#their height difference isn’t shown

[luminarytex]

my babygirls oh how i love them and their joy

[nobodysdaydreams]

I’ve seen a lot of posts about how “no one mourns the Wicked” is actually about Galinda, but I’ve been listening to it again, and I gotta say, I think the song is actually about the Wizard with rather dark implications.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure Galinda thinks and believes it’s about her. But Galinda became good in the end, she was Elphaba’s friend, Elphaba and Fiyero miss her, and Galinda has friends in Oz, the musical ends with one of Elphaba’s flying monkeys getting the ability to talk to her and Galinda can help them now. She’s mourning Elphaba, and she might be alone in that, but in other respects, she isn’t alone or dead or wicked or forgotten.

The same cannot be said of the Wizard. “The Wicked’s lives are lonely” is very much about him. Even at the height of his power, he had to isolate himself so that no one could see he was a fraud. When Elphaba threatened him, he became paranoid and spent his days in isolation and fear. Whereas Galinda, even at her worst and limited power, has always been well known. The Wizard has left Oz, and the people don’t seem to question it because they have Galinda now, and they know Galinda and they love Galinda, while the Wizard was more an idea than a man. He never visited them, he never did what Galinda does for them. No one misses him, why would they? Galinda fills his role, what little of it there was, a thousand times over. The lyric “no one cries they won’t return” fits the Wizard best, not Galinda. People are thrilled to see her, and don’t seem to care that he’s gone, while Galinda cries for Elphaba.

Also “the wicked cry alone” applies to the Wizard too, when he mourns Elphaba. Yes, Galinda technically mourns for her alone too, but at least Galinda has the Animals, the few that can still say some words. The Wizard cries, but Galinda doesn’t cry with him, because the Wizard is crying over his own actions as well as her death, and Galinda has no sympathy for him, no one does, and that’s his own fault for making them hate Elphaba. Also the song says “Nothing grows for the wicked, they reap only what they’ve sown” and the story that Galinda tells during the song isn’t her and Elphaba’s story (that’s later), but Elphaba’s and her father’s story, specifically, how the Wizard brought about Elphaba’s existence and set himself on this path. Galinda asks if people are born wicked or have it thrust upon them, which is ironic because the Wizard is the reason Elphaba was born AND why she was vilified.

Then we have “no one lays a lily on their grave” and “the wicked die alone”. I’ve pointed this out in other posts, but it’s never confirmed in any or at least most versions of Wicked/Wizard of Oz source material that the Wizard makes it home or has any way to do so. I’m not sure what the movie is gonna do about this, or if they’ll attempt to repair the balloon or heavily imply he dies, but the Wizard dying alone in his grief and no one missing him while instrumentals of “no one mourns the wicked” play in the background certainly takes care of that problem.

Also “woe to those who spurn what goodness is, they are shown” also applies to the Wizard. He has a whole song in part 2 about goodness being a matter of perception and rejects Elphaba’s plea to help the Animals. He vilifies her goodness and believes, truly, that he is the hero because he has declared himself so, and that he is a good “father to the nation” because he declared it. He makes himself the subjective decider of goodness. It’s only in the end, when he realizes what he’s done to Elphaba that he has regrets and begins to see and understand the evil he has done. Elphaba is what he “misses when he’s misbehaved” as the song says, and although none of the villagers know that, Galinda witnessed it and knows that the Wizard missed the opportunity to be a father, which was all he claimed to ever want. It’s a missed opportunity, information he would not have been missing and discovered earlier had he acted differently, and “missed” in the sense that he misses the daughter he threw away.

[lis-likes-fics]

A Deal’s a Deal (Pt. 2)

Pairings: Tommy Shelby x Gold!Reader Word Count: 10.4k words Warnings: NSFW, smut, spoilers, swearing, smoking, death, angst, phone sex, masturbation, age gap (Tommy is late 30s, Reader is late 20s), oral (f!receiving), heavy praise, breeding kink, Tommy is nice... A/N: So I decided to write a second part to show a completely different side of Tommy bc of course. This is not filthy as it is angsty. This contains spoilers for seasons 4 and 5 if you have not already watched them. I hope you enjoy this part, I put a lot of time into it! Thank you!

You wrapped Tommy’s jacket around you, draping it over your shoulders and admiring the weight of his scent wrapped around you. He’d just left you in the bedroom, left only in a bedgown as you waited for him to return to you after dealing with business that had shown up on the front lawn. But you were curious.

As you ventured toward the window, where the blaring lights from the car out front were shining through, even from the height of the first floor, you looked over the chaos of muffled shouts and cries. You tilted your head as you continued to quietly observe, trying to figure out who it was causing such a disturbance here so late in the night.

When you realised that you recognised the person yelling at Tommy, you were out of the door in seconds, panicked as you rushed through the hall and down the stairs. Once at the bottom of the stairs, you caught Charlie trying to peek out of the door in search of the situation which had caught his attention.

You knelt in front of him, offering a kind smile as you focused his attention on you. “Hey, Charlie,” you said in a sticky sweet voice. “Why don’t you come sit down while I go see what your father is up to, eh?”

He looked at you, only half interested. “Screaming,” he spoke in his tiny voice, referring to the men arguing outside.

“I know. Isn’t it just so annoying?” You stood and took his hand, leading him away until you could hand him off to a freshly woken Mary to take elsewhere. With Charlie out of the way, patting his head as he departed, you went back to the front door. You didn’t leave yet, choosing to stay there with the gun hidden underneath the table by the door and watch the men argue.

Aberama looked a mess, covered in blood and sweat. He was hysterical, and you could not understand a single word he was saying. Johnny Dogs was by the car, just as hurt as your father seemed to be, though less frantic as he clutched his side in pain. All you could hear were threats, loud, desperate threats spouting from Aberama’s mouth in Johnny’s direction garbled by anger and something deeper.

“Listen to me!” Tommy shouted, trying to catch his attention as he cradled his head and attempted to hold him still to get him to calm down. He forced him to look at him as he spoke.

“How can a one-armed man avenge the death of his son, eh?”

Your heart dropped in your chest and then leapt to your throat. The ground shook and the air stood still. You swallowed hard, wide eyed and not entirely sure you were still breathing. The word came out of your mouth but it was muffled in your ears as you took a step out of the door with breath caught in your lungs.

“Dad?”

Everything stopped as they all turned their gazes on you, a variety of emotions crossing their faces before settling on sudden realisation. You stared your father in the eye, ignoring the sting of tears as you took it all in—the suffocation, the shock. When did the world become so blurry?

Aberama looked away from you, his grief deepening as he turned his gaze back on Tommy with a new kind of rage. “They crucified my son…” he huffed, “for you.”

You felt paralysed as you stood there, helpless to find a way to fix all of this. You were supposed to fix it. You were the older sister, the family’s caretaker. You had to fix it, but you didn’t know how.

You were ripped from your spiral at the struggling grunts your father made breaking away from Tommy and grabbing the firearm discarded on the ground. He stumbled away to stand between you and Tommy, pointing the gun right at him. “You stay away from my fucking daughter!” he shrieked.

The blasting sounds of bullets shot into the air and stopped everything. You hadn’t even realised you were the gun shooting until words were leaving your mouth and you felt the tingling of blood leaving your hand from being held in the air for so long.

“Put down the gun, Dad,” you said, calmly at first as you stared him down with eyes that had not yet caught up to your body.

He looked at you and mumbled your name, nearly defeated as he watched you. The next words to leave your mouth were not so calm as they scratch at your throat with the force you used to scream them and aimed your gun at Aberema with an anger to be reckoned with.

“I told you to put down the fucking gun or I’ll shoot it out of your hands!”

He hesitated, taking you in before obliging. Slowly, he set the gun down and put his hands up to show peace. You didn’t lower your own weapon, though your hands shook and your jaw trembled with barely contained tears. Everyone stood still and watched you try not to unravel.

You took in a shaky breath. “Yes or no…” Your sigh was watery as you closed your eyes to steady yourself before looking back at your father. You licked your lips, “...Is my little brother dead?”

Aberama’s hands fell to his sides, swinging there as he let them go limp. His gaze broke from yours. He was slow to respond, not quite present but not as dazed as part of him wished to be. His voice was low, nearly inaudible. He opened his mouth, struggling to speak, “...Yes.”

You closed your eyes and gaze a silent sob one breath to escape. The tears that had been piling in your eyes finally slipped out. One, two, three slid down your chin and dripped to the gravel beneath your feet. You inhaled again, composing yourself again.

“Are my sisters safe?” you asked.

His eyes could only meet yours for a half second. “They’re with family.”

“Do they know?”

“Not yet.”

The sound of gravel crunching under someone’s shoes has you turning toward the sound with the precision of a trained marksman as you aim the barrel of the gun at Tommy, glaring at him trying to come nearer to you.

“Tommy, I swear to God, if you come any closer, I’ll fucking shoot you.”

He assessed you, taking in your anger, your pain, and deciding from there whether your words were empty. With another step, you gripped the gun tighter, but made no move with the trigger. He approached you slowly, testing you and your threat. By the time he was standing in front of you, you had done nothing but stare at him with a shaky grasp and breath. He placed his hand on the gun, pushing it down and snatching it from your hands. Emptying the barrel, his eyes didn’t leave yours as you watched him limply.

When his arms wrapped around you, the fire in your bones ignited. You were so much like your father in that way—your brother, too—a fighter, all of you. You fought him, you kicked and screamed and punched as you tried to get him to get off of you. Your brother was dead, your baby brother was gone, and you could never get him back and Tommy was standing here trying to hold you to him when you could never hold your brother again?

The touch was much too warm, the confinement stifling. You couldn't breathe, couldn't get the air to your lungs as your gasps made your throat hoarse and rough. The fight left so quickly as Tommy endured against your fight, keeping you locked in his arms until your anger relinquished and you dissolved into nothing but sobs into his shoulder. He held you as you stopped screaming, held you as the tears soaked his clothes. He held you as you trembled, too exhausted to keep fighting. Your legs were on the verge of giving out. He was the only thing to hold you up as you broke down against him.

“He’s dead, Tom,” you sobbed, finally putting your arms around him and holding him tighter than you ever have, your nails digging into him for something to hold on to. “He’s fucking dead. My baby brother’s dead.”

“I know, I know,” he shushed. Tommy cradled you as you rambled, trying to soften your cries as he listened and felt your sentiment too close to heart. The wounds of his own little brother’s death burned in his chest, and he hated you going through it as well. “I’m sorry about your brother. Really, I am.”

Your hands tightened around him, your nails digging deeper until your eyes met your father’s, watching the both of you with a look you couldn’t identify. Your grip on Tommy loosened, and you remembered yourself—the oldest, the caretaker, the voice of reason among voices pleading reparation and revenge. You let go of him, parting with a new numbness as he watched the anger, the emotional agony, disappear into a stone cold mask you’d pulled over your face to offer your father in accompaniment of his pain.

“I need to be with my family,” you said after a moment, your voice already sore and scratchy, your words full of frail strength.

Tommy watched you walk away from him and into your father’s arms, laying your chin on his shoulder as he pulled an arm around your back and held you. You didn’t reciprocate, you couldn’t. Not right now. Aberama held onto you for strength, and Tommy felt like he could see it draining from you by the way your shoulders began to sag.

Anerama’s cold, fiery gaze bore into Tommy, one full of despair and ruthlessness. Tommy sighed, raising a finger toward him. “If you want to take on the Billy Boys, you need me alive,” he warned, looking between the both of you with a variety of thoughts flashing in his head. “Everyone fucking needs me.”

You pulled away from your father, placing your hand on his shoulders and dragging your gaze along him. He was hurt. So was Johnny Dogs. You needed to take care of them. “I’m calling an ambulance,” you said, your voice a monotone droll of duty first. “Hold on, both of you.”

You supported your father’s arm around your shoulders, pulling him into the house to get him cared for as Tommy moved to do the same with Johnny.

~

Flames rose high, making the air around it dance from the heat and life rising with it. Your sisters, tucked under each of your arms, clung to you as they watched their brother's wagon burn, reduced to ash and dust of a life once lived.

You swallowed the lump in your throat as you watched the fire rise and rise, sucking the tears back in as you remained strong for your grieving sisters. You turned your chin, resting it atop the youngest's head. You glanced away from the fire, and your eyes caught a much darker figure lingering further from the scene, cap pulled over his head and cigarette between his lips as he watched you.

You both watched each other for a moment, neither moving or looking away. By the time your eyes were averted, you'd already made your decision.

When the fire had not roared so wildly and your sisters' quiet sobs were gentler tears, you passed them over to one of your aunts watching the fire burn. Your father was still recovering in the hospital, too hurt to move too far from the bed but too upset to sleep as he sat in bed and watched the time that marked as his son's funeral ticked away minute by minute. With a nod, she gestured you away to take care of them for the moment while you spoke with your mysterious visitor.

Tommy Shelby stood silently where he was as you joined his side. Neither of you looked at one another, your eyes still fixated on the flames. It was silent for a while. You stuffed your hand in the pocket of your jacket and hugged it close for a comfort you felt selfish for wanting.

"They killed him."

Your voice was nearly strained as you spoke, quiet and nearly raspy with the overuse of crying—or keeping from crying—over the past week. You were still having trouble coming to terms with the fact that it had been the first week in the rest of your life without your baby brother.

Tommy cleared his throat, taking his cigarette from his lips. He rolled it between his fingers, considering a response before he gave it. "Your brother will be avenged, Y/N." He flicked it away into the grass, stomping on it with the tip of his shoe to put it out. "I promise you that."

You sighed, late to a reply as you shook your head at his promise to you. "Do what you want, Tommy." Your eyes strayed where they always had, right back to your sisters huddling to your aunt, stricken with grief. You shook your head again turning to Tommy as you swallowed thickly. "But don't make me lose any more family. My sister's stay safe, my father's life or death will be left to his hands or mine."

He turned to you, tilting his head and raising a brow. "You don't want me to keep him alive?"

You looked down at his shoes, thinking for a moment to get your thoughts in order from the messy hurricane they had been in the past week. "Before Bonnie died, I was dreamin' of a big, black bird. Then he did die, and I thought, 'This was it. It got what it wanted, now it'll leave us alone.' But when I managed to sleep that night… that bird was staring me down, much bigger and much louder than before."

You let out a shaky breath, steadying yourself before you continued. "Someone is goin' to die again, Tom." You nearly shuddered at the idea, meeting his gaze. "Don't let it be my sisters."

Tommy looked over you—your well-hidden grief of concealed red-rimmed eyes, trembling lips, messy hair. You were so good at hiding it all, he realised, well-versed in composed disposition.

But you couldn't hide all that pain from him. Reading you was like looking in a mirror.

He took a small step closer and reached down to brush your fingers with his, swiping his thumb over the back of your knuckles momentarily before letting go of you and nodding. "Your sisters will be safe. You have my word." He looked your face up and down. "No black bird will come for them."

You stared at him and blinked once. With a short nod, you looked away from the intensity of his eyes. He lingered there for a moment, your warmth mixing together for a few seconds in the cool air. Without a word, he turned to leave you.

He'd gotten a few steps away before you spoke into the air. "Tommy."

He looked back at you again, waiting expectantly for you to continue.

You swallowed hard. "Stay alive."

His eyes bore into your own, staring as he processed your words. He began walking back over to you, digging his hand in his pocket as he invaded your space. He took your hand in his big palm, setting something in your own and closing your fingers around it before you could see what it was judging the object only by the feel of it in your hand.

He turned and left, didn't spare a single word as he strayed from you.

You opened your hand and stared down at the penny he'd left you with, finding a ghost of a smile in your mind but not yet on your lips as you turned around to rejoin your sisters.

-

Things changed after that. With your brother gone, you realised all too suddenly how fragile this family of yours was.

Throwing yourself into work and family was the easiest part. Your kids at the school were important to you, your sisters even more so. The children kept you tender, kept you from hardening with the loss of your brother as you held on tight to your joy in life. Your sisters, impossibly dearer to you now, were cherished and loved and you made sure of you. The older of the two got married and was working on her first baby. The younger was joining you as a teacher, which meant she stayed closer to you. That made you very happy.

The hard part was separating from Tommy.

It wasn't intentional. Your late nights with him became more and more scarce as time went on. Being with Tommy, basking in the throes of passion with him during the darkest parts of the night, wrapped in his bedsheets and screaming his name, was a joy you couldn't match with anything else in your life. He was a guilty pleasure, an escape from reality that allowed you to fulfil the darkest desires within your heart that could not be found anywhere else.

You'd tried, once or twice, to push Tommy from your mind by finding another man. You were known to be Gold's prettiest daughter, there were men lining up to have a chance with you, but they were frightened off of it when Tommy Shelby had staked a claim. Now that he wasn't so dominant in your life, they had chances.

And you gave a couple of them chances—you needed someone else, someone safer. But he had his claws so deep inside of you, buried in your body and bitten into your flesh, like he had fired that bullet and left himself permanently marked in your soul.

There was no man like Thomas Shelby.

Slowly losing him was not just a physical thing, though. You hadn't realised how deeply you'd attached yourself to him until he wasn't around as much as he used to be—especially when he'd gone away to America on business. Finding excuses to see him every once in a while included your father meeting him for business and you following after, you wandering into the pub some evenings when you were feeling especially lonely (or simply just missing him) on the off chance that you just might find him there…him calling you late at night desiring you in his bed once more…

He'd called you one night.

You were just getting ready to go to bed, muscles aching and feet sore from working. Just as you were pulling the comforter from your bed, the trilling ring from the telephone screamed through the night air. You sighed, a tired moan slipping from your throat as you dragged yourself to answer.

You picked it up, a soft answer of your name through the line encouraging the person to speak. He hadn't realised how much he missed the sound of your voice until he'd heard it.

"Hello, Miss Gold," he said, his voice deeper, rougher than usual.

You held your breath and felt the sparks of delight in your chest at the sound of his voice. "Tommy…" you breathed, holding the phone closer and sinking into your chair.

"Did you miss me?" he asked. He sounded cocky. You could practically hear the smirk in his voice as he spoke to you.

You nodded gently. "I still do…" He hummed, and the sound made you shudder. Your eyes flicked to the clock on your wall. "It's the early hours of the morning for you, isn't it? The sun isn't even up yet. You should be asleep, darling."

He hummed again. "Sleep was never really my friend."

You breathed a sigh. "You sound like you just woke up… Was it a nightmare, Tom?"

He didn't answer that. Instead, he let silence linger for a moment before he sighed. "I've been thinking about you."

You licked your lips slowly. "Me, too." You smiled a little. "But I think America is a little too far for me to go just to share your bed." Your smile faltered slightly. "I'm sure you could find some other woman to fuck tonight. A man like you has got plenty of options."

You weren't hostile as you spoke. Your voice remains gentle, if not dismayed by the proposal. Tommy supposed you sounded almost jealous.

"Maybe," his voice came. You swallowed thickly. "But none of the women here seemed to know how to fuck me like you." You heard him sigh. "None of the women here come close to you."

It was oddly comforting, but not comforting enough to be rid of your unreasonable agitation that he has, in fact, been with other women there. But what else did you expect? He wasn't going to stay celibate for you.

You brushed the fabric of the hem of your nightgown between your fingers, licking your lips. "Are any of them pretty?"

"Not like you."

The way he said it, his voice so soft and deep, brushed against your heart some kind of way. You found yourself wishing you were in his bed, not moaning with your back arched, but resting with your head against his chest. You wanted to feel your skin against his, his heart under your hand, his breath on your skin.

"I wish we spent more time together, you and I," you whispered, your voice soft as the whispers of wind. "I'm sorry we fell apart. I miss you." You didn't care how desperate you probably sounded repeating yourself like that. You let your eyes close, imagining him close again.

"Don't apologise," he said. He didn't go further, he simply left it at that with the implication that you knew what the rest of his meaning was. And you did.

"I want to be there with you." But my family needs me.

"I know." And I care so much that I am willing to wait.

You wanted to kiss him. You needed to kiss him. But you were oceans apart, and there was no getting past that quite soon.

You closed your eyes, inhaling the silence. "Say something to me, darling."

He sighed gently on the other side of the lines. His voice spoke in a way that made you shudder, absorbed in the depth of his timbre.

"I think of you every night, dove… I think of your body in my hands and your lips on mine."

If it weren't for the tone of the line, it'd almost be like you were right there with him, watching him stand over you as you listened to him speak. "What else?" you muttered.

"I think of your legs around my waist and your breath in my ear," he continued. "My name on your lips…"

The slightest whimper escaped you at the sound of that. You breathed in deeply, flattening your palm to your belly. "What would you do to me if I was there with you right now?"

"Oh, I'd fuck you," he put it bluntly. He hummed, and the sound rolled in his throat. "I'd push you against the wall, lift you up, and fuck you until you couldn't stand."

The idea made you weak already. The thought of him taking you rolled in your gut and whispered at your cunt as you clenched around nothing.

"And I wouldn't stop there," he continued, controlling your body with nothing but words as you buried your hand between your thighs and rolled your hips into it. "I'd throw you to the bed and spread your pretty legs apart. I'd taste you, feast on you until you came so many times, you shook. And then I'd fuck you again."

You whispered his name, your breaking trembling.

"I'd put you on your hands and knees, and I'd fuck you into the bed until my name was the only word you knew."

Your breath caught on a moan. You rubbed your finger over your clit, massaging it as you imagined him fulfilling his words. "Would you use my mouth?" you asked breathily.

"Until you could no longer speak."

You cursed under your breath, craving his touch all the more as you fed on the filthy images he put in your head. "I need you, Tom," you whimpered, chasing a high you could not achieve well enough without him.

"I know," he husked. "Keep moaning like that for me."

You did, pleasuring yourself as well as you could. You heard a quiet grunt in his voice across the line and smiled. "Are you touching yourself, Tommy?"

He huffed a breath, listening to you whimper again. "Yeah," he groaned. "Yes, I am, love. You make it hard not to with sounds like that."

You spoke between moans. "I am, too." Obviously, he knew that, but the admission made it all the more erotic. "My hands aren't as big as yours and my fingers aren't as skilled…" You sighed gently, "But your voice is enough to get me off."

Your fingers plunged inside of you, not half as fulfilling as Tommy's as you worked at your clit. "What else would you do to me?"

The sounds of his hand pumping his cock, fast and wet, reached the phone as you listened to the slick sound behind his sighs and groans. "I'd hold you down," he said. "I'd hold you down and shove my cock so deep inside of you." He cursed under his breath as your moans became a little louder, your limbs tingling with a daunting release. "I'd make you fucking scream for me when I hold you down and fill you up."

You moaned loudly that time, so close. Just brushing the edge of pleasure. "Tommy," your voice was insistent, higher-pitched and desperate. "Fuck, Tom."

He was breathless as he listened to you. "I'd fucking breed you," he whispered. "I'd fill you up and breed you, and you would carry my child."

You muffled a rough moan before gasping for breath. "I'm gonna cum, Tom. Fuck, I'm gonna cum for you."

"Then fucking cum."

Your release hit you then, washing over you like a refreshing wave. Not half as powerful as his hands would have made it, but certainly not discontented. His name fell from your tongue again and again as you came, clutching the phone tightly in your grip and wishing it was him.

"That's it," he rasped, his breath choppy. "That's right. Say my name, love."

"Oh, Tommy," you sighed.

You listened to a dark groan rumble in his throat, your brain becoming dizzy with the sound of his panting breath as his own orgasm burst through him. Your name was the word falling from his lips, as if your hands had been the one wrapped around his cock (as you wished they had been). Your heart pounded in his chest as you listened to him cum.

Silence settled as your highs subsided and your breaths steadied. The buzz of pleasure dulled until your hazy mind was cleared enough to think straight.

You were the one to break the silence, to long for his voice so much that the comfort of the quiet was not pleasing enough to keep you from feeding your addiction.

"When are you coming back, Tommy?"

He sighed. There was a pause. "When business here is done."

"When is that?"

"Soon," he said. "Soon." He almost seemed as dismayed by the answer as you.

Your chest ached. "I miss you." That was the third time you said that, bringing far too much truth and desperation to the words as you both let it settle in.

"Just keep talking," he spoke, his voice taking on a different kind of depth as it became soft once more. "Tell me about school. How are the children?" You heard the sound of Tommy's lighter as he flicked it on for a cigarette. "Or your sisters, how are they?"

Your eyes wandered to the clock again. "But it's late, darling, and you need sleep."

"I don't need to sleep right now," he dismissed.

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, you do."

He paused, and the silence built for just a moment before he spoke again. "Why don't we flip a coin then?" You raised a brow. "Heads, and I'll go to sleep. Tails, you tell me about your sisters and the school. Deal?"

Your lips twitched in a tiny smile, and you sighed. "Okay. Flip a coin, then."

You listened to some rustling for just a moment, and then relative silence on his end. When he spoke again, he seemed to be smiling. "What is it?" you asked.

"Tails."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Yes."

You laughed, actually laughed. He called you pathetic when you were moaning underneath him, but there he was lying to keep you on the phone for the pleasure of your company. And, although he'd never admit it, he was definitely the pathetic one when he was weak at the sound of your laughter.

"Okay," you said once your laughter eased to a small giggle. "Well, my littlest sister has officially started at my school. She's teaching the year beneath me. I'm so proud of her."

Tommy sat there and listened to you talk, keeping you there for hours. Every time you suggested it had been too long, he found another excuse to keep you talking, and you complied because you couldn't think of anything you'd enjoy less than ending your call. He may have been selfish, but so were you.

Even as the morning sun was beginning to bleed through his curtains, he listened to your voice. He listened to it slow, dragging behind as the exhaustion creeped in more and more. He listened to your words becoming quieter and quieter until you no longer finished your sentences. And when your words stopped altogether, he stayed back a little while after that to listen to your gentle breaths.

Then he hung up and pushed himself to his feet. He had business to take care of.

-

Fire and ash and dust. That's all your family seemed good for at this point.

Aberama Gold was dead.

Your father was dead.

Granted, a lot of people died that night but fuck. You'd lost your brother, and now your father has joined him in that shithole of a death and left your sisters in your care. Again.

It had been three years of relative peace. You had thought that maybe—just maybe—he would die a normal death. Tommy had returned from America after the stock market crashed, business got bad and foes entered the arena again. Your father, naturally, went to his side. You'd begged whatever cruel gods there were that what took him would be something natural—old age or fucking illness.

To be murdered the way he was… He wasn't supposed to die that way, he wasn't. You hadn't taken care of your family as well as you had for both your brother and father to be so violently killed.

Now the flames licked at the remains of his life, engulfed in fire and likely damning his soul to hell.

You were so tired of losing people. You hoped and prayed for it to stop as you tried to sleep that night. You begged for it all to end when you met that bird in your dreams once again after three short years of silence, feeding off your grief like a vulture.

Tommy had never seen you at such a low.

He'd seen the blaring lights of your car in the front, watched them shut off through the window. He didn't know, at first, that it was you. He just assumed it was someone coming for business—despite the hour—and that he would handle it when he got to it.

But when he heard voices in the main room, voices that were very clearly not from any man and wouldn't be from his sister, he stood from his desk and went to meet it.

He found you there with Charlie, holding one of his toys and laughing when he laughed as you played with him. Tommy watched, fine at first at the way you handled him, so gentle and sweet, a natural caregiver. Charlie's enchanted by you and your sweetness.

But something was off, and he knew it. You'd just lost your father and now you were here, likely waiting for him.

"Mary," Tommy called gently. You only noticed he was standing there then as you turned your head and gave him a wide smile. Your eyes were droopy and glazed over as you slouched where you sat.

Mary arrived quickly, awaiting instruction. "Take Charlie to bed please." She did, walking up to the little boy with a smile as she took his hand. He waved at you, and you waved back.

When Charlie's gone, you stare off in the direction you left with a sigh. "Your little Charlie's so sweet, Tom," you smiled, turning to face him for a moment. You sighed and let your hands fall to your belly, "I want one of me own one day."

He hummed, walking over to you. "Until then," he leaned down and lifted you to your feet, "you need your sleep."

"No." You shook your head quickly. Your words slurred together. "No, no, I don't need to sleep." He walked with you down the hall, and you fought him (although not effectively, just insistently). "If I sleep, I dream. If I dream, I dream of a big, black bird."

You turned around and started walking the opposite way down the hall as he tried to usher you toward the stairs. He followed after you, wrapping his arms around your midsection and holding you there as his lips lingered behind your ear. "The black bird came and went."

You shook your head, leaning your head back on his shoulder and staring at the ceiling with a far off look and a smile that didn't match your grief. "He's still there, darling." You sighed shakily. "Gets bigger every night."

He stood there for a moment with his arms around your waist before dipping down to pick you up in his arms, carrying you up the stairs like a bride. "No one is dying, Miss Gold," he ensured. "Not your sisters and definitely not you."

He carried you all the way up as you turned to face him, worry in your face. "And what about you, Tommy?" You stared at him as he continued down the hall. You raised a hand to his cheek cradling it for a moment. "Are you dying?"

He stared at you, standing in the doorway of his room. He could smell the liquor on your lips, he could see the glaze in your eyes as they stare at you, unfocused. He shook his head. "No," he said. "Not today." He licked his lips and walked farther into the room, closing the door behind him. "My work isn't done yet."

You chuckled, brushing your fingers along his jawline. "The black bird comes for us all." Your smile turned sour as you stared at him before your eyes dropped to his lips.

Tommy sighed. "Not tonight." He lowered you onto the bed, grabbing the covers to try to put over you. "Now go to sleep."

You pushed the covers off you, sitting up on your knees and taking his face in your hands. "I don't want to sleep, darling."

He held his hands to your waist. "No? What do you want?"

You put it bluntly, your words sticky and attempting sultry seduction. It's harder when you're drunk.

"I want you," you moaned, kissing his lips briefly as you speak. "I want you to fuck me. Want you to pin me to the ground and shove your cock in me, sir." You leaned back on your elbows, spreading your legs for him. "Take my mind from the pain in my heart and put it on the pain in my knees."

Tommy watched you. He leaned forward and cupped the side of your neck in his palm. His dark eyes looked up and down your face, lingering on your lips as you smiled at him. He shook his head, "I'm not going to fuck you." Your smile fell, and you looked like you would cry. "Not until I know you're okay, and right now, you need sleep."

He shifted you to lay back against the pillows. You still wouldn't comply, placing a hand on his chest and keeping me back. "Don't make me sleep, Tommy." You seemed almost desperate, but the fatigue was still etched in the expression on your face, there in the depths of your eyes. "Please. I can be such a good girl if you let me."

He was unyielding, urging you back with gentle hands. "Be my good girl and lie down." He kicked his shoes off, undoing the top buttons of his shirt to pull it over his head and unfastening his belt.

"Tom," you mumbled, still refusing, even if your movements are becoming weaker by the second.

"Come on, next to me," he said gently, settling into the bed with you as he pulled you close to him.

"Thomas," you whispered.

He shook his head, "Sleep now." He pressed his lips to your forehead, trying to soothe you. You shifted and kissed his lips, moving your leg over his body to sit on top of him as you smoothed your hands on his chest. You reached down to undo the button of his pants.

Tommy wasn't having it. You wouldn't be getting your way tonight if he could help it as he grabbed your hands. He rolled you over onto your back as he now hovered above you. His hands held your own at either side of your head, keeping you pressed into the bed as he stared down at you.

Your eyes bore into his own and you held your breath as he leaned forward. You lifted your head as much as you could, wanting to meet you in the middle. His face stopped just out of your reach as he shook his head. "Sleep."

He moved off of you, laying down and pulling you onto his chest. He took your hand in his, holding it as the other one rubbed soothing into your back.

You stared at him as he eased you to sleep, and he did the same. He watched your eyelid grow too heavy for you to keep open. He listened to your breath even out. He felt your body go limp against him as finally…you fell asleep next to him.

He kissed your forehead and rested back to do the same.

-

Breath filled your lungs as the bite of consciousness nipped at your heels. Your eyes fluttered open and you looked around, finding yourself in a familiar place with the familiar feeling of Tommy Shelby's chest under your cheek.

And for a split second, you forget everything. You forget the death of your brother, the death of your father, the grief of your sisters and yourself. You forget it all in favour of this moment with Tommy, peaceful and undisturbed.

But then it all came back, and you were shoved back to the reality where your family was dying and you still had to hold it all together.

Your mind was clearer now, the alcohol had washed away and made the weight of it all heavier to bear. You were tired, you were miserable, and all you wanted to do was wade off into the stream and sleep.

Your breath caught in your throat and shook. The pain in your chest and in your stomach twisted, wetting your face and encouraging the tiny sob you tried so hard to keep in. You didn't want to disturb, not when he slept so peacefully next to you with an arm tucked around your body. But your cries, however quiet, roused him from his rest.

He eased up to look down at you. Shushing you softly, he pulled you in closer and placed a hand to your cheek to have you look at him. His thumb wiped your tears away as it came, smearing them on the skin of your cheeks as he placed a tender kiss to your forehead. You want to cherish it more—tenderness is not a word associated with this man—but you can only lean into it and nothing more.

You buried your head into the crook of his neck, hiding your face there. "It hurts, Tommy," you breathed.

"I know it does," he said. He stroked a hand along your head, rubbing your back. "Go back to sleep."

You shook your head. "I don't want to sleep."

He sighed, pulling you from his neck to stroke your cheeks as he looked at your face, streaked with tears he wiped away. "Maybe not, but you need to."

You shook your head, placing a hand over his chest. "I want to feel something else, Tommy," you confessed. You smoothed your hand up the length of his chest, up the side of his neck as you cradled him. "I want you. I want you to take me like you did the first time." Memories of that night flooded into you. "Be rough with me, Tommy. Be hard and mean, make me cry."

You leaned forward, pressing your lips against his as your eyes fluttered closed. He leaned into you, slotting your lips with his as the kiss sank into a depth he knew too well with you, a depth he knew he shouldn't have had with you but did anyway. You sighed at the feeling of it, and he did the same.

As the kiss broke with a tiny smack, he cradled your cheek in his large palm. He sighed, "No."

You frowned and ducked your head against his chest. "Please, Tommy," you whispered, broken and helpless.

He lifted your face again, pressing his lips to yours once more in another very slow and very soft kiss. The warm feeling washed over you and provided a comfort you find it hard to keep. "Don't worry, love," he said as he pulled away. "I'll make you cry."

He sat up, turning over so you laid on the sheets and he leaned over you, his hands on either side of your head in the pillows. "But I'm not going to hurt you," he kissed your lips, "and I'm not going to yell," your jaw, "and I'm not going to call you names," your neck. His hand stroked up your chest, and you thought he'd clasp it around your neck. Instead, he held his palm gently against the side of your neck and kissed you again. As he pulled away, he stared into your eyes, his piercing blues and little less piercing and a little more soothing. He looked at you like you were the stars.

"I'm going to make love to you."

He leaned down and kissed your neck again, tilting your head away to give him more access to press his lips against the skin of your throat. They slid down, not a trace of teeth, only lips and tongue and a kind of tenderness that made you shiver.

One of his legs, buried between your thighs, shifted up to ghost over the ache there. You bit your lip, a small mewl slipping between them at the feeling of your pleasure.

But you didn't want tenderness. You didn't want him to make love to you. You wanted him to shove you to the floor and fuck you like you weren't worth anything. You wanted him to take you over his lap and smack your arse. You wanted him to make you take his cock down your throat and keep it there until he decided it was enough.

But that was not what he did.

Tommy kissed you and kissed you. He ghosted his hands over your body and stroked your skin like you were made of glass. He slipped your clothes off of you and set them neatly to the side, doing the same to the rest of his own. He grazed his lips along your body and let his tongue adore the flesh he could reach. He tasted the sweetness of your skin. He filled your body with pleasure and intimacy and so much care.

"Relax," he whispered, his voice rumbling in his chest as he spoke. "You're alright, love. Let me take care of you."

You couldn't take it. It was too gentle, too fond, too much filling that ache inside of you that had become so permanent in your life, you'd forgotten it was ever even there. Even as you tried to press his head closer, he was gentle. Even as you moved your hips up to meet him, he was gentle. Even as you dug your nails into his skin, wanting to rile him up until he forgot his care and took you like a dog, he was gentle.

Because you needed it.

He lifted your thighs over his shoulders, settling between them as he darted his tongue out and licked a long strip up your pussy. You sighed when his lips closed around your clit and he suckled on it. His tongue licked you up in slow, soft laps, dipping between your folds and curling.

"Tommy, please," you begged, tangling your hands in his hair and tugging. The feeling was too nice, too kind. It writhed in your gut, tingled in your fingers. You needed the burn, you needed the fire. But he would only give you the warmth and closeness that made your throat tight.

His finger played at your pussy, coating him in your slick before slipping into you, a slow thrust in and out as he pushed it in deep. You watched him, whimpering pathetically and hoping your weakness will make him dangerous.

That's how it goes right? Taunt a beast with fresh blood and he'll attack?

But Tommy didn't seem to be holding the values of a beast tonight. His kind fingers filled your pussy and stroked inside of you. He licked and kissed and stroked until you began to tighten around him. His thumb pressed to your clit, rubbing slow, sure circles into it to build you higher and higher.

You were so used to his cruelty, the way he brought you to your pique with gentle hands was so foreign as you moaned. The pleasure wasn't blinding. It unfurled in your belly and then spread over the rest of your body. It loosened all the tension in your muscle and bone, it soothed your blood and lessened the crushing weight on your shoulders. You opened your legs wider, spreading yourself open for more as you keened for his touch.

"Good girl," he whispered to you, his fingers still working away. "Good, breathe." He didn't stop, even as you were coming down from your high. His fingers kept at it, his lips kissed the slick from your folds and whispered praises to you that you never thought you'd hear from him. "I'm right here. You're not alone."

"Tom," you huffed, cradling his cheek in one hand. "Thomas."

Your breaths filled your lungs, made you dizzy with him, surrounded by his scent and his touch. "I know, love," he said. "You're doing great."

His lips met your clit again. His tongue delved into your cunt and licked the wetness off of you. He kept you spread open wide for him as he painted his empathy into you.

He continued to whisper to you as he stroked your clit through to your second orgasm, watching your back arch and your chest expand and listening to your breath shudder through your weak moan. The pleasure washed over like waves on the shore of a beach.

Tommy let your legs down and kissed your belly, an open-mouthed kiss that let's his tongue graze your skin. He moved back up your body, aiming to kiss you again before stopping at your breasts. He took one of them in his hand, squeezing gently and brushing his thumb over your nipple.

Shivers rushed down your spine at the feeling, even more so when he leaned forward and took your nipple into his mouth. His tongue flicked it, hardening it to a peak as he licked the tip into your nipple. He rolled it in his mouth, playing with it in the way only he knew how, feeding off your sighs of pleasure.

When that one was hard enough, he switched to the other side, giving it the same treatment as he rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger. You brought your hands to his hair, your grasp much looser as you held onto him.

"Tommy, please kiss me," you sighed as he spent too much time away from your lips. He relented to you, roles reversed as he moved to do exactly that. His lips were warm and plump against yours, still tasting of your slick as his tongue brushed your own and he sucked gently on your bottom lip.

He pulled at you, staring with pupils wide as dimes. His knuckles grazed along your jaw. "Do you want my cock, love?" he asked.

You nodded, crossing your arms at your wrists above your head and wrapping your legs around his waist. "Yes, sir," you nearly begged. "I want it rough."

It was a last ditch effort.

But Tommy shook his head, taking your wrists and pulling them back down to kiss. "No," he said. "You're not getting it rough." He moved your arms around his neck, and you held them there.

Your frown deepened. "Please, sir."

He shook his head. "Use my name."

"Sir?"

"Use my name," he said again, his voice holding a whisper of the dominance you were used to while remaining the soft and gentle whisper you weren't. "What's my name?"

"Thomas Shelby." You were really just trying to get a rise out of him. Again, last ditch effort. Maybe he'd break and fuck you like you wanted it. So hard, you forgot everything that had been hurting you.

"What is my name?" he repeated himself. You felt like it was the last time he would.

"Tommy," you whispered, leaning forward to rest your forehead against his. He did the same, kissing your lips quickly.

"Do you want me?"

"Badly."

"Then I'll give me to you. I'm going to make love to you," he lined himself up with you, stroking the hard length of himself a couple of times. "I'm going to be gentle," he kissed your lips, "and I'm going to be slow," he pressed the head of his cock at your folds, "And I'm going to make you cry."

With one thrust of his hips, he pushed himself inside of you, splitting you on his cock and filling you with his length. A deep sigh slipped out of both of you as your eyes fluttered. He pressed himself all the way inside of you, buried to the hilt and lingered there.

"I'm going to do this because you deserve it," he continued, his voice strained with a slight grunt. His hips eased back, pulling out slowly to the tip before pushing back in. "Because you are gentle," he rolled his hips into you, "and loving," he pulled out to the tip again, "and you don't get nearly enough of it back." He filled you again, you gasped.

His body weight on top of yours was a comfort. He didn't drop all of his weight on top of you, but what he did give was a pleasant pressure on your body. You wrapped yourself as tightly around him as you could, trying to bury your face in his shoulder and being stopped when he pulled you back to look him in the eyes. He stared at you, gazed into the depths of your eyes as he continued to speak, his words a whisper and his tenderness a salve to a broken heart.

"You deserve so much," he grunted. The drag of his cock inside of you was intoxicating, and you wanted more. But he did not change. His pace was slow and steady and filled you with so much emotion, you felt you were going to burst. You were struggling to hold it all in.

"You're beautiful," he said.

You shook your head, "Stop."

"You're lovely."

You tried to turn away, he kept you looking him in the eyes. "Tommy, please."

He held your jaw, still kind, and gazed into your eyes like he was afraid you wouldn't hear him otherwise. "You're fucking perfect."

You broke into a sob, quiet but all-consuming. His hips didn't stop, he kept thrusting in long, deep strokes, grinding his hips into yours and wiping your tears. "You hear me? Eh?" he said, kissing you again. "You're fucking perfect."

His praise was too much for you. He was too nice. You were too used to nice, but kindness coming from a person like this—a man who had fucked you into the floor and called you a filthy whore, a man who had bought you with a penny and used you like a toy—it gave a kind of pleasure you couldn't quite explain as he stroked your cheeks and wiped your tears and told you that you were perfect.

"Anyone who tells you different is a fucking liar," he whispered in your ear, grinding in deep. "You're fucking beautiful and you're lovely and you're perfect. I need you to know that, I need you to know how fucking perfect you are."

You cupped his face in your hands, cherishing him as he spoke, as he thrusted into you, as he filled you with his care and praise and promise. "Do you hear me?" he asked as you closed your eyes shut, overcome by your tears. "Open your eyes and look at me. I need you to see me when I call you my fucking girl."

You whimpered, sighing with every thrust of his hips and holding him to you with your legs and arms. His breath shuddered as he pressed himself deep inside you, your bodies pressed flat together, and rolled his hips into you, stroking that deep part of you that had you gasping for breath.

"Thomas, ahh," you keen, your breath catching on a moan.

He was pressing kisses into the crook of your neck, ghosting his lips where he could reach pressed so closely to you. Your breath shook and your eyes fluttered as you focused on nothing but Tommy, being his girl, being his. You wanted it more than you wanted to admit.

One of his large hands pressed to your cheek as he turned you to look at him. "You said you wanted a baby of your own, eh? I'll put one in you right now. I'd have you growing round with my fucking child." His hips jerked once, a stuttered thrust pulling a moan from you at the idea. "The perfect mother for my child."

A broken sob pulled from your chest at his words, the thought of him having such a claim on you intoxicating you with warmth. Your heart pounded in your chest, and you still pulled him in closer as your bodies were pulled flush together.

She watched him above her, his eyes not quite as cold and piercing, his lips two kisses from swollen, and his cheeks pink with the blood rushing through his veins. His hands on your hips tightened as you met his gaze. Then he let go of you, and you missed the warmth of his palms until his finger intertwined with your own and his thumbs brushed the meat of your palms. He pulled them above your head, pulling both hands into one of his and burying his other hand between your thighs to play with your swollen clit.

"Thomas," you whispered, your voice shallow and breathy and teetering on a moan. You whispered his name again, and again, and again as you felt the pleasure building within you.

His rhythm began to falter, his hips not as steady as before as your whispers of his name beckoned him closer to his release. He cursed under his breath, his chest heavy with breath and something else.

He felt as your pussy tightened around him, squeezing and warming his already hot cock as you grew closer to that tender embrace of ecstasy. "Fuck," he muttered. "Cum for me, love. Let it all go."

And you did. Your back arched and your jaw went slack, your muscles tightened and you fluttered around his cock as you came. A loud moan rolled out of you like the tidal wave that washed over you. You stuttered out his name as you felt him bury his cock deep inside of you as he ground his hips, groaning roughly as he finally came with you.

You wrapped your legs tighter around him as he spilled inside of you, filling you with his cum and making the warmth of it all spread throughout your tired limbs. "Tommy," you whimpered, your voice caught in the pleasure. "Fuck, I love you."

It was a string of words that left your lips in a rush, a fantasy that clawed its way to the surface and revealed something you weren't quite sure you knew yourself. It took you a moment to even realise what had left your mouth, you were so drowned in the dreamlike state he put you in.

Tommy's thrusts slowed to a stop as he stared at your face, his lips parted and plump. He didn't pull out of you or say a word. He lifted a hand to your cheek and brushed his thumb over your skin. You stilled as you stared at him, your heart pounding in fear of his response.

He still didn't speak for a while, watching your face and wiping away the fallen tears streaking on your skin. He licked his lower lip.

"Say it again."

Another tear slipped as you watched him, swallowing the lump in your throat. "I'm sorry," you murmured. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to say it. It's nothing."

He lifted his chin slightly, rolling his thumb on your bottom lip before releasing it gently. "So you don't love me?"

You didn't respond. You couldn't lie to him, even if you tried. You had only just realised it yourself, only just succumbed to your rogue subconscious and blurted out a secret thought in the heat of the moment. A thought too true for you to deny as you stared at the blue eyes you had spent months—years—memorising, the plush lips your own had kissed a million times over.

"Do you love me?" he asked, his face barely an inch from yours once again. "Hm?"

You swallowed thickly, your voice was hardly a whisper. "Yes."

"Then say it again."

You sighed shakily and licked your bottom lip. "I love you…Tommy."

He closed his eyes and breath in deep, letting it out slowly and softly as he repeated the words in his head like a broken record. You waited in anticipation of his response.

He leaned forward and met your lips with his own, the kiss slow and soft and endearing, brimming with care.

"Good," he whispered back, his voice rough and quiet. "Because I love you, too. Right here, right now, without a doubt… I love you."

You brought your hands to wrap around his neck and pulled him in. He thought you were going to kiss him, but you just held him tightly against your body as you closed your eyes and cried. For the longest time, with your bodies pressed together, with his cock still snug inside of you, with your tears slipping down your cheeks and into your hairline, you cried.

He petted you, stroking his hand along your hair and holding you to him. He let you cry without interruption, without shushing you and telling you "it's okay". He let you sob against him with all the love and grief and care and anger in your heart.

And when your cries subsided and you were able to breathe again, he rolled onto his side and brought you with him as he kissed you again, just as tender and loving as the ones before.

You laid your head on your chest, sniffling gently as your finger smoothed along his skin. "Do you really love me?" you asked quietly.

He nodded, thinking on the way holding you right then made him feel, the nostalgic feeling that filled his homes at the reminder of a love he'd once held in the past, one that still haunts him to this day and only eased with the idea of you. "Yes."

You nodded gently. "You ever been in love before?"

He was a little more hesitant this time, but he still nodded once more as his hand stroked your shoulder. "Yes." He glanced down at you, "Have you?"

You shook your head, "Not like this…" He didn't reply, and you swallowed thickly. "Do you…" You let out a tiny breath. "Do you think I'm going to have a baby now?"

He looked at you and grinned, a look that made you warm. "Hopefully," he chuckled. He leaned back again and closed his eyes, "Gives me an excuse to put a ring on your finger."

You sat up and looked at him, surprise written across your face. "A ring? Already?"

He opened his clear eyes again, still smiling. "I've already decided I'm not letting anyone else have you. So, yes, already." He leaned forward, meeting you halfway in another kiss. "I'm marrying you, love."

You smiled slowly, letting it grow and grow and grow until your cheeks hurt and then after. Glancing away from his face, you let out a tiny chuckle. You eased your way out of the bed, out of his embrace, and went to his coat where you fished a coin from his pockets.

Slipping back into bed next to him, you fiddled with the coin between your fingers. "I'll flip you for it," you smiled. "Heads–"

He took the coin from your hand. "Heads, you marry me. Tails, I marry you. Either way, we're getting married, we're having that baby, and you're stuck with me forever." He tossed the coin away so it landed somewhere on the floor where you couldn't see it with a loud drawl.

You bit your bottom lip, failing to contain a beautiful smile. You nodded, "Okay." You kissed his lips, grinning still as you just kept nodding. "Okay."

"Good," he said, holding you close again and stroking your side. "You're mine, Mrs. Shelby."

You couldn't hold in the chuckle that slipped from your lips. "Well," you sighed happily. "A deal's a deal."

Peaky Blinders taglist: @lyarr24​ @runnning-outof-time​ @goblinjnr @papichulo120627​ @globetrotter28​ Tag yourself here...

[yandere-kokeshi]

Yandere König x Reader pls? Take all the time you need.

Warnings: yandere behavior and mention of murderer/violence.

A/N: Sorry, this took so long, I've been having writing block these past few days; hope you enjoy reading :].

Gif and icons belongs to bloodlst || NOT MINE

König as your obsessed beloved, is quite shy. Obsessive and heads-over-heels for you in every aspect possible. Massive stalker, and tends to cling to you like a koala whenever you’re around.

Whilst this giant isn’t the most sociable to be around, it’s likely that both of you met while connecting through the KorTac team, making you the new guy to the team. Which, at first, is awkward.

But the minute the team introduces you, König is immediately infatuated with you, head over heels for you; his hazel eyes throwing a rare connection as he follows your form, watching you do your work from afar/or close up.

You were absolutely a definition of a deity, maybe an angel in disguise– all he cared about was how different you were and how his eyes followed your trail like a dog.

Now, it’s possible that you were a medic. A kind and sweet doc that’s always made him blush with your gentle and scarred hands working on his wounds after missions or taking the chance to be shown around the campus; which, he’s grateful for.

Although, you might’ve been a good sniper too — an amazing eagle-eye soldier who knew what they were doing, something he admired. Though, something stood out for you.

Maybe it was the mask you wore, in and out of the battlefield, or possibly the fact you always went out of your way to talk with the Austrian giant; yelling across the field while jogging up to meet him.

At first, it was uncomfortable. He responds with too formal expressions and goes as far as not to look you in the eye. But, the more you spent time with him, he slowly opened up, allowing you to train with him, throwing glances your way, and partnering up on gunning away at the shooting range while the two of you talked about your past/or present.

His obsessiveness really starts to show the minute he sees you get a bit close with your other teammates, whether that’s Nikto, Zero, or his best mate, Horangi. In many sense, König is possessive, but in a sense of needing to keep you safe.

Jealousy lingered off of him, steaming smoke as if he were a dragon. Dark eyes are becoming murderous and intentionally ruin the conversation as soon as he sees them pat you on the back or give you a tightly-squeezed hug.

This would make your interactions more frequent— after every mission, he’s following you like a puppy following its parents until they agree to lay down with them. But, he’s awkwardly suggesting that the two of you should eat somewhere or go into the training grounds to work with each other.

Now, it’s likely you’re not a shy or anxious person, but that doesn't stop him from being with you 24/7, being glued to your side out in public. And he has his powers. His height and dangerous accent keep people away

König despises leaving you alone, even letting you use the bathroom; he has to follow you around, wait outside, and possibly lay against the wall as he stares down at people.

Now, König isn’t one to kidnap, not only is he a horrible liar, but he may fear you’ll hate him; no longer wanting to be around him or see him as a person you can go to if you have problems with.

Though, that doesn’t mean he will guilt-trip you into staying with him on a rare day off you have with him. Do you wanna leave and visit your family? Why should you? Don’t you think you should spend your time with him, lying on his chest while the two of you watch TV, no? You’re just breaking his heart, deary.

Heading to the coffee shop to meet up with a friend? Why don't you let him come, yeah? He only wants to make sure you are safe and okay!

But, if you insist on him not coming? That’s fine. This man is surprisingly stealthy, even with his size. Of course, not without your knowledge, he had put a tracking device on you, somewhere where you won’t find out.

He really tries going through the normal route, whisking you off your feet to fall in love with him. He wants you to be just as heart-eyed as he is to you. Which means he buys anything he believes you’ll love.

He takes you out on a few dates, trying to keep out of public ones. But every know and again, he will do so.

Finally, he confesses– showing his scarred face and pretty hazel eyes that make you feel more captured. He stutters, hands sweating and picking at his nails as he expresses he wants you by himself. And when you agree? He’s so thankful for you.

König rushes you to move into his apartment, ensuring he’ll take care of everything. Buying a large-king sized bed so it won’t break when you two sleep or going out of his way to get a guard dog for safety. He wants you safe. That’s all he wants, okay?

Speaking of severe safety, the shared home is littered with all kinds of cameras, including detection and listening devices. You won’t know about it until you really pay attention.

Affection with König is pretty touch-starved on his part; seeking the need to touch you, or have you touch him, no matter how small. But, he also feels and believes he’s a nuisance for asking for a hug or kiss, which leads to you dragging on most of the affection until he becomes comfortable.

König deeply appreciates when you give him back rubs. Feeling your fingers dragging along his back, massaging into his thick and tense muscles, it makes him re-love you all over again.

It’s no surprise that, despite his height, König with loved ones is a gentle giant. However, the minute he senses your safety is being threatened or visibly sees someone is making you uncomfortable, his social anxiety gets thrown out the window, and his instinct of finishing a mission kicks in.

Whether that’s willing to beat a drunkard, threaten someone to back off, or simply stand behind you; he makes sure you always feel safe and welcome in his presence.

—

My masterlist || Reblogs, comments, and likes are very much appreciated!! Stay well!!

Do not plagiarize, repost, modify, translate or copy my work.

Content belongs to ©️ yandere-kokeshi only.

[spirit-lanterns]

THE BOSS’ CHARACTER SHEET

A semi-detailed post about the Boss’ character information and personality. Certain pieces of information are REDACTED, but will be unlocked in the future.

All information available for the Boss, is under the cut:

BIO: 

FULL NAME: ??? “The Boss” {TO BE UNLOCKED}

GENDER: Female 

PRONOUNS: She/her 

AGE: 38 years old 

HEIGHT: 5’8

MODEL TYPE: Tall female 

TYPE: Playable character

FACTION(S): The Rabbit’s Foot

WORLD: Penacony

RARITY: 5 Star 

PATH: Harmony 

COMBAT TYPE: Imaginary 

OVERVIEW:

The Boss is a woman of mysterious origin. No one in Penacony recalls just how she set foot upon the elusive planet of festivities, yet The Rabbit’s Foot, her most prized casino, is quite popular amongst the people of Penacony for all the riches and Bunnies she has to offer…

A mature woman of high status and a slacker to boot, the Boss is quite a mixed bag as no one really knows what to expect when conversing with her for the first time. People expect her to be a lavish, elegant, and proper woman, yet if you ask the Bunnies of the casino, they’d all say their Boss is a well-known “lazy bones.” 

Besides sleeping at her office and lounging with her Bunnies, the Boss enjoys collecting intricate tea sets and watching Broadway shows. 

APPEARANCE:

The Boss is a tall woman with long, blonde hair, always pulled up in an intricate updo with multiple hairpins and clips, light blue eyes, fair skin, as well as a darkly colored kimono with floral patterns. On her “lazy days” however, the Boss likes to leave her hair down, her clothes often not worn properly as she has a habit of wearing her clothes in a way where it exposes her shoulders and other assets.

She has a detailed sleeve of tattoos on her right arm (your left) that depict a branch of colorfully pink sakura flowers. It can sometimes be shown when the Boss doesn’t wear her clothes properly. 

PERSONALITY:

The Boss is a lazy, yet mature woman that has a habit of napping in her office whenever she’s left alone. She’s a slacker through and through, and she never really does her paperwork unless her Bunnies force her to. 

She’s also quite into adult indulgences, such as alcohol, smoking, gambling and sex. Not afraid to show off her wants and desires, the Boss can also be quite straightforward whenever she wants something of her affection. Besides coming off as a lazy bum however, the Boss cares deeply for her Bunnies, as she’s always looking for ways to keep them satisfied. 

Sometimes when she’s left alone, the Boss can be seen frowning and immediately lighting her pipe for a smoke, before quickly changing her downcast expression to an aloof one.

BACKSTORY: 

{TO BE UNLOCKED}

VOICE-OVERS:

FIRST MEETING: “Ah…a pleasantry to meet you. My name? Hah…just call me Boss, sweetheart.”

GREETING: “You’re back! That was fast…did you want to rent out a Bunny? Or perhaps…you came back for me?”

PARTING: “Come back soon, the Bunnies always miss you, I know I do…”

ABOUT SELF: REAL NAME: “My real name is not of importance, people know me as Boss and I stick to it. The Bunnies never really asked, but you are the first person to push on this topic. Heh, what? Don’t look at me like that, I like being called Boss.”

ABOUT SELF: SMOKING: “Sorry, I know the smell of smoke isn’t pleasant, but I can’t help it whenever I’m stressed. I know, I know, it’s a bad habit, but…gambling is a bad habit too, right?”

CHAT: BUNNIES: “Ahhhh I just love my Bunnies so much! They’re so cute and bouncy, but goodness are they hyper. I had to build an indoor gym just for them in the casino, just so they could get their zoomies out.”

CHAT: NAPS: “I love napping. I hope it doesn’t show my age, but napping just replenishes my energy so much that sometimes I coax the Bunnies into napping with me in my office. They make the perfect cuddle buddies.”

HOBBIES: “I don’t drink tea, but I love collecting tea sets. I have an entire cabinet at home just filled with different sets from all over the galaxy. I even have one that has little bunny teacups!”

ANNOYANCES: “I hate drunk people. Why would you drink so much if you know your alcohol tolerance is low? (Sigh) At the very least, my Bouncer Bunnies are able to take care of it.”

SOMETHING TO SHARE: “If you scratch a Bunny’s ear at the base of their scalp, their foot will begin to tap rapidly against the floor. Hm? How do I know this? Aha…I like exploring with my hands.”

KNOWLEDGE: “When you drink alcohol, you have to do it fast. Slow, leisurely sips make the alcohol burn your throat longer, yet if you drink it in one go, you are able to enjoy the taste.”

ABOUT: (BUNNY READER): “Ah…(Bunny Reader)...why won’t she stay with me? Oh! How long have you been standing there?”

ABOUT: KAFKA: “She’s not a criminal under the casino, she’s a customer. However, I won’t lie and say that I am completely thrilled that a Stellaron Hunter is renting out one of my Golden Bunnies every week. I can’t imagine what she’s doing to my poor Bunny…”

ABOUT: HIMEKO: “I like Himeko, she’s a very sweet woman and her coffee recipe is divine. I’ll have to visit her on The Express one day and see her tea set collection myself.”

ABOUT: BLACK SWAN: “I never really know what’s going on with that woman, but she’s a very efficient dealer. She puts some of my Dealer Bunnies to shame with how quick her hands are, hehe.”

ABOUT: ACHERON: “The Galaxy Ranger, right? She’s not the best gambler, but her ambition is admirable.”

ABOUT: FIREFLY: “Ohhh, that poor girl. She’s been tackled in the casino sixteen times now by my Golden Bunny.”

ABOUT: ROBIN: “She’s probably the worst gambler I have ever seen, yet she seems to be a favorite of my Golden Bunny.”

ABOUT: TOPAZ: “She’s cheated in a gamble before, but thanks to Black Swan she was caught and punished accordingly. I would’ve kicked her out of the casino for this, but (Bunny Reader) loves to keep her around for some reason.”

ABOUT: SERVAL: “I hire her sometimes to play live music in my casino. The patrons and Bunnies love her very much, so she gets discounts sometimes if she wishes to rent out Golden Bunny.” 

ABOUT: CONSTANCE: “Logically she’s much more dangerous than Kafka, but I can’t help but trust her more. Maybe it’s just because I’m a little biased and we have wine together sometimes.” 

TRIVIA: 

The Boss’ real name translates directly to “Spring Princess.”

The Boss uses her smoking pipe as a weapon when in combat. The smoke from it can increase the stats of party members. 

Her alcohol tolerance is extremely high.

The Boss has talents in dancing and embroidery. 

She is bisexual. 

The Boss claims she is an ass woman because “everyone has an ass, therefore ass is the best part.”

The Boss is a criminal. For what exactly is a secret and will be revealed in her backstory.

GALLERY:

Left Art: @e-hibiscus on Tumblr

Right Art: @deadflyartlogs on Instagram

[punksdoll]

can you please do an pt 3 of "always loved" where rhea confronts readers "BF" and says to him like ,,she's my girl now you will never lay your filthy fingers on her again,,

~~~𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅~~~

pt. 1 of always loved

pt. 2 of always loved

gif not mine like, comments, & reblogs appreciated

𝑹𝒉𝒆𝒂 𝑹𝒊𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒚 𝒙 𝒇𝒆𝒎!𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓 ^owner of gif

𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚: 𝑹𝒉𝒆𝒂 𝒈𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒙’𝒔 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒇𝒇.

𝒂/𝒏: 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒈𝒐𝒐𝒐𝒐𝒐. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒆 𝑨𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒊 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓:). 𝑰 𝒉𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒆𝒏𝒋𝒐𝒚𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒒𝒖𝒆𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈<𝟑

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: 𝒎𝒂𝒎𝒊 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒑, 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒈𝒐𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌, 𝒆𝒙 𝒃𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒄𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒕, 𝒓𝒉𝒆𝒂 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒉𝒆’𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 (𝒚𝒌?), 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒇 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒃𝒄 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒊𝒓𝒍 𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒄🙄, 𝒇𝒍𝒖𝒇𝒇

translations: Que Que: What?! Donde Ta: Where is it?

not proofread

She kept her promise.

After that night and after they confessed everything again with y/n sober, they had went to the police station and reported everything. Y/n had shown them the bruises, shown them videos, and shown them the messages that were filled with death threats. They had made an arrest only for them to release him and force y/n to get a restraining order.

“QUE QUE?!” Y/n shouts as she stands up from Rhea’s couch and looks at Rhea who rushes over, frowning. “It’s because i’m Puerto Rican isn’t in? Those mother fuckers.”

Rhea raises an eyebrow as she watches y/n start cursing up a storm in spanish before hanging the phone up as she looks at Rhea.

“They let him out. Now I need to go get a restraining order.”

Rhea’s jaw drops, “they can’t just do that? you had so much proof.”

“That’s what I said,” y/n huffs with a roll of her eyes.

They got the restraining order and everything was all rainbows and sunshine.

Until now

“Donde ta, donde ta…”

Rhea walks into her room and raises an eyebrow as she watches y/n in their shared closet and throwing out clothes left and right.

“What the hell are you doing, love?” Rhea asks.

Her voice makes y/n jump and turn towards Rhea. “I think I left my favorite shoes at…his house.”

The short time that her ex was in jail, her and Rhea had went to her old home and had gathered up all her belongings. Unfortunately for y/n, she had forgotten a pair of shoes that rarely wears but it is important to her.

“I can buy you new ones.” Rhea frowns.

Y/n shakes her head, “Limited edition Dem, limiteddd…” she frowns.

Rhea raises an eyebrow, “Would you like it if I went instead to get them?”

Y/n’s eyes widened as she stares at Rhea, “Would you?”

“I’ll do anything,” she nods with a smile.

Y/n gives her a smile and nods, “ok…yes please”

•••

Rhea looks at the house in front of her, recognizing it to be Y/n’s old home. She then looks back at the message that y/n had send.

It’s under the bed in the guest room

“Under the bed in the guest room.” Rhea repeats as she gets out and walks up towards the door. She stops in front of it and debates what she wants to do and how she wants to do it.

Knock on the door like a regular person and tell him who I am? Or be dramatic and let it be known just by a look?

Rhea looks at the key in her hand, “the latter.”

Rhea puts the key in the keyhole and enters the home without shame. She looks around and see boxes that are packed and it’s clear that her ex was moving.

“Who the hell…” the man in thought strolls over and pauses when he sees Rhea. His eyebrows furrow as he looks her up and down, “are you?”

Rhea takes a look at him up and down before she starts taking long strides towards him. As she gets closer to him, she realizes that he is way shorter than the last time she saw him. The ex notices the height difference and starts backing up slowly.

“Where’s the shoes.” Rhea demands. Seeing the boxes gave her the impression that it could be in one of them.

“What shoes…” he trails.

Rhea ignores him and starts walking upstairs and to the guest room that y/n had told her

the one that’s two doors away from the bathroom

She finds it almost immediately and walks in. She goes to the side of the bed and gets down, looking under and finding the shoes almost immediately.

“Get the hell out of my dam house.” The ex rushes in, “i’ll call the police on you damit.”

Rhea rolls her eyes and stands up with the shoes in her clutch. “This was never your house. This was y/n’s house.”

The ex finally realizes who Rhea is and chuckles shaking his head, “is she to pussy to face me or something? Afraid ima hit her? Hm?”

Rhea narrows her eyes, “Do not call her that.” She warns.

“Or what?” The ex raises an eyebrow, “whatever I did with her, i’ll do to you then turn right back to her and do 10x worse of what I did before.”

Rhea takes in a deep breath before walking towards him with a glare. “Say that again…”

The ex is smug as he watches her, “I said wha-,”

Rhea throws a punch at his face and watches him tumble back and on the ground with a grunt, holding his jaw. She grabs a handful of his shirt and pulls him closer to her, “She’s my girl now, got it? And if I ever see you around her and lay your filthy greasy fuck hands on her? I will come for you.” She gives him a deadly stare as he looks at her with wide eyes.

She shoves him away and walks away, the shoes dangling on her fingers as it never was set down even after the altercation.

[alchemistc]

goon | bucktommy | chapter two

check out the hockey glossary here (updated for chapter two) Prologue | Chapter One

Chapter Two

“That’s a very nice suit,” Josh says instead, phone between two fingers and tap-tap-tapping against his palm. “Also I need you and Buck to do an interview for me when we get into Utah.” Tommy and Eddie both shoot him looks, although Eddie’s is significantly less polite than Tommy’s. “Why.” He doesn’t really frame it as a question, but as they approach the stairs leading up to the plane Josh continues his backward walk, seemingly uncaring of the significant difference in their heights as he keeps pace. “Yeah, you haven’t won a face-off in a year and a half —” “I haven’t taken a face-off in a year and a half,” Tommy amends, but Russo either isn’t listening or doesn’t particularly care about the details.

When Tommy was eleven, three important things happened.

The first — the most important one, had been the birth of his younger sister. He’d spent the months leading up to it pressing his ear to his mothers growing belly, giddy with possibility, talking to her for hours and hours while his mom got pale and tired. He’d been eleven, though, and she’d done everything she could to hide that from him, always happy to wrap him up in her arms when he got home from school, always ready to throw on her game face when Tommy sat on the bed at her hip with one hand pressed to the bump as he told the baby all the cool things he’d learned at school that day, and the games they’d played during recess, and the thing Robert Duncan had said that had made Tommy laugh so hard his teacher had sent him off to the principals office for disruptive behavior.

The second had been the day his mom took him to the mall and bought him a pair of rollerblades — black leather with neon green wheels, even cooler than the ones Chris Harper had gotten for his birthday. He’d spent a month eating shit up and down the cul de sac until he was steady on his feet, and then the next six months spending every weekend with all the rest of the kids in the neighborhood, two nets set up at he end of Cherry Avenue, two streets down from Tommy’s house, borrowing Judy Green’s older brothers retired equipment, setting up pick up games and driving the whole neighborhood a bit mad as they all taught each other whatever arbitrary hockey rule they’d learned watching the latest Devil’s game before their parents sent them off to bed.

And then, at the peak of it all, the day after baby Abigail had been born, Tommy’s dad didn’t come home from the hospital with her or Tommy’s mom. In fact, he barely came home at all, other than to let him know his aunt would be by in a few hours to pick him up, and then he’d been gone again.

The third, as he’d found out six hours later, anxious and fretful in the passenger seat of Aunt Stacy’s station wagon, was his mom dying.

Eleven, and a week later he’d donned his first suit and tie, feeling sad and tired and worn and grown up, peeking over his aunts shoulder at the bundle of wrinkly baby in her arms. His dad had shown up to the funeral late, drunk, and angry, and Tommy — in his infinite wisdom, six days into a world without a mom — had tried to comfort him.

Eleven, and he’d gotten his first black eye to match his first black suit.

Tommy hasn’t worn a black suit since.

Diaz catches him halfway across the tarmac, fingers reaching out to pinch at the collar of Tommy’s burgundy plaid jacket. “Snazzy,” he says, tugging, wheeling his bag behind him and matching Tommy stride for stride, which Tommy finds a little strange until he remembers that Diaz has been keeping up with Buckley’s gazelle-legged pace for going on six years now. “And here we all thought you were gonna rock the henley-jeans combo until coach called you out in a team meeting.”

“I’m not a caveman,” Tommy rebuts, shaking his head to hide the grin. “But I do have to get all my suit jackets altered before I wear them. Not all of us have trim little waists and a forgiving shoulder line.”

Eddie pauses just long enough to twist his wrists and point two fingers at himself, grin a little wide. “Hey, if Buck tries to hand you one of his little cakes, just, like, take it and pretend you’ll try it,” he says, darting a glance behind him, no doubt looking to make sure the coast is clear. Tommy shoots him an amused look.

“What’s wrong with the cake?”

“He’s been trying to crack a gluten free dairy free cupcake. They’re... he hasn’t cracked it.”

Tommy bites his lip, rolls his tongue alongside the inside of his cheek, nearly runs into Josh Russo as he shoots his own look back to try to find Buckley’s mile-long legs amidst the group trailing along behind them towards the team jet.

When he reaches out to steady Russo, the man gives him the bitchiest fucking look Tommy’s ever seen, and completely ignores Diaz, walking backwards and turning his phone screen. “It’s fine, your profile in this lighting is gonna make people absolutely feral.”

It’s a good picture. Tommy doesn’t exactly have too many hang-ups about his appearance, but he used to, and this one is getting all his best angles. He holds up a fist for Josh to bump, and Josh stares at it for a moment like Tommy’s presenting him with roadkill.

He can’t decide whether or not Josh has clocked him, yet. There’s been a few instances where he’s tilted his head a certain way, or made an off-hand comment at the end of practice while he’s mining for content, that makes Tommy wonder if he’s seeing behind all the machismo to his soft underbelly and recognizing something of himself.

“You send me a single screenshot of someone on any social media getting thirsty and I’m shaving my head,” Tommy warns, just to watch Russo’s face flicker through all the stages of grief in about five seconds flat.

Tommy won’t ever admit this, but he’s never seen anyone crack social media interactions like a gay man in a toxic cesspool of a sport, and Josh Russo knows his shit. How often to post his stupid little thirst traps, what sort of questions to ask them when they’re sweaty and tired and ready for a fucking shower, which matchups the fans are most looking forward to, when to leak not-quite-secret shit to give fans a glimpse into the humanity of everyone’s favorite recalcitrant player.

“That’s a very nice suit,” Josh says instead, phone between two fingers and tap-tap-tapping against his palm. “Also I need you and Buck to do an interview for me when we get into Utah.”

Tommy and Eddie both shoot him looks, although Eddie’s is significantly less polite than Tommy’s. “Why.” He doesn’t really frame it as a question, but as they approach the stairs leading up to the plane Josh continues his backward walk, seemingly uncaring of the significant difference in their heights as he keeps pace.

“Yeah, you haven’t won a face-off in a year and a half —”

“I haven’t taken a face-off in a year and a half,” Tommy amends, but Russo either isn’t listening or doesn’t particularly care about the details.

“—and the first one you took as an Av resulted in a brilliantly stellar wrister from our star defenseman through, like, six men in front of the net —”

“Four bodies tops,” Tommy continues, even though at this point he’d be better just accepting that he’s going to be talked over.

“—and with the fight, too, the fans are abuzz, so I’m taking the initiative to lean into some new dynamics —”

“You’re pimping me out because I look good with blood on my knuckles.”

Russo pauses. Takes a deep breath. “Yeah, it was more the absolutely manic smile on your face all the way to the box, that people were talking about. On that topic, how do you still have all your teeth?”

Tommy considers popping out his partials to show Josh exactly how many teeth he’s actually missing, but then Josh will make a face, and Diaz will feel the need to antagonize him, just a little bit, and Tommy would really like to settle in his seat and decompress. He ignores the question entirely. “Can we do it tomorrow morning?”

Russo tilts his head back and forth, considering. He eyes the cut Hen’d taped up after todays afternoon game like he’s trying to decide if he can makeup it away before he remembers that that’s sort of the draw to late season hockey players cropping up for dumb social media shit. “I’ll ask Buck,” he commits, and Tommy sneaks past him up the stairs before he can wheedle any more favors off of him.

Inside the cabin, the broadcast crew is already settled in to their seats, and he takes a few spare moments to say hello. It doesn’t do shit, really, except show respect, but he’s been around the block enough times that acknowledging the staff of any given organization has become habit.

By the time he finds a seat, the rest of the team has already boarded, and Tommy settles in next to Panikkar, who looks about ready to pass out. He’d done half an hour on the bikes after the game while Tommy iced the bruise he’d gotten courtesy the crosscheck he'd received from Eberle while they battled in the corner for the puck.

Tommy pulls out his phone to find a new message waiting for him.

Nash says you’re sticking around, the message from Sal reads, and Tommy opens up the thread to take a look at the last few messages from one of his oldest teammates.

It’s a short turnaround of a travel day, Sunday afternoon game just finished and a quick flight into Salt Lake where they’ll pass out at the hotel (Buckley and Russo willing, anyway) and then be up with enough time for an early morning practice, lunch and a nap before they head to the arena. Tommy is realizing he’s hemmed himself in to a 5 am wakeup at the latest, if Josh is actually serious about mining Tommy’s temporary fame for content.

In the seat next to him, Panikkar mumbles something, already fully asleep in the time it had taken Tommy to fasten his seatbelt and scroll up to Sal’s last few messages, and Ravi’s head is already drifting toward Tommy’s shoulder. Tommy rolls his eyes, but he still ends up shifting his weight to allow for easier landing, when the inevitable trajectory of Ravi’s slumping skull meets its destination.

A year ago, Sal had sent him a random screenshot of the infamous Seguin tweet and a link to an Oliver Peck music video, and then, three weeks ago when the news of the trade broke: See you in a few weeks

Tommy’d replied with a selfie of himself holding up a middle finger, but at the time he’d been pretty sure Sal was right. That was typically what happened — Tommy was used to being the weight that shifted midseason when contenders wanted to make a big move and didn’t have the cap space to do it. It was early — early enough that most trades were still a glimmer in the eye of most agents, the All-Star break still looming, the perfect time to make a move that didn’t mean much, in the scheme of things.

Only that hadn’t happened. The Avs were undoubtedly the team to beat in the conference this year, so he’d expected maybe a week or two up and down the lineup before they shifted him off to Loveland, only playing up if someone was injured. He was a shit defenseman but he knew enough to move from his typical forward position, and he was used to that steady grind, easy to slot in if they needed to reassess an early season injury in the ramp up to playoffs.

And he was hanging it up at the end of the year, anyway, and the foothills of Colorado were a hell of a lot nicer than —

Not the point.

Only.

That hadn’t happened. Instead he’d hopped the first flight out and found a car waiting for him at the airport to take him directly to the arena. It’d been an off day, two days in to a three day stretch of them, actually, so even the team rumored to have one of the most strenuous practice schedules in the league was off that day, when he’d been escorted through the building and straight up to the GM’s office.

Sorry, Tommy shoots off, as the plane starts to taxi. I know you were looking forward to checking out my tits in the locker room, Deluca.

Ravi’s head finally touches down against the meat of Tommy’s shoulder, and he snuffles sneepily before nosing in, a bit. Tommy wishes he’d thought to grab one of the shitty pillows from the overhead bin: Panikkar’s cheeks are sharp.

Just the left one, Sal shoots back. Keep an eye out for 27, he’s had it out for Diaz since ‘21.

Tommy is aware of this. Perhaps a little more incidentally than he knows some of the conflicts Buckley has gotten himself wrapped up in, but he’s done the research on all the little shits on this team who like to chirp and then get their asses handed to them.

He closes out of the thread in time to catch liftoff, and an up close and personal serenade of light snores from the man who has, in three weeks, gone from passive aggressively mentioning all the routines he has in place to work on his speed to being comfortable enough with him to fall asleep on his shoulder.

Two rows up, Cameron has his overhead light tilted over his latest trashy pulp fiction novel, and up another three, Greenway is sulking. He’s been on the outs for weeks, now, and Tommy doesn’t know the exact details, only that he’d thrown a quiet little fit over Tommy’s sustained minutes (all seven a game) and that Chim hates him.

Quietly, Tommy suspects that he’s the piece the front office is trying to move out before the trade deadline, but he hasn’t said a word of it yet. Better to keep his mouth shut and his head down until he’s got better feel for the dynamics. And Christ are there a lot of dynamics on this team.

In the row next to him, Diaz and Buckley have their heads bent over an iPad, one earbud each and their eyes flitting across the screen with an almost disturbing synchrony — two halves of a whole, those two. He likes them both, and not even just because they are a large part of the reason he’s getting enough ice time to justify keeping him on the bench.

Tommy’s caught staring when Buckley flicks his gaze up and over, and there’s a moment where Tommy holds his breath, just like always — twenty-year career and no teammate has ever questioned why he doesn’t have a girlfriend, a bleach blonde wife popping out kids, he’s not about to lose that streak now over an intriguing birthmark and a megawatt grin.

Buck smiles, tilts his head a little, returns to his screen. They have multiple iPads, but these two are practically attached at the hip, and he’s yet to see them reach for a second one when they could just tilt their heads together over game film and discover some weakness they can exploit that even Karen Wilson hasn’t discovered yet.

Tommy, like an idiot, doesn’t look away. He’s got a snoring Ravi nuzzling into his shoulder and he’s still nursing the bruise on his thigh, too wired to sleep and too tired to realize how long he’s been looking at the side of Buckley’s skull until Buckley is saying something softly, and Tommy watches Diaz knock their shoulders together. Too late, he realizes Eddie is shifting, turning his head — he catches Tommy’s gaze with a raised brow.

Tommy feels caught out, but Eddie just tips his chin at Ravi wheezing against his shoulder, grin going wide.

He makes an aborted half-shrug of a movement, reeling it back halfway through so as not to jostle Ravi, and misses the moment Buck turns his camera on the tableau.

Behind Tommy, Chim is in the middle of one of his batty post-game cooldown routines, and he can hear the faint sounds of whatever ballad he’s currently listening to — Celine Dion, maybe? The air is on, and Tommy’s skin feels tight, and the ambient noise is doing nothing to help the squeal of tinnitus he’d never fully lost after his last fight with Deslauriers. He chokes down the urge to reach over and snatch the phone right out of Buckley’s hand — cheeses it up instead, knowing Buck’s snapped probably twenty pictures already.

He can’t prove it, but he’s absolutely certain there are pain inhibitors in Evan Buckley’s smile. When he lowers his phone and grins bashfully, the bruise on Tommy’s thigh fees a little less achy, and the buzzing behind his ears fades enough that Tommy barely notices it.

When Buck turns away again, Tommy makes a concentrated effort to focus on the pattern of the seat in front of him.

He doesn’t grin at all when his phone lights up with four notifications in row: Buck’s curated glamour shots of Ravi drooling on Tommy’s shoulder.

---

"You're good at those," Buckley says, skidding to a halt next to him at the elevators, and Tommy tips his head side to side, twists his neck just enough to catch his profile in his peripherals.

"Twenty years in the league," he intones, trying hard not to smile at how fucking antsy this kid is, shifting foot to foot as they wait for the doors to slide open.

"No, yeah, I just mean --" Buck shifts his weight, tips his chin. "You've got, like, personality and shit, in those. I always feel like a robot trying to figure out genuine human emotions when Josh asks me to do that stuff. But it -- I mean it was nice, to just... You made it easy, is all I'm trying to say."

"You didn't seem remotely like a robot, to me," Tommy teases, watching the numbers above the elevator doors drop. He's a little startled when Buckley smacks at his shoulder, but by the time he's had the chance to do more than blink about it Buck's already moving on.

"It's like you weren't even listening to me, I just said you helped me not be."

"I mean, if you did, it was very subtley implied, actually, so you can't blame me for the misinterpretation."

At his side, Buckley glances up at the numbers, too. "Do you want to grab coffee? I feel like we should grab coffee."

"Aren't you vehemently against caffeine on game days?"

Buckley looks both pleased he'd remembered, and a little bashful, which Tommy can't parse for a minute. "Everyone has cheat days. Besides, it's just Utah."

"Famous last words," Tommy warns, but he's already turning back in the direction of the conference room they'd just left, towards the Starbucks he's pretty sure is on this level. He checks his watch - if they mosey, maybe the place will even be open by the time they get there.

Buckley falls into step beside him and without missing a beat continues the conversation. "Sounds like there's a story to that."

Tommy can see him working through the math in his head. Kid's like a Roledex for NHL facts and stats, so it doesn't take him long to divide by two and get to the conclusion that they'd been playing Philadelphia at the tail end of their worst season on record.

"First full season in the league my team went on a tear. I'm talking barnburners every other night, fifteen home game wins straight — real mensch shit. We were on top of the world. But... season’s winding down, you know, and we didn't start out great, so we're chasing every point we can just to scrape a spot in round one." Buckley's eyes are sparkling the exact same way they'd been, all through Josh's weird word association game he'd had them do for warmups before actually getting into his little question and answer session. "And me — I'm playing fifteen minutes a game against guys like Sid and Ovi, I'm one hundred percent sure this streak is never gonna end. So - two games left in the season, we're scheduled to play the Flyers."

"Coach pulls us in for a huddle before pregame warmups and he tells us to keep our heads down, shoot for the net, get back to basics, don't underestimate them. But half their team are call-ups, at that point, a good third have never played at this level before, right?"

Buck chuckles, clearly already reaching the conclusion, but Tommy forges on ahead anyway.

"So I just say it. Come right out and say the words: Coach, it's just Philly." He gestures wide, hands out in front of him, like he can conjure up the words that had been painted onto the inside of his eyelids for a good four months, after.

"So what happened?"

"We got shut out. Five nothing. By their third string goalie. Guy’d never even been on the bench as a backup before, and he stood on his damn head all game.”

Buck laughs. It’s a sweet sound, echoing off the walls of the corridor they're strolling through, and Tommy feels the edges of his grin going wide, digging crevices into his cheeks as he shakes his head at the memory. They’d scraped the two-seed that year, and gotten slaughtered in the second round, and Tommy had spent the entire summer hearing it’s just Philly parroted back to him by every single member of his team.

“Eddie doesn’t believe in curses,” Buck admits, once his laughter has died down. “He’s the least superstitious person I know.”

“Hope he doesn’t get voted into the All-Star game, then. Sid might read him the riot act.”

Buckley stops dead in his tracks, eyebrows both dancing up his forehead. It brings his birthmark into stark relief against the shitty lighting of the corridor. He shakes his head like he’s clearing a thought. “I forgot you played with him.”

Tommy has to remind himself that Buckley probably knows every team all of his teammates, current and former, have ever played for. “For a year and a half, back when the jock strap was still mostly white.”

Buck grins, again, blue eyes gleaming as he twists himself sideways, sort of grape-vining down the hall for a few moments, body facing Tommy’s. “What’s he like to play with?” he asks, and Tommy barrels on ahead, desperately reminding himself that Evan Buckley is exactly like every other long-legged, bright-eyed, shockingly sweet attractive man he’s ever played with.

Off-fucking-limits.

[our-happygirl500-fan]

A little bit ago I made a post about Leo’s hoodie & a few people pointed out that it looked similar to Donnie’s hoodie & how it continued the trend of Donnie & Leo having similar outfits.

Donnie & Leo having similar hoodies isn’t the first time that we’ve seen them wear similar styles of clothing as they wear similar outfits to the family meal at Draxum’s apartment in the episode Repairin’ the Barron & they can also be seen wearing similar styles of pajamas in the episode Flushed, But Never Forgotten

The fact that we have been shown Leo & Donnie wearing similar outfits multiple times is interesting as Leo & Donnie have also been shown to have different senses of fashion as seen by them choosing different styles of wrestling outfits in the episode Shell in a Cell or when they wore different styles of clothing during the episode The Clothes Don’t Make the Turtle

In terms of Leo’s choice of clothing in the episode Shell in a Cell or his early clothing choices in the episode The Clothes Don’t Make the Turtle, Leo seems to go for clothes that seem athletic or easier to move around in while Donnie seems to prefer looking smartly dressed.

The fact that Leo & Donnie have different styles of fashion that they prefer makes it kind of interesting that they have multiple outfits that look similar to one another.

There’s a chance that Leo & Donnie could purposefully be getting outfits similar to one another or maybe one of them is getting the other outfits for whatever reason. I’ve seen some people wonder if Splinter used to dress Donnie & Leo similarly due to them being the same age & height (as parents of twins often put them in matching outfits) & if that is the case I wonder if Donnie & Leo simply got used to wearing similar outfits to one another.

[wayfayrr]

Hey there, I wondered if Tears ever gets insecure about his arm, scars or possibly even his height. Like I find his height absolutely perfect and adorable but he is smaller than most other people and it might bother him?

So I've been wondering how he acts when insecure and what would be a good way to comfort him. I would just hold him and try to convince him of all the good qualities he has. As well as petting through his hair. Making him feel loved and secure. And honestly an extraordinary arm isn't that bad, it doesn't affect who he is after all.

I wonder if that would help or he'd need some other form of comfort. Or maybe to be left alone. Anything from an answer to hc's to a short story or even deletion is fine! If you even have time and are willing that is!

Have a great day! <3

I absolutely loved this request, thank you so much for it - I've gone with three different possible scenarios for why he could be dealing with feeling insecure and some headcanons for how you could help him feel better about himself after each one <3 There is one major one I left out but the issue regarding his memories will definitely be explored some time soon!

honestly exploring tears is just so fun, it's nice tearing into his different layers :3c headcanons under the cut!

[masterlist]

due to his prosthetic 

✦ This is the easiest of his insecurities to deal with, as it only really tends to show itself when his phantom pains act up. 

✦ he’s long used to having lost his arm by the point that you meet, having had to figure out a replacement for when Rauru’s arm faded after his second quest was over.

✦ despite that though he still isn’t used to the ricocheting pain he gets once every so often, less now than when he was first still drowned in gloom but still just as debilitating. 

✦ He just needs to taken away from other people and shown affection, reassured that his is a benefit rather than something people only pity him for. 

✦ it’s all he really needs in those moments of vulnerability, when he can feel the flesh being shredded from his none existent bone. 

“Wouldn't it be better if there was some way to just have my arm go back to how it should be? That way I wouldn’t be such a burden when he decides to haunt me again.” “Sherbert whatever do you mean? You aren’t a burden for this, why even consider it?” “The whole group has had to come to a stop just because of this stupid pain and I know you’ve seen time getting pissed off with me for the things I can do with it.” “Time’s just an old man who’s worried about your safety, he means no harm with it. Wars got the rest to come to a stop for the same reason, not because you’re a burden, but because we care for you.” “But If my arm wasn’-” “Your arm is part of who you are. And I wouldn’t have it any other way, I love you for you Li, don’t even waste your energy thinking otherwise.”

✦ another way to help him through these patches is more to do with also indulging his love for learning about your home, or well more to the point - stickers. Giving him ones with meaning and that he thinks are pretty help him to work his confidence back. Because it wouldn't be possible without his arm!

due to his height 

✦ This comes out even rarer than his doubts about his arm, and only due to a very specific scenario and that’s if you’re talking about Earth's beauty standards - how taller people are often seen as more attractive.

✦ If you aren’t quick to say otherwise he’s going to assume that’s what you think too, it’s going to do a real number on his self esteem - because the thing is, he never really cares about what other people think about him, it simply doesn’t even register as something he should be worried about before he met you outside of the memory issue but that’s a whole other thing 

✦ this is the first time that something that REALLY has never been an issue for him becomes a big problem, if you aren’t aware of why he’s feeling like this then the sudden shift will come as a surprise. As he starts to avoid you and tear up whenever you see him before leaving. The rest of the chain mention that they’ve seen him tinkering with things but no one has seen exactly what it is.  

✦ the reason it came up was possibly from another member of the chains jealousy of how close the two of you were before this, or simply another villager trying to get you to go with them ‘because why wouldn’ t you want a tall handsome guy? 

✦ the sooner you can catch on and comfort him the better, as it’ll give it less time to get stuck in his head that you aren’t comforting him because it’s true, and it’s harder to tell himself that it isn’t while you’re pretty much confirming it

✦ but when you finally do get through to him that you don’t care about his height? That you aren’t secretly judging him for being so short? He’ll have a little moment where he breaks down, he’s been avoiding you for so long… and for what? All that time with you he’s missed over such a ridiculous reason will haunt him for at least a few days. 

“Tears? Link what are you doing? You’ve been avoiding me for nearly a week now. And - are those?” “I, no I haven’t been ‘avoiding’ you, just, I’ve just been busy… yeah.” “Were you just making those stilts this whole time? Is that why you’ve blanked me, seriously?” “I just - I, that - in the village.” “Hey, hey lilac there’s no need to cry love, I’m not angry, I’ve just missed you. You don’t have to tell me why, it’s just worried me.” “It - that guy, what he said - I just, wouldn’t you prefer someone taller?” “Well someone taller wouldn’t be you love. And I couldn’t even imagine being with someone else.” “R-really?” “Really darling.”

✦ he'll be impossibly clingy and almost showy after the fact, to the point where other people start getting concerned about how close he's getting - but it's not like he's hurt anyone else over it yet but if the villager who planted the idea in his head ever appears again then, well who would blame him..?

due to his sexuality (haha demiromantic asexual tears hc stepping innn)

✦ This is a bit more of a unique one, because it isn’t something he’s had to put all that much thought into before, it’s just never come up, but when he hears how some of the others talk about relationships he starts to have doubts about himself. 

✦ He simply doesn’t feel things that the others have described and the things that he has felt happened so much slower than how they said it did for them. He simply can’t help but question if there was- is something wrong with him. 

✦ He only started to fall when he was good friends with you, not the instant connection that he heard that time had with malon, or twi with midna. He doesn’t want you the person who he loves more than his own life to be with someone who he’s starting to think as so broken. If he can’t feel love ‘right’ then how could he hope to treat you right? 

✦ If he learns about this being normal, about the fact that other people share the same things as him, that he has flags that can use to show off his identity? It’s the biggest relief that he’s felt since meeting someone who treated him like a person. 

✦ once he’s gotten it through his head that he’s not broken, and that he doesn’t need to be worried about not being enough for you. You accept him for what he is and aren’t trying to make him change. It’s something he very very rarely gets to experience, and it definitely helps him feel even closer to you in the end 

✦ some of the biggest comfort he gets is you just accepting him and letting his feelings progress at his natural rate, it’s one of the best things he could have hoped for.

[theladyfulcrum]

Come here children. Come here. Sit down. Take my hands. Listen.

Here’s what we are not going to do. We are not going to let them unravel us and leave us in a heap of bawling bodies. They want us to sob until our eyes fall out and we rupture our abdominal organs because they’re heartless and sadistic and part of STAR WARS—shhh, steady—but we are going to remain CALM. Call it denial, call it call it bargaining, call it what you will, but he’s not gone.

Deep breaths, all together now. Crying is cathartic and necessary for coping with the emotional abuse we endure at the hands of Filoni et al., but don’t cry from lost hope. I’m serious. Was it among the worst things we could have possibly been forced to watch? Has a good majority of the fandom been mulling where the hell we are supposed to find the will to go on after that? Of course. But they’ll be back. And Tech will be, too.

Hush, child. Listen to me.

There was a reason he fell into cloud-cover. He could have been falling into anything. Water can be lethal from that height, yes, but let’s all just remember what Hunter pulled in War-Mantle with falling OUT OF A SHIP and down a LITERAL MOUNTAIN and surviving that with JUST HIS KNIFE. HIS KNIFE, KIDS. Tech accepted what he was doing, and he was okay with dying if that was what this meant, but he’s Tech. Once he fell from view he did whatever he could to increase his odds of getting out of it alive. Trust.

Speaking of falling from view— we know the Clone Wars rules. No body, no confirmed death. Forget that— we know the STAR WARS rules. Even if someone gets SLICED IN HALF before your VERY EYES and FALLS AN INDETERMINABLE-BUT-DEFINITELY-NOT-SURVIVABLE DISTANCE, they STILL aren’t dead. Further still, if you had put the two scenes in front of me with no context, I would have said Echo’s death in an EXPLOSION of FIRE seemed more final and certain that Tech falling away from us. And no, I don’t care about the argument that it’s a kId’S ShOW so they wouldn’t show us the body. Go watch Colt’s death and get back to me. Or you know, pretty much any Clone Wars episode.

BUT THE GOGGLES, you wail. I know, dear heart, I know. I see the cracks in them every time I close my eyes. But Hemlock getting his hands on those isn’t confirmation of anything other than what we already know— no matter where he wound up, Tech is having a Very Bad Time™️. Whether he lost them on the extremely unpleasant way down or whether he’s being experimented on in critical condition is hardly a nicer thing to know, but we’ll take just about anything right now if it means we’ll see our boy again, won’t we?

Shhh, I’m not through. We also have that scene with Phee. If it had been a true goodbye, if Tech had shown an ounce of the development he had with Omega about differences in emotional processing and communication, you’d have seen my soul depart through the atmosphere. But no. That scene’s entire purpose was to be unresolved. Was it just to make us incurably sad in retrospect? Maybe. But my gut says no— there’s more he needs to say to her.

On that note, the same goes for Tech and Crosshair. I refuse to believe we’ll never see them together again. I don’t have anything stronger than my refusal, but my feelings on this are rock solid. There’s also the important issue of THE Bad Batch theme— you know how they’ve established a precedent of not using it unless the whole Batch is together? Collectively, we’re going to refuse to believe they’re going to break that now. And there’s too much love for that theme to never hear it again.

Finally, beloveds, we come to our old favorite: story analysis. You know I’m insufferable about this, but listen. If we look at screenwriting, if we look at story structure, if we look at BEATS, this is the old “DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL” for the Batch (and us obviously). It’s the ALL IS LOST. The EVERYTHING IS AWFUL AND THE HEROES ARE AT THEIR LOWEST LOW. It’s the classic “oh my god this second installment is EMOTIONAL TORTURE HOW COULD THEY DO THIS TO ME” that we can point to in novels, shows, and film series again and again. It’s the ESB ending, it’s the Catching Fire ending, it’s the Rebels S2 AHSOKA IS D E A D AND ANAKIN KILLED HER ending. S3 will open as they enter Act III, where they use what they’ve learned to move upwards toward the finale of this particular story arc. Doesn’t that sound like something nice to cling to?

There now. If I’m wrong, I’ll give you all the choice of k!lling me first or tossing me alive out of a plane with no *hard swallow* parachute, jet pack, or functional grappling gun. But I truly believe you won’t have to.

In the year or two we have to wait, cry for his absence, cry for the Batch being more fractured and farther apart than they ever have been, cry for Hunter feeling like he’s failed everyone he loves, cry for all of it, but not because you’ve lost hope that all might not be lost.

Tech will be back.

[charmandabear]

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Leather and Lace

Summary

Lady Estelle wasn't expecting to fall for her tailor, of all people. But with everything under her control during the day, she's more than content to cede control to him at night.

Pairing: Astarion/F!OC Rating: E Word Count: 5.7k Tags/Warnings: unprotected sex, orgasm denial, safeword discussion, light bondage, d/s dynamic, p in v sex, vampire sex, biting, vampire bites, blood drinking, sexual tension, casual classism, AU, (sorta, you can make an argument), praise kink

Read on AO3

Something in me turned feral when I saw Hamrikaa's tailor!Astarion art and I needed to get this out of my system. It doesn't help that I work with costumes irl and I suddenly got a lot of opinions about Astarion and sewing.

I have more thoughts on this relationship, particularly with the class difference and power dynamics. I also really want a story with a plus size protag since I'm really tired of feeling like the implication is that all Tavs/OCs are the type 1 body. So let me know if that's something that appeals to you, or if you're interested in a longer version with more than just sexual tension and smut, lol.

Fucking Arfur.

It’s sundown on a Saturday and Lady Estelle Rosewinter is traipsing through the Lower City looking for a tailor. Arfur Gregorio had shown up to her masquerade several hours early already intoxicated. While trying to shoo him off the grounds, he had stepped on her gown, ripping the seam of the thigh high slit to a nearly obscene height. Now, as guests are beginning to arrive, she isn’t there to greet them and is rather passing shop after shop putting up their closing signs. 

She could have just chosen a different gown as her handmaiden Celia had suggested, except that it took her so long to get into the damn thing. She thought that getting it fixed would take but a minute. It did not occur to her that, given the hour, finding an available tailor would prove so difficult.

Estelle is about to give up when she sees a dim little shop out of the corner of her eye. It’s not on the main drag, but rather up a quiet alleyway. But there’s no mistaking the sign.

Threads of Starlight

The door to the shop is clearly open, so she rushes in, desperate to speak with the proprietor.

“My apologies, I know you’re probably about to close, but I have an emergency, and I promise that I’ll pay handsomely for the inconvenience–” she cuts herself off as the tailor walks out from the back. He’s so much more attractive than she would’ve expected from someone of his station. His clothes are humble but understandably incredibly well-fitting, his trousers gently hugging his lean legs and the sleeves of his light linen top rolled up above his elbows, revealing pale, slender forearms. His silvery hair looks windswept and effortless, although Estelle knows it takes a practiced hand to get one’s hair just right like that. There’s a measuring tape slung around his neck and he looks briefly startled by her appearance before a practiced charm takes over.

“No need for apologies, Lady…” he leaves a gap in his speech for her to tell him her name. His voice is melodic.

“Estelle. Lady Estelle.” She tries to match his honeyed tone but her mouth has suddenly gone dry. He takes her hand and gently presses his lips to her knuckles.

“Lady Estelle. The pleasure is all mine,” he coos and a shiver goes up her spine. What on earth would a tailor need with this much charisma? Without letting go of her hand, he gracefully leads her up onto the fitting stand in the middle of the shop. She has danced with the finest nobility in Baldur’s Gate, and none of them were even half this elegant.

“Now please, tell me what I can do for you. I hope there’s nothing wrong with this beautiful gown of yours. Is it one of Galwen’s?” The way he looks at her makes her feel exposed, almost naked, despite the conversation literally being about her clothes. She clears her throat in an attempt to regain some composure.

“Yes, I’ve been going to her for years, but she’s tragically unavailable this evening.” Not that Estelle didn’t try. She sent three messengers and finally went to Galwen’s door herself, but she refused to open back up. Pity, since it looks like she’s lost Estelle’s business for good, especially if this one turns out to be as good as he looks. And gods does he look good.

“All the more fortunate for me that I stay open late,” he says in a low tone, and gooseflesh breaks out over Estelle’s arms. “Now, tell me darling,” he coughs at letting the casual pet name slip out, “pardon me, my Lady, how can I be your gown’s savior this evening?” Estelle hadn’t heard the rest of his sentence because her ears started ringing at the “darling.” Normally she would not take too kindly to someone in the working class speaking so informally to her. She’s beginning to feel lightheaded. Has she been hexed? Does this happen to any who cross his threshold?

“It’s torn,” she says in an uncharacteristically small voice. “Right here.” She lifts her skirt at the thigh slit, threads popping out of the seam. In an instant the tailor is on one knee, examining it closely. With him suddenly this close, all of her symptoms dissipate and are replaced by just one: desire.

She tries to shake herself out of it. Not only would anything of the sort be wildly inappropriate - given her status in Baldur’s Gate, an affair with a lowly tailor would be splashed all over Baldur’s Mouth within hours - this man is a consummate professional, and she’s certain that he would never return her affections. He must look beneath dozens of hems a day, this is nothing out of the ordinary for him. 

He touches the fabric as he studies it, cool fingers lightly grazing Estelle’s skin. She gasps at the sensation, and he looks up at her sheepishly.

“I’m terribly sorry, I have poor circulation. My touch is always something nasty, I’m afraid.” Estelle shakes her head and finds anywhere to look but into those piercing red eyes. 

“It’s fine, really. I have an important evening planned, so I’m a bit jumpy,” she lies through her teeth. He steps away to pick up a needle and thread from behind the counter. While his back is turned, Estelle takes the time alone to wipe sweat off her brow. This man is making her burn up inside and out.

“Oh really?” he sings as he’s back down on his knees, dangerously close to her upper thigh once again. “And pray forgive me, but I must reach up slightly in order to make this repair, if that’s alright. I promise, I’ll be the picture of a gentleman.” He looks up at her, waiting for her consent before touching her further. Estelle, worried what might come out if she opened her mouth, just nods. 

He slides his hand between the fabric and her leg, pulling it out slightly so he can tuck his needle into the underside of the seam. Estelle bites down on her tongue to keep from moaning. She knows that she’s touch-starved, it’s been far too long since anyone has warmed her bedsheets. Between running a household, meeting with politicians and nobility alike, and her position in the Baldur’s Gate arts council, she hardly has the time. But this is ridiculous. A gentle caress from a man should not elicit this much heat between her thighs, and yet here she is, keeping them pressed together tight, the slight pressure her only relief. 

His fingers move deftly, pulling the needle through the fabric with ease. He’s focusing on his work so intently, and Estelle watches him almost like he’s a dream. He begins tying off the thread, and before he’s complete, his eyes flick upward to meet Estelle’s.

“All finis-” he begins, but Estelle is so startled by the intensity of his gaze that she jumps, causing him to prick his finger with the needle. A tiny droplet of blood lands on the pale pink silk. The tailor jumps back, horrified, and immediately starts apologizing profusely.

“Oh gods, Lady Estelle, I’m so terribly sorry, look at what a clumsy little fool I am, gods on such a beautiful dress, too,” his words tumble out of him, all composure that was once there, now gone. She’s finding this flustered side of him possibly even more appealing than the cool and collected version. Her lady-of-the-house instincts kick in, and she addresses him like a new maid who has accidentally broken china while transporting it to the kitchen. 

“Darling,” she breathes and lifts his chin with a finger. She can finally look into those crimson eyes, feeling herself regain the poise she’s accustomed to. “It’s nothing to worry about. Just a speck.” She swears she can hear his breath catch, but maybe it’s just wishful thinking because he recovers quickly.

“Perhaps, but I still feel terrible. This mend is on the house, as well as any alteration you might need done on another garment. And, ah. How to say this.” He looks flushed again, despite the paleness of his skin. “There is a foolproof way of getting one’s blood out of fabric, but it’s not the most, er, refined shall I say.” This piques Estelle’s intrigue.

“Really? And what way is that?”

The tailor shifts nervously, and she positively relishes in the trade in demeanors. 

“This only works if it’s the one the blood belongs to, but if you can catch it straight away, then, erm, saliva will do the trick,” he says with a chagrined smile. Whatever Estelle was expecting, this is not it. 

“Oh,” she responds, and suddenly she’s back to that lightheaded feeling. What is he proposing exactly? Whatever it may be, she’s certain it will involve his mouth in some way and she’s not sure how she’ll handle that.

“The next five alterations are free, I’m so very sorry, this is very uncommon while working on a garment. At least, I’m usually better at catching myself,” he adds with embarrassment. 

“Uh, yes, whatever- whatever needs to be done. Thank you.” She peers down at him, willing herself to find somewhere else to look but unable to tear her eyes away. He pops a thin, pale finger in his mouth and swirls his tongue around it. She swallows loudly as he takes his finger out and dabs it on the slit of her dress, still achingly close to her thigh. He rubs at the spot, but evidently it’s not enough, because he then brings his lips to her dress and lightly rubs his tongue on the silk. 

“Oh gods,” she can’t keep this moan from escaping her lips. If he can hear her, he doesn’t respond, blessedly. He pulls away from her, silver hair ever so slightly disheveled, and rubs at the spot with a handkerchief to dry it.

“Apologies again, my Lady,” he says with a frown, examining the spot for any remaining blood. Then he stands and they’re face to face, the few inches of pedestal putting their eyes at the same height. “I hope this doesn’t make you think any less of my skills as a tailor.” She briefly wonders what other skills he might possess before banishing the thought from her head. 

“Not at all, er,” she falters, realizing she never asked his name, which is unlike her, she usually tries to learn the names of all of the people she contracts to work for her.

“Astarion,” he says with a bow.

“Astarion, yes,” she repeats breathlessly. “Well, Astarion, you came to my aid in a time of desperation, and I suppose there was a blood price to be paid.” He lets out a startled laugh, clearly not expecting her to make such a joke.

“That’s very clever, Lady Estelle,” he says, his eyes sparkling. “You were a pleasure to have on my fitting platform, I do hope to see you again soon. At least to make up for my absolute buffoonery.” He’s back to the confidently poised man who first greeted her when she entered the shop, and he plants another light kiss on the back of her hand. 

“I assure you, the pleasure was all mine,” Estelle murmurs, almost hoping that he doesn’t hear her. “Oh, and Astarion?”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“Please. Call me Stella.

***

Several tenday have passed since Stella’s first meeting with Astarion, and she had visited his shop nearly every evening. It didn’t take long for her to admit her feelings; she couldn’t hide them even if she wanted to. Even when Astarion confessed his status as a vampire spawn, she wasn’t deterred. If anything, it aroused her all the more. Something happens to Astarion when he drinks her blood. The humble and subservient tailor disappears, and in his place is a self-assured and dominant man. Stella is more than happy to relinquish control over to him. She’s responsible for so much during the day, making decisions, telling people what to do, so there’s an appeal to having someone else take that role for once. 

The moment she walks into the shop she’s met with the graceful gentleman. No matter how many times she sees him, that wicked smile sets a small ember in her belly that quickly spreads. Each point of contact lights on fire despite his chilled skin. A spark in her fingers as he pulls her forward, a flame on her cheek as he strokes it gently. In an instant he shuts the door and flips around the open sign. With the darkened windows and the door now closed, they’re plunged into semi-darkness and Stella feels a chill go up her spine.

Astarion wastes no time in pushing her against the door and kissing her deeply. He presses his body up against hers and she gasps into his kiss as he pulls her in closer by her waist. He slides his knee between her legs and she lets out a whimper. Astarion chuckles in her ear.

“Eager, aren’t we?” he coos, lifting her slightly with his knee putting a delicious pressure on her mound. She clutches the back of his neck and hair, wrapping her leg around him to get even closer. He hikes up her skirt to her waist and scoops her up so both of her legs grip his midsection. Keeping his lips locked on hers as she continues to devour him, he carries her through the shop and to one of the adjacent rooms where there’s a bed and two untouched glasses of wine sitting on a side table. The tailor’s quarters. 

He throws her down on the bed and she looks up at him, cheeks and lips flushed, eyes glowing. Her typically neatly coiffed hair is mussed and strands splay out beneath her head like a halo. Astarion straddles her waist, pinning her in place, as he strokes her face.

“Tell me what you want,” he breathes, looking down at her with heavy lidded eyes. She grabs his shirt and pulls him in close.

“You know what I want,” she smirks, gaze flickering between his eyes and lips. He laces his fingers through her tousled hair and gently grazes his fangs over her neck, eliciting a sharp gasp.

“And you know I like to hear it,” he murmurs into her neck, and another full-body shiver goes through Stella. His breath feels chilling against her warm neck, blood pumping eagerly through her arteries. She grabs his face and forces him to look her in the eye – the last bit of control she has before she cedes it completely.

“Astarion,” she says slowly, measured and teasing, “I would enjoy it very much if you bit my neck, drank my blood, and then had your fucking way with me.” He chuckles darkly.

“Well,” he grins, a mischievous glint in his eye, “since you asked so nicely.” Stella lets out a moan as his fangs sink into her skin, the piercing pain soon giving way to a throbbing ache. His lips close around the wound, drinking in her delicious warmth, leaving her feeling blissfully lightheaded. She hums with pleasure as she curls her fingers into his silvery locks, hips unconsciously rolling into his, hungry for more contact. She can feel him growing stronger as her blood flows into him, his thighs tightly gripping her hips, keeping her locked into place. 

Astarion pulls away from her before going too far and Stella lets out a small whine at the loss of contact. He’s out of breath, chest heaving as he licks the last of her blood from his lips. He presses two fingers to the wound on her neck to stanch the bleeding as she looks up at him, pupils blown wide with lust. Once he can feel that the blood is no longer flowing freely, he takes his fingers away and hovers them centimeters above Stella’s lips.

“Open,” he commands, and she dutifully obeys. She takes his fingers into her mouth and sucks on them lasciviously, the metallic taste of her own blood filling her mouth. It’s one thing to prick her finger and to suck on it to make the bleeding stop. It’s quite another to lap her blood of Astarion’s fingers, languishing in the vulgarity of the taboo. She yearns to hear his breath hitch as she works her tongue over their length. 

He slides his fingers out of her mouth and grabs her chin, reversing the roles from moments before. He examines her face, turning it this way and that, like he’s inspecting a prized golden retriever at a dog show. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he lets out in a low tone. “Trapped underneath me, open and wanton, ready to let me do whatever I want with you. To you,” he adds on with an impish grin, and Stella squirms with anticipation. He swings a leg over her and stands by the edge of the bed, towering over her.

“Up now, on your knees,” he instructs and she scrambles to sit on her knees, still looking up at Astarion with lust-filled eyes. He reaches behind her and fully releases her hair from its loose braid letting it fall down the length of her back. He runs his fingers through her hair, humming as he does, “Good girl.” Her chest swells with the intake of breath as she leans into his touch even more.

“Undress. Quickly,” he demands. Her skirt is already up around her waist so she peels the rest of her dress off in a fluid motion. The corset provides a little more resistance, but even with fumbling fingers she manages to untie the laces and undo the hooks, letting it fall behind her. The sudden exposure to air makes her nipples go hard. Astarion smirks and cups one of her breasts in his hand, stroking her tit with his thumb. Stella bites back a cry.

“Shh shh shh. Not a sound,” Astarion whispers as he puts his lips close to her ear, continuing to fondle her. “I don’t want to hear you make a single noise, understood? Not until I say so.” He pulls away and locks his crimson eyes on her brown ones. Stella trembles, but nods silently.

“Good,” he breathes and slides her forward so that she’s sitting on the edge of the bed with her toes lightly touching the floor. He then lowers himself to one knee between her legs. He kisses up her thigh until he reaches her panties. He looks up at her mischievously as he hooks a finger in either side of the waistband, and he slips them off in a single fluid motion. Stella shudders with anticipation for what he plans to do next. 

Astarion parts her legs and she can feel the cool air on the slickness between her thighs. He leans forward and takes her nipple in his mouth, flicking his tongue lightly over the tip. She takes in a shaky breath, but she manages to keep any noise she might want to make under wraps. He looks up at her while continuing to work his tongue. She clenches the sheets as jolts of white hot electricity shoot through her body. He pushes her legs apart even further and leans in, the ties from his frilled shirt lightly brushing against her folds. She gasps and shifts her pelvis, simultaneously trying to get less and more contact. He grabs her waist forcefully to hold it in place. He snakes his way up so that they’re face to face, lips a hair’s breadth apart.

“Ah ah, no moving either. Are you going to be good for me? Will you be silent like I’ve asked?” he says in a light, sing-songy tone. Stella keeps her lips clamped together as she nods.

“And what will you give me if you can’t obey?” he purrs, brushing his lips against hers as he runs a thin, cool finger along her slit. 

��Ah-anything,” Stella moans, turning her pleasure sound into a response. Astarion lets a smug grin play on his lips.

“Either way, I’ll get what I want,” he intones, and mercifully pulls his face away from hers. She releases a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding. But it’s still only the beginning.

He lowers himself onto both knees and places a delicate kiss on her labia. She squirms but remains silent.

“My, you could drown a small army down here,” he says with an amused smile, and Stella just continues to breathe heavily, her chest rising and falling as she gazes down at the head of white curls between her legs. He runs the tip of his tongue along her folds, hands pushing out on her thighs slightly as he does. As he parts her legs further he exposes more of her, letting his tongue explore the newly uncovered skin. A cry catches in Stella’s throat and she slaps a hand over her mouth. His scorching gaze fixes on her and she lets herself fall back on the bed. If she watches she’ll be done for. Then again, not being able to anticipate his next move might be even worse.

Not being one to let her escape his torment, Astarion grabs Stella beneath the legs and yanks her toward him, letting her legs fall onto his shoulders as he continues to lap up her sweetness. She chokes down a whine, her breath quickening as she desperately tries to control herself. His tongue plunges into her and she bites into her hand with a hiss. With her pelvis rolled up so that he can get the best angle, he continues fucking her with his tongue, getting deep enough that the tips of his fangs press into her ever so lightly. 

That’s what sets her over the edge. The smallest pinprick of pain along with all of the filthy things he’s doing to her with his tongue tears a scream from her throat, muffled by her hand. He stops and stands over her, backlit by the low lighting, her wetness reflecting off his devilish smile. He then grabs her by the throat, not enough to constrict her breathing, but just enough to pull her face up to his.

“What was that, my sweet?” he growls dangerously. 

“N-nothing,” Stella stammers out, but Astarion just smiles.

“I don’t think it was ‘nothing,’ darling,” he breathes, acid in his voice. “I was very explicit in my instructions, was I not?” His hand tightens around Stella’s throat and she lets out a choked sound. It’s not a sound she usually makes. Astarion pulls his hand back slightly, concern creeping into his eyes. Stella looks up at him and nods.

Keep going.

They have a safe word for a reason, but if anything unexpected happens, Astarion still prefers to check in. He’s mentioned before that sometimes he’s worried that he’ll lose control, especially right after drinking her blood.

Stella finds the danger absolutely thrilling, but wants him to feel just as safe as she does.

Astarion drops her throat and pushes her down so her back is flat against the bed. Still between her legs, he pushes his pelvis against hers, pinning her wrists above her head. He’s still fully clothed, and the leather of his pants feels deliciously cool against her wet pussy. He puts one knee up on the bed, pushing her right leg up higher and spreading her even further. As unphased and indifferent as he seems, Stella can still feel his erection pressing into her, and she shifts to feel it more.

“You said you’d give me anything if you failed, correct?” he murmurs against her lips. 

“Yes,” the word escapes on a breath.

“Then hold still.” Astarion stands and the sudden loss of all contact elicits a small whine from Stella. He flashes her a playful smirk as he walks over to the bedside table and pulls out two long strips of cloth. He climbs on top of Stella again, straddling her hips and squeezing lightly with his thighs.

“Wrists, please,” he commands almost nonchalantly. Stella immediately puts her wrists together and holds them out to Astarion.

“Good girl,” he coos and the praise makes her lightheaded. He tenderly wraps her wrists up in the silk cloth, making sure it's tight enough to prevent escape but not enough to cause any lasting damage. He then takes the other strip of cloth, a sturdier cotton broadcloth, and holds it to her lips. He ties it tightly behind her neck, keeping her from being able to open her mouth at all.

“Since you can’t control yourself enough to stay quiet,” he purrs, low and dangerous, “maybe this will do it for you. And I think,” he stands and walks over to the bed stand. He looks over his shoulder and orders in an apathetic tone, “Up dear.” She scrambles to her knees, wrists falling limply in her lap. He continues, “I think you need one more thing to remind you to whom you belong.” He pulls out a fine leather collar with a silver O-ring in the middle. Stella’s excitement mingles with genuine admiration for the craftsmanship. He turns around and lovingly closes it around her neck. He then slips one slender finger through the ring and pulls it up so her head is tilted toward him.

“How does that feel, good?” he asks lightly, and she nods, still desperate to please. He lets go of the collar and strokes her jaw. “Good,” he breathes, and she can see the self-control in his eyes. He wants to fuck her just as much as she wants him to, and it’s taking everything in his power to hold out. He leans into her lips as though he’s about to kiss her but stops just short of making contact. 

“Now, before I decide precisely what I want to do with you,” he hums into her lips, “I want to make sure you can still tell me if I need to stop or slow down. If it ever becomes too much, I want you to snap your fingers, understood? Show me now.” Astarion keeps his lips achingly close to hers, but she does as he says. When he hears her snap, he grabs her face in his hands and kisses her roughly, sliding a dastardly knee between her legs once again. She longs to reach for him but keeps her bound wrists dutifully in her lap as his lips continue their assault on hers. 

Once he breaks the kiss, he remains close and slides his hands behind her head and into her hair. “Good girl,” the words rumble low in his throat and Stella is grateful for the cloth that muffles the obscene noise she makes. He steps away and she’s finally able to see all of him as he pulls off the tunic, revealing his porcelain chest. She yearns to run her fingers along it, tracing the outlines of his muscles, but instead she just grabs a fistful of sheets beneath her hands. He pulls down his trousers, letting his already hardened cock free, and her pussy twitches in anticipation. 

Astarion saunters back up to her and touches the front of her gag where a small wet spot is forming with her desire for him. He smirks and pulls her face down to his cock, running the tip of it along the broadcloth. She can feel it brush against her lips, and she again moans in anticipation. 

“Don’t you wish you could take me in your mouth?” he breathes, and Stella presses her tongue against the inside of the gag, trying to make even minimal contact. He laughs cruelly. “Gods, you’re desperate,” he scoffs. “It’s a shame, because if you had been able to follow my instructions, I may have even let you ride me on top.” He pushes the tip of his dick into the gag one more time before pulling away, leaving Stella to squirm achingly. 

“But instead,” he forcefully pushes her back so that she’s once again lying on the bed with her legs spread open for him. He crawls on top of her and teases her opening with his tip. She mewls in desperation. “You’ll have to contend with me doing whatever I want to this beautiful body of yours. I can slide in,” and he pushes into her, wrenching a gasp and whine from her mouth, before pulling out and letting his tip tease her again, “and pull out on a whim. You said I could do whatever I want.”

Stella is beside herself with lust. Unable to move her hands, she writhes her pelvis, trying to get even the slightest bit of contact. Her pussy is starting to burn from the pent up desire and she’s genuinely unsure of how much longer she can last like this. Astarion grins widely and his fangs sparkle in the low lighting. 

“Shall I give you what you want, darling? What you so fiercely crave?” His slick tip is still dancing around her cunt and tears are starting to form in her eyes as she nods. He thrusts into her again and rips the cloth from her lips before whispering sharply into her ear.

“Then I want to hear it all,” he hisses. “I want you screaming my name as I fuck you.” With his permission, she cries out, all of her stifled energy finally releasing.

“Oh gods, Astarion, fuck me please,” the words spill from her mouth uncontrollably. He starts pounding into her and she knows after all that time teasing her, she won’t last long. The heat of him sliding in and out, the stretch with each thrust, fills her with a fire that threatens to turn into an explosion. 

“Fuck, Astarion, please,” she whines, moments away from climax. She wraps her legs around his waist to get him in deeper, and now it’s his turn to let out a low moan. He continues to slam into her, the sounds of their mutual pleasure mounting.

“Look at me,” he growls, and she struggles to keep her gaze locked onto his crimson eyes. He looks so beautiful above her, silvery hair getting slick with sweat, panting as he continues his smooth rhythm. She can feel her orgasm building as her cries grow louder. He knows she’s close, too, and once again he flashes a fang-bearing smile.

“Come for me, darling,” he groans, and that sends her toppling over the edge.

“Gods, Astarion, yes!” she screams as she comes, and his follows shortly after. With a final thrust, he releases into her, his cock pulsing exquisitely. He looks down at her with an uncharacteristically shy smile and kisses her as he pulls out.

Both of them are out of breath as he collapses onto the bed next to her. Stella’s limbs feel light as though she just downed an entire bottle of dream mist. She rolls onto her side to look at Astarion, who appears to be equally intoxicated. Without a word she holds her wrists up, and he laughs lightly.

“Ah, yes, you might want those back,” he croons, and uses his teeth to pull out the knot, and the silk falls away in one fluid motion. Her hands are so close to his face that she cups his chin gently, just content to look at him.

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers, and he turns a kiss into her palm. 

“I could say the same thing,” he purrs as he looks up at her through his lashes. “Tea?” He pulls up the plush blanket that had been folded neatly at the end of the bed and wraps it around Stella’s shoulders. She snuggles into it and pulls it closed around her, then nods. He plants a quick kiss on her forehead and walks over to fill the kettle hanging above the hearth. Stella admires his silhouette, backlit by the light of the fire. He’s lithe and sinewy, his sculpted muscles built for dexterity more than strength. Her eyes rake over his broad shoulders, the dip of his lower back, the curve of his bare ass. He turns his head to look at her over his shoulder.

“Yes?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Nothing,” she hums, “just enjoying the view.” He smiles as he leans over the blanket cocoon she’s swathed herself in and kisses her lips softly, gently. He’s always particularly tender with her after a session like that, and Stella is grateful for it. She loves being able to see both of these sides of Astarion. The affable tailor eager to serve, and the dangerous dom claiming his power. Her fingers lightly dance on the collar he put on her. She likes the idea of belonging to him. A pity she couldn’t wear something as conspicuous as a leather collar in her daily life.

Astarion returns with a steaming mug, and as though reading her mind, pulls a long jewelry box from the drawer of the bedside table. 

“A companion piece to your collar, if you so wish,” he says in explanation. “You’re under no obligation to wear it, of course, but I thought you might like a little reminder of me everywhere you go.” She opens the box and nestled in the satin is a delicate silver chain with a small ring in the center. Her jaw drops slightly as she marvels at its beauty.

“Astarion, how did you–?” she begins, but he cuts her off.

“It pays to be a well-connected artisan, darling,” he says with a shrug. 

“Will you put it on me?” Stella asks in a light voice, and he looks delighted. She lifts up her hair so that he can unclasp the leather collar and replace it with the silver necklace. His fingers brush against her neck, lingering on the puncture mark he left earlier.

“Although perhaps you might want to sport high-collared dresses for a bit,” he admits with an apologetic grin. Stella turns and kisses him, cupping his face and gently running her thumb along his jaw.

“Well thank the gods I have a tailor who can make me new gowns in all the latest fashions,” she smirks. He climbs on top of her to kiss her more deeply, their naked bodies touching in a way that’s intimate, but not sexual. She could melt into his flesh, his kiss, his breath, and never want to change a thing.

[cheemscakecat]

Emesis Blue Medic Headcanon

So I’m 99% sure that Spy’s Disguise takes place before the nightmare sequence known as Emesis Blue, sometime during the height of the respawn failures.

[I’m going to talk about DID. I’m not an expert, and this post about a fictional character should never be used to self diagnose.]

The Bloody RED Engineer sabotaged the respawn machine, which led to his entire team dying for real; then he murdered a group of [supposedly] unrelated BLU engineers, who also died for real.

It’s the reason why Dr Ludwig is even in the area to work on the comatose CyberSpy.

If Emesis Blue is a dream/nightmare people’s jobs may not match with real life, but still tell us something important about them. Soldier being Spy’s assistant tells us that he likes to work in a group rather than alone, even if his teammate is a jerk.

Ludwig being the Chief Medical Advisor could imply that he was the go-to expert at the height of the respawn failures, who had to investigate and report on different accidents when he wasn’t attempting to save a patient from said failures. Whether it was killing him slowly or not, Blu wouldn’t care; not the Administrator or Jules Archibald, at the least.

Jules is shown to be callous about death in both Spy and Soldier’s nightmares, and someone who relies on other people to protect him and do his dirty work to the point he’s incapable of defending himself. I wouldn’t be surprised if he and his crew forced Medic to report on all the gory details of each respawn failure, while being unwilling to attempt to rescue patients or clean up the carnage.

Re-watching the early scenes with Scout it seems that the era of the respawn errors is long gone, and the details are highly classified. Which would explain why Scout is so uninformed about any of the other accidents, but Ludwig had a nightmare that his friend suffered one himself.

Medic’s body language at the Medical office and in the ambulance makes it feel like the doctor wouldn’t be answering all these questions if he wasn’t talking to a friend. Like it hurts to relive that trauma, and the answers he gives are vague. Makes sense if Jules and the team trying to fix the Respawn machine bombarded Medic with questions over and over again, forcing him to picture what happened, no matter how awful it was.

Keeping that in mind:

What if the Funeral Medic is in control of Ludwig’s body when we see him in Spy’s disguise?

Neither of them talk or blink, for one thing. He does wince and cross himself upon rewatching CyberSpy’s robot-seizure, but that’s instinct. Another thing I noticed;

Something is going on with his eyes. This was his reaction to CyberSpy’s neck cracking, and the eyes stay like that.

It’s almost as if somebody trained himself not to blink, so he’d make people uncomfortable.

[nods once, flares nostrils in irritation]

It’s starting to feel like the Funeral Medic is meant to put people off of approaching Ludwig. If that is the case, we have proof that it works despite looking like Fritz, not his scarier version from Emesis Blue. I also noticed he really doesn’t like CyberSpy and Buddy Engineer.

He’s like “The revolver… exists! But you two just had to keep using that broken disguise kit anyway.”

Normally these Respawn Failures are completely accidental, and the patients are innocent [in that context, anyways]. So for two people to cheat by using body modification, and drive an enemy teammate to insanity? Any deeper coldness and anger reserved for Archibald and his cronies would emerge.

And he had to set up a camera before touching the patient… I really think this personality is mute. People with DID have been studied, and their brain structure is different between personalities. Their pets can tell the difference, and some personalities have physical ailments that the rest of the system doesn’t. So it isn’t impossible for one of Medic’s alters to be mute or selectively mute.

Ludwig’s nightmare version of this alter is associated with the respawn deaths in his mind too. He must have been switching during the investigations, with Funeral Medic performing surgeries and dealing with Jules. But for a time there would have been a lot of casualties, and Fritz may believe that this personality was intentionally letting patients die.

Could contribute to the nightmare imagery of being helpless with this personality around.

The fact that the real alternate personality and the nightmare version move so fluidly could be showing us another important detail.

Funeral Medic has exceptional aim and reaction times. Probably in order to react to injuries caused by the respawn machine, and to perform the needed treatments as effectively and precisely as possible. That’s why he moves like that.

My theory is that Electric-Eye Medic is a protector personality that comes out during RED v BLU matches when someone keeps targeting Fritz and needs to be put in their place. And most other situations now that the respawn failures aren’t happening like before. It’s why he’s the first other personality to take control, and keeps showing up.

And Funeral Medic is a gatekeeper personality who used to take control to prevent Ludwig from getting more trauma from Respawn Failures and patient deaths. Normally he stays inside the mind and keeps other people’s trauma from resurfacing, but the events of Emesis Blue were so serious that he needed to front.

It’s why he only shows up at the end.

When someone has DID, communicating with their alternate personalities and understanding what they’re trying to do is key. But Dr Ludwig wasn’t diagnosed with DID [or multiple personality disorder], he was diagnosed with Schizophrenia. And he’s Catholic, so he’s really likely to mistake Funeral Medic for a demon.

It’s one of the reasons why I want Emesis Blue to be a nightmare; so Ludwig and his personalities can talk/write things out and deal with their inner conflict. They need to, and I think he deserves a happy ending.

If RED Medic has his stolen wedding doves, it’d fit BLU to have an emotional support animal.

[amingethia]

*Blink blink* The Bayverse guys 'building surf' all the time. Jumping out of an airplane is way different. Please provide an example that shows Bayverse Raph is afraid of heights.

fine. Here is my evidence that Raph is afraid of heights (or at the very least traumatized by the bullshit Donnie makes him do)

Also please note this is technically more of a headcanon, which means I don’t need proof because I’m not claiming it’s canon, but since you insist.

During the airplane scene when he has to hype himself up, none of his brothers have any problems jumping out of a plane. Yes, jumping from an airplane is different than regular rooftops and heights, but he’s literally the only one who has any problems or even thinks about a chute.

anyway here’s the clip

Number two: Raph kissing the ground when he finally gets out of the river. This is forgivable because not only did he jump from a plane but he also fell out of a crashing plane into a river, moving fast enough to physically skip on top of the water a few times (which HAS to hurt)

Mans was so happy to be on land.

Number three: Leo has noticed Raph’s fear. near the climax of the film, when they go to jump onto the moving Kraang ship parts, he makes a point to ask Raph if he’s gonna be okay. Mind you his actual words are “you got this?” But this is brothers speak for “hey, I know you might not be okay, you don’t have to do this if you’re scared”

And yes, Raph is able to jump anyway, but that’s what we call “character growth”

Anyway, it might not be a BIG fear, or a debilitating one, but everybody has small fears too. Like he’s still able to do his thing and swing around across buildings etc, but huge heights scare him at least more than they do his brothers.

All that being said, this isn’t shown as much in the first movie, and maybe because this small fear stemmed from trauma of the climax where they all thought they were falling to their literal death.

Anyway, I see a lot of myself in the turtles, they’ve been my comfort characters for literally most of my life at this point, so maybe I have this headcanon more because I have a small fear of heights and I want to see more of myself in Raphael, and maybe you don’t agree with it at all, but that’s why it’s a headcanon. It’s fun. Just like how 2012 Leo and the toaster do not get along, or all the people who headcanon one or more turtles as transfem, or the many MANY people who all agree Rise Leo is definitely gay, (which technically borders on canon at this point)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

If You Can't Dance 6

Warnings: dubcon, noncon, other possible triggers. Proceed with caution.

Note: this is what you get when you encourage me. Please leave any and all feedback! 🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷

Part of The Club AU

Orientation ends but your day is far from over. Your small group, Jensen, G, Marc, Dharshi, and yourself are shown around the building. It’s nice. The office spans the single floor with ample space for all the staff and then some.

Jensen is shown to his office first. He smiles at the rest of you, telling you to send any questions his way. Jonathan confirms this but assures you he will be just as available. Next G silently and somberly enters the doorway with his name on it and shuts the door without thanks. Marc is next, then Dharshi.

You’re the last one left. A spike of paranoia needles behind your ears. What if you don’t get an office? What if you didn’t make the cut? This is why you hate offices. You don’t understand the politics.

“And this is you,” Jonathan taps on the last door. A corner office. Your name is on the door. You frown as you read the title underneath.

“I’m not a senior developer,” you face Jonathan and stare at his top button.

“Oh, dear,” he steps closer and you shuffle back, you can smell his cologne, “I’ll be certain to have that corrected. I hope you don’t think this oversight to be any sort of slight.”

You shake your head. You don’t think much of it. Mistakes happen.

“Let me know if you require anything else. I’m just a few doors down,” he points down the next hall, “I do prefer to stay close… to all my employees.”

“Mhmm,” you nod and turn to the door. You stop yourself. You don’t want to be G, so gruff and silent. Things are different here, people expect you to be normal. You turn your head, “thanks,” you say over your shoulder.

“Anything,” he replies. “I’ll let you get settled.”

You turn the handle and let yourself in. The door clicks gently behind you as you let it go. Before you can even get to the desk, you’re struck by a horrid smell. Pollen. You put your bag down and search for the culprit. A crystal vase of tall gardenia and baby breath stands on the corner of the desk.

You touch your temple and scan the office. There’s tall windows along the walls, giving a nice view of the outdoors. You prefer your walls and your under desk heater. You go over and twist the small crank to open the pain and let in the brisk air.

You already feel the nail pounding into your skull. You don’t think you packed any allergy meds, you didn’t think you’d need them this time of year. You can’t keep the flowers in here. It’s a nice gesture but it’s hard to focus on code when your eyes are bleary from a raging migraine.

You take the vase and carry it to the door. You peek out, checking to make sure you’re not seen. You hate to come off as rude.

You quickly flit down the hall and find your way back to the break room. You have the basic layout stamped in your mind; bathrooms, break room, and meeting rooms. You put the vase on one of the tables and skirt out.

You get back to your office and stand in the strange space. You’re never going to be used to this. You’ve wasted enough time. You have to get set up. 

You unpack your laptop and your special ergonomic mouse and keyboard. You connect to the monitors already set up and adjust the height and angle. You plug everything in and finally sit down. You drop your head forward, clutching it with a groan. Shoot, your head is pounding.

It’s a helpless bid but you dig out the Tylenol from your bag and toss back two tablets. You sip from your large water bottle and swivel in your chair, trying to find comfort in the thin cushion. You’ll have to bring your pad from home.

You grow more and more frustrated as everything around you is wrong. The desk isn’t the right height, the chair squeaks, and the monitors won’t tilt how you want them. No, it’s not the office, it’s you.

The headache doesn’t relent. You only get halfway through the instructions of connecting to the company server before you have to tear your eyes away. You drop your head down onto your crossed arms, bending over the desk as you breathe through the wave of nausea. It’s a full-blown migraine.

Your eyes are watery as you fight to keep yourself together. You should call it a day and go home. At this point, the only way to deal with it is to sleep it off. No, you won’t leave on your first day. That would be a bad look.

You raise your head shakily and prop your head up in one hand. You whimper and make yourself finish your first task. Connected, that’s great. Now, the slack chat. Oof, that’s a lot of font. A lot of messages. 

You scroll through, catching up, then a new message pops up from a senior developer. You recognise his name from the meeting; Timothy. He says hello and you type hi back, the two clacks of a key echoing in your ears.

Three dots pop up almost immediately. He’s typing. He sends through a large block of text and you nearly whine. It’s an exhaustive rundown of procedures and expectations. You don’t understand why this wouldn’t be in a PDF. It ends with, ‘Please review and confirm that you understand’.

You sigh and start reading. The words don’t sink into your mind. You can’t string them together as the effort is enough to make a tear teeter on the brim of your eyelid. You wipe your eyes and sit back. 

A knock makes you jump. You want to scream but that will only make matters worse. So you bend over and take a shaky breath. You push yourself up to your feet, walking with light steps across the office. You stop before the door and brace yourself, forcing your posture straight.

You open the door, unsurprised to find Jonathan on the other side. You got the feeling earlier that he wouldn’t be shy. It is his job to supervise his employees, you suppose you’re just not used to more than a Teams message or quick email.

“I… I saw the flowers in the break room,” he says, “you don’t like them?”

You flutter your lashes. What does that matter?

“Oh, uh, I just thought… they’re so nice I’d put them out for everyone to… enjoy,” you eke out the last word as your eyes gleam and you put your palm to your head as it feels ready to split.

His expression shades to concern, “are you unwell?”

“It’s just… a migraine,” you say, “I’m okay.”

You back up and go to close the door. He stops you as he puts his hand on the wood, “a migraine? Was… Was it the flowers?”

“I…” you swallow, “it’s not a big deal.”

“I am so sorry. I wish I’d know. Darling, you’re more than welcome to take the half-day. You will not be docked the hours,” he plays with a button on his shirt. “I feel so awful.”

“You couldn’t know, uh, but I can get through–”

“No, no, I insist, take care of yourself here. We are all about employee first. You must be healthy to be efficient, please,” he spreads his hand over his chest, a heartfelt gesture, “you must go home and rest. That’s an order.”

You don’t have the strength to argue. Just like the first night you met. That fact embarrasses you. He can’t help but catch you at your very worst.

[muffinsin]

the sisters' models look practically the same but do you have any hcs on their body types, the differences in how each of them is built?

I literally opened the app the moment I got this one and couldn’t resist answering it right away! Yes, I do! I have many hc regarding the sisters, there are the ones regarding their bodies and shape👀🫵

Let’s get into it! ;)

Masterlist 1

Masterlist 2

Bela

Somewhat of a triangle bodyshape

Sharp features

Very smooth skin, with a few lean, barely visible muscles here and there

The palest out of the 3

Tallest sister

Slender fingers and limbs

More on the petite side of things

She’s strong, but barely has muscles to show for it. It’s mostly due to her cadou infection

Lean muscles on her back

Has very clear and soft skin

Has the brightest eyes, which are more of a yellow/golden mix

Has a few moles along her legs and on her back

Very thick and soft thighs

Above average size of breasts and ass, though the slimmest of the 3 sisters

Fun facts:

1) she is the most tense out of the sisters. She works a lot and has very tense shoulders most of the time

2) she is also the most sensitive out of them. Not necessarily in a sexual sense. Small touches to her thighs or ribcage tickle her easily, and in turn she feels pain/annoyance easily when she accidentally walks into counters

Cassandra

Hourglass/inverted triangle body type

Muscular back, and a little bit of a biceps, mostly gained from dragging her victims over long distances

The strongest sister, though this is also mostly due to the cadou infection rather than muscle mass

I could still see her sport the most muscles, though, if she chose to

The one to bear the most visible scars on her body, most on her arms and back, a few on her chest

Second tallest sister/between Bela and Daniela, height wise

Has the most mysterious looking eyes, with a dark brown/gold mix

Barely any moles

A lazy eye (this is canon and shown in-game, but I’m still including it here)

The thickest ass of the 3 sisters

Fun facts:

1) she barely bruises and is slightly more resistant to the cold. This is due to personal experiments with pain she has conducted on her own

2) her, as well as her sisters’s skin grows slightly blue in the cold, like how with some people, their cheeks or nose turns red

This only applies when the cold isn’t severe enough to harm her yet, and usually only affects her nose, cheeks and tip of her ears

Daniela

Hourglass body type

Very soft- many curves and soft skin, barely any muscles

Some moles,

and a few little scars along her limbs, mostly caused accidentally by herself, though a few from previous hunts

The shortest sister

Eyes are a mix of green/gold

Button nose

Can sport small freckles in summer caused by the sun

Has the largest chest out of the 3 sisters

Fun facts:

1) Daniela is the most confident in her body. She loves to use it to fluster her partner(-s)

2) she is the most ticklish out of the 3. Especially at her stomach, neck, legs, and arms. Essentially everywhere

[rainesol]

Naga culture and customs for oc worldbuilding!

Decided to compile some things for any past or future Ksho fics!! Not all of these are identical to snake behaviour 🫵 don’t freak your pets out/j

Long post!!

Ksho typically stands between 6’5 and 7’. He adjusts his height depending on who he’s talking to. However, he always adjusts himself to be taller than whoever he’s looking at. This isn’t out of intimidation! Naga have poor eyesight, and it’s an old tradition to stand above who you’re talking to to cast a shadow on their face and see it better! Disrespect would be shown through standing above someone but not tilting the head down, and instead looking down their nose or tilting the head up and glaring down. You can have casual conversation laying or sitting though.

Naga houses are well decorated on the outside! The walls are adorned with colourful feathers, plants and murals. Once again, poor vision. If the buildings blend in with the trees, people walk into them.

Kissing isn’t often done. Especially on the head. Think about what a mouth on the head would mean to a snake. Very rude. A forehead bump is an affectionate alternative. Kisses, though rare, are normally planted on the shoulder.

Dancing is common! In the original Jungle Book novel, Kaa hypnotises prey through dance, not his eyes. It’s a reference to that.

The transition from infant->toddler->child is quicker in Nagas. It’s common to see little kids out alone with no adult supervision. They’re fine 👍

Surprisingly touchy! It’s commented on that Ksho is surprisingly comfortable resting against his parents could for someone of ‘his age’.

Another greeting- tongue flicking. It might feel weird if you’re not part snake, but it’s just so they can commit your scent to memory. It can range from something you do without thinking for someone you just met, to something vastly more intimate between friends, family or partners. Depends on how up close and personal you’re getting. Tongue in general vicinity/face: hey dude nice to meet you. Tongue out while cuddling, in neck or right up against skin: this dude likes you and wants to be able to pick you out in a crowd.

Aggression is similar to that of snakes. A huff (similar to a hiss, but smaller and quieter. A little squeaky puff of air): annoyance, could also be curiosity, could also be panic. A hiss (huge exhale. Lot of air coming out of a small hole. Spooky noise): actually anger, back off before you get bit. Tail wags: aggression again. Back off.

Zero waste community. Similar to the Na’vi in Avatar, every part of an animal gets put to use. The leader of Ksho’s village wears false wyvern wing ear cuffs, and Ksho has a bracelet made of crocodile teeth.

Very gender neutral. In an ask, I refer to some Naga kids by ‘they’ only. This is the complete standard for them. (Their language is also gender neutral, but still) Post hatching, you can’t really tell what sex a baby is. So all names in Serpentine are gender neutral!

Clothing is seen more as an accessory than something to cover you. They’re reptiles. Nothing on that torso to cover or support.

Body standards are different. Everyone has stretch marks. Everyone has fluctuating hip size. Also, python specific, but big=tough. In the book, Kaa takes any comments on his weight as a compliment. (At the end of book three, Ksho doesn’t actually get what’s embarrassing about the photo. Loads of people look like that.)

Shedding. Very personal. A vulnerable time. Very close people may allow each other to assist in removing shed skin from the scalp. Assisting in shedding is a close and intimate act. Ksho is pre-shed when first properly introduced and comes across as shy and sensitive.

Post shedding? Dude I look awesome. Common to compliment each other post-shed.

Sleeping. When you’re tired, you sleep. Even if you had work to do. Ksho had quite the culture shock because of this. Wdym it’s lazy to sleep first and do homework later? Surely my work will be better when I’m well rested?

Eating cycles. Be respectful of these. Just after eating=sleepy. Go away. Also very vulnerable. If you’re close, you may be allowed to hang out post-meal, though.

Don’t be shocked by the views on minor injuries. Broken ribs are as common as broken toes.

A lot of the body is not to be touched. Stomach? We’re not friends. Head? Don’t threaten me. Tail? That’s very not allowed. Consent is key. Don’t get yourself crushed in self defence.

Fight or flight is STRONG. No sneaking up on people.

Waving is best when making it very obvious. I can see best when you’re moving. Another thing to catch attention is vibrations. Hit the ground then beckon.

Serpentine sign language is a combination of tactile sign language and visual. The visual signs are wider and more obvious.

Common to bathe in groups. There’s a lot of you to wash and dry. Ksho doesn’t visit Pomefiore because he has to wipe his whole body before entering.

Kids are taught early to watch their strength.

Infant-> hatchling. Toddler/child-> snakelet.

I may rb with a part two should more ideas strike!!!