#because this is my self-insert and I'll be as indulgent as I want | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

penmansparadise · 26 days

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Tommy Shelby ~ Dust in the Wind

*I DON'T OWN THIS GIF* *CREDIT TO GIF OWNER*

*I do not give anyone permission to repost my work in any way (translations included)*

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 5.5k

Warnings: Discusses infant loss/stillborn, ANGST, mild language, possibly ooc Tommy

a/n: Alright, well, it has been quite some time since I've posted on this site. First, let me get a few things out. 1) This is the most self-indulgent piece I have ever written, so if you don't want to read it, please just keep on scrolling. 2) This does not mean that I am ready to start taking requests again or that I will be regularly writing again. As stated before, this is a very self-indulgent piece because I just experienced the loss of my daughter, who was born prematurely. It has completely wrecked me, and I have just finally decided to start writing again. I am trying to navigate my loss and thought maybe writing would help. It did, and although this piece is a little darker than I usually write, it was therapeutic, and I wanted to share it because I am proud of my work. I did write it as a reader insert, but if you all read it and think it would be better as an OC story, I'll change it. Anyway, this is the first time I've ever written for Tommy, so please forgive the potential out-of-character actions he has in this story. Also, it has been a bit since I watched season 3 so forgive any mistakes. I took some liberties with the story by adding different children for Tommy and Y/N and some of the things that happened in the show. Well, I hope you enjoy this story, and would really like to know what you all think.

Y/N was no stranger to death. It was Small Heath, for goodness’ sake. Death practically ran in the water. Being deeply entrenched in the Shelby family since she was a young girl only made her acquaintance with death’s steely grip all that much closer. She had been to more than enough funerals in her 29 years of living. She was present at the cemetery when her father finally drank himself into his grave, she was there to mourn when consumption took her mother, and she showed up to support Ada when they buried Freddie. Y/N was always there when any of the Peaky boys were killed in the line of action, and she even showed up for her elderly childhood neighbor’s funeral. But this time, it was different. She wasn’t gathered in the woods on the outskirts of Small Heath to mourn for someone else. There wasn’t a stranger tucked away in the wagon standing in front of her. The Shelbys weren’t gathered to bid farewell to a distant relative or friend. The Lees weren’t generously providing this funeral for a price. No, the whole Shelby and Lee families were there for her and Tommy this time.

The heat from the flames washed over Y/N’s face, making her sweat a little, but she didn’t move. She wanted to be as close as she could possibly be. If she had it her way, she would have jumped into the wagon and let the flames swallow her whole, but Tommy’s hand tightly gripping hers anchored her to the ground. It had only been a few days. It couldn’t have been more than four, but with how time was moving, it felt like a lifetime had passed. The flames roared on, and Tommy squeezed her hand a little tighter, causing Y/N’s throat to tighten. She swallowed down the sadness trying to claw its way out of her. Y/N wasn’t going to break down in front of all these people. She didn’t want to cry at all, for that matter. It felt like it had been an endless stream of tears, and Y/N was done. If only her aching heart would catch the memo. Y/N’s eyes traveled the length of the flames until they landed on the little plaque one of the Lee boys carved for the wagon. “Lily Eleanora Shelby,” it read, and suddenly, the sadness returned with a vengeance. Y/N shut her eyes, and the events that led to this day played in her head. She was supposed to be happy. She was supposed to be full of unadulterated joy. She was supposed to be cradling her newborn baby girl. But she wasn’t. Instead, she held onto her husband’s hand like a lifeline as she watched her daughter’s wagon burn. One day. That’s all it took to completely destroy her.

Even as she stood there, watching the flames devour her daughter’s wagon, she still recounted everything she did four days ago, trying to figure out what could have possibly led to this result. Four days ago, she was a cheery 29-week pregnant woman. A stay-at-home mom who, with the help of their maid Frances, cared for her and Tommy’s three-year-old son, Benjamin. That day had started like any other. Tommy was already out, and she could hear Frances chasing Ben around his room. The little boy’s giggles echoed through the house, and she remembers smiling as she slid a hand over her round tummy. Y/N couldn’t wait for Ben to be a big brother. She got ready like any other day and eventually made her way to her son, who welcomed her presence with a hug and a kiss. The little boy rubbed her tummy, planted a chaste kiss to her navel, and smiled at her.

“I just wanted to let my little brother or sister know that I love them too, Mommy,” he had said, causing Y/N’s heart to clench. Even at three, he was a charmer, just like his father. She knelt to be at eye level with her son and lifted her hand to cradle his face.

“You’re going to be a wonderful big brother; do you know that?”

“Of course I will be, Mommy. I’ve been practicing sharing my toys with Frances and making sure I listen real good to you and daddy.” He said, standing up straighter to exhibit his full height. “Frances says I need to be a good example for the new baby, or else Santa won’t bring me any presents this year for Christmas. How outrageous is that, Mommy!?”

Y/N stifled a laugh before brushing Ben’s hair back and looking up to see Frances smirking from her spot by Ben’s block tower.

“I’m sure Santa won’t forget about you this year, honey.” She told her son. The boy gave her a toothy grin before trotting off to continue playing with his blocks.

Y/N returned to her feet and watched Ben for another minute before retreating to the new nursery. It was already put together, and she often found herself hiding away in that room. She glided her hand over the bassinet and let the soft fabric tickle her palm. The walls were already decorated with paintings of horses, some of which came from Ben, who insisted that his younger sibling have them. She sat on the rocking chair and gently rubbed her hands over her stomach, earning a little kick from her unborn child. A soft laugh fell from her lips as she looked down at her growing bump.

“Sorry to disturb you, love.” She whispered, her hands still rubbing slow circles. “Mommy just wanted to let you know she loves you very much. And so does your big brother, who is very excited to meet you.”

Another kick came.

“You’re excited to meet him, too? I’ll have to let him know.”

“Daddy loves you too, just in case Mommy forgot to mention that.” Tommy’s voice came from the doorway, causing Y/N to look up. He gave her a full smile, the one he reserved only for her and their son, and it fell over her like a warm blanket.

“Mommy was just about to get there. Had daddy not interrupted her,” she said. Tommy hummed in response as he floated across the room to kneel before her. He looked up at Y/N through his lashes and said, “Sure you were,” before removing her hands and planting a soft kiss where they had just lay.

“Daddy can’t wait to meet you,” he whispered against her stomach, his warm breath radiating throughout her body. Tommy looked up at Y/N before standing and pressing his lips to hers. When he pulled away, a smile matching his spread across her face. She was beaming. She had dreamt of being in this position for many years as a teenager, and now it was real. Thomas Shelby was hovering over her very pregnant figure in their unborn second child’s nursery. Their lively three-year-old son’s muffled laughter ricocheted off the hallway walls. It was everything she ever wanted, and she was so happy.

“What’s that look for?” Tommy asked, pulling her out of her thoughts.

“Nothing,” she hummed, gaining a skeptical eyebrow raise from her husband. “I just love you. That’s all.”

Tommy nestled his face into the crook of her neck, peppering kisses along the exposed skin. Then he pulled back, looked into her eye, and said, “I love you more than you know, Y/N.”

He gave her one more swift kiss before standing and sauntering out of the room with a smirk. The rest of the day went by like any day usually went. She sat around and read, played with Ben, ate lunch at 1100, put Ben down for a nap at 1230, and then went back to reading. Tommy was in and out, balancing work from home and the office. She could tell that day was extra tiring from how he sighed every time he left the house. It was after Tommy left for the last time of the day that Y/N got the idea to wander down to the kitchen. When she entered, the cooks were hard at work peeling and slicing vegetables.

“Good evening, Mrs. Shelby,” the head chef began, “is there anything we can do for you, ma’am?”

Y/N clasped her hands behind her back as she rocked back and forth on her heels like a guilty toddler. “Um,” she said, “actually, yes, there is.” She stepped into the kitchen and moved her hands to rest on her stomach. “I was thinking that maybe tonight you and the rest of the staff could take the evening off and allow me to cook dinner.”

The head chef’s eyes widened at her statement. Everyone else stilled for a brief moment, waiting for him to speak. “Oh,” he stammered, “b-but, Mrs. Shelby, and please forgive me if I am overstepping, but shouldn’t you be resting instead of cooking?” His eyes dipped down to her protruding abdomen before landing back on her face.

“Resting? I rest all day. Really,” Y/N said, waving the chef’s comment off, “it would be nothing. I actually miss being in the kitchen. It’ll be nice. Therapeutic.” She couldn’t miss the wide-eyed stares from everyone in the room, but she chose to ignore them. When they didn’t move to leave, she stepped forward, placed a gentle hand on the head chef’s back, and began leading him out of the kitchen.

“Trust me,” she said, “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern, though.”

Once she ushered the staff out, she began working on dinner. It had been a long time since she cooked, but it came back to her like riding a bicycle. She couldn’t escape the excitement that bubbled inside of her as she fell into a groove preparing dinner for her family again. She boiled the potatoes the staff had peeled, sauteed the peppers and onions, and braised the beef that was in the refrigerator. About an hour into cooking, a dull pain emanated from her lower back and into her hips. The dull pain slowly morphed into a pressure that she just assumed was normal 29-week pregnancy symptoms. It’s just the baby getting comfortable. The baby is just moving around and pressing a little harder than usual on my cervix. She ignored the feelings and finished cooking before asking the kitchen staff for help to bring the meal into the dining room. Once the table was set, Frances went and fetched her boys, alerting them that not only had Y/N cooked dinner, but she had also served it. She greeted the boys in the doorway of the dining room and gave each a kiss before they all sat to eat. That pain returned in her lower back and hips, making it hard to get comfortable in her seat. She let out a low groan of discomfort, and Tommy placed his hand over hers to gain her attention.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his eyebrows knitted together. She swallowed another groan that threatened to come out and nodded with a strained smile. Y/N could tell that her weak answer did nothing to reassure Tommy, but he didn’t press her.

“How do you like the meal?” She asked, doing her best to not sound strained against the constant pressure she felt pulsing between her legs.

Before Tommy could answer, Ben nodded with enthusiasm and stuffed a heaping scoop of mashed potatoes into his mouth. “I love it, Mommy! This is the best dinner I’ve ever had,” he said through his mouthful of food.

Y/N smiled, but it must have looked more like a grimace because this time, Tommy stood up and moved to her side. “Y/N,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders, “are you sure you’re okay? Should I have Frances phone the doctor?”

Y/N grabbed his hand and squeezed it as she looked up to her husband. “I’m fine, darling. I promise. Let’s just finish dinner.” She pulled his hand to her mouth and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. Then, using her head, she motioned for Tommy to sit again. He stared at her for another moment, the line on his forehead deepening, before sighing and retaking his seat. She kept her discomfort under wraps for the remainder of dinner because Tommy didn’t mention anything until after they had put Ben down for the night and were about to crawl into bed. The pressure and pain had only grown in that short time, and she was beginning to get nervous. She was sitting on the edge of their bed, eyes shut, and taking some deep breaths when Tommy’s hands landed on her thighs. She could feel him kneeling between her legs, but she didn’t open her eyes. She didn’t want to admit that her anxiety was consuming her or that the pain and pressure had turned into abdominal cramps. It wasn’t until she suddenly felt the bed beneath her sopping wet that she looked at Tommy. He looked down and saw the fluid dripping from her nightgown and their duvet before his gaze landed on her. She could see his mouth moving, but his voice was drowned out by her rapidly beating heart. Something is wrong. She thought. This shouldn’t be happening. I’m too early. Tommy pushed away the hair that had begun sticking to her sweaty forehead, and then ran out of the room. His voice was distant, but she could have sworn he said something about calling Polly and Ada. She wasn’t sure because all she could focus on was the sharp pain that was puncturing her abdomen and the immense pressure building between her legs. Before she could comprehend what was happening, Tommy scooped her up and lay her on their bed. What about the sheets? I’m going to ruin the bed.

She must have said those thoughts aloud because Tommy quickly said, “Don’t worry about the bed, love. We’ll get another one if we have to.” The pain was only getting worse, and she had to shut her eyes and bite her tongue to prevent a groan from escaping. She didn’t know how much time had passed before Polly and Ada came rushing into the room, shoving Tommy into the hallway. When it was just the three of them, Y/N finally let out a guttural moan. She didn’t remember this much pain when she gave birth to Ben. Something is wrong. Something is not right. Those words chanted in her head like a mantra. Polly set her up on her bed while Ada used a wet towel to wipe away the sweat beading on her face.

“Just breathe, Y/N,” Polly chirped soothingly in her ear. “Ada and I are here. We’re going to take care of you.”

Anxiety coursed through her veins and unfurled in her gut when the pressure between her legs began to increase. She tried to cross her legs and prevent the inevitable from happening, but Polly and Ada wouldn’t let her. Tears of pain and fear streamed down her cheeks. She wanted to scream at them to stop and let her try to stop this urge to push. But the pain and pressure were too much, and the only sound that came out of her mouth was a low groan.

She could feel Polly’s hand between her legs, and the words “crowning” and “push” floated to her ears. Ada took her hand, and Y/N tried with every fiber in her body to not push, but her body had other plans. She held her breath and begged her body to stop forcing her baby out of her, but it was too late. The pressure was building. Climbing to a peak that felt like it would rip her in half until suddenly, she felt relief. Her heavy breathing filled the room, and she waited impatiently for the tell-tale cries of her baby, but they never came. She opened her eyes and looked at Polly and then at Ada. They both just stared back at her, and Y/N knew something wasn’t right.

“Y/N,” was all Polly whispered, and she knew. The silence was deafening. She lay there, completely exposed, bleeding, and sweaty, and waited, but her baby gave her nothing. Her eyes shut and then, without any strength to stop it, let out a crushing wail. The tears overflowed, and when she opened her eyes again, she watched the door burst open and Tommy storm in. He moved over to where Polly held their baby and looked down at their motionless child.

“Why isn’t she crying?” He asked.

It was a girl. I had a baby girl. Even through her tears and sobs, she could see Tommy’s chest rising and falling at a rapid pace.

“Why isn’t she fucking crying, Pol!?” Tommy’s voice boomed through the room and mixed with her loud cries to create the saddest song. She could see the distress in the slant of his shoulders and how he ran a hurried hand through his cropped hair. He didn’t wait for anyone to answer his question before bounding across the room and landing on the floor next to her. His hands found hers, and she could feel them shaking. His lips pressed to Y/N’s forehead and cheeks, absorbing only some of the tears that continued to cascade down her face.

“It’s okay,” he whispered, but the way his voice cracked in her ear told her he didn’t even believe those words. “I love you, Y/N.” She could hear that his words dripped with the same despair she felt. “You know that, ey? I love you, and it’s going to be okay.”

Tommy’s words echoed in her head as she watched the fire blaze around her daughter’s wagon. She wanted to be convinced that his words were true, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe them. When the funeral finished, they all returned to Arrow House, where the wake was being held. Even being in a crowded room surrounded by family, Y/N felt alone. Her whole body was like radio static – unfeeling. Tommy’s hand was on her lower back the entire time, but she still felt like she was floating away. Nothing could tether her to this reality anymore.

Several people approached her and Tommy, and with every person, a new empty comment emerged.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” which loosely translates to, “Boy, that sucks to be you.”

“I can’t even imagine what you’re going through,” which means, “I’m really glad I’m not dealing with that!”

And, “At least you still have Ben,” equates to, “You shouldn’t be upset when you still have one kid alive.”

With every consolation tossed at her feet like the change she used to find on the ground when she was a child, this unknown sensation began to build in her chest. It was heavy and wild, like an untamed animal. It was red and bared its teeth, ready to bite. It was something Y/N had never felt before. She was usually understanding, calm, and collected. She wasn’t hot-headed or easily provoked. But now, she was quickly discovering that what she was feeling was rage. Hot and stormy, it ravaged her insides, and instead of beating it back into its cage, Y/N leaned into it, letting it hold her battered and broken soul up.

After the wake, Y/N let her sadness swallow her. She hid in one of the guest rooms daily and even went as far as to avoid Tommy. She couldn’t bring herself to look at him because every time their eyes met, two things happened. 1) she could see the grief he was carrying like cinder blocks chained to his neck, and 2) she could see the way he looked at her like she was a broken piece of artwork now. She knew she was a shell of the woman she once was, but it hurt her even more to know that Tommy saw it so plainly in her, too. He didn’t see her as the strong, independent woman he fell in love with. No, now she was a ghost of her former self, and she couldn’t take his pity for having lost their daughter and herself.

Although clearly grieving, Tommy didn’t seem nearly as phased by their loss as Y/N. He was able to jump back into work, and now, nearly a week since the wake, he was back to being fully invested. If Y/N were being honest, she envied Tommy for being able to distract himself. She couldn’t do anything but hide from the memories that haunted their home and do her best to still be a good mother to Ben. When a week finally passed since laying her daughter to rest, Y/N knew she had to do something. She would talk to Polly and beg for some sort of work. She didn’t care that Polly insisted that Y/N take some “time to heal.” She needed a distraction. Being in Arrow House felt more like a prison than a home.

Y/N got dressed and began to head for the door after handing Ben over to Frances. But, as she approached Tommy’s office, she could hear him talking. She peeked through the tiny crack to discover John and Arthur sitting at Tommy’s desk.

“Ada’s handling the Communists. She’s got someone on the inside who’s giving us information,” Tommy stated. “And,” he shuffled papers around on his desk, “I’m…dealing with Father Hughes.”

“And what about the horny princess?” John asked, leaning forward and adjusting his jacket. “You gonna figure out where her family keeps the jewels?”

Tommy waved him off. “I already know.” That single statement had both his brothers and Y/N leaning forward just slightly. Tommy lay a large blueprint on his desk, causing the brothers to stand.

“They keep their entire collection in this strong room. There’s no way to get in from above without a key,” Tommy stated, flattening the paper and looking up at his brothers.

“So, what’s your plan, brother?” Arthur asked like a good soldier. Tommy straightened slightly, and Y/N could tell he was a little uncomfortable. He pulled a cigarette from his case and slid it across his bottom lip before lighting it and taking a drag.

“We’ve gotta tunnel in,” Tommy said without hesitation. Those four words landed on the Shelby men like a grenade, and Y/N could almost feel the atmosphere shift at the statement. None of them moved. It was evident that the idea of tunneling hadn’t been a thought in any of their minds since the war. Tommy cleared his throat.

“I know,” he began, “but there’s no other way. I’ve already got Johnny Dogs ready to help. He’ll set up camp where we’ll start the tunnel.”

The air was thick, and again, neither of the brothers spoke. She knew they didn’t like the plan, but they would comply because Tommy was giving the orders. Y/N watched as John and Arthur fiddled with their suit jackets, their anxious energy hitting her like a baseball bat to the face. It wasn’t until Arthur blew out a puff of air and ran his hand through his messy hair, exposing his apprehension, that Y/N knew what she would do. Without even a second thought, Y/N opened the door to Tommy’s office, and all three men turned to face her. She was only adding insult to injury as the silence in the room became even heavier. Neither of her brothers-in-law had seen her since the wake, and the uneasy energy was almost palpable. Tommy stepped toward her but didn’t get too close, which Y/N could see his brothers noticed.

“Y/N, is everything alright, love?”

Her eyes flitted between all three of the Shelby men for a moment before finally landing back on Tommy. She knew she probably looked like a deer in headlights. Her stare was frazzled, and she knew she looked a bit harried. But she still squared her shoulders and stated with the most conviction she could muster, “Let me help.”

All three men’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, but only one spoke.

“Excuse me?” Tommy asked, incredulity lacing each word. There was no going back now. Y/N had to double down on her commitment. So, she waved her hand toward the blueprints on Tommy’s desk.

“With the tunnel.”

Tommy’s eyes turned a shade darker, and Y/N could see his jaw tick. She only glanced at John and Arthur for a second, and they both looked like they might choke on the thickness of the air. She felt like she might, too, but she held her ground. She was not a fragile porcelain doll and could help her husband like she used to. Tommy coughed, then turned to his brothers and, in a calm voice, asked, “Would you mind giving me a moment with my wife, boys?”

Neither of the brothers wasted a second before hustling out into the hallway. Once the door shut behind them, Tommy’s steely gaze landed back on Y/N. Before, she would have felt a little nervous under Tommy’s intense glare. She had never inserted herself into his shoddy business in the past. But now, she didn’t care. She needed a distraction and a way to prove that she was still a force to be reckoned with even after her loss. Y/N could see Tommy trying to contain his anger as his nostrils flared and his fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. His eyes shut for a brief moment as he took a deep inhale.

“Are you fucking insane, Y/N?” He finally asked, his voice level. Y/N’s mouth fell open, and she reared back just slightly. But before she could say anything, Tommy continued.

“You’ve been avoiding me, your husband, for a week in our own home, and when you decide to finally speak to me, that is what you say?”

Y/N rolled her eyes. “Tommy.”

“No, Y/N!” He shouted, causing her to startle. “You can’t just move past this!”

That statement made Y/N see red. In the week since Lily’s passing, Tommy did precisely that. Y/N’s spine straightened, and her whole body became rigid.

“Why not!?” she shouted back, stomping toward Tommy. “Is that not what you did? Pretend like we didn’t lose our daughter? You threw yourself into your work. Why can’t I do the same thing?” Her chest was heaving, and as badly as she didn’t want them to, she could feel tears pricking at her eyes. She hated that she was a frustrated crier. Her fists were in tight balls at her sides, and every muscle in her body was flexed. She was ready for a fight. She was prepared for Tommy to yell back at her. In fact, she wanted him to yell at her. She wanted Tommy to tell her how stupid her idea was and that she was out of her mind. She mentally begged Tommy to scream at her for barging in on his meeting with his brothers and even thinking about tunneling. Y/N wanted to feel the passion he usually had toward her before they lost their baby. She needed him to reassure her that she was not a lost cause he was housing but his fierce wife. But he didn’t yell. The fire in his eyes dimmed, and his features softened. The pity eyes were back, and she was struck by the sadness she was trying to escape. She shut her eyes in a lame attempt to avoid looking at her husband and keep her tears at bay, but it was futile. The tiny droplets fell down her cheeks, and when she opened her eyes again, Tommy was right in front of her. He lifted his hands to cradle her face, and she hated how she melted into his touch. It had been a week since she even looked at Tommy, let alone touched him. She couldn’t lie, she missed him. But it was easier to hide from the pain and suffering they both shared than deal with it head-on.

Y/N let out a shaky breath and looked into her husband’s eyes.

“Why can’t I, Tommy?” She asked, barely above a whisper. “Let me help you. Please.”

Tommy’s thumb stroked her cheeks, wiping away a stray tear. He cataloged her features, and for the first time in a very long time, she wished she could see into Tommy’s thoughts. She stared at him and hoped that everything she wanted to say was conveyed in her eyes. I’m no longer the same woman I was a week ago. I’m a failure as a woman and a mother. I’m alone, letting my thoughts eat me alive. I’m scared you won’t love this broken woman I have become. Her eyes pleaded for Tommy to let her prove that she could still be the same person as before. She needed to prove to him and herself that she wasn’t hopeless. But when Tommy shut his eyes and let out a sigh, she knew his answer before he even said it.

He looked at Y/N and said sotto voce, “You know I can’t, love.”

Y/N’s body went rigid, and that new familiar sensation began to bubble in her gut. She could feel it rumbling and swirling, mixing with her fear and sadness, creating an uncontrollable fury. It burned like venom, but she found herself welcoming the sting. Her once soft features hardened, and Tommy noticed the change immediately. Her stare was blank, and the joy that used to fill it had vanished. Before losing her daughter, she never understood why the war had changed Tommy. She supported him while his experiences ravaged him, but she never knew why he returned with a harder exterior than when he left. But now, after suffering such a devastating loss, she understood. There is no coming back from witnessing a tragedy.

Tommy’s rough thumbs brushed against Y/N’s tear-stained cheeks and bent until his forehead rested on hers. “Where did the woman I married three years ago disappear to?” He said, his breath fanning over her face. He pulled back, his distressed stare locking Y/N in place, and whispered, “I know she’s in there.”

The words stung like a slap to her already bruised ego. She could feel the weight of that question in every bone of her body. All her fears began raging a war inside her head, and she could feel her armor cracking. She could feel the tears clogging her throat, burning as she swallowed them down. Her lungs felt like they weren’t getting nearly enough oxygen, and she was only seconds away from either crying or breaking something. With a swift step backward, Y/N separated herself from her husband. She hated to admit that her body yearned for Tommy’s hands back on her, but she batted that thought away as quickly as it appeared. Tommy slowly lowered his hands back to his sides, and she leveled him with a callous stare.

“That woman is gone, Tommy,” she spat. “She burned to ash with her daughter a week ago.” She could see the way her words landed on Tommy like bullets striking his chest. Some of her felt bad, but the angry beast slowly becoming her new persona convinced her she did nothing wrong.

Y/N waited for Tommy to say something, anything, back to her, and when he didn’t, she turned and reached for the door. Confidence that felt different from what she was used to coursed through her body like electricity. She was a little scared of who she was becoming, but those wild and fiery feelings of rage were the only things that brought her peace. Before pulling the door open, she turned back toward Tommy and said, “If you won’t let me help you, Tommy, I’ll find someone else who will. You forget, my roots run deep in this business, too.”

Tommy let out a dry laugh. “You’re really threatening me, now, ey?”

Y/N’s grip tightened around the cold door handle, and, through gritted teeth, she growled, “It’s not a threat, Thomas. It’s a promise.” Without a second look, she flung the door open and stepped out.

John and Arthur straightened at her abrupt appearance, and she just brushed past them, letting her feet carry her toward the front of their home. She knew they heard her and Tommy’s conversation, but she didn’t care anymore. This newfound boldness that her bereavement had granted her washed away any and all anxiety.

“Hope you enjoyed the show, boys,” Y/N tossed over her shoulder toward John and Arthur. “Next time, I’ll sell tickets and make talking to my husband more worthwhile rather than a waste of my time.”

She didn’t turn back around to see their reaction to her words. Instead, she showed herself out and hopped into one of Tommy’s many vehicles. She would find another way if he wouldn’t allow her to help. The image of a tall Jewish man whom she briefly met a while back when Tommy first started expanding into London entered her mind. She knew exactly who would be more than willing to give her a hand in her effort to help the Shelby family – Alfie Solomons.

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saintsenara · 24 days

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As someone who isn't the biggest Hermione fan and keeps it quiet because greater fandom LOVES her, I'm honestly gagging for more of your Hermione takes. Especially your takes on fanon Hermione, who I can't STAND. Have a good one x

thank you very much, anon - there are dozens of us!

hermione is certainly the character i struggle to find common ground with the most - and this has been the case since i first read philosopher's stone as a child.

[which has actually been a really fascinating pop-culture experience - i think we tend to overlook, both because the media landscape and its representation of child and teen girls has changed since the 1990s and because of jkr's increasingly harmful views on gender, just how groundbreaking hermione was as a female protagonist in media which wasn't marketed primarily or exclusively towards girls. there is a reason why so many girls and women identified with her when the books were coming out - and it was very interesting for me growing up to not be one of them.]

the cause of my beef with hermione is for the incredibly petty reason that i find people who possess many of her more... striking traits quite difficult to deal with in real life, particularly if they don't acknowledge [which people in the hermione vein often don't...] that these traits are things it might benefit them to work on in their interpersonal relationships...

but this doesn't prevent me recognising that canon!hermione [and any real person like her] is interesting - and that her more annoying traits work well with her more straightforwardly admirable ones to create a fully-rounded character who, from a fanfiction perspective, is a great vehicle for all sorts of tropes, themes, and storylines.

which brings us - of course - to fanon!hermione...

fanon!hermione is, at her core, another brick in the wall of mary-sues. she's beautiful, and so clever she can solve millennia-old puzzles without batting an eyelid, and she's preternaturally emotionally intelligent, and she's morally spotless, and she's always right, and the story's preferred romantic partner worships the ground she walks on, and anyone who doesn't like her is punished.

i don't think - to be clear - that there is anything wrong, per se, with people wanting to write fanon!hermione [nor, to be frank, with other flawless fanon versions of female characters, oc mary-sues, or self-indulgent self-inserts - i'll defend the right to have fun with characters to the death]. this is a hobby, and people's way of engaging with that hobby doesn't have to appeal to me - it's fun escapism sometimes to write a character who is wonderful and perfect and beloved and has a sexy partner; and when it comes to accusations of writing someone "out-of-character", let she who is without sin cast the first stone...

but i also think - and [sigh] here comes some discourse - that fanon!hermione is part of a slight... girlbossification of female characters in the harry potter fandom [and presumably in others, i just don't follow closely enough to know] which i've always been a little uneasy about.

i understand why this happens - this fandom, like many, has an overwhelming preference for making blorbos of male characters and for imagining these characters in slash relationships. the treatment of female characters in slash subfandoms - i.e. tonks in wolfstar spaces; lily in jegulus spaces - is often straightforwardly misogynistic, and even in cases where it isn't, female characters are often shuffled quietly to the sidelines, except when they pop up - often suddenly in a queer pairing of their own - to benignly cheerlead the male couple.

and i think it's good that this is challenged - as i also think it's good that the heteronormative vibes of a lot of slash are challenged - and that we, as a fandom, are increasingly interested in female-centric works [whether focused on a romantic pairing or otherwise] and discussions. i hope these continue to take up fandom space.

but i have also noticed that the way female characters are written and talked about in these context is - as i've said - quite #girlboss in its approach. the focus is on women as clever and competent and feisty and unruffled and brave.

[including female villains, there are a lot of girlboss bellatrixes knocking around...]

and great! it should be! - but from what i've seen this also comes accompanied by a resistance to the idea that women can also be boring, unintelligent, self-infantilising, vain, arrogant, ignorant, talentless, meek, domestic, rude, dislikable, conservative, incurious, complicit in their own victimisation, plain wrong, and so on, and not only still be worthy of exploration, but be worthy of these characteristics not being automatically considered bad things for someone to possess and it not being seen as letting down the sisterhood to explore a woman who possesses them.

and, sure, hermione cannot be described as many of these things - but she is...

self-righteous; cruel; petty; from a privileged class background in the muggle world which blinkers her understanding of the class structure of the wizarding one; stubborn; terrible under pressure; shown by the text to be intelligent largely due to an ability to rote learn; a people-pleaser with a tendency towards a slightly hagrid-ish blind loyalty; extremely deferential to authority and willing to tolerate cruel treatment from authority figures [i.e. snape]; the most childlike of the trio [she takes her schoolbooks on the run and reads through them for comfort! she's an enormous animal lover!]; interested in one of form of stereotypical femininity [knitting! wearing pretty dresses!] even if she rejects the form of stereotypical femininity liked by e.g. parvati and lavender [and anyone who thinks she's not going to get along with her mother-in-law because molly's a housewife is dead wrong - she's having the time of her life helping put together a sunday lunch at the burrow]; possessed of a filthy sense of humour [i will never understand why emma watson said that the key to playing her was to be prim...]; someone who obviously wants to be liked and to be loved; and so on...

[and also, by the end of the pre-epilogue narrative, eighteen. she's often written in fics in a way which makes her sound like she's seen a lot of life - especially if the fic wants to claim she's "too mature" to bother with men her own age... but she hasn't - she's a teenager, and the reason she's so unpolished and abrasive is because literally all teenagers are unpolished and abrasive. it's just one of the mortifying agonies of growing up.]

we should love this. it makes her thorny and messy and mixed-up and human - and i am perfectly delighted by explorations of her character which delve into unravelling this tangle.

i just like her less as someone who is there to be right and beloved and uncriticised.

unless it's by ron. everyone should be uncomplicatedly adored by their wife guy.

#asks answered #in defence of...#hermione granger #annoying canon version only #we love unlikeable women in this house #reject the girlboss paradigm

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olderthannetfic · 2 months

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I find it fascinating how many people conflate OCs with "lazy writing," or view OCs as a "low-brow" approach to fandom, because I personally find writing OCs a lot more difficult than writing original fiction or canon fanfic. But I do have a very anal approach to OCs where I basically try to insert them into canon but retain as much canon as possible. I'll bend canon here and there, because canon is written to be self-contained, and there's no "reason" for my OC to be there, so for them to not feel like I've just Photoshopped them into existing scenes I need to create reasons for them to be there in canon. But I also want canon to retain its feel. I probably actually restrict myself too much. It's super difficult to feel like I'm doing it well, but I love writing OCs. I can see why OC fic is not considered as good because a lot of it is...not that good, but to be fair, canon fic can also be bad, it's just that disproportionately more OC fic is bad, LOL. But one criticism I will never get is that OC fic is "too self-indulgent." This is fandom. We're all self-indulgent here. Your canon fic might appeal to a broader audience than my OC fic, sure, but don't act like it's more altruistic :,)

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greenandsorrow · 4 months

Text

What once was.

the secret history fanfic

"One likes to think there's something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I've learned one thing in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn't conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does is a fool."

I'm a fool. Richard was right. Love has the power to conquer many things, it makes the shy brave and the brave shy, but it cannot conquer death. I used to think Henry could not be conquered by neither love or death. I such was a fool.

Notes;

This story will be very self indulgent and maybe not for everyone🤭 I am aware that the characters of the book aren't meant to be romanticised and I'm also aware of all the elitist stuff and pretense that's portrayed in the book, but I still love it.🏛️🍂☕

No Bacchanal will take place in my story. The characters will still be messed up, but not guilty of murder. Richard will not be the narrator. Another mention, this is Henry centred🥹

Just read it for what it is I guess!

The title is basically "What once was" by Her's.

The secret history hit different for me when I read it -I've read it three times so far- because 1) I'm greek, live in Greece and speak greek 2) during high school I was basically studying ancient greek and latin non-stop 3) I am silly. I hope you'll like this attempt to insert a new character and change the plot. Obviously, this isn't even trying to compare to Donna Tart's exquisite talent, it's just fanfiction.

Next chapter will come out during summertime. That's just an introduction. I'm a bit insecure about writing something I aspire to be a bit more "serious", especially when it comes to my use of the English language, but it's fine I guess.

My OC, Rita, is definitely my shameless self insert. I didn't want to make her flawless. I also wanted to explore the contradiction between a real, almost bohemian in a way person to Henry's perfectionistic and almost non human at times personality. Rita is genuine, she is simple but in a complicated way. She shares the same passion of the ancient world with her classmates, but not in their flamboyant manner. In a way, it's her heritage, Plato and Homer and the twelve Gods of Olympus, but she embraces the fact in a grounded way, not in an obsessive one.

Just like the title is inspired by a song, so is Henry and Rita's backstory. The childhood I'll be referring to is inspired by Taylor Swift's song "seven". Childhood friends that get separated for years is the theme here.

Warnings; possibility of smut/nsfw content, mentions of childhood trauma, triggering themes in general, mentions of abandonment, physical injuries, mental issues, homophobic people from the 80s, some very cute moments that might be out of character for the gang, stereotypes that I don't resign with but are part of the plot, dark themes that might have to do with death etc.

the masterpost

my masterlist

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kaurwreck · 2 months

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do you have any general headcanons about bsd that you're fond of? sort of alternatively, any interesting tidbits about the irl authors to share? your blog has taught me a lot, maybe even a bit against my will 💀 irl authors were so funny ANYWAY ty so much for oversharing because i enjoy it a lot!!

I've been chewing on how to answer this because I have so many headcanons I'm so fond of, but it felt too self-indulgent to pour headcanons on you when I could offer facts as an alternative.

I post what I learn because it excites me, but also because I think it's wrong to have the resources I do without striving to share them. Since I haven't been writing fic like I used to, analyses and factual deep cuts are also all I have to offer the community in return for the joy this media brings me. It's not what everyone always wants, but it's the only other way I know how to engage.

That said, at least this time, I'm going to share several of my headcanons (some of which are theories) instead. But, so that I'm not completely wasting anyone's time, I'll also include one (1) Akutagawa fact at the end, if only because I think it's devastating 🧡

the Executives

Chuuya and Verlaine have a monthly standing appointment with each other to smoke and drink Bordeaux and wax poetic in French in Verlaine's depression hovel. It's a pretense for Verlaine to tell Chuuya about Rimbaud, and for Chuuya to listen and remember so that he can be the edifying stele Rimbaud's grave wasn't afforded.

It's also so they can vent, gush, and gossip.

Kouyou and Verlaine both want to dress Chuuya and bicker over it, especially ahead of formal events and special occasions. Chuuya and Verlaine are closer in taste, so Verlaine often prevails, but where Chuuya won't accept Verlaine's suggestions without inserting his own street urchin, delinquent flourishes, every so often he allows Kouyou to dress, accessorize, and accent him to her heart's desire (especially if she hasn't seen Kyouka in some time).

Chuuya does not, ever, listen to or humor Mori's wardrobe suggestions.

When the Executives convene for a meeting requiring conensus or a quorum, Mori places a maneki-neko in the seat reserved for Dazai as a proxy. (It used to be in Dazai's seat all of the time, but it was repeatedly vandalized, so now Mori otherwise stores it in his desk.)

Chuuya is a workaholic who's leisure is often occupied by engagement with interests relevant to his professional development; Kouyou maintains strict boundaries around her leisure time (namely spent on or to provide for Kyouka), and Mori is only not-working when he's spoiling Elise, although he usually works through that too.

As a result, Chuuya and Mori spend the most time together, and Chuuya is so used to co-working with Mori in Mori's office that he forgets it's not also his.

Chuuya maintains the Port Mafia's relationships with foreign syndicates, contacts, and illicit trading partners. This is for several reasons: he's a polyglot, and it furthers and maintains his other languages; Kouyou thinks it's good for him to practice diplomacy and negotiation; Mori is aware the organization prefers Chuuya as his heir and wants him well established with their business partners should Chuuya succeed him; Chuuya has friends in Europe he enjoys visiting when the role requires travel; and it deters malicious foreign interest in the Port of Yokohama since Chuuya reminds those who don't consider Japan a world power in the aftermath of the Great War that Yokohama is stewarded by a hot tempered guard dog who can control the most astronomically influential fundamental force theorized by physics.

Chuuya's half-mullet is a reference to both Verlaine's side ponytail and Kouyou's half-bangs.

Mori is asexual.

the Agency

The Agency office has a spare room that Fukuzawa has furnished and decorated to be a relaxing reprieve for mindful repose. The Zen room, colloquially. Dazai uses it to masturbate at work, Ranpo uses it as a spare pantry, Yosano has appropriately pointed out it should be a lactation room for accessibility and equity but uses it to read and write erotica when bored, Kunikida uses it for the nervous breakdowns he doesn't want the others to see (and to smoke), Kenji has never once needed it, Tanizaki and Naomi use it for unspeakable acts, Kyouka uses it for shikantaza as Fukuzawa intended, and Atsushi isn't aware it exists.

Atsushi isn't allowed to have prolonged screen time because Kunikida thinks he's too impressionable, which is why Kunikida won't let him have a smartphone or a tablet. He's going to be very annoyed when he learns that Ango allowed Atsushi to use his tablet unsupervised during the Hunting Dogs arc.

Atsushi doesn't know about bills, pensions, or investment portfolios because Kunikida is maintaining his for him without him noticing. (Kunikida intends to teach him about each and transition small responsibilities, but only once Atsushi turns 20.)

Kunikida also maintains Dazai's, or at least he tries. Dazai keeps finding the accounts and draining them on sake, gambling, elaborate attempts to tease others, and impulse purchases.

I do not think Dazai has any savings from the Port Mafia; I think he spent what he had during the two years he was in hiding, and that he's never been capable of resisting ridiculous purchases for elaborate machinations. Like, he once paid a man who took the same train as Kunikida every day to stand near Kunikida and sneeze without covering his mouth at the exact same time every day for almost a year. Then, on a day when Kunikida had several important meetings, Dazai asked the man to sneeze 37 seconds later than usual. It ruined Kunikida's entire day; he had to take paid time off to recover from the aftermath.

Yosano treats Kunikida like a little brother and nurtures and chides him. She doesn't baby him, though, because he responds best when he has high expectations to meet and because he externalizes his frustration in a way she genuinely doesn't have the patience to tolerate. This is to his benefit; it humbles him and keeps him from becoming too condemnatory and punitive.

Dazai and Yosano slept together when he first joined the Agency. They haven't since, but they have a mutual understanding that she can and does use (i) his self-flagellating, psychosexual attraction to her and (ii) his habit of objectifying competent, compassionate women as victims of his attraction to manipulate him for his self improvement and her sometimes sexual gratification. He's usually fine with it; she doesn't when he isn't.

They're also aware that they sometimes remind the other of Mori (well before they became aware of each other's pasts with him) so they maintain a level of emotional and physical distance to protect themselves and each other. Mostly, this distance is pre-calculated and mutually respectful. But sometimes it's not; sometimes, it's punitive and petty.

Yosano and Dazai have never explicitly negotiated any of the above, nor have they ever needed to. This is another way in which they remind each other of Mori, and so their synchronity ensures their distance.

Atsushi thinks Kyouka is under his care, but Kyouka and the rest of the Agency know that he's under hers.

Tanizaki's feigned harmlessness is to deflect attention and scrutiny, but it's also part of his 24/7 BDSM relationship with Naomi.

Dazai is the only stray cat Fukuzawa knows better than to smother, which is why Dazai may wander but will always slink his way home.

Atsushi's selectively acute perceptiveness into the hearts of others renders Dazai unusually vulnerable and bare in such a way that Dazai covets. But it's also why Dazai frets enough about Atsushi's perception of him that he changed clothes before seeking him out and tried to explain himself at the end of Dead Apple. That Atsushi didn't need him to is why Dazai wanted to; Atsushi engenders a drive in others to meet his faith in them energetically and with sincerity. He has no idea that he has this impact on others; which is why Lucy and Akutagawa also want to drown him.

There are enough spare dorms that Kyouka and Atsushi don't need to share; Fukuzawa, Ranpo, Yosano, Kunikida, and Dazai just all agreed that Atsushi and Kyouka would be happier and do better if maintained as a pair. And Dazai thought it would be funny to lie.

etc., Etc.

Kouyou speaks, acts, and dresses like an oiran in reference to irl!Kyouka's favorite and most consistent character archetype. Non-coincidentally, irl!Kyouka's preference for writing seductive, powerful, maternal, victimized, narratively damned women characters was Oedipal in nature.

Dazai's skill, like Kyouka's, was transferred to him, which is why he's incapable of controlling it as effectively as other touch-based skill users like Hirotsu and Chuuya control theirs. Dazai's skill was transferred to him by Natsume and is a fragment of Natsume's own skill (his nine lives, so to speak).

Skills are shaped by and manifest in response to their users' intense and often unmet or insecure needs and desires. Much like any coping mechanism, they're constructs as deeply ingrained as personalities once formed.

Kyouka and Dazai's limited control over their abilities is a psychological barrier rather than a matter of in-universe physics.

Atsushi is the white tiger, Akutagawa is the azure dragon, Dazai is the black tortoise, and Chuuya is the vermillion bird. They're the four symbols, and they embody four of the five phases (while grappling with the fifth).

Natsume brought Dazai to Mori, and followed Dazai to Fukuzawa.

Ango, Kunikida, and Chuuya have a group chat to coordinate the keeping and care of Dazai, but Ango is habitually kicked and then begrudgingly allowed back in.

Agatha Christie directs the Order of the Clock Tower from where she's imprisoned in the Elizabeth Tower (nèe the Clock Tower, misnomer Big Ben). This is less a headcanon and more a substantiated theory— if you notice, the room Agatha Christie is always depicted as being inside in the manga has wood panels that are reminiscent of the oak paneled walls of the irl prison room in the irl Elizabeth Tower. The anime iteration more generally references elements of the Elizabeth Tower's Gothic Revival design in the room's symmetrical and ornate carved details, decorative moldings, arches, tracery, vaulted ceiling, heavy and curved and elaborately patterned furniture, etc., etc. Her skill being called And Then There Were None and her cold, calculating, sadistic personality also suggest she takes after Judge Wargrave, who was both the righteous condemner and among the righteously condemned.

As for your irl fact: Akutagawa Ryuunosuke's children did not call him dad; they called him Ryu-chan.

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #armed detective agency #port mafia #bsd agatha #im a little baffled by the backhanded compliments in the ask but im choosing to cherry pick

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skellymom · 3 months

Text

"Return to Pabu" Part 2

Companion piece to "Cup Of Caf"

To read "Return to Pabu" Part 1

https://www.tumblr.com/skellymom/740375615328354305/return-to-pabu-part-1?source=share

Background: The Batch returns to Pabu with Crosshair in tow. How will he adapt? Particularly in this chapter, what will life look like for the other Batchers as they settle into civilian life? Pabu is this happy little bubble. This tiny slice of happiness and stability before the Empire shits all over this beautiful planet. Want you readers to enjoy The Batchers being happy in this chapter.

The reader (main character) from Cup Of Caf is mentioned. This story is from the point of view of The Batch and Crosshair.

(My OC Maadienne "Mad Momma" Dax makes an appearance as Hunter's love interest. Since this story takes place in an alternate universe from "Vagabonds", Love, Sil, and Tiggy do not make an appearance. Admittedly, since TBB S3 will be starting up here in a few weeks, this might be the only happy ending Hunter and Mad get. I am currently unsure if I'll be able to finish the "Vagabonds" series before the S3 hype hits. Lol, started myself a fucking novel with that one! So...I'm being really self indulgent with my OC and her love interest in this shorter series. IT FEELS SO GOOD! Thanks for understanding.)

Word Count: 1.5K

Warning: None. Angst, sadness, fluff, some alcohol use, babies. Affection and types of romantic relationships other than Cishet.

Lovely dividers by the talented @saradika

The next morning Crosshair was gone, his bed empty. Hunter, terrified of losing Cross again, was about to track him down. Echo intervened.

“He’ll come back. Just needs time to sort out his thoughts...alone.”

Hunter nodded and proceeded to Omega’s room. She was gone. He had forgotten she slept over at Lyana’s house. Wrecker spent the night with Shep.

Mad emerged from their bedroom dressed and planted a kiss on Hunter’s cheek.

“Bye Hunky.”

Hunter mildly panicked “Wait. Where are you going?”

“Phee and I are spending the day doing ‘Woman Stuff’. Probably don’t remember, you seemed pretty drunk last night.”

She stopped, looked at Echo then Hunter. “What’s the matter? Lookin’ sad there Handsome.”

“Oh...uh...nothing.”

“He’s sad because his squad up and left him.”

“Now Echo...”

“It’s strange not being totally in charge, huh? Gives you lots of time to do other things?”

Hunter was silent, still sulking.

Mad’s heart went out to him. “You want me to stay home with you today?”

Hunter gave her puppy dog eyes.

“Use your words, Hunky. What’s your head say versus you heart?”

Hunter scowled. “Both say words are hard.”

Echo chuckled. “Run away Mad, I’ve got him. Go have fun with Phee.”

Mad smiled, hugged Hunter who took in her scent, and squeezed back.

“You can’t ever leave Echo. This man needs you as an emotional interpreter.”

She kissed Hunter then pecked Echo on the cheek before dashing out the door. “THANKS!”

Both stood there red-faced grinning.

“I LOVE that woman.” Hunter beamed.

Echo clapped Hunter on the back. “C’mon, let’s go sneak Tech some caf at the Med Ward.”

And so, the weeks passed by with Crosshair disappearing all morning, finally returning by afternoon. No idea where he went. The Batch didn’t ask at first. Omega had theories, which she shared with her brothers, Mad and Phee.

Then the rumors started around the island: The local potter, usually rather withdrawn, was making the rounds around the island. Purchasing food for “The Grumpy Man.” Rumors were confirmed as the skinny bald sniper started filling out. His skin and hair becoming healthy and lustrous.

Omega set out to start learning how to cook, roping Wrecker in as her sidekick. They packed up meals for Crosshair, insisting he share the food with his new friend. At first, he scoffed, then relented. Eventually Cross slowly started inserting himself into the evening cooking sessions in The Batcher House.

Crosshair would imbibe in drink and eventually loosen up...for his standards. Sharing small bits and pieces of his experiences while away from the Batch. But nothing TOO deep. Cross was always content to watch the antics of his very happy family.

Wrecker and Shep would bring in the catch of the day. Then sit and drink, sharing loving touches and sweet glances at one another. They announced their engagement and planned to wed soon. The whole island was invited to the ceremony and reception. They coordinated with Echo on refreshments and Wrecker planned the menu, wanting to cook for his own wedding reception...with Omega’s help, of course.

Echo, in charge of refreshments, would open a bottle of Spotchka or throw together a Fuzzy Bantha or some other cocktail. Tech had built Echo a mechanical hand that could be switched out with his scomp. From that point on, Echo was the official Batcher Bartender. It wasn’t just throwing together a drink, it was a SHOW! He tossed bottles in the air, catching them, pouring with finesse, lighting the brightly colored alcohol on fire (for Wrecker especially), adding exotic ingredients that Tech helped suggest for certain palates, some of which Phee brought back from her travels.

On the crazier nights, Echo would toss bottles and Wrecker cooking implements in unison while Mad and Phee sang and Shep hammered percussion on the wooden table with his large hands. Hunter would get up from the table to dance, dragging Crosshair with him. The competition was fierce as both men had an intense “Dance Off” to one up each other.

Tech was learning the fine art of highbrow humor, especially after one (or several) of Echo’s cocktails. He and Phee would have constant banter at the table. They were hysterically funny when Tech reached the confused slurry speech stage. Phee enjoyed playfully teasing him while he rambled on, index finger raised...then trailing off as he had lost his train of thought. She’d gently slip her hand into his raised one and caress it. Tech would blush red(der) and smile.

Hunter and Mad sat leaning against each other, shoulder to thigh. Basking in love, occasionally whispering something into each other’s ear. Things that brought their own blush and smile. They shared a secret...eventually requesting Echo make her drinks sans alcohol. Hunter instructed Echo to add Mad’s to his drink, making it a double. By the end of the night Tech and Hunter would carry on a drunken conversation that NOBODY understood except the two of them. Everyone would get hugs though. Even Tech would embrace the guests before everyone left...as Phee eventually escorted him to the sofa. Hunter never made it that far, choosing the comfort of the floor. Wrecker tucked Lula under his head, before leaving to spend the night at Shep’s place.

Echo would help Mad and Phee clean up, then hug Omega goodnight. He would awaken early like clockwork the next morning, brewing caf in the kitchen. Echo and Crosshair would nod to each other, as Echo slid the packaged food across the kitchen island to him. Then smile as Cross quietly left the house. Afterwards Echo nudged Tech and Hunter awake to start the day.

Dinner came and went. The Batchers kept their drinking to a minimum tonight. Everyone just wanted a quiet evening. Hunter and Tech wanted to sleep in an actual bed again. Mad and Phee WANTED THEM to sleep in an actual bed again.

Besides, Hunter and Mad had an announcement to make: Mad was expecting. While everyone was beyond happy and joyful, it was no surprise. A definite event to celebrate. Wrecker brought a cake to the table and Hunter handed Mad his vibroknife to cut it.

“Uh...we don’t have something maybe...CLEANER to use?”

“Made sure to wipe it down properly.”

“Let me guess...this has some kind of significance, yeah?” Mad cocked an eye at Hunter.

“Well, I WILL be using this knife...MY knife to cut our child’s umbilical cord.”

“WHAT???” Mad frantically searching Hunters stone cold expression for any trace of total BS.

“I’ll wipe the blade down properly beforehand. Especially if it’s a C-section.”

“HUNTER, HAVE YOU LOST YOUR DAMNED MIND???”

Hunter’s face was dead serious...until everyone at the table burst out laughing. Then he winked at Mad.

"Kriff! Thought the booze pickled your brain!!!”

Hunter gently took the knife from Mad, flipped it back and forth expertly one handed and slid it back into its sheath. Suddenly, he knelt down beside her on one knee. The laughter in the room died down to total silence. Mad could see from everyone’s face this was spontaneous and unexpected.

“Mad” Hunter took both of her hands in his.

He cleared his throat. Hunter’s expression was mixed: Intensely passionate but nervous. He was out of his element and not used to doing this sort of thing in front of others.

“Ah...As you know, I’m not the kind of guy whose all about grand public gestures...but I was struck in the moment to tell you...in front of the most important group of people in my life to the most important individual who is carrying my child...that I LOVE YOU intensely with my VERY BEING.”

Mad slightly cocked her head and gave him her veiled sassy “No duh, Hunky” expression. Hunter almost broke out in nervous laughter but caught himself. Clearing his throat again, he leaned in slightly. Mad got serious and mirrored this gesture. They were close enough to intensely look into each other's eyes and focus on one another. The rest of the room seemed to fall away into the distant background and disappear. Just two people declaring to each other their deepest desires.

Hunter continued. “I know we didn’t plan for this to happen.” He lovingly stroked her belly. Mad squeezed his hand. “I also know we didn’t plan to be formally married...and I don’t expect that. Heck...” He looked slightly embarrassed letting it all hang out. “I don’t have a ring...or technically own ANYTHING...I’m...poor. But I have a life to give and I want to give it to you. I’ll be the most devoted father to this baby and the most devoted partner to you.”

“I know the Nomaadi don’t stay in one place too long. And...if you’ll have me...If you want me...I’ll go anywhere and everywhere you want to go. I want both of us to be together for whatever amount of time we have left in this life.”

Silence.

Then Mad spoke. “Hunter...” Her voice caught a hitch and she inhaled sharply. She was touched deeply by this gesture of vulnerability and commitment. The baby, barely formed yet, fluttered sharply inside her belly...the first time she ever felt its presence. Everything seemed so REAL suddenly, not just the concept of being pregnant...

PLEASE like, comment, and/or REBLOG!

Part 3 will drop next week!

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seeingivy · 3 months

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Do you draw inspiration from.your own life (events, emotions...) to write ?

HEAVILY!!!!

I think this is something I do specifically for my longer form fics...the one shot tend to be more of the sporadic, cute scenarios I imagine while I go to sleep. but longer form fics are where I really start digging into my own life and putting my own thoughts/feelings into it

a few examples:

roommate eren: actually doesn't really apply, because that was so early into my writing.

method acting eren: (gets bullet points)

eren as a character and y/n as characters I feel have parts of myself that I often feel like are at war with in my own head lol (which is why they have conflict!!)

y/n gets swayed by people around her so quickly and cares about what people think - a little too much. eren is also just deeply self destructive at times and so in his own head that he can't see what's in front of him at all. those two things combined are not a pretty combo, which is why x y and z happens in method acting.

historia's whole being jealous of y/n arc is based of me in real life!!! struggle with real life comparisons so hard and it can be something that is so obsessive for me. when the song lacy came out, it was the first time I really felt seen in the way that wanting to be like someone else so bad can be so all consuming that I wanted to kind of include that in the fic, esp how it pertains to female friendships (will say, all the reception I got about that character and that friendship soothed a lot of rough spots in my heart about that so I appreciate you all)

lana's struggles with love - particulary the part that she has bad relationships of love modeled to her, hence why she originally puts up with ricky in the first place is also based on me (guys this fic is so self indulgent please leave me alone ok) and I haven't reached the whole self actualized love part but i'll get there! (thank you for all the love on the lana character I could cry if I thought about it)

also a bit more deep, but a lot of criticism that I got about the fic (esp after the whole reveal of why eren did what he did) was like "oh he could have just told her" "I don't get why he didn't" was kind of meant to be a more subtle thing of how when you love someone who is struggling with mental illness/bad environments (which at that point he was in a kind of abusive relationship with his producer so), it's often that the way that they cope or react as a byproduct is sometimes something that doesn't make sense/isn't logical - and is no way that something to put up with (which is literally why she doesn't), but it's also why eren is more logical and rational when he gets help. you can't help someone who doesn't want to be helped (which at that point he didn't want to) and they need to put their own work in (which eren obv does after everything that happens)

^^ (this is based on relationships that i've had in my own life but also feeling put in that position of doing things that weren't rational and didn't make sense that hurt people and later realizing when I put the work in what a lot of that actually was and trying to have grace with it)

kind of random, but I always imagine method acting sasha as poc. I didn't want to say it explicit so people didn't start beefing with me about x y and z, but that's why she doesn't get the same treatment as y/n or mikasa. (not saying that y/n is white or fits beauty standards, but she's a self insert so I can't exactly assign her a race so the same point can't be made). but for the sasha character, it's kind of those feelings that poc/darker skinned girls get of not being the person anyone is interested in, the girl who is always funny and never pretty, super motherly but never the girl anyone has a crush on. anyways. (sincerely the token mom friend in highschool!!!)

best friends older brother sukuna:

so like. ive never talked to my best friends older brother. he is thirty. and he's also married to a sweetie pie.

THAT BEING SAID

a big part of that fic is obviously intimacy - but more the fact that there's a lot of depth to intimacy beyond sex - especially for people who have bad first experiences and how they kind of have to grapple with that afterwards (I will not elaborate on how I relate to this. connect dots.)

AND ALSO. sibling relationships is a big part of that fic. I have two older siblings (and the fic also has two older siblings). the relationships that I have with both of them are so dynamically different - in terms of good sibling/bad sibling (if that's even a thing, which the point is kind of that it's more complicated than that) and also younger/older dynamics

^^I won't elaborate more on that but just know in that fic that i've had my fair share of sammy and my fair share of sukuna - but also had my moments where i'm immature and not fair like y/n and yuuji. so.

thanks for this ask it was so fun!!! so sorry I yapped....and overshared.....

#asks!#method acting #bsfs older brother sukuna!#I LOVE U POOKIE thanks for picking at my brain #there are typos #I am too lazy to fix them I just wanted to yap

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thatdesklamp · 3 months

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hi maggie !! i really really really love IW and just wanted to ask how you got inspired to write a gojo x reader fic from reading one day? you’ve also convinced me to buy the book and now i’m patiently (not really) waiting for it to arrive.

also i find it kinda funny that gojo became a huge comfort character of mine because of IW, like if i never read it, i wouldn’t have been THAT attached to him.

i hope you’re feeling better, make sure to rest lots !!

HUZZAH!!!! My plan is a success. The ‘One Day’ + Gojo conversion has begun! But jokes. The inspiration for IW is such an interesting question.

Funnily enough, I kind of approached the ‘One Day’/IW/jjk inspiration the opposite way: I watched season 1 of JK and kept thinking about the bare bones of a story idea, or, at that point, a vague, self-indulgent self-insert of a love interest for Gojo: a girl who couldn’t touch people, hands behind her back, wearing black gloves. I couldn't tell you why I thought of that, but I just thought it was cool as fuck. I had this badass mental image of this cool asf woman removing her gloves with a powerful flourish in the climax of a sick anime battle sequence. Idk, man. And then, when I started taking myself more seriously, I figured that because I love childhood-friends-to-lovers, I decided she’d be Gojo’s childhood friend.

But I wanted to explore that childhood first: I think the main reason most people don't like friends-to-lovers is because most authors don't put in the time to establish the characters as friends first. Why should a reader care about the protagonist/childhood-friend-love-interest's relationship when all they've been given is a blithe attempt at exposition in which the protagonist tells (not shows) the reader that 'yes we've been friends for so long and we really care about each other so yippee root for our relationship!'? I knew that friends-to-lovers works best when there is so much time spent to flesh out the 'friends' relationship first, and that I wanted to show that, preferably chronologically, and not just rely on flashbacks that are just a general pet peeve of mine (they're so difficult to do right, I can go on about it for donkeys).

That's why I came up with using 'One Day' as an inspiration: I wanted to go through years of these characters' lives--genuine decades--and use a chronological narrative, without doing crazy time jumps, and still being able to focus in on the day-to-day, moment-to-moment aspect of a relationship, to really foster that intimacy I wanted to convey. And, so: boom! The 'A concept shamelessly stolen from 'One Day' by David Nicholls' tag was born.

You've got me thinking more about how 'One Day' has influenced IW. Give me a second and I'll write it up fully.

(And thank you! I’m on the mend. Sending out thoughts n prayers to Alexander Fleming, my absolute g, antibiotics are fire 🔥)

#intrinsic warmth #asks from la lamp de desk

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pinkiepiebones · 10 months

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I have this headcanon that Renfield would really like cuddling and being the little spoon but it would also take him a while to get comfortable with because the concept of being held not being a likely precursor to violence/a dangerously vulnerable position would need a bit to sink in.

Would perhaps u be down to write something for that? Can be shippy or platonic. Doesn't matter which. I just want to see this man get some cuddles.

"Little spoon" Dude is like 6'3" you gotta fold him

No but seriously I'm going to take this prompt to write some self-insert, self-indulgent nonsense, sorry in advance. 😅

We're on the couch. It still feels like a dream, but here I am, somehow, watching a cooking competition show with him. With Robert. Well, I think he's more invested in it than I am. I'm laying on him, using his chest as a pillow, and he'll absently pet my hair now and then. It's nice. It's that 'just happy to be existing with you' sort of intimacy that's so underrated. His heartbeat's soothing. We both laugh when one of the competitors decides to try to make salted cricket ice cream with less than ten minutes left on the clock.

"Why do they always do that?" I ask, not really expecting a profound answer, but something. Some kind of response. But he doesn't offer anything. I sit up and look at him. "You still with me, bud?"

Robert smiles a lopsided kind of smile (adorable). "Yeah, yeah. I'm-" He sighs and sits up. "I've been thinking, I'm just- I'm laid on a lot, lot of heads on my shoulders and chest. You, Rebecca, sometimes folks at DRAAG..."

I tilt my head a little. "You don't like that?"

"No, no, I do!" Robert sighs. "I want to do the laying, sometimes." A pinkish shade dusts his cheeks and he quickly adds, "uh, in this context of, of being a pillow, of course." I know what he means. It's cute that he squirms about it, though.

I think for a second and scoot myself to the end of the sofa, getting comfortable against the arm rest. I pat my chest. "Okay, c'mon."

He's still blushing. "You- now?"

"What, you scared?"

Robert makes a face. "I'm not scared."

"Then get over here. I'll cuddle the hell outta you, Robbie."

He snickers. "Well, if you insist-" This over-a-hundred-years-old, six-foot-and-some-change-tall English nerd I'm proud to call my friend maneuvers himself over and rests his head on my chest and damn it I giggle.

Robert folds his legs and I put an arm around him.

"Your heart's racing," he says softly.

I chuckle. "Well, yeah, this isn't an every day thing for me, mister professional big spoon. This is a spot usually reserved for my cat, y'know, so show some, um, respect."

We settle after what feels like ages. I realise he can't see the TV from the angle of our new arrangement. I don't think he minds. I play with his hair and make the occasional comment about the show like I know how to cook anything.

It's nice.

#renfield

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quinloki · 1 month

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Mini vent feel free to ignore

NGL I've always been proud of my height(178cm/5'10) but damn if trying to read x reader fics isn't difficult... I'm never going to be small or petite and I dunno it's hard. Glad 1P gives me a taste of that with how ridiculously sized some of the guys are

No, I can appreciate those feels.

It's one of those things where I do try to make my readers as neutral as possible, but also like - I have been a full 5'00" since I was 12.

That's 30 years at this height.

There is probably a *lot* of stuff I write that unconsciously marks the reader as Short-SHORT without meaning to, because it's a default perspective for me. Now, granted, when I'm writing Kid, or Crocodile, or Doffy, these are BIG guys. Everyone is going to feel small, an Kid's not just big in a height sense, he's a BIG GUY.

I also avoid describing body types anymore than I have to, but I don't think I could write a specifically fat reader. I mean, *I* am fat, I am most certainly 100% Not Thin, or slender, or athletic in any capacity. But I mean, I'm also flexible, and I might have way more stomach than I'd like, but I can still lift the back end of an empty Prius.

To which, I just mean, fat doesn't equate to someone being fit or not, so even when I write a feisty reader, I don't *mean* to imply they're fit. Or not. I mean to try and leave it open to the reader themselves.

The hardest part of X Readers isn't just trying to make them as close to one-size-fits-all as you can, but also in understanding we all make assumptions on both sides of the equation. Writer and Reader both.

That said, representation is awesome, so I LOVE x reader stories that do get into some description. Black Readers, Fat Readers, [Insert Whatever here] Readers, Readers that are almost practically OCs.

In the end, the author should enjoy writing it, and the reader should enjoy reading it, and that requires a lot of work on both sides. Cause even self-indulgent writing is still a lot of work, and shifting through mountains of fic is also a good bit of work.

But, I do understand your frustration. I've heard a few people struggle with it... You know, I realize this is on anon, but if there's a story I've written that you've really enjoyed, if there's ANYTHING you want to take time to point out to me and say "this really implies smallness because in my experience x,y,z." I can't promise anything, but it wouldn't hurt either.

It'd be good education for me - learning about other people's experiences will always help me be a better writer. I've certainly experienced a lot personally, but I'll still only ever have my own perspective. I can't promise I'll write a specifically-tall-reader story, but it might help me pull my writing into more truly neutral territory so I'm not subconsciously just writing all I know.

#quin answers #anon asks #the upside to fan fiction is that there is a LOT #the downside is that there is a LOT #and it can be hard to find what you're looking for #especially if you don't really KNOW what you're looking for #but that's digressing a little from the point of this post #anyway I mean it - if you're tall and can give me specific tips and pointers based on what I've written #that would help me.#x reader #reader insert #hang in there anon!

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 2 years

Text

Sternum

Please enjoy a smattering of feelings and some slight self indulgence.

Gender Neutral Reader Insert.

CW: 18+ Content (Smut/Smut Adjacent)

_____________________________________

Calum knows you're obsessed with tattoos--yours and his. The thing he's not ready for, though he should be after the countless hours you've spent tracing his chest tattoos, is the day he comes home and finds you topless laying on the bed, starting up at the ceiling.

"Is everything alright?" he asks.

"If I breathe, I can still feel the pricks of the needles in my sternum and stomach," you return.

"What are you--What happened?" He closes the distance and when he gets to the edge of the bed, he can see the sternum tattoo shining, clearly covered in Saniderm.

"No way," he whispers. "Is that where you were today?" You told him you had an appointment, but hadn't told him what kind. Recently, your conversations revolved around things that the house needed--scheduling a powerwash, getting a gardening service in to trim the hedges, getting the dryer cleaned out for lint, and some health stuff you wanted to be proactive about-dentist mostly.

You nod. "Yeah, took a few hours. But I like it. It just--holy cow," you state.

Calum settles onto the edge of he bed, gazing over the shading and linework. "I so wish I didn't know that was there until it was healed," he states.

You can almost hear the grovel in his voice. Now, instead of the sting of pain, you can feel Calum's heated gaze racking over your chest and stomach. "Don't make me get a spray bottle. I'll do it." You signal to him with a signal digit to stay away from you. "I did not sit for five hours in pain for you to fuck this up."

Calum knows that while it's wrapped, you still had to be careful about anything extraneous. You were one that did not take getting your tattoos lightly, mostly because you took your time to come up with ideas that would make you happy and work in your artist's preferred style.

His hands trail up your legs, teasing at the tops of your thighs. "I'll keep my hands to myself for these next two weeks, but you'll have to make it up to me afterwards."

"Gladly," you return and inching to sit up causes you to tease. The sound of your pain cuts through the haze of arousal and Calum leans down to kiss your forehead.

"Stay. I'll get you whatever you need."

"Thank you," you call out after asking just for some water.

Calum, hooking one hand around the door molding to stop himself, leans back just a little to look at you over his shoulder. "Don't thank me just yet," he laughs.

True to Calum's word, he's careful around you as your tattoo heals. It takes a couple days for the pain to fully subside. The tenderness goes with it and you feel mostly like yourself soon after. But you can tell when you're changing or wearing a particularly revealing top, Calum's eyes are dancing around your chest, taking in the sight of the ink. More than once as you've changed in the bedroom, Calum's groaned loudly and turned away. "You're not making this any easier!" he'd shout.

You get the last of the plates into the dish rack to dry before hands start tracing along the hem of your t-shirt. Calum's lips are on your neck as you let the water drain.

"I've been good," he whispers in your ear.

You wash your hands, but hum at the feeling is his breath tickling your skin. "I know." You push back against him ever so gently and he takes just a half step back and you turn. Your arms wind around his neck and your lips seal around his in a kiss.

Calum steps back into you, hands cradling your face and body against him. He loves the feeling of you close to him. The two of the you walk out of the kitchen, but don't make it farther than the dining room table. He plops you onto the edge of the table and when his hands are freed, he makes quick work of your shirt.

His kisses trail down your neck, to your chest, down your sternum and over the ink. He kisses every inch of the tattoo and you recline back, weight falling to your hands to let him. He gets it know. How you could loose yourself just in the sight, wanting to trace every line itched into your skin. Not that he hadn't understood it before, but he gets it a thousand times more now than ever before.

Calum lingers with the tattoo for longer than you imagined but you don't mind the tickle of his scruff or the soft touch of his lips igniting your skin. Soon he continues down your stomach. One of your hands fall into his hair as he kneels between your legs. You keep your palm flat as you drag your palm over his scalp for just a moment and then your fingers tighten around the base of the strands. Calum gives into the tug and lets his head fall back at your guidance.

He takes in your hooded eyes and smile. "You're wasting my time, sweetheart," he calls out.

"I like you better with your mouth full also," you agree, "but I just needed to take this in for a moment."

Calum only chuckles, letting you bask for a moment. You loosen the grip a few seconds later and he returns to his earlier task of consuming every inch of you that you'll let him have. He finds himself insatiable when you give him everything. Your first and second orgasms aren't enough. Even though he falls, too, over the edge once at your insistence, nothing really beats the way you taste on his tongue. Nothing feels better than the way your skin feels against his palm and mouth.

You're sure that by orgasms three and four of the night, the evening having settled darkly behind the living room blinds, that Calum is tired. But his kisses continue up your body and you can feel yourself sinking--literally and figuratively. His weight presses you deeper into the couch, the metal of his chains are hot against your skin. But your mind is hazing over.

Lazily you cups his jaw and interrupts his devotion. He cooes when he looks up at you. "Oh, look at you," he hums.

Your laugh is soft. Your breathing is slow but nothing of alarm. "I think I have to tap out, love."

He nods, watching the way your eyes are still closed as you speak though you wear a small smile. "It was a long two weeks," he returns.

"I'm starting to see just how long it was." Your eyes are still closed and Calum nestles just for a moment into the hand of yours still cupping his cheek.

He pushes up to cover your face is light kisses. You giggle when a few of them tickle and he pauses right over your lips. You blink open your eyes to be greeted by the deep brown of his gaze. And like toffee in a hot summer sun, his gaze melts at the sight of you. It's a comforting sight. "Love you," he whispers.

"Love you too," you return.

"You know where you should get a tattoo next?"

"Where?" you asks. Calum responds only be tapping lightly on the side of your ass. You laugh, loud and full of life, once you catch onto his answer. "Yeah, it should say Kiss me too."

"And I'm calling first dibs on that too!" he returns, laughing into your neck. The sound bounces around your ear, before crawling up to your brain and your spine shivers. You love the sound of his laughter.

"I'll get you smaller tattoo under it that says Reserved for Calum T. Hood."

"Okay, maybe not my full name, but I like where your head is at."

The laughter subsides and Calum rests his head on your shoulder. Your fingers trail over his arm, shoulder, and back, lazily etching invisible designs onto his skin. Calum thinks that if a tattoo could etch the feeling of anything into his skin, he'd want to permanently put your soft touch into his bones.

#calum hood #calum hood blurb #calum hood smut #calum hood fluff #5sos #5sos fanfic #5sos fic #5sos imagine #5sos blurb #5 seconds of summer #5 seconds of summer blurb #5 seconds of summer imagine #h writes #calum hood x reader #calum hood x gender neutral reader

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