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briefinquiries · 1 month ago

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Under the Blood Moon | Peaky Blinders | Chapter 25

Tommy Shelby x Reader: Chapter 25

Fic Summary: You came to Birmingham for a fresh start, to bury the past and keep your head down. As a former nurse in the war, you’ve seen enough blood and death to last a lifetime. But fate (and the Shelby’s) have other plans. After stitching Tommy Shelby back together, you find yourself drawn further into their world, a world of violence, loyalty, and power. When Tommy offers you a job, it comes with more than just good pay, it comes with expectations and lines you never planned to cross.

Chapter summary: As you and Tommy wait through the night at the hospital, the weight of everything you've endured begins to surface. In the quiet, Tommy finally lets some of his guard down.

Word count: 5.6k

Warnings: Violence, injury, mentions of blood, PTSD and war flashbacks, alcohol use, and mild language, emetophobia

You’d forgotten how cold hospitals could be.

Not the kind of cold that came from air vents or tile floors, but the kind that settled in your chest, deep and still, the longer you waited. It had been over an hour since they took Finn behind those doors. Long enough for the adrenaline to wear off. Long enough for your hands to start shaking. Long enough for fear to start creeping in, quiet and heavy.

You sat in the stiff plastic chair beside Tommy, your knees pulled close, his coat still streaked with blood. No one had come out yet. No updates. No news.

You’d let go of his hand a while ago. Not because you didn’t want to hold it, but because your fingers had gone numb. Because he’d gone so still. Because neither of you had said a word since they wheeled Finn away.

Now, your hands were folded tightly in your lap, and his were resting on his knees—red-stained, motionless.

Arthur and John had joined you not long after. Arthur sat on the edge of his seat, jittery, his leg bouncing, fingers tugging at a loose thread in his coat. He hadn’t stopped talking since he sat down—not to anyone in particular, just letting words fill the space like they might hold the fear at bay.

“He was conscious when we got him out, wasn’t he?” Arthur said, not waiting for an answer. “He was talkin’. Cryin’ a bit. That’s a good sign. That’s normal for a kid. He’s tough, our Finn. Always has been. Remember when he broke his wrist fallin’ off that shed? Didn’t even cry then.”

John had taken to pacing again, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “He was breathin’,” he muttered. “They just have to drain the air or whatever, patch it up. He’ll be alright.”

Arthur nodded, fast. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”

Neither of them looked at Finn’s blood still dried on their sleeves.

You said nothing. Neither did Tommy. He hadn’t moved in minutes. He just sat there, jaw clenched, staring straight ahead like if he focused hard enough, he’d will the hallway doors to open.

Arthur kept going. “I mean—he’s twelve, but he’s Shelby, yeah? Got all of us in him. Kid’s tougher than he looks.”

John stopped pacing just long enough to scrub a hand through his hair. “Still shouldn’t have happened. What’re we going to do about Changretta, Tom?”

Your stomach twisted hard, nausea rising from somewhere deep, unshakable.

You couldn’t take it anymore.

The sound of their voices—fast, nervous, angry—started to blur. Like you were underwater, or far away. You couldn’t hear them clearly, and you didn’t want to.

You stood quickly. Tommy’s eyes flicked to you, tracking your movement, but he didn’t say a word as you slipped out of the waiting room and down the hall, barely paying attention to the signs. The fluorescent lights overhead felt too bright, the floor too steady beneath your feet.

The door to the women’s bathroom creaked open when you stepped inside. You went straight to the sink, gripping the edge with both hands. Cold porcelain under your palms. Your reflection looked like someone you barely recognized, pale, streaked with dried blood that wasn’t yours, eyes dark and sunken.

You tried to breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.

Once. Then twice.

But it didn’t hold. The nausea surged, hot and sharp, and you turned just in time to drop to your knees in front of the toilet.

You were sick before you could stop it, your body tensing, rejecting everything all at once. It wasn’t just the fear or the smell of antiseptic in the hallway—it was everything that had been sitting in your chest since Finn's cries echoed through that phone line.

When it was over, you flushed the toilet with a trembling hand, then leaned back against the wall, the cool tile biting into your spine through your shirt.

You sat there on the floor for a moment, breath hitching, then pulled your knees to your chest and wrapped your arms around them. You tucked your head down, resting your forehead against your arms.

The quiet was deafening.

And then the tears came. Not with sobs or gasps or shaking shoulders.

Just silent, steady drops that slipped down your cheeks and soaked into your sleeves. You didn’t wipe them away. There was no point.

Everything hurt—your head, your chest, your heart. You were tired of blood. Tired of watching people you loved get hurt. Tired of pretending that holding it all together meant you were okay.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there, curled in on yourself, knees to your chest, face buried in your arms. The tears had stopped falling some time ago, but you hadn’t moved.

Suddenly, you heard a knock against the door.

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have it in you.

Shortly after, the door creaked open, the hinges whining in the too-quiet space. The noise was followed by footsteps that were measured and careful, the soft scrape of boots against tile.

You didn’t look up, but you could tell it was Tommy before he even spoke.

You recognized the sound of him. The rhythm of his walk. And some part of you wondered what it said about you—that you could know him by the way he moved through a room. That even in silence, you could feel him.

There was a certain stillness he carried with him. The way he moved was controlled and deliberate. Like even in his most uncertain moments, he didn’t let the world see him hesitate.

You felt him pause just a few feet away, like he was trying to decide whether or not to come closer. The air shifted slightly with his presence.

He didn’t say anything at first. He didn’t ask what was wrong, he didn’t fill the space with questions you didn’t want to answer.

He just stood there for a moment, watching you, his shoulders tense, his coat still streaked with blood, jaw tight like he was fighting the urge to reach for you too fast.

“I thought maybe you’d passed out,” he said finally, his voice low.

You didn’t lift your head. You just shook it once, barely.

“I’m fine.” It was a lie.

He stepped closer, slowly lowering himself to a crouch in front of you.

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m am,” you tried again, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine—”

This time, your voice cracked. It was enough to give you away.

Tommy exhaled, quiet and tired, and then eased down beside you on the cold tile floor, coat rustling softly as he sat with his back against the wall. Once he was settled, he reached out and slipped an arm around your shoulders, careful and steady, giving you just enough time to pull away if you wanted to.

You didn’t. Because all you wanted was his touch—his comfort, something solid to hold onto after the weight of everything finally tipped.

You let him pull you in gently until your body leaned against his, your cheek pressed into the rough wool of his coat. It smelled like blood and smoke and outside air—everything that should’ve unsettled you, but didn’t.

Because it was him.

Your hands stayed tucked between your knees at first, trying to stay composed, to hold on a little longer. But then one of them moved, almost without thought, clutching lightly at the front of his coat, just above the buttons.

Like your body knew before your mind did—that you were safe enough to let go. That’s when the tears started again. There was no warning or build-up. Just quiet sobs that slipped out one at a time, your shoulders trembling slightly as you tried to keep your breathing steady and failed.

Tommy didn’t flinch. He just pulled you in closer, the grip of his arm tightening around you, the edge of his jaw brushing your temple as he leaned in a little more. His other hand came up and settled gently over your arm, anchoring you against him—warm, steady, like he was bracing you both.

“It’s alright,” he said, low and rough. “I’ve got you.”

You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Your breath hitched again, and the next sob was sharper, harder to swallow. You turned your face further into his chest, the coarse fabric of his coat rough against your skin. You could feel the dampness of dried blood beneath your cheek, smell the faint trace of smoke in the wool.

Your fists curled into the front of his coat, gripping it like it was the only thing tethering you to the room.

The tile beneath you was cold. Your knees ached. Somewhere in the hallway, a door opened and closed, but it felt a thousand miles away. Tommy didn’t move, he didn’t speak again. He just held you.

One hand rubbed slowly up and down your back, it wasn’t rushed or hesitant, just enough pressure to remind you that he was there. His breathing was slow, calm, like he was trying to get yours to match his.

Bit by bit, the shaking eased. The tightness in your chest loosened. The tears slowed. You were still curled into him, your forehead pressed against the side of his neck now, eyes sore and dry, your body heavy with exhaustion. But you could breathe again.

You shifted slightly, drawing in a deeper breath.Tommy glanced down at you, but didn’t speak. He just let his hand rest at the center of your back now, fingers still and warm.

You stayed like that a while longer, on the cold bathroom floor.

Until eventually, you lifted your head, your forehead brushing against his jaw as you pulled back just enough to look at him.

Your eyes were puffy, your cheeks damp and flushed, breath still a little uneven, but you weren’t shaking anymore.

Tommy looked at you for a long moment, saying nothing. His gaze searched yours. Then he raised one hand and gently brushed his thumb across your cheek, wiping away the last of the tears that clung there.

His touch was warm, steady, and careful.

“Tommy, I’m so tired,” you whispered. Your voice was raw, not just from crying, but from everything. From holding it all in. From staying upright when it felt like the world kept pulling people out from under you.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked at you, really looked at you, like he was only now seeing how far you’d been stretched. How long you’d been carrying it without complaint.

“I know,” he said finally, his voice low. “I know you are.”

He let his hand slide gently behind your neck, guiding your head back to his shoulder. You didn’t resist.

You sat like that again, curled into his side, the two of you slumped against the wall in the quiet tile room. Just the sound of distant footsteps, the hum of fluorescent lights, and your breathing, slow and uneven, but steadier now.

Then, after a long silence, he spoke again.

“When this is over,” he said, voice barely above a murmur, “I’m taking you away.”

You blinked against his shoulder. “What?”

“You deserve a honeymoon,” he said simply. “A proper one. Just us. Somewhere quiet.”

“Where?” you asked softly.

“Anywhere you’d like,” he replied.

You didn’t respond right away. The thought of that—a version of your life where quiet existed, where you weren’t constantly waiting for the next knock at the door or the next ring of the phone—felt so far away it almost hurt to imagine.

“I promise,” he added, like he could sense your hesitation. “We’ll disappear for a bit. No business. No blood. Just you and me.”

You let out the smallest breath of a laugh—not because it was funny, but because it felt fragile. Like if you didn’t laugh, you might cry again.

“You don’t disappear, Tommy Shelby.”

He didn’t argue. Just gave a quiet hum, the kind that meant maybe I will this time.

“I’ll figure it out,” he said. “You deserve more than this.”

You looked up at him, eyes still swollen, voice rasping. “So do you.”

He didn’t answer. But his arm tightened around you just slightly, like he didn’t know what to say to that. Or maybe he did, and he just didn’t believe it yet.

There was a long pause—thick with everything that had happened, and everything still waiting.

Then his voice dropped, low and rough, just above a whisper. “I’m sorry you married a Shelby.”

You didn’t move at first, just stayed there against him, your hand curling lightly into the fabric of his shirt.

He wasn’t looking for a response. It wasn’t self-pity, and it wasn’t drama. It was just the truth, the way he saw it.

He didn’t pull away, didn’t brace himself for you to agree. He just let the silence sit between you like he’d already made peace with it.

But you turned your head slightly, just enough for your cheek to rest against his collarbone.

“I’m not,” you said.

He stilled for a second.

“I’m not sorry I married you,” you continued, your voice barely above a whisper. “There’s no one else for me, Tommy.”

You felt him take a slow breath, deep and quiet, like he was trying to steady something inside himself.

“I never wanted anyone else,” you added. “Even when I was scared. Even when I’m still scared. You’re the only person I trust to keep me safe.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. His hand just stayed there against your back, the weight of it grounding.

Then he tilted his head down, resting his chin lightly against the top of yours. “Christ,” he murmured, voice thick, almost bitter. “I’ve put you through so much—too much.”

You stayed quiet, your eyes closed against the weight of it.

“You’re the first good thing I’ve ever had that didn’t have to be bought with blood,” he said softly.

His voice caught slightly.

“I couldn’t help but marry you. But I come with a curse. And now it’s yours, too.”

He let out a slow, shaky breath against your hair, like admitting it out loud cost him something.

“I don’t know how to be any different,” he said, so low you almost missed it.

It should’ve scared you, hearing him say it like loving him was a death sentence. Like marrying him had sealed your fate. But all you felt was a deep ache for him. For the boy who’d survived a war only to keep living inside it.

Your fingers curled lightly into his coat, and you stayed pressed against him, anchoring the both of you to that quiet space on the hospital floor.

“I know,” you whispered. “I’m not asking for different.”

He nodded slowly against your hair, and for a few seconds, it felt like that might be the end of it. But then, quietly, he added, “If you ever change your mind about that… I wouldn’t blame you.”

Your brow furrowed as you pulled back just enough to look at him. “Please don’t say that.”

He met your gaze, his face unreadable, eyes shadowed with something heavier than doubt, maybe expectation.

“I mean it,” he said.

You shook your head, firmer this time. “Don’t.”

Your voice wasn’t sharp, but it was steady. “Don’t make it sound like walking away is some kind of mercy. Like it’s something you’d expect me to do if I had any sense.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“I’m here, Tommy. I chose this. I chose you. So don’t push me toward the door.”

The words hung in the air between you. This time, he didn’t argue. He just looked at you like he wanted to believe you. Like maybe he could.

And he gave the smallest nod. Tommy didn’t say anything else. Instead, he shifted, pushing gently off the floor with a grunt and standing slowly.

He offered you his hand. You took it.

His fingers curled around yours, warm and steady, and he helped you to your feet with care, like you might fall apart again if he moved too fast.

Neither of you spoke as you stepped out into the hallway.

The waiting room hadn’t changed. John was still pacing back and forth, wearing a line into the floor, jaw tight and eyes darting toward the double doors every few passes. Arthur sat slouched in a chair, head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, but not asleep. Just worn out. The kind of tired that lived in the bones.

No one looked up when you walked back in.

Tommy led you quietly to the corner of the room and sat down in the nearest empty chair, keeping your hand in his.

You followed without hesitation, letting him pull you down beside him.

The moment you sat, your head found his shoulder, and he let it rest there without a word. He didn’t speak or shift. He just let you lean on him.

The room was quiet, save for the low hum of fluorescent lights and the soft scuff of John’s boots across the linoleum floor.

Tommy hadn’t moved since you sat down. His arm stayed looped loosely around your back, hand resting at your side, his shoulder firm and warm beneath your head.

You hadn’t meant to close your eyes. Just a blink, a breath.

But exhaustion crept in all at once—the kind that didn’t just live in your body but buried itself deeper. Behind your ribs. In the quiet places you didn’t often let anyone see.

You hadn’t slept since before the phone call. Before the blood. Before everything spun sideways. So you let yourself lean in a little more.

His shirt still smelled like smoke and iron. You could feel the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. The warmth of him beside you, grounding.

And somewhere between one breath and the next, your body softened, and your mind slipped.

Tommy felt the shift in your weight, subtle, warm, and trusting. He glanced down just once, eyes tracing the edge of your face, the way your hand had curled lightly in your lap.

And then he leaned his head back against the wall and stayed perfectly still, keeping watch.

…

You didn’t know how long you’d been asleep, only that it wasn’t long enough.

The fluorescent lights still buzzed above, and the chairs still dug into your back, but something had changed. Movement. Voices.

You blinked awake slowly, disoriented, the weight of sleep still clinging to your limbs. Then a gentle hand touched your arm.

Tommy was already sitting up straighter, his hand steadying your elbow as you pushed upright, groggy and heavy-limbed.

You looked around, confused for a second, until you saw the nurse standing in front of you both, a clipboard in her hands and tired eyes that had clearly delivered this kind of news more times than she cared to count.

“Finn Shelby,” she said gently. “He’s stable for now. But it’s going to be touch and go over the next day or so.”

Your stomach dropped. Tommy’s jaw shifted beside you, but he didn’t speak, just nodded once.

“The bullet collapsed his lung,” she went on. “We inserted a chest tube to relieve the pressure and gave him a transfusion to get his vitals back up. He’s sedated, but… he’s fighting.”

You nodded too, your throat tight. “Can we see him?”

“Not yet,” she said. “He’s still in recovery. But soon.”

She offered you a kind, tight smile before retreating back through the doors she’d come through, leaving you two alone.

You sat back slowly, your hands in your lap, still feeling the shape of sleep pressing behind your eyes. “Where’s Arthur and John?” you asked, voice hoarse.

Tommy leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “I sent them home about an hour ago. Nothing more for them to do here.”

He looked at you for a beat, then said quietly, “I was going to ask if you wanted to go home.”

Your eyes narrowed. “You already know my answer.”

He gave a faint nod, like he expected it. Like he knew better than to ask but had to try.

“There’s not much we can do here,” he said. “Except wait.”

“Then we wait,” you replied, folding your arms around yourself. “I’m not leaving him.”

Tommy didn’t argue. He just sat back, silent again, eyes drifting toward the hallway where they’d taken Finn, and waited with you.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

The silence didn’t feel strained, just heavy. Tired and shared.

You sat with your arms folded, your eyes fixed on the same hallway Tommy was watching. Occasionally, the intercom buzzed. A distant cough. A squeaky wheel from a gurney passing somewhere out of sight.

Tommy leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, one hand absently turning his wedding ring around his finger. The motion was slow, unconscious.

You glanced over at him after a while, then back toward the hall.

And finally, quietly, you said, “You know this is the most time we’ve spent together, just the two of us, since the wedding.”

Tommy’s hand stilled on the ring.

He looked at you, eyes tired but focused.

“I know you all warned me. But this wasn’t exactly how I imagined it,” you added, lips quirking slightly despite yourself. “At least not right off the bat.”

He let out the softest sound—half a breath, maybe the start of a laugh. Or just disbelief.

“Right,” he murmured. “Wish I could say the same.”

You tilted your head, studying him. “You think we’ll ever get that honeymoon?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you with something unreadable in his expression—like he wanted to say yes but wasn’t sure it was fair to.

Finally, he said, “I’ll make sure of it. One way or another.”

You nodded once, quietly. “I know you will.”

You glanced at Tommy’s hand again, still resting on his knee, the wedding ring glinting faintly in the light.

“You’ve been twisting that ring around for twenty minutes,” you said gently.

He looked down at his hand like he hadn’t even noticed.

“Didn’t realize I was doing it,” he murmured, then paused, longer than before.

Then, quietly, almost like it slipped out without permission, he sighed. “I hate hospitals.”

You looked at him, surprised by the subtle vulnerability.

“They’re too quiet,” he added. “Too clean. Smells the same no matter where you are.”

He didn’t have to explain. But he did anyway. “France was full of places like this. Tents, basements, bombed-out buildings with too many beds and not enough time.” He paused. “Same lights. Same sounds. Same waiting.”

You swallowed and shifted closer without thinking, your shoulder pressing lightly into his.

“I know,” you said softly. You reached down and gently took his hand.

His fingers closed around yours without hesitation.

“I used to pretend it didn’t bother me,” he said after a long pause. “Would light a cigarette, lean against a wall, act like I was above it.”

You glanced at him, but he didn’t meet your eyes.

“Didn’t matter how many times I did it. The smell always came back. The sounds. Sometimes I’d walk into a room like this and swear I’d been there before. But I hadn’t. They just all look the fucking same.”

You squeezed his hand, gently. He was talking more than usual. Not out of comfort, but because he trusted you enough to say it out loud.

“Every time I walk into a place like this, part of me braces for the worst,” you admitted. “Even if it’s not my blood on the floor.”

Tommy turned his head just enough to meet your eyes.

“Me too.”

It was just two words, but it said enough. You both understood that kind of wiring, how war taught your body to expect grief before any sort of hope.

You leaned your head back against the wall and closed your eyes for a second.

“I just want him to be okay.”

Tommy’s grip on your hand tightened slightly.

“He will be,” he said.

And this time, he almost sounded like he believed it.

…

The hours passed slowly.

The kind of slow that made every second feel heavier than the last. Nurses came and went through the hallway beyond, but none of them stopped. The rain outside faded to a light mist. The waiting room thinned out. Somewhere along the way, a clock ticked past four in the morning.

You didn’t sleep again. Neither did Tommy.

You both sat in the same chairs, your hands still loosely entwined, your shoulders touching. Occasionally, you shifted. Stretched. Stood to get a drink of water and came back. But neither of you ever went far.

It was just after five when the nurse finally returned.

She was the same one as before, calm, efficient, and kind-eyed.

“You can see him now,” she said gently. “One at a time, for now, please.”

Your eyes met his. There was a quiet weight in his expression—relief tangled with exhaustion, worry with something harder to name.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“Go,” he said, gently.

You hesitated, searching his face. “Are you sure?”

He nodded once. “You go first.”

There was no question in his voice. Just a quiet certainty. Like he knew you needed it. You gave a small nod and touched his hand briefly before turning to follow the nurse. Her footsteps echoed down the hallway as she led you through a set of quiet double doors.

“He’s stable,” she said as you neared the room. “Still sedated. You can sit with him for a bit, but keep your voice low.”

You nodded again, your heart climbing up into your throat. Then the nurse pushed open the door. The door clicked softly behind you as you stepped into the room.

It was dim, lit only by a single lamp near the bed and the faint blue glow of machines lining the wall. The steady beep-beep of a heart monitor was the only sound.

Finn looked so much smaller in the hospital bed. His skin was pale, washed out by the fluorescent light overhead. His curly hair was matted to one side, and a thin tube ran beneath his nose, attached to the oxygen supply. Bandages wrapped around his chest, peeking out from the edge of his gown. One arm was hooked up to fluids, the other resting limply by his side.

He didn’t move. But he was breathing.

You took a slow, shaky step forward.

There was a chair pulled up near the bed, and you lowered yourself into it carefully, eyes never leaving his face.

“Hi Finn,” you whispered, your voice catching despite yourself.

He didn’t stir. You didn’t expect him to. But it still made something twist painfully in your chest.

“I’m here,” you said softly, brushing your fingers gently against the back of his hand. His skin was warm. “I’m here, and I’m so sorry, Finn…”

There wasn’t much more to say. Nothing that could fix what had already happened.

So you sat with him. You sat and listened to the monitor beep, watched the rise and fall of his chest, and held his hand like it could anchor both of you to the room, like it could bring him back just a little sooner.

You stayed like that for a while, hand in his, eyes watching every small rise and fall of his chest like it might suddenly stop if you looked away.

There was no clock in the room, but time passed in the slow, aching way it always did in hospitals. Minutes stretching into something longer. The quiet humming of machines and the occasional shuffle of footsteps in the hallway were the only signs that life was still moving beyond the walls.

At one point, Finn’s fingers twitched slightly under yours. Just a flutter.

You held on a little tighter, even though he didn’t stir again.

Eventually, you leaned back in the chair, your body aching from the tension that had never quite left. You glanced over at the door, then gently released Finn’s hand.

You stood, brushing your fingers over his blankets one last time before quietly slipping out of the room. Tommy was still where you’d left him, standing against the wall outside, hands in his coat pockets. He looked up the second he saw you.

“He’s okay,” you said quietly, voice raw from disuse. “Still out, but… he’s warm. Breathing.”

Tommy didn’t ask questions.

He just gave a small nod, then stepped past you toward the door.

You turned with him, meaning to sit back down, but before he could disappear inside, a different nurse at the end of the hallway called softly to you both.

“We’re not supposed to do this,” she said, approaching softly. “But you can just go in together. As long as you keep it quiet. We’re not too strict about that sort of thing when it’s family.”

Tommy looked at you, silent question in his eyes. You nodded once.

He turned back toward the door, and you followed close behind as he pushed it open. Finn looked just the same as you’d left him, except now the sight of him didn’t hit quite so hard.

Maybe it was the company. Maybe it was the relief of knowing you weren’t holding the weight alone anymore. Tommy moved first, pulling the second chair closer to Finn’s bedside. You did the same, taking the one you’d left earlier. For a moment, neither of you said a word.

His elbows rested on his knees, eyes locked on the boy in the bed like he could will him awake just by being there. You reached for Finn’s hand again and held it loosely in both of yours.

The room hummed with quiet.

Then, softly, you spoke. “Do you think he’ll be okay?”

Tommy didn’t look at you right away. Just exhaled slowly through his nose.

“He’ll be okay,” he said eventually.

You nodded, even though his hesitation made your stomach twist. You stared at Finn for a long time, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Then, quietly, you added, “It’s hard for me to talk about it… what Campbell did.”

Tommy’s eyes flicked to you, but he said nothing.

“But I think about it all the time,” you said. “Every single day.”

Your voice didn’t shake. It didn’t need to.

“It’s in the corners,” you added. “That fear. I’m trying to learn to live around it, but I don’t think it’ll ever leave.”

Tommy’s jaw tightened, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“I don’t want that for Finn,” you said, turning slightly toward him. “I don’t want him to feel haunted like that. Like someone can reach out of the dark and take everything from you in a second.”

You looked back at the bed.

“He’s just a boy, Tommy. He shouldn’t have to live like that.”

Tommy leaned back slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, and for a moment, the hardness in him cracked.

“I know,” he said.

You looked over at him, studying the way his fingers rubbed at his temple, the furrow in his brow that hadn’t eased since the call came through.

“He won’t,” Tommy said, more certain this time. “We’ll make sure of it.”

You wanted to believe that. Needed to. But you also knew the world didn’t always work that way—not even when you fought like hell to protect the people you loved.

The room had fallen back into silence. Just the steady beeping of the monitor and the soft, rhythmic sound of Finn’s breathing.

Until it changed. It was subtle at first—a twitch in his fingers, a shift in the way his chest rose. Then a faint sound, like a breath caught in his throat.

You straightened in your chair, eyes snapping to his face.

Another sound. A murmur—barely audible, slurred and broken.

“...Wha–”

You were already leaning forward, fingers brushing his hair gently back from his damp forehead. His skin was warm, slightly clammy.

“We’re right here, sweetheart,” you said softly, your voice warm and low, instinctively maternal in a way you hadn’t planned for. “You’re alright. Just rest.”

His eyelids fluttered, eyes struggling to open. They didn’t quite manage, but he shifted again, mouth moving like he was trying to form words that wouldn’t come out.

“Shh,” you murmured, smoothing your hand over his curls. “You’re safe now.”

Tommy had stood the moment he heard Finn speak. He stepped closer, silent, but you could feel him there—hovering and protective.

Finn mumbled again, unintelligible, his head turning slightly toward the sound of your voice. You leaned down a little more, your hand resting lightly on his cheek.

“You’re in the hospital,” you whispered. “I’m here, Tommy’s here. Everyone’s okay. You’re safe.”

His brow twitched, like he was trying to make sense of it, but his body stayed heavy against the bed.

Finn mumbled something again, but then his face went slack as he drifted back under. He was too tired to stay awake, but still holding on.

You didn’t pull away right away. Just kept your hand on his cheek, as if to reassure both of you that he was still there.

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#peaky blinders #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #peaky blinders x reader #peaky blinder fanfic #tommy shelby x y/n #tommy shelby #peaky blinders fanfic #tommy shelby x you #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #peaky blinders x y/n

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average-mako-enjoyer · 8 months ago

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Thinking about John Shepard, a 7-year-old orphan. Scrawny little boy. Ribs, back and thighs always bruised, nose always bloody. Eyes too big for his face, too blue, full of tears when he gets beaten, but never shed.

Thinking about John Shepard, a 12-year-old boy. Too tall for his age, too skinny, always, always hungry. He steals smokes from the older kids and tries his best to learn how to smile properly. Says, "When I was a kid…" and follows it up with the most vulgar joke you can imagine.

Thinking about John Shepard, a 14-year-old teenager. A bloody knife in his hand. Blood on his fingers, on the cuffs of his jacket, on the sneakers he stole two months ago and was so proud of. "Fuck," he says, stepping back from the body on the ground. "Fuck."

Thinking about John Shepard, a 17-year-old who bullshits his way in and out of situations, using everything he has: his looks, his aim, his complete lack of conscience. Everyone will use you and throw you away, so use them first and come out on top.

Thinking about John Shepard, a 23-year-old completely overwhelmed by the need to survive.

Thinking about John Shepard, a 28-year-old, suffocating in space. Alone. Trying to take a single breath but failing, trying to float but falling.

Thinking about John Shepard, a 29-year-old man, who finally knows what his violent, stupid, chaotic, short life was lived for. Knows that there are people worth dying for. So he dies for them. He lives. He gives his all.

#not sure if that's what you asked for @rotschopf-thedrow but...#john shepard #that's my dude #commander shepard #mass effect #my stuff

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carb0n-m0n0xide · 5 days ago

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John lore!

Tws: substance abuse, neglect(?)

Also its a lot tee hee (literally his ENTIRE life upto 28 yrs [current])

John was born july 9 :3 hes got an older sister (by 3 years) named Melissa, called Millie

John was a busy-minded child, though not productively. He would spend his time playing as any child might, and being quite social.

Also to say, his family is doing poorly (financially). His father died around after the time of Johns birth, and his mother was struggling to care for her children. But she did (girlboss)

(She did also tho set aside money for the children for their college. A separate bank account for them to access when the tine came. Keep this in mind.)

Anyeho, his mother began to notice somehting. John was doing ok education wise. His teachers would say he looked distracted or like he was zoning out (which he was). First his mother thought nothing of it, but later grew serious as his symptoms got more and affected his grades greatly

So when he was 9, he was diagnosed with adhd. His mother couldnt really afford meds, so she didnt. But she understood johns struggle and didnt get upset over hus grades

(And to be honest, it wasnt just the adhd. Hes genuinely kinda stupid 💔💔)

John had later entered high school, and grew jealous to hsi sister, her getting outstanding grades. She brought up the standard he thought he should meet, begining the start of a long, dreadful path

His sophomore year only got worse though. His mother finally got medication, but it worked a short while before a symptom of the meds settled: depression.

It didnt quite help for he was doing badly already, and this caused him to deteriorate a bit. Thinking he wasnt good enough, he was a failure, he couldnt do anything and better off dead

The poor boy struggled terribly, though remained bright and cheerful (externally). He didnt know what his mother and sister and friends might think if he showed how he really felt. When he was 17, he had to retake his junior year, causing more internal strife

He finally decided to tell someone, or a few- his close and small friendgroup. He tokd them everything, how he felt, his grades. And they didnt understand. They thought he was overexaggerating for attention, and eventually decided to unfriend him in the next few weeks.

This absolutely broke John, leaving him to put no effort into the rest of that year. He even didnt want to tell anyone about his problems anymore. He felt he might be disreguarded again, forgotten. But finally senior year came and went, spent alone trudging with trailing papers marked red with Fs and Ds.

(If his mother would ever bring up the topic of his friends, John would continue to lie and said they were still around)

He began to hate his sister with a burning passion. She was better than him in all the ways; she was young looking, atteactive, fit, employed, smart, and well-paid (she later became a veternarian). He grew distant from her and always argued, bringing confusion and pain to her and their mom

After high school finished, john was done. He felt hopeless and jsut done with everything. So in the span of a month he got a drivers liscence, bought an RV with his college money, and packed up and left. He knew he couldnt go anywhere, so he parked a distance away from home, taking all belongings and the meds.

At this point he was 19-20, but appeared older and dishevled (thus sellers not checking him when buying the following). His depression got worse and led to substance abuse of smoking and drinking. He was stuck in this state a long time

Finally his sister discovered his RV and began making frequent visits. John begged millie to not tell their mom of his existence, and though saying she agreed, she did not. (After every visit, shed update their mother.)

He grew less hatred to millie, but it didnt change much. He still didnt open up to her, and still avojded her reccomendations and job offers, staying a poor bum. (He woukd scavange food, only using his money for substances and meds)

This cycle lasted until he was 23, going on 24. Millie found him barely subconscious, drunkenly drowining in fears and memories of the past. Then he let it all out, sobbing into her and spilling all his feelings, all his thoughts.

She finally understood, and helped him for the next 2 years, getting him back on his feet. (She also decided it might be best for their mother to know now, and he agreed.)

Millie helped with him, and he went to rehab for his addictions. There he realized the culprit of his depression was the pills, but even after stopping his thiughts still stayed. This was expected, yet still unfortunate for him (and now he still struggles with these thoughts, but handles them way better). He also got many part time jobs, and later a full time one at a candy shop.

By age 28 (current age) he appeared a whole new person. Even got his RV fixed and cleaned up several times :3

He ofc still gon struggle, and thats his "trauma" in a sense. Hesitance to trusting others, depressive thoughts, and some tk relapse back into his addictions (though hes free 3 years now).

He is healing, my boy John ❤

Tag list @sunflowerrosy-backup @lwkjsfloating @likeadeadbattery @the-ellia-west @bees-with-a-camera @homelessnerd @bamboozled-08orange @theweirdbox123 @d0rky-0utfits @dixidin @potatoeperson33 @theultimaterewatcher @hg-sweethearts @curious-apricot @vesanal @vic-11037 @corinneglass @inspirationallybored @seastarblue @gekowo @daringcrafter

(ALSO HES FALLIG IN LOVE :3 ASK @theweirdbox123)

#:3 #crawly john #i gave him some of my “lore” 💔💔#dw it aint serious loll #artists on tumblr #writers on tumblr #ocs #my ocs #oc #lore dump #lore drop #background #original character

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thalialunacy · 1 year ago

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[for the @calaisreno Prompts May-hem (get it?!); cw for more violence than I usually do, ymmv. Also I have a feeling this one shows my American-ness more than most, so uh, sorry? ^^;]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14) 15: nightmare (16) (17) (18) (19) (20) (21) (22) (23) (24) (25) (26) (27) (28) (29) (30) (31)

'This,' John mutters to himself as he eyes the flashing red on the departures board, 'is a bloody nightmare.'

Sherlock frowns beside him. 'We're being shunted to a less direct route. Inconvenient, but hardly the stuff to disturb one's sleep.'

John closes his eyes momentarily. By and large, he's a good fit for Sherlock's behaviours, even when they're--especially when they're?--somewhat off the beaten path. But sometimes he doesn't have the energy. He just doesn't.

They've been on a literally cold case in Nowhereton, Bumfuckshire, and although the jewellery was found and no one was hurt John could absolutely murder a home-brewed cup of tea. And he would very much like to hold his daughter.

'Don't worry, John, you'll be home to her soon,' Sherlock says to him as they board the overstuffed train. They're not the only ones whose night has been sidetracked, literally, but John's empathy is thin on the ground as he jostles his way to two open seats, fantasising about going for a rugby tackle if someone else gets their first.

Sherlock ends up doing the tackling, though, because he gives not one damn about how train passengers view him. And it's not really a tackle, just a Very Cold Look. And maybe a thrown elbow.

Amused, at least a little, John takes his seat.

They manage to get an hour in before it all goes to hell.

---

The sound of the train car sliding over something besides tracks is the first thing that happens -- and really it's more of a feeling than a sound, somehow.

At first.

'Sherlock,' John says quietly, his stomach twisting. 'What was that?'

'Likely just--'

But Sherlock is interrupted by a great dirty shake, like the train is a snake trying to shed its skin in a big ugly hurry.

'Shit,' John mutters, feeling adrenaline flood his system. 'Hang on to something.'

---

John doesn't wait until the dust clears; he's out of his seat and beating his way through the door at the end of the car the second there's stillness beneath him. Their coach is still on the tracks, but he somehow knows that those ahead of them are not so lucky.

The emergency lights are on, but they're flickering and John has to squint as he makes his way through. His gaze sweeps around and he listens hard, but everyone in the car seems to be suffering from merely shock, bumps and bruises, minor things.

The next car is where shit gets real. The angles are all wrong, and he can see several people tangled in an awful unnatural embrace with metal pieces popped out from seats and side rails.

'Jesus,' he hears himself mutter. 'This is not ideal.'

Sherlock is right behind him, which he'd known but not paid any attention to. 'Triaging a hoard of exhausted people in the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere with no avenues of immediate escalation?'

'Yeah, like I said. Not ideal.'

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John has no time for whatever witticism is about to be gifted upon the world, so he steps away from the detective and further into the chaos.

He raises his voice, but tries to keep it calm. 'Hello, everyone. My name is John, I'm a medical doctor, and I'm here to help.'

---

It's a long fucking night. Four dead, a couple dozen injured. One cannot save them all.

---

Hours later, the sun peeking over the horizon and Molly sacked out on the couch, he's about to pivot onto the staircase to his room when Sherlock puts a hand on his elbow. 'Let's wash up first,' he says, voice low and firm. 'Your daughter doesn't need to see you covered in blood, even if it's someone else's.'

'God damn it,' John mutters, knowing Sherlock is right but hating it; his skin itches with the need to see his little girl. 'Fine, but quick-like.'

He sheds his jacket and button down, which had got the brunt of it, on the way to the toilet, then barely looks at himself in the mirror as he runs a flannel over his face and scrubs at his hands. Sherlock is quiet beside him, handing him soap and cloth when needed, without prompting.

John finishes, then looks up at him. 'Aren't you coming?'

Sherlock's face-- well, It does something very complicated before smoothing out into a small smile. 'All right, let's.'

---

Anticlimactically, Rosie barely stirs when John picks her up. His limbs are finally able to shake out the events of the last twelve hours, and he feels Sherlock's arms around him and beneath her like a bridge truss, supporting them both.

John breathes in deeply, taking in the scent of his daughter and his flatmate. His-- his family, he thinks, trying the word out.

'Stay,' he says quietly, not looking away from Rosie. 'Just-- Stay?'

Sherlock hums for a moment, then answers like it was never in question. 'Of course.'

They don't consider pyjamas, instead curling around each other's dusty skin in pants and vests while murmuring about inconsequential things, domestic things that send warmth spiralling through John to replace the chill that had settled in somewhere during the journey they've just finished.

'I do have one question,' Sherlock says finally, the words warming the skin at John's neck.

'Go on.'

'As you know, many common understandings about the English language, particularly when it comes to colloquialisms, are not part of my… erm, base worldview.'

'Right, I am aware.'

'So I'd like to confirm: When you called the train delay a nightmare, you were exaggerating for humour, and when you called the derailment "not ideal," you were…'

John chuckles tiredly. 'Being English.'

'Being facetious.'

'Yes.' He pauses, fingers in Sherlock's mildly tangled hair. 'Sometimes, it's all that gets you from one moment to the next. One body to the next.'

Sherlock murmurs a noise, and John feels his embrace tighten.

'Well,' the detective finally says, voice deep and sleepy. 'Besides all that, I really must say that watching you in action was quite... informative.'

'Oh? In what way?'

'Informing me that I find your medical competency viscerally pleasing.'

John huffs a surprised breath. 'Yeah?'

'Mm-hmm. You're very good, and it's very attractive.'

'Noted,' John murmurs, eyes closed. 'Next time.'

'Mm-hmm.' Sherlock's palm is warm on his solar plexus, and John doesn't think twice as he succumbs to a deep, quiet sleep.

[❤️]

[a/n- I have not been in a derailment, but I have been in a train car when it ran over a live human being going 70mph, so forgive me for not being keen to research the former for the sake of accuracy.]

ETA OH GOD I forgot the best part! My inspiration for this piece:

#BBC Sherlock #May Prompts 2024 #mayprompts2024 #It's gonna be MAY 2024 #kind of a downer despite starting as a funny tweet #Very British Problems

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corrosivesaints · 6 months ago

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Prompt: calling them a petname to try and comfort them, but only succeeding in upsetting them more at the reminder of what they can’t have

Pairing: CrozBrady

this is sooo devious, the way this blatantly encouraged me to torture brady even more >:-) my beautiful princess with so many disorders. this IS canon to 'your girl of the year'/infidelity fic verse-it takes place later in the timeline, closer to Mlle ZigZig being shot down :)))) they are soooo. delusional about how this will end. my lovelies.

***

The problem, John thinks, isn’t precisely that it’s a weakness, but that he doesn’t feel very sorry about it. Or he does, but not enough. Not in the way he should, the way God wants him to. It’s hard to feel regret, when you keep snatching life from Death’s claws, when you’re on the ground and you’re alive.

Another successful mission–victorious in that he got his boys home, not in how they’d had to call salvo on the run, turning tail with Jerry too close on their heels, the planes biting and snarling gunfire. And here he was, with jittery adrenaline crashing through his veins, and the stiffness in his hands from clutching the yoke too tight. Then, making sure his boys are all accounted for, and sitting through interrogation, and finally standing outside, dazed and blinking in the fading twilight like a newborn lamb. Men are brushing past him, off to shower or eat, shoulders hunched in exhaustion, sharing cigarettes or a joke for the gallows.

“John?” It’s Harry, appearing at his side in that startling way he does now, because he’s not on his crew anymore, swapped out to lead them all from Blakely’s plane. He’s wide eyed from nerves, a fine tremor in his hands that means he’ll crash in an hour or two, drop like a stone and sleep for 12 hours. This last mission was rough. John can feel the phantom throb in the back of his mouth from grinding his teeth for so long.

“Harry.” His brain feels soupy, wrung out and abused. Harry blinks at him, makes an aborted gesture and catches himself in time. John is suddenly, painfully aware of every hurt and ache of his worn out body, of every presence around them, and of every mission he has left. Harry seems to be realizing the same thing. He twitches minutely, swivels those worried eyes right back to him.

“30 minutes,” Harry says. Old refrain, a song and dance they’ve perfected over the last few months. John nods. Harry slips away, and he follows the dark curl of his head until he’s lost in the crowd. Somehow, he manages to choke down a few mouthfuls of food and do a perfunctory wash up. Tomorrow, when his nerves aren’t stretched so thin, he’ll shower and eat properly. Throwing his flight jacket back on–he feels better with it keeping him warm–it’s easy to sneak off to one of the forgotten supply sheds at the edge of the base. He sits for a long few minutes, hands in his pockets to warm them up after hours in the cold sky, and bounces one leg up and down in the half-forgotten melody of a song he heard at the O-Club last week. Harry pokes his head around the door a little while later, long enough that John’s brain is getting snappish and cross from the exhaustion weighing him down.

“Hey,” he says softly, getting into his lap without any preamble, a reassuring weight as he holds John so tight he thinks his ribs will creak from the force. Not that John isn’t holding him with any less white-knuckled apprehension. He smells like the sky, cool and metallic and a bit like rain. Inhuman smells, not Harry at all, who uses that stupid pomade for his curly hair, or has graphite on his hands all the time, or who frequently tastes like their terrible coffee rations. But he is alive. He buries his face in Harry’s shoulder and tries very, very hard not to think about how the flak had sounded, or the banshee wail a B-17 made when it was in a free fall and burning up.

“I can’t keep counting the ‘chutes,” Harry whispers after a minute, voice cracked and raw. John doesn’t know what to say. Words are trite, inadequate. He kept getting them all home, but more and more boys laid their bones in the soil of Germany or France each time. Harry’s not good with taking a failure, and a dead crew is the worst type. John turns his head so he can press a kiss to the soft skin of Harry’s throat, closed-mouthed and chaste, and the gesture undoes him at once. He shudders, makes a noise that John can’t parse is good or bad, and goes limp. He’s heavy but John doesn’t mind, would rather sit here for hours and let his legs go numb and let his world spiral down to just the sound of their breathing than be apart. If only it was possible to open himself up, or Harry, part the rib cage and nestle in the warm cavity there, away from everything and everyone.

And that’s the problem, he remembers. As the months pass it’s getting more and more challenging to feel remorse about any of it: wanting Harry and stealing him away from Jean, failing to admit it in confession, and the fact that it’s all a sin. God has to be cruel, to put this splinter of covetous desire in his heart and let it fester. John Brady has wanted so little throughout his life, and this being one thing he yearns for the most strikes him as less of a test and more of a punishment. A purgatory that he doesn’t even want to leave.

“Harry,” he says, kissing him again. His pulse is rabbit-fast as it always is after a mission. Harry breathes, slow and deep, and says, “Johnny, I can’t,” unable or unwilling to finish the sentence, and he doesn’t know what Harry means: it could be the war or it could be them and this tenuous connection they keep feeding into. Neither option is good, but they need their lead navigator if they’re going to survive. John Brady doesn’t need Harry Crosby.

“You should focus on the missions,” he suggests softly, “You can’t afford distractions.”

Harry shifts to peer at him curiously.

“You’re not a distraction.” Which is a kind sentiment, but John isn’t a complete fool. “John.” Harry takes his face in his hands so he’s forced to maintain eye contact. “You’re the only thing that keeps me from flying off the handle some days, you know that right?”

He didn’t.

“Oh,” Harry murmurs at whatever expression is on his face, “sweetheart.” And that’s the other problem: he’s too goddamn nice. John’s all sharp edges these days and if it phases Harry, makes him upset or discomforts him, he never shows it. He forces his eyes shut because if Harry keeps looking at him like that he’s going to do something really, truly stupid. Something he can’t ever take back, such as asking him to stay, or even saying, You help me feel grounded, too. It’s not his place, it would be disrespecting everything Harry and Jean promised each other.

“John, darling,” he repeats, laying one kiss to the side of his mouth. He should tell him to knock it off. It’s the same problem over and over: John comes to heel like a pathetic dog every time Harry so much as glances in his direction.

“Maybe we should stop.” The words feel like they’re being dragged out of him with sharp hooks. Harry jerks back so fast he nearly falls over, only saved by John grabbing him tighter. Harry’s face is pale and his eyes are wild at the edges in a way that concerns him, that speaks of post-mission fatigue and bad decisions.

“Do–” Harry goes very still, which is unusual for him. “Are you calling it quits, Johnny?”

That’s not fair, he nearly snaps. He doesn’t have a normal marriage as his out, waiting patiently for him. He doesn’t have anything, he’s put it all on the line and he can’t fucking take it anymore. His anger must be bleeding through, showing up on his face, because Harry gets off his lap–and the loss of him sends an unexpected pang through his chest–and kneels beside him, taking one hand in his own, staring up at him so seriously, a penitent saint.

“John,” he says slowly, “I’ll walk away, if that’s what you want.”

“But you don’t want to.”

Harry grimaces, but remains resolute. “I didn’t think you’d appreciate me lying.”

Damn him, he was right. John stares down at their joined hands, works to formulate an excuse, a defense, anything at all, his brain overworked and overtired. This is a turning point, he’s not too exhausted that he can’t see that. He could say, I’m done, and put it all to rest. Save his immortal soul–and his heart–and get his fucking head on straight, which he needs more than ever. Mlle ZigZig has finished over half her missions. They might make it, might defy the odds after all. He just might see the shores of America again, which feels so distant it’s a dream. A mirage, compared to Harry, who is right next to him and painfully alive, who wants him, with his warm hands holding John’s own.

He doesn’t know what to say.

“Have you eaten?” Harry asks, breaking him out of his uncertain, looping thoughts.

“Yeah,” he lies, not up for another lecture. Harry doesn’t eat before missions and John hardly eats at all before or after, too keyed up to keep much more than a few cups of coffee down. Unfortunately for him, Harry’s gotten skilled at spotting his bullshit.

“I think we should table this,” Harry suggests cautiously, “until tomorrow.”

“No.”

“John,” he sighs.

“You gave me a choice, so let me decide, goddammit.” The words come out sharp, and a small part of him is horrified at the tone. This is going all wrong–more pear shaped than a scrubbed mission, the opportunity slipping through his fingers like sand. He has to salvage this. He cups Harry’s face in one hand, his cheeks still a bit flushed and cold from the flight, and leans down to kiss him. They both need a shave, and Harry’s hair is growing past regulation, and he’s so goddamn tired and his back hurts hunched over like this and he doesn’t care. John Brady is a creature of want. This is a sin. He doesn’t care.

Harry follows him when he pulls back, nearly in his lap again, mouth pink and perfect. His hands are hot where they rest on John’s thighs, and it would be a kind of purity to be touched by him, stripped down until he’s nothing more than a man. Harry kisses him urgently, with teeth, riding the falling crest of his adrenaline high. They’ll both be too tired to do anything but sleep, soon.

“Okay, John,” Harry laughs lightly, laying a kiss to the side of his jaw, right at the tender juncture where it folds into his neck. John shivers. “I gotta stand, or I’ll cramp right up.” His knees crack when he does, John winces in sympathy.

“I’m glad I didn’t have to count your ‘chutes today,” Harry admits quietly, face turning somber. John sways forward so he can rest his head against his belly and breathe in the smell of human sweat and laundry soap, grounding scents that remind him he’s not in the clouds anymore. Harry sighs, runs a light hand through his hair. John doesn’t say that he wouldn’t let that happen, because he doesn’t make false promises, especially not to Harry.

“I was serious about dinner, by the way.”

“Five minutes,” John says, not moving. Five minutes more will get him through the night, and the next day, and the next, until the next mission when they have to do it all over again. John Brady is good at bargains, he’s been asking God for them since June. Harry exhales, rests his hand at the nape of his neck, where the skin is soft and sensitive, a place nobody but him has touched.

“Five minutes,” he agrees.

#prompts #my fic #bradycroz #infidelity fic #HORRENDOUS work day so i wrote the last paragraph today in order 2 publish thisssss #one day i'll write something for this verse that isn't SO angsty they have fun sometimes i prommy #thank YOU jen 1000000 kisses mwah mwah!#also if i look at this anymore i'll. scream.

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gvtted-ratz · 1 year ago

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read all our tags/ratings. they r important n give u all u need 2 decide if u wanna actually read or not. do not like the tags/rating? do not read.

FEM ALIGNING/IDENTIFYING PPL (unless mutuals/friends) DNI WITH OUR MLM WORKS. fem ppl can still request tho. respect our wishes or get blocked. yes we do read/check everything. we tag appropriately/use tags that go with our posts.

want 2 request? find the rules: here!

want 2 see all the fics? find em: here!

Mission Failed

Simon “Ghost” Riley x M!Reader x John “Soap” MacTavish

Last Edited: 17/03/2023

TW: slight angst, foul language, violence, blood, gore, gunshot wound, death mention

@denzellovehazelnuts: Hi! hope you have a good day! Can you do a poly "Ghost x male reader x Soap" (if you comfortable writing poly relationship) with slow burn, angst and fluff at the end? Where Ghost and Soap already in a relationship until the reader came into their team The two male thought the reader wasn't talkative around people but few weeks later, things change at first Ghost seems interesting in the male skill using gun and how fast he can run and Soap like the male sense of humour. Both of them thought it only a friendship type of things. Until the male save Ghost from the enemy on the battlefield and him laughing at Soap jokes. That when the two males known what happen to them, they weren't sure if M/n would comfortable in a relationship with them, so they start doing small things for him like making coffee or helping training,.. And M/n notice it, he even started to fall for the both of them. But he keep denying the things they did for him because he thought that what friend do. and M/n don't think he is ready for a new relationship, he wasn't sure he is good enough for them (the male got trauma from the previous relationships) (more angst please, I would like to suffer for a little bit) (・∀・) After a while, the three of them got into a mission together, everything went good until the male got shot. He thought he going to be de@d soon (only to find out that he only got shot at his leg) so M/n confessed how he feel about the two of them. (andddd I don't know what to do with the ending cause I'm ran out of idea. I would want to see how the treated each other when got into a relationship. Sorry about the grammar, English isn't my first language)

Word Count: 2,654

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: hiiii! i dont do heavy angst but i did do some u know? slow burn it is!!! srry it took so long! irl things hold me back a lot. N since u wanted slow burn, n with all that uve put (about 350 words of things i can work on/with 2 get this drawn out as a full-on fic!! yay!) i had 2 like. try n put all u wanted in there so yea! hope u enjoy!! also! i threw in some other characters like gaz n roach. hope u dont mind em being in here since this is like, a mash of cod n codmw2 (canon? what cancon?) cause i rlly do wanna put some other characters in here that i find interesting n build some sort of character/personality 4 the reader. reader deserves some cool friends-2-brothers!

At first, you hadn’t wanted to join Task Force 141. You were comfortable with your position as the quiet, but light on your feet, knife specialist. Well, that wasn’t truly your title. You were just good with knives. You weren’t too shotty with a gun either. Either weapon being in your hands meant blood was going to be shed. KorTac needed those types, especially those who could use it to get in as well as out; you also couldn’t forget about using your skills to get information. Torturing the prisoners wasn’t something you particularly liked, but you were good at it too. Combining your skills with knives and guns, it truly was hell for anyone on the opposite side of your team. You also couldn’t forget that, out of the others, you were much faster. Sure, some could still beat you at times but that didn’t mean you weren’t good. Bets had been constantly taking place with you, along with others as it was one of the few things any of you could do to pass the time in a less-than-bloody manner.

The transfer from KorTac to Task Force 141 wasn’t smooth. Horangi, or Kim Hong-jin, didn’t let you go for weeks. You were part of his team, one of his men. The leader of KorTac is what most of you saw him as. He knew many of you like the back of his hand. Not to mention, a tiger can be cruel but would never devour its cubs for no reason, well, as some say. As far as you knew, because you were all together, you were a team and therefore family. While there were others who didn’t get along, out in the field, all of you had each other’s back. Very rarely did anyone get left to perish to the enemy.

With all that in mind, it took weeks for him to let you go. More or less, Laswell was the one to convince him; that is if you call bringing each plus every person in KorTac to ruins as “convincing”. She wanted you on a team she could keep tabs on you; doubting her power and skills was out of the question. Which meant leaving KorTac to ensure that everyone else was free from possible imprisonment or death was necessary.

Fitting in wasn’t too hard considering most of the people there were from all over the place. While it’s odd for a member from another team to suddenly appear on another, it didn’t bother most of the others. Just from a glance, you could tell who was into who; as well as who exactly was in a relationship. A man by the name of Ghost including another called Soap, you knew were together. Soap flirted with almost everyone, though it was more teasing and lighthearted. With Ghost though? The flirting went up by twenty percent. His dial for teasing went up tenfold too. Meanwhile, Ghost hardly looked at anyone else, nevertheless, stare at them unless they were the Scottish man. Frankly, you didn’t mind. Who were you to judge the two? Especially when they were good at what they did.

It takes weeks before you’re comfortable enough to so much as talk to anyone 141. Gaz, or Kyle as Soap tended to call him when annoyed, is the first to so much as approach you. While the others are interested, you coming from KorTac had put them off for a bit. Gaz on the other hand treats you like a brother. He’ll throw his arm around your shoulder, dragging you around as he laughs about the past or even at your jokes. At meals, he always throws a raised eyebrow at those who look at you oddly when you’re quiet or sitting with the man. He treats you like you’re part of the team, furthermore, that truly means more than anything to you.

The man is just as bloodthirsty as you are. His stories of falling out of planes along with taking out enemies only lead to you looking up to your new teammate and brother. His tales of meeting Captain Price, past missions, a few tidbits of him being with the SAS, together with some metals he’s earned, only makes you want to pry more stories from the man; not like you don’t have to try. Simply asking about his stories leads to at least an hour-long spill of them from the guy.

And with his stories comes a few of your own. You don’t share much of them, knowing Gaz spreads them to the rest of the team with more dramatics to try to get you to interact with the others. Something you do learn about him that you always keep in mind from his stories is that his blood type is B Negative and shooting any dog, wild or not, makes him feel a bit guilty; he had to shoot one a while ago and apologised to the poor mutt after having to put it down to finish his mission.

With all that he’s shared and how the both of you see each other as brothers, it’s only fair that you let yourself talk to the others in the team. Though your words are short, along with your jokes being told quickly to distract yourself from the stressful situations, you allow yourself to slowly relax with the others. Gaz’s constant support helps you finally allow yourself to bond with your new team and family. It’s only after a mission that things change.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

��Take the left! Keep your heads down and keep movin’!” Captain Price’s voice rings out in your earpiece. Everything has gone to shit. The intel you’ve been getting was entirely a trap. You’re running through an underground tunnel, Ghost and another man named Roach is running in front of you.

Roach is a quiet man, never talking or letting out a sound, but semi-friendly. From his actions and what you’ve been told of him, he does his best to complete the missions to the tea. The few interactions you’ve had with him were silent but nice. Whether or not he’s mute has crossed your mind time and mind again but you don’t ask; you’d rather leave the man be. After all, he has become something like a friend maybe even another brother.

“Copy. We’re nearly out. Roach and [Redacted] are with me,” Ghost responds, quickening his pace. The rifle smacks against your back as you speed up to keep up with the other two men. Despite the situation, the three of you remain as calm as you can be.

“You’re bein’ tracked like a rabbit is by a hound, Ghost! Move it!” The captain’s orders are clear and the worry is read between the lines. If you three don’t get out, it’s a huge blow to 141. Not only that, but Soap loses his boyfriend, Gaz loses two of his best friends as well as brothers, you three lose your lives, and Task Force 141 loses three of its members. Dying isn’t an option here.

“We have company,” Your words are muffled by your gear but the two soldiers in front of you hear them in their own pieces.

“Fuckin’ hell-” Ghost’s sentence gets cut off by gunfire from behind. Turning around, you fire the Lachmann Sub in your possession.

“We gotta go! They’re gaining!” You clip one of the enemies in the shoulder and another is hit in the stomach. Picking up the speed, the three of you try to beat them out of the tunnel. You cover the back, hoping the two get out before you. If you get surrounded, it’s over.

Thankfully, they haven’t reached the other end of the tunnel as the three of your burst out of the exit. You grab a grenade, pull the pin and throw it in the tunnel. As soon as it leaves your hands, you’re running faster to get to Roach and Ghost before anything else can; one arm wraps around each of your teammates’ necks, dragging them down to the ground as the little metal bomb goes off. Debris flies everywhere, looking for an area to land after being shot out of its place.

With the tunnel exist now collapsed along with no more flying rock and metal, you release the men. “How copy?” Crackles through each of your earpieces. You knock your forearm into Roach’s upper arm, eyes crinkling from your smile. He gives you a grateful nod, standing. You smack Ghost’s arm as he stands, glad to have escaped the enemies for now.

“Tunnel’s collapsed. We’re good. Ready for extraction, Sir,” Blunt and straight to the point are the skull-masked man’s words.

“Good. Heli’s close by. Move to the edge of the town.” With the three of you alive, you can practically feel Captain Price’s relief.

“Copy that, Captain,” Your muffled response comes before Ghost can send in his own. He scans you from the corner of his eye but doesn’t give you a retort. You do, however, hear a small huff of air leave him. You throw your arm around Roach’s neck again, puffs of air leaving you from happiness, meanwhile, his arm comes around your back. Seems the three of you live another day.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

After that mission, Ghost tends to lurk around you more than he originally had. It didn’t help that Soap tends to tag along as well. Thankfully, he finds your jokes hilarious if the loud, boisterous laughter he lets out all the time tells you anything. His teasing ends up piling onto you as well. Before, it was light as well as spread out. Now, it’s almost like he’s talking to Ghost with all the teasing and flirting he now does with you. His boyfriend hardly seems concerned but rather encourages his behaviour. Of course, that doesn’t mean he goes easy on you when the two of your spar together. He’s dead serious when it comes to sparring; it’s only a reminder that while he does good off, he’s just as dangerous as the rest of them.

The two men seem to be fixated on wanting to help you out in training as well. More pointers plus tips are thrown your way when you practice with either of them. Sometimes, they’ll even make you coffee for those sleepless nights. Mentioning such things to Gaz and Roach only leads to your sworn brothers giving you knowing looks or a few teasing words; Gaz is the one with the teasing remarks while Roach pats your shoulder in a mocking but teasing “you poor man” way. Neither seems keen on wanting to spill the tea on why the Scottish and British men have been more affectionate.

While you enjoy their kind gestures, including their company, you’re not sure if you’re ready to admit to yourself, or them, about such feelings or relationships. On the surface, you truly do want to ask them if this is some sort of flirting schtick they have going on. Deep down though, the idea of being with anyone again makes your stomach fill with the lead. How could you enter another relationship? After the last one ended with your soon-to-be fiance’s brains splattered all over a brick wall. How can you move past that? How can you allow yourself to find someone like them? Or even better than them? The answer to that is a sigh alongside a bitter smile. The ring hiding under your tactical gloves seems to burn your skin. Truly, how can you let your first love go? After all, if you weren’t good enough to keep them alive, how can you keep these two from meeting the same gorey end?

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“To think I’d find myself here… How fuckin’ funny,” You mumble. Another mission, this one just like all the others. Well, it would have been if you hadn’t been shot. The blood leaking from your leg alongside a knife wound to your side leave you in pain. Feeling weak isn’t something uncommon but neither is it constantly happening. Words are being spoken to you through your headset. You were to be the lookout but ended up being the enemy's first target.

“How copy?” Rings in your ears. Your eyes stare blankly in front of you. You feel pathetic. Too tired to talk. Too tired to get up. You just sit, popped up against a tree in the heavily wooded area. You’ve failed, failed, failed.

“C’mon, Mate, how do ya copy?” Soap’s voice is worried and winded. He and Ghost are the people you’ve been teamed up with and you’ve failed.

“[Redacted], how copy?” The next tone is Ghost’s. It sounds slightly strained.

“Mission Failed,” You croak, head tilted back and against the tree.

“Status report, Mate. Where are ya?” He’s rushing, possibly panicked now.

“Got two wounds. Gunshot to the thigh. Knife to the side. Bleeding pretty bad, Soap.” You close your eyes, sighing.

“State your location.” The Brit seems to be just as worried as his Scottish counterpart.

“Dunno. Woods. Against a tree… There’s a lot of blood. Feelin’ woozy.” When you open your eyes, your sight is blurred. You’re losing too much blood.

“Keep talkin’ to us then, yeah? You’ll make it out. We’ll get out together,” The Scot’s words, though hopeful, only make you scoff quietly.

“You know… If I get outta here… Think we can go out sometime? Bourbon and whiskey? The three of us?”

“When we get out, [Redacted]. There’s no if here,” The masked man makes it sound final like there’s no way you’ll die on them.

“Yeah… Yeah..” You don’t say anymore, everything slowly hazing away. It’s like your floating in winter with how cold you feel.

“[Redacted]? Don’t sleep! C’mon! Keep ya eyes open!” Soap’s words fade away along with everything else. All that waits is cold darkness.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

“So… Think you can handle our drinking date after this?” Soap perches on the side table, messing with a lighter he took from Ghost.

“After he’s healed, Johnny. No alcohol before,” A semi-scolding is all the man gets from the brooding Ghost. You laugh slightly, jostling your wounds. You wince but wave off the concerned looks you get.

“After I’m no longer full of holes, Johnny-boy.” You take a sip of water afterwards, making Soap frown playfully.

“And to think I was gonna bring out the good shit fer ya. A shame. A damn shame.” You gently shake your head. It was a close call but Ghost got to you before you completely bled out. From what you’ve been told by Gaz, who yelled at you for an hour after you woke up from your four-day sleep, Ghost and Soap dragged you back to the helicopter. Both refused to leave your side. Captain Price ended up having to yell at the men and bribe them with a bit of alcohol to get them to even go to their own rooms. You made sure to apologize to Gaz, hugging him tightly after his blow-up. He thought he was going to lose a friend and family member so you couldn’t blame him.

Roach gave you the cold should for a while before appearing in your room with a cup of coffee. He made sure to smack the back of your head for your stupidity as well, though it was hardly rough. You grabbed the man before he could so much as bolt though when he saw you getting up to hug him. He hadn’t pushed you away though. And the captain? It felt like you were a kid again with how he pinned you with his stare. He made sure to tell you exactly how he felt, going from angry, to disappointed, to angry again. Another guy you couldn’t blame anything on. But you get to live another day at least. And you get to have that date with the two guys who were able to grab ahold of your heart after a long-time of heartache and loss.

#x male reader #x reader #my fics #fanfic #ao3 fanfic #cod x reader #cod x male reader #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 x male reader #poly ghoap x reader #poly ghoap x male reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon ghost x male reader #john soap mactavish x reader #john soap mactavish x male reader #mdni blog

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darkmaga-returns · 5 months ago

Text

10 shocking stories the media buried today.

The Vigilant Fox

Dec 09, 2024

#10 - A new study demonstrates, “Something is being shed from the COVID-19 vaccinated population to the unvaccinated population.”

The “conspiracy theorists” were right again.

The study revealed shocking findings: women who were around vaccinated people daily (within 6 feet) had a 34% higher risk of heavy menstrual bleeding, a 28% higher chance of their period starting over a week early, and a 26% higher chance of menstrual bleeding lasting more than seven days, compared to those with little close contact.

One of the authors of the study wrote: “After more than a year of censorship from the medical journals, our landmark study and manuscript has been published demonstrating significant circumstantial evidence that something is being shed from the COVID-19 vaccinated population to the unvaccinated population. It is far beyond time for these toxic injections to be withdrawn from the market.”

Reacting to the study’s alarming findings, esteemed physician Dr. Pierre Kory wrote on X: “The most puzzling thing we’ve seen with the vaccine is its ability to ‘shed’ and harm those who never got it. A peer-reviewed study just validated the thousands of shedding reports sent to us.”

(See Sources and 9 More Revealing Stories Below)

Source 1 - New Study Finds Concerning Evidence of COVID-19 'Vaccine' Shedding

Courageous Discourse™ with Dr. Peter McCullough & John Leake

New Study Finds Concerning Evidence of COVID-19 'Vaccine' Shedding

by Nicolas Hulscher, MPH…

17 hours ago · 148 likes · 39 comments · Nicolas Hulscher, MPH

Source 2 - Newly Published Study Shows Shedding Of Covid mRNA Vaccine Products

Pierre Kory’s Medical Musings

Newly Published Study Shows Shedding Of Covid mRNA Vaccine Products

As many of my readers know, about a year ago I spent months researching and writing on the topic of “shedding” of gene therapy medicinal products (GTMP), a class of therapies which the Covid vaccines are categorized under. That effort was first inspired by patients reporting to me and my partner…

13 hours ago · 104 likes · 31 comments · Pierre Kory, MD, MPA

#9 - Elon Musk Considering Giving Reform UK $100 Million To Help Farage Become Prime Minister: Report

The Telegraph and others are reporting that X owner Elon Musk is mulling heavily investing in Reform UK, the political party headed by Nigel Farage in order to help him compete with the two establishment parties in Britain.

“Elon Musk is reportedly considering giving Reform up to $100 million, or around £79 million, after cementing a friendship with Farage at Donald Trump’s Mar-a-Lago home in Florida,” the outlet notes.

Read More: https://modernity.news/2024/12/09/elon-considering-giving-reform-uk-100-million-to-help-farage-become-prime-minister-report/

#8 - Speaker Mike Johnson Says He Supports Defunding Planned Parenthood

“Planned Parenthood and PBS are in congressional control. Are you planning to axe both of those?” Fox News host Martha MacCallum asked Johnson.

“I would like to. That’s for sure,” Johnson replied.

Read More: https://www.infowars.com/posts/speaker-mike-johnson-says-he-supports-defunding-planned-parenthood-i-would-like-to/

#7 - UN Deploys Investigators as Mysterious "Disease X" Continues to Spread

In the Democratic Republic of Congo, international health officials have been deployed to help stave the spread of a mysterious respiratory disease.

Dubbed “Disease X,” DRC health authorities have already recorded 406 total cases and 31 deaths, and the disease is disproportionately affecting young children.

Read More: https://futurism.com/neoscope/un-team-disease-x-congo

#6 - NYPD Identifies 'Strong Person Of Interest' In United Healthcare CEO Murder Case

While you’re here, don’t forget to subscribe to this page for more daily news roundups.Subscribe

#5 - US Military Begins Launching Strikes as Assad Flees Syria

#4 - Joe Biden Voted as Worst President in Modern History

#3 - Rand Paul Warns Musk & Ramaswamy About The Swamp’s Upcoming DOGE Dodge

#2 - Ex-Secret Service Agent Warns of Major Attack on Trump Before Inauguration

#1 - Judicial Bombshell: Federal Judge Forces FDA to Release Over a Million Pages of Pfizer’s COVID-19 Trial Documents They Wanted to Keep Hidden for 75 Years

BONUS #1 - Stephen A. Smith Delivers Unexpected Knockout Blow to Joe Biden

BONUS #2 - Alarming Levels of DNA Contamination Found in COVID Vaccines

BONUS #3 - How to Get Ivermectin, Z-Pak and More

BONUS #4 - Fed-Up Liberal ERUPTS on Democratic Party in Epic Rant

BONUS #5 - The Shocking Truth About Skin Cancer: What You’re Not Being Told About the Sun

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callmelittlebuttercup · 7 months ago

Text

Peace Offerings Pt. 17

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!Reader

Masterlist

Content Warning: 18+ MDNI

Chapter Summary: Reader has a dream and her reaction to it doesn't go unmissed by Joel. In an effort to distract him from it, Reader offers to do a favor for their saviors, Lydia and John, that sends them out to check the perimeter of the property. During their perimeter check, a freezing rainstorm barrels through and forces the two to take cover in an abandoned tool shed. Joel takes advantage of their alone time and asks Reader about the dream once more.

<3 CHAPTER WARNINGS ARE AT THE END OF THE TEXT TO AVOID SPOILERS <3

Part 17

The sun had dipped below the treeline and the little girl, Lucy had long since been put to sleep. I’d decided it was time to let Matthew sleep since his eyes kept fluttering while we were talking. He most definitely was not out of the woods yet. This thought kept me nervously rubbing the edges of my shirt between my fingers as I sat in the living room with Joel, John, and his wife who I’d learned was named Lydia. “He’d managed to miss both the tripwire and the pitfall and just wound up slumped over on our front porch. Lydia had heard him and found him there bleeding like a stuck pig- Sorry, for that visual.” John stuttered as he explained how they found Matthew. I cringed at the image of him in that condition. Joel was next to me on the couch and I felt his hand brush against my leg. A small action of comfort.

“Well, I can’t thank you enough for saving my brother.” I croaked. The fatigue of the day weighed down on my tone. “Of course. We believe that as long as you have the resources, save who you can.” Lydia said. “Your traps say otherwise.” Joel grumbled. I shot him a disapproving look. “Well, we do have a little one here to protect. Plus, they’re more for infected. We don’t come across many people these days.” John clarified. Joel rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to say more but was thankfully interrupted by Lydia speaking again, “Well, it’s getting late. We’d be happy to let you two stay here while your brother heals. Unfortunately he’s taken up our guest room so all we have left is the living room or the master. You two are such a sweet couple and you must be exhausted from your travels, I insist that you take the master. I wouldn’t mind sleeping on the couch for a night or two.” John looked a bit annoyed at his wife for offering up their luxuries to strangers. “Oh- we’re not a couple. We’d be happy to sleep on the couch. Thank you so much for offering, though.” I said as I scooted farther away from Joel. Lydia’s smile dropped and she studied the two of us for a moment before snapping out of it and speaking again, “Oh! I’m sorry. Um… no problem, I’ll just grab you some blankets.” She hurried out of the living room and down the hall. John rubbed his knees awkwardly for a moment before standing, nodding, and then following his wife down the hall.

“You could be a bit more polite, you know.” I whispered through my teeth as soon as the man left the room. Joel stared at me blankly before answering, “They’re strangers. Can’t be too careful.” He stood up and walked to the window to examine the pitch black that went unnoticed as it fell over the sky. “They saved my brother Joel. The least we could do is show an inkling of trust or gratitude.” He pressed his lips together and gave a slight nod before sitting back down on the couch.

“They’re not much, but they should warm you through the night.” Lydia said as she entered the room and handed each of us a blanket. “They’re perfect. Thank you again.” I said as I accepted the soft, wooly fabric. “Of course.” She smiled before waving goodnight and heading down the hallway. I sat back down on the couch and began to cover myself with the blanket. Joel did the same and sighed heavily as he laid down on his back. I settled in on my side, still facing him. “Goodnight.” I whispered. He took a moment to respond before grounding out a quiet, “Night.”

Dream pov:

A soft wind blew through the kitchen window as I stood over the sink, rinsing the remnants of this morning’s breakfast down the drain. I hummed along to the crackly radio. I was lost in my own little world, but shrieked back to reality when I felt large arms snake around my waist. A sigh of relief left my lips as the comfort of realization flooded over me. “Hi, Honey.” I whispered before turning around to face Joel. His face was caked with dirt and sawdust, but I still peppered his cheeks and lips with light kisses. His grip around my waist tightened and I leaned into him, pressing my head against his broad chest. “I missed you.” He whispered into my ear, “Was a long day.” I pulled away and pushed his long hair away from his glossy forehead. “I missed you more. Go shower up before dinner.” I said before gently pushing him away and pretending to fan a bad smell away from my nose. A small smile crept across his lips and he came back for one more kiss before heading up the stairs. Before walking back to the kitchen, I gazed lovingly at the photos that hung on the wall along the stairs. My heart fluttered when my eyes reached the one of us standing under the big weeping willow tree hand in hand. My white dress and Joel’s suit jacket both whipping in the wind and huge toothy grins on our faces. My hand moved to my stomach and instinctively moved over the small curve that had started to form around my belly button. “Are you a boy or a girl?” I whispered softly to my belly before walking back to the kitchen.

“It’s a boy. I can feel it.” Joel said rather joyfully as he clopped down the stairs. His damp hair bounced atop his head as he reached the last step. “And what makes you so sure?” I asked sarcastically as I opened my arm to accept a warm, damp hug. “I just know.” He sighed into the crook of my neck. “You just want a boy.” I joked before gently pushing him away by his shoulders, “Anyways, do you want dinner or not?” There was no answer from him as his eyes traveled up and down my body, taking their sweet time once they found my midsection. “Are you on the menu?” He asked. His eyes were filled with mischief, and I couldn’t hold back the nervous giggle building in my throat. Quicker than I could catch my breath, Joel’s lips were on mine again, and his arms were wrapped around me as my bottom was pressed against the kitchen sink. He moved to pepper kisses along my neck and collar bone and soft, desperate moans left my lips as I revelled in his touch-

My dream was cut short when I heard my name being called. I blinked a few times, trying to snap out of my euphoric, yet confusing dream. My mind continued reeling. Was that our future? It couldn’t possibly be. Not in times like this. Not to mention the fact that he thinks being with me would make me a distraction. I heard my name again, and I turned to look at Joel who was sitting up on the couch across from me. It was almost light out and I could see the sleep still in his eyes. “You okay?” He asked. “Yeah, why?” I asked, my voice was hoarse from sleep. “You were… uh… makin’ some noises. Figured you were havin’ a nightmare.” He explained uncomfortably. Embarrassment flooded my chest and blood rushed to my cheeks. “Yeah, just a nightmare. Sorry.” I breathed. Joel nodded, but didn’t look too convinced. I squirmed beneath his stare and rolled onto my side to face away from him. “You wanna talk about it?” He asked hesitantly. I sighed and sat up to stretch the sleep out of my limbs before answering stoicly, “No. Not really.” I wasn’t lying. The dream left such a stange feeling in my chest. It was close to the feeling that I always had after waking up from nightmares, where my chest was tight, my heart was racing, and my stomach was in my throat. Except in this case, there was a hint of pleasure in that feeling and I wanted more of it. I yearned to finish the dream and see where the story led, but I did not want to discuss it with Joel.

Joel respected my wishes and kept his questions mostly to himself except for the puzzled furrowing of his eyebrows as he watched me walk into the kitchen and throw water onto my face. After that, I left the living room quietly to go check on Matthew. I padded down the dim hallway, cringing each time a squeak sounded out from the floorboards. When I reached his door, I knocked gently. No answer. My hand gripped the door knob and I opened it a crack to see him fast asleep under the ratty covers of his makeshift bed. His chest moving slowly, but surely, up and down. My eyes welled and my gratitude towards this sweet little family finally set in. At first all I was feeling was shock and could barely process the fact that I found my brother by chance in such a secluded area. I had so much to be thankful for. Thankful that my brother was alive, that I was alive, and that Joel made the efforts to be by my side this whole time. I stood at the doorway of his bedroom watching him sleep peacefully and enjoying the calm quietness that fell over the house while everyone was sleeping.

The house wasn’t quiet for much longer since Lucy had woken up and bounded into the living room to greet us. She was entertaining us by doing somersaults back and forth on the couch Joel had slept on while the both of us sat opposite as her captive audience. “Luce, it’s a little bit early for that, don’t you think?” Her father asked before shooting us a sympathetic shrug. “I’m practicing for the Olympics. I’m gonna be a gymnast, daddy!” She answered. The room became heavy and quiet from none of us having the heart to tell her the truth about her future. “She uh- read that in a book.” John said wearily as he set two cups of coffee in front of Joel and I.

“If we’re going to be here for a while, please tell me what we can do to help around the place.” I insisted. John shuffled his feet and chewed his lip for a moment before his hand moved to massage his knee. Lydia touched his shoulder and gave him a look, one saying go ahead. “Every day we do a perimeter… just to check the traps. I-uh twisted my knee a while back and it hasn’t stopped hurtin’ since. If I give y’all some direction… would you uh-“ I interrupted his nervous stuttering by blurting “Of course. Anything we can do.” Joel shot me a look but I didn’t meet his eyes. “How big is the perimeter?” Joel asked. “Same as the distance we traveled yesterday. About a mile.” John answered. Joel winced and I rolled my eyes. “There’s no other way we can-“ I cut Joel’s protest off, “We’ll do it. Just tell us where each trap is and arm us and we’re good to go. Joel patrols in Jackson as a side gig.” My volume dropped the moment the words left my mouth. Shit. Joel’s eyes went wild as they glared at me. “Jackson?” John repeated, his eyebrows furrowing. “I’ve heard of that place before.” Lydia said as she took a few steps into the living room. I quickly moved to change the subject of the conversation. “Anyway, we better do the perimeter check before it starts raining.” I said as I gestured to the dark gray clouds looming in the window. “Yes. Honey, go ahead and brief them and I’ll go change Matthew’s bandages and see if he’ll eat.” Lydia said before hurrying down the hall.

In preparation, John showed us a rough map he’d drawn out of the property. It displayed the perimeter lines and the approximate location of each trap, warning us to stay at least 10 feet away from each area as a safety precaution. I asked questions and Joel stayed silent, resorting to a short grunt of acknowledgement for John’s instructions. We ate some oatmeal made by Lydia, grabbed our guns and flashlights and bundled up. “If you guys aren’t back in 2 hours I’ll come lookin’.” John called out as Joel and I headed down the path towards the woods. I wasn’t sure whether that sentiment was comforting or scary.

Unsurprisingly, Joel had nothing to say as we walked and checked each trap. He walked in front of me with the map, stopping and hap-hazardly looked to see if anyone, or anything, was in the trap, and would move on. So far, they were all empty. We were about three quarters of the way around the perimeter when I began to feel raindrops hitting the top of my head and shoulders. The wind picked up and sent fallen leaves swirling across our path. “Shit.” Joel cursed, looking up to the sky.

The rainfall was hard and unforgiving, just degrees away from freezing rain. I could barely see from being pelted in the face with the water. Joel grabbed my elbow and pulled me so hard I nearly fell into him. I scowled and began to question what his motive was but was cut off by a huge branch slamming to the ground in my previous spot. “Thank you.” I said breathlessly. He, as per usual, grunted in response and urged me forward. “Let’s find that shed we saw back that way.” I called out through a huge clap of thunder. Joel nodded and began walking back towards the small wooden structure in the distance. Thunder clapped again and we broke out into a jog, urgent to escape the relentless storm. I grabbed the handle of the shed door and turned the lock before swinging it open and hurrying inside with Joel close behind. We leaned against the wall opposite to each other, taking a moment to catch our breaths.

The air was cold from the recent snow and my sopping wet clothes clung to my body, causing me to start shivering. I looked around the dim, dusty shed for anything to wrap myself with. I saw shovels, buckets, miscellaneous tools, ropes, but nothing that would warm my trembling self. I heard Joel curse under his breath as he peered out the small window at the downpour. “Doesn’t seem to be lettin’ up.” He grumbled before his eyes shifted to me, “Are you glad we helped them now?” I rolled my eyes and kept my gaze out the window at the tall trees taking a serious beating from the huge raindrops and furious wind. “I don’t want to hear it, Joel.” I said, letting the tone of my voice be a warning to the stubborn man.

He let a few moments of quiet go by as he studied the weather out the window. His eyes shifted to me every once in a while, probably annoyed at the sound of my chattering teeth, then finally he spoke, “Take your clothes off.” I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly, and blurted “What?” He shook his head and stepped towards me, “Your wet clothes are makin’ you colder. Take em off.” I stared at him in disbelief. “And put what on?” I questioned, shock and confusion raising the pitch of my voice. He shook his head in frustration. “I’ll give you my flannel, it’s dry. Unless you want to keep shivering and make yourself sick.” I knew he was right, but he was crazy to think I would just strip down to my underwear in some random shed in the middle of- “Oh fuck it.” I sighed shakily and began to unbutton my soggy jeans. I watched as Joel tried to pry his eyes away from me as I clumsily stepped out of the pant legs. “Shirt please.” I demanded as I turned around to take my jacket and t-shirt off. After some shuffling of clothing, a warm flannel wrapped around my shoulders. I pulled the shirt on and buttoned it up to my neck before hugging myself and taking in the warmth. “Better?” Joel asked as he picked my jeans and shirt up off the floor. I nodded and watched him spread my clothes over the counter to dry. “What now?” I asked, pressing some of the fabric up against my face. My goal was to make it look as if I was just drying my face, but in reality I was breathing in his familiar scent. A scent I didn’t know I’d missed. “Not sure. Just wait it out I guess. Give your clothes a chance to dry.” He said. “What about your clothes? Aren’t you cold?” I questioned. He shook his head, “M’fine.” I didn’t believe him. From what I could see, he was freezing, but just trying to tough it out. “You’re cold Joel.” I insisted. He shook his head again, “I said I’m fine. Just relax.” I huffed and leaned against the wall of the shed. I was shocked at how warm I was. It had snowed just days ago and the air was still cold, but even so, I was warmer than when I had my soaking wet pants on.

The rain wasn’t letting up. It had been at least a half hour since we’d been in the shed. My boredom got the best of me and I’d begun to play around with random tools. “What’s this one?” I asked Joel, the renowned contractor. “S’a nail puller.” He answered nonchalantly. “Ever use it?” I asked as I fiddled with the handles and tried to figure out how it worked. “‘Course I have. Used to go around behind my men and pick out the crooked nails. Made ‘em re-do them all.” He said. I was not surprised at all by his words. “Wow, they must have loved you.” I joked. “They did, actually. I was hard on them for a reason. I saw potential, and they just needed a little push.” He explained. I hummed out an “Mhmmm,” as a response before I picked up a huge circular piece of metal with serrated edges. “What’s this one?” I asked as I spun it around in my hands. Joel moved towards me quickly and tried to snatch it out of my hands. “It’s a fuckin’ saw blade. Put it down.” He demanded. I did as he said and turned around to face him, “Sorry boss.”

His unimpressed face softened as our views met, and for a moment, he had a glint of hunger in his eyes. That familiar hunger I’ve seen before in our brief moments of intimacy. “Are my legs being exposed too much for you, Miller?” I asked sarcastically. I expected him to blink the look in his eyes away, but instead I saw the corner of his mouth turn up into a miniscule smirk. “That and somethin’ else.” He said in a low tone. I thought the weight of his eyes on me was enough to make me melt, but when his voice became soft and buttery like that, my knees almost buckled. “And what’s that?” I asked, my voice close to a whisper. His hand moved up to push a wet piece of hair off of my face before he cooed, “I know that wasn’t no nightmare this morning.” His hand settled in on the nape of my neck and I nearly stopped breathing. “What?” I choked. His smirk became more prominent. “I wanna know what happened in that dream to bring those sounds out of you.” Out of all of the things I expected from Joel today, this was not it.

I wanted to lie. To say that it was a nightmare and I can’t control what noises I make in my sleep. But Joel knew the truth. Whether I liked it or not, he knew me from the weeks of travelling together. “You do?” I managed. “I can’t stop thinkin’ about it.” He gasped before resting his hands on the counter on either side of me. “What happened to no more distractions?” I asked slyly, unwilling to let him forget his past remarks. “Well, its pourin’ out there, your brother is safe with those people, and we’ve got nothin’ to do besides wait in this shed. In conclusion, what was that dream about?” He asked again. “I don’t know… if I should tell you.” I said, becoming flustered all of a sudden. Joel’s face dropped. “Was it about someone else?” He asked in a sullen, yet guarded tone. My first instinct was to insist that it wasn’t about anyone else, but the shitstirrer in me was curious to see his reaction to the fact that it wasn’t. “What would you do if it was?” I questioned. His face darkened and I watched as he took another lustful glance at the way the curves of my body made way for themselves in his shirt. Goosebumps prickled my arms and legs as his rough hand made contact with my thigh, fully palming my soft skin before sliding upwards so slowly that it was almost painful. When his fingers ran into the fabric of his shirt, they tenderly pushed themselves underneath the flannel and changed their path to meet the waistband of my panties. I drew in a short breath as his hand skimmed the elastic, searching for an entrance. The sides of his mouth turned upwards slightly and he leaned in to press his lips against my neck all the way up to my ear. “I’d show you why it should always be me.” He droned.

Just then, he found his way into my panties. The slippery, honey-like substance I’d made just for him guided his fingers inside of me. My mouth fell open and a quiet moan escaped my lips. His fingers continued to move in and out of me, pulling more and more breathy moans from my lips. I felt his breath on my neck as he kept his ear close to my mouth, taking in every pleasure filled sound that escaped me. Just as I was beginning to feel the coil of pleasure building in my core, he stopped.

“Need you to be louder.” He ground out before kneeling down and positioning himself between my legs. His hands wrapped around the edges of my panties and pulled them down. The cold air met my skin and my legs clenched closed, but Joel wasn’t having that. I yelped as his hand grasped the back of my knee before pushing it upwards and over his shoulder, forcing me open. His eyes gazed hungrily at my exposed center but he slowed himself down by pressing kisses to my inner thighs. His scratchy beard against my skin caused me to shudder in anticipation. I craved the feeling of his mouth on me again. So badly that my hips began bucking towards his face. He pressed a few more kisses to my thigh before moving to my center. He teased me first. His only touch being a few small, light licks on my clit. He wanted to hear me beg.

“Please Joel,” I breathed. “Please what?” He asked, his warm breath on me caused me to push myself towards him even more. He pulled away. “Tell me what you want, or I’m not doin’ anything.” He demanded. “I want your mouth on me right fucking now.” I whined frustratedly. I watched as a satisfied smirk came across his face before he finally ducked down and captured my clit between his lips.

It became a fever dream. My head fell back and I instinctively arched my back forwards, needing more and more of his mouth as his tongue swirled over the bundle of nerves. Joel hummed his approval, the vibration sending spikes of pleasure up through my core. He lapped and teased as he gripped my thigh to keep it flush against his shoulder. He teased my pussy with his other hand and slid two of his fingers into me. I moaned and writhed beneath his touch, the onslaught of sensations he was sending through my body made it nearly impossible for me to keep it together. My moans became more and more desperate. Sounding less like moans and more resembling breathless cries. “That’s it…that’s what I heard this morning.” Joel purred between swipes of his tongue.

I tried to answer, but it all became too much. The feeling of his fingers inside me, his mouth on me, his gruff voice ordering me around all combined to send me reeling over the edge. I cried out and my body began to tremble but Joel had no plans to stop. He relentlessly rode out my orgasm, continuing to pump his fingers while licking and sucking the most sensitive part of me. It was as if he was trying to draw as much pleasure as possible for me and it was working. The sides of my vision were shrouded with white.

Soon, my legs began to give out and Joel finally stopped. He stood up, grabbing onto my waist to support me as my body practically went boneless. Both of us stood there panting, our chests moving against each other’s. I was slowly regaining my full vision and looked down to see the bulge in Joel’s jeans. His gaze followed mine and he began to back away, but I grabbed him by the belt buckle, feeling his body go rigid beneath my touch. I leaned in towards his ear and whispered, “I want you Joel. Don’t you want me?” A deep, shaky breath left his lips before he grabbed my hand and pushed it away from his torso. “More than you know,” he muttered before taking his belt in his own hands and unbuckling it.

My mouth fell slightly open as he revealed himself to me and I caught his gaze. He looked away shyly as if the swelled, veiny, pulsing cock between his legs was nothing to be amazed by. But the throb between my legs said otherwise and was becoming unbearable. I bit my lip to keep myself from begging to touch him as his hand stroked his length up and down slowly, using the precum that was leaking from him to slick himself. I couldn’t take it any longer and said insistently, “You want me, so take me.” The hunger in his eyes told me he couldn’t wait any longer either and he practically fell towards me. His hands gripped my waist again and I felt the tip of him poking at my core. “God- please Joel.” I practically whined from the painful pulse of longing in my core. He finally closed the gap between us and slowly pushed his huge self into me.

Our mouths fell open to let out a harmonious gasp and our foreheads fell against each other. I heard him mutter “Fuck,” followed by my name under his breath. He took it slow at first, allowing me to adjust to his size, but when I got visibly impatient and began pushing against him on my own rhythm he grabbed my hips and spun me around to face away from him. His cock continued to pump in and out of me as he wrapped one arm around my stomach, the other around my ribs, just under my breasts, and held on protectively. His face buried into the crook of my neck and I turned towards his ear to make sure he could hear my gasps of pleasure.

I felt like I was being consumed. His hands sliding over every inch of me, his mouth sucking and biting at any skin he could possibly reach. The sensations were building me back up towards what I knew would be another blinding high.

All of a sudden, he spun me back around, never taking himself out of me and resumed fucking me as we stared at each other hungrily. ”It should only be me fuckin’ you like this,” he grunted between thrusts, “tell me you want it to be me.” His voice was raspy and demanding. Though it had an air of desperation to it, as if he was pleading for me to vow myself to him. I did it without question. “Yes Joel, I want you always. Only you.” I professed breathlessly. I realized I wasn’t just saying that in the heat of the moment. I’d wanted to say it for so long. It just so happened that now felt like the right time.

He acknowledged my answer by picking up his pace and the impact of his body hitting mine shook the bench, sending the forementioned items I’d seen on it tumbling to the floor. “That’s right baby,” he ground out, “not lettin’ anyone else take you from me, ever.” His voice was strangled, and his forehead sweaty.

My stomach fluttered at his use of pet names and I felt myself tightening around him once more. My hand gripped his shoulder tightly as I waited for his permission to cum. “Go ahead. I feel you gettin’ tighter and tighter, just look at me and tell me what you need.” He breathed as he cupped my cheek with his hand to keep my gaze from wandering away from him. I opened my mouth to speak but the sensation of his cock pumping in and out of me and hitting that perfect spot over and over again overtook my body, rendering me speechless. What left my mouth instead was breathless whimpers and profanities as I let myself loose all over him.

Soon after, his mouth fell open, his breaths became shorter, more shallow, and his thrusts became quicker. I knew he was close. “Please, Joel.” I begged. “That what you want baby? My cum all over you?” He asked breathlessly. “Mhmmm.” I hummed, and suddenly he pulled out and shot his warm self all over my breasts.

We were left there naked and out of breath with our sweaty foreheads pressed together. “Did that convince you?” He asked before pressing a gentle kiss to my head and moving to pick his pants up off of the floor. “Almost.” I lied, unable to keep my eyes off of the mess he left on my chest. Soon, he was back over me pressing his undershirt over the sticky substance, cleaning me off.

When he finished cleaning me off, he kissed me once again and gave my body an affectionate, somewhat surprising squeeze. “God you felt so good.” He sighed into the crook of my neck, “Better’n I imagined. If that’s even possible.” I smiled lightly and a swooning warmth entered my chest. “You were ‘imagining’ me?” He squeezed me again and lifted his head up to meet my eyes. As he pushed a stray hair out of my face, he whispered, “You aren’t the only one havin’ dreams, babygirl.”

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

CHAPTER WARNINGS: SMUT!, Unprotected p in v, oral (f!receiving), fingering, dom!Joel, sub!(ish)reader, dream pov, severe weather, implications of pregnancy, implications of marriage - I think thats it?

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Author's note: Hellooooo! How I've missed writing!! Thank you guys so much for giving me the time to get my shit together. It was a crazy summer, but I'm back at it again. I hope you enjoy and thank you for reading!! <3

Taglist: @ashleyfilm @ayamenimthiriel @jellybeanxc @quakeismyhero @demonsasss @scarlet-daisy-blog @jellybeanxc @hujickova @morgaussy @vivian-pascal @rav3n-pascal22 @rav3n-pascal22 @all-in-the-fandoms @joelmillersblog @mirandablue1 @immyowndefender

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10yrsyart · 9 months ago

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the Lord Jesus is coming quickly!

"For the Lord Himself will come down from Heaven with a commanding shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet of God. First, the Christians who have died will rise from their graves. Then, together with them, we who are still alive and remain on the earth will be caught up in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air." (1 Thessalonians 4:16-17)

Jesus, the Son of God, gave His life and shed His blood for the payment of your sins. by acknowledging your sinful nature, and trusting in Him as the only means of salvation, you're included in this event! For Jesus promised in John 14:2-3, "There are many rooms in My Father's house (..) I go to prepare a place for you (..) When everything is ready, I will come and get you, so you will always be with Me where I am."

God poured out His wrath for our sins onto Jesus' body on the cross; once and for all time (Hebrews 9:28). Therefore we the Church, as the Body of Christ, cannot be here to experience God's Wrath again (1 Thessalonians 5:9). the Tribulation that is coming is the time of God's Wrath; a testing period for those still covered by their sin (Isaiah 26:20-21). but He promised He would take His followers out of the way before it comes (Revelation 3:10). we will be taken to the safe places He has prepared for us.

the time is much sooner that you think! please turn to the Lord while there is still time, He loves you and has done EVERYTHING necessary to provide salvation for you. the Tribulation will be the worst time in human history, and God desires that no one go through it. listen to the still, small Voice that is calling you to repentance. He is calling you home!

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loveothislife · 4 months ago

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Timothée Chalamet: ‘Young Dylan was a contrarian. I was so obedient!’

Bob Dylan’s love of films has always inspired his work – but playing him in one is a another matter, reveals the star of A Complete Unknown

The Telegraph | January 17, 2025

The first time we glimpse Timothée Chalamet as Bob Dylan in the new biopic A Complete Unknown, he appears as a scruffy urchin in a Huck Finn cap and battered jacket, hunching his wiry shoulders as if steeling himself against bitter winds, or perhaps building his nerve to take on the world. It is 1961 and we are meeting Dylan as he arrives in New York, all of 19-years-old, shedding his given name of Robert Zimmerman, and every bit as anonymous as the title proclaims.

Key to the success of any biopic is the audience’s willingness to accept an actor inhabiting a familiar physical presence. In this respect, the 29-year-old modern heartthrob might seem odd casting. Physically, the leonine Chalamet doesn’t bear more than superficial resemblance to Dylan, lacking his prominent nose, baggy eyes or jowly features.

Yet speaking to Chalamet at a preview of the film in London, he made an interesting observation about Dylan’s presence. “You know, you have these names like Elvis Presley or Mick Jagger, Paul McCartney, John Lennon, all these gods of culture, and you can easily associate a face with them, because there’s so much media on them,” said Chalamet. “But the truly elusive figure Bob is, it’s sort of harder to pin a face to him.”

What unfolds across the film’s two hours and 20 minutes is an act of self-transformation – the spectacle of a great actor playing a real person whose own character is a kind of act.

A key scene, appropriately, takes place inside a cinema, where Dylan and his girlfriend (Elle Fanning playing Sylvie Russo, a lightly fictionalised version of Dylan’s real-life paramour Suze Rotolo) are watching Bette Davis in Now, Voyager. Russo comments on Davis’s character being on a journey to find herself. “She didn’t find herself,” Dylan notes. “She just made herself into something different.”

It is something Dylan has been doing all his life. I once asked Joan Baez (elegantly portrayed in the film by Monica Barbaro as his lover, singing partner and early champion) how well she felt she knew Dylan. She smiled and said, quite seriously, “Bobby’s unknowable.”

If that’s what Baez thinks – a woman who has known him most of his adult life – what chance is there for any film-maker or actor to get under his skin? Writer and director James Mangold’s thoughtful movie doesn’t really attempt to solve Dylan the enigma as much as Dylan’s multifariousness. “You’re kind of an asshole, Bob,” Baez’s character notes at one point, which Dylan seems to accept as fair comment, an interesting aside being that both Baez and Dylan approved the script.

“Dylan was really helpful,” according to Mangold, who also spoke to me at the screening. “He shared a lot of stuff from the inside about what he felt about so many people wanting things from him at such a young age.”

Mangold made the Oscar-winning 2005 Johnny Cash biopic Walk the Line starring Joaquin Phoenix, which took a conventional narrative form, locating the roots of Cash’s complexity in childhood trauma. Adapting Elijah Wald’s 2015 book Dylan Goes Electric!, Mangold decided that he needed a different strategy for Dylan. “There was no real way to unlock Bob that was going to satisfy the kind of standard movie unlocking – like, Oh my God, he’s been hiding that secret, and now he’s spoken it, he’s released!,” Mangold says.

“I think if there is any real secret, it is the burden and joy of something none of us can completely understand: how a young man can write so many of the greatest songs of all time, and become one of the greatest artists of the last 100 years, and secure that position before his 24th birthday. I don’t even know if Bob can explain it, and do we have to? Sometimes people are born with something, and there is no specific Freudian event of their genius that somehow is the cost. It’s actually that they’re touched in some ways.”

Chalamet is not the first actor to play this mercurial character. In Todd Haynes’s brilliant, experimental drama I’m Not There, he was portrayed by six actors, including Christian Bale, Heath Ledger and Richard Gere. Ben Whishaw played Dylan as a rebellious poet channelling Arthur Rimbaud, black teenager Marcus Carl Franklin was cast as a young homeless busker and Cate Blanchett memorably evoked the lean, druggy, androgynous rocker who is effectively emerging as A Complete Unknown ends. Blanchett’s performance has become a fan favourite, partly because it has an element of comedically edgy impersonation whilst embracing an androgyny that reflects Dylan’s near universal appeal.

A 1978 review in The New York Times pertinently noted that “as an actor, Mr Dylan specializes in giving the simultaneous impressions that he isn’t really interested in acting, and that he is always acting anyway.” For a songwriter who opens up vast interior worlds in his work, Dylan never appears sincere on screen. He is a very flimsy presence in Sam Peckinpah’s elegiac Western Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid, for which he at least provided a classic soundtrack. He appears to be drunk all the way through abysmal 80s rock romance Hearts of Fire.

Dylan’s love for movies permeates his work, even if his awkward screen presence suggests movies don’t always love him back. His accomplished amateur oil paintings often feature lovingly recreated scenes from old movies, whilst actors, film characters and whole lines of borrowed dialogue flicker through his songs, from name-checking Bette Davis in 1965’s Desolation Row to setting 1986 epic Brownsville Girl at a screening of Gregory Peck’s classic Western The Gunfighter.

Anita Ekberg, Brigitte Bardot, Sophia Loren, Peter O’Toole, Al Pacino and Marlon Brando are amongst the actors to have walk-on parts in Dylan lyrics, whilst Leonardo DiCaprio makes an incongruous appearance in Dylan’s fanciful 2012 retelling of Titanic, Tempest. A fan website compiles 61 movies quoted in Dylan songs, a favourite apparently being The Maltese Falcon starring Humphrey Bogart, from which Dylan appropriated lines for three songs on 1985’s Empire Burlesque.

The Dylan portrayed by Chalamet in A Complete Unknown is at the start of his musical journey, but already a trickster and a fabulist. He drew heavily on Dylan’s 1960s press conferences. “He’s so confrontational in his attitude, sort of a wise-ass. When my own career took off, I was so obedient! Just to see how contrarian Dylan was at that age was so appealing to me.”

Dylan has offered words of encouragement, albeit via a typically ambiguous message on social media platform X. “Timmy’s a brilliant actor, so I’m sure he’s going to be completely believable as me. Or a younger me. Or some other me.”

“That was hugely affirming,” admitted Chalamet, who learnt to perform 30 Dylan songs for the role. Despite Dylan requesting a script and agreeing to personal meetings, Mangold seems equally uncertain of the extent of his real interest, noting that the first thing Dylan asked him was “so what’s this movie about?” Making his own enquiries, Elijah Wald, author of the source material, was told “Dylan doesn’t read about Dylan.”

For Mangold, it was vital that Chalamet and all his actors playing real people should have the freedom to bring their own characters to the role. “Timothée’s exceptionally bright, exceptionally logical, focused and verbal and articulate. There’s a lot I felt he could burrow into with this character. You’re playing a real person but if you want a perfect representation, we can actually watch footage of the real person...”

A Complete Unknown succeeds because it offers a visceral, entertaining glimpse into another side of Bob Dylan, rather than attempting a definitive portrait. “Who’s Bob Dylan?” as the man himself said at a press conference in 1986. “I’m only Bob Dylan when I have to be Bob Dylan. Most of the time I can just be myself.” Whoever that is.

Text: Neil McCormick, Chief Music Critic 📸: Macall Polay/Searchlight Pictures; Rowland Scherman/Hulton Archive; Michael Ochs Archives

#timothée chalamet #james mangold #interview #jan17 2025 #spoilers #acu spoilers #a complete unknown

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