#but may have lapsed. apologies.

[stonelions]

aka a selection of meticulously chosen (lol) tunes that have inspired me during the writing process of If Only Maybe and Then, which also happen to communicate some of Cas' assorted feelings about his biggest crush in like, forever. mp3s (for your ipod!! lmao) zipped in suggested listening order on drive here: making any sound

#i tried to keep it to 2021&prior to preserve THE TIMELINE #but may have lapsed. apologies. #audio #fanfic #if only maybe and then #untitled neighbours au #lemme know if the dl does anything funky #castiel #spn #destiel

[dduane]

Found in the ask box this AM

”I've been playing with [a major AI-driven chat bot] and I asked it to write a young wizards fanfic that contains dialogue. ...I wish i could paste it here, but the character limit won't let me.”

(hiding eyes)

(a) Once more, the reminder: please, please don't send me story ideas or fics set in my universes. Reading them would expose me legally in ways I can't permit. If such things turn up in my ask box, I delete them unread. If through a lapse of concentration or some similar error I find myself mistakenly reading a story idea or fic, I am required to make a note of it for legal purposes, and then can never use those ideas in my own writing, ever, anywhere.

So please understand that sending me a story idea or a fic set in my universes (or others where I write) will guarantee that the idea never happens in my work. It may seem paradoxical and/or counterintuitive, but if you have an idea that you wish I'd do something with, the odds of that happening are significantly increased by you making sure that I never see it.

(This, BTW, is one of the reasons I had to close my ask box to anon asks; some repeat offenders were making it impossible for me to protect myself... as when people refuse to stop sending me such things, I block them. My apologies to all the well-intentioned would-be nonnies out there—but the actions of some of you have destroyed an avenue of access for everybody else.)

(b) Please do not purposefully expose my IPs to the attention of any AI/LLM-based chat platform, anywhere. Unscrupulous whole-book AI-oriented scraping has stolen enough of my stuff already this year. (As my search of the Books3 pirated books database, widely used for AI training, shows here.) It's infuriating enough that bad actors have taken my writing and will be using the expertise inherent in it to put other living, breathing writers out of work. Please don't help them do more of that.

(sigh) Thanks.

#AI training #AI #theft #training without consent #copyright violation

[edenmemes]

baldur's gate 3 starters (part 2)

part 2 / ? .

❝ i’m also worried about me, but i somehow seem to be worried about you more. ❞ ❝ you put the stars to shame. let’s sit here a little while - i want to drink you in. ❞ ❝ i’d tell you not to get in trouble, but i suspect it will find you whether you like it or not. ❞ ❝ well, this seems as good a time as any for me to stop babbling on. ❞ ❝ i just….need some air…clear my head. ❞ ❝ it’s been a long time since i shed a tear. i don’t even know how long. ❞ ❝ i had a feeling you’d show up. it’s sort of our thing. like it’s fate or something. ❞ ❝ i do appreciate your enthusiasm, but let's try to restrain ourselves a little. ❞ ❝ if that was an attempt at flirting, i should let you know i prefer the strong, silent type. ❞ ❝ no matter how far you come, you’re still on the road to ruin. ❞ ❝ i thought you a hunter. wrong. you’re prey - small. snivelling. pathetic. ❞ ❝ and what am i owed? what about the injustices i’ve suffered - am i not entitled to anything? ❞ ❝ i can’t help but feel the strangest twinge of disgust as i look upon you. ❞ ❝ i trust that you will continue to remember who is really on your side. ❞ ❝ better a short life built on truth than immortality woven of lies. ❞ ❝ i won’t make excuses. i can’t make amends. but i want to help, if you’ll let me. ❞ ❝ gods, it’s horrifying…and a touch fascinating. ❞ ❝ there are many names for you --- and all of them inspire dread. ❞ ❝ destiny is at your door; won’t you at least twitch the curtain? ❞ ❝ the gravest crimes committed in this world are committed for love. a hunger crueller than bloodlust. ❞ ❝ you’ve got a backbone, and the makings of a leader. ❞ ❝ revenge sounds so sweet until you’ve taken it. then all you have is…no one left to blame. ❞ ❝ some mistakes can’t be resolved with an apology. some mistakes, you have to carry with you, forever. ❞ ❝ you’re plotting something, aren’t you? come on then - out with it. ❞ ❝ this is not good, if i may state the obvious. ❞ ❝ think of all we’ve been through just to get to this moment. that wasn’t luck. that was us. ❞ ❝ feel like i should laugh but i’m just too godsdamned tired. ❞ ❝ there is something i lost…no, had taken from me. i want it all back. ❞ ❝ careful - you’re in very real danger of hurting my feelings. ❞ ❝ one thing i’ve learned - real saviours never label themselves as such. ❞ ❝ less thinking of bad thoughts, and more breaking of bad bones. ❞ ❝ i rather like interfering. it’s kind of my thing. ❞ ❝ evil is evil, even if it once was innocent. ❞ ❝ you know, i've been catching myself smiling more lately. i think that's your fault.. ❞ ❝ oh, i’m no innocent. but evil? you tell me. ❞ ❝ i still want to believe you’re better than that. but even i am having my doubts. ❞ ❝ i can’t afford to lose my nerve. safer to just not think, and keep forging ahead. ❞ ❝ when all this is over, will you stay with me? for good? ❞ ❝ this is not good, if i may state the obvious. ❞ ❝ is there a reason you're always such an utter drip? do you have some sort of condition? honestly, it's like you hate good news. ❞ ❝ all of nature’s beauty pales in comparison to you. ❞ ❝ i can’t save you from yourself. it hurts terribly, but i can’t. ❞ ❝ if i seem suddenly flush with hope and soft feeling, you have only yourself to blame. ❞ ❝ is there good and evil within us all? ❞

❝ i’ve been watching you fight. your skills are improving. ❞ ❝ you know, for all the sense of dread and horror seeping through this place, i really feel quite at home here. ❞ ❝ and you? you’re wholly without vice or sin or the occasional lapse in judgement? ❞ ❝ i wager you don’t even know how extraordinary you truly are. but i do. ❞ ❝ one might say you’re paragon of luck. i’ll be there when it runs out. ❞ ❝ i've always had a soft spot for the confident ones…they always disappoint though. ❞ ❝ i concealed nothing from you. i simply left out the details that were not pertinent. ❞ ❝ you’re an odd friend. but, i suppose, a friend still. ❞ ❝ i won’t let you do this. i won’t let you win. ❞ ❝ you are my puppet. make no mistake. without me, you have no value. ❞ ❝ well, this seems like a lovely little spot. the sense of impending doom aside. ❞ ❝ whoever your enemies are, they have good reason to fear you. ❞ ❝ this place is astonishing, a bard’s tale made real. ❞ ❝ i may not regret my actions, but i do regret that they were necessary. ❞ ❝ experience has taught me that no matter how bleak things look, there’s always hope. ❞ ❝ if this adventure has taught me anything, it’s that there are things in this world more valuable than power. ❞ ❝ a wise man learns from his mistakes, and strives not to repeat them. ❞ ❝ no more hiding things from me. agreed? ❞ ❝ my friend. my companion. i adore you. ❞ ❝ your face is sour. by all means leave, if i am so distasteful. ❞ ❝ careful, it’s dark around here. would be a terrible shame to lose you forever. ❞ ❝ you startled me. i…i was miles away. ❞ ❝ you have to know who i was. you have to know who i really am. ❞ ❝ nothing special, of course. you’re only the first person who i truly care for. ❞ ❝ you’ve got a backbone, and the makings of a leader. ❞ ❝ anything you ask, i’ll answer as honestly as i can. ❞

#roleplay starters #roleplay meme #rp starters #rp meme

[pitconfirm]

did u say hurt and comfort

okay... posting this is a bit out of my comfort zone but i will be nice 😇 but beware it was written in one very sad sitting after the race so may be a little... rough. and venty. just 1500 words of strollonso rambling:

Lance often isn’t a creature of nuance, and certainly never of subtlety. There are two distinct sides to him, sharply and overtly separated. He can be loud, cheeky, confident, shameless. That’s the Lance most people know, and most people unduly hate; misinterpreting his behaviour as bratty and petulant. But there’s a flip side—the quiet, self-conscious, shy Lance. That’s the Lance in Fernando’s bed tonight. Well, their bed. Lance’s hotel room is always more of a cover-up than a living space these days. 

They’ve been here before, and Fernando has seen it all—crashes, tears, anger, and apologies. Mostly apologies. Despite whatever bullshit narrative the media might prefer, Lance is sorely self-critical, often to the point of detriment. To the point where he can’t even celebrate his highs because he’s too caught up thinking what more he could’ve done. Every corner, every gear shift, every blink. So, the shyness doesn’t come as much of a surprise tonight. 

Things like these happen. Mistakes and lapses of concentration are a cruel part of racing. But things like these are never just things like these for Lance. His last name cracks open an entirely different can of hatred. The type of bias and cruelty that makes Fernando’s skin burn, hot and angry. He calms himself, keeping his composure for Lance’s sake. 

“Hey, Lancey…” he whispers, kind and gentle; climbing onto the bed after getting back from the debrief that Lance chose not to attend. Lance is sat on top of the sheets and still in his race gear, as though the effort of changing would be too much in his sorrowful state. He gives Fernando nothing but a shy smile, averting his gaze and shuffling uncomfortably under the attention.

“Where are you?” Fernando asks, waving a hand in front of his distant eyes; big, brown, and damp. It snaps Lance back into focus, making eye contact in that way of his—where he tilts his head down and looks up, as if wanting to make himself smaller. He has a terrible habit of making himself out to be less than he truly is. 

“Right here, silly,” he giggles, but it’s not right. It’s a sad and blatantly performative sound—a failed attempt to dissipate Fernando’s concern. To anyone with the gift naivety, it might be convincing, but Fernando knows Lance better than that. He knows the good and the bad; the pride and the guilt. The little things that nobody else sees (except maybe Esteban, but Fernando tries not to think about that bastard too often). 

He takes Lance’s hands in his palms, not missing the slight tremble. “Talk to me,” he says, trying to coax Lance out of his shell of indifference.  It stings, but it’s necessary; like pressing down on a pinprick to stop it from bruising. Burying the pain will only hurt him more in the long run. 

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Lance shrugs, sweetly stubborn. He turns away and pulls his hands from Fernando’s grasp, and Fernando tries his best not to take it personally. “Besides, I probably wouldn’t have scored points, anyway.” 

“Ay!” Fernando gasps suddenly, face serious. He grabs the hands back more firmly this time—he can be stubborn, too. “You don’t talk like that. Not to me.” 

“Like what?” Lance giggles again, nervously, breathily; his eyes caught on their hands where they’re trapped together on Fernando’s thigh. “I’m just being realistic. It’s what everybody says.” 

Fernando feels the bitter rage bubble again. “What who says?” he asks intensely while squeezing Lance’s hands tighter. Compliantly, Lance lets it happen; hands loose but unmoving in Fernando’s palms. 

“Y’know…” he drawls, disappointedly casting his gaze to the phone discarded beside him on the bed. “Everybody.” 

Fernando sighs internally; trying not to roll his eyes lest Lance interprets it the wrong way. He lets go of his hands to grab the item, quickly typing in Lance’s password. On the screen is the last thing Lance was looking at—searching his fucking name on Twitter. Idiot. It’s all cruel, and brutal; full of every nasty word that can spit on Lance’s identity. 

“You need to delete this silly app. Full of people who don’t know what they’re saying…” he mutters, shaking his head and taking the initiative to delete it himself. He dreads the thought of all of his own ‘fans’ tearing Lance apart, as if he and Lance aren’t one and the same nowadays. An inseparable entity. 

“It’s the same on every fucking app,” Lance says. He sounds annoyed, but at least that’s better than hiding himself away. “You can look on Instagram, or TikTok, or—”

Fernando gently grabs Lance’s jaw, tilting his face to force eye contact. “Then just look at me, yes? Nothing else. Just me, and you.” 

He stares Lance down, watching him try to battle away the pain. Lance always does these tiny movements with his face that give everything away; nervous flicks of his eyes and sad twitches of his brows. There’s another attempt at a smile, but after a few moments, his facade cracks and quickly morphs into a frown. A sad, broken look; brows furrowing more and more until he chokes on a sob. The floodgates open, and like the flick of a switch, the sob turns into wet, hurried cries. 

“Shhh,” Fernando soothes, quickly wrapping both arms around Lance and pulling him into his chest—making him feel small like he needs to sometimes. “It’s okay…” he whispers, stroking a hand up and down Lance’s sweat-sticky back, heaving with uneven cries. “You are okay.” 

Lance shakes his head against Fernando’s neck, tears damp on his skin.

“No? Not okay?”

At that, he nods; a wordless but sincere admission.

“Okay. That’s okay.” 

Fernando sits through it with him, holding him tight until the rapid, shameful sobs turn into slow chokes, then into quiet sniffles. The shake in his body slows to a slight tremble, like the purr of a cat, but certainly not so pleasant. More like a shivering kitten left out in the cold. 

“Let’s get you out of these clothes, yes?” he whispers against Lance’s ear, tugging at his race gear. Lance nods with another wet sniffle, pulling away from Fernando’s neck to look him in the eye. Fernando could cry himself at the sight of him—all wet eyes and red cheeks, broken by the unfairness of a sport that doesn’t love him like he deserves. It doesn’t love him like Fernando does. 

He tugs Lance around like an oversized dog that thinks it’s still a puppy, defying his stature to half-carry him to the bathroom. Lance is still distant, too tired to put up any fuss as Fernando sits him on the edge of the tub and undresses him piece by piece; whispering praise and gently kissing his skin as he goes until Lance is bare and shivering. 

“Stand for me, baby,” he requests. It takes Lance a moment to register what he’s heard, but once he gets it, he stands up immediately on two wobbly legs; always so eager to please, even in moments like these. It hurts, knowing how desperately Lance wants to be good, and how a race like this makes him feel like he isn’t. But he’ll always be good—always Fernando’s good boy. So good that it doesn’t make sense why he’d want a cruel and tainted man like Fernando in the first place. 

They shower, warm and steamy, with most of Lance’s weight resting on Fernando. But Fernando holds him, despite his own body being lethargic from the race. He massages Lance’s shoulders, and his flat chest where the impact of the seatbelts must ache from the crash. It’s part of the sport—it’s what they sign up for—but now, being with Lance, Fernando understands why his parents get so concerned every time he gets in the car. Every bump and collision of Lance’s makes Fernando consider turning to religion just to pray for him to get out in one piece.

“I’m sorry,” Lance whispers later; sitting on the bed as Fernando towel dries his hair. It’s longer now than it has been since they got together, curling up at his nape and getting caught in his eyes. Fernando brushes it away for him with a gentle, affirmative pat on the cheek. 

“What you are sorry for?” he asks, stroking Lance’s jaw; a thumb rubbing back and forth on his pouty bottom lip. 

“I shouldn’t be so…” he looks away, embarrassed. “Weak. Didn’t wanna bother you.”

Weak is the last word Fernando thinks of when he looks at Lance. He sees commitment—Lance’s hunger to succeed and pain when he loses. But never weakness. No, Lance might be the strongest man Fernando knows. 

“Lance… the only thing that bothers me is when you lie to me. When you pretend you are okay,” he says with a degree of honesty he never knew he was capable of. It feels like Lance was put on earth to bring these things out of him—the good he didn’t know was there, nestled under his sheath of utter badness. “I would do this every day if I needed to.” 

“Yeah?” Lance asks—quiet, melodic, and tender. A smile perks back on his face, small and hardly there, but there nonetheless. A real smile this time. 

“Yeah. Anything you need.” 

The smile grows, and Fernando knows they’ll be alright. Lance will come back stronger like he always does. Like the perfect boy he is. 

#i don't usually write this stuff so it might not be the best #but it’s better being mediocre here than rotting in my drafts 🙏 #strollonso #my fic #willing myself not to delete this immediately

[rainystarters]

๋࣭ ⭑𓆩✧𓆪🗡ྀ࿔ 〖 and other stories . . . 〗 a collection of dialogue + action prompts inspired by angela carter's the bloody chamber and other stories. some prompts usfw. add +reversed for the muse receiving the meme to perform the action instead. adjust details as necessary.

dialogue :

are you sure you want to marry him?

oh! how you must want me!

soon.

i had never been vain until i met you.

anticipation is the greater part of pleasure.

all the better to see you.

what is that key? the key to your heart?

every man must have one secret, even if only one, from his wife.

all is yours, everywhere is open to you.

but now... what shall i do now?

my darling, i cannot wait for the moment when you make me yours completely.

there is a striking resemblance between the act of love and the ministrations of a torturer.

you are in some great distress.

any bride brought to a castle should come ready dressed in mourning.

oh god. i can smell the blood.

i thought all these were old wives' tales, chattering of fools, spooks to scare bad children into good behavior!

can't it wait until morning, my darling?

who can say what i deserve or no?

i've done nothing; but that may be sufficient reason for condemning me.

i have a place prepared for your exquisite corpse upon my display of flesh.

good fellow? i am no good fellow.

forgive me for robbing your garden!

all she wanted, in the whole world, was one white, perfect rose.

and what else was there to be done?

they are the death of any tender herbivore.

so late! you will want sleep.

you will come back to me? it will be lonely here, without you.

i will come back. soon, before the winter is over.

i am sick and i must die.

if you'll have me, i'll never leave you.

i think i might be able to manage a little breakfast today.

i have lost my pearl, my pearl beyond price.

if you are so careless of your treasure, you should expect them to be taken from you.

for all my pride, my heart is heavy.

if you wish to give me money, then i should be pleased to receive it.

i shall twist a noose out of my bed linen and hang myself with it.

you are a woman of honor.

nothing human lives here.

we have dispensed with servants.

take off my clothes for you, like a ballet girl? is that all you want of me?

all cats are cynics.

you read my thoughts, my love.

the woods enclose. the wood swallows you up.

all will fall still, all lapse.

it is easy to lose yourself in these woods.

i thought that nobody was in the wood but me.

there are some eyes can eat you.

sometimes the birds, at random, all singing, strike a chord.

eat me, drink me.

dive in and fetch it for me.

now you are at the place of annihilation.

and she is herself a cave full of echoes, she is a system of repetitions, she is a closed circuit.

can a bird sing only the song it knows or can it learn a new song?

beauty is a symptom of disorder, of soullessness.

a single kiss woke up the sleeping beauty in the wood.

be he alive or be he dead.

coffee. you must have coffee.

welcome. welcome to my chateau.

i rarely receive visitors and that's a misfortune since nothing animates me half as much as the presence of a stranger.

this place is so lonely.

now the village is deserted.

often i am so silent that i think i, too, will soon forget how to do so and nobody will ever talk any more.

i must apologize for the lack of light.

you have such a fine throat, like a column of marble.

i am condemned to solitude and dark.

i do not mean to hurt you.

i will be very gentle.

and could love free me from the shadows?

i've been waiting for you in my wedding dress, why have you delayed for so long.

you will feel no pain, my darling.

so delicate and damned, poor thing. quite damned.

the end of exile is the end of being.

it is a northern country; they have cold weather, they have cold hearts.

the devil is as real as you or i.

do not leave the path.

you are always in danger in the forest.

they are as unkind as plague.

fear and flee the wolf; for, worst of all, the wolf may be more than he seems.

besides, aren't you afraid of the wolves?

actions :

clasp. from behind, the sender places their hands over the receiver's eyes.

opera. through opera glasses, the sender watches the receiver.

choker. the sender fastens a gemstone necklace around the receiver's neck.

carriage. the sender locks the receiver in with them in their train compartment.

spine. the sender presses a kiss to the back of the receiver's bare neck.

cigar. the sender leans in and blows smoke in the receiver's face.

ermine. the sender wraps the furs around the receiver tighter as the snow falls.

keys. the sender silently enters the room and listens to the receiver play piano.

harem. the sender undresses the receiver before a collection of mirrors.

lazy. the sender brings the receiver breakfast in bed.

call. the sender calls the receiver and bursts into tears upon hearing their voice.

note. the sender discovers a love letter sent to the receiver from a previous lover.

death. the sender finds the receiver with the body of their latest victim.

hospitality. the sender watches from the shadows as the receiver take refuge from a storm in the sender's seemingly abandoned home.

servant. invisible, the sender feeds/washes/cares for the receiver.

hearth. the sender and the receiver talk past midnight by the fire's light.

hands. the sender falls to their knees before the receiver and kisses their hands.

bouquet. the sender has a hundred white roses sent to the receiver.

reunion. the sender lays eyes upon the receiver for the first time in an age.

bad luck. the sender hangs their head having lost a bet to the receiver.

voice. the sender sends their valet to speak their desires to the receiver.

powder. the sender dresses/makes up the receiver before an important night.

stallion. the sender grabs the reins of the receiver's horse and leads them away.

weep. the sender cries at the sight of the receiver in such a state.

dry. the sender brushes a tear from the receiver's cheek.

flush. the sender pinches the receiver's skin, watching it redden with blood.

prey. the sender guides the receiver's hands as together they skin a rabbit.

song. the sender sings and the receiver is spellbound, their feet following their song's command.

caught. the sender locks the receiver into a cage.

green. by the sender's command, the growth begins to take over the receiver.

tarot. the sender tells the receiver they are doomed to a sad fate.

stain. the sender touches the bloodstain on the receiver's white negligée.

wild. the sender rides hard through the night, chasing the receiver.

thirst. the sender sinks their teeth into the neck of the receiver.

china. the sender pours tea for the receiver and offers them biscuits.

blemish. the sender explores the receiver's skin and finds the mark of a witch.

wolf. the wolf reveals themself to be the sender before the receiver.

muzzle. the sender kisses the monstrous mouth of the receiver.

#rp memes #action rp memes #fantasy rp memes #rp sentence starters #sentence starters #rp prompts #rp starters #action prompts

[all-mirth-no-matter]

Time After Time | Chapter Ten

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Reader, Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Summary: Madam Despoina gives you a little more insight, as well as a significant gift.

Warning: language, alcohol, smoking, ethnic slur

ao3 link | catch up on tumblr here

Chapter 10: Curses

This tired old machine is a-rumbling (oh my, oh my). Singing songs to the secrets behind my eyes (oh my, oh my). All my aching bones are trembling, and I may yet fall apart. Won’t you stay with me, my darling, when the war starts in my heart? Oh ashes, ashes, dust to dust. The devil’s after both of us. Oh, lay my curses out to rest, make a mercy out of me.  — Curses, The Crane Wives

“His name was Dimitris.”

You frowned at Madam Despoina’s first words to you after she entered the caravan. 

“May I sit?”

Instead of replying, Tommy moved to grab the chair against the wall and sat it next to the fireplace, offering his hand to assist her down. 

The old woman thanked him as she sat, lifting her head back to you. Her worn voice was solemn, tired even, as she went on. 

“Dimitris joined my camp some odd years ago, having traveled from the old country. For most of his time with us, he was a good man — hard worker, good soldier, did what he was told. Recently, he became more aggressive. First it was with the women, then fighting amongst the men. When I discovered that he’d been selling information and stealing… well, I displayed a lapse in judgment with my punishment. He was banished, with a threat of death if he returned. Apparently, he still has friends in the camp. They informed him of your arrival, of your importance. I believe he snuck in during the bustle of preparation—”

“He escorted us into the camp,” Tommy pointed out, interrupting. “He escorted us to your wagon.”

The Madam’s face remained unchanged, her eyes not leaving yours while addressing Tommy. 

“A breech that I am investigating with serious severity, Mr. Shelby, I assure you.”

“He dead?” His question made your gaze move from her to him, causing you to inhale sharply. 

What the hell had your life become where conversations about gypsy fortune telling and gangster murders had become just another Sunday night?

Tommy’s eyes flicked to yours before returning to the Madam’s. For an insecure moment, you wondered if he considered you weak for your reaction. 

“When we find him, he will be.”

The woman’s reply felt like cold water as you realized the creep was still out there. Her eyes softened as she held on to your gaze. 

“I apologize, mikrí mou màntissa. This was not what I envisioned for our meeting.”

You swallowed the irony, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. 

She cleared her throat before speaking again. “May I ask — what did he want from you?”

You took a deep breath before shrugging. You had no idea how long ago the event had occurred, could have been an hour or ten, either way you just wanted to push it as far from your brain as possible. It didn’t help that you were on the tail end of your buzz — that and the adrenaline (and your newfound ability to disassociate and compartmentalize) made the memory feel fuzzy. 

“Um, well,” you began, speaking for the first time since the Madam entered the caravan. “Originally he thought I was Anastasia Romanov,” you couldn’t help but roll your eyes as you said it. 

Tommy’s brow creased, “Who?”

You missed the way Madam Despoina watched you answer his question. 

“The Romanovs? The Russian royal family that was just killed like—” you paused as your brain tried to do the quick math. “Holy shit that was just this year,” you muttered to yourself, though the other two in the room could certainly hear you. 

“We heard somethin’ about that in France. A revolution, ya?” Tommy pondered, reaching into his jacket pocket on the hanger to grab a cigarette while shrugging — as if hearing one of the biggest historical events ever was just no big deal. “Who was she, exactly?” 

Realization of just how disconnected you were from the rest of the world began to set in. You’d been here for more than three months, and the only real news you’d been privy to had been the war end. And that was only because Ada had shoved the newspaper in your face. 

You made a mental note to start saving enough to purchase newspapers when you got back into the city. If you were going to be here, you wanted to know what was going on. 

“She was a daughter of the tsar,” the Madam answered for you. “A princess. When the family was taken to be executed, it was rumored that the princess escaped.”

You nodded, “Creep-o said he thought that’s who was coming to the camp when Madam Despoina said they had special company.” 

The Madam hummed her understanding. “We’ve often had queens and princesses come to bargain for good fortune. Dimitris thought you were the princess.”

“He said he knew I wasn’t Russian though due to my accent. I may have implied with my tone that he was an idiot for believing the rumor… he didn’t like that.” You grew angry at the memory of him grabbing you, instinctively wrapping your own arms around yourself. “Still, he said that you thought I was someone important. That he could use me somehow to make him money.”

Somehow was beginning to feel a lot like selling as you said the words out loud. The words sat bitterly at the tip of your tongue as your anger began to bubble. 

“What did he think he was going to get away with, huh? Kidnapping me and holding me hostage? Handcuffing me to a table and forcing me to give seances? The nerve—“ you fumed as you grew lost in your own imagination. “What psychopath thinks he can do that? I can’t even tell fucking fortunes! I’m not important! I can’t—“

The tears surprised you as your anger began to catch in your throat. This was the second time today you’d began to cry out of frustration, exhaustion, everything. And you hated yourself even more for it. 

You felt weak again. 

Your eyes squeezed shut as you tried to control your breathing, and suddenly you felt two hands cradling your face. Expecting to see Madam Despoina, who’d been sitting closer to you, you were surprised when you opened your eyes to see it was Tommy who was kneeling in front of you, his own face inches from yours. 

You felt ashamed again for your weakness, dropping your eyes and trying to push him away. But he held on to you and forced you to look at him again. You prepared to see disappointment or pity in his eyes, but instead you saw the same reassurance that you’d almost come to rely on in the depth of his crystal blues.

“That won’t ever happen,” he said confidently. “You’re not a doll, remember? And you are strong. If the Delphi don’t find this fucker, the Peaky Blinders will. Either way, you’ll never see him again, you understand me, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you answered breathlessly, the tears no longer falling as he wiped what remained off your cheeks. 

“I have a second reason for coming by,” Madam Despoina’s words broke the spell between you and Tommy, who stood up and resumed his original position between you two women and the doorway. She reached inside her baggy skirt pocket and pulled out a small wooden box, extending it to you. “I wanted to offer you this gift.”

Your brow furrowed as you took it. 

In the Madam’s hands, it appeared to be an ordinary box. But when you ran your fingers across the edges and held it toward the light of the fireplace, you could just make out the intricate carvings. It reminded you of the inside of this caravan. On the lid of the box was the Delphi symbol — you couldn’t help the way your pointer finger moved from the trunk of the tree upward, through the branches and down one side of the circle, across the roots, and up the other side until you completed the path. 

“It’s beautiful,” you couldn’t help but breathe out as you finally lifted the lid. Your brow furrowed again as you examined a pouch of leaves and small vile of water inside. 

Madam nodded. “Boil some water and let the leaves soak, then pour in the water from the vile before drinking the entire cup.”

“Tea? You want me to make tea?” You looked between her and the box. “Um, why?”

She smiled. “My gift. It’s one final conversation with your mother.”

Your jaw dropped slightly, the words falling out absentmindedly, “What? You’ve got to be joking.” You looked down at the box suspiciously. “What is this then, drugs?”

“These are passed from our ancestry, they’re very valuable and once designated cannot be transferred to another. The water is from the original springs of Delphi, the leaves are from the gardens of the temple.”

“The leaves that gave the priestesses epilepsies?” you questioned, raising your brow as your suspicions were confirmed. “You want to drug me and pretend like whatever hallucination I might get is some divine vision from my dead mother?”

The woman gave you a smile, “You still disbelieve, don’t you, young girl?”

You set the box down on the bed next to you and shook your head. “I mean no disrespect, Madam Despoina—“

The old woman lifted swiftly from her seat and reached for your hand. Out of surprise and instinct, thinking she must have fallen, you jumped off the bed and squeezed her hand, matching her firm grip with your own. 

The room flashed white. The Madam before you was all you could see, but as your eyes adjusted, your vision began to shift. 

Her face — it began to change. You recognized the woman’s face, something ancient and beautiful, with eyes that glowed that brilliant gold you’d seen in your dreams. Another flash, and the face began to morph into so many faces, one after the other. Hundreds of women, all unrecognizable and yet something familiar pulled at your gut. 

Suddenly the shifting stopped as you saw your mother’s face. You gasped, taking a step forward before your mothers face morphed again. This time, your foot moved backwards as you looked upon your own reflection. 

Snapping your hand out of the old woman’s hold, your vision cleared. You were catching your breath as you found the familiar brown eyes of Madam Despoina, the caravan surrounding you again, a knowing smile pulling at her cheek. 

Your eyes found Tommy’s, who had taken a few cautious steps toward you both and was looking at you concerned. “You okay?”

“I saw— I, I thought I saw—“ you breathed out, your eyes moving back to the Madam as you held your hand to your chest. 

“Drink the tea. Talk with your mother. She will be able to tell you now what she could never before.”

She turned to leave before stopping. When she turned back to you, she reached out for your hand again. You flinched at her touch, expecting the same thing to happen again, but nothing did.

“During these winter times, our camp retreats back to our home ground to prepare for the cold. We drink and dine as is tradition during these darker and colder months until it is time to travel again. But this year I knew we had to wait — that we were waiting for you.” 

She squeezed your hand as she held yours between both of hers. 

“Today I have felt closer to our god than I have in many years. I had nearly forgotten what his light felt like, but with you, I can feel his warmth again. Won’t you stay?”

“We can’t,” Tommy answered for you, his voice stern. “We promised we’d be back ‘fore Christmas Eve.”

In the back of your mind, you knew that was a lie. Tommy had already told you he’d prepared for you both to be gone for as long as a week’s time. But you didn’t dare question him now. 

Besides, you felt as though her question wasn’t just a courtesy to stay tonight, or even for a few days. The question felt like an invitation — to stay with the Delphi family. 

For a split moment, you considered her offer. You were already a time traveling fish out of water, and you’d bet money that she knew more than what she’d even revealed tonight. Maybe you were here to find them — maybe this is where you were meant to be. 

But your eyes instinctively looked to Tommy at the thought, and your chest tightened. 

Maybe it was a mistake, but that stupid part of your brain or hormones or whatever it was controlling you couldn’t leave Birmingham. 

The Shelbys. 

Tommy. 

Madam Despoina hummed an understanding, her eyes watching your internal struggle. “Then you should leave now. There are some here who are under investigation of helping Dimitris, and it may not be as safe as I’d have wished for you here.” Her eyes dropped in shame. 

“If you thought we may be in danger, why would you ask for me to stay?” 

“I’m an old woman, mikrí mou màntissa.” She repeated the foreign words again, and her soft smile made you sense they were a term of endearment. “Sometimes I’m more selfish than I’m proud of. I will see you again someday, Cassandra. Until then, remember what I told you —“

“Stay true to myself.”

“Aye. You will feel like you can’t use your second sight for fear of alteration, or alienation. But it will be your asset in the times to come. And it can save those around you, if you let it.”

She looked to Tommy then, whose brow creased at the conversation. 

The Madam smirked. “Our god is closer to you than you think.” Her attention moved back to you. “Listen to your mother. Break the cursed chain.”

She turned again to leave. 

“Wait,” you stepped forward as she paused. “Why are you giving me this now? You told me before that it wasn’t the time. What’s changed?”

Madam Despoina let out a humored hum. “You’re not the only one who gets visions, love.” At the doorway, she stopped and turned to Tommy. “Remember what I told you as well, Apollon.”

With that, she left the caravan. 

Tommy ran his hand through his hair as he let out a breath. “We’re leaving. We’re gettin’ in our wagon and gettin’ the fuck out of this nut house.”

He began to get dressed, throwing on his gun holster over his shoulders before putting on his jacket. 

Your brain was processing the name Madam had called Tommy. “She called you—“

“Get dressed,” he instructed, ignoring you and handing you the bag and your shoes before grabbing the rest of his clothes. 

You pulled out one of the clean skirts and pulled it over your nightgown. You grabbed your jacket and threw it around you before shoving your feet into your shoes. Stuffing the rest of your items in your bag, you gingerly picked up the box Madam Despoina had given you and set it on top before latching it closed. 

Tommy returned, offering you his hand to lead you out of the caravan and through the dark, clutching the bag close to your chest. The wagon came into view, Johnny Dogs hustling to secure Midnight. 

“Tommy, she called you—“

He shushed you, his eyes flashing down at you before making a quick scan around you both. “Not now.”

You huffed. “Never now.”

“Soon,” he reassured, giving your hand a squeeze before jumping in the back of the wagon while Johnny appeared at your side. “All clear?”

“Aye, Tom,” Dogs replied. His usual jovial vibe was gone tonight, serious as he addressed his friend. 

“Good. Up ya come,” Tommy offered you his hand as he stood in the wagon. 

Your brow furrowed, expecting to sit with him in the drivers seat like you had earlier. 

“There’s a bed in here, and some blankets. It’s the middle of the night and you’ve had a long day. You already fell asleep once today, I don’t need you fallin’ over on the drive back.”

Your instinct was to fight back, prove him wrong. Before you could reply, he squatted closer to you. 

“I won’t have you sitting like a fuckin’ target in case we run into trouble on the road. I don’t expect it, but I’m a cautious man, ‘member? Get in the wagon, and let me keep you safe.”

“She called you Apollo,” you whispered, looking between his eyes. 

It felt like you were standing in a room with thousands of puzzle pieces, and every time you thought you’d found a connection, thought you’d gotten a handle on the full picture, a new piece would pop up and throw you off your track again. You felt like you were slowly losing your mind. 

He softened his look, grabbing your hand and lifting you into the wagon. You let him walk you toward the front before gently pushing you down onto the small mattress pad. “Rest. Once we’re safe, you can explain to me why.”

You swallowed as he stood back up and climbed through the front flap of the wagon and sat on the bench. Johnny Dogs wished you a small farewell and you gave him a sympathetic smile before he secured the back of the wagon. 

Despite everything that’d happened to you tonight, you’d enjoyed the man’s company and hopped to see him again. If Tommy allowed. 

You could see Tommy settling in his seat from your spot, grateful for the secured tarp on the side your head rested against to cut the cool night air as the wagon began to move forward. 

The wheel hit a bump, causing your bag to jump against your leg. You picked it up and secured it against you, not wanting anything to happen to the box inside. 

The box filled with the magic drugs, that is. 

What were the chances that the leaves and water in that box were actually from the Temple of Apollo in Greece? Was it old? New? There’s no way something like that could have survived all this time, and there was definitely no way that if it had, someone would just hand it over to a complete stranger for nothing. 

And the flashes that you saw — was it the drinks you had tonight? You had a hard time believing that the woman you just left would have you drugged without your knowledge — but the cynical side of you, the cautious side as Tommy might say, couldn’t exclude the possibility entirely. 

No, you shook your head, trying to reason your way out of that thought. Why would a woman who already had you drugged offer you more drugs and tell you what they were? If she’d done it once, what was stopping her from doing it again without your knowledge? She could have made the tea herself and fed it to you easily at any point during the night. But instead she gave it to you in pieces, as a gift, and told you exactly what it was (more or less - you still weren’t entirely convinced). 

So if you weren’t drugged, then you had to have just been ole fashioned drunk. 

You shook your head at yourself again, getting more comfortable on the mattress until you were laying down, the wagon wheels continuing to move along underneath you. 

Nothing like that had ever happened to you after a night of drinking before. And there were definitely nights you’d been way drunker than you had been tonight. 

The only time you’d seen visions like that before, with the white flash and everything, was the night you traveled back and saw Tommy in the mud. 

But why Tommy? was the last question you asked yourself before your eyes began to drift closed and you wrapped the blanket around yourself. 

And why did Madam Despoina call him Apollo? 

——

“Cassandra.” 

Your god reached out to you, his once ice blue eyes had now returned to their brilliant gold, his look was full of concern. 

“You just said—“ your breath was short at the previous feeling of dread as you grasped at the front of your dress to steady your heart. 

He cupped your face with his hand, “I said that I didn’t expect to fall for you, Cassandra.”

No, you thought. There was rage, there was anger. He said he cursed you… didn’t he? 

But as you looked up at him now, the face you saw was the same face you’d been gazing upon night after night. You hadn’t intended to fall for the palace gardener. The first night you’d come out here was the day you pledged your allegiance to priesthood. You’d sought solace, a place to sit with your thoughts to ensure that you were making the right decision. 

The gardener had surprised you, his voice soft and kind as he asked if you were okay. After that, you’d come to rely on the man as a confidant. Eventually, you were spending most of your day awaiting the hours until you could see his sweet face again. 

But now, everything was different. He wasn’t a man at all — he was a god. He was your god, confessing his affection for you. 

And yet still, you touched your lips at the memory of his cold blue eyes, his angry words, his curse. 

His brow creased as you pulled your face away, turning back to the garden ledge as you looked out to the sea. Your eyes focused on the horizon line, where you saw ships sailing toward your kingdom. Thousands of ships - an armada. They were racing forward, growing closer and closer to the shoreline, launching hundreds of arrows into the air.

“We’re under attack!” 

You turned back toward your lord and pointed, but he only shook his head. “There’s nothing out there.” 

Whipping your head back toward the sea, your eyes searched for the sight of the ships, but they were gone. The seas were calm once again.

“But—“

An explosion caught your attention, pulling your gaze back down toward the square of the city. It was on fire — people were screaming, children crying. Men in foreign armor raced through the streets on horses, swinging swords and axes, killing your citizens. 

You blinked — they were gone. 

‘You’re cursed, Cassandra! You’re cursed!—‘

“Y/N!”

You jumped at the shout, turning to find Harry standing at the end of the bar with his arms crossed. 

“I don’t pay ya to daydream. We’ve got a packed ‘ouse now snap out of it.”

“Sorry, Harry.” You flushed at your absent mindedness, picking up the rag and moving to give the counter a good swipe before heading toward the first man with his arm reached forward. 

But through the monotony of the job, your mind couldn’t help but wonder back toward your dream in the wagon. 

Tommy had woken you up the same as he had on the drive to the camp. Clinging to his arms, you found yourself gasping for air and your cheeks damp from tears. Embarrassed once again for waking up in a panic, you began to wonder if you’d ever have a normal night’s sleep ever again. 

Despite the nightmare, you’d somehow managed to sleep through most of the drive back into town. You rode up front for the remaining drive back while Tommy hit you with the realities of going back into society. 

“There’s something we need to discuss before we get back to Small Heath,” Tommy had started in his serious voice. “Only Polly knows where we truly went yesterday. Arthur, John, and Ada know a version of the truth — they know we were lookin’ for a gypsy clan that might have had some of your last surviving family members, but we’re gonna tell ‘em we were unsuccessful in our journey. That they were supposed to be outside the fairground, but they were nowhere to be found, so we came back and you decided to give up the search. Got it?” 

You had nodded. “And Polly? What are we going to tell her?” 

“That’s up to you,” he surprised you with that response. “But one thing I want to make clear. That we saw Johnny Dogs and what was discussed with him will be told to no one, ya?” 

“Can I ask why?” You threw the question out as a tester — it wasn’t a no to his confirmation, but you were curious if he’d shut you down or trust you. 

Tommy didn’t respond right away, staring straight ahead at Midnight pulling the wagon forward. You swallowed, ready to admit defeat, when Tommy cleared his throat. 

“Most of what we do is illegal. To make any real money, to gain any real power, we need to expand into some legitimacy. It’s the only way to break out of Birmingham.”

“And Billy Kimber has something to do with that?” 

Slowly, Tommy nodded. “Think so. Still working out the details, but it starts with Johnny Dogs. That’s all I’m willin’ to say now.” 

You thought about the words exchanged between the two men, about what Tommy said on Saturday about domination. You wondered if his ambition extended further than just working with the racetrack owner, or if he wanted to control it. 

Tommy didn’t seem like a man who limited his ambitions. 

“Got it. Not a word, then.” 

You paused, contemplating what you were going to say next and deciding to just go with it. What the hell, right? 

“I still think you should look into running alcohol into America. The probability of a prohibition is higher than you’re estimating.” 

“Thought you said you weren’t a fortune teller,” Tommy rose his brow up as he looked at you. Beneath you, the dirt roads had transitioned into cobblestone, indicating an end to your ride. 

You’d shrugged, “I’m not. I’m just a woman on your payroll, who sometimes knows things, offering you business advice.”

Tommy watched you for a moment more, but chose not to push you on it further. Neither of you said anything as he made his way to your doorstep. You’d mentioned wanting to change and then head over to the Garrison, hopping to mend the nagging feeling you had of Harry being angry with you and offering to work a shift that evening. 

“I’ll see you later then,” Tommy had said as you turned to leave, watching as you clung to your bag and ascended the stairs. 

To his promise, Tommy walked through the doors of the Garrison some odd hours later, an entourage of men behind him. Harry hustled to shoo people out of the snug before escorting the men into the private room. 

This had been a part of the deal Tommy had made with Harry, apparently. The Garrison was not only protected by the Peaky Blinders, but now it was officially the pub of choice for the gang. That meant that any time a Peaky boy was in the premises, the snug had to be available. It also meant that anything a Shelby man ordered was on the house, no questions asked. 

Tommy still dropped a coin at the snug window when he asked for a bottle of whiskey and six tumblers. 

“Irish or Scotch?” You asked, a smirk playing at your lips as you watched him attempt to stop his own smile. 

Without his response, you grabbed the Irish Whiskey and glasses, circling the bar and turning into the private room. Tommy was taking his seat as the men around him grabbed for the cups, Arthur electing to grab the bottle and open it. He poured himself a shot first, then Tommy, then John, before passing it to the other three in the room. 

You vaguely recognized the three non-brothers from the betting shop, and part of you wondered if any of them were the book men you audited as you began to wipe down the table.

Arthur was patting John on the shoulder, sounding already drunk as he went on about the boy finally getting out of that house. You took a quick look at John, who looked tired as he mumbled something about the kids driving him mad. 

You smiled at that, silently wondering if John being out meant that Martha was starting to feel better. You made a note to ask Tommy about her later as you asked aloud if anyone needed anything else. 

“That’ll be all, Y/N,” Tommy answered for everyone. 

You gave a friendly smile, eyes scanning the room before landing on one of the non-brothers, who was watching you quite intently. As a barmaid, you were either invisible or the subject of lustful attention, so a part of you was used to the creepy looks and just bid your time until the man either hit on you or lost interest. Not expecting this kind of attention here, with Tommy around, you felt caught off guard. Awkwardly, you nodded and left the room, leaving the doors open behind you. 

Some time passed as you worked the room, the crowd slowly beginning to lessen as the night went on. You were working on the pub books, taking advantage of the lull, when the man who’d been watching you from the snug approached the bar.

“You’re Ada’s friend, ya?”

You couldn’t stop the quick look through the snug window, noticing that the other Peaky boys were still in there, working on their second bottle. “Um, yeah,” you answered, offering him a polite smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Need something?” 

“Ya, a mild.” 

Trying to control your annoyed face at having to pause your book work — seriously, there was no way you could ever leave Harry in charge of the books ever again — you rose from your seat to prepare his drink. You could feel him watch you as you worked. 

“I’ve seen ya round the Shelby house with Ada and Ms. Polly. I work there, with the boys. Names Benji.” 

Benji — you recognized the name as one of the bookkeepers at the betting shop. He was one you’d been suspicious of for a while now. 

The first couple big offenders of stealing from the shop had disappeared some time after you brought them to Polly’s attention. At the time, your innocent mind believed they’d just been fired and moved on — but now you knew better. The chances that those men were still breathing were slim. 

With Benji’s records, his error rate decreased after the first few men were outed, and you always suspected that he was biding his time before he began to steal again. You just had to wait until you had more evidence. 

For a paranoid moment, as Benji’s eyes scanned you over, you wondered if he knew about your secret employment. He was a Peaky boy, after all. He lifted his hand over the bar counter as an offering when you set his drink down. 

“Y/N,” you offered out of ceremony, your smile still not quite genuine as you shook his hand.

“Y/N,” he repeated, donning his own smile as he looked at you again appreciatively. He wasn’t unhandsome, so you imagine that smile worked on most girls. But after what happened to you last night and your suspicions about his bookkeeping, you felt yourself taking a step back out of caution. “Next time you’re in the shop, say hi.” 

You watched as he took his drink and swaggered back into the snug. Part of you was slightly surprised at his boldness. You were a friend of Ada’s — his employer’s sister. Plus, you and Tommy—

You scoffed at yourself. You and Tommy what? You weren’t a couple — you didn’t think so, anyway. He hadn’t gone to kiss you, or even offer to walk you to your apartment door when he’d dropped you off. What’d happened last night before Madam Despoina interrupted had been… hormones. A mixture of adrenaline, alcohol, and an attempt to grasp onto some kind of sanity after a series of crazed events. 

He hadn’t spoken of the moment since — hell, he hadn’t spoken of any of it since, something that was also making you anxious.  

Out of instinct, your eyes moved to the window of the snug where you could see Tommy sitting comfortably in his chair. As if feeling your gaze, his own eyes moved to meet yours. You jumped slightly, feeling as if you’d been caught, and proceeded to go back to checking on the other patrons in the room. 

You’d settled back to working on the inventory, almost finished when the Peaky boys loudly made their exit of the pub. Surprised, Arthur shouted a drunken goodbye to you, even using your name as he waved and stumbled out the doorway with his arm around John. Benji turned and gave you a wink before following the group out the door. Tommy stood back, watching the whole thing before walking over to the counter. 

“What was that about?” He asked, gesturing over his shoulder to the doorway. 

“What? Arthur saying goodbye? Not sure, but it’s a big improvement over him calling me a whore or just grunting at me—“

“Not Arthur, Hancock.”

Your brow creased. “Who?” 

“Benji,” he added, and you realized Hancock must be his last name. Tommy poured the last of the bottle into his drink. 

You stood up from your seat again and walked over toward Tommy, taking a scan of the room. There were only two young men in the corner finishing up their last round, but you still kept your voice low. “Who knows about me?” 

It was Tommy’s turn to furrow his brow. “‘Dya mean?” 

“My job, at the house.” 

Tommy nodded, understanding. “Just immediate family — me, Pol, Arthur, John, and Ada.” 

“And before you guys returned?”

He shrugged, “Just Pol and Ada, I believe. What’s this about?” 

“I was just paranoid, I guess. I thought for a moment Benji may have suspected me, but now I think he was just coming on to me.” 

Tommy’s back straightened at your comment, lifting his glass for another drink. “And is that somethin’ that you want?”

“No,” you answered immediately, watching his shoulders immediately relax. 

“Good,” he said softly, his eyes moving down to your lips. “Let me walk you home?” 

You smiled at both his response and his request, wondering if maybe you were wrong about what exactly you and Tommy were. 

“I can’t go until those two leave,” you said quietly as you gestured to the corner. 

As if realizing for the first time that the two of you weren’t alone, he turned to the other guests. “Oi! Time to go!”

The young men jumped from their seats and scattered out the door. You couldn’t hold in your surprise at the immediate obedience. 

It’s good to be the king, you found yourself quoting Mel Brooks in your head at the action, not yet confident enough to say your quip out loud. The thought still made you smile though, and you were again surprised when Tommy offered you a smile in return. You knew how rare a Tommy smile was. 

“Fine, but I still have to put the book away and sweep the floors. Harry mentioned something about putting in an ad for another barmaid — I’m not about to further piss him off and have him replace me.”

Tommy scoffed. “I’ve seen the receipts, you practically saved this business. He’d be a fool to replace you.”

Your pride swelled at the compliment as you lowered your head to hide your blush. 

Luckily, it’d been a rather tame night, so your cleanup was minimum, allowing you and Tommy to leave soon after everything was put in order. 

Tommy lit a cigarette as you locked the door, wrapping his coat around you tightly and cursing to yourself how right he’d been about it getting colder. 

“Come to dinner tomorrow,” he said, breaking the silence on your walk. It didn’t sound like a question, but his gaze down toward you implied that he was waiting for a response. 

“To your house?” You asked, curious if this was just a regular dinner or a date dinner. 

He nodded. “Aye, Christmas Eve dinner with the family. Ada made me promise to ask.” 

You deflated slightly at his follow-up. Was Ada’s insistence because Tommy didn’t actually want you there? God, listen to you — sounding like a pathetic teenager again overanalyzing everything your crush said. 

“Okay,” you said instead. 

“Good.” 

He stopped and faced you when you got to your apartment. Gently, he lifted his hand and cupped your cheek, pulling your face upward until your lips met his. It was a soft kiss, but it still left you breathless as he pulled away. 

“After dinner, when everyone’s distracted, we’ll talk, ya? About the dreams, about what Madam Despoina said, and about why when I was waking you up this afternoon you kept saying that you were cursed.” 

>> next chapter << chapter masterlist

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[jellalism]

Wriothesley x GN!Reader fic: Aftermath

You were one of the members of the now-disbanded Beret Society. Now that it's all over, Wriothesley invites all the people involved to his office one by one, to apologize and offer what little comfort he can.

Word count: 1677

Genre: Comfort

Content warnings: Mentions of trauma (no details)

Notes: Reader is gender neutral. Relationship can be read as either platonic or as a budding romance.

Read below or on AO3.

Before the Beret Society debacle, you and Wriothesley were on amicable terms. Not quite friends yet, but there was a mutual interest. He’d strike up a conversation when he saw you sitting at the cafeteria or when you ran into him in the halls. He had even invited you for tea once — something that turned out to be a common interest. 

Then you joined the Beret Society, and it alienated you from the rest of the Fortress — including Wriothesley, your friend in the making. You wanted to talk to him, everyone in the Society wanted to talk to him in some sense, but no one had the guts or the clarity of mind. Telling the Duke everything that was going on was obviously the rational thing to do, but humans aren't as rational as they'd like to believe. A plethora of emotions is more often the root cause of actions they do or do not take. In this case, the prime emotion was fear. If the pay-off seems uncertain, and the price for failure seems infinitely steep, it is a scary thing to even consider taking that necessary action. And so everyone kept silent. You kept silent and kept your distance. 

But now, Wriothesley has finally solved the case. You sit in his office. Every victim of Dougier was invited individually. Not for a stern lecture, but for comfort and apologies. From those who had gone to his office before you, you have already heard that there would even be financial compensation for Wriothesley's "lapse in delivering justice swiftly".

One by one, everyone was called to his office. It had taken a long time before your name was called. In fact, to your surprise, you had been the very last. Does he not want to see you? He may be hurt by your sudden distancing when you joined the Society, you fretted. And once you sat down inside, your worrying didn’t stop. Thoughts still whirl inside your head.

Despite the couch's comfort, your body is tense. You don't lean back against the sofa; instead, you sit upright, hands on your knees, legs close together. As if trying to take up as little space as possible; as if the very room is pressing down upon you. Wriothesley had turned on some music earlier, but even the soft tones of the piano resounding through the office don't manage to put you at ease.

"What kind of tea do you want?" His voice pulls you from your reverie.

It takes a moment for the question to register, and then another moment before you start stuttering and mumbling "I-I don't k-know, whatever you w-want."

From the corner of your eye, you see him turn around and frown.

"I'll just make you that oolong tea from Liyue that seemed to be your favorite when we were..." — he seems to weigh his words carefully — "... talking more often."

He puts a teapot warmer on the table in front of you, lights the candle below it and places the pot on top. "Now, let's let it steep for a couple of minutes." He finally sits down next to you on the sofa, but still at a respectable distance.

"Let's talk.” He takes a deep breath. “I'd like to sincerely apologize for not recognizing sooner what kind of place the Beret Society was. It has done immeasurable harm to people, and as warden of this fortress, it is my duty to prevent such things from happening. I failed. I am sorry."

You can’t find a single word to say. What is this? You knew he'd apologize, but now that it's actually happening, a flurry of unexpected emotions overtakes you. Relief and confusion, fear and happiness. 

"If you want to talk about what happened, I'm here to listen. It’s the least I can do."

It’s the straw that breaks the Sumpter Beast's back. You cry. Not prettily; you bawl. The tension, built up over months, comes out all at once. You hide your face in your hands, trying to somewhat lessen the sound of your sobs, but it's to little avail. Suddenly, you feel a hand on your shoulder. Wriothesley’s hand seems hesitant, as if he's afraid to touch you. But his voice is soft and comforting: "You can cry as much as you like. It's okay. I'll be your shoulder to cry on."

You bridge the distance between you and him, burying your face in the crook of his neck. After a moment, he wraps his arms around you.

"It's okay, I'm here now. Everything is going to be alright."

You let the tears come. For several minutes, you sit like this, his warm arms wrapped around you. Then, finally, you untangle yourself from his embrace. "It was terrible." Your voice is soft and shaky, but the words come out. Wriothesley listens attentively while he pours tea and hands you a cup.

"To have that stuff injected, it's just... the worst possible nightmare."

"Mm-mm."

"And even when it's over, it's not really over. The memories are there and the fear still runs through my veins, like my whole body is riddled with it, like my whole body isn't my own, like it's possessed by an evil spirit that—" You bite your lip trying to hold back the tears.

Wriothesley's arm wraps around your shoulders again. "I'm sorry I couldn't stop it sooner. But I'm here now. You're safe. I'll do whatever I can to make you feel safe again. You won't live those nightmares again."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. I'm sorry I took my distance from you, I just—"

"Hey." He places a finger on your lips. "None of this is your fault. Don't apologize."

"But I must've hurt you!" Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but your heart seems to scream it out.

"Well, I can't deny that I was a little disappointed to see you take your distance. But I didn't want to force you to hang out with me, so I just let it be. But that last time we spoke, even though you seemed glad about your membership in the Society, I thought I saw a glimpse of fear flit behind your eyes. In truth, that's what brought me to investigate. To make sure you really were in a good place."

You stay quiet for a moment. Wriothesley did that... for you?

"In that sense, you were instrumental in solving this case. I wouldn't have been on the trail otherwise."

“Thank you.” Your voice is barely audible. 

“It’s my duty and my pleasure to take care of you. It’s my job as the warden of the Fortress to make sure everyone is safe, but it’s my desire to see to your safety specifically. I’m fond of you.” He softly squeezes your shoulder reassuringly. “If there’s anything I can do for you, let me know.”

You want to speak but are a little nervous. Wriothesley notices. “Whatever it is that’s on your mind, just speak.” His tone is almost commanding, but not unpleasantly so. It’s just the push you need to speak.

“If possible…” You swallow and gather the courage to continue the sentence. “Can we stay like this a little longer? I felt so lonely for so long… I need to feel someone's warmth beside me.” 

Wriothesley grins. “Why did you think you were the last person I called to my office? I have no other things to take care of today, so you can stay as long as you like.” 

“Thanks,” you murmur and snuggle next to him, careful not to spill the tea you’re holding. You take a sip. It’s as good as you remember, and you close your eyes in relaxation. Wriothesley knows how to make tea the right way.

“You really do have good taste,” he says softly. You open your eyes and find him, too, sipping from his own cup. “Oolong is a tea I don’t often have by myself, but maybe I should.” 

“Right?” Some amusement creeps back into your voice. It’s been a long time since that last happened. “It’s such a unique taste. It’s simultaneously delicate and strong.” 

“Like you, then.” He smiles. 

“I—… What?” You look at him in shock, while his smile turns into a genuinely joyful laugh. 

“It’s good to see you flustered like this! I like it! But” — his tone turns more serious — “it’s also true. I know you’re hurt. What you went through is horrible. Unspeakable, in more than one sense of the word. But I have full faith that you’ll get back up. You’re strong like that.” 

“Am I, though?” you whisper to yourself without thinking. 

Despite speaking so softly, Wriothesley still catches your words. “I believe you are.” His words are simple, but he speaks it with such certainty and authority that you are tempted to believe him. “And if you ever feel like you can’t take it anymore, I’ll be here for you. You don’t have to walk the path to recovery alone.”

Instead of speaking, you rest your head against him and close your eyes. You’re tired. You hadn’t realized it earlier, but speaking with Wriothesley, crying against him, shaking, letting go of all the tension… You’re exhausted. And he’s so comfortable. His arm is still wrapped around you. It makes you feel warm and safe. 

“Tired, huh? Rest as much as you need.” 

The scent of the tea, the soft fabric of the sofa, the piano piece on the gramophone, Wriothesley’s strong arm around you, and the warmth he emanates — they all lull you into the most peaceful sleep you’ve had in months. 

***

As you fall asleep, Wriothesley carefully takes the cup from your hands, still half full. He looks at you with a smile. They’re so cute. For a long time, he gazes at your sleeping form leaning against him. Then, with his free hand, he grabs a book that is, fortunately, within arm’s reach. He’s willing to stay here for a few more hours if it helps you rest, body and soul. 

#genshin impact #wriothesley x reader #genshin x reader #wriothesley #wriothesley x gn reader #my writing #fanfiction #its me. im back. with the comfort #comfort is what i DOOOOO baby

[genericpuff]

oh boy rachel's telling on herself a little-

so we noticed that her Twitter name recently changed again, now featuring her bluesky social in her username to obviously advertise to people that she has a Blue Sky.

She's had BlueSky for a while, but it obviously doesn't have as massive of a following because 1.) Blue Sky is still a much smaller platform than Twitter (undoubtedly because it still requires invite codes to join), and 2.) it's really, REALLY hard to move the entirety of your fanbase from one platform to another as many followers are bound to be "dead" (i.e. not active on the platform anymore) and others will naturally fall off because they may have followed ages ago but never bothered to keep up or unfollow from a page that was just on their backburner.

But interestingly enough, this change is very recent and when you check her BlueSky, which she would only post to every once in a while, it's now seeming to be a lot more active with multiple posts over the past couple days. So I think it's very clear at this point that she's trying to actively commit to the migration from Twitter to BlueSky.

BUT HOOO BOY. SOME OF HER POSTS Y'ALL. SHE'S PRACTICALLY DOUBLING DOWN LMAO

You've all seen me dissect the SHIT out of Rachel's art process and y'all can verify it yourself through those posts that never once has she shown herself drawing this way. Never in the process reels, or the time lapse videos, or the single sketch posts she's made. So her claiming that she "likes doing this as well" is just flatout false because she doesn't do this. So I literally don't know who she's trying to fool with this (aside from her own fanbase) but she ain't fooling me LMAO

But that's not even the best thing she's shared, oh no. Because this isn't even the full kit of clown makeup.

Nope, that goes to this repost-

No hate to the person who posted this, I'm sure they're chill and cool, I just think the fact that Rachel of all people reposted this to her BlueSky which she's trying to replace her Twitter with is very telling. We all know this isn't just Rachel sharing something funny for the gag, we know exactly what Rachel likes and portrays in her work that she could see herself in through this post.

And what's even more telling (and hilarious) is that this may as well have been her running away to BlueSky after the "Never apologize for being Sicilian" tweet became the top result when you search "Lore Olympus" on Twitter LMAOOO

I'm not saying that's exactly what's going on here, but the thought of Rachel deciding to fully commit to moving to BlueSky out of sheer embarrassment over this one out-of-context panel from years ago that went viral overnight - and staying at the top of the search result feed because no one's engaging with good faith LO posts anymore - is hilarious, and if it takes this dumbass panel of Hades telling Persephone she should never apologize for being Sicilian to get people talking about how stupid and hilarious LO is, then I say it's about damn time.

#is this rachel's 'committing to the bit' era #is she finally giving up and just fully embracing the things we've been criticizing about her for years #her embracing it doesn't make it better #but if it makes it more clear to the fans that this is the kind of person she is then so be it LMAO #lore olympus critical #anti lore olympus #lo critical #Instagram

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

This requires some backstory but I'll try to be brief.

My fiancé and I live with my mother. We pay her $300/month "rent" to cover extra utility and grocery costs. We usually buy our own food though.

Unfortunately we have been without a steady paycheck for a few months now. We both worked a fast food job that was horribly taxing on our mental and physical healths. I quit early April, fiancé quit in May. Our savings dwindled rapidly.

Our finances hit a critical in the last month. We still owe my mother rent for September and October, but at least she won't kick us out. We might not be able to pay our car insurance ($210) next month, and if it lapses it will be illegal to drive our only car. The car also needs repairs.

Now to the point: We needed to cancel the few remaining monthly subscriptions we still had. Namely Amazon Prime.

My mother has been using our Prime subscription (with our permission) to watch a show. She went to watch the show 2 days ago and got an error message. We hadn't warned her that we were cancelling the Prime.

She literally started yelling and crying about how ungrateful we were and how rude we were for not telling her ahead of time. (A 63yo woman throwing a temper tantrum.) She then demanded we turn it back on. Her exact words were "Just take it out of rent each month." (Remember we can't afford to pay her rent right now, so we're still footing the bill for the Prime.)

My fiancé is mad enough at my mother for her reaction he's refusing to speak to her or even go to Thanksgiving/Christmas dinners unless she apologizes, which I severely doubt she would even if asked.

I admit we should have warned her we needed to cancel the Prime subscription, but AITA for cancelling it?

What are these acronyms?

#aita #am i the asshole

[srbachchan]

DAY 5783

Jalsa, Mumbai Dec 17/18, 2023 Sun/Mon 11:59 PM

At a time when it is needed to be remembering what transpired the entire day, the change has now dissolved the cells that did that before and have created , albeit with the cells of another in invention , a recorder of all facets in order that memory lapses be restored .. a most cooperative element of society in the today to be able to awaken them that may have been lost in the infinity of cellular time ..

the ordinary days before at the scheduled work worked with a whip on the backs to keep pushing to complete attempt finish move to the next .. and the time punctuality in place ..

but now there is the absence of urgency to catch the next bus , for really even if it were to be missed , what did it and how did it matter .. for there is none on the other side .. vacant , undesired , free and fructuous .. no matter what the fruit be ..

😁

the only push is the GOJ at the standard appeal of consequence .. so design all else but keep the gate in mind .. since after that the water of India be in waste - non performing, insipid and rotten in taste .. an embarrassment ..

But in this trepidation , the brighter side of the dark tunnelesqu .. haha fresh out of the unforgiven ill language oven - was the subject of giving .. of sending .. of being able to procure for the benefit of one or more , since the medium had fallen short of requirement ..

fed with morsels of gifting and procuring for the future of a young .. a sense and being of breathing freshness .. all over ..

" the good that men do lives after them .."

with an apology to the peare of the shakes .. 🤣

working in unison for the uplift .. ever .. to be in the safety of safe ..

'barefoot in the park ' ....

🙃

😳

Amitabh Bachchan

[gotham-ruaidh]

Little Bit Better Than I Used To Be

Catch up: Chapter 1 (Starry Eyes) || Chapter 2 (Save Our Souls) || Chapter 3 (Dancing On Glass)|| Chapter 4 (Merry-Go-Round)|| Backstage (1) || Backstage (2) || Chapter 5 (Danger)|| Backstage (3) || Chapter 6A (Love Walked In) || Chapter 6B (Without You) || Backstage (4) || Chapter 7 (Stick To Your Guns) || Chapter 8 (Time For Change) || Backstage (5) || Chapter 9 (Take Me To The Top) || Backstage (6) || Chapter 10 (Home Sweet Home) || Backstage (7) || Chapter 11a (Nightrain) || Chapter 11b (Nothing Else Matters) || Chapter 12a (Handle With Care) || Chapter 12b (I’m So Tired of Being Lonely) || Chapter 13a (Angel) || Chapter 13b (She’s My Addiction) || Chapter 13c (Patience) ||| Also posted at AO3

Chapter 14A: Where Do We Go Now?

Soundtrack: “Sweet Child O' Mine,” Guns N' Roses, 1987 [click here to listen]

She's got eyes of the bluest skies As if they thought of rain I'd hate to look into those eyes and see an ounce of pain Her hair reminds me of a warm safe place Where as a child I'd hide And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by...

Philadelphia || June 1988

Claire pushed her chair back a bit from the desk. Raised her arms. Stretched. Breathed deeply.

Reading for the eighth time the words she’d finally tapped out on the Selectric this morning, after days of rolling them around in her head.

Chief Physician

Boston Medical Center

To Whom It May Concern,

As you may be aware, I am a trauma surgeon at BMC. Twelve months ago I was placed on administrative leave by the BMC, and my medical license was suspended, pending the resolution of BMC’s internal investigation into my conduct. The investigation started by looking into a near-fatal error I committed during a surgery, and then quickly discovered that I had not only been forging prescriptions and stealing painkillers for quite some time, but also developed a severe addition to those painkillers.

As you may also be aware, I did not contest the actions taken by BMC. Subsequently I enrolled in an intensive drug rehabilitation program in North Carolina. I am happy to share that I am almost twelve months clean, having completed the program last December and successfully maintained my sobriety since then.

I have previously communicated to the Board, on several occasions, my sincere regret for what I did and my remorse for the incredible lapse of professional judgment and ethical standards I demonstrated. I repeat those regrets to you now.

Which is, in part, why I am writing you today. I wish to understand what else is required of me to return to work, in any capacity, at BMC.

Making amends for wrongs was something that Claire and Geillis had talked about a lot, during her time at The Ridge. Yes, doing that was a formal part of any 12 Step program.

But it was more than just saying sorry – it required the addict to recognize the wrongs.

To own them. To understand why they had happened, and the impact they had had on others.

Because nothing sounded more inadequate in the English language than the two words, I’m sorry.

But words matter. And this attitude shift was a crucial step on any addict’s road to recovery.

Making amends was something that Claire and Jamie had talked a lot about, too. She had seen him make amends many times, in their short time together – and quite often during their last few weeks on the road, as they traveled city to city for Print’s acoustic tour and Jamie came into contact with many people who had last seen him drunk/rude/high/demanding/hung over/acting like a total asshole during the last (disastrous) tour in ’86.

He made it a point to really talk to each person, to apologize for specific things he remembered doing. No matter if it was the venue manager, or the catering guy, or the lighting guy, or the security guard. I was a dick when I was drunk. I said terrible things. I hurt you. I’m sorry.

Two weeks ago in Chicago, he couldn’t sleep after a fucking incredible show at the old Chicago Theater. The adrenaline buzz after the show so much better than any pills or bourbon or groupie could have given him. He had tossed and turned for hours, until finally, quietly slipping out of their bed and perching in the easy chair in their suite at the Palmer House, watching Claire shift restlessly under the covers without him.

But of course, she knew when something was wrong. She woke, and turned to face him, easing up on one elbow. Watching him back. Giving him space.

When he finally spoke, it was just above a raspy whisper.

“How can you be here, Claire, when all you do is hear me talk about how awful I was to so many people?”

Her heart did break a little bit. “Because I never knew that version of you, Jamie. What I care about is who you are now.”

He sighed, breath ragged. “This shit is so fucking hard.”

“I know, baby.” Somehow she was standing beside him, and blindly he buried his face into the warm skin of her belly. She threaded her fingers in his hair, held him close as his pulse spiked.

“Deep breaths, Jamie. Focus on me. I’m here.”

He had had several panic attacks during the tour. Which could be chalked up to anything – the stress of changing hotels every day, the crush of fans and press that clustered around their tour bus when they arrived in a new city, the women who pulled down their tops in the front row at every concert, the Jack Daniels bottles and little baggies of powder left in his dressing room before the show in Wilkes-Barre.

But instead of smashing to pieces all alone, she sheltered him. He knew when to ask for help. And always found her just in time to crash against her, shaking and crying in bathroom stalls and green rooms and even once on the deserted tour bus. And each time she was so grateful for the psych rotation she’d done in med school that prepared her to help him.

But that didn’t make it any easier.

“Breathe in, Jamie. Think about how much I love you.”

He drew in a deep, sobbing breath.

“That’s right. Now exhale. I’m never going to leave you.”

He exhaled, shoulders shuddering.

“And inhale, Jamie. We can get hamburgers for breakfast again, if you want.”

He inhaled, and she felt a faint smile against her belly.

“That’s right. And out. Think about how amazing our wedding night will be.”

He exhaled. Gently bit the soft, soft skin above her bellybutton. She shivered, and smiled.

“Good. Center on me. I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

She counted along with him – twenty four more deep breaths. Caressing his forehead, and kissing his hair, and loving him and loving him and loving him.

Finally when he had calmed down, she crawled back into bed, and he held her so close against him. Kissing her forehead. Whispering endless words of love.

“If I ever fuck up with you, Claire, know I’ll always own it.”

She kissed his eyebrows. “The same for me, Jamie. I’d rather be mad at you than not have you.”

He had said the same words to her this morning. A promise he never tired of repeating. Murmured against her hair when he bent over to kiss her in the bed, body thrumming with energy.

Colum had booked a studio here in Philadelphia for the day, so that the band could lay down recordings of the acoustic tracks they’d played to dozens of sold-out crowds during the tour. With the incredible press from the tour – thanks in no small part to Geordie Ash’s profile in Rolling Stone – and bootlegs in wide circulation, it was time. And for once, the band agreed with the label.

She would join him later, of course. But today she needed the time to herself, to finally write and then mail the letter to Boston.

All because of Jamie.

“You can’t stay in a state of limbo forever, Claire,” he had said one night, meeting her eyes in the bathroom mirror as he gently brushed her shower-wet hair. “And I know we still don’t know where we’ll live when we’re married. But you have the right to know.”

She had sighed, jamming her hands in the deep pockets of the hotel bathrobe. “I don’t want to go back to that life.”

He had set down the hairbrush they shared, slipping his hands into the pockets, pulling her close against him. “I know. But you can’t have that door hanging open, Claire. Whether you open it or close it, you know I support you. But you’re not doing yourself any favors by not knowing.”

She had nodded, and pursed her lips. Smiling just a little as he kissed the shell of her ear.

She blinked, and turned back to the typewriter.

I have been traveling for the past few weeks, and won’t be back to Boston for at least the next month. Although I may not be immediately reachable by mail or telephone, I’m enclosing the contact information for someone who can get any letter or other message to me.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Dr. Claire Beauchamp

She gently pulled the paper from the typewriter roll. Signed her name. Took a deep breath. Began to address the envelope.

#outlander #outlander fanfic #jamie and claire #little bit better than i used to be

[birgittesilverbae]

beatrice x lilith + careful

no romo other than, y'know, their baseline divorced never married romo

//

"Never would've guessed you'd go full shorn sheep on me, Beatrice," Lilith murmurs, eyebrows arched as she takes her in. 

"It wasn't exactly my choice," Beatrice snaps, shifting uncomfortably where she lies back against the elevated head of the hospital bed. The urge to duck her chin, to pull her hood up, to run, to hide, is all-consuming, but she stiffens her back and stays firm. 

"No." Lilith's smile is grim. "These things rarely are." 

The statement is a sucker punch to Beatrice's short ribs. Of course Lilith, of all people, would understand a loss of bodily autonomy. Stupid. Stupid. Beatrice has felt slow, sluggish, two steps behind ever since she woke up, but even so, that lapse in memory is unforgivable. 

She opens her mouth to offer an apology anyways, but Lilith waylays her with a gentle smile. She raises a hand, gestures towards Beatrice's head. "May I?"

Beatrice nods her assent, and Lilith reaches out tentatively to stroke her palm across the stubble covering Beatrice's scalp. Beatrice moderates her breathing, the sensation still achingly unfamiliar, her nerve endings raw, sparking sharply at the mere contact. Lilith's pinky brushes across the careful stitches marching across her scalp, a steady rank of soldiers standing guard over the surgical incision, and Beatrice flinches back, her hand darting towards her head. "Careful," she hisses.

Lilith's face is a tight mask of pain. "I'm sorry," she says, voice rough as she withdraws her hand. There's a weight to it of a much deeper apology than is truly warranted, but Beatrice refuses to acknowledge that, takes it at face value with a slight nod. Now isn't the time to reopen old scars, not when they have both accumulated fresh wounds that have only just begun to scab over.

"I'm surprised they're allowing you up and about already," she ventures instead.

"I wouldn't say allowing," Lilith replies, her grin all teeth.

"Please don't unnecessarily aggravate Jillian's staff."

Lilith perches on the edge of the mattress, her hip knocking against Beatrice's thigh. "Oh, I assure you, it's very necessary. If aggravating them is what it takes to get them to stop staring at me, well…" She shrugs, grimaces and freezes mid-motion.

Beatrice lays a hand on Lilith's knee, thumb stroking across the hardness of her kneecap through her scrub pants. Lilith's eyes dart down to the point of contact and then the tension ebbs out of her, bit by bit. She leans forward, taking Beatrice's hand in hers and bracing her forearms on her thighs. Her hands are hot on Beatrice's skin, her fingers gripping Beatrice's tightly. 

"We make quite the pair, don't we," she says softly. Her chuckle only sounds the slightest bit forced. "Ava seems to think so, in any case. She's taken to asking me which of us came first: the wingless chicken or the cracked egghead."

#ask #the penguinspy #fic: nature #myfic #mywn #sister lilith #sister beatrice #warrior nun #ty peng

[spitdrunken]

Kwkfjfkejeje

Help I can’t get Rollo being all like ☺️😊🥹

With a reader who does embroidery like he loves hand crafted stuff and such and I can’t get the idea of him like going to the bell and finding reader there doing some embroidery and him being like 💞💖💓

And just like staying there looking at them doing their thing like “spectacular, amazing, unique”

“What are you doing up here?” As soon as you look up, and Rollo recognises who is sitting underneath the Bell of Salvation, the furrow in between his eyes softens. He isn’t one to prefer company during his daily cleaning, but if it’s you... Well, he supposes it could do no harm. 

“Ah. It’s you. My apologies, not many decide to take the trek up here, I thought perhaps... Nevermind.” He lightly shakes his head. You bear no ill will; You couldn’t damage this bell, no matter how much you may have wished to. 

Nevertheless, it’s cold up here, windy, regardless of the weather outside. Rollo can only wonder why you would choose to wander here, though he could hazard a guess. 

“I just like the view, and-” You open your mouth, but close it again. For a moment, you’re quiet. “I can focus here. It’s nice and quiet. Well, usually... I don’t mean you! Let’s just say I didn’t know the exact times the bell rang when I first got here.”

Rollo lets out a slight huff of air through his nose. He moves to a corner of the room to grab his stepladder, and the rest of his usual supplies. “I’m familiar with the feeling. That’s a mistake anyone will only make once.” His ears had been ringing for two hours afterwards. You hum in reply, absentmindedly. 

When he places the ladder down near the bell, near where you’re seated cross-legged on the floor, he finally gets a good view off what’s keeping you busy. You’re moving a needle and thread through the sleeves of your school uniform. Your version of the uniform is much less intricate than the others. Both because you have no magic and no money to pay for the full set, you merely received a plain red garb to wear over your usual clothing. It always makes you the odd one out in every crowd. (And, frankly, it disgusts him. You had never asked to be here, manifested underneath the Bell of Salvation one day for him to find, and yet they treat you like second-rate. Of course they would.)

You seem to be stitching tiny bells into the fabric. The hint of a smile spreads on his face. Would this be in accordance with school regulations? You have not paid for your uniform, technically, it’s school property that you’re altering. Well, it’s not like anyone else will ever be wearing a uniform similar to yours, he believes. He’ll keep quiet. Not to mention, you making the clothing your own, in a way, pleases him. 

“That looks very nice,” You jump a little, like you just remembered he was there. “Please feel free to continue, though I will be cleaning here. Do you mind?” 

You shake your head, but glance at the bucket and rags that he’s carrying. “Won’t you be using magic to clean it? Isn’t that easier?” His grip on the bucket handle tightens. Certainly, it would be easier. Certainly, it would cost less time. He tries to swallow the bitterness rising up into his mouth. You know no better, that’s all.

“It would be,” He admits. “But why do you take the time to embroid yourself, when you could ask a friend to magically alter it within seconds?” 

“Um... Because it’s more satisfying if you do it yourself? And I just like to do this, it’s like a hobby.”

Rollo nods. “It’s the same for me.” Not many at Noble Bell College take the time out of their day to upkeep skills such as yours, swayed to sloth by the ease of convenience magic brings. He’s glad to see this. 

You smile, seeming satisfied at his answer, before bowing down again. He allows the room to lapse into silence, you both working on your respective tasks. Cleaning the bell is work Rollo normally loses himself in, even the strong smell of the specially-made oil having become soothing. Today, however, he finds himself taking his time, and his eyes wander to watch you work. From his current position, he can only see the back of your head. As he moves clockwise along the bell however, he eventually ends up in a spot where he can see your face. 

The steady movement of your hands, the focused expression on your face, the little furrow between your brow-- Whenever a particular emotion overwhelms Rollo, his worst habit is to mutter them out loud. 

“Cute...”

You tear yourself away from your work, blinking up at him. “Did you say something?”

“No.” He responds within a heartbeat. “You must’ve misheard.” Without thinking, he brings the cloth in his hand to his mouth for comfort , like he otherwise would. Immediately, oil is smeared all over the lower half of his face, and an absolutely repugnant scent fills his nostrils. Rollo gags loudly, nearly heaving over. It feels disgusting. 

You stare up at him in absolute disbelief. “What are you doing?!” A split second later, you burst out laughing, loud and clear as bells. He would’ve been happy to hear it at any other moment. Rollo only finds himself staring at the cleaning rag in his hand, hoping it will somehow transform into his usual handkerchief, and rid him of this utter humiliation. His face burns like fire.

#REALLY maybe i just should start up my old sfw blog to respond to cute asks in between absolute filth but also ehhhh #rollo flamme x reader #rollo flamm x reader #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader

[randoimago]

Hello. Can I request Midnight and Shinso finding out that their S/O is immune to their quirks? P.S. I may or may not sent you request or two or more back when I was anon:)

S/O Being Immune to Their Quirk

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Character(s): Midnight (Nemuri Kayama), Shinso

Type of Request: Headcanons

Note(s): Well it's nice to meet you out of anon!! I hope you like these!!

Midnight

She was cursing as she noticed she had a tear in the sleeve of her costume. She tries extra hard to get stronger material so her quirk doesn't accidentally affect anyone, but unfortunately that failed her.

Nemuri hears the door to the house you both share open and she calls out that she's changing and to be careful. She does her best to wear extra layers and such around you because she doesn't want you falling asleep all the time.

Apparently you didn't hear her or just ignored her because you opened the bedroom door and walked in as she was trying to find a sweater to slip on. She just stares a you for a bit, pursing her lips because she knows what's about to happen.

Except maybe she didn't because you just ask her what she wants to eat and she's staring at the fact that you haven't fallen asleep where you stand. She lets out a sigh of relief. You two will talk about this, but she's just glad she can wear clothes that don't cause her to sweat due to how hot it gets.

Shinso

He couldn't help it. There was a nagging, self deprecating voice in the back of his head telling him you'd leave because of his quirk. And he didn't want to listen to it, but he just had to test it just to see. Either he'll be relieved and give you a lengthy apology or he won't have to worry about it because he doubts you'd want to ever see him.

So he asked you a question and you answered because you trust him. He activated his quirk and was about to say something, when you kept talking. You asked him your own question and he could only stare, wide eyed.

Anytime he used his quirk, the person would act lifeless, waiting for a command. But you were still you.

Shinsou still doesn't answer whatever question you just asked him because he's bringing you in for a hug instead. He's not usually one to initiate affection, but the idea that he can't use his quirk on you just fills him with happiness. When he's collected himself and calmed down from his overwhelming emotions then he'll talk to you about it, even admitting his lapse in trust, but for now he just wants to hug you.

#hitoshi shinso x reader #shinso x reader #midnight x reader #nemuri kayama x reader #my hero academia x reader #mantizimus

[srvbryn]

Bi-Han. Jealous

PAIRING: Bi-Han X f!reader

Summary: he saw you talking with Johnny Cage

Tags: fluff (kind of?), Jealous, might be ooc? Who knows.

Bi-Han, watched from the shadows as (Name), his girlfriend, engaged in a lively conversation with Johnny Cage. A surge of jealousy gripped him, his icy demeanor contrasting with the fiery emotions bubbling within.

(Name), oblivious to Bi-Han's stare, laughed at one of Johnny's jokes. Sensing an opportunity to interject, Bi-Han approached, his voice cool as the winds. "Something amusing, (Name)?"

(Name) turned to face Bi-Han, her eyes reflecting innocence. "Oh, hey Bi-Han! Johnny here was just telling me about his latest movie. It's amazing!"

Bi-Han's gaze shifted to Johnny Cage, his tone edged with hostility. "I wasn't aware your movies required such discussions."

Johnny, grinned. "Hey, Sub-Zero! Just sharing some Hollywood magic with lovie. No need to get all frosty about it."

(Name) attempted to diffuse the tension. "Bi-Han, don't be like that. Johnny was just being friendly."

A cold smirk playing on Bi-Han lips. "Friendly, indeed. Perhaps I should learn a thing or two about friendship from our movie star here."

Johnny, sensing the storm, took a step back. "Easy there, Sub-Zero. No need for a chill in the air. We're all friends here, right?

.. right?"

Bi-Han's response was a frosty silence that hung in the air like a blizzard. (Name) stated softly "Come on, guys, can't we all just get along?"

Bi-Han, unable to contain his jealousy, finally spoke. "If you find Johnny's company so appealing, perhaps you'd prefer it over mine."

(Name) frowned, her concern evident. "Don't be ridiculous. I enjoy spending time with you."

Johnny Cage, still attempting humor, quipped, "Ah, young love. The drama is real, folks.

Bi-Han's gaze shifted between (Name) and Johnny. "If you find my concerns amusing, Johnny Cage, perhaps a taste of my cryomancy will bring you some consciousness."

Johnny raised an eyebrow, his bravado not completely overshadowed by the threat. "Your boyfriend here needs to chill out. Literally."

(Name) sighed, caught in the middle. "Bi-Han, Johnny is just joking. There's no need for threats."

Bi-Han, realizing he had gone too far, softened his tone slightly. "I apologize if my words were harsh. I simply cannot stand seeing you engrossed in conversation with others especially... Johnny Cage."

(Name) placed a hand on Bi-Han's arm, a gesture of reassurance. "Bi-Han, you know you're the most important person to me. Johnny is just a friend."

Johnny, sensing the sincerity in Bi-Han's gaze, stepped forward. "Look, no hard feelings. Love is a battlefield, right? I get it."

(Name) nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. "Bi-Han, you don't have to worry. I chose you, and I'll always choose you."

Bi-Han, touched by (Name)'s words, nodded in return. "Forgive my momentary lapse. The realms may be harsh, but with you by my side, I find warmth even in the coldest of battles."

Johnny added, "Well, isn't this a touching moment?" He whistles.

"Shut up Johnny"

#i love him #mk1 #bi han sub zero #bi han x reader #x reader #bi han #bi han mk #mortal kombat #bi han x you #johnny cage

[red-riding-wood]

Apology / PSA

To whom it may concern...

This is a long overdue apology. I have made a severe and continuous lapse in my judgement.

I owe this deepest apology to a Mr. Killian Vidal.

I apologise for overestimating your intelligence, Kill. This was debunked as a fake (and highly illegal) "cease and desist" email. My friends and I reached out to the actual lawyer whose name and "signature" you used and he confirmed that this is false and that law firm does not even send cease and desist forms.

Killian, if you are reading this, I doubt they are pleased that you used their information to send this and I have offered to comply in giving any information if they ask for it. Good luck, buddy.

To anyone who receives something like this, please know it is false and to check the return address, lawyer name/law firm (reach out to them if need be to confirm), and also spelling errors, the email it's coming from, borders of the actual PDF (I didn't cut this off), if they even have jurisdiction over you (I'm Canadian and this is from the States and they do not lmao), etc.

Screenshots are below. My information and the fake residential address he used are obviously redacted.

#mrkdvidal1989 #psa #apology