#i haven't really edited this because i was impatient so please be so kind as to ignore mistakes

[mutable-manifestation]

Actual Scientists Jack & Maddie AU Part 3

Part 1 & 2

***

The lab is empty when they get to Fenton Works, his parents busy off helping the JLD wherever it was they were working from.

The journey the rest of the way to the Far Frozen passes relatively quickly under the weight of discussing how to reverse engineer the sarcophagus of forever sleep to make Naptime Box 2: Vlad Edition.

Could they probably just beat him up with the right plan and aid? Sure. But then they risk having to play royal hot potato (Danny doesn't want it and he doubts most of the allies he has would want the extra responsibility. Assuming there are responsibilities - Danny wouldn't know since there hasn't been a king, for all intents and purposes, since well before he became a halfa so who knows what the position even means in the context of the Zone).

Plus it would be way more satisfying to shove him in a box. Vlad gets a nice long nap and Danny gets to live the rest of his half-life without worrying about his Dad getting stabbed or something if Vlad starts feeling impatient.

It would also give Danny plenty of time to find some way to buy the Packers - not because he wants them, just because it would be really funny if Vlad eventually woke up to find that the only thing he wanted other than Maddie was now also very permanently out of reach.

The city of Green Bay could fold eventually, after all. But Danny? Danny would never yield, just to spite him, and Vlad would know that.

He probably won't actually do it, seeing as a) expensive and b) probably complicated.

But it would be really funny.

Their discussion on the ethics of using the Fenton Stockades as the base for the Box cut off as they land.

Without the distraction of their chat the adrenaline of panic comes rushing back, and he transforms as he steps out of the Speeder, nyooming to hover in front of Frostbite so quickly that the entire welcoming party - Frostbite somehow manages to have one arranged every time he drops by, and Danny is usually willing to at least try and indulge them since it seems to make them happy - jolts in surprise.

"Greetings!" Frostbite smiles wide, arms open in a grand welcoming, the only hint of lingering surprise the trails of slightly puffed up fur up his arms and the sides of his neck that has already mostly smoothed itself back out. "The Far Frozen welcomes the Great One and friends-"

"Hey Frostbite sorry for being abrupt but I'm kind of freaking out and you seemed like the best person - uh, ghost to go to because you always seem to know lots of things and I kind of need to know what's going on as soon as possible just in case it's a worst case scenario because the Justice League came to talk to my parents about some papers and I probably haven't mentioned them to you before because they're awful and I thought my parents made them but surprise I was wrong! Which is good! Except the League was mostly worried about them maybe causing the new ghost king to war with the human realm because apparently there's a supernatural branch of the Justice League and they think there's a new Ghost KingTM as in the Ghost King after Pariah Dark and I'm kind of freaking out because if there is a new ghost king there's actually a chance it's Vlad and oh ancients please tell me it's not Vlad or that the League heard wrong please."

Sam and Tucker had caught up by then, coming to stand on either side of him as Frostbite blinked.

"You are...asking me the identity of the current High King?" He asks, face scrunched in a bewildered expression.

"Oh my gosh Batman was right!?" He floats a bit higher at the news. "Please just tell me it's not Vlad! Uh, Plasmius."

"Plasmius?" Frostbite asks, eyebrows crawling higher. "Certainly not! What in the realms - do you truly not know?"

"Oh thank goodness," Danny sighs, sinking back to his usual level. "Not Vlad, okay, one less disastrous possibility. And whoever it is probably already knows they're the king and nothing bad has happened yet so it's probably fine, right?"

He looks back to meet Frostbite's eyes.

"Wait, nothing bad has happened yet, right? Like, is everything okay? I know Pariah caused you guys a lot of grief before; the new guy 's not going around causing trouble for you and you just haven't told me because you're worried about being a bother, right?" He frets, eyes flicking about, searching for fresh injuries on the various members of the welcoming party.

"...No, Great One," Frostbite answers, blinking away the surprised expression to be replaced by something soft. "Though I, and all the Far Frozen, are honored by your concern. While Pariah Dark is no longer the High King of the Infinite Realms, I can assure you, with utmost certainty, that you have nothing to fear from his successor. But I believe we have much more to discuss. Come, let us find somewhere more comfortable to talk - and get your human friends out of the cold."

***

It didn't take them long to reach a sitting room, and soon enough they were all settled into the enormous, fuzzy chairs in one of the warmer rooms available, Danny and Frostbite each with a cup of shaved ice tea while Sam and Tucker were offered beverages warm enough to steam in deference to their need for warmth.

Once everyone had taken a sip - or bite - Danny launched back into his questioning.

"So did Dark have a kid hidden away somewhere or did some kind of council finally decide on his replacement? Actually can ghosts even have - wait right Box Lunch, forgot about that on purpose but never mind. Or is there some fourth option that isn't those or trial by combat that we didn't think of?"

"Before I answer that, Great One, may I ask why you have already discounted trial by combat?" He returns curiously.

"Because if it was trial by combat it would be Vlad - er, Plasmius - and you already said it isn't him."

"Or it could be you," Tucker ribs, waggling his fingers at him.

"We already talked about why it couldn't be me, Tuck," Danny huffs, rolling his eyes and taking another bite of his... smoothie?

"Oh? And why do you think it would be Plasmius?" Frostbite asks.

"Because! I may have fought Pariah Dark, and sure I put him back in the sarcophagus, but I was running on fumes by that point, and he was still slamming around in there! Vlad, as much as I hate to admit it, is the one that turned the key and made sure he stayed locked away. It took almost everything I had to keep him pinned long enough. If...if he'd been even a few seconds later I probably would've died the rest of the way before he even had the time to break out a second time."

"But had you not put him there, no key would have mattered," Frostbite begins quietly. "Plasmius was no match for Pariah Dark; he was defeated in an instant the first time they clashed."

"Well, yeah, but so was I," he protests, not liking the direction the conversation is beginning to take.

"And yet, you alone went to face him a second time. You alone stood against the King of All Ghosts while your armies clashed."

"Our-!? I didn't have- you mean the ghosts that came to help me???" Danny sputtered, incredulous. "They weren't an army they were just-"

He pauses, searching for words that would not come.

"They were just a large group of ghosts who sided with you, who aided you in combat and kept the multitudes distracted while you went to face their leader alone. However you thought of them at the time, whatever they were to you up till then or are to you now, after, in that moment they were your army."

"Danny's totally the ghost king, isn't he?" Sam drawls after the brief silence that follows.

"Indeed," Frostbite answers her, but he looks Danny in the eyes as he does so. "You are the savior of the Ghost Zone, Pariah's Bane. And you are the High King of the Infinite Realms."

"I cheated!" Danny blurts out, shooting up to float above his chair.

"Cheated?" Frostbite's lips twitch as he fights down a smile.

"I had the Fenton Ecto-Skeleton! That's totally cheating! Don't combat trials have to be honorable or something?!" He begs.

Frostbite chuckles.

"I apologize, Great One, but I am afraid there is no such thing as an honorable war," he says, expression briefly turning solemn. "And even if it were, just as you had your "Ecto-Skeleton," did not Pariah have his ring and crown?

You issued a challenge and he answered, your armies clashed while the two of you stood against each other and each other alone; you alone put him back into the Sarcophagus of Forever Sleep, and you alone held it shut long enough for Plasmius to turn the key.”

Danny drifts back down to his seat as Frostbite speaks, then continues slouching further with every word.

“I am given to understand that Plasmius likes to think of others as pawns on his own personal chessboard,” he says, “But at the time he was but another ghost, come to fight Pariah's army on your behalf - as a member of your army. A pawn, to paraphrase his own words, that you used to topple a king - not through any intentional manipulation, but through the sheer magnetic charisma of your willingness to stand against monsters like Pariah Dark and of your ability to do so. The confidence to stand alongside you that such strength inspires. 

He would not have approached if he did not believe you could win - would not risk endangering himself so. At best, you could consider him a referee, calling the match to a close once it was decisively in your favor.

Plasmius may think of existence as a game with himself as the only player, and he may have been acting in his own self-interest overall, but by every measure, in this instance, he was undeniably your piece.

The Zone itself acknowledges your right to rule by the way the crown of fire sits where you left it, unmoving on the floor of Pariah's keep until the day you finally choose to wear it, no matter how many hands may try to move it."

Frostbite's words are slow and measured, but as undeniable as the creeping of a glacier. And by the time they cease, Danny has sunk so far as to end up an undignified heap on the floor before his chair.

The trio remains silent as they absorb his words.

Minutes pass before Danny finally speaks.

"If the crown can't be taken, then how did I get it from Pariah?" He questions, a final hope that Frostbite may be mistaken.

"It will only remain unmoved until you first put it on. After that, it will be up to you whether it stays safe on your head."

Danny groans his despair, final bit of hope shattered.

"I must apologize again, Great One," he says solemnly. "Had I known you were unaware of your station, I would have informed you sooner."

He frowns heavily, looking into the distance thoughtfully.

"The Observants should have informed you long before now."

"Well, that explains it. The Observants hate Danny's guts," Tucker says.

"To neglect their duties for such a reason...," He trails off, his glower highlighting the inhuman nature of his visage. 

The trio fidget.

Danny coughs after a few seconds of tense silence.

“Uh, speaking of duties,” he begins, relaxing as Frostbite’s expression smooths back into something kind and polite as he listens, “What exactly does the Ghost King even do? Like. Pariah was locked away for… a long time? I guess. So does the Zone even need a King? Can’t I just, like, resign?”

“I suppose it might seem that way from a younger ghost’s perspective - Pariah has been locked away for millenia, after all, and the Zone is still in one piece.” 

Frostbite pauses, leaning back in his seat and taking another bite of his drink. 

“However. What you must understand, Great One, is that the problems caused by the absence of a king in the Infinite Realms are not the whirlwind that such a thing would be in the living realm - social order is affected, but the speed of bureaucracy is slower by orders of magnitude in the Realms, and there is not the same level of inter-reliance that the living tend to require - but rather, they are winds and waters sliding against a rock, chipping away at it bit by bit until it is either worn smooth… or the whole structure collapses under its own weight.”

“How does not having a king cause dimensional collapse!?” Tucker shrieks, clutching his cup like a lifeline.

“How long do we have before it collapses?” Sam asks urgently not a second later.

“Oh shit, how long do we have before it collapses???” he echoes, hunching over his cup enough that the steam adds a layer of fog to his glasses.

Danny sits bolt upright, whipping wide eyes away from his friends to join them in staring at Frostbite.

“Total collapse would take millenia more to truly begin,” he placates before taking a more grave expression. “This does not mean that there will not be issues before that point, however; the symptoms of the High King’s absence have begun to show this past millennium. But rest assured, there is time enough to heal the wounds that have been wrought. The only permanent damage would be the collapse itself, and that, as I said, is millenia away.”

“Is… is that why you never mentioned it to me before?” Danny asks, dropping back to the ground in relief. “Because it’s not urgent and you figured I’d just…get to it eventually? Actually, why did you think I knew if you knew that the crown was still in Pariah’s Keep?”

“It is the duty of the Observants to observe, but also, as you have experienced, to oversee - the timeline, trials, the general functioning of the zone. Without a king to report to, much of their ability to act is crippled, of course - their ability to interfere directly with the timeline has always been severely restricted, their options for sentencing are severely reduced, and there are some things the Realms require that only the High King can provide - but one duty remains unaffected: overseeing the ascension of new kings. 

Coronations have taken many forms in the past, from a quick swap in the battlefield to a formal ceremony to a celebration that lasted a decade. Given the dark era we are, at last, able to put behind us and the non-urgent nature of even the most severe problems that the Realms are currently affected by, I had assumed that the large delay was in preparation for that last form - the lead-up to a grand celebration.”

“Except instead it’s just them being petty,” Sam notes, sitting back up from her own relieved slouch. 

Danny groans, leaving his tea to float and covering his face with his hands.

“Why couldn’t it have just been as easy as shoving Vlad in a box,” he whines.

“I mean, we still can?” Tucker offers, prompting Sam to smack him over the head before pausing consideringly.

“OW!”

“He might be right, actually,” she says, ignoring his exclamation. “Given Vortex’s trial and sentencing, there’s clearly some kind of legal system in the Zone that isn’t just Walker on a power trip. No doubt he’s broken some kind of Actual Realms Law - I’d be surprised if breaking Pariah out like he did wasn’t some form of highly illegal - so you could probably send him to actual Ghost Jail. It’s certainly where he belongs, given all the….”

She makes a vague gesture with her hand in lieu of words.

“That doesn’t resolve the problem of I Don’t Wanna Be A King!” Danny exclaims, sitting back and throwing his hands in the air.

Then he turns to Frostbite, eyes pleading. 

“Can’t you be king?” he asks. 

Frostbite opens his mouth to reply, but Danny steamrolls over him.

“It makes sense! You already know how to lead people! And your people love you! You already know about all the king stuff too! You’ve beaten me in spars before! We’d just have to go to the keep, I put on the crown, you beat me, and problem solved!”

Frostbite’s smile is a mix of amused and pitying.

“I have only ever beaten you in training spars, Great One, and you and I both know that is largely because they were focused on improving your skill with ice and ice alone. Even if I could defeat you in a true all-out fight as you are, I believe you underestimate the boost granted by the crown of fire.”

“I can just put it on then take it off again before we fight! And we can stick to ice!”

“I’m afraid it is not so simple,” he shakes his head. “If you do not give it your all, the crown - the Realms - will not recognize the transition. The only way to “throw the match” successfully would require your opponent to fully End you: to crush your core and snuff your spirit from the very fabric of existence. I am unwilling to do such a thing, and I sincerely hope you would not ask it of me - or, indeed, of anyone.”

Danny paled enough that he nearly matched his human form in skin tone.

“Right. Let’s… let’s not do that, actually.”

“On the bright side, you can probably weasel ruling tips out of Aquaman in exchange for not declaring war on the Living Realm!” Tucker chirps, aiming to cheer him up.

“I’m not going to threaten the Justice League!” he yelps, scandalized.

“But you probably won’t have to threaten them,” Sam chimes in. “They’re already trying to summon you, you already know their goal is to avoid a war. As long as you don’t ask for anything unreasonable, they should be inclined to give you what you want in exchange for peace.”

“Once you offer peace, they will be invested in your successful rule of their own volition as a means of perpetuating said peace,” Frostbite corrects. “If you would like to set preconditions to an accord you should make them things that will not readily be given as a result of said accord. But before we discuss further, perhaps you can fill me in on why war was a concern in the first place? I believe you mentioned something about papers?”

[if-loki-was-a-fox]

I just randomly found ur blog and am now OBSESSED with the whole avian!mumbo concept

…….tell me everything there needs to be known abt it please I want to draw little bird boy (even tho my main way of doodlin mumbo is vampire but I WANT BIRD)

(apologies for the ramble I live laugh love moustache man)

(here's the previous avian!mumbo post for anyone curious)

It has taken me far too long to get the chance to respond to this ask and I have been so impatient because adjsaklfhaskghjd someone actually saw and enjoyed my unedited babbling about avian!mumbo :')

anyways I think I already said most of what I have coherent ideas on, and the rest is just nebulous vibes and happiness and fluff and hurt/comfort potential, but! I can share doodles and also reiterate/expand upon stuff I have already said

(putting it below a cut so I can make it soso long)

WING FLAPPIES!! I feel like this would definitely be something he'd appreciate about having wings, because I feel like it would be a more satisfying expression of emotion than like. stomping or bouncing or whatever. He would also totally struggle to control his avian body language, you can read his wings/ears/tail like a book, he's so unused to paying attention to and stifling his bird gestures. (Grian finds this beyond hilarious especially, because he can read Mumbo even better than everyone else being another avian)

His wings are red and black, though I haven't entirely decided if I'm gonna switch which goes where to make it match Grian's wings better. Since Grian is a Scarlet Macaw, Mumbo really ought to be too, but that would look just. so goofy. with his color scheme

AND SPEAKING OF LOOKING GOOFY- his wings look so silly for the first couple weeks. Until the feathers grow in properly, they're just kind of gradually more fluffy. raw chicken. wings. stuck to his back. because that's what baby parrots look like apparently! And then also pin feathers, before finally being pretty feathery bird wings

He also just accidentally passively collects the other members of Boatem's clothes. Grian does this too, but intentionally. Mumbo just does it without realizing and then gets confused about it because he doesn't understand the whole nesting thing, so someone else has to explain it to him

Oh and Mumbo tries to just go about his life without any changes or accommodations for his wings at first, because he doesn't want to ruin his clothes or generally have to change his routines. Grian and the others do not put up with this and persuade him to take proper care of the wings instead (<- this is a constant uphill battle for months)

On a more overarching note, Mumbo initially Does Not Like the wings, because they're just tiny and kind of ugly things that get in the way of his elytra and make him have to get all his shirts edited and they don't really do anything but cause him problems. Then once the wings start getting feathers and stuff and they have to start making preparations for learning to fly, it kind of becomes a bit of a bonding thing that brings Boatem together, with Mumbo starting to get used to them and accept them, and everyone else being able to help out with their care some (preening, stretches and exercises...).

Ultimately (probably sometime around HC 9), Mumbo ends up quite loving his wings in the long run. Once they're fully grown they're actually pretty impressive (since he's so tall they end up being a fair bit larger than Grian's, much to his annoyance) and Mumbo ends up putting a fair bit of effort into their upkeep and keeping them all nice looking (at least, when he's not too busy with other projects). He does still find a bunch of the other avian traits a little embarrassing (nesting, chirping, dietary restrictions, wings giving away his thoughts...) but he gets used to them.

[fireheartfaery]

Saving You

Not Ciara writing another gay crackship fic because she got addicted and needed to get something down even though she has no talent and it's too much pressure to write for canon couples in this Fandom because all the fanfic authors are so incredibly talented and she's just a lil bean in a big pot.

Anyway if you want to check out the only other fanfiction I've ever written for this Fandom here it is (spoiler alert it's rowcan).

TW: blood, violence

Edit: meu amor means my love in Portuguese (hopefully. I don’t speak Portuguese so i’m hoping google didn’t lie to me)

Azriel lands on the snow capped mountain with little more than a whisper. The footprint impression in the snow is barely visible. But it doesn't matter how quiet he is because the deafening screams coming from inside that blackened cave drown out any sound he may have made. Even the vultures that usually circle this mountain, feasting on the decaying bodies that get thrown out, are nowhere to be found now. His black swirls of power reaching for the world dance towards the cave, towards the pain within. He smiles, and it looks like destruction.

Ever so slowly, deliberately, he walks into the mountain that snuffs out light, kills dreams and he becomes the darkness itself.

The first thing he smells is the coppery tang of blood and his rage flickers. A soft red glow begins to illuminate the passage he prowls. His anger burns. He steps into a room, charcoal figures laughing at the armoured red light in the middle of them. He is an inferno.

"Leave him alone." He says softly. He knows they hear because backs stiffen.

His shadows are already weaving themselves through the figures, sussing out weaknesses, places to exploit, fun. They whisper in his ears but his focus is solely on the person in the center of the room. The red glow is coming from them, little jewels the colour of rubies, blood, decorating their body.

"What did you say?" A creature snarls, moving towards him.

"Let him go." He doesn't enjoy repeating himself. It's a waste of energy that gets depleted far too quickly.

"Why don't you make us Illyrian." The thing spits the title like it's dirt on its tongue.

"I don't want a fight." His voice is still so quiet. His eyes glance to the tank of water at the far end of the cave and he knows what they used it for. He's used that same tactic more times than he has fingers to count.

His gaze mists with fury as he takes everything in. Ropes wrap like jewellery around the person in the chair and long, inky hair plasters to sheened skin.

"Keep your shadows away from us!" Something growls.

"Give me my soul." He snaps back.

"Your what?" They look confused, leathery skin bunching as they frown at him. And then one of them giggles. It sounds like sharp nails on broken slate.

"He is your soul?" It crackles, "Gods you two are disgusting."

"Let's just kill them both." One pipes up, hunger rasping it's voice.

"Good plan."

And then faster than Azriel can blink they're pouncing on him: beady, swamp eyes bright with evil and scaly fingers reaching for his exposed skin.

He closes his eyes to them, wishing he had the space to block his nose too. Ever so slowly ice starts to slush in his veins. He can feel their toying, thinking he's surrendered. They same something in a language lost to explosions and extinction and he wonders briefly, pinned under their massive bodies if he'll ever learn all the languages of the world. The sapphires at his shoulders, on his chest start to glow. The ice in his veins is unbreakable. He opens is eyes. Everything shatters. And three creatures turn to dust and shards raining down over him.

There is a vile screech and he hears someone slice skin. With what he doesn't because he's already moving through the crowd. He is a whirlwind, a blizzard, chaos-incarnate. Power thrums in his fingers as he slams a fist into what could be a gut. The floor trembles underneath him, like even it is afraid of the warrior it holds.

The creatures flock to him like birds, beasts, vultures. They claw and shriek and snap razored teeth. He obliterates them. A look, a blade that sings secrets, and jewels of power flowing through him. He is invincible.

One of them blocks his path, "He is dead Illyrian. You are too late."

Azriel plunges a hand into its chest, bones cracking as he rips out its husk of a heart.

"Too late, too late, too late." They start to hum, crowding him.

A discarded body lies in a pool of maroon, a flickering red light surrounding it.

The Shadowsinger's mind goes blank. A claw plunges into the hollow of his throat. He tastes iron. The ice in his veins melt. The world goes black. And the demon inside him opens an eye.

Azriel rips his throat away from the puncturing nail and smiles like sin. True fear enters the creature’s eye but before it can save itself it is nothing but debri. The world narrows to each thing as they enter his- the demon's- line of vision. And one stumbling, shaky foot at a time he moves across the room. Obliterating anything that so much as breathed.

When he turns around to survey the destruction he is pleased to see twitching limbs and a trail of hearts following him. The demon inside him licks its lips. He thanks it and it settles back to sleep once more.

With a deep breath he turns to see the person he had come for. A strangled noise catches in his throat as he falls to his knees and cradles the unmoving body. Those red stones had flickered out, dull and dusty against his own bright blue ones.

"Cassian." He chokes on a sob.

"Please." This is not real.

"Meu amor, please!" The dam in his chest breaks.

Tears fall hot and fast onto their black armour but he doesn't bother to brush them away, just cradles his soul in his arms and rocks back and forth.

An earthy brown hand twitches. He does not notice. Lost in his grief, pain. Hazel eyes gently blink open.

"Az?" A confused rasp echoes through the cave.

Azriel stops moving, gaze sliding down. He isn’t quite sure this is real. There's every possibility he's dreaming.

"Cas?"

"What's wrong? What happened?"

"I— You—" He doesn't have words, doesn't know how to form them. His tongue is lead.

"Did I pass out?" Cassian looks over himself trying to find injury or cause for his unconscious state. "I don't understand."

For there is nothing there. No stab wound, or claw mark, or anything.

"You're alive?" The Shadowsinger is still frozen.

"I don't think any harm was done to me?" Cassian frowns. He was sure he had been tortured for three days at least. But there is nothing. Not even a scar.

"I heard them bring a sword down on you," He mutters, "I heard them hurt you."

But suddenly it doesn’t matter because they’re here and they’re together, and they’re alive. So he cups a warm brown cheek and sears their lips together. It’s like drugs, and addiction, and home. He can taste blood, but there’s wood and forests and adventure there too. The shadows gather around them, like a blanket. Joy blooms in his chest, and the blue stones glow brighter. Cassian’s red ones spark back to life. They are power, and beauty. They are ethereal.

The General breaks away, gasping for breath, but a grin splits his face and happiness spills out. “I love you.”

Before Azriel can reply he gasps. A burning as hot as lava blooms on his side. He looks down slowly and frowns at the growing stain of blood over his ribs.

"What happened?"

He can't talk as his throat opens up, and red spills down the pale column.

The Illyrian in his arms scrambles up and grabs his chin, alarm flashing neon in his eyes. "What the fuck is going on?"

He doesn't know how to tell his love, his heart, his soul that the demon does not do things for free. That he suffers the injuries of every creature it kills. He does not know how to tell Cassian that he asked the demon to take his injuries too.

So instead he grabs those long, supple fingers and places it on his chest. Their gazes clash, and the sea finally meets the earth.

He smiles through the pain. Taps three fingers to the red stone on the Illyrian's chest. I love you. He blinks once. And the Shadowsinger sings no more.

[darlington-v]

the subtext surrounding c!dream is important

and im complaining bc im impatient.

word count: 2k (just so you can decide if you wanna read this whole thing lmfao)

yesterday i complained about the stuff i took issue with in dream’s lore video, and i was going to let this response rot but i've decided against it. So here is that response with a few tweaks and the intro missing. For context, someone had replied to my post saying that c!dream wasn't a sympathetic character to begin with, that the lore had confirmed a handful of things, and that there was tons to be excited about.

A summary of the intro, to the best of my memory, was essentially: the post wasn’t about if c!dream is sympathetic or not, but that i would not be excited over lore until there was some form of progression with the subtext surrounding c!dream.

the theory and belief is supplied with a lot of clips and evidence on top of just word of god stuff. like dream says himself that cdream is a gray character. wilbur confirms that.

and i think he is sympathetic. i think it is incredibly sympathetic to go down dark roads with good intentions. it's human, even. and i've not necessarily given up on the idea, either. i'm just tired.

i'm tired of having to defend my case against people who have more evidence provided by character actions with my only defense as the small but significant amount of evidence of subtext behind the character and his actions. it's irritating and it doesn't feel like it’s enough at times. subtext is important, but the meaning behind it has to be backed up by more of those actions and displays, especially more blatant ones. there has to be a little bit of give, and i feel like we just haven't really been supplied with enough of it.

i understand that there is the possibility of him being a very cruel character who is a villain, but that doesn't get rid of the subtext that was already supplied. what are we supposed to do with that? why has the narrative continued to sidestep or obscure the subtext?

i'm tired of the narrative wringing my hands for giving it the respect to consume the story critically, for breaking down character motives, actions, literary elements, and devices that would be used to tell a good story.

(rest + TLDR under the cut)

EDIT: PLEASE do not respond if you don't read this whole post or are of the complete opposite belief. it's long for a reason and i don't feel like debating.

i was really hoping no one of the opposite party, people who think dream ISN'T sympathetic, would respond, because i don't have the energy to debate. it's just rubbing my nose in it. i don't want to have to explain for the umpteenth time about why i think he is a sympathetic character and why i find sympathy in his story.

because the narrative has largely only supplied us with a few actions and then the majority of it are implications and hints. but ultimately, that's not what the post is about.

i'm not talking about IF he is sympathetic. i don't care for that debate. i don't care to discuss it because at this point. better worded analysts than i have broken it down so many times and it's just not enough for some people. and that's fine!

but that's not what i care about nor am i talking about. it's about the subtext that has hinted at a deeper meaning behind dreams character, that points towards there being a twist to his darkness, and it kind of just getting steam rolled by his actions yet still hinted in the narrative. hints and implications are just not enough to thrive on. especially for me, i'm tired.

Almost all of the scenes that select fans have claimed are solutions and answers, are all implied "solutions and answers." which, they can be a temporary solution or even a just more vague solution, but i'm personally tired of the answers being implications and, potentially, just a vague solution.

like, the scene between ranboo and dream does NOT confirm the theory that ranboo set off the tnt. why? because it is not said DIRECTLY. it may be implied, but it is not addressed directly. and until it is directly acknowledged by the narrative, it remains a red herring. like the ranboo and dream scene is not a confirmation of ANYTHING because there's no dialogue, there's no context for the scene. it's a surreal portrayal of... something! likely his prison visit, or maybe him setting off the tnt, but we are not provided CONTEXT to sufficiently answer what it even means. like yes, there's tnt, there's blocks from the prison, there's the explosion. but that is all symbolism and metaphor.

and a metaphor is not a direct acknowledgement .

it's not confirmed that ranboo is in the enderwalk when bad gives him the papers and it's not confirmed what those papers are because it is all implied.

that is my issue. almost every answer we get is an implication. which is fine, sometimes implications and hints are enough; but in this case they are not confirmations because they have no context to give those implications weight. there's nothing being acknowledged here, only hinted at. the most context we have is how we expect the story to naturally progress given those implications. but, that is what’s important about mysteries: they contain red herrings and subversions of expectations.

so nothing we saw is a solidified confirmation of a particular theory until it has more evidence and weight to that conclusion, until it is addressed in a direct manner by the narrative.

like we can analyze and theorize all we want but we do not have a complete solution and until we do, we won't actually know. this is why there tends to be discourse surrounding any media that has a vague conclusion or that may never blatantly address what the subtext provided in their narrative means. like... there's no correct way to interpret subtext because it is subtext, where you read in between the lines. there is no direct meaning to subtext because it is always implication or hints drawn by the usage of literary elements and literary devices. there may be the likelihood of an intended interpretation, but because things can be interpreted in so many different ways, because there is not a confirmation from the author nor does the narrative directly address it, there cannot be a "correct" interpretation or a "confirmation" of subtext.

it's why critical thinking and analysis is important, though. there can be more compelling interpretations, theories, and analysis because those theories utilize and acknowledge certain usages of various elements of storytelling and writing. we can guess at what the creator's intent was by breaking down the usage of such things, and we won't always be right but an attentive reader may get close.

like, do you get what i mean? (this is a genuine question btw). like, a decent amount of people denied the theory that dream planned and intended to be locked in prison because they did not believe it had enough evidence in terms of character actions and surface level statements from c!dream to be true. and then it turns out, he absolutely did plan it. he put himself in prison. c!punz and c!dream confirm and canonize the theory during the jail break.

so the existence of subtext isn't inherently a solid solution or a complete confirmation, until the characters or narrative itself directly address the mystery.

people who theorized that dream staged his imprisonment had evidence for that. the evidence was a mix of actions and words from dream and other characters on top of subtext. the subtext gave context to those actions, and changed what they mean. and it still was not a "confirmed" theory, because the mystery at hand of whether or not he had planned being locked up was not addressed directly until c!punz and c!dream confirmed it the day of the prison break. it was a likely theory and a compelling theory with remarkable evidence to back it up (clearly), but no one knew for sure until it was coherently and directly solved by clear actions and blatant acknowledgement in the narrative.

it is now an undeniable fact of the canon because it was directly addressed.

my issue is that that is one of MANY mysteries surrounding c!dream. and a lot of them just keep piling up instead of being solved in increments. like the prison theory was an increment, but that was over the span of like almost a year? clearly, there were real life issues that got in the way, sure.

but i don't understand why you're going to pile more questions and plotlines on top of already unsolved ones INSTEAD of putting forth the effort to actively move previous plotlines forward, and introduce those new plotlines in increments along with it. like i'm complaining that i feel like we haven't received any more direct acknowledgement of established subtext from dreams character. which is why the post isn't for people who don't already contextualize his actions with subtext. it's not something one would relate to or understand, because it's not what they believe or agree with. it's not something they think about often.

it feels kind of ridiculing and unsatisfying to have more contradicting actions pile up against already established subtext, because as a fan you put forth the mental effort and give the narrative a significant amount of respect to formulate these ideas and theories but the narrative never really pays that off.

like as silly as it sounds, it makes me feel like i'm going crazy. and maybe i am. maybe i was completely off base. but, that's why i'm tired: because i feel like i've been sent on a wild goose chase i understand the subtext may never be addressed, but given the evidence of how important it may be, it makes no sense to me to never address it. like... i don't even need the answer to if dream is inherently sympathetic. i would love the narrative to simply acknowledge some of the subtext it has supplied us with. Some of that subtext is c!dream yearning for unity or his friends, c!dream directing everyone back to their homes after the prison visit, c!dream actually caring about attachments.

The stressful thing about being a fan who breaks down the subtext surrounding c!dream is that all of it points in the opposite direction of his actions, which are often read at surface-level. Which, isn’t rare or even that worthy of a complaint; the issue is that the acknowledgement of the subtext ekes in too slowly to be satisfactory. anticipation is one thing, but with the pace that storylines are advanced at, sometimes it feels like a direct address from the narrative will never come.

these are all my opinions, though, and i’m someone who has a tendency to get pessimistic at times. This isn’t “i hate dream and i think the writing is bad”, this is me lamenting that we haven’t got direct acknowledgement for the work we’ve continued to put into the story as viewers.

If you’re excited then, i’m glad. you should be, there's tons to be excited about with this video. i wish i could be, but it’s hard to get past this. and like, that's my own issue. i'm not saying the narrative should cater to me; i'm just voicing my frustrations in hopes that maybe someone can relate or maybe someone who believes in the same stuff can provide subtext i haven't picked up on.

TLDR;

the post was not about why people find the new lore exciting, but why i personally am not excited by the new lore and that i am frustrated.

further more: metaphor, subtext, or implication is not a confirmation of any theory or expectation because it is not directly acknowledged by the narrative; which is relevant to what i take issue with.

i am frustrated by most questions and mysteries the narrative poses being answered with only vague nod or hint to what the conclusion may be.

TLDR 2;

i'm impatient

[silvertonedwords]

#40 kisses prompt if you haven't had that asked yet please and thank you.

A gentle kiss that quickly descends into passion, with little regard for what’s going on around them.

I felt like expanding this.

“And, why are people staring at us?”

Tina clears her throat as they walk past gaggles of well-dressed employees at the Ministry entrance, then waves her wand at a stand of this morning’s papers so that one flies into her hand and falls open to the second page. “The usual.” She passes the page over to Newt, her beaded charcoal gown rustling between them.

Many of the guests pay them no mind, but Newt is right to notice the odd person pointing or whispering with badly concealed glances in their direction. 

“ ‘Scamander and Auror Wife to Split’ details on page 10′” he reads. “Merlin’s beard, not again.” He skims the article briefly before sending the paper back to the stand with a flick of his wand and a frustrated sigh. Frequent absences for work. Sources close to the couple. Chilly atmosphere on a walk last week after Mr. Scamander returned from his research trip.

“Mm-hm.” Tina rolls her eyes, fighting hard to brush it off entirely, although she knows these articles bother Newt. Not all of them—not the ones speculating about the color of ink he uses at book signings or the financial arrangement he has with his publisher for a second edition. He finds those easy enough to ignore. And the articles that anger him the most are those with misinformation about his creatures. But she has noticed that it bothers him when the papers speculate about the state of their relationship. Is it so impossible for people to see how we feel about each other? he’d asked the night after the second article had run, his face cast in shadows on the pillow beside her and his fingers tracing absent-minded shapes along her ribs. 

She can understand the frustration. As secure as they are in each other, it stings that the rest of society seems to have decided that their feelings deserve suspicion and ridicule. A single article would be one thing, but to have the baseless stories repeated over, and over... (Who’s gonna marry him? she remembers asking Newt on the day they met, in reference to Jacob of course, but it feels apt now—the question everyone else seems to be asking of them.) Tina is a generally private person, and she knows it wouldn’t help, but sometimes she wishes she could make these foolish people listen to her as she describes her husband—his kindness, and wit, and energy. How unusual and wonderful he is, and how lucky they both feel every day, even when one of them is in a terrible mood, or they’re about to be separated for work, to have stumbled into each other on a New York street. 

The specifics of the articles change each time, but the implications remain more or less the same. Some speculate that she is always at work, too busy to support his success, and too disinterested a wife to care. Others suggest that he is too strange, too cold—that he couldn’t possibly care for her. And always, the articles seem to say, it was destined to be a disaster, and if ever there was any passionate feeling between them, there certainly isn’t now. She’ll take the criticism of her feelings and know it’s absurd, but the self-satisfied hints about Newt are enraging. 

They make their way to the east wing of the lobby and up a set of stairs, where floating chandeliers and draping gold and navy fabric adorn the usually bare hall. Newt must have picked up on her scowl, because he slides his hand into hers and squeezes tightly. She squeezes back, trying to shake off her frustration as she waves at a couple of auror colleagues. “Thanks for coming with me. I know you hate these things.”

“You hate them too,” he protests.

“Yes, but I’m the one who’s required to go.”

His thumb sweeps across the back of her hand, his fingers threading through hers. “I’d do far more, you know.”

She does not try to hide her soft smile, lovestruck though it must be. “I know.”

They reach the top of the stairs and turn left, making their way past tables of bubbling drinks and towards the ballroom’s heavy wooden doors. Newt drops her hand to avoid a floating platter of chocolates, stepping to the side to rejoin her a few feet later. A camera flash goes off in front of them. Wonderful, Tina thinks. More fuel for speculation.

-&-

The first part of the evening goes as well as can be expected. Tina has few enough people that she’s interested in talking to; the only reason the Auror Department is required to attend these soirees is ‘to demonstrate to everyone that England is doing just fine in our efforts to stop Grindelwald’. 

At least Perkins had pulled Newt deep into conversation about the creatures he’d come across on assignment in Brazil. They’d wandered off fifteen minutes earlier, leaving Tina to sip her drink and watch the rest of the senior aurors and department heads mingle. Occasionally, she has a brief conversation with a colleague, but they, like her, keep moving around the room, taking stock. Even if she were the kind of person who enjoyed parties, she supposes, her job would probably ruin them. There are too many people to keep an eye on--too many people that she’s learned by reputation or experience not to trust.

Since Newt left for a smaller anteroom, she has also found to her great annoyance that the gossiping has become somewhat bolder. There are a few whispers around her--a couple of women from the press office pointing at her with sympathetic sighs; a man turning to his wife and saying I didn’t think it would last, you know. He’s so odd.

She has just turned back for another drink when Mrs. Selwyn spots her. “Ah, Tina darling, how are you?”

Tina moves her glass to her left hand, reaching with her right to shake the woman’s hand. The Selwyns have purchased hippogriffs from the Scamanders and have known both boys since they were little, although they are not, Tina has gathered, a particular favorite of either. “Fine, Mrs. Selwyn,” Tina replies smoothly, keeping an eye on new arrivals passing through the ballroom door.

“You know, dear, if you ever needed--well, if you needed someone to talk to...”

Tina swallows a cough at the presumption. “What about?” she asks cheerfully.

“Oh, well. I’m sure I don’t know. Married life. That sort of thing.”

Tina does cough at that, covering it with a sip of her drink. Any anger on her part, she knows, will only be taken as confirmation of the story. The nerve of these people though, and the nerve of those so-called journalists with their smug implications, that no one could really fall in love with Newt; that a woman and an auror could not possibly have a happy marriage; that because Newt doesn’t follow her around like a crup at every event saying ‘yes dear’ and ‘of course dear’, he couldn’t possibly be in love with her. Never mind the way he looked at her from across the room a few minutes ago, when he caught her gaze mid-sentence. Never mind that her heart still takes off like a niffler in a jewelry store whenever he fixes her hair or kisses the back of her hand.

“Tina!” she hears, grateful that for once, her brother-in-law has good timing. “Could I borrow her for a moment, Mrs. Selwyn? Auror business.”

Mrs. Selwyn looks between them, raising an eyebrow as though deciding whether to be offended, and then nods and turns away.

“Thank you,” Tina murmurs under her breath as they walk towards the opposite wall.

“I’m quite put out, you know,” Theseus replies good-naturedly. “My brother and sister-in-law are splitting up for the fifth time this year, and they didn’t even bother to tell me.”

“Don’t you start,” she warns.

Theseus glances at her, then nods towards Mrs. Selwyn’s retreating form. “Is that what that was about?”

She hums in acknowledgement. “Offering ‘marital advice’.” 

“Ridiculous, if you ask me. ‘There was a chilly atmosphere on their walk’,” he quotes. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Mm, particularly given the fact that we’d spent the majority of that day in bed.”

Theseus chokes on a sip of firewhisky. “Tina, he’s my little brother, would you please not—“ She grins, and he scowls back half-heartedly. “You say things like that just to make me squirm.”

“It’s good for you.” Her grin melts into a softer smile as she catches sight of Newt, who is still engrossed in his conversation with Perkins half a room away, his hands flying through the air with his enthusiasm.

Theseus’s voice has gentled beside her. “I don’t know how anyone could pay attention to the two of you for five minutes and believe anything those articles say.”

Well, Tina thinks with a rush of impatient energy, perhaps that’s what everyone needs to put an end to this stupid speculation. “Back in a minute,” she tells Theseus, downing the last of her drink and setting the glass on a nearby table. 

She strides across the room to where Newt and Perkins are still talking. “Could I borrow Newt?” she asks, one hand grazing Newt’s elbow once he’s seen that it’s her.

“Hello,” Newt offers once they are facing each other. He swallows hard, she presumes at what must be a rather fierce expression on her face.

“Hi,” she returns, touching the edge of his fringe. 

He catches her hand in his own, turning to press a kiss to her palm, the touch comfortable and breathtaking in equal measure. “Is something the matter?”

She shakes her head, falling into the tender amusement of his searching gaze. The auror in her had crossed the room with a plan, but as she slides a hand along his jaw and brings his lips to hers, she does not think about who might be watching them, or who would care. She does it because she wants to, and because she loves him, and because they can. Because she’s caught glimpses of him looking at her all evening, and knows that she’s been doing the same. 

Newt is as wrapped up in them as she was in an instant. He tilts his head further and cups her jaw to keep their mouths joined, his other hand settling on her waist to steady them. The kiss is intense but not frenzied, the press of lips and tongues a familiar give and take, their soft gasps muffled into the space between them.

Tina slides her hand around his neck, slipping her fingers up into his messy hair and smiling against his lips when he arches into the touch, and Newt coaxes her closer with his hand spread across her back. A shiver works its way through her as his calloused hand settles against her bare skin where the cut of her dress has left it exposed.

They part slowly, first to their foreheads pressed together, and then enough that Tina glimpses the dazed expression that matches her own. 

He watches his fingers curl into her mussed hair and tuck it back behind her ear, and Tina melts into the tenderness in his touch and his eyes. “That was…” he manages, his voice rough.

Her teeth dig into her lip, her eyes dancing to find the beginnings of a smile on Newt’s lips. “Unexpected?” She fixes the ends of his collar, although they hardly need adjusting. “I thought maybe we could put a stop to the rumors. They were starting to bother me.” She fingers his bowtie. “I think they have been. A little. Not because—but the things that everyone assumes about you are...“

“I know.” His brow furrows, his fingers curling around hers. “I think the same about you.”

A camera flashes beside them.

Tina sighs as, reluctantly, they pull apart. In an ideal world, they wouldn’t appear in the papers. But if they’re going to, at least it can be a little more accurate, and less likely to send nosy women and thoughtless Ministry officials their way with cruel assumptions about Newt’s heart. 

The story runs the following day as a caption to a photograph from the evening, an ever-repeating moment of their hands tangled and eyes fixed together as they separate from their kiss.

Newt Scamander & Auror Goldstein Like Newlyweds at Last Night’s Soiree, the headline reads. 

Theseus drops a copy on Tina’s desk the next morning with a shake of his head and a begrudging grin.

“So, did that go how you’d planned?” Newt asks that night as they’re getting ready for bed. 

Tina grins as he settles under the blankets beside her. “I saw you tear out a copy of that photograph and put it in your case.” 

He settles a hand on her hip, and she grasps it to tug him closer, until he’s pressed up against her back, his voice behind her warm and sleepy. “Your eyes in that photo, Tina.” 

She cranes her neck to glimpse his face, reaching an arm behind her to tuck his face into her neck. “I may have left a copy in my desk. I prefer yours.”

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ FALLING IN LOVE WITH A BIKER ❜

with Obispo ‘Bishop’ Losa.

Request: hermaaaaaana, hello😊 literalmente que llevo veinte minutos pensando en que te puedo preguntar but i think i got it. so if it’s okay for you, i would like to request a headcanon with bishop in which he mets the reader for first time and it’s love at first sight or something like that, only if you are comfortable with it. Thank youuuuuuu💖

BY @aquamento

Word count: about 1.9k

Aurora says: this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: to my wonderful @sonsofeorl ✨

Masterlist. You can subscribe to my broadcast list, to be notified whenever I post a writing!

“Please… tell me that bike is yours”.

Bishop is stationed in front of the Reyes carnicería, with the rest of his crew at both sides. His eyes are glued on your anatomy, touring the random tattoos all around your arms and enraptured on the way your hips move covered by a pair of black bike shorts. His heart stops when he sees you hanging the meat packet by your teeth, to wear the leather gloves, before keeping your order on the bag of your Harley.

“Fuck”.

Wearing the helmet, while you sit on top of your motorcycle, you raise your eyes feeling strongly stalked. You can't help but chuckle wearing your sunglasses, before turning on the engine. Chewing a mint gun, you pass them away with a funny smirk installed on your face. Probably, they have never seen a girl like you, and you're not actually surprised after seeing how women are in Santo Padre. You have three kinds: uptight, too old or too used. And you look like candy at a school gate. Mayans are the children.

He begs and prays to run into you, riding the city every night at the same hour, around Felipe's carnicería.

He doesn't lose hope for almost one month. But after this much time, he starts to be desperate. Bishop could have memorized your plate, but he was too busy admiring your mere existence.

Taza tried to help him, by using the database statewide using the model of your bike. But there were too many results, with different names of men and women, and none based on Santo Padre.

He has suddenly fallen in love and he doesn't even know your name.

Until he met you again.

Sipping by the straw of your cup of coffee, you're checking some messages of your father. You have forgotten your laptop in Santa Madre and you need it for work, so you're trying to convince him to bring it to your new town.

“(Y/N)”.

Frowning confused by the male hoarse voice, you raise your eyes from the screen, finding a middle-age man with a dense moustache over his smile.

“Do I know you?”

“I'm Obispo. Obispo Losa, but you can call me Bishop”. He offers you a hand, narrowing it with your left one in an awkward move that makes the two of you laugh. “Southpaw?”

“Got a coffee in my right”. You reply shaking your hand.

“I stopped you 'cause I like your bike”.

“Ain't selling”.

“I wasn't trying to buy it, it's just a compliment”. He says wearing his gloves, bowing down his head for a second. “I run the scrapyard, in case you need a rechange, or something”.

“It's good to know it”.

You watch him leaving you there, puckering your lips while you turn slightly, before continuing with your walk.

He was nervous as fuck trying to you, but it looks like that his trap can works on you.

And actually, it does. He has woken up an interest in you. Not because of his kutte, but because the way he had of licking his incisors with the tip of his tongue when you laughed.

These small details not everyone pays attention to.

And you take the bait. His bait.

You didn't have any excuse to visit the scrapyard, so with all the pain squeezing your heart, you hammer a nail in the back tire of your bike. Almost dragging it for one mile, you reach the place. That's going to cost you some bucks, but it's worth it. Anchoring the kickstand close to the office, you follow the rhythmic latin music to flood into a crowded yard. Sounds like a party. Looks like a party. With the hands kept in the back pockets of your shorts, you lean over your tiptoes trying to find the owner.

“Need help, mami?” A mexican accent makes you turn to your left.

“Yeah, 'am looking for… Obispo?” You say wrinkling your nose at the man with long black hair and a cigar on his lips, having a smoke.

“Yo! Prez!” Turning away, the man yells another name you can't understand.

Your orbs find the darkest ones, but what you see instead of what you were expecting provokes you some bitter shivers. On his lap there's an exuberant woman, wearing nothing but a short skirt and a white lace bra, and one of his hands caressing her thigh. Who the fuck is that guy and who the fuck does he think you are? Regretting your decision of coming, you turn over your steps to not continue looking at him, crossing your arms over your chest almost kicking the dust with the tip of your sneakers.

“You came”. He sounds excited, but somewhat nervous.

“Yeah, and now I would prefer to haven't done it”, you think to yourself.

“Yeah, I just… had a problem with a wheel and a nail”. You reply, shrugging your shoulders. “But that guy can attend me, you don't have to. I mean, you were occupied”.

“Is she jealous?”, he thinks to himself.

“I have time for you, querida”.

Wrong words. You're not going to fall again, not after what you have seen.

“I only need a wheel. I will come back tomorrow evening”.

“Don't you want a beer?” He sounds disappointed and a little annoyed, raising a hand over his shoulder to point at the party happening behind him.

“No, thanks”.

Watching you go is painful. A kind of sorrow that he never thought that he could feel.

After telling his brothers what happened, they counsel him to wait till the next day.

But you don't go to the scrapyard. You don't want to see him, even if you know that you have to pick up your bike.

Finally, you come back two days later.

Knocking the metallic door, you walk inside the office. The man who attended you the first time and another with strange hands receive you.

“I came for the black and red Harley”.

“Yeah, mami, give me a second”.

The men disappear from the place, while you take a seat on an old leather couch, crossing one leg above the other; moving it impatiently. But again, you have to take off your eyes from the screen of your phone, hearing his voice calling you.

“The bike is ready”. Obispo says with a fleeting smile appearing on his face.

“Good. How much do I own you?” You ask getting up, trying to not look at him too much and focusing on the bill he offers you.

“Nothing, it's on me”.

“Thanks, but I wanna pay”.

“Well, ain't gonna charge you”. He sentences with a chuckle.

Puckering your lips with a forced smile, you pass him away to step out from the office, looking for your bike.

“Hey, wait”.

“What?”

“She's just a friend”.

You pretend that you don't know what he's talking about, making him snort rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“The girl. In the party. She's just a friend”.

“Bueno, congrats”. You just reply, about to walk away again.

“I was wondering if you would like to hang out one day”. These words stop your legs. “Have some beers, a ride, maybe a dinner. Or a lunch. Whatever”.

He's trying. He's trying to fix up what he fucked up. And you are not sure about what response you can give him back. You want to say yes, but, for what? To end like his friend? Sitting on his lap almost naked, surrounded by drunk bikers?

“Sorry, I ain't your type. Don't lose your time”.

You can't believe what you just said, sounding so rude and proud. Bishop frowns.

“My type? And which is my type?” Now, you have offended him, watching him intertwining his hands under his abdomen. Expecting.

“Cheap makeup to leave marks. Lingerie and short skirts. Laughter when something isn't funny. Work hard to look like a man's trophy… Definitely, I'm not your type. I mean, you must be however you want to be, but… sorry, that's not my game”.

“That isn't my game either”. He replies tilting his neck to the left side for some seconds. “I prefer the ones who call me out when I'm being a pendejo”.

“Mommy issues?” Making fun of him, you raise both eyebrows. He chuckles shaking his head. “Thanks for the wheel”.

You don't need no man, but could God please send to you a normal one?

Bishop feels fucked than ever. Annoyed. Bothered.

He tries to figure out how to make it up to you, but he has never had to do something like that.

And his brothers can't help him either.

So he plays one of his best cards.

Be sincere.

The next time he sees you walking around, he makes to stop the whole crew behind him. Jumping off from his bike, he crosses the road with a slow sprint to not being run over. Rolling your eyes, you don't stop your path. Not even when he reaches you.

“Can you listen to me for a second?”

Placing himself in front of you, the man takes off his sunglasses.

“I'm hurry”.

“One sec—”.

“One”. You just say, counting it about to walk away. A hand around your left wrists holds you.

“Please”.

Hearing him beg to you wasn't on your to-do list for today. Facing him with no gesture on you lets him know that you are granting him a second.

“You're gonna think I'm crazy because I have never fell in love at first sight, but when I saw you the first time I fucking swear that you stole my heart, querida. I have been looking for you for a month. Every night. Same hour. Trying to catch the opportunity of talking to you. And maybe, just maybe, I tried to find you by the model of your bike”. You can't lie. You weren't expecting that confession. “I really felt like shit when I saw you in the scrap. The way your face changed when you saw that girl sat on me. And I'm really sorry”.

You don't have a word to reply. Confused. Overwhelmed by a lot of sensations running through your body.

“I ain't the kind of man who… you know what I'm trying to say. And I didn't mean to offend you”.

He keeps silent, waiting for you to say something.

“This has been more than one second”. You try to joke, a little nervous. And you make him laugh again.

“Listen, I know a place with the best meat in the whole California, and a lot of different sauces to dip in. It's forty minutes away, but we can have a ride together”.

“Sounds good, but… I'm on my way to work”.

“We can go whenever you want”.

Bishop isn't going to give up, and you know it.

“You said you're in a hurry, let me take you to your job and think about it on this ride”.

You finally accept, knowing that he's not going to accept a decline as an answer.

And when he finds out that you work in the hospital, he's totally amazed.

And he earns your number after being so sincere with you.

“Maybe, just maybe, I put the nail on purpose”. You confess then, walking backwards to the entrance, facing him with a smile on your face.

[everyhowlmarksthedead]

❛ FALLIN' ALL IN YOU ❜

Songfic with ‘Fallin' all in you’ by Shawn Mendes.

with Jackson ‘Jax’ Teller.

Request: Hellooo love!! How are You?? Hope You good💕 could I request a jax teller x reader? Jax propose to the reader and then they have a wedding and some smutt!! Thank you honeeeyyy💕💕💕 love your work!! Just keep going💗 You are amazing🥰

BY ANON

The marriage proposal.

Warnings: none, fluff af.

Word count: about 1.7k

Aurora says: I didn't write the smut part because I thought that didn't fit in. this writing hasn't been edited, you may find some grammar mistakes, I'm sorry about that!

Gif credits: to the author.

Masterlist.

Sunrise with you on my chest. No blinds in the place where I live, daybreak, open your eyes. This was only ever meant to be for one night. Still, we're changing our minds here. Be yours, be my dear.

Today is the day. Today is the day when you're going to marry your best friend, your partner in crime, the love of your life, the best man you could ever know. And even if it's supposed that the night before you shouldn't sleep together, you don't believe in superstition. You two wanted to wake up as a couple to go to sleep as a married couple. Your nose caresses his, purring as he closes his arms tightly around your body. One of your hands tour his neck slowly, with the tip of your fingers running over his skin and flooding on his lips, gently and sleepy kissing them. One second after, his mouth meets yours with a soft move before opening his eyes.

“You on time to run away”. He whispers with a hoarse and deep tone of voice.

“You too”. You chuckle sinking your face under his chin.

“I love you, darling”.

“I love you more, Jackie boy”.

So close with you on my lips, touch noses, feeling your breath. Push your heart and pull away. Be my summer in a winter day love. I can't see one thing wrong between the both of us. Be mine, anytime.

When the door rings, you're ready to start with the preparatives at the clubhouse, where your wedding dress waits for you. But before you can go with your girls, Jax grabs your wrist to pull you into him with that dearly smile on his lips that shakes your legs.

“Goodbye, miss (Y/L/N). I will see you again calling yourself ‘Teller’”. He says very proud, peeking your lips with short kisses.

“That sounds amazing”. You mutter against his lips, surrounding his neck with both arms tangled on.

“I can't wait to be married”. Putting away a soft tuft of your hair, he leans forward to kiss your forehead with all the love he carries on his chest.

“Then, hurry. I'm the one who has to be late, remember?”

Fast forward a couple years, grown up in the place that we live. Make love, then we fight, and laugh 'cause it was only meant to be for one night, baby. I guess we can't control what's just not up to us.

You're sitting on a stool in Jax dorms, while Laila does your hair. A beautiful braid decorated with white flowers on it. Watching the long white silk dress hanging from the top of the bathroom door, you can't help but think about the day you met. It was like fifteen years ago, in the kinder garden. Actually, it was really cute because there were some children trying to take off from you a teddy bear, because apparently you were too old to play with him. And Jax appeared from nowhere, followed by Opie. You still laugh because of the looks on their faces.

“That's ready, honey. Do you wanna see it?” Layla asks you while you stand up, straight to hug her.

“It isn't necessary. I would trust you my life”. You just say, before being interrupted by Gemma.

“Look at you…” She said almost in tears, opening and closing the door as fast as she can, to hold you into her arms. “You're going to be the most beautiful Old Lady ever…”

“Do you think that… Jax would like it?”

“Of course he will, sweetheart”.

Every time I see you, baby, I get lost. If I'm dreaming, baby, please don't wake me up. Every night I'm with you, I fall more in love. Now I'm laying by your side and everything feels right since you came along.

The front yard of Teller-Morrow is completely changed. The main door is closed and covered, so you will have the intimacy you deserve. Maybe it isn't the most romantic place on earth, but it's the one where you grow up with Jax and your families. There's a big flowers arch as an altar, and the alley to it it's in the middle of the guests. You will have to walk over a red carpet as if you were a star, because Tig said so.

When the door of the clubhouse gets opened and your bridesmaids step out from it, the soft music floods the crowded yard. The girls positioned themselves at the right of Jackson, waiting impatiently on the altar with Opie putting well on his tie and the flower on the lapel. But as soon as your future husband watches you walk towards him, grabbed to your father's arm, he breaks into tears. You can hear some chuckles, some kindly whispers, and Jax laughing between a soft cry, so proud of what he is seeing.

Oh, you know I've been alone for quite a while. Haven't I? I thought I knew it all, found love, but I was wrong more times than enough. But since you came along…

“When I met you, fifteen years ago… I promised you that I would protect you with my life”. He has to do a brief pause, freeing your hands to clear his tears with the back of them. “You made me a better man. You took care of me, loved me unconditionally, without asking anything back. You have been my best friend since ever, my counselor, my anchor to keep floating, and I can't wait to continue my life with you, (Y/N). I can't wait to have a family with you. To come back home everyday and fall asleep with you between my arms. I will never love anyone like I love you. And I want to show it to you every single second for the rest of my life, 'cause I'm the luckiest man on earth. You're kind, attentive, motivating, honest, careful, loyal. You are perfect for me, and I couldn't imagine a day without you”.

Leaning forward, Jackson kisses your cheek, taking the advantage to clean his tears with your fingers. You know everything that he thinks about you, but these words just make it real. For a second, you thought you were dreaming. That the wedding was a dream and that you would wake up before kissing him again. But there you are, stunning and making your future husband running out of air with a charming smile.

“I couldn't ask for a better way to spend my life, than doing it by your side, Jackson. You are the most intelligent and courageous man I have ever met. Your sense of… keeping close your family, your brothers, your friends… That's what makes the difference. You put their welfare before your own, and that makes you a good man. If your father would be here, he would be proud of who you are and of who you are becoming”. John always loved you like his own daughter, and he used to say that Jax and you would end up married. But you two always used to laugh about the idea, until three years ago when you got badly drunk. And a one-night-stand and an apparently big mistake, made real his prophecy. “Your father told me once that we were made for each other, destined to meet us, destined to protect each other, destined to respect each other. Destined to love each other. Your father was the wisest man I have ever met, even if I thought that he was wrong. And I can't wait to start calling you ‘my husband, ‘my family’ for the rest of my life”.

I'm thinking, baby, you are bringing out a different kind of me. There's no safety net that's underneath, I'm free fallin' all in. You fell for men who weren't how they appear. Trapped up on a tightrope now we're here, we're free, fallin' all in you.

It's supposed that you should put the golden ring in each other's finger, but Chibs is crying so deep that he can't even say a single word, making the guests laugh when Bobby pushes him out of the altar.

“Fucking scottish… Or you're drunk, or you're crying”. He mumbles rolling his eyes, before grabbing the wedding rings from Opie's hands.

“I saw him once crying and drinking”. Jackson chuckles, infecting your families there.

“Here we go, brother”. Opie narrows his shoulders, before placing himself with the groomsmen behind him.

“I, Jackson Nathaniel Teller, take you, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), to be my lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part”. Putting in your shaky finger the ring, with his oceanic eyes on yours, you're trying to contain the tears you have been hiding since you woke up on your shared bed.

“I, (Y/N) (Y/L/N), take you, Jackson Nathaniel Teller, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, until death do us part”. You can't help but laugh softly when you notice that he's more nervous than you, holding his hand to put in the wedding ring.

“Aye, ye can kiss yer wife, kid”. Kicking out Bobby's ass, Chibs appears again cleaning his tears. “I haven' been five month practicing ti not say these words”.

Fallin' all in you.

You can assure that his lips are softer than never, with your fingers tangled with his, kissing him under the cheerings of everyone around you two. Jax can't help but hug you. Tightly, dearly.

“I will always love you”. He mutters with a broken voice, intertwining your fingers in his scalp to push him closer.

“Not even death will set us part, Jax”.

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