#“...assuring you that it is —in fact— that deep bro.”

[forgottenbones]

“The Curtains Were F*cking Blue”: Thought Terminating Cliches, Anti-Intellectualism and Propaganda

[ak319]

Dark A.M x fem!reader

-- ★ The Word of Claim ┃ ─𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟑─

Warnings/MDNI: forced marriage, manhandling, drinking, violence, abuse // I don't condone/romanticize such behaviour irl! Syno: Does this even need a synopsis? +++ Jus' a reminder that Arthur is 27 (yeh, not 30's) in this and reader is 22. ✰ 8.3K

★ Prev I concept m.list

The maid, busy fussing with your hair, cast a wary glance at Doreen, who stood silently to the side. Her expression seemed to plead, "Help me out here," prompting the older woman to step forward and place a reassuring hand on your shoulder.

"(Y/N)... relax. You're going to claw that necklace off before the wedding," Doreen said, her gentle jab snapping you out of your spiraling thoughts.

You blinked, shaking off the anxiety that had gripped you. "Yeah, sorry. First time getting married, so..."

The two women chuckled with you, their laughter lightening the mood. Together, they helped you descend the grand staircase to the drawing room, where your parents waited. The wedding itself was to take place in the backyard, a picturesque setting that had been painstakingly prepared for the occasion.

As you entered, you were immediately enveloped in tearful hugs from both your mother and father, happy tears that warmed your heart despite your nerves.

Once the initial greetings were exchanged, you found yourself seated in a secluded room alongside your parents and brother. The air was filled with polite conversation and gentle pleasantries as you all waited for Omar's family to arrive.

"Shouldn't his brothers be here by now? They said they would come early," your mother asked, her tone tinged with mild concern.

Your father hummed thoughtfully before responding, "Love, you know how rocky the roads are. Considering they’re probably coming in a carriage, it might take time. I think they’re all coming together now, with Omar, so, when they do, I’ll take them straight to the yard. (Y/N), you stay here until I come to get you back, alright?"

"Okay, okay, I know. You’ve already told me the steps a million times," you replied with a small grin.

He chuckled and pulled you into a warm embrace. "You look pretty calm. I’m so proud of you."

You melted against him with a laugh. "I’m trembling inside, Dad."

"I’m sure you are. But that’s natural. No worries, alright?" Just then Suki jumped into you lap and you immediately hugged her.

"Did you pack Suki’s bag, Mama-"

"Yes, of course." your mother interjected with a fond smile. "Everything’s packed for her too. I feel like I’m sending away two daughters."

The room burst into laughter, the shared warmth easing some of the tension. But then your brother, Rayan, spoke up, his tone a little less cheerful.

"You’re going to visit, right, sis?"

Your heart broke at the sight of his forlorn expression. You reached out, pulling him closer so that he stood right in front of you.

"Of course, I will," you assured him gently. "I am not going that far. And you’re going to visit me too, alright? In fact, I’ll still be working with Dad in the office, so you can always come to meet me there too. Okay?"

He nodded reluctantly before placing a kiss on your cheek, which earned him two from you in return.

The clock ticked steadily, but Omar and his family’s absence was a glaring omission.

Where are they? you wondered, glancing toward the windows, where the hum of conversation and music from the garden seeped into the room. The guests outside seemed unaware of the creeping tension inside.

Your father, who had been deep in conversation with a relative, was suddenly approached by a servant. You caught the subtle shift in his expression concern etched into his features. Rising quickly, you gathered your flowing apparel and approached, frustration evident in your voice.

“What is it?” you demanded.

“There’s-” the servant began, but before he could finish, gunshots shattered the air, echoing from the front yard.

Screams erupted outside, freezing the room into silence for a split second before chaos broke loose. Your mother, standing by the window, gasped sharply and clutched at her chest. “Gunshots? Oh my God! What’s happening?”

“Stay here! Don’t move!” your father ordered, already making his way toward the door.

“(F/N), stop him!” your mother pleaded, panic coloring her voice. “What’s going on out there?”

Your father ignored her, his focus entirely on the source of the disturbance.

But you stepped forward, heart pounding. “I’m coming with you!”

“No, (Y/N), stay here,” your father snapped, his tone firm as he turned to block your path. “It could be dangerous!”

“I need to know what’s happening!” you protested, trying to push past him.

“Stay here with your mother-” You followed him nonetheless , staying behind him. , ignoring everyone's shouts of protest. “(Y/N)! Stop! Come back here!”

The sight in the front veranda that greeted you stole the air from your lungs. The commotion was loud and chaotic: servants whispering in horror, guests craning their necks to catch a glimpse, and there in the center of it all…...

It wasn't your in laws who came. Though Omar...

“OMAR!” Your scream tore through the air before you could stop it.

Omar.

Beaten.

Tied.

On a horse.

Arthur’s horse.

Then he was thrown like a sack in the center in a mocking way as in..

'Here, your fucking groom's here...'

Your Dad immediately held you protectively to stop you from going near the boy, his own eyes betraying the fear and shock. The guards had been shot. “WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU ALL DOING?! WHY?! Get the fuck inside (Y/N), (M/N) take her!" But your feet wouldn't move.

“Seems like there’s going to be  a change of plans folks.” Dutch’s voice rang out from behind Arthur, his eyes hidden by his hat. Not only Dutch had come, but Bill and Charles too. After all, according to tradition, a man must bring his friends or brothers to stand by him.

“ARTHUR!? WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!? OMAR! OMAR! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!?” You could still see some strength in Omar’ s body as he was writhing, barely recognizable, the suit you had brought together was in such....bloodied and ruined condition that alone made your throat choke.

But Arthur...Arthur didn’t listen and then in one swift motion, standing at the center wasted no more time in doing what he came for. No….he can’t …he can’t be possibly thinking of doing-

"No!...Arthur! DON'T! Please-" Your plea went ignored.

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

BANG!

"(Y/N)...(L/N)."

“N-no... don't- yo-u animal-" Omar choked out, every fiber of his being fighting to rise up, to somehow break free from the agony , the restraints and face the men who dared to do this to you. On their wedding. He was consumed with the desperate urge to protect you, to stop this madness.

Arthur's cold eyes narrowed, a dangerous smirk curling at the corners of his lips. "Say that again," he taunted, voice low and menacing.

"Let... her go... she's- she doesn't deserve a- pathetic man like you...you sc-um." Omar’s words were strained, each one a battle against the pain and exhaustion coursing through his body.

Without hesitation, Arthur raised his gun and fired three quick shots, striking Omar in the chest. The sound of the bullets ringing through the air was followed by screams, yours, Omar’s, and the terrified gasps of the servants hidden in corners.

"NO! YOU MANIAC!” you growled, fury flooding your veins as you watched your fiancé writhe in pain. Your words made Arthur’s eyes burn with more fury, the mocking smile fading into something darker as he aimed the gun at Omar again, this time his head, ready to finish what he’d started.

What a pathetic sight anyway.

But before he could fire, Dutch stepped in, moving swiftly to grab Arthur’s arm, halting him mid-motion.

“This is your special day,” Dutch said, his voice laced with something almost amused. “Let him live. You won anyway.”

Arthur’s rage flared up, his grip tightening around the gun as he glared at Dutch, not wavering from his stance.

"Don’t make me repeat myself, boy. No further blood. I don't think he's going to survive anyway..."

You couldn’t hold back the shout that escaped you, helplessness clawing at your chest. "HOW CAN YOU!? YOU ANIMALS!"

The sight of the other guests scrambling to flee, their faces twisted with fear and confusion, only made your heart sink further. Your father’s face was pale with horror, and your mother trembled beside him, helpless in the face of all this chaos.

“Someone, go help Omar!” (F/N) shouted, his voice hoarse with panic. His eyes locked onto the servants who were still frozen in place, fear paralyzing them. “Now! Do something!”

Your family huddled together, your mother pulling you close. Your younger brother, clung to your father, his face buried in his chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Arthur holstered his revolver, his jaw tight, his gaze unwavering as he turned toward you. His eyes softened only slightly, but there was no apology in his demeanor.

Dutch stepped forward, arms outstretched as if to calm the chaos, though his smirk betrayed his amusement. "Well, now, that’s one way to quiet the doubters. Any one else wants to play hero?"

Your father stepped forward, trembling with fury, shielding you and your brother behind him. “You think you can come here, ruin everything, and walk out without consequence? You’ve destroyed her life, her future!”

Dutch chuckled darkly, leaning in close. "Big words for a man who just watched his son-in-law-to-be piss himself. Better watch that temper, old man. I wouldn’t want Arthur to get any more ideas." Dutch continued sauntering a few steps with his hands raised.

"Now, Mister (L/N), I understand this isn’t… ideal. But you know how it is. The world ain’t fair, and sometimes you just have to let things...go. Man to man...years ago, I came to return your girl, didn’t I? Found her lost, scared... vulnerable. And I handed her back with no strings attached. Out of respect. Now, we have come to take her....with respect. And you damn well know that even if the law gets here, they won’t care about this. It’s only a crime on paper… in reality, the sheriffs and marshals? They won’t lift a finger. They don’t give a damn about this"

"HOW CAN YOU DO THIS ARTHUR! ALL OF YOU! I FUCKING TRUSTED YOU!"

"Sweetheart, Arthur’s done the word and by law, well, by our law, that means you are coming with us. However, you wanna go, whether, crying, whining, screaming....but you are gonna go...ain't that right Arthur.”

"Damn right, Dutch."

No...no..wait--this can't be real right? Arthur must be doing some prank.

The pain in your chest was suffocating, and the anger burned so intensely that it almost felt like it would consume you. Your eyes were fixed on Omar's body, alive or lifeless? Being helped and dragged away...

God, let him live.

“No! I won’t go! I fucking won't!” You screamed, the words escaping through a mix of sobs and sheer frustration. “You can’t make me! Yo-u are playing--Dad--I know he's pranking me! I know it! He won't do this--right? You won't do this Arthur, say it!”

“Stay where you are!” your father shouted, positioning himself in front of you protectively. But Arthur barely acknowledged him. His focus was solely on you.

You stumbled back further, the suffocating anger now laced with raw terror. Your parents clung to you, but you wrenched free, the heat of Arthur’s presence pressing too close.

“You’re fucked in the head! THIS IS MY LIFE! I CHOOSE WHAT I WANT! NOBODY ELSE! ESPECIALLY YOU! Son of a bitch-” you spat, the words trembling with rage as you turned and ran inside.

Arthur sighed, the sound of his boots growing louder as he followed. Seriously? He easily pushed your family out of the way preventing your father from following after you and entering the house which he knew the layout of vividly. His movements were confident, almost leisurely, as though he had walked these halls a hundred times before. The absence of the guests only made his pursuit easier.

As he ascended the stairs, his hand trailed along the railing, casually tearing down the garlands and decorations that adorned it. They fell to the ground in shredded heaps, symbols of the celebration that had been shattered, just how this life was being torn apart from pieces your life.

Your dress was hitched in your hands as you sprinted through the house. Your lungs burned, but you didn’t stop, not until you reached the study. Slamming the door shut behind you, you locked it with shaking hands and immediately dove for the desk.

'Be smart, be strong. Be calm.'

This isn’t real. They’re bluffing. They have to be. But the glint of Arthur's revolver, his actions, his words and the cold indifference in Dutch’s eyes told you otherwise. This was no...bluff or a friendly prank...

The pounding of Arthur’s boots echoed in the hall, and his voice followed, taunting and casual. “Darlin’, come on out. You can't fight this, it's already done."

Your trembling hands tore through drawers, scattering papers and trinkets in your frantic search. "Die, die, die...fuck-"you muttered, barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. Finally, your fingers brushed against the cold metal.

“YOU BETTER GET OUT OF OUR HOUSE, ARTHUR! YOU ASSHOLE!” you screamed, your voice hoarse with anger and fear. He merely laughed. "Really? Or what , darlin'?" Without thinking, you raised the gun, aimed toward the sound, and fired.

The first shot made Arthur grunt in surprise.

BANG!

Two more shots followed as the door shook violently under your relentless assault.

"....You done, darlin'?" Arthur’s voice rasped, still calm , edged with a dark amusement.

"DON'T FUCKING CALL ME THAT!"

You fired again, the bullet tearing through the wood. Your hands were shaking now, your breathing ragged. The final shot left the chamber, leaving the air heavy with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

You fumbled with the revolver, desperate to reload, but your hands trembled too much to work quickly. The sweat not helping at all.

'Don't let him in, don't let him in, (Y/N).'

The door, already weak, now flew off its hinges as he sauntered in. Finally, your shaking fingers managed to slot two bullets into the chamber. You raised the gun again, aiming with what little steadiness you could muster.

"NO! STAY BACK!,” you hissed, voice cracking.

He didn't listen. Like you expected.

BANG!

The bullet hit him, low in the chest, and Arthur staggered, a sharp intake of breath betraying his pain. His hand flew to the wound, blood seeping between his fingers, but his expression didn’t falter

Arthur lunged at you before you could steady your aim, and your finger squeezed the trigger in panic.

The shot went wild, embedding itself into the ceiling as the force of his body crashed into yours. The revolver slipped from your grasp and clattered to the floor. You screamed, your fists lashing out instinctively, one of them connecting with his jaw.

He grunted, stumbling slightly, but it only seemed to fuel his determination. “You’re a little hellcat, aren’t ya?” he growled, wiping at his mouth where a faint smear of blood appeared.

You scrambled backward, desperate to put distance between you and him, but he caught your wrist and yanked you forward with unsettling ease.

"Let me go! ARE YOU MAD ARTHUR!? WHAT'S GOTTEN INTO YOU! PLEASE!" you shouted with tears, twisting and clawing at his arm.

Arthur didn’t flinch. His grip was iron as he forced you down onto the nearest couch, pinning you beneath him. The weight of him pressed into you, making it difficult to breathe as you thrashed against him.

"Keep fightin’, darlin’, "he murmured, "You’re just makin’ this harder on yourself."

Your knee shot up, aiming for his stomach, but he anticipated the move and shifted, pinning your legs down with his own. His hand grabbed your dress, and for a moment, fear twisted into something colder in your chest.

"STOP! DON'T-"

"Be still."

He tore at the hem of your dress, not with the intent to harm, but to rip free a strip of fabric. His fingers staining your apparel as his other hand pressed against the wound in his side, blood staining his shirt and seeping between his fingers.

He worked quickly, wrapping the torn fabric around his torso with surprising efficiency, his hands steady despite the crimson soaking into the makeshift bandage.

Your breath came in sharp gasps as you glared up at him, anger and fear battling in your chest. "You’re sick in the head. ABSOLUTELY SICK! ONLY A COWARD WOULD DO THIS!" you spat, venom lacing your words.

He seized your jaw with such force that your mouth snapped shut, your eyes narrowing into slits under the pressure. Arthur leaned in, his piercing gaze burning into yours with a chilling intensity. "Call me whatever you like, darlin’. It won’t change a damn thing. You’re coming with me. End of story."

With his free hand, he gripped your fingers, his touch rough and unrelenting as he yanked the ring from your hand. The metallic clink as it hit the ground was filled with disdain, as though the very sight of it repulsed him. Without hesitation, he slid a new ring onto your trembling finger.

"You take this off, and you’ll be missing some fingers."

His tone was calm, almost too calm, as if he thrived on your resistance. His sick, cruel revenge for the rejection. This couldn't be the same fucking man....you wrote to, shared light moments, who you felt safe with. He should have been the last man to make you feel this exposed and vulnerable. He was....totally gone now, almost as if possessed.

"You played enough fucking games, now it's my turn."

❀˖°

Meanwhile, downstairs, your parents and Rayan were huddled in the corner, your mother clutching your brother tightly as though her grip alone could shield him from the madness. Your father stood protectively in front of them, every muscle taut, but even he knew one wrong move could be disastrous.

Dutch, however, looked unfazed, seated casually in the loveseat, a cloud of smoke curling from the cigarette dangling between his fingers. His sharp eyes scanned the room, unbothered by the panic that clung to the air like a suffocating fog.

“Charles,” Dutch said, his voice calm yet commanding, “take the boy and Mrs. (L/N) to gather the girl’s necessities.”

Charles hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering toward the stairs before nodding. He motioned for your mother and Rayan to follow, his expression hardening as he led them toward the hallway. Your mother cast a desperate, tear-filled glance at your father before disappearing with your brother.

As the door shut behind them, Dutch finally stood, flicking ash from his cigarette with deliberate ease. He turned to your father, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"How?” your father spat, his voice trembling with fury. “Why? Is this why you saved her all those years ago? To... to ruin her life now? You fucking filth."

Dutch closed the distance between them, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, absolutely not,” he said, his tone mockingly offended. “Your daughter? She’s a firecracker, no doubt about it. But innocent?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous timbre. “Not as innocent as she likes to think.”

Your father’s hands clenched into fists, his knuckles white as he struggled to keep himself from lashing out. “What the hell are you talking about?!” he growled. “She hasn’t done anything to you! Think twice about speaking about her like that! You are the one to say this?!”

Dutch straightened, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. "Didn’t she? Well, must have kept you in the dark then...” he said, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Trapped one of my strongest men in some kind of spell, huh? Poor Arthur, wallowing in misery over a petty little thing. Can’t have that going on with my son, now can I?” His grin widened, cruel and calculated. "Don’t worry, though. She gonna be in safe hands."

“She did no such thing!” your father roared, his voice echoing through the room.

But then the sharp, jarring crack of gunfire rang out from upstairs, six shots in rapid succession.

Your father’s eyes widened in horror. “(Y/N)!” he cried, surging toward the stairs, only to be intercepted by Dutch, who pressed a hand firmly against his chest to hold him back.

“Stay put,” Dutch ordered, his tone brooking no argument. He gestured with his cigarette toward the ceiling, his expression entirely unbothered. “She’s probably fine. A little fight in her, that one, but Arthur can handle it.”

Your father’s chest heaved with restrained rage, his eyes blazing. “If anything happens to her-”

Dutch raised a hand to cut him off, smirking as he took another drag. "Relax. You should be proud. She’s got courage." His grin turned sharper

"Please, for fuck’s sake! I BEG YOU! You can ask for anything else, anything! Just let her go! Please, what do you want? Gold? Money? Just name it!" Your father’s voice cracked, desperation and fear pooling in every syllable.

Dutch chuckled, a low, mocking sound that filled the room. "C’mon, don’t tell me you’re so clueless to this tradition," his voice dripped with condescension. Your daughter’s married now, and look, even better, it’s the occasion.”

Your father’s hands trembled, the weight of helplessness bearing down on him. His lips parted as though to speak again, but no words came. His eyes flickered toward the stairs, where gunfire had just torn through the house, his thoughts scattered, struggling to comprehend everything unfolding.

At that moment, Bill, who had been standing silently in the background, moved behind Dutch and whispered something to him as your father stood broken at the side, his face twisted in silent grief, barely able to hold himself upright.

"Dutch...aren't we going to loot..." Bill's voice was hushed, but still tinged with curiosity and greed.

Dutch silenced him with a glare, one that made Bill pause.

"Now’s not the time. We came here for your brother’s sake, remember?”

Bill seemed to understand, taking a step back and nodding quietly. Dutch, however, didn’t break his smile.

Your father, still trembling, shot a glance toward the stairs, his mind racing with dread. He was standing on the precipice of losing everything, and there was nothing he could do.

"Don’t worry," Dutch continued with mocking reassurance, his hand resting casually on the hilt of his gun. "We’ll take care of her."

The sound of approaching footsteps was unmistakable, growing louder with each passing second. Through the open door, the trio saw Arthur, dragging you by the back of your neck like a ragdoll as he descended and made his way to the front door, your screams filling the hallway.

"DAD! HELP!"

"Well, that was a one hell of a climax. Time for us to go," Dutch stubbed his cigar, mused.

"NO! At least promise me you’ll let her meet us, Dutch! ARTHUR!?" Your father’s voice cracked as he desperately followed them outside, his every step driven by panic.

"I ain't promising nothing," came a flat, unfeeling reply from Arthur.

He continues dragging you to the horses, his grip unyielding, his eyes fixed forward, refusing to meet your tear-streaked face. He ignores your curses, your protests, and even the anguish that radiates from you. He can't bear the sight of your grief-stricken expression, it gnaws at something deep within him, unsettling in a way he won’t admit.

But a custom is a custom. A law is a law. No matter how cruel it may seem. If he can do it, so he will. He deserves this. You made him do it. That’s what he tells himself. That’s what he has to believe.

Right now, there’s no one, nothing, that can change his mind. Not even you.

"You heard the man," Dutch added.

With no further hesitation, he shoved you towards the waiting horse, the sight of it sending a jolt of fear through your chest. “Get on,” he ordered.

Dutch, standing nearby, raised an eyebrow and let out a chuckle. "Wow, Arthur seems like she gave you a run for your money."

But Arthur, not in the mood for jokes, shot him a glare before forcefully pushing you over the side of the horse. The impact jolted you, knocking the wind out of you, but you barely had time to recover before Arthur was behind you. He swung himself up with ease, his arm immediately locking around your waist and arms, not allowing you to smack his face.

"ARTHUR, STOP! PLEASE! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?!" You screamed, your voice breaking with every word. "DAD! MAMA!!"

“Let her have her moment,” Dutch muttered. “It won’t change a damn thing.”

“Keep quiet,” he murmured, almost soothingly, his breath warm against your neck. “We’re not finished yet, but it’s better this way.”

"I'll NEVER FORGIVE YOU ARTHUR! I TRUSTED YOU! YOU SICK BASTARD."

You couldn't believe that he, Arthur , of all people would pull this sick tradition on you.

Arthur’s jaw ticked, but his face remained unreadable as he nudged the horse forward. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he muttered, his voice low. “But you will understand.”

As the group began to move, the last thing you saw was your father standing alone in the yard, his figure hunched with defeat and sorrow.

From inside, your mother’s muffled cries pierced the stillness, her silhouette visible through the window. She clung to Charles, who whispered words of comfort, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. But it was futile. The anguish etched on her face, the way her fingers clawed at the glass, spoke volumes, she was powerless, just as they all were, as they watched you being taken.

Dragged away from your shell, from the safe haven that had cradled you. Dragged away from the life you knew, the life you were about to begin, toward nothing but hell.

❀˖°

Hosea stood frozen for a moment, the faint crunch of boots on the dirt fading as the reality of what he was seeing set in. His feet moved almost instinctively, drawn toward the commotion in disbelief. He’d been hearing whispers all day, murmurs of a celebration, an event, an important job for Arthur the men went for, but he had dismissed them as the usual camp talk, exaggerations, half-truths, nonsense.

But now, seeing Arthur dismount his horse and drag a trembling girl, still clad in a torn and dirtied wedding dress, toward the tent... it was undeniable. They had really done it.

His gaze darted to Susan, who stood just as stunned. Their earlier conversation flashed in his mind, the discussion about where the men had gone, the unease about the strange orders from Dutch, and the peculiar behavior of the girls tasked with tossing roses on the ground like it was some sort of sick celebration. He’d hoped, prayed even, that it was some kind of twisted joke, a misunderstanding that would blow over.

But this?

This was no misunderstanding.

He couldn’t look away from the girl's figure, her torn dress, her tangled hair, her earring missing, her sandals scuffed and unevenly hanging on her feet, as Arthur pulled her forward, unrelenting, without so much a word.

"What the hell have you done, Arthur?" Though no one was near enough to hear it.

Neither of them could stop watching as Arthur continued forward, the girl stumbling in his grasp.

Your stomach churned every second as your eyes registered the half-hearted trail of roses that lined the dirt path leading to Arthur’s tent.

What a sick fucking joke. Sick people.

The petals were scattered unevenly, their soft pinks and reds a stark, mocking contrast to a camp filled with bloodied hands. Clearly, an instruction to decorate, under Dutch’s twisted idea of humor and celebratory mood for something mentioned as a 'Special night, ladies and gents.' They looked less like a romantic gesture and more like an haunting welcome for a captive bride.

Arthur’s grip on you was ironclad as he dragged you through the camp. Every step felt heavier, the sound of your feet and protests against the ground swallowed by the murmurs around you. The others watched silently from the sidelines, the faces curious, some avoiding your gaze entirely, others too indifferent to hide their stares.

The girls, who had once whispered excitedly about the possibility of Arthur performing the tradition, now stood frozen, their faces pale with realization. They had heard the rumors, the stories of lovers who ran away together taking advantage of this tradition and some had hoped that you, his secret new lover, and Arthur were following that same romantic, rebellious path instead of the other one, which was done out of either malice, ego and all the darker emotions. But as they watched, they saw the truth, this was no act of love, no escape from an overbearing family. This one was performed as the latter option...

"Ladies and gentlemen, c'mon, celebrate. Our boy's married. Your brother Arthur! Javier, hit the tune, boy," Dutch called out, his voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd, forcing attention back onto him. "Tonight’s a night of celebration, in fact, this whole week! A celebration of new beginnings, don’t you all agree?"

He received few cheers and hoots and the music picked up, the strumming of the guitar piercing the otherwise silent night. But for now, the noise was a necessary distraction. The leader was tired of the whole drama and wasn't in the mood to hear you yelling.

"We’ve got ourselves a fine family here, don’t we? Now let’s enjoy this night."

The celebration continued, the laughter getting louder by the second but you....you were stuck with nothing but a monster in a suffocating space.

❀˖°

"WHY?! ARTHUR, WHY?!" Your voice cracked with frustration and disbelief as the words tumbled out, the weight of it all suffocating you.

Arthur’s eyes were cold, his expression unreadable as he loomed over you. His grip tightened on your jaw, his fingers pressing into your skin with cruel force. "Why? Huh? Because I wanted to. And I did it," he replied, his voice low and venomous, as if daring you to challenge him.

You struggled against him, your mind racing, trying to make sense of the madness. "Because I rejected you?! HUH?! You couldn’t fucking handle that?! NOTHING CAN SCREAM COWARDICE MORE THAN THIS!"

Arthur’s face twisted, dark fury flashing in his eyes. Without warning, his hand shot up to your hair, yanking it painfully. You gasped, the sharp sting shooting through your scalp. Your heart raced, and a sick feeling churned in your chest.

"Not so in authority now, hm?" Arthur sneered, his grip on your jaw tightening further, his nails digging into your skin. "Did your precious money help? Your pristine pathetic fiancé? Your daddy? See? At the end of the day, you had nothing," he spat, each word like a dagger to your chest.

You couldn’t breathe, every inch of your body screaming in agony. But even as his fingers threatened to crush your spirit, you refused to let him see your weakness. You glared up at him, despite the pain, despite the fear.

"I HAD EVERYTHING!" The words escaped in a broken, desperate gasp, but they were firm. Your chest heaved with every breath, your body trembling under his hold. Your lower body was already tired due to the ride and all the struggle and now from scraping against the ground, supporting your upper body as he held you without an ounce of softness.

"Yo-u fucker- I still have everything. Will have, always." You spat, rage flooding your veins as the words broke through the pain. "I am not the one who lost dignity, it's you, cowboy. Men lik-e you, lowlifes, so desperate to have anyt-hing, that they have to use some illiterate, pitiable traditions just to get the bare minimum-"

Arthur let out a low chuckle, his grip tightening around your waist as he lifted you up, his gaze cold and calculating. He held you there, suspended against his chest, his eyes boring down into yours as if searching for something to break, something to conquer.

"Nice speech," he mocked, his voice dripping with venom. "I see where Daddy put all his efforts when raising you. But say whatever the fuck you want, sweetheart. Just remember to look around and see where you are before you do."

His words cut through you, each one an anchor pulling you deeper into the hellish reality of your situation. "Yeah, you're back with us, but it ain't the same anymore, darlin'. You are with me now. Your husband." He smirked which made your stomach turn. "And I ain’t gonna be nice anymore."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "This is what happens when you act all coy and play with someone, someone like me."

Your heart pounded, and you tried to push against him, but he held you firmly, his strength like iron around your body. "You si-cko! You think I wanted this? Wanted you?! Don't forget you were the one begging to be with me! You could have done this with anyone! Any other woman Arthur! ANY! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO RUIN MY LIFE!?"

Arthur’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening, before he roughly shoved you, lifting you up and throwing you onto the cot with force. The impact left you gasping for breath as you struggled to make sense of everything. "Shut your fuckin' mouth," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

"I think it's clear by now, why you."

You barely had time to react before he seized both of your wrists, pinning them behind you with a brutal grip. His movements were cold and calculated as he reached beneath the cot, pulling out something that made your heart stop. You had no time to process what it was before he was tying your hands to the cot's frame, his fingers quick and efficient, securing you in place.

"NO! STOP!-" you started, panic creeping into your voice, but Arthur cut you off with a chilling command.

"Be thankful I ain't gagging your loud mouth. Now missy, you are gonna sit here all nice," he said, his tone devoid of any emotion, "till I come back."

You struggled, pulling against the tight restraints, but it was no use. Your body was pressed against the rough material of the cot, and the reality of your situation hit you like a punch to the gut.

Arthur stood over you, his eyes under the hat scanning every inch of you with a gaze so cold it made your skin crawl. His eyes lingered on your wedding suit, disheveled from the rough treatment, your face streaked with angry tears, the fury, fear, and pain burning in your gaze.

He took in the scene...really took it in.

You

Now sitting on his cot.

Unable to escape.

Bound and helpless.

Perfect.

"You better hope I don't come back to a mess."

"WAIT! Arthur please, t-think--I am--ready to forgive you if you take me back, I swear I'll forget--I'll forget this night in a flash! And my family too. And I am sorry if I hurt you that day but please….y'know, I don't deserve it...y'know it right?! I DON'T! PLEASE! Be the same Arthur you were before, please…we were friends. Friends...don't do this. C'mon..there's still time. Please. Take me back..." You let yourself sob hoping that he will see some sense...feel your pain.

Friends.

Arthur froze for a moment, his hand gripping the tent's flap, his body tensing as your words rang in the air. The desperation in your voice hit him like a blow, each syllable a plea for mercy, for the man you thought he could be, the man he used to be. But he didn’t turn around, didn’t immediately react. Instead, he stood there, his breath shallow.

His eyes closed briefly, and for a moment, there was something, something that almost looked like hesitation. His jaw clenched tight, his mind warring with itself.

He should walk away. He knew he should. This wasn’t supposed to be about you anymore, wasn’t supposed to be about anything resembling softness or mercy. He had made this choice, gone this far, and there was no going back.

But then, your words sank deeper. He could hear it in the way you begged, the way you crumbled before him, the desperate promise that you’d forget this night, as if erasing it could make everything right again. He wanted to believe it. He wanted to believe that he could take you back and everything would be like before, that his world could go back to the way it was when you and him...met in that cafe and everything felt simple.

No.

He couldn't let himself go there. Not now.

That place was where it all started and unfolded. Where his love was humiliated. It was the same...cafe where Mary had met him a few times. Yeah, that's why he chose it because he wanted a new chapter with you filled with the same sweetness...

With a slow, controlled exhale, he finally turned around, meeting your tear-streaked eyes. There was something in his gaze, something darker and colder than before.

"You think I care about your forgiveness? Your apology?" His voice was low and rough, but there was a strange calm to it now. "Well, sweetheart, you believed in reality right? Different worlds huh? Here it is. My world. Which means it's your world now. One single world now. And you are going to accept it. And all this bullshit about friendship- well, you'd be shocked to know that this is the same me, this is how we can be when we want to be. That's what an outlaw is, darlin'."

He stormed out of the tent and his ears were greeted with music which he totally didn't hear when he was inside, as if his ears had blocked the noise.

The congratulatory nods and claps on the back from the boys barely reached his ears, they too backed of sensing his mood. He kept his eyes ahead, his thoughts spiraling into a fog as he headed toward the wagon to treat the damn wounds.

In his heart he was chuckling though, at your attempts that took place earlier.

Endearing indeed.

He could still hear your voice in his head, desperate, pleading, and it only made the gnawing frustration and anger inside him worse. Your apology, your words of regret, meant nothing now. In his mind, it was too late for that. He had already made his choice, and the consequences were to be damned.

"Ms. Grimshaw, c'mere!" Arthur barked, tossing his jacket onto the wagon and snatching up the medical kit.

Nearby, Grimshaw was fending off Mary and Tilly, who swarmed her with questions like inquisitive hornets after Dutch had spun his tale, taking credit, of course. Arthur found his love because of me.

"Why didn’t you ever tell us she was here before, huh?"

"How rich is she, exactly?"

"Is it really love marriage, though?"

With one sharp scolding, Grimshaw silenced the girls and made her way toward the new groom.

"It’s (Y/N). Remember?"

"Y-yes...I remember-"

"Exactly, now go inside that tent and get some sense into her head. She needs to realize how things work. How they are gonna fuckin' work."

He shot her a look that dared her to question him. Grimshaw hesitated for a moment, her usual strict eyes flicking toward his tent where you were likely still seething with rage and sorrow.

"Now!" Arthur barked, once again.

With a stiff nod, Grimshaw swallowed her uncertainty and turned toward the tent, the weight of his command heavy in her steps. Arthur watched her go, then turned away to tend to his wounds.

❀˖°

Susan entered the tent, her steps hesitant as she tried to piece together how she was supposed to handle this mess. Her sharp eyes took you in, sitting motionless on the cot, trembling, your expression caught somewhere between disbelief and seething rage.

Oh, dear.

The sight pulled at something deep inside her. You weren’t a child anymore, that much was clear, but it was the very fact that you had grown, matured, and still ended up here, in this nightmare, that shattered her heart. All the efforts they had made to shield you from the darkness of the world felt cruelly pointless. The very horrors they had once tried to save you from had found you anyway, only worse, delivered by the very people who had sworn to protect you.

"Girlie..." Susan's voice softened as she moved closer, kneeling down and sitting in front of you. Your eyes remained fixed on the distance, unblinking and hollow.

"I'm so sorry for... what happened. It's me, Susan. Remember? Aunty Susan. I’m with you, okay? Hey, please, look at me." She reached out hesitantly, and suddenly, your head snapped toward her, startling her just enough to make her flinch.

"Su-Susan? Aunty Susan? Listen, you have to help me, right fucking now. Open the rope, just open it, and I swear, I'll reward you. You’ll be taken care of for life. In fact, come with me, and you'll see how much you'll be rewarded. Here, take this necklace! It's worth so much! C’mon, take it! Open the rope woman!" Your voice cracked, a frantic desperation breaking through every word, as your neck nudged the jeweled necklace toward her.

Susan swallowed hard, her gaze lingering on the necklace. It was beautiful an obvious treasure, but it wasn’t the gleam of gold or gems that stilled her. It was what it symbolized, the dreams your parents had woven into this day, the life you were supposed to have, and even her own long-buried memories of what her wedding day had meant to her.

"You have to... understand," she whispered, her voice trembling just enough to betray her own emotions. "I can’t, darling. I can’t do that. It won’t help anyone. Trust me."

You stared at her, your breaths hitching, disbelief written across your face as her words hung heavy in the air. Not knowing what else to do, not knowing how to comfort you, or even how to be firm, Susan leaned forward and wrapped her arms around you.

"H-how did this happen?! Tell me it's a joke..."

"It's not," Susan said softly, her voice steady but laced with sorrow. "It's real. And it’s only going to get worse if I do what you’re asking of me. For you , for me and...even your family. So don’t ask me that. Don’t ask me for what I can’t give you, darling."

"I wanna go back--please--let me go!"

Her hand moved to your head, gently caressing it as she smoothed your messy hair, the gesture tender and maternal. "I’m here with you, okay? I’m here,"

You didn't know how long you sobbed pathetically in her arms being cradled like a child. By now she had wrapped a blanket around you , another way to offer comfort , warmth and to shield you...perhaps momentarily, but still.

Just then, someone cleared their throat outside. Your mind immediately went on high alert, hyperaware of Arthur’s presence or any man’s presence, and you stiffened. Sensing your panic, Susan tightened her grip on you protectively.

"Yes?" she called out sharply.

"I brought the Miss's stuff..."

"Come in," Susan replied.

Charles stepped inside, his eyes downcast as he carried several bags and a chest, placing them carefully in a corner.

"I-uh... also brought your cat," he added, his voice softer, as though he wasn’t sure how to break the news.

"Suki?! Where?! Is she okay?" Her name alone made some scrap of hope return to your eyes.

"She’s in my tent for now... don’t worry, she’s safe," Charles reassured you, glancing at you briefly before looking away.

"Please bring her here-" you started, your desperation palpable, but your words were cut off by the sound of heavy boots entering the tent.

Arthur strode in with a bowl in his hand, his presence oppressive and inescapable. Charles froze, his back straightening as he turned toward Arthur.

"You didn't bring anything extra right? Just the necessary stuff?"

"Nothing extra. Didn't take anything else...just like you said. Only important stuff her mother gave."

"Hm, right."

Charles then immediately exited the tent with a stiff nod.

"You two havin' a little heart-to-heart in here?" His eyes flicked to Susan. "Hope you’re not fillin’ her head with any ideas, Miss Grimshaw. She don’t need no rescuin’. She’s right where she’s meant to be."

He stepped closer, the bowl in his hand almost forgotten. "Now, you gonna make sure she eats, or do I need to stay here and do it myself?"

"I am doing it, Arthur."

Even Susan was pissed internally at the boy, beyond pissed but she couldn't say anything.

Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply and exited the tent, his boots crunching against the dirt outside.

You couldn't take more than one bite due to your misery. Your head pounding with visions of what a fucking nightmare you went through today. Not only you...but your family and...Omar. God, he didn't deserve this, any of this. It's all your fucking fault. ALL OF IT! Why did you have to be friends with a fucking outlaw of all people? How the fuck are you supposed to rest for a second not even knowing if he survived or not. And his family? God, knows what these assholes did to them. You had found a gem of a man, whom you were about to marry and spend a peaceful life...it's all gone...? Just like that?

"Though, for the record, I’m not fond of buying flowers. I prefer them in their roots, not plucked out."

Omar tilted his head, intrigued. "Fair enough," he said with a soft chuckle. "I’ll keep that in mind next time."

You realized how deeply you related to the flowers that were plucked from their roots, uprooted from the soil they called home. Taken not for their own sake, but because someone else wanted them. Wanted to display them, to use their beauty to adorn a corner of their world. In this case, to be nothing more than an accessory in someone else’s life.

❀˖°

Dutch sat at the small table, casually pouring himself a drink, his demeanor annoyingly calm in the face of Hosea’s frustration.

"So this was it, huh?" Hosea snapped, his voice sharp. "Him getting a bigger tent, a new, bigger cot, you ordering to decorate the whole damn camp like it was a festival, all that shit was for this?! Whilst you kept silent and watched him?!"

Dutch took a sip of his drink and leaned back in his chair, unfazed. "Yes, so? Weren't you the one worried about him, Hosea? I just did what was necessary."

"Necessary?!" Hosea practically exploded, throwing his hands in the air. "God give me strength. I said to talk to him, Dutch. Or better yet, to talk sense into him! And what did you do? You sided with him! Egged him on! Didn't even tell me all of this?"

"I didn’t side with him, Hosea. I gave him what he needed. Handled it, reigned him in. Don't wanna lose him now, do we?"

"And you think this was the way to handle it?"

"Hosea, he is his own man, he can make decisions, I just supported him! So stop clutching your pearls and see the bigger picture here-" They paused as Molly stepped into the tent, carrying a bowl of stew.

"Thanks, darling," he said with a warm smile, pressing a kiss to her cheek before watching her saunter back out to the lively sounds of the camp party.

"First of all, sit down."

With a grunt, Hosea obeyed, though it was clear from the slump of his shoulders that he wasn’t entirely willing. He braced himself for whatever convoluted plan Dutch was about to spin, fully expecting it to be something that would leave him exasperated.

Dutch leaned forward, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial tone. "Okay, this, for now, stays between you and me. Got it? Especially not Arthur. The boy’s already on some level of feral, and I’m trying to keep the fire under control. So yeah, I fed him a fish, like you’d toss to a starving lion but this fish, Hosea… this is a special one. Trust me when I say that. You are going to like it too, in fact thank me. And you noticed, right? No dowry taken today. Not a cent from her family. Arthur didn’t want it, too proud, too sentimental, apparently an honourless act for him, which is fine. I get it. But me? I had my reasons too. Always do."

"We are not lootin' em Dutch. Not a leaf or stone."

"Course' pal...Just the girl."

Dutch took a slow sip of his drink, savoring the moment. "Just trust me," he repeated, his voice steady but insistent. "I didn’t bring in some girl. I brought a gem itself. And don’t you start on that 'we saved her years ago' crap, because let me remind you, it wasn’t me who decided to have some kind of romantic rendezvous with her. That was Arthur. And, well, maybe it’s fate. The boy finally made a damn choice."

"So dragging her into this mess is your idea of brilliance? Another one of your so-called masterstrokes?"

Dutch leaned forward, his voice lowering into something just short of a warning. "Trust the process, Hosea. Have some damn faith. Don’t let her tears fool you, she’s no saint in all this. She brought some of this on herself, and you know it."

"Oh, I’m sure she did," Hosea bit back, his voice laced with sarcasm. "But tell me, Dutch, what woman in her right mind would ever want this?"

Dutch leaned back, unruffled, a sly smile creeping upon his face. "Want it? Maybe not. But this is what happens when you get tangled up with us. Choices were made, Hosea, by her and by Arthur. And now? She’s one of us. A Van Der Linde."

★ Next

─AN: A fic of mine can't be whole without Dutch's plans ofc ¬_¬) To be added or removed , you can always comment , I'd suggest commenting on the first part so you guys aren't scattered everywhere. Peace.

★ tag list: @shackspossum @whalecage @nayykura @m1stea @warmsideofthepillow03 @thatoneraeder @marzintears @nxttaru @cazzacarm @she-is-my-unrequited-love34 @nulixity @poll-u @bajabish @cheesycheddarr @luzzbuzz @dilfsarelife @ninastyless @claire-is-here @raeraypoca @hopingtoclearmedschool @lain3iwakura @bashfulcowgirl87 @catjsashrine @bipolarbitties @lizynownow

[ncsdlr]

Misclick (Or: How I Accidentally Called My Ex While Looking for Emotional Closure)

Ex!Billie Eilish x Ex!Reader

A/N: the first section is based on real life😃🔫 the following sections are entirely made up

A/N: also, to the person i was talking to in the first section, I'm sorry for immortalizing this painfully embarrassing moment in our life and turning it into fanfic💀

A/N: also the last section is what I wish we did- what I wish we could have discussed. only SOME of that section is fiction.

A/N: idk if she's seeing this, but if you are, hi, Im over our break up, but the love is still here

Warning: ANGST

---------------

In your defense, you weren’t stalking. You were researching. There’s a difference.

The breakup was still fresh—like, cry-while-brushing-your-teeth fresh. You and Billie hadn’t spoken since the split a couple days ago. Not out of malice, just... mutually assured emotional destruction. You were both going through it. Both pretending not to look at each other’s Instagram stories with your brightness turned all the way down like that made it morally neutral.

And yet, here you were. Two days post-breakup. Alone. Unhinged. Emotionally backed up.

You were doing something extremely healthy and productive—scrolling through your old messages with Billie to find the last time she said she loved you. For closure. Obviously. Not to screenshot it and zoom in on the punctuation like it held some secret code. Definitely not that.

You were wrist-deep in the chat archive—somewhere between “I miss you” and that cursed selfie where you looked like a malnourished Victorian child—when a notification from her friend popped up.

You tried to swipe it away. Really, you tried.

Instead… your thumb slipped. You tapped.

And suddenly, your phone was dialing Billie. Billie. Fucking Billie. The Billie you were actively mourning like a recently deceased houseplant. The Billie you had just been virtually ghost-digging up like you were the gay Indiana Jones of emotional trauma.

The screen rang once. Twice.

Your soul left your body at Mach 5. Your heart physically detached and crawled under the bed.

You panic-slammed the red button like your life depended on it. Which, emotionally speaking, it absolutely did.

Call ended. Damage? Irreversible.

You stared at the screen, breathing like you’d just sprinted through the airport in a romcom, only instead of stopping her from boarding the plane, you just committed social suicide.

In your panicked state, you type down an explanation for the accidental call. It makes you type faster when you see that Billie has your chat open. This is the fastest you've ever typed anything.

You: "Dude im so sorry i didnt mean to wtfff" "Notifications made my phone lad and I clicked your chat the hell"

When chat indicators popped up, you swiped you thumb frantically to exit the chat. For what? You have no idea.

Billie: "its okay lol"

You opened the chat again, continuing your frantic explanation: "Bro😭" "Screaming crying rn tf" "lemme just go omg💀"

Billie: "hahaha you're fine"

And then... somehow, you just kept talking.

No more explanations. No “wtf was that.” No tension. No ice to break. The texts just kept coming—back and forth, casual, like nothing happened. Like you hadn’t just accidentally FaceTimed your ex mid-mental breakdown. Like this wasn’t the first time you’d spoken since the breakup. Like things were fine.

You kept expecting it to stop. For her to say “anyway” and vanish. Or for you to remember your dignity and put your phone down.

But neither of you did.

It wasn’t deep. Nothing emotional. Just… small things. Dumb things. Things that didn’t make sense to say, but somehow did.

And the strangest part? It didn’t feel weird until you realized it should’ve felt weird.

You sat there, blinking at the screen like: “Are we just gonna ignore the fact that I tried to speedrun dying of embarrassment five minutes ago?”

But Billie didn’t mention the call again. You didn’t bring it up either. The silence around it is somehow louder than if you had.

And now you were just… texting her. Casually. Effortlessly. Like muscle memory. Like your thumbs had been waiting for this the whole time since the breakup. Like no time had passed at all.

You kept rereading the last message she sent. Not because it meant anything. But because it existed. Because it happened. And that was somehow enough.

****

It’s not a date. It’s not closure. It’s not even emotional masochism.

It’s just two people deciding—very casually, very “sure why not”—to go out.

You meet Billie at some middle ground neither of you suggest but both somehow agree on. It’s not your place. It’s not hers. The location is symbolic in its neutralness. A coffee shop, a bookstore, maybe a quiet park. Somewhere with enough noise to fill the silence.

She’s already there when you arrive, sitting with her hood up like she’s trying not to be seen, even though you’re pretty sure she wants you to see her first. You sit. You don’t hug. You don’t talk about the call.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet.

You talk about stupid things. Music. A dog walking by in a sweater. Some viral video you both saw. It feels normal in a way that feels fake, but not painful.

You both laugh at something neither of you will remember tomorrow.

And there’s a moment—brief, barely-there—when she says something and looks at you too long. The kind of look that, a few weeks ago, would’ve meant everything. Now it just lingers between you like fog. Present, but untouchable.

There’s nothing romantic about this. Nothing tender. Just two people, trying.

Not exes. Not friends. Not what you were, or what you almost were.

Just people.

The coffee Billie ordered looked like it could kill someone. Triple shot, something with oat milk, and a dangerous amount of cinnamon on top like she's daring her heart to keep up.

“You drink that, you’re gonna astral project,” you say, squinting at it.

She grins over the rim. “Perfect. Maybe I’ll finally leave this hellish plane of existence and become someone’s sleep paralysis demon.”

“You already are.”

“Ouch,” she says, mock-offended. “That’s crazy coming from someone who called me mid-scroll spiral just to breathe into the mic like a haunted voicemail.”

You groan, dramatic and long. “We said we weren’t bringing that up.”

“Correction,” she says, stirring her murder latte. “You said that. I made no such promise.”

You flick a sugar packet at her. She dodges it like a gremlin, proud.

It’s easy. Too easy. You’re both sitting there, bouncing off each other like nothing’s weird. Like the weight of your history isn’t pressed between the two coffee cups, trying to stay relevant.

“Remember when you said I looked like a ‘very fashionable Muppet’ that one time?”

She snorts. “You did. That fuzzy green sweater? Be fr. Miss Piggy would’ve worn it to the Met Gala.”

“It was chartreuse!”

“Chartreuse is not a personality.”

“Okay, says the girl who once wore leather pants to a picnic.”

“You mean the leather pants?” she asks, looking entirely too proud of herself. “The ones that made your friend text you, ‘damn I didn’t know Billie was packing like that’?”

Your soul tries to exit your body again.

“God, why do you still remember that?”

“Because it haunts me. And because I live for your humiliation.”

She’s leaning back now, one leg hooked under her on the bench, sipping her drink like this is the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it is. Maybe it always was.

You stretch out your legs and sigh like someone twice your age. “This is weird.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You mean... this?”

You wave vaguely between the two of you. “This. Us. Not being anything. But also not being not-anything. Just... people.”

Billie considers that. Then shrugs.

“Yeah,” she says. “But like... funny people.”

You squint at her, unimpressed. “You think you’re funny?”

She pauses mid-sip like she’s been personally insulted. “Babe. I’m hilarious.”

You snort. “You are so not.”

“Excuse me?” she gasps, clutching her chest like you just called her untalented and unvaccinated. “Are you forgetting the time I made your cousin laugh so hard she snorted rice out of her nose?”

“She was laughing at me, actually. Because you tried to do a British accent and somehow ended up sounding like a French minion.”

“Okay wow,” she says, shaking her head. “Fake news. I was doing Shakespearean Cockney. It was a bit.”

“You sounded like a Victorian chimney sweep possessed by Lumière.”

She sets her cup down, tilts her head, and grins in that way she used to when she was plotting something. “You’re just mad because you know I’m funnier than you.”

You scoff. "You wish,” you fire back.

“You laugh at everything I say.”

“Because I’m nice and polite.”

She leans forward, eyes glittering. “You laugh like you’re trying to impress me.”

You open your mouth to respond—and realize you don’t have one. Not a real one, anyway. Not one that doesn’t give something away.

She sees it. Of course she does. And she smirks.

“See?” she says softly, smug. “Told you.”

You look away, pretending to be exasperated, and roll your eyes. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling because she's right. “Shut up.”

She just shrugs, takes another sip of her drink, and says nothing else.

But her grin stays, stifling what could turn into a full-blown laugh. And so does yours.

****

You’re walking side by side down the street now, Billie’s iced coffee long gone and your stomach sore from laughing at nothing. It feels almost stupid how natural it is, like your body forgot you’re not supposed to move in rhythm with hers anymore.

At one point, she bumps your shoulder with hers and says, “I’m still funnier than you.”

You scoff. “Delusional.”

“Charming and funny,” she says, with a mock-bow. “A full package.”

“Oh my god.”

“You didn’t seem to think that when you were—”

You whip your head toward her so fast she actually flinches from the wind. “Nope. No, ma’am. Do not finish that sentence.”

Her grin is wicked. “Why not? I was just going to say crying at my stand-up set. Obviously.”

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not where you were going and you know it.”

She shrugs. “I’m just saying. You were very… vocal with your compliments.”

“I will literally throw myself into oncoming traffic.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m ashamed.”

She laughs—loud, head back, real. And god. You forgot how much you missed that sound. How safe it made everything feel.

You don’t say anything. She doesn’t either. But something shifts in the silence that follows. Neither of you name it.

****

You’re on Billie’s couch, legs tucked under yourself, a half-eaten bag of chips between you. She’s scrolling through some streaming app like it’s a life-or-death decision.

“This one has a 98% on Rotten Tomatoes,” she says.

“It also looks like it was made for sad white men who write film essays on Tumblr.”

She clicks it anyway.

It’s not a good movie. It's barely even a movie. It’s one of those indie slow-burns where nothing really happens, but everything’s a metaphor for loneliness. Of course it’s the one you’re watching.

About thirty minutes in, your knees are touching. Then your shoulder. Then Billie shifts just enough that your thighs are lined up. She doesn’t move away.

Neither do you.

You don’t look at her. You don’t say anything.

But a few minutes later, her hand is resting against your calf—soft, light, like she forgot it was there.

And then, slowly, her fingers find your hair. She starts playing with it absently. Familiar. Absent-minded. Like this is just what you do.

Your breath catches, just slightly. Not enough for her to notice. You don’t move.

She keeps twirling a strand.

You don’t look at each other. The movie plays on, pretending you aren’t unraveling.

She shifts slightly, but her hand stays on you.

“You used to say I was too blunt,” she murmurs.

“You were.”

“You said I made you feel small, sometimes.”

You pause. “You did.”

There’s a quiet beat. Not defensive. Just still.

“You’d call me dramatic whenever I brought something up. Or overthinking. Or too sensitive.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” you say. And you do. But that doesn’t erase the sting. “But you still said it.”

She nods, almost to herself. “You always wanted to talk about things. Everything had layers with you.”

You look at her then. “Everything has layers. You just didn’t like looking at them.”

Billie goes quiet. Her fingers still, just for a moment, in your hair.

“I didn’t get it,” she admits. “Half the stuff you brought up—gender, labels, politics… it just felt like too much. Like everything had to be a cause.”

You smile. It's not unkind. But it isn't soft either. “It was too much—for you.”

She meets your eyes then, and there’s something like apology in her face. But not regret. Not quite.

“I felt like I had to shrink to be next to you,” you continue. “Like I had to sand down the sharp parts so I didn’t set you off. I was always editing myself.”

Billie doesn’t argue. She doesn’t explain.

She just says, “I know.”

And that somehow hurts more.

You still love her. Deeply. Undeniably. But you love yourself now too. And you know exactly which love you're not willing to compromise again.

You don’t know why you’re still talking. Maybe because it’s finally quiet enough to. Maybe because your body still remembers how to confess things in her presence.

You shift on the couch, turning toward her just slightly—just enough to see her face without really looking at it.

“I knew,” you say quietly. “Back then. I knew you didn’t really get it. Any of it.”

Billie doesn’t argue. She just watches you.

“You didn’t try to understand things that mattered to me. Or when you did, it was only after I broke down trying to explain why it mattered in the first place.”

You laugh a little, but it’s brittle. “And I still stayed.”

She looks down.

“I stayed because I loved you enough to overlook it. Or I thought I did. I thought that if I just loved you harder, louder, more patiently, eventually it’d be enough to… I don’t know. Make the other stuff not matter.”

You feel the words coming before you say them. The shape of them. The weight.

“Because I love—” Your voice catches. Just for a second. Just long enough to break.

You clear your throat, and correct yourself mid-sentence, too quickly.

“Because I loved you. Enough to ignore the parts of myself that didn’t sit right next to you.”

There it is again. That reflex. That instinct to swallow yourself whole before anyone else can do it for you.

Billie hears it. Of course she does. But she says nothing.

And somehow, the silence confirms everything.

You didn’t stop loving her. You just started loving yourself more. Or maybe for the first time at all.

Billie’s still looking at you. Or maybe through you. Like she’s watching something that already happened.

“You know what’s messed up?” she says after a moment. “I didn’t even get it at the time. Like—I knew you were hurting. I could see it. But I thought it was just... you being sensitive. You always felt things so deeply, and I thought I was allowed to stay the same and let you carry all the weight.”

You don’t respond. You don’t need to.

“I kept thinking I’d grow into it,” she continues. “Into being what you needed. That one day I’d just… wake up and suddenly know how to hold space for things I didn’t understand.”

You swallow.

“But I didn’t,” she says. “I couldn’t. I was too wrapped up in already knowing who I was and what I'm worth. And you were still only getting there. And I hated that I couldn’t meet you there. That I couldn’t give you the version of me you deserved. That I couldn't bend myself like you were bending yourself for me.”

Her voice is steady. Matter-of-fact. But you can hear the ache in the way she chooses her words.

“And by the time I realized how much I’d let slip through my hands,” she says, softer now, “you’d already started holding on to yourself instead.”

Your chest tightens.

And in that moment, everything in her expression says what she won’t say out loud:

That if she'd met you later, maybe she would’ve been ready. That if the timing had been different, maybe it would’ve worked. That maybe it wasn’t about not loving you enough. It was about not knowing how to love you right.

You want to scream. Or cry. Or laugh.

Instead, you nod.

Slow. Small. Knowing.

“I wanted you to see things from my eyes,” you say quietly. “But I let you not do that because you seemed so sure of your mind and your thoughts. And I didn't want to make you question things the way I do.”

Billie doesn’t flinch.

She just looks at you like she’s finally seeing what she missed. And this time, she doesn’t reach for your hand. She just lets you hold your own.

The silence stretches so long it stops feeling awkward and just becomes part of the furniture. Like grief, or old air.

Her hand is still in your hair. Yours is curled into the blanket, nails digging in like it might hold you together.

And then Billie says, voice low but clear:

“I loved you more when you stopped needing me.”

You don’t react at first. Because what the fuck is that even supposed to mean.

But then you get it. You know exactly what she means.

She loved the version of you who didn’t beg for her to show up. Who stopped asking for softness. Who learned to be their own safe place because she couldn’t be one.

She loved you more when it didn’t cost her anything.

And maybe that hurts her, too.

You stare straight ahead, eyes fixed on nothing.

Then, just as calmly, you say:

“And I loved you most when I realized the break-up felt like freedom."

She flinches. Not big. But enough. Enough for you to feel it.

And neither of you says another word after that.

You sit there—two people who once loved each other in all the wrong ways at all the wrong times—quiet, breathing, broken in a way that finally makes sense.

No one leaves. No one moves.

And somehow, that’s the ending.

---------------------- y'all tears were shed writing this. Also, I'm so sorry for the way I wrote billies beliefs. I know that's not how she is in real life at all, i just did it for the story to work out the way i wanted and to relate it to what happened to me and what I went through😔

[kweenofrats11]

Okay, a bit of a Diavolo analysis/deep dive/theories:

WARNING: Spoilers

We know vaguely of his origins: born in a women's prison to a woman who was pregnant for two years (I wish we had a fucking explanation for that one 😭😭), adopted out to a priest and spent his childhood in Sardegna.

Here's where the waters start to get muddy (already):

So, going off of the anime, we know that both Doppio and Diavolo were present from birth, with Doppio at least being the host for that scene and possibly for longer in his life. We also know that around 18 is when the two burned their home village down, so Diavolo was probably at least present for that.

We don't know when their mother was buried in the floor, nor for how long (nor how the hell he even managed to do that). But what we do know is that King Crimson implies in the first Bucciarati fight that, like Spice Girl and Trish, he and Diavolo have been representations of each other since birth.

Diavolo/Doppio's violent streak could have started when King Crimson manifested. If we take what Bruno told Trish to heart, he was probably a "regular guy" until he formed Passione around 18... Coincidentally that's also when he burned down his village. That's also an approximate time where King Crimson could have manifested.

Think about it: Diavolo (or Doppio) got behind the priest REALLY fast and really quietly when he found Dia's mother in the floor. Who says that couldn't have been the work of King Crimson?

Another thing... We don't know who gave Doppio his name (Vinegar), whether it be his mother or the priest. However, 'Doppio' may possibly be the last name of the priest that Vinegar was given upon adoption. And because of the naming scheme I doubt anyone really knew of Diavolo unless HE was the one originally named 'Vinegar' or something. I say this because I refuse to believe a fucking priest would name his child after the devil.

So, my theory and personal headcanon is: Doppio was/is the host, and once he and Diavolo were more or less the same. However, a specific event (possibly KC's manifestation or fatherhood or what have you) exacerbated their mental illnesses and the two fully branched off and evolved separately but simultaneously into two different individuals sharing the same body. I'm not going by exact symptoms of DID because this is obviously a fantasy interpretation of it and therefore not scientifically accurate.

So, Diavolo was always there but didn't become the dominant alter until some unspecified event.

Now, let's put Diavolo/Doppio's existence in context with real world events:

They were born in the 1960s, about 20-ish years after the end of WWII, during the Cold War, and grew up during the "Years of Lead" (Anni di Piombo) conflict in Italy. Not to mention there were A LOT of conflicts globally during the 60s and 70s. This means they were also only children when mutually assured destruction from atomic weapons became a real fear. This was an extremely difficult time to grow up in

Apollo 11 Mission and space exploration

Berlin Wall and more conflict in Europe

Introduction of colored TV to Italy in 1977 (holy shit bro watched TV in black and white) which causes a lot of political controversy

Italy is still involved in Communism during the 60s and 70s

Sardegna is only granted regional autonomy in 1948

Sardegna's environment suffered greatly during WWII and became a theatre of bombing, which, as we all know, that regional trauma trickles down even after it ends

Much like most of the world during the 60s and 70s, mental illness is heavily stigmatized and very little help and resources are out there

Okay, now so we've established a little bit of cultural context, it's easier to see in a broader sense that Doppio and Diavolo's upbringing was a very stressful time for a lot of people.

Let's get into Diavolo specifically:

I really like Diavolo's character and how he's written as a villain. Unlike Kira where the suspense comes from the fact that we KNOW what he's capable of, know the protagonists are in danger, and they don't, Diavolo is extremely interesting because we know just about as much as the protagonists do.

He's impulsive but also pragmatic, he's vicious but also a coward, he's bloodthirsty but also knows when to pick his battles, he's ruthless but can come off as extremely supportive when it benefits him, he dresses like a scene rave queen but he is extremely intelligent, uses a vast vocabulary, and is obviously a very successful businessman.

He is a complete contradiction of his own character at any given moment and I think that constant addition to an already mysterious guy really works for him. Do I think this is a poor/inconsistent writing choice by Araki? No. Definitely not. I think it is a writing choice that makes such an untouchable guy like Diavolo feel very human.

Because, at the end of the day, even the most evil people are human. They make mistakes, they contradict themselves, they have regrets, they don't always win. Despite how fantastical and unrealistic Diavolo is he still feels like a person.

And the thing is, Diavolo's defeat also feels very human. His own hubris, cowardice, impulsiveness, and paranoia got in his way. If he had really played things smart and didn't come after Polnareff things wouldn't have ended the way they did but he had unfinished business with Polnareff. He had a grudge, and the need to tie up any loose ends was the nail in his coffin. He was so antsy because his guards were all being defeated by the Bucciarati mob, and the most formidable of La Squadra, Risotto, was on his tail as well.

Diavolo was being attacked on all sides and his reckless, paranoid decision to step out of the shadows to handle things himself as quickly as possible was the beginning of the end.

He had a genuine reason to fear Risotto and he knew this. Diavolo knew Risotto's track record, that he had never failed an assassination, and he ALREADY had Risotto on a tight leash because of Sorbet and Gelato. And now he was Risotto's next target. You can hear the panic and stress in his voice during the Metallica Arc when he's trying to get Doppio to focus on the battle.

Not to mention he also had a reason to fear Abbacchio and Moody Blues, which is why he took his chance and snuffed him out before he could finish the replay (even though he didn't stick around long enough to see that he did). Diavolo was in a highly populated area with Aerosmith flying overhead and several injuries but he still took a chance and killed Abbacchio because he had to. In his mind it was the most obvious quick end to this whole ordeal, or at least, it would buy him time.

When we begin to really see Diavolo after his transformation and reveal, we start to see more sides of him. His propensity to panic, how desperate he gets, his rage, his frustration, his mood swings and boisterous side, and finally, his existential fear. And his crumbling downfall feels extremely real because his arrogance caused him to fail, and Giorno just took advantage of that. Diavolo was always going to end up getting himself defeated because his character is made up of fatal flaws.

And let's also talk about his rage some more:

Throughout all of the battles, up until the final one, Diavolo was self-assured and therefore calm throughout these conflicts, even if he was frustrated and annoyed. But during the final battle he becomes genuinely angry and we can see that in how his fighting style becomes more desperate, more sloppy, and less efficient (and also because he literally says "Now, I'm angry!" 😭). His anger came from a place of fear, not annoyance. And I think that was a beautiful writing choice.

His Punishment:

I think Diavolo's punishment was too harsh, and I'm not just saying that as a Diavolo fan. I think most people don't deserve punishment for ETERNITY, because, in a scenario where they're conscious of their punishment the whole time (like Diavolo and Kars), they would eventually have to repent, change, and be broken down into shells of their former selves. And after years and years of torture, they probably would be unrecognizable when compared to the evil people they were before hand. Diavolo was a very sick man that, yes, while he did very horrible things and hurt people, still needed genuine help. No regular jail could hold him, and he needed a great punishment to fit his crimes, so like, maybe a few deaths in the death loop. Like, after 100 excruciating deaths and psychological torture I think he'd probably become a new man if you gave him the chance 😭 He's evil but he's not stupid.

I just think an eternity of 'deaths-but-not-deaths' (or purgatory) is harsh. Especially for an already mentally fractured individual.

I mean, DIO stayed being evil but bro got a quick and easy death in comparison. Ykw I mean?

Design:

Okay, let's finally talk about Diavolo's design because I truly do love it. The only real comment we have from Araki about his design is about his hair. Araki stated that he wanted to give Diavolo "leopard spots" in his hair because it felt punk.

That's right, people. Those are supposedly leopard spots.

Which I think is very cool and very scene queen.

I also think, like his personality, Diavolo's design is a complete contradiction of him and it works.

You expect a Don to be decked out in the finest suits, with the cleanest look and sensible hair.

Well, that's what we were made to expect too, based on his appearance before the final battle. But then...

BAM!

Araki hits us with the revealing, pretty pink raver we know today. Not only is it just very JoJo-esque, but it makes Diavolo that much more mysterious and unpredictable.

Not to mention, Araki purposefully designed him to be androgynous, which I love as an androgynous person.

Overall, his design is not only appealing but just very cool. And I think it overall made Diavolo more interesting, gorgeous, and memorable as a character.

Alright, that's all I really have for this installment of 'I'm overthinking about a fictional character again'. Thanks for reading if anyone even made it down here 😭

Bye

[marigoldsandbuttercups]

maybe s/o seems quiet, calm and even shy at times, but it turns out that they used to work as a stripper and they were super famous and made a lot of money. s/o stopped because they were afraid that because of their non-standard work, the skellies would want to leave s/o. For Ut, Us and Uf.

love your blog☺️

Woah That's A Cool Job, Bro

(Why thank ya, friend. I really appreciate that 💖)

Sans: "huh," he starts out, and doesn't really elaborate much on it. You can hear him chuckle as he watches you try to figure out just what he meant by that. And as much as he would like to admire the way your face looks as you think, he knows this is a serious topic. He takes your hand, touch as gentle as the wind itself before pulling you just a little closer to him.

What? Can't a guy have a nice cuddle whilst talking about his relationship?

It's easy for him to disarm you, to have you relax because he really doesn't want you to feel like you're walking on eggshells around him. He looks calm as ever as you explain but you know better, from the way his touches linger on you and how his eyelights never stray from you. When it's his turn to speak, Sans isn't really much for words, but he makes it known that he's always rooting for you. Once he's in love, he's all in, and he will always show that, one way or another.

Papyrus: Not offended in the least bit. If anything, he would have a deep fascination with your job and how you work. He's into it, the flair, the dramatics, the legs! He thinks it's Very Cool™. Papyrus isn't one to really judge people by their personality, especially when he's had experience of people doing the same to him. Sure, he'd be surprised but it's more so good surprise because... He wants to know more about you, after all.

He'd also be surprised when you express your fear to him, understanding that the way humans and monsters view certain things differently is very much at play here. Papyrus also doesn't care how long you've been together, if it's something you wanna do, he's ready to support you and you will never experience any judgement from him. (Your workouts are gonna be super fun btw, he had Plans™)

Blue: After you tell him, he kinda just... Goes quiet for a bit. It worries you, rightfully so as you find it hard to properly discern his expression. But he moves a step closer to you and holds your hands, first assuring you that you never have to be afraid to tell him anything. Blue would want to make it known as soon as possible that he will be by you no matter what, your safe space, your pillow to fall on.

But he also assures you that he trusts you, anything you want to do is for you to choose but he will support it so long as you're safe and happy. That's all that really matters to him in the end since, well, it's one of the reasons he fell for you anyway, the fact that it's you. (Also would probably point out the pretty outfits you have and if you'd model for him-)

Stretch: Definitely do not tell him while he's eating or drinking because he will choke. He would then panic and say he didn't choke because he was angry or anything like that, he was just... Very surprised. And he is! He just gets extremely flustered at the idea of you doing literally anything (boy is whipped I tell ya). It takes him a while to completely articulate his thoughts because he wants to tell you that's so cool but also wants to tell it's okay and that you're so awesome and-

There's a lot going through his mind, and you're sat there in dumbfounded silence as you watch the orange hue begin to cover his entire skull. But! He does eventually gather his thoughts and tells you that.. Hey, he thinks you're an amazing person and he's loved you far too long for anything like that to get in the way. He trusts you, and he hopes you trust him as much.

Red: "that's hot-" and he stops upon seeing your face and chuckles. He holds his hands up in defense before moving a little closer once you're a little more relaxed. He starts small, holding your hand before explaining what the culture is like from where he is. He's not the best with words, but Red does succeed in getting his message across, that being:

It is your life, you have the right to decide what you wanna do and what you don't wanna do. But whatever it is you choose to do, he's got your back, no matter how "out there" it is or whatever. You want it? You got it and Red will absolutely make sure that you can depend on him for supporting you. (still will tell you it's hot af tho)

Edge: You think he's judging you but really that's just his resting face. He's a little surprised by the fact that you're so... Unsure of telling him. He voices this concern, because to him, these kinds of things were rather normal in the underground. Whatever it was, as long as it was a means to survive. He takes this a little too seriously, not that it is a bad thing, but it can be rather daunting when he's staring you down as you're both seated on your couch.

And the whole thing kinda... Makes you laugh a little.

Perhaps from how nervous you are, from how overly invested Edge is, but.. it's.. Touching. He's rightfully confused, and huffs when he finds out why, feeling a little shy.(but you would never catch him admitting that lmao). The dramatics only last for a while before you gather your thoughts and explain and Edge is.. Very gentle about it. It's one of those moments that make you understand just why you fell for him, how he makes sure that you understand that he would never, ever judge you for that. He respects you, and he will respect the choices you make as long as you're okay.

[enseea]

The fractured relationship between Uchiha Madara and Senju Hashirama, as depicted in Only Shot at Honour

Welcome class to the second thread from a series where I break down the themes I'm most feral about from my Madara-centric, post-Izanagi, Founders Era WIP. Today we'll talk about Madara and Hashirama.

Spoilers ahoy up til Chapter 19 of OSAH. As with the last post, this might be enjoyable to read even if you've not read OSAH before, since it touches upon the canonical relationship between Madara and Hashirama. TLDR two bros chilling in a hot tub five feet apart cuz they're not gay

Let's go.

In OSAH, the relationship between Madara and Hashirama is something that hasn't yet had a chance to evolve. It's showcased through memories, dialogue with third parties, and throwaway narration, but at the core of it, OSAH approaches the two of them as ideological twins, separated by trauma and war.

In Chapter 11, Uzumaki Kouki describes the two of them as such:

" (...) whatever Hashirama is made of, you are much the same. Two sides of the same coin. Two equals.”

So there's a symmetry to Madara and Hashirama, but it's more than just narrative foil. It's two men made myth. They dreamed the same dream once, and yet by the time OSAH begins, the execution of that dream has broken them both: Hashirama's legacy is peace through mutual trust, while Madara's is peace through overwhelming force.

And in OSAH, they begin adopting each other's failures even though they haven't encountered each other since the Valley of the End. In this sense, in Chapter 17, Uchiha Hikaku says:

“He loved you so fucking much, [...] that he doesn’t see he’s making the same mistakes you did. The bijuu, spread across the nations. Mutually assured destruction.”

Even apart, Hashirama cannot stop looking for Madara in the world, and what Hikaku makes clear is that grief has made the Hokage blind, much in the same way it did to Madara.

The central conflict between Madara and Hashirama is that they both believe they were betrayed by the other.

In Chapter 19, Madara dreams of the battle at the Valley of the End, where he says this to Hashirama:

"Our friendship died when you compromised our peace."

But in Chapter 12, Hashirama confesses this to Hikaku:

"I can't remember what he looked like when he died [...] I just see him as he was."

Madara mourns the future Hashirama gave away. But Hashirama mourns the Madara he remembers - not the one who he fought at the Valley of the End, but the one who sat beside him by the river. That longing becomes unbearable in Madara's dream from Chapter 19, because the memory of their final battle ends with:

"I'll never forget you, old friend."

This line comes right before Hashirama plunges his blade into Madara's heart, from behind. It's not hatred that fuels Hashirama - it's grim determination to protect a once shared dream. And the fact that Madara's subconscious chooses to recall that line in his nightmare shows that's what's buried deep - loss, not rage.

Hikaku serves as an invaluable lens through which OSAH depicts the extent of the damage. His dialogue with Hashirama in Chapter 12 is steeped in melancholy:

“Sometimes I dream of him,” Hashirama admitted quietly. “Like he’s still here. Like we’re still connected.”

Though Hashirama in this scene is trying to connect with Hikaku, Hikaku doesn't let him. Instead, he draws a line:

"No. It was too late for him. There was nothing you could've done."

Where others would vilify Madara, Hikaku grieves him - the man, not the myth he ended up as. But his bitterness remains sharp. To Madara, Hikaku was just one of the many who betrayed him. To Hikaku, Madara's betrayal came first. In Chapter 17, this is what Hikaku tells Madara:

“I tried to hold it all together, in your absence. You were supposed to lead us. You were supposed to be the one to do it, to make the hard choices, to live for the Clan!”

In this, Hikaku and Madara become reflections of the conflict between Madara and Hashirama, caught in the same web of duty and disillusionment. And just like Hashirama, Hikaku still loves him. Madara's thoughts in Chapter 18 acknowledge that:

“Thank you,” Hikaku said softly. “I - thank you.”  Emphatic. Caring.  His cousin still loved him.  Madara sniffed and looked up to the stars. Then, he turned, for one last time.  “Take care of the Clan,” he told Hikaku, burdening him with the same duty Tajima had once bestowed upon Madara. “Don’t let them take advantage of you.”

And Madara loves him too, even though neither of them say it.

In conclusion -

Madara and Hashirama's portrayal in OSAH refuses to let the past settle. Their story is unfinished, even in death. Their conflicts and ideals bleed into others - into Hikaku, into Kouki, and into Uzumaki Kinza - and Madara's struggle becomes one of resisting inevitability. But he can never quite escape it.

Hashirama believed in peace. Madara, in control. In the end, they both chose sacrifice. The only difference was who they were willing to sacrifice - and for what.

So as regards Madara's village in OSAH: if he builds something better than Konoha in Mizu-sho-mura, it won't be in spite of Hashirama, it will be because of him. Because in all the ways that matter, Madara never stopped loving Hashirama, and by the time they will finally get to see each other again, there will maybe, just maybe, be enough of a steady ground to reconcile.

probably not though

[new-employeeamillion]

April has already had a ton of animation/pop culture news that some of you might want to know my thoughts on. So here’s my 2 cents on all the announcements that matter to me.

-New Warner Bros. movies

I still don’t know if this is an April Fools joke. Announcing 3 new animated movies, each based on a classic IP (Looney Tunes, Tom & Jerry and The Flintstones) seems too good to be true. But after selling 2 Looney Tunes movies to a tiny distributor (Ketchup), I can see what they’e trying to do. They know animated movies drum up a lot of attention online these days, even the ones that can’t make much money. It’s sad that it’s reached a point where making movies and releasing them is the bare minimum for good publicity, but I’m going to support the hell out of these movies as they approach their release dates.

All these franchises have had fully animated theatrical movies now, but I can only wonder what the next step will be. I do hope The Day the Earth Blew Up gets a follow-up, because that’s the most fun I’ve had with a movie in a theatre in a long time. With the Flintstones movie, all I can imagine is the tape message scene from The Simpsons Movie but with Fred and Wilma. I don’t know why, but that’s where my imagination goes. Perhaps it won’t be that deep though. Speaking of which…

-The Simpsons is renewed through to Season 40

It’s a year with a number in it and The Simpsons is still on TV. I don’t think FOX has ever renewed 4 new seasons at once, they usually just give it an extra 2 every 2 years. I can’t say I’m the most excited guy in the room, because I don’t want to predict what the next cast/crew loss will be and how that’ll leave the show getting even more distant from its roots. Like I know they’re keeping it on as long as possible for the meme, and I am morbidly curious to see how long, but the future has never looked less assured. I have been catching up on the Matt Selman seasons, and they can be enjoyable, but it’ll take a miracle to keep that level of quality up for the rest of the decade.

I guess the miracle comes from the shorter seasons they’ve got now. They’ve been airing 18 annually on FOX recently, with 4 being turned into specials on Disney+. Now the FOX episode count has been cut down to 15 annually. Maybe they’re finally learning to strike a quality over quantity balance, maybe the budget is getting lower, or maybe the show has so many episodes now that an 850th won’t spark much anticipation. Either way, I’ve got mixed hopes.

-South Park’s 27th season

They’ve apparently fully planned it out ahead of time this year, taking influence from news stories that you can bet your bottom dollar will be irrelevant when it drops on July 9th. I’m still interested to see what South Park does next as well, but it hardly feels like it’s still running anymore. I know Trey and Matt have been embroiled in legal battles, and they’ve been busy on other projects (again again). But the fact they’re breaking code and planning stories months in advance will definitely lead to interesting results. Maybe not great, certainly not Season 5-8 great, but who knows?

-Doctor Who’s doing an episode about cartoons

We’re going back to the Land of Fiction with this one. This rubberhose guy might make the rounds on animation social media for a week, but the more I see of his episode, the more it looks like an experiment first and a story second, like the Beatles episode last season. I mean this is the third year in a row they’re doing “What if [20th century media] got corrupted and destroys the present?” I can count on the rubberhose guy to leave an impact, and on the leads to be entertaining, but this is already looking like the season’s highlight to me. I can only hope they’ll spend part or the rest of it fixing last year’s finale. Fingers crossed. Brave heart, fandom.

-Nintendo Switch 2

Looks expensive. Not PS3 expensive, but inflation is a cruel force of nature. I won’t get it at launch based on that, and the fact I usually wait for the big 3D Super Mario game before getting a new Nintendo console. I got 3D World with my Wii U, Odyssey with my Switch, and whatever they’ve got next is going with my Switch 2. The games and features they have announced look exciting, but again, I’ll wait for more games and a price drop, and get as much out of my Switch as I can.

That’s all, folks!

[kingsansa]

sansa immediately caving and “forgiving” him only for him to immediately explode and yell at her again and throw her relationship with harry in her face like he didn’t sleep around with (multiple?) different woman, and is still most likely lying to her about his past relationship with dany.

like sure bro, sansa’s the problem here. obviously it’s not your emotionally constipated ass

I’d say they’re both the problem. Despite giving each other repeated verbal assurance, they’re still holding back from one another. Jon was somewhat justified in his feelings—at first. He just opened up to her about one of the darkest parts of his life and he thinks they’re getting somewhere, but then Ned shows up, and Jon realizes that Sansa was still withholding from him, a part of her she’s sharing with someone who is clearly attracted to her. Is it hypocritical for him to get mad at that, knowing he may have one last skeleton in his closet? Of course it is. But he’s not wrong for being hurt. How he ends up going about that hurt, however….

Harry, who’d probably be extremely flattered to know this, is something that he’s been stewing about for years. Imagine your partner makes a new friend, and when you express concern about that new friend, they tell you they have nothing to worry about…..only to pop out with the same person months later. If Sansa had moved on with some random, it wouldn’t have hurt nearly as much. But the fact that it was Harry, who she reassured him about countless times genuinely cut him deep. How he coped with that, only god knows (and a few ice girls too lol)

[forgottenbones]

it is that deep you just refuse to swim | critical thinking, mickey mouse degrees, book bans...

On a positive note, I love that the mocking of Dr. Louks's work backfired so spectacularly that now many more people are aware of her research and have stopped to think about something they probably never would've considered in literature and media (and by extension in the real world). So, that's very cool for her.

[coff-in]

Coff-in?? Waiting for my response??? HHrrrk I'm blushing so hard rn holy shit Devious Anon is in love <3 Interestingly I think Reader killing Ashley is a possibility, but it's done under very specific conditions—like she has to be sure Andrew wants to kill Ashley before she takes on the job, ergo basically in the vision what I think would happen is Andrew is approaching Ashley with the knife and is visibly debating killing her and then reader kill-steals, kind of. Andrew asks reader why the fuck she would do that and reader replies almost innocuously, "She was causing you a lot of pain, and you would've cried if you killed Ashley, right? So I'll do it for you." She killed Ashley to keep Andrew for herself, yes, but also to spare Andrew the guilt of killing Ashley. I feel like it's harder for him to resent her under these conditions bc yk, he was about to do the exact same thing and she did it for him. NOW IF ASHLEY RETALIATES AND KILLS HER bro I don't think these siblings are ever going to come back together the same again bc now Ashley suspects Andrew and reader of being against her, Andrew has a looooot of mixed feelings (does he wanna kill Ash???) and reader is basically always a hair-trigger away from flipping out (she didn't think she wanted to kill Ash but now that it's in her head...)

Also also I realized I built up Devious Baby Sis reader a lot in my head but did not actually share most of it (she's basically a whole character now just without a name) so here it be! The reason why baby sis is the way she is comes from her observation of the family dynamic as the youngest—that is, she and Ash both rely on Andrew. Ashley is very openly needy about it, which reader notices tends to get on Andrew's nerves. They both baby her, but reader sometimes gets left out when her older siblings become too tangled with each others issues (ex. Nina's death is something i'm not sure reader would've been involved in). Reader is internally actually pretty insecure like Ashley, but instead of acting out (which she know annoys Andrew), she switches tactics so they act out for her—in jealousy. Basically reader is insecure and constantly tests their feelings because otherwise, she can't convince herself that she's loved.

CRYING AT THIS FEAST SO EARLY IN THE MORNING HRRRRGG It's not fair that Andrew's so fine it's actually illegal. He's in my head rent free (you can tell by the amount of asks I've thrown your way coff-in I need hELP) I feel like this is less an ask and me just building fanfic with you in your asks now :,D I just have so many brainworms lmao bUT IF YOU WANNA WRITE A WHOLE ASS ANGST FIC I ASSURE YOU I AM YOUR GAL << I WILL READ, I WILL DEVOUR

notes from coff-in: I WAS WAITING ALL EVENING FOR YOU BABES!!! AAAAHHHH ITS DEVIOUS ANON!!!! and don't worry about talking in my inbox, a fact you should all know is that i love to yap and talk (you also have a tag now! #devious anon visits the coffin)

[fem] reader-insert, [devious younger sister reader], incest

i don't know if i could elaborate more on the decay route because it's just too good man! the paths we've explored so far are all so fucking exciting! i am curious about how ashley would traverse her relationship with andrew and devious baby sis [reader] since ashley would be the only one seeing the vision.

i've also been building up this little devious [reader] in my head but it's all self-indulgent stuff. hearing you talk about why she is the way she is is pretty neat though! i have trouble keeping all to deep analysis stuff in my head and it causes me to lose track of character traits and motives and such :p i mostly saw [reader] is just being this little yandere manipulator, you know? she's genuinely happy with her siblings but she uses all these tricks and tactics to indulge in her incestuous feelings with her siblings while also not getting into trouble. she writes romantic poems for andrew but it's forged in julia's handwriting so he doesn't suspect it's [reader]. she gets naked while sharing a room with ashley and plays it off as okay since they're both sisters and siblings and only one year apart in age.

ah... imagine that she's in love with both of her siblings but thinks that andrew and ashley don't love her back or yet ARE IN LOVE WITH EACH OTHER. the conflict she feels about her romantic feelings to her siblings and her need to keep a secret to keep them with her. she fakes being an angel because she doesn't think that they'd love her back if they knew how apathetic she could be towards other people. even if she wasn't there when nina died (something she construes as something personal between andrew and ashley that she could never fit into), [reader] probably wouldn't have helped her out of that box. it made ashley happy, right? and andrew wouldn't have to get a girlfriend, right? all wins in her book.

she'd kill and maim and butcher and burn and lie and die for her siblings if she needed to (well, she probably wouldn't die without them ofc). they are her beginning and her end! her soulmates reincarnated as her siblings so that they'd be together forever (from the womb to the tomb, as i've seen said in passing). a lot of her personality revolves around andrew and ashley and while i want to work on that a little bit more in my silly little head, i think it could also be used as some sort of purposefully character flaw?

speaking of long fanfics, i have an ao3 account (that is empty for now) but maybe one day your devious idea could become a devious multi-chapter fanfic (with your permission of course. i want to make sure everyone gets their fair share of credit).

also, also, ALSO! imagine andrew and ashley celebrating [reader]'s birthday! :3 happy thought to make up for all the angst

----

coff-in

[kayetra-spade-queen]

Overanalyzing On Ajay And Babli's House Because I'm Too Unhinged And Too Unbothered To Get A Life, Apparently

I'm truly at a point of no return, far too deep to get out of it.

I'll be talking about the houses of our most favorite duo of all times. Lattu is excluded because he lives in an apartment, meaning there's nothing for me to go on.

Rest assured, I blamed my friends for this one.

Anyways-

Ajay's House

This is Ajay's family home. His family might've been pretty loaded, at least loaded enough to get this huge ass house.

I'm purely gonna assume this might be a more wealthier side of town, cuz good god, that balcony is huge asf-

And the fact that his room is also pretty big as well. Bro had a bean bag.

Babli's House

This place seem big too, but maybe because of the angle that made it doesn't look as big as Ajay's.

However tho, I think Ajay still wins in house size cuz if you look at the doors of both houses, assuming that they're the same size and height, and see the lining above it, you could clearly see that Ajay's house is that of high ceilings, while Babli's is not.

And the fact that the balcony at Ajay's is much bigger than Babli's, the doors are also different in sizes, with Ajay being bigger.

I can't really tell if Babli had a yard like Ajay's. But if she doesn't then that's another win for Ajay, cuz the land of the house where it was built is bigger than Babli's. Even if she does have a yard, the house size is still the same regardless.

Babli's place looked a little more sophisticated because Ajay's place looked more simpler.

Both houses are built long, with Ajay's being vertical as Babli's is horizontal.

Squinting as hard as I could looking at Babli's house on the side, the width of the house is only 2 windows long.

Ajay's width is on the front, which gives him around 2 and prob like a ⅖ window.

For the sides, as Babli's sides are at the front, it's around 4 and a ¾ windows long.

Ajay's is a bit confusing because of how long the distance between the first window to the 2nd window. But using the power of unhingedness from my ass, mentally moving the windows and multiplying them, I could conclude that the length of Ajay's house is around 5 and a ¾ windows long.

I'm not gonna mention the obvious height, cuz it's pretty clear that Ajay won because of the high ceilings. Babli's was flat on both floors, while Ajay is pointed on the top floor, but the first floor had a pretty high ceiling too.

So the conclusion that my ass came up with, is that Ajay's house is much bigger than Babli's. Both families are loaded, so go figure.

[zalrb]

Why do you think men love and gravitate towards movies like Anora? I’ve seen a lot of “film bros” praising the movie and I just don’t get it.. as a woman it didn’t do much for me. It didn’t make me sit down and think and feel. Am I missing something? It feels like the movie wants to have this deep messaging and say something but it just doesn’t give any substance to me?? It felt like another fantasy of a beautiful and damaged girl and I just don’t get the obsession. I see people rating it a 10/10 and I’m just like ?? Why?

Because it's a well-shot movie that presents like it's going to be about the titular character but then spends a good chunk of time with the three goons who are nonthreatening men that aren't terrible. Like, as I said in my review, I do think it could be argued that we get interiority with Ani and with certain choices that Baker made to indicate what her inner life would be and how she operates in the movie can be interesting but what's presented in front of you without subtlety is a comedy of errors led by a trio of charismatic, likeable men who spend the first ten-twenty minutes they're onscreen together assuring the viewer and Ani that they're not rapists and aren't needlessly violent, in fact, Ani could take them on and beat them up if need be!

[haru-kuneko]

To anyone living in the U.A.E., here's to a nice long weekend. No school or work 'til Tuesday. Also, do you guys remember watching Mr. Peabody & Sherman?

I remember my first introduction to the series was thanks to the movie which came out when I was like in high school. It's only recently did I start giving the movie a shot and boy, I wasn't expecting to get into these two.

I was surprised to learn they came from an old cartoon in the 1950's and 1960's where they share the same universe as Rocky and Bullwinkle. I feel a bit ashamed of not giving the movie a chance as I thought it was just another corny a** kids' movie. When I actually watched it, I start to appreciate it more.

This was a love letter to nerds out there as they teach you about history and stuff. The fact they have a very healthy father-son relationship is amazing. They aren't as bad as the one from The Goofy Movie or Freaky Friday where you have a teenager always butting heads with their parents. I like how the movie makes Mr. Peabody fun and sweet compared to the original.

Also, side note: You ever noticed how Sherman doesn't call him dad? Just like in the original, Mr. Peabody doesn't like being called "daddy" for some reason.

Before anyone says, "It ain't that deep bro!", I can assure you a story of a dog adopting a kid is very unique to me. It may not be perfect but how can you not love a dog who looks like a walking marshmallow with a bowtie and loves his son as his own?

The movie came out in 2014 (a year after Frozen). The era when the bowtie-wearin' Tumblr Sexymen was at its peak. This was made by the same company that brought us Kung Fu Panda and How To Train Your Dragon. Where are the furries drawing anime fanart and fanfics of him? They are so underrated.

I also heard Netflix once had the animated series of Mr. Peabody & Sherman but, similar to the movie, it didn't get as much attention. Maybe if they were to come out as an indie series today, they could've at least gotten a sizeable audience.

[simon-x-billy]

Simon x Billy

Year of the OTP: June

Chapter 6: Where’s the helipad?

June prompt: Soulmates

AN: Enjoy the sweet sweet sounds of helicopter blades slicing through the air. I love the helicopter scene so much. It is happy-making. It just makes me love both of them for each other. (Let's ignore the fact that I wrote it.)

We are so close to the sex, guys. So close. This is the last SFW chapter for a while. Bask in the virginal dude-bro vibe, and let people know that you read the chapters before they were cool.

TW: Rewrites. Mystifyingly late posts. Drunkenness. If alcohol is triggering for you, no need to read the last teeny section after we first meet Barry. Rest assured that Simon gets home safely and says cute stuff, then happily goes to bed.

Masterlist || ao3 || Prev || Next

————/Simon/————

I am trying to stop thinking about falling to my death. Give me a minute.

Ok, so this is…………This is a long flight of fucking rickety, wind-blasted wood. Not like that metal set of stairs with all the switchbacks I was complaining about last time I encountered stairs. I take all of my complaints back about that place. That was the height of stair-building technology by comparison. This place is just…..language fails me, like I’m picturing the stairs failing me any second now.

Shush, I need to concentrate.

————/-/————

Oh my fucking god. I can’t breathe. Metaphorically kissing the ground due to sheer survival has become a feature of my stay here. Just cuz I survived. So much ground kissing happening in Italy. Especially near stairs.

So from the size and schmanciness I’m guessing this place was either for a huge schmancy family, or hardcore party animals needing lots of bedrooms (the olden days version). This coastline has been a summer getaway spot for centuries. Scratch that. For millennia. What, like maybe three thousand, four thousand years?

But actual beaches are rare here. Anybody with two inches of it will stick a beach umbrella in it. So imagine owning an entire beach. Right? Beside the hotel, the only other possible access is from the water. And there are a lot -- I mean a lot of yachts around here. They will never, ever look normal to me. But they’re starting to look like a normal thing around here. And I’m told these aren’t even the big ones. Fuck me sideways.

Both shots are from the website of the actual Hotel La Tonnarella, which is the hotel I based my fictional hotel on. Yes, it really looks like that. Yes, I did stay there. Totally worth going into debt. Best decision I’ve ever made. You can faintly see the stairs, at left. It’s that pale diagonal line down the cliff from the hotel at top left down toward the beach, crossing right in front of that ruin in the middle, halfway down the cliff.

Anyway, we’ve seen the (only) road and there’s definitely no place for me to do my morning run. It doesn’t even have a shoulder. I guess if I can’t run without going airborne off a cliff, I could do the steps when I wake up. Better than nothing. It’s just-

Well, we’ve seen that I hate stairs. Steep stairs. Cliff stairs.

Fuck. Besides being terrifying, it was tiring just getting down here. What am I going to do when I have to go back up?

Anyway, Billy’s working down here today. And I really feel like disrupting his job well done.

“Will yeh take a look at yer man now. Down the beach, explorin,” he calls, as I approach the hotel’s tiny beach bar. “You didn’t take the stairs, did yeh?”

“Um, yeah? Certo. I wanted to see the beach.” Obviously.

“Why didn’t yeh take the lift?” he asks me.

I fix the man to his spot with a very frowny, very deep, “Would you mind repeating that, Billy?” Exactly like if Kronk was playing me in the movie. I can barely see through my eyes that have now narrowed to slits of disbelief and distrust and discomfort. “There’s an elevator?”

“Well, yeah man. How else are people meant to get down here? The cliff’s a dangerous way down, innit?”

It’s ok, Lewis. You can incorporate this new information without flipping out. Just be proud of yourself for facing your fears. You descended steep, unsafe stairs. Good job! And you were only vaguely terrified the whole time. Good job!

“Is the cliff so dangerous that they should close it down due to the mounting death toll? Or is it only dangerous in an inoffensive, cute way?”

He huffs out a quick laugh, then returns to slicing up lemons.

“Billy? That was an actual question. Care to provide an answer?”

“Meh, it’s safe enough,” he says. And that, ladies and gentleladies, is all I need to convince me I can indeed use this as my new Italian Morning Exercise. 1. Cliff, 2. Coffee, 3. Cliff, 4. Vomiting coffee. Perfect.

————/-/————

I’ve spent all this week forging a grudging relationship with the beach stairs.

I’m getting a little more accustomed to it. I have a few specific stones and broken twigs I’ve chosen as landmarks, whenever I require reassurance that I am indeed climbing down the right cliff. And if I’ve survived it the last four mornings, I can survive it a fifth time. Flawless reasoning.

Behind the beach bar, Billy spots me and gives me a wave. “You packed, man?”

My insides instantly start fizzing. I am so fucking stoked. I got us an airbnb in Naples for the weekend so we can check out Sabina’s gig tomorrow night. Billy could not say yes fast enough. He’s a social guy, and there’s not a lot of nightlife around here. I have no idea how he’s managed it all this time. Oh wait, that’s right. He’s managed it with women. Lots of women.

Over the last week, I’ve come to the realization that management does not mind a guest hanging out at the bar distracting their employee all day, because while that guest is distracting the employee, he is also ordering drink after frothy fruit-based drink, and healthy fruit-based foods. It’s like they’ve realized that my distraction of Billy might actually be lucrative for them. I even have my own barstool. Officially.

I have an announcement to make. “I have come to a decision,” I announce. “We need a convertible.”

“Sorry?”

“A convertible. We need one,” I repeat.

“Yeah, mate, heard yeh.”

“What, it’s a convertible!”

Billy remains unmoved. “Why can’t we take the train? It’s simplest-”

“We are not taking the train.”

“But I quite like the train,” he claims.

“Because you’re insane and don’t like convertibles.” J’accuse!

“See now, I never said I don’t like convertibles. I-“ he begins.

But I totally interrupt him. “I need to go do something.” Because my brain just exploded with potential.

“What?” He might be alarmed.

Whereas I’m enthusiastic. “Be an Ugly American.”

“Er, that sounds terrible,” he says.

“If you’re gonna be American, you might as well own it. Watch me own it, Billy, watch me.”

Oddly, Billy still looks wary. “That sounds-”

“Awesome.”

“-terrible. You’re not plannin to wear one of them caps with straws into beer cans, are yeh?” He snorts at whatever he’s picturing. “Actually, I might pay yeh to do that.”

“Nah. Not my brand,” I say, sliding off the barstool. I snag an olive and pop it in my mouth, to avoid grinning like someone who grins because they’re about to do something awesome. “Ciao, Beelee.” I wave behind me.

I’ve got the phone out and I’m already dialing before I’ve even reached the stairs. And then I remember I can also take the elevator.

———/-/———

Billy has finally met up with me at the fountain by the hotel entrance. Thank god, cuz I really don’t want him to miss the arrival of that Ugly American thing that required a phone call. Ever notice there’s an ugh in ugly? Just occurred to me.

“There you are, Delaney. MWAH hah ha ha hahhhhh! Prepare to hear the sweet sweet sound of helicopter blades pulsing through the air. It’s done, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

“Simon-”

“So where’s the helipad?” I inquire.

“The what now? Mate, it’s not that kind of hotel. Why are we taking a helicopter to Naples?”

“The correct response would normally be ‘because we can’-” Obviously. Certo.

“That is not a normal response.” Billy looks mystified, yet still amused. So that’s a thing.

“-but not this time,” I finish. “That’s not the real idea.”

“Oh, so you’re tellin me this is a superfluous helicopter. That is ugly.”

“No! It is most definitely not superfluous.”

“Your carbon footprint’ll be spendin all eternity in hell, man.”

“Billy.”

“Simon.”

“Stop talking. And just enjoy the mounting anticipation. The mellow sense of horror, or at the very least a nasty case of creeping dread. MWAH hah ha ha hahhhh!”

“Stop it, mate. You’re gettin evil genius all over my uniform. And you know how I feel about laundry.”

“Just a little bicarbonate of soda. Gets out even the most organic of stains. MWAH hah ha ha hahhhhh.”

“Simon.”

“Billy.”

“Stop talkin. Like an evil genius. We’re gettin complaints.”

“Are not.”

“From me. I’m complainin.”

“What am I going to wear?” I ask. It’s a fair question.

“Simon. Oh my god.”

“I’m serious! I packed for Italy in ten minutes. It’s all socks and shorts.” And sunblock. And chargers.

He’s shaking his head at me. For some reason, this makes me happy. In my tummy. How novel.

“Is that the fire alarm?” he asks.

“Huh? I mean, MWAH hah ha ha haaaah, oh no. What you’re hearing is the sweet sweet purring of a helicopter bearing my booty.”

“You didn’t think that one through, mate.”

“Oh, but yes, yes I did. This booty is worth baring. Can you feel it? The heady excitement of anticipation? The mellow terror?”

“Yes. I feel the terror,” he says blandly. He finds my terror bland.

Wait. “That would be the best cologne flavor ever. Mellow Terror, by Simon Lewis. Pour homme.”

“Are you manic right now?”

———/Billy/————

I was joking, but Simon just went very still. I’ve put my foot in, haven’t I?

“I am a bit manic, am’nt I?” he offers, tossing off a fake laugh.

“Somethin wrong with your shoes, mate? Simon, man, my eyes are up here.”

“Just wait til you see what I’ve done,” he says sheepishly, eyeing me from under his furry eye caterpillars.

“Simon. Should I be worried?”

“Oops?”

Oops? I haven’t a clue what to do with oops.

He grabs me excitedly by the forearm and starts dragging me toward the hotel gates.

That’s…Wait, is that-

“Simon. Did you buy a Mini Cooper?”

“A convertible Mini Cooper.”

“But why?” I ask the reasonable question.

“Because I can!” He’s practically vibrating. I can tell he wants to do his jumping-clapping thing by the way he’s currently bouncing on his toes.

“Simon.”

“Billy.”

“You bought a Mini Cooper. Convertible,” I swiftly add. “You’re in the land that built the Maserati, the Lamborghini, the Ferrari, and every other sports car that ends in i-”

“Not Audi.”

I huff in annoyance, “-and you bought a convertible Mini Cooper. And had it airlifted here. Because you could.”

“I’ve always wanted a convertible Mini Cooper.”

“But not a convertible Ferrari,” I clarify.

“No.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m awesome,” he answers, because he’s Simon.

I decide not to mention that we could have skipped the car altogether and taken the helicopter to Naples.

This is so childish, and impetuous, and reckless, and I refuse to find the actions of a grown man adorable. Jaysus.

“Oh my god!” he squeaks. “They were driving Minis in The Italian Job!!!”

Shaking my head. Just shaking my head. “Did you have them airlift in some clothes, too?”

“Shit! I totally should have!” He appears to actually mean that.

“You should see your face,” he hoots. Feckin hoots, all half bent over from laughin.

And now he’s ignoring me. Suddenly I’m not even here. He only has eyes for his Mini. “Oh my god it’s so kawaii.”

His smile is kawaii.

“Go away,” he flaps a hand at me. “I want to fanboy freely and without judgment from a judgy Irishman.”

“Fine. I need to pack anyway.”

And off behind me I hear him call, “Wait! What am I gonna wear?”

Shaking my head. Just shaking my head.

————/-/————

I’ve gathered my gear, and I can see Simon out by the car park. I’m hitching up my pack, so it isn’t really until I’ve cleared all the foliage that I realize Simon is humping his Mini Cooper convertible. “All right?” I ask, tryin to keep a straight face.

“Oh, yes. All is definitely right,” he purrs.

“Have you turned her on, too?”

He slides off the car til his Converse hit the pavement with a slap.

Now he’s draping himself over the boot. I can’t help it that I’m laughing. Sometimes he hits me just right to set me to belly laughin. Doesn’t happen often with Simon, but when it does, he wears the greatest surprised happy face I’ve ever seen. This time there’s giggling. Off to a good start, which is good. Yes. Good.

I hesitate. “Look, mate. Will this thing actually fit us?” I eyeball the car. “I am quite seriously concerned that we might actually need the top down to ride in this thing. How tall are you, anyway?”

“Six feet. Why? How tall are you?”

“Mate, get off the boot so I can shove this in there and we can go.” He does, and I do.

I have to say it, “Thanks for not getting the red, white, and blue one.” There is a god. Thank you, Poseidon.

“They were out of orange, white, and green, too,” he says with regret.

“You asked about the tricolor, did yeh?” Alright yes, he’s got me laughin again. Simon Lewis. Driving the Irish flag.

“Fuck out of the driver’s seat!” he’s suddenly roaring.

Blimey. He looks proper angry. I may have just flinched. “Don’t you want a car and a driver? No, serious, don’t yeh want me to drive, since I know the way?”

“Get the fuck out of the driver’s seat, Billy. Now!”

“Alright! Fine, fine. You’ll be usin GPS then, will yeh?”

“Si si si, certo.”

I groan. “This is all about to go so very-”

“Awesome,” he declares. “This is all about to continue to be awesome. Be the change, Billy. Be the change!”

“Oh my god Simon.”

“I can hear you rolling your eyes from here,” he says from behind the boot, which he slams shut a little too hard. I feel it in every moving piece of this tiny automobile. Bigger than a SMART car, so I suppose I shouldn’t be complainin.

Well, here’s hoping he’s still so enthused about it at the other end. “Gotta say, mate. I’m surprised you’d want to drive at all.”

“Why not?” he’s askin.

“Because mate, it’s Italy, innit. Famous for frightenin foreign drivers.” He has to remember what the drivin was like on our three other trips down this road. “Well,” I sigh. “At least you get to drive on the ‘right’ side of the road in Italy.”

—--/-/—--

“See? I told you you’d fit.”

“Alright man, you did,” I admit to the muppet.

“Come on, give it up…”

“What?” I’m not laughing, I promise. “Is she a smooth ride? I don’t know, man, why don’t yeh start her up ‘n find out?”

“Well there is that. So yeah,” he says as he pulls out of the car park and up to the mouth of the hotel driveway. “It’s to the left, right?”

“Em, yeah. Yes, the city of Naples is still in the general direction of left. Like the other three times we’ve done this road together.”

He rolls his eyes, and all is right and well with the world. Until the moment he pulls out onto the road. Then I’m brought up quick by the realization that between us we know fuck all about the convertible Mini Cooper. “Wait, where’s the GPS on her, for the flat’s address?”

“I dunno, check the screen thing.” So helpful, yer man Simon is.

“Do you even have an Italian driver’s license? Or insurance? I love this guy. How’ve yeh managed to live this long?” I pause for an answer, but none is forthcoming. “I mean, fucksake, Simon. You called someone to buy you a car and suddenly you’re on the road to Naples. Do you even know where the directionals are? Or like, the wipers? Should I be concerned for my safety?”

“Shoosh. Don’t jinx us,” he sternly admonishes me. “Do you need to have registration in Italy? Or insurance? I don’t know. Italy doesn’t really strike me as a big insurance-y type of country.”

“Fair point. But I take it you have….whatever, I dunno, papers and all that?” How is he like this?

“Don’t know. What’s in the glove box?” He makes a flappy gesture in the general direction of my knees.

“How are you like this? Were you actually born like this, or did it come with fame and wealth?”

“You mean, was I actually born a flaming asshole, or just become one?”

“Meh. Yeah ok,” I shrug. “We’ll go with that. So, what’ll it be?”

“Ow. Straight for the throat, Delaney.” His tone is recriminating as he protects his throat with both hands. “Uncool, man. Uncool.”

I’m flipping through the owner’s manual. Before long I’ve programmed everything, located the GPS, found Simon’s Only In Italy playlist, and even found the button to pop the bonnet. “There you go. It’s workin now.” I toss the manual in the glove box.

“What’s working?” he asks.

I shrug. “Everything, man. Everything.”

He barks out a laugh, the grumpy fuck, and I realize I’m laughing as well.

I plug in the address for the flat and immediately the voice pumping out the speakers is a woman speaking Italian. So I’m maniacally fumbling with it again, while Simon drives on in a fit of laughter.

“Aw, come on! Let’s see how we do in Italian,” he gasps out.

“Fucksake. See how we do in Italian.” Shaking my head.

“No, seriously. Let’s hear what she has to say, this ummmmm, what should we call her - Maria! Because obviously.”

“Certo.” That gets me another laugh.

“Santa Maria, Holy Madonna, show us the way, in Italiano,” Simon pleads in a truly horrendous Italian accent. “I am so happy right now.”

He says it with a laugh. Such a thing to so easily roll off the tongue. Fella I met a few months ago, I never would have pictured bein happy, let alone noticing it, naming it, declaring it. Nice to see. Unexpected, know what I mean?

“I don’t trust you when you’re quiet that long, Delaney.”

“Hm?”

“Exactly.”

Am I missing something?

“Ok, so.” He clears his throat. “We know who I am. Who are you? Let’s hear it. Who is Billy Delaney?”

Aw, man. Serious? “How long we got?” Please don’t make me.

“How would I know?” he shrugs. “Maria’s speaking your language, not mine.”

“Fair enough.” I hit play, hoping the music will make the conversation trail off from there. But of course it doesn’t, because this is Simon. Si. Certo.

“What. Do you have some horrible second identity thing going on? Are you really even Irish? Truth time, Delaney.”

“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine?”

“Yeah, ok,” says the cheeky monkey.

“Oh,” I answer, not sure how else to dodge Simon’s inquisition. Uh, erm….. “Soooo, what mate? What do you want to know?” I ask, though truthfully I wish he’d just let it go.

“Is your name really Billy Delaney, and are you actually even from Ireland at all?”

“Yes.”

“Boring.”

“Brief,” I counter.

“Obtuse,” he counters.

“Si.”

“Oh my god, Billy. So where are you from?”

“Ireland.”

He looks around us rapidly. “Is she going to start speaking Italian? Cuz we just passed Ercolano.”

“Already?”

“Yeah! I know, right? Time flies when you’re torturing someone for information. So should I panic?”

“Nah,” I reassure him. “We've a bit more road before we turn aside. Maria can sleep on.”

“Alright. But I swear to God, Billy. If you don’t start coughing up some details, I'm serious, I will pull this car over. Do I have to pull this car over, young man?”

“Wow, that’s forceful.” Cos it is. “Ow!” I flinch when he swats my shoulder with a backhand. “Fine, ye bastard. My name is actually Lola, but I go by Billy Delaney. And I’m only mostly joking. One of the summer cousins I used to play soccer with couldn’t say William when we were little. So for a few months every year, I was Lola. There. Was that not juicy enough for yeh?”

“Charming. But from that I got these few details: 1. You have cousins. Conceivably fertile ground. We could continue that way. 2. You play soccer, and you call it soccer. Isn’t that illegal outside the US? No- don’t answer that. I’m not finished. 3. You go someplace where there are cousins to play soccer with in summer. Are we even still in Ireland?”

Em. I just sort of sit here and wait.

“And you really don’t want to talk about this, do you?”

“You are so easily distracted,” I tease. “No, but seriously, here’s some details for yeh. I’m 27. Left Ireland at 18, after graduating culinary school, and was sent out to do my apprenticeship. That was at a manor house near Galway,” I say, wrapping up the conversation.

“And…..”

“That’s not enough?” I thought that was a fair bit of information, to be honest.

“Do I have to turn this car around, young man?”

“I fear I might be missin some essential cultural reference here, mate.”

“Don’t distract me with your distractions, Delaney. Feed me.”

And that’s when Maria tells us to turn left.

—--/Simon/—--

I can’t fuckin believe that there are Irish pubs in Italy. Nor can I believe I’m in one. I mean, where do real Italians go to watch soccer? This can’t be right.

“All right?” Billy asks the bartender.

“Howeyeh,” says the man back to him, and Billy’s eyes go comically wide.

Next thing I know, I’m bored stiff, pretending to find the intricacies of European football interesting with a Welsh guy named Barry.

And whoa, turns out Billy’s day-to-day accent is pretty washed out in comparison to the thickness of his accent when he’s speaking to his new BFF. They’re speaking so fast that I can’t understand a word through their accents and grammatical errors. Welsh is so much easier.

That is, until I hear a voice disturbingly similar to Billy’s, requesting a Bud.

I swing back around in time to see Billy’s new BFF nod at him and begin turning toward the draft beers.

“No! Wait,” I wave. “He’s only joking,” I say, emphatically shaking my head no.

“Oh,” the Irish bartender looks back to Billy in surprise. “Were you?”

What, he thinks I’m lying? “Course he was! Certo.”

“Why ‘of course’?!” Billy turns on his barstool to face me. “What the fuck, Simon?”

“Sorry if I fucked up your joke, dude, but don’t drag it out, ok?” I say under my breath.

Disparaging other people’s beer of choice is like a national pastime in Brooklyn, because it frequently employs irony, and we are naturally good at it from birth. Don’t blame him, he’s new.

“I’ll take that Bud,” Billy reiterates. “Ta, mate.” The barkeep returns his nod and goes about the business of it.

“Billy? We’ve talked about this. You swore you’re Irish. Were you lying to me? Are you a lying liar who lies?”

“Why do yeh say that?”

“Because you can’t – you’re not – you’re not, like, allowed to drink bad beer when you’re Irish. Isn’t that illegal? Or fatal, or something?”

The big ape is just lazing back against the bar, sipping his pint of piss beer, looking at me in amusement.

“You’re like a caricature of yourself sometimes, Simon, d’yeh know what I mean?”

“Fuckin- What?! That’s not very nice! I’m outraged.”

“You should see yerself, mate. Yeh look like your face is about ready to split down the middle and outrage’ll start pourin out like lava from the fissures.”

I stop and cock my head at him. “That was both specific and descriptive. Nice one. But that said, how dare you! I demand an apology.” I’m trying really hard to keep a straight face. He has no intention of making it easy for me.

“Apologize? For what?” He gives me a cock-eyed grin. Oh look, his cock eyes are doing that twinkly thing again.

“You have offended my good taste and have let down your countrymen and native soil. Or water or whatever it is that makes all beer taste better in Ireland. The least you could do is the decent thing and apologize to your countrymen, and me, and then hide it in your jacket where no one can see you sneaking sips!”

He laughs because he thinks I’m joking.

“Do you just not like beer at all? And that’s why you don’t order the good stuff?” I prod.

“Simon, you are such a snob,” he says, and goes right on twinkling.

“Correct. And if you’re going to drink cheap beer, for god’s sake, order PBR and salvage at least some of your self respect.”

“Do you know this man?” the bartender asks Billy. “Is he harassin yeh?”

Billy is now laughing so hard that he’s almost fallen off his stool.

“We know each other,” I reassure the barkeep. “Don’t know how long that’ll last, all considered, though. Check back for updates.” I raise my pint of Guinness in respect.

“It’s czech. Budvar,” the man informs me.

“Ah, no! Why’d yeh tell him, mate!” Billy raises his hands theatrically. I’m telling you, theatre school. “Yeh just had to put him out of my misery, yeah?”

“And my misery,” says the man.

—--/-/—--

Ok, so what is it with the whole pub drunkenly singing “oh-ay-oh-ay” at the top of their drunken lungs, sloshin beer out of their pint glasses, whenever Europeans play soccer. Mebbe they sing it in Southmerica, too. Butwhatevercuz I don’ really care.

If you can’t – beat em then join em. Thassmymott, um, -o. Thassmy motto. Motto.

Where’s Billy? I can’t see him. If thissperson would get out of the frickin way. He’s all backed up against my face’n I can’t see. Anything. Nothin to see here, folks. Move along, people, move along.

Where’s Billy? Oyeah, right right right. Right here in my face.

I figure it’ll be easier to keep track of him if I hold onto his belt loop. Or a pocket or something. Yeah, I’m just gonna hang on to his pocket.

Pocket.

I like the word pocket. Lossa hard consnits that pop. Pop.

Pop.

I like the word pop. It sounz like it pops. And it’s the same backwards and forwards an’itsall about the lips. Pop ’ing.

What? Where’s he going? I’m trailing after him with my hand in his pocket. He keeps pullin it out and I keep puttin it back in. Oth’wise I’m gonna get lost and then where would I be? Huh? I wouldn’t even know!

“Oh! Now I know where we are! We’re on the block where we’re were where gonna sleep.” If make it up th’stairs. But Billy’s helping. He’s nice like that.

“You’re nice like that,” I say with a big smile. “And you‘re funny lookin.”

Wait.

“Oops! I mean yerlookin funny at me right now. Whass funny? ‘m’I funny? ‘r’Juss funny lookin?”

I crack myself up. Like in real life, cuz I’m laughing. Right now. Sometimes iss hard to stop laughing but I’ll be ok.

“Billy. Billy! Hey, Billy. What’re you doing? Tryin to get in my pants? That tickles! Oh, hey! Did we win? I mean, I don’really care - just wonren.”

Hey! Tickles! “Stop that! How’dyou know I don’t wanna wear those? I’ll take ‘em off when I feel like it. Prollymaybe take ‘em off tomorrow. Hey! I was wearing that! And that!”

He’s very pushy. “You’re very pushy. Stop pushing!”

I land on the bed and it’s like fluffy clouds of teddybears. “K, fine. I’ll go to bed, jeez.” Alls I wanna do is bury my face in pillow, but can’t breathe when I do that.

“Don’t close the door all the way, Ma. And leave the hall light on, K? g’Night, love you too.”

————/-/————

Masterlist || ao3 || Prev || Next

————/-/————

[writebackatya]

🍓🍌

🍓 What’s a fic you’ve written you feel is underrated?

From the amount of views it got, I’m surprised that Caught with Her Pants Down! doesn’t have at least twenty kudos

I tell myself that a lot of those views are just the people who already kudos’d it re-reading it so I can sleep better at night /j

But hey, the people who did like it really liked it and that’s a great feeling

🍌 In your opinion, what’s the funniest joke/reference/pun you’ve made in a fic?

This joke from Indi-Quack!’s What’d I Miss?! is just a number of references smushed together

“Please, you’re only two years older than your delightful ol’ pal, you’re not that old.” Gandra assured the duck. “Besides, you look good for your age. Gyro looks like if Rusty Venture got into a teleporter accident with the dean from Community.”

“Ha!” Della punched Gandra in her arm, “I don’t know who that last guy is, but I’m sure your description is spot-on!”

You can’t convince me that both Della and Gandra aren’t Adult Swim Stoners and aren’t fans of Venture Bros. And yeah, I know I’m not the first one to draw parallels between Rusty and Gyro, but it’s true!

Every DuckTales fan knows which DT17 actors were on NBC’s/Yahoo Screen’s Community so I couldn’t resist reminding the reader that Jim Rash played both Dean Pelton and Gyro Gearloose. And yeah, Della was on the moon when Community first aired so she’s never heard of the show

The teleporter accident is a reference to the Star Trek Voyager episode Tuvix where Lieutenant Tuvok and Chef Neelix fuse into one person that calls himself Tuvix. Janeway kills him. Anyway, this reference is actually alludes to the fact that Gandra is Trekkie which of course is revealed in the Gizmocloud scene. Gandra’s favorite Star Trek series is either Deep Space Nine or Voyager cause she’s that much of a hipster. DS9 is great tho

Also I just love that even though Della doesn’t full understand all of Gandra’s references, she still loves the joke because it’s insulting Gyro

[mrstellmeafuckingsecret]

if my ten year old sister can memorize the boycott list because she understands the gravity of what a genocide means, a sixteen year old can understand that infanticide is bad. if a sixteen year old is so pro-racism that he willingly joins a group that ethnically cleanses people who exist with him then he deserves no sympathy.

"He was 18 when he drowned alone in a cave. Nobody found his body. Nobody knew he was dead. He was a child." what about this muggles and muggleborns? if he didn't kill them, he supported their murders. you realize it's mostly infants and children that are targetted? as in kids under the age of ten? nobody found their bodies, either, likely because their families were killed too.

humanizing death eaters is alright, justifying them? justifying them?? that's like spitting in the face of every person who's had to suffer the consequences of tyrants like this - and before you say anything, it is that deep, and you posting on tumblr does have real life consequences. people justify sad, hot white boy murderers all the fucking time and it's becoming more and more common in fandoms to justify men because they "didn't know any better". that's fucking bullshit. stop infantilizing sixteen year olds.

and the tags ??

okay, so he never killed anyone. are we supposed to be grateful? what about the killing of an entire race he supported?? what about the fact that he wanted to kill them himself???

"have some empathy" is possibly the most privileged take ever i dont know how you've grown up to even think that

"bro was a child" bro was not 😻 i'm sixteen i can assure you that i think genocide is bad 🩷

PLEASE tell me what propaganda justifies what the death eaters did please please please tell me i am SO curious.

and that's not to mention the comments??

i can't see what the comment you replied to says because i have them blocked, but this is just ?? weird ??

did you forget andromeda? her older sister was a death eater - THE death eater - and she left !! she was not only anti death eater, she was anti blood supremacy !! she married a muggle ffs !!

and sirius ?? you know, the main guy ?? he left, what stopped regulus (you know, aside from his love from fascism) from going with him? and fyi, walburga and orion were anti voldemort. sirius said so himself. regulus chose to be a death eater entirely on his own - he likely fought for it.

think about what you're posting before you post it for fucks sake

"Regulus black is a death eater and a murderer!"

Regulus black was 16 when he joined the death eaters. That's Year 10 for the Brits and 11th grade for the Americans. He was 18 when he drowned alone in a cave. Nobody found his body. Nobody knew he was dead. He was a child. Who wanted to prove himself to everyone that mattered to him.

His parents. His brother.

He wasn't even old enough to drink.