#is that the tag for this sort of thing?? there's nothing graphic under the cut but i'll tag it just in case | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

tinytalkingtina · 1 month

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Oath of Devotion

Infernal Light (Steddie Dnd AU)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 (can be read out of order, trying non-linear story-telling)

1546 words | rating T | Ao3 Link

Tags: Fantasy DnD AU, Tiefling Steve Harrington, Half-elf Eddie Munson, Steve has bad parents, Eddie has a bad father (child abandonment), past Steve/Nancy, implied self-harm (not described graphically and took place in the past), sex/loss of virginity (discussed as events that occurred in the past but nothing happens/is described in this chapter)

Added some author's notes under the cut as well because I love talking about this AU!

Steve lay limply on top of his lover, sated. Eddie stretched out beneath him on their bedrolls, idly stroking a hand through his hair and up over his horns. This deep in the woods, only birdsong and crickets echoed through the trees. It was just the two of them completely alone in their tent, in this little bubble. Safe. For the first time in his life, he didn’t choke down a purr from rumbling out of his chest.

“You like that darling?”

“Mhm, it feels nice.” He nuzzled his face further into Eddie’s chest. “Dangerously easy to get used to this though. Those I’ve paid to be with in the past wouldn’t stick around after the deed was done.”

Eddie’s hand stilled. “Paid? But why did you have to…how did you…” Steve opened one eye.

“Well I couldn’t have bedded noble folk, that would have been too risky. But I was hardly pure the first time we—I thought that was obvious?”

“That’s not what I meant, how did you get away without someone realizing? Kind of hard to hide this when you’re close,” Eddie joked, with a gentle tug to his tail.

“Oh.” Steve smirked. “That was the easy part, I put on a different disguise.” He sat up and drew the familiar incantation into the air, fizzy sparks trailing out of his fingertips as he did so. They swirled around for a moment before settling over his body, changing his bright red skin to a pale purple, and his horns to stag-like antlers. From one blink to another, Sir Stephen Harrington, heir to the Barony of Loch Nora, replaced himself with the face of a stranger.

Steve wiggled his fingers. “So long as I went to a brothel in towns with a port, I could have come from anywhere, so I pretended to be a sailor dropping by for some companionship.” He winced a bit, thinking of the honestly awful lies about sailing he’d come up with to uncaring ears. “Safe enough wearing someone else’s face if the prostitute already expects to touch a tiefling.”

“And for my first time,” Steve's face flushed as he dropped the spell. “My parents arranged to have her brought into my chambers blindfolded, and instructed me not to speak during. As far as she was concerned, I was some sort of important prisoner being given a pity fuck. Never got to learn her name.”

She had been so gentle with him when she felt him tremble. Hadn’t even flinched when she found horns in his hair. He hoped she was well.

“That’s a little fucked up, sweetheart.” Steve was startled out of his thoughts. With a snort, he reached to tug Eddie closer.

“I don’t think that even scratches the surface of the ‘fucked up’ things my family has done. But I made sure to ask the servants what happened after she left. She was just paid and sent back to the village.” Steve gently tucked a stray curl behind Eddie’s ear, before stroking his claw tip carefully along the outer shell. He paused as he got to a jagged divot near where his ear came to a tapered point.

“Hey, here’s a scar you haven’t told me the story for. What was it this time, a wild unicorn taking a valiant swing at you and only just missing your pretty face?”

Eddie grabbed at his hand, pulling it away. “Nothing to tell about that one. It’s not very interesting.”

“Oh come on, you can’t just leave it at that, you silver-tongued minx.” Steve teased.

“I…really, you don’t want to hear it.”

“Uh huh, I see. Too embarrassed to admit you got caught cheating at cards or something?”

“Because I did it to myself, okay?”

The words seemed to explode out of Eddie’s mouth. Steve froze in place, all thoughts of teasing gone.

“Eddie, why?” He reached out a comforting hand but Eddie shrank back. His anger evaporated as quickly as it had come on, leaving a well worn look of grief in its place. He slumped over in a corner of the tent.

“It was stupid and I know it was stupid, but I couldn’t take looking like him for another second back then. I’m not sure why out of the whole kingdom, he picked our village, and why out of all the lovely faces he could have shared a bed with, he singled out my mother. But I guess she held his attention long enough for them to have me.”

Oh. Steve remained silent. Eddie had barely brought up the subject of his parents before, dancing around the topic.

“I was young still when she got sick. He stuck around for a little bit after she passed. But I didn’t progress fast enough or something. Too much human in me to learn what he wanted me to learn. So, he just. Left.” His lip curled in disgust as he sneered. “Haven’t heard from him since. I’m sure by now he’s picked up on something else shiny and new.”

Steve chanced moving closer. Eddie let him, shifting to clutch at one leg.

“I didn’t…I was the only person with any non-human or dwarvish blood for miles around. And so everyone just looked and saw my ears or my face and assumed.” He said brokenly, facing the floor. As if on instinct, he grabbed at his hair to hide in.

“I was only good at the lute because my elven grace gave me an advantage. Or they’d whisper, ‘Careful around that Munson boy, don’t get too close. Or else he’ll bewitch you, just like his no-good father did to his mother.’”

Eddie reached up to grab at Steve’s hand. Steve let him, stroking his thumb soothingly over his knuckles as he continued: “They pretended like they knew everything about me. And I. I don’t know anything about that part of myself. Only know a couple words of Elvish. He didn’t stick around long enough to teach me anything. And the few Elves I’ve met while traveling haven’t given me the time of day. They don’t want to deal with someone so. So human. Can’t win with either culture.”

Steve had envied how Eddie was able to wear his emotions so freely most of the time, never shying away from what he was feeling. But curled up like this, he looked so small, so fragile. He wanted desperately to help take on some of that burden.

“As a noble heir, I was tutored in a lot of subjects,” he said slowly, as the plan stitched itself together in his mind. “For diplomacy, I had to learn a few languages. The Elvish I was taught was mostly the sun elf dialect but it could be a start, if you want to learn the basics.”

Eddie startled, his big expressive eyes opened wide. “Steve…you—“

“I mean, if you want to stick around now that we’ve lifted your curse.” Steve rambled on, flushing. “I know the Order wants me to undertake another mission immediately, but Dustin hasn’t been able to see his mother for quite some time and I know he’s missing her. If we ride to Loch Nora, I’m sure it wouldn’t be too hard to find a teacher who is more familiar with the wood elf dialect. Now that I’m grown, my parents usually try and claim they’re busy with official duties to avoid me, so you shouldn’t have to worry about interacting with them.”

He was met with total silence. The lack of any response from Eddie unnerved him.

“You. You would do that, for me?” The question slipped out so quietly Steve nearly missed it.

“Of course, why wouldn’t I?”

“Because, you’re going to be a baron one day, and the Order couldn’t stop raving about all the great deeds you’re destined to do in the future. And I’m…just a bard from nowhere. I’m supposed to sing about folks like you. Or abscond with my lover to live a simple life. Not be a noble’s, be your, your—“

Steve cupped Eddie’s face between his hands. “Don’t sell yourself so short. Do you know how many people in my life have been content being kept at arm’s length? They just wanted to be in the aura of the baron’s heir. And if that didn’t satisfy then, well. You saw what happened with Nanc—with Lady Wheeler.”

“That was not really all on you Steve, she never asked for you to open up.” Eddie said flatly.

“No, she didn’t. But you, you stubbornly shoved past all of my walls so easily. You found out about this,” he gestured to his face. “And stayed in spite of it. So no, you’re not a nobody, Edward the formerly Banished. Never a nobody, not to me. Please, come back with me.”

Eddie stared into his eyes for a few moments, searching for something. Finally, he broke to place a soft kiss on his forehead and bury his face into Steve’s neck. “Okay. When do we leave?”

Steve couldn’t keep the grin off his face. “Well that depends on how early you’re able to get up. How does an hour before dawn sound?”

The inelegant squawk Eddie made in response was the most wonderful sound Steve had ever heard.

Author's Notes

Still not sure how I want Robin to fit into all of this, but gunslinger Lady Nancy Wheeler, badass, will now be coming along for the Final ShowdownTM when that piece of the story gets written!

I love that purring tieflings is a tag on Ao3, since I was debating whether to keep that aspect of Steve's biology in or not.

The spell Steve casts is Disguise Self. At least in 5th edition, tieflings with heritage from Glasya or Dispater can cast this once per long rest. For the sake of the story, I'm going to pretend he can cast this several times a day, and that it lasts longer than 1 hour at a time.

Didn't really find a good place to mention him without breaking the flow, but after his mother died and his father left, Eddie was in fact raised by his Uncle Wayne! Wayne works in the mine like most of the other villagers, but he always encouraged Eddie's musical and magical talents.

While cities in this world are melting pots for various cultures and species, the small mining village Eddie grew up in was almost entirely human and dwarven. After his birth father left, he didn't encounter another elf until he left to go travel as a young adult. Loch Nora has a bigger gnomish population, as it borders the Gnomish kingdom.

Tagging a few folks who have shown interest (but please let me know if you don't want the tag/want to be added)

@augustjustice @devondespresso @kaspurrcat

Thank you to @/steddiecameraroll for the divider!

#steddie #steddie dnd au #tinawrites #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #love writing this as much as eddie loves playing with steve's horns

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kiefbowl · 2 years

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I know this isn't a "real problem" according to radblr but I feel so insane when I read a lot of feminist literature about sex. It's always about how penetration is evil and centers male sexuality and I get that, I truly agree that men feel entitled to penetrate women. But there's always that implicit message that you cannot enjoy penetration, or that women only really enjoy clitoral stimultation. I had no idea my case was so rare before feminism: I have never orgasmed from clitoral stimulation by another person, unless you count rubbing my vuvlva over someone else's genitals. With another person I have only ever orgasmed from penetration by a penis, or fingers one time. When I have penetrative sex I pretty much orgasm every time, sometimes multiple times. On my own I can orgasm very easily from clitoral stimulation but never with someone else, and it's not like the guy I'm with doesn't try, he knows where the clitoris is, he actively and enthusiastically goes down on me. And I know this sounds like a non-issue, a sort of "good for you, nobody else is like that" kind of thing. But I find it difficult to connect with a lot of sentiments about sex on here. A lot of it makes me feel like I can't talk about the way I experience sex and desire, because I sound like I'm sucking up to the patriarchy or to men. Centering male sexuality, even if I'm really not. Sorry to rant

There's a couple things I want to address here, and you might not like them all, but please keep in mind I'm writing this in good faith and not to lecture. I'll just take it one bit at a time:

"I know this isn't a "real problem" according to radblr but I feel so insane when I read a lot of feminist literature about sex."

First of all, radblr is a tenuous concept at best. It's not that it isn't real, or that it isn't important, or we should flippantly dismiss what happens on radblr, but you have to understand that what you specifically are experiencing as "radblr" is extremely unique to you. You have the only dashboard you experience. You get to follow who you want, you get to block who you want, there are settings you can toggle, you can block tags, and most importantly, you get to publish whatever content you want. So whatever it is you’re experiencing as “radblr” is not going to be everyone’s experience. So when you say “I know this isn’t a ‘real problem’ according to radblr”, it comes off as myopic and self-indulgent. You don’t know what everyone’s “problems” are, and frankly a lot of women come on tumblr to specifically not have “problems.” They’re here to have a good time, which leads to my second of all:

You caring about something or feeling uncomfortable about something and finding that most others don’t care or are dismissive or are even critical or even mean doesn’t really say anything about feminism or radblr, but says more about what you’re spending your time on tumblr doing. You’re allowed to quit tumblr. You’re allowed to have 20 sock puppet accounts. Stop expecting other women on here to be endless supplies of validation. In fact, expect them to be not even a fraction of their “true, irl” self here. Every single person on tumblr has a real life that is is more interesting than anything happening on tumblr and just literally has nothing to do with you. If you really can’t handle how a woman is using tumblr to blog about her life, just block her. She won’t even notice.

I guess the rest of my response is going to address the “insane” part...

(the rest under a cut for length and descriptions of het sex, not too graphic):

“It's always about how penetration is evil...”

I think if you’re reading feminist literature about PIV and your take-away is that it’s calling it “evil”, you don’t really give much respect to the validity of feminist literature as social, or political, or even philosophical theory. You see women as play-acting male intellectualism. Evil is a moral concept, and more often than not a religious concept. Maybe you’re throwing this word around unthinkingly, you mean it in some colloquial way and you didn’t really intend it’s full (and varied) meaning, but if you want to engage with female literature as intellectually relevant, and you want to be critical of it, you need to choose your words carefully. Does feminist literature critical of PIV claim penetration is evil, or are you just uncomfortable reading critical theory about PIV sex?

Evil in general is a pretty broad concept, so what is intended to respond to PIV critical theory with such a broad response? It means you don’t really want to engage, because you haven’t brought much to the table. You’ve brought your feelings, which aren’t unimportant, but have you really explored beyond that? What is your theory, your hypothesis, your maxims? What’s your thesis? Are you doing the heavy lifting, or do you just want to “not feel insane.” That’s fair to an extent, but if that’s the case, stop reading things that make you “feel insane” and go about your business. Engage or don’t engage, commit or don’t commit.

“...and centers male sexuality and I get that, I truly agree that men feel entitled to penetrate women. But there's always that implicit message that you cannot enjoy penetration, or that women only really enjoy clitoral stimultation.”

Many different women are coming to the table to discuss feminism, and even the most intelligent and well resourced women has the limitation we all have, which is at the end of the day we can really only speak to our own experiences. No woman can tell you what it is you like sexually, you are the only person who is experiencing your sexual history. If a woman says “women can’t enjoy penetration”, and you think she’s wrong, that’s your answer. What do you want from her? She will never ever validate your sexual experience and frankly she doesn’t have to. Validate your own sexuality.

Personally, I understand that there’s two nuances here: (1) the human body is both measurable and yet varied and diverse, and (2) sexual satisfaction can’t be divorced from socialization and mentality, which PIV critical theory attempts to explore. I’m already getting into more intense and complicated discourse than the average tumblr post, because if I really wanted to explain my feelings on both those points and then connect it to what I’ve already discussed above, we’re talking pages. Pages and pages, words and words, work I don’t want to do. I’m not getting paid, neither is your random tumblrina.

Which leads me to another point...are you reading feminist literature, or are you just kinda sorta hanging out on tumblr? No shade, I think just hanging out on tumblr is fine, and I think there are a ton of intelligent and smart women hanging out here too making some great content. The last time I read a feminist essay I honestly can’t tell you. I haven’t been doing my own heavy-lifting in awhile, I haven’t been doing my due diligence. I also trust, as a grown woman, I’ve done enough of my own studying to rest on my laurels a bit. I’m not convince of that for everyone I see on tumblr, but I’m also not their mom and I’m not going to lecture women to read or what to read. I encourage it, though! But at the end of the day, if the extent of your feminism is hanging out on tumblr reading what cool women are saying on their personal blogs when the mood strikes them, I’m not saying that’s bad or not enough, but you have to temper your responses to what you read accordingly. I think it’s awesome the internet allows women to congregate, and the anonymity of it allows women to speak more freely than they probably do in real life. It totally makes sense that internet communities are a big entry point to explore feminism for lots of young women, especially if they’re missing that community in real life. Love love love it.

But it does blur the lines of what is (in my estimation) the three “pillars” of any social movement’s text: theory, action, and personal account. To expand on that...

“I had no idea my case was so rare before feminism: I have never orgasmed from clitoral stimulation by another person,”

Were you actually “called to action” to only enjoy clitoral stimulation, or is it more likely many women have personal accounts of not enjoying penetration, enjoying clitoral stimulation, and having their needs disregarded by male partners? If we have so many personal accounts, what can we theorize? What you personally act on with that information is not that important in the grand scheme of feminism because you’re just one individual. The call to action is better suited to the group: how can we make women more comfortable standing up for their boundaries and their pleasure? How can we protect women from sexual violence? How can we educate them? When it comes to you, no one can stop you from making the choices you want to make, and that’ll be true for everyone. But the more we talk about these things, the more we can help women in general.

“... unless you count rubbing my vuvlva over someone else's genitals.”

Why wouldn’t we? No honestly, this strikes me. I think this speaks to the issue a lot of women have where they’re primed to view their own sexuality in 3rd person, downplay what they experience as “real” or “correct”, and view sex from a male POV.

YOU orgasmed, that’s reality. Every orgasm you have counts. Every orgasm you have is real. Who cares how rare it is? Who cares if it fits the idea, the “social script” about sex?

Many, many, many people discuss het sex as if the only way to have genital sex is penetration, even so much so that when discussing other sex besides penetration, people point to oral and manual, and seem to be unable to envision genital sex without penetration. But genital sex without penetration is sex. You had sex and you orgasmed without penetration at least once from what I’m reading.

So yes, I count it. I count you. Now imagine a woman in your experience deciding for herself that’s how she wants to pursue orgasm, and standing her ground that she’ll never have PIV sex again. I see that as brave, and wonderful. It doesn’t matter what I do in my sex life, which includes PIV. I’m not a factor in her sex life. But I applaud her, I support her. You could do the same while changing nothing else in your life, so why wouldn’t you?

“With another person I have only ever orgasmed from penetration by a penis, or fingers one time. When I have penetrative sex I pretty much orgasm every time, sometimes multiple times.”

I’m very glad you’re having orgasms. Lots of women don’t, so it’s exciting to hear that’s a big part of your sex life.

“On my own I can orgasm very easily from clitoral stimulation but never with someone else, and it's not like the guy I'm with doesn't try, he knows where the clitoris is, he actively and enthusiastically goes down on me.”

Another way to have sex is mutual masturbation, which you’re claiming doesn’t lead you to orgasm, which I’ll admit sounds strange to me. Why would stimulating your clit work with masturbation but not with a male partner? Are you so positive social conditioning isn’t playing a role here? In any case...

Another way to have sex, though some might disagree with me (I don’t care), is to masturbate together. As in separately. If you were to masturbate with him there doing idk whatever he’s doing (maybe he’s not even touching himself maybe he’s rubbing your feet or brushing your hair who knows), I call that sex and you have again successfully orgasm without penetration and by clitoral stimulation. So again, are you that different from other women?

Maybe, hopefully, this might give you some pause just to think about it. You don’t have to do anything different, but maybe you should think about it. What is so different about you? You don’t sound different or rare to me. You sound typical. Is there nothing to glean from PIV critical theory if you push past feeling uncomfortable, if you don’t treat it as a call to action, if you just sit with it an think about it? Maybe there is something scary on the otherside, but maybe with the new scary thought comes something exhilarating. Maybe there’s even more pleasure than you could even imagine. You will have to discover that for yourself.

“And I know this sounds like a non-issue,”

To circle this back to the first point, don’t speak for me :) Kindly meant, I will tell you what sounds like a non-issue to me.

“...a sort of "good for you, nobody else is like that" kind of thing. But I find it difficult to connect with a lot of sentiments about sex on here. A lot of it makes me feel like I can't talk about the way I experience sex and desire,”

Get over those feelings. You have a personal narrative, you can bring to the table your personal account. One of those pillars I mentioned above. But make sure you’re aware...your personal narrative is not enough to “call to action”, and is not a significant sample size to theorize.

Not to mention, this is tumblr. Like it’s a personal blog. Say whatever the fuck you want. If you’re not using tumblr for fun, I can’t imagine how you’re using tumblr. Like if it isn’t fun, go do something fun instead it’s better for you.

“because I sound like I'm sucking up to the patriarchy or to men. Centering male sexuality, even if I'm really not.”

Part of putting your feelings out in the world is that they might be met with criticisms. But it sounds like you want to do it, so get tough. Harden that skin. Get in there get messy, make mistakes. People are going to come at you with legitimate counters, and that should be so exciting and titillating. Don’t you want to learn? Don’t you want to grow? I’m getting so pumped thinking about it, women’s minds coming together to make an unique and interesting place on the internet, be still my heart.

And sometimes people say stuff that’s bullshit. Okay, so trust your own mind and judgement? Respond back. Tell them they’re wrong, present your argument, present your logic.

You have to make the value here, and if you’re not getting any value, again...maybe tumblr isn’t for you.

“Sorry to rant.”

I manifest for all women everywhere to stop apologizing to me for saying things from the heart. I could say sorry for writing 1000 words (I didn’t count) but I’m not going to fucking do that because I get to write whatever I want when I want. I don’t have to be sorry for existing and neither do you.

Cheers! :)

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secretswiftymarvelfan · 2 years

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Memory Served - Ransom Drysdale x Reader (Part 3)

Series summary: Following a terrible accident, every memory you ever made was gone leaving you to try to piece together what happened.

Word Count: 4.5k

Warnings: to avoid spoilers I won't be tagging warnings, but if you are concerned about being triggered by anything PLEASE reach out to me so I can put your mind at ease! This is an 18+ ONLY series!

A/N: this is a mystery series, so please when you comment or reblog please put spoilers under the cut using the read more function! This also means I won't be responding to comments straight away!

Masterlist / Series Masterlist

Dividers by @firefly-graphics

You nibbled your lip in thought, pen tapping against your chin as you stared down at your notes. At first glance it didn’t make much sense, the page was filled with numbers and notes. Arrows connecting all the things you felt went together, stars next to things you felt were important.

“What are you doing?” Ransom’s sharp voice startled you since you thought you were alone.

You instinctively held your notebook to your chest shielding it from prying eyes. You looked over your shoulder to see Ransom standing just behind you, his face unreadable as he looked down at you from your spot on the couch.

“Oh it’s nothing,” you say waving it off.

Ransom arches a brow, putting his hand on his hips “didn’t look like nothing” he comments as he walks around to stand in front of you.

You give him a small smile shaking your head “it’s stupid” you mutter.

“I doubt that, c’mon kitten we don’t have secrets do we?” Ransom says as he sits down on the couch, arm outstretched across the back, fingers brushing against your shoulder.

You sigh biting your lip slightly as you look down at your notes “well… well you know i’ve been doing a lot of reading” you start holding up the book that was also in your lap.

Ransom hums nodding his head in response his eyes flickering between your face and your notebook.

“Well, I just had so many thoughts and ideas about these stories so I started jotting down notes and my thoughts about them, my favourite quotes, anything I liked about them” you admit with a bashful smile.

You see Ransom’s shoulders relax and a smile forming on his lips “that’s good, I’m glad you’re finding something to keep you occupied”

“Well actually…” you start biting your lips nervously “I was thinking this sort of thing, working in literature might be something I can do, maybe with Harlan?” You suggest.

Ransom’s smile falls once more, turning into a small frown “I’m not sure that would be a good idea” he states.

Your face falls, you didn’t expect Ransom to shut down the idea so quickly “why not?”

“Well, Walt for starters” Ransom sighs “he would just make it hell for you, it won’t matter what Harlan thinks or does” he states shaking his head.

“Oh, well I’m sure I could handle him,” you say shifting in your seat.

“And look you don’t need to work, I have enough money to look after us,” Ransom says putting his hand on your knee.

“I know but I want to work, have something to do except sit around all day” you sigh gesturing around.

“I know, but it's only been a couple of months since the accident, I don’t want you to push yourself” Ransom states “I’m not saying you can’t get a job ever, I just think you should just wait for now”

You let out a long sigh looking down as you mulled his words over. You could see his point and you understood his hesitation.

“But if you’re enjoying this” Ransom says pointing to your notebook “keep going, use it to keep yourself busy”

“Yeah, I guess so” you sigh nodding your head.

Silence falls in the room, you glance over to see Ransom studying your face. A strange look on his face, you were about to question it when he spoke.

“I do have another idea of what you could do to keep yourself occupied,” He says.

You sit up instantly intrigued “you do? What is it?”

Ransom smiles reaching out to take your left hand, his thumb running over your engagement ring “we get married” he says simply.

You nearly choke on air in shock, blinking a couple of times trying to work out if you were dreaming or not because there was no way Ransom had seriously suggested that.

“What?” You squeaked.

“Why don’t we start planning our wedding” Ransom repeats making your eyes widen because he was being serious.

“R-really? A-are you sure?” You ask stuttering slightly.

“Yeah I mean I know we said we’d go slow considering everything, but I’ve been giving it a lot of thought and we basically live like a married couple now, the only difference would be a signed piece of paper,” Ransom says shrugging his shoulders casually.

“Yeah-yeah I guess so” you mutter scratching your forehead as you tried to process what he was saying.

“I mean this ring,” Ransom says his thumb brushing over your ring “it’s a promise we’ve already made to love each other for the rest of our lives, the wedding would just make it even more official”

You nod gulping nervously as you looked down at your ring, the piece of jewellery feeling incredibly heavy all of a sudden. You glance back up at Ransom and see the hopeful and loving expression he wore. You instantly felt bad for your hesitancy, because you could see how desperately Ransom wanted this.

“Okay…” you finally agree “okay so um when do you want to set the date for? That’s a good place to start right?” You mutter your lips pursed in thought.

“Well” Ransom starts his hand moving to your arm, his fingers tracing invisible lines up and down your skin “I don’t want to wait too long so why don’t we set the date for a couple of months' time?”

You feel the air being sucked out of your lungs again in shook “a couple of months? Isn’t that too soon?” You ask “I mean how could we possibly plan everything in such a short amount of time?” You add quickly.

“Don’t you worry about that, It’s only going to be a small thing anyway, so you tell me what you want and I’ll get it all sorted” Ransom smiles “the Drysdale Thrombey names carry a lot of weight in this state, may as well use it to our advantage” he adds with a smirk.

“Okay yeah sure I’ll um get looking and deciding, don’t you want any input on it?” You ask frowning slightly.

“No I trust you, this is your day, the only thing I ask is that my family is not invited” Ransom smirks making you laugh.

“Deal, only Harlan and Marta are allowed” you smile nodding your head.

“Perfect, I have a couple of things to get on with,” Ransom says pushing himself up from the couch “so I’ll leave you to your reading” he smiles leaning down and kissing you deeply.

“Okay, I’ll let you know when dinner is ready” you smile up at him.

“Perfect,” he says kissing you once more before heading towards the stairs.

Once he was gone you let out a long and shaky sigh. Dread settled in your stomach and you felt so nervous it made you feel physically sick. Closing your eyes you took a few deep breaths trying to centre yourself. You reminded yourself that you and Ransom were in love and had been for a while, you recalled all the amazing things he’d done for you since the accident, like how he stood up for you against his family.

He was right, this was the right thing to do. Nothing really would change in your day-to-day life. This feeling you had was just because you were still processing it, you would feel more excited soon enough. It was just sudden and soon this feeling of something being wrong would go.

“Right well I guess I better planning” you mutter to yourself.

The next couple of weeks had been very busy for you. You were amazed at how quickly and easily this wedding was to plan. You’d already found a minister, decided on flowers, what food you’d eat and a very small guest list. You’d even booked an appointment to find your dress, and you didn't even have to leave the house. Every single vendor came to you or Ransom went to deal with securing them.

“I think we might have hit a snag with the venue” you sigh one evening as you sat down to eat dinner.

Ransom frowns glancing up at you “what do you mean?” he asks reaching out for his glass of scotch.

“Well, they’re all fully booked and have been for months some for years” you explain as you gather some pasta onto your fork.

“I’m sure they could find a day for us, it’s not every day one of the Thrombey family gets married” Ransom frowns shaking his head.

“They can’t, even with your name they couldn't budge, they did put us at the top of the cancellation list though but still,” you tell him as you finish your mouthful.

Ransom huffs in annoyance, shaking his head as he whispered a curse. You watched as his fist clenched on the table, his jaw ticking as he looked to the side. You could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“What if we had it at Harlan’s house?” he suggests looking back over at you.

“Do you think he’d be okay with that?” you ask taking a sip of water.

Ransom’s lips twitch upwards “of course he’ll be okay with it, he’d love it” he reassures you.

“And what about your family, what if they get word of it and try to crash the wedding,” you ask biting your lips nervously.

“I’d like to see them try” Ransoms smirks “don’t worry about it kitten I’ll get it all sorted, just let me know what you want and I’ll organise it”

You feel a small smile creeping onto your lips “thank you ransom” you say earning a smile from his in return.

Once dinner was eaten and the plates cleared, you and Ransom settled down on the couch. He wrapped his arm around your shoulder, pulling you into his side, your head resting on his chest as he started asking you about all the other decisions you’d made for the wedding.

“What about your dress? Care to tell me about that?” Ransom smirks, his long fingers tickling your side.

“No, you know it's bad luck to see the dress before the day” you laugh looking up at him.

“I can’t even get a little peak,” Ransom asks arching a brow.

“Nope, plus I haven’t even picked a dress yet, I have an appointment at the end of the week,” you tell him.

“Oh, so will I be getting kicked out of the house that day?” Ransom asks smirking down at you.

“Yep, you’ll have to go hang out with Walt” you smirk.

“That’s just cold” Ransom mutters shaking his head before smirking as he squeezed your side and makes you squeal with laughter.

“I’m sorry I meant Joni” you laugh.

Ransom laughed shaking his head “I actually don’t know if that's better or worse”

“Depends on if she tries to talk to you about spiritual shit” you chuckle.

“True, now c’mon shall we finish that series we started,” Ransom asks as he grabs the remote.

“Sure I wanna see whether they found that witness” you agree making yourself comfortable as Ransom sticks on the courtroom drama you had been watching the past couple of days.

You were halfway through the second episode of the night when your exhaustion from all the planning caught up to you. A mixture of that and the warmth Ransom was giving out soon lulled you to sleep.

To begin with, you just had normal dreams, nothing seemed out of place. But then you started seeing flashes of memories. Like always they didn't make much sense, they were like quick snapshots of your life before the accident. You had no context for any of them meaning it often left you trying to piece together the pieces of your life.

You saw flashes of your childhood, times of you playing with toys and out in the backyard. You also saw memories from what you assumed was your time at university, sitting in class, and the parties you went to. You saw times you spent in an office, presumably the marketing job that you left.

Finally, your brain seemed to fixate on one memory.

You were walking down the streets of Boston, it was a cold night and you wrapped your leather jacket around you tighter as you walked. Glancing to your left you saw a couple of other women walking with you, both of them dressed up for a night out like you were. You could hear them laughing and talking loudly, one of them with long blonde hair linking her arm with yours and smiling over at you.

You turned the corner and spotted a bar a few feet away, one that you definitely recognised. Walking inside the place was packed and there was a live band playing at the far end. Glancing around other people’s heads you could only just about see the lead singer. He had the typical boyish charm that any musician had, he was hot, with his built body and short light brown hair, and he knew it as he winked at the girls in the front.

You felt your friend nudge you in the side, a look on her face when she caught you checking out the lead singer. She shouted something to you but you couldn’t make it out, you shouted something back shrugging your shoulders casually. Your friend rolled her eyes at you before dragging you over to the bar.

The night rolled on and you drank far too many drinks, you also found yourself looking over at the lead singer multiple times. You felt your cheeks grow warm whenever he caught your gaze, and sent a wink your way, much to the annoyance of your friends.

You then noticed the crowd begin to part as someone walks toward you. You felt yourself smile as Ransom comes into view, his appearance was different to normal though. His hair was shorter and fluffier, there was no hair gel in sight, and his beard was back and much thicker than ever. He smiled at you walking up to you, placing his hand on the small of your back as he leaned down to kiss you.

He said something to you and once again you couldn't hear what he said. You nodded in response reaching up to kiss him once more, sliding your hand into his and letting him lead you out of the bar. Once out into the cool air he wraps his arm around you tightly, pulling you into his side to keep you warm. Once you reached his black Audi he opened the passenger door for you pressing yet another kiss to your lips before you climbed into the car.

You woke with a start blinking a couple of times as you got your bearings, realising you were still curled up on the couch with Ransom. You glance up to see Ransom looking down at you with an amused smirk.

“Somebody seems tired” he comments smiling down at you.

“Yeah- yeah I guess so” you mutter rubbing your forehead as you settled back down.

You tried to focus on the TV program, see if you could work out what you’d missed, but you couldn't your mind was solely on your dream. You were trying to place it on the timeline you had been trying and failing to build with the rest of your memories. You had to guess that it happened after your trip to Florida, Ransom’s hair was a similar length, and you guess he just decided to grow the beard out some more.

Looking back up at Ransom you pursed your lips as you took in his profile. You had to admit you liked the way he looked with a beard. You definitely preferred it over his clean-shaven look.

“Why did you shave your beard?” you ask suddenly.

You felt Ransom freeze for a second before shifting in his seat “what do you mean?” he asks clearing his throat.

“I just remember you having a beard, and I was wondering why you decided to get rid of it,” you ask sitting up slightly.

Ransom shrugs his shoulders clearing his throat a couple of times before answering “I just preferred it without” he offers “you did too, you said it was too scratchy”

“Oh” you mutter frowning slightly because right now you definitely preferred the look of it “yeah I guess that makes sense”

“Yeah, hey um it’s late and we’re tired why don’t we head to bed,” Ransom says quickly standing up from the couch and turning off the TV before you got a chance to say otherwise.

“Oh um yeah sure” you stutter standing up from the couch.

You barely had a chance to stand before Ransom took your hand and practically dragged you up the stairs. You frown in confusion at his strange behaviour, unsure what the cause was. You were going to question it when you reached the bedroom but you didn't get a chance.

Ransom suddenly turned around to face you, his large hands moving to cup your cheeks “I love you so much” he mutters before kissing you deeply.

Any thoughts you had disappeared as he kissed you passionately, your brain completely shutting down as he held you. No protest in sight as he stripped the both of you of your clothes and had his wicked way with you.

You were standing in the guest room that used to be your bedroom when you first returned after your accident. Standing on a small circular platform you looked at the mirror in front of you examining the current wedding dress you wore.

It was a gorgeous dress you couldn't deny it, and you looked amazing in it, but it just didn't feel perfect. But it was the last dress on the rack, and none of the ones before worked either. You pursed your lip in thought as you tried to work out what you didn’t like about it, but you couldn’t pinpoint a single reason.

“What do you think?” the lady asks as she takes a step back, biting her lip nervously.

“I- uh- I think it's lovely,” you say turning slightly to look at the sides and back.

“It sounds like there’s a but there” the lady sighs looking up at you.

You try not to wince, you knew how far out of her way she had gone to be here to help you find a dress today. Bringing in the platform and large mirror, as well as many different dresses that were all your specific size.

“I’m not sure, I don’t know what it is though… I just… it feels weird wearing a wedding dress” you admit looking down at the gown.

“Yes, putting a dress on does make it feel much more real to a lot of people, for some it makes them even more excited, for others, it makes them nervous… or even scared” the lady explains as she adjusts the train of the dress.

“Yeah… “ you say glancing down at her and noticing the odd look in her eyes “that must be it” you mutter looking back over at the mirror.

You see her go to say something but get interrupted by the sound of the front door slamming shut so loudly that it shook the entire house. The both of you froze as you heard Ransom storm through the bottom floor of the house, the sound of him grabbing the bottle of scotch echoing.

“I um should go see if he’s okay, can you just wait here?” you ask stepping off the platform.

“Yes, of course, let me help you out of the dress, bad luck and all that,” she says quickly moving to help you.

You mutter a quick thanks, stepping out of the dress and pulling on the silk gown you wore between each dress. You hurried out of the room and down the stairs, finding Ransom in the kitchen, braced against the kitchen counter, a glass of scotch in front of him. His head hung low and you noticed the tension in his shoulders.

“Ransom? What’s wrong?” you ask cautiously approaching.

He looked up from the floor and you instantly see the despair and worry in his eyes “it's Harlan” he choked out, his voice breaking.

You felt your heart sink in worry, instantly rushing over to Ransom, putting your hand on his arm “what’s wrong? Is he?” you ask dreading the worse.

“No” Ransom muttered shaking his head “but he’s taken a turn for the worse, and the doctors say it doesn't look good” he explains, biting his lip as he tried to hold back his tears “he might not make it to the end of the month, to our wedding,” he says barely holding himself together.

“Oh, Ransom I’m so sorry” you mutter, welling up yourself as you pull him into your embrace.

He buried his head into the crook of your neck and you feel the wetness of his tears against your skin as he completely broke down in your arms. Your heart broke for him but you knew there was nothing you could do so you just held him.

After a few moments he pulled away, using the sleeve of his sweater to wipe away his tears “I just- he’s the only person I’ve ever wanted at my wedding and- and now- he- he might-” Ransom shakes his head, unable to finish his sentence.

Your mind raced as a way to try and fix it, and you could only think of one solution. One solution that utterly terrified you but you knew it was the right thing to do.

“Let's move the wedding forward then” you suggest.

Ransom looks down at you his eyes wide in surprise “what?” he asks.

“Let's move it forward, he’s the only person we want there, we don’t need anything or anyone else so let's just get married with him and Marta there” you explain.

Ransom blinks a couple of times “really? Cause we’d have to do it in a week's time or something” he says shaking his head gently.

“Yeah” you whisper “let's do it”

A smile breaks out on his face through the tears, his hands cupping your cheeks as he kissed you deeply “thank you so so much, I love you so much” he muttered against your lips.

“It's okay” you whisper looking at him through your lashes “why don’t you go upstairs and get some rest, I’ll just finish what I was doing and see you up there?” you suggest.

Ransom nods his head kissing you once more before making his way upstairs. Once he was out of sight you let out a long and shaky breath. You were getting married next week, in just 7 days you would be Mrs Drysdale and it was terrifying. You had to do this though, for Ransom.

You made your way back up the stairs, stopping first by the guest room where the lady was waiting for you.

“Everything okay?” she asked as you stepped inside.

“Yeah,” you say clearing your throat “that last dress, that’s the one,” you tell her.

“Oh, that’s great! I’ll make sure it's all ready for your wedding next month” the lady smiles breathing out a sigh of relief.

“Actually I need it by the end of the week,” you tell her.

She looks back at you in confusion “what-why?” she asks.

“We’re moving it forward, an important family member might not be around next month so we’re getting married in a week so we can have him present” you explain rubbing your forehead.

“Oh I’m so sorry, well um since the dress already fits I can just leave it here and send you the invoice?” she suggests.

“That would be amazing thank you” you breathe out.

She gives you a small smile “it's nothing, now I can pack this all up and get out of your hair, seems like your fiance needs you more right now” she suggests.

“Yes he does, thank you for your help today” you thank her before heading out.

You walk the short distance from the guest room to your bedroom, finding Ransom lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling. He was now shirtless, only wearing a pair of flannel trousers.

“Hey,” you say getting his attention as you walked over “how are you feeling,” you ask climbing onto the bed next to him.

“Shitty” he admits “but better thanks to you” he sighs wrapping his arm around you and pulling you into his side.

“It was nothing” you mutter shaking your head.

“Hey,” Ransom says cupping your cheek getting you to look at him “you did so much, I don’t know what I do without you” he admits before leaning down to press a sweet chaste kiss to your lips.

“I just want to make you happy,” you say quietly.

“I’m getting there,” Ransom says forcing a small smile.

“What else can I do? What do you need” you ask him hand running over his chest.

Ransom didn't say anything for a moment making you look up at him, instantly noticing the look in his eyes, one that made them look dark. He then grabs you moving you so you were straddling his waist.

“I need you” he mutters under his breath.

“Oh,” you whisper.

Your heart thumps heavily in your chest, a shudder running through your body, you were about to suggest that it wasnt a good idea but then you saw the pleading look in his eyes. So you nodded your head and let him pull away your gown and push down his trousers. Your bodies connected as he guided your hips down onto him, using you to work through his emotions.

Once he was done you both curled up and let the exhaustion of the day take over. It wasn't long until dreams and subsequently, memories found you.

You were sitting at your desk but your work had been abandoned. Instead, you were chatting and laughing with your colleagues, exchanging gossip and catching up with their personal lives.

The blond from before was halfway through a story when she smirked and nodded over to the elevator “looks like it's time for your lunch” she comments looking over at you.

Looking over at the elevator you saw Ransom walking over, he had his short fluffy hair and beard again which you just loved. He also wore a white crisp shirt and black suit that made your mouth water, because damn he looked good in a shirt and tie. All you could think about was what he’d look like with the sleeves rolled up.

“Ready to go honey?” Ransom asked the pet name he used catching you by surprise.

“Of course” you smile quickly locking your computer and standing up from your desk.

Ransom smiles taking your hand and leading you toward the elevator. You had just stepped inside when your blond colleague called out to the both of you “we’re on a tight deadline so no detours today Andy!” she smirks.

You wake up with a start, your head screaming in pain causing you to sit upright. Your chest was heaving your heart pounding in your chest as you replayed your dream.

You had seen Ransom. But they called him Andy. But to you, he looked like Ransom. You couldn't remember an Andy. Looking over to Ransom who was fast asleep dread settled in your stomach, because if that man in your dream wasn’t Ransom… who was he?

Please remember to put any spoiler filled reactions under the cut! just put :readmore: and press enter if you’re on mobile! or press the three little dots if your on the browser!

Sharing is caring so please reblog this if you enjoyed this! and leave a little comment if you can!

Also send me your theories of what you think is going to happen! I may just confirm or deny them 😉 AND the first 3 People who guess correctly (and I mean completely 100% correct) will win a drabble request!

I will stop taking entries for this little competetion at 12pm GMT 31st of October! You can send in theories as the story progresses, but extra points to anyone who guesses it sooner rather than later! Anon entries will not count (as i won’t know who you are!) but you can still send theories in and join in on the fun!

Series Masterlist / Masterlist

I don’t have a taglist so follow @secretswiftymarvelfanlibrary and turn on post notifications to be kept up to date

#NiamhWrites #MemoryServedSeries #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale x reader #ransom x reader #knives out

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metaldeputy · 5 months

Text

Cherrybomb by hyperrbolic_orange

@hyperrbolic-orange

Rating: Explicit Archive Warning: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationship: Eddie Munson/Gator Tillman Additional Tags: Crossover Pairings, Organized Crime, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings(eventually despite their best efforts), Hurt/Comfort, gator tillman has trauma, like a lifetime of trauma, dont worry were going to solve it with the power of That Dick, and also Talking About Our Feelings, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Service Top Eddie Munson, Bottom Gator Tillman, Sub Gator Tillman, Mean Dom Eddie Munson, Under-negotiated Kink, Happy Ending, despite the subject matter not a very angsty tone, sometimes humourous, well I think I'm funny, more trigger warnings in notes, Extremely Dubious Consent, consent becomes more enthusiastic as we progress, but the premise itself is super dubious so like, again this is a fic not real life so thats all okeydokey, Gator POV

Summary:

Munson just shook his head. “You’ve got nothing I want,” he said bluntly. Even as he said it, Munson looked back down at the polaroids still clutched in his hands. And then, watching him stare like he just couldn't help himself... it suddenly clicked. Bullshit, he had nothing he wanted. He sure as fuck did. “I do,” Gator said, his voice shaking just a bit. “I got something you want.” *** Bad things have happened to Gator Tillman. He’s had some not-so-good run-ins with some not-so-good people. Knowing it’s all just karma, reaping what he sowed, doesn’t make him feel better about it. And it won’t stop the nightmares, either. Two years later, Gator is working for the Chicago PD, trying to put the past behind him. But old habits die hard. After his partner sells him out, Gator finds himself in the hole with notoriously sadistic crime lord Eddie Munson. With no money and nothing to bargain with, Gator offers up the only he has left: himself. One week; that’s the deal. Gator belongs to Eddie for one week. But what starts as nothing but a deal to satisfy a debt quickly turns into something neither of them expected... but maybe something they both needed anyhow.

Note from mod: PLEASE MIND THE TAGS AND ADDITIONAL WARNINGS THE AUTHOR PROVIDES IN THE NOTES ON AO3

Additional little blurb from Chapter 1 under the cut!

This needed to work, ‘cause if it didn’t... he had no more cards left to play. Munson’s eyes were wide. Not angry anymore, but not excited either. They flicked from Gator’s face to the picture he was holding up and back again. He chewed his lower lip, then wet it with his tongue. “What are you offering?” He spoke quieter now, his tone almost hesitant. Like Gator might be pulling the sort of shit he’d seen in those old cartoons, offering him a football to kick only to yank it away at the last second. Gator lowered his own voice to match. “What do you want?” he asked. Eddie gave him a hard stare, wheels and gears clearly turning in his mind as he did some kind of mental math. Two hundred thousand dollars taken out of his flesh was one whole hand. Gator wondered what it added up to, if he took it from his flesh this other way. “One week,” Munson said. “Huh?” “You heard me. One week. You’re mine for seven whole days, Deputy.” His eyes drifted down Gator’s body, still backed up against the dresser. That smile was back again, the one that made Gator think of hungry monsters. “One week to do whatever I want with you. Deal?” Gator gulped. “Deal,” he said.

#MOD HERE: reiterating to mind the tags and extra warnings provided by the author!#metaldeputy #eddie munson x gator tillman #gator tillman x eddie munson #eddie munson #gator tillman #fargo s5 #fargo #st #stranger things #crossover

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nachosncheeze · 2 years

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Fanfic Writer Ask Game

📚 & 🏷️

📚 Is there a fanfic or fanfic writer you recommend?

Definitely! It depends on what you are looking for, so here's a few of my faves in a couple different categories:

***Edit: I'm adding a cut bc it's just occurred to me to mention, anyone new who's not done the series but is seeing this - I do have a spoiler-safe fics list that Scotti and I were working on at one point, so if there's a specific season you're looking for, but not wanting to know what twists come after (or if you're looking for fic for a specific episode or event), feel free to inbox me and I'll send some links. :)

Below this cut there are descriptions that spoil all sorts of things, so.....***

For Jeller, everything by @indelibleevidence is outstanding. I'm gonna start out saying probably a majority of it has passages that are NSFW so if you're a minor or not into that, tread lightly. I'm currently revisiting Remember to Forgive, which has late-season 3 Weller suffering amnesia that takes him mentally back to early season 2; you know, when he couldn't stand to be in the same room as his wife. The angst! It's a fave and totally my jam, I could probably quote it. Torture Without You is... well. Read it. Amazing. I'm a big Remi fan, and here you will also find one of our two Reller champions: the Damaged Goods series is so dark (also very NSFW) but soooo good.

@idealisticrealism is another that everyone should definitely read, imo. The Fire is basically my favorite one-shot ever, and she's our other Reller champion - as complete AUs go I can not possibly overstate my love for From the Ashes and Into Flames. I could literally quote them both to you.

@gypsyscarfwoman is responsible for my other favorite one-shot, Nothing Can Come Between Us, which is Jeller after season 2, but from Sarah Weller's POV. It's just a tiny bit angsty but fluffy and sweet. I love the way she describes the interactions between Jeller as viewed by a concerned third party. There's also Shelter From Your Storm, which is another season 2 AU except that post compound raid there's legitimate concern Nas might throw Jane under the bus and let the CIA have her, so Weller fake marries her to legitimize and protect her.

@ladyriot recently did a lovely retelling of s2 but as a Jane/Patterson slow burn. The way they low key agonize over each other is tragic, but the ending is so sweet without being completely saccharine, and it's definitely worth a look.

I haven't read much Zapatterson but @narvaldetierra is actively writing them. I read Remembers from September and No Good Deed Goes Unpunished a while ago, and I'm excited to reread them soon and then keep working through this ship 😁

Dylan Cruca is worth checking out if you want a bit of season 2/3 Jeller canon divergence/extra scenes, or Jeller/Reller AUs - I thought their post-season 1 AU ended up being a particularly interesting twist - but they're not for everyone.

I could go on but I'll end with one that's basically the fic equivalent to a playlist of Sad Songs to Sob To: Silence Speaks by lochness20, in which Jane's black site escape attempt fails, and when they find her, she is in a REALLY bad state. Warning that it's pretty dark and brutal and tw for suicidal thoughts and an eventual very graphic murder.

🏷 Is there a tag you like to search for when looking for fanfics to read?

I don't really look for specific tags; it's not a huge fandom so there's not a ton of room to be choosy. I can say that straight whump isn't my thing, nor is pure domestic stuff, and I generally steer clear of pregnancy/kidfic unless there's some other compelling plot alongside the kids. I guess I basically love angst most of all 😍

Thank you for the ask!! :D It's always fun to revisit some faves. 💕

I'm trying to find my mojo and inspiration to start creating again, and I find these memes are a really good exercise to think critically about my ideas and hopefully get the juices flowing. If anyone else is curious, please check here and consider sending me an ask!

I've also recently done a WIP ask meme, which you can find here if you'd like a peek at what I've been working on before the words left me. :)

#blindspot #ask meme #writer ask meme #blindspot fanfic

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godstrain · 1 year

Text

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐑.

#godstrain. albert wesker of biohazard/resident evil. by percival (he/him, 30+).

⎛ affiliated with ⎠ @valour-bound ╱ @heavenmcde ╱ @heavenprotect ╱ @darckcarnival ╱ @gviirus ╱ [ . . . ]

this blog is 18+ only. * mobile rules are under the cut!

verses. file (tba). meta analysis

𝐨𝐧𝐞. #GODSTRAIN is an independent, private, highly selective and mutuals exclusive writing blog for albert wesker of the biohazard / resident evil franchise. a lot of canon is in the trash im king now.

due to the general content of the franchise, this blog is 18+. please do not follow me if you are under 18!

on this note, this blog will feature dark and triggering themes. wesker's entire backstory in itself is a whole nightmare and is full of child abuse, and the franchise is full of body horror, medical experimentation, violence, death- and it's all rather graphic to boot!

also we hate eugenics in this house and character growth is my entire purpose of being, i will throw hands with capcom on many topics thanks.

𝐭𝐰𝐨. shipping is not the priority here- also, wesker is a disaster why would you want to? for reference though, anyone who knows me will know i am sorta feral about chrisker and willsker and polystars and also wesker and jake's mom (they need more content i need to KNOW!!!!) but obviously i'll never force ships because that's not the way besties!

if shipping happens, it will require a LOT of plotting and will not be with any mun or muse under the age of 21.

i am very open to other sorts of bonds, though! because it isn't just romance when people talk about ships- although i'll admit, anything other than rather antagonistic relationships is sorta difficult- it's albert wesker we're talking about here. i am open to seeing how things go nonetheless!

i should also note that i will accept mains and exclusives! i am also fine with other wesker blogs following me, just don't take my metas- not that i think anyone would, considering the next part of the rules-

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞. after being on this blog for a year, i would like to think i have a rather decent grasp on the biohazard lore, but of course, i'm not perfect! i marie kondo canon a lot too, but yeah if nothing else im enthusiastic!

please DO tag #trypophobia for me. i tag triggers as #trigger and if you need anything specific, let me know!

𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐫. i am known for writing metas across the blogs i have. in the wise words of a friend:

with this in mind, the metas i write are portrayal specific to this blog, so please give them a read! i know i can be rather wordy- anyone who has followed me elsewhere may know this, but for my first time followers, worldbuilding is one of my favorite things to do. i am particularly fond of analysis of character psychology.

𝐟𝐢𝐯𝐞. to the point above, i do have other blogs! i am in and out of other fandoms, but i am trying to focus on a smaller group of things for my own sanity.

and by this, i mean i work 32-40 hours as a registered nurse in an inpatient psychiatric unit. i am busy, i am tired, and i can't keep letting my focus go all over the place. inevitably, it still may do that because i have a tendency to be scattered, so if i don't get to something immediately, it isn't you, it's me!

also related to that, i do love communication! i struggle with reading the room (it's the Autism tm) and so if something's up or if you're bothered, please be direct with me! i will not take offense, i quite appreciate feedback so that i can be better as a person! in return, i will communicate back! i am learning to curate my space (after 10+ years of being on tumblr).

𝐬𝐢𝐱. there are people i won't interact with due to various reasons- my dni list is on the carrd of my other blogs. i won't interact with genderbent versions of characters, people who are Real Life Individuals (not counting fictional depictions like in the typemoon franchise or whatnot because those really have nothing to do with the actual individual they're supposedly based on?).

please stay far away from me if you fall under the following categories (i'm censoring things because god knows tumblr just picks shit up idk): proshipping, writing inc*st, p*dophilia, r*pe/n*ncon, are transphobic/homophobic- the usual gross behavior! use your moral compass!

on top of that, i am a firm believer that we learn from the media around us. full censorship is just as dangerous as the aforementioned things- the world isn't all sunshine and rainbows! please refer to this post which essentially summarizes the gist of what i'm trying to explain.

𝐬𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧. anyway, hello, i'm percival / percy, i am 30+ and use he/him pronouns exclusively! i am a hobby artist (it's my side-gig from nursing) and sometimes i post my art, tagged #whats my art tag considering i constantly forget my art tag if it's fancy. please do not repost my art without my permission.

mutuals, feel free to ask me for my discord, since i am much easier to reach there!

i look forward to writing with you!

#pinned

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portraitofadumbassonfire · 2 years

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I posted 10,956 times in 2022

383 posts created (3%)

10,573 posts reblogged (97%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@maurypovichofficial2

@thiagodasilva

@uhlxis

@kitc0nn0r

@dickprints

I tagged 5,756 of my posts in 2022

Only 47% of my posts had no tags

#succession - 440 posts

#iwtv - 276 posts

#video - 213 posts

#loml - 180 posts

#horror - 178 posts

#prev tags - 158 posts

#films - 151 posts

#euphoria - 141 posts

#art - 106 posts

#music - 98 posts

Longest Tag: 138 characters

#it's actually impossible to find a christian that doesn't respond to you telling them you're not religious by still trying to convince you

My Top Posts in 2022:

YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOUL YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOOOOOUL YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOUL YOU WON'T BREAK MY SOOOOOUL I'M TELLING EVERY BODY EVERYBODYYYYY EVERYBODY EVERYBODYYYYY I'M TAKING MY NEWWWW SALVATION BUILDING MY OWWWWN FOUNDATIOOON

See the full post

988 notes - Posted June 21, 2022

Antoinette outside hearing Louis & Lestat fucking:

994 notes - Posted October 30, 2022

See the full post

1,237 notes - Posted January 3, 2022

Thots On NOPE (SPOILERS)

I get why this is divisive, but, Jordan Peele has constantly described the themes of the film as dealing with Spectacle. He is 1000% right, but I personally think that the themes have even moreso to do with exploitation.

When it comes to Ricky or "Jupe" I've seen so many reviewers saying that subplot had nothing to do with the film as whole, but it did in a VERY haunting way.

When Ricky is talking about the SNL skit that parodied a traumatic time in his life, he recalls it like a well executed comedy sketch. Then it cuts back to him hiding under the table.

I've seen so many videos online that have some sort of attention-grabbing title, regardless if it's accurate to what you will actually see, but the OP is aware of what makes people click on what's to be supposedly promised in the title or the thumbnail. They know what will attract a crowd. Not to be too graphic, but even porn videos will do the same thing, anything to get clicks & clout.

When Ricky starts the show promising a spectacle, he's used to the reaction he gets, hence why he always does the show showing off the "aliens" at 8:00 PM. Or at least practices the show at night, but the reason he does probably has to do with the "aliens" showing up at that specific time, hence why it's the first time we see activity from the supposed "aliens". (When we see the lights from the show when the sun is down in the first few scenes of the film. We don't know if it's rehearsal or just another show of his.)

He's willing to risk the possibility of an attack from a wild animal like the supposed UFO because he dealt with the attack from Gordy. He was waiting for the other shoe to drop. (like the shoe standing upright, which could be the "bad miracle" OJ refers to) He truly thought he could handle the intensity of the "alien ship" since he survived the attack and lived to tell the tale. He developed some kind of God complex that he could work around the danger of a "trained animal". His wife even said "Even trained animals can be unpredictable."

The people on set with Lucky are a great example. Who the hell stands behind a horse as an adult? Who's the genius who had different chimpanzees for a T.V. show with 0 wranglers? There are still people whom are dumb enough to go to the zoo and go over safety barriers, taunt the animals, or even hold their children close from any danger.

It's ironic how people are very obsessed with the concept of aliens, but if too many people can't handle creatures from earth, what makes us think we can handle the ones not from here?

The stars of the SNL skit straight up mocked a heavily disturbing moment in his childhood, yet he's still profiting off of the moment where this kids dress up as aliens to scare his neighbors as a joke and an intimidation tactic. (notice how their alien costumes look also like ape costumes)

Plus he said he was getting paid by people to sleep in a memorabilia room referencing multiple violent deaths on a TV set. Even with Oprah herself, when she interviewed the woman who was attacked by a chimpanzee and got her face ripped off, people in the comments criticize her for exploiting the woman instead of talking about how she moved on from the spectacle of a tragedy.

For the Haywoods, they're trying to uphold a legacy, they're the only black-owned horse trainers and their great great great-grandfather is someone whom had not been credited for their work as the first motion picture captured. For Emerald to be the one who captured a picture of alien proof as the descendant is SOOOO symbolic.

The cinematographer, Antlers, a white man played perfectly by Michael Wincott, didn't like the lighting in the shot he took so he took the risk to get a perfect shot. The TMZ biker had a whole helmet that reflected everything around him because who else would be obsessed with getting all of the chaos around them than TMZ? (The same publication that somehow managed to know that Beyoncé was filming the music video for "XO" & announces celebrity deaths before the family even gets a chance to.)

I've seen videos of so many disturbing events before, during, or after the fact that I can see what Mr. Peele was going for in commentating on. There's an infamous tiktok showcasing someone in the middle of a near plane crash I've seen reposted on Twitter, there's footage of a bear and a cougar in a circus attacking their supposed "trainers", talk show footage of a lion going after a toddler & almost biting the poor child it was sitting next to, the frozen and preserved bodies of those who've tried do climb Mt. Everest, and I've even seen a man who documented himself after getting graphically attacked by two grizzly bears. Yet the views on those videos reach the millions.

There's so many times a fucked up or upsetting moment in time has been exploitated to the point where it can be made a joke, a traumatic scene, or a topic of discussion, and that for me is what NOPE was commentating on. Some will not catch on with one viewing, but I recommend a second, or even third watch to fully get what's being told.

Films like that, that have a longer shelf life are what inspire me. It's a rarity that a filmmaker chooses to give their audience a challenge.

1,705 notes - Posted July 23, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Lexi: *unsubtly mocks Nate's internalized homophobia in a play acted out to the entire public*

Maddy, Rue, Kat, and Jules in the audience:

6,395 notes - Posted February 20, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #this long ass post #i talk too much on this site

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chill-mcyt-art-reblogs · 9 months

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Guidelines and FAQ

I want this blog to be as stress-free as possible, so these are the guidelines I'll be following when I choose fanart to reblog here:

The No's

-No sexual fanart of any kind. What's considered "sexual fanart" for this blog may include: shirtless fanart, fanart that implies sexual activity, fanart with sexual jokes, fanart that contains themes of SA, or anything that makes me uncomfortable.

-Along a similar line, fanart for non-canon ships will not be reblogged here. This is to reduce discourse.

-Fanart with graphic heavy gore/containing graphic sensitive subject matter will not be reblogged. This can include themes of graphic self-harm and graphic gore.

-This is not the place for fanart of the content creators themselves. I will only be reblogging fanart of the characters they play.

-This is a fanart-only zone. There will be no text posts/discourse/etc. reblogged here. Those types of posts will be reblogged onto @snekkyfics

The Yes's

-fanart containing canon-typical violence and themes WILL be reblogged. This may contain canon-compliant themes of self-harm, suicide, suicidal idealization, domestic abuse, general heavy violence, swearing, death, and mild gore. The only canon-typical aspect that will not be reblogged is anything sexual.

-I will absolutely tag reasonable triggers. If you feel I have missed one, please let me know!

-Fanart that could be intended for the content creator of a character, but uses the character's appearance, may be reblogged.

-Please feel free to submit fanart, ask questions, or make suggestions. I am still learning about group/duo names, ships, and characters, and would appreciate any help and suggestions.

Please remember that this blog is rated a heavy PG-13/mild R! With the exception of sexual imagery, canon-compliant - but potentially disturbing - imagery may be found here! And, as always, be respectful and kind!

FAQ and explanations under the cut!

Q - Why won't you reblog sexual stuff?

It personally makes me uncomfortable. Absolutely no hate to the people who draw that sort of thing, but it is not for me. Please respect this boundary, there are lots of other blogs to get that content from.

Q - Why no non-canon ships?

Mainly: to reduce discourse. While I have nothing against non-canon ships, they can cause feelings of negativity. And, while any ship or character has the potential to do that, canon-compliant ships and characters have the full support of the source material. Once again, there are lots of other blogs you can get this content from.

Q - What's a "reasonable trigger?"

A reasonable trigger is something that is A. common knowledge as a inherently disturbing topic, or B. unusual and disturbing enough to readily make many people uncomfortable. For instance, "self harm" falls into the first category, while "blood and gore" will fall into the second.

Q - Can I submit any fanart?

As long as it follows the guidelines, sure! Otherwise, it won't be posted.

Q - Can I submit blogs for you to follow?

Of course! I'm always looking for more sources for fanart.

Q - Can I self-promote?

Always.

#not art #guidelines

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furina-official · 11 months

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Why are you just standing there with your mouth gaping? Ah, you must be stunned and at a loss for words... Understandable, it is I after all... Fontaine's most beloved star, Furina. I'm on a very tight schedule, so you're lucky to even get an appointment with me.

Rules and Info under the cut !

Rules:

- No NSFW asks or content. Jokes are fine but nothing too graphic

- Do not spam my inbox, I'll try to answer as often as I can and I tend to be forgetful

- Mod goes by he/him only, do not use they/them on me

- Will add more in the future

Info:

- I am very new to this sort of thing but I have been roleplaying for 3 years mainly in discord servers.

- will add more in the future

- this furina is intended to be pre-fontaine archon quest however i will bend this rule whenever i want

Tags:

— masked stranger : anon asks

— the show ends here: ooc posts

— let the people rejoice! : character posts

— goings in the court : trial posts

— a delightful tea party : interactions with other blogs

#— the show ends here #— let the people rejoice!#— a delightful tea party #— goings in the court

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nimue-hidden-lake · 11 months

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CW below cut: Gore, mention of cannibalism

Nothing really graphic in the comment I am about to show but I want to warn you, in case the mention alone upsets/triggers you. Also I tagged it under "Deep Waters" as a result despite it not being a piece of writing.

Alright so... Something more serious this time... Because I do not want to stay quiet about it.

I find it sort of funny to be honest. Thank you for letting me know how butthurt you are. I apologize for my wording here.

I have blacked out the user and work (it is nsfw, I do not share these work on this blog) but I find it hilarious how I found this under one of my fics. I deleted it so no worrying about coming across it either anymore.

Actually I just noticed how this was made by a guest who put in a name so there is no account but... Whatever, just in case.

Nothing unusual though sadly. I'd say I'm pretty hardened up by now (I had worse when I was younger, this is nothing new to me. I just laugh it off) but anyone else could take this pretty harshly.

Listen, I'm fine with people not liking my work. That is expected, that's how it is. Not everyone likes everything. I'm also fine with constructive critism, I'm nowhere perfect and always aim to improve.

This type of comment is just a time waster though and can also showcase the unnecessary stigma for canon/oc work. It's not for everyone and that is ok. But please, for the love of god, stop bothering others. Are you aware how you can actually hurt people with comments like these!? Hearing stuff like this can be damaging.

Actually no need to bother with that speecg. It won't stop. Not gonna change anyone's mind, I can't. So instead let me give you advice when you see comments like these under your creative works:

Don't try to start a conversation. You get nowhere with that, believe me. Delete the comment and block the user, then move on with your life. It's the only way to battle this.

Don't feel bad either. You do yourself a favor actually. Comments like these can damage someone mentally eventually. I'm sure you heard it many times but it's true nonetheless.

Alright, I'm done.

Note: I apologize for saying the same thing everyone does probably. I felt like sharing this though. I laugh but I'm also tired seeing it. Some people will hate comment for no reason and it's very old at this point... Kinda sick of seeing it. At most I'm just surprised it didn't happen to me sooner since starting to write OC/Canon for Enstars.

#Nimue's Whispers #Deep Waters #fanfiction comments #ao3 comments #serious post #cw gore #cw cannibalism #fanfiction writer #ao3 writer #Vent I guess #But also not really... I just had to let it out.#It is a bit more serious than usual. It will not always be this.#Just want to point out another example of an issue... It's not Enstars exclusive. It just so happened to be under an Enstars fic of mine.#This is just not ok. At all.#I'm just giving out the billionth warning but I really don't want to be quiet about this either.

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not-a-space-alien · 2 years

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Hi everyone, I'm here to post a little one-shot I wrote for @whumpsday with their characters Jim and Kane. It's an expansion of this anon (written with permission).

The needed background for this piece of writing is that Kane, a vampire, took Jim captive for years to feed on his blood. Jim escaped eventually, and Kane was later captured and brutally tortured by vampire hunters for the same amount of time (delicious irony and poetic justice.) Jim heard about this and asked the vampire hunters to give Kane to him, planning to kill him and get closure, but Jim ended up feeling too bad for Kane to hurt him (Jim is too much of a softie for his own good). So now they're just sort of in this awkward place where reformed Kane is living locked in Jim's basement and they're both bogged down by horrible PTSD that the other keeps triggering.

This ficlet is rated T and has some warnings for fear, dehumanization, and mentions of torture and suicide, but nothing very graphic. The linked story that this is fanfiction of is very graphic and may be distasteful to some readers, so please use your best judgement and mind the tags and CW's.

Jim was cooking.

Kane liked it when Jim cooked. The human seemed to enjoy it, even…before, when Kane had been providing him with supplies. He’d never even noticed how much Jim had enjoyed it, thinking it just some chore to keep him alive.

Kane just sat on the couch in the next room, balled up, with his jacket hood pulled up. It was hot; Jim was in a tank top, but the material comfort the jacket provided always far outweighed whatever sweat being overheated elicited…as did the blanket, which currently lay on his lap.

He just sat there watching Jim cook. Jim was humming, happy. Happy. It felt good to see him happy and enjoying things. Kane knew he could take no credit whatsoever for any happiness Jim had managed to make for himself despite everything, but he still couldn’t help feeling good about it. Was it the feeling of the guilt lessening? To think that maybe, maybe, maybe he hadn’t completely ruined the life of this unthinkably kind and soft and precious man and that, despite everything, he could still thrive. Kane dared to feel just a little responsible for Jim’s happiness, imagining himself keeping Jim safe from any further harm while he huddled under his blanket on the couch.

He pulled the hood more tightly around his head, hoping to hide the awkward smile, lest Jim turn around and see and ask what he was smiling about. He averted his eyes from the kitchen door, almost guiltily. He fixed his eyes on the closed blinds, sunlight softened by the cutting slats glowing faintly.

He heard a sound. It made him jump. It was too quiet for Jim to hear, with his human hearing and his humming and the sizzling of his dinner, but to Kane it was plain as day. A car door shutting. No, a van. A van… Something about the sound sent fearful tremors up his spine, though he couldn’t place why.

He crept over to the blinds. Maybe if didn’t get too close to the window, and didn’t let any direct sunlight actually touch him, he could see what was happening outside. Just a peak. Jim hadn’t mentioned anyone coming over.

With a finger trembling from instinctual fear from a deep, primal source, Kane drew one slat of the blinds down and looked out.

His subconscious mind had recognized the sound of the van because he’d heard this car before, too many times in fact, because it was the van which belonged to those hunters. There were only two of them here now, but still—he recognized their faces, they were burned into his mind from the years and years they spent among the ones who loved to watch him writhe and scream in more pain that anyone like them could even ever experience.

He let the blind drop, electric panic surging through his body and locking all his limbs up. No. No no no no no no no no no no no no NO NO NO NO NO NO.

They were here. His torturers. Jim must have called them over.

Jim had said he wouldn’t. Not under any circumstances. And Kane had believed him. How stupid of him.

Ironically, one of the hunters currently walking from Jim’s driveway across his ample lawn to the house had been among the more merciful ones during his time held captive by them. She’d never hurt him as badly as the others did. He had a Pavlovian response to seeing her face, associating her with safety, or at least less danger. It wasn’t enough to suppress the burning panic mounting in his chest as they walked—Jim’s property was huge, and they’d opted to park off by his mailbox, a ways off, so he had maybe a minute or two before they got to the porch.

Jim wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t give Kane back to be tortured like that. Kane hadn’t even done anything recently to be worried about, no lines crossed.

Jim wouldn’t do this. Would he? No, he’d said he wouldn’t.

And you believed him? said that voice in the back of his head. Are you stupid?

Jim was cooking enough food for three people or more, Kane realized as the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He’d said he was meal prepping, but Kane suddenly knew the truth. Maybe they were going to string him up in the sun to laugh at him while they had a nice lunch together.

Of course all this mercy and gentleness had been too good to be true. His gut had been telling him that the whole time. His dreams that maybe, maybe, maybe the two of them could just live a gentler life started to crack, then finally break entirely as the reality of the situation set in.

If he didn’t take evasive action, he was going to go back. Jim was no longer an ally. Kane was on his own again.

Kane had said he wouldn’t try any funny business, but Jim had said he wouldn’t be going back to the hunters, so all bets were off. He’d meant it earlier when he’d said he’d do anything to avoid going back to the hunters, including breaking Jim’s trust.

Including…

Including jumping out the window in the middle of the day.

Jim’s back was turned; he hadn’t been alerted to their approach yet. The hunters were approaching from the opposite side of the house as where the opposing window in the dining room let out, on the back porch. It was sunny, but there were intermittent clouds. And the blanket.

This was not what Jim had given it to him for, and it hurt, ached, burned him to use the blanket to betray Jim. But it didn’t burn as bad as the sun would burn him, or the hunter’s silver.

With shaking hands, Kane used his supernatural physical prowess to slide the window open, quietly, as quietly as he could, and roll out of the house.

He paused for a moment on the back porch, ears pricking. Jim could still be heard humming as he cooked. Humans were so deaf.

He looked out at the sunny lawn, filled with dandelions and weeds, knees shaking. This was it. His time here had expired. He had to get out before they started hurting him again.

Another trainwreck of guilt slammed into him. This must have been how Jim felt when he’d escaped from Kane, this overwhelming terror, the uncertainty of not knowing how you would feed yourself, or keep yourself safe, but not caring because you knew what awaited you if you stayed was far, far worse than anything you could imagine out there.

Breathing rapidly, overwhelmed tears already forming in his eyes, he pulled his socks up, pulled down the sleeves of the jacket, and threw his blanket over his head. Not a single strip of exposed skin. He could be safe. He could do this.

He heard the voices of the hunters on the other side of the house, faintly. He recognized them, heard them in his nightmares. One of them knocked on the door. It was now or never.

Maybe he could just start by crossing the lawn and getting into the shade of Jim’s toolshed. There was a dilapidated wooden shed out there, by his failed attempts at gardening, which had a good strip of shade.

Kane put one foot down and felt the soft, warm grass and shuddered, retracting the limb. Maybe he could wait for a cloud to pass over and block the sun? He heard Jim’s voice at the front door. Talking to them. He gathered his courage, secured his blanket wrapped around his head, and dashed with preternatural speed…well, as fast as he could go with the ankle cuffs anyway, doing a ridiculous, high-speed shuffle.

He was across the lawn and into the shade in a matter of seconds, but it was the most agonizing, terrifying few seconds he’d experienced in a long time. The sun was right there. Nothing but a few layers of fabric kept it from him. He could feel the slight singe from what managed to seep through. If he took one misstep, tripped, he would burn, and he knew from experience that he could never stifle the scream. The hunters would be on him in an instant.

Sweating, panting, shaking, Kane balled up in the shade of the shed, wrapping the blanket completely around himself. What was he thinking? Where could he go from here? If he could make it into the woods… Maybe he could run fast enough…There would be more shade there…He’d just need to hide till nightfall, the same way Jim had just needed to hide till daytime. A sob caught in his throat.

This was awful. He deserved to feel this. Maybe he should just let Jim hand him over.

What was he thinking? Staying out, staying away from them was the only thing that could ever matter anymore.

But…the sun…He sweat. His nerves were already frayed almost past the point of being functional. The sheer blinding panic of hearing the hunters going into Jim’s house made it so, so hard to think of what he should do.

He cracked the shed open and darted in.

It was dark inside. Dark dark dark. Good. Safe. He huddled in the corner, balling up, weeping. They were here, for him. Jim was going to give him back. Kane had no idea Jim had the capacity to be so cruel. It was almost like he’d given him the hope of a gentler, merciful life just for the pleasure of watching Kane squirm as he crushed that hope.

He'd never so sincerely wished he could die from something other than a wooden stake before. If he could die from blood loss, or shock, or asphyxiation, or burning (or blunt force trauma, or drowning, or...) then they would have to just pick one horrible thing to do to him, and just kill him. But his immortality had become the worst part of his curse, because he begged them to die over and over but all they wanted was to make him feel pain forever and ever, as long as he lived, which was forever unless someone took pity on him.

He deserved it. He was a monster. Not because he drank blood--there were a lot of things that were his fault, but that wasn't one of them. Because of the things he'd done, that made him so unwholly undeserving of mercy. It felt cowardly to want the easy way out. But he just couldn't take any more. He couldn't go back to living like that, fantasizing about comforts as small as wearing clothes and taking a bath and not being left out in the sun to burn for hours at a time.

Something sharp poked him. A tool of some sort. A shovel, or maybe a rake. It had a wooden handle. Kane immediately broke it in half and started manically filing the jagged edges into a point.

That’s what he was doing when Jim opened the door to the shed a while later, poking his head in. Kane froze at the intrusion, stopping his activity.

“How…did you get out here?” Jim asked. He sounded a little irritated, but more baffled than anything.

Kane opened his mouth to answer, remembered that Jim wasn’t his ally anymore, then whimpered and redoubled his efforts at filing the broken wood into a stake.

Jim came into the shed, opening the door as narrowly as possible to avoid letting the sunlight in, and closed it behind him. Kane was sure that with his pitiful human eyesight, he could barely see anything, but Kane could see him perfectly. He had a slightly annoyed and confused look on his face. “Kane. Come on. You agreed no funny business.”

“You said you wouldn’t give me back to them,” Kane blubbered. He’d meant to snap, but he’d definitely blubbered. He couldn't force the anger into his voice, only the fear and despair. "I-I-I-I know you have every right to--to, but you said you wouldn't..."

Jim sighed. Kane could see the defeated look on his face in the dark. “I’m not giving you back to them.”

Kane stopped his filing. “Eh? B-but you called them here.”

“I didn’t call them here. They showed up unannounced. Which is pretty fucking rude, but whatever.”

“Well—well if they aren’t here to take me, then why are they here?”

“Well, according to them, they happened to be in the neighborhood and decided to stop by and check on me.”

Kane clutched the half-formed wooden stake against his chest, point up by his face, face still frozen in indecision.

Jim held his hands out in the dark. “I know you’re scared of them, but that was still a dick move to leave the house.”

Kane managed to snap this time. “You would rather I just sit there and let them take me?”

“They’re not going to take you,” said Jim. “I already told you, I’m not giving you back to them. They just asked to see you before heading out. I guess maybe they were worried since they haven’t heard from me?” He rubbed the back of his head. “Uh…I think maybe they expected me to call them and tell them I killed you a while ago.”

Jim said it like he expected Kane to be scared at the mention of killing him. Kane just hugged the stake he’d been trying to hastily fashion to kill himself with. “Uh, but, well,” said Kane. “I—I can’t imagine they’ll be—be very happy to see, to see that you’ve been feeding me. They’ll see me as a threat again.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “They’re not going to see you as a threat. Come on, I’m sure they’ll leave as soon as they see I didn’t just turn you loose in the woods to let you prey on innocents.”

“You don’t know that,” Kane said. Too loudly, too angrily. Jim flinched, and guilt and shame crashed over Kane. He tucked himself back against the wall, making himself small, making his voice a whisper. “I—I’m sorry, Jim, I—I just—You—You’re not taking this seriously. B-because even if you say you won’t give me back, if—if they decide to take me back anyway, it’s not like there’s much you can do about it.”

Jim froze. Clearly he hadn’t thought of that. Kane envied that. Kane’s brain only thought of ways in which he, Kane, could get hurt very very badly all day every day.

“All right,” said Jim, “You’re right, I’m not taking your concern seriously. I’m sorry.”

That was the first time Jim had ever said I’m sorry to him. It felt wrong. Jim was apologizing to him? To him, Kane? Jim could never owe Kane an apology no matter what horrible things he did to him.

“So,” said Jim, “what then? If we show them you’re not a threat, and I have you under control, that’ll make you happy? To get them to leave?”

He nodded vigorously. The motion became less vigorous as he started to realize what that would mean.

“Wait right there,” said Jim. “I’ll be right back.”

As Jim crept back out the door, trying to minimize the intrusion of the light into the shed, Kane tried to curl himself up even more tightly. He wanted to ask what he’d done to deserve this, but he already knew.

He came back a few minutes later, accompanied by the familiar clinking of chains. “Okay, we’ll just put this on, and I’ll take you back in there and show them you’re not a threat.”

Kane stood up, but couldn’t muster up the courage to move his legs forward. He could very, very faintly hear their voices from inside the house. Laughing, just like they’d laughed before, cruel laughter.

“Um,” said Jim, and he was already holding out the cuffs. “I kind of need you to drop that to put these on.”

Very, very reluctantly, Kane dropped his half-finished wooden stake. Jim gently fastened the cuffs onto his wrists.

“On my back,” said Kane anxiously. “Put my hands behind me, if they can see my hands, if they think I can—”

“All right,” said Jim, “chill out, I’ll redo it.”

He unlocked his wrists. Kane turned around, and Jim re-locked them. While he was there, Jim laid the muzzle gently over his face and went to buckle it around his hair.

“Put the bit in too,” said Kane, and Jim could feel the panicked tears rolling down his cheeks as he tried to adjust the wire caging on his face. “So I can’t talk. So I can’t say anything stupid—to make it worse.”

Jim put his hands on Kane’s shoulder blades. “Kane. Relax.”

Kane never wanted to admit how much he lived for those rare moments where Jim gave him gentle, comforting touches. He thought it was probably the only thing that could have calmed him down at that moment. He steeled himself. “Yes. Sorry, Jim.”

“Do you really want me to put the bit in?”

“Yes.”

Jim lowered the muzzle so he could slide the bit into Kane’s mouth. He bit down on it like a man grinding his teeth in pain. He could very faintly feel the tips of his fangs burning as they sliced through whatever the coating was made of and grazed the silver core of the device, but the slight pain grounded him. Jim buckled the muzzle—not too tight. He was the only man Kane had ever known to buckle a muzzle comfortably.

“Okay,” said Jim, cracking the shed door open. “Come on, then.”

Kane flinched at the movement that came next, but of course it was just Jim putting the blanket over Kane’s head. Kind, gentle Jim. How could Kane have ever thought, even in his most manic streams of consciousness, that he would carelessly hand him back to the hunters? Kane had tried to run away, and Jim was still thoughtful enough to shield him from the sun.

This placid, comforting line of thought was interrupted as Jim tried to move him forward and Kane suddenly realized what was happening. He was going to be in the same room as the hunters, who’d see him as a threat, and he would be completely helpless during it. The only thing standing between Kane and going back to that living hell, that never-ending nightmare, was Jim’s reassurances that he would be doing all the talking. Was he stupid? Was he really this stupid? It would literally be easier for Jim to just let them have him at this point. To give him back. Jim had no incentive whatsoever to make good on his promise to not give him back. Jim hated his guts. Somehow Jim was kind to him despite hating his guts, but that could give out at any moment.

“Come on, let’s go,” said Jim, and despite his kind tone it reminded Kane just a little too much of the way the hunters had prompted him to let’s go outside into the sun, with no blanket.

Kane’s legs locked up. His teeth ground on the bit anxiously, his fight or flight reflexes urging him to take some animal action to protect himself. He didn’t move. He couldn't force himself to get any closer to the source of his overwhelming terror.

Jim sighed. Jim had gotten considerably more muscular in the intervening years, whereas Kane still remained surprisingly small and light by vampire standards, so Jim had suspected that he could pick the vampire up if he needed to. He had avoided doing it until now, but the sniveling coming from under the blanket and the knocking knees told him he might be better off just carrying him rather than waiting for him to get his nerves up. Besides, maybe if the hunters saw him carry Kane in, that would reaffirm that Jim was in control here…they didn’t need to know he was doing it because Kane was paralyzed by fear.

Jim knelt and gently leaned Kane onto his shoulder, then stood and draped him over. Jim grabbed whatever part of him he needed to stabilize the vampire over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, then realized with slight embarrassment that it had been Kane’s ass. Kane didn’t mention it, and neither did Jim. Jim adjusted the blanket on the quivering mass over his shoulder, making sure nothing was exposed, and pushed the shed door open.

It was such a nice day. Birds were tweeting. The grass felt warm and soft under Jim’s feet. Kane started to sob as the sun warmed him through the blanket. It sounded like maybe he was trying to get some muffled words out. Jim was kind of glad he couldn’t talk, because Jim would probably be feeling really guilty about whatever he was saying.

“Ah, you found it,” said one of the hunters, Jackie, as he came back in. She was sitting at Jim’s kitchen table with her feet propped up, drinking a glass of lemonade. “You had me worried for a second, what with how you looked around the house with that panicked look.”

“I, uh, forgot that I’d locked him in the shed today,” said Jim. He set Kane down on the couch, relieved that he no longer had to feel the heaving sobs wracking the vampire’s chest.

“Nice of you to put a blanket over,” said the other hunter, a man named Russel. He said it with some slight disapproval. Jim noted Kane’s trembling redouble at the sound of his voice. “And I see you’re still using those padded cuffs. What’s the matter? You’re not afraid to hurt it, are you? Afraid of what it'll do?"

“Oh, uh…” said Jim, suddenly at a loss. Why would they even ask him that stupid question? Who cared why he used padded cuffs? Why'd he have to justify not being a complete monster? Now this fucking sucked. He’d dismissed Kane’s concerns, completely not worried, and suddenly he actually didn’t know what to say? Maybe Kane had been right to be scared, but that wasn’t the right thing to think with Kane right there, completely helpless and completely dependent on Jim to do the talking.

He felt a pang of guilt. Guilt. He resented Kane, so, so much every time that motherfucker made him feel bad for him. But he couldn’t help it this time. Jim promised Kane he wouldn’t make him go through anything worse than Kane had done to Jim, but given the symmetry of their feelings about fear of being recaptured, this was definitely lop-sided. This wasn’t like Jim’s years of self-inflicted fear, worrying that Kane was going to come for him. This was like if someone had grabbed Jim, told him to stop being a baby, and locked him in Kane’s basement again with a reassurance they barely seemed to care about that nothing bad would happen to him.

Jim could hear sniffling from under the blanket, and another wave of tremors wracked Kane’s frame.

“No,” said Jim. “Uh, no, it’s—it’s psychological.”

The two hunters looked at each other. “Psychological torture?” said Jackie.

Jim removed the blanket from Kane’s head. Kane was red-faced, tears sliding down his cheeks, ugly-crying with snot dibbling down his chin, grinding his teeth on the bit.

“Woah!” said Jackie. “Jesus, you barely even touched it and it’s already crying like a baby!”

“Did you know,” said Russel, “the first time we left it out in the sun, it literally cried for its mommy?”

Jackie cracked a smile. “It was so fucking satisfying. My first kill was a vampire that was trying to feed on a child.”

Kane averted his eyes, humiliated.

Jim couldn’t help feeling a little stunned at that. How bad did being in the sun have to hurt Kane to cause that? The old Kane he’d known would never in a million years acknowledge he loved his mother, let alone call to her for help and comfort.

“Have you…been feeding it?” said Russel. “It’s—”

“Fuck, you’re right, Rus,” said Jackie. “Wh-What the fuck?”

Russel started to stand, hand on his weapon. “Is…is that fucker using persuasion on you? Was he just pretending he couldn’t and played the long con here?”

Despite Kane’s earlier insistence that he shouldn’t be allowed to say anything for fear of messing up, he let out a muffled, anguished moan around the bit and shook his head. It was clear what he was trying to convey. No, no, no. You give me too much credit. I’m a monster, but you think I’m a much bigger one than I actually am.

“I’m just giving him some blood every once in a while,” said Jim. “Er, it’s because I, uh, can do more things to him if he heals from things faster.”

It sounded incredibly lame, but it also didn’t sound like someone who’d been secretly mind-controlled. In the ensuing silence, Kane let out a doomed sob.

“Like I said. Mostly psychological.”

“Right…” said Jackie. “Well, we just came to check on you because we hadn’t heard from you about killing that thing, and it’s kind of our responsibility to make sure it’s not a threat, ya know? If you can’t keep it under control, we might have to t—”

“There’s no need to take him back,” Jim said hastily. “I’m totally in control.”

“Prove it,” said Russ. “Make it bow to you.”

Jim felt so disgusted by this completely unnecessary bullying. But before he could even say anything, Kane had already fallen to the ground and prostrated himself, forehead in the carpet, hands in the air above his back.

“Come on, Russ, no vampire that was in control here would let itself be restrained like that.” Jackie stood up. “I think I’ve seen enough. Jim, play whatever weird games you want with it, just maybe…make sure you keep better track of it. If you lose it, we’ll be in trouble. Not to mention responsible for anyone who gets hurt.”

“Right,” said Jim. “Now please leave.”

Kane watched the two hunters leave with wide, shaky eyes. Jim stood at the window and peered out, watching their van back up and turn around, heading back onto the highway.

Jim let out a tired breath. “Geez.” He came over to where Kane was still kneeling on the carpet and unbuckled the muzzle, slipping the bit out. “Sorry about that.” A second apology. It felt ashen in his mouth, but the way Kane was still paralyzed with terror, nerves obviously completely shot, made him feel like he had no other option.

Kane stayed completely silent as Jim unlocked the cuffs on his wrists, leaving the ankle cuffs on.

Jim noticed the notches on the bit where Kane’s teeth had bitten into it hard. “Uh…you okay there?”

Kane stood numbly, not saying anything, but he swiped the notepad off the table nearby. The notepad he was allowed to use to ask for anything without Jim getting mad at him.

He scribbled on it, then tore off the page and handed it to Jim wordlessly, face incredibly red.

Jim looked at the paper. It said A hug.

Jim made a sound that was half-laugh, half-groan. “Fuck it. Why not. Everything about the past few months has been ridiculous already.”

He held his arms open. Kane shuffled forward and wrapped his arms around Jim’s torso, just below Jim’s arms. His face hovered for a moment before he lowered it into Jim’s chest, carefully avoiding placing it near his neck. Jim felt the front of his shirt get all gross where Kane’s face was on it.

“Thank you,” said Kane, voice so, so small. “I know I say it so much—but I wish there was a way to make you see how much I mean it.”

Jim patted his hair again, a repeat of that awkward motion when Kane had gotten his bath. “Well…Since you’ll be sticking around, maybe you’ll find some way to show me you mean it, huh?”

#vampires #whump #kane and Jim #my writing #not my characters

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whirlybirbs · 3 years

Text

( chapter 6′s gif by @buckysbarnes from this lovely set ! )

✪ — VACANT MIRRORS ; B.B. | 6/?

summary: gunshot wounds, panic attacks, and evil next door neighbors.

pairing: bucky barnes / f!reader

tags: set before & during tfatws, friends to lovers, therapy positive, trauma healing techniques, ptsd mentions, the normalization of anxiety disorders, and a good ol’ slow burn

word count: 5.3k, a filler before the real sexual tension.

a/n: be warned, this chapter has a diy medical procedure where bucky removes the slug from rabbit’s shoulder. it’s nothing too graphic, but keep that in mind! also, i wanted to say thank you to everyone who has rec’d, reblogged, commented, kudos, liked, looked at this fic. the response to every chapter has been so overwhelmingly kind and i’m so thankful that i have the oppurtunity to share this fic with you all. that being said, i broke this chapter up. next week has some spice. ;-)

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Bucky wakes up with a headache that feels like someone’s tapped an icepick between his eyes. A fire-bright burn radiates under his ribs.

It’s a slow creep back to reality — he just lays there and stares at the peeling wallpaper that meets the corner of the ceiling for a while, knowing deep in the back of his muddled, confused thoughts that he most likely has a nasty concussion, maybe a few broken ribs.

How? Hm. Fighting. Music? The club.

Rabbit.

He sits up fast and Bucky’s blue eyes struggle to adjust in the low-light of the scarcely furnished apartment. The searing pang of his headache is enough to make his stomach churn, but he’s had worse. So much worse. This is manageable. So, he swallows down the nausea and looks around the room like a wounded animal — and almost immediately, relief greets him at the sight of you in the armchair across from the couch.

Your hair is a mess, falling from it’s previous style that you’d proudly worn to The Glass Cannon. Your lipstick is smeared, there’s glitter on your cheeks, and your make-up has transitioned from starlet beauty to broken-hearted bombshell. Bucky notices, with a bit of dismay, that you’re even missing an earring. There’s a nasty bruise forming along the peak of your cheekbone and a gash there from when Alexei had cracked you across the face with the pistol — and even despite all this, Bucky can feel his heart clench at the sight of you. A good clench. The sort that makes his heart kick into a stutter step.

You look… well, you look like someone who’d had the shit choked out of them and then was shot.

Shot.

Your jacket, punched clean through with the single bullet hole, is hanging over the back of the chair and there’s gauze taped to your shoulder. You’re leaning your good cheek in your hand, attention turned totally to Bucky, where you’ve fallen asleep. From here, you’re a picture of exhaustion.

Anxiety flashes in his heart and he swings his legs over the edge of the couch.

Suddenly, there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Take it easy.”

It’s the woman from before, Kiwi, and she’s got an ice pack in her hands. It’s wrapped in a ratty, green dish towel, and she hands it off to Bucky with a pitiful little look. Rounding the couch, Bucky finally gets a better look at her.

She’s older than you, maybe by a handful of years, but sharp and beautiful nonetheless. Her hair is dark as night and the tips are drenched in a lime colored dye. Her eyes are dark, too, ringed by kohl and glitter, and Bucky wonders if he’s ever seen her before.

“You heal quick,” she says quietly as she plops down into the chair across the room. On a makeshift desk, there’s a laptop, “Care to explain how you know our dear friend Rabbit here?”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably. Again, his eyes fall on your sleeping form.

He maneuvers the ice pack in his hands, then gently presses it to his ribs. He melts a bit, ignoring the evident tears in the silk shirt. He feels bad — he’d busted some of the seams in the midst of the brutal scuffle and it seems like this artifact of Jaimie’s was most likely beyond salvation.

His dog tags jingle against his chest.

“Therapy,” Bucky croaks, “We, uh, we met in therapy.”

A new voice comes into the picture now, one that’s muffled by a mouthful of food.

“That’s cute.”

It’s the other one, Climber. He’s traded in his all-black, all-polyurethane outfit for an expensive looking t-shirt. Without the strobes, without the tunnel vision, Bucky can now see the intricate buzz cut that sits beneath the mountain of blue curls on his head. There are patterns buzzed into his tight-shave. He’s got a smile, too, the glimmers a little too artificially. Bucky spies crystals inset on his incisors between bites of what looks like a bowl of cereal with no milk. Spoon and all.

“I don’t think we’ve properly met,” Climber says as he plops down next to Bucky on the couch, “What’d you say your name was?”

A hand is jutted his way. Bucky blinks. He shakes it with his vibranium hand.

“I’m Bucky.”

“Well, I’m gay and you’re gorgeous,” he says candidly, giving it a good shake, “So, if that’s of any interest—”

“Can you please shut up, Climber?” comes an irritated rasp from you in your armchair. Bucky turns to watch as you raise your head and rub your eyes, “Christ, I just fell asleep.”

“And your little supersoldier just woke up,” Kiwi chirps from her preoccupation with the laptop and contents on it, “So why don’t you stop being a little baby and let him look at that gunshot wound.”

Bucky’s face falls flat. He drops the ice pack to the coffee table with a thwunk.

You sit up, gingerly trying to maneuver yourself so as to not bother both your ribs and your shoulder. It takes a moment, but finally you’re sitting up with only a dull ache of pain throbbing beneath your skin. Now, the real sting comes from the bitter look Bucky has pinned you with.

“You haven’t cleaned it yet?”

“The shits in the kitchen,” Kiwi waves at Bucky, as if to say told you so, “She fuckin’ refused to let me take care of it.”

“You’re going to get an infection if it stays in you any longer,” he snaps, standing to his feet, “Get up.”

“Kiwi isn’t exactly the most gentle person I know,” you manage to supply as an excuse as you move through the room, “And I know that thing isn’t coming out without a fight.”

He can feel the grey hairs coming in already.

You stand slowly, and Bucky looms behind you as you weave into the small apartment’s kitchen.

It’s barely lived in, but a few years ago it most definitely had life. Now, it’s mostly abandoned save for a few necessities. Kiwi had told you, a long time ago, about this spot — it was her parent’s place before the Snap. After the Blip, they ended up moving back to Massachusetts. Now abandoned by anyone seeking to really live in the one bedroom, it sits collecting dust until Kiwi inevitably needs it.

Like now.

“Up on the counter.”

You wince at his tone, but still thankful to be away from Kiwi and Climber’s prying eyes.

For the entire time Bucky had been out, you’d been subjected to a myriad of questions — all were fair, really, since Bucky did just bust out the Avenger-level super-moves on some Russian mafiosos for your sake, vibranium arm and all. The arm was really the biggest stuck point in the conversation as you tried your best to explain the nature of your relationship with the unconscious supersoldier on the couch. It was met with plenty of looks, both curious and skeptical.

You’re slow to hop up on the dusty marble countertop. From there, you watch Bucky poke through the kit that Kiwi had pulled from under the sink.

Then, with the calculated process of a man who has pulled one too many bullets from himself, Bucky slams the kit shut and wanders into the bathroom.

He returns with a pair of large tweezers. He’s silent as the dead as he rummages for a pan, fills it with water, and sets the gas burner on. He stares, watching the pot boil, as his foot taps against the floor.

You swallow down any comments.

There’s a clean towel beside you, and Bucky casually reached into the boiling water with his vibranium hand to retrieve the tweezers — whether or not he purposely ignored the pain is lost on you. You’re too busy anxiously spiraling into silence.

(He’s trying to ground himself, to feel something other than panic. It’s a mild spike, but it’s still panic. Because you’re hurt. Because you still have a fucking casing lodged in your shoulder and he doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you. Ever. Because he saw it happen and then it was black, and now that anxiousness is creeping in.)

Rubbing alcohol, tweezers, gauze, tape, and… Jack Daniel’s.

It’s from the top of the fridge. It’s got a layer of dust on it — and it’s unopened.

Bucky unceremoniously pops the cap and hands the open bottle to you.

You take it and pause.

Bucky’s gaze is cold.

“You’re gonna want to take a few swigs, Doll.”

You almost snarl. You take a long drink then, ignoring the burn of the whiskey down your throat. It’s only when you’ve had enough to nearly gag that you hand the bottle back and then hiss:

“Don’t call me Doll.”

He takes the bottle and unceremoniously slams it down on the counter.

His movements are rough as he washes his hands — and if Bucky was a better person, maybe he’d take a second and parse through why he was feeling so damn irritable. But, no, no, he could figure out that he was angry at himself and you and Alexei Gardzov and Innessa Sidrova and fucking… everyone because he can’t have any normal relationships in his life without there being bloodshed or pain or suffering. That was enough, and he didn’t want to dig deeper into the nipping fear of losing you, not now, not when he had a job to do—

You suck in a sharp breath when his fingers brush your collarbone. He gently moves the delicate strap of your bodysuit, ignoring the soft skin beneath, and pulls the gauze away from your shoulder.

Your jacket had taken most of the impact it seems. Bucky frowns deeply at the pink fibers clinging to the entry wound. It’s a nasty puckered bit of flesh, smeared with blood, right in the soft muscle of your left shoulder. The hole is a little smaller than a quarter — Bucky recognizes it as shot from a 9mm almost immediately. He’s taken a few of these in his days. He’s glad it wasn’t close range. The burns from the muzzle flash make for nasty scars. He’d know. He has one on his back, right above his hip.

Bucky’s jaw is tight. He’s gritting his back teeth. His headache throbs angrily behind his eyes.

Bucky leans, eyeing the wound carefully. His limited reaction is enough to spark a little light of bravery in your gut, and you move to look at the hole — only to find a vibranium hand rooting your jaw in place. It’s gentle enough as it recorrects the line of your gaze straight ahead. His thumb rests on the curve of your chin as his index climbs your jaw, and the vibranium is warm and cold all at once. It’s an odd sensation. Not bad, but not flesh.

You like it.

(You find your mind quickly flashing with the thought of what that hand would feel like in other places. You ignore it.)

Your eyes are stuck on Bucky.

He’s clearly upset — the pinch between his brows and the evident scowl on his lips is enough of an indication. The bridge of his nose is busted and there’s a bruise crawling under his left eye. The shirt you’d given him is a wreck, and as he bends to snatch up a rubbing alcohol soaked pad, the feeling of shame creeps up on you. The anxiousness that’s settled in the pit of your stomach doesn’t help.

Arguably, it exacerbates the symptom.

The whiskey is slow to make an impact.

But, when Bucky finally swipes the gauze across the wound, your ankles have begun to tingle and it isn’t blinding white pain you feel — not yet. It’s sharp and it feels like he’s touching your shoulder blade when he presses his fingers into the holes to clean the immediate area. That has you grimacing tightly.

His obsidian-hued hand holds your face still through it.

So, you opt to stare.

His arm reminds you of some pottery you’d seen back at the Museum of Modern Art once, on a school trip. In a dimly lit room, spotlights lit up a row of vases that had been gilded back together with gold-dusted sap. You’d sat there for nearly an hour, staring at those things. You can’t remember the name now, not while Bucky does one more pass across the wound. It started with a ‘k’. It was beautiful. You loved that exhibit. Why can’t you — fuck — remember the name? Kinsi… kinsigumi? Gumi. Kintsi —

You grit your teeth and grip the counter tightly. He pauses. You exhale.

You inhale.

Kintsugi.

The seams of his arm remind you of Kintsugi.

It’s beautiful.

Bucky’s eyes flit to yours. He sees your stare.

Maybe it’s the pain, or the half-cocked daze, but the look in your eyes is enough to spur an immediate reaction. Bucky scowls. He yanks his hand back, retreating to the supplies on the counter. He’s pulled, hard and fast, and now he seems miles away.

Quietly, and with a bit more chill than he intended, he speaks. “If it was making you nervous, you should have said something.”

It.

Your head snaps to him.

“What?” you ask, nearly incredulously.

He’s silent. He has the tweezers in his hand now.

Your eyes narrow critically — and instead of shame and anxiety, it’s hurt that flies off your tongue. It’s drenched in enough pain that Bucky hears it in the waver of your voice.

“You think I’m afraid of you?”

It’s nearly a whisper.

He swallows.

He ignores it. He has to. He doesn’t want to know the answer. Either way that conversation goes is enough to drag him into territory he can’t handle right now. Not when he needs to do this without his hands shaking.

“This is going to hurt.”

Your mouth is open — be it shock or anger, he’s not sure. Bucky, however, makes a point of ignoring your expression and your reaction by handing over the whiskey once more. You snatch it from his hands quickly. There’s a look on your face that makes his chest ache. With one last pass over him with your eyes, you take a long swig.

You feel like crying.

You won’t, though. Not now. Not while he does this.

You deserve this.

And holy fucking hell does it hurt. It’s like someone’s taken a hot poker and punctured your skin, then rotated it around and around and around. You can feel every time the tweezers touch the bullet because the metallic little click echoes in your chest. It’s enough to make your head spin, and you grit your teeth and close your eyes and try to breathe — but even after a handful of minutes, when Bucky finally retrieves the slug, there’s no relief. Just a desperate throb.

Your hands are shaking when you reach for the whiskey once more.

You do cry, finally, when Bucky packs the hole.

He rolls the gauze up tightly into a cylinder and, as gently as he can, pushes it in.

It’s a horrible choke of pain that you smother into your palm and pant through. It reminds you to breathe, and while you stare up at the water damage on the kitchen ceiling, Bucky tapes a square piece of gauze over the bruised wound and wraps your shoulder tightly. He takes his time, but there’s a curtness to his actions.

Finally, when he begins to clean up the mess of bloodied gauze, you speak.

“If you’re mad at me, then just say it.”

He snaps almost immediately, like a kicked dog. “And say what, Rabbit? That I almost lost you?”

Your mouth slips shut.

Bucky pauses what he’s doing. He drops the gauze onto the towel and he bares both hands against the counter top. He leans and exhales and drops his own head back — then, you can see his own waves of anxiety knocking him against the shore of composure. His eyes move back and forth, he inhales, and then after a long while he speaks.

It’s calmer. Not so horribly mean.

“You should have told me about Alexei.”

You go to speak — but he stops you.

“I mean really, really told me,” he explains, “Had I known he wanted your fucking head mounted on a spike, I would have kept you far away from that place.”

“We had to—”

“No,” he says sternly, standing up full height, “No, we didn’t. We never have to do anything that’s going to put you in danger. Never. I won’t do it again. You should have fuckin’ told me.”

You’re quiet.

“A few more inches to the right,” he says, gesturing to your throat with his finger. His eyes are expressive and he’s speaking like he’s lived this experience, “You’d be dead. Cold and dead and I’d be here, carrying the fucking guilt around with me because I wouldn’t have been able to do anything.”

His voice splinters at the end — but he’s moved to throw away the gauze and dump the tweezers in the sink. He can’t look at you as he says it, and you know that. Because, just like before, people like you and him have a hard time looking the truth in the eyes.

You slide off the counter.

Your heart is sad. It’s heavy and mournful and weighed down with guilt.

“Bucky.”

It’s soft. He’s scrubbing your blood from his hands.

He doesn’t turn around. He can’t. He can feel the prick of an anxious breakdown beginning to climb into his eyes. Instead, he scrubs and scrubs and scrubs and your blood is stuck in the plating of his hand and it’s not going to come out—

Think of what could have happened if it had been a few inches to the right. The arched spray. Blood everywhere. She can’t speak through the gargle, she’s going cold, she’s gone. And, like always, you’re alone again, Bucky.

Then, your hands are on his.

The touch is enough to stop him. It’s enough for him to move aside at the large, inset kitchen sink. You exhale slowly as you run the water a little warmer and gingerly run his hands under the tap. Your hands are smaller than his, a bit more delicate, and he’s stunned into a sharp silence at the feeling of your fingertips gently washing away the crimson blood.

You grab another dish towel from a drawer beside the stove.

Then, in the dim light of the kitchen, you take both his hands and dry them.

It’s the vibranium hand that you pay special attention to, though. And Bucky feels like a fucking idiot — just standing there, just watching as you run the rag between the gilded plating and use gentle pressure to get into the harder to reach spots. You turn it over, and you dry his knuckles.

You take your time.

You don’t look up when you speak. You’re focused. Almost reverent.

He doesn’t deserve this.

“I’m not afraid of you,” you say sternly.

His mouth is dry. “Rabbit…”

Bucky shifts on his feet and takes a deep inhale. He feels lightheaded.

The whiskey, and the closeness of the two of you, makes your skin warm. His whole nervous system feels like it’s on fire.

“I didn’t mean to stare, I don’t ever mean to,” you apologize as your hands still over his arm. He watches your irises trace the plating above his wrist. The rag is forgotten, its purpose null. Your words are heavy, and Bucky can hear a little shake in them as you swallow, “I just… think it’s beautiful.”

You’re beautiful.

Even now, blood-soaked and sweat-stained. With makeup running down your cheeks and your composure in shambles. Even now, on the run and apparently wanted, you’re incredibly beautiful. Bucky hates how easy it is to admit and how hard it is to keep off his tongue. It nearly gets the better of him. He watches your eyelashes flutter. When you look up at him, the world is suddenly drowned in honey.

“I’m sorry.”

You mean it.

Your bottom lip wobbles.

Bucky, immediately, regrets being so goddamn cold.

You were just trying to help — you were just trying to do the right thing.

“Stop it. Come here.”

The hug is the first time you can remember touching him like this. You think you’ll always remember it, too. It’s sturdy and warm and gentle and honest and you bury your face into the shoulder as his arms come up around your neck. He’s careful of your own injured shoulder, and his fingers find the base of your neck. Around his waist, your fingers dig into the back of his shirt. Both of you ground yourselves in the other’s arms, and for the first time in a handful of hours, you both find peace.

Quiet, sturdy, lovely peace.

And the two of you stay like that for a while in the quiet little kitchen.

It’s not until Climber’s voice rises from the living room that you’re pulled away from Bucky — and even then, your face linger inches from one another for a moment too long. Neither of you say a word, only swallow down confessions that could have been, and move on.

“Oh, girlie, you’re gonna wanna see this.”

Bucky frowns. With your brows knotted tightly together, you weave through the kitchen and back into the living room.

Kiwi has sat up and both her and Climber have their eyes on the bulky flat screen on the dust-covered entertainment center. It’s cable news, and as Climber leans to turn the television up, a picture of you flashes across the screen.

It’s a photo from your arrest six months ago.

“Local authorities are asking that anyone with information on the whereabouts of this young woman call the FBI’s anonymous tip line—”

“Is there a reward?” Climber whispers almost excitedly, eyes on the screen.

“—Authorities are offering $100,000 dollars to the person who provides enough information to lead up to this dangerous fugitive’s capture.”

“Dangerous fugitive?” hisses Bucky.

“A hundred thousand dollars?” cries Kiwi, “Who the fuck did you piss off?”

You inhale deeply as you wave your hands. “The bigger question is who the fuck knew I was going to The Glass Cannon last night. Because they’re looking for me — not you.”

You point at Bucky and the gears are turning in your head.

The pacing is almost immediate, and Bucky crosses his arms tightly as you begin to walk back and forth behind the full length couch that Climber is currently spread out on.

It’s cut short, though, by Kiwi’s laptop chiming successfully.

“Well,” she stands quickly, “I have a feeling that someone knows you’re onto them. And the facial recognition software just got a match. A three point one, too.”

Your eyes brighten.

You’d given Kiwi the photo of the young Innessa, with all her decorated furs and blonde curls. She’s laughing and she’s young and she’s in love and it’s hard for you to imagine a woman like her to be dangerous. While you’d made sure Bucky was propped up comfortably on the couch and then finally calmed down from the adrenaline high enough to get comfortable yourself, Kiwi had dug out the hard-drive she kept on her at all times and began pulling data from the Alexandria Library files.

It had been a handful of hours, so it was clear that Innessa had hid herself well in the vast, expansive database SHIELD kept for all those years while it was in operation.

Bucky is quick to gather behind Kiwi, eyes scanning the screen.

Sure enough, when you come to look at the photos pulled up on Kiwi’s screen, there’s a hit. There’s an identification card photo of an older woman, maybe in her forties, pulled up alongside the photo Bucky had given you. Her hair is no longer blonde, but deep auburn color. She’s marked as having worked with Rumlow — a supervisor of some sort. Makes sense. You didn’t need to see a picture of Crossbones to remember Brock. Even when you’d interned, he’d been infamous.

And that was when he was one of the good guys.

There’s a handful of other photos of her — candids, professional photos, and even one where she is shaking Tony Stark’s hand.

And in all of them, you see your next door neighbor Bonnie McLayne.

“Fuck.”

Bucky blinks. Kiwi turns to look at you over her shoulder.

Again, you speak. Your eyes are wide. You can’t look away from the screen.

“Fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Rabbit…?”

“Fuck.”

Bucky’s face narrows considerably, confusion melting to make room for realization.

His voice is quiet.

“Do you know her?”

“Oh my god,” you say loudly, shaking your head and blinking, “Oh my fucking god, that’s my neighbor.”

Bucky can feel his whole face go clammy.

“The neighbor who—”

“—Who I showed your fucking picture to,” you nearly shriek, “Like it was some cute little matchmaking game!”

Immediately both hands are over your face as you throw your head back. Now, the pacing has begun, and like you’re being carried on autopilot, you begin to move back and forth and back and forth and—

“You don’t think she’d hurt Poke, do you?”

“Rabbit.”

“Oh god, oh god—”

Oh.

Oh, you’re having a panic attack.

Oh, that was quick. Brutally fast. Nearly immediate.

After all, she knows where your family lives. She gets Holiday cards from mom to give to you. She’s been your closest friend for nearly six years. But she’s not Bonnie, she’s Innessa fucking Sidrova. She’s seen you with Bucky. She knows — she knows a lot and you don’t know anything and you’re miles from home, from Poke, from Mom, from Ana… Oh, god, the baby. The baby.

“The baby.”

Bucky’s voice is level. “Rabbit, you gotta calm down.”

“I have to call my mom.”

“No,” Kiwi snaps immediately, “They’re going to be watching for your cell phone pings. No calls, no texting, none of it. And god forbid this woman is one step ahead of the FBI—”

“Oh, god.”

You gasp like a fish out of water, paralyzing fear sending you to lean against the back of the couch.

You claw at your chest and try to remember what Dr. Hart said about these sorts of moments. Square breathing. In and hold and out and hold. Again and again.

“Sit down,” Bucky says as he returns to your side, nearly sweeping you up long enough to plop you down into the armchair from before, “And do me a favor and breathe.”

The whiskey isn’t helping right now.

“I’m trying.”

Another gasped breath.

Climber and Kiwi watch.

Bucky shakes his head sternly, kneeling on one knee and snagging your hands. “Don’t try. Just do it. You can do it. Just follow my lead — you’re the sidekick, after all. Remember? C’mon. There’s the smile. Breathe.”

So you do.

In, hold. Out, hold. You draw a square with one hand on your jeans and hold onto Bucky’s with the other.

Again, in and hold. Out and hold.

And again.

And then, you just listen to Bucky’s breathing.

You’re not sure how long it takes — half an hour, ten minutes, who knows — but finally you’re able to calm the spiraling thoughts in your head. Finally, the loudness quiets down, you catch your breath, and the world isn’t falling apart. The bite of anxiety still remains in the hollow of your chest and Bucky can see that when you finally open your eyes and squeeze his hand.

There’s that look again between the two of you. The one from before, in the kitchen.

“Good?” he asks quietly, blue eyes swimming with some sort of emotion you can’t really pin down. Not now. Maybe, if you’d been a bit more collected, you would have seen it as infatuation. But, no. It’s just… nice.

You swallow and nod.

“Damn, girl,” says Climber from his spot on the couch, “Now I’m starting to get the whole therapy thing.”

“Thanks, dickhead.”

“That’s recent, isn’t it?” he asks, genuine worry crossing his face as he stands to gently pass a hand over your back, “I don’t remember it ever being this bad.”

Your face is sad. “I was just partying through it back then. Distraction was always the best method and then… When I had no more distractions and it was just me? Alone? And, psh, the accident with Jaimie? It got worse. So much worse.”

Climber’s eyes soften. “I’m sorry, bunny.”

You try to put on a brave face.

Bucky stands from in front of you and begins his own pacing. This one isn’t so much born out of anxious nature — but more of a tactical logic born out of keeping you safe.

This wasn’t exactly the turn he was expecting.

“You didn’t recognize her?” he asks after a moment, voice high and tight.

“I’m sorry,” you wave a hand, exasperated, “She doesn’t exactly look the same as she did in the 70s.”

Kiwi frowns at the screen. “Definitely botox.”

Bucky squints. He looks to you for an explanation.

You vaguely gesture to your face.

His brow lifts, he closes his eyes, and he sighs.

Kiwi is next to pipe up. “It explains why the feds are looking for you, especially if she saw you with the one man she knows is looking to hunt her down — so, I think it’s best the both of you lay low for a couple of days.”

“Not to mention,” Climber wags a finger, “Bucky the Babe over here did just piss off one the smaller Russian crime families in New York. So, there’s always that ontop of the evil Nazi-HYDRA-woman-next-door.”

You groan.

“Poke has enough food for a week,” Bucky says nearly reading your mind, “He’ll be fine.”

“So, what? We just wait here? Until something happens?”

“Sidrova is going to try and bait us out,” Bucky mutters, “She knows she can’t just disappear. She’s been settled for too long and we know too much. Engaging us in an altercation is how she’ll do it. Plus, I have a feeling she wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to shoot me in the knees after a few decades. So, we wait.”

“Few decades?” Kiwi whispers.

“How old are you?” Climber asks.

“Hundred and six.”

Both of them just blink at an unphased Bucky.

You sigh, finally standing on wobbly legs. “This feels like a bad idea. I’m just stating that for the record.”

“Better than her hunting the both of you down,” Kiwi supplies, “You can stay here. There’s cable, there’s booze, and there’s plenty of instant ramen to last you until winter.”

“Stale cereal, too.”

“Wait— where are you two going?” you ask, narrowing your eyes, “You’re leaving?”

“Keeping our hands clean,” Kiwi says, closing her laptop, “And letting you be the sidekick, bunny.”

The sadness in your heart grows a little heavier at those words, but there’s a little bit of pride in Kiwi’s tone. As she stands, she moves to wrap her arms around you in a gentle hug. Quietly, she murmurs into your hair.

“Your dad would be proud of you, y’know.”

Bucky watches.

Climber is next, and that hug is bigger, more brotherly, more like sunshine and less like autumn.

“Don’t be a stranger, Rabbit.”

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out as the two of them gather their belongings, “For dragging you both into this. But, thank you. You didn’t have to help me—”

“Yeah, we did,” Kiwi chirps as she knocks Bucky on the arm three times, “Keep her safe, aakarshak purush.”

The Hindi rolls off her tongue with ease.

Bucky laughs. “Bahut lamba.”

Kiwi pauses mid-step. She narrows her eyes. There’s a smile on her lips. “Your pronunciation isn’t bad.”

He shrugs plainly. “I get lunch almost everyday at the Indian place below my apartment, so. The owner has been teaching me some stuff on the side.”

An approving nod.

Kiwi hucks you the keys across the room.

She points at Bucky.

“I like him. Try not to fuck that up, eh?”

And then, the two of them are gone.

And it’s just you and Bucky in the empty apartment.

#vacant mirrors #bucky x reader #bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barns x you #bucky/reader #winter soldier x reader #mcu imagine #tfatws imagine #A LITTLE LATER THAN PROMISED BUT SHE IS HERE

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queenshelby · 3 years

Text

The Concubine - Part Four

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Warning: Angst, Very Graphic Violence, Domestic Violence, Abuse, Blood

Words: 1,589

Shortly after you left Tommy’s house, Tommy grabbed the telephone and enquired with the directory about where the call was made from.

He had an uneasy feeling about your fiancé, almost like a vision of some sort and, after he found out your fiancé’s address and where the call was made from, Tommy instructed Arthur and Isiah to keep an eye on you and your fiancé and intervene if necessary.

He knew that there were things you were hiding from him, things he didn’t know about you and he never dared to question you about any of it until he overheard how your fiancé spoke to you.

Now, he was suspicious and, for him, it was surprising that you willingly stayed with a man like that. A man who was using abusive language towards you and treated you badly, a man who cheated on you and who had nothing to offer.

***

That same morning, when you arrived at your fiancé’s apartment, he had gone.

There was no note, no nothing and you decided to wait for him patiently.

At around 7 o’clock in the evening, he finally barged through the door and saw you sitting inside the loungeroom with the curtains closed and the fireplace lit.

‘See how it feels having to wait around Sweetheart?’ Steven said sarcastically as he threw his gun onto the loungeroom table and took off his jacket.

‘I am sorry Steven. I had to work’ you explained and Steven was quick to grab your throat with one of his hands, pushing you back against the lounge firmly.

‘Working for fucking gypsies, huh?’ he said harshly before continuing on, his breath smelling like booze and cigarettes. ‘My woman chooses to work for someone else instead of servicing me’ he went on to say before ripping off your blouse harshly, causing the buttons to tumble onto the floor.

‘Steven stop, you are hurting me’ you said as you tried to squirm away, but his hold was too strong.

‘No no no Love, you don’t get to tell me to stop. I want to have some fun with you’ Steven then huffed out.

But, as he held you down, it didn’t take long for him to notice the small bruises on your neck and chest and, without any sort of warning, he pulled you up on your hair and threw you against the coffee table.

‘You are fucking someone else aren’t you, you fucking whore?’ he scolded at you as you hit the table, injuring your chest and stomach on the long edge of the oak.

‘Steven stop, please’ you cried as he again pulled you up on your hair, hit you across the face and dragged you into the kitchen.

As you reached the kitchen, he forced you to lean forward against kitchen table and you knew very well what he would do next.

Fearful and in tears, you leaned forward and held onto the table while Steven removed his belt which, almost in an instant, came flying across your back.

‘Stop, please. I am sorry Steve, please stop’ you cried as he hit you again, harder with each stroke.

‘You want to behave like a whore, huh? Yes?’ he scolded as he hit you again and you began to scream.

‘Well, I need to treat you like a fucking whore then’ he yelled again, hitting you even harder and, by that time you lost count of how many strokes he inflicted on your back until, suddenly, you heard someone kick down the front door.

‘Get the fuck off her you fucking animal, eh’ Arthur shouted, pointing the gun at your fiancé.

‘Who the fuck are you?’ Steven then asked, dropping the belt as he did and you immediately fell to the floor, crying and whining as you barely managed to hold onto one of the legs on the kitchen table.

‘I am Arthur fucking Shelby and you are fucking dead, eh’ Arthur said, pulling back the release mechanism on his gun in readiness to shoot.

‘Don’t’ you yelled out quickly and Arthur lowered the gun.

‘His father will kill my family. Please, don’t shoot’ you pleaded and Arthur waived at Isiah and one of the other gang members who walked over towards your fiancé and restrained him.

‘Listen to me you little fuck, eh. She and her family are under the protection of the Peaky Blinders now and you don’t fuck with the Peaky Blinders. You get this message to whoever the fuck your father is and unless he want’s a war with us, he will back off. Do you understand?’ Arthur explained to Steven before he pulled off his cap and cut him across each side of his face.

‘You will regret this’ Steven shouted in between screams from the pain across his face.

‘I think you haven’t been listening boy. My brother’s orders were to kill you if you harm this woman. You are alive right now because of her mercy but, my brother’s orders will stand if you lay a hand on her again or anyone from her family’ Arthur then said before kicking Steven into his crotch and helping you off the floor.

‘Common Love’ Arthur then said as he placed his coat over you carefully and helped you to his car.

Your back was bruised and bleeding and so was your chest and stomach. Your face was slowly turning purple and your cheek began to swell.

‘We will take you to the hospital Love’ he then said as he lay you down onto the backseat.

‘No hospital’ you said, knowing that the hospital staff will ask questions.

‘Tommy’s house it is then, eh’ Arthur said and you nodded quickly before asking about your parents and sisters.

Arthur asked you where they live and decided to send Isiah and one of the other gang members to their house for protection while Tommy decides what was going to happen.

***

After about twenty minutes, you arrived at Tommy’s house and Francis greeted you quickly when she saw Arthur’s car pull up.

As soon as she saw that you were with him and heavily injured, she ran to get Tommy while calling one of Tommy’s trusted doctors to come to the house.

‘Fuck’ Tommy growled as he saw you. You were barely managing to hold onto Arthur’s shoulders.

‘He did this to her Tommy’ Arthur said as Tommy held onto you and helped you inside while you were still crying, barely able to deal with the pain across your back and stomach.

Without losing any time, Tommy and Arthur placed you to lie down on one of the lounges in the reading room while Francis fetched several towels and some water to clean up your wounds.

‘Tommy, I am sorry’ you said, unsure what you were sorry about. Was it the fact that you had just caused him trouble or that you were ruining his expensive sofa?

‘Don’t Love. There is nothing for you to be sorry about, eh’ Tommy said as he helped Francis to clean you up while Arthur gave him a detailed run down of what had happened at the apartment.

‘Oh my god, fuck’ you growled in pain each time Tommy or Francis touched one of your wounds with the cold wet towels and it was at this point that Tommy pulled out a small brown bottle from his jacket.

‘Drink this. It will make the pain go away’ Tommy said but you pushed his hand away and shook your head.

‘No, I can’t’ you said before another scream escaped your lips.

‘Where does it hurt?’ Tommy then asked as he observed you holding on to your stomach.

‘My stomach, it’s so much pain’ you cried.

‘Sit up. It might be better sitting up. The doctor is on her way, eh’ Tommy said reassuringly as he helped you into an upright position but, just as you sat up straight, you suddenly felt a gush of liquid drenching your skirt.

Instinctively, you reached for your lap with your hands before looking down, seeing your hands and skirt covered in bright red blood.

‘Y/N’ you heard Tommy shout loudly and then again more quietly as your mind went fuzzy and dizzy.

‘Call a fucking ambulance’ Tommy then shouted out to Francis, which was the last thing you could recall before everything in your mind went blank.

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#cillian murphy smut #Tommy Shelby #tommy shelby smut #tommy shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #thomas shelby #thomas shelby smut #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby x y/n #arthur shelby #thomas shelby imagine #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #Cillian Murphy x Reader #cillian murphy #cillian murphy imagine

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tolkien-feels · 3 years

Note

Now you have to tell us your post-Thangorodrim Curufin & Maedhros headcanons, you can't bring that up and not follow through with it

Tagging @twofoursixohjuan who asked this too.

Um, ableism tw with overtones of victim-blaming, and just general post-Angband tw (though nothing graphic), so I'll put this under a cut.

The tl;dr though is that Curufin copes with pity and guilt as well as Feanor copes with grief and loss, which is to say with simmering anger directed at the wrong targets.

Basically, when they last see each other before Maedhros is captured, Curufin respects, almost admires Maedhros. They don't have much in common but they work well as a team, and Maedhros is an authority figure because if Feanor trusts Maedhros to be a mentor to his siblings - which he does - Curufin would see as disloyal to question Maedhros's authority. Which means Curufin looks up to Maedhros as much as he knows how to look up to people who aren't Feanor. If Maedhros says "Jump off that bridge" Curufin says "This is a stupid idea, here is a better one" but he says it as he's walking to said bridge, just in case Maedhros is right. He trusts Maedhros, which is just about the highest degree of love as far as Curufin is concerned.

Now, when Maedhros comes back from Angband, he's permanently changed. First of all, physically. Curufin is bad at looking at Maedhros without feeling sick. He automatically starts coming up with possibilities for how Maedhros got each scar. Remember how Curufin scares the whole of Nargothrond so bad they never go to war again? He manages to do it to himself. He has an entire Angband-themed movie in his head and every second of it increases his horrified guilt. All of Maedhros's brothers feel guilty, of course, but Curufin can't stop looking for minute details the others miss, because paying close attention to vulnerabilities is what he does, and he can't turn this skill off. (He also feels a little bit like he deserves to be horrified, but he's actively pretending he's not feeling that.)

Anyway, although horrible, this would be quite possible to overcome as Maedhros begins to heal, except that the way Maedhros looks becomes a symbol of the psychological changes which Curufin hates even more. There once was the beautiful Maedhros who Curufin loved, and now there's this... stranger who neither looks nor acts like his brother.

You see, the way I headcanon it is sort of a feedback loop. Maedhros is initially uncomfortable around everyone, because his ability to interact with others has been severely impacted by his captivity and everything that entails. But where, say, Maglor is still basically familiar and there's some comfort in that, Curufin has changed a lot in the time Maedhros was in Angband, as his grief over Feanor's death festered into something dark and cruel. He's both cold and volatile now, and Maedhros can't help feeling jumpy around him, because even though he rationally knows that's his brother who wouldn't touch him, he keeps picking up on things like microexpressions and body language and automatically expecting pain. He doesn't want to think Curufin is anything like Sauron but something about the way he smiles when he's frustrated with Maedhros's slow recovery is eerie.

Curufin, who reads people so well, as I've mentioned, keeps in turn picking up on Maedhros's fear of him, and that makes him feel all sorts of things he can't cope with, so he turns it all into anger, because - like Feanor - anger is how Curufin handles every negative emotion.

And this sort of reaction makes Maedhros even jumpier and pushes things past what he can mostly disguise, and watching Maedhros go pale because Curufin raised his voice slightly only makes Curufin feel worse, and he begins to rationalize it as Morgoth having broken Maedhros, which turns into victim-blaming very fast. And yes, broken is very much the word he uses in his head. I have yet to think of a situation that could make him say that to Maedhros's face but I think Maedhros gets the idea even if he never actually hears the word.

Anyway, what I'm getting at is that Curufin just doesn't know how to both pity and respect someone at the same time. He really, really wishes Maedhros had died instead, because revenge is something he knows how to deal with. Watching his brother try to relearn everything from how to use a sword to how not to flinch at random noises is... something which requires empathy Curufin is scared of even trying to employ. He'll blame every being in Angband, he will blame Maglor for not acting, he will blame Fingon for not having broken rank sooner, he will blame Maedhros for not being omnipotent, he's even once blamed Feanor for dying, but he just cannot face the situation in any way that isn't just about picking targets for his anger.

What Curufin really wants is to destroy things until Maedhros isn't hurting anymore, but you can't destroy your way into healing, and the powerlessness is just driving him crazy. So it's easier to tell himself that Maedhros is a pathetic shadow of his former self, all the pride of their House gone. However, if anything, Maedhros is handling the pain of it all better than Curufin is, if only because he's facing it while Curufin is running the other way.

So long story short, initially, Maedhros looks at Curufin and feels fear, and Curufin looks at Maedhros and feels pain. That doesn't last forever, but it lasts enough to positively destroy the relationship they used to have. And then even when they can look at each other without hating everything, they find out they have irreconcilable worldviews and goals. They both want to fulfill the Oath and they both want to be productive as they bide their time to get their revenge, but they can't find any common ground whatsoever wrt what that means. Of course, by then Feanorians are used to disagreements, but while everybody accepted Maglor's authority (often unhappily, but they did), Curufin simply can't bring himself to obey Maedhros anymore without fighting him every step of the way, which they both find exhausting and pointless. As much as they can, they basically spend the rest of their lives staying out of each other's way, and only come together if they can find a common goal. Don't get me wrong, they still love each other and would jump in front of a balrog for each other, but if they can possibly avoid being alone in a room together, they absolutely will

#ableism tw #in a vague and probably canon-typical way but this could be triggering anyway

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danses-with-dogmeat · 3 years

Note

Hey I love your blog! If it isn’t too much trouble, could you do one of the companions reacting to Sole getting an unsolicited dick pic?

FO4 Companions React to Sole Receiving an Unsolicited Dick Pic

So I know the ask said one of the companions, but I just did 'em all cuz I got carried away (as I always seem to). This was definitely an interesting one to think about, and suuuuper fun to write. Thanks for the ask!

I ended up doing a little scenario at the top that'll apply to all of the reactions, and just kind of give context for the fateful event to take place (since phones/the internet aren't really a canon element in FO, I put this scenario together instead.)

Given the nature of this ask, there's a just bit of NSFW under the cut!

Sole had woken up like any other day. Heading down the stairs of their Diamond City home to make breakfast, trying to be quiet in order to keep from disturbing their companion in the other room. However, as they passed their front door, they noticed something peeking out of the mail slot.

The paper isn't meant to come out until tomorrow...

Curious, Sole reached for the little white square of photo paper, and noticed some writing in the corner. There was an address and the words, "if you like what you see, meet me here tonight," accompanied by a little arrow pointing to flip the photo over. Their intrigue got the better of them, and Sole did as the writing suggested, turning it over for a brief second before immediately regretting it. They recoiled at the phallic image, their surprise evident in the small yelp they uttered in response to the sight before them.

They heard their companion stir from the other room, and then their footsteps sounded from behind as they approached questioningly.

"What have you got there?" They asked.

"Oh, it's nothing," Sole said, turning to face them, "just some mail, is all." Sole's words dripped with distaste, and yet... they felt an overwhelming need to share their unsightly discovery with the person in front of them.

"Wanna see?" They asked, mercilessly turning the picture so their companion could clearly make out the offensive image.

Cait:

*scoffs*

"What, they think that's somethin' te brag about? The damn thing's so wee, I almost couldn't make it out." She'd say with a smile, offering up her hand so she could take the picture and tear it in half. Cait effectively would make the decision for her companion in regards to the comment on the back of the photo. She knows this type of man, and she'd be sure that Sole wouldn't be meeting the asshole anywhere tonight. However, should she be able to sneak away while Sole is sleeping... Cait might just pay a visit to the specified location, where she'd surely give that asshole a piece of her mind, and at least one taste of her fist.

Curie:

Her eyebrows would furrow, and the synth would cock her head to the side in her confusion. Being locked away in a vault with three men for so many years, acting as their doctor, meant she had seen her fair share of the male sex organ. But now, Curie was confused, why did this man feel the need to send Sole a photograph of his penis? Was there something wrong with it? Did he want them to examine it? Sole was not a doctor...

"Why 'ave you received zhis, madame/monsieur? What does zhis man want from you?"

Once Sole explained, Curie would be quite upset by the concept.

"But... you did not ask for zhis, did not want it, and yet, he sent it anyway. Why would you want to meet someone like zhat? It seems very rude to me." She's still confused about it, and may ask a few more questions. Has this happened to Sole before? Does it happen often? Does anyone actually like to see such things when they are unprompted like this? If not, then why do these men continue to do it?

The scientist just wants answers.

Danse:

The soldier would physically recoil at the sight of the photograph, eyebrows raised high as he took in the image, before jerking his head and eyes away from Sole and the picture altogether.

"That-- that is highly inappropriate and an overwhelmingly vile display." He would say once he recovered from his initial shock, still refusing to look back towards Sole, "I suggest you dispose of that filth immediately. Why anyone would reveal themselves in such an unceremonious fashion is beyond me. You would do well to forget such graphic imagery. I know that I will certainly try."

He wouldn't even entertain the idea that Sole would go through with meeting the man behind the picture, but in the off chance that they decided to tell him they wanted to, Danse would spend the remainder of the day convincing them otherwise. He would almost be tempted to go to the location himself in order to lecture the man for his crude and inexcusable behavior, and blatant disrespect to his companion, but in the end, he decides that the man is not worth his time.

Deacon:

Ginger eyebrows would raise slightly over the frames of the glasses for the briefest of moments before he recovered his cool demeanor.

"Ah shoot, did the postman just put it right back into the mail slot? Didn't mean for you to see that, my bad. Here, I'll just deliver it myself."

The sarcasm was evident in his voice as he strode forward and plucked the photo from Sole's hand, examining it for just a moment, and grimacing a bit at the sight.

"Man, Dr. Rich Cockwood does not photograph well. I swear, it's bigger in person." He'd wink at them before glancing down at the picture again, scrutinizing blue eyes pausing to peruse the words on the back as he folded the paper up to put into his pocket. He'd quickly change the subject, trying to keep Sole's mind off the whole thing as he devised a way to sneak out that night and get some intel on the asshole who decided it was a wise idea to put Sole in this position.

Hancock:

*Squints*

"Oh shit. Looks like you've got an admirer there, Sole. " In his sleepy state, it took Hancock a minute to figure out what he was even looking at. Upon realizing that it was, in fact, what he thought it had been, he takes the picture from Sole's grasp and flips it around to glance at the back.

"Look at that, you've even got a date tonight. Must be somewhere romantic, I can tell this guy's old school." He nodded, flipping the photo over to glance once again at the offensive imagery on the front. "Yeah, real traditional, I'd say. Hmm... Mind if I tag along? Could be fun." There was a certain sort of glint in the ghoul's eye that made Sole's spine tingle.

Perhaps neither of us should go... Sole thought, noticing how Hancock's other hand toyed absentmindedly with his combat knife as he furrowed his brows at the photo one last time, before shoving the paper into the pocket of his coat. There was a certain sort of intent behind his actions that made Sole re-think even showing him the image in the first place. Hancock had killed people over less; that, Sole knew for sure.

MacCready:

"Ahh! What the heck are you doing?! I don't need to see that!" He'd squeeze his eyes shut just as soon as he was able to make out the photo, shoving his hands in front of him as though they would be able to push the image out of his mind.

"It's too early for this, what the heck is that guy's problem?" MacCready shuddered as he pulled his hands slowly from where they covered his eyes, glancing quickly at Sole before lowering them down completely, a relieved expression on his face as realized the picture was no longer in his line of sight. Noting his dramatic reaction, Sole considered toying with the mercenary a bit. They asked him what was wrong with the image, stating that perhaps they would pay this man a visit tonight. It had been so long since they had been out on a date, might as well go for it, right?

MacCready's eyes would simultaneously furrow, and widen at their words as he stuttered, finally finding his voice after a moment of shocked, choked silence.

"What?!" He exclaimed, "You're not seriously thinking of going, are you? That guy seems like such an ass-- Well, he just-- I mean..." He took a breath, and Sole had to bite their lip to hold back their grin. "Look, not that it's really any of my business or anything, but... don't you think you could do better than that guy? Like... a lot better?"

Sole couldn't hold back their grin any longer, but MacCready wouldn't meet their gaze. Instead he looked down at the floor, rubbing at the back of his neck with one hand, a nearly unnoticeable blush spreading over his cheeks.

"That guy just seems like a real jerk, and you? Well... Yeah, you deserve better than that, I think." He finished rather awkwardly, finally looking up to meet Sole's gaze before returning their coy smile.

Nick:

The synth would a have a brief moment of raised eyebrows as he took in the details of the photograph, and then the inevitable scowl of disappointment would spread across his face.

"You know, you'd think this guy would understand that no one in their right mind wants to see that particular... angle. You don't think that's his good side, do ya?" Sole would smile a bit at that, and as the synth turned to walk away from the offensive image, they told him about the writing on the back.

"Hey now, wait a minute. You're not thinking of paying this guy a visit, are ya? If so, that's a pretty poor decision on your part, I think."

Sole would shake their head, telling Nick not to worry as he fixed his inquiring yellow gaze on them. He nodded in response, seeming satisfied by their answer. In the next moment, a thought seemed to claim his attention.

"Hmm... I think I might just know the perp, actually. Ellie's got a few reports back at the office mentioning some similar events. Guess it's possibly one of the guards on night duty who goes around with these to see if he gets any takers."

Sole almost spoke up, but as they opened their mouth, Nick's words seemed to take their idea straight from their head. "On second thought..." He said, "You got any plans for this evening?"

Piper:

"Ahh! Blue! Why would you show me that!?" She'd physically cover her eyes with her hands, taking a few steps back and away from the picture for good measure.

"Look, I don't care what you do with it," she'd tell them, "just don't let me see it again!"

Sole would thankfully oblige, but before disposing of the image, they showed Piper the writing on the back. At the sight of the man's suggestion, Piper snatched the photo from Sole's hand, glaring at it furiously.

"Ohhhh no he doesn't. If he's sent crap like this to anybody else, I'm going to make sure no one falls for this."

And Piper kept her word, as the next morning's addition of Publik Occurrences contained a small piece written on exactly this subject, titled: To the Asshole who sent the Sad Little Picture to a Disgusted Citizen; No One Wants to See That! Sincerely, Everyone who has.

Preston:

"O-- oh! Um, that's-- okay. That's just wrong. Do you want me to get rid of it for you?"

Preston's face would wrinkle up in his clear distaste before bringing a a hand up to shield his eyes. When Sole had lowered the picture, he removed his hand, and looked them in the eye, refusing to pay the photo any more attention, but extending his hand out to take it from them so he could dispose of it properly.

"Are you... okay? I can't believe how rude some people are. Who would want to see that?" He'd flash a sympathetic smile at them, as he folded up the photo and prepared to throw it away. He didn't read the back himself, but if they told him about the words that were written there, he wouldn't even entertain the idea of Sole going, just shaking his head in disappointment at the man's poor and rude way of trying in vain to woo his General.

"Some people... The nerve. If you don't mind me saying, General, you deserve much better than that anyway."

X6-88:

His eyes would be locked to Sole's, but as they presented the photo to him, his gaze would fall to the image, and an ever so slight furrowing of his brows would take place above his silver eyes. A brief moment would pass, and X6's gaze would be back on his companion's face.

"Ma'am/ sir, why did you feel the need to show me this?" He's also quite confused, this was not a common occurrence in the Institute, and once Sole gave him an explanation, his expression would remain blank. For the most part, anyway. A small huff of laughter would escape him, prompting Sole to be the one giving him the questioning look now.

"If this filthy wastelander believes he can disrespect the future director of the Institute without facing consequences, he is sorely mistaken." He said, his gaze unbroken as he made Sole this promise, "Don't worry, I will take care of this filth at the specified meeting time and location. You will not hear from him again."

He doesn't necessarily intend to kill the man for his unseemly behavior; X6 is a courser after all, and he knew this man would be scared shitless if X6 were to so much as look at him the wrong way, but should the man make any... poor decisions in response to the courser's confrontation, well... certainly X6 can't be held responsible for the behavior, or the fate, of a mere stranger now, could he? Especially after his heinous actions.

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