#cannot be a good sign lads

[heartswithinreach]

Hello! I wanted to say I love your writing and super eager for more! That said, I was recently diagnosed with cancer and was wondering how the lads would react to an MC who was diagnosed with it or something similar? If that's too dark, I'm sorry!

Thank you and I hope your day is great! :)

a/n: i am so sorry anon, i hope you're taking care of yourself and that this can bring you some comfort 💖💖🫂everyone wish anon well!!

LaDS when MC has a cancer diagnosis

Xavier

After a few moments of silence, he accepts the reality of your diagnosis and begins making plans on how to make your life easier. Whatever you need, he'll do it, no questions asked.

For your sake, Xavier is as calm and steadfast as ever. He wants you to continue living life as normally as possible. He'll do subtle, thoughtful things just to remind you how important you are to him and that he’ll always love you, no matter what comes.

With Jenna and your team's full support, you and Xavier both take a leave of absence from duty so Xavier can take care of you during your treatment.

Tara takes the lead in organizing visits and dividing chores they can do so you can rest with nothing to worry about. She spends almost as much time with you as Xavier does and he’s immensely grateful so many support you both.

Xavier listens to your worries and fears. Say what you feel, he's here to shoulder it with you without judgment.

Rafayel

His first reaction is anger — not at you, but at this horrible situation.

No one deserves this and he's so frustrated he can't just make this go away with the money or influence he has. What is it all for if he can't take care of you?

But this isn't about him. Rafayel might not be the most natural caretaker but your bond is forever. He won't just abandon you now.

He can't sleep that night after you tell him so he works till dawn converting a spare room into your home away from home. Being near the sea can help improve your health, right? Well, maybe you should stay with him for while, then!

Rafayel, despite what he may think, is actually a pretty good nurse, fussing over you and making you feel special while keeping your spirits high. He is so attuned to you and your needs, it’s as easy as breathing.

Zayne

As your physician, he saw the signs early on but quickly passed your case on to someone more qualified than him. He couldn't allow his feelings to get in the way of getting you the best possible care.

Zayne is there at every meeting, every check up, every treatment. He didn't expect it to be so difficult from getting too involved but he knows he would be nothing but a hinderance to the team treating you.

So he puts his faith in the capable staff of Akso Hospital while he dedicates himself to your emotional and mental health. He only goes into the hospital a few times a week for his more urgent patients, otherwise, he’s at home with you.

Zayne becomes so considerate and gentle, you'll wonder how you ever thought he was cold. Through it all, he will be your rock.

You need him, now more than ever, and Zayne takes that more seriously than ever oath he’s ever made.

Sylus

Mephisto is never far away so when you’re walking home after getting the news, you’re not very surprised to see Sylus waiting in a dark alley by your apartment. He will pull you into his embrace without a word and hold you together as you fall apart.

Sylus wants to know how you want to proceed and then he wants you to give him permission to make it a reality. He’s always silently hoping you’ll use his resources but now he’s almost pleading.

He keeps some sense of normalcy by continuing to tease and antagonize you, though now more gently than before and only if it’ll get you to smile.

Sylus wishes you could stay with him in the N109 Zone but he knows it’s impossible. You could never get the proper treatment there and he can’t leave his domain for too long. But the twins and Mephisto can do everything he cannot and that brings him some solace.

In time, you and Mephisto become closer until he has a nest in your room and you wake up every morning to something new and shiny on your windowsill to cheer you up. Having even just an extension of Sylus with you until the man himself comes to visit you at night is more comforting than you ever imagined.

[weeb-polls-with-pip]

Autistic Anime Boys Prelims - Propaganda Division - Group 2

Propaganda:

Kyouya -

"what's there to say? you know him. you love him. vote kyoya."

Rinnosuke -

"Rinnosuke Morichika lives in an overly-cluttered curio shop, and has a special interest in making magical inventions. Since he doesn’t live in a modern setting— but a pocket dimension slightly disconnected to the outside world— whenever a modern item shows up in his shop via spiriting away, he can obsess over it for extended periods of time. He is quite blunt without realizing it, even to people he cares for. He also has a special ability to generally understand the name and use of any item he touches (though this backfires sometimes, he thought a Gameboy was a doomsday device once)."

Fuuta -

"okay look theres so many fucking signs hes autistic. he cannot tell tone and often doesn't know how to react to stuff which is a major point in his character id say. he was asked if he remembered his victim's name (hes a murderer. oops!) and his response was something along the lines of "Of course I do. I saw it everywhere." because he did not understand that they wanted to know what it was since it wasnt directly stated. im convinced that hoodies are a comfort object of his because i genuinely have not seen him without one except for one time. also hes canonically a chronically online twitter user. also he gets really passionate about his interests. also not really related but everyone in the fandom agrees hes transgender but no one can agree on what way. ive seen every single gender hc for this dude. vote kajiyama fuuta for this sopping wet poor little meow meow of a man."

Hansum -

"He's just a very odd and strange lad, can't remember names well, is an alien (mild spoiler), he's very popular, obsessed with Doritos and becomes their mascot, just refers to everyone as humans which is a mood, and is completely socially oblivious."

Miyuki -

"Relatable neurodivergent-Gifted Child syndromeTM case with all the superiority-inferiority complex that results. A chronic show-off and scheming strategist with a lowkey hopeless romantic dramatic aspect to him, silly cool and pathetic in a very hilarious way. Shirogane has a trademark glare purely thanks to his eyebags as he runs on coffee everyday having to support his family with multiple jobs in addition to class, on top of student council president duties. He's kind and an obsessive perfectionist who fills his entire wall with the weirdest motivational posters. Shirogane is very devoted to his love. He likes penguins (Kaguya and him is peak asd4asd and bi4bi btw)."

Kirito -

"He's autistic and bisexual as hell, and there's a good bit of trans coding in him 🥺

Autism coding: Bro's literally got a sword and swordfighting hyperfixation where, despite playing a game that focuses around guns, he still chooses to use a sword!! We also see him completely missing Asuna's flirting at first (he tells her she could have just checked her friendlist to make sure he was alive, in response to her tracking him down to see him)

Bi coding: Dual wielding swords is literally a euphemism in Japan for bisexuality; and Kirito initially tries to hide the fact he can dual wield out of fear of how the people he's close to will view him (and once he reveals it to them and they accept it, he begins to be more open about it.) Also in the Underworld arc he becomes very close with Eugeo to the point of living with him (and sharing a bed on occasion), and there are several parallels between Eugeo and Asuna, and they're so gay for each other that despite the anime having only a toned down version of it, they're still very affectionate (Also of note is that Eugeo is the only guy in SAO canon to consistently have a 'laying in bed with Kirito' talk CG in the spinoff games) (There's more but it's spoilers and this is a shortened version)

Trans coding: Kirito is very trans coded in the light novel (which shows Kirito's thoughts in much greater detail than the anime) Aincrad arc reveals that Kirito explicitly Does Not Like his real face, and dislikes how feminine it looks (he mentions that its led to him and his cousin being mistaken for sisters) And in Phantom Bullet arc, he's visibly uncomfortable at being mistaken for a girl due to his avatar's appearance, and in response to being misgendered he briefly panics and checks to make sure his chest flat (at least in the anime adaptation) 🏳️‍⚧️"

Shirou -

"Has one goal in life and ignores almost everything in favor of trying to fulfil that goal."

Keith -

"Speaks in a way that is seen as weird and has mannerisms others think is funny. He struggles with not being taken seriously by others because of this and many of the things others say goes over his head. He struggles to connect with other people because of these things. His entire arc in the second film is about him deciding that the people who don't accept him for who he is aren't worth it and that he's going to continue being himself."

Junpei -

"for other fans of this series, I know the more obvious representation here may be Luou, Junpei is So Good. his special interest is ballet and he has so many hangups involving how his family sees him and how other boys his age interpret him to the point that his idea of masculinity is extremely narrow and he enforces social rules on himself to mask and keep people from realizing that he loves something that Isn't Manly. he misinterprets social cues and takes things literally, like assuming that when Miyako asked him to dance with her she meant Right This Minute rather than as a pair in the studio. for some reason the point where he cuts his hair super short to prove his devotion to ballet is also sticking with me, I think maybe it's the combination of the way it's normal for boys/men in Japan to do that, yet Junpei didn't realize that kind of attitude/action didn't suit ballet at all? he wasn't aware that the context was completely different. Junpei also doesn't act or pretend very well, he's gotta put his whole entire ass into his roles, which he then proceeds to get TOO into and cause a lot of trouble, without giving too much away! he's really relatable to me as someone who's socially anxious but very skilled at masking, and seeing him become more comfortable with himself and start to show how he really feels is so inspiring to me."

Kazuma -

"He may be (wildly) misguided but his intentions are good kinda! He’s just the Guy of all time idk how to explain it."

[thelambliesdown1974]

Okay but like walking across 🚶‍♂️ the sitting room 🐒🪑 I turn the television 📺 on 🔛 sitting beside you I look into your eyes 👁️ as the sound 🎼 of motor cars 🚗 fade in the night time 🌝 I swear I saw your face change 😲 it didn’t seem quite right 🤔 and it’s hello babe! 👋 with your guardian eyes so blue 👀 hey my baby 👶🏼 dont you know our love ❤️ is true 🫂 coming closer 👬 with our eyes 👁️ a distance falls around our bodies ⬅️➡️ out in the garden 🪴 the moon 🌙 seems very bright 💡 six 6️⃣ saintly shrouded men ✝️ move across the lawn 🏡 slowly the seventh walks in front 🚶‍♂️🚶‍♂️🚶‍♂️ with a torch 🔦 held high in hand 🤚 and it’s hey babe! 👋👶🏼 your suppers waiting for you 🍝 hey my baby! 👋👶🏼 don’t you know our love ❤️ is true 🫂 I’ve been so far from here 🌄 far from your loving arms 😘 it’s good to feel you again 🥰 it’s been a long long time ⏳⌛️… hasn’t it🤔…………………… I know 🤓 a farmer 👨‍🌾 who looks after a farm 🌾 with water clear 💧 he cares for all his harvest 🥕 I know 🤓 a fireman 👨‍🚒 who looks after the fire 🔥… cant you see he’s fooled you all 😈 yes it’s him again 🤯 can you see he’s fooled you all 😢 share his peace ☮️ sign the lease 📑 he’s a super sonic scientist 👨🏻‍🔬 he’s the guaranteed eternal sanctuary man 🙏 look! 👀 look into my mouth 👄 he cries 🗣️ and all the children 👧🏼 passed down many paths 🛤️ I bet my life you’ll walk inside 🚶‍♂️ hand in hand 🧑‍🤝‍🧑 gland in gland 😵‍💫 with a spoonful 🥄 of miracle 🕊️ it’s the guaranteed eternal sanctuary 🙏 (we will rock you 🪨 rock you 🪨 little snake 🐍 we will keep you snug ☺️ and warm 😊…………………… wearing feelings 😁 on our faces 💁‍♂️ while our faces took a rest 😴🛌 we walked across the fields 🌾 to see the children 👦🏼 of the west 🧭 but there was a host of dark skinned warriors 🤺 standing still below the ground 👇🏻 🌎 waiting for battle! ⚔️ fights begun they’ve been released 😡 killing for for peace ☮️ bang bang bang! 💥 bang bang bang! 💥 and they’ve given me a wonderful potion 🧪 but I cannot contain my emotion 😭 and even though I’m feeling good 😌 👍 something tells me 🧐 I better activate my prayer 🙏 capsule 💊 todays the day 📆 to celebrate 🎉 the for have met their fate 🪦 the order for rejoicing 🥳 and dancing 🕺 has come from our warlord 🤴…………………… wandering through the chaos 🥾 the battle has left ⚔️ we climb up the mountain of human flesh 🗻 to a plateau of green grass 🏞️ and green trees 🌳 full of life 🕊️ a young figure 👦 sits still by a pool 🌊 he’s been stamped human bacon 🥓 by some butchery tool 🔪 he is you 🫵 social security 🧑‍⚖️ took care of this lad we watch 👀 in reverence as narcissus 😌 is turned to a flower 🌸 a flower? 🌸 …………………… if you go down ⬇️ to willow farm 🌳 to look for butterflies 🦋 flutterbyes gutter flies 🪰 open your eyes 👁️ it’s full of surprise 😲 eye one lies like a fox 🦊 on the rock 🪨 in the musical box 🎶📦 there’s mum and dad 👨‍👧👩‍👧 and good and bad 😇😈 and everyone happy to be here 😋 there’s Winston Churchill dressed in drag 👠 he used to be a British flag 🇬🇧 plastic bag 🛍️ what a drag 🙄 the frog was a prince 🫅 the prince was a brick 🧱 the brick was an egg 🍳 the egg was a bird 🦅 have you heard 👂 yes! We’re happy as fish 🐟 and gorgeous and geese 🦢 and wonderful clean in the morning 🧼 we’ve got everything 🤑 we’re growing everything 🌱 we’ve got some in ⬅️ we’ve got some out ➡️ we’ve got some wild things 👹 floating about 🕴️everyone 👦👩🧑 we’re changing everyone 😧 you name them all we’ve had them here 👈 and the real stars are still to appear! ⭐️🤩 feel your body melt 🫠 mum 👩 to mud 🪱 to mad 😡 to dad 👨🏻 dad diddly office ✏️ dad diddly office ✏️ you’re all full of ball 🏀 dad 👨🏻 to dam 🦫 to dumb 😛 to mum 👩 mom diddly washing 🧽 mom diddly washing 🧽 you’re all full of ball 🏀 let me hear you lies 👂 we’re living this up 🆙 to the eyes 👀 mama I want you now! 😩

[mollymagician]

Dreamling Week Day 2: stuck in an elevator

Hi guys!! *shows up three days late with a Starbucks, two immortals and an old lady stuck in an elevator*

It was June 7th. Not THE June 7th, not the big one, they’re a few years off from that yet, but a random rainy 7th of June, and Hob was off doing errands. He’d have been a lot more disgruntled about slogging half way around the city in a pelting downpour if he hadn’t known that Dream would pop up somewhere, he always somehow managed it on this specific date.

But it’s still a surprise when he suddenly comes into being just as Hob is about to hop onto the lift at stop #2 on his to-do list.

Hob shoots him a grin. “Fancy seeing you out and about on such a miserable day.”

Dream replied with the small smile that seemed to be his grin-equivalent. “I thought you could use…assistance holding your umbrella?”

There was a ding as the doors slid open, and then began to close behind them as they stepped inside. Suddenly, Dream’s arm shot out, inhumanly quick and totally lacking the primal human fear of getting one’s fingers squished.

The doors sprang back open, revealing a stooped and wrinkled figure shuffling along behind a walker. Her gray hair was bundled into a messy bun, and gray eyes were magnified enormously by the thickest glasses Hob had ever seen.

Her name was Gladys, they would soon come to find out.

She didn’t seem to notice that Dream somehow knew what floor to push for her without asking, just crackled, “Oh, thank you kindly, dearie!” and Hob stifled a snicker. Dearie.

The lift began to rise. They made it to the sixth floor before the power went out.

Gladys sighed and pronounced with feeling, “Oh bugger!”

Gladys was eighty-two years old, never trusted elevators, but was delighted to be stuck in one with “two such handsome young men!”

“Er…I’m sure the power will be back up in a tick,” Hob said. Gladys settled comfortably on the seat of her walker, seemingly very content with her lot.

“So romantic, eh boys? Just like those little stories my granddaughter likes to write!” She gave Hob a wink. Dream’s head tilted and he took on the far-away look he got whenever he was accessing his mental metaphysical Google, or whatever it was he did. Hob could tell when he finally found what he was looking for, because his eyebrows shot up so high they nearly cleared the top of his head.

Fifteen minutes later:

“Well lads, thank the good Lord I had a piddle before I came or we’d be in dire straights right about now!”

Standing behind Gladys, Dream reached into his coat and produced his pouch of sand, giving Hob a look that he could only translate as is it really necessary for us all to be stuck in this box?

Hob wasn’t sure how to telegraph we cannot throw sand at a little old woman and teleport her out of a lift because she will have a STROKE with nothing but expressive eyebrows so he just shook his head and shot Dream his sternest look. It worked on his students…usually. Dream signed and put the sand away obediently.

Another fifteen minutes:

They had heard about Gladys’ late husband, her three grandchildren and how lovely the cardiologist was that she’d been on her way to visit before her morning got derailed. She rummaged around in her purse. “Like a mint, dears?”

Hob swore under his breath at his phone. “Connection is wretched in here. I can’t get through to anyone.” Dream patted him awkwardly on the shoulder. Hob could FEEL him restraining himself from pulling his sand out and dangling it in Hob’s face.

“I’m sure everything will be fine, lovie. I think I have a deck of cards about, somewhere…” More purse-rummaging. “Oh, and a sandwich! Bless, I forgot that was there.”

Ten more minutes:

“So,” Gladys said, “How long have you two been together, eh? I’d have been celebrating fifty years with my Bert this July.”

Silence. Distantly, Hob could hear the rain pounding against the building, echoing down the elevator shaft.

“Er…” he began, eloquently.

“That is…” he continued.

“Oh go on, it’s all right,” Gladys chirped. “My grandson, the one at university, he’s got himself a nice boyfriend. I said to myself, I said, Gladys, you can tell when two lads are sweet on one another, so don’t go challenging anyone to strip poker.” She pulled the deck of cards out of her purse and winked. “Yet.”

“Um,” Hob said.

“Sometimes it feels like six hundred years,” Dream intoned.

Gladys cackled and bopped the Immortal Endless King of Dreams and Nightmares on the arm with her purse. “Oh, listen to this one here!”

“It is…our anniversary,” Dream added.

He reached over to nudge Hob’s jaw shut with a little click, and then tugged Hob into his side like…like it was just something they did. And yes, that was definitely a smirk.

The power chose that moment to come back on.

“Oh…bugger,” Hob said.

——————————————-

They made it back down to the lobby with little incident. Gladys shuffled off to call her daughter, she said, since her doctors appointment was a bust. But first, she gave Hob a surprisingly crushing handshake and thumped Dream on the shoulder and said, loudly, “Well, thank you for the LOVELY time, boys. Let’s hope that the next time you’re stuck in a lift on your anniversary it’s not with an old bird like me hanging around, eh?” She executed a frankly indecent eyebrow wiggle, and shuffled away, humming to herself.

Hob stood for a moment watching her go, and realized he didn’t have the patience for any more of that day’s to-do list. He was to-do’ed out, as it were. Except for one thing. He glanced up at Dream and tried hard to control the idiot grin attempting to take over his face.

“We need to talk,” Hob said.

“That was partially my intent when I came to visit you today,” Dream said, still smirking, the bastard.

“Partially?”

“I must admit, I’d hoped that talking wouldn’t be our only activity.”

Hob sighed. “Right. I’m not hiking back to the tube in this weather. Get back in the lift, dearie. This time you can sand us all you like.”

Dream said, “I thought you’d never ask.”

[highinmiamiii]

NO FEELINGS - ch. 1

a billy butcher x reader story

years after a wild love in 90s London, Butcher runs into his past flame at that same grimy Nevada steakhouse he’d told Hughie about. Where he’d wanted to go with Len since they were lads. Tension, unspoken history, and unresolved feelings simmer as both grapple with what they've become.

(A/N): this is just a short little vague introduction. feedback is appreciated as always—let me know what you think! and if you’d like to be added to the taglist, just drop a comment. thank you for the support, i cannot wait to get really started on this. prelude chapter set in 90s london soon…

Butcher slid into the worn leather booth of the topless steakhouse, the place he’d told Hughie about. The one he’d always wanted to visit with Lenny. He wasn't sure what drove him here now, maybe the weight of unfinished promises, or the itch of an unfinished life, maybe a celebration for finally having the key to end this all. Kessler—his ever-present darker conscience—sneered from across the table, leaning back like he owned the place.

“Celebratin', are we? Makin’ a toast to not being a dead man... yet?" Kessler’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Maybe crack a cold one open to that virus, eh? Damn good reason to have a drink.”

Butcher ignored him, waving down the waitress instead. The place smelled of grease, burnt meat, and the faint, familiar scent of desperation—Nevada in all its glory. The steakhouse was a dive. Dim lights, gaudy neon signs, waitresses in barely-there outfits serving patrons who barely looked alive. It felt appropriate, a place where he could fade into the noise and booze.

His mind kept drifting back to Lenny, to the promises they made as boys. But Lenny was long gone, and Butcher was still here. Breathing. Existing. Barely.

“What’s the point, mate?” Kessler drawled, a smug grin tugging at his lip. “You’ve come this far, might as well end it on a high note. Wipe ‘em all out—‘every last one’ like ya said, whoever’s left. Ain’t no room for savin’ the day, Billy. That ain’t you.”

Butcher lit a cigarette, ignoring the imaginary weight of Kessler's presence. He hadn’t come to make decisions tonight—he just needed a moment to exist outside the war he was fighting, the war inside himself.

That’s when the waitress appeared. He barely looked up from his drink as she spoke. A raspy, tired voice offered him a menu, but it wasn’t her voice that caught him—it was the ink on her arm.

There, on her inner upper arm, was a faded “Never Mind the Bollocks” tattoo. The same damn Sex Pistols tattoo he’d drunkenly convinced the girl who he’d thought would be the love of his life to get years ago in London.

The memories hit him like a punch in the gut.

🇬🇧 London, 1990s 🇬🇧

They’d met at some dive punk show, a dingy pub filled with misfits, and she had been the loudest voice in the room. She wasn’t British, that much was clear. Her accent, her defiance—everything about her screamed rebellion. She’d saved for years just to get to London, to live the life she’d always dreamed of. But the reality was different. Money was tighter, dreams crumbled under the weight of the city’s indifference, and the romantic notion of freedom faded with every job rejection and overpriced rent.

Butcher had been drawn to her fire—an American girl with grungy style and stubborn resolve. She reminded him of himself. Bold. Fearless. But unlike him, she still had a dream. That dream had kept her going.

They’d spent nights stumbling through the streets of Camden, getting drunk on cheap lager, ranting about the world’s injustices. And then one night, after too many drinks and too many laughs, he’d dragged her to a tattoo parlor.

“Go on then, love, don’t be a priss, get the ink. Bollocks to it,” he’d slurred. And she had. The tattoo was a reminder of their wild nights, of a time when the world felt theirs to conquer.

But then Lenny had died. His world crumbled. Butcher became a ghost of himself. He stopped answering her calls. Stopped showing up. Not because he didn’t love her—but because the weight of grief suffocated any connection he’d had to the world, to her. Seasons faded, savings ran out, friend groups grew apart and suddenly she was back in the states, no sign of his presence or existence in sight but the small reminder of what they had, or rather, what could’ve been, on her left arm.

He looked up at her now, and something in his chest tightened. She didn’t recognize him—not immediately. He looked different. Older. Weathered. And she? She’d aged too, but there was still a flicker of that fire behind her eyes, dulled perhaps, but not gone.

Butcher felt Kessler smirking at him from across the table, his voice low and mocking. “Well, well... Looks like fate’s a real bastard, huh? Fancy seeing her here. What’s next, a reunion? Gonna sweep her off her feet again? You ain’t that guy anymore, Billy. We both know it”

He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

The waitress set his drink down, her expression neutral, maybe a little bored. But her eyes lingered on him for a second too long. Butcher’s gut twisted. Did she know? Or was it just a flicker of memory, a hint of recognition buried beneath the years?

He offered her a smirk. “Nice ink.”

she cocks her head back, taking a long deep breath, knowing he’s likely noticed by now as much as she didn’t want him to. she’d spent so long trying to erase him from my memory, she felt so foolish for letting myself fall so deeply in love with him all those years ago. she rests her hand on her hip and adjust the very thin white tank top they had her working in, thank god no one had tipped me enough to take it off yet, this place was fucking dehumanizing. even more embarrassing to see butcher here after all these years, she never thought she’d see him again, thought they’d be separated by continent for the rest of time. Her eyes flashed, but she didn’t bite. “Old mistake,” she said, her voice clipped, as if daring him to say more.

“Looks like she remembers,” Kessler snickered in his head.

Butcher leaned back, taking a slow drag from his cigarette. “Aren’t we all just walkin’ mistakes?” He said with a deep sigh.

She didn’t answer, just shot him a look—a look with all the bitter undertones he deserved. But she didn’t say a word, and as she walked away, he could feel the weight of the past settling in the pit of his stomach.

“Last thing she wants is to hear from you again man” Kessler’s voice taunted in his ear.

Maybe. But for the first time in years, Butcher wasn’t sure he wanted to.

She walked away, heart pounding. She knew. God, she knew the moment she saw him. Those goddamn eyes and stupid cocky wide smirk she’d fallen for all those years ago. The snarky demeanor that kept her going until one day he was gone. The way his eyes widened when he saw the tattoo was a dead giveaway, but it was the way he carried himself—the same stoicism, the same haunted look behind those eyes. Billy Butcher, of course. Great.

She’d spent years trying to forget. And now here he was, like some ghost from the past, sitting in the sleaziest steakhouse in Nevada, looking like death warmed over. Part of her wanted to slap him, to scream at him for leaving, for abandoning her without a word after Lenny’s death. But she knew she had gotten too attached. It’d been what, a year together? How dumb of her to think or believe that it would’ve ever been more than a fling. She had to come back to America eventually, they both knew the jig would be up soon, she just hadn’t expected it to end so abruptly.

So instead, she swallowed the lump in her throat, wiped the grimy table next to his, and said nothing.

This wasn’t London. She wasn’t the girl she used to be. She’d been young, stupid, and hopelessly in love. Now she was just... tired. Working for tips in a place that smelled like old beer and regret, serving men who didn’t care enough to look her in the eye. This was what her life had come to. And seeing Butcher again only twisted the knife deeper.

But no. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he’d hurt her. Not yet. Not ever.

Butcher watched her walk away, a strange heaviness settling over him. The memories of London were sharp, but the reality in front of him was sharper. She’d changed. So had he.

“So what now?” Kessler whispered. “Stick around? See if you can fuck things up again? You’re real good at that, ain’t ya?”

Maybe. But something in him, something deep and stubborn, made him want to stay. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something worse. Whatever it was, Butcher wasn’t leaving Nevada. Not yet.

He crushed his cigarette in the ashtray, his eyes following her as she disappeared into the back. Whatever had brought him here tonight—fate, coincidence, or just bad fucking luck—he wasn’t walking away from it.

Not this time.

current tags: @sickforbillybutcher

[writingcold]

THIS THURSDAY!

I can't believe that Thursday is August 1st! I will be starting postings of The Dead and I cannot wait to share this love story with everyone. It all started with an idea of if a ghost can be haunted and bloomed from there. It is a completely finished story - so postings every Thursday without breaks!

The Dead Jake X Fem!Reader 15 chapters + prologue and epilogue, approximately 85,000 - posts will be shorter chapters but with a lot of story to each one. Content warnings - This is an original, fictional story. Topics that carry throughout the story include death, ghosts, violence, historical mindsets towards women and poverty, violence towards women, sexual situations (not at the beginning), implied sexual situations, illness, serious illness, major character deaths.

This is my final tease, but thought I would share this gorgeous picture that my good friend @katuschka created for me. Thank you for your brilliance! Meet our Jakub:

He is a deckhand/rigging hand on The Fier, 1689.

And how about one final tease of words?

On the verge of sobbing, I glanced back at the stone as if that had been the source of all my woe. A shimmer of linen and a lock of chestnut seemed to peek out from the edge of the monument to disappear around the back. My feet stumbled forward. I caught myself before I could fall over. With my heart pounding sickly, and my throat closing on a yelp, I managed to move with a shred of grace towards the gate in a hurried retreat. Before I pushed my way out, I lifted my camera once more and turned back to the Jacob stone. Nothing. There was nothing there. No shadow. No sound. Even the breeze had grown gentle. I snapped a few last pictures. 

      Unsettled, I nearly fell across the threshold of the gate and rushed to latch it behind me. I ran across the broken asphalt of the road and hopped into the waiting driver’s seat. I discarded my camera, phone and notebook into the passenger seat before cranking over the engine. I paused before locking the doors. As if that would stop anything that lingered in the air. My eyes strayed to the headstone once more, strained in an attempt to see anything that was clearly not of this world. A profile of a man’s face was unmistakable, peering out from beyond the back of the headstone. The skin was translucent, the hair danced around like it was caught in a wind. For a moment, it turned towards me as if seeking me out over his nonexistent shoulder. 

      “Nope,”  I gulped as I slammed my foot to the gas pedal and took off like a shot down the long, straight road.

I have a fresh, new tag list for this one. If you want to join in, you can find the sign up here

Here's who I have so far:

@edgingthedarkness @its-interesting-van-kleep  @lvnterninthenight  @katuschka @thewritingbeforesunrise @ignite-my-fire @takenbythemadness @jakekiszkasbuttsweat @fleet-of-fiction @demonrat444 @klarxtr @peaceloveunitygvf @hollyco @lipstickitty @joshym @itsafullmoon @josh-iamyour-mama @jake-whatthefisgoingon-kiszka @way-to-go-lad @jjwasneverhere @gretavangroupie @emojakekiszka @wetkleenex-gvf @vanfleeter @losfacedevil @myownparadise96 @lizzys-sunflower @literal-dead-leaf

[po11yannaswife]

𝑌𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠 𝑇𝑟𝑢𝑙𝑦 ✧₊⁺

𖹭 𝑃𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝐺𝑟𝑎𝑦 𝑥𝐹𝑒𝑚!𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𖹭 ;

𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝐼 ; ��𝑖𝑟𝑐𝑎 1921-1922

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: 𝑇𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑜𝑓 𝑟𝑎𝑝𝑒/𝑆𝐴, 𝑔𝑜𝑟𝑒, 𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑧𝑒𝑑 ℎ𝑜𝑚𝑜𝑝ℎ𝑜𝑏𝑖𝑎, 𝑛𝑒𝑎𝑟-𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ 𝑒𝑥𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑠, 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑡ℎ, ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑣𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑃𝑇𝑆𝐷.

 𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏𝐭𝐡 , 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

The presence of her allure has left me helplessly and painfully in love with Polly Gray, I cannot bear to keep it inside me any longer as the woman has made comfort in living in my mind. I’ve never felt this mental since the war. War was where other people were hurt and my hands were bloodied from caring and saving them. Now I’m the one who’s hurt, and I don’t know how to care for myself with this absurd situation, in love with my best friend’s aunt. I hope for this love to pass on, pray even. But, if I pray, God would frown upon me for such a feeling, so for now, I shall only hope. 

I should only hope that Thomas doesn’t suspect a thing either, I feel like he’d shoot me in the head or send me away. He’d want his beloved aunt with a man who could protect her, right? I have to collect myself from this madness.

Yours truly.

You sighed as you dropped your pen onto the beaten desk, your hand clasped over your mouth. The words kept repeating in your head, and with every repetition of the situation, the worse it had seemed. You felt sick to your stomach at the feeling of feeling this way towards the woman, confusion and anxieties filling your filled enough head at the thoughts.

Finally deciding to snap your journal shut, you stuffed it under your stiff pillow and rubbed your eyes, blowing out the candles and shutting the golden light off. You got into bed, your only desire in that moment was to warm up under the blankets. Even with the twists and turns, the quick panic that settled in your chest every time you heard a sound that was either outside or imaginary, you fell asleep. All to do it once more the next day.

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟎𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

 I don’t understand why Polly’s birthday is the best of my worries currently. Sabini has gotten much more violent, beating Thomas to shit, and no one can understand how much suspicion I have with Campbell. His lads saved him from being killed, which I appreciate wholeheartedly, but I know he wants something. I can see it and I’m scared for the Peaky Blinders safety. 

And Ada, beautiful Ada, almost taken by a group of Sabini’s men. Gloom has dawned over me that we are all in danger, I guess it’s what you sign up for when you join a gang in Birmingham. Fortunately, our men got to her in time, only god knows what would have happened to her if they didn’t. It makes me ill. I don’t want a mere thought of what would have happened to her. I especially want her safe, she has a baby, and no baby deserves to grow up without its parents. He doesn’t have a father already, bless Freddie’s soul. Hopefully, Thomas gives her a safer place to keep her and her child in good hands. 

I’m currently living in a..place, you can call it. Definitely not a home. It has one bedroom, no lavatory, one small den, a kitchenette, and a hall that goes to the front door. It’s better than having no home, and I am eternally grateful I am here instead of France slaving away as a housewife.

On other topics, I cannot explain how nervous I am to give her the gift I have made for Polly. It has taken me hour after hour but I have finally finished it. A blanket with navy and a darker shade of red patches that I’ve made sure are not itchy for good measure. I hope she likes it, she doesn’t like her birthday much though, and I’m not family so it may seem strange, but I swear it’s just to share my appreciation for her. I love the woman, well, in a friendly manner, and this blanket is to show her how much comfort she has given me in the past with just her words. It feels good to give back. Though Polly is a hard woman, what if she laughs in my face with the soft gift? I am getting too ahead of myself now. Time will only tell what tends to happen. She’s turning 38, but hell, she looks absolutely beautiful. Oh, Tommy got her a whole fucking house.

Yours truly.

After adding the last period, you glanced back at the handmade blanket, as said. The colours made you smile softly to yourself, hoping to god she would like it genuinely. It was disgusting how much you pricked yourself making the damn blanket, but it was worth it for Polly. You’d do anything for her. 

You closed your journal for the night, putting it under your pillow and turning all the lights off. You closed your newly bought drapes and got into bed, thinking of what Polly would think of the gift. You couldn’t tell if this was excitement, or nervousness. Nonetheless, it was on your mind until you drifted into another slumber.

But this was fully just a friendship between two women, right?

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

So, Polly’s 38th birthday went...adequate. That’s the word.

 I was ordered to clean the house and set it up for Polly early on so that they could give her the gift, which was exhausting but worth it. I fucking despise dusting, I know now. As they gathered, I felt somewhat ill at ease, contemplating isolating myself within the confinement of one of the rooms, waiting for the opportunity of a moment when private discussions would divert their attention. Being no kin to them, I presumed my presence unnecessary, no surprise to my confusion and wary demeanour upon Tommy's unexpected calling to the living room. When I came in, I noticed how confused and baffled Polly had seemed, while Arthur, Finn, and John were smiling like idiots. The sight made me smile. I cannot figure out why, but even Polly’s most mundane actions make me feel intimidated, as if I’m in the presence of royalty.

The only thing keeping me in that room was Thomas glancing at me and giving me the “stay right fucking there” look. I didn’t dare to move an inch, the thought of ruining the rare moment deemed unappealing.

When she looked at me I faintly smiled, which I now berate myself for. No clue why. I gave her the blanket after her and Tommy spoke and I tried my best to do it in private, not wanting to seem all strange. Her reaction was a little..delayed. That concerns me and has left such paranoia in my chest as if it’s smoke from a fire, but instead of coughing, my heart is going like fucking mad men. The only reassurances I have currently are the smile she gave me and the gentle embrace. I would stay in that hug for eternity if I could. Her smile is angelic and I would make a hundred more of those blankets if I could see that smile just for a second. 

Yet, the joy I find in her company is tainted by the antics of Arthur and John, which has made me feel even more wary of her feelings. 

I also have a feeling I’m going to be a part of this expedition to find her children somehow.

God help me.

Yours truly.

Another journaling of your feelings was finished, slamming the book shut afterwards and groaning into your hands. You just wanted to shoot yourself at this point, the humiliation of going practically red in front of her made you want to jump out your window. You paced your room for a bit, biting your nails and groaning over and over and cursing yourself for your actions only hours earlier.

What if she was calling her friends and making fun of you? Or stuffing the blanket in her new closet? Or giving it to someone as a hand-me-down? Your worries overwhelmed your head, tears actually starting to form. You couldn’t sleep, so you decided to do the best and most safest option.

Sit outside and smoke a cigarette. Your choice would have been going to the Garrison, but it was being remodelled, understandably. You needed a drink, anything, and the only drink you had was some milk which you bloody hated. So you were going to your almost empty pack of cigarettes, reminding yourself to get more tomorrow and calling it a night.

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟑𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

It has been awhile, but my assumption of me being involved in finding Polly’s kids is correct. Well, kid. The realisation has overcome Polly of her one daughter being dead. It has drained me that she knows that her son is alive and she cannot see him because he isn't of legal age. I heard what had happened through Thomas, and beforehand, I’ve given the contacts to Michael with the fight of his adoptive mother in the country.. I hate doing this, but as I’ve said before, I’ll do anything for Polly.

Meanwhile, she has resorted to being impulsive and ignoring Thomas. I shouldn’t be as stressed as I am over this, logically I know that. This isn’t my business. I cannot help my emotions towards the situation, I also feel like, christ, I feel a lot of things, don’t I? As I was saying, I feel like I have no place in this cause I’ve never been a mother. I took care of my siblings and have a maternal instinct, yes, but I’ve never had a child of my own blood. This is Polly’s kid and I could never imagine how distraught she is of learning one is dead in Australia and the other she is restrained from seeing. 

On the bright side, the Garrison is opening soon. Tonight, actually. I can’t deny that I’m excited to see how it has changed. I’ve been here for two years and the old design was boring, and I refuse to tell them that the blow up may have been a blessing. I mean, who wants to go to the most known pub in Birmingham and sit in a dusty old one?

I hope this all resolves and that Polly sees her son. I’m always hoping for something, like a glutton for hope. I’m sinful enough these days.

Yours truly.

A sudden knock at your door made you jump, turning around to look at your window. You waited to see if there was another knock, which there was, and you sighed to yourself. Chester Campbell had been causing a riot across town, chaos causing you to be more paranoid than ever. You grabbed a blade that sat on your desk and crept down the hall, placing your hand on the doorknob and turned it, cracking it open with hesitation. The chain was still in place, so god forbid if it was someone to hurt you, they’d have some trouble first.

“Let me in.” Thomas ordered. You furrowed your brows, but did as he said, sliding the chain off and opening the door for him. “Remember how we spoke of that fucking Jew?”

You closed the door, humming, “Alfie Solomons? Yiddishers?” You questioned for confirmation, “And, let’s probably not call them a ‘fucking Jew’.”

“Yes, Solomons. I met that fucker today, gave me a bloody hard time when I gave him our proposal.” Thomas took out a cigarette, ready to light it. You opened your mouth to speak, wincing a bit. He glanced at you, puzzled.

“It’s a small place..the smoke will linger. It’s okay, though, you can smoke.” You politely stated, sitting down in a wooden chair. “Don’t go looking for alcohol either, I have none.”

“What the fuck do you have?” His words were muffled from the cigarette, lighting it up and handing one to you, putting the flame to the end of it once it was between your own lips. “We run a fuckin’ pub, and you’re out of bloody alcohol?”

“The pub is being remodelled, Tommy. And I’m not pestering you for a bloody drink.” Taking a drag from the cigarette, you sighed again. “If you want me to have a stock of whiskey, you’ll have to be ever so kind and give it to me. I’m not taking it from the pub without your permission.”

“Permission?” Thomas scoffed, leaning against the wall. “Y/n, you lost the need for permission when you were officially called to family meetings. You’re one of fucking us, not some prostitute. So when it reopens, take some.” 

The gesture was kind for Thomas, you smiled slightly. “I appreciate the reassurance.” You tapped your cigarette on an ashtray, squinting your eyes a little as you thought. “Are you doing alright? Need me to clean or bandage anything up? Any new pain?” 

He peered up at you, then to the side. “No. Just the pain of Polly being fucking stubborn.” 

“Do you think she’s coming to the opening tonight?” You questioned, fiddling with your fingers. “Not that I..am concerned-”

“Possibly.” He replied, studying you. “She’ll probably come and get drunk.”

“I don’t blame her..I mean, I couldn’t imagine hearing that my daughter is dead and I can’t see my son without smoking a pack or getting drunk.” He rolled his eyes at your reply, which you quickly defended yourself. “I’m not disagreeing with you, Tom. She needs to wait.”

“Are you coming to the opening?” The room was silent as you thought, a little uneasy now. You wanted to see it, you wanted a break from everything. Campbell, Sabini, Michael, just everyone. But, you also didn’t want any sort of trouble tonight.

Nonetheless, you nodded. 

“I’ll come to support.”

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

I have never been in such a chaotic situation until now. Michael, wonderfully came to Polly the morning after the opening, which probably wasn’t the best time. Or the greatest impression. 

Now, I think I mentioned how I gave Michael the info, but I didn’t give Polly the info that I did give Michael it and see him. I knew the bastard would say something when he saw me. The furious tension Polly had created in the room when Michael recognised me sent a shiver down my spine, I couldn’t look her in the eye. I was too afraid, still am. I’m mortified. We’re speaking soon and this is the first time I do not want to speak to her. All I’ve done is what Thomas says, but I know it was wrong to keep the secret of me seeing her son before her. I wanted to keep her safe by not getting into any sort of danger with the coppers. Now I question if it was worth it? I hope I live. It is rare for me to pray, always resorting to hoping and wishing, but once I hear the sound of a knock on my door, I’m praying, desperate for any civil deliverance. In hindsight, I should’ve taken some Tokyo before this to calm my nerves.

Yours truly.

The way your head turned when you heard the knock was as if you were in a horror movie and knew the killer was behind you. You stared at the journal for a few seconds, closing your eyes when you heard a second batch of louder knocks. 

You put the book away and stood up, slowly walking towards your probable demise. You couldn’t lie that you procrastinated not answering and just never going outside ever again, that wasn’t logical sadly. You mumbled a prayer under your breath and turned the doorknob, sliding the chain off and opening the door. You couldn’t look the woman in the eye, clearing your throat and just moving away from the door for her to come in.

She closed the door behind her and gazed down at you while you guiltily stood in the doorway of the den. Your nails scratched at the outside of your hand, leaving irritated lines of pure apprehension. You could feel your heart pounding against your chest, afraid of what she may do or say. Would she kick you out of the family? Shoot you? Tell you to never go near her again? Or her son?

“It’s utterly obvious when you’re guilty and nervous.” Polly flatly stated her observation, to what you looked up at. You took a step back when she took a step towards you, making her scoff. “I’m not going to hurt you, you silly girl.”

The nickname made you slightly blush, only nodding your head and mumbling an apology. You turned to go into the small room, tensely sitting down. She sat down across from you, looking you up and down. “Michael further explained what you did.” She began immediately, not in the mood to waste time. “I want to compare stories. So, go on.”

A shaky huff fell from your lips, feeling like you murdered someone or kidnapped a child. “Thomas led me into this. I had no malicious intent whatsoever, let me say that. I helped him find the documents, which brought him to take me to the country to give the information to Michael, as he thought it’d be less intimidating for a woman to give it instead of a man. I simply introduced myself and my intentions, handed him the card, took the tongue lashings from the hideous mother, and went on my merry way. Polly, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you in danger. I know if I would’ve told you, now do not take any offence, you’d probably pry the address out of me with how insistent you are. And if you went there, with your insisting, you would’ve gotten arrested. I do not want you in those vile places. All I desired was for you to get your boy back. That’s all my intentions were. I simply didn’t tell you for your sake.”

Incapable to meet her daggering gaze, you stared uncomfortably into your hands, anxiously waiting for her response. The fear lingered and it left you utterly mortified, her silence only increasing it. She observed your every movement, studying your body language and the look in your eyes. She contemplated for another few moments, sighing.

An alarming shift of the aura in the room occurred as her clenched fist inadvertently revealed a sharp blade, causing your eyes to widen in apprehension. Swiftly recovering, she composedly placed the weapon on the table before folding her now-empty hands together. The tense atmosphere surrounding you seemed to intensify as she watched the fear in your eyes intensify, your body involuntarily becoming more rigid, and your nails fiercely scratching at your hands in a display of discomfort.

“I find no need for the use of the blade,” Polly spoke sternly to get your attention back on her. “Liars need consequences. And you aren’t. I also do not think I’d even have the heart to hurt you.” Polly took both of your hands to halt your  scratching, sighing before saying, “Thank you for helping find my son.”

Tears burned at your eyes, squeezing her hands. You tried to smile weakly and she embraced you gently, her rage disappearing only to be replaced by more respect for you. “I apologise for being so-”

“No need, Polly. I understand.” You quickly cut her off, still breathing a little hard. “You're a mother. And that’s all the explanation I need from you..just, please don’t slit my throat.”

She glanced at the blade and put it back in her purse, “I don’t like liars in this family. You saw what that Grace did. So let this be a friendly warning, sweetheart.” Her tone was condescending at the end and you gulped, understanding her reasoning and whatnot. “I wouldn’t expect to have to do this again.”

She stood up, walking towards the door before pausing as she opened it, looking over at you. “Be a good girl and learn to offer some whiskey when you have a guest. It’s polite.” She gave you one last glance before exiting your home, leaving you red, wide eyed, and slightly humiliated.

After you collected yourself, you whispered, “I really need to get that whiskey.”

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟎𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

God, where do I start? 

Sabini has come through with his threats, and I must confess, I am afraid. A kid, a sweet lad that I had only a brief acquaintance with is now dead because of him. Throat slit in a dreary jail cell, makes me nauseous at the thought. He seemed very naive and somewhat innocent when I met him. I don’t know why Thomas allowed him to participate in this gang, especially when we have a couple of lads seeking our downfall. Bless the kid’s soul.

Unfortunately, a sense of dread has blocked my mind from any sort of joy anymore.  Arthur has been held at gunpoint, may I say deservingly, by a mourning mother. He fucking killed a kid in a wrestling match. Arthur is like a dog, if you get him going, angry enough, he will have not one single limit. His only goal is to scare his prey, and he fucking scared this one to the afterlife.

Chester Campbell is starting more racket with us, coppers, fucking everyone. His insatiable appetite extends beyond mere illicit pursuits, for he indulges in the most disgraceful and shameful vices with every available prostitute and vulnerable woman. It sickens me to the core to possess such knowledge of his guilty indulgences. Hell, could you imagine being so desperate to get your cock sucked and take advantage of  women that every town you go to for legal terms, you fuck every prostitute? What profession is this? If he ever says fuck the Peaky Blinders, I’m running.

Now, Polly. She has taken over my mind at this point. I don’t know what to do, I’m guilty of feeling love towards another woman and I cannot figure out a strategy to get myself out of this torturing infatuation. Why can’t I be attracted to a man?  In a world where every woman seems to be attracted to Thomas, I’m attracted to his aunt. I attempt to persuade myself that this affection is merely friendly, but the effort is becoming increasingly laborious. Being queer here is digging your own grave, and I’m not ready for that. I’m 22. 

I shall just confine my love for her on these pages, never to say them aloud.

Yours truly.

“Why can’t I just be attracted to men?” You whined into your hands desperately, pondering how you got yourself into this situation. Polly was killing you softly without knowing it. Even when you felt threatened by her, the embrace she gave made you feel secure and alright, like she would never hurt you unlike other people in the past. The scent of her perfume lingered as a memory which you desperately wanted to retrieve, yet you didn’t know how to be that close with her. You were friends, good friends, you couldn’t ruin this.

You finally just quit your pity and turned off the light, putting another layer on top of you due to the chill in the air. You slipped into bed before falling asleep rather quickly, hugging yourself as a reminder of possible comfort.

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

I need a heavy drug. 

I have at once been burdened with Michael being the accountant below me, which automatically makes me need to teach him some things. Thomas should be doing this, and now I have to make sure he does nothing wrong.

It was his birthday a day ago, I didn’t attend because I have more work to get done, I did hear that he had some fun. Lucky him. Polly is still uneasy with him working for us since she doesn’t want him exposed to the violence and inappropriate behaviour we set..if only she fucking knew. Arthur gets a little mouthy when drunk, let’s just say that.

Speaking of, the three Shelby men have probably caused more conflict between Sabini and the Peaky Blinders. Quite possibly me as well, I’m guilty of being there. The Eden club, run under Darby Sabini, is pretty much destroyed. It was a sight that could set your blood cold and the amount of men that were trying to grind against me triggered impulsive desires to take a shattered piece of glass and slit my wrists until I bled out just to end the harassment. It was quite satisfying to watch Arthur beat the fuck out of two of the men who did so. I’m probably going to stay out of London for a while unless I’m visiting Ada.

As always, I wish for things to get better. It’d probably start with Sabini and Campbell being assassinated, in which I’d celebrate. Is that impolite?

Yours truly.

𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟑𝟎𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

My life has now taken a woeful turn. Everyone’s lives.

Michael hasn’t understood the consequences of actions, I presume. Chester Campbell has him in a cell, due to him burning down a pub. Arthur has also been arrested after being invited to Camden Town for Alfie Solomons invite of Passover. I don’t know the fully story, all I know is that he did something or Solomons is one fucking cunt. I know it all has to connect to Campbell. I knew it from the very start. 

Polly isn’t doing too dandy.  She's transformed into someone more severe, her words cutting like a knife, and her demeanour has taken a sharp and unapologetically harsh turn. I can grasp the reasons behind her behaviour, but it doesn't make it any easier to witness. She's determined to take Michael away permanently once he's released from prison, but deep down, I find it difficult to believe such a drastic outcome is promised. 

Furthermore, she's stirred up a troubling conflict with Esme, simply because she's not family by blood. The tension in the room became unbearable, and I desired to slip away unnoticed just to catch my breath. However, Polly's hand clasped my wrist tightly, forcing me to her side as if she was afraid to let go.

In the midst of this turmoil, I find comfort in expressing my thoughts through writing, knowing that this is my sole outlet to vent my emotions before joining Polly in the attempt to bail Michael out faster than Thomas can. I'm torn, for I'm reluctant to proceed with this endeavour, but my loyalty and vulnerability to Polly is victorious. After all, anything for bloody Polly, eh?

Yours truly.

You put the pen down and stood up, putting your coat over your shoulders and a pair of heels before running down the hallway to meet Polly. You needed a breather, a break. The morning was overwhelming enough, and for what was to happen next was unknown. She understood, giving you half an hour of preparation, which you were grateful for. 

She glanced at you before nodding her head, extending her arm. You stepped down the concrete steps that led to your door, awkwardly wrapping your arm around hers. “So, what’s the plan for this?”

She stayed silent for a few seconds. “You’re just my support, my second pair of eyes. Witness,” She stated, looking over at you to see if you were understanding, and you certainly were. “I’ll do anything to get Michael out. You understand to not interfere with anything, correct?”

The question made you puzzled, making you swallow hard. “Um, yeah. Polly, uh, you know I won’t let him hurt you though, right? This is-”

“I know who this is, Y/n.” Polly sterned, walking a bit faster now. “Thank you for wanting to protect me, but I’m an adult. I can take care of myself and my own fucking decisions.”

“Okay.” You simply replied in a soft murmur, instinctively tightening your grip on her arm as the unsettling thought of harm befalling her crossed your mind. She noticed, of course. The woman noticed everything.

Once you both stood in front of the building, she stopped you both. She leaned in, whispering quietly, “Whatever happens in here, stays between us.” 

You squeezed your eyes shut, savouring the peace before she dragged you along again, the coppers already knowing what she was here for. They lead you both to Chester’s office, and you felt your heart pound, your ears already ringing, the air around you tense, full of misery in a way. It was sucking the life out of you. 

“P-Polly, I really don’t have a good feeling.” You admitted in a hush tone, the fear in your eyes betraying the tough demeanour you desperately tried to be.  She took a quick look at you momentarily, using her free hand to gently move stray hair from your face. 

"Neither do I, love. Let's get this over with, yeah? You’re the bravest girl I know, you’ll be okay." Her words were tender, and the touch of her hand felt like a comforting embrace. But as the copper knocked on the door, announcing both yours and Polly's arrival, the warmth of that embrace faded, and you braced yourself for what laid ahead of you both.

𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝐧𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

I can’t look at myself. I cannot bear to see such a failure. A weak, useless girl. I can’t handle it. I don’t know what to think, or say, or do. 

I can’t speak. My voice is gone from screaming like a lunatic, quoting from the coppers. I can’t comprehend what has happened, what happened to Polly, knowing I was a wall away, I was right there. I could’ve stopped him somehow. I could’ve sacrificed myself.  I could’ve protected her better if I wasn’t such a fucking coward. I knew when he started to mock her, belittle her. I heard the rest through the walls. My fingertips are raw, voice gone, throat is fucking gone. And so is everything I was before.

I hate myself when I see Polly. I can’t help myself but cry, I don’t know why. I wasn’t the victim, I just heard it. God, I feel like such a coward for crying while even writing this. Polly doesn’t seem fazed and I wish I can be like that. Why can the victim be so strong and seem alright and I’m here sobbing?

I wanted her to be okay. I wanted to protect her. When they let me out after she was finished, I didn’t want to look at her out of guilt. But she saw me and gave me her touch, and I swear, when I saw Chester in his doorway, with that smug smirk of satisfaction, I met something in me. Pure rage from the depths of hell.  I want to murder him. I want to cut his cock off and shove it down his throat, making him silent like he is to Polly. I want to burn him alive. I want to do everything and anything that causes pain to him.

 I want him fucking dead. I want him deceased, I say this with every ounce and inch and fucking soul of my being, unapologetically. I want him to feel the burden of being murdered without dying. Then dying. He is a murderer of purity, security, any sort of worth a woman has. Yet, he longs without consequences. 

I realised how much this has affected me, as selfish and victimising it sounds. I’ve wanted to take a gun to my head and kill the guilt by killing me. The guilt he tended to make for me. He took advantage of Polly’s vulnerability, knowing how guilty I’d feel, replacing how he should feel the guilt.

All I yearn for is for Polly to be safe, and I cannot seem to do that simple task.

I will go by her words, but they’ll never fade the guilt and hatred I have for myself because of this. Michael can go die in a ditch as well for being humiliated by his mother for sacrificing herself.

Yours truly, I guess.

You stared at your ceiling after taking hours to write. Your eyes were in pain from how much you sobbed, not allowing Polly to see you like this. You were back in your home as she let you know she was okay enough, pushing you out practically. The moment you walked into your house, you collapsed.

That night as you changed, seeing the harsh bruises of the coppers as they dragged you away, the grins haunting you, Polly’s eyes widening at your horrific screams, Campbell smirking.

“No! Please! No!” Screaming as loud as you could, only getting more vicious as the coppers dug their hands into your shoulders, their free ones groping you in the process. “Don’t you dare! Don’t touch her! Polly! No, no, no!”

“No, no, no, please.” You strained, whimpering, hugging yourself and closing your eyes. Tears fell down your cheeks, beginning to feel as if you were back there, being thrown into a cell. The cold air sends you into spasms, your fingers pulsing at the memorial feeling of scratching against the concrete wall. “Stop. Stop it.”

“Don’t hurt her! Ugh!” The two men voices filled your ears, calling you crazy and mad, throwing you into the cold and gloomy cell with little light. You crawled back, “Tell him I will sacrifice myself for her! Please! Tell him! Polly doesn’t deserve this! No!” You begged and you pleaded, watching them as they laughed at you like you were some sort of entertainment. You couldn’t breathe, your limbs trembled, your sobs of desperation making it hard for you to form full sentences and only spurring the two men on.

"Stop, stop, stop," you whispered desperately, attempting to wrench yourself away from the abyss of torment that engulfed your mind. Struggling to break free from the grip of haunting memories, you yearned for respite from the mental anguish.

Suddenly, a loud knock resounded at your door, jolting you back to reality in an instant. The unexpected sound shattered the tormenting reverie, causing you to snap back to the present, only to find yourself gripped once again by fear and apprehension.

Reluctant and hesitant, you hesitated to open the door down the hall. Fully aware of your dishevelled appearance, evidence of recent tears on your face, you tried to ignore the persistent knocks, hoping to escape any unwelcome intrusion. Your hand instinctively rose to cover your mouth upon hearing Polly's voice, her words cutting through your emotions.

"I know you're in there, Y/n," she called out, her voice carrying a mix of concern and determination, leaving you torn between facing her and keeping your despair hidden from view. “Let me in.”

A shuddering breath fell from your lips, retrieving a robe to cover yourself up with. You walked down the hall, wiping tears off your face to try and make it not so obvious you were bawling. 

You opened the door after unlocking it, face to face with Polly. She seemed exhausted, basket in her hand, her hair pulled back. Her eyes fluttered when she saw you as you waved and pointed to your throat. You could speak, just barely and it hurt like hell. Her eyes fell to the bruises that were visible on your collarbone, her hand reaching out to inspect the wound. 

As she let herself in, she pointed down the hall and asked, “Your bedroom down there?” You simply nodded. She took your hand and led you down the hall, welcoming herself into your golden lit room and sat you down on your bed. She sat beside you, continuing her inspection in which you couldn’t comprehend why she even cared. Her cold fingers grazed over it before meeting your eyes, nodding at your shoulder, “May I?”

With a tentative nod, you granted her the consent she sought. Gently, she lowered the satin robe to reveal more of your shoulders, and as she did, you couldn't help but inhale sharply, the sight of your wounds making you wince. Her touch brushed against a particularly sensitive cut, causing you to flinch away instinctively, murmuring an apology for the involuntary reaction.

"Please, don't apologise," she whispered, pulling the robe back up and smoothing it down with care. Lifting your head, her hands cupped your jawline, locking eyes with you in a moment of profound intimacy. "I'm sorry I put you through all this," she said, her voice filled with genuine remorse.

Despite the pain and tears welling in your eyes, you mustered the strength to speak, though your voice was faint and weak. "Not... not your fault," you managed to say. "I'm sorry for not protecting you better."

Her heart ached at your words, and she tenderly kissed your forehead before enveloping you in her arms, mindful of your injuries. Without hesitation, you clung to her tightly, finding solace in the embrace, just as you had done two nights prior. Her fingers attempted to run through your hair, but the tangles proved too stubborn. She gently pulled away, standing up to fetch a hairbrush from your vanity, where she noticed your journal resting.

You noticed it as well, panic settling into your chest as you made haste to snatch the journal from your desk and snapped it shut. Luckily, the page it was on wasn’t spilling your love for her, but it was telling how guilty you were.

She sighed as she sat back down, taking some of your hair and brushing it out. “I should be taking care of you, Polly.” You rasped, rubbing your neck in circles. She paused for a moment, before continuing to brush your hair, slower this time.

“Sweetheart, you have. I may have been drunk, but you took care of me. No one has ever held me the way you have, bathed me as humiliating as it is like you did. You went through the force of knowing it was happening, yet you still put me before you. Now, it’s my turn.” She explained, gently getting every tangle and knot out. 

“You don’t hate me, right?”

The weak voice you had as you asked the heart wenching words made her stop, letting herself take a deep breath. 

“I could never hate you, Y/n.”

𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟏𝐭𝐡, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

Polly and I have been recovering from the recent events that have happened, and I will say, I am better than I was a week or two ago. Still in a light form of shock and grief with terrible paranoia, but I’m okay.

It is early morning as I write this, and today's plans for everyone are the definition of risky. The Peaky Blinders, Thomas, and the Gypsies are uniting to seize control of Darby Sabini's race track, a venture that sways on the cliff of peril. My heart is heavy with concern for their safety, knowing all too well the unforgiving nature of both Sabini and the relentless coppers. I find myself anxiously hoping that Thomas has arranged a cunning distraction or perhaps struck a deal with Moss to avert any interference, lest the consequences be dire. For if their moves are exposed, they may all find themselves awakening in a place far from here, taken by our foes. The stakes are high, and I can only pray that their courage and wit prevail in this risky endeavour.

On the other hand with less importance, a bit more of a quarter percentage of the business has been given to Alfie Solomons in Camden Town, which in my opinion, may be a foolish action. I’ve met Alfie, a nice guy, but I don’t know if we can trust him. Well, nice isn’t the best word, he’s something, alright?

For me, Polly and I are bound on a fateful errand, and the anticipation has kept me restless, robbing me of sleep. Together, we've carefully devised a plan, a method to exact the vengeance he so rightfully deserves. I dare not delve into the particulars, as the utmost secrecy is essential to safeguard our intentions.

His actions have left us with no alternative; his existence must be brought to an end. Our hearts are set on ensuring justice prevails, even if it requires crossing dark and dangerous morals. With every fibre of my being, I hope and pray that our endeavour proves successful, delivering the retribution he has earned.

Our circle of trust is small, limited to Polly, Thomas, and myself, as we keep the knowledge of our intent deeply concealed. I prefer it this way, shrouding our actions in secrecy until our mission reaches its conclusion. It is Thomas who set this course of action in motion, and I am grateful to him for it. He has paved the way for Polly to carry out this decisive act, and for that, I am deeply appreciative.

I wish no one dies today except Campbell and anyone who wishes upon the Peaky Blinders downfall.

Yours truly.

“What will happen if this doesn’t go to plan, Polly? What if-”

“Will you please close your mouth and sit quietly?”

It had been hours later and you were in the car with Polly, not being able to stop moving or rambling on the possibilities of what may happen, while Polly seemed stable. You were her support, once more. The unknown of what may happen in the next hours scared you shitless, not feeling this sort of fear since the war. 

“I’m sorry..” You breathed out, loosening the neck of your blouse a bit. “I’m just-”

“Scared? Y/n, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

You turned your head to look at her as she drove, “What about you, Polly? I’m mostly anxious over you, I admit. What if he-” Her gloved finger pressed over your lips, shushing you. “Sorry.” You muffled against the finger and she swiftly took it away, stopping in front of the bar.

The woman turned to you one last time, “You go in the booth next to his. When you hear the gunshot, walk out.” Her voice was full of authority, not moving her glance from your eyes once.

“Yes ma’am.” You blurted out, watching as she made sure her gun was loaded before putting it into her purse. You got out when she did, beginning to scratch at your arms and hands again, but this time, it started to get so hard that beads of blood began to form, not coming to your attention, though.

The two of you strided into the bar, afraid but knowing this needed to be done. You instantly made sight with the phone booths, seeing the fedora that looked all too familiar. Though, to your unfortunate luck, all the booths seemed to be filled. You looked at Polly who was already looking at you, subtly pointing to a table that was near the booth Campbell was in.

With apprehension clawing at your heart, you discreetly parted ways with her, maintaining a facade of normalcy as you took a seat and pretended to watch her walk towards the booth. As his eyes met Polly's, you knew he also caught a glimpse of you, and in that moment, you locked gazes, sensing it would be the last time he'd ever see you.

The door sealed shut after his greeting, and you couldn't help but turn away, fixating on the table, your heart pounding so vehemently that it sent sharp pains through your chest. The fear of him causing harm to Polly, the strategy falling apart, weighed heavily on your mind, manifesting in the form of feral scratches that marred your poor hands, which bled relentlessly.

In that tense moment, the only sound you craved was the gunshot, signalling the successful execution of your plan. You scanned your surroundings, desperate to ensure no coppers were lurking nearby, and to your relief, you spotted none. Unable to hear their conversation, you waited with bated breath, until the creak of the door opening was followed by a guttural, choked sound. It brought a sense of grim satisfaction.

Time seemed to slow, as if the world paused to witness the unfolding events. The deluge of emotions overwhelmed you. your heart aching, your head feeling light, your ears ringing loudly, and your thoughts in disarray, overtaken by panic.

Then, a gunshot pierced the air, and you could hardly believe your ears. Slowly, you turned around, praying that Polly would emerge unharmed. In that moment, all other noises appeared muffled, and the dizzying sensation persisted.

As the scene unfolded before your eyes, you clung to the hope that it would be Polly who emerged from the booth. The background voices sounded distant, drowned out by the intensity of the moment.

As Polly finally exited the booth, you rose from your seat, nonchalantly straightening your dress, but your eyes were immediately drawn to the bloodstain on her attire. It was impossible to overlook, yet she seemed to be oblivious to it, her gaze fixated elsewhere, her eyes betraying a mélange of emotions, sorrow, shock, and a keen sense of relief.

You didn't exchange a word or even a fleeting glance; instead, you simply fell in step behind her, a shared understanding passing between you. The surge of emotions inside mirrored her own relief and hope, knowing that he was likely no more. In that moment, you both moved forward, united by the weight of those complex sentiments.

Now, your only worry was Thomas.

𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝, 𝟏𝟗𝟐𝟐

Chester Campbell is deemed dead, and we are no suspects. I haven’t felt so relieved in years. The plan was executed on correct terms, and we have been rewarded with the sense of safety, security, and not as threatened any longer. Especially Polly.

Thomas..he..was almost killed, but luck had sided with him. From then on, we have gotten the announcement of Grace and him together once again, and how Grace is pregnant. I cannot imagine a little Thomas Shelby. I hope Grace has some good blood in her to outweigh the cold.

Christmas is soon, and even if it isn’t very celebrated here, I’ve gotten the best present of all. Karma and Polly. She has chosen to invite me to her home during the two festive days, and I’ve never been more honoured and relieved I won’t be spending the holidays alone in this tiny space I call home.

This new year, I hope for it to be much more peaceful, much more..smooth. This year has been a wreck, and we have ended it with a sense of closure that I couldn’t ever be more thankful for.

Yours Truly.

[sonkitty]

The Sideburns Scheme Post #83

(For reference: The Sideburns Scheme)

Crowley, Good Omens 2, Episode 5, The Ball, over

...

This post covers Crowley escorting the humans out and dismissing them.

...

Sideburns Check

The sideburns are long, and I think we are at a point where both are not quite longest-length.

...

Brighter Red Streak Check

The streak is mostly gone. I'm starting to think it fades or retreats with demon darkness, but I'll save exploring that idea further for if I ever do a more general post about the streak itself.

I was able to find it when Crowley is about to visually pass over the broken open window.

...

Hairstyle Changes

The hair is curling more inward along the top.

...

Earthly Objects

(For reference: Earthly Objects)

Shax touches Crowley's mail.

Her saying, "I brought your mail," probably counts as a statement of place that's like an extended form of Hello.

Crowley has the question, "Why?

Crowley's touch on Mrs. Sandwich is confirmed, if any of the preceding cuts were not enough.

The group of humans with Crowley likely qualifies for a collective touch with the fog.

One of the humans asks if Mr. Brown is alright, so there is a question.

Crowley answers though his answer continues into a question itself.

Crowley says part of the name of the meeting, specifying at least the two words Whickber Street

...

Time to pay attention to the pockets.

Let's check in with the Tied Hands.

At the start of the cut where Crowley asks Shax, "Why?", Mrs. Sandwich's hand is probably on screen and probably including her thumb joints.

Meanwhile, the clasps and tassels of Crowley's tie are not on screen.

Once Crowley starts to walk out with Mrs. Sandwich, it is more clear that yes, that was her hand, and now both her thumb joints for her left hand are more evidently visible.

The camera shifts to a top angle so that the touch Mrs. Sandwich and Crowley share can be more visible.

Because of the fog and dark setting, I still cannot see the clasps or tassels of Crowley's tie.

Crowley's watch is visible in the cut where he visually passes over the broken open window. That's often a sign of retying, but the rest of this sequence shows that retying is more likely to happen in the upcoming scene with Muriel.

After Crowley lets go of his touch with Mrs. Sandwich, his right hand is shown visually pocketed between the humans, and his left right arm is making a pocket with the humans and bottom of the screen.

His right arm is ensured to have a pocket made with the bottom of the screen by the end of the cut where he says the word, "Right."

In the next cut, Crowley is officially declaring the meeting over and dismissing the humans, who are receiving focus, so my very much theoretical take here is that his pockets are preparing for the release of the humans. That way, they can make their way back to the proper zone and stop being in Crowley's supernatural zone. This cut is also when his tie clasps and maybe one tassel are visible.

Mrs. Sandwich places her hands on her hips, making her right arm pocket some of the Bentley during this dismissal.

Crowley maintains that right arm pocket as he dismisses the humans until Mrs. Sandwich tells him he's a good lad.

When Crowley responds to Mrs. Sandwich, the tie clasps and tassels have gone back into hiding.

So, the Tied Hands are not retied during the escort out, but they probably helped release the humans from the zone.

The watch tends to be in charge of things, like it's a lookout, especially since its moment of clarity was both before the window pass and the dismissal.

...

Crowley's head is ensured to be framed in that broken open window by the last video frame of the cut. Pocket mechanics care a lot about framing.

There are two little yellow lights together with one slightly higher than the other as potential overhead lights for Crowley's actual head and Belt Head. They can be found between a demon and one of the pillars, probably reflections of the bookshop door windows. While I cannot find Crowley's Belt Head, he is touching Mrs. Sandwich, and Mrs. Sandwich has feathers in her hair. One of those feathers happens to be black, like Crowley's own actual demon wings. I assume he gets an assist from her then for those overhead lights to count as overhead lights.

...

Story Commentary

The pub is shown behind Crowley during this sequence. Again, humans are not visibly around it or in it when it is shown. We actually will glimpse humans in the pub next time under some specific circumstances.

...

Mrs. Sandwich refers to Crowley as a good lad.

He replies to her saying, "I'm not actually, either." Then he smiles and thanks her.

Crowley's supernatural zone is active. The dialogue has given hints about the nature of the space and the sideburns, so Crowley is denying he is a good lad because he is not pretending to be human here. He is a demon making use of his power and his space to accomplish some goal. He's not going to tell her or us the specifics of that goal, but reaching that goal at least has the requirement that he not take the claim of being human here.

...

This scene reminds us that the Bentley is part of the zone. Its presence is a general clue that the zone exists and is currently activated by Crowley.

...

Up next Crowley and Muriel will finally re-unite.

That means they are going to start working together for the Triple of The Bigger Thresholds Trick, which is to trick the Heaven elevator.

I do not have the simple explanation for that puzzle.

I have plenty of notes. New ideas have been forming in my head with knowing that drafting the upcoming post would happen soon. These new ideas still aren't enough to figure out an answer though...just make an even bigger mess of notes.

We are going to have two pocket experts who are up to something beyond my understanding, but I will still have notes!

...

That's it for this post. Sometimes I edit my posts, FYI.

...

Main post:

The Sideburns Scheme

[mungo-grubb]

Vitality Inc. - Bryan & the Wonder Protein Shake Part II

***

The flight and limo ride took a while to reach the ranch, but Bryan’s excitement kept him eager to arrive at his destination. As Bryan arrived at Michael’s ranch with his duffel over his shoulder, he was met and welcomed by the house manager, Mr. Carson.

“Welcome to the ranch, Bryan.” Said Mr. Carson. Michael felt awful that he could not meet you personally when you arrived, but he sends his regards. “I am here to show you where you will be staying and provide a tour of the compound. Since you already submitted your signed NDA, we can move ahead with the tour.”

Instead of heading into the main house, Mr. Carson took Bryan to an electric cart and placed his duffle in the back. “Hop in, Bryan. We will first drop off your things at the Bunkhouse where you will be staying on the property, and then I will take you around.”

A bit confused but going with the flow, Bryan hopped into the passage side, and they started down the side trail. As they drove past the massive mansion and headed down a dirt road, Mr. Carson explained that he would stay at the bunkhouse. He will have it all to himself, and it is equipped with everything that he may need. The Bunk is fully loaded with food, refreshments, a gym, a video recording studio, and more. Our host, Mr. Michael, would like you to make yourself at home.  

Per the agreement, the kitchen is fully stocked with Wonder Protein Shakes. Please try it, and practice making promotional videos with it. Mr. Michael will review the footage and provide feedback later in the week.

"Oh, you will not have cell service while on the ranch due to our privacy policy."

Bryan, a bit overwhelmed, just nodded while taking everything in.         

As they arrived at the Bunk, Bryan was in shock at the size of the house. The two-story ranch-style house was larger than any bunkhouse he had ever seen. “This is a mansion, and it was all mine.” Said Bryan.

“Well as long as you are staying with us.” Replied Mr. Carson.

Bryan corrected himself with an “Oh yeah, right!”

“I am going to place your belongings upstairs in your room. Why don’t you head into the kitchen and help yourself to something to eat and drink?”        

Mr. Carson disappeared up the stairs as Bryan headed down the hallway to the kitchen. 

Mr. Carson was not lying, the kitchen was stocked with all of Bryan’s favorites, such as chips, snacks, and different types of cheese. In the fridge, were multiple shelves supplied with rows of the Power Protein Shake with a small note on one, “Enjoy! – Mr. M.”.  

Bryan, keen on trying the product, grabbed one off the shelf and popped it open. “Bottoms Up!”

The Power Protein Shake tasted just like a chocolate milkshake. “This is unbelievable!” Scanning the nutrition label, Bryan was amazed to see 0 carbs and 50 grams of protein.

“Fuck, this cannot be real. It is too good.” Slamming the rest of the protein drink down his throat. “Bbbbuuuurrrpp!”

Bryan heard “Nice one” from behind him. Mr. Carson was standing there with a polite smile.

“Sorry,” said Bryan.

“No worries, lad, grab a few for the road with some cheese and crackers, and I will show you some more.”   

The rest of the day, Mr. Carson drove Bryan around the compound and showed him the pool, the pastures, walking trails, the lake, and the barn before dropping him back off at the Bunkhouse.  

“Settle in and get some sleep, Bryan.” Said Mr. Carson. “Breakfast will be provided, and then feel free to start your routine and recording.”

“What about Mr. Michael?” asked Bryan.

“Oh, he will sync up with you later this week. For the time being, he has provided some instructions on your kitchen counter. Good night.”

“Good night, Mr. Carson.”

Bryan headed to the kitchen to see what his instructions were from his generous host.

Welcome to my ranch,

I apologize that I could not meet you today in person, however, I look forward to meeting you later this week. In the meantime, according to our previous discussions and our contract, I’d like you to drink my shakes and record promotional material during your day-to-day activities (e.g., working out, hiking, swimming, or relaxing around the Bunk. I want to market this product as a healthy everyday protein drink for the active guy. Your brand is “Dairy Makes the Body,” I would love to see my protein shake make you huge.

Housekeeping and the kitchen will be restocked daily. If you need anything else, just ask Mr. Carson.  

Mr. M.

Not able to sleep from the excitement, Bryan explored his new accommodations with a shake in one hand and a block of cheese in the other.

***  

The next morning, Bryan awoke groggy with the sun. He was used to starting his chores on the farm around 4:30 AM, which often prevented him from sleeping in. While glancing over at the clock, reading 7:00 AM, he noticed the three open Power Protein shake containers and the cheese wrappers.

“Wow, I don’t remember having that many shakes, but I will hit the gym harder today to make up for last night.”     

Bryan threw on some briefs and made his way down the stairs toward the kitchen. He planned to grab a couple of shakes and made his way into the gym, but as he turned the corner, he ran into a tall, fit, blonde man in an apron.

“Oh sorry,” said Bryan quickly trying to cover up his morning semi-chub outlined by his underwear.

“No worries, man. I’m Stephan, your personal chef and nutrition consultant. I would have thought Mr. Carson would have told you that breakfast would be provided.”

“Oh, yes, you’re right, he did. Sorry, I forgot.” Said Bryan frozen in the doorway.     

 “Come in, sit at the table. I was provided a list with all your favorites, and I have made a special plan to assist you in your workouts while here on the ranch.”

“What, really?!?” Bryan was again surprised by the good fortune of his situation.  

“For your first day, I made you a cheesy four-egg omelet, buttered toast, and a protein shake. I will have your meals ready for you in the morning and the evening. For lunch, have a protein shake until full. We can adjust the plan, as we go along.”   

“Heck yeah! I love that I don’t have to worry about meal prep.”

Stephan serves Bryan at the table and goes back to his prep station. Bryan stared, completely enamored with the Thor-like chef in front of him. Then Bryan took a bite and almost came instantly into his briefs. The omelet was so gooey and cheesy that it melted over his tongue. This was peak farm fresh!

Bryan daydreamed about his chef as he ate. Noticing the rather large stain of precum at the tip of his erection, he had to wait until Stephan left the kitchen before, he could escape up to his room to avoid being seen.     

Safely back in his room, Bryan jumped back into bed and quickly got to work on his morning wood while thinking about Stephan. Stroking his average size shaft with one hand and rubbing his pecs and abs with the other. Bryan loved to feel his strength and muscles when he worked on his pole. His mind focused on what Stephan might be packing under that apron, when he erupted all over his thigh.  

With his head cleared Bryan was ready to start the day (For real this time). He showered, cleaned up, and put on some running shorts, a black tank top, and his ball cap.

Still full of breakfast, Bryan made his way to the recording studio to start his video journaling.

Day 1

Even though he knows no one is going to see it other than Michael, Bryan started his video blogging to practice and get some material.  

“Hey guys, Bryan here, I’ve been tapped to promote this amazing new protein shake by Vitality.” Taking a sip, ‘It’s sooo good! Umm, I am really excited to spend the next couple of weeks with you in the gym and achieve some epic gains!”

Bryan spent a couple of hours taking a handheld camera around the house. He showed the gym, the kitchen, and around the Bunkhouse. 

For lunch, he grabbed a few shakes and went for a walk on the nature trails. When he returned, he was finally ready to hit the gym.

"I believe it is an arms and abs day". Having the gym all to himself, Bryan cranked up some music and began to pump.  

After about two hours working up a good sweat, Bryan felt accomplished and hungry. He cleaned up and headed back to the kitchen (Secretly hoping that Stephan was there).

“Hey there big guy,” said Stephan. “Good workout?”

“Oh, hey – yeah! Arms and abs today.” Replied Bryan, flexing a bit to impress Stephan.

“Looking solid.” Grab a shake and have a seat. Dinner should be ready shortly.

Bryan and Stephan chatted away, getting to know each other while Stephan served up dinner.

“Extra-cheesy rice, broccoli, and grilled chicken.”      

Bryan inhaled the plate and asked, “This is fantastic! Is there more?”

Of course, while bringing the pan over to the table. “I am glad you like it. Help yourself.”

As Stephan cleaned up the kitchen, Bryan ate until he was stuffed.

“All right big man, get some sleep, and I will see you again for breakfast.”

A little sad that Stephan was leaving, Bryan relaxed on the couch, digesting his meal, until he drifted off to sleep. 

Check out the full 5 part story:

[ghostiewriter]

pit stops & promises | jiara

Summary: Fresh out of university and unsure what to do with her life, Kiara takes the opportunity to find herself whilst travelling the world with her ‘rising Formula 1 star driver’ brother, Nate Carrera, on his first year signing with one of the biggest teams on the grid. She has a bucket list and she is determined to complete it by the end of the season. What she doesn’t expect is for a hot-headed, arrogant, drop-dead-gorgeous blond to be helping her along the way. And for said blond to be her brother’s rival...and new teammate. 

Warnings: smut, language, angst, mention of blood, mention of injuries, mention of crashes, other things I can’t remember!!

Word Count: 133.1k (23/?)

A/N: HERE WE FUCKING GO LADS!!! The au is finally ready to be posted little by little but the first chapter is dedicated to my favourite f1 fanatic horse @kcarreras HAPPY BIRTHDAY JADE!!

also biggest shout out to @kiekiecarrera for making THE COOLEST FUCKING CHAPTER HEADERS EVER I’m genuinely obsessed I cannot stop staring

masterlist

CHAPTER ONE: LIGHTS OUT AND AWAY WE GO!

CHAPTER TWO: GRUDGES GOING STRONG

CHAPTER THREE: HISTORY IS HEAVY ON THE HEART

CHAPTER FOUR: NEW FRIENDS AND OLD FOES

CHAPTER FIVE: THE PARENTS ARE IN TOWN!

CHAPTER SIX: DATES AND PROPOSALS

CHAPTER SEVEN: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED

CHAPTER EIGHT: TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF

CHAPTER NINE: WHEN IN MONACO

CHAPTER TEN: LATE NIGHT SWIMS

CHAPTER ELEVEN: PARDON MY FRENCH

CHAPTER TWELVE: DISTANCE MAKES THE HEART GROW WARY

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: LATE NIGHT SHENANIGANS

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: STAYING WITH THE IN-LAWS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: NEW BEGINNINGS

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: UNTOLD HISTORY

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: HOME RACE WINNING

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: WELCOME TO THE MILE HIGH CLUB

CHAPTER NINETEEN: CRASH AND BURN

CHAPTER TWENTY: BROKEN HOMES

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: AND SO SUMMER BEGINS

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: SHAKE AWAY THE SUMMER BLUES

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END

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extra:

•chapter twenty bonus scene

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[2demondogs]

Born to Lose Twice | Hosea & Arthur

Tags: Good dad Hosea gives Arthur advice, referenced Arthur/Mary Linton, referenced Hosea/Bessie and VanDerMatthews Word Count: 1.3k A/N: Set after the first Mary mission that literally had me fuming.

He should have known Hosea's offer to go fishing was not without cause.

It is infrequently, nowadays, that they spend time together as when Arthur was a lad — he's too busy, Hosea is too busy, and forget pulling Dutch from his own head if there won't be dollar signs waved in front of his eyes, eyes that Arthur is beginning to think of as beady.

At least, sometimes. He is still one of Dutch's boys.

He is the Dutch Boy.

He's learning he can hardly hate anyone, and it's exactly this inability to do much but let his heart bleed which Hosea is undoubtedly about to crack into.

Beside him at the shore of the lake, the older man is twisting his lips the way he always has before offering some advice he's really, truly thought on. It makes him look pensive, and older. Maybe that's why he does it. His age always has made him seem wise, not bleary-eyed.

Arthur finds it comforting to recognize something so small after all these years.

They had been fishing not far from here the first time he spoke about Mary, if he isn't pulling things from his ass. He may be. They'd rode a while to reach this lake and while Hosea insists it is for better catching, Arthur knows he's really a sentimental old coot.

It is just as pretty as it was when he was young and in love. The beauty hurts now that he's old and in love.

Arthur still wants to bring her here one day, the same he did when he was a scrappy mutt and thought the world was evil 'til something in the clean, freshwater-air of that calm lake quelled just a bit of his hate. So young, so dumb, he really thought everyone was scorned as he was — that the world outside the city might mean something to them, too, besides a lack of common decency. He cannot rid his mind of what he scratched into his journal that day, or yesterday, or the day before.

At once, he's pleased to finally have a reason and disgusted he's fallen to his knees and provided without promise yet again.

"S'what's been on your mind, son?" Hosea asks. It's the first thing either has said since they cracked open the tackle box.

Arthur feels something he rarely feels — a sense of smallness. The wilderness is huge, but he's never felt so humbled by it.

Maybe it's the way Hosea calls him son, and he feels his experiential smallness in comparison to him.

Trees don't have girl problems, either. That's a little old fool's chore.

Lady problems, now, he supposes.

"Dunno," Arthur lies.

Hosea gives him a disappointed look. "Malarky."

He huffs dryly. "Yeah. It is."

"C'mon, Arthur," he says. "I know it's somethin'."

"Surprised you dunno what," he says. His tone is more bitter than he'd like it to be. "Nobody's shut up 'bout it since I rode in last."

Hosea nods as if he's gone in the right direction. "They know you love Mary," he says. He studies the lake, the promising ripple around where his line is cast. "Love can be ugly. But I don't think that's the end of it for you, is it?"

"What'd'ya mean?"

"Sometimes I hate Dutch. I don't like him most'a the time." Hosea considers the rocks near the toes of his boots. "He ain't as easy to like as he is to hate, and ain't as easy to hate as he is to love." He glances at him expectantly, and Arthur is almost peeved that he's eerily right. "So why do you hate her?"

"I don't hate Mary," Arthur sighs. It is half-true, more misconstruement than lie. "Think I hate the way people treat me. Anybody, e'rybody."

He perks up. Girl problems never were his strong suit; he took Bessie and Dutch — whatever that emotional web stands as or for is beyond Arthur — and was satisfied with his fill of loving. Interpersonal conflict he can understand.

"How are they treatin' you?"

"Like a damn machine," he says. "Like I ain't got no worth beyond doing." Hosea's mouth firms into a line. A moment lingers, and Arthur adds: "Not you, old man."

"Naw. I know, not me." He winks at him. "You think I'd ask if I knew I's the problem?"

Arthur snorts.

"What did she say?" He asks, tone falling back into seriousness.

"Nothin' particular," he says, and then goes on to say something particular. "Just... I ain't no good use to her and them rich folk, 'til I can go wrangle up their son. Ain't that a damn thing." He licks his teeth, tries to offer a lilt to his next words. "I'm a broke conman's son to them. I ain't matter to nobody but some more conman fellers. Guess it don't sit right with me."

Hosea nods, corner of his mouth lifting at conman fellers. They certainly were not broke, not between the two and a half men their jolly gang was made of back then.

"And it don't sit right with me, that I ain't ever..." — searching, struggling to find the words — "Ain't no one stuck around me without wantin' me to do somethin' special." He scratches his throat. "Everyone but you, again, really."

Hosea has asked a lot of him, but his tasks were few and far between when they were not survivalist in nature; he wanted — still seems to want — Arthur to do things with him, not for him.

Not a bad padre at all.

"No one wants Arthur," he says, and Arthur nods solemnly. "Nobody likes you just for yourself, so you think."

There's the words for it, always comin' out of his mouth.

They go silent. Arthur draws from the lake the courage to ask: "When do I find a girl who'll love me that way?"

It feels too soft, too vulnerable to speak aloud.

"Maybe you have," Hosea says. "She's just got bad timing." He offers him a sad smile. "I know it don't make the rest of it go away."

Silence passes.

"I met Bessie, and..." — he doesn't say Dutch, never says Dutch, but Arthur thinks of them both of fathers and supposes that links them in that inextricable, loving way — "I thought my hands would never be clean enough to touch her. Angels don't hang around with old demons. But she did." His mouth morphs, a frown, then a pucker, then a firm line. "My big age, I figured it was the end of lovin' for me. I'd been too bad for it to find me ever again."

Arthur is well aware of how much the two loved each other; how much Hosea loves her, still. Selfishly, perhaps very selfish — a part of him that is still tender, still religious, prays for someone to love him how Hosea loves her: unstoppable, lingering, a bad taste in their mouth when the wind shifts wrong and all they can think of is him.

To be thought of, just himself.

To be held in someone's heart like an artery, bleeding inside of them even after the old age begins to warp their memory.

To be yearned for.

He realizes he's been quiet when Hosea's hand squeezes his shoulder, gentle in the way an outlaw is.

At the end of the day, nothing of their kind's can be gentle. He feels the emptiness of it, then, the missing hole in his mind where the thing once sat that would let himself embrace another human being with kindness.

Hosea sits his pole on the ground and his toe stays atop to keep it in place, always a damn showman, always expecting a catch; but he wraps his arms around Arthur the way he had when he was younger, when they both were, and Arthur had been starving or freezing or burning with fever. He hugs him with his kindness, and Arthur melts his face down into his shoulder, sighing.

He half-expects a quip about life not being easy, women being harder; something light to transition away from how heavy he feels. But Hosea is silent, and he rubs his thumb along the nape of his neck as if soothing a stray dog.

Maybe if he never finds her, never finds no one — maybe it'll be fine to fill just one of those voids with Hosea.

[queers-gambit]

HELLO!! I LOVE YOUR WRITING SO MUCH I DO NOT REGRET READING ALL YOUR WORKS FOR THE PAST FEW HOURS HUEHEEUEHEUE

I also really love how you write Aemond and so with that in mind, how would he react if ever in a very unlucky world, he would lose both his child and wife at childbirth (not like viserys where he was given a choice) but bec it just didnt end well esp when pregnancies doesnt really guarantee a safe delivery all the time

oh, that's a lot of reading, poppet! take a break!! (but thank you so much, you're so cute, i love you)

oh, you want ANGST angst? let's get into this - where's my coffee?

[ When Pride Married Prejudice ]

[ following this post // this post // this post ]

this post contains potentially triggering content as we discuss the labors of childbirth, and a very small skimming of what can go wrong. i want everyone to proceed with maturity and caution.

this is NOT part of the WPMP storyline, just a hypothetical.

When he finds out sweet girl is pregnant, the lad is running around as if his head has been cut off - trying to read and learn as much as he could. He'll spend hours in the library and return to your chambers with a few particularly interesting tomes, asking her if you knew about this and that while being pregnant.

He learns about the good, he learns about the bad.

He prepares for what can go right, for what can go wrong.

Yet nothing can truly prepare him for the harsh, mind-numbing reality that he faces. It's so much easier to blame something; be it an inexperienced Maester, or even something tangible - like the baby being flipped the wrong way.

Not something as simple, yet unstoppable, as herniating a blood clot and bleeding out whilst the child wriggled in distress and eventually coiled the umbilical cord around its neck.

He's kept from the birthing chambers originally, and the Maesters only allow Alicent and your hand maiden, Amira, in the room for moral support. He listens to you scream and cry in pain for a solid day and a half, until, things go quiet.

Unusually quiet.

Eerily quiet.

Heart-pounding quiet.

Aemond remains in the hall with Aegon, who had come to check on his brother and offer company, only to be present when all sounds from the birthing chamber suddenly stop. Aegon foolishly claps his brother on the shoulder and congratulates him, assuring the cease in noise was a good sign and meant the baby must've been born.

They wait another hour or more with false hope.

When the door finally cracks open, Aemond takes on look at his mother and knows something terrible has happened. She'll keep the door cracked to prevent him sight, but all is lost when there comes a procession of midwives - all clutching heavily bloodied rags close to their chest. His eye fills with tears and meets the weary gaze of his mother, and all she can muster is, "Come inside, Aemond. You should say goodbye."

"What's happened?" He demands, but there's an unspoken understanding settling over them all.

"Come say goodbye," she whispers again and opens the door for him. There's three different Maesters, plus the Grand Maester, all waiting with bowed head - standing in a line as if to greet the Prince.

Their robes are all soiled in blood, and there, in the middle of the room, laid his wife - his sweet girl - in puddles of her own life's liquid. It soaks into the mattress, blooms into the sheets laying over your cool, stoic form; and there, at the bottom of the bed, laid a bundle.

He's quiet as he assess the room and quickly understands that more blood dripped off the mattress than laid in your body. He hears Alicent and Aegon at the door, but demands again, "What happened?"

One of the Maesters slowly steps up and explains that sometimes, during birth, the stress is too much on the body and there are certain circumstances that nobody can avoid - or help. One, being when the bleeding to too great - a tear located internally that cannot be seen. The baby then went into distress and eventually choked in the womb, being born with the cord around it's neck.

When Aemond carefully pulls the cloth bundle from his baby's face, he'll freeze when he notes the purplish hue coating the pale skin of the babe. In fact, the whole of it looks darkened with bruises and he feels his heart crack right down the middle.

As the Maester explains in depth what went wrong, the Prince slowly approaches your side and kneels. He'll tilt your head towards him and just wait, thinking this was all a bad dream and not truly real; mind reeling to bring forth the facts about births-gone-wrong.

Yet nothing in his mind will comfort him as he slowly takes up your hand. It's cool, not yet cold, but not warmed like your usual touch. Your fingers are stiff and rigid, making him frown as he tries to lace your fingers together for a final time.

His heart officially breaks.

"Why couldn't you save her?" He asks the room when it goes silent, staring at your face.

"Sometimes, there's nothing, even the most trained hand, can do," the Maester explained.

He nods slowly and leans down to press a parting kiss to your forehead. It's still not real, but his temper is flaring as he lets go of you to turn and stare menacingly at the Maester. His mother and brother are on high alert, understanding the dangerous glint in his eyes meant he was beyond words and rational thought.

"Are you?" Aemond grits.

"Am I what, my Prince?" The Maester trembles.

"The most trained hand?"

"W-Well, n-no, I would imagine there's a great deal more skilled than I," the Maester stuttered, glancing to the Queen for help.

"Then there is no use for you," Aemond sighed, blinking once, and brandishing his dagger to stab the Maester's chest. He holds the dying man for a moment before wrenching his knife free and lets the body drop to the floor. "And you?" He demands of the other Maesters. "Which of you will assume responsibility for this?"

"My Prince, sometimes, a woman's body only - "

"Do not try to blame this one her," Aemond seethed, turning to the Maester who dared speak. "This was not her doing - it was your job to protect her!" He yells as he drives his dagger into the second Maester, twisting it deeper.

Seemingly realizing their fate, the others shuffle back a few steps.

"It was your job t-to protect her in this," he pants, confusion warping his mind as guilt soon plunges his stomach. "I should've been here."

"No, Aemond, there was nothing you could have done," his mother tries to insist.

"I am her husband," his voice cracks with emotion, glaring at his mother, "and I could protect her from much more. I just should've been here for her..." His gaze turns back to the bed, choking, "She was alone... She died alone."

"She wasn't," Amira, who stood crying in the corner, finally spoke. Aemond silenced himself at the sight of her, looking shroud into the corner as she withdrew into herself at the loss of her Lady; at the loss of her friend. "She wasn't alone... I-I was here with her."

"The whole time," Alicent promised Aemond softly.

"A-And should it bring your comfort, my Prince," Amira whispered, but it was like her voice echoed across the room, "I reminded her of your love until the end... And selfishly, of my love, too."

Aemond felt the emotional dam in his chest give way. He'll hold his breath for a moment and let it out, shakily, as he nods at the older woman, "You were always like family to her... I'm glad if it wasn't me, it was you with her."

"Me too," Amira whispered before breaking down in a sob.

For some reason, Aemond's feet carried him towards the corner and lowered himself to where the maid had sank to the floor. When his arm came around her shoulder for comfort, Amira was turning to cling onto his neck and sob.

"I want her back," the woman grieved.

"Me too, Mira," Aemond assured, his own tears starting.

"Come," Aegon directed his mother and remaining Maesters, "let us give them privacy, time to say goodbye."

Aemond wanted to shout his thanks but it felt wrong. Why did he need to thank anyone for leaving him alone to say goodbye to his wife?

Amira sobbed without pause for the better part of an hour, and Aemond just silently held her. Offering nothing but his arms for comfort, the words lacking him. But then, like a switch, Amira was pulling away and apologizing. "For what?" Aemond muttered.

"You just lost your wife and child," she whispered, wiping her face, "and yet sit here, comforting me... No, it should be the other way around."

"In truth, Amira?" She nodded. "I do not think there is any comfort for me. Not anymore," his gaze turns back to the bed, "not without her. I do not know what to think other than this is not real."

"I wish is wasn't," Mira nodded. "But it is our reality."

Amira eventually collects herself and leaves the room, too. Aemond slowly, so very slowly, gets to his feet and nears the drying-bed. He'll once more kneel and take your hand, laying a kiss to the back of it. "C'mon," he'll quietly encourage, "you can't be gone, my love. You've gotta get up, okay? You've gotta get up, sweet girl, I can't do this alone. I need you. Hear me?" He squeezes your hand but there's no response. "This... Cannot be," he'll whisper in defeat, bowing his head at last, and sobs horrible sobs into the bedside.

His brother, who had ushered everyone else away, is the only one left in the hall to hear Aemond sob, beg his wife to come back, swear he loved her; promising to do better - as if she died because he wasn't husband enough. As if he wasn't man enough.

At the funeral, Aemond stands alone. There's something akin to guilt that plunges his stomach to his feet and he'll want to isolate himself. His family doesn't think it's a good idea but there's never a time to approach him; he's always alone, always lost in thought. He's angry and takes it out on anyone who tries to speak to him.

Kasta burns your body, and that of your child. Aemond sets her free after that.

He'll become reclusive to the library, ignoring all other responsibilities. You thought he read everything before the pregnancy? Well, now that his wife is gone, he'll read anything he can about the complications of birth.

Some blame the father's seed. Some blame the mother's womb. Some blame wine or ales ingested during pregnancy. And some cite the Gods for playing their hand.

Either way, Aemond began to slowly understand that these kinds of accidents can happen - and there's never any one person to blame because they are simply that: an accident. He'll read until he's cross-eyed, and Amira often finds him face-down in a book, asleep on the library's table top with a single candle burning.

She becomes his hand-maiden because Amira is the only one Aemond can bare talking to you about. He needs someone to understand how incredible you were and what your absence has done to him, and Amira's always there for him.

She feels the obligation after your passing.

She sees the way in which Aemond is falling apart at the seams.

So, she'll make it her personal mission to make sure he's cared for. She's a little harsher with him then others, but it gets him to eat most days and she's satisfied enough in that.

Yet, Aemond won't talk to anyone else really. Not his mother, not his sister; not Otto, not even Cole. Aegon was overly sympathetic to Aemond's pain and lightened up on the jokes and hardened demeanor he showed his brother. Yet, he did not hesitate to send Aemond into the chaos of war.

However, it proved useful, as Aemond was ruthless in the heat of battle. All his anger is channeled into this war and Vhagar feels it. She's noted the absence of her master's wife, and from the feelings of overwhelming sadness coming from him, she understands something's happened to you. He becomes a shell of himself, but that could be expected, since it was you, his sweet girl, his darling wife, who broke him out of his original shell all those years ago.

Now there's nothing left but Aemond's anger - and his love, which has no wife nor child to go towards. It morphs into self-loathing because despite understanding the complications, Aemond cannot shake the idea of saving you when you needed it most, and it eats away at his soul.

[slavicafire]

Saw your Saturday is for cleaning post. While your saturday was about cleaning up your list of followers, mine was about the more literal cleaning.

I cleaned the dust off my plants, washed the floors, burned some incense, cleaned and rearranged my altar (the ancestors were pissed for letting it get dusty for sure) and dusted the hell out of my shelves of knicknacks.

Among my trinkets I had found a statue of Saint Mary that I had completely forgotten about and it made me think of you and your occasional art posts of the saints. As a small lad of 12 years old, I accidentally decapitated her when I dropped the statue to the floor (as well as broke off her legs). While it was tragic back then it is quite amusing to me now.

That was probably one of the first signs I got that the Christian god did not care about what I did and did not claim me. It is funny that it took me 6 more years to find the old gods yet I was already a heathen at the age of 12, breaking heads of saints.

Now the statue is free of dust and sitting on the top shelf, turned around so that she cannot see the sin I commit inside my room. She belonged to my great grandmother so I feel like if I keep it in my room, the ancestors can still look over me, even if we do not share the same faith anymore. I am sure that my catholic family rolled in their graves when the breaking of the neck was committed and that the pagan ancestors cheered from theirs.

Hope your Saturday was filled with surprises as well and that you soon recieve a much needed sunny autumn day.

Slava!

ah, they should not roll in their graves all that much - after all, what's more catholic than a good old decapitation! always in style.

is she superglued back to her old glory after the adventure you bestowed upon her all those years ago? we've had one christ fly off his cross a couple years back at the house of a relative - for the lack of good glue, he received an additional nail to the ones he already possessed, quite unceremoniously through the abdomen. the implications of this manner of fixing were, unfortunately, entirely lost on my family. and I think it was friday, too!

one thing that has to be said about the pagan slavs of old is that they sure loved a good god statue. along with hitting or drowning or pelting it with turnips should the given god not deliver what was expected of them! so they might have cheered indeed.

[a-world-of-whimsy-5]

A new heir

Prompt no. 50 : Out of love

Pairing: Harwin x Rhaenyra  

Themes: Soft | NSFE

Wordcount: 600+ words

Warning: Kissing

Summary: After Jace is born, Rhaenyra finds that Harwin had come to see him.

Minors DNI

This is also available on AO3

The bells of the Red Keep rang from sunrise till sunset to announce the birth of a little prince, one who was born to the crown princess, no less. Many who served could not help but pass on the news: their future queen had been safely delivered of a son, and his cradle egg had already hatched. It was a sign from the Seven, and a good one at that. The realm had been blessed.

The next day, Viserys was the first to call on his daughter and her son, with a reluctant Alicent following close behind.

“Well done, my girl.” Viserys glanced into the crib and beamed. The line of succession had been secured, and with it, his daughter’s own future. “You have your successor. I will issue a proclamation announcing the same before the day is out.” 

“Thank you, father,” Rhaenyra replied, more than a little weary from her labors. She rested comfortably in her bed and sighed in contentment when her handmaid proceeded to rub her swollen feet. “I am grateful to you for it.”

Alicent was less effusive with her praise. She took stock of the babe’s hair and pursed her lips. It was a rich, lustrous brown, and it did not possess even a single strand of silver. Whoever the child’s father was, he was clearly not of Valyrian blood.

“Congratulations, stepdaughter,” she said, knowing full well that there was little that she could do to change the outcome. Laenor proudly claimed the child as his, and Viserys was determined to name the babe his mother’s heir. “May the Seven bless you with many more sons in the future.”

“My thanks,” the princess returned, and she closed her eyes. She felt the queen gazing intensely at her, but she paid no heed to it. And she knew the cause of it. Her little Jace was a bastard, fathered by a man who was not her husband.

If only she could tell the world that she was left with little choice but to look another to sire her child and provide herself and the crown with an heir that was born out of her body. If only she could tell the world that Laenor could not do his duty, no matter how hard he tried. This was the only way, he had said, for both of their Houses.

I will not humiliate Laenor that way, she thought. No matter what, I will not subject him to the world’s derision. He has done nothing to deserve the scorn and sniggers of others.

Rhaenyra gave herself to sleep after her lord father and stepmother took their leave of her. She only opened her eyes whenever she needed to nurse, or when she needed to eat or wash or relieve herself. Otherwise, she slept, and her handmaids did their best to leave her in peace. Hour bled into hour, and when she opened her eyes again it was late at night, with a distant bell chiming eleven times. That was not what grabbed her attention, however. It was the golden cloak catching the light of a nearby candle that did so.

“Did my husband help you find a way in?” She asked.

Harwin turned to face her and flashed a grin that made her heart flutter for a moment.

“Indeed,” he said, cradling Jacaerys in his arms. “But I cannot stay for too long. I cannot be found here with you; it would endanger you both.”

“I understand.” Rhaenyra smiled indulgently while Harwin came over with their babe. “He has his father’s hair.”

“And his mother’s insolence,” he quipped, and he brushed his thumb over Jacaerys’ cheek. “Already asleep in the presence of the Lord Commander of the City Watch, eh little lad? Such a blatant lack of respect.”

Rhaenyra laughed. “He is his mother’s child after all, Ser. And his father’s.”

“Indeed.” Harwin sat by the edge of the bed and leaned down, his lips warm against Rhaenyra’s brow. She savored it, and the warmth that flooded through her when Harwin drew back, his eyes burning with pride. “I am so proud of you, my love,” he whispered.

Image by Etienne Girardet/Unsplash

[blueonwrestling]

So I re-watched my favourite match this year, FTR vs Jay/Juice 2/3 falls from AEW Collision 15/07/23 and I still cannot get over just how fucking good this match is in terms of EVERYTHING in it.

It makes Jay White seem like an unstoppable killer getting the first fall in, FTR scratching and clawing their way back to the third fall, and the amount of effort they have to go to to get that final fall, it's just magical, Juice Robinson sells his fucking ass off in the match and makes himself just so worthy of literally being on AEW in the first place in just one single match.

When I heard AEW signed Juice originally as I said on here I was so not interested, I was never a big Jay White guy either as I felt his matches insisted upon themselves, but fuck me sideways they've just been fantastic, I wish they actually got the belts and had a run tbh as they could have been the tag team of the year.

And FTR's babyface work here, the just classic old school southern babyface wrasslin' team combined with the modern standard of workrate, it is just a sight to behold, this is a must watch and honestly the closest i have came ever to breaking my own personal limit of 5 stars, it legitmately gets a 5+ star from me, one of the only matches I can think of that gets that.

And also aswell, Ian and Nigel on commentary add that next level of just fucking hype, these are two lads that are zoned in, engaged in to the next fucking level, Ian Riccaboni and Nigel McGuinness are my commentary duo of the year purely just from this match alone,

[nokillbananashelter]

Trying to write my thoughts as blurbs because I have many (also spoilers)

TOTK doesn’t just have 5 temples designed like divine beasts and traditional dungeons, it has at least 7 that i’ve encountered, actually.

TOTK pulls the wool over people’s eyes on dungeon content in general. Theres not just “more than 5 dungeons”, theres more than one genre of dungeon in this game. Glyphs, Shrines, Temples, Castles, Mazes, Caves, Regions- its dungeon all the way down dudes. This is the most dungeon Zelda game has been since the original two games. It just doesn’t call everything a dungeon.

Cheesing these areas should feel exactly how it makes you feel about it. You asked the game if you could skip, then it gave you permission to skip it. Getting mad about this is understandable but also….There’s plenty of sign posts telling you how to have the most full, enriching experience in an area. it just wants you to follow the signs and paths and tunnels and there’s a LOT of different ways to traverse these content hallways. If you don’t follow them, you won’t have that experience. Simple as that. If that makes you feel good, good. If it makes you feel mad, i get it. But realize that you said “can i skip it” and then saw this game is exactly as good at saying “yes” about that as it is about everything else!! if skipping things is rewarding to you, this is going to be a good experience. If skipping things isn’t rewarding for you, it’s going to be a bad experience.

Totk and botw are some of the best GMs in videogames and I don’t think enough people are thinking about it in those terms. These games want to meet you where you are at while meeting it where it is at. I cannot express the how incredible it is to have the amount of ways to play that these games offer up. The challenges it makes you do for yourself NATURALLY is INCREDIBLE. This game is constantly getting me to challenge myself, and when I get tired of that, is more than happy to give me a power fantasy in which I am an unstoppable spank bastard.

The common thought that there is a proper “play order” for the story is ABSOLUTELY BULLSHIT. This game does not spoil itself. All it does is recontextualize your perception of what’s happening and reiterate the same beats again and again. It’s also one of the most laughably, hammy and predictable stories I’ve ever engaged in ever. Let’s get serious here- if you didn’t catch the twists from almost at the jump, I’m sorry, but you have zero media literacy!!! The foreshadowing in this is comically overcasting every single line in every single conversation. If anything, this game wants you to come to a conclusion about it’s twist extremely early, and to deny it’s inevitability. It tells you everything in it’s opening five minutes. From there, You just getting details with new information being largely context. But also…It wants you to believe that it’s not the whole story. And guess what?? it’s not!! You don’t get the whole story until you experience the whole game, no matter the order you play it!

I have more specific thoughts and why link keeps his lips locked here if you get stuff early, but in general, I think the lad finds telling people Zelda is a Dragon and will never return is not an option in his mind. so like the courageous hopepunk dummy he is, rejects that as unwinnable and forever. thematically, this mirrors Rauru’s own morality of doing the right thing even in the face of infinite defeat. When it comes to Zelda, bucking against inevitability of fate is par for the course with our characters. These games are always about this. ALWAYS!!!

This game is actually uglier than breath of the wild. It’s got more image clarity, and more stuff happening, has a really cool art direction and beautiful colors, and its own unique flavors, but BOTW had less moving parts and was able to manage them much easier and cohesively. Totk is ugly on purpose and confidently so because the ugliness serves incredible purposes.