#there's no doubt he likes thoma but it's more just to mess with him like with food and doing chores

[riversaremeanttobefollowed]

We all know that the reason why Bruce Wayne isn't religiously Jewish is because dc are cowards, but also because many of the community itself is cowards. I personally believe it comes from a lack of knowledge about what it even means to be religious because most of the community is Christian or culturally Christian. So as someone that would probably be considered not religious by Christians, but Religious by most other Jewish people, I think that Bruce Wayne fits in this section of being Jewish.

Bruce can't go to the Synagogue often because of the whole being Batman stuff, but he still goes on the high holidays when he can. He celebrates with the Kane family as well! And Kate would obviously understand if he couldn't come because she's Batwoman! Give me a Bruce Wayne says Yiddish curses. Give me a Batman that has a bunch of Chanukkiot that are just so pretty because they are rich and definitely have a ton. Give me Batfamily shabbat dinners when they are able to. Rest days on Saturday for the Jewish members when they are more members in the Batfam to make it work (and it being a mitzvah when he does have to be Batman on Shabbat because its a mitzvah to save a life). Give me Mezuzot on every entryway. Give me a Bruce Wayne who inherited his mother's seder plates and actually uses them. Give me a Bruce Wayne that says stuff like kein ayin hara before giving good news! Give me a confused Dick Grayson when Bruce insults him (its actually a compliment, but to ward against the evil eye you will say the opposite of what you mean) and then Bruce having to explain after he realizes that Dick has no idea why he just insulted him. Give me a Batman that follows Jewish values (more than he canonically does)

Just because someone ins't actively involved within a wider community of that Religion doesn't mean they aren't Religious! Or at least don't give me a culturally Jewish Bruce Wayne that doesn't do any of this. Thats just you stripping away all the Jewish parts of him.

Bruce Wayne is Jewish and you can't just ignore that

[andersdotters]

Ayato really liking dogs and the connection between Thoma and dogs really kind of just... portray their relationship in a bad light, but in the kind of way that I can't say it's incorrect either.

[yuellii]

flawless night, forevermore

feat. ayato, baizhu, alhaitham, childe, kaveh, raiden ei ( separate )

𝐈𝐍 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐂𝐇 they are so obviously in love with you

( or, in which i tie them to a taylor song i’ve been crazing over, but you don’t have to know the songs to read / understand )

note. reader’s gender unspecified, no other warnings

> part one / part two ( more characters )

KAMISATO AYATO. lover

His lips curled up with a fathomless fondness he did not even notice about himself. His ticklish gaze, his admiring eyes, his comforting silence—such a poor, poor man drowning in his hopelessness, falling love struck into the night.

Even atop the dewy grass that stained his carefully tailored clothes, he paid no mind to the mess as he preferred to hear you talk instead. The intelligence of a Kamisato was long forgone in the melody of your voice, and perhaps you had strum his heartstrings too much to the point he loses his senses. He forgets a lot of things about himself when he’s with you, perhaps at one point, even his own name.

Kamisato, the name that ties him to a lifetime of formality and not a single night of rest. A dreary lifetime that does not allow him to learn the wonders of love. But oh, how he loves you.

“I’ve always wanted one of those cute little tea tables,” you muttered into the cool winds under the glowing moon. Your finger absentmindedly traced an oval into the air, a motion that had his head following your invisible drawing. “We can sit together in the mornings and have tea before work.”

“Then we’ll get one,” Ayato affirmed. He failed to notice how his own grin had widened, simply as an automatic reaction from seeing your pleased smile at his response. “Little cushions for us to sit in, too,” he added on. “You know those round ones? We can have them in our favorite colors.”

Look at him, blushing over silly cushions.

There’s a dazzling haze in his eyes when he’s like this. It’s a spark that never runs out once ignited, for he has a history of rambling when he’s with you. “There is this porcelain tea set we can get, which has a pattern I know you’ll like,” he’ll say, further jumping to “And it comes in a set of four���we can always invite Ayaka and Thoma over to drink with us.” He’ll go on and on like this, fantasizing of a life where you lived together, happily ever after.

He’s imagined this for eons in his head. Such innocent-presenting ideas and remarks, but it’s obvious in the way he talks so fast. It’s ridiculously evident the more excited he gets as the night stretches on, that he’s been daydreaming of the moment you move in with him, so he may love you every day.

All he asks is to be forever yours, for as long as time permits.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

BAIZHU. sparks fly

It almost never rained in Liyue.

But his words were such a booming thunderstorm that no water droplet could ever compare, even amidst this cold, grey afternoon. And only when he finally blew you away like a thin stack of cards, did he feel a sharp sense of emptiness at the sight of you running off into the pouring rain.

Baizhu admitted that you were a burden to him. Boring, unintelligent, annoying—that you were a hindrance to be around. You were only a distraction to Qiqi, and more importantly, a bothersome presence to him.

It took all his willpower just to spit such venom from his tongue straight to your face—all his might just to convince you that seeing him is a bad idea. And yet, you still called him a liar.

“You mean none of those words,” you sharply inhaled via short, speechless breaths. He could tell you were breaking down from his hateful speech, but to his guilt, it was exactly what he wanted to see from you. “You’re just trying to drive me away again,” you spat out. You were trying to convince yourself: that fact alone was clear to him. But the longer he stayed quiet despite biting back the truth—biting back that he has fallen so immensely deep in love with you—you began to doubt yourself.

But the moment he watched your figure break down past this storm, he immediately crumbled with a sense of guilt much stronger than any curse he has ever wished upon himself.

Perhaps he was too harsh on you. Archons, perhaps he was too mean—this was exactly why he didn’t deserve you. You deserved better than such a sick, lowly man who could not even live for himself, instead binding his life to save others instead.

But still, even after all his own revelations and realization of his nonexistent self worth…

He was still a greedy, selfish man.

And that selfishness had him running right out of his door and into the pouring rain, not caring at how the sudden cold nipped and picked at his skin, or how the winds beat at his frail body. Not even the Archons could halt such a starvation for salvation—it was the only spark he had left to chase.

In this cold, dreary life—in this cold, dreary day alone—you still shone like the sun under the dim streetlights of Liyue upon this pale grey sky. His body still eased the moment you caught his eye, almost as if your gaze alone had suddenly removed every drop of sickness he self-injected into his own bloodstream, or as if you were the cure he was looking for all his life.

Such selfishness once again had his body fighting from collapsing when he desperately fell into your arms that held him so dearly. And the greed of mankind only snapped when found his lips settled so hopelessly against yours, clinging onto your kiss as if he would die tonight.

Truly, maybe he would. But for now, in your embrace, he feels the strongest he’s ever been since he sold his soul.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

ALHAITHAM. enchanted

Archons, he hated these events, though he had no choice but to attend. No one could ever allow the Acting Grand Sage, even if he held so much spite, to escape the demeaning eyes of Sumerean publicity.

Alhaitham held himself as an independent soul. But this formalwear, this clanging of champagne glasses, this suffocating air—were definitely not so independent nor free.

This hall of aspiring young scholars and old men, all in one exhibit for the sake of research and networking. Academics is what they acclaim, but the Acting Grand Sage may be too thick of a personality for them (if he had one at all). But the only thing keeping his eyes open from boredom, quite surprisingly a person, was you.

You, who looked young compared to these much older alumni and long-time scholars. And it was truly you, out of the many faces in this room, who he could not name.

Your eyes met from across the room. Such a sliver of a chance—his eyes whispered a curious glance from the opposite wall among this dreary sea of scholars. There was a spark graced by the Electro Archon, perhaps; or maybe even a gush of wind from the God of Anemo. But every sense of composure was lost when his body moved on its own, walking himself closer and closer just to meet you.

It begins with hello; it always does. It continues with quick remarks, with “I’ve never seen you before,” and with “Have we met?” And soon enough, he feels like he’s in school again. He feels a flutter he has not known in years, an urge to talk quicker than he can think. The crinkle at the corner of your eyes has him immersed in amazement. The sole fact that you can crack a smile at him; a smile that wasn’t fake politeness like all these scholars.

For some reason unbeknownst to him, that expression of yours alone had his feet glued to the floor, like you’ve trapped him in such an engaging conversation he desperately could not let go. It was a forcibly dreadful night—you turned it flawlessly enchanting in a way that you read to him like a book, all in which he could not put you down once he begins.

And once the event ends, and he is forced to leave you so soon, he watches you walk away with an expression that he himself could not even read.

Wonderstuck.

He would never notice the light tint on his face, staining his cheeks all the way home.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

CHILDE. cruel summer

Left foot, right foot, tiptoe, right foot—hold the counter, hold the wall, hold the rail all the way up the steps… He’s got this.

One step down the hall, another foot down, a third one until he finds a steady rhythm. The room is hazy, the walls are spinning. His head hurts and he feels like a baby taking his first steps, so helpless and unsteady that he almost wants to cry again from exasperated frustration alone. Why was this so hard? Did he really hate himself so much, that he would stagger his way home from the bar like this?

One hand on the door, turn the knob, and—

Ah. He dropped his keys so loudly on the floor.

You woke up with a start from the bedside, immediately turning to him wide-eyed in both starling surprise from the noise, and more importantly, concern. He didn’t mean to wake you. He hated feeling guilty, but it was the exact feeling that crept up his spine once he saw the devastated look on your face. Frenzied eyes and dark circles—clearly you had stayed up just to wait for him, too.

“Ajax,” you voiced—a tone full of worry and heavy exhaustion, God, he felt so horrible. “Oh, Ajax, come here.”

As much as he didn’t like it when you cared for him like this, he was not immune to the sounds of your calling. His shaky legs carried him immediately, as if the alcohol in his system was pulling him towards you, too. “I’m fine,” he barely stuttered out. It was a claim he had to make immediately, a sign he was desperate to reassure you.

Your eyes grew heavier, though he did not know if they were lidded from concern or from sleepiness. Either way, he practically melted from the touch of your palms resting against his cheeks. So warm, but a much more pleasant warmth than the burning summer air that he just walked in, all the way home with a liquor-dazed mind.

“Have you been crying…?” Ah, and that was why your eyes were narrow—they were squinting at the sorry stains of tears that lined his cheeks. He forgot to wipe them, it seemed. It was almost laughable.

“No, just sweat from the heat.”

Crying over you… He’d never let you know that. To cry, to bleed, to die—you would never be the first person he tells.

“You reek of liquor…” Quite disgustingly so, he thinks. And yet, you still held his face so fondly, moving his head in such a gentle manner as you swiped his tear stains with the pads of your thumbs.

He stayed silent. He had no answer to this one.

“I love you,” he mutters, though it’s a confession nevertheless. And he says it so sadly—so miserably that you couldn’t help but sigh. He hates it, too. He hates it when you sigh. Because when you sigh, it means you’ll just let it go; No matter how many lies he tells, or how many times he cries, or how many secrets he keeps, you’ll still accept him like always.

“I love you, too.” And that was the worst line he’s ever heard.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

KAVEH. foolish ones

“Oh, woe is me…” Loves me, loves me not, loves me… “Did you happen to see anything in the mailbox?”

His roommate stared. “Go check it yourself.”

Kaveh heavily sighed. He couldn’t; He physically could not bear to do it. It’s not that he was lazy to get up, no. The real issue was the genuine grief he would feel when he opened the mailbox, only to see nothing inside. No special gifts, no romantic letters, and absolutely no confessions of love signed with your name.

It was embarrassing, really. To feel this dramatic and obsessed with words of admiration from you—oh, especially when Alhaitham found out about this whole lovesick ordeal. But he could not help his mind from just imagining it: the reflection of himself in your eyes as you finally confess your feelings of passion and love for him (feelings that didn’t exist, feelings he merely imagined you having, all so pathetically).

But he’s so weird, and he’s so terrible. To imagine a fabled life with you when you probably did not think about him this same way. How foolish. Did you daydream about him like he daydreamed about you every night before he slept? Did you think about him like he thought about you every time he sees your favorite color in the passing? Did you wait at your mailbox like he waited for any letters from you? No. No, you didn’t.

And he’s cried, quite humiliatingly. He’s cried that the perfect life he could picture himself having with you at his side would never be a reality. He’s cried a downpour of tears, simply because he allowed himself to be so caught up in a delusion that was so sick of him to conjure up.

“Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“So sorry Kaveh, I already have plans…”

Plans with someone else. No wonder you hadn’t written him any messages, or contacted him in a while. That… was not the scenes he had in his head. His imaginations, his hopes, his dreams—they did not have someone else in them. For someone he was so hopelessly in love with, he felt so much hurt. A foolish lesson to be learned by a foolish romantic.

In the end, he’d just be talking himself to sleep again. He’d just smile at the sight of you flourishing. Without him, your world will go on turning. A world full of reciprocated love and devotion, one that he would never know.

⎯ ✧ ⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

RAIDEN EI. you belong with me

The Raiden Shogun was self-destructive. No more than a few people knew of such a fact, but she was certainly one of them.

Because if she cared for her own wellbeing, truly, then she would not fall for selfish desires. Nor, would she be here now, sitting next to you outside a sliding screen in her private gardens of Tenshukaku, sipping your favorite tea and hearing your sweet voice ramble about something so unpleasant to her ears. If she prioritized her own emotions, then maybe she’d be living in blissful ignorance right now instead of listening to your woes over a lover… A lover that was not her.

“And then, she teases me,” you complained, though it was clear you hated it. You didn’t like whining about your partner, which was a good thing—but it made Ei feel sick, because it meant you really loved that woman. “I know she does that all the time, and I just need to get used to it,” you continued, “but sometimes, it gets too much, and she still doesn’t stop.”

But I wouldn’t do that to you, the archon thinks to herself. And suddenly, the tea isn’t as appetizing anymore, because her own words felt drilled onto her tongue, forever forbidden to speak aloud.

“Miko… Has always been like that,” Ei quietly admits instead. She doesn’t want to insult your lover, for that same person was also her own friend. She wanted to be supportive, but it was impossible when she was so in love with you, that she spent every second of each passing day just wishing she was in Miko’s place instead.

“Yeah… But—still, I mean…” You sighed, coming to a loss for words to describe the pink haired shrine maiden. “Is it really so hard to ask just for her to understand how I’m feeling…?” you whined in what seemed like genuine distress. Your face sunk into your hands, and it took all of Ei’s willpower just to keep her respective distance from a romantically taken friend.

But I understand how you feel, Ei once again thinks. She feels so dirty of a friend for comparing herself like this. I understand you better than she will ever.

“Ei…” you muttered. She almost chokes from the way you say her name. “What should I do…?”

Be with me, instead. “Don’t cry over something, or someone, you cannot control. It’s possible your personalities are just not fit for each other, you know.”

“But I love her, Ei…”

Ouch.

She clears her throat, recovering from sharp breath of air she just inhaled. A part of her just broke in that moment, and it was so obvious, too—her expression quickly changed, her body became stiff, her balance suddenly shifted, and yet…

You noticed none of it. Your head was too clouded over love for another woman that was not her; So clouded, in fact, you did not notice the way Ei almost began to tremble. The misery you carried only crafted tenfold for the archon, eternally unbeknownst to you.

But you don’t belong to her, anyways. So why was she crying?

[strwberri-milk]

Kaeya, Childe, Diluc, and Thoma’s reaction when they find out that they are their S/O’s first kiss?

They are all absolutely honoured. He didn't know that he was your first kiss until after you told him, assuming that you had already kissed someone before him.

Kaeya and Childe are a little more doubtful, thinking you're just messing with him to inflate his ego. He knows that it'd be something you might do to tease him light heartedly, and he doesn't mind at all. You have to insist a little harder that he really is your first kiss, almost getting flustered yourself by how many times you're being forced to admit it.

He thinks it's sweet, deciding that he has to be your first second, third, fourth, etc. etc. kiss as well. He pulls you into his arms and begins to aggressively pepper kisses all over your face, revelling in the fact that he's the first one to see you like this.

Diluc and Thoma are a little quieter in their joy. He also doesn't believe it at first but it's not going to be as difficult to convince him as it was to convince those other two. He just asks you again to confirm and when you nod he smiles to himself.

You do find that he's now finding other ways to give you more affection, now working under the assumption that he's the first to do much of anything with you. It's very endearing to you, watching him romance you and give you the softest press of his lips to your cheek or forehead in addition to savouring the way you taste on his tongue.

Thoma is definitely more inclined to also pepper your face in kisses. He's much less aggressive than Childe and Kaeya are, but he does love to hold you and give you a short spurt of kisses across your face before ending it off with a kiss to your lips.

[that-tmr-girl]

What kind of lover the TMR Characters are

Aris

The slow, teasing kind

He'll take his time from the very first time to your hundredth

Being able to discover small things, like what makes you whimper or if you taste different, always has him in a chokehold

Brenda

The control kind

What she wants she takes, and a lot of the time that's you

She doesn't focus on anything but you when railing you

Gally

The dominant but respectful kind

Even if he degrades you he will always make sure that you know how much he loves you and that he didn't hurt you or your feelings after

While he likes you being desperate for him, he always wants you to feel safe

Harriet

The confident kind

She's more than sure that she knows how to pleasure you because she notices every detail

She doesn't have any doubts that she can make you feel good, and she's absolutely right

Minho

The possessive kind

He likes showing you how much of his girl you really are when he rails you

Knowing that nobody can do what he can, turns him out, and he's perfectly fine with you knowing that

Newt

The carefully respectful kind

No matter what he asks before every single thing, especially if it's something new

There is no safer place than in his bed, and you even felt that on your first time

Sonya

The fun kind

She just wants to let loose, maybe make you laugh a little, and enjoy her time feeling you

She doesn't want to worry or stress about the world when you're in front of her in such a private way

Teresa

The scientific kind

She makes sure she knows all the right parts of you and what the best pleasure spots are

She may not tell you her research about human bodies just for you, but it definitely shows

Thomas

The needs reassurance kind

He needs you to tell him that he's doing you right, especially after, or he'll be paranoid that he's messing up

If he does he always feels awful and thinks about that mistake so he can never repeat it

[brucewaynehater101]

Tim trips through time. Tim meets Thomas and Martha Wayne and little kindergartener Bruce Wayne. Bruce thinks Tim is the coolest person ever! Tim is very worried about space and time but no speedster has come back to yell at him so...

He tells Thomas and Martha to not go to the theater in the future crime alley. He starts trying to synthesize the bullet resistant and knife proof fabric that looks and acts like fabric that he and the other Bats use in the future so he can replace Thomas's shirts with shirts made of the stuff and have lining of the fabric put into Martha's clothes. He teaches Bruce how to meditate and anger management techniques and stretches to take advantage of his baby flexibility and revels in having a little brother figure that looks up to him and doesn't try to kill him. He goes ahead and sets up some plans that won't come to fruition for literal decades but when they do they will seriously annoy and hamper Ra's. Alfred lets him help in the kitchen and Tim spots that he is absolutely in a thruple with Thomas and Martha. Thomas and Martha officially adopt him.

Then he goes back. The method takes the memories of the experience from the Waynes, erases the signs of Tim's presence in the past. Tim returns to his normal present but with one difference.

He had been holding his adoption papers when it happened.

Tim is legally and officially, according to the paperwork in his hands, Timothy Roderick (for Martha's dad because Jack sucks) Drake Wayne and Bruce's older brother.

Bruce's very distant memories of the time sort of come back to him now that Tim's back, not very clearly since he was five at the time. Alfred, having been older at the time, does remember young master Tim's time before much more clearly and feels a great deal more embarrassment in how he's treated master wayne, particularly the birthday incident. Tim mentally notes that Bruce technically still hasn't tried to actively kill him so he's not the worst little brother. Also all his siblings are now his niblings.

Time hijinks are so fun to mess around with.

I have no clue how that adoption paper will hold up in the court of law, but I doubt Tim cares. According to Bruce's parents, he is the older brother. He will not be taking any other answer as acceptable.

I'd also love to just read about the soft moments of Thomas and Martha referring to Tim as their son and fussing over all of his scars. Little Bruce looking up to Tim as the older one leads him through another breathing exercise.

Then, an older Bruce who's embarking on his training arc and the strange sort of familiarity he finds with learning the breathing exercise. The sense of calm, belonging, and home a simple pattern brings him

[yestrday]

Is it bad that I would purposefully play hard-to-get with the yanderes just so I can feel more desirable and better about myself knowing that I'm being lusted over. Even though I'm probably playing hard to get because I actually don't know how to handle people and don't want to hurt them so I just distance myself from all the yanderes.

amused by this bratty facade of yours. you always think you're so smart, playing coy and batting your lashes at them only to leave them hanging at the last second. it cracks their pride a bit, having some lowly commoner toy with them like this, but he lets himself sit back and watch you unwittingly entertain him like prey distracting the predator. but he knows you for what you are: an insecure bunny whose smile shakes every time they threaten that act of yours just a little bit. their maw is wide open, and he'll just let you waltz your way into his bite~

AYATO, childe, kaeya, xingqiu, albedo, ZHONGLI, TIGHNARI, CYNO, baizhu, heizou

finds this act of yours cute and plays along, half because he believes you're worth the chase and half because your eyes are so lonely that they only bewitch him. takes his time to actually get to know you— not the haughty act you have going on, but the real, lonesome you. he doesn't want to see you so full of self-doubt, scared of not knowing what to do and scared of only messing a genuine relationship that you could have. wants you to know that he accepts you wholly, both the coy vixen and the insecure you.

KAZUHA, aether, venti, DILUC, kaeya, KAVEH, THOMA, itto, xiao

has no patience for these kinds of games. either he does not want this kind of disrespect of yours or he's bored by this fragile facade you have going on. he much prefers the one beneath the shell, shaking and insecure and desperately trying to push everyone away in an attempt to protect yourself. his sadistic desires like you more this way, subservient and unable to play foxy when he can just have you on a leash like this.

SCARAMOUCHE, ALHAITHAM, zhongli, baizhu

you've probably scared him away, to be honest. he genuinely believes that you have such high standards that he couldn't possibly match to them. after all, he's... him and you're you— strong-headed, determined, and confident. his delusion of you is so strong that he fails to see your mask crumbling whenever any harem members pushes too hard. if he could just rid himself of these illusions for one second, he could see that you're no better than him: weak and insecure,

gorou, BENNETT, chongyun, razor, MIKA, kaveh

[zyettemoon1800]

Thomas Hewitt going to a cook out

Right off the bat, he is really nervous AF.

He has only ever met your mom and grandma and while they were both very nice and open to him, he is not sure the rest of your family will be the same way. Especially the men and children.

Though he is not a talkative fellow, you understand through this body language that he is nervous and uncomfortable with going to the cookout.

However, you assured him that everything would be okay and between your mom, Grandma, and you no one would mess with him and stay.

Though that made him feel a little better, he still had his doubts about it, but he decided to do it for you.

You both still had a bunch of time before the event started so you decided to cook one of Thomas's favorite side oven baked macaroni and cheese to bring to the event.

Of course you let him be the taste tester and even made a big pan that could stay at home for y'all to eat later. While it was cooling off, you pulled him to the shower and washed up and got dressed. He does still like to cover his face, but instead of a hot leather mask, you were about to find a black face mask that is breathable and somehow makes him even sexier.

He still is trying to figure out what kind of clothing he likes since he usually wore the same thing when he was living with his family, so he usually just lets you pick out his fit.

On the way out, he grabbed the macaroni and cheese and put it on his lap so it wouldn't get tossed around when you're driving.

The closer y'all got to your mom's house, the more he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He has dealt with many people making fun of him because of his face and size and he just doesn't want to go back to that again.

When y'all made it to the house there were already a bunch of people there and they all looked at you both as y'all got out of the car. As everyone stared at you two, you softly grabbed his hand and led him into the house where your mom and grandma were.

They greeted him with open arms as you took the food out of Tommy's hand and put it with the others. Afterward, you headed back outside to introduce him to your other family and friends.

Thomas was very nervous and hesitant as you introduced him, but all of his fears went away when everyone greeted him with open arms or high fives.

Most of the younger kids wanted Thomas to pick them open or play some games with them which he happily did.

Some of your family wondered why he didn't talk and you just told them that he has speaking problems so you both mostly use sign language.

This interested a small number of people and they also wanted Tommy to teach them some signal language. Which he was also okay with.

For a while, he sat in a chair with a bunch of children and some adults surrounding him as he taught them whatever word they wanted to know.

When it was time to eat, your grandma made Tommy two plates full of fried chicken, mac and cheese, collared greens, loaded mashed potatoes, candy yams, black-eyed peas, and to top it off a tall glass of sweet tea. As you also got your plate and began to take Tommy to another room so he could eat in peace, your younger family members wanted to eat with you both and started to whine when you said "Maybe next time".

As they kept whining, your mother was able to calm them down and make up a little story about why they couldn't eat with the two of you and that he would play with them after we were all done eating.

After y'all were done eating, he helped clean up before he was dragged away by the kids to go back and play whatever they wanted. It is easy to say that Tommy had a good time with your family and wishes to go back soon.

When it was time for you two to leave, your grandma fixed him a bunch of leftovers and gave him a kiss on the cheek before sending you both on your way.

[corrupte3d-mindz]

Little White Lies

Possessive! Thomas Shelby x F! Reader

Summary: Thomas has told you he doesn’t like being tied down; in a relationship.

Wordcount: 5.3k

Warnings: Important poll at the bottom!

angst?, gaslighting, yelling, screaming, crying, hitting, blowing smoke, smoking, Thomas is a hypocritical little bitch.

The room was dim, the only light filtering through the thin curtains, casting a soft, muted glow over the scene. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and sex, mingled with the sharp tang of cigarette smoke. Thomas lay on his back, the bed sheets a tangled mess beneath them. His chest rose and fell steadily, a silent testament to the intimacy they'd just shared.

Her head rested on his chest, the warmth of her cheek pressing against his skin, grounding him in a way he hadn't anticipated. He took another drag from his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly in the dim light before he exhaled, the smoke swirling lazily towards the ceiling. Her fingers traced the outline of his sunray tattoo, a habit she’d developed without realizing it. The sensation was soothing, almost hypnotic, and he found himself focusing on the gentle pressure of her touch. It was supposed to be simple—just sex, nothing more. But as the days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, the lines had blurred. He hadn’t meant for it to happen, hadn’t wanted it to, but there she was, a permanent fixture in his life. Her presence was a comfort, a distraction from the chaos that constantly surrounded him.

He took another drag, the smoke curling from his lips as he breathed out a silent sigh. He was naked, as was she, their bodies still humming with the remnants of their passion. He looked down at her, his gaze lingering on the soft curve of her cheek, the way her lashes fanned out against her skin. She was beautiful, no doubt about it, but it was more than that. She had a way of seeing him, the real him, beneath the hardened exterior he showed the world. “Just sex,” he had told himself. That was all it was supposed to be. But it had become so much more. It had become late-night conversations, stolen moments in the streets, shared meals, subtle touches, and lingering glances. It had become comforting each other after rough days at work, worrying when the other was late, missing them when they were gone. It had become something more, something he hadn't been prepared for, but now couldn't imagine living without.

She shifted slightly, her head tilting up to look at him. “What are you thinking about?” she asked, her voice soft, barely above a whisper. He took another drag from his cigarette, the silence stretching between them. He wasn’t sure how to put it into words, wasn’t sure he even wanted to. “Us,” he finally said, his voice rough, laced with the thick Birmingham accent she had come to love. Her eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Us?” she repeated, as if the concept was foreign to her. He nodded, his thumb caressing her shoulder absentmindedly. “Mhm,” he confirmed. “Us.”

She fell silent, her mind processing his words. She knew what he meant, even if he didn’t say it outright. They were more than just lovers. They were partners, in every sense of the word. She had seen the darkness in him, the ruthlessness, the cold, calculated mind that ran the Peaky Blinders. But she had also seen the softness, the vulnerability he hid from everyone else. And somehow, she had become the one person he trusted enough to let his guard down with. She turned her head, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his tattoo. The gesture was small, but it spoke volumes. He felt a warmth spread through him, a feeling he wasn’t used to, but one he was starting to crave. He took another drag from his cigarette, savoring the way the smoke burned his lungs, grounding him in the moment.

“What about us?” she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

He looked down at her, his blue eyes piercing in the dim light. “Everything,” he said simply. “I think about everything.”

She nodded, understanding washing over her. They were in this together, whatever this was. And for the first time in a long time, he felt a sense of peace. He crushed the cigarette in the ashtray beside the bed, the smoke curling up one last time before dissipating. He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her closer, his hand resting on the small of her back. They lay there in silence, the weight of his words hanging in the air. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of her breathing lull him into a state of calm. She was his anchor, his safe haven, and he would do anything to protect her. He had never been good with words, but in that moment, he didn’t need them. His actions spoke louder, the way he held her, the way he looked at her, the way he let her see the parts of him he kept hidden from the world. She nuzzled closer, her fingers still tracing his tattoo. He smiled faintly, a rare, genuine smile that she had the power to coax out of him.

“I don’t do relationships,” he says, a hint of defensiveness in his voice.

“I know that,” she murmured against his skin. It’s not the first time he had discussed this with her and she doubted it will be the last.

“… but I don’t want you seeing anyone else,” he continues, a slight edge to his deep voice. He sounds almost possessive.

Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, a question forming in her eyes before she gave voice to it. "Is that an order?" she asked, her tone teasing, yet there was a seriousness underlying her words. Her chin rested lightly on his chest, her eyes searching his, trying to decipher the enigma that was Thomas Shelby. He turned his head to look down at her, reaching for his cigarettes and lighting it once more; a faint smirk playing on his lips. He took a drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing brighter for a moment before dimming again. The smoke curled lazily upward, creating a hazy veil around them. "You could call it that," he responded quietly, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. The sound of his thick Birmingham accent, rich and rough around the edges, added an intimate weight to his words.

As he looked down at her, he couldn’t help but think about how cute she was. Her eyes, wide and inquisitive, peered up at him with a mix of curiosity and something deeper, something more profound. Her fingers continued their gentle exploration of his chest, the touch both soothing and tantalizing. Her body, still naked and warm from their recent intimacy, pressed against his, creating a comforting closeness that he found himself oddly reluctant to break. His mind wandered, thoughts flitting between the present and the future. Thomas was a man known for his detached demeanor, for keeping people at arm's length, especially women. He was not one to settle, not one to commit. Yet, here he was, in the quiet aftermath of passion, feeling an unfamiliar sense of contentment. He didn’t want her to be with anyone else, and though he had never been one for monogamy, the thought of her with another man sparked an unexpected surge of possessiveness within him.

She watched him closely, her eyes not missing the flicker of emotions that crossed his usually stoic features. She knew his reputation, knew that Thomas Shelby was a man who didn't do relationships, who didn't settle for just one woman. But something about the way he was with her, the way he looked at her, made her question that perception. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the war between his nature and whatever it was that he felt for her. He took another drag from his cigarette, exhaling slowly, the smoke swirling above them. His hand, rough and calloused from years of hard living, came to rest on her back, his fingers tracing the curve of her spine. He felt her shiver slightly under his touch, a reaction that sent a jolt of satisfaction through him. "I don't like sharin'," he said finally, his voice low and gravelly. "Never have." Her eyes searched his, looking for the meaning behind his words. "And what does that mean for us?" she asked softly, her fingers pausing their movements on his chest. There was a vulnerability in her voice, a tentative hope that he would give her something more than just a fleeting moment of passion. Thomas considered her question, the weight of it pressing down on him. He was not a man who spoke of feelings easily, not a man who let his guard down.

Her voice, soft yet tinged with sorrow, broke the silence. “Thomas... what are we truly?” she asked, her words hanging in the air between them like a delicate thread, vulnerable to the slightest tension. Thomas’s eyes, icy blue and penetrating, met hers. For a moment, he was silent, his expression shifting as he processed her question. The guarded walls he had meticulously built around himself seemed to tighten, as if preparing for an assault. “What do you mean?” he responded, his tone edged with caution. The question had caught him off guard, and he wasn’t accustomed to feeling unsure.

She sighed, a sound full of unspoken fears and desires. “It’s just, I know you said you don’t want to be tied down in a relationship, but it’s hard for me to be told to stick to one man when that man is not even truly mine...” Thomas’s gaze intensified, his features hardening as he absorbed her words. The implications of what she was saying were clear, and it stirred a complex mix of emotions within him. On one hand, he was fiercely independent, a man who valued his freedom above all else. On the other, he couldn’t ignore the bond they had formed, the undeniable connection that went beyond mere physical attraction. He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of her expectations pressing down on him. “You knew what this was from the start,” he began, his voice low and steady, though not unkind. “I never made any promises, and I never lied to you about who I am or what I want.”

She nodded, but her eyes were still searching his, looking for something more, something deeper. “I know, Thomas. But it doesn’t change how I feel. I need to know if there’s any chance for us to be more than what we are now.” Thomas felt a pang of frustration mingled with a deep-seated fear of vulnerability. He had always been a man of action, not words, and these kinds of conversations were foreign territory for him. “Relationships, commitments... they complicate things,” he said, his voice growing rougher. “In my line of work, they can be dangerous. Her expression softened, but the sadness remained. “I understand that, Thomas. But can’t we find a way to make it work? Can’t we at least try?” He looked away, his jaw tightening as he grappled with his own emotions.

She spoke, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "Honestly, I’m just like a free prostitute to you."

Her words struck him with the force of a blow, his jaw clenching so tightly it ached. His eyes narrowed, and his hands instinctively balled into fists. The accusation hung in the air between them, sharp and unforgiving. He turned his head to look at her, his blue eyes darkening with a mix of anger and hurt.

“Don’t say things like that,” he growled, his voice a guttural whisper. It carried the weight of his inner turmoil, a mix of anger and desperation. His expression hardened, the lines on his face deepening as he struggled to maintain control. He wanted to argue, to deny the truth in her words, but he couldn’t. He knew she was right. The realization stung, a bitter pill to swallow. He desperately wanted her to be wrong, to see things from his perspective, but the truth was undeniable. His heart ached with the weight of it.

With a sudden, forceful movement, he pushed her off him. She caught herself on the edge of the bed, grabbing the sheets to cover her naked form; the shock evident in her eyes. He swung his legs over the side and stood up, his body tense and rigid. His fingers pointed at her, trembling with suppressed rage; he stood there in all his glory.

“You’re fuckin’ insane!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. “I fuck other women because you always wonder what the fuck we are. But with actual prostitutes, they do their job and fuck right off afterwards; but you always get your fucking panties in a wad.”

His words were harsh, each one a dagger aimed at her heart. He could see the pain in her eyes, but he couldn’t stop himself. The anger coursed through him, uncontrollable and consuming. He paced back and forth, his mind a storm of conflicting emotions.

“I can’t continue this nonsense without you saying you’re mine and that I’m yours,” she replied, her voice trembling but determined. “I’m tired of you being with so many women, and say that I just need to stay strong for you and you only.”

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand over his face. He lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his features before the smoke curled around him, shrouding him in a haze.

Her bare back is to him, the curve of her spine illuminated by the dim light, and he feels a pang of possessiveness mixed with irritation as she starts to gather her clothes. The moment is fragile, teetering on the edge of something unsaid. He doesn’t speak at first, his eyes following her every movement, taking in the way her hands tremble slightly as she buttons her blouse. His mind races with conflicting emotions: the desire to keep her here, the fear of what that might mean, and the anger at her apparent readiness to leave him so soon. The silence between them stretches taut, like a wire ready to snap.

“What are you doing?” His voice is rough, the words coming out more harshly than he intended. “You’re not leaving.” There's an edge of possessiveness, a hint of desperation that he can’t quite mask. His eyes burn into her back, willing her to turn around, to stay. She freezes for a moment, her shoulders tense before she slowly turns to face him. Her eyes are fierce, her jaw set. “I’m definitely leaving; I can’t be tied down to a man who doesn’t want to be tied down himself. That won’t fucking work, Thomas!” Her voice is strong, but he can hear the hurt beneath her anger.

His jaw tightens, the muscles working as he fights to keep his composure. The pain in her eyes cuts him deeper than he cares to admit. He feels a familiar war within himself, torn between the desire to push her away and the desperate need to pull her close. “You can’t go,” he murmurs, his voice almost pleading. “You can’t just leave. We have something.” The words feel inadequate, but they’re all he can manage as he struggles to contain the storm of emotions inside him. She scoffs, the sound harsh and brittle. “Something? What do we have, Thomas? A few nights of fucking? That’s not something. That’s nothing.” He moves suddenly, almost violently, grabbing her arms and pulling her towards him. His grip is firm, bordering on painful, as he holds her close, his eyes searching hers with an intensity that borders on madness. “We have something here, god damnit,” he growls. “I can’t let you go. I can’t lose you.” His breath is hot against her skin, his words a desperate plea masked as a command.

“Thomas- I can’t. I fucking can’t!” She tries to pull away, but his grip only tightens, his fingers digging into her flesh. “You’re just gonna give up and walk out?” he snaps, his voice rising. “You’re gonna leave me just like that?” There’s anger in his eyes now, but also a raw, naked vulnerability that he can’t hide. She snaps back, her voice breaking as she lets out the words she’s been holding back. “Just like you do to me every time we fuck?!”

His brow furrows, and for a moment, he looks almost guilty. His jaw clenches, and he shakes his head, trying to defend himself. “It’s not the same,” he growls defensively. “I told you I can’t give you a relationship. You knew that going in.” She laughs bitterly, the sound sharp and cold. “I’m allowed to have fucking hope, Thomas! I’m allowed to have hope. But I clearly can’t when I’m with you! But don’t worry, your pretty little face. I’ll find somebody. I’ll find somebody that loves me who won’t go to whores when I'm not in the mood; maybe your brothers have some opportunities for me!”

His expression twists into one of outrage. The idea of her being with Arthur, John, or Finn makes his blood boil, even though he’s the one pushing her away. “Bloody hell, you’re not being fair,” he growls, his grip on her arms getting even tighter. “You’re gonna walk away from me and go to someone else? You’re gonna let another man have you?” There’s a sudden explosion of rage in her, and before he can react, she pulls her arms from his grasp and strikes him across the face with the back of her hand. The sound of skin upon skin echoes through the room, the force of the blow making his head snap to the side. “NO! NO! NO! SO YOU DO UNDERSTAND HOW IT FUCKING FEELS EVERY TIME YOU GO OFF AND FUCK SOMEONE ELSE!”

He grabs at his cheek where she struck him, his eyes narrowing as he looks away briefly. He feels trapped, caught in a web of his own making, and there’s no easy way out. His frustration and anger boil over, his emotions getting the best of him. “It’s not the same,” he repeats firmly, his voice gruff. “I’m not your boyfriend. I don’t have to be loyal to you.” She gives him a wicked smile, her eyes glittering with a mix of anger and triumph. “And I’m not your girlfriend, so I don’t have to be loyal to you.” The words hang in the air between them, a stark reminder of the precarious nature of their relationship. He feels a sharp pain in his chest, a mix of anger, hurt, and something he can’t quite name. He knows he’s losing her, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, leaving him feeling hollow and empty.

For a moment, he’s silent, his eyes locked on hers. He searches for the right words, something to make her stay, but nothing comes. The silence is deafening, the weight of their unspoken emotions pressing down on them. He can see the resolve in her eyes, the determination to walk away, and it terrifies him. He lets out a ragged breath, his grip on her arms loosening. “I don’t want you to go,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. The admission feels like a defeat, but he’s too tired to fight anymore. Thomas takes out a cigarette and lights it; letting the smoke simmer on his tongue.

He exhaled a cloud of smoke, the bitterness of his words matching the acrid taste in his mouth. He looked at her, his eyes reflecting the turmoil inside him. He didn’t like how the conversation was going, didn’t like being forced to confront something he had been avoiding for so long. The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. He felt trapped, cornered by his own actions and the raw honesty of her words. He wanted to escape, to run from the confrontation, but he knew he couldn’t. Not this time.

“Every time we’re together, I see the doubt in your eyes,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “You make me question myself, question everything. And I hate it.” He took a deep drag of his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs and momentarily dulling the pain. “I’ve tried to numb it, to drown it out with other women, but it doesn’t work. It never fucking works.” She looked at him, her eyes filled with a mix of sadness and determination. “Then why do you keep doing it, Thomas? Why can’t you just be honest with me?” He laughed bitterly, a harsh sound that grated on his own ears. “Honest? You want honesty?! The truth is, I’m scared. Scared of what it means to be with you, scared of what I might lose.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the frustration evident in every movement. “I’ve lost too much already. And the thought of losing you… it terrifies me.” She reached out, her hand gently touching his arm. “Then stop pushing me away. Stop hiding behind these walls you’ve built.” He looked down at her hand, the warmth of her touch seeping into his skin. He wanted to believe her, wanted to let down his guard, but the fear was too ingrained. “It’s not that simple,” he said, his voice breaking. “I don’t know if I can.”

The idea of letting someone in, of allowing himself to be vulnerable, was something he had always avoided. It was easier to keep people at arm’s length, to maintain control over his life and his heart. But now, lying next to her, he couldn’t deny the pull he felt, the desire to protect her, to be with her. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he admitted finally, his voice barely above a whisper. “And I don’t want to make promises I can’t keep.” She reached out, her fingers gently touching his cheek, drawing his gaze back to hers. “I’m not asking for promises, Thomas. I’m just asking for a chance. A chance to see if we can be more, if we can be something real.” Her touch, so soft and tender, made his heart ache. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. When he opened them again, his gaze was more vulnerable, more open than she had ever seen it before.

His chest rose and fell with the rhythmic cadence of his breath, each inhale and exhale a whisper of the storm that had finally settled within him. His usually steely blue eyes were softened, glistening with unshed tears that caught the light in tiny, shimmering pools. It was a sight so rare, so intimate, that it seemed almost otherworldly. The hard edges of his face, chiseled by years of hardship and violence, were softened in this moment of vulnerability, revealing the boy he once was, hidden beneath the veneer of the man he had become. Her presence in front of him was a soothing balm, her warmth a cocoon that held him in a fragile embrace. She stand before him; her other hand tenderly caressing his cheek. Her fingers traced the line of his jaw, a delicate touch that spoke of a depth of feeling words could never fully capture. She had seen him in many states—cold, calculating, fierce—but this was different. This was Thomas Shelby stripped bare, his defenses down, his soul laid bare for her to see.

The silence between them was heavy with unspoken words, a tangible thing that pressed down on them both. It was she who finally broke it, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet of the room. "Thomas," she began, her words tentative, as if she feared they might shatter the fragile peace they had found. "I see you. The real you. Not just the leader of your gang, not just the man everyone fears. But you, Thomas; Thomas Shelby. Her words were like a salve to his weary soul, each one soothing the wounds that had been inflicted by years of betrayal, loss, and heartache. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to be enveloped by the sound of her voice, the sincerity in her tone a lifeline he clung to desperately. The tears that had threatened to fall finally broke free, trailing down his cheeks in silent testimony to the emotions he could no longer contain.

She continued, her voice steady, unwavering. "I like the way you laugh, even though it's rare. I like the way you look at me, as if I'm the only thing that matters. I like the way you fight for those you love, even if it means sacrificing yourself. But there are things I don't like, Thomas. I don't like the way you shut me out, the way you push everyone away when you're hurting. I don't like the way you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, as if you have to bear it all alone.” Her words pierced through the armor he had built around himself, each one a dagger that cut deep, but in a way that was necessary, a way that would heal rather than harm. He reached up, his hand finding hers, his fingers wrapping around her wrist in a grip that was both firm and gentle. He held her there, as if afraid she might slip away, as if the very act of touching her could tether him to the present, to this moment of raw, unfiltered emotion.

"Please don't leave me," he whispered, his voice thick with the weight of his tears, his accent a rough, familiar drawl that carried the pain of a thousand battles fought and lost. The words were simple, but they held a world of meaning, a plea that came from the deepest part of him, the part that feared losing the one person who had seen through his façade, who had touched the core of who he was. She didn't flinch, didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned in closer, her forehead resting against his, her breath mingling with his in the space between them. "I'm not going anywhere, Thomas," she replied softly, her words a vow, a promise that she intended to keep. "I'm here. And I'm not leaving."

Without a word, Thomas shifted, his strong hands finding her waist with an ease born of familiarity. He lifted her effortlessly, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he felt her fingers trace the planes of his chest. Bringing her to the bed, the mattress beneath them seemed to sigh in response as he laid her back gently, the plush fabric molding to her form. He could see the reflection of their passion in her eyes, a mix of contentment, love, and a flicker of hope that made his heart clench. Those eyes, deep and expressive, had a way of cutting through the hardened exterior he presented to the world, leaving him feeling vulnerable yet fiercely protective. As he leaned over her, his gaze locked onto hers, a silent understanding passing between them. He lowered himself slowly, savoring the anticipation that crackled in the air. When their lips finally met, it was a collision of raw need and unspoken promises. The kiss was intense, his mouth moving against hers with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He could feel her responding in kind, her hands sliding up to cradle his face, pulling him closer as if to merge their very beings. There was a possessiveness in his kiss, a declaration that she was his, and his alone.

Their tongues danced together, a fervent, unrestrained exchange that left no room for doubt about his desire for her. He tasted the sweetness of her, mingled with the remnants of their shared breath, a heady mix that made his pulse quicken. The kiss deepened, became almost frenzied, as if they were both trying to imprint the moment onto their souls. Their breaths mingled, harsh and ragged, creating a symphony of desire that filled the room. When he finally pulled back, it was only because the need for air became undeniable. He lingered close, their foreheads touching, the warmth of their breaths mingling in the scant space between them. A thin string of saliva still connected their lips, a tangible reminder of their connection. His eyes, dark and intense, bore into hers, conveying a depth of emotion that words could scarcely capture. “I fuckin’ love you,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, each word imbued with a sincerity that left no room for doubt.

He watched as her expression softened further, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears of happiness. She reached up, her fingers brushing the damp hair from his forehead, a tender gesture that made his heart swell. He captured her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm, lingering there for a moment as if drawing strength from her touch. He knew he needed her, not just in the physical sense, but in a way that went beyond mere words. She was his anchor, his solace amidst the chaos of his life. He lay back down beside her, pulling her into his embrace, her head resting on his chest. He could feel the steady beat of her heart, a comforting rhythm that grounded him. His fingers traced idle patterns on her back, a silent reaffirmation of his devotion. The world outside their room seemed to fade away, leaving just the two of them cocooned in their shared warmth. He reveled in the quiet intimacy, the sense of peace that only she could bring him.

Author’s Notes:

I actually got this ideas from a c.ai character and that character is Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley from COD Modern Warfare..y’all I’m so tempted to do a whole other blog for the task force 141, Graves, Makarov, and König; like they have such a big grasp on my right now…ahhhh!

Mind you some won’t make sense entirely because I’ve only just started to get into them. Anyways the character is Ghost - More. Hopefully the link has worked out for you!

At some point, it doesn’t make sense like when he’s crying sure, he might be butt ass naked and she might be fully dressed. I don’t care. I would have written smut but…nah I really should have; I’ll probably go in and redo it!

Also we hit 100 followers! So vote it the poll below for a small reward!

[cream-stew]

cw: size kink, hand kink, horny rambling, body type headcanon for thoma, gn! reader alluded to as being shorter.

i can't stop thinking about big boyfie thoma + size differences. like he's so… tall ❤️ i've always kinda headcanon him as having a bit of a chubby/beefy body type. no defined muscles exactly, like the type of muscles you develop naturally when doing hard labor.

practically towering almost everyone, he's got those big, strong arms and hands, his fingers thick with callouses (i want them around my neck)

with how often he has to carry heavy luggages during work, no doubt he can easily manhandle you with those big paws 😍 pushing and pulling you into all kinds of different positions. what other things you got that's big, bb boy—

he'd be so reluctant to have sex with you at first, because what if he hurts you!! :(( cue sad golden retriever eyes.

but in actuality, the dork has been fantasizing about your first time with him ever since he first laid eyes on you. secretly having a size kink and goes wild whenever he gets reminded of how tiny you are compared to him.

sitting on his lap, all with a coy smile on your face? how dare you 🤨 internally, he'd be fighting for his life. even with something as innocent as holding hands, he'll end up a blushing mess.

i also just love the thought of sweet, innocent-looking guys going absolutely feral on their partners. it's just so 👋👋👋 you know??? (a,, are you seeing the vision, reader. im holding you by the collar of your shirt, im shaking you. can you see it—)

ahsjsks i'd let him decimate my 150cm ass. i have a few more ideas for big boye! thoma and they got me salivating, foaming at the mouth, shaking like a chihuahua. forgive me, cream-stew. expect me to go feral in your inbox a few more times.

also!! how's your health going? hope you're faring well 🥺 —🐾

🔞minors dni

warnings: afab reader, size kink, rough sex, vaginal fingering

// note: bestie I love these asks you are more than encouraged to keep going feral in here (no matter how long it takes me to reply... that's on me bc I'm lazy lol) this is so valid tho I'm kinda short too and size kink is so...🥰🥰

he starts out so soft and slow, stretching your wet pussy with one (1) single fingers, his hands shaking with the effort of restraining himself, not helped at all by the way you desperately beg him to fuck you already... but noooo you're so much smaller than him, the top of your head barely reaches his collarbones, his hands are so big he can completely encircle your ankles, and he thinks there's just no way his huge cock is gonna fit inside you :((

no matter how much you insist he still holds you down on your stomach, one big hand against the small of your back while the other one slowly pumps more fingers past your entrance, leaving so much of your juices gushing out and staining the bedsheets.

he scissors his two fingers before adding a third one, and you whine in frustration: you could already be bouncing on his fat cock but nope, he wants to be gentle :((

you're crying in equal parts pleasure and crumbling self restraint by the time he's done stretching you with four thick fingers and he's trying to replace them with his cock, gripping your hips with both hands and slowly pushing it inside your loose pussy. it's true that it's an incredible stretch but it feels so good!! you start begging again, this time for him to move and fuck you like he means it, and you're lucky this time: he seems unable to keep holding himself back, so yep, he starts pumping in and out of you at a ruthless pace, your poor pussy struggling to let him back in every time he pulls out completely before slamming right back inside. you just know your tummy is bulging out whenever the tip of his cock hits your cervix🥰

at some point, when he pulls out he doesn't push back inside so quickly: he rolls you on your back, manhandling you so easily it makes butterflies flutter in your belly, and hooks your legs on his shoulders, folding you in half. the position feels a lot better already, his cock hitting even deeper, but it's so embarrassing to be reminded of how short you are compared to him, you can't even see his flushed face as he fucks your brains out :((

[dont-offend-the-bees]

Wise Men Build Their Houses on Rocks While the Rest of Us Settle for Skeletons

EVERYONE is doing their DBDA prompt challenges in October, so I doubt I'm gonna do any one of them completely. I'm gonna have to pick and choose fave days/prompts and mix and match it. I really didn't think I was gonna get anything done for Catween, but I glanced at the prompt list last night, had an idea, and bashed this out. I probably would have gone into the ideas/questions it raises more if I'd had more time lmao So, Catwin enjoyers, I hope you like this weird little thing! 2.2k, rated M, also available on Ao3 (registered users only!)

“Are you quite sure that it’s in here?” Edwin called, a note of impatience slipping into his voice unbidden. He had no desire to waste several more hours searching for something not knowing if he was even in the correct room.

“Well, I didn’t throw it out,” came the dry response of Thomas from the next room, his voice muffled. As if it were buried in pillows which, given the time of day, it probably was. Thomas was and remained, despite his bipedal stints, a feline; and he rather had the sleep schedule to prove it. “Keep digging, Sherlock — you’ll smoke it out.”

Edwin rolled his eyes, and kept searching. He mustn’t lose his temper. He knew there was trust being placed in him, in being allowed to plum the depths of the Cat King’s hoard unsupervised. Especially for such frivolous purposes. Thomas didn’t even particularly care for Charles (allegedly), and certainly would not have thought to gift him a magical heirloom on what would have been his fifty-fifth birthday. But as soon as he’d let slip about a particular item he had in his collection, Edwin knew he had to have it for Charles; and he had ways of making Thomas see his side of things.

Unfortunately, the item in question was very small indeed — and Thomas’ organisational system was about what one might expect from the four-century hoard of an alley cat. Which was to say there was no clear system in place at all, everything thrown into the magically distended grotto with no rhyme or reason. That, or it was all organised in some manner which made sense only to the strange and animalistic whims of Thomas’ own mind. Perhaps he’d ordered everything by scent, in which case Edwin was truly lost at sea.

Edwin set his jaw, and carried on. A compact mirror, that’s what he was looking for. According to Thomas, it had an enchanted silver backing that reflected even ghosts. And Charles had mentioned several times recently that he sometimes wished he could ‘mess around’ a bit more with his eye make-up. Saw a bloke with gold eyeshadow in town today. How mint is that? and suchlike. Of course, as ghosts they had no need of cosmetics and could alter their appearances at will with a little practice, but it was damnably hard to judge the effects for oneself. One generally had to rely on second opinions. A small mirror would do just the trick. According to Thomas, it was a little flat disc, pink plastic with ‘hearts or some shit, like you’d find at Claire’s, y’know?’. Edwin was not sure who Claire was or why he was expected to know her taste, but a lurid pink plastic disc seemed enough information to go off.

The first such disc he found, however, was neither plastic nor pink. It was clearly old, Edwin would put it back as far as the seventeenth century. French. He inspected it with curiosity, running his fingers along the gold surface, so worn and weathered it was hard to tell what the original design had been. He’d be interested to get a look with the lexicographical lenses on the task. The disc hung on the ends of a short gold chain, and the two halves closed with a simple kiss-lock clasp like a traditional coin purse. Edwin had sifted through a number of more interesting objects in his search, but for some reason the little thing held his attention. It possessed a certain magnetism, a certain draw of the eye.

He glanced, furtively, back towards the door, the bedroom, the presence of a sleeping Cat King. He’d given his word that he wouldn’t fool about with anything, given there were any number of powerful magical objects in residence.

And yet, the kiss-lock clasp parted under a flick of his thumb before he could think to question the wisdom of it.

It opened to reveal what one would expect in a compact of its time. A small mirror in the lid, slightly age-spotted but otherwise intact, and clearly not the enchanted one, for there was no sign of Edwin’s reflection. There was also a small, soft pad in the lower half for the application of powder. Although in other examples Edwin had seen, the pad tended to be off-white or blush pink. This one was neither. It was orange. The material was odd, too. He would’ve expected a fibrous wool or similar, but it wasn’t that. He cautiously brushed a finger across it, using the modicum of touch sensation lent to him by the magic of the Cat King’s realm to confirm his hunch. Yes, no mistaking it. Fur. Very fine, very soft fur. He lifted the edge of it, cautiously, and found another scrap of fur underneath — this one of a shorter pile, and a smoky grey colouring. And beneath that, one more; this one varying shades of brown, arranged in stripe-like formations.

Cat fur.

Tap. Taptaptap.

Edwin startled. That sound. Hollow and rattling, like hail on a window. He looked up, to the high, slit-like window in the pseudo-warehouse where Thomas had built his hideaway, but the sky was as fine as it ever was here. The Cat King had no use for anything but long summer days and fine, temperate nights in his realm.

Taptaptaptaptaptap!

No louder, but more insistent. And coming from his hands. Edwin looked down, sharply — and his mouth fell open.

There was a little cat behind the looking glass.

Edwin held the mirror aloft, closer to his face, peering intently. It was so small, barely scraping half an inch in height, smaller than even the dandelion sprites. And it was tapping upon the inside of the mirror with a miniscule paw. Edwin recognised the light clacking sound as the clack of claws on glass. It was a tabby cat, light brown with dark striping. In fact, its coat bore a striking resemblance to the swatch tucked into the bottom of the compact. It regarded Edwin with a challenging air, eyes alight and tail swishing.

Edwin blinked, unsure what the etiquette was for this sort of a meeting. “Good afternoon.”

The cat moved its mouth, as if speaking. But whatever was said, Edwin couldn’t hear through the glass — and the shape of a cat’s mouth was rather difficult to lip read.

“I’m afraid I cannot hear you,” he said, apologetic — to which the cat responded with a scraping swipe of its paw against the surface. “Well, it’s hardly my fault!”

And then, something else appeared, behind the cat. Something taller, draped in hues of grey and black. Not something, someone. A rather familiar someone.

Edwin squinted, certain he must be mistaken. “...Is that you, Thomas?”

The tiny man in the mirror visibly flinched, his yellow eyes widening. He looked like Thomas, but not quite. Despite the fact he was clearly much younger, his hair was greyer, flatter. And his manner of dress bore little similarity to Thomas’ modern, extravagant tastes. In fact, this little Thomas lookalike was about as old-fashioned as Edwin, or slightly older; though his style was more in line with the fashions Edwin had seen in the background of films depicting the old American west, rather than at home in his own Edwardian England. It was simple, workaday, trousers tucked into sturdy leather boots and held up by braces. A loose, soft shirt, a wide-brimmed hat. It was so very dull and practical, it scarcely made sense on Thomas’ frame; but that was surely his face, down to the most microscopic impression of a scar upon his lip.

The not-Thomas narrowed his eyes at Edwin, and leaned his elbow on the glass, mouthing something. Edwin thought he said: “Who wants to know?”

Edwin cocked his head. Curiouser and curiouser.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” he said. “I was looking for something.”

The not-Thomas started mouthing something else, but Edwin was rather distracted by a third figure shouldering up beside him. This one even more familiar than the last.

No mistaking it; this one surely was Thomas. His Thomas — or rather, the Thomas he’d first met when he came to Port Townsend. From the dirty-blond hair to the leather skirt.

And unlike the other two, this one knew who Edwin was. Edwin could see his own name in the shapes formed by his lips, could see recognition glowing in his yellow eyes. He saw the name over and over, in fact, as the little Thomas repeated it while his hands pounded fruitlessly against the glass.

“Thomas,” Edwin breathed, bringing the mirror closer still. “Thomas, what is this? You’re in the next room, how can you be in here?”

Thomas began to mouth something, furiously, but he was so small and talking so fast, it was impossible to make out from sight alone. In squinting to see, though, Edwin noticed something else about his Thomas. He was black-and-blue, vivid bruises and cuts decorating every exposed inch of his skin. Blood trailed from his lip, his nose, even his ear. Come to think of it, the other two didn’t look their best, either. The grey Thomas was sopping wet; it was only now Edwin realised his hair looked so flat because it was damp and plastered to his skull. His skin was deathly pale, his eyes sunken. The cat, the tabby cat which must surely be Thomas as well, also bore a significant scar; a deep, red gash down the centre of his plush belly. What a grim trio they made; gutted, drowned, beaten.

Dead.

Edwin took a steadying breath. “Thomas,” he said. “Remind me, please: how many lives do cats have?”

Thomas grimaced, and held up nine fingers.

“And you have had how many?”

Three fingers — and then, slowly, a fourth.

“You find it, yet?”

Edwin jumped, and snapped the compact shut — though the look on the little Thomas’ face as he did so would haunt him for quite some time. “Ah — not yet,” he called back to the bedroom. “But I must be closing in…”

He heard Thomas chuckle. “Come back to bed. I’ll track it down in the morning.”

Edwin swallowed, tightly, and slipped the little gold compact into his inner pocket. “I’ll be right along.”

~

“Thomas?”

“Hm?”

Edwin fidgeted, tugging at the collar of his shirt. Thomas hadn’t managed to coax him completely out of his clothes, this time, but he’d certainly made decent innings. “I wondered… when a cat dies, does it… haunt? As a human does?”

Thomas shrugged, not bothering to remove his hands from their languid repose behind his head. “Sure. It’s all souls, right?”

“Right. Yes. And…”

“And…?”

“And does that happen… with every death?”

Thomas cracked open one golden, knowing eye to regard him across the pillows. “Well, that depends.”

“On?”

“On how unlucky you get.” He stretched, his back arching sinuously off the bed. “On how much unfinished business you’re stuck with.”

“I see.” Edwin cleared his throat. “How… interesting.”

“Hmm. You know something, Edwin?”

“What?”

Thomas smirked, lazily, and drew his hand from behind his head. He raised it up high, then opened it — and the little golden compact tumbled to the end of its chain with a dainty rattle.

“You’re almost as bad a liar as you are a thief.”

Edwin blanched. “Ah. I can explain —”

“No no no. No explanation needed. I’m proud of you, y’know? Nice to see you coming out of your shell. Be gay, do crime, that’s what the kids are saying these days, right?”

Edwin’s brow furrowed. “Is it?”

“Ah, something like that, anyway.” With a flick of the chain, Thomas whipped the little disc into his hand, inspecting it thoughtfully.

Edwin, feeling at least relatively safe in his assumption that he was not about to face serious repercussions for his thievery, crossed his arms in annoyance. “You pickpocketed me,” he accused.

“Eh, does it really count if I’m stealing back something you stole from me?” Thomas threw him a fond, sharp-toothed grin. “I’m not sure you can even call it pickpocketing when it’s that easy. Kiss you just right and I could steal the shirt off your back.”

Rather than bicker further, Edwin huffed, and curled into Thomas’ side. A warm, strong arm wrapped around Edwin’s shoulders with no further prompting. “Will you tell me?” he said softly, tapping his fingers upon Thomas’ chest. His eyes never left the little mirror.

For a few long moments, it seemed Thomas wouldn’t answer.

“Did what I had to do,” he eventually admitted. “To get ‘em off my back.”

“Off your back?”

Thomas scowled, giving the compact a little shake. “Pushy little bitches.”

“I don’t understand. You mean they stay with you?”

“Cats don’t have houses to haunt, sweetheart.” Thomas sighed, putting the mirror down on his chest and letting his hand close over it. “In the end, all we’ve ever got is ourselves.”

Edwin nestled in closer. His hand landed atop Thomas’, atop the little metal disc where his restless old lives rattled like matches in a box. “That’s not strictly speaking true anymore, is it?” he said, propping his head upon Thomas’ shoulder. “You’ve got me, now.” He hummed. “And Charles, in a sense — I’m afraid we don’t come separately.”

Thomas gave a soft snort of laughter, and looked at him; a very old and aching sadness in his eyes. His smile, blunted, barely gleamed in the soft neon light. “Even ghosts move on eventually.”

Thanks for reading! I'd really, really love to know what you thought of it 💛💛💛 I imagine a lot of the prompts I fill this month on my main will be Payneland. That being said there will defo be some configurations of ships involving the Cat King, and MANY of them will need to be posted on my semi-secret-ish side smut account, so. DM me if you want that I guess xD Thank you all so much for your support of my fics, for your patience with Lonely Bones, and just generally for being the most delightful fandom I've been part of for absolute donkey's years 💛 be seeing you soon!!!

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Loved and Unloved

Considering the large amount of content of unsymp patton that exists in comparison to any other side currently (most often depicting him as an anti-lgbtq+ Christian dad with control issues), feels like some real meaty angst potential to explore for Patton. He has been way more open to change and hiding when he isn’t doing okay, so maybe he tries actively stripping the aspects of himself these extreme characterizations originate from only for it to go wrong? Maybe Virgil’s snappiness as of the last few episodes or Roman’s unease ends up fueling it in someway? No pressure if you don't wanna write Patton angst, just thought the concept was interesting. – ax3-e0ns

Read on Ao3

Warnings: self-doubt, self-esteem issues

Pairings: none!

Word Count: 3172

Everybody has to be open to change, so it's not fair of him to be so upset by it. He just needs to get over himself first.

Everybody has to be open to change, so it's not fair of him to be so upset by it.

Come on, he'd be the most unreasonable person in the world if he constantly talked about how good it was to keep an open mind, try new things, and then shirked away from actually doing any of the hard work that came with that, wouldn't he? It wouldn't be right! So no, Patton isn't going to pretend that he's the exception to his rules, not like this, so he's going to change. That's how things work, that's how things need to be done.

He just…needs to get over himself first.

Figuring out just how badly he'd been messing everything up—well, okay, no, he's going to go back a little bit first.

The wedding had been hard on everybody, which was something he'd never expected. It had been such an honor to be asked to be there by Lee and Mary Lee, and then to have everything crash and burn the way it did…it had been so disappointing. Not just because Thomas had clearly been so miserable, but because it wasn't ever supposed to be like that. Weddings were supposed to be joyous affairs, all about celebrating two people deciding to tie their lives together, and how could they be there and be so upset about it? Patton hadn't wanted to admit it when Roman first passed the sentence, but ever since Deceit—Janus had pointed out how rough it would be on poor Thomas if he was there—or rather, since he'd given up the chance for a callback to be there, it was…difficult.

Then there's the whole matter of Patton himself. He's not sure when he really noticed how much he was causing all the problems, but once he did, it was sort of impossible not to notice anymore.

Maybe it was in that first meeting where they introduced Janus, back when he'd taken Patton's face and used it to coerce Roman into helping him with his schemes. Maybe it was when Roman passed the sentence and everyone looked at Patton like he was the one who did that too. Or maybe it was when Remus showed up and Logan told everyone that it was Virgil's fault and Patton's fault that Thomas had slept so badly last night.

Whenever it was, it made it clear that Patton…wasn't doing the best he could do when it came to actually being there for everybody else. And that was bad, because Patton was supposed to be there for everyone! Not just because he was at the center of a lot of Thomas's feelings, not just because he was Morality, but because those are his kiddos. Those are the people he cares about the most in the entire world, and if he can't even be there for them in the way that he should be, how could he pretend to be there for everyone else?

So, he could change. He had to change. He needed to change. And the best way to do that was to figure out what parts of himself were bad and needed to go.

As always, the fans were…helpful? Maybe? Is that the right word? He remembers hearing Logan and Roman talking about how fan communities were interesting beasts—he's pretty sure those were Roman's words, not Logan's—especially when it came to interpreting characters. There were always going to be those that acted in bad faith and just saw the parts that they wanted to see, and there were always going to be those that just decided to die on the hill of their favorites and act as though they'd never done anything wrong, ever. But the vast majority of the fanbase would react similarly to the big events of the series, and so he figured that it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to just…see how they were reacting to him lately.

It was an eye-opening experience.

There were a lot of theories going around as to why he'd been so…problematic in the series lately. Everything from him being responsible for Thomas's internalized homophobia to the Split to truly, truly horrible things that he knows are just meant to be alternate universes so the writers can experiment with what they want but to think that there's a part of him that they saw to make the ideas happen…

He'd never been more grateful that the Imagination covers up lies so Janus wouldn't know the truth as to why Thomas was so upset that night, and he'd never been more ashamed of himself for being so cowardly as to run there.

He'd tried to convince himself that it was just that small minority, like Logan and Roman had said, but the thing was…it wasn't. Not really. The amount of content like that for him versus the amount for everybody else was staggering. Even if it was just as small as making him the one that needed to change his mind so everyone could get their happy ending, it was—well, it started to weigh on him. More and more and more with each time he had a look at what the fans were doing, and after a while, well…

Maybe Logan was onto something when he said it was Patton's fault Remus had managed to worm his way so close to Thomas so quickly. He knows, somewhere, that chastising himself for having such a strong reaction to that sort of content isn't going to be productive—quite the opposite, in fact—but he can't stop. What sort of horrible person reacts so badly to being told they need to change?

Well. That's enough of that. He needs to change, so he's going to.

For everyone else's sake.

"Hey, Logan?"

Logan looks up from his notebook to see Virgil and Roman standing in front of him. "Yes?"

"Have you noticed something's up with Patton?"

He frowns. "Not particularly. Is there something the matter?"

Roman sighs, sitting down on the couch. "That's the thing. He won't talk to us—he won't even be in the same room alone with us if he can help it, and I don't know if we did something wrong that he's not telling us about or if there's something going on with him that he's trying to keep a secret."

Logan sighs, closing his notebook and tossing it onto the coffee table to steeple his fingers together. "Well, when did we first notice it?"

"Uh, a couple weeks ago?" Virgil scratches the back of his head. "I tried to ask him how he was doing—you know, since Thomas had that one late night where all of us were really on edge for some reason, just because we didn't really see much of him and then he wasn't talking to us."

"That's right," Roman adds, "and then he wouldn't—he wasn't—I tried to ask him what was going on and he just smiled at me and thanked me for asking."

"Wait, he didn't answer?"

"No! Not really."

"That is bizarre." Logan drums his fingers on his leg. "And we're certain there isn't something obvious we're overlooking? There's not a deadline coming up—well, no, I know for a fact there isn't, not where Thomas is concerned, nor are we near the anniversary of something happening that would make him upset."

"I don't think we did anything either. We've not really had any big fights or blowouts since…" Virgil trails off and he doesn't need to finish the sentence. "And I'm pretty sure it's not really related to that."

"How have we determined that?"

"Well, it's not really how Patton likes to deal with things. He's all about talking things through, remember? Especially when it comes to stuff that doesn't have to do with Thomas." He shudders. "There's only so much reassuring bonding time I can take before I really start to lose my shit."

If they all glance around, half-expecting and half-hoping for Patton to pop out with his signature 'language,' then that's for them to know and them alone.

"I don't know what to do," Roman confesses quietly, "he's been so distant, it's hard to talk to him about anything that isn't food or what we're doing later today."

"I can see if—" Logan doesn't get to finish what he was saying when Remus suddenly appears over the couch and falls squarely on top of Roman— "Remus!"

"Ack! Get off me!"

Remus plants a big, wet kiss on Roman's squawking forehead and rolls onto the coffee table, legs kicked up behind him and hands under his chin. "What're we gossiping about?"

"We aren't gossiping, Remus, we're just talking."

"You're talking about one of us, so spill! I want all the teeth!"

Virgil rolls his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. "The expression is 'tea,' Remus, not 'teeth.'"

"But tea is boring. Janny drinks it and acts like he's the most pretentious snake-bastard on the planet. I was the teeth, that sounds much more fun."

"I don't have any teeth to give you," Roman grumbles, "and even if I did, I wouldn't, because that hurt."

"Aww, is Roro getting soft?"

"I'll show you soft—"

"Boys," Janus announces, striding from the shadows as though he's been there the whole time, "let's keep the roughhousing to a minimum for today, shall we? I'm not in the mood to tiptoe around shards of glass right now."

Remus cackles, Roman grumbles, and Virgil tilts his head back as though asking the heavens to give him patience.

"Janus," Logan greets, "have you noticed anything strange about Patton's behavior recently?"

"If by 'strange,' you mean 'worrying patterns that speak to an imminent mental breakdown,' then yes, Logan, I've noticed a few strange things."

That gets everyone to stare at him quite quickly. He raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on, certainly you've noticed it as well?"

"We have, that's why we were talking about it before someone decided to appear right on top of Roman."

"I didn't appear right on top of Roro, I appeared above him so I could fall on top of him!"

"Semantics." Logan waves his hand. "Janus, continue."

Janus sighs, glancing around, before beginning to fiddle with the ends of his gloves. "I don't know what started it, but I do know that Patton's been…having a rough time recently. He's been acting as though we're about to pull the rug out from under him the moment he commits some sort of grave offense."

"But why? What did we do?"

"I don't know. That's the part I haven't figured out yet."

"It started that one night—"

"Where he was in the Imagination, yes, I know."

Remus sits up, a look of actual sobriety flickering through the common mania. "Pat-Pat was in the Imagination that night? What was he doing?"

"If I knew, don't you think I would tell you?"

"No."

"Probably not."

"Doesn't really seem that likely."

Janus holds a hand to his chest, the perfect image of a scandalized maiden until Virgil smacks his arm. "Rude."

"So—we think Patton maybe saw something in the Imagination that threw him off? Why wouldn't he tell us, then?"

"He wouldn't be able to get into Remus's side through those big common doors in the hallway, and it's not like he would know if he—"

"Yeah, I'd be able to tell."

"—right, but I don't know what it could be on my side that would make him so upset."

"Maybe we're thinking about this wrong," Logan says suddenly, "maybe Patton being in the Imagination isn't the cause, but the consequence."

"What, you think something happened that made him go into the Imagination?"

"It's possible."

"Like what? What does the Imagination do that would've made it the place he'd go? The rest of us need Princey or Remus to make anything happen in there that isn't, like, summoning a bowl of Butterfingers."

"Maybe he just really wanted some Butterfingers?"

"Nah."

"Lies," Janus says softly.

"Huh?"

"The Imagination covers up lies. It's all lies, really, which means that—"

"That you can't hear what's going on in there," Roman finishes, his eyes widening, "so if Patton went in there on that night, then…"

He doesn't get a chance to finish that thought, because he spots Patton standing at the top of the stairs, his eyes wide and his mouth trembling.

"Wait, Padre, we didn't—"

Patton turns around and bolts.

"Patton," Logan coaxes gently from the other side of the door, "Patton, please, come and talk to us."

Patton shakes his head, even though he knows Logan can't see it, burying himself deeper into the blankets. This has all gone wrong. Everything is wrong. He has no idea when they started realizing how awful he is, but the last thing he wants to do right now is give them any excuse to confirm their suspicions.

"It's getting worse," he hears Janus murmur, "the lies are—they're getting really bad."

"Patton, please." Logan's getting desperate, he can hear it. "Please, just—just let us explain? We're not here to hurt you, we aren't mad, we're just worried, please."

He can't. He can't because as soon as he tells them what's going on, as soon as they make him tell them what's going on, he knows they'll be angry so quickly it'll be like they've always been angry at him. And he can't have them be angry, not right now, not while he's so weak that just the thought of having to be in the same room as them while they're angry with him is enough to make him muffle a sob into his pillows.

He thought he'd been doing well. He hasn't been overhearing, he hasn't bothered Roman about his work or personal projects in ages, he hasn't tried to walk all over Virgil and force him out of his comfort zone, he hasn't even distracted Logan from the important things that he's doing. He'd thought—he thought he was doing better. He thought he was changing in a way that made sense, that was better. He thought—he thought—

It doesn't matter what he thought.

He can hear the voices from behind the door. He doesn't want to try and listen in to hear what they're saying. He doesn't want to hear about how they're trying to figure out—he doesn't even want to think about it. He wants to push all this down and have it never have happened so he can just go out there and figure out what he needs to do to make himself better.

Then there's a very soft pop of someone appearing in his room and he has no idea how that's possible.

"Perks of the job," Remus says quietly, the bed dipping as he sits on the edge, "Intrusive Thoughts and all that. Means I can go places that the others can't sometimes."

Patton goes still. Well, he tries to go still. What he really does is lie there with the hitching sobs making him tremble every few seconds until he can feel the whole mattress shake with how quiet he's trying to be.

"Oh, Pat-Pat," he hears Remus mumble before a hand pats around the top of the blankets to find his head, "what happened?"

"S-sorry."

"Don't be sorry, it's okay. We just want to help."

Patton shakes his head, trying to burrow deeper, but that just lets Remus know exactly where his head is, which means that he gets about two seconds of warning before his blanket huddle is being moved apart piece by piece, layer by layer, until Remus is lifting up the last one and peering inside.

"Hey," he says, voice remarkably soft, "what's going on, Pat-Pat?"

He swallows painfully. Why is his throat so sore?

"You don't have to worry about being coherent or anything like that," Remus says when he doesn't say anything for a long moment, "just…get it out. I'll listen."

And just like that, out it comes. The whole messy, unforgiving story. Remus doesn't say a thing, not until Patton's sobbing and pleading for a forgiveness he's not sure he deserves, not until the door starts to bang again with how many lies Janus can hear and how Remus was supposed to make it better, not worse, and then Remus is saying his name softly and tenderly and there are hands cupping his cheeks and—

"C'mere," Remus whispers, hauling him up out of the blankets and into his arms, "there, here, here we go…it's okay, Pat-Pat, it's gonna be okay. You're okay. You're gonna be okay. You don't have to worry about any of that anymore, you're gonna be just fine."

"Remus—Re, can we come in? Please? I think Virgil's about to break the door down."

"Get in here."

The rest of them pour in, something Patton only registers because there are suddenly more arms around him, more voices murmuring soft things, more hands rearranging blankets and pillows until he's sobbing into Remus out of more than just fear.

"Hey, hey, it's okay, Padre." That's Roman carding his hand through his hair. "We're right here. We aren't going anywhere."

"Just relax." That's Logan, making him lean back so he can breathe a little easier. "Just try and rest, we won't leave—we can figure everything out later, alright?"

"No more lies," Janus whispers as he settles a pillow to Patton's left, "you need to let us help you, sweetie. We're here for you, you have to let us be."

"Alright, all of you shut the fuck up." Virgil, that's his wonderful Virgil. "We're not gonna overwhelm him any more than we already have. So let him cry this out and sleep a little and you all can fight for who gets to cuddle him first."

This…this no one else gets to see. No one gets to see how happily they all squeeze onto Patton's too-small bed that the twins make bigger so everyone can get comfortable. No one gets to see how tenderly Remus wipes the tears and spit from Patton's chin as Roman takes his glasses and puts them carefully on the nightstand. No one gets to see Virgil, Janus, and Logan adjusting blankets and pillows until Patton's so dazed with sleep that it's a struggle to keep his eyes open.

And he thinks that maybe…maybe this part doesn't have to change. Maybe he's not beyond forgiveness after all.

Maybe he's forgotten that his kiddos love him as fiercely as he loves them.

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[confessionsofcalling]

We are the disruptive disciples. We are the ones who make noise, who ask questions. We are doubting Thomas and denying then devoted Peter and the mess in between.

We are the followers who are not content with sitting still. We are rebels and runaway ready to live our faith not just play-act it. We have a fire burning within us for revival and we are willing to put the work in to realise that.

We are the children who gurgle and babble in church, we are the autistic believers swimming without shame during the sermon. We are the brokenhearted who are still showing up.

There is something so profoundly special about the idea that the church is most authentic when it viewed through our lense. We are the disruptive disciples because we are challenging the status quo, the insitualaised church and making congregational life more like Jesus.

I can't imagine Jesus speaking in market square was quiet and subdued. I don't imagine he shyed away from people who use corse language or aren't quite sure when not to interrupt. He didn't find Zacheus up in the tree and say - you're causing trouble - but invited him to eat. Weird and wacky and wonderful would have described the crowds gathered round the Son of God. Where did we lose our way and start pushing away anyone who disrupts the picture perfect middle class church?

When did we decide that we didn't belong in the body of Christmas that our sharp corners and messy lines weren't welcomed with open arms, that our concerns didn't deserve a place at the foot of the cross?

We are the disruptive disciples. The ones who know that detours in the liturgy and moment of laughter belong in church just as much as silence and contemplation. We are the disciples that force the accepted narratives to be addressed.

Jesus came that we may have life and have life abundantly. If you ask me, abundant life has no place for suppression and perfection, but rather is an invitation to authenticity as disciples.

Jesus did not say, come all you who are perfect and knowledgeable what to say - he said come all who are weary, and I will give you rest.

Disruptive disciples - keep being yourselves, keep making suggestions and communicating in your own way. Keep getting the church the think about getting back to the heart of God. Never let anyone change you - let you change the world.

Breathe in the Lord and dance in your unique footsteps. You are what the church needs, you are what the world needs.

I have no doubt that your faith will move mountains ♥️

- M xx

[intimacyequalsdeath]

Bubz's Slasher Fictober Day 9 : (Peach Cobbler) Autumnal Equinox

Day 9 and the start of week 2 is here! I hope you all enjoyed week 1! For week two we're going to be doing something a bit different, each week 2 fic will be seasonal themed head cannons with m3-4 slashers in each post, I hope you all enjoy what I've cooked up for this week!

Notes: Minors DNI, Canon typical anything to do with the character, movie or game.

Support Me: KO-FI

Slashers when the first nips of the cold autumnal air start nipping at their noses...

Billy Loomis:

~Billy I think really likes colder weather. It get's sort of chilly in Woodsboro I'd imagine and when the first gusts of that fresh crisp air blow in he's sorta in his element.

~Billy is totally the type that would strip off his jacket if he even had the inkling you were even somewhat cold. You will not be cold on his watch.

~Due to Ghostface and horror movies, I just think Halloween and Autumn in general would make Billy giddy with sinister joy.

~If you know about Ghostface then prepare to have a lot of alone time While Billy and Stu are off terrorizing the town.

~If you don't know about Ghostface then Billy will have a lot of inexplicable disappearances and nights where he shows up to apologize at your window at 3am.

~But if it's taking you to a pumpkin patch where Stu crashes it by smashing a pumpkin or a cute little hayride date Billy will always make it up to you with seasonal fun.

Thomas Hewitt:

~Tommy...I'm not too sure Tommy even knows what Autumn is fully.

~Hear me out, Texas doesn't usually get cold or at least as cold as some places, plus with how thick this boy is I doubt he even notices the change in seasons.

~You'll have to bring it up to him, comment on it being October or the ever so faint nip in the air and Tommy is all over it, You're into autumn festivities ? So is Tommy.

~I'm sure Tommy will wrangle up some pumpkins (Steal) from some farmer who has more then he knows what to do with anyway. Drayton will also of course bitch about the mess, but for once Tommy doesn't care, the smile on your face is worth Drayton bitching.

~The house probably won't be decorated a lot, if at all. But down in the basement in a secret spot Drayton would never look is a festive little corner where your carved pumpkins sit.

~Despite the lack of cold weather, Tommy will try to make the most out of autumn if you really want him too. He doesn't have a clue why people dress up in masks for special occasions when he wears one all year round but if you're happy, he's happy.

Michael Myers:

~I mean....He's like the unofficial reason for the season.

~I'd like to think Michael has an inner biological clock that sort of, wakes him up in a way when the air starts to chill for the year. So even before the air is fully cold he knows it's coming.

~Michael doesn't really do Halloween activities, well unless you count killing people as a Halloween activity. If you wanna do festive things that's fine with him but he is the embodiment of Halloween itself he doesn't need to carve pumpkins.

~You probably won't see Michael unless you go out and look for him, If he really trusts you you'll know the spots he frequents so look there if your really inclined.

~The closest you'll get to doing an actual date night with Michael during the season in by watching the news report on all the new Myers victims while he sits next to you on the couch.

~Maybe you can even help him by marking a map of all the people who pissed you off throughout the year....Michael just wants to talk.

[night-daily]

Angeleyes pt 2 | Thomas Shelby x fem!reader

summary: It's Thomas turn to suffer.

warnings: none I guess?

a/n: I really hope you like this 2nd part, let me know what you think!:)

pt 1

It's been almost two years since the last time Thomas saw you and the last time he was sober, everyday was harder. Everyone can see how miserable was the leader of the Peaky Blinders, the one-time intimidating leader was now a living dead with black circles under his eyes but still the people were afraid of him, what is it more dangerous than a man with a broken heart who doesn't have nothing to lose?

Of course, that's how the people saw him but his family was something else. He almost doubted if still they were his family, all of them were on your side since they heard about what he did to you, every time he showed at Polly's house whoever was there would say something hurtful to him.

The day after Thomas cheated on you, after he didn't come after you, you were supposed to go together to a family reunion at The Garrison, now he was going alone even if he misses the touch of your hand on his but he'll never admit not even to himself.

As soon as he entered The Garrison he saw all the Shelby family, Polly, Ada, Arthur, and John were there. He didn't have the chance to sit in his place when Ada spoke out loud.

“I heard a rumor from the streets Tommy, and It better not be true” Ada's voice was sharp. Thomas lights up a cigarette acting indifferent. “But seeing your wife isn't here I assume it's true,” she paused giving him time to cut her off but he remain silent “you cheated on her!” she exclaimed slamming her hands on the table but Thomas didn't flinch. “Why no one says anything?” She was frustrated, Ada have loved you since the first time she met you, you were a great friend and a kind person so of course she was furious.

“Ada, I'm mad but honestly? It isn't a surprise, Thomas always liked to screw the pretty things it was just a matter of time.” Disappointment could be read on Polly's face.

“Why are you siding with her anyways? She's not family. Not anymore.” Thomas scoffed, breaking his silence.

“Because you fucked up, Thomas! Don't you get it? She was the most incredible thing it would ever happen to you and you fucked up.” Ada snapped back to him and stormed out of The Garrison and Polly was behind her.

Now he was alone with his brothers, he was sure they'll support him.

“At least now I can be with any women without sneaking around” But Thomas wasn't sure he wanted to be with another women now that you aren't there, he knew it was hypocrite but like people say ''you never know what you've got till it's gone''

John wasn't sure what to say or do, you were his partner in crime. Did he wanted to mess with someone? He'll go to find you and do crazy shit together but not anymore. “Sure Tommy” He muttered not making eye contact with him.

“But no one will be like her” Arthur said and he wasn't wrong, you changed everything around you, everything was better with you.

“Fuck off, Arthur”

Thomas never had the guts to visit your house after you leave him, it was too painful to remember you. Now he was standing in front of the door part of him waiting for you to welcome him home but now there was just an empty entry. He opened the door stepping into the house, everything was in his place, the chairs, the little table and, your paintings, everything was there except for you.

He begin walking upstairs to your room, he was nervous, what would he find in there? When you leave him he sent his people to look for you but none of them or him had find you, after all, you watched carefully how Thomas ran his business so you learned how to hide from him even when you never thought you will have to do it.

He drank from the alcohol he has with him all the time, when your ghost threat to appears to make him suffer. But this time it wasn't working, he could smell your favorite perfume through the door, excitedly he entered the room and you were there. How's that possible? He couldn't care less, he missed you, he wanted to hold you and kiss you and beg for your forgiveness. He stepped closer to you, lifting his hand to touch but then you turned your face to look at him “ You’re the last person I thought would hurt me” your voice made him hard swallow. “You never came after me Thomas, why?” Your eyes were filled up with tears. “I was about to-” You cut him off laughing dryly. “Don’t you think it’s about time you drop the act?” He avoided your eyes. “You know I'll wait all the time of the world and I did it but you never came.” “ Tell me what I can do to make you forgive me. I need to know how I can fix this!” His lip begins to tremble slightly. His hand went to his jacket, grabbing his pistol “Oh no, Tommy, dead is an easy way for you.” “But I don’t like feeling whatever the hell this is!” He was screaming exasperated on his knees “It's called heartbreak Thomas, bear it” You whispered to his ear “and it's just the beginning.” He ran away from you heading to the bathroom, and then he saw your wedding ring, he still wear it but you don't, did you stopped loving him since that day? He couldn't blame you. He hated himself too. Maybe more than you do.

And you were right, this was a big house but when he was with you, it felt it too small for your hearts and your future together.

tag: @budugu , @minaxcarter

[im-his-druidess]

So I just read ur blog abt Rz Michael X reader on their period, and I was just wondering like... do you think he'd wipe the blood off his pp or leave it there? 💀 You can add other slashers to this topic if you want, just something that was on my mind lmaooo.

His "pp" 😂💀😭 I'm sorry that word is just so funny to me

I'm gonna add all the Slashers because why not 🤷🏼‍♀️

Bo Sinclair

Wouldn't care. Would leave it on and probably tease you the entire time. Calling you messy, but he would totally be into it. I just know he has a blood kink.

Vincent Sinclair

Wouldn't really care either way, but would make a point to clean up afterwards just because he knows you might not like the sight. Has definitely painted what you both look like covered in your blood and he is a little freak so I wouldn't doubt him using real blood for that picture.

Michael Myers

Wouldn't care in the slightest. Would honestly keep it there for as long as possible but you scold him into cleaning up. You usually have to force him into showers anyways so it's nothing new. Sometimes he'll surprise you and roughly wipe you both clean with your discarded pajamas before collapsing on you to sleep.

Thomas Hewitt

Would only clean up because you want him to. If it was up to him he would just leave it. He doesn't care about the mess and is usually covered in blood anyways, but will try to be tidy since it's a "delicate" situation.

Otis Driftwood

Keeps it because he's a dirty bitch and would mock and tease you the entire time you are menstruating. Would only clean up when you bring up the complications that could pop up due to poor hygiene. He has a blood kink for sure and doesn't care in the slightest about any mess. Probably likes it that way more often than not.

Luigi Largo

Definitely cleans up almost immediately afterwards. Would even clean you up, too. Although he can be a bit rough about it. He likes things clean and neat so he's usually always on "clean up duty". Probably another way he can show some affection without feeling too vulnerable.

Norman Nordstrom

You two clean up together afterwards almost everytime. He can't see what he doing (obviously) so it usually falls to you to clean up specific areas, but he would make it up by being very sweet and tender with you the entire time.

Brahms Heelshire

Getting him to do anything after sex, even cleaning himself up, is a herculean task, but you can usually lure him into the shower with the promise of pampering him. Would eventually force you into the shower with him.

Jason Voorhees

Doesn't care about it, but will still wash you both up because you ask him and he can never deny you. He's a bit heavy-handed, but he tries his best. Usually has to follow your lead since most of the time he'll just stare.