#doesn’t mean you should neglect any of them john

[depravedmicrowave]

Mom is maybe Pandora, like, Danny was more or less adopted by Clockwork but bc over him being a corprate slave and overworked he shared custody time with Pandora who maybe won or was given John’s custody from an underling.

It’s a messy family tree so Pandora is just referred to as mom bc that’s what she is. Very mom shaped. Perfect for hugs and beating foes into bloody oozing smears.

Danny’s idea of motherhood is very specific.

Danny doesn’t understand why John doesn’t want to talk to their shared mom. Doesn’t he understand how amazing she is!?

I just had a DPxDC crossover idea that I thought was funny.

What if every time John Constantine sold his soul he was basically agreeing to being “adopted” by the entity he was selling his soul to.

He thinks all of the entities he sold his soul to are leaving him alone because they’re too busy fighting/have a truce to not fight as long as none of them claim his soul, meanwhile he’s got like a dozen or so ghost/demon parents ready to go to court to fight for custody when he finally dies.

Danny, having been taken in as a ward by an older ghost since he technically counts as a baby ghost until he’s 100 or something, meets Constantine for the first time and is like: “Why are you 1/15th my brother?”

Bonus points if Danny is technically the big brother in ghost terms because he’s been a ghost the longest. Sure Constantine may be a little liminal but that doesn’t count he doesn’t even have a death day yet.

Like:

Danny (Certified little shit): “Baby brother why do you never come to dinner? :(”

Constantine, too sober for this: “The fuck did you just call me?”

Constantine vehemently denies any relation but they bicker like siblings.

[wallwriterstuff]

Part 2: The Yes Basket ||John Price x Teen!Simon Riley||

Warnings: Mentions of drugs. Implied child neglect, explicit mentions of physical injury and abuse (1 sentence mentioning bruises and being underweight). All the angst. Talk of foster care and sibling separation. Mentions of military discharge and injury. Minors should not interact with this.

Words: 2236

Summary: John Price has had plenty of foster children before him and knows how to support most of the behaviour he sees. A simple trip to the supermarket unveils a deeper need for understanding than he originally thought, and John is left scrambling for answers Laswell won't give him.

Chapter 1: To Soothe A Soul Next Part (3): Dirty Laundry ->

Simon Riley is a ghost in his home.

He’s barely seen the boy since Laswell dropped him off last week. The lack of weight on him clearly works to his advantage for sneaking about the place because Price has been startled by his sudden appearance at least twice, and his instincts are usually pretty good at detecting anyone in his general vicinity. Either that, or Simon must have gotten good at creeping around. Perhaps it was safer that way in his former home, less noise less attention. All Price knows is that he only sees the boy when he’s eating his food or using his shower. He uses the shower a lot. He can’t tell if it’s a novelty thing that he never really had before or if it’s perhaps a psychological thing that needs a little more investigating, but the boy spends at least an hour a day scrubbing his skin raw in the tub, only to appear in the kitchen afterwards with a pink face and hands and stinking clothes that undo most of the work he’s just done.

He still won’t let Price wash anything in the bin bag.

Simon’s living out of it, he thinks. Not that he has any access to that room now. Simon barely cracks the door when he knocks on it to inform him dinner is ready or to ask if he wants to join him in watching a movie or something with Riley. He’s been gentle about his approach on it to, not outright disregarding his belongings as a filthy nuisance in his home but rather asking him how he can help him look after them. He’s been stealing food to. Light-fingered little bugger got away with it for almost 48 hours before Price realised his fruit bowl was suspiciously low on fruit. He’s had children in his care hoard food before, knows how to deal with it, so today, he’s dragging Simon out into the big wide world whether he likes it or not to solve the problem. The echo of his knock on the wood is met by complete silence behind the door, and Price still feels that prickle of dread when Simon cracks the door open just enough to stare him down as if he’s the intruder, somehow.

The whites of his eyes are only just whiter than the pallor of his skin.

“We’re going to head to the shops together, get some groceries in. Since I’ll be cooking for both of us I want you to give me an idea of what sort of things you like to eat. You’ve got 10 minutes to get yourself ready, alright?” Price doesn’t phrase it like a question, knowing the answer would absolutely be no if he asked. Simon barely blinks, a minor twitch of his brows showing his displeasure through a frown. Price waits him out, watch’s carefully for any sign of resistance. Seeing no way out, Simon finally acquiesces with a short nod, slamming the door shut between them both. Price let’s out a quiet breath and turns to head back downstairs, sure he’s going to have to come and get him when the 10 minutes he’s given him to get ready is up. It’ll serve two purposes, he thinks. If Simon takes a walk with him today then the boy will get a better lay of the land, have a bit more freedom to walk himself to the park maybe or walk himself to school, when the time comes for that, but it also means getting in food Simon can have control over. Speak of the devil.

Riley perks at his feet and trots happily to the boy as he stamps his feet into beat up trainers at the bottom of the stairs. The laces are threadbare at best and there’s holes in the outer skin that let Price know they’re no longer waterproof. Maybe when they have to tackle the issue of school uniform he can broach the topic of new shoes. Forcing himself up, Price moves to the coat rack and takes down Riley’s leash and harness, the German Shepherd waiting patiently to be belted up. Simon says nothing, hands stuffed deep in his pockets and eyes cast downward towards his feet. He doesn’t force the boy to break the silence, wondering if Simon is just a bit stunted in his social development or if there’s something greater at play. He never can tell, still doesn’t know him quite well enough.

He offers Simon the lead anyhow, and the boy takes it wordlessly, walking out alongside him and not waiting for him to lock the door behind them. Price has to catch up, and just about catches a glimpse of Simon slipping a black surgical mask over his face. Price’s brow furrows, a shudder rolling down his spine when he gets closer and sees the shoddily painted skeleton jaw painted on the front of the mask. It doesn’t feel like a fashion choice.

God kid, what the hell happened to you?

It’s like walking with the angel of death, even the breeze in the trees seem to fall silent in Simon’s presence. Price isn’t one to easily be unnerved, hell his job demanded he have nerves of steel, but something about Simon’s silent and foreboding presence makes him feel the need to fill the quiet space with noise.

“I’ve got a basic list, bread, milk, all that stuff, but once we’re in the shop you can give me an idea of what sort of dinner you like.” He said. Simon says nothing, of course. He gets a handful of looks from neighbourhood gossips but ignores them steadfastly. He’s like an omen of death, dressed in all black, hidden under baggy clothes, and…not reaching for a single bit of food. Price realises quickly that this is going to be harder than he originally thought. He feels like a phony Santa with the fake jolly attitude as he tries to suggest different things and is met by a shrug each time. He’s lost track of the amount of products he’s picked up in an attempt to sway him when Simon finally speaks ups.

“I don’t care.” The blunt and abrupt sentence is punctuated with a voice crack that makes the boy visibly cringe, as if the visible evidence of his youth is somehow a weakness he’s unwittingly shown. Price watches him for a long moment, head tilted and eyes squinting slightly.

“I do.” It’s a simply sentence, not one he packs a lot of emotion into, but it garners him the biggest reaction he’s had so far. Simon narrows his eyes. That eerie presence he exudes magnifies ten fold and almost tries to envelop Price, like a shadow has oozed from the boy and tried to poke and prod it’s way into Price’s very soul to examine the contents. He holds his gaze with the most neutral expression he can and pulls out his wallet to hold out a crisp ten pound note to the boy.

“This here is for you to go and get snacks with. We're going to make a yes basket. Anything you put in the basket, you can eat at any time. No permission needed, it's your food to eat as you please. The only rules for the basket are that whatever you buy fits within your budget, you need to buy a mix of junk food and healthy stuff, and it's only refilled when we go shopping on Saturday. If you eat it all by Wednesday there's no adding extra's too it until Saturday. If you do find it's empty and your still hungry, you can still eat the snacks in the kitchen cupboards, but we share those, so you need to ask permission before taking them. Understand?” his explanation is met with a further narrowing of the boys eyes, but Simon isn’t fool enough to look a gift horse in the mouth. Whatever life he’s been raised in, Price gets the impression that reading and playing people, having street smarts, is something the boy prides himself on, and that’s what makes him snatch the money from his hand and stalk for the fruit aisle first.

Price doesn’t see that basket once it’s taken into his room, but his fruit bowl remains full. Whether or not he paces himself is beyond Price’s knowledge to, but he’s set the boundary and he’ll see soon enough if Simon’s pushed it. If the way he eats his dinner is any indication then he reckons the basket was empty on day one. He scarfs down anything in front of him like he’s a black hole gorging on any and all matter, regardless of whether he finds it pleasant or not.

The subtleties in Simon’s expression is what helps him tailor his shopping lists going forward. His nose wrinkles ever so slightly when he eats anything he doesn’t like, and the missing nutrition in his previous diet is quick to make itself known when just a fortnight of eating a more varied and rich diet makes the boy sick to his stomach. He tries to hide it of course, but Riley’s compassion doesn’t let the boy suffer alone for long. The scuffling at his door is what wakes Price, and he forces his prosthetic back into place with a grunt, thumping with groggy eyes towards the bedroom door. He hears Simon heaving the minute he opens up,  giving Riley a scratch behind the ears before he heads for the bathroom. He pauses just briefly before knocking on the door and waiting to see if Simon will invite him in. He doesn’t, of course, so Price pushes the door open, and tries not to heave himself.

Simon’s always hidden beneath his clothes and now he knows why. Pale skin is mottled by severe but aging bruises. The poor boys black blue and yellow, a tapestry of violence inked into his skin that he’s still recovering from, may never recover from. There’s bones where he’d expected at least some muscles. He wonders if the skeleton painted on his face mask is supposed to represent the skeletal structure he’s somehow kept upright and ticking over in whatever horrific circumstances Simon has had to call his life up until this point. Price wipes any trace of his horror from his face as he grabs a wash cloth and dampens it, placing the cool cloth on the back of the boys neck as he awkwardly kneels beside him.

“Easy Simon, breathe.” He murmurs. Simon flinches form his hands, from his help, too used to doing things alone, but he’s just a child and he wants the one thing any child demands when they feel so awful nothing else helps.

“Mum.”

It’s a quiet croak, but it’s enough to shatter Price’s heart. He swallows thickly to get a grip on the lump in his throat before he pats the boys shoulder.

“Just me…have you had a sip of water?” he asks softly. Simon doesn’t turn his head, just leaves his head resting along his arm so Price doesn’t see the weakness seeping from his eyes. He shakes his head. Price gets him a glass of water, and they sit in silence until Simon’s ready to stumble back to bed again.

It’s the first time the silence doesn’t feel oppressive.

Price lets him sleep in the next day for as long as he needs, doesn’t ensure he eats breakfast as he’s now ensure just what to feed a stomach he guesses was previously empty most of the time, and instead calls up Laswell.

“John. How’s things?” her voice is tired and it sets his alarm bells ringing.

“Alright. Better, sort of. We’ve made a bit of progress, I think. How’s things on your end?” Price leans against the kitchen counter, watching Riley do his business in the back garden as he reads the pregnant pause before she spoke again. Not good then, he thinks.

“We’re alright,” She lied, “How can I help you today?” Price decides to let it go. Simon is his priority.

“Was wondering if we were any further forward with getting a doctor’s appointment for the lad, or even sibling visits. He mentioned his mum the other night, might do him some good to see his brother.” Price suggested.

Kate sighed, “Don’t push it John…Tom’s not good. Kid’s disclosed a lot since they were separated…Simon won’t be seeing him for a while yet. Doctor’s not called back yet, I’ll push it from my end. Is he well enough to wait?” Price’s head span for a second. Just what had the younger boy disclosed that had Kate so uptight? What had he seen? What had Simon seen? Or...is it something Simon had done? No, no that didn’t feel right. Simon was like a pitbull, preferring to puff up and look domineering but, under the right care at least, completely harmless. His burning curiosity might never be satiated. His job was to help the child, not investigate the case. No, no he had to leave that to Kate.

“I’d rather he was seen sooner over later. Could do with some help from a dietitian maybe. He was more undernourished than we originally thought and I don’t want to give him too much to soon.” Price relayed his concern neutrally, even as his mind raced ahead. “I’ll call today then and call you back when I have an answer.” Kate didn’t bother with a goodbye before she hung up. Price sighed, stared at his phone for a moment, and placed it on the side.

One thing at a time John, he thought, One thing at a time.

[daimonclub]

Education quotes

Education and school quotes Education quotes, aphorisms and quotations about education, school and learning, with some very brilliant and humorous thoughts by great authors of all time. Be circumspect how you offend schollers, for knowe, a serpent tooth bites not so ill, as dooth a schollers angrie quill. John Florio Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn. T.H. White, The Once and Future King Tell me and I forget. Teach me and I remember. Involve me and I learn. Benjamin Franklin Education without values, as useful as it is, seems rather to make man a more clever devil. C.S. Lewis A sign of intelligence is an awareness of one's own ignorance. Niccolo Machiavelli Learning never exhausts the mind. Leonardo da Vinci I was educated once; it took me years to get over it. Mark Twain When the student is ready the teacher appears. When the student is truly ready, the teacher disappears. Lao Tzu Not ignorance, but ignorance of ignorance, is the death of knowledge. Alfred North Whitehead Education begins the gentleman, but reading, good company, and reflection must finish him. John Locke The intelligence consists not only in the knowledge but also in the skill to apply the knowledge into practice. Aristotle Knowledge unfits a man to be a slave. Frederick Douglass Men are born ignorant, not stupid; they are made stupid by education. Bertrand Russell People think of education as something that they can finish... but education isn't something you can finish. Isaac Asimov Wisdom... comes not from age, but from education and learning. Anton Chekhov Language is “the infinite use of finite means.” Wilhelm von Humboldt My education was neglected, yet I was passionately fond of reading. Mary Shelley You can never be overdressed or overeducated. Oscar Wilde It is not so very important for a person to learn facts. For that he does not really need a college. He can learn them from books. The value of an education is not the learning of many facts but the training of the mind to think something that cannot be learned from textbooks. Albert Einstein The best education consists in immunizing people against systematic attempts at education. Paul Kark Feyerabend The first thing a student should understand to have success is that of becoming a self-taught man. Carl William Brown The whole educational and professional training system is a very elaborate filter, which just weeds out people who are too independent, and who think for themselves, and who don’t know how to be submissive, and so on, because they’re dysfunctional to the institutions. Noam Chomsky Education’s purpose is to replace an empty mind with an open one. Malcolm S. Forbes Self-education is, I firmly believe, the only kind of education there is. The only function of a school is to make self-education easier; failing that, it does nothing. Isaac Asimov I realized early on that the academy and the literary world alike – and I don’t think there really is a distinction between the two – are always dominated by fools, knaves, charlatans and bureaucrats. And that being the case, any human being, male or female, of whatever status, who has a voice of her or his own, is not going to be liked. Harold Bloom Education is an admirable thing, but it is well to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught. Oscar Wilde Everybody who is incapable of learning has taken to teaching. Oscar Wilde Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better. Samuel Beckett By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail. Benjamin Franklin

Education quote by Aristotle It doesn’t matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop. Confucius Learning is like rowing upstream, not to advance is to drop back. Chinese Proverb The task of the modern educator is not to cut down jungles but to irrigate deserts. The right defence against false sentiments is to inculcate just sentiments. By starving the sensibility of our pupils we only make them easier prey to the propagandist when he comes. C.S. Lewis Ignorance, the root and stem of all evil. Plato Private schools, pretentious educational and political institutions, with a lot of university teachers most commonly and pompously called professors are clearly more interested in making money than in spreading  pedagogical matters, logic and common sense, also because before teaching you must first be able to learn. (in order to teach you must before be able to learn). Carl William Brown Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence. Robert Frost When I was young I thought that money was the most important thing in life; now that I am old I know that it is. Oscar Wilde Schools should be the most beautiful place in every town and village-so beautiful that the punishment for undutiful children should be barred from going to school the following day. Oscar Wilde I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. The whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. Fortunately in England, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. Oscar Wilde The mark of a civilized man is his willingness to re-examine his most cherished beliefs. Oliver Wendell Holmes, Jr. When all think alike, then no one is thinking. Walter Lippmann A great number of people talk too much, but pragmatically act too little, and if they try, they can only do stupid and dangerous things. Any references to Italian politicians are quite imaginary and clearly unreal. Carl William Brown Success and suffering are vitally and organically linked. If you succeed without suffering, it is because someone suffered for you; if you suffer without succeeding, it is in order that someone else may succeed after you. Edward Judson Any company that aspires to succeed in the tougher business environment of the 1990s must first resolve a basic dilemma: success in the marketplace increasingly depends on learning, yet most people don’t know how to learn. What’s more, those members of the organization that many assume to be the best at learning are, in fact, not very good at it. Chris Argyris I don't like clear matters, they don't concern me enough! Carl William Brown I may have said the same thing before... but my explanation, I am sure, will always be different. Oscar Wilde A process which makes one rogue cleverer than another. Oscar Wilde In England ... education produces no effect whatsoever. If it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and would probably lead to acts of violence in Grosvenor Square. Oscar Wilde ‎It is often forgotten that (dictionaries) are artificial repositories, put together well after the languages they define. The roots of language are irrational and of a magical nature." Jorge Luis Borges, Prologue to "El otro, el mismo." Children have a natural antipathy to books- handicraft should be the basis of education. Boys and girls should be taught to use their hands to make something, and they would be less apt to destroy and be mischievous. Oscar Wilde

Education and school quotations Form and substance: Hjelmslev introduced the notion that both expression and content have substance and form. In this framework signs have four dimensions: substance of content; form of content; substance of expression; form of expression. Education, knowledge, culture and experience are fundamental to help you find what you are looking for. Carl William Brown Art is not to be taught in Academies. It is what one looks at, not what one listens to, that makes the artist. The real schools should be the streets. Oscar Wilde The mind of the thoroughly well-informed man is a dreadful thing. It is like a bric-à-brac shop, all monsters and dust, with everything priced above its proper value. Oscar Wilde Nothing is more securely lodged than the ignorance of the experts. Friedrich August von Hayek By giving people the power to share, we're making the world more transparent. Mark Zuckerberg They know enough who know how to learn. Henry Brooks Adams Formal education will make you a living; self education will make you a fortune. Jim Rohn Since we cannot know what knowledge will be most needed in the future, it is senseless to try to teach it in advance. Instead, we should try to turn out people who love learning so much and learn so well that they will be able to learn whatever needs to be learned. John Holt Genius lasts longer than Beauty. That accounts for the fact that we all take such pains to over-educate ourselves. Oscar Wilde A great fortune depends on luck, a small one on diligence. Chinese Proverb About this topic you can also read: Education first of all Autonomous Learning Why is education so important University education World education news   Read the full article

[writethelifeyouwant]

Made For You | Chapter 4

Summary: Dean and Sam like what they have together, and if screwing your brother screws with the universe’s “grand plan” while they’re at it, then even better. Neither of them has ever cared much for tradition or fate, but it turns out there are some destinies you can’t escape. Sometimes, someone is just made for you. 

Pairing: Alpha!Dean x Omega!Sam Rating: 18+ Warnings: Parental Neglect, Abuse, Incest Tags: Omegaverse, Alpha!Dean, AlphaJohn, Omega!Sam, worried!Dean, asshole!John, angst, family drama, lost love, torn loyalties Word Count: 3.2k Created For: @spnabobingo - Non Traditional Omega Traits | @anyfandomgoesbingo - Star Crossed Lovers

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Dean wakes slowly the next morning, stiff from the springs in the mattress that were digging into his back and his ass all night. The alarm on his phone should have been the thing to jolt him awake, but it’s lying quietly on the nightstand where he’d plugged it into its charger the night before. The fuzzy rays of sun seeping through the threadbare curtains are what’s made him stir, and he squints in annoyance at the offending fabric before rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. 

After a moment of attempting to count sheep, however, Dean realises that if it’s sunny, that means it’s daytime. And if it’s daytime, that must mean that Dad is here. Rolling over again to check he wasn’t being a total idiot, he checks the bed beside his. Empty. Dad must have gone to Sam’s room last night and stayed there. Checking his phone, Dean doesn’t see any messages from Sam or his father, so he flips it shut again and hauls himself out of bed, trudging to the bathroom to take care of the morning necessities. He’ll go to check on Sam after he’s showered off the three straight days of car ride he’d been too tired to deal with the day before. 

When he’s showered and dressed, Dean goes to make a pot of coffee, but is dismayed to discover that the shithole their Dad has picked out for them to stay in doesn’t provide that amenity. 

“What dumbass motel doesn’t even give you a coffee pot?” he grumbles to himself, grabbing his cell and shooting Sam a text to ask if he’s feeling better and if he wants anything for breakfast. He could just go next door to ask, but Dean really isn’t in the mood to deal with his father before he’s gotten some caffeine into his system, considering the mood he’d been in on the phone yesterday. 

Dean sits down to lace up his boots and pulls on his jacket, checking his phone again as he grabs his keys and heads out the door. By the time he’s at the convenience store down the street, Sam still hasn’t texted him back. He supposes the kid might still be asleep, not like he’d gotten any quality shut-eye the whole time they were in the car, and Sam was always down for the count when he was sick. Dean braces himself and texts Dad instead, asking if he should bring back coffee or food or maybe medicine for Sammy, though he’s not exactly sure what would help. 

While Dean is picking through the donut case in the back of the store, looking for the ones that aren’t stale, a text from John comes in that reads: Coffee, lots of coffee. He scoffs at the message and grabs Sam and Dad donuts too, just in case, before heading for the coffee machine. 

Dean has a key to both motel rooms, but with his hands full carrying a bag of donuts and a tray of coffee, he decides to just kick the door to Dad and Sam’s room in substitution for knocking. John opens the door after a moment, bleary-eyed and dishevelled in a dirty t-shirt and boxers. 

“Hey Dean,” he yawns, stepping aside to let the boy in and closing the door behind him as Dean heads to the little table to deposit the coffee and breakfast. 

Dean immediately looks for Sam when he gets around his dad, but his brother’s bed stands empty, covers thrown back as if he’d vacated the space in a hurry, and Dean feels a stab of sympathy for his brother. He must have gotten sick again. Glancing towards the bathroom he sees the door shut tight. 

“Sammy still sick?” Dean asks worriedly and John nods tiredly, wiping a hand over his face as if he’ll be able to brush the sleep from his features as he beelines for the black coffee Dean is offering him. He opens the lid to another cup and goes to add milk and sugar for Sam, but John’s hand shoots out to stop him.

“Don’t bother fixin’ one for him,” the man grumbles, taking a sip of his own cup, and Dean cringes. 

“He’s still that bad?” he asks dejectedly, moving squarely from worried to anxious. He jogs across the room to the bathroom and raps on the door: “Sam?” Dean calls lightly, but the boy inside is as silent as the grave. “Sam?” he tries again, knocking louder, but there’s still no response. He opens the door and bursts into the tiny ceramic room, preparing to pick Sam’s head up out of the toilet where he’s assuming he’s drowned – because there’s no other reason Sam would ignore him like that  – except the room is empty. 

“What’s going on?!” Dean rounds on his father, face a shade of thunder as the colour drains from his cheeks in fear. John is standing resolutely by the table, coffee held firmly in his grip with his arms crossed over his chest, expression as stony as his posture. He doesn’t answer. “Where’s Sam!?” Dean growls, marching across the room and squaring up to his father.

“Sam’s gone,” John says shortly, and Dean feels his heart begin to race so fast he can’t feel the individual beats anymore. 

“And what the hell does that mean?” he asks, his voice clawing its way out of the clenching muscles of his throat. “Because if you tell me my brother is anywhere other than in a hospital so he can get some goddamn IV fluids I swear to fuckin’ God–” 

“Watch your mouth, boy!” John barks, but Dean doesn’t flinch. 

“Where is my brother!?” Dean shouts, and John’s face crumples in pain, and for one heart-stopping moment, Dean thinks he’s about to hear the words he’s dreaded ever since his dad had put the baby boy in his arms and told him to run out of their burning house: Sam is dead. “Dad,” he pleads for an answer, voice cracking like he’s twelve years old again. 

“Sam is fine,” John says, his breath hissing through gritted teeth like it’s painful for him to speak. “But he’s gone, Dean. And as far as I’m concerned, you don’t have a brother anymore.” 

John may as well have punched him; knocked him to the ground, kicked the breath out of every cell in his body; taken out the pocket knife he keeps in the back of his jeans, and jammed it right through his ribs; shredded his heart; punctured his lungs. 

“What did you do?” Dean’s shocked to hear how weak his words sound when he finally finds his voice. 

“I gave him the cash I had, a fresh credit card, and his gun, and I dropped him and his stuff at the station.”

“What station?” Dean demands, already reaching for his keys and his phone in his pocket, intent on heading to the Impala to catch up and bring Sam back.

“It’s best you don’t know that, son,” John sighs, arm shooting out to catch Dean as he tries to elbow his way past. 

“Get off me,” Dean grunts, shaking himself out of his father’s grip and John lets him go, holding his hands up in surrender, trying to show Dean he’s not a threat. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Dad? I know he’s a pain in the ass and I know you two butt heads and he doesn’t follow orders but he’s a good hunter! He’s saved my ass god knows how many times already, and yours too, and you fucking know it. So what, he gets sick and suddenly he’s an invalid and you’re done with him? He’s your son!”

“That omega bitch is no son of mine!” John snaps, his chest heaving with the effort of holding himself back from launching at Dean. 

For the second time in the space of a few minutes, Dean feels like his lungs have collapsed and his heart has given up beating. Omega? So, that’s what Sam had done to piss John off so much. Dean’s subconscious is reeling as he tries to process the news, reconcile the situation, and figure out how to fix it. 

Sam didn't get sick because he got food poisoning or mono, he was presenting as an omega. Dean feels shocked, but a small niggling part of his brain starts to say: this makes sense doesn’t it? Sure, Sam really isn’t built like an omega, standing taller than both Dean and John; he’s broad, well-muscled, and was getting bulkier by the month with how they’d been ramping up their physical training lately. He was confident, outspoken, argumentative; comfortable taking the lead on a case, already a better shot than Dad, and most of the other hunters they know, to be honest. No one looking at Sam would ever assume he would present omega. 

Except for the one thing that Dean knows about Sam that nobody else does – his little brother may have taken some persuasion on their first try but after that first time, Sam was the most knot-hungry motherfucker Dean had ever met. Dean had chalked that up to his rebellious streak, figured he enjoyed subverting the stereotypes, got some sort of satisfaction from the idea that they were beating the system, fucking with the universe, fighting the man. And Dean still thinks that, but add to those factors Sam presenting as an omega, and it just makes sense. 

He thinks back to the conversation in the car the other night, Sam asking if Dean believes in true mates, and his worry that if he presented as alpha, then his true mate might be some random stranger. But if Sam’s an omega… Dean’s heart wrenches at the thought… What if Sam is his true mate? What if that’s why they’d felt that pull together, even before Sam presented officially. Dean doesn’t even know if you can be true mates with family like that, but as he follows this logic, all the pieces of the puzzle seem to be falling into place. Sam really has been made for him all along.

Dean grabs his phone and opens it to click speed dial, staring at John defiantly as he does, but when Sam’s ringtone sounds out from the room they’re standing in, Dean’s face falls. 

“You took his phone, too!?” 

“We got him a new prepaid one,” John shrugs as if that excuses things. 

“Tell me where you sent him!” Dean rages, and he can feel the hinges on his flip phone creaking dangerously in his grip. 

“Sam didn’t want that,” John shakes his head.

“Like hell he didn’t,” Dean scoffs. “That’s bullshit, Dad. You’re the one who’s so ashamed to have an omega in the family you shipped him away. Sam wouldn’t have left me like that.” 

“He was embarrassed, Dean. Humiliated. When I told him the plan, he didn’t fight me, he went.”

“God, I wonder who would have made him feel that way,” Dean snaps sarcastically. 

“Sam never wanted this life, Dean!” John argues, the thin veil of calm he’d been clinging to starting to evaporate. “He’s always hated it, he’s always wanted out. He’ll be much happier on his own away from all of this. Maybe he’ll go to college like he was always talking about; I don’t know, but you’re right, he’s smart. Smart enough to know what he wants and make his own decisions, and when I offered him the option to leave, he took it.” 

“I don’t believe you,” Dean shakes his head, refusing to even entertain the possibility that what John is saying could be true. “I know Sam better than you ever will. I know he would never do this.” 

“Why the hell not?!” John demands. 

“Because he’s not just my brother!” Dean shouts before he thinks better of it, and he sees confusion flash across John’s eyes. 

“What is that supposed to mean, son?” John asks in a low, even voice, threat lacing every syllable. 

“It means we fuck, Dad,” Dean seethes, relishing the look of shocked disgust that crosses his father’s face at his revelation. “So y’see, Sammy turning out omega wouldn’t exactly have been a problem for me. Actually, it’s pretty fuckin’ perfect – think of all the money we’ll save on lube!” He laughs, empty and vindictive, enjoying the horrified expression on his asshole of a father’s face. John looks like he’s gonna be sick. 

“Well,” John breaks the tense silence after taking a moment to collect himself. “Makes even more sense why he wanted to leave, if his big brother was abusin’ him like that.” 

“Fuck you!” Dean snarls, and he wishes he had his gun on him because he wants to aim it straight at John’s head. He pockets his phone, heads to the table to grab the donuts and a coffee, and makes his way to the motel door. 

“Where the hell are you goin’?” John growls but Dean ignores him, slamming the door behind him and heading next door to grab the rest of his stuff. 

John follows him to the Impala as he opens the door and slides his bag into the footwell, setting the donuts on the passenger seat (and shoving his coffee in the cupholder, spilling the now cold liquid out and over his hand). 

“Dean! Get your ass outta the car!” 

Dean still ignores him, slamming the door and shoving down the lock before he shoves the key in the ignition and reverses jerkily out of the parking spot. More coffee spills onto his jeans as he peels out of the gravel lot and swings onto the road. He knows they passed a bus station a little ways on the other side of this town, with any luck Sam won’t have gotten on a bus at all and will be there waiting for him. But even if John made him get on a bus, Sam has that cell phone. He’ll call Dean when he feels like he’s somewhere safe, Dean’s sure of it. One way or another, Dean will get him back. 

6 months later

Dean looks down at his phone again, cursing the obnoxious ringtone that’s become a harbinger of hope and dread every time he hears it. Because it’s never Sam when he picks up, but he doesn’t want to stop hoping that this time it could be. He doesn’t want to give up on him. With a heavy sigh, he flips open the case and brings the phone up to his ear. 

“Dean?” a gruff voice crackles loudly down the receiver, and Dean feels simultaneous stabs of disappointment that it isn’t Sam, but relief that at least it isn’t John. 

“Hey, Bobby,” he answers, trying not to let the upset show in his voice. “How’s it goin’?” 

“Not too wonderful if I’m bein’ honest,” Bobby laughs darkly down the phone. “I’m working a vamp nest in Idaho, they’re holed up in some abandoned campground in the woods, hikers goin’ missin’ for a few years back, now,” he explains. 

“How many in the nest?” Dean asks, already digging for the map in the glove box to check how far away he is. 

“At least ten that we’ve been able to count so far, but I’m willin’ to bet there might be more that just don’t come outta the camp,” Bobby grumbles. “Any chance you’re in the vicinity?” 

“I’m in Colorado right now, where are you?” 

“North side of Pocatello, down by the south border,” Bobby answers, and Dean quickly takes his eyes off the road to scan the map, locating the city near the Snake River. 

“Right, I bet I could be there in–” Dean leans down to get a better look at the road sign he’s passing on the interstate, “maybe about six or seven hours? Just gonna turn around at my next exit and head back north.” 

“Where you comin’ from?” Bobby asks curiously. 

“Just finished looking into some suicidal spirit in Wyoming, too bad you didn’t call me yesterday, woulda been a lot closer,” Dean chuckles, pulling into the exit lane in preparation to turn around. 

“You gank the son’bitch?”

“Bet your ass,” he scoffs, “though it tried to take a good chunk outta me when it flung a chainsaw at my leg.” 

“I’m assuming you’re comin’ to me intact, otherwise you’re not gonna be much use to me,” Bobby laughs and Dean finds his lips twitching in a small smile. 

“We’ll have those vamps in the ground by this time tomorrow, so long as you’re not too slow for the job old man.” 

“Hey, watch your tone with me boy, I’m still your elder,” Bobby grumbles, and Dean can picture the sour look on his face. 

“Hey,” Dean interrupts as something occurs to him, “earlier you said ten vamps that ‘we’ counted. Who’s we?”

“The reason I’m callin’ actually,” Bobby admits after a moment of silence. “Damn idjit had a bum leg of his own, I told him we shoulda called for backup sooner but he just barrelled on in.” 

“Bobby…” Dean’s tone is full of warning. 

“The nest took John this mornin’ when we tried to ambush ‘em,” Bobby admits gravely. 

Dean doesn’t know how to feel about that. He’d hung up on his dad two days ago. Three calls in a row, the second Dean recognised John’s voice the phone was snapped shut and back in his pocket. John must have been heading to meet up with Bobby and help with this nest; he must have been calling for backup. And Dean had blown him off. 

“Goddammit!” he swears, smacking his hand on the steering wheel. 

“Dean?” Bobby asks hesitantly down the phone. He knows Dean and John aren’t speaking right now, though Dean isn’t sure John filled him in on exactly why that is. 

“Gimme five hours, I’ll be there,” Dean answers, then hangs up resolutely and floors it. 

It kills him because he’d been heading south towards a lead on Sam, but he doesn’t want Bobby to wind up dead because he and his dad are fighting. And as much as he hates the guy, Dean doesn’t actually want John dead, either. He’s not strong enough to wish for that. 

Dean knows the potential ‘lead’ he was heading towards was probably a dead end anyway, he’s just too stubborn to admit that after six months of searching, he’s farther away from finding Sam than ever. He’s been hunting as he goes, picking up the kinds of cases that Sam had always been drawn towards, looking for stuff around college towns that he thinks maybe Sam might have moved to. He curses himself for not paying more attention when Sam used to daydream out loud about going to college, maybe becoming a teacher, or a lawyer, or a doctor. Dean can’t remember the names of any of the schools he’d talked about, now. 

But every day that Dean goes on searching is also another day that Sam doesn’t bother to call. And after six months, if Sam wanted to see him, wanted Dean to find him, why wouldn’t he call? He knows Sam remembers all his phone numbers in that stupidly big brain of his, all he has to do is pick up the goddamn phone and Dean would be by his side in an instant. But he hasn’t, and as he barrels the Impala dangerously fast down the thankfully deserted highway, Dean realises just how fucking stupid he’s being. 

If Sam wanted him, Sam would have called. John had told him that it was Sam’s choice to go away when he presented. Dean had never wanted to believe that was the truth, but maybe it was after all.

Chapter 5 posting on July 5th or subscribe to my website to read up through Chapter 8 today!

Series Tags: @outofnowhere82

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[dragon-kazansky]

Tea for two | Helmut Zemo

Requested by anon

Sequel to Tea for you

Zemo made the tea as he always did. The boys had got a lead and it was important they went and checked out the area. Of course, Zemo was going with them.

He was only making one cup today. The boys were insistent they had to leave soon.

After what Bucky did the other day, Zemo had begun to leave a Turkish Delight with your cup. It felt like he was completing his deed by doing both.

Once the tray was settled on the coffee table, he left with the boys. They were gone hours. Apparently it was a false lead, but Sam had picked up some information that may be useful. They would leave first thing tomorrow to check it out.

When they came back to the house, Zemo walked over to the tray. The tea was obviously cold now. He stared at the brightly coloured liquid.

Why was he still holding onto hope?

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. He didn't need let his emotions get the better of him here.

You're dead. You're not coming back.

His fists clench in his gloves, the leather creaking ever so slightly from the motion. His heart will never heal.

Helmut picks up the tray and takes it over to the sink, tipping the cold tea away and washing the cup delicately as always. Once it's crystal clean, he holds it up and runs his thumb over the side. Even in the moment he wishes beyond belief you would come here and take it from him.

He sets the cup down and goes to bed.

Sam has them all up early. He wants to leave as soon as possible, but Zemo insists on pouring the tea as he always does. Sam sighs and tells him to be quick, he knows what this means to Zemo, but they can't waste too much time.

Zemo goes to get the teapot, but their morning is interrupted by Walker. John storms in like he owns the place and points at Sam.

"You know!"

"Hey, relax man."

"You know where they are." Walker got a little too close to Sam.

"We think we might know. There is a difference."

Bucky steps in, "back off."

Zemo sighs and puts down the teapot. He walks over to where the commotion is happening and comes to Sam's aid.

"We have information. You let us take you to where we think they are, you leave us to our own investigation," Zemo offers.

"If they're there, we are not wasting time talking to them. We need to stop them," Walker hissed, his eyes focused on Sam.

"Hell no, we do this my way. Go in guns blazing, they'll flee before we even have a chance," Sam states. "Be smart about this."

"I am smart."

No you're not. Zemo could almost hear your voice. He resisted a smile. Oh, the fun you would be having if you were here.

"Fine, let's go." Walker spat.

Teapot neglected, they leave the house. It pains him to leave without doing his little ritual, but time is of the essence. He's sure you would forgive him.

Hours. They're gone hours. All day, almost. The sun will be setting soon, that's for sure.

They enter the safe-house. It's quiet as they all go their separate ways. Zemo instantly goes over to the sofa, relaxing into the cushions. He was so tired. Tired of Walker, tired of all the fighting that ensued today, tired of being lonely.

He sighs and sits up, maybe he could have some tea with you now. It's later than usual, but it would still count.

He goes to get up, but something catches his eye. The tray he uses is sitting in front of him and a little note is resting on it. He leans over and pluck the note from where it sat.

'I missed your tea today'

He sat up straighter. What was this? It looked like your handwriting, but thats5not possible. Had Sam or Bucky done this to spite him? A cruel joke it would be, but when would they have had time to do it? Zemo had been with them all day.

Maybe I have finally lost my mind.

He stares at the neat handwriting. His heart is calling out to you and it hurts. He holds the note to his heart, his fingers squeezing the paper.

I need you.

He falls asleep right there on the sofa, the note crumpled up in his chest.

The next day, he pretends nothing happened. He had woken up before the other two and prepared the tea as he always did. This time he stared at your cup as he drank his own. That note was a sick joke and he hated it.

Do not give me hope where there is none.

He was stirred from his hopeless wishing when Sam came into the room. The other man stood opposite from where he sat, looking at him.

"We, uh, should go now. I think Karli is making a move."

"Right." Zemo places his half empty cup down next to yours and stands up. He goes to grab his coat.

The building has very people in it when they arrive. It's almost as they had been expected to arrive, which didn't sit right with Zemo. This could put them at a disadvantage.

"Keep your guard up."

They stepped carefully through the halls, looking into each room. There was no sign of anyone. Eventually they had come to the courtyard. It was closed in by the building, too many convenient spots to be ambushed from above.

"I don't like this," Bucky muttered, eyes moving from one spot to the next.

Sam was jumped from behind seconds later. Flag Smashers came out from every direction. Zemo held up his gun and began to shoot, any of them would help fulfil his work.

Bucky was fighting off to of them, Sam used his wings to his advantage, but the fact that Zemo was armed was concerning to him.

"You have a gun?"

"Of course I do, you didn't think I was coming here unprepared, did you?" He shot a few more bullets, two of them hitting his moving target. He just had to finish the job.

A shield flew past, knocking out the man he had shot.

Great, Walker was here.

Zemo chose to ignore the oncoming headache and closed in on the Flag Smasher, he aimed for the head. However, before he could take his shot, Walker was on him. He had grabbed Zemo from behind, using his arm to lock around his neck and pull him backwards. He pushed Zemo to the ground and held the shield up, so ready to get rid of him.

Walker suddenly fell the ground unconscious.

Zemo looked up to see someone impossible.

"It can't be."

You were standing over him, a gun in your hand. You had whacked Walker pretty darn hard with the butt end.

"Hello stranger."

Zemo had to be dreaming. You couldn't be here, you just couldn't!

You hold out your hand. It looked so real. His hand reaches for yours. He flinched when his fingers touch your own. He thought they would just pass through or tour would disappear entirely, but you curl your fingers around his wrist and pull him up. He stands.

"You not going to say anything?" You ask, softly.

"How?"

You smile and reach up, caressing his cheek. His tears fall. You were really here in front of him. The Baron leans into your touch, a gasp escaping his lips.

"I'm here, my love, my Liebling."

He loses his composure and envelopes you in his arms, holding you to him like a lifeline. He buries his face into the crook of your neck. His quiet cries break your heart, but you had expected this much.

He believed you to be dead.

All this time, all those years, he had been alone.

"How?" He asks again.

"I'll tell you later, but we should probably leave." You pull away to look at him. "Look at you, still handsome as ever," you chuckle.

He smiles before he pulls you in to kiss you. It was long overdue and he needed this. He needed you. You melt against him, focusing only giving him what he wanted.

Sam clears his throat.

You both pull away you smiling at each other. Helmut reaches for your hand, you give it a little squeeze.

"Apologies."

"Who is this?" Bucky asks, looking at you.

"This is Y/N."

"Know each other, do you?" Sam is trying to grin. He saw exactly what you two were up to while he and Bucky fought off the masses.

"Something like that," Zemo replies.

"I think I'm owed a cup of tea, Helmut." You look at him.

"About that, how did you know? That note..."

"I've been watching over you since you got out of prison. I was watching over you back when you were tearing the Avengers a part."

"I thought you were dead."

"I'm sorry, Helmut."

He brings you into his arms again, holding you close to him.

"I forgive you."

You cling to him.

"Wait, this is who you keep making tea for?" Bucky asks.

You nod at him when you pull away from Zemo once more.

"Thank you for the Turkish Delights, by the way. That was you, wasn't it?" You ask him.

Bucky looks a little startled.

"Uh, yeah."

"Maybe we should go back and catch up. I have a lot of time to make up for." You look at Zemo.

"I want to hear everything," Zemo says, smiling.

"I won't leave out a detail."

Zemo keeps a hold of you as you all leave. He was never going to let go of you again. He had lost you once before and it was the worst pain imaginable.

Not even Walker's headache, when he wakes up, will be remotely close, and that will hurt a lot.

You are reunited with the one person you love the most. Happy doesn't even cover it.

@ajeff855 @moonstuffsteve @sky-writes-stuff @lieutenantn @lostghostgirl94 @friday18eo @yaskna

[maddiwrites]

Secrets of the Shore (Chapter 1)

Pairing: Pogues x reader, eventually JJ x reader.

Summary: This is just my rewrite of the show Outer Banks with my own twist by adding another main character which also happens to be John B’s twin sister. 

Note: Hey guys! Thank you so much for the support of my last couple of fics. All your messages have been so kind and so sweet! I’ve made a rewrite of the show with a new character that eventually falls in love with her best friend. I’m gonna be posting a new chapter three times a week. Let me know what you guys think!

Word Count: 4.3k

Warnings: None

Chapter 2 

"That's what, a three-story fall to the deck?" John B tip toes across the middle of the roof as he sips out of the can of beer in his hand.

I lean to my right, pressing against JJ's shoulder as we sit on a construction slack used to hold construction workers as they work on the siding of the home. Scaffolding, I think it's called. I narrow my eyes at my brother, counting down the seconds until he falls.

"I give you about a one-in-three chance of survival," Pope jokes from the deck below us.

John B shrugs. He licks his finger and holds it up in the air as if he's feeling which way the wind is blowing. "Hm. Should I do it?"

"Yeah, jump." Pope holds up a power drill and points it at John B like it's a gun. "I'll shoot you on the way down."

"You'll shoot me?"

"Yep." Pope closes one eye and pretends to shoot it. "Pow!"

I roll my eyes and look forward again, letting the beer slip down my throat like a refreshing glass of water. The warm North Carolina air presses soothingly against my freshly tan skin and I bask in the sunlight. Its days like these that I like the most. Days where none of my best friends have work, we're drinking causally, and joking with one another. Even if it's on a construction site in the middle of Figure Eight. But the idea of getting caught just gives me an adrenaline rush.

"They're gonna have Japanese toilets with towel warmers," Kie says as she walks out of the unfinished house.

"Of course. Why wouldn't they?" JJ says next to me with a shrug like it's not the craziest thing that a Kook would own.

"This used to be a turtle habitat, but who cares about the turtles, I guess."

"I can't have cold towels."

Kie looks up at John B, shielding her eyes with the back of her hand. "Can you please not kill yourself?"

"Don't spill the beer. I'm not giving you another one," JJ says.

As if on cue, John B's foot slips. Luckily he catches himself, but his beer, however, drops to it's death on the deck below. As John B steadies himself I release the breath I didn't even know I was holding. I take another greedy gulp of my warm beer to steady the nerves in my chest.

"Whoa! Oh, shit," John B curses.

"Of course you did," JJ rolls his eyes playfully. "Smooth."

"A plus, really." I glare up at my brother, feeling his mischievous smirk right back at me.

"Dumbass," Kie mutters under her breath. She looks up at me as if waiting for me to say something, but I only giggle to myself. John B can be clumsy but he's not going to accidentally kill himself.

"Hey!" I hear another voice shout behind us towards the street and front of the house. A voice that doesn't belong to any of my friends or my brother.

"Hey, uh, security's here," Pope says.

Immediately knowing what that means, I jump to my feet with the help of JJ right after he slugs the rest of his beer. A delirious grin dances along my lips as I hop down to the main deck.

"Let's wrap it up!"

"Boys are early today."

"Humpty Dumpty, let's roll!"

My legs take off after my friends through the house. Adrenaline rushes through my veins and straight to my head like a power high. I can't even feel my legs as they jump over wooden slacks and construction tools. The high from running from the police is better than any drug JJ can get his hands on, even the good stuff.

"Gary is that you?" JJ plays along before accidentally running into him, making him slip on his feet before running the other way. I grab his wrist and pull him closer to me to catch up. "Gary, good to see you man!"

I laugh as my feet land on the freshly cut grass in the front yard. "You're asking for it."

"JJ!" The obese cop chases after us, recognizing my best friend's face instantly. I'm not surprised, not even a little bit. JJ had his fair share of run-ins with the law.

"They're going out front!" I hear another cop shout. I can barley hear through the wind rushing through my ears.

We run into a tall white painted fence that blocks us from our car, better known as the Twinkie. Hopping fences is something I've learned to become better at after doing it so many times. However, I can't say the same about Pope. He's always struggled.

I swing my legs over the fence and land with a small 'oomf.' I look over my shoulder for my slow-poke friend and see him falling over the fence, landing on his side. I laugh as I pick him up by the shoulders.

JJ is waiting for us, clapping his hands like a coach on the sidelines at a football game because his players aren't running fast enough. But there's a smile on his face. "Get up, Pope, fatso's coming!"

"Hey!" The guard shouts behind me. He's halfway up the other side of the fence, but he doesn't have the strength to pull himself over completely. "Come here you little pricks!"

I hear the familiar honk coming from the van John B and I learned to drive in. My brother and Kie are waiting for us in the front seats of the Volkswagen van that would look better in the 70s than the 2020's but I love it. It fits our friend group perfectly. Plus I'd choose this car over any fancy Mercedes Tourons usually drive. The only time I've ever been in one of them is when I snuck off with a golf player from Georgia after a boneyard party. It was luxurious of course, but nothing like the Twinkie.

"Bus is leaving!" John B says as we get closer.

"Come on!" Kie yells at us from the passenger seat, banging the flat of her palm against the door.

I dive through the back first, landing on my elbows and rolling over. Pope and JJ follow less than a second later.

"Hey, hey, hey!" Gary calls after us as John B steps on the gas.

JJ leans out of the sliding side door that's still wide open. I lay on my back watching him as I try to catch my breath. His smile is contagious. For a boy who's been through hell and back, he smiles a lot, and I love every second of it.

He holds out his beer can as if he's offering it to the cop who's still trying to catch us...if he can catch up to it. "Check out Gary, gunnin' for a raise. Come on, Gary!"

"Wait. Slow down. Hey! You little pricks! Hey!"

"You're gonna give him a heart attack!" Kie tries to scold him but she can't fight the smile on her lips either as she watches from the side rearview mirror.

"You're so close! You can do it. There you go. They don't pay you enough bro."

"JJ, stop. Stop!" Kie says through her laughter.

I love Kie. She always tries to keep the peace between her friends and the world itself. Always the girl who raises money for charities that protect this Earth and save animals and solve world hunger. She's going to change the world someday. Her and Pope. Maybe if they can tolerate each other, they'll do it side by side.

JJ slumps back into the van with a toothy grin. He sits next to me and pulls me up so I'm sitting up straight. He dangles his arm around my shoulder and I lean further into his side. If I could choose one position to be in for the rest of my life it would be this one.

But I'd never admit that.

"Oh, come on. That sort of initiative is just begging to be punished," JJ says.

I hum in response and lean back into the seat behind me and stare out the window. A view of passing vibrant green leaves takes over the window as John B drives. The scene comforts me. Summer is my favorite season. No school. Just work and friends and the Outer Banks. Paradise on Earth, some may call it.

It's the sort of place where you either have two jobs or two houses. Two tribes, one island. We're currently driving through Figure Eight, the rich side of the island. Home of the Kooks. So, guess where we don't live.

As John B drives further South, the houses get smaller and smaller, feeling more like home. This is the South side. Or as we like to call it, the Cut. Home of the working class who make a living bussing tables, washing yachts, running charters. The natural habitat of...drumroll, please...the Pogues. That's us. Pogues, pogies, the throwaway fish. Lowest members of the food chain.

I know... a little harsh, don't you think?

So, the downside of the Pogue life is we're ignored and neglected. But the upside of the Pogue life? We're ignored and neglected, which means we do whatever we want, whenever we want.

The second John B parks the car, the boys are gathering all their fishing gear and we set off to our next destination. The marina.

"Nice haul, dude. Look at that!" JJ teases my brother when he reels in what I think is the smallest fish I've ever seen. If it was orange, I would have thought it was my old pet goldfish from when I was six. "Been all bait for, like, three weeks."

John B pulls the fish off his hook and tosses it in JJ's direction. JJ flinches back, knocking into me and almost throwing me into the water below. That was probably my fault, though. I shouldn't be sitting on an open ledge, dangling my legs twenty feet above the water.

"Watch it, idiot!" I smack JJ upside the head after letting go of the death grip I had on his bicep when I was about to fall to my death. Well...I'd probably survive, but it would hurt like hell.

"It's not my fault you chose the most dangerous seat!" JJ retaliates.

Yeah, that's JJ. John B's best friend since the third grade, which subsequently makes him my best friend since the third grade too. He's about as local as they come. Latest in a long line of fishing, drinking, smuggling, vendetta-holding salt-lifers who made their living off the water. Second best surfer I know. First being me of course. Mild kleptomaniac and a future tax cheat.

"Yeah, Mar, you should really get down from there," Kie says, walking over to me to help me down. I decide not to put up a fight. If I'm going to break my leg, I'm gonna do it in a surfing accident or something cool, not by falling off the dock.

Kiara. Or Kie as we call her. When not saving turtles or listening to Bob Marley, or getting a dolphin tattoo, she hangs out with us. I'm not really sure why though. She's a rich kid, actually. Her family owns the Wreck, this Outer Banks institution. Total cash down with the tourists and my current job. You know, I'm not really sure how her parents feel about us. But they like me enough to bring them money towards their restaurant. I bring in a lot of regulars. Advertising is kind of my thing. I'm pretty sure all my friends, even my brother, have a thing for her.

Kie hands me a water bottle and lays her legs across my lap. She lies down on the wooden bench and bathes in the sunlight the day still has to offer. Kie is my best friend. Best secret holder known to man, for the most part.

"I think she needs a leash," Pope adds, making me pass him a glare.

"The only thing useful about a leash is how I can strangle you with it," I say.

"Kinky," JJ says and winks at me. "That's my girl."

John B slaps JJ upside the back of his head.

I'm lucky my sunburnt skin is hiding the blush that creeps along my cheeks.

Pope glares at both JJ and I which only makes my growing smirk widen.

Pope...the brains of the operation...finalist for the Lucas T. Vanderhorst Merit Scholarship. And the smartest person I know. Little bit of a weirdo. His father's this legendary character, Heyward. Anything you wanted on the island, Heyward could get for you. Now, I'm not sure Heyward knew what to make of his oddball son, but it didn't matter. He was a Pogue, just like the rest of us.

"Trust me, if a leash was that easy, I would have tried a long time ago," John B mutters with a hint of a smile.

John Booker Routledge. My insufferable twin brother. Pain in my ass. Number one partner in crime. I hate him but I love him. Pretty much like any sibling relationship. We live in an old fish shack on the marsh. The Chateau as my dad use to call it. My dad disappeared at sea nine months ago looking for a shipwreck. I mean seriously, who disappears at sea these days? I miss him a lot. He may have been a little neglectful, but he took care of us the best that he could. My mom, however? She split when I was three. Last I heard she was in Colorado. At least I think it was Colorado. Honestly who knows and who cares.

Since my dad vanished, my Uncle T is supposedly my legal guardian. At the moment, he's in Mississippi, building houses which means it's just me right now, on my own, hangin' out with my brother and my friends.

Three months after my dad went missing, he was officially presumed dead. John B is more of an optimist than I am. He refuses to sign the paper and until he sees a dead body, he's not giving up. I back John B's decision, but I'm more realistic about what happened to my dad. The ocean, although my favorite place to be, is also one of the scariest.

My dad is probably dead and I will never get the closure that I want. So I'm dealing with it the best way I can, although I'm pretty sure everyone is a little worried about me, especially Kie now that John B is starting to follow in my footsteps by exhibiting reckless behavior.

But I'm getting better now. Day by Day. At least I wasn't acting like I did when my dad first left us.

                                                     ~ ~ ~

I woke up with a slap to my ankle and my head buried deep into my pillow. I groan from the abrupt living alarm clock that's now pacing my room and throwing clothes from my closet at me. It only makes me squeeze my eyes tighter in hopes for at least five more minutes of sleep.

"Seriously, Mar, we need to go. We're late." John B rips my blanket off my body, leaving me exposed in just my pajama boxer shorts and a tank top. The sudden chill sends goosebumps up my arms and legs.

"Go without me." I push myself up on my elbows and grab the clothes he threw at me. I knew meeting the social worker alone wasn't an option. Even if one of us goes to this stupid meeting, it will prove to the social worker that we're not being responsible enough to keep DCS off our backs. As far as they know, Uncle T is still living with us and keeping us safe.

"You have five minutes." John B ignores me and leaves my room, slamming my door shut.

I roll my eyes and tumble out of my soft bed. I slip on my jeans shorts and a white t shirt that I tie in a knot to make it a crop top. Underneath it I have on my plain black bikini, knowing that I will be surfing the second we get home. The News has been reporting a storm for weeks that's suppose to hit tonight. Vicious waves and crazy winds sends a thrill through my body.

We arrive to the social worker's office only two minutes late. I thought that was a sign of responsibility, but the social worker only looks at us with distaste as we sit in the two chairs in front of her desk.

"John, Marleigh, it's come to our attention that you two are unemancipated minors living on your own." Her hair is pulled back into a tight low bun and her glasses are perched on the tip of her nose. Her suit looks way too tight for comfort, like it's squeezing the life out of her.

John B scoffs and leans back into his seat as if we have nothing to worry about, but I know his heart is beating just as wildly as mine. "No....no." The social worker raises one brow in suspicion and glances in my direction to either confirm or deny what John B is saying. John B sees this and answers for me. "No."

I just shrug as a response, which only makes the social worker more weary. She leans into her desk and folds her hands on top of our folders that are piled in the middle. "I need honesty to help you. That's what we want, right?"

"Yeah. I'm being honest."

"Okay, then when is the last time you spoke to your uncle?"

John B looks down at his watch and purses his lips. "Uh...thirty-four minutes ago."

"When's the last time you saw him?"

"Two hours and...forty-three minutes ago?"

I hold myself back from rolling my eyes. It's clear on the social worker's face that she's not buying into any of John B's lies.

She sighs and turns to look at me. "We're gonna come out there tomorrow to talk to your uncle. If he's not there, we're gonna move forward with foster care." Foster care. The words make me dig my nails into the wood of the arms of the chair I'm in. The last place I ever wanna be is in foster care. I want to stay here on the island with my brother and our friends. Not with some random family who couldn't care less about us in a place I'm not familiar with. "I want to assure you, we're gonna find you a safe and loving home."

She says it like she's offering us a better life, one that we would want, one that sounds like the better option but it isn't. I ignore the worried look John B sends my way and watch the seconds go by on the clock above the door. We basically have twenty-four hours to find Uncle T or someone to be pretend to be him.

                                                  ~ ~ ~

The winds begin picking up early in the afternoon, the rain hitting by 5. On my way home from working at the Wreck, I watch people board up the windows of their stores and homes. All John B and I can do is hope that our little shack won't blow away by morning.

Unfortunately for Pope, he's at our house when John B catches me leaving the house with my board. When he tells me to stop, I'm prepared to put up a fight. I've been looking forward to surfing in this storm all day - something I can use to push the DCS lady out of my head and the promise she made that sounded more like a threat.

"You think you were gonna go out without me?" John B smirks and leads the way to the beach.

Pope follows behind us like a lost puppy, basically talking to himself as he tries to convince us that this is a bad idea. We stop at the edge of the beach. It's almost impossible to see the ocean through the wind and the rain.

"Those aren't surfable waves, bro," Pope says, squinting through the rain that splatters our faces wet.

"Says who?" I say, passing him a devious smirk and make a run for it towards the ocean.

I paddle past the choppy waves, letting the water knock me around like a feather in the wind. When I see a decent looking wave to ride, I prop myself up on my feet and stand. I lean into my board. The warmth that's taken over my body outruns the cold water I fall into when the waves crash over me. My body tumbles under the water and my board bumps against me. I try to swim back up to the surface but the current is strong. I don't know where I am and I can't see under the water. My nose burns when water rushes up my nostrils. I squeeze my eyes tight and just swim upwards in hope of reaching air. Maybe this was a bad idea, but the thrill is still keeping me excited.

I finally reach the surface after what feels like years. John B and Pope's screams are dull against the whistling wind. I hop back on my board and give the two guys a thumbs up and a wicked smile. Pope looks like he's about ready to have a heart attack and John B breathes out a sigh of relief as he paddles closer to me.

"You alright?" He asks me.

"Fine," I yell against the wind.

John B nods. He looks like he's about to say something else, but something over my shoulder catches his attention. I turn myself around, intrigued at what's he's seeing other than the water, clouds, and a bunch of rain. Then I see it. A boat that barely looks afloat, so far out that it looks like a speck against the rain.

"We should probably go," I say. I don't want John B's mind to run to what might have happened to Dad out there. Maybe he was caught by a storm like this, maybe his boat went overboard and his body is out there floating with the fishes. I don't know. The last thing I need him to do right now is speculate. Even if the same thoughts are running through my head, John B thinks he's still alive. These thoughts will keep him up all night. He doesn't move, however. "John B let's go."

                                                  ~ ~ ~

JJ is already laying on the pull out bed in my living room when I get out of the shower. JJ crashes here most days of the week. He'd much rather be here than with his drunk abusive dad. Our friends don't know the extent of how shitty his relationship really is with his dad. But I do. I found out when I was thirteen. JJ snuck through my bedroom window after a tough night with his dad. His face and torso were covered in bruises. It took everything in me not to burst out in tears right then and there. But for some reason, he trusted me of all people with his biggest secret. I cleaned him up and let him sleep in my bed with me. Every once in a while we repeat the process. Sometimes he's not even hurt, he just shows up. And I let him in because I like having him there.

I fall onto the mattress next to him and prop my head up on my hand, leaning on my elbow. I run my fingers through his hair, feeling satisfied and bubbly when he moans in response.

"When did you get here?" I ask him.

"You were in the shower. Don't worry I didn't peak, but I was tempted," He says into his pillow.

I use the same hand I had woven in his hair and punch his shoulder playfully, making him fall on his back. His lips turn up in a grin.

I lay there for a second, looking up at the ceiling. My eyes feel heavy, the events of the day officially taking over my body. I peek an eye over at JJ who's watching me carefully as if I might break under his fingertips.

"What?" I grin to myself, thankful for the darkness so he couldn't see the blush on my cheeks. Again.

"You all right?" He asks, pushing my hair out of my face so he can look straight into my eyes.

"Why wouldn't I be?"

JJ hesitates, like he's trying to pick the right words to say. I watch him closely, studying every mark and crevice on his face. Beautiful and clear like always. Even when it's covered in bruises and blemishes, he's handsome. I could look at him all day.

"You hate storms," He says.

"I can sleep through anything," I tell him. "And I don't hate storms. They make for...eventful surfing days."

His face drops to a more serious one. "You know what I mean."

I do. Storms have never really frightened me. Not really. But ever since my dad disappeared nine months ago, I worried that he would get caught in a storm like this, that by morning there would be a knock on my door from an officer who would tell me that a dead body has washed up on shore and they ID'd him as my father. The image leaves me with nightmares on nights like tonight.

JJ's the only one who knows this.

I don't like talking about it. Like JJ, we have this in common. So instead of telling him I'm fine and him not believing me, I pull the blanket at the edge of the mattress over our bodies and tuck myself into his side, laying my head on his shoulder. A position so intimate for just us "friends." I hope he can't feel my heart pounding beneath my skin, against his side. I let my body soften against his, feeling sleep take over me. I fall into a dreamless sleep next to JJ, hoping that the storm will be gone by the time we wake up.

[rumblelibrary]

The Diary of Doctor Laszlo Kreizler

Chapter 1  -  Chapter 2

Synopsis: Alienist’s notes are private, sometimes gruesome, secrets of others and of himself.Those pages belongs to secrecy and decadence, have a glimpse to this world made of drafts, notes, accidents and reflections. Or maybe it is you the only person that should ever reach for it.

While you read this imagine Laszlo mostly at the end of his day, scraping the ideas and the thoughts, adjusting previous notes with additions, closing the day behind himself with a couple of sentences while sitting in his evening robe, a good glass of whiskey and his glasses bridged almost at the tip of his nose. Or maybe imagine yourself, you sneaky thing, reach for it from a far shelf.

Word count: 3.5k

Warnings: listen, this is the set of ideas and confessions of a man living in the 1890’s. Most of them will be outdated, rough, even deprecating in some analysis of the roles of men, women and social status, religion, etc.So be prepared, my point is to make Laszlo reflect upon those topics, but to be as faithful as I can to his time. Mention of death, mutilation, self harm and sex. Psychologically troubled young children ahead! Author’s note: The story is placed between season 1 and season 2. Thank you for everyone that encouraged me to keep going. I have to wait for my local drop of serotonin to get fully Laszloed to go through this.

Lyra’s Contellation, Illustration taken from Uranographia by Johann Bode

Routine. Routine is comfort. Habit stabilises the character.

If you follow a routine, you won’t ever be victim of imprudence, of evil jokes of fate. The stability earned through calculated and repeated actions brings a sense of fulfilment that forbids other thoughts to come bashing in, breaking rules, breaking hopes that a solid scheduled routine forbids to have. I take my time to begin this week, I planned the things to do, the next steps for the case, the people to meet, the resources I am allowed to contemplate. I feel good, I feel back to myself and the events of the weekend seem far from me and my own perception. I probably got ahead of myself, carried by some instinctual though and random rush of emotion, to be always in contact with the same people and mostly kids probably doesn’t help my stance in the presence of other adults. I feel silly now reading back the last page, I felt tempted to tear it off, but to keep it there should be a small memento of not losing my temper so easily. I read it over and over and I know I am not as charmed as I thought I was. I am just lonely. I have always been and it is normal to face ups and downs even for a man of my age who is more accustomed to it.  To desire a partner is a natural instinct, to find somebody attractive is meant by nature, it is the body calling for the natural fulfilment of the reason we are put on this very Earth.  But even in a state of nature my own condition would be forbidding me to be part of the natural process of growing my own kind. I am the type of male that would be excluded because of his impossibility to give the protection to the pack, therefore it is just more reasonable to me to adapt to my condition. No matter what my Potentia generandi might be (the ability to procreate).

With all the smugness that characterises him, Niki showed off that he passed my challenge. But to be really of an help to his antics I didn’t show any kind of surprise. I treated him like he did the bare minimum, like he didn’t prove me any kind of superiority. He has a natural attitude toward challenging the figure of power, he is trying to overpower me, but I won’t satisfy his need. I have noticed he has a very technical brain, he finds ways to solve problems in ingenious way and not by throwing himself into the task. I proceeded giving him to work on a clock, an old broken one we had in the institute, one of the kids hit it with a ball years ago and nobody ever worked on repairing it. I gave him the clock, a couple of screwdrivers and a book. He called me a number of German names I won’t transcribe, but it gave me a certain amount of satisfaction. If my intuitions are right, I am sure the clock will be repaired by next week.

Analysis of the victim’s body through John’s eyes. The drawings and sketches are as detailed as I requested, all of this thanks to you joining him. I deal with art critic section, I am used to notice these things. You assure me, you play yourself low and I wonder why, nevertheless you did notice things neither John or I did, which pleased me. It fooled me, distracted me from my purpose to not give in to your witchery, as I leaned closer watching your pale hand move across the pages tracing this or that line, showing how this must be done with the killer on this side and not that side, with words so deliciously elaborate, your way of composing your speech is compelling, you could sell the drawing of a kid like it was a Botticelli. I noticed the shape of your hands, the way you move them, I wonder if you play an instrument, or played, some habits just stick with you through life. I focused on taking notes, your ideas and instructions giving me a new point of view, a new stimulus. What if that is the only way the killer can communicate? Or what if this is the communication that works for him? Could our killer be mute or deaf? Or that’s how society made him feel? This man, or woman, needs a listener and I am afraid that now, since he got our attention and the public’s, he won’t stop. Another killing could be just as close.

Scheduled: meeting with the parents of Alex Garel for new admission, Monday next week at 11 am. Love at first is a fetish and like all fetishes it is based onto an object that hides a deeper meaning, like gloves mean hands, to love at first sight means to see somebody that you think, and think only, to have the chance to share not only a sensual kind of bond, but an intellectual. Love at first sight is based onto not knowing someone well enough, but having the time to idealise most of that someone. I can see why I feel this attraction, using a particular phrase that Sara often mutters when investigating: you tick all the boxes. I know you do, your beauty is everything but conventional, you’re the kind of face that painters would paint and musicians would write hymns about, but any animal on the street would never be allowed to see. You have the grace of the body and the fire in the eyes, and then you speak. When you speak, I realise, you could bring the world to its knees. Also, you never speak out of context, and if you do it is to ease somebody’s position. You do it often with John or with Stevie, you say something really silly in order to put them back to a place of comfort. Some women would call it self deprecating, but I see that you only pick wisely your fights and your wins. You don’t need to earn your peace and quiet by neglecting, but by lifting up the others. I wonder if you do it with me too, if your silences are just you allowing me to be in a better place while instead your judgment is tearing me apart. I shouldn’t care, but I keep wondering, sometimes I take my time to answer you, I analyse every shade, every peculiarity of your question, I am looking for sarcasm, for a condescending voice, for something to hang on and bare you open. To prove myself you’re not perfect. But deep down I know that you do, you judge me and you do well.

Mother never said so. That’s what one of the girls in my care said today. Ursula. She is tough. Skin as thick as an alligator and the tendency to pull her own hair at night or when under a massive amount of stress, enuresis alongside erratic episodes of mutism. I tried the soft approach, it didn’t work. She is too accustomed to be indulged. Therefore today I pushed her a bit overboard, I teased her over opinions on the female body, the female role, she is only 12, but she is soon to bleed, she knows, I can tell from the way she clenches to her skirts, from the way she looks at me as a threatening figure. I am the incarnation of danger to her. Under her steady silence, I pushed a bit more, asking how her mother taught her to be nice and submissive. Does her mother tells her she is going to be a good wife? The phrase, which I reported at the top of the page, surprised me.  What is her mother teaching to her then? What closed her so much, locked her soul away, making a small bird like this choose the silence and the retirement of self inflicted pain over, what? Mankind? Or just Men? Is that even a curse? Should I cure her from a truth that her own mother whispered to her ear one night before bed and made a child decide that the world wasn’t a place to share her time with? Am I the man supposed to teach her that men are worth of trust? In the eyes of modern society, who measures its own value over the modesty of the women, she would be a champion, but at what price? I can’t in any way let her parents bring her back home after our recent meetings. Nevertheless, I have to make up my own mind on how to give her troubled soul ease without making her believe in fables. I, as a man, regard myself not worth of any of the trust they expect me to teach her.

In all of my years practicing with people’s feelings and traumas, I challenged myself to find those same traumas within my own mind. It is a tricky game, terrible, anguishing at times. But it straightens me, the pain of others, the pain of kids mostly, so unadulterated and pure, breaks the curtain between me and the lies that I often surround myself with. Pain is made of method, you can open it up, you can scrutinise it, part it piece by piece dividing it in sectors and, partitions, centre part, side part, heart of the problem. Pain is reliable. Happiness is not. It is random, cruelly sudden, unexpected, it washes over you in such deflecting way only to leave you alone a moment after ashamed and alone. I saw you again today. You were in a table full of what I could only guess as your former university colleagues, I saw pain in you, not heavy but constant. Annoyance, a bit of sadness. Your head titling on side and your eyes drifting on the left, you’re imagining something away from them.  A place? An object? Or maybe someone? Your hands play circles at the bottom of the flute of your drink like kids do, your smile only one sided. I don’t see you speak at all, only listen.  What could keep your voice down? I almost gulped down my own breath as you looked up and I realised how I must have looked. I was having lunch on my own, in a very private table and even entertaining myself with a newspaper on the side. I wish you didn’t, but you came over, your eyes shining.  Did I save you? Or maybe I was just a good excuse to leave that painful meeting behind. Don’t be so nice to me, it is not healthy. Don’t look at me like you expect anything more from me than me listening. I won’t smile back at you, I won’t give you care, attentions or thought. I won’t lean for your perfume, I won’t obsess over that dress you wore, that pin that adorned your neckline keeping your undershirt in place, a silver robin, I remember. I won’t remember the number of the buttons on the side of your glove, three. I won’t observe the little moles just under your ear. A small constellation, I later realised, hidden between your ear and the beginning of your neck. I don’t need to check in my books. It is a constellation. It is Lyra. Why? Why you must be like this? Are you the Lyra? Are you the instrument of Orpheus come to me to drag me out of Hell? The Tartarus holds my soul and you should know already, I am not worth the quarter part of Eurydice to be saved and she never came back anyway. I won’t be now recollecting the way your teeth sunk in the inner side of your cheek when you apologised for the annoyance.  You apologised twice, I ignored you both times with a raised hand to request peace and silence. I am not letting you in.

Reserved: Tickets for Wednesday’s evening Traviata by Giuseppe Verdi. The guest female lead promises a beautiful show.

Leonardo, as I am learning through Paul Valery essay, is who I would define as a figure of projective identification of the Subject or, to better explain it, of the knowledge of the Subject that formed and grew through the use of sketches in the experience of the Artist. I have always thought that the finest form of art was the representation of knowledge duly undressed by any personal identification. Leonardo, instead, proceeded to represent the figure through the essence of the artist, a representation technically unlimited on objects and symbols and that keep expressing the transformation and development of Leonardo’s own being.Some artists are testimony of the destruction of the world, of the loss of eternal beauty over decadence. And then you have Leonardo, who creates an art that is the gravity of the world’s system, of the nature, of thoughts and abstractions. I wonder if our killer does the same, if the way they presents the victim through their own personal view, if what we can read there it is their stories, their pains, their needs. Their happiness and troubles. What are they trying to tell me?  I need to know, I need to know to save a life, of course, but I also need to know to be able to sleep at night. Hair, hair are the epitome of femininity in any era. I keep studying Ursula and her habit to pull the. I took notes on it: she picks them by the bottom, slowly separates them until she gains an amount her mind defines satisfactory and then she rolls her finger and pulls, she does it until her finger is empty and there are no hair left. I find her process incredibly interesting. In men’s case the display of physical attributes is not as vital, a beard can be appreciated but does not modify the power of seduction of a grown man. On the contrary, for women hair are a vital part of their attractiveness toward the opposite sex, society sees the hair of a woman as part of their vital characteristics, also in ancient times for a woman to cut her hair or have her hair cut was a sign of deep separation from the society. Only heroines or whores wore that mark and the association of the two is so rooted into the way society always parted the role of a woman in two that it is nauseating to think of. I am still fearing to let Ursula go away, the repulsion that she is showing toward her own body makes it difficult even for me to crack her shell open as a man, but my deepest worry is when that hate will take a scarier and deeper tool on her. How a girl with such  a fear of what her body can do, like sex or pregnancy, can endure in the future to have an husband? Or even to be courted by anyone?

John is helpless and I admire him for that. He doesn’t hide it, he just is. He is vulnerable and exposed, he is an open well bursting with doubts and feelings and troubled waters. He is genuine in a way I could never be. Maybe that’s why I despise even more him talking about you, how he sees you every morning, how you greet everybody, how you behave even with interns, how you like your coffee.  Your talents, your wits, how you said this and acted like that and reasoned through him. How you forbid him to drink even when he felt tempted. How you stayed late over to help him collect all the informations I requested him to get. To him. Not to you. The evil demon of envy scratching in the back of my head screaming like a siren out in the sea, he demands to be heard, he demands to be allowed a part in this game. I won’t allow him that. I won’t allow myself any of that. This is a pure game of chess, if I give in a pawn now, I will lose my knight, and I know it. I advice him to not be so closed minded when he praises you, only to get surprised by the charms of a natural logical mind. I find a way to hurt him, he is an easy target, I look at him as his eyebrows twitch and he summons his patience on me. He lost the plot about you already, his bruised pride taking over. You won’t come into my life.

“Un dì, felice, eterea, mi balenaste innante, e da quel dì tremante vissi d'ignoto amor.”  (“On a day, happy and ethereal, you appeared in front of me and from that day, trembling, I lived on an unknown love”)

The words of Alfredo in the first act of the Traviata keep running through me, a chant that won’t let me go, almost painful. The Opera House, that was my hiding place, a place where in plain sight I could let out myself, unleash. The catharsis of the characters involved running through me, I didn’t need anything but their voices and those musical instruments to let out my fears, doubts and anger. When Alfredo came to the scene tonight, the lights were strong and slightly pinkish, the performer bursting out of the seams with passion. My eyes diverted only to see you there. Alone. Those blinding lights gave you the the radiance of a vision singing the notes of greek myths and heroes, that dark blue evening clothing rang through my eyes like it was a bright yellow, the little shiny details that adorned you so clear against the heavy lighting to look like transparent pieces of water collected to adorn your beauty. I wasn’t me, but Alfredo, and I was helpless against you sitting so far and yet too close from me. I was naked in front of thousands. I am aware of the effect you have on me and our last conversation was barely regarded as one. This is infatuation, this is the pure work of a lonely mind and not something worth of any of all the words that I am dissipating here. Yet. I saw you cry at the climax of the opera, Violetta, the protagonist, heartbroken falling on stage consumed by pain and regret for her lost love and ultimate sacrifice. Your eyes shone as you tried to hide the tears and collect yourself. Through my binoculars, I saw your throat tremble and gulp down something more than just a sigh of pain. Your jaw clenched, your gloved hand moves to hide your shaking lips. I reckon, I have never seen such sad lips look more inviting. You look at the wall on your side breathing through your nose and not even that can save you by the strength of the voice of the soprano. You’re defeated and so you brought a fine silk handkerchief to your eyes, your shoulders bent inward in self defence.  The Opera won. It won you like it always wins me. I wonder if you felt like this because of a past lover, somebody that broke your heart and made you feel wrong in any way.  And because of that little wonder it is even more clear to me why I am a man worth of no trust. Because for a moment, I know, I wished to be the one that broke your heart. That gave you just the pain you’re inflicting on me so mercilessly by offering intoxicating kindness and beauty.  To own your thoughts, tears and shame. To be the one man you have to look away from. I want to own all of that and, maybe, I will be freed of you the day you’ll be just another human being that hates Dr Laszlo Kreizler.

Tagged @cazzyimagines​ @lieutenantn​ @handmaiden-of-mischief​ @thesunflowersutra​ @zemomybeloved​​ @fictionlandslanddreams​ @charistory​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @apparrio​ @hb8301​ @whatawildone​

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[amiwritesthings]

Established deanjohn. The argument that leads to Sam leaving to Stamford were he ends up screaming at John that he knows about his relationship with Dean. Dean tries to explain but Sam starts accusing him too and John kicks him out. Cue afterwards either soft deanjohn scene or them starting fighting, leading then to a more rough scene

so i said i wasn't gonna fill this prompt BUT- here we are. just a warning, sam is, well, let's say harsh

---------------

Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off the headache he can feel coming on from hearing his father and his brother yell over his head for a solid half hour. He had given up trying to referee a few minutes ago, hovering uselessly in the middle as a buffer, just in case things turned physical.

“I’m disappointed in you, Sammy. Family comes first. Thought we raised you better than that,” John says, almost eerily calm now, and Sam bristles at the words, fists clenching tightly at his sides. Dean straightens just as a precaution, grounds his stance.

“It’s Sam, I’m not a fucking child anymore! And you really think you have a fucking leg to stand on here? Father of the year, right here, huh? Neglecting one son while fucking the other.”

Dean freezes for a second, more from the shock of Sam knowing than the actual words, his eyes, wide, unsure, flickering to Sam, who’s curled so tight Dean’s afraid he’s going to explode any second. Dean instinctively takes a step closer to his father.

“What, you think I don’t know about that fucked-up twisted thing between you two? You haven’t exactly been hiding it well, not for a long time!” Sam rages and behind him, Dean hears John draw in a breath, feels his father's body tensing, and Dean gives him a short look, silent communication – let me handle this -, before turning his attention back to Sam, stepping closer.

“Sammy-,” Dean starts but then doesn’t continue when Sam huffs, a whole-body thing, his shoulders rising, his chest puffing out, eyebrows drawing together as he narrows his eyes.

“Sam,” he corrects, ignoring the sting in his heart at being forced to do so, “whatever you think you know, it’s not-“

“It’s not what, huh, Dean?” Sam interrupts, nostrils flaring. “He’s got his dick so far up your ass, you don’t even know right from wrong anymore! You know there’s more to life than following orders and bending over, right?”

Dean reels back, feels more than sees John move behind him, only manages to turn and bring a hand up to John’s chest in the last second.

“Don’t Dad,” he tries, but John’s eyes are firmly fixed on Sam over Dean’s shoulder, furious, jaw ticking with anger, muscles tense beneath Dean's palm.

“Don’t do something you’ll regret, please, John?” Dean tries again, quieter, putting some pressure into his touch, and John finally tears his gaze away from Sam, eyes softening just a little as looks at Dean.

“Oh, it’s John, now, is it? God, I don’t know who’s more deluded, him for thinking this is okay or you for thinking you actually want this! I’m so sick of both of you!”

Dean recoils at the words, from John, from Sam, and when he finally turns to face his brother, hurt in his eyes, and says ‘c’mon Sammy, you don’t mean that’, so quietly, Sam almost – almost – seems to feel bad, his scowl softening, eyes going wide. It has the opposite effect on John, though, anger flaring, shoulder squaring, as he bellows “You wanna leave so fuckin’ bad, boy? Take your shit and go. Go to Stanford, live a normal life. But you leave now, you don’t come back, you hear me?”

Dean tries his hardest not to flinch, at the words, at the sudden determination in Sam’s eyes.

“Fine by me! You just keep living your backwater hillbilly fantasy, ruin him some more, tell yourself it’s okay. See if I fuckin’ care,” Sam yells back as he shoulders his duffel, slings his backpack over the other shoulder.

“Sam, c’mon,” Dean tries again, hovering uncertainly, itching to stop his brother from leaving but not quite daring to move.

“Sam,” Dean implores when Sam reaches for the door handle and while there’s a slight halt in the movement, it doesn’t stop his brother from opening the door. Dean tenses when fingers curl around his wrist, John’s voice low in his ear a moment later. “Let him go, son. He made his choice.”

Sam doesn’t look back when he walks out, the door falling shut behind him with a heavy thud. The silence feels suffocating, makes Dean swallow against the lump in his throat. John’s fingers are still on his wrist, a light touch that should ground him, would ground him in any other situation, the slight stroke of thumb against his pulse point.

He wrenches his hand free, rubs at the skin as if he could chase John’s touch away. He’s feeling untethered, his whole life upended with the slam of the door, a constant removed, just like that.

“Dean.”

“I need a minute,” Dean manages to choke out, stumbling over the words, stumbling away from the looming presence of his father and out into the dark.

Part of him hopes to find Sam still outside, sitting on the porch, on the curb, but there’s only darkness and rain, cold and damp, and God, he wishes they weren’t staying in this god-forsaken residential area with nothing around them for miles, wishes he was at a motel, a truck stop, somewhere with a bar around.

But here, there’s nothing, no people, no bar, no Sam. Just trees, a rotting porch and darkness. He sinks down on the steps of the porch, the rain only hitting his shoes and legs, fat drops that soak through his jeans.

He couldn’t care less.

He takes a deep breath, releases it again in a shudder, his breath forming a cloud in the cold. He wonders if Sam really meant it, if he’s really sick of them to the point where he can’t even stand being around them anymore. If the boy he’d raised, the boy he’d carried out of their burning home on unsteady feet, can’t look him in the eye anymore, can’t accept what living this life has made of their family.

And Dean knows he should feel bad about what he's doing with John, for loving his father too much, that it’s dirtybadwrong for anyone who doesn’t know this life, their circumstances, how Dean has always been more of a partner than a son.

Sam knows all of this, first hand, and he still doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want to understand.

It hurts more than anything ever has, claws at his insides, makes him feel raw and ripped open and he quickly runs a hand over his face when his eyes well up. He’s not going to cry, not over this.

Fuck Sam and his high and mighty attitude, he thinks, and his brain cheers, but his heart keeps aching regardless.

The door opens, closes softly, heavy footsteps that stop just behind him.

“It’s raining,” John says as he sinks down beside Dean on the steps, the old wood creaking ominously under their combined weight.

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, keeping his eyes on the ground, the patchy grass in the front yard, the muddy puddles forming in the spaces between.

They sit in silence for a while and Dean lets John’s presence soothe his nerves, lets his warmth seep into him where their shoulders touch. He’s thankful, for once, that they don’t talk about shit like feelings. They are Winchesters after all, stoic and focused, with no room for something as pesky as emotions.

Dean releases a shaky breath when a big hand settles heavily at the back of his neck, squeezing softly. He bites his lip against the tears surging up again, the sharp point of pain enough to keep them at bay. “C’mon, back inside.” The low rumble of John’s voice is comforting, something that bypasses his brain and goes straight to relaxing his body.

“Yeah,” he breathes, soft, as he follows John in rising, grimacing at the feel of wet jeans sticking to his legs. It’s uncomfortable, like the whole evening has been. And he’s so ready for it to be over, for all of this to be over, for John and him to get into the Impala and just drive, hunting whatever comes their way and forget about Sam.

Not tonight though. John has been drinking, he can smell it on him when he follows him inside, their shit isn’t packed and it’s coming down in sheets outside. Tonight, they are not going anywhere. Tonight, they are stuck here, in this ramshackle house with the memory of Sam haunting the space.

“We’ll leave in the morning,” John says, as if reading his mind, and Dean is glad he doesn’t need to ask for this, doesn’t need to ask to get away from this place.

He follows John up the stairs, to the bedrooms, where they each had their own, a rare luxury. John doesn’t say anything when Dean hovers in the door to his room, doesn’t ask for him to join him in John’s, doesn’t push.

“Night,” is the only thing he says, quietly, before he disappears into the bedroom, leaving Dean alone in the hall. Dean’s eyes linger on the door across from his, the room where Sam slee- used to sleep, and his teeth dig into his lip again, the flesh already sore, the pain a welcome distraction.

His bedroom is dark safe for a sliver of moonlight through the curtain, finding its way between heavy cloud as the rain momentarily lets up. He sinks onto the edge of the bed with a sigh, toes off his boots, then peels the wet jeans down his legs. His calves are clammy, cold, and he shivers in the cool air, mind still whirling.

Did Sam really hate him that much for finding comfort, love in his life? Did he really think he-

Dean clamps down on the thought, forces it back. Fuck Sam. The thought is foreign, forced, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He strips out of the rest of his clothes, slips into his sleep shirt, one of John’s old USMC shirts that still hangs long on his frame.

He eyes his bed, the lumpy pillow, the ugly comforter with the stupid roses.

It’s not even a conscious decision to leave his room, pad down the hall to the door that’s left slightly ajar. “Dad?”

There’s rustling in the dark, like John’s turning over to face the door.

“C’mere,” John says, one hand lifting the sheets for Dean to climb in. Dean hovers for just a second before crossing the distance and sliding under the sheets, fitting himself to John’s body until he can’t tell anymore when one ends and the other begins.

It reminds him of simpler times, when he was just a boy, climbing into his dad’s bed to escape a bad dream, letting his father hold him until his mind quieted down.

There’s a hand softly running through his hair now, the other resting just lightly on his belly. It’s warm and comfortable and familiar and for the first time since Sam had whipped out that stupid envelope, Dean begins to relax.

“Do you really think he hates-,” Dean starts after a while, not even sure if John is still awake, letting his words trail off into the dark. John tightens the arm around him, presses a kiss to the back of his neck. “No,” he answers, a puff of warm air against Dean’s skin, and he sounds so sure that Dean can almost believe it.

[phoneybeatlemania-bit-the-dust]

@mrspaolina81 - I just wanna say firstly that im not trying to argue or shit on you with this response, but I don’t think its rude for me to just disagree and debate you, so hopefully this doesn’t sound just mean spirited or anything - I just wanted to give my own thoughts in regards to some of your comments:

I don’t tend to get too involved in the “John being a wife beater” discussion, because I don’t really know what to say. If im honest, I think John probably did physically abuse Cynthia more then once - though, in my personal opinion, I don’t think it was a regular occurrence, and id be willing to bet that it stopped sometime into their marriage <<< buuuuuuut I just don’t know! I couldn’t back that claim up entirely, its just how it appears to me. And even if it was only once that he hit her, we should still acknowledge and discuss it, and to some degree hold John accountable for it, whilst also recognising the genuine remorse he felt over his actions, and the fact that his life was cut short so quickly that he was arguably never able to finish developing this remorse into any kind of meaningful reparation for Cynthia. Because his life ended so abruptly, he will forever be an unfinished story.

Personally though, I think that Johns issues with abuse were more related to emotional abuse rather then physical. He certainly had issues controlling his physical impulses, especially in his younger years, but it seems to me as though he was eventually able to tame these impulses, whereas I don’t believe he was ever able to overcome his inner emotional turbulence.

((Julian is also a complicated matter - I think often people think John just fucked off with Yoko and then never spoke to Julian ever again, which is just blatantly untrue - BUT I can still understand and empathise with Julians resentment towards John, and I think he’s justified in feeling this resentment towards his father)) ((I try to also understand the neglect from Johns perspective, but I can do that whilst also recognising Julians pain)) ((Also Yoko blocked Julians phone calls, so thats another thing to note about that situation, but I wont get too deep into the debate here))

There are undoubtedly people who are worse then John Lennon (as you said, rapists, murderers etc.) but I don’t think that means that they are the definition of “bad people” and any outlier cannot be recognised as a pretty crappy person. We can recognise that John was an asshole. He wasn’t just an asshole, he was a complicated human being, with a lot of unresolved childhood trauma, as well as displaying clear symptoms of an untreated mental illness. But, he was also a bit of a knob. On a whole, ive sort of just adopted the philosophy that there are no “bad” people, and certainly no “good” people, because I don’t think that they’re comprehensive words to use in summarising someones entire personality. At the end of the day, id say John was really just a grey area - I can understand why someone would hate the guy, and I wouldn’t put it past them too - but I also think forgiveness, and recognising the disturbing effects that serious, undiagnosed and untreated mental illnesses can have on people is also important.

TL;DR - John was a knob, but he had a lot of unresolved issues and so I personally want to recognise him, not as a “good” or “bad” person, but just as someone with an untreated mental illness, who was sometimes a genuinely kind human being, and sometimes a genuinely nasty person. I don’t think that he is beyond forgiveness (at least not beyond my forgiveness) but if we are going to try and attain a nuanced and empathetic understanding of John, I feel we have to recognise the abuse he inflicted upon others too - as well as recognising that he was was mentally ill, and genuinely remorseful. Thats just who he was as a person, and if you want to get a real understanding of him I think you just sort of have to embrace him with all his faults.

[ijustwant2write]

Sweet Boy-Bonnie Gold x Reader x Finn Shelby (Part 6/?)

(GIF credit to @roseydoux​)

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5

Masterlist

Tags: @stressedandbandobessed7771 @bethany-taylo @lovelynerdytraveler @savvy7392 @kingarthurscat @smallheathgangsters @soleil-dor @alyse45 @bloodorangemoonlight @amirahiddleston @captivatedbycillianmurphy @jenepleurepasbaby @haphazardhufflepuff @ravenoussss @ophelias-flower-bed @peakascum​ @mzcrazy2​

Summary: After her meeting with Tommy, (Y/N) is conflicted on what to do. She knows what choice she wants to make, but is it the right one? Is it the right choice that will make all these problems go away, and keep the people she cares about safe?

Characters: Bonnie Gold x Reader, Finn Shelby x Reader, Polly Shelby x Reader (platonic)

Meanings: (Y/N)=Your name

Warnings: Swearing, neglect, bullying, shouting, arguing, some fluff

(A/N: Joan is a made up character)

                                         *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Here ya’ go!” Arthur beamed as he dropped off two suitcases filled with my things, throwing them onto my bed.

“Thank you, Arthur.” I politely replied, knowing that nothing in there was folded or organised. There were bits of clothes hanging out of it, they would surely be creased by now.“I’m sorry you had to pack for me.”

“No problem, it took no time at all.”

Further proving my point.

He clapped his hands together.“Right, well, I’ll leave you to it then.” 

“Arthur?” I called after him before he could walk away. 

“Yeah?”

“Um...has...has Finn said anything? About what happened?”

He shook his head, smiling at me before he left the room.“Nah. Got to go darlin’.”

Arthur really couldn’t read people. He was smiling to himself as he left, thinking he did a good job. And although I loved him dearly, I hated the thought of ironing all of my clothes again. Opening the cases, I groaned into my hands at the sight of all my belongings piled on top of each other, pairs of shoes in different cases, jewellery scattered all over the place. It was going to take me days to sort all of this out.

“Shall I give you and suitcase a minute?” Polly said from the doorway, cigarette in hand.

I sighed.“I’m thankful for this, I really am. I just wished Arthur was house trained.”

“Linda tried her best.”

“And thank you Pol, for letting me stay.”

“It will be like old times.”

Yeah, we were just missing one person.

I sorted my belongings into piles, beginning to hang up clothes that didn’t need ironing (which turned out to be two jumpers and a cardigan), untangling jewellery and pairing up my shoes. After half an hour, with little to no progress, I decided I needed to go for a walk to clear my mind. I would stick to the surrounding area where everyone knew me, and where I knew peaky boys were patrolling, informing Polly of this so she wouldn’t worry. She was hesitant to let me go, but knew I would be safe if I stuck to my word. 

I felt strange that day. Not because of everything that had happened. It just felt like I had stepped back in time. Being back with Polly brought on many memories, mostly happy, though some upsetting. But Finn wasn’t here this time. I just prayed that the double bed wouldn’t feel lonely, especially after having Bonnie in mine the other night. God, I sounded like a whore.

Rounding a corner, I bumped into someone, my instincts making me jump back in case someone was trying to kidnap me. The panic quickly slipped away when I realised who it was. 

“Joan?” I smiled, glad to have ran into an old friend.

However, she frowned at me, brushing down her coat as if I was dirty.“(Y/N).”

“I haven’t seen you in ages. How are you?”

“You would know if you ever wrote to me. Or even pop by. Or even join me and the girls for a drink.” Her tone was snappy.

“Joan, you know I’m not with him anymore.”

She didn’t look sympathetic.“I thought as much. You’ve been dragging yourself around, looking miserable.”

“So if you’ve seen me, why didn’t you come up to me?”

Joan scoffed.“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! You ignored us as soon as you started going off with Finn Shelby!”

“I did that to protect you-”

“Oh, this again.”

“Have you seen what they do? Have you seen the type of people they’re up against? I couldn’t bear it if something happened to any of you because of me.”

“But you’re still with them, aren’t you? Their little bitch on a lead.”

My mouth dropped open at that, ready to swing for her.“How dare you?! I stay because I have a stable job!”

“You stay because you enjoy their power and the reputation and attention it gives you.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“No, I don’t. Because my best friend deserted me. I don’t want to speak to you ever again. Goodbye (Y/N).”

Joan side stepped me, quickly walking away. I wouldn’t have stopped her anyway. I was in shock. She was right, I had left them behind but none of them were ever mixed up in peaky business. However, I didn’t think her comment was fair. It hit me like a tonne of bricks; I had lost my life because of that boy.

I took a deep breath, trying not to burst into tears as I entered the sweet shop. I did’t care how weird I looked as I scooped up as many sweets as I could into the little paper bag, quickly paying the man and rushing out. Perhaps I could go down to the canal, sit and eat my feelings. But I couldn’t be sure how safe it was. As I tried to think of a place to sit, I heard someone yell out to me, making me flinch for the second time that day. Looking down at the sweet I just dropped was almost the tipping point for me.

“Oi!” It was Tommy, he had shouted again as he approached me, Arthur, John and Finn behind him.“What you doing out here?”

“A walk.” I mumbled, popping another sweet in my mouth. 

“You’re not supposed to be out here.”

“You didn’t say I had to stay inside.” I wasn’t talking back, I was just stating a fact.

“It should have been obvious. If you want sweets, get someone else to buy them for you.”

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t stop the tears brimming in my eyes, embarrassingly one rolled down my cheek.

He sighed, mumbling under his breath.“Fucking hell.”

“Why don’t I take her home Tom?” Finn suddenly suggested.“I’m sure you don’t need me for this.”

Tommy glanced between us, but it was obvious he couldn’t give a toss about this. He had far more serious things on his mind. Tommy just nodded, gesturing for his other brothers to follow. I stayed still, unsure why Finn had offered in the first place.

“You coming?” he asked, but his voice was gentle.

All I could do was follow, keeping a little bit of distance between us. He reminded me of how he used to be, when he was still slightly shy, trying to be like his brothers, but a true sweetheart nonetheless. I wasn’t going to fall for it. Neither of us spoke as he escorted me back to Polly’s, until I pulled him back, spotting Joan with some of my oldest friends. This was the only way to get to Polly’s if we didn’t want to walk for another forty minutes; but in this case, I wouldn’t have minded the extra steps.

“What are you doing?” Finn stumbled back. 

“My friends are there.” I whispered as if they would be able to hear us.

“So? Go and see them.”

“No, they’re...they’re old friends. Well, I don’t think I can call them friends anymore.”

“What? Why?”

“Because of you.” 

“Me?”

I furrowed my eyebrows at him.“You told me to stay away from them to make sure they didn’t get caught up in anything.”

“Oh, I did, didn’t I? Explains why I don’t recognise them.”

“We need to go the other way around.”

“No we don’t.”

“Yes, we do.”

“You live across the road, just go.”

“No, I don’t live there, and they know that! And if they see me with you, they’ll think all kinds of things.”

“Like what?”

“It doesn’t matter, they just said some things earlier-”

“What did they say?”

“Nothing, let’s just go Finn.”

“No, tell me.”

I hesitated, hoping he wouldn’t do anything.“They just...they called me a Peaky Blinders bitch. Said that you’ve got me chained up on a leash. Don’t worry about it and go the other way home.”

I turned around, ready to head to Polly’s in the other direction. I didn’t care that Finn wasn’t speaking to me, but I still looked over my shoulder, wondering if he was following; which he was not.

Finn’s P.O.V

I knew there was something wrong with (Y/N) as soon as I saw her that morning. She may never smile because of me again, but there was a reason for that sad expression. She had also been wandering, (Y/N) knew not to go out of the safe area (which she wasn’t), though it was clear that her mind had no idea where to take her. I had to take her under my wing.

However, when I made her tell me what was on her mind, guilt and anger rushed through me. I had told her to ditch her friends, both because they would be safer, and that selfishly meant I had her to myself. However, knowing that she now had no one outside of my family to rely on or spend time with, I realised how toxic I had been towards her. I assumed she would go back to her friends, cry about how I broke her heart, have a night out with the girls getting drunk trying to find someone to ease the pain. But she had been alone.

My feet started walking before I could even think, heading straight for the group of girls. (Y/N) tried to stop me, but didn't risk being seen. They should have forgiven (Y/N), given her a second chance at least. Instead they cast her aside, no longer interested. I knew (Y/N) had upset them when she no longer saw them, so she was in the wrong, but that was my fault too. One girl who was facing me had a scared look on her face when she spotted me, causing the other girls to look over their shoulders, all of them tensing up when I stopped.

"I heard you lot don't see (Y/N) anymore." I bluntly said.

The girl who seemed to be the leader pursed her lips."She stopped seeing us. Did she put you up to this?"

“No, she didn't. But I know things."

“You're not scaring us."

"Am I not?" I couldn't help but chuckle, especially seeing as the girls were practically hiding behind this one."Look, I think you need to give her another chance. I was the one who took her away from you."

"(Y/N) is smart. We all said we would never let a boy get between us, yet she broke that promise. She could have sneaked out to see us at least. Or said hello in passing."

"Well even if you don't take her back, watch your fucking mouths. You don't speak about her like that."

"Oh god, she's still got you wrapped around her finger. How did she do that? Is she your little visitor during lunch breaks? Is that why she's still got her job?"

My nostrils flared as my breathing got heavier."You're lucky that she's stood behind that building right now, and that I don't pick fights with women. She has her job because she earned her place, including her place in my family. And that's how she kept it. You said it yourself, she's smart. If I get word that you say something as stupid as you just did, you might want to stay inside and lock your doors. No one disrespects a Shelby."

The leader didn't seem phased when I walked away, though I knew she had been effected by what I said. Heading towards my aunts house, I took the keys out of my coat, looking back to (Y/N) and gesturing for her to follow. I stayed outside of the open door, waiting for her to reach me. Her head ducked down, trying to hide herself from her old friends, walking as quickly as she could. Once (Y/N) was inside, I lingered by the door, sending one last glare to the group.

(Y/N)'s P.O.V

My heart was in my throat, I felt mortified. I tried to steady my breathing as I walked into the house, rushing to the kitchen to get a glass of water. My nerves weren't easing up, and I found my hands were shaking as I held the glass. Quickly chugging down the water, I accidentally slammed it back down, before brushing past Finn to the front room and flopping onto a chair. It felt as if I had gone running around the whole of town.

“Why did you do that?” I sighed, putting my head in my hands.

“I was defending you. I don’t understand what’s wrong?” Finn protested, but he didn’t seem angry, just confused.

“I left them for you, it’s one of the worst things someone can do to their friends. They warned me time and time again not to go off with you, but I did. Then it turned out they were right. I couldn’t exactly go back to them after, even though I tried. I was alone. And them seeing us together today...well, I can only imagine the rumours they’ll spread.”

“Who cares?”

“I do! Everyone know who I am and what I did! They’re right, I’m just a Peaky Blinders bitch.”

“Don’t talk like that!” Finn snapped, sitting beside me.“They’re terrible friends for not helping you.”

“No, they’re not. You know that.”

“Well, you’re certainly no ones bitch. You don’t answer to anybody.”

“Yeah, sometimes. I hate to say this, but thank you Finn. That was quite nice of you actually.”

Finn went to speak again, being interrupted by a knock at the door. He offered to answer, tapping me on the knee like he used to always do. We both tensed, trying not to make a big thing out of it. He quickly left, closing the living door on his way. I sat there stunned. He hadn’t touched me like that since before we broke up, when he was still affectionate. I heard some commotion from the front door, worrying that it was one of the girls. Curiosity took over, making me peek my head out as the front door closed. Finn had just walked past when I opened the door, but I saw a flash of colour in his hands. 

“Who was that?” I asked.

Finn spun around to face me, looking suspicious.“No one. Just some kids.”

The bin was behind him, and I had a feeling he was hiding something.“Don’t lie to me. I know what you look like when you lie.”

“It’s nothing.”

I walked up to him, pushing him to the side as I looked in the bin. There was a small bouquet shoved in there, the poor, fragile petals either crooked or ripped off. My jaw dropped at the sight before I slammed the lid back down.

“Who are they from?”

He didn’t reply.

“Tell me.”

“Bonnie.”

“Bonnie?”

“He’s not supposed to be round here. He-where are you going?”

“To catch up with him. He can’t have got far.”

Finn called after me, though I didn't listen, making a point of leaving. However, when I stepped outside, I saw that the girls were still stood there, looking like they were heavily gossiping until I showed up. They caused me to halt, we all avoided eye contact, and I distracted myself by looking for Bonnie. I saw his figure up the road, head hanging low and hands in his pockets. For a second, I didn't care what those girls thought, running to catch up with him. I called out his name once I was closer, he turned around after I shouted a second time.

"(Y/N), what's wrong?" he sounded worried, and I realised I must have looked like I was in trouble.

"Nothing, nothing." I breathed out."Sorry, I just didn't want you to get away."

"Oh. Finn said you weren't in."

I sighed."Of course he would. I did see your flowers, or what was left of them rather. They were beautiful, thank you."

"Just thought I could start earning your trust back. I know it's not a lot, but I figured it was a nice gesture."

"Bonnie, you don't have to-"

"(Y/N), you should get back inside." Finn said from behind me. I hadn't even heard him approaching.

"Finn, I'm talking to Bonnie."

"Come on, you heard what Tommy said."

"He didn't restrict me to the house-"

"Finn, let her do as she pleases." Bonnie said.

"Don't get involved."

I gently pushed them away from me and each other, knowing where this was headed."I just came out here to thank you Bonnie. We really shouldn't be altogether anyway."

"You're right (Y/N)." Bonnie smiled.

Finn rolled his eyes as Bonnie agreed. I knew Bonnie was trying to please me, and piss off Finn at the same time.

"Well then, thank you again for the flowers Bonnie. Finn..."

I had no clue what to say to him, deciding that nothing was best. Walking back to Polly's house, I refrained from looking behind. As I got to the door, I noticed the girls had inched closer, becoming silent when I was in range of hearing them. This was such childish behaviour. We were adults, we could move past this. If they didn't want to be friends, then fine, there was nothing I could do about that. I would hold my head up high, move on and-

"Never thought I would see the day that sweet (Y/N) (Y/L/N) had two men on her arms."

That made me stop instantly, with only one foot in the house, hand now clenching onto the door frame. She had some nerve today.

"What did you say?" I slowly asked.

"You heard me. You've changed. And not for the better."

"And how would you know?"

"I was debating giving you another chance, I was feeling guilty about what I said. But now I see that I was completely right."

"You know what Joan, I really don't give a fuck." I said, throwing my arms up and letting them flop by my side.

She looked shocked at my words.

"We had a past together, all of us girls. But if we can't move past this well, I guess it's goodbye. It's been fun ladies."

"Wait a minute, you can't-"

"We're all adults here. If we don't want to play together anymore, then let's not do that."

Before she could say anything else, I went inside, leaving the door open for Finn, who I had seen approaching out of my peripheral. Standing in the hallway, leaning against a wall with my arms crossed, I heard Joan having the last word as Finn stood in the doorway.

"You did this. You corrupted her."

Finn smirked at me, shouting over his shoulder."Yeah, and she loved every second of it."

The girls gasped and instantly started talking again, but Finn just slammed the door behind him.

"I must admit, that was good." I shook my head smiling.

"Me corrupting you, or me back chatting them?"

I wasn't expecting that answer, my mouth gaping a little as I thought of what to say. When nothing came to mind, I made my way upstairs, trying to focus on unpacking again. I hoped Finn wouldn't follow, as I had no idea what to say, but of course, he did.

Picking up where I left off, I didn't start a conversation, waiting for Finn to say something. He walked into my room, inspecting my things even though he had seen everything I owned before. As I started to pull my jewellery apart from each other, Finn spoke.

"I'm sorry about that. What I said downstairs."

I shrugged, hiding my shock that he had apologised."It's OK."

"You always did that."

"Did what?"

"Pretending like everything I did was alright, when it wasn't. I was a shit boyfriend."

I hesitated to say anything."Not at the beginning."

He didn't respond, focusing on my hands that were struggling to untie two necklaces from each other. I also stayed silent, concentrating even more on the task as I noticed him moving towards me. He knelt down in front of me, so I had no choice but to make eye contact. He put his hands over mine, helping me to separate the necklaces, but my fingers were frozen at his touch. Why was I feeling like this? I didn't want my feelings for Finn to come back, he hurt me. Think of the pain (Y/N), think of all the times he deliberately hurt you!

I had been distracted by those memories to not see Finn's face was now closer to mine. He had a sweet look in his face, hope in his eyes, he looked like he used to when we were younger. For a second I saw the old Finn. But that was the problem, that was the old Finn. I stood up, pushing him back, and he landed on the floor.

"Why would you do that?!" the necklaces slipped out of my hands, clinking on the floor.

"(Y/N), I wasn't going to-"

"Then what were you going to do?!"

He didn't answer.

"I want you to go."

"Wait, (Y/N)-"

"Get out Finn!" He scrambled to his feet, staring at me for a few seconds before rushing away. I let out a shaky breath as I flopped onto the bed, hands slightly shaking. My mind was swirling with thoughts on what just happened, and I didn't like them. I heard footsteps coming up the stairs again, making me angry that he thought he could come back just like that. As they got closer to the door, I rose to my feet, storming towards the door.

"I told you to leave!" I shouted as I swung it open, jumping back when I saw Polly."Oh my god, I'm so sorry Pol!"

"What the fuck is going on in my house?"

My mouth opened and closed repeatedly, wondering if I could really tell her the truth. When I didn't answer her in time, she rolled her eyes, frustrated that there was still drama occurring.

"Would you fucking kids get a grip?" she scolded.

There was definitely something else stressing her, but it was a mystery if she would tell me.

"I've got to go." she huffed.

"Where are you going?"

"There's a family meeting."

I was about to move to follow her, before remembering that I wasn't part of the family anymore. Polly noticed, though didn't comment on it.

Her tone was softer now."There's men on guard, alright? Just in case."

I nodded, watching her walk away. Closing the door, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, not surprised by how much had happened that day. It seemed that this was the norm. That's what you got when you mixed with the Peaky Blinders.

Peeking through the window, I watched Polly walk off, it looked urgent. I also tried to recognise any peaky men guarding, managing seeing one on a corner. Before I could back away, someone else caught my eye, he was already looking up at me.

Bonnie smiled, his hands in his pockets as he strolled down the street, I wasn't sure if he was part of my protection or planned to hang around to see me. Embarrassingly, I hesitantly waved to him, blushing when he did the same back. However, I was confused.

Today had shown a lot of my past. It felt like I had been thrown back in time, but this time the pain followed me. Joan was right, I would always be tied to the Peaky Blinders, it was like an unbinding contract. I would never have a normal life, I would always be known as the youngest Shelby's ex, and I was scared how much it would effect my future. 

[tsarinatorment]

Because you asked me ‘not to get you started on this’ please elucidate on Scott the Commander. 💙

...I should have known someone was gonna spot that tag and ask.  Ah well, I suppose that means welcome to another of Tsari’s ridiculously long gushes about a favourite character?

Sorry this took a while to answer, it’s a very broad topic, so I had to figure out where I was going to start with this.  I still have no idea where this is going to end, mind you!

Okay, so to look at Commander Scott, I personally believe we need to dive into Scott and Jeff’s relationship, as well as the differences between Jeff the Commander, Scott the Field Commander, and Scott the Commander.  So yes, while this is undoubtably supposed to refer specifically to TAG Scott, I’m gonna actually start this off with a peek at TOS and Movie Scott&Jeff before tackling TAG.

And as a small disclaimer before we start on this - I genuinely believe that Jeff does love his sons.  However, loving them and being the best parent doesn’t always pair up, and while I’ll do my best to keep headcanons out of this and stick with canon facts, I’m human, I’m biased, and my interpretations are gonna probably reflect those a bit.

With that, let’s start with the movie, because Scott gets utterly shafted in it (not as bad as Virgil and Gordon, who I honestly needed several rewatches and behind the scenes info to tell which was which) and we don’t see much of him.  Whining about the movie neglecting most of the boys doesn’t have any place here, though, so I’ll just move on a bit...  So, we have movie!Scott, who has no responsibility that we see.  They decided they wanted to make Jeff more involved, throw him on the front lines, and that meant they didn’t need a field commander!  So, Scott’s just another operative (in the rescues we see), and while he jokes around with his Dad, which the others don’t (barring John but John actually got some screen time), otherwise there’s nothing that shows he’s got any responsibility at all.  Which is stupid and I don’t like that and there might be a rewrite in the process where he’s very firmly field commander and Jeff’s going to respect that.

Basically, I feel very sorry for movie!Scott because his Dad basically takes over his job.

Now then... TOS.  TOS is a whole ‘nother kettle of fish.  It’s important to acknowledge that it was written in the 1960s, so there’s a lot of male stoicism and patriarchal ‘father’s word is law’ and other things that society has mostly moved away from nowadays, particularly in media representation, so Jeff does seem like a far harsher father to modern audiences than he would have done to the original audience.  He loves his sons, but doesn’t show it as openly as we’d expect to see nowadays.

Okay, acknowledged.  Now.  In TOS, Scott is Field Commander.  There’s no question about that - he has Thunderbird One, Mobile Control, and as soon as he’s on the scene he’s the one calling most of the shots.  Certainly the shots that don’t have time to get passed back to base, at least.  However, Jeff is Commander, and Scott’s still expected to report back to him, and a lot of the time, until the rescue is fully underway and snap decisions are needed, it’s still Jeff listening to Scott’s report and then making the calls.

However, sometimes that dynamic gets shifted a bit and this is where my problem with how Jeff treats Scott comes into things, because I do have some problems with that.  I don’t like the way it’s always Scott that gets scolded when things go wrong - normally in relation to Operation Cover Up - even when it was nothing Scott could control or indeed had anything to do with.  Of course, this is probably just upholding the chain of command, Commander>Field Commander>Operatives, but there’s one flaw there, and that’s the good old Big Brother Scott I spent ages gushing about a few months ago.  Scott’s their superior in the field but he’s also their big brother, and that’s not something he can just turn off.  He’s more likely to take the blame quietly and leave it there, rather than passing it down to the brother in question.  The only times he’ll pull his brothers up is if they put themselves in danger.  Someone got too close with a camera?  Scott’s not going to chew them out over that.  He’s in that awkward spot between Son and Big Brother and sometimes there’s no right answer that appeases both, so he keeps his head down and lets Jeff tell him off rather than put his brothers in the firing line.

Then there’s the two weird episodes, where the dynamic is changed up.  Atlantic Inferno is the big one, of course.  Penny forces Jeff to take a break and leave Scott in charge.  This episode actually leads really nicely into TAG in that sense - take Jeff out of the picture, and then we see what Scott’s like as a leader.  Except Scott has no confidence in himself as a leader!  He’s fumbling around from the moment Jeff’s gone, checking in on John and generally seeming unsure what to do until they get a rescue.  Then a rescue crops up, he makes the (correct!) decision to respond, and Jeff?  Jeff chews him out over it!  From Jeff’s point of view, that’s a worried father not wanting to send his sons out into danger unless they have to be there, and from what he knew, there wasn’t a good enough reason to take that risk.  From Scott’s point of view, though?  He messed up.  The first time he’s in charge, and he made the wrong call.  Self-confidence, gone.  And that nearly comes back to bite them all, because then it reaches the point when IR needs to respond, but the last time he sent them out, Dad yelled at him for it and tore his decisions apart, and he starts clinging to Jeff’s order even though the situation’s changed.  I do love the link this has with TAG and “what would Dad do”/”it’s what Dad would have done” (which I will get onto!) but for Commander Scott, it’s not a great start.

The other episode is Lord Parker’s ‘Oliday, with the solar collector that Brains needs to repair, and this really gets my back up because Scott’s there, in Thunderbird One, but Jeff gives field command to Virgil.  Virgil!  I have no problems with Virgil, and he did a great job, but Scott was right there and Jeff just... basically demoted him.  Why?  (I admit it’s been a long time since I last watched that episode, but I do remember the last time I saw it not understanding the decision).

So in TOS, we have Field Commander Scott, which is a great version of Scott and the version he’d much rather be, but Commander Jeff is still there and he’s not always confident in his decisions for a variety of reasons... mostly related to Jeff, which is why I said we need to look at the Scott&Jeff relationship to look at Commander Scott.

And that’s the background stuff sorted.  To summarise: movie!Scott isn’t shown to have any command responsibility at all, while TOS!Scott is field commander and dips his toes in full command but still isn’t great at handling that responsibility.  Both of them look very heavily to Jeff, and Jeff’s word is law.

Then we have TAG!  Where there is no Jeff and Scott is in full command.

Except Jeff is still very much there.  I was going to try and do this methodically, but honestly the first thing that popped into my head at ‘Commander Scott’ is that line I both love and hate, which Scott regurgitates time and time again, especially earlier in the show.

“What would Dad do?”

Scott.  You are not your Dad.  You are a fully competent young man who does not need his absent father’s approval.  Trust your own decisions.

Every time he says that I always want to reach through the screen and shake him!  But I do like how it shows his insecurities.  We don’t know much about the TAG Scott&Jeff relationship.  We know Scott looks up to Jeff, we know he doesn’t think he’s as good as Jeff, and we know that once Jeff’s back, Scott basically fades into the shadows, but we never really see them interacting long enough to get a proper hold on it.  All we get is the emotionally-charged rescue in the Oort Cloud, when it’s the first time in eight years that they’ve seen each other.  I love those scenes as much as anyone else, but considering the situation, it’s a very unreliable lens to see their relationship through.  Of course they’re delighted to see each other!  Of course it’s emotional!  But there’s not much else to go on.

But Jeff is Scott’s hero.  That much is painfully obvious, from the heart-wrenching Recharge to the heart-melting Firebreak and everything in between, and that has a hell of an impact on Scott all the way through.  Which isn’t always a good thing, which is best summed up by that line.  “What would Dad do?”

Jeff’s not there.  Jeff’s ideas aren’t important because he isn’t there, but Scott still second-guesses himself because he’s put his Dad up on this pedestal where he’s amazing and perfect and never wrong.  Which just isn’t true, because Jeff’s only human, too.  But Scott’s his son, Scott adores him, Scott constantly hears people going on and on and on about “the great Jeff Tracy”, and he’s kinda blinded by that.

And this cripples Scott.  It almost kills him.  Recharge had several moments where it could have gone horribly badly.  There’s at least three times in that episode where Scott escaped serious injury or worse purely because it’s a kids’ show and they can’t beat up characters like that.  Luckily, we have Virgil stepping in to tell him to chill out.

Which leads me to one of the biggest differences between Commander Jeff and Commander Scott, and it’s one I don’t see addressed much but to me it’s huge.

Jeff has Scott.  Commander Jeff has Field Commander Scott to look after what happens on the field, and more importantly, to look after his brothers.  Commander Scott doesn’t have that.  We see all his brothers - particularly Virgil - stepping up from time to time to back him up or look after the others, but Commander Scott doesn’t have a designated second in command to look after the smaller things.  I know some people see Virgil as filling that role, and to an extent maybe, but it’s not the same.  Commander Scott is also Field Commander.  He’s out in the field, he’s calling the shots, he’s doing all the physical and mental demands of the rescue, and then he’s coming home and he’s got four little brothers and Big Brother Scott doesn’t switch off even though there’s all the work we see him doing at the desk (which fanon assumes are rescue reports, GDF reports, stuff for their business etc.).  Scott’s doing the job of two people, and no matter how hard Virgil or John might try and take over some of it, Scott can’t bring himself to relinquish anything Dad did - because Dad did it, so he has to do it, too - or his role as Big Brother.

But!  It’s not all doom and gloom and Jeff’s influence pressing down on him.  Despite all the self-doubt and the self-inflicted pressure (and the external pressure from the world knowing who he is etc.), Scott is a fantastic leader.  He’s hot headed but he can make the decisions, and when he’s not crippling himself with “what would Dad do” he really comes into his own.

And again, we don’t know what sort of Commander TAG!Jeff was like, but I’m willing to bet that Scott’s different.  At some times, probably very different.  That moment in Chain of Command where he tells Janus to stuff it and is willing to take IR into true vigilantism because it’s the right thing to do makes me so happy.

Now we’re at the heart of this, bringing in the original post I know sparked this ask.  Because Scott’s a smart man, is following in the heels of his hero, but the thing that makes him truly stand out, and the thing I love about him the most (yes, even more than Big Brother Scott), is his heart.

Scott believes everyone is worth saving.  Maybe that’s something he inherited from Jeff.  Maybe from Lucille.  Most likely, it’s a mix of both of them.  Grandma certainly subscribes to it, too.  And what’s what holds TAG’s IR together.  Because Scott believes that, his brothers believe it.  Would they if he didn’t?  Hard to say.  I’d like to think they would, but Scott’s influence over his brothers is very clear - especially Virgil and Alan.  Those two in particular, I feel would follow Scott’s ideals whatever they were.  But Scott believes that, so they do, too.  So International Rescue does.

“Everyone is worth saving” “If you send out an SOS you deserve to know someone’s listening”

Two powerful lines.  Two different characters.  The same essence.

IR saving Fischler and Lemaire over and over again is a pretty good example of Scott’s belief being shared or at least followed by his brothers.

And then there’s Chain Reaction.  Fuse repaying Scott later is neat and all (and I’m glad he did because otherwise we’d be down a Scott and that would be a tragedy), but that decision Scott made?  He didn’t even hesitate to save Fuse.  This episode comes during Gordon’s recovery from SOS.  Gordon’s still out of action - presumably home but might just as easily be back in hospital for observation or PT - from Fuse attempting to kill him.  That’s not something that happened a while ago and it’s in the past, like the Mechanic stuff (which Scott gets snippy about in the safety of his own home with no lives in immediate risk).  That’s Scott’s present.  That’s Scott going home after that rescue to look a still-recovering Gordon in the eye and know he saved the life of the guy that tried to kill him.  That’s not easy.  Most people wouldn’t be able to make that call.

But Scott does.  And it’s one of my favourite moments in TAG, because as a person, as a big brother, as a commander, he makes an incredibly hard decision with no hesitation at all.

(and it’s awfully rich of Marion to complain about it when she tried to kill him the first time they met and he still saved her; going by the same standards she’s trying to hold him to, he shouldn’t have saved her, either)

It’s not the first time he makes that sort of decision, either - although in most cases they tried to kill him, not his brother, and Scott’s always going to care more about people trying to kill his brothers.  Marion, in Crosscut way back in season one, just to prove that even when he’s struggling under Jeff’s influence, that heart is still there.  It’s not something that’s affected by “what would Dad do?” and whether that’s because he knows Jeff would be exactly the same, or because it’s a core belief not even Jeff’s influence can shake, I don’t know.  Personally, I think it’s somewhere in the middle of the two, but that’s getting into headcanon territory.

(I have a lot of headcanons.)

In fact, the only time we ever see Scott hesitate to save someone is Brains vs Brawn, and personally I think baulking at the idea of saving the guy who at the time you believed killed your Dad is perfectly valid.  Even Scott’s big heart has limits, and that’s the man that tore his family apart, turned his world upside down, and is now standing there with a self-satisfied smirk on his face because he knows Scott has to save him or turn his back on everything he says he believes in.  Despite it not fitting in with every other time Scott has to save someone who society might not deem “worth it”, I think his falter there is more believable than if he said “sure, everyone’s worth saving”.

That would have undermined all the struggles he and his family have gone through.  The trauma of losing their Dad the way they did, and the fallout from it.

But despite that, Scott does save him.  It takes Grandma’s encouraging and the suggestion of some petty payback to get him moving, but he does it.  He’s the bigger man, he doesn’t let hatred overrule him.

Everyone’s worth saving.  It’s the core of TAG’s IR, it’s something that’s undeniably Scott.

So in a vague conclusion to this thing that meandered a lot and I’m not sure is entirely coherent, Scott has a lot of self-doubt, most of it stemming from Jeff in one way or another, but despite that he’s a strong commander and I honestly believe IR wouldn’t be the organisation it is with someone else at the helm, especially in TAG where Scott’s actually the one at the helm.  This is why I’m both intrigued by how a season four would look, but also a little cautious at the idea of it.  How would Jeff shake up the dynamic?  How would IR change?  Would Scott still be Commander or would be be demoted back to Field Commander?  What effect would that have on IR’s principles?  How it operates?

Because Commander Scott is different to Commander Jeff, and it fascinates me.

And because I can, and I did this for big brother Scott, here’s two little snippets from a fic I wrote that looks at this:

Who had looked at the human race, with all its cruelty and viciousness, and said this deserves to be saved?

Jeff Tracy, some would say. His sons would say. She disagreed. Jeff, bless his soul, had seen a failing and decided to fix it. No-one had been able to save Lucille, so he'd thrown his money and influence into making something that could have. A what-if band-aid, to soothe the grief and stop the hole in his heart hurting so much. Under Jeff, brief as it had been, International Rescue had looked at the world and gone 'we can stop that happening again'.

It was the boys, those beautiful, idealistic, kind boys, who had looked at world and said 'we can save this'.

and

Scott, commander and driving force running on never enough sleep and the coattails of a legacy he hadn't realised he'd long surpassed[.]

[consumedkings-archive]

party favors ✤ no-cult au

honeyseed + “this isn't what i meant when i yelled fuck you” requested by @blissfulalchemist and “i’ve dreamt about this” requested by @chyrstis! (i hope you don't mind my combining these!!) sequel that nobody asked for to this oneshot

word count: 5.4k

warnings: mentions of a daddy kink in passing (you'll get what i mean), painfully awkward family dinners, mentions of "putting a dog down" (because ambrose is NUTS), mentions of abusive/neglectful parenting, needy!john, posessive!john, also john thinks that he has to compete with elliot's absentee father all the time so he does dumb shit to "assert" his "dominance". all in all this has no explicit smut but bear these things all in mind pls

The time it takes them to “get vodka” from Scarlet’s house is longer than anticipated, but not as long as Elliot would prefer. She takes a little time to clean herself up in the bathroom while John tends to his car—not that there’s much of a mess, anyway, the house was barely a forty-second turn around the bend—and she brings out her mother’s preferred bottle of vodka (Ketel One) and finds John leaned against the hood of his car, waiting expectantly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t go inside,” Elliot teases, picking her way down the path between the rose bushes and stopping in front of him. John’s hands go to her waist, gripping where there’s still a dull, pleasant ache from their previous activities. “You know, get some more snooping in.”

“Considered it,” he relents, pulling her between his legs so that he can kiss her, “but since I’ve only been up here once before, I figured there’d be plenty more to come.”

Elliot hums, curling her fingers into his now-buttoned up shirt (disappointing). “Very presumptuous of you.”

“It seems I’m making mistakes left and right tonight,” John agrees, nose brushing hers and his hands sliding beneath the hem of her dress, up the backs of her thighs. He makes a low noise and digs his fingers into her skin, adding, “Surely your mother doesn’t need her vodka that quickly.”

“You’d be—surprised,” Elliot replies as she tries to keep her voice even. It’s fairly successful despite the brunette’s wandering hands making her want to squirm. “She’s a beast without it.”

“Ell,” John rumbles, “I think you and I both know that your mother is a beast of her own, period.”

“I’m going to tell her you said that.”

“Oh, please don’t.”

“I like the sound of that.” She says the words against his mouth. “You saying please.”

The brunette makes an intrigued sound, as though the prospect of saying please in other, more sordid ways has greatly interested him. She grins, kisses him once, and then a second time, longer, curling her fingers into his beard at his jawline for a moment as she indulges in the feeling of it all—sated and pleasantly achy, with the humid heat of the night sticking to her skin and the smell of John’s expensive cologne filling her up like a wineskin—before she reluctantly pulls away and makes her way to the passenger side of the car.

“Let’s go,” she says, “I’d like to get my parents out of my house as soon as possible.”

John grins, boyish and wolfish all at once. “Boy, you really did miss me.”

Elliot resists the urge to roll her eyes—but it’s hard not to return the smile, especially considering how earnest he’d been before. Wrong, and insecure, yes; but earnest about a lot of it, which is more than can be said for any boyfriend that she’s had before. Joey keeps reminding her that just because John is beating the bar, which is low set already thanks to said past boyfriends, doesn’t mean he’s actually good for her; but she thinks he is. In a lot of ways, he is. She’s never felt safe with someone like she has with John.

“We should probably talk about the fact that you believed I was cheating on you,” she says as he pulls down the drive. His mouth downturns into a grimace. Joey would be proud of her.

“We could,” he agrees. “Or, we could pull over and make out instead. Doesn’t that sound more fun? You’re already out of your underwear, half the work’s done.”

“John.”

“Look,” he says, lifting a hand to stop her—not that she was going to say anything than an admonishment in the form his name, anyway—and she lifts a brow expectantly. “I didn’t really date, before you. You know that. It was always just a passing, temporary bliss kind of thing.”

Elliot nods sagely, because she does know. That is another part of his allure, that he wants her enough to stay just with her, where he hasn’t before.

“So I’m just not used to it,” he finishes. “Having to worry about if you’re...cheating on me, or not. And maybe it’s really annoying that Jacob gets to see you all the time and I don’t. That’s all.”

“That’s all, huh?”

“That’s all.”

Elliot musters up a sound that she tries her best to make unimpressed and then settles back against the car seat. She’s happy he’s here, even if he came under malicious pretense; and there’s a part of her, too, that’s worried. That maybe it’s a failing on her part to assure him that she likes him, like really likes him, because she tries so hard to keep him and her family separate. Through no fault of his own—it’s all entirely because her mother is dreadful, and she doesn’t even know what kind of man her father is beyond ‘the type what readily abandons his wife and child, periodically over an extended stretch of time’. Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue the way she’d like it to when making an introduction.

She tries not to think at all about Ambrose, if she can help it. She calls him her daddy and her mother says things like well, give your father a hug, Elli, like she’s supposed to want to touch someone who left her alone all this time. It’s the most sacred language, she thinks, touch; the idea of her father shaking John’s hand—a hand which would inevitably be on her body—had been nauseating. What had Ambrose’s hands been doing, this whole time? Where did all of their scars come from? Did she want to know?

John’s fingers brushed the inside of her knee, hooking beneath to rest there comfortably. He was always touching, gripping and tracing and feeling her out, like he’s still not sure if she likes it or not. She tries to make it obvious when she does and when she doesn’t, but she knows he still wonders. Like he’s waiting for her to turn around and say, actually, I don’t like it when you touch me, it’s repulsive and we need to break up right now.

“Awful quiet over there,” he ventures.

Elliot rests her hand over his, dragging the pad of her thumb across one tattooed finger. “Tired out.”

“Yeah?” John hums, turning down the road and back into town. “Getting fucked against the side of a car will do that to you.”

“I hope you’re just getting all of that out of your system before we sit down to dinner with my mother,” Elliot says dryly. The words make a familiar heat crawl back up her throat.

“And your father,” he points out.

Elliot opens her mouth; there’s an instinct to say, well, who knows if he’ll even still be there? That’s all it takes, just a few minutes, or, I’d prefer if he wasn’t there anyway, or, you don’t get it, John, that he’s not really there, it’s a man wearing my father’s face but he’s not there at the dinner table at all, just a fleshbag that calls himself my father. I don’t know him.

But all of these things feel very un-sexy and like it might ruin the mood. So she closes her mouth.

John lifts a brow. He says, “Go on.”

“It’s not really pillow talk,” she replies uneasily. “What if we pulled over and made out instead? My underwear’s already off, half the work’s done.”

“Ell,” he says, parking the car in front of the house and looking at her. Looking, like he could see right into her. Right down into the marrow of her bones. “I want you to say what you’re thinking.”

It’s very annoying. She sighs and says, “Maybe he left.”

John watches her; he seems to be waiting for more. When she doesn’t give it, he prompts, “Sure.”

“And, I would prefer it if he did.” Elliot’s mouth twists. “That’s a stranger in there, if he is. In there. All he is to me is skin and bone that walks and talks like my dad but everything about it—about him—is wrong. Off. Like—”

She stops herself again, and the brunette’s fingers squeeze her knee again, prodding. Prompting. Greedy to know. She’s never been with someone who wants so badly to know precisely what is going on in her brain at all times, but John does.

“Like something put his face on and walked through the door,” Elliot finishes after a minute. She feels a little crazy saying it out loud, and more and more unsexy as the seconds pass, but John leans across the console and reaches up with his free hand to thread his fingers into her hair and kiss her. It’s a slow and unhurried kind of kiss, one that assures her that he doesn’t want to fuck her any less for saying what she’s said.

John says, against her mouth, “Should I take a swig of that bottle before I go in?” and she laughs and kisses him again because it feels like what she said is really fine and alright and not at all an indicator of turmoil.

“She’ll glass you if you do,” Elliot replies. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

John is unsurprised to find that Scarlet struggles to hide her disdain for him upon their arrival back in Elliot’s house.

“Oh,” she says when he opens the door and ushers Elliot in ahead of him. “You’re staying for dinner, John?”

“I invited him,” Elliot interrupts, before John can spend the next forty-five seconds figuring out how to politely tell Scarlet that he’d be staying a lot longer than dinner, given that Elliot’s intimates are still deposited in the back of his car. The desire to absolutely scandalize his girlfriend’s mother is almost too strong. “Be nice, mama.”

“Well,” Scarlet replies primly, “I suppose that’s fine.”

“I would hope so. It is my house.”

“It just would be nice, bunny, if we had some family time.”

Elliot’s expression tightens. John can see it there, sitting on just the tip of her tongue, following the vein of what she had confided in him before; that it won’t feel like family time even if he’s there, that it would never feel like family time because Ambrose is her father in name alone.

John says serenely, “Can I make you a drink, Scarlet?”

It’s the magic phrase. He’s a quick learner, and he knows this, and he knows that Scarlet can see exactly what he’s doing but cannot resist the urge to put John in a position of servitude, so she narrows her eyes and says in a saccharine voice, “Sure, honey, why don’t you?”

There are a lot of reasons why he shouldn’t, but he plants a kiss on Elliot’s cheek and squeezes her hip before he takes the bottle of vodka out of her hand and makes his way into the kitchen.

It’s been a minute since he’s been inside of her house—and admittedly, the times that he’s been inside of it before, his attention has been elsewhere; even now, everything in the house looks and smells and feels like her in such a way that it feels like his attention is constantly being pulled to wherever it is she’s standing—but the kitchen is also housing her father, and Ambrose sticks out like a sore thumb.

Everything in Elliot’s house is soft and meticulously manicured. She doesn’t strike as the kind of woman who’s driven by a ferociously attentive eye for detail, but there are plenty of things that he’s still discovering about her, and her penchant for placing things exactly where and how she wants them, making them just the color and shape she likes, is a strong one; each throw blanket, pillow, shade of paint on the wall, rug. Her home is designed to be a soft place to land.

So it’s no wonder that Ambrose Honeysett, whose sharp, angular face and wolfish smile with full, too-white teeth, does not blend in.

“Have a nice drive?” Ambrose idles. He’s smoking in the kitchen. John knows that Elliot hates smoking in her house.

“Oh, I suppose.” Briefly, spitefully, he thinks about Elliot, pinned up against the side of his car, and, Fuck, I love your hands. “Hope County’s not really my choice of backdrop.”

“Mm. City boy,” Ambrose drawls in response. He plucks the bottle of vodka from John’s hands and pours himself a double in to a glass—no ice cubes, no mixer. The man balances the cigarette between his pointer and middle finger as he screws the cap back on. “Elli told us about you. Not sure if I like my little girl bein’ with a city boy.”

John resists the urge to grimace. He instead busies his hands with making Scarlet’s preferred alcoholic beverage (it’s been seared into his brain, you see—“Vodka martini dry, John—that means a drizzle of vermouth, not equal parts, and I want three olives”—and he can no longer see such a drink being ordered by a random in a bar without instantly disliking them) and says, “I’m flattered. I haven’t heard much about you.”

He’s feeling a little emboldened. He keeps replaying the last forty-five minutes over in his head, keeps thinking about how Elliot is already more his that she has ever belonged to her father, and maybe that’s a little deep-set greed in his heard reminding him that he hates sharing. John can see that the words do not skip over Ambrose’s head—not in the least—and the redhead cocks his head to the side and takes a long drag of his cigarette.

“You’re funny, Slick,” he drawls, and flashes a grin, wide and pearly, as he claps John on the shoulder like they’re college buddies. “I think I do like you.”

Well, John thinks, sucking his teeth and feigning a polite smile, that goes for one of us.

Before he can try and figure out Ambrose’s game (and it is, in fact, a game—John knows it when he sees it), Elliot has come into the kitchen and made an exasperated sound.

“I told you, no smoking in the house,” she snips. She gestures with her hands for him to depart.

“Sorry, bunny. Forgive your daddy his bad habits.”

Annoying. John can barely stand sharing Elliot’s attention with her mother, let alone the man that has caused her so much grief for so long. It’s not like Ambrose deserves her attention.

“You’re not sorry,” Elliot replies wearily, “but you will be if you don’t get that out of my kitchen. Scoot.” And then, in an effort to be somewhat nicer: “Please.”

Ambrose laughs, and squeezes her into a one-armed side hug that Elliot grimaces through, and then walks through the kitchen into the dining room and out onto the front porch. John pauses his work fishing a martini glass out of Elliot’s cabinet to turn around and look at her, thinly veiling his amusement.

“What?” she asks, annoyance still bleeding in from her father’s blatant disregard of her house rules.

“Every time I hear him refer to himself as your daddy,” he says, fingers snagging the hem of her sundress, “I just can’t stop thinking about how pretty you’d sound saying—”

“If you’re about to ask me to call you daddy, John—”

“—it to me,” he finishes, grinning wolfishly into the curve of her throat, hands sneaking below the hem of her dress. It’s distracting. How’s he supposed to mind his manners, he wonders—make a good impression on the parents he doesn’t give a shit about (except for Scarlet)—when she’s looking like this?

Elliot makes a little noise. “Hands,” she warns, as John’s fingers dig into warm skin Scarlet’s voice drifting in from the front doorway where she’s talking with Ambrose.

“You don’t even like it a little bit?” He murmurs the words into the hollow of her jaw. “You know... yes daddy, no daddy, please—”

The blonde slaps a hand over his mouth, her eyes narrowed playfully. “I will cut you,” she says. “We’re not negotiating a kink in my kitchen with my parents one room over. Mind yourself.”

John thinks about his slightly-new information—I love your hands—and he thinks about Ambrose smoking in Elliot’s kitchen even though she doesn’t like it, and he thinks about Scarlet—It would just be nice if we had some family time—and he thinks, Maybe I am family now, Scarlet, did you think about that? He gives the back of her thigh a playful slap, delighting in her surprised little yelp, her hand slipping from his mouth.

“John!”

“Sorry,” he says, not feeling or sounding particularly sorry at all despite his words. He grins. My girl, the thought permeating idly through his mind. “Promise I’ll behave.”

Elliot takes his chin in her hands. “Or else.”

“You’re so sexy when you’re threatening me.”

“Shut. Up.”

He grins and pulls her close by the backs of her thighs, until she’s flush against him. There’s nothing he wants more than to lift her up on the counter and have his way with her—but he’ll do as she asks. He’ll play nice during dinner, just like she wants, and pretend like it doesn’t drive him fucking batty.

“Sure,” he murmurs, kissing her jaw, the corner of her lips, and then full-on to rumble against her mouth, “anything you want.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Dinner is just as excruciating as Elliot thought it would be. She spends the first half of it pretending to be very interested in what it is her mother has to say about Delia and the other women back in Weyfield are up to (spoiler: it’s almost nothing interesting—it’s all about this one’s son getting kicked out of uni and this one’s daughter wrecking her car and don’t you just think it’s vapid, Elliot, these women who won’t even parent their own children?) and then the last half is spent—not to sound dramatic, or anything—wanting to end her fucking life.

It’s all quite harmless to start off with; John is trying to be his usual charming self, which Scarlet is handily unimpressed by but which her father engages with frequently. It's fine, but it’s got a weird energy to it. Elliot knows that John likely does not enjoy her father (he’s a hard man to enjoy) and certainly has a choice opinion about him given what he knows of his clinical and methodical abandonment of Elliot and her mother. It’s painful enough that she’s told John about how her dad left her alone in a mall at eight years old so he could fuck off for another ten years.

Like he promised, though, John behaves. He talks about real estate with Ambrose (which her dad knows nothing about—he just regurgitates shit he reads in the papers, Elliot knows) and leaves one hand on her thigh while they eat, hidden beneath the table cloth. Occasionally, it drifts upward, skimming the inside of her thigh and dangerously close, and she clears her throat loudly (much to his amusement). All in all, she thinks maybe she’s going to get out of this dinner relatively unscathed, and she thinks, this isn’t so bad.

John is in the middle of listening to Scarlet’s opinion on the Prescott girl’s wedding colors (saffron yellow, yuck, Scarlet thinks) and Elliot says, “Daddy, can you pass me the pepper?”

It’s just a question. She will tell herself this later—it’s just a question, it’s just a stupid fucking question—but of course, it is just her luck that things are not ever just something in her life, because Elliot glances up from her plate to see her father and John reaching for the pepper at the same fucking time.

There’s a very strange, awkward moment where John and Ambrose’s fingers meet at the pepper shaker. Elliot wants to sink into the floor and disappear.

We’re not, she wants to say. We don’t, I mean, I don’t say that, John doesn’t ask me to, we’ve just been joking with it, we don’t actually and if you let me tell you, it’s a pretty funny story when you think about it—

“Well,” John says, and he sounds gleeful, “this is a bit awkward.”

Her father is watching him from across the table. Elliot drags her hand over her face. Of course. Of course John says he’s going to behave and then he does this, he pulls some stupid fucking move out of nowhere because he knows it’s going to push her fucking berserk button and she’ll fume through the rest of the dinner until her parents leave so she can rip his stupid fucking Dolce & Gabbana shirt off and—

Scarlet sighs. “My God.”

“Mama, it’s not—” Elliot sighs. “We don’t—”

“I thought she said Johnny,” John deflects easily, taking the pepper and setting it beside her plate. She has never once called him Johnny, except to be condescending. “Sorry, Mr. Honeysett.”

“No harm,” her father replies. His tone is light, but his expression is not. He leans back against his chair, draping an arm around the back of Scarlet’s chair. “Simple mistake, Lettie, don’t let it wind you up.”

“Untoward,” is what Scarlet says tightly. She has never liked John. She may never like John. And John’s proclivity for button-pushing is certainly not helping his case.

And amidst it all, Elliot’s face is ten degrees hotter, and she thinks, if this is some stupid way of John trying to assert himself I’m going to come un-fucking-glued, and she puts her face in her hands and exhales. Loudly.

“Excuse me,” she announces abruptly, the headache already beginning to pound behind her eyes.

“Bunny, sit down,” her father scolds. He’s been smoking in her kitchen after she explicitly told him not to, and he’s shown up after not being around for who knows the fuck how long, and he still has the audacity to tell her what to do. “It was a mistake. Wasn’t it, John?”

I’m going to kill, she thinks, I’m going to fucking kill the next person who tells me what to do.

“Sure,” John replies agreeably, “a mistake.”

Don’t you fucking push me.

“So sit down,” her father insists. “You get your dramatics from your mother, you know, it’s just a little—”

“Fuck you,” Elliot snaps, and Scarlet blinks rapidly. Immediately, she regrets saying it—not because she doesn’t feel immense relief when it finally comes out of her, but because she wishes she’d said it at a more appropriate time. Is there an appropriate time to tell your spawn-sponsor ‘fuck you’? she wonders. Oh, well. “Excuse me.”

Pushing the chair out of the way, she takes her glass into the kitchen and closes the sliding door that keeps it separate from the dining room. Most of the time, it’s open—but she wants it closed. A clear and unmistakable separation between herself and everyone else.

You get your dramatics from your mother, you know.

“Oh, you motherfucker,” she grinds out between her teeth, scrubbing her hands under the faucet. “Gonna fucking—kick your ass to the fucking curb, you stupid-fucking-dumb-shit—”

The door to the dining room slides open, and then shut. She doesn’t look behind her. She can tell from the waft of expensive cologne that it’s John, and not her mother or father, and she’s not quite sure yet how much she wants to gut him yet.

“Ell,” John says, barely capping his delight at what is, she is sure, his ideal dinner date. “Elli—”

“Stop talking.” She turns the faucet off, dries her hands, and turns around to find him very close. “Right now, John, if you want to keep those pretty teeth in.”

“I thought,” he murmurs as he blithely ignores her threat, “that it was just a funny little joke. You know, because we’ve been joking about it. I wanted you to lighten up a little. You’re so unhappy when your dad’s around, I hate seeing you like that.”

“You fucking—” Elliot sucks in a sharp breath. “You thought it would lighten me up for you to play Freddy Fuckaround out there? It’s one thing to have to tolerate the stupidity of listening to my dad talk to me like he’s got anything worthwhile to say, but for you—”

John kisses her. He takes her face in his hands and he kisses her, and it’s not a simple peck; it’s open-mouthed, his tongue sweeping the seam of her lips as he makes a low noise into the liplock. She reaches up and grips his wrists, but she can’t tell if she wants to push his hands off or keep them there.

“This isn’t what I had in mind when I yelled fuck you,” is what she says against his mouth, and he laughs, breathlessly. “You know that, right? You seem to be getting confused about when someone's talking to you.”

“You’re irresistible when you’re this riled.”

“You said you’d behave.”

“You’re right,” John admits, and nips her lower lip with his teeth just a smidge harder than normal, the sting of it earning him a slap to the side of his forearm. “Ow! Mean, cruel woman.” His eyes narrow. “I ought to bend you over this counter.”

The words flush her with wanton heat. “Stop being an insatiable fuckhead,” she threatens. “Play nice.”

“Hm. Boring.”

“John.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine. I’ll play nice.”

“Mean it.”

“I will play nice,” he reiterates silkily, dragging his thumb over the slightly sore spot on her lower lip. “For you, my love. This time. I swear it.”

“Good,” she murmurs. Kissing the pad of his thumb, she adds, “If you fuck around again, I’m sending you back to Georgia.”

“I shan’t risk it,” he vows solemnly. There’s a moment where she thinks he might be genuine, and he brushes their noses together; his thumb sweeps her cheekbone now, and he kisses her temple. Those butterflies she feels any time John is unexpectedly gentle with her return, incited even further by the way he noses the hair away to kiss there again.

And then he says, “Your mother is scandalized,” and ruins it.

“Get out of here,” she scolds. “Go—do something. Be useful. I’ll deal with my mother after I’ve had a breather.”

One breather. Maybe two, or five, or ninety; she’s not sure how much of a breather she’ll need to get ready for whatever’s waiting for her back out there.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The evening is significantly cooler now than it was even during his and Elliot’s little foray out to the Honeysett house, but John can barely register anything; the temperature, the burn of cigarette smoke as he takes a drag of the thing he puts in his mouth so rarely nowadays and typically only recreationally, in some strange attempt to bond with the man who is technically the father of his girlfriend. None of it matters, not really, because the last thing he wants to be doing is this.

Playing nice with Ambrose Honeysett.

Still, the moment feels a bit absurd given their previous little misunderstanding, in that John has to keep stopping himself from laughing at it all, or else Ambrose might think he’s nuts.

“You ever have to put down a dog, John?” Ambrose asks after a minute, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette and glancing inside. The window is open to let in airflow, and in the warm lights of Elliot’s kitchen he can see her clearing plates from the table while her mother drags on about Delia said this and did you know Blair, the other day, was talking to me about that. Apparently, Scarlet has foregone discussion of what she thinks might be Elliot’s sexual inclinations.

John idles, “I don’t know that I have.”

“You know, like a sick dog. Sometimes when they’re mean, you’ve gotta put ‘em down.” Ambrose leans against the front pillar of the porch and takes a drag of his cigarette. “Say, if a dog bites your daughter. Can’t have a dog biting your kid, you know?”

He can feel Ambrose’s eyes on him. It’s a pointed statement. Willfully ignoring it, John replies, “I’ve never had pets, growing up.”

Ambrose makes a hm noise. “Dunno if I can like a man who never had a dog before.”

“My parents were strict.”

Another hm. He shrugs, takes another drag, lets it slip out through his nose rather than his mouth. He looks like a lazy dragon; like he’s going to wind his scaly body around and around the house until he’s strangling it. Elliot’s rubbing off on me, John thinks absently.

“I want my girl happy,” Ambrose says after a minute.

My girl, and maybe you should fuck off, then. “Of course.”

“And Scarlet worries about her,” the redhead continues. “You know, that she won’t find someone good for her. I told you, I like you. I just wanna make sure you’re—you know. Not a bad influence on her.”

John doesn’t say anything. Instead, he takes a long inhale of his own cigarette, in an effort to excuse his responsibility to respond.

“Ambrose, we’re leaving,” Scarlet announces from the doorway once she swings the door open. “Put that dreadful thing out.”

Ambrose flashes a crooked smile. He puts the cigarette out in the ashtray and elbows John like they’re friends. “Ball and chain summonin’ me.”

He can’t relate. He likes when Elliot gets bitey with him, literally and figuratively.

Elliot’s come out, too, having taken a few minutes by herself in the kitchen earlier and then changed into some pajamas—little shorts and an oversized t-shirt. She lets Ambrose hug her like she didn’t say fuck you viciously at a dinner table to him, and then kisses her mother’s cheek and says, “Drive safe.”

She turns back into the house before they’ve even left the driveway, and John follows dutifully. The house is finally quiet; he thinks, at last, at last, I have her all to myself, not because he doesn’t feel like the time they had pre-dinner wasn’t good (it was) but because it wasn’t enough. It’ll never be enough, he thinks.

“So glad he’s gone,” Ellliot murmurs, collapsing onto the bed, rubbing her face. John hums his agreement, working out of his jeans and button-up, planting a warm kiss on the inside of her thigh before he scoots her up onto the bed all the way and settles over her. The blonde looks worlds more relaxed, now—he knows how important it is for her safe home space to be just that—and when he brushes some loose hair from her eyes, her lashes flutter prettily.

He buries his face against the warmth of her neck; kisses there, feels the jump of her heartbeat when he drags his teeth against her pulse-point.

“I’ve dreamt about this,” she says breathlessly. John lifts his head from where he had been busying his mouth and narrows his eyes playfully.

“Dreamt about me driving you batshit during a family dinner?” he asks. “Or was it the part where I told you I was going to bend you over the counter?”

“No, you idiot,” she groans, blushing. “Just having you here.” True to form: “Dumbass.”

“You are so mean to me.”

“Am not,” she replies petulantly. “I am the nicest. The nicest, most flexible—”

“Hm.”

“I was saying, having you here with me. Instead of having to—you know. Run back and forth all the time. It’s hard with work and everything.” She plays her fingers against his chest, tracing ink that she’s memorized with her mouth several times already. “I’m not used to it. Wanting someone around all the time.”

John ducks his head to kiss her. There’s less urgency in this one, this time; but she parts her lips just the same, and sighs against him, and arches up a little when he digs his hand beneath the hem of her shorts, and he says, “I’ll be here whenever you want me to, Ell.”

“Yeah?” She’s breathless, and her eyes are bright, and she rolls her lower lip between her teeth for a second. “Do you mean that?”

“Of course,” he rumbles. He leans in and grins against her skin. “Especially if we’re still gonna negotiate about that—”

“John, shut up and kiss me.”

“Only if you call me Freddy Fuckaround again.”

She laughs, this time, and the sound is so warm and genuine in an evening that has been filled with force pleasantries that John thinks he might like to hear it all over again. Elliot squirms up against him and kisses his cheek and then his jaw, and combs her fingers through his beard.

“Anything,” she promises, “except for daddy.”

[fandom-puff]

Hi! I've finally narrowed it down to 53 and 54 on the smut list for a Tommy Shelby x reader. And if it's between mild and spicy smut, FOR SURE SPICY. I was thinking maybe there was like a family meeting (or any sort of meeting), and the reader "misbehaves" or does something that maybe annoys him? And then smut in whatever office they're in. No worries if you don't want to do it btw! And if you totally wanna change the concept that's cool too! 53 and 54 are just such good prompts. 🥺💖

Yay!! Buzzing to write this! Hope you enjoy <3

Gif creds to owner

Behave

Warnings: hella smutty, swearing

You were in a FOUL mood. It was Saturday, which was normally your day off anyway, but earlier in the week, Tommy had promised he’d take the day off to spend time with you. Yet here you were, choking on smoke in the betting shop, slumped over the books with a face like thunder. He hadn’t even looked at you all day, and his brothers, who were usually up for a bit of banter with you, had been in Tommy’s office since 9:30. 

You sat pouting, arms crossed, glaring at the books you were meant to be adding up when the door opened and the brothers poured out. Seizing your opportunity, you called out, “Tommy?” he turned around, eyebrows raised and cigarette hanging from his lips. “I-I was just wondering if you... wanna go to that nice restaurant- after work, I mean?” 

He rolled his eyes slightly and stared hard at you for a moment before turning away. You furrowed your brows, about to call after him again when he said bluntly “Family meeting,” 

“Go on then. I’m going to pick up some lunch,” you said, unable to keep the bite out of your tone. 

“Family meeting. That includes you,” he said stonily, still walking. 

“For fuck’s sake, Tom! Fine!” you hissed, storming ahead of him to the adjoining kitchen. John snorted with laughter at his sister in law’s temper, but you threw him a middle finger over your shoulder and called “Piss off, John,” 

Tommy glowered after you, shaking his head as Arthur clapped him on the shoulder. “You in the doghouse, brother? Take her out to dinner after work, eh? Might calm her down,” he said, grinning. 

“Fuck off, Arthur,”

You took your usual seat at the table, arms crossed and pouting. Polly glanced at you. 

“What’s up with you?” she asked, sliding you a teacup and offering tea. 

“Your nephew’s a dick,” you said, allowing her to pour it for you. 

“You’re going to have to narrow it down for me, YN, though I have a good idea who you’re on about,” she said knowingly. 

“Tommy!” you exclaimed. “I’m not arsed about having to work on my day off- I’m pissed at him for breaking his fucking promises. Again.” you ranted. Pol patted your shoulder. You both straightened up when the Shelby boys entered the room. They sat around the table, Tommy next to you, resting his hand on your thigh. It wasn’t a tender gesture like usual; it was firm and unmoving, and he was ready to squeeze should you get ahead of yourself. 

“Finally,” you hissed. “Hurry up then and get this over with,” you said, not looking at your husband. 

“No. I’m waiting for Johnny Dogs and Uncle Charlie to get here,” he said, and you rolled your eyes. He arched his brows at your attitude. 

“Waiting for someone to come? Never stopped you before,” you snapped, and Arthur and John choked on their drinks. 

“Watch it, YN,” Tommy said darkly, grabbing your cheek with his free hand and squeezing your thigh tightly with the other. “You’ve been running your mouth all day and you’re skating on very thin ice, My Girl,” 

You snorted at the nickname and shook your head, pulling away from his grip.  “’My Girl’? You better start bloody treating me like it, Thomas,” you growled. The family watched- Arthur and John exchanged a few shillings under the table on the outcome of the argument. 

“Thomas, eh? You must be in trouble, huh?” Johnny Dogs’ voice cut through the tension. You stood up. 

“Thank fuck for that. You can start your meeting now,” 

“YN, sit the fuck down, this includes you too,” Tommy said, stubbing his cigarette out. 

“Shove it up your arse, Thomas,” you hissed, but he pulled you back down to sit in the chair. 

“Stop making a show, YN,” he growled. 

“Stop being a twat then,” you countered and pulled away from him, scooting your chair away from his side. 

The meeting wore on, but you weren't paying attention. You were too busy glaring at the table, a slight pout on your lips. Admittedly, you were being childish, but it had been ages since you and Tommy had properly spent time together. For the past fortnight, you had gone to sleep with an empty bed, and woken up just as he slipped out of the room. Today was meant to be a day for you both to relax and spend time together- and maybe get intimate for the first time in about a month. 

The meeting ended, and you stood up quickly, wanting to leave as soon as possible, but Tommy grabbed your wrist and began dragging you upstairs like an unruly child. “For Christ’s sake, Tom, let me go and fuck off to your precious office!” you complained. Having enough, you were slammed against the wall. 

“Right, YN, I’ve tried to be patient with you. But if you’re going to act like a little brat, then I’m going to treat you like one. Now fuck off upstairs, and when I get up there, I expect you stripped down and on your knees,” 

You were about to argue back, but you looked into Tommy’s eyes, blown wide with lust, and nodded, pressing a quick kiss to his jaw. “Yes, sir,” you whispered, rubbing your thighs together. 

“Good girl,” he said gently. “Off you go,” 

You practically ran to Tommy’s old bedroom, tossing your clothes off and slamming the door. You glanced at the pile of clothes on the floor and quickly folded them up, knowing you’d get a telling off for being messy. You knelt down beside the bed, hands folded in your lap and eyes down, a healthy blush rising to your cheeks as you tried not to fidget. Five minutes later, the door opened and Tommy walked in, jacket abandoned and sleeves rolled up. You licked your lips slightly and resisted the temptation to stand and attach your lips to his. 

He looked down at you, slowly walking over, stroking a hand over your flushed face and pushing a stray strand of hair off your forehead. You hummed, leaning into his gentle touch, letting your eyes flutter shut. “Been feeling a bit neglected, my girl?” he asked and you whined softly and nodded, nuzzling your head against the luxurious, slightly scratchy material of his trousers. He chuckled slightly, the sound low, rumbling from his chest. “Nevertheless,” he said, voice a little harder. “Your behaviour today has been less than satisfactory, hm?” you blushed and nodded, looking down and mumbling. “What’s that?” he coaxed, tipping your face up to face him. 

“Said ‘m sorry,” you said, a little louder this time. He smirked and knelt down so that he was eye level with you, dropping the gentleness. 

“You will be,” 

You whimpered as he pulled you up. “Right, over my knee. I think 15 should do, don’t you?” you nodded and settled yourself over his knee, his trousers scratching your bare belly, his belt buckle digging into your waist. You shut your eyes as Tommy instructed you to thank him for each hit. 

SMACK! “Thank you,”

“Thank you what?” SMACK! 

“Ah! Fuck! Sir! Thank you, sir!” you cry

Tommy doesn’t get you to count- he’s capable of keeping count himself. He admires your arse, watching as it reddens and rubbing away the sting each time. By the last hit, a tear slips down your cheek and drips onto the floor, but you’re moaning and writhing, and Tommy dips his fingers between your legs after the last spank, smirking. “What do we have here, hm?” he asks, pulling you up to sit on your lap, pressing you down so your raw arse rubs against the rough tweed of his trousers. You gasp and whine as he strokes his index finger languidly up your soaked heat before pressing his slicked up finger to your lips. You take the digit into your mouth and suckle eagerly, squirming on his lap, thighs brushing against his tented trousers. “Somebody enjoying herself?” He smirked and you nodded, the bobbing of your head around his finger causing you to gag slightly. You groan and he helps you up. 

“Now, part of me wants to choke you with my cock and leave you like the little slut you’ve shown yourself to be...” you look up at him with wide eyes, shaking your head slightly, though you don’t dare open your mouth to beg. “However... you took your punishment so well... and as naughty as you’ve been today, I have been neglecting my little girl, haven’t I, darling?” you nod and he smirks, starting to unbutton his vest. You lick your lips and watch, fingers itching to help- he’s unbuttoning each button torturously slowly, but you don't want to earn yourself another punishment when you're already so close to pleasure. Once shirtless, he looks at you, nodding to the bed. You scramble to lay on your back, already spreading your legs eagerly. He laughs slightly and lines himself up, cock throbbing with need. You buck your hips despite yourself and he pushes in slowly, stretching you deliciously. You groan lowly, the burning stretch making you see spots- he hasn't even started yet. 

Tommy starts a brutal pace, hooking your legs around his waist as he thrusts into you, his cock bumping a deep spot inside you that made your eyes roll back. “Fuck! Tommy!” you cried out, reaching to scratch your nails down his back, the stinging scrape causing his to hiss and fuck you rougher. Your cries came in sharp bursts, increasing in pitch and volume as you chased your climax. 

“Fucking hell, YN, love, you better be quiet or everyone's going to know what a naughty little slut you are,” you groan in response and arch your back, pinching your nipples. 

“Good! I’m y-yours, Tommy!” you cried out, your walls throbbing and clenching around him as your pleasure peaked. Sensing this, he didn't even bother to hold off your climax, instead ramming his cock into you harder, faster, grabbing your hand and telling you to rub your pulsing clit. “Pl-please! Please, I’m gonna- gonna-” 

Tommy grunted, hair plastered to his forehead. “Cum,” he demanded. “Come on my cock, good girl,” he instructed and you yelped, screaming for him. He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing your moans as he pumped you full of his seed, riding out your pleasure. he gathered you into his arms and, still trembling, you snuggled into his side. Your makeup was ruined, lips swollen and eyes glassy. You looked dazed, ragged and well-fucked; just the way he liked it. 

You pressed a kiss to his chest, tasting the salty tang of sweat, head swirling with the heady scent of sex. ou shivered and he rubbed your side gently. “My girl,” he murmured. “I'm sorry for... being a dick,” he whispered. “Go clean your face, then I’m taking you for lunch. Pack a bag... I’m gonna take you to London for a bit- nowhere near Camden Town, don't worry,” 

you look up at him and kiss his lips sloppily. “Anywhere’s fine, so long as I’m with you,” 

[inspector-montoya-fox]

let’s talk about why Justine Courtney is a badly written character

it’s been a hot minute since i’ve finished Investigations 2 but i can confidently say it’s very much one of the best Ace Attorney titles, perhaps even as good as Trials & Tribulations. but, that doesn’t mean it didn’t have its flaws, and i think, as much as i love her, Courtney was one them. loads of stuff didn’t really make sense, and her story arc as some sort of antihero didn’t quite gel. let’s dive into specifics (spoilers ahead):

i wanna start off by saying that this character genuinely holds a special place in my heart. if you follow me and my friend’s podcast, Turnabout Podcast, you might know that Investigations 2 was the first game i played without my friend giving me any previews or opinions because it’s the only game in the series that i played first. as such, when Courtney was first introduced, she made an impact by being a female judge sans the restraint of the court. you mean to tell me the judges in the Ace Attorney universe have... a waist, legs and feet !? when i tell you i thought this character was amazing, i mean it. easily one of the best things about my playthrough, something that surely wouldn’t change ever. but before i get into the bad writing, i wanna say that honestly, Courtney has some pretty nice moments in the game.

i think, first and foremost, diversity. like we can clearly see that the traditional Judge borrows heavily from what we all imagine a stereotypical judge would look like. bushy beard, black robes, bald (?). the only thing missing would be an over-the-top white wig with the curls. so, enter Courtney, this woman wearing her pink garment with some astral/cross details, braids in a circle with a thunder-esque fringe in the front, and holding a mini gavel to smash your skull in with. her attire and overall character design successfully portrays a woman who places her faith on the justice system above all else - and that’s a major aspect of her character. honey, she’s serving Florence + the Machine Ceremonials, divine eleganza. this is a prude above all else, and a firm believer that the justice system will prevail in the end, always and forever.

so, with this all in mind, you’d think we’d get a character who’s shtick is ‘blind faith’, etc. i mean, i love Ace Attorney but i have to admit most characters are pretty one-dimensional: Lisa Basil is a computer, Olga Orly is a reveal queen, Phineas Filch is a thief, and so on and so forth. it was a pretty big surprise when Courtney failed to maintain her single trait. the woman clearly doesn’t have a personality or a life outside her job; and even that would make for more interesting character development than what we got. instead, she starts off as an annoying foil to Edgeworth’s plans with some crazy-ass antics, and then proceeds to be excruciatingly irritating just because... she can ???? i feel like the writers had no idea what to do with her so they merged all their half-baked ideas together to form someone with enough systematic power to go against Edgeworth once he effortlessly put Sebastian Debeste in his place. lemme change the paragraph because i’m about to pop off.

Justine Courtney is like... 26 different people. she’s a mother, a judge, an investigator, a babysitter and a pain in the ass all at once. lil mama multi-faceted. the shift in tone doesn’t make sense and isn’t supported by anything in the narrative whatsoever. ok, she was basically playing lapdog to Sebastian in order to get closer to Blaise, i guess. but, why introduce her as someone who’s an avid justice system aficionado and supporter and not drive it all the way home or make it consistent throughout? that’s her entire thing in the Imprisoned Turnabout, talking about the Goddess of the Law and her motivations, but then in the Inherited Turnabout, she barely mentions any of it. instead of maintaining her black-and-white view of the law in order to develop it and make her come to a realisation that it’s not always like this, the writers tried shoving in other stuff like her playing secret agent trying to bust Blaise, or her being a mom.

the storyline at the end where she has a change of heart is completely and utterly unsupported by anything. why help Edgeworth when you’re the one who is to blame for everything !? you’re the reason he’s locked up !? again, if they had just stuck to one tone/ story arc/ theme, it would all make sense. black-and-white view Courtney would realise that Edgeworth is clearly a grey anomaly; mom Courtney would feel something for Sebastian because of her love for John; film noir Courtney would be a double-faced minx who reveals to Edgeworth why she was so eager to antagonise him. but when you put all of these together, it becomes such a convoluted mess that sees none of these aspects fully develop. most of these “character traits” also clash with each other at times, like how she helps Sebastian, an amateur prosecutor, put away people who are most likely innocent (apart from Simon Keyes) despite her undying trust and devotion in the law, or maybe even how her strong motherly instinct would probably prevent her from using Sebastian in order to get closer to Blaise and then ignore the kid’s meltdown in the final case.

and don’t get me started on the teen pregnancy thing. you had to know a secret or a reveal was coming, but that took me out of an otherwise outstanding case just because the Ace Attorney writers refuse to acknowledge that they have an issue with women and their ages. it was a horrifyingly disgusting experience for me doing the math during the Grand Turnabout and then, until it was revealed that John is actually her nephew, i couldn’t think of anything else. looking past how much of a horrible decision it was and how the writers don’t know how to properly give accurate ages to their female characters, it further took away from Courtney’s flawed character. you can’t just give this woman 209131 different storylines, neglect to develop them because she’s kept in the sidelines, and then place her in the forefront of the final major case. that’s not how it works? because when John was abducted, putting my hate for children aside, i genuinely didn’t really care about him. although, i have to admit, the mother-son moments were pretty sweet, and we often praise this on the podcast as well - i truly believe Courtney is an amazing mom, who wants nothing than the best for John. either way, the work wasn’t put in and as such i didn’t really care for a character who failed to gain my devotion and emotional attachment.

when you compare Courtney to other main female characters such as Franziska or Mia, the difference is undeniable. even when we compare her to the Judge, it’s clear that she fails to make an impression on the player because her traits are not consistent. ‘she lacked substance’ would be the TLDR version. if you want more Justine Courtney criticism, @ironicsnap​ quite literally pops off here and we discuss the age thing in detail. but to conclude, i think we should have gotten one version of Courtney. my favourites from the bunch would have to be “film noir” investigator Courtney or the “blind faith” one because i think that would make for interesting character development above all else. i would love to see Courtney be the prosecution’s pawn and then realise that and actually switch sides. if this was the case then she could return in later installments and interact with characters such as Kristoph Gavin, who have similar story-arcs.

[queenofimagines]

It’s Happened Before

Request: “heyy can you do one where y/n normally plays hard to get around guys but when she’s really drunk one guy won’t leave her alone and jj saves her. When he takes her home he’s super sweet and y/n is all over him, he likes it because he has a huge crush on her but then he feels bad bc he doesn’t want to take advantage. At some point y/n thinks that he will take advantage of her in her drunk mind and she says it’s happened before. ((Also love ur writing sm))💜” by @maybebanks

Warnings: Mentions of sexual assault

Notes: I’ve never written a fic with sexual assault before so I apologize if it’s inaccurate or insensitive in any way, I promise that is not my intention. If any of you find any discrepancies in my writing of it or find anything offending please let me know so I can fix it and so I can pay attention to it in the future. Thank you!

Also, this ended up being really long... sorry not sorry :)

You loved playing hard to get, and JJ loved that you never made it easy for him. He fell for your spit-fire attitude right away and since then had never stopped trying to make you his. If you were being honest, though, you liked this little game of cat and mouse that you and JJ had started when you met. You liked how he followed you around like a lost puppy, but you also took pride in the fact that you got the JJ Maybank, notorious for only ever having one night stands, to want you and only you.

Everyone knew of your little game, many already thinking of you as JJ’s girl and referring to you as such because of how inevitable it was that you two would end up together. You hoped they were right, and that you and JJ would end up in an actual relationship. You were young, you knew that you still needed to figure out exactly what you wanted out of life and where you wanted it to go, but to you, one thing was for certain: no matter what happened or where you went, you wanted JJ Maybank to be there. But you were scared, scared that he’d get bored of you, scared that he only liked you for the chase. You were by no means a thrill-seeker, often opting to go with the safer options when John B presented you guys with whatever adventurous scheme he had come up with. JJ, on the other hand, liked to run headfirst into danger without even so much as a plan, something that made you uneasy. You were sure that when the chase was over you’d have a few weeks of bliss before the realization that you weren’t actually what JJ wanted would hit him like a sucker punch and that he’d leave you like so many others had. What you didn’t know, though, was that JJ was by no means in it for the thrill of the chase.

JJ saw right through you. He knew that your quick wit was a way for you to cover up your fear and your pain. He knew that fear and pain caused you to lead him on this chase in the first place. And sure, he liked it when you played hard to get, but that wasn’t what drew him in. JJ fell in love with the way you cared about him and the other Pogues. He fell for the way you always seemed to have just enough time in your busy schedule to help Kiara clean up the litter that so many had carelessly left behind at keggers, how you always seemed to have just enough time to cook for John B when he wasn’t taking care of himself like he should have, how you always seemed to know exactly what to say to calm down Pope when he got anxious, how you always kept him out late enough so that he would just have to spend the night with you instead of going home, and how, when it was necessary for him to go home, you always seemed to “accidentally” leave your blankets in his room during winter when you knew it would be freezing. JJ fell in love with you because you cared about him in a way no one else had before, the chase you led him on was just part of the fun, but even without it JJ still would have stared at you as if you had hung the moon just for him.

It was the beginning of summer, and high time for you and the Pogues to throw yet another kegger to kick it off. You, for one, were more than happy to get uninhibitedly drunk to drown out the insecurities you had when it came to your maybe-relationship with JJ. You were on your fourth cup of beer by now, the party only having started less than an hour ago, and to say you were plastered was an understatement. You didn’t have a particularly high tolerance, you and the rest of the Pogues were very aware of that, but you didn’t care, you just wanted to get wasted and have fun. JJ knew something was up with you when you chugged your first beer right away as you weren’t the chugging type. All of the Pogues noticed your strange behavior too. They knew that you were the kind of person to sip your beer until you were buzzed and keep yourself in that state but never surpass it. JJ knew something was wrong and assured Kiara, John B, and Pope that he would keep an eye on you when they brought up that one of them should stay sober enough to make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. He reasoned with them, stating that since he was the only one of the four who hadn’t had at least three beers by this point that he would be the best bet to stay sober. The Pogues were confused, knowing JJ to be the first of them to get completely hammered, but they didn’t question him, instead agreeing and turning back to the party. What he neglected to tell them was that he had already made up his mind to stay sober and watch over you at the beginning of the party and that his decision to have only one beer, although it was more like half a beer since he was trying to be as completely sober as possible without it looking too suspicious, was purposely made before anyone else had even noticed how off you were acting.

You were unaware of the lingering eyes on you, you were also unaware that the eyes staring at your figure weren’t just JJ’s. A boy around your age, a Touron you guessed based on his sweatshirt which sported some college that you just knew wasn’t from anywhere near the Outer Banks, had seen you dancing with some old acquaintances of yours and decided it was time to approach you. You didn’t notice him coming up behind you, but JJ did, he didn’t dare make a move though, knowing you hated that macho bullshit and were perfectly capable of handling yourself, but he was still on edge when the boy placed his hands on your hips.

You thought the boy was JJ, really you did. But the second you pressed your back into him you knew you were sorely mistaken. You quickly turned around, eyeing the boy who had put his hands on you not mere seconds before, telling him to go away. You didn’t want him, you wanted JJ, and even your drunk self knew that you would never want to be dancing with anybody else.

“Come on, baby, let’s just have some fun,” the boy said, grabbing your hips again. But you resisted, pushing him away and beginning to walk away in the hopes that you could find said blondie.

“Hey! Don’t walk away from me,” the boy said, tightly grabbing onto your bicep. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you that it’s rude to ignore someone who’s talking to you?”

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that you shouldn’t be grabbing girls like that?” JJ responded, having seen the interaction from where he stood near the keg and immediately making his way over to you.

“Listen, buddy, I wasn’t talking to you.” The boy stepped closer to JJ, pushing you out of the way and causing you to trip and fall onto the sand. That did it for JJ, who began throwing punches at the Touron who dared lay a hand on you. The Touron didn’t stand a chance against JJ and you quickly realized that you would have to stop him from killing the boy.

“JJ,” you said meekly, hoping that your voice was loud enough to hear. You didn’t want to talk much louder, your head already pounding from the sudden shift of your body when you fell. But he couldn’t hear you, not over the sound of the crowd egging on the fight.

“JJ!” You yelled, already regretting the decision when you felt the throbbing in your head get worse. JJ stopped, looking over at you with furrowed eyebrows. “Can we just go, please?”

JJ slowly nodded, letting go of the Touron and carefully picking you up to take you back to the Chateau. He sat you down on the couch, beginning to move away to turn the lights on, but your grip on his hand was vice-like.

“Y/N, let me turn on the lights, alright sweetheart?”

“No, stay.” JJ couldn’t fight you when you looked so sleepy and utterly adorable. He made his way next to you on the couch where you proceeded to practically fall into his lap. JJ moved so that you were lying comfortably against him, sure that you would probably just fall right asleep. But instead of hearing your soft snores, he felt your hand reach up into his hair and your lips gently trail across his neck. His heart rate sped up, loving the soft attention he was receiving and pulling you closer, running his hands along your sides, only stopping when he heard your breath hitch and felt your body tense.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” He asked.

“N-nothing,” you responded.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He said quickly, afraid that you thought he only wanted to have sex with you and feeling like he was taking advantage of your state of mind by not stopping you from delivering the physical affection he craved. You quickly sat up, staring at him with watery eyes full of disbelief.

“You-you’re not going to...?” You trailed off, not wanting to say it.

“Sweetheart, I’d never take advantage of you like that. Even if you wanted to I wouldn’t let you, you’re not in your right mind right now and I need you to be fully aware if we do this.” He said, thinking that the tears in your eyes and the look on your face were caused by disappointment. Before he knew it you had launched yourself at him, tightly hugging him to you while you sobbed into his shoulder. JJ was beyond confused at this point but he knew that he just needed to be here for you right now. He slowly wrapped his hands around you so as not to startle you.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“For what?”

“For not taking advantage of me.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that, sweetheart, I’d never do that to you.” You sniffled, mumbling a response. He dearly hoped you didn’t say what he thought you said, but the waver in your voice at the words you spoke was unmistakable.

“It’s not like it hasn’t happened before.” JJ’s heart broke. Someone had taken advantage of you? He quickly pulled you away from him in order to look at you.

“Who?” He questioned. He was beyond angry, ready to fight the person who had made you feel like you needed to thank him for being a decent fucking human being. You shook your head.

“Some Touron a couple of months ago.” A couple of months ago? How did he not know? How could he have let that happen to you?

“We snuck away from the party, I thought he just wanted to talk but I was just being stupid. He was older and made me feel special so I followed along when he suggested we go somewhere else. H-he started touching me, I didn’t want him to. I told him to stop but he didn’t. He started kissing me and then we heard a gunshot. He bolted as soon as he heard it and I tried to come and find you guys.” You were sobbing at this point, not wanting to remember the moment having not fully processed the situation. JJ began crying too, angry that he didn’t protect you and angry that you had been struggling with this alone.

“No, no, no, that’s not your fault. You weren’t being stupid, okay? I’m sorry, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” He didn’t know what else to say, what could he have said? What happened to you wasn’t okay and he wasn’t sure how to handle it either, so he pulled you close to him, letting you cry into his chest despite the pain it caused him to hear your broken sobs. Soon you fell asleep, the rest of the Pogues having come back to the Chateau not too long after, quietly asking JJ if you were alright. JJ shook his head, silently telling them that they’d have that conversation tomorrow. They all nodded, John B heading to his room and Pope and Kie heading to the spare room to give you guys some space.

As JJ lay in the dark, calmed by your steady breathing, he stroked his hand through your hair and promised you that he would protect you, no matter what.

[i-like-old-things]

So I made a transcript of the letter and it’s under the cut :)

Here is the link for the letter and the picture in case it doesn’t load for you

Now for the transcript.

Anything that has “[——]” means that I could not identify the word. You are welcome to make any additions or corrections should you have them (which you probably will because I suck ar reading stuff

Page 1

To Colonel John Dickinson at Elizabethtown

Page 2

Summerville Aug 16. 1776

Dear Sir,

I did not receive your letter of the 10th till yesterday, at which time by the advice received and the movement made I approached the difficulties you mentioned in a [——] measure [——]. Besides the very same cause that [——] showed [——] difficulties [——] from the enemy, as to prevent this being removed at this time by the measure proposed. Had W.M. when he moved for rank, moved for the appointment, there would have been no obstacle; or had W.W. on receipt of your former letter, which I communicated to him, agreed to [——] it; or if he had not resolved to [——] it, I am of the opinion there would be ^[——] have been no opposition. There is a side in human affairs, which if improved, things go on smoothly but if neglected, it’s in vain to lose from the [——].

You and I have differed in sentiment with the regard to the propriety of certain public measures — not so humble about the measures themselves, as the time, which you

Page 3

thought was not yet come — But from the prejudice that I find prevail, + the [——] of [——], rank + others had time been given for them to think deeper [——], it would have been extremely difficult to have prepared men’s mind for the good seed of [——].

I know the multitude of your heart + the honestly + [——] of your intentions; but still I cannot help [——], that by a perseverance which you were fully convinced was [——], you have thrown the affairs of this state into the hands of men totally un-equal to them. I fondly hope + trust however that divine Providence, which has hitherto so [——] appeared in favor of our cause, will preserve you from danger and [——] you not to “your books or fields,” but to your [——], to connect the errors, which ^[——] those “how bearing rule” will through ignorance — not intention — commit, in selling the form of government.

There are some expressions in your letter, which I am

Page 4

sorry for; because they [——] to [——] from a wounded spirit. Confident I beseech you and do justice to your “unkind country men”. They did not [——] you. You left them. Possibly they were wrong in quickening their march and advancing to the goal with such rapid speed. They thought they were right, and the only “[——]” they [——] [——] you was to chase other leaders to conduct them. I wish they had chosen better; and that you could have headed them, or they waited a little for you. But [——] I am which their fervour is [——] they will do justice to your merit, and I hope soon to [——] you [——] to the confidence + honours of your country.

I am glad to hear you continue hearty. We have flattering accounts from Canada by some Canadian officers who have joined out Army. I hope they will prove true.

Older and [——] on [——] are [——] to our northern Army, and if the dark cloud that hovers [Edit: ——] over New York, I fondly hope the sun of peace will quickly shine upon ^it. May that gracious providence

Page 5

in which I know you place your confidence; protect + preserve you.

I called yesterday to see cousin Polly + Sally. They are both well.

Your cousin Hannah remembers you with great affection, + so do the rest of your cousins at Summerville.

Adieu,

I am your sincere + affectionate friend,

Cha Thomson