine, with the name of Harold Bates. I asked around, found that he’s been working in this bar since before the war and has been an ally to the men who purchase these women’s services.

I’ve become a regular and a joke. Widower Tommy Shelby, drinking alone in a front for whoring, refusing to partake in the hedonistic celebration of man’s power. They know me as the man who favored Lizzie through the years and who has little reserve when it comes to women. The line between them and I blurs.

It’s hard to find the words to describe the fragility of the web I crouch on. My reputation helps steady it, but so much else seeks to dismantle the plan I’ve built. The question I’m about to ask will tremble the silky threads. I am relying on someone else’s ability to keep quiet, when I would rather send them into silence permanently. Simply put, any blood spilt today will reveal the spider hiding on the web to the fly that buzzes just out of reach.

I meet Harold Bates’ eyes and quietly tell him; “Bring me the youngest.”

I expect questions and receive none. Harold nods and walks behind the wall that separates the bar from the back room. When he returns, I find I can’t breathe. The girl in tow looks to be no older than ten. Emaciated body, crudely painted fingernails, dressed like an adult, showing off curves that don’t exist. I see the woman I’ve left in my house and promised to protect, who killed two men and faces me daily with no fear, and I remember how old she was when she was sent away to a powerless life. Eight. Fifteen when she finally got out. I think of Charlie, three years younger than she was, and nausea rises heavily in my stomach.

I can’t speak, so I reach out and take her hand. Her eyes are wide, intoxicated. She wavers when she walks in heels too big for her. I lead her, half holding her up, to one of the side rooms I’ve deemed is empty. A rotting, bare mattress sits on a metal frame in the middle, walls with peeling paper, the strong smell of sweat and warm bodies. She walks over to the bed and I turn to close the door. My eyes meet the bartender’s through the closing crack. He must think me a sick fuck, for taking this terrified young girl alone into a room to use her as I wish.

When I turn back around, she’s sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, the top of her dress undone to reveal a boyish chest.

I look away. “Put it back on.”

“What?” She looks to me with those same lifeless, glassy eyes. “Aren’t we—”

“Put it back on.” So I can look at you without sickness bubbling in my throat, because there are marks on her chest and stomach that look like her’s, and I don’t want to imagine what’s been done to children like them.

She does so, fumbling with the lace in the back. I stand by the door and wait for her to finish to look.

“No,” I say. “I’m not going to touch you. We’re not doing anything.”

“But then—” She looks down at herself. “But then what are we doing?”

I can hear the fear in her voice. Men have done worse, I think, than touching this girl. None of those marks on her were owned.

“We’re talking.” I slip away from the usual commandment I use in my voice, into the tone I use with Charlie. “I have some questions.”

“Oh, you want me to answer them like someone else, right?” She smiles a little, eyes hazy, as if she’s proud of herself for figuring it out. “You want us to play pretend before you—”

“Answer as yourself.” I look away again, swallowing hard. “Tell me the truth, and I’ll pay you.”

She shrugs. “I don’t get any money. He does. I have to give it all away to him, but if I’m good, maybe he lets me buy some new clothes.”

“Who’s ‘he?’” I cross my arms and lean back against the door, as far away from her as I can be.

“He says for me to call him my dad. So… I guess my dad?”

“Do you know his name?”

She shakes her head. A small barrier, one that we can easily get around.

“What’s your name, then?” It comes out gruffer than I meant.

“Hollis.” She smiles again, still small, still not meeting her dead eyes. “The regulars call me Holly because they like it better.”

“Hollis,” I say. “Where do you go when you’re not here?”

“I’m not allowed to tell you that.” Her smile falls and she looks away, dark hair falling over her eyes, a shelter.

“I won’t tell anyone.” It’s not a lie. “You’d be allowed to tell me.”

I’ve learned through Charles that children like exclusivity. Anything limited-time or called special appeals to them. That includes people. I set myself apart from the other men who use her and she, in turn, gives me something that I need.

She frowns, but speaks slowly. “It depends…”

“Depends?” I push a little, needing more.

“Depends on whether it’s my dad or another man who takes me home. Sometimes they like me overnight.”

“When it’s your dad, where do you go?”

“His flat. There are other dads there, too, with their girls. A lot of them are older than me, though, so…” Her eyes slide shut and she lays back on the filthy, stained bed.

“When you’re at his flat, what other buildings do you see?”

Her eyes open and her brow furrows. “Why do you want to know?”

I shrug, playing it off. “Trying to picture it in my head.”

She nods and stares up at the ceiling, her hands on her concave stomach. “There’s like… a movie theater, but no one ever goes in it. And there’s lots of other flats around with people we don’t know. Sometimes we use the movie theater for other girls when we run out of room. No one bothers us. It’s kind of nice. Like a sleepover.”

“How long have you been with your dad, then?”

“I don’t know, I guess a few months?”

Children must be made of clay. Moldable bits of creativity spawned by the people around them. An adult would never adjust so quickly to a life of abuse the way Hollis has. Thing about clay is, in large amounts, it’s impossible to break through. Used to slow us down in the tunnels. This girl, like everything else malleable, is haunted by the shape she used to take. I wonder, then, what hope she has. I decide to ask.

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” I pull the box of cigarettes out and light one.

Her eyes flick over to me. “Can I have one?”

“No. You’re too young,” I say on reflex. Charlie asks, and that’s the answer I give him. It doesn’t feel right to say to her, who has lived enough pain to last lifetimes in mere months.

Her brow furrows but she doesn’t argue. “I wanted to be with animals. Like an animal doctor or something.”

I take a drag, let the dry smoke fill my lungs, familiar, then exhale slowly. “You say ‘wanted.’”

“Yeah, well.” She gestures at herself. “I got another job now, and Dad says it’s not gonna end til I’m older and can’t do it anymore.”

There’s some kind of bile rising in my throat that I can’t swallow down. I take another pull of the cigarette. “Tell you what. There’s a woman I know who had your job, and she has horses. Twelve of ‘em. She’s a fucking fighter, beautiful, and bloody smart. You hold your head up, and you’ll see those horses some day. I’ll bring you to them.”

She looks up at me, eyes wider than before. “Really? I can— I can give you— I can use my—”

“No, you don’t give me anything. You get yourself through this and I’ll take you to the horses. That’s the deal. We’re conducting business, Hollis, you understand?” I take a small step towards her and she shrinks back, hand going to the low v-line of her dress. I stop and look away.

“I understand.” She stands and looks at me, smoothing her dress down her thin body. “Dad says I’ll be nothing if I’m not with him.”

“You’ll be something with or without him.” I hear her words in Hollis’, the fear of not being enough without sex. My heart twists. I validated that fear myself. “You’re worth something either way. You hear me? You’re more than these men make you think.”

She nods, gaze dropping to her feet. I reach into my pocket and pull out the amount I’d seen the others pay.

She looks at it, then up at me. “That’s too much.”

I raise an eyebrow, holding it out.

“I’ll get in trouble if Dad finds out this wasn’t what I normally do. Here.” She takes the money, takes half, and hands the rest back to me. “There. Now he won’t know.”

“Now he won’t know.” I manage a weary smile.

“What’s your name?”

“Cain.” It’s the first thing to come to mind.

She smiles back. “Thank you, Cain.”

And then she’s gone, out of the room, past the bartender, and into the back room. I’m left in an empty room. When I look back, I notice for the first time that there are chains on the bed frame. I take a breath, pulling myself together, and walk out without another glance at the bartender.

—

When I return to Arrow House, I find her working in the stables. There’s dirt smeared across her shirt and sweat dripping down her neck. She’s putting Iris back in his stall, likely her last horse of the day, considering the sun is slowly crawling down the sky. I stand at the mouth of the barn and watch her in silence.

This woman is tougher than I will ever be. This I know. This I have seen. And I’m in awe of her. If it were me I wouldn’t be able to look at a man. I wouldn’t be able to live in the same house as one. I would be at a loss for trust and turned away from the idea of love, of respect, because the world had shown me none. I would wonder constantly why the universe didn’t love me back.

I’m lost in the insignificance of myself as I watch her wipe sweat from her forehead. Maybe I’m only passing through her life, a blip in the wildness of running and running and running. Maybe I’m a moment waiting to pass for her, and maybe I’m her forever. I won’t know until she tells me. I wonder if in some past life, we crossed paths. I am not a religious man, but I have to believe I have been without her for far, far too long.

For her, I will be brave. I will learn to let someone see the war torn parts of myself and still look her in the eye afterward. I will refuse to follow the instinct to send away, to abandon, to refuse. This is a promise I make to myself, that I will be better, I’ll be the man she thinks I am.

She notices me and a smile flickers across her face like a candle flame. She does not run to me. She does not grin and wave. Just a small acknowledgement. I see you. I am glad you’re back. That is enough. To be seen. Maybe, all my life, I have been looking just to be seen by someone. Forget being devoured. Forget love with teeth and savagery. This, right here, this is what I’ve been wanting. She sees me. She knows who I am, and still she smiles when I appear. She knows I kill, and so does she. She knows I lie, and so, sometimes, does she. She knows I was in pain, she knows I still am, and so is she.

She knows I was a soldier. I fought, and so did she.

Except there are no child soldiers. Only child victims.

#only the wild ones #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #thomas shelby #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #peaker blinders fandom #peaky blinder imagine #tommy shelby fanfic #thomas shelby x y/n #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky fucking blinders #peaky blinders fanfic

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kaz-oooo · 26 days ago

Text

I know plenty of people don’t care about the current Dream situation (especially since I barely post about MCYT stuff anymore, especially anything DSMP related) but this man frustrates me to no end!!!

I’m gonna ramble about his shitty manipulation tactics for a bit. I’m gonna throw it all beneath a cut so you can scroll past easy if you aren’t interest.

I know basically everyone on this side of the internet knows Dream is a massive, manipulative twat. I doubt none of this will be a surprise to anyone. But idk, I present an incomplete list (in no particular order) of bullshit tactics Dream uses to twist the narrative in his favour!

1) making his first response on Reddit.

This is a place where only his most devoted fans congregate and most notably *not* where the controversy is occurring. If he wanted to properly apologise or address the situation he would do that in the exact same place the controversy occurred — his Twitter account. But of course he doesn’t want his fans to really know what’s going on, he wants to control the narrative, that’s why he has not said anything on Twitter, it’s why he went to Reddit of all fucking places!

2) doing everything within his power to avoid mentioning the controversy!

It’s unavoidable at times but he did spend a 3hr long stream avoiding the topic of the r-slur as much as humanly possible. Again, he wants to control the narrative and convince his fans to take his side, it’s easier to do that if he doesn’t address the actual problem at hand here — you see this a lot with YouTuber Apologies, you get a lot of “I made a severe and continuous lapse in judgement” type comments, but what is a “severe and continuous lapse in judgement”? — it could be anything from a few old tweets resurfacing or filming dead bodies… hard to say when you don’t already know the context.

3) bringing up old drama in an attempt to muddy the waters as much as possible.

Yes, Tubbo mentioned a handful of old controversies in his response to Dream’s tweets. Dream’s stream was a reaction to Tubbo’s and I’m not gonna blame him for mentioning these topics when they’re being brought up. The reason Tubbo mentions them is to provide further context around why he takes so much issue with Dream. Dream then proceeds to use this mentioned context as the crux of his response. As I mentioned in point 2 he avoids the topic of the r-slur as much as possible but he fixates on things like his drama with Quackity and Tommy and the accusations that he’s a groomer/pedophile. These aren’t relevant to the situation at hand and it just makes the whole 3hr stream more confusing!

4) he uses old drama as a way to garner sympathy for himself.

He mentions so many different controversies during that stream (and in his response to Tommy) and to an outside perspective it sounds like he’s being bombarded from all angles with wild accusations!! It makes him sound like the victim here, the one who is constantly under attack. He’s also been doxxed in the past and had false allegations thrown at him.. something he weaponises constantly and uses to further his victim complex.

5) deflecting blame as much as possible

I lost count of how many people he name dropped in that stream. But basically Dream isn’t to root of his own problems, he’s never done anything wrong in his life, it’s Tommy and Tubbo and Jack and Aimsey and Quackity and whoever else who hate him and are preying on his downfall (/sarcasm.) They are also bad people in their own right!! I very specifically remember him claiming that Tubbo was a bad person behind the scenes — did he show an ounce of evidence, of course not, but Tubbo’s awful guys trust him on this!! (/sarcasm again) he also did this in his immediate response when he mentioned having autism and thus being allowed to use the r-slur “it’s okay, I’m not problematic, I’m autistic and have a r-slur pass!”

6) feigning ignorance

In his Reddit post he claims to not understand the rules of slur reclamation. Maybe he doesn’t, idfk, but he knows that word is a slur and he knows he was using it as an insult… whether he understands the nuances of when that word is and is not okay is beside the point, at the very core of this controversy Dream was being an dickhead and that is what people have issue with.

Tommy mentions the sexist comments that were thrown around between Dream and his friends. Now as far as I’m away there’s no screenshots of these sexist comments, this is all word of mouth, things Tommy and Jack have repeatedly mentioned whenever Dream is a topic of conversation. I’ll be the first to admit I very blindly trust Tommy and Jack on this one, but I trust them because I can see how Dream and his friends act on stream and based on the way they present themselves I think they’re dodgy as fuck! I mean look at this entire post, at the way Dream consistently manipulates the truth and puts everyone else down.. those are behaviours that as consistent with misogynistic people, of course I believe Tommy when he says Dream and his friends said some sexist shit in group chats. But yes, this is word of mouth and Dream is using that to his advantage. He laughs and claims he has no idea what Tommy is talking about. Again, maybe he doesn’t, I don’t think many misogynistic people think they’re misogynistic, but Tommy isn’t pulling this out of his ass, these are claims he’s been making for months at this point!!

7) everyone’s doing this to promote their projects

This whole controversy did not begin to promote anything. Dream inserted himself in a random Twitter beef and blindsided everybody else with his bullshit. Yes, Tommy and Jack have proceeded to promote their own projects, in my personal opinion I don’t actually give a shit. I also didn’t care that Dream promoted his own shit during his video — Tommy mentioned it, Tommy made his own little ad, fuck it, Dream can too. What I will say though is that Dream criticises Tommy for doing this and in the same breath promotes his own merchandise which is rather hypocritical. I’d also argue that Dream’s merch plug is a lot slimier than Tommy and Jack’s because Dream starts trying to garner sympathy because his small, family business isn’t doing that well :((

8) takes everyone’s words out of context

Dream’s response to Tommy is entirely made of clips and screenshots that he cherry picks from. You can see this most clearly when he uses Tubbo’s words to support his own argument, using clips where Tubbo agrees that Dream has been unfairly criticised in the past and cutting out moments where Tubbo criticises him.

9) over exaggerates other people’s criticism.

When Tommy mentions that Dream harasses his mother Dream plays this up a lot. He sits there for 30 seconds telling the audience to picture what they think harassment is and to get ready for his grand reveal!! Of course when you see a single message it’s going to seem a little underwhelming. He ignores the fact Tommy’s mum was struggling through a divorce during that time and that this message is MASSIVE, unhinged, a criticism of her son and most importantly unsolicited. Even if it’s only a single message it’s still harassment.

10) he does not give context to his own arguments.

There’s one rant he goes on during his stream about a time Tommy started spreading false rumours amongst friends about somebody (unnamed) in the DSMP being a pedophile. Eventually Tommy is pulled aside by Wilbur who gives Tommy a big lecture about how those sorts of rumours can cause major problems and shows him how to properly handle them. What Dream neglects to mention is how old Tommy was at the time of this incident. That makes a big difference Y’know? Tommy doing this at age 16 is wildly different to Tommy doing this at age 20. Dream also mentions the fact Tommy used to be friends with Logan Paul before turning against him. Again, he refuses to give context here, he presents it like a massive backstab on Tommy’s part, or that Logan was a scumbag!

And there’s probably other shit as well. Lies and misinformation that I can’t possibly keep up with, nor do I even care to keep track of it!

Anyway. I’m going back to writing my dumbass fanfiction!

#dream situation #also be normal y’all #I will not hesitate to block #nor will I hesitate to turn if replies and reblogs!

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