#ts venture

[slavhew]

weather was miserable so i made them miserable. ft lecture doodles.

[tangerinetrees]

Hello! So sorry to bug you out of nowhere, but you added something really cool from the legal realm to a chain of custody post so I was wondering on your take on whether Harvey Dent could practice law in Gotham (even if he did get disbarred for criminal activities)?

hello! tysm for asking about harvey bc he’s very dear to me!! i do want to specify first that my legal knowledge is mostly limited to like a) criticizing the justice system in the us, and b) pretty vague in terms of the nuances to new jersey’s state system bc i don’t live there, so this is 80% headcanon and 20% personal research. also warning this got kinda long

like for one, regarding the state legal system, apparently jersey has “county prosecutors” (equivalent to new york’s district attorneys) who are appointed by the state attorney general instead of being elected. given it’s pretty much a staple for gotham to have a DA, we’re already throwing real world examples out the window

harvey getting disbarred is a really interesting point to me (<- intense focus on minutiae in world building), given that it’s already established in universe that gotham’s system is corrupt - which should include everyone from police to judges to prosecutors to prisons. which is kinda funny since most comics and adaptations don’t take the level of corruption inherent to police+prosecutors to nearly the depths they reach irl in the usa? and irl they rarely get disciplined or disbarred? i digress. because of the highly public nature of harvey / two face going on a revenge spree against gotham’s mob families, starting his own crime syndicate, and his arrest being published in the media, i think it’s safe to say he was disbarred.

while i’m not sure of how disbarment works as a process, i can imagine the NJ supreme court conducting an investigation into harvey’s crimes and run as DA to decide whether or not to disbar him - and all of the cops/ADAs/politicians/judges he pissed off while trying to reform gotham giving support for his disbarment. not to mention the actual criminal case that would be filed against harvey. disbarment in jersey is permanent (although apparently this might be changing recently?), so realistically, harvey can’t ever be reinstated. man crashed and killed his career so he could kill the maronis. which kind of explains harvey’s hopelessness about rebuilding his life

i mean mostly we see harvey offering legal advice, or sometimes just ‘holding court’ as a way for harv and twos to argue with each other. theoretically harvey could choose to represent himself in court. but even if they finish serving a sentence and try to build a non-crimey life, harvey’s disbarment would be his biggest obstacle to practicing law again. maybe given how convoluted gotham’s legal system is, ex con harvey would be allowed to practice in some but not all courts? like civil court and family court is fine, but as for criminal court... harvey can help with your divorce but he can’t defend you for committing robbery lmao

but honestly my preferred take is that two face and harvey have separate licenses. there was a scene in i think btas where they had a credit card with two face listed as the name, and in one of his runs with red hood he mentions their drivers license being out of date. so really i just think it would be hilarious if two face was not disbarred, or if he passed the bar as part of a rehab program (and i can definitely see a wayne sponsored convict higher education program existing in gotham)

(and relatedly, harvey and the other rogues being sentenced to arkham over and over again has fascinating implications? since traditionally it’s not a correctional facility the way a prison like blackgate is, not really. which would insinuate that despite being hella corrupt, gotham’s DAs don’t typically push for death penalty (illegal in NJ since 2007 btw) or even for life in prison, depending on the case. who knows? maybe harvey’s reform policies have kickstarted a lineage of more progressive DAs. well. unless arkham is being used as a jail+hospital for ppl with health needs, and that sentenced inmates are awaiting trial, bc then that would be more fucked up..)

anyway! sorry for this very long response lol, harvey and two face are my boys, and i could go on all night about them. tldr, whether or not harvey can practice law depends on 1) how closely you want adhere to jersey law, 2) whether he’s currently an escapee/avoiding arkham or an ex-con, and 3) how funny it is at the moment. there was a post floating around about how a reformed dent storyline should be harvey as a pro bono civil defense lawyer and two face as a personal injury lawyer which to me is the ideal state of things lol

[milfygerard]

the best thing about having an mcr icon and url is that i can share my taylor swift opinions and genuinely no one except for my handful of beloved mutuals will see them or care.

[biomic]

The Magna Defender's debut turned 25 today so I went back and watched the episode. I always found it funny that Leo was dumbstruck by how similar the sword wielding Magna Defender's fighting style was to his brother Mike, a famously non sword using man.

What makes it even funnier is that in the Gingaman version, the footage used of Ryouma noticing Bull Black's style was about him being astounded that it was nothing like his brother's.

two days late to this one but man... where does the time go...

lost galaxy's allowed to be a bit stupid because this arc changed the course of my life forever

[benzglen11]

Single shot

[lunar-years]

Why did Taylor Swift have to partner with Capitol One of all places. girl I cannot be basing important financial decisions like applying to CREDIT CARDS around getting eras tour tickets bfr 😭

[coffeeshades]

credits to the gif maker!

GUILTY AS SIN...? - PART II

summary: one summer with the man you can't have, but can't stop thinking about.

pairing: cillian murphy x popstar!reader

word count: 9.1k

warnings: 18+ (minors dni). explicit sex. angst. cussing, slight age gap, mentions of alcohol and divorce. no use of y/n, heavily inspired by ts and ttpd. if i missed something please let me know. (also this is a work of fiction, none of it reflects how i feel about the people mentioned in this, most importantly cillian's wife, who im sure is a sweetheart irl. it's fiction, just relax and enjoy it, and if not, move along, friends.)

a/n: hi everyone! here's the second part, finally. i had lots of fun writing this one, happy reading <3

part one

After staying at Cillian's for awhile, you decided to go to the place you had rented. The truth is, you didn't want to leave, but you had already extended your stay longer than planned, and you wanted to give him space with his kids. And you also wanted to give him time to process the event that took place four nights ago in his bathroom. Or you wanted to give yourself time to process it.

At this point, you weren't sure who needed the space more.

It was all very confusing because, yes, you've had feelings for him for God knows how long, but you've squashed them down like a stubborn bug for the sake of your friendship and, most importantly, his family. Those two things were always at the forefront of your mind, guiding every action and decision. But now that his family is no longer a factor and the two of you almost crossed a line, it's hard to ignore those feelings.

Those feelings that crawl up your spine every time he smiles at you or brushes against your hand accidentally. Those feelings also make you feel like the worst person in the world, as if you're betraying his ex-wife and their children by even entertaining the idea of something more with him.

It's all so delicate.

The cottage is nestled between rolling green hills and the glimmering blue of a distant sea. The place is like a warm embrace. The floors are laid with wide, honey-colored wooden planks, their surface worn smooth by generations of footsteps. Exposed wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, their rich, dark wood adding a sense of history and sturdiness to the space. The walls are painted in a soft, creamy white. The master bedroom is a haven of tranquility, with white linen curtains billowing softly in the breeze from the open window. The bed, with its wrought iron frame, is piled high with quilts and pillows in soft shades of blue and green. It's the best sleep you've had in months.

It rained earlier today. You've stayed inside all day, not wanting to venture out into the wet weather. The gentle pitter-patter of raindrops against the window was a soothing backdrop to your day, but it stopped around mid-afternoon, leaving behind a fresh, clean scent in the air.

Now you’re sitting at the rustic wooden table beneath the pergola, one leg tucked under you, grapevines overhead casting dappled shadows on the weathered wood. The garden around you is alive with color—wildflowers in every shade imaginable sway gently in the soft breeze, and the lavender and rosemary release their fragrant scent into the air.

Bon Iver’s voice drifts softly from your phone, which lies next to your notepad on the table. The music is haunting, its melancholy tones matching the weight in your chest. You’ve been here for hours, or maybe it’s only been minutes—time seems to blur together lately.

The notepad lies open beside you, filled with half-written lyrics, fragments of thoughts and emotions that you can’t quite bring yourself to finish. The pages are messy, scribbled lines crossed out, some words barely legible, as if your hand couldn’t keep up with the rush of thoughts.

You’ve been chasing this dream for so long—touring, recording, performing in front of thousands of people—but somewhere along the way, you’ve lost sight of why you started. The music that once brought you so much joy now feels like a burden; the words that once flowed effortlessly are now tangled up in doubt and frustration. The applause, the fame, the success—it’s all there, but it feels hollow. It feels lonely.

The sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the water, but you’re too tired to move. You prop one leg up the chair and rest your chin on your hand. You focus on the water, trying to find some solace in its steady flow. But all you can feel is a deep, gnawing sense of unfulfillment, a yearning for something you can’t even name.

How pathetic.

You’re tired, so tired, and the dream that once seemed so bright now feels like a chore.

The door creaks open behind you, and you catch the faint sound of footsteps on the stone path. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him. Cillian moves with a certain quietness, a soft presence that you’ve come to recognize. The footsteps grow closer until they stop just to your left.

"You should lock your door," he says, his voice low, carrying a hint of amusement but also concern.

You let out a small, tired laugh, not bothering to look up. "Didn’t think anyone would come by," you reply, your gaze still fixed on the stream; its gentle flow is the only thing that seems to make sense right now.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just stands there, his shadow blending with yours. Then he pulls out the chair next to you, the wood scraping softly against the stone, and sits down. You can feel his eyes on you, but he doesn’t press, just lets the silence settle around you both.

You hear him shift beside you, and from the corner of your eye, you see him glance down at the notepad on the table. His gaze lingers on the unfinished words, but he doesn’t say anything about them. Instead, he just leans back in his chair, looking out at the water with you.

After what feels like an eternity, he finally speaks, his voice softer, almost reflective. "I know that look. The one that says you’re miles away, stuck in your own head."

You don't respond, knowing that he understands you more than most people. The music on your phone shifts to another Bon Iver song, this time Beach Baby.

He continues. "You know, sometimes I think about all of it—this life, the fame, the roles I play. It’s bizarre, isn’t it? I spend so much time being someone else, living in someone else’s skin, that it’s easy to forget who I am when the cameras stop rolling."

His words hang in the air, and you turn your head slightly to look at him. His expression is thoughtful, his blue eyes distant, like he’s lost in his own memories. "It’s like… sometimes, I feel more like myself when I’m acting, when I’m being someone else. That's what made me fall in love with it in the first place. I just loved being somebody else. It’s easier, somehow. But then there are those moments, when the lights go out, and I’m just… me. And that’s when the loneliness creeps in."

You nod, understanding more than you’d like to admit. "It’s the same with music, I guess," you say quietly. "There’s this rush, this high, when you’re on stage, when everyone’s looking at you and you’re giving them everything you’ve got. But then it’s over, and you’re left with the silence, the emptiness. It’s like… who am I when it stops?"

He looks at you then, really looks at you, and you can see the shared understanding in his eyes. It’s a strange comfort knowing that someone else gets it, that you’re not alone in this feeling of being lost.

You take a deep breath, the weight of the words you’ve been holding back suddenly becomes too heavy to keep inside. "I guess that's why I'm here. To escape. To escape the pressure, the expectations and…just be," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "Everything is a performance. Everything. When we're out in the world, we're expected to act a certain way, to fit into a mold. We have to edit ourselves. As honest as we try to be, there's always a part of us that remains hidden. And it's exhausting."

Cillian nods, his gaze never leaving yours. "And when you’re alone, you can let go of that and let your mind just be still," he says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s thought about this a lot. "It’s quite peaceful, isn’t it? But it’s also… terrifying. Being alone with your thoughts, with no distractions, no one to perform for. It’s like staring into a void sometimes."

You swallow hard, the truth of his words hitting you square in the chest. "Yeah, it is. But it’s also when I feel the most myself. When it’s just me, and I don’t have to be anything for anyone. Just… here, in the quiet, letting my mind rest."

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The garden around you is alive with the soft sounds of nature—the rustling of leaves, the gentle murmur of the stream, the distant call of a bird. Bon Iver’s music still plays from your phone—Holocene.

You break the silence. "Sometimes I think about it. I think about letting go of it." It's a terrifying thought but also strangely liberating. You don't know what it means completely yet, but just saying it out loud brings relief. Cillian just looks at you, his eyes reflecting understanding and empathy.

It was so easy, existing with him.

In this moment, you feel a little less lost, a little more understood. And as the sun dips lower in the sky, a mix of orange and pink hues, you realize that maybe, just maybe, you’re not as alone as you thought.

The next day dawns softer, brighter. You wake up with a sense of calm that had been missing for a while. There’s a lingering warmth from yesterday, the conversation with Cillian still playing in the back of your mind. As you sat at the same wooden table this morning, you found yourself scribbling lyrics that flowed easier, more naturally. They’re different—slower, more deliberate. There’s a depth to them that feels right, as if you’re finally tapping into something real, something honest.

Last night had ended quietly. After that heavy talk in the garden, Cillian stayed for dinner. The two of you kept the conversation light, avoiding the unspoken tension. It was there, hovering between you, but neither of you brought it up. Instead, you talked about mundane things and watched Punch-Drunk Love in the quaint living room. He pointed out every little detail he liked in it, and you listened, soaking in the emotion in his voice.

When the movie ended, he promised to see you the next day, and you reassured him it was fine, that you understood his absence. You meant it, even though a part of you always ached for more of his presence.

Today, with that newfound energy, you decided to venture out. An early morning walk turned into a drive to the nearby town. You pulled on a cap and sunglasses—a funny and somewhat ineffective disguise, but it was something. The town was charming, with narrow cobblestone streets, quaint shops, and a relaxed pace. Most people didn’t give you a second glance, and for that you were grateful. It was nice to blend in, to be just another person out enjoying the day.

You wandered through the market, admired the local crafts, and even picked up a few things—a handmade bracelet, a small painting of the Irish countryside. Lunch was at a cozy little café, tucked away from the main street. You ordered a hearty bowl of seafood chowder, rich and warming, with fresh bread on the side. As you sat there savoring the meal, your phone buzzed. It was Cillian, asking if you wanted to grab drinks tonight. You hesitated, your mind running through a dozen reasons to say no, but in the end, you agreed. You wanted to see him again, even if you couldn’t quite admit how much.

Back at the cottage, you took your time getting ready. You set the atmosphere, lighting a few candles, playing some soft music in the background. It felt good to take care of yourself and put a little effort into how you looked. You chose a pair of jeans that fit just right, a black top, and your favorite leather jacket. Casual but confident. A swipe of red lipstick added a touch of boldness.

You didn’t know where the night would take you, but you felt ready.

Cillian arrived right on time, his car rolling up the gravel drive just as you slipped on your jacket. When you stepped outside, he was already out of the car, leaning casually against the door. He smiled when he saw you—a warm, genuine smile that made your heart skip a beat.

“Ready?” he asked, his eyes flicking over your outfit with an appreciative glance.

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, a hint of nerves bubbling up but quickly pushed aside.

The drive to the pub was easy, the conversation flowing effortlessly. You talked about your day, the town, the little things you’d picked up. He told you about his new movie coming out later this year, based on a novella set in the mid-1980s in a small Irish village. There was a comfort in the exchange, in the way your words mingled with the sound of the tires on the road.

When he pulled up outside the pub, you couldn’t help but grin at the sight. It was a small, unassuming place, the kind of spot that felt like a well-kept secret. The sign above the door was weathered, the windows glowing warmly from the inside. It looked cozy, inviting.

“Do I need to bring out my disguise?” you asked, amused, as you glanced at him.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No, you’re safe here. No one’s going to bother us. I’ve been coming here for years. They don't give a shit about me.”

He was right. The pub was perfect—dimly lit, with a mix of old and new music playing in the background. The crowd was relaxed, more interested in their conversations than in who might be sitting at the next table. You found two empty stools at the bar and settled in.

Close to the drinks. Perfect.

You ordered beers—the kind that tasted awful but somehow fit the atmosphere. Cillian took a sip of his beer, and the reaction was immediate. He groaned, his head falling back as if in defeat, eyes closed as he savored—or perhaps endured—the taste. The dim light from the pub’s old-fashioned fixtures cast a warm glow on his face, highlighting the sharp angles of his jawline and the shadow of stubble that had begun to form. His lips, still wet from the beer, parted in a wry smile that spoke volumes of his disdain for the drink. His brow furrowed slightly as he kept his eyes closed, letting out a deep, exaggerated sigh as if the beer was the worst thing he’d ever tasted.

It was a dramatic performance, and you couldn’t help but laugh at how absurdly handsome he looked even in that moment. There was something endearing about it—the way he could make something so ordinary seem so intense. His dark hair, slightly tousled, fell over his forehead, and you found yourself staring longer than you meant to.

“Bloody hell, that’s awful,” he muttered, finally opening his eyes and giving you a side glance. His blue eyes sparkled with trouble, the corners crinkling as he caught the expression on your face. “You should’ve seen yourself, though. Looked like you were trying to swallow glass.”

You rolled your eyes, unable to stop the smile tugging at your lips. “Oh, please. You looked like you were about to keel over from one sip,” you shot back, sarcasm lacing your voice.

He chuckled, the sound low and rich, and the amusement in his eyes deepened. “Can’t argue with that,” he admitted, taking another sip with a grimace. “Piss beer, this is. I’d almost prefer water.”

“Almost,” you teased, lifting your glass to take another drink. The foam clung to the rim as you sipped, and you made a point to keep your expression neutral, though you could feel the bitterness spreading across your tongue.

Cillian leaned in a bit closer, his Irish accent growing thicker with each drink. “But then, what would we have to complain about, eh? I think the shite beer is half the charm of this place.” His voice was smoother, more relaxed, and you noticed the way his words seemed to roll off his tongue, rich with the lilting cadence of his heritage. It was endearing, undeniably so, and you found it increasingly hard to focus on anything else.

“Is that what they call charm here? I must’ve missed the memo,” you quipped, smirking as you met his gaze. The clever back-and-forth felt natural, easy, and it warmed you more than the alcohol ever could.

“You’re lucky I’m here to explain it to ya,” he said, leaning in just a bit more, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Otherwise, you might’ve gone your whole life without knowing the joys of terrible Irish beer.”

“Oh, I’m so grateful,” you shot back, sarcasm dripping from your words, but your smile gave you away. “I’ll add it to the list of things you’ve taught me.”

He grinned, clearly enjoying the banter, and you noticed how close he had gotten. His arm was now resting casually on the back of your seat, and every so often, your knees would brush, those accidental touches sending a small, electric thrill through you. The pub’s atmosphere, once filled with distant conversations and the clinking of glasses, now seemed to narrow down to just the two of you. The world outside the booth blurred away, and all that was left was Cillian’s presence, the sound of his voice, and the faint, intoxicating scent of him that mixed with the pub’s woody, earthy aroma.

The more you drank, the closer you both seemed to get, each sip loosening the barriers that had been in place. His laughter grew louder, more infectious, and his accent, more pronounced with every word, sent a shiver down your spine. It was more than just the alcohol—there was an ease between you that you hadn’t felt before, a sense of connection that went beyond the usual playful exchanges.

“Y’know,” he said, his voice dropping to a husky whisper as he leaned in even closer. “I think I’m starting to like this beer.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a smirk, feeling a little more brave. “Is that so? Or is it just the company?”

He chuckled, his breath warm against your ear as he replied, “Maybe a bit of both.”

A familiar flutter stirred in your chest—the undeniable pull that you’d been trying to ignore for days. But tonight, in this pub, with its terrible beer and terrible lighting, you decided you didn’t want to fight it anymore. Not here, not with him.

You moved on to something stronger, whiskey that burned going down but left a warmth spreading through your chest that felt as intoxicating as the alcohol itself. With each sip, the edges of your nerves smoothed out, and you felt looser, braver, and a little sexier. You sat on the bar stool with your body angled slightly toward Cillian. The leather of your jacket creaked as you shifted, the red of your lipstick standing out against the dim light. You felt his gaze on you, not just looking, but really seeing you, his eyes tracing the curve of your neck down to where your top dipped, lingering just a moment longer than usual.

His look was hungry, but it wasn’t just that—it was curious, intrigued. He rested his elbow on the bar, leaning closer, his knee brushing against yours as he picked up his glass, watching you over the rim as he took a sip. The whiskey seemed to bring out the blue in his eyes, making them sharp and piercing, but there was softness there too, an openness that had grown.

“You know,” you began, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “I was just thinking about the first time we met.”

His eyebrow arched in curiosity, and he leaned in a little closer, his interest piqued. “Oh yeah? That was… what, 7 years ago? At the Globes, wasn’t it?”

You nodded, taking another sip of your drink, the liquid courage giving you the confidence to broach the subject. “Yeah, that’s right. And you… well, let’s just say you weren’t exactly my biggest fan.”

Cillian looked taken aback, a surprised smile curving his lips. “What? I don’t remember it like that.”

“Oh, come on, Cill,” you said, playfully nudging his shoulder. “You kind of hated me."

He laughed, shaking his head. “I didn’t hate you. I just… I guess I had some preconceived notions about you."

“Preconceived notions?” you asked, a teasing glint in your eyes.

He hesitated, looking almost sheepish as he ran a hand through his hair. “Honestly? I thought you were this… I don’t know, shallow, self-absorbed person. Just someone who was there for the attention, you know?”

You let out a mock gasp, placing a hand over your heart in faux offense. “I’m wounded! I can’t believe you thought that about me, really.”

He chuckled, but there was a hint of regret in his voice as he added, “But I was wrong. I figured that out pretty quickly.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, leaning in a little closer, your voice dropping to a flirtatious whisper. “When exactly did you figure that out?”

“The first time we really talked,” he said, his voice equally soft, the words carrying a weight they hadn’t before. “After I saw you in the hall, crying. I don't know. You were so real, and I realized you weren’t what I thought. Not even close.”

You raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “Wow, so I had to have a full-on breakdown just to convince you I wasn’t a shallow, self-absorbed diva? Good to know, Cill. I’ll make sure to cry more often around you.”

He laughed, bringing his fingertips to his lips, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “Not quite what I meant, but I guess it did the trick, didn’t it?”

You remembered that night vividly, how everything had seemed to spiral downward so quickly. “I was having the worst night,” you said laughing, a slight bitterness creeping into your tone as the memories resurfaced. “I’d just been dumped by the world’s biggest asshole that morning, and then there you were, tearing down everything I said with some esoteric joke.”

Cillian winced slightly, the regret more pronounced now. “Yeah… I wasn’t exactly charming, was I?”

“You were a bit of a jerk,” you admitted, but there was no malice in your words. “But you made up for it with that burger offer.”

A grin spread across his face as he remembered. “I wasn’t sure you’d say yes.”

“Well, I figured a burger with you was better than sulking alone,” you replied, smiling at the memory. “And it was. I didn’t realize it at the time, but it was exactly what I needed.”

His expression softened. “I’m glad I asked, then.”

The bartender interrupted your conversation to ask if you wanted another round, and without a second thought, you both nodded in agreement. It seemed neither of you were ready to call it a night. The place was warmer now. As you waited for your drinks, your eyes drifted to the ceiling. Neil Young's "Harvest Moon" played softly in the background, the gentle melody weaving through the low murmur of conversation.

You glanced over your shoulder and noticed that a few couples had begun to dance, swaying gently to the music. There was something so natural, so easy about it, that you couldn’t resist the urge that bubbled up inside you. Turning back to Cillian, who was taking a sip of his drink, you couldn’t help but smile. “Come on,” you said, nudging him playfully with your elbow. “Dance with me.”

Cillian raised an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of amusement and skepticism. He muttered something in reply but you couldn’t quite make it out. It only made you more determined.

“I didn’t catch that,” you teased, leaning in closer as if trying to decipher his words. “But I know what you’re going to say.”

“Oh, do you, piano woman?” he shot back, his tone light but with a challenging edge.

“Yes,” you said, grinning. “You’re going to say that you don’t dance.”

Cillian chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “You’re right about that. I don’t.”

You leaned in closer, your voice dropping to a low, persuasive tone. “I know, but you’ll indulge me anyway.”

He hesitated for a moment, his eyes searching yours as if weighing his options. Then, with a small, resigned sigh, he downed the rest of his drink in one go and set the glass back on the bar with a decisive thud. Before you could react, he grabbed your hand and stood up, pulling you along with him.

It caught you by surprise, the suddenness of it, especially considering he had just insisted he wasn’t the dancing type. As he led you toward the makeshift dance floor, he leaned in and said with a grin, “You’re lucky I like you.”

You laughed, a loud, genuine sound that felt as freeing as the night itself. “Oh, am I now?”

He smirked, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Yeah, because otherwise, there’s no way I’d be making a fool of myself like this.”

You shot back with a playful, “Well, let’s see just how much of a fool you really are, then.”

As you reached the space where others were already swaying to the music, Cillian took your hand and pulled you in close. You could feel the warmth of his body, the solidity of his frame as he moved with you, the two of you finding a rhythm that was surprisingly in sync. It wasn’t anything fancy—just simple, slow movements to match the easy tempo of the song—but it felt intimate, like you were the only two people in the room.

Cillian leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, “Did you know I'm a failed musician?”

You couldn’t help but smirk, the alcohol loosening your tongue.

“Failed, huh? So, what happened? Couldn’t hack it with the rest of us rockstars?”

He chuckled, the sound deep and rich, sending a shiver down your spine. "Something like that. I was in a band, actually."

You leaned back slightly, raising an eyebrow in mock disbelief. “You? In a band? Color me shocked.”

It was kind of hot, imagining him on stage with a guitar in hand.

"We even had a record deal and everything."

"What happened?"

Cillian’s expression softened as he spoke, his voice carrying the weight of nostalgia. “My brother was still in school at the time, and my parents basically told me I could fuck up my life if I wanted, but I couldn’t take him down with me. So, it fell through.”

As you continued to sway together, the story of his past unraveled between you, each word carrying a hint of regret mixed with fond memories. “Those were great times, though,” he continued, his eyes distant as if he were seeing it all again. “I’d be out late, drinking, playing music in small pubs, thinking we were going to make it big. It was a bit of a rush, you know?”

You could imagine him there, young and reckless, with that same intensity in his eyes that he carried now, but wilder, untamed by the years. “So music was your first love, then?” you asked, your voice soft, genuinely curious.

He nodded, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yeah, I suppose it was. I had been playing instruments since I was little. There’s something about it that just… gets into your blood. But then, acting came along."

“When exactly did you know that's what you wanted?” you asked, wanting to peel back more layers of him.

His smile turned almost bashful, as if recalling a secret he hadn’t shared in a while. “There was this guy who ran the Cork theater company—had a huge man crush on him. He was brilliant, and I ended up doing a workshop with him. After that, I just pestered him for an audition until he gave in.”

You chuckled softly at the thought of a young Cillian, determined and probably a bit of a nuisance, chasing after something he wanted so badly. “And that was it?”

“Well, there was a drama module in school when I was about 16, 17—during the transition year. That’s when I first got the bug. Ended up starring in A Clockwork Orange. It was sexy, dangerous, unlike anything I’d ever seen. I loved playing someone else, losing myself in the character.”

He paused, then flashed a self-deprecating grin. “There’s not much to look at, but if you give me a minute…"

You couldn’t help but laugh, shaking your head at his modesty. “You’re selling yourself short,” you teased, leaning in closer, your bodies moving in sync to the music. "Cill, you literally have an Oscar."

“Ah, the Oscar... just a glorified doorstop, really,” he quipped, his tone light but with that familiar undercurrent of humility.

"It's the work that matters, blah blah blah," you joked, rolling your eyes playfully. His eyes were crinkling at the corners with genuine amusement. "Exactly," he agreed, before pulling you into a twirl.

"Do you miss it? you ask, hands circling his neck as you sway. "Music, I mean."

Cillian blew out a slow breath, his eyes growing thoughtful as he considered your question. “Sometimes,” he admitted. "But life has a way of taking you where you need to be, not where you want to be.”

His words settled over you like a blanket, warm and heavy, as you mulled them over. Is this where I need to be? The question echoed in your mind, reverberating through the deeper corners of your thoughts. You weren’t sure you had an answer. You were a successful artist, living the dream so many could only imagine, but there was always that lingering sense of something missing, a quiet ache that you couldn’t quite place.

Where do I need to be?

The thought spiraled, unfurling like an endless thread, pulling at the edges of your consciousness. You started questioning everything—your choices, your path, the very essence of who you were. Those words seemed to tap into something deep inside, a reservoir of doubts and desires that you hadn’t fully acknowledged until now.

“Yeah,” you replied softly, almost like you were talking to yourself more than to him.

You rested your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped his arm around you, swaying slowly. See, this is the thing about Cillian, he had a way of making you feel seen and understood, even when you didn't fully understand yourself, even without saying a single word.

The warmth of Cillian's arm around you, the subtle way he moved—it all felt so natural, like this was where you were supposed to be. But then, the memory of four nights ago crept in—the way his breath had hitched as you said you weren't going to stop him from going further, the tension that crackled between you both like a live wire.

The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Heat flushed through your body, a dizzying sensation that made it hard to focus on anything other than the way he was looking at you. A knot formed in your throat, and you swallowed hard, trying to steady your racing pulse.

The memory was like a current running through you, making you hyper-aware of every point of contact with him. The room suddenly felt too small, too warm. Your mind was swirling with thoughts, the alcohol making you bolder, more aware of the things left unsaid.

"I can't stop thinking about what almost happened the other day."

“What almost happened?”

He let out a low, almost inaudible chuckle, his lips dangerously nuzzled in your hair. “Don’t play coy with me, love. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

You swallowed hard, trying to ignore the heat pooling in your stomach, the way your body reacted to his nearness. “I’ve tried to stop thinking about it,” he continued, his voice a hushed murmur that only you could hear, “but I can’t.”

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with unspoken desire. You wanted to let go of the restraint you’d been holding onto all night, but you were still aware of where you were, of the people around you—even if they weren’t paying you any attention. The thought of crossing that line, right here in the middle of the pub, was both thrilling and terrifying.

But Cillian, sensing your hesitation, didn’t push.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look you in the eyes, his expression serious but laced with that familiar smirk. “Wanna head out of here?” he asked, his voice low but with a note of urgency.

You didn’t need to think twice. “Yes,” you breathed, the word escaping your lips before you could stop it.

The night air hit you like a shock to the system as you stepped outside, the cool breeze carrying with it the faint scent of rain. The streets were quieter now, the lively noise of the pub fading into the background. You were drunk, the world tilting slightly with each step, and neither of you could drive.

Cillian pulled out his phone, his fingers deftly dialing the number for a cab. You watched him as he made the call, the way his jaw tensed slightly as he spoke, his voice low and calm despite the alcohol humming through his veins. There was something undeniably attractive about the way he carried himself, even in this moment of mundane practicality.

“What about your car?” you asked, your words slightly slurred but still coherent.

He glanced over at you, a small, reassuring smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’ll pick it up in the morning,” he replied smoothly, his accent curling around the words in that familiar, endearing way. “Don’t worry, love.”

The cab arrived not long after, the headlights cutting through the night as it pulled up to the curb. Cillian opened the door for you, and the two of you slid into the backseat, sitting close together but not touching. Not yet. The space between you crackled with unspoken tension, the thrill of anticipation hanging heavy in the air.

You found yourself playing with your ring-clad fingers, the cool metal a small distraction as the silence stretched out between you. The driver turned up the music a bit, and the opening chords of Inhaler’s "Dublin in Ecstasy" filled the car. The song was somehow fitting, its pulsing beat and haunting lyrics adding to the electric atmosphere.

It started to rain, the droplets tapping against the windows and turning them foggy, adding a sense of intimacy to the small, enclosed space. The outside world became a blur of lights and shadows, the city fading away as the cab sped through the streets. You could feel Cillian’s gaze on you, the weight of it almost tangible as you sat there, both of you lost in your own thoughts.

You turned to look at him, and for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. The music became more intoxicating, the beat syncing with the rapid thudding of your heart. He noticed you bopping your head slightly to the rhythm, and a small, surprised smile crossed his face.

“You know this?” he asked, his voice laced with curiosity.

You smirked, leaning back against the seat as you replied with playful confidence, “I know every song ever made, actually.”

He chuckled, a low, rich sound that sent a shiver down your spine. “Is that so? A human jukebox, then?”

“Something like that,” you teased, the conversation light but charged with something more, something neither of you could ignore any longer.

The cab’s interior felt smaller, more suffocating as you neared your destination. When you finally arrived at his place, Cillian paid the driver, and the two of you got out, raising your jackets over your heads to shield from the rain, which had grown heavier. You both ran to the entrance, your footsteps echoing in the quiet night as you giggled like teenagers, the spontaneity of it all making you feel light, carefree.

He fumbled with his keys for a moment, the sound of metal clinking against metal filling the air before he managed to unlock the door. You stepped inside, the warmth of the house a stark contrast to the chill of the rain outside. The living room was dimly lit, the only light coming from the faint glow of the night sky through the large windows. The shadows played across the walls, casting everything in a soft, almost ethereal light.

You tossed off your jacket, letting it fall to the floor, your clothes clinging to your skin from the rain. You could feel the fabric sticking to your body, the dampness making you shiver slightly, but the heat in the room—and the heat between the two of you—kept you from feeling cold. Cillian wandered off somewhere for a moment, leaving you standing there, your heart pounding in your chest as you waited, the anticipation almost unbearable.

When he returned, his eyes locked onto yours, a predatory glint in his gaze that made your breath hitch. He took a step closer, the distance between you shrinking to almost nothing as he asked, his voice low and laced with a hint of something dangerous, “What should we do now?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with suggestion, and you felt a rush of heat flood through you, your pulse quickening. You moved toward him, your steps slow and deliberate, closing the gap until you were inches away. “I’m sure you’ll think of something,” you murmured, your voice trembling slightly despite the bravado in your words.

His hand reached up, fingers brushing against your cheek before trailing down to remove a stray piece of hair stuck to your face. His touch was light, almost reverent, but it sent sparks of electricity through your skin, making you feel like you were on fire. His hand continued its path down your arm, and you followed it with your eyes, watching as his fingers traced the outline of your veins, the simple action making your breath catch in your throat.

He moved his hand up to your shoulder, his fingers ghosting over the strap of your top before slowly sliding it down, his touch leaving a trail of heat in its wake. Your skin burned under his touch, a mix of desire and something else—something that felt like shame, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. It felt too good, too right.

His hand slid up to your neck, his grip firm but not painful as he held you there, your breathing coming in short, ragged gasps. You clung to his black t-shirt, your fingers digging into the fabric as you tried to steady yourself, but the room seemed to spin around you, the intensity of the moment making you dizzy.

Cillian’s eyes bore into yours, his expression dark and filled with an unspoken promise as he whispered, his voice rough and filled with desire, “Tell me what you want.”

You wanted him—every part of him. You wanted to forget everything else, to lose yourself in this moment, to give in to the desire that had been simmering between you for days. And as his grip tightened slightly on your neck, pulling you closer until your lips were just a breath away from his, you knew there was no turning back.

"Kiss me," you whispered, your voice barely audible.

So he did. He kissed you, long and slow. His lips were soft yet urgent, and you melted into his touch. Your hands found their way to his damp hair, tangling in the strands as you deepened the kiss, savoring every moment. His breath mingled with yours, warm and laced with the faint taste of whiskey, his hands still cradling your face as if you were something fragile, something to be cherished.

But then the kiss deepened, the restraint unraveling as the need between you grew too powerful to contain. His hands slid from your face down to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. The kiss became more urgent, more demanding, as if he was trying to consume you, to lose himself in you. You responded in kind, your own hands gripping his t-shirt, pulling him closer, wanting more—needing more. The heat between you intensified, the tenderness giving way to something hotter, something that felt like it had been a long time coming.

The rain continued to patter softly against the windows, a distant sound that seemed to fade into the background as your focus narrowed to just him—to the way his hands gripped your waist, to the way his breath hitched when you bit down softly on his lower lip.

You started moving backward, the need to feel him against you overwhelming any thought of where this might be going. Your feet stumbled slightly as you both moved toward the couch, the dim light from the windows casting your entwined shadows across the floor. He guided you, his hands firm and sure, but there was a tenderness in the way he led you, as if he was still holding back, still trying to keep a grasp on the control that was slipping away.

You reached the edge of the couch, and he paused for a moment, his gaze intense as he looked at you, his chest heaving with the effort to catch his breath. “You're in control here,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, thick with the weight of the question, with the possibility of what was about to happen. "We stop whenever you want to, okay?"

Ever so polite, you thought. You answered him by pulling him down with you, your lips finding his again with a renewed urgency. The cushions gave way beneath you, the soft fabric enveloping you both as you sank into it. His body pressed against yours, the weight of him grounding you.

As the kiss deepened, became more frantic, more desperate, you could feel the tension in him—the barely restrained control he was struggling to maintain. His hands roamed over your body, landing on your jeans and slowly playing with the button, a silent request for permission.

"Don't stop now," you teased, your voice barely audible against his lips. He responded by deepening the kiss even further, his hands moving with purpose as he unbuttoned your jeans. He stopped for a moment, lowering himself to his knees in front of you, his hands taking off your shoes before sliding your jeans down your legs. He positioned himself between your legs once again, kissing you rough this time.

The couch was vast and soft underneath you as one of his hands traveled up your thigh—still not as high as you wanted it. You let out a needy moan, encouraging him. When his fingers brushed against the edge of your already wet panties, you couldn't help but arch your back in anticipation. He pushed them aside, his eyes never leaving yours. When his fingertips made contact with the wetness of your folds, he groaned too, in a way you found very satisfying.

"I've thought about this…a lot," he murmured, slipping a finger inside you, making you gasp with pleasure. "What you might sound like. What you might taste like. What you might feel like."

He pulled away from you swiftly, and you moaned at the loss. He kneeled down in front of you, his gaze intense as he leaned in to kiss your inner thigh, sending shivers down your spine. He pulled down your panties. You went stiff, suddenly aware of how exposed you were. He opened your thighs a little more, as if he wanted to see more. "I want to make you feel good," he whispered. "Let me taste you."

"Yes," you breathed out.

You couldn't stop looking at him as he pleasured you, his touch sending waves of pleasure through your body. Each flick of his tongue and gentle bite made you arch your back in ecstasy, completely lost in the moment. His hands tightened around your thighs, pulling you closer to his face. He groaned in pleasure, and you opened your thighs wider. His tongue was thorough and deliberate, exploring every inch of you with precision. Your hands grabbed the couch cushions, trying to ground yourself as you felt yourself spiraling into pure bliss. And just when you started to roll your hips, he slid two fingers inside you, hitting that perfect spot that made you gasp and moan uncontrollably.

It was too much. Pleasure consumed you as you arched your back violently against his touch and you moaned his name over and over again, letting go. You were drunk on him— his touch, his mouth, his scent—lost in the euphoria of the moment.

"Fuckin' incredible."

Well, yes, fucking incredible indeed. But not as incredible as it would feel to have him inside you completely, filling every inch of you. To reduce him to the whimpering mess he had just turned you into.

Before Cillian could do anything, you sat up and pushed him flat to the floor. You were both drunk and too eager to make it to the bedroom, so you might as well just do it right there on the living room rug.

He grunted in surprise, but his hands quickly found their way to your hips as you straddled him, pulling you closer. You removed your top, your breasts spilling out as you leaned down to capture his lips in a hungry kiss. His fingers gently tangle in your hair as you pull away from his mouth, pulling his black t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside.

He stopped breathing as you worked your way down his chest, leaving a trail of kisses and nibbles until you reached the waistband of his jeans. Your hands made quick work of the button and zipper, and you eagerly slid them down his legs, revealing his growing arousal.

When your fingers wrapped around it—fuck—his skin felt hot and smooth against your touch, his breath hitching. You positioned yourself to take him in your mouth, savoring the taste of his desire as you licked a slow, teasing path along his cock. Cillian let out a ragged moan, his hands tangling in your hair.

You lifted your eyes. He had propped himself up on his elbows, watching you with his lips parted, pupils blown.

You had him.

You took him deeper, relishing the way he arched into your mouth, his groans spurring you on. With each flick of your tongue, you could feel him losing control, surrendering to the pleasure you were giving him. "Fuck, stop," he gasped, his voice strained with need. "I need to be inside you."

“Condom?” you asked, the question hanging in the thick air between you.

“Upstairs,” he said, his voice rough, almost pleading.

You hesitated for just a second. “I don’t mind… if you don’t.”

For a moment, he froze, his blue eyes darkening as they searched yours, as if to make sure he’d heard you right. Then, with a low growl that sent shivers down your spine, he nodded.

You released him with a smirk and sat up, swung over him. You positioned yourself so that his hands were on your hips, guiding you down onto him. The anticipation was electric, every nerve in your body alive with the need to be closer to him, to feel him, completely and without anything between you.

As you sank onto him, his eyes rolled back in ecstasy, a low moan escaping from both of you. The feeling of being filled by him sent a shiver down your spine, igniting a fire between you that burned hotter with each thrust. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you matched his rhythm, lost in the intensity of the moment.

This was going to end you.

His movements became more urgent, his breath hot against your skin as he whispered your name. The room was filled with the sound of your mingled gasps and moans, a symphony of pleasure that seemed to echo off the walls. He felt so good, so right. His thrusts became more deep and harsh—you wanted even more. As if he read your mind, he sat up against the couch and kissed you deeply, his hands gripping your hips tightly.

"Bloody hell," he murmured against your lips, both his hands grabbed your face as he looked deeply into your eyes, and you circled your arms around his neck, pulling him closer and circling your hips in rhythm with his. Your breasts pressed against his chest, the heat between you both rising as your bodies moved in perfect synchronization. He was close—you were close. His hands roamed your back, your ass, and your breasts, and you threw your head back when his mouth found its way to your nipples.

"Oh fuck," you gasped, "Yes, oh—" you screamed as white-hot pleasure shot through your body, causing you both to reach the peak of ecstasy together. You felt his cock swell, filling you completely as he released with a guttural groan.

The intensity of the moment left you both breathless, bodies entwined in a tangled mess of limbs and sweat. He had leaned back to the floor, and you had gone with him. He was rubbing your back, and your face was pressed to his chest.

"You okay, love?" he asked softly, his fingers tracing soothing patterns on your skin. You hummed, feeling content and safe in his arms, basking in the afterglow of your shared pleasure.

You stayed like that for a moment, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath you, the quiet rhythm of his breathing syncing with yours. His fingers kept tracing those gentle patterns on your back, grounding you, reminding you that you were still here, still connected. The afterglow wrapped around you both, a warmth that made you feel safe, cherished. You could still feel him inside you.

“How bad would it be if we just stayed here?” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the moment. There was a part of you that didn’t want to move, didn’t want to break the spell.

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest, and you could feel the rumble against your cheek. “Well, love,” he said, his voice laced with amusement, “I’m not sure how comfortable the floor will be in about twenty minutes, but I’d say it’s worth a try if you are.”

You laughed, the sound light and free. “Fair point,” you conceded, shifting slightly to look up at him. His eyes were warm, a little teasing, but there was an underlying tenderness that made your heart skip a beat.

“Come on,” he said gently, his hands sliding down your sides as he carefully helped you up. “Let’s get cleaned up. I promise the bed is much more inviting.”

He rose to his feet, extending a hand to help you up. You accepted, your legs feeling a little shaky as you stood, still a bit lightheaded from everything that had just happened. His hands lingered on your hips, steadying you, and you couldn’t help but smile at the care in his touch.

Together, you made your way upstairs, his arm draped around your shoulders as he guided you toward his bedroom. The space was warm, cozy, with a lived-in feel that made it undeniably his. The bed was unmade, sheets rumpled, as if he’d just gotten out of it before coming to find you.

He led you to the bathroom, where the soft glow of a single light illuminated the space. He turned on the shower, testing the water temperature before gesturing for you to step inside. You did, letting the hot water cascade over you, washing away the remnants of the night, though the memory of it clung to your skin. He joined you a moment later, his hands gentle as he helped you rinse off, his touch tender, almost reverent. You stood under the water together, letting the steam envelope you both.

When you were both clean, he handed you a towel, wrapping another around his waist. He left the bathroom for a moment and returned with a t-shirt and a pair of boxers, offering them to you.

“Here,” he said with a soft smile. “This will do.”

You took the clothes, slipping them on. The fabric was soft, worn in, and it smelled like him—woodsy, with a hint of something earthy and warm. You found yourself breathing it in, the scent comforting in a way you hadn’t expected.

When you were both dressed, he led you to the bed, pulling back the covers and slipping in beside you. He held the blanket up for you, and you slid in next to him, the cool sheets a welcome contrast to the warmth of his body. He immediately pulled you close, his arm wrapping around your waist as you nestled into his side, your head resting on his chest once more.

The room was dark, but the faint light from outside filtered in through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the walls. You could hear the rain still pattering against the window, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy between you. His hand found yours under the covers, fingers intertwining as he held you close, his breath warm against your forehead. You could feel his heartbeat under your palm, steady and reassuring, and it lulled you into a state of deep relaxation.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, but you knew he heard you. You don't know for what exactly you were thanking him, but it felt like the right thing to say in that moment.

He responded with a gentle squeeze of your hand, his lips pressing a soft kiss to your hair.

You didn’t need to say anything more. The silence between you was comfortable, filled with unspoken understanding. You both knew that tonight had changed something between you, something profound and unnameable, but for now, it was enough to just be here, together.

a/n: there you have it, i hope you guys liked it!! please like, reblog and comment. i wanna hear your thoughts! and as always, thank you for the support <3

[flowerbetweenfangs]

Caged

(This is a longer one and will be put under read more. CW: There is slavery, but the reader is looking to free/dismantle the system in their own way)

You came across the caged people in the middle of the day. There were no code words or secret passages to get to the displays. It was like any other booth at the bazaar.

Most of the cages were filled with beastmen. Unlike the creatures who roamed the forest, they would walk on two legs. Some could even speak.

Lionmen, Tigerladies, Avian Sapiens, "Not Deer", Chimera, and even a few Phoenixes all stared at you as you walked. Some grabbed the bars and strained their faces to look at you. A small flicker of danced across your eyes. Maybe a spark of hope that they would be freed.

"How long has this been going on?" You asked your companion.

"What do you mean?"

"The slaves?"

"Ah. Well, my dear blue blood..." Their voice trailed off as they stared at the cages. "Surely you heard about the market for this? They're not slaves..." They wiggled their fingers, brows furrowed as they attempted to come up with an explanation. "Merely.... Indentured servants."

"Why not put an offer up on the boards in town?" You raised a skeptical brow and ventured closer to the cages.

A walking stick slapped your chest. The impact smarted. Wincing, you stepped away to rub the sore spot.

"You shouldn't question this so much." Your companion hissed next to your ear.

"How much are the contracts?" You asked. There wasn't much left in your purse, but surely you could at least free one.

"Sorry?"

"We offer a wide variety of specimens and creatures." A well dressed figure stepped out from behind one of the cages. He ran a walking stick of his own across the bars, causing many who had come forward to retreat and whimper.

"We've broken them in ahead of time," His smile made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. "So they should already be obedient."

"Broken in?" Your brows raised more. So they had beaten or tortured these creatures into compliance?

"Don't worry, little Blue Blood." The man bowed. "We would not want a client to be harmed by the merchandise. If one does harm you or run away, we will send in our own parties to capture and return them, and give you a new one."

Your companion must have seen your scheming expression. The waling stick slammed down on the top of your foot and a quick throat clear was all the warning they could offer while being discreet.

Your eyes went to the Lionman again. They'd shorn his mane. Nicks and a few notches in his ear and surrounding fur showed how gentle they'd been. Dried blood and dirt clung to his body.

Your stomach churned at the fetid stench and sight. The sign declaring his price seemed insultingly low for another life. But considering how much the sellers had damaged the "merchandise", perhaps that was why.

You put down the coins.

The merchant slid over papers. The sloppily applied seal at the bottom hinted at their legitimacy, or lack thereof. Clenching your jaw, your eyes flicked to the top of the page. The spot next to "Name" was blank.

"He's your property, so you get to call him what you want."

"I'll... Think about it."

***

When you arrived home, the newcomer's nose wrinkled, sniffing his new environment.

Setting the papers down, you waved over one of the notaries, who came over with blank pieces of papers and writing tools. While you could read and write, the palace preferred the people they paid to be the ones who crossed the Ts and dotted the Is, along with minding the Ps and Qs.

"What is your name?" You asked the creature once your companion left to the servants' quarters. Laughter and cheers erupted shortly after.

The sudden noise had the Lionman's eyes wide, what little fur he had standing on end.

"They're always off by the seventeenth mark." You explained.

His eyes remained focused on the door. A chalice fell over as his thrashing tail struck it. As red wine sloshed across the table, the notary screeched, trying to save the paper.

Fabric tore and in a golden blur, the Lionman's fist slammed down on the table in front of you.

A filthy rag was clutched in his hand. And he was wearing less clothing than before.

"Forgive me." His hand trembled as he attempted to wipe up he rest of the wine.

"It's okay." You tried to keep your tone gentle as your heart became a battering ram against your chest. He'd moved so fast. Tore off his clothes, just to keep some wine off yours.

"And what is the name of my savior?" You tried again, now that you had his attention.

"I... Do not have one."

You inhaled sharply. Perhaps releasing him back into the wild wasn't the best option, just yet.

"Well... I paid a gold piece for you. You have golden fur. And you clearly are showing you will be worth every piece." You looked to the notary.

"What's another word for gold?"

"Well, an old word for gold piece was "Aureus."" The notary explained as they spread the papers across the tables.

You turned back to the Lionman.

"Is that acceptable?"

He dropped to one knee, arm across his abdomen.

"Of course, Master."

[slavhew]

what happened?

[joesalw]

You really can't write this shit lmao...

TS's friend group consists of Miss 'idc about genocide and continue to employ a bloodthirsty zionist CEO for my makeup brand' and Cara D who's great grandfather created the Black and Tans which is a terrorist organisation that killed Irish people during the Irish War of Independence. A group that also sent their people to kill Palestinians in favor of establishing the state of Israel. Last night these 3 went to Ramy Youssef's (who Taylor probably met at the "Poor Things" premiere) comedy show in NYC and 100% of the proceeds would go to the Gaza relief fund. The thing is, Selena and Taylor are getting all the credit and praise for Ramy's activism. I've been a fan of her work for the past 10 years and her recent activities have turned me off of her completely. The turning point was that pathetic TIME interview.

I've always thought of her as this well-read individual who can masterfully express herself whether it would be public speaking or writing but I couldn't help but cringe while reading that article. She tries too hard to appeal to gen z and younger millennial crowd when she herself is practically pushing 40 atp. I feel like all of her 'intelligence' came from being around Joe Alwyn who's a notorious bookworm. The fact that she describes her Rep era as 'goth-punk' was the first strike, the 2016 hate train as a ' career death' was the 2nd and the whole patriarchy delusion she went into just hit the final nail in the coffin and I was like 'nope, not doing this shit anymore'.

I know that swifties have been comparing her to Beyonce lately saying things like 'well, Taylor writes her songs' or 'Beyonce can't read' and talking about how she doesn't give interviews so people don't know that she's dumb. And as a comparison I've found her Harper's Bazaar interview that she gave when she turned 40. And good God, I've slept on this woman for way too long. In the interview she talks about building her work ethic from an early age. The dedication of her life's decades (First decade was dedicated to dreaming, the teens were about the grind, the 20s were about building a strong foundation for her career and establishing her legacy, the 30s were about starting her family and prioritizing her own life over her career). She started her own management company at 27, in 2013 she started her charity foundation in which she helps hurricane relief, education, supporting minorities businesses, families with housing needs, water crises, pediatric health care and pandemic relief. She talks about expanding her business ventures beyond music industry, talks about setting boundaries in the world of celebrity culture, about her friends being a group of strong independent women, about the importance of mental health. She also says that she's most inspired by her parents ("My mother has always been my Queen and still is. She has always been so strong and is filled with humanity", "No matter how tired she was, she was always professional, loving, and nurturing."; "My father constantly encouraged me to write my own songs and create my own vision. He is the reason I wrote and produced at such a young age."). That woman is so well-spoken and genuine you can't help but feel warm while reading it and she doesn't feel the need of throwing unnecessary 'smart people' words to seem that way.

Reading Taylor's "Person of the Year" profile and Beyonce's 'Entering 40s' interview were completely different experiences. And as a result, one of them lost a fan and the other gained one. I wish Tree Paine would stop Taylor from giving these interviews because everytime she does, she comes across as tone-deaf, out of touch, mentally stuck overgrown teenager, try-hard bratty diva who can't stand being not the only one praised.

Anyway, I'd recommend to read the full interview and watching her new film. I've watched it yesterday and got the urge of turning my life around. That lady is truly such a light.

Taylor's friend list also includes 'Mr. and Mrs. plantation with slave cabins on the property wedding', 'a sex offender and a SA apologist as the newest addition', 'Ms. "I assaulted my own sister", ' an insecure and whiny music producer who likes to stir drama on Taylor's behalf'. And not to mention that she's dated a nazi this year and her newest flavour of the month is a fatphobic jock with a double digit iq, her father is also an avid republican voter. I think the people she surrounds herself with tell about her more than she does herself.

And concluding with two cents about Joe Alwyn. I'm glad she's out of his life. While I was a swiftie I've watched his interviews and he always came across as a very gentle, calm, well-spoken and a bit introverted man. And she's... well, her. I also think that she'd held him back in her job in regards of producers and directors not wanting their work to be overshadowed by 'Taylor's BF is in this' articles. I'm hoping he does more projects in the future or maybe dips his toes in writing and directing something because clearly he's a talented writer.

Sorry for the long rant, had to get it out of my system <3

I love reading your rants, keep it coming. they are so on point.

[noforkingclue]

In the ghost peaky blinder can it be tommy ? Im sorry you probably are tored of him but hes so dreamy

Thank you again !

Note: requests are currently closed

So I went with dark!ghost!Tommy for this. Hope you like it!

Title: Forever

Warnings: dark fic, stalking

Peaky Blinders tag list: @stylesofloki, @ohshititsfenharel, @lenaskyler02, @elenavampire21, @swordofawriter, @zablife, @cillmequick

Thomas Shelby tag list: @alreadybroken-ts, @darlingdevil, @lyrxbz, @watercolorskyy, @notyour-valentine

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

It was happening again tonight.

It didn’t happen every night.

But it becoming more and more frequent.

The dark corridors.

The chill in the air.

The ghostly touch of cold fingers trailing against your bare skin.

You swore you could see your breathe swirl in front of you as you wrapped your thin dressing gown tighter around you. You had wished you had the sense to wear slippers as you had slipped out of the safety of your warm bed in order to use the toilet. The walk back to your room wasn’t that far but somehow he made the walk down the corridor stretch an eternity.

You kept your head down as you marched towards your sanctuary. Hushed whisper fluttered around you as echoes of a time gone by whistled by. The sounds of children laughing, running footsteps muffled against carpet, hushed whispers of servants gossiping, the sound of a gunshot and the deafening silence that followed.

“You should be asleep.”

He had caught you just before you were safe, you hand grasping the door handle. He always did this, toying with you before you stepped just out of his reach. He seemed to respect that your room was only yours, a place that he was not yet permitted to venture despite the house, and everything in it, belonging to him. You grimaced and let go of it but you didn’t have the courage to turn around and face him. You had only seen his face a couple of times and yet he haunted you every day. His portrait hung in the main hall and you had to pass it every day.

“That’s where I’m going,” you said quietly, “Back to bed.”

A cold finger trailed down your spine and you jumped at the sensation. Tommy let out a dark chuckle at your action and you felt your cheeks get hot at the sound. Damn him for being so captivating. Cold lips brushed over your cheek and you jolted away, spinning around to glare at him. All Tommy did was smirk, clearly amused by your frustration and anger.

“I told you to stop that.” You spat

“You did.”

“So stop.”

“Why should I, when you clearly enjoy it so much.”

“No I don’t!”

“Hmm.”

Tommy’s smirk widened at your denial and your hand closed back around the handle of the door. You wished you had the strength to leave, to find a new place to live. However, it was convenient for you to stay here. You were working on the restoration of Arrow House and you were allowed to stay onsite while the work was taking place. If you had known that you would be tormented by a possessive and deranged ghost you never would’ve agreed to stay.

“I’m going back to bed,” you said, “Alone.”

“Such a shame.”

“What is?”

“That you should be alone.”

You gave him a disgusted look before you quickly opened the door and slammed it in his face. You closed your eyes as you rested against the door a slowly slid down to the floor. You didn’t know how much longer you could keep up with this.

“But don’t worry,” Tommy’s voice cut through the night and your eyes flew open and you found yourself looking up at him, “You won’t be alone for long.”

[selkiemoonssss]

INTRO!

Hello! My name is Selkie or Chara and I'm a UTDR artist and writer! ABOUT ME: ☆ Enby, and bisexual; I go by They/Them though I'm okay with any prns ☆ 16 years old! I picked up art a few years ago as something to do during lockdown, (around 2020-2021) and ended up really falling in love with it! (Though, picking up drawing later than most has come with downsides) ☆ I'm on Tiktok ☆ And discord (selkiemoonn) I don't mind you adding me there as long as you are respectful! I'll happily discuss anything utdr, and share some wips! let me know if I engage with problematic ppl so I can block emFANDOMS: Undertale, Deltarune, TADC! (I have more but I'm unlikely to really mention em) I also occasionally post content of other fandoms and ocs, though much less! I just enjoy what i do ABOUT ACCOUNT: * I mainly engage in utdr, though sometimes I venture out * I like art, AND writing!NOTES: I have ao3! I'm trying to work some things out before I'll post the link Publicly, BUT you can dm me for the link! * I love comments and asks! Never be afraid to send me anything, fanfic links, art, my opinions, etc! I'm just chilling * though my main interests are utdr, I often get mini interests in certain aus, rn I'm in love either ts!underswap and forgettable * Favourite colors are yellow and blue! * Favourite characters are Sans(my beloved) papyrus, alphys, and toriel! * Sans and Alphys friendship stuff my beloved * Feel free to request ship art, but I will NOT draw anything problematic. (Ykwim) FEATURED TAGS: #my art - My art! #artclub - Art that isn't mine #Yapping - my yaps, including writing stuff

SONA!

LINKS: AO3: (to be added) DELTARUNE COMIC: deltarune xerox OTHER BLOGS: (to be added)

[pumpkinsy0]

hey uhhhhh so idk if you’ve ventured to this territory, and if you have, its been a minute. but vampire shepards?? thoughts?? maybe how this would work with papercut??

I MADE A WHILE AU FOR THIS YEARS AGO ITS HERE but!!!!! lets say this is just some other random au where none of that rlly happens but i loveeee vampire shepards, could eat em for breakfast lunch and dinner!!!!!

•curly would def b that kinda vampire who has no impulse control, angela and tim r pretty protective of him here, especially if hes hungry, cause if hes hungry and hes GOING to get blood one way or another and it will in fact get messy

•angelas a lil like draculara!!!! she doesnt particularly like blood, finds it pretty gross actually so her drinking blood isnt a everyday thing and instead she just drinks coconut water, it kinda works but its missing key nutrients blood has so shes pretty small, but still mighty!!!

•tim is the only one who has a control of his powers, isnt a heathen, and doesnt go mad w power, hes pretty chill still, just runs a wayyyyy tighter ship

•angela AND tim arent fond of pony being close to curly cause these two idiots WILL get the shepards exposed for being vampires or worse, curly killed, so they hang out in semi secret, curlys just glad hes not in the same circle hes forced to be in and can just b himself and hes not letting that go all just bc “he might get killed” he could get killed doing anything, y let this one thing stop him??!?

•anyways for more papercut, he usually goes into the forest and sucks the blood of animals but he can rlly only get small animals as per tims request, he also accidentally shows off his powers a lil too many times in public, especially the super strength part and pony canonically was the best shooter in his family but he never liked killing animals so hes always just like “u can just suck blood from me, its way easier yknow” and curly OF COURSE was down for that

•does he HAVE to take from the neck??? no, he just likes to and enjoys giving pony his #moviemaingirl moment, biting is totally how these two show love, ESPECIALLY here

•ANYWHOOOO he likes using his powers w pony to show how strong and cool he is, and that could get pony hurt, not badly, but def bruised here n there

•pony cannot watch any vampire movie w curly bc hes quite honestly offended at how weak they think vampires r, sunlight and garlic killing them??? what a joke (its only half true w the garlic)

•”u taste like blood” “o dont worry its not mines” as if that makes it any better, ponys gotten sick multiple times from ts😭😭

•curly told pony a lie that vampires have to ask before coming in just so he can randomly pop up in ponys room and scare him

•if theyre sleeping together (pause) and pony cant fall asleep, he usually asks curly to suck a LITTLE blood from him bc when he does, bc curlys a vampire theres this sleepy numbing thing that happens to their victim when they do suck their blood and pony is trying to knock tf out rn

•vampires cant see their reflection meaning half the time curly doesnt know exactly what he looks like, so pony would draw curly and just give the drawings to him to keep, curly keeps every singular one and angela gags when she sees em

[haggishlyhagging]

“Gay male theorists list transsexuals, the victims of sex-reassignment surgery, alongside transvestites as radical sexual revolutionaries. It is extremely rare for a gay man to venture into print in criticism of the phenomenon of transsexualism. The drag queens interviewed in Men in Frocks were mostly keen to establish that they had never had a desire to be other than male, but at the same time expressed sympathy with those who chose surgery. Tish, who operates under the stage name of Fay Presto, identifies as a pre-operative transsexual. He states unequivocally that the dividing lines between transvestism, drag and transsexualism are very blurred and that there is overlap between the categories.

TVs and TSs identify very closely with the gender they aspire to whereas most drag queens don't, though I know some drag queens who are a cigarette paper away from being TV or TS. People often drift round the areas. For me it was all a gradual process - I didn't just wake up one day and say, ‘Yesterday I was a TV, today I'm a TS.’

Such sentiments would be heresy to the medical profession which fosters the belief, in order to justify the savagery of surgical intervention, that it has discovered a unique and discrete, identifiable disorder in transsexualism. The doctors find it necessary to assert that there are people who can be classified as 'true' transsexuals. This blurring of distinctions would be anathema too, to most of those very numerous gay men who like to wear women's clothes. But for a feminist analysis the idea of there being a continuum between all these forms of gender fetishism makes most sense.

Janice Raymond's brilliant radical-feminist analysis, The Transsexual Empire, shows that transsexualism is not consonant with lesbianism or women's liberation. Raymond identifies the cause of transsexualism as the rigid gender stereotyping of male-supremacist society. This dictates that if a person feels uncomfortable in the gender that has been ascribed to them on the basis of their sex organs, then they have no choice but to switch organs.

I would suggest that a patriarchal society and its social currents of masculinity and femininity is the First Cause of transsexualism. The organs and body of the opposite sex that the transsexual desires merely incarnate the 'essence' of the desired role. Within such a society, the transsexual only exchanges one stereotype for the other, thus reinforcing the fabric by which a sexist society is held together.

Those in the medical profession, Raymond argues, benefit from the 'transsexual empire'. They are able to further their sexual knowledge and techniques, they make money and they receive the ego satisfaction of acting as male 'fathers' able to give surgical birth to remade human beings. It is in their interests therefore to explain the causation of transsexualism in ways which justify the continuance of surgical intervention.”

-Sheila Jeffreys, Anticlimax

[xantchaslegacy]

The more I think on it the more the sylex's inclusion at all in the BRO -> ONE storyline vexes me.

On the one hand, yes it did provide a nice excuse for the game to double back and give the Brother's War a more narratively fleshed-out set (which I have...varied thoughts on for another time), but at the end of the day it was just another red herring artifact, which is again fine, but given we *just* did this with the blackblade during our last big event, I can help but feel a bit...unimpressed(?) by the sylex's use here. I can't help but feel unsatisfied by its return to focus, only to be easily replicated (I HAVE THOUGHTS) and ultimately pitched into the void.

There's also the matter of Teferi having already witnessed the moment of the Sylex's detonation in TS but that's not a real complaint I have and it's easy to reason why he'd still want to go back for a second peek so let's set that aside

If I'm really honest, it's not so much *That* the sylex was used, or used as a false lead, but that, much like the Blackblade before it, its failure feels like failure for shock value's sake alone, and that feels like what a lot of what old stuff is brought back for nowadays. Weatherlight comes back to be compleated. Slobad and Venser return to be walking bodies glimpsed briefly during the venture into New Phyrexia. I don't mind that these things returns happen, I just wish the story around them were a little more...interesting? felt a little more full of...intent? Affection beyond flashing a familiar face?

PS - As with a lot of other posts I've made and will make, I say all the above acknowledging that we still have aftermath content yet to come that may address all of these gripes; sometimes you've just gotta lift something of your chest, y'know?

[leaf-kei]

Hello! Love your Time squad posts ! Canon wise: do you think Larry was in love with Tuddrussel? What about XJ5 being in love with Sheila idea ? I really love checking for canon evidences it is so fun

HI!!!! I AM SO SORRY it took me so long to answer you ;__; My bad... I wanted to wait until I could give this ask my Full attention (tbh I've had Team Fortress 2 brain worms for weeks and have been unable to focus on anything GET OUT OF MY HEAD GET OUT).

I'm so glad you like my posts! ;w; In general, I don't think things need to be canon to be worth thinking about & exploring creatively... but buddy? Larry being in love with Tuddrussel? That is IN THE SHOW. I can't stress enough that this HAPPENS in Time Squad. I would venture to say Larry wanting a loving relationship with Tudd and Tudd not giving it to him is a reoccurring theme (along with history and slapstick comedy and. gender roles, weirdly??? tune in for THAT essay later lmao). You may have seen it already, but I compiled a bunch of my favorite TuddLarry moments in a video here! It also includes moments where Something Gay Happens On Screen no matter what characters are involved... I know it's all there for comedy, but for the most part, the gay jokes in TS don't feel like they come from a hateful place to me. Everyone gets made fun of equally in this show... it has that kind of mean-spirited early 2000s humor lol

My absolute favorite underrated TuddLarry canon moment of all time is in A Thrilla At Attila's. In Tudd's fantasy recollection of the mission, Otto and Larry look up to him as a great leader... it's VERY CUTE that Tudd's dream is to be genuinely admired by them 😭 BUT at one point, the fantasy Larry (who is inexplicably wearing a tutu) swoons over Tudd with little hearts over his head while Tudd is fighting some other guy?! THIS IS IN TUDD'S FANTASY HE WISHES THIS WOULD HAPPEN

U know what, I'm gonna take this opportunity to ramble about family commitment as a central theme of the show!!

- Otto is literally adopted by Tudd and Larry (Larry calls it adoption in Kubla Khan't), and Otto's addition to the squad forces their business-only relationship to change. Time Squad is (at least partly) about three very different characters navigating a new family dynamic formed by chance.

- They naturally fall into typical sitcom family roles: Tudd's the manchild fun dad, Larry's the homemaking strict mom, and Otto's the sweet kid who's trying to keep the peace... their personalities clash as they try to live and work and be happy together. It's significant that they're alone on the satellite they live on; with no one else from their own time period around them while they're at home, they're isolated with one another like a family unit in a suburban house. Even though they fight, they grow to love each other over time... what's that thing people say about hate and love being two sides of the same coin? I feel like Larry's love for Tudd manifests as anger a lot of the time—he gets upset whenever Tudd doesn't measure up to his ideal of a domestic partner. Is that healthy? Idk, probably not, but that's the way it is for them (at least in the two seasons that exist 👀).

- Of course, family commitments aren't always harmonious, and for these guys things are chaotic MOST of the time... but no matter what historical figures they meet or temptations they face, at the end of the day, they always come back together. They're a family, it's as simple as that. Otto doesn't need to have a logical reason to turn down George Washington's offer to adopt him in Father Figure of Our Country—no one can replace Tuddrussel, and that's it.

So tl;dr, Time Squad is about two men adopting a child and having a domestic committed relationship, and it uses that setup to tell funny stories and introduce fun conflict !?? And it's all in a cute art style AND there's HISTORY??? Cartoon Network should ABSOLUTELY bring it back and make a new season HEAR MY PLEA

—Of course, I think Tudd and Larry's relationship developing into a romantic (but still wacky) one would be a great setup for such a new season! But that's just my post-canon fantasy ;^) ... and what all my fanart and little writings are about lol

ANYWAYS HAPPY HOLIDAYS!

Edit: SHIT I forgot to mention XJ5!! I ADORE the idea they have a crush on Sheila, that's my headcanon too!! BUT instead of being a jerk like Tudd is to Larry, Sheila is only ever considerate and nice and professional and friendly to XJ5 🤲 And XJ5 is so awkward with social situations (a real Robot's Robot) that they have no idea how to approach these feelings or how to articulate them at all... they could use a few lessons in human behavior from Larry hmmm?