#old man tramp

[isawthismeme]

[tofuthebold]

ngl i've kinda grown attached to the Violet Suit, both the default version and my custom. It exudes such incredible loser energy 🌹

[undead-knick-knack]

Any episode, it's gonna happen

[void-687]

Other sketches on this page, but small nose doodle turned into trevor the tramp lol

[zappedbyzabka]

🍎👱👖

[delusional-mishaps]

its so funny being openly lesbian irl and then telling people i thirst over all these fictional men

[ms-demeanor]

I am not sexualizing that old man, that old man knew perfectly well what he was doing when he got a tramp stamp and a womb tattoo as a 25 year old.

[evita-shelby]

Happy wife, Happy life

Or Tommy gets drunk and assumes his wife is someone else so he sleeps on the floor instead

For @runnning-outof-time with the prompt 34) “I didn’t get your name.”

Gif by @cillianparadise

The sight of Tommy, this new Tommy who is always in control at all times, drunk as hell and stumbling into the bedroom, is a sight for sore eyes.

It is the old him, the one who laughed and loved horses and had ambition but not the sort to get you murdered by the Crown's most evil men.

“Did you have fun tonight, love?” You ask as your husband of four years stripped down to join you in bed.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I am sure you’re a catch, but I got a wife.” He answers, perfectly serious too and lies down on the floor after taking his pillow with him.

You can’t help but laugh and tease him. Not like he’ll remember this tomorrow.

“Oh, so you’d rather sleep on the floor instead of your bed, Mr. Shelby?” you ask letting you arm hang over the edge of the bed and just low enough to bop his nose.

He hates it, and rolls his eyes at your immaturity.

“Yeah, happy wife happy life.” Tommy responds as if it made all the sense in the world.

Good boy, you say and he thanks you for the praise and rejects your advances while he’s at it.

“What if I told you your wife was in bed and can’t sleep without you with her?” you ask while you lightly pester him in ways only you did.

“Mhm, she’d shoot me if she caught me in bed with another woman, especially you.” He turned on his side and you paused as you raked your fingers through his mop of dark hair.

You.

Was there another tramp trying to woo him away from you?

You knew from the beginning that every woman here would sign off on their firstborn to be in his bed, and sell their soul to the devil to be in your shoes.

You were jealous, so much so that when he left for France you told him he could fuck a whore so long as you got to fuck a fella in return.

Your threat saved him from a bout of gonorrhea which Barney got from a whore who gave it to every man in the battalion save for Tommy.

“She doesn’t have to know,” you say keeping up the act so you know which woman you have to scare away from your fucking husband.

Couldn’t these ladies see the wedding band in his finger?

“She will, you aren’t exactly doing yourself any favors working in the pub, Miss. Miss?” Tommy faltered forgetting the name of the mousy barmaid. Looked like Jane Seymour , with that holier-than-thou face that got Anne Boleyn short of a head. “Sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

“Grace. Grace Burgess.” You filled in the blanks and knew you’d make the blonde bitch leave Birmingham and scurry the fuck back to Belfast or your name isn’t Y/N Shelby.

Part 2

[munson-blurbs]

Single Dad!Eddie x Fem!ReaderSeries

Summary: Eddie gets a not-so-sweet surprise when Hendrix takes some song lyrics a bit too literally.

TW: the briefest allusion to smut (referencing chapter 1), minor spousal conflict

WC: 1.5k

A/N: Based on an idea given to me by none other than @corroded-hellfire 💚 y'all wanted more of Hendrix, so here he is!

April 2003

The sedan rattles along the winding road to Forest Hills Trailer Park, pebbles crunching beneath the tires. Sunday nights meant dinner at Wayne’s, a tradition that you and Eddie both vowed to keep as long as possible.

A familiar intro trills over the car’s radio. Eddie’s eyes leave the road for a brief second to meet yours. 

Step inside  Walk this way You and me babe  Hey hey!

“Our song, Sweetheart.” Your husband grins, right hand slipping from the steering wheel to crank the volume louder. He sings along, just as animated as he was that first night at The Hideout. 

Love is like a bomb, baby, c'mon get it on Livin' like a lover with a radar phone Lookin' like a tramp, like a video vamp Demolition woman, can I be your man?

“Dad, what the heck?” Harris grumbles from the backseat. At eleven years old, he flips between adoration and annoyance with astounding speed. 

“Yeah, what the heck?” Hendrix echoes his brother, though his smile is a far cry from Harris’s exasperated eye roll. 

Eddie relents, twisting the knob just enough to be heard over Joe Elliott’s vocals. 

“This is the song I sang that had Mom falling in love with me.” There’s a teasing glimmer in his eyes, daring you to disagree with him. 

You eagerly take the bait. 

“Love is a strong word,” you counter. The night you and Eddie met was steeped in memories of longing and lust, of giving into your desires in what was supposed to be a fling. 

A fling that’s been happening for nearly seven years and counting. 

Eddie sits forward suddenly, snapping the volume knob so Def Leppard once again reverberates through the car. “Wait…this is the best part!” He yells back to his sons, taking an extended pause at a stop sign to headbang. 

Pour some sugar on me Ooh, in the name of love Pour some sugar on me C'mon, fire me up Pour your sugar on me I can't get enough

He leans in, smushing his lips against your cheek, as he sings along. 

I’m hot, sticky sweet From my head to my feet, yeah!

You playfully shove him away, giggles betraying the irritated exterior you’re trying to uphold. 

From the backseat, Hendrix pipes up. “What does that mean?”

Without missing a beat, Harris instigates further. “Yeah, Dad. What does this song mean?”

Damn pre-teens. If there’s no trouble to be found, they’ll make some. 

Eddie swears under his breath, cheeks flushing red as he tries to find a response suitable for his three-year-old. “Well, um, he’s just…” he falters, any and all explanations fleeing his head. He improvises song lyrics on the fly when he forgets the real ones on stage, but now his brain short-circuits? Convenient.

Luckily, you’re used to fielding questions from little kids; one of the benefits of teaching preschool. “He wants to be extra sweet so a girl loves him.”

“So he pours sugar on himself?” Hendrix’s nose wrinkles in adorable confusion.

“Yup.” Easier to confirm your son’s own ideas than to come up with an alternative. Leaning back against the headrest, you force out a giggle. “Pretty silly, huh?”

The subject is swiftly dropped as Eddie pulls the car in front of his uncle’s trailer, Wayne already standing at the door and announcing that the pizza was on the table and ready to be eaten. “Delivered hot to the door, just like they promised,” he said, repeating the Surfer Boy slogan. 

It isn’t until dinner has been eaten, the conversation naturally dwindling, that trouble begins to arise. 

“Har, I wanna look over your homework when we get back,” you say, crumpling up your sauce-stained napkin and placing it on your empty plate. Your eyes narrow when you clock the uneasy glance that your oldest son shares with his father. “You did finish your homework, right?”

Harris tries and fails to hide behind his messy mop of curls. “Not exactly,” he mutters. His uneaten crust is suddenly of incredible interest. “I was gonna do it today, but, um…”

“But what?” Your impatience is directed both at him and Eddie, the other alleged adult in the house, who was home with Harris while you took Hendrix to a playdate. 

“Well, okay, the plan was for him to do his homework,” Eddie begins, choosing his words carefully. Too carefully, like he’s trying to hide something. “But then Jeff called and told me about this tournament at the arcade; like, all of the old-school stuff we played as kids. I told Harris he could go if he promised to finish his work after, but then time got away from me—”

You grit your teeth, all-too aware of your audience present. The last thing you need is for your temper to unravel in front of Wayne and the boys. “So Harris’s homework isn’t done because…” You take a deep breath before continuing. “…because you wanted to go to the arcade?”

Wayne mumbles a barely audible “hoo, boy” as he clears the snack table. 

“I’m sorry, all right?” Eddie shakes his head. “I lost track of time, but he’s gonna get it done. It’s just, what, some math and science stuff?”

“And social studies,” Harris admits. 

Eddie’s face blanches. “Okay, so…just three things.”

Except it’s not that simple. Harris needs to take breaks to keep himself motivated and prevent frustration. He needs to reread and revise because he has trouble attending to all of the details at once. And now that he’s older, his know-it-all approach only makes homework time more challenging—for him and for you and Eddie. 

“Looks like he’ll be up until God-knows what time, then,” you shoot back. “And you can be the one up with him.”

“I said I’m s—what the hell?” Eddie leaps up, nearly falling over his feet in the process. A mountain of grainy white substance falls from his lap, into the futon’s crevices and onto the floor. 

Hendrix stands beside him, an upside-down—and now empty—bag of granulated sugar in his pudgy hands. His big eyes dart between you and Eddie, anticipating your reactions. 

“Hendrix,” Eddie says through a deep breath, channeling every ounce of remaining patience. Harris cackling doesn’t help, either. “Why did you do that?”

Your youngest son shakes the bag a few extra times for good measure. “Putting sugar on you so Mommy likes you. Like in the song.”

Shocked into stillness, Wayne speaks up. “What song made you dump all of my sugar on your dad?”

Hendrix beams as he belts out, “POUR SOME SUGAR ON MEEEEEE! STICKY SWEET!” He turns to you triumphantly. “Do you like Daddy now?”

You tuck your lips into your mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. Logically, you know that you can’t reinforce this behavior, even if it was done with good intentions. 

But it’s also really funny. 

“I like Daddy even when he’s not covered in sugar,” you say. “I love him a lot, and us having a little argument doesn’t change that.”

“But the song…” Hendrix furrows his brows. 

You breathe out a sigh. “Sometimes, people say things in songs that we don’t do in real life. Like when people beat each other up on TV or in movies. It’s fun to watch, but we aren’t actually going to do it.”

The boy pouts. “So do I gotta say sorry?”

“Yes,” you tell him, “to Daddy for pouring the sugar on him, and to Grampa Wayne for wasting his sugar.”

“Sorry, Daddy. Sorry, Grampa Wayne,” he says softly. “I didn’t know the song wasn’t for real.”

Wayne grins. “S’okay, kiddo. I’ll just drink my coffee black for a while.”

Eddie’s positioned over the kitchen sink as he brushes the rest of the granules off of his shirt. “I think we need a hard-and-fast rule that we don’t copy any of the things we hear in songs.”

“Agreed.” You start towards the tiny closet where Wayne keeps the vacuum, adjusting the hose so it can suck up the sugar embedded into the futon’s mattress. When that’s done, you grab the broom. “Now, Hen, you’re gonna hold the dustpan while I sweep the floor.”

“But—” he starts to argue, but a raise of your eyebrows silences him. “Okay…”

Eddie takes the broom from you, a tight smile on his face. “Guess I kinda deserved that, huh?” He murmured. 

“Didn’t wanna say it out loud, but…yeah.”

“I really am sorry.” He sweeps the sugar into Hendrix’s waiting pan. “It was a real dumb move on my part.”

You kiss his cheek. “I know you’re sorry. And I forgive you, you stupid, stupid man.”

“Good.” He grins wickedly. “I’d hate to have to pour more sugar on myself to win back your affections.”

You roll your eyes. “Just keep sweeping, and then we can talk about my affections.”

“Yes, dear.”

--

[gucci-ross]

These COD Y/n are not it!!

I’m tired of the barrack bunny stuff or the over exaggerated breasts and butts figure. AND saying she is a lieutenant around early 20s. That doesn’t make sense!!!

Girl- Gimme one y/n that makes people question about how old she is when she mentioned stuff she did in the 70s, 80s and 90s!!!

Mine [oc] is like that and have beef with Buses and electric cars.

I want Y/n to be like:

Y/n: Move your ass! What are you waiting around here for?! The bus!

———

Y/n: *smokes* i haven’t heard that song from Megadeth since they did an open performance for Dio…

Soap: how old are you again?

———

Laswell: I remember you got me to go to that party. Left me alone and shit.

Y/n: Hey! That got you to open up and meet your wife. I’m still bitter that you didn’t bring me to the honeymoon.

Laswell: You didn’t help.

Y/n: yes I did!

———

Gaz: Captain told me you got a tattoo.

Y/n: yeah *rolls up sleeve* here.

Gaz: not that one. You have another one.

Y/n: I’m not telling you, Kid.

Nik: *passing by* It’s a tramp stamp. That said Hugh Jackman.

Y/n: Bastard!!

Gaz: *wheezing*

———

Ghost: The Bus! It’s going to ram into the crowd!

Y/n: I never trust those things!

Soap: What?!

Y/n: shoot the wheels!

Soap: What?!

Y/n: Did I ask for driver to pull over?!Shoot the wheels damn it!!

———

Price: You would make a good captain.

Y/n: I would’ve been a terrible one.

Price: I know. *Chuckles*

———

Y/n: I need to be taken out.

Gaz: like on a date?

Y/n: No by a sniper.

Ghost: That’s one way to a man’s heart.

———

Gaz: you got kids?

Y/n: Yep. 2 boys.

Soap: wouldn’t mind looking after your wee lads if you croak…

Y/n: they’re in their 20s Soap. What do you mean croak? I’m old not that old.

Gaz: How old are you-

Y/n: Focus on the mission.

———

Y/n: Damn I can’t read this… *pulls out reading glasses from her vest pouch*

Price: *struggles to keep a straight face*

THATS WHAT I WANT!

[endless-weightless]

Ford Pines x GN!reader headcanons!

I'm surprised it took me this long to get into Gravity Falls. Anyways this has both SFW and NSFW so beware. There's also a brief mention of being AFAB as a possibility but other than that it's completely gender neutral (I'm 99% sure, I didn't proofread too well lol).

SFW

Right off the bat, I’m saying he’s autistic because so am I and I said so.

If you’re someone who needs reassurance or is generally anxious/paranoid about anything he’ll go into long (often scientific) explanations to ease your mind and also throw in some fun facts.

Both a listener and a yapper. He loves nothing more than the sound of your voice but also loves being able to spout all sorts of things about his research and interests while you stare at him lovingly.

Can’t sleep unless you’re next to him. You don’t even need to be cuddling, your presence is just the one thing he needs to fall asleep.

That being said, he will NEVER pass up an opportunity to cuddle. Watching a movie? Cuddling. Working at his desk in the lab? Cuddling on his lap. Cooking something in the kitchen? He’s got his arms wrapped around you as he presses loving kisses into your temple.

He rarely swears, but when he does it always makes you do a double-take (and maybe giggle because it sounds so odd coming from him).

Probably tried weed once or twice in the '70s and was somewhat part of the psychedelic rock scene. Stan has some old photos of him during that time somewhere but Ford is absolutely mortified by the idea of you seeing him in bell-bottom jeans.

It doesn’t matter how long you two have been together, every time he sees you he feels the same as he did the day you two met. Ford will never stop becoming flustered at the sight of you.

Post-Weirdmaggedon he became very anxious at the thought of you being out alone or not being near him. He feels like he needs to be on guard at all times so that he can protect you. He eventually calms down after some reassurance from you and a fuck ton of therapy.

While he lacks some emotional intelligence he’s actually very attentive and knows exactly what you need when you’re upfront about your feelings. As long as you’re not vague and communicate, he knows what to do to help you.

Adding onto that, I think he briefly studied psychology in college so he’d have a pretty good understanding of any mental health issues you might have.

Said “No more Mr Nice Guy” one time and hasn’t heard the end of it from anyone.

NSFW

Has to stop himself from cumming too quickly when you tell him how good he’s making you feel. Stroking his ego (and other things) is the best way to get him horny.

Will always ask you for consent no matter what it is. You could be mid-fuck and he’d still ask if he could put his hands on your hips.

This is just my personal headcanon but I believe while he didn’t really have too much experience before he got stuck on the other side of the portal (probably hooked up with Fiddleford once or twice tho), I fully believe that after a few years of dimension-hopping, he would’ve had a few one-night stands (mans gotta blow off some steam). So when he gets the chance to fuck you, a real human from his dimension, he’s more than ecstatic, especially since he’s picked up more than a few tricks over the past thirty years.

Knows how to use all twelve of his fingers.

Since Ford was sucked into the portal in the early ’80s and spent thirty years in there, he’s super confused when you mention shaving down there or being embarrassed about your body hair (if you do either) since the last time he was around everyone preferred going all natural.

This one’s less sexy but I’m putting it here anyways. He avoided taking off his shirt for ages since he didn’t want you to see all the scars he’d gotten over the years or any of the tattoos related to the things he did in the portal, especially the ones related to Bill. Surprisingly not as insecure about his “Flirty Gal” tramp stamp.

Doesn’t understand that he’s ridiculously hot. 

You jokingly said “Yes sir” one time and he got hard so quickly.

Although he does rather enjoy you taking the lead.

Loves experimenting with cock warming and edging. Literally. He’ll time the both of you and have everything written down somewhere and draw a graph with extra info like if you’re someone with a menstrual cycle and how that affects the results.

[isawthismeme]

[teaboot]

Batman? As in extended batman universe, specifically batman, or movies batman? I'm going to die from the hilarity of /accidentally/ following another batman fan. Generally it's on purpose lol

I was actually absorbed into the Fandom by osmosis before I even touched any of the Canon material

Even now I've only seen the Affleck movies and the Battinson one, plus a couple cartoons and like. Four comics out of order

With next to zero evidence tho I have decided that

Dick Grayson has Eldest Daughter syndrome that, speaking as an Eldest Daughter (tm) really should be addressed in the lore somewhere before he goes on a drunken bender, gets a tramp stamp, kills a man, and has a full-on mental breakdown when the Repression Dam breaks

Stephany Brown radiates "angry teen girl needs a hug" energy imo but I feel like she might break my arms? I don't know anything about her except her dad sucks but honestly same boat, would hang

Timothy Drake cannot be the helpless boohoo I see a lot of, but somehow the cool, collected, hypercompentant, übermensch-tweenybopper look is kinda sadder, like seeing a twelve year old buying groceries at the store by themselves. I want to send his ass to normal kid summer camp

I don't know pretty much anything about Duke Thomas except that he's a meta whose parents might be alive but crazy. I can only conclude that he suffers from Black Character White Fandom syndrome. I headcanon that he had an embarrassing weeb phase in middle school because he feels like the kind of kid Who'd have gone through a phase of saying "ohaio" with peace signs as a baby tween. I have no evidence to support this

Cassandra Cain might be my favourite. I think she deserves to go on an angry, irrational rampage or two, as a treat. Aggretsuko vibes that I cannot explain. I bet her favourite colour is purple

Jason Todd is my guilty comfort character and I refuse to believe he kicked the shit out of a fifteen year old while wearing a legless adult onesie. I refuse. Also yeah as a huge angry-kid-book-nerd there is no way that pride and prejudice was his number one fave, my money is on the Percy Jackson series but that could just be me projecting

Damian Wayne is Autistic, personal subscription. Because I am too and I said so. Reminds me of my baby brother, but crankier. Like a tiny old man who doesn't want to be at bingo with the other folks at the senior center.

I feel like Alfred should be allowed to be wrong about something sometimes but I still love him. Give that grandpa a gun

Bruce Wayne strikes me as a man who should have put a lot more thought and study and personal therapy consults into the idea of adopting multiple highly capable highly traumatized children he's never met before before but fuck pobody's nerfect am I right. Bisexual

[saintsenara]

wait how bougie was Tom Riddle Sr.? How nice would his Manor have been? Was he like an actually Lord with a title and stuff?

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

in half-blood prince, dumbledore refers to tom riddle sr. as "the squire's son" - which allows us to state with certainty that he was a minor aristocrat.

however, the word minor is important here.

there are - historically - two levels of aristocracy in britain. the first are the peers of the realm - which refers to families which hold one or more of the titles of duke, marquess, earl, or viscount. these are the elite of the elite - these gradations of nobility were created in the middle ages as a way of distinguishing those who held the titles from other noblemen, usually because of a close relationship [often one of blood or marriage or both] to the king.

the titles are hereditary by male primogeniture, and the holders - while this is no longer the case - used to have political power [such as the right to sit in the house of lords], simply by virtue of their birth.

[this is why they're called "peers" - it refers to them historically being close in status to royalty, and therefore expected to serve as royal advisors.]

there is another class of peer - a baronet - whose title is similarly hereditary, but whose position doesn't come historically with the right to sit in the lords or advise the king by virtue of birth. [baronets may - of course - have been members of parliament, or royal advisors selected at the king's discretion, but this would be separate from their title. a duke, in contrast, could historically expect to request a meeting with the king simply because he was a duke.]

while some families have historically been ennobled at the king's discretion, access to any of these titles is pretty much restricted to the small group of families who've held them for centuries.

but below the peers of the realm, there is a second, more minor class of aristocracy, the landed gentry - of which a village squire is a textbook example.

historically, what is meant by "landed" is an ability to live off of the rental income of one's country holdings, which would be leased to tenant farmers. that is, they are landlords in the original sense of the term - lords of the land. this is what tom sr. tells us his family does in half-blood prince:

“It’s not ours,” said a young man’s voice. “Everything on the other side of the valley belongs to us, but that cottage belongs to an old tramp called Gaunt, and his children. The son’s quite mad, you should hear some of the stories they tell in the village - ”

what is also meant by "landed" is that the family in question is of the upper-classes, but that they are still "commoners" - which in this context doesn't imply a value judgement, but which is a socio-legal term which simply indicates that they don't hold an aristocratic title such as duke, earl etc.

[and gentry families certainly aren't common in terms of financial standing... the most famous member of this class in literature? fitzwilliam darcy, whose ten thousand a year is something like thirteen million quid in today's money...]

gentry families might be very old - they might have received their lands from the king in the middle ages as a reward for knightly service, and it's interesting to imagine generations of gaunts and riddles brought up alongside each other in little hangleton - or they might be comparatively newer - tom sr.'s great-grandfather [feasibly born c.1810] could have been a self-made victorian industrialist who bought the lands from the original holder and established himself as gentry.

by 1900, it was becoming much harder for the gentry to live on rental income alone, and many would also have had jobs. these would have been elite, and very frequently were in politics, the civil service, the military, or the law. tom sr's father - whom the films call thomas, so let's go with that - might, for example, have served as a high-ranking officer in the army [including during the first world war], be the local magistrate, or be the local member of parliament.

in terms of titles, thomas riddle would almost undoubtedly be sir thomas - and this is how it would be correct to address him. but this title would be a courtesy, and it wouldn't be hereditary unless the riddles were also baronets [which it's entirely plausible that they were].

which is to say, tom sr. would not have a title while his father was alive - although he would have the right to be referred to formally in writing as mr thomas riddle esq. [esquire]. the correct form of verbal address for anyone other than friends and family would be to call him mr riddle, although the riddles' servants would probably refer to him as mister tom.

tom jr. would not have a title while his father or grandfather was alive. if the riddles were baronets, he would technically inherit the title after he kills the rest of the male line... but given that tom sr. never acknowledged him and his existence was presumably unknown to the riddles' lawyers this wouldn't be something which happened in reality. the estate's executors clearly took control of the riddles' property, the land was portioned off and sold, and the house became a standalone property for sale.

the riddle house - which is a name used informally for it in little hangleton, it would have a different "proper" name - is described in canon in ways which show that it's a typical manor house, which means it would look something like this:

these houses are obviously very impressive, but they're tiny in size in comparison to the magnificent stately homes - places like blenheim palace, chatsworth, burghley house, holkham hall - lived in by the titled aristocracy. the riddles would entertain - for example - by giving house parties, dinner parties, hunting parties, etc., but they wouldn't have a ballroom or a dining hall capable of seating hundreds.

[they would probably also own a property - probably a flat or small house - in london.]

they would have servants, but not colossal numbers - they would undoubtedly have a butler but not footmen, and the upstairs maids would report to the butler since they probably wouldn't have a housekeeper. they canonically have a cook, who probably had one or two kitchen maids assisting, and they canonically have a gardener - frank bryce - who probably doesn't have any assistants. they may, depending on the size of the estate, have a gamekeeper. sir thomas undoubtedly had a secretary and a chauffeur, and his wife might have a lady's maid. tom sr. would have had a nanny and then been educated until at least the age of eight by a governess, but would then have attended a prep school [either day or boarding] until the age of thirteen, and then gone to a boarding school, from which he likely went on [on the basis of social class rather than talent] to oxford or cambridge.

the family would have enormous social influence locally. most people - and also businesses - in little hangleton would be their tenants, and they would also probably have a say over the appointment of the local clergyman [an important figure in the community in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries], since the parish church is likely to have been something called a "living" - the thing which turns up again and again in jane austen - which means that the church and its parsonage technically belongs to the landowner, but is granted to the vicar as a freehold while he's in post.

gossip about the riddles' doings would also be the main source of local interest - the servants were dining out for months on tom sr.'s elopement and return.

so they're something resembling celebrities - but they're local celebrities. nobody in london - and even nobody in cities we can imagine are nearer to little hangleton, such as liverpool - would particularly know or care who they were. tom sr. might have made it into the london gossip columns if he was part of a particularly scandalous "set" [a group of friends] who socialised in the capital, but these mentions would have been fleeting - and the press would have been much more concerned by the doings of members of his set who were genuinely titled or who were legitimately famous.

[this is the reason why mrs cole doesn't recognise the name. if merope had said her son was to be named cecil beaton after his father, she may well have been prompted to hunt him down...]

so tom sr. is elite - but he's elite in a way which is extremely culturally-specific, and which is [just like the portrayal of aristocracy in the wizarding world - the blacks, for example, are far less aristocratic than the riddles in terms of canonical vibe] often exaggerated into the sort of pseudo-royal grand aristocracy which the british period-drama-industrial-complex makes such a big deal of.

and tom jr.'s character is affected by this in a series of extremely interesting ways.

by which i mean that, in terms of blood, he's probably the most aristocratic character in the series - the absence of grand aristocracy in the wizarding world would mean that [were he raised by his father] he would come from a social background which was equivalent [even as it was divided from them by virtue of being muggle] to any of his fellow slytherins, and would help him easily blend into their society because the manners, genre of socio-cultural reference points [he would recognise, for example, that quidditch heavily resembles both rugby and polo], accent and way of speaking etc. that he would possess would be broadly indistinguishable from those of his pureblood peers.

[this is why justin finch-fletchley and draco malfoy speak in essentially the same way.]

but he would then be given the enormous boost in cachet - one which would genuinely elevate him above the rest of his cohort - of his maternal line.

and we see in canon that this does bestow some privilege on him among his peers while he's in school:

Tom Riddle merely smiled as the others laughed again. Harry noticed that he was by no means the eldest of the group of boys, but that they all seemed to look to him as their leader. “I don’t know that politics would suit me, sir,” he said when the laughter had died away. “I don’t have the right kind of background, for one thing.” A couple of the boys around him smirked at each other. Harry was sure they were enjoying a private joke, undoubtedly about what they knew, or suspected, regarding their gang leader’s famous ancestor.

where he's let down socially is that people like slughorn - to whom he can't reveal his slytherin ancestry and hope to maintain cover for his wrongdoing - don't think he's come from anywhere particularly special. this is because he has a muggle father - absolutely - but it's even more that he has a muggle father who, since he left him to be raised in an orphanage, was presumably working-class.

what the young voldemort lacks is any socio-cultural familiarity with the muggle class performance which the class performance of the wizarding world parallels. abraxas malfoy boasting about how important his father is would be something a tom jr. raised by the riddles could match - "oh yes, my father gives to all sorts of causes too. in fact, he was invited to buckingham palace because of it." - establishing himself as an equal in terms of class and social influence even if he isn't an equal in blood.

what actually happens in canon is that the orphaned tom - with his uncouth manners and his working-class accent - has no hope of gaining any sort of social equality with his posh peers.

so he becomes determined to outrank - and humiliate and control - them.

[neonovember]

OH MY GOD CARMYS GF (READER) GETTING HER FIRST TATTOO AND HIM COMFORTING HER AND HELPING HER TAKE CARE OF IT DURING THE HEALING PROCESS OR WHATEVA‼️💳💥💳💥 IDK I WAS JUST SITTING HERE AND THOUGHT OF IT IF YOU DOJT WANNA WRITE IT THATS OKAY

could even make the tattoo be his name or his initial or somethin 🤯🤯🤭😏

love you and your writing 😚

thanks for keeping us fed 😌

carmen berzatto x reader

okay so yes, maybe hozier has jolted me out of my writers block. i'm just a women after all.

Inked Devotion

this request was fun! i really didn't know what to make the tattoo so i left it a blank slate for whatever you wanna imagine, hope that's okay!

word count: 1.7k

things; tattoos, mentions of braces, carmen's unyielding devotion to you

Your eyes dart across the tall walls lined with inked models and men in dark beards nervously. You can't shake the tension that seems to imprint itself under your skin, your knees jittering with a rapid tap against the linoleum floors. 

When you had brought up wanting to get a tattoo, a half joking mutter under your breath as you traced the many littered on Carmen’s body you hadn’t anticipated to actually go through with it. 

And yet here you were, shaking like a leaf despite the diffuser jutting out whisper of eucalyptus that was meant to be calming. Whilst Monica, a woman you'd meant a handful of times ran through the list of after care necessities you should be listening to.

You can’t though, you don’t hear a thing as you stare unseeingly through the dark auburn tresses of her short hair, wrapped up in the thoughts that have begun to eat away at the already dwindling confidence you had when you first walked in. 

“Hey, you still with me darlin’' Monica's Brooklyn drawl draws you back to her, and you duck your head sheepishly as you nod furiously. Like a goddamn high schooler getting caught looking out the window instead of listening to Hemingway.

Monica smiles toward you, humouring warmth filling her pale skin that, surprising to you, were incredibly stark of tattoos. In fact, if it weren’t for the posters taped to the walls, the black and white tiled floor, and the ominous tattoo bench in the corner you would have thought you walked it not the wrong place. It was stereotypical of you, and you had been a loud advocate for not judging a book by its cover, but goddamn, what tattoo parlour had potted plants and candles that smell like cinnamon?

“Sorry, uh, what did you say?” 

“It’ll be alright, the pain really does depend on each person but Larry here will catch you if you faint on my tattoo bed” Monica winks with a smile, and you shift your gaze to the man stationed unmoving near some marked drawers, the mass of muscle hidden beneath dark jeans and a shirt bursting out of him.

It wasn’t the pain you were worried about, you had period cramps that sounded worse than that, it was more so the prospect of having your virgin skin imprinted with something forever. You had never done something like this, teenage recklessness had passed you by without a blink, and you had little to show for it but carved words on your old dresser from a knife and a dark eyeshadow phase that lasted less than a month. 

It was a little pathetic, getting your first tattoo eons after any respectable age, and your trepidation seems blatantly clear as Monica shakes her head with a smile.

“Many people get their firsts well into adulthood, did I tell you about my last appointment? A 52 year old woman wanting a goddamn tramp stamp.”

You can't help but let a giggle out, the unsureness leaving you at Monica’s words

“You still want this right?’ Monica replies, and you shift your gaze to Carmen, who was already watching you fondly, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he pushes his golden strands back and gives you a nod

“It’s all up yo you gorgeous, if your having second thoughts there is a really good Thai place i wanted to che-” 

“No, no I want this”  You cut him off, and he chuckles softly, “Besides we already designed the stencil and everything” Carmen nods at that, placing his large palm onto your own, squeezing it with reassurance.

“Damn right we did, thinkin it's my best work yet” Monica chirps from the other side of the bed between you.

“Alright, just sit on that bed down there, get settles while I grab some things” 

You nod, walking stiffly towards the leather bed, tissue paper crinkly under your weight as you shift into a comfortable position. Your eyes follow Monica like a laser, watching as she santises her hands and slides on powdered sterile gloves. 

It reminds you of days spent in Dentists chairs, visions of rubbery fingers tightening wires into your teeth flashes behind the darkness of your lids. Funny, you had worried about your lack of experimental youth, and yet here you are now feeling like a kid again.

The thought makes you smile, and you open your eyes to feel the heated gaze of Carmen looming over you. Face distorting in horror when Monica’s tool makes a clatter, eyes widening comically in that way that always makes you laugh.

“Alright Doll, I’m just gonna need you to sit up for me whilst I get the skin prepped. Alcohols gonna feel a little cold to the touch, kay?” Monica says.

All you can do is nod as she rips open the matte packet, pressing it into your open skin shaved clean per her request a few prior. Who knew how much prep a tattoo would need, you were sure it was on par with even one of Carm’s dishes.

Unfortunately for you the only numbing cream useful for tattoos had something that would have made you break out in hives, so it was cold turkey for you. Monica had transformed the design into a stencil, and as she was transferring it into your skin it seemed to come to life all at once. 

You had spent hours going over designs, and whilst you were extremely happy with what you both came up with, it was like when the lines and shapes had traced your skin, you finally saw it. And the moment you did you couldn't stop the wave of emotion that rushed through you, filling your eyes.

“Hey, baby, hey what is it” Carmen rushed urgently, crouching down when he noticed the way you sniffled.

“Awe doll, you don’t like the design? I’ll change it in a flash, this is just the stencil it aint permanent at all” Monica quickly stopped, looking up at you with concern

“No no, I’m fine” You squeezed Carmen “It’s so, it's beautiful Monica” You rushed out, trying to ease the lines of concern that appeared on her face. Monica bloomed at your reply, fondness heating her cheeks as she traced your skin comfortingly.

“Thank you” You whispered to her as she shushed you.

“At least we got the crying bit over and done with, it might hurt less now” She winked, before reaching for her tattoo gun.

“Ah shit” You grunted, shooting daggers Carmen's way when he snorted out loud.

Returning to your skin, Monica pressed the pointed tip of the gun to your skin, the first sink of ink burrowed into your skin causing you to clench your jaw. 

Monica looked up to watch your expression with a smile,

“See, ain't too bad” Carmen replied before you gripped him white knuckled, making him wince regrettably.

It took some time, you won’t lie to yourself that is fucking hurt. But soon enough the sharp stab had resided to a dull ache, and you instead had become all too focused on the movement of Monica's hand swaying through the strokes of the design. 

You were in awe, she breathed her being into it, and as the design took inches and inches of your skin you understood why she was booked out for months. With one last intricate curl, and a wipe of cleansing soap across the inked skin it was finished. Revealed to both you and Carmen's eyes in all its glory, and you both just stared.

“God, now I wish my first was as good as that instead of wonky stick and poke” Carmen said after a pregnant silence had passed.

“It..wow, yeah. Yep, I want to be buried with this” You said softly, giddiness erupting in your body as you shook your hand grasped in Carmens.

“I’m glad doll, I mean this is meant to be professional but goddamn does your skin just take it. Fuckin’ gorgeous” Monica replied, leaning back as she places the gun on the table near.

“Hey, I'll report you to HR” Carmen bitterly replies, moving you closer to his side as you laugh.

“It’s my business, I am HR” Muttering under her breath as she rolls her eyes. Wrapping your skin in adhesive sheets, Monica repeats the after care instructions, thankfully and this time you listen.

Carmen had already grabbed your things, motioning for you to start heading out after you both furiously thanked Monica for everything. You crinkled with joy as she hugged you, breathing in the smell of old spice and medical grade rubbing alcohol that followed her. 

Her studded rings glistened in the afternoon sun as she waved you both goodbye, as you couldn't help but skip in your stride across the sidewalk. Finger tracing the raised blotted skin, whilst your other hand hung onto Carmen as he twirled you around.

“My gorgeous ink stained sweetheart” Carmen called to you, and you were brought back to his chest gently like a tide again.

“Thank you too, you know” You said into Carmen's cotton shirt. It was the one you got him after your first date, it had been a deep cobalt then. You regretted it just as you gave it to him, fearing you were being too forward. And then he wore it until it faded into a light blue.

“Wouldn't even have this forever on me if you hadn't been the one to bring it up again” You replied softly, fingers tracing his jaw.

“Would have spent a year learning how to tattoo myself if you wanted me too. Monica just seemed quicker” Carmen mumbled before you softly hit his chest with a smile.

“Hey, it’s true. Your skin deserves to be remembered, I could trace it till my fingers atrophied and I’d still have the memory of you under my skin memorised” Carmen divulged, eyelids drooping as he leaned down into your embrace. 

You shake your head, heart panging so deeply it hurt till you pressed your lips to his. Tasting the outpour of Carmen that he let loose into you everyday.

And Carmen had stayed true to his words weeks later when it had healed, tracing it till his fingers weren't enough. Till he had to wrap his mouth around it and taste it with his tongue.

He swears even your inked skin tasted sweet.

tags <3 @parmforcarm @hansfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @nolita-fairytale

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Farmer's Daughter 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

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

Characters:��Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your father’s nurse, Heather, doesn’t arrive until after noon. Your mother spends much of the morning waiting on her, wondering if something happened. The woman with the steely hair explains that she had to drive from several towns over. It doesn’t matter, you’re just happy to have her there.

Your dad remains despondent. Your mother frets and hovers as Heather’s voice carries through the old farmhouse. She enunciates and projects as she speaks to the husk sitting in the recliner. Your mother paces and as you peek in on the nurse trying to guide your father in a simple exercise, your heart knots and nearly breaks.

You fell outside, proclaiming to your mother that you’ll check the hen house for eggs. She doesn’t argue even though you already did so that day. You tramp out onto the porch and clatter down the stairs. Things change so quickly.

In the distance, you watch the tractor drawing a straight line across the fields. You shield your eyes from the sun and squint. Timothy steers the smaller of the machines closer by. It should be your father out there. He doesn’t belong inside, he’s no type of man to be so still.

You sigh and muster your courage. You go back inside and find your mother standing at the door of the front room. She watches Heather and your dad. He mimics her clumsily as she shows him what to do. He’s shaky and gives up with a harrumph. He’s never been the one to surrender.

“It’ll be okay,” your mother whispers.

“Ma,” you rub her back, “we should start dinner. The day’s half gone.”

She sniffs and nods, “you’re right, honey.”

You walk silently to the kitchen and start on the evening meal. Her special sweet and sour meatballs. The sauce is a family recipe and she serves the signature dish on white rice. The work will keep you both distracted.

🌾

Your mother helps your father to the table as you go out to get your brother and Walter. You find Timothy with a cigarette between his lips. You scowl.

“Don’t let ma see,” you warn him.

“Sorry, I… it’s stressful.”

“Yeah, I know,” you utter dully. “Just don’t smoke by the door.”

You leave him, searching around in confusion. Where’s Walter? Did he leave already? He swore he’d stay for dinner and it’s all your mother talked about as you cooked. You know she’s avoiding mentioning what’s on all your minds.

You walk along the front of the house and turn the corner, nearly colliding with Walter as he comes around. You cry out and laugh at yourself as you touch your chest. He doesn’t flinch.

“Sorry–” You begin.

“My fault,” he insists, “was just making sure the tractor’s read for tomorrow.”

“Oh? Tomorrow?”

“Still lots to be done,” he says casually.

“Right,” you agree, “er, dinner’s ready.”

“You cooked?” He wonders.

“I helped,” you say as you turn and walk ahead of him.

“I saw you. With the chickens,” he follows at half a step. He’s like your very own shadow.

“You did?”

“Tractor stalled,” he supplies. “I think I figured it out though.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you reply awkwardly. You’re not used to him speaking so much. Not to you. “I made dessert tho–”

As you crane to speak over your shoulder, simultaneously lifting a foot to climb the porch steps, your toe hits the wood. You cry out and throw up your hands, bracing for impact. You don’t hit the rigid zigzag, instead caught around the waist as you hover just above them. His strength is effortless as he has you bound up in his thick arm.

Again, Walter saves you from catastrophe. He pulls you back and rights you, brushing against you as he unhooks his arm. He clears his throat and runs his hand down the front of his shirt.

“You alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, I…” you giggle and shake your head, “I’m so… all over the place right now. I’m sorry–”

“As long as you’re fine, no need to apologise,” he assures you.

“Ha, yeah,” you rub the back of your neck and look pointedly at the steps. You take each deliberately, “just needa watch where I’m going.”

He hums and trails after you. As you get to the door, he reaches around you to pull back the screen before you can. You thank him and go inside, stopping to slip off your flats as he unties his boots. The savoury scent of dinner draws you in.

You wait for him and lead him to the dining room. Your mother welcomes him in as she sits close to your father and feeds him. Timothy’s eyes flick back and forth between your parents and his plate fearfully.

“Pat,” Walter approaches the table with you, “Maddie,” he greets firmly, pulling out a chair. Before you can do the same, he gestures you into the seat before him.

“Oh, thanks…” you accept and sit down at your father’s other shoulder and Walter lowers himself into the next chair. You catch your mother’s gaze as she peeks over at you.

“Thank you for having me.”

“It’s our pleasure,” your mother insists, “really. You are helping us so much, dear. I can’t–” her voice crackles, “I can’t tell you how much it means.”

“Ma,” Timothy utters, embarrassment lining his tone.

“It’s the decent thing,” Walter says plainly.

“Would you like some meatballs?” You offer, “rice?”

“Please,” Walter nods and sits back as he watches you scoop a healthy serving of both onto his plate, “thank you.”

You recline and spoon out your own dinner. A lot less than his. You’re not very hungry. Your mom’s plate is barren as she focuses on your dad. Or you assume she does until you once more meet her eye. Her eyes drift over to Walter and back again.

“Very good,” Walter says after a bite.

“Oh, well, my daughter did all the hard work,” your mother preens.

Your furrow your brow at her lie. You are ever her helper. She told you what to fetch and to set the timer but she has to measure it all so precisely.

“Mmm, well, she was taught well, I’m sure,” Walter comments and shovels more into his mouth.

“I didn’t do that much,” you scoff as you slice into one of the large meatballs.

“Oh, of course you did, honey,” your mother chimes. “She’s a great cook, Walter, don’t let her fool you.”

You don’t argue. It isn’t the time and besides, it’s harmless. Just another distraction. She’s redirecting the attention so she doesn’t have to acknowledge the reality sitting right beside her. A few white lies are nothing compared to that.