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#but i will always have this first season; which in itself can stand alone as a complete story in my opinion. it is truly truly phenomenal.

shegetsburned · 3 days

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❝ a man of honor ❞ w. kento nanami 𝜗𝜚.

.nsfw.

• — dearest reader. this author finds herself bearing the most curious of news, for it isn’t without surprise that the viscount nanami has caused ruckus amongst the young ladies of the ton, upon his arrival. gracing us with his presence, he has not yet announced himself eligible for this social season and, i believe, does not intend to do so. but doesn’t love find itself in the most peculiar of places when one least expects it? • — a/n. let’s just say that bridgerton has, yet again, a hold on me, also, i am in no way an historian nor a perfect writer but i do hope y’all can enjoy this different little piece.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who, despite himself, had found the need to return to london for a matter of affair and is set on departing as unbothered by the social season as he was when he first arrived.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who has never taken his social standing lightly and knows he’ll be the object of many desires considering his status as a seven and twenty years old unmarried man. described as a man of honour, suited for the finest lady, but buried in his work and duties.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who attends most balls, making quick appearances here and there and avoiding hungry mamas at all costs, partially hiding in the gardens or engaging in business conversations with other suitors, always eager to return to his chamber. that was until he found the most beautiful excuse to not participate in any courting competition and declare himself ineligible to the ton. you.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who had found you hiding in the very same place he was, that night. a very debutante, who didn’t feel yet a need to marry. you had approached him in need of advice, not in need of a husband. you knew who he was but had no intention nor expectation for any kind of courteous exchange. you just wanted to know how he was successfully avoiding many of his greatest admirers without breaking a sweat.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who did not give much thought to the both of you talking at first, it was easy and the conversation never felt forced. you did feel like a breath of fresh air. you had attracted attention amongst the men of ton quite easily with your gorgeous smile and attentive gaze, which kento had immediately noticed but when you felt like he was really listening to the words you uttered, you became quite acquainted to the viscount’s presence.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami whom you had invited for dinner with your family and was confirmed to be quite the gentleman everyone said he was. well, at least, that’s how he appeared before your family. from across the table, he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you. the way you parted your lips to eat or placed your mouth so carefully around the gorgeous glass to drink hypnotized him. your warm smile and laughter were music to his ears, therefore most of his attention was directed towards you.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami whose thoughts becomes dreams in a matter of weeks. your body draws itself in his head. every time you graze his shoulder with yours, his heart flutters. he’s almost ashamed to admit that he’d rather sleep than awaken alone in his bed when he’s been having the most indecent dreams about the gorgeous debutante he’s unable to have. your words resonate in his sleep until they become pleads and moans he wishes to hear.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who despite his title, his honor and even his words, became aware of the fact that he wanted much more than being friends with you. although he didn’t want to burden you with his occupied life, he couldn’t help but boil when one curious man came to your encounter, asking for a dance. you weren’t a fool and quickly noticed the viscount’s name written all over your dancing card moments later. you did wonder how it would look to the eyes of everyone else, but he surely didn’t care.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who has privatized your company not only by dancing with you all night during the ball but also by inviting you to his estate in london. it wasn’t long before you realized how occupied he was but also how he tried his best to escape your chaperone and have you all to himself in his bureau.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who loathes the thought of not having you close to him. he had offered no ring nor promises, yet here he was, teaching everything your mama hadn’t. taking away every ounce of purity you once displayed to every other eligible suitor with his careful hands. you could still feel his lips along your neck and his hold around your waist hours after the act.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who truly believes he is a man of honour, even with your legs parted for his hand to explore your most sensitive places with your naked back against the walls of the library of his estate. the sound you make, he wished no other men to hear when it graced his ears, hurrying his movements and developing the most intense of needs. he trailed your back ever so gently to detach and remove your gown with such delicacy it made your whole body shudder.

˗ˏˋʚ viscount!nanami who, despite engaging in such shameful activities, roams around you, just as before. having eyes only for you and ignoring every little distraction that came his way. the rest of the ton surely did wonder how the most anticipated pairing of the season will officially come to be. many questions lingers in one’s mind when two individuals such as yourselves spend so much time together. had he purposely made you wait to attract the other suitors’ attention and find you as desirable as he did? had he already compromised your integrity and claimed you for himself in secret? he did fancy himself the gentleman, so why hadn’t the big question been asked already?

surely, you did know it wouldn’t be the last time you’d be able to call him "my lord" and it certainly wouldn’t be the last time he’d be able to look at you in the eyes and call you his lady.

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joelscruff · 8 months

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truth or dare (joel miller x f!reader) 18+

notification blog | kofi | in honor of my bestie han @swiftispunk who recently celebrated her birthday (and in honor of spooky season starting 🎃) i thought i'd step outside the boundaries of what i usually write and try something new. i'd also like to give a huge shoutout to @toxicanonymity whose entire masterlist greatly influenced my desire to try something like this. please heed the warnings!!! and as i said this is my first time writing anything like this so pls be kind 🫠

summary: a harmless game of truth or dare ends with you tied up in a certain mysterious neighbor's garage. rating: 18+ explicit warnings: dubcon (reader is given a choice to leave, but not immediately), dark!joel, age gap (reader is college age, joel is in his fifties), unprotected p in v sex, use of restraints, ropes, spanking, degradation, sir kink, dirty talk (use of 'little girl' as a pet name), face fucking, rough sex, creampie, brief anal play, humiliation, inappropriate use of a household item (he puts a flashlight up her cooch), marking (with a sharpie), size kink (joel is much bigger than reader and can lift her), pls lemme know if i forgot anything word count: 8.3k

Your palms are sweaty, fingers sticking to your skin as you stand at the edge of the property with goosebumps already blooming along your flesh. The air is chilly, that end of summer evening air flooding your nostrils as a car drives past through streams of leftover rainwater, headlights blurring your vision for a moment. It passes quickly and you're alone again, standing on the street corner with a mixture of anticipation and dread filling your trembling body.

Everything had been fine about twenty minutes ago. A typical party with your hometown friends, one last hurrah before everyone splits off for the third year in a row to go back to their respective colleges, back to long lectures and underwhelming frat boys. It had gone the same way it always does when you get together - shots, secrets, schemes. No end of summer party could ever be complete without a game of truth or dare, not for your crowd anyway.

It had started simple. "Which one of us had the best glow-up this year?" "I dare you to text the last guy you slept with." "What's the kinkiest thing you've done with somebody?" "I dare you to show us the last nude someone sent you." Typical borderline adolescent challenges, things you all still followed through with despite being too old for the game - it's the principle of it, to indulge and pretend, if only for a little while, that life is as simple as it once was.

"Who's the last person you had a sex dream about?"

You'd twisted your hands awkwardly in your lap, felt heat rush to the apples of your cheeks. Usually a question like this wouldn't make you hesitate, but the subject of the answer had been a slightly embarrassing one. As soon as the name Joel Miller had fallen from your lips, you'd been met with screams and squeals and excited chatter from every direction.

"He's so fucking creepy though," one of your friends had said with wide eyes, palm over her mouth, "He gives off serial killer vibes."

"Oh please, he's not that bad," another had chimed in, "He's just a loner, kinda mysterious. I see the vision."

"Are we forgetting the part where he's old as hell? Dude must be in his fifties, at least."

"But that means experience."

"It could also mean limp dick."

"You guys are disgusting," you'd moaned, leaning back on your hands, "It was one dream, let's move on."

And they had. Briefly. Until it was once again your turn and they'd all rounded on you with cheshire cat grins and glinting stares. You should have known what was coming when you chose Dare.

"I dare you to go over to his house."

You'd resisted, of course. The dare itself didn't even make much sense; what were you meant to do? Go over and ding-dong-ditch his front door like a twelve year old boy? But it had only snowballed from there, all five girls tossing in their own thoughts and ideas, talking and giggling over each other. "She should ask him on a date." "She should just flirt a little bit, see how he reacts." "She could see how far she can get with him, maybe?" "Oh shit, that's good."

You could have always said no - there was no way any of them could force you to do it, even if it would have ended the party abruptly with grumbled complaints and a slammed door. But the more they talked the more you found yourself listening, letting the concept sink in, the images of the dream you'd had the other night flooding to the front of your mind. Mysterious and elusive Joel Miller, big hands covered in the motor oil he uses to tinker with his truck, trailing his messy fingers between the swells of your breasts...

They'd managed to convince you just by the reminder alone, though also due to the fact that they'd each tossed in a twenty dollar bill and stated that simply getting a kiss on the cheek would warrant a win. The prospect was intriguing; it would be a testament to your own desirability, your game. How far can you get with your quiet neighbor who probably hasn't touched a woman in years? Who'll probably fold the second he realizes someone as young and beautiful as you is interested in him?

"I'll do it," you'd said with a smirk, rising from the hardwood, "How hard can it be?"

Harder than you thought, apparently. Because now you stand a few feet from Joel Miller's house, loitering soundlessly at the edge of his front lawn, hesitating. The sun has gone down, turning the hedges along the side of his property into frighteningly tall shadows, dark and menacing. A light breeze flows past and you wrap yourself tighter in your well-worn maroon cardigan, shivering, staring at your boots and wondering if you can really bring yourself to do this.

It'll be so humiliating if he rejects your advances. On the other hand, will it somehow be less-so if he returns your flirtatiousness and you then have to reject him once you've gotten what you came for? How will that make you look? You're not even really sure why you care - probably because the man has done nothing to you whatsoever, nothing that would warrant such a foolish prank as this being played on him. It makes you feel bad, in a way. As much as you and your friends make fun of him, he really is just a man who keeps to himself - perhaps this is going too far.

You notice light flickering nearby, a reflection of fluorescents in the puddles of his driveway. You figured he'd be in his garage - it's where he spends most of his time, bent over the exposed hood of the truck he's seemingly been working on ever since he moved in at the beginning of the summer. You've never seen him drive it, never even seen him leave the property, but you've passed by the house on more than one occasion. You've seen the way he rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, forearms splattered black and grey, expression focused on the task at hand while sweat drips from his greying temples.

Having a sex dream about him really shouldn't have been that shocking, now that you think about it. The man is a mystery, sure, but he isn't ugly by any means.

You swallow down your qualms, picturing the faces of your friends more than likely smooshed against the living room window a few houses back, watching. As soon as you turn the corner, you'll disappear from view, obstructed by the hedges and the sudden darkness of night. You take one more deep breath, one last burst of chilly evening air into your lungs, and accept your fate.

He doesn't notice you walking up his driveway, taking slow and meager steps as you assess the open garage, the truck with its hood popped as usual, the flickering of the florescent lights hanging from the ceiling. He doesn't notice you, but you notice him. You spot a pair of steel toed boots and long denim clad legs sticking out from underneath the truck, hear the clink and clang of metal against metal while he tinkers with something down there, unseen. As you reach the garage it becomes apparent that you still have one last chance to end this before it begins, turn around and take the loss.

But you don't.

"Excuse me," you offer in a weak voice, teetering nervously at the edge of the garage door, neither inside nor out - neutral ground.

The clinking stops, replaced by the steady pounding of your heart in your chest, the heaviness of your breathing. You try to loosen your hands from their fisted forms and unclench your fingers, focusing on the stretch of flesh and bone while the legs beneath the car slowly begin to inch forward. He's not laying on any type of support, one of those wheeled contraptions you've seen other people use - no, he's simply got his back to the ground, a back and body that's slowly coming into view.

His black and green flannel rides up where he's been laying on it, as well as the grey t-shirt he wears beneath; as he slides out from under the car you spot a bare sliver of skin just above his waistband, a patch of hair that trails down into his jeans. A lump forms in your throat. When he finally peeks his head out, you swallow around it and try to remember to breathe.

Greying hair slicked back behind his ears, cheekbones smeared slightly with something black, scruff lining a strong yet soft jawline, a plump bottom lip, and those eyes... dark brown, almost black. It's the face that's practically been haunting you all summer, whether you want to admit it to yourself or not.

His brow furrows as soon as he sees you, "Can I help you?"

It's not the first time you've heard him talk, but it's certainly the first time he's ever spoken directly to you. His accent is stronger than you remember, words slipping smoothly past his lips like butter as he eyes you from the floor of his garage, knees up, hands still hidden in the darkness. A few seconds pass before you realize he's asked you a question.

"Oh, um-" You haven't thought this through very far, that's for sure. What the fuck do you even say? You take a breath and remind yourself that you're good at this, have seduced your fair share of frat boys in the past two years with minimal effort and have never heard the word no. Sure, Joel Miller isn't a frat boy - far from it - but underneath his cold exterior he's still very much a man, and very much capable of falling under the spell of a beautiful woman. You hope, anyway.

"I was just taking a walk," you lie, "Saw your light on, thought I'd come say hi."

He stares at you blankly, like he's unsure exactly how he's supposed to respond - or perhaps he's already seeing through your façade. You take a step into his garage, poised at the edge as you lean casually against the opening.

"Honestly, um-" you push some hair behind your ear and attempt to look shy, though it's not a huge jump from how you're actually feeling, "I've been meaning to talk to you, before I go back to college."

At your words he raises an eyebrow and slowly brings his hands downwards, palms pressing flat against the dark concrete. You watch as he eases himself up and out from under the truck, and god he's tall - tall and broad and huge compared to you, a fact that sends a little flutter into your belly. He takes a step toward the work bench against the wall, eyes still on you as he reaches down and picks up a rag to wipe his hands, big and wide and streaked with oil. You remember your dream and feel a twinge in your underwear.

"Talk to me about what?" he asks, massaging the rag against his fingers.

You shrug as nonchalantly as you can, taking another step inside his garage, closer to where he stands at the work bench. You cross your legs in an attempt to show them off, stretching your ankle toward a spare tire on the floor and accentuating the sheerness of your black tights, the little run that splits the material at the inside of your knee, the hint of bare skin that peeks out beneath.

"Nothing in particular," you say, keeping your voice soft and steady but doing your best to keep that shy girlishness present, "Just... wanted to." You peer up at him from under your lashes and bite your lip, then reach out your hand for him to take. You say your name.

He assesses your hand but doesn't take it, brow still furrowed. "Joel," he replies, "And I'm a bit preoccupied at the moment. Don't really have time to talk." His voice is cold and gruff, absolutely no sign of interest or attraction - dammit.

"What're you doing?" you ask, tilting your head.

He continues to stare at you blankly, "What does it look like I'm doin'?"

Okaaaay, then.

You shrug again and take another step, turning to look at the wall next to you. Tools line the shelves, wrenches and screwdrivers and the like dangling rather precariously here and there, smeared in motor oil and dust. It's a mess but you'd be willing to bet that it's organized chaos, that he likes it this way.

"What's this?" you ask, pointing to a particularly large object, something that looks like a mixture between a pair of scissors and a wrench.

"Bolt cutters," he supplies you monotonously.

"Ohh," you say with a nod, leaning a bit into the confused pretty girl stereotype and hoping maybe he's a sucker for it, "And what's that?" You point toward a small cylindrical object, black and tactical, only a few inches long.

"You never seen a flashlight before?"

Oh. Right. "Woops," you giggle, "Sorry."

You turn your face to look at him sheepishly and he's still watching you, big arms now crossed against his broad chest - impatient. Well, this is clearly not working either. He's frowning, eyes so focused on your face that you feel almost naked beneath it, like he's staring into your soul. You clear your throat awkwardly and tug your bottom lip between your teeth, breaking your own gaze away from him and trying to find something else to comment on.

"So you've been working on your truck," you state, gesturing toward the vehicle as if only just noticing it was even there, "What's - uh - what's wrong with it?"

He's clearly not buying into whatever the fuck you're even trying to sell. He remains silent, eyes still on you, and suddenly it's like you've never even interacted with a man before - and to be honest, maybe you haven't. Frat boys are certainly not men by any means, and nowhere near in the same league as Joel Miller by a long shot, probably almost triple their age with a dark and mysterious aura that feels almost suffocating. He just stares at you, slightly unnerving, but also seductive in its own way, almost like he's challenging you.

"What do you want?" he asks blankly.

"I-I told you," your voice is already faltering, losing its flirtatious edge the more you realize how dumb of an idea this was, "I just wanted to talk to you."

"Yeah, I got that," he says stiffly, "Why?"

You've already exhausted the avenues you thought might work, which means you've got one last chance before he sends you packing. With bated breath you take the final few steps toward him and - averting your gaze - you reach your hand out to touch his forearm with your fingertips. It's feather light, but you're suddenly very aware of the goosebumps that rise on his freckled flesh, the way the thick hair on his arms seems to stand on end the second your skin touches his. Okay, now we're getting somewhere.

"I think you're handsome," you murmur softly, feeling warmth rush to your cheeks when you realize that it's not a lie. And it really isn't. As your gaze gradually tilts up you catch a glimpse of the hair on his chest, peeking out from under his grey t-shirt. You spot his pecs beneath the fabric of his flannel, see the throbbing veins in his neck, the coarseness of his scruff, the sharp curve of his nose, and those fucking eyes - looking at you with a darkness, a lust, that wasn't there before.

He's not just handsome; he's fucking gorgeous.

"What're you doin'?" he asks you, that gruffness still present but being taken over by something else, something darker.

"Nothing," you breathe, still trailing your fingers along his forearm until they reach its apex and dip into the soft part behind his elbow, damp with sweat. You swallow, throat going dry as you stroke his skin with your thumb.

"Doesn't feel like nothin'," his voice is quieter, matching yours, and he tilts his head slightly as he continues to stare into your eyes, "Why're you really here, sweetheart?"

Sweetheart. The word sends a burst of warmth to your chest, a smile to your lips. You unlock your eyes from his bashfully, watching your own movements as you trail your fingers back down toward his hand and wrap them around one of his fingers, so thick compared to your own. You squeeze gently, biting your lip again as you peer back up at him. Here it is. Moment of truth. You tilt your head up slightly, eyelashes fluttering as you lean forward to connect your lips with his.

Except, they don't connect.

Instead he pulls his hands away from you, brings them upwards and wraps them around your upper arms, squeezing tightly. Your eyes widen, confusion flooding your features.

"Turn around and bend over."

"W-what?" Shock doesn't even begin to describe the ice cold feeling that now makes its way through your body, edged with something else - something you can't explain.

"Turn around," he repeats, his big hands squeezing your arms even tighter - relentless, firm - as he peers down at you with a dark hunger in his eyes, glinting black beneath the fluorescents, "And bend over."

He does not give you another chance to obey - you're too frozen in surprise and confusion to do anything yourself. Instead, he uses the force of his weight on your arms to spin you on the spot, shoving you against the work bench. You feel one of his hands move from your arm to your back, pushing hard until you fold, warm cheek coming to rest against the cold wood.

"Wh-what are you doing?" your voice is meager, weak, and you feel him wrap one of his hands around both your wrists like it's nothing, pinning them against your back like they're simply twigs in his wide palm.

"What you're clearly fuckin' beggin' for," he replies gruffly, and you feel his other hand at your skirt, feel the brush of his fingertips at the hem as he reaches upward to grip the band of your tights. Your eyes widen and instinctively you pull back, pull away - he just pushes you back down.

"I'm not-" you begin, shock quickly being replaced with fear when you realize how easily overpowered you are, how fluidly he's able to tug down your tights and expose your ass to him, clad in only a black thong already lost between your cheeks.

"Oh, you're not, huh?" his voice is cold and stoic, angry, "You think you can play games with me, little girl?" His hand comes to rest against the swell of your behind and you suddenly feel his breath above you, hot in your ear, "Tell me why you're really here."

You try to lift your head up to look at him better but he just shoves you back down again. Panic floods your body, mixed with the unmistakable burn of arousal. You feel yourself twitch in your underwear, feel a sudden gush of warmth spill inside the fabric as he begins to trail his finger up and down the thin line of black cotton.

"I-I'm..." You're at a complete loss for words, unable to articulate anything, unsure of what exactly is happening - or about to happen. Two minutes ago you'd been sure he was about to tell you to leave, practically kick you out of the garage himself, and now you're not sure leaving is even a possibility.

He pulls his hand back and you cry out when it comes down to slap against one of your cheeks, a sharp sting and burn you hadn't been anticipating.

"Tell me why you're here," he repeats - authoritarian, firm.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out except a frightened squeak, something which clearly eggs him on even more. He spanks you again, harder this time, palm flat and wide against your pebbled flesh. The sound that slips past your lips is somehow akin to a moan of some sort, guttural and deep.

"I'll just make it harder and harder, sweetheart," he says then, and the pet name no longer contains the warmth it did mere moments ago; instead it's cold and detached, mocking. You're still reeling when his hand comes down to slap against you again, even harder this time, and your hands ball into fists behind your back as you let out another low moan. More slick gushes into your panties and it's impossible to deny that somehow, despite the fear twinging in your heart, you're so fucking turned on.

"M-my friends," you gasp out, and you feel him squeeze your abused ass cheek which you're sure is already dark with his handprint, "They- they dared me to see how far I c-could get with you."

He lets your words sink in for a moment, squeezing again - tighter, so tight that it hurts. You whimper against the wooden top of the work bench, legs shaking.

"So you came here to get fucked," he finally states.

"N-no, I swear, I-"

"Wasn't a question," he interrupts, and you feel his other hand tighten around your wrists, "You came here to get fucked so you're gonna get fucked, end of story."

"But I-"

Without any warning he suddenly pushes himself up against you from behind, the rough denim of his jeans pressing deliciously up against your exposed skin. You gasp, eyes going wide when you feel the long, thick shape of his dick between your cheeks, huge and hard. He holds it there, his free hand coming down to lay flat beside your head against the work bench.

"You feel that?" he asks, voice suddenly quieter but still full of that ice cold malice, "You feel that cock?"

Fuck. "Y-yes," you breathe, "I feel it."

"You have five seconds before i close this door and stuff you full, understand?" Suddenly all you can hear is the heavy sound of his breathing, the panting of your own, the thud of your heart where it presses painfully against the wood. He's giving you an out.

"I- I-" you swallow, brows furrowing when you feel his hand slacken around your wrists. You could pull away now, yank yourself out of his grasp and sprint down his driveway, return to your friends. Forget this ever even happened.

It's your last chance.

"Five," he begins, breath warm against your face.

Run. Just run.

"Four."

But why?

"Three."

Why don't you want to run?

"Two."

Why do you want to stay?

"One."

He pulls his hand up from the work bench and hits a button on the wall, eliciting a loud mechanical noise to your left as the garage door starts to close. You watch with wide eyes as your chance to leave slowly vanishes inch by inch until it's gone completely, and yet no part of you itches to run, to escape. There's nothing to escape from, you realize. You want to be here. You want him to fuck you.

As the reality of your situation starts to settle, his grip around your wrists tightens once again. You sense him reaching up somewhere above you, and you suddenly feel the harsh texture of what feels like thickly braided rope wrapping around your wrists. The realization that he's restraining you sends another pool of release into your panties, another faint squeak past your lips.

"You gonna stay still for me?" he asks, voice dark and clearer now in the silence of his garage, no sounds of rain or cars to disrupt you, "Huh? You gonna be a good girl?"

"Yes," you breathe, nodding against the wood.

"Say it."

"I'm gonna stay still," you promise, "I'm gonna be a good girl."

He finishes knotting the rope around your wrists, tight and uncomfortable against your skin. He pushes his groin up against your ass again, brings his now free hands downward to reach through your cardigan and squeeze your breasts. Your nipples are hard beneath the soft cotton of your shirt, no bra between the layer of material and your bare skin; he tweaks them in his fingers and you shudder.

"These are mine," he whispers in your ear, scruff nuzzling against the side of your face, "These tits, this ass," he drops his hands from your breasts to squeeze your cheeks again, "and this pussy." His hand drops to the puffy shape of your lips beneath your thong and you whimper. "Understand?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes, what?"

You're not sure what he's asking for, what he wants you to say. You take a guess. "Yes, sir," you whisper, and you feel him smile against your ear. Bingo.

He doesn't bother to pull your tights down the rest of the way; instead, he rips them, pulling them apart in his big hands and reaching inside to curl his index finger around the thin strip of your thong. He pulls it - hard - and it rips from you with a rough tearing sound and a painful sting, eliciting a loud gasp from you which he rewards with another spank.

You feel his finger slip between your lips for a moment, gathering some of your release before he pulls it away. "Juicy fuckin' pussy," he mutters, and you hear the sound of his zipper coming undone, vulgar in the quiet room. You have no time to ask about protection, no time to even really process how quickly this is already happening, before you feel the warm tip of his cock pushing against your twitching hole. You gasp again, hands furling under the ropes.

"Shh," he quiets you, stilling for a second, "Don't squirm."

"Sorry," you whisper, tears pricking in your eyes, "I'm sorry."

"What're you sorry for?" he murmurs, feeding his cock to you in small increments, reveling in the noises falling past your lips. It's so fucking big, bigger than you'd anticipated - it feels like he's spearing you, splitting you in half, especially without much preparation. It stretches and burns, but the warmth of it, the way it pulses as it invades your body, just makes you gush even more. "Hm?" he continues, "What're you sorry for? You sorry for squirmin' or sorry you pissed me off?"

Your eyes roll back as he bottoms out, his pubic hair pressing coarsely against your pussy lips, heavy balls firm to your ass. You try to speak but it's hard to get the words out when you're so full, the wide tip of him pushing into your cervix.

"You a virgin?" he asks you then, voice changing for a moment, like for the briefest of seconds he's wondering whether he should have gone slower.

You shake your head quickly, "N-no," you manage to gasp out.

"Feel like a fuckin' virgin," he grunts, pulling out and then immediately slamming back inside. Your head bumps against the work bench, a groan falling from your mouth as he makes a home inside you. "Christ," he mutters, "Tight little thing. You feel me in your stomach, baby?"

You're not sure he wants you to answer, but it becomes clear when his hand slaps down on your ass cheek again and you cry out.

"Yes," you moan, then quickly amend, "Yes, sir."

"S'what happens when you come in here, actin' like a little slut," he suddenly reaches for your cardigan and yanks it off - it catches on your restrained hands and he simply rips it and tosses it to the floor, "But then again, you're not actin', are you? Huh? What's a slut like you doin' wearin' all these fuckin' layers?"

"I'm s-sorry," you repeat, already mourning the loss of your favorite sweater, now ripped to shreds at your feet.

"Sorry's not good enough, little girl," he breathes, thrusting into you again so hard that you yelp, cheek still pressed into the splintered wood of the work bench, "That's it, fuckin' take it."

He fucks you without any reservations, any inhibitions. Your legs shake and you can hear the slap of his hairy thighs against yours as he pounds into you relentlessly. You have no choice but to take it, the stretch of his huge cock becoming less painful the more he gives it to you over and over, the room full of the wet squelch of your pussy gripping him. He grabs your hips, fingertips digging into your bare flesh as he takes and takes; you wish you could see his face, wish you could see how he looks when he's fucking you, getting his pleasure. The thought makes you whine, tears streaming down your face as your body moves back and forth against the work bench.

It feels fucking amazing. You've never had a cock as big as his before, never been fucked so deep and so hard, like he doesn't care if he breaks you, makes you cry. He hasn't touched your clit and yet you already feel you could come from just this, just the relentless push and pull of his dick inside you. Unfortunately, just as soon as you feel your orgasm starting to build, he pulls out. Your brow furrows.

"Stand up," he orders, "and turn around."

You obey, relief overtaking you as soon as you're no longer bent at such an awkward angle. The moment you turn to face him you barely get a look at his face before he's reaching down and tearing your shirt in half - easily, like it's nothing. You don't even have time to wonder how the hell you're gonna get home with all your clothes ripped to shreds when his mouth is suddenly wrapped around your left nipple, and you whine at the sensation. You peer down at him, biting your lip and watching his wet lips suckle around the hard bud, beard scratching deliciously against your skin. Your hand aches to cup the back of his head but it's still pinned behind your back, tied tight beneath the rope.

"Fuck," you whimper, and his dark gaze flashes up to meet yours as he sucks, the hint of a smirk on his lips when he pulls away.

"Feels good, does it?" he asks, and seeing the words come out of his mouth is somehow more sinful than when you could only hear them, "You like bein' used?"

You nod almost immediately despite never having experienced anything like this in your life - though admittedly you've undeniably wanted to experience this, ached to have somebody take control, tell you what to do, make you do things. It's like you've somehow known subconsciously all summer that Joel Miller could be that person for you, despite never having said two words to him. It was just a feeling, an instinct, and that dream...

"Yeah?" he continues, and suddenly his hand comes up to cup your pussy, thumb finally pressing against your clit. You cry out, tears still trickling down your cheeks. "Said you were in college, right? You take any college dick up here? Be honest now."

You nod again, "Y-yes."

"How many?"

"I... I don't know," you breathe. It's the truth, and you can tell as soon as the words leave your mouth that it does something to him. He presses his thumb harder against your clit, two fingers slipping up inside of you.

"'Course you don't know," he murmurs, pushing them as deep inside as he can, making you whimper, "You wouldn't know, would you?"

Your thighs tighten together - squeezing his hand - and he just smirks again, curving his fingers and making you moan. Your lower back digs into the work bench as he stands, pushes you up against it and peers down into your eyes again with a hunger that's only getting worse. You assess his expression, the pout of his lips as he fucks you with his fingers, the focused lines creased into his forehead. So fucking handsome.

"You're not a good girl," he breathes, nose brushing yours, "Knew it from the day I saw you. You're just made for takin' cock. Am I right?"

"Yes," you whisper, nodding shakily and bumping your lips up toward his - he pulls away again and you can't help but feel disappointed, aching to feel his lips against yours.

"Tonight you're made to take my cock, that clear?" he continues, and you watch as his other hand travels downward to wrap around it - just out of your periphery. He's too close to you, crowded so much in your space that you know he won't like it if you break eye contact. You can tell by his arm movements that he's pumping himself at the same speed he's fucking you with his fingers, inhaling deeply, "I'm gonna ruin you, sweetheart. Whether you like it or not."

"Y-yes sir," you whisper, voice squeaking when he speeds up his fingers and pumps them in and out with fervor, thumb rubbing furiously against your clit. Yet again he brings you almost to the edge and then removes his hand completely, stepping back with a low chuckle when you whimper pathetically.

Your disappointment only lasts a moment because now you can see him, see the girthy length of him that's already been inside of you hanging out of his zipper, glistening with your slick. He's huge, tip dark and intrusive, beads of his own arousal dripping from the slit; your mouth waters. His eyes cast down to where you're looking and he smiles, dark and mocking.

"Never gonna see another dick like this, darlin'," he breathes, "So you better start showin' your appreciation." His eyes glint. "Kneel."

You're practically already on your way to kneeling before he says it, in awe of the sheer girth and shape of him. The second your bare knees hit the cold floor he's crowding you again, hand coming around to hold the back of your head.

"Open wide, baby," he murmurs.

Your jaw drops and he plunges inside your mouth quickly and seamlessly, making you gasp around his length as your eyes widen. You can't breathe, looking up at him with more tears already fogging your vision as he immediately slips into the depths of your throat with no hesitation. You gag, eyes bulging as you attempt to swallow around the intrusion, find your breath, but it's impossible.

"Yeah," he breathes, both of his hands cradling your face and holding you still as he lets his cock sit unmoving in your throat, "Yeah, that's it. That's what you're made for."

He only holds it there for a few seconds but by the time he pulls it out you're gasping for air, coughing and spluttering as tears stream relentlessly down your cheeks. He keeps cradling your face, tuts to himself as you try to get your breath back. The head of his cock bumps softly against your bottom lip.

"Not off to a great start, are we?" he murmurs, "Let's try again."

He pushes his cock past your lips again and you try your hardest not to gag, a little more prepared this time. The pulsing head of his cock situates itself firmly in your throat, the pubic hair at the base tickling your nose while his balls bounce against your chin. You look up at him with pleading eyes, watch as he stares down at you with nothing but malice in his expression, contempt. You're just a hole to him, nothing more.

He pulls out and lets you gasp another breath before he's shoving himself back in, hands moving back to hold your head firmly as he fucks your face. You don't move - you don't need to; he does all the work as he drags your head back and forth along his cock, hitting the back of your throat over and over again until you're gagging and practically sobbing for air. Your knees ache against the concrete floor and you know you'll have bruises tomorrow, know that you probably won't be able to swallow properly for a few days either. Somehow, you don't really care.

When he's gotten his fill he yanks himself out and allows you to catch your breath for a few seconds, throat constricting around nothing while you choke and gasp.

"Stand up," he orders, and even though you're still gasping for air you manage to bring yourself back up, legs shaking. Saliva drips down your chin, drooling from your mouth in long strands, but with your hands tied you can't make any attempt to clean yourself up - he probably wouldn't want you to anyway.

His wide palms are suddenly on your hips, and he picks you up and places you on top of the work bench with minimal effort, arms bulging. You're completely naked now save for your ripped tights while he's still fully clothed, dripping cock still peeking out past his zipper, covered in your saliva. He steps between your legs and pushes your thighs open, then slips inside of you once again in one short push, making you yelp.

"Oh, please," he grumbles, gripping your hips tightly and pulling your bare body taut against him, head hitting his chest, "We both know you can take it."

It's not like you have any other choice at this point. He fucks you harder than he had before, now that he has easier access, can pull you so firmly against him that his entire length is continuously swallowed up entirely by your dripping pussy. His nails dig into your skin as his cock fucks up against your cervix over and over, so relentless it's almost painful. It's overwhelming how huge he is, not just his cock but his body in general, the way he towers over you and watches your expressions as he takes what's now his.

"Poor little thing," he mumbles, bringing one of his hands up to thumb the tears on your face, "Never been so full, huh? It's okay, shhh," his finger finds your lips and pushes against them almost mockingly, like he's chastising you, "Shhh, this is what you asked for, remember? S'what you wanted." You shake your head but he just nods, "Yeah, it is. You wanted that cock and now you're gettin' it."

Suddenly you're being lifted from the workbench, carried in his embrace with his cock still buried deep inside. You cry out, wrists straining against the ropes, itching to wrap your arms around his neck and hold yourself up with more stability. His arms come up to stretch along the expanse of your back, holding you still and pulling you even closer. As if on instinct your legs bend upwards to wrap around his waist, curling around his lower back while he pistons inside of you without restraint, without mercy.

"Fuck," you almost scream, feeling the rough denim of his jeans scratching against your ass, the heaviness of his balls slapping against you over and over again, "Fuckfuckfuck!"

"Yeah, there she is, there's that little slut," he says, a smile spreading across his face, voice somehow calm despite the fact that he's pounding into you over and over, "Nothin' like gettin' fucked stupid to sort ya out, huh? Needed to be punished, didn't you, sweetheart?"

You don't answer, can't answer, eyes rolling back as he fucks you with abandon. Of course it's not a surprise when he lands a hard spank against your ass, grips your cheek tightly in his palm and growls roughly in your ear, "Answer me, little girl."

"Yes," you force yourself to gasp out, head tilting back, "Yes sir, yes."

"S'right," he mutters, and you suddenly feel the pads of his fingers against your clit, rubbing at an aggressively fast pace that sends depraved noises spitting past your lips, "Come on that cock, tighten up that little pussy even more for me, baby, come on."

It only takes seconds for him to make you come, your eyes rolling back as your body shakes and writhes in his grasp. He doesn't slow his movements, keeps fucking you deep and hard as your legs loosen at his waist and you flop like a ragdoll in his arms.

"Chokin' that dick," he murmurs, "Had so many cocks in this little hole and you're still the tightest thing I've fucked," his brow furrows as he watches your face, watches as your eyes flutter open and your jaw slackens, "And what about your other hole, baby?" You feel one of his fingers prod against your asshole, circle the rim as he continues to bounce you up and down, "Ever had a cock in there?"

You tense up a little in his embrace, eyes widening. At your reaction he slows his movements, still holding you upright and allowing you to just sit on his cock for a moment while he continues to prod your asshole, "I'll take that as a no," he mutters, "Think my cock'll fit up there?"

"It won't," you whisper immediately, shaking your head.

He assesses your expression, eyes trailing up and down your face calculatingly, like he's weighing the pros and cons. Your heart stutters in your chest and you feel that fear from earlier slowly begin to creep back into your psyche, hands shaking under the rope.

"I won't," he states, and relief floods through your body; you relax in his embrace, becoming aware again of his cock still buried deep inside you. He very carefully prods the tip of his index finger inside your asshole and your eyes go wide again, mouth opening in protest. "Yet," he amends, smiling coldly at you, "I won't yet. Not today."

He pulls his finger out and walks with you to the work bench again, places you down gentler than before and peers at you with something in his gaze that you can't place, a curiosity that wasn't there before. It's gone in an instant though, and then he's fucking into you again without warning, gripping tight to your hips and slamming back and forth until you see stars.

"You thought this'd be so funny, didn't you?" he growls, looking at you again with that detached contempt, black eyes locked with yours. He brings his hand down and starts rubbing your clit again, not caring that you only just came a moment ago. "Thought you'd come here, have your fun, and leave again. But it's not so funny anymore, is it? Huh? Is it funny?"

"N-no," you gasp out, overstimulated to the point of even more tears as you squirm and writhe on the work bench, pussy aching from the insistent way he's pounding you and the relentless rubbing of his fingers against your clit.

"S'the last time you show up here tellin' lies," he mutters, "Understand me? Any time you come into my house from now on you're gettin' fucked, got it?"

"Y-yes," you cry, hands futilely attempting to ball into fists behind your back, and he shakes his head.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir!" you scream it, and just as the words pass your lips he stills inside of you, cock twitching as he starts to come. Your eyes go wide, mouth dropping open as his hand sends you into another climax just as he reaches his. Your head falls against his chest and you hear him groan above you, feel the way his cock pulsates and throbs and spits his cum in long and heavy spurts. Your thighs twitch and you feel his hand at your back, pulling you in close as he cups the back of your head.

You stay like that for a moment without speaking, your heavy breaths the only sound in the garage other than the rain now pelting heavily against the door. You swear you can hear his heartbeat.

"Good little girl, warmin' my cock," he murmurs in your ear, and you're still catching your breath, eyes closed, sobs wracking from your throat repeatedly. "Full o'me, huh? You feel all that, baby?"

You can only nod against his chest, wrists still straining against the rope as your toes curl somewhere below you and your body continues to shake. His cum settles warmly deep inside and your eyes roll back a bit when he pushes in further, like he's trying to keep it inside for as long as he can.

"Guess I found a new little cum dumpster, huh?" he whispers, carding his fingers through your hair, "I'll have to say thank you to your friends, or -" he pauses thoughtfully for a moment, "maybe I'll just have to send 'em a little message back with you."

You pull your face back from his chest, peering up at him with tired confusion. He reaches down and pulls out one of the drawers of the work bench, coming back up with a sharpie. You watch with fluttering lashes, unable to stop him - and not really wanting to - as he uncaps the marker and pushes your hair out of the way to write something across your chest, the cold tip making you jolt slightly.

"Shh," he murmurs, "It's okay, I'll untie ya in a sec."

It doesn't take him very long to finish writing whatever it is on your skin, and then he's slowly pulling his cock out of you. You whimper at the loss, thighs twitching as you peer down and watch his softening length slip past your hole, followed by a steady stream of his cum. He quickly reaches up and pushes what he can back inside, thumbing it back in carefully while the reality of what's just happened really begins to settle. You just let a man in his fifties tie you up, use you, come inside you, and write on your chest.

"Can't have all that slippin' out yet," he mutters, "Now, what can we use?" His eyes dart up to the shelves above you and he reaches up to grab something; when his hand comes back down you see the pocket flashlight from earlier, see the slightly flared base and know almost immediately what he's planning on using it for.

For some reason - whatever reason it is that you stayed here after he gave you an out, whatever reason you really came here in the first place - you don't protest.

He brings the flashlight downwards and quickly removes his hand from your pussy to replace it with the wide end, slipping it inside with only minimal resistance. You whimper and he hushes you, brushing his nose against yours as he assesses his handiwork.

"That should do it," he murmurs, then peers back up at you and pushes some stray hair out of your face "You keep that in there 'til you get home, okay?" His eyes have softened a bit, looking more similar to the way they did when you first showed up - is this the real him? You honestly have no idea.

You don't say anything, just nod slowly, feeling the anxiety from earlier begin to sink in yet again. How are you going to get home when you have no clothes? How are you going to explain to your friends what happened? How can you tell them - or show them - what you let him do to you?

These questions are clearly none of his concern. You watch as he backs up and gestures for you to stand with him; you do, with beyond shaky legs and the cold metal of the flashlight between your thighs.

"Turn around," he orders.

You feel him untie the rope from your wrists, essentially ending your time here - whatever it even was. It somehow doesn't feel real. You let them hang limply at your sides, feeling embarrassment flood your cheeks as you turn back around to look at him. He's watching you with a smirk, arms crossed - his dick is back in his jeans. He looks no different than he had when you arrived.

"Now get the fuck out," he says, dark eyes glinting once again under the flickering fluorescents, "before I change my mind."

The air is still chilly. The road is still wet. But thankfully, there are no cars.

You don't know how you manage to get home without anyone seeing you - hunched over, naked in the darkness, avoiding the streetlights, trying to ignore the ache between your legs and the icy intrusiveness of the flashlight still lodged inside of you - but you do. Your palms are sweaty again, heart pounding at the thought of your friends coming to greet you at the door, for the shock and confusion and screaming to begin - but that doesn't happen.

The moment you're back in the house you pull a jacket down from the coat rack and cover yourself, tiptoeing past the living room and waiting to be accosted by the friends who put you in this situation to begin with. Instead, they're nowhere to be seen. You hear the faint echo of laughter from the kitchen, hear the sounds of glass clattering and a fridge being shut. It's like they've already forgotten you even left, like the game meant nothing, and they've already found something new to entertain them, something better.

As if your futile attempt at getting a kiss on the cheek from Joel Miller is already something lost in the past.

And, you think, as you shakily climb the stairs and creep into the bathroom, tear the jacket from your shoulders and stare at your bare chest in the bathroom mirror, see the dark permanent lines that read TRUTH OR DARE...

Maybe that's how it should be.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #*

4K notes · View notes

solomons-finest-rum · 1 year

Note

Hello to one of my favourite Alfie fic writers! Since you're taking requests, I'd like to make one as well.

I don't know how it works but how about a scenario/imagine where Tommy gets in some kind of trouble (as always) and Alfie suggests that his lovely gangster wife could help and goes to introduce them but as it turns out it's none other than the Shelby's sister/cousin/relative/friend/or maybe even an ex? (Your call one this one) who they thought was dead or something?

Idk if it's even worth your time and effort but I just wanted to make a request ;) No pressure, of course!

Love you and your writing a lot!

“As The Crow Flies” (Alfie Solomons x fem!Reader) — PART 1

SUMMARY — By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies.

AUTHOR’S NOTE — Thank you to @zablife for being the most gracious beta!💗💗💗💗💗 and thank you Anon for this request, because actually it inspired a full-blown multi-chapter idea! So this is set around... Season 5 I suppose? But I'm going to ignore everything in it and Season 6 too. Let's pretend none of it happened and just focus on the fun part! That is driving Tommy insane and making Alfie say outrageous lines.

WORD COUNT — 2,286

Masterlist

In retrospect, Tommy Shelby felt he should have known better. He should have fucking known that the moment, the moment, he came to Margate to sort the bloody situation out, exactly two things would happen.

One, he would have to sit and listen with a straight face to Alfie’s inspired monologue, the subject of which had swerved from elephants to bank robbery in about two and a half minutes, and then managed to touch upon just about everything else under the sun.

Tommy remained quite sure that the sense of Alfie’s rambling had been long lost to history and the point of it all was just to talk him to death, really. Put him out of his misery with nonsense alone.

“Now then, Tommy, as I said, right, I ain’t the vindictive type, I really ain’t, so I am gonna help ya out just this once, right, outta the goodness of my own heart.”

Tommy managed not to roll his eyes. Barely.

“‘Cause I am a changed man these days, Tommy, an’ it can be that the old man that I am, I’m goin’ soft on ya, right, an’ so tradition dictates, mate, to ask for more than ten thousand for my troubles.”

Tommy raised a brow.

“But as things currently stand with the medical bills, on the account of bein’ shot in the face by some cunt, right… Fifteen would sound proper fair, mate.”

Thank fuck for small mercies, Tommy thought, then lit another cigarette and promptly got up to leave. Alfie apparently managed to settle both sides of the conversation, negotiations included, and their American problem could very well sort itself out all on his own—thus proving to Tommy once more that the only thing he could really count on in this world had always been lunatics.

“Right, the fuck you’re doin’ now, sit down!”

Tommy frowned and remained standing, cigarette in the corner of his mouth and sheer outrage emanating from his entire person. The question of “what in fuck’s name do you want now, you crazy bastard?” overtook his face.

“Right, I need to make a bloody phone call,” Alfie said then, which explained exactly nothing.

Yes, that was the second thing Tommy had been so sure would happen. Alfie would first go on a tangent, then formulate a plan that involved three separate layers of deception, a bribe, and a crate of dynamite (probably).

Then Tommy would get caught in the middle as bloody always and Polly would have his head for going along with Alfie’s plan in the first place.

What he didn’t expect was for Alfie to change his tone of voice completely as soon as the person picked up on the other end:

“Yeah, darlin’, it’s me. Come to the house, alright? Right, ‘cause I need ya here for somethin’. No, not like the— Bloody hell, woman, just don’t fuckin’ argue with me for once, alright?”

Sometimes a rare occasion would present itself for Tommy Shelby to become fucking speechless. Truth be told, he remained rather surprised that two such occasions had also involved Alfie Solomons, undoubtedly purely for the Devil’s bloody amusement.

“Who was that then, Alfie?”

“None of ya fuckin’ business.”

Tommy had a sneaky feeling there wasn’t a clever enough question in existence that could have pushed Alfie to say anything more. He looked smug as hell for having pulled that stunt off so Tommy was willing to see it through.

For old time’s sake.

The sun was setting and they had another drink, then Tommy let Alfie go on another tangent about… Tea import. Perhaps. Who knew, he wasn’t really listening.

On drink three Tommy was alerted by a car pulling up to the house, followed by a door slam and a rhythmic clacking of high heels on the porch. Tommy looked to Alfie, but the man remained infuriatingly calm.

Just as Tommy was about to reach for his gun, the door to Alfie’s study opened unceremoniously and a scent of expensive perfume wafted across the room. Tommy turned around and tried his best to keep up the indifferent facade, but failed miserably. Nothing could have prepared him for you walking through that door, with a giant bodyguard no less, following you like a second shadow.

“Alright there, Billy?” Alfie greeted the bodyguard casually and the man grunted in response. “Right then, might ya wait in the car for us, mate? This whole bloody business will take a minute.”

Tommy then watched as Alfie approached you and planted an affectionate kiss to your cheek, at which point Tommy stood up abruptly.

For a moment he just stood there and stared; a state he didn’t find himself in too often these days.

“Darling, are we having guests?” you asked Alfie in a tone so familiar to Tommy; so like your mother. Pleasant, on the verge of sarcastic.

By God, either that Camden bastard was a magician or you had a twin sister that Polly never mentioned. Because it wasn’t possible… It couldn’t be you. Not according to the file he stole from the parish. By all accounts Anna Gray died in Australia and had no business standing in Alfie’s living room, nor calling the man “darling” for that matter. But there you were, identical to the picture they took when they shipped you off to the colonies.

“Right then, Tommy, might I present my lovely wife,” Alfie said. “Sweetie, this here is Tommy Shelby, right, all the way from the ungodly place they call Birmingham—”

“Tommy Shelby?” you interrupted and looked at Tommy with a smile so like Polly’s that Tommy nearly lost his composure again. “My, my… And there you went and promised you were done with the life, Alfie.”

“Right, an’ how could that—”

“Anna,” Tommy interrupted what he was sure was a budding monologue from Alfie.

“Yes?” you asked. “You know my name?”

“I… Know your mother.”

“Know?” There it was again. That curious smirk of yours that could really mean anything. Tommy found it harder and harder to keep up the charade.

“But that’s not possible, Mr. Shelby.”

“What’s not possible?”

Your tone remained polite, but your dark eyes said it all. The expression of quiet resolve Tommy thought only one person capable of delivering with such resentment.

“I’m an orphan, Mr. Shelby.”

Tommy said nothing to that, because what in hell could he even say? All of a sudden the American issue faded into nothingness, replaced solely by the phantom standing before him.

“So you did not lie, I see,” you turned to your husband with a quizzical expression, seeing as Tommy went quiet again. “He really is as strange as the papers make him. No matter, though, Mr. Shelby, I hope you like chicken? My husband insists I’m a terrible cook, but you must stay for dinner.”

Tommy nodded mechanically and put out his cigarette just to busy his hands with something. When he looked at Alfie, though, Tommy noticed how the man’s mouth twitched, clearly indicating the scheme was playing exactly how he wanted it to. Mad bastard, Tommy thought. There was no saying if he was being played or tricked or helped. Probably all at once, but solely for Alfie’s benefit of course.

“Right, curious as I am, luv, what delectable fuckin’ option you maimed and butchered for dinner, Tommy isn’t stayin’—” Alfie then stopped himself when two sets of identical Shelby scowls got directed his way.

Tommy did stay for dinner and made sure to clean his plate, too. He didn’t mind the food at all; it reminded him of Polly’s simple cooking back in the day when she would take care of Tommy and his siblings in Small Heath.

The more he listened to you talk and bicker with Alfie, the more of your mother he saw in you and the angrier he got at seeing you here of all places, as Alfie’s wife, unable to speak to you in plain terms. Tommy wasn’t exactly sure which made him angrier, though—the fact that you were Alfie’s wife or the fact that the sly bastard had kept you from your true family for who knows how many years. How did he even find you?

All the questions he had were still swirling around in Tommy’s head and he wasn’t particularly paying attention to anything else, besides staring daggers at Alfie. He was hoping there would be a moment to talk to you alone, but of course your husband would never allow it. He watched Tommy like a hawk the entire evening, sometimes with just a hint of a smile to suggest he was still three steps ahead of everyone else.

“See you never got accustomed to that fancy cookin’ they’re offerin’ ya at the mansion these days, Tommy,” Alfie said, undoubtedly truly enjoying the charade. “Tommy’s an MP, darlin’, right about two steps from gettin’ a knighthood I reckon. Yeah, a real prince he is.”

The way Alfie said the word was so clearly a jab at Tommy’s ancestry that he didn’t even flinch. What he was curious about was your reaction, but you remained perfectly pleasant:

“Don’t tease, love, we haven’t had guests in ages and I’m not letting you drive this one away.”

When the maid took away the plates, you lit a cigarette in a swift overdone gesture and Tommy was once more taken aback with your resemblance to Polly.

“Well, I’ll leave ya both to it,” you announced as you got up. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Shelby.” You extended your hand and Tommy shook it. “I know you tried your best with the chicken and I appreciate it,” you paused and tilted your head to the side as if sizing Tommy up.

“I rarely trust your husband’s judgement,” he replied.

The way you smiled reminded Tommy of a cat that got into the pantry. He decided not to think about it too much.

“I see. Goodnight then, Mr. Shelby.”

As soon as Tommy heard you got upstairs, he turned to Alfie who, unsurprisingly, already had a gun pointed at him. It was a casual way of it that was the most infuriating—Alfie’s hand was more so resting on the table and the gun just happened to be there, pointing at Tommy.

“Now then, Tommy, let’s be reasonable about this, mate.”

Tommy clenched his jaw and remained silent, but his murderous glare said it all.

“There are four people at the house, right, includin’ you, me, my wife, then the maid… Then there’s Billy outside, right, who’s gonna be rightly worried once he doesn’t get my dismissal for the night. So I want ya to be real cold an’ calculated about it, Tommy, just like I know ya can be, ‘cause if ya decide to off me for no reason now…”

“No reason.”

“Right.”

“You’re old enough to be her father.”

“Yeah an’ fortunately I’m not, ‘cause that’d be right fuckin’ awkward at the temple, mate.”

“Temple?”

“What’d ya think, Tommy, that I smacked her over the head and dragged her into my cave?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Right, we’ll have to show ya the pictures then, she looked stunnin’.” Alfie leaned back in his chair. “Tell ya what, mate, why don’t ya come by for tea one day?”

“Tea.”

“Yeah. We have it, Tommy, we’re not animals.”

Tommy said nothing to that. He was still reviewing his options, but as he wasn’t a fan of spontaneous action, the patient approach seemed appropriate. The offer, though, just like everything else about the situation, was fucking infuriating.

“Cat got your tongue?”

“Fuck you, Alfie.”

That finally made Alfie smile and for some reason he lowered the gun.

“Right, so seein’ as we’re family, Tommy, and what a happy coincidence this is, I must say, I feel like we should talk fuckin’ proper. None of that shit.” Alfie then gestured between them as if he hadn’t been responsible for “that shit” in the first place.

“We’ve been talking, Alfie,” Tommy deadpanned.

“Yeah, but then there’s still somethin’ ya haven’t told me about your American troubles, isn’t there, mate, so I’m expectin’ you’ll be more honest with me in the future. Now that I’ve brought the right arguments to the table…”

The hint of a threat in that statement almost made Tommy wish he still had his razor cap around.

“She’s Polly’s only daughter, Alfie.”

“Right, I’m aware of that.”

Tommy nodded, feigning understanding between them. As always, handling Alfie very much resembled handling a live grenade without a pin.

“This can’t be the way to end things.”

“Who’s endin’ things, Tommy?”

“I’m just saying.”

“Yeah, an’ I’m going to let this one slide, Tommy, ‘cause you just got a lot to process, mate, so I’m prepared to be understandin’.”

Tommy shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket, at which Alfie uncocked the gun. Tommy slowly pulled out his cigarette box, but Alfie never even flinched. It was gruesomely reassuring to still have been right, even in the position that Tommy currently found himself in.

Alfie Solomons would always remain Alfie Solomons, even with the whole song and a dance about getting old and senile. He was still the same mad bastard Tommy came to know all those years ago, and as things stood, Tommy found himself wondering if this time he shouldn’t try poison instead of a bullet.

“Tommy,” Alfie sighed, “with three good eyes workin’ between us, mate, I really would greatly mind if I somehow acquired a fuckin’ tumour in my lungs, too.”

Tommy said nothing and he knew Alfie hated it.

“Which means put that shit out, mate, and listen to what I’m about to say, ‘cause I got a feeling you’ll really wanna hear it.”

#peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders x reader #alfie solomons fanfic #alfie solomons x reader #alfie solomons imagine #tom hardy fanfic #tom hardy imagine #tom hardy x reader

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ytsunodabrainrotbaybee · 4 months

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Honey, If You Stay, I’ll Be Forgiven

-> Famous Last Words by My Chemical Romance

Verstappen x Reader, in which they were once karting rivals. A long time ago.

Snow falls outside, just on the other side of the window you slouch against. Shadows cast themselves against the pages of your book.

A coffee sits on the table in front of you stopped letting off steam a few minutes ago. The half drank peppermint mocha tastes great, the book in your hands is just a little bit more interesting.

Across the shop, just missing you when he walked in, Max pays for his own coffee. Probably the first time back after the end of his F1 season.

Your eyes follow him. All the way until the two of you make eye contact.

He breaks eye contact as soon as he sees you.

You turn back to your book, and your cold coffee.

Nearly too engrossed in your book, you almost don’t notice another coffee cup setting itself on the table across from you. The chair pulls out and the man imposing himself on your time alone finally grabs your attention.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” he says. His eyes are joking, his tone doesn’t agree. He sounds almost accusing. In spite of the faint smile on his face.

“Sorry, I’m not doing autographs right now,” you spare him a glance before looking back at your book.

Banter still comes naturally. The two of you got on because of it. A similar humor, dry and sarcastic. Got on like fire on trees. That’s what your family would always say. Fought like cats and dogs, absolutely adored each other until-

“You could be a driver,” he pushes your book down out of your face, “signing plenty of autographs yourself.”

The question he meant to ask is thick in the air. You gave him no excuse when you quit. Neither of you can even recall the last words you said to him.

“But I’m not.”

You try. You ignore his eyes. You debate some cold remark, something to push him out. Even sitting in front of him brought you back.

“I used to think about us.”

You want to shut him down, thinking hard about getting up and leaving him in the shop. Leaving him in the dark. Separating yourself even further from the dream you once had. The dream that you would be reminded of, every time your joints ache in the cold.

His hand covers yours, “I’m not mad.”

His voice is a whisper. You stare down at your hand. The one pained at the contact.

“I couldn’t have continued if I wanted to,” your fingers slip through his by then.

“Why not? You were-“

“I was injured, Max.”

“Was it that bad?”

You pull your hand back, flexing your fingers under the table. “Everything hurts, my joints, my doctor said I’m well on my way to developing some form of arthritis.”

You pause for a beat. If anyone knew how devastating news like that could be for a kid with the dreams you had, it would be Max.

“I couldn’t admit it.”

You look back up at him. His expression is blank. His mouth open and close, not really finding anything to say.

“I’m also prone to dislocating joints. They’re all stiff, but hyper-mobile at the same time it’s- it’s super weird.”

You deflect into a joking tone. Maybe a conversation change could follow.

“What about we go for a drive,” he cocks his head toward his car, the Aston Martin he’d been bringing around, “change the subject.”

“Mine isn’t as fast,” yours parked two spots down. A stock early 2000s Mustang wouldn’t touch his Valkyrie.

“It’s not a race,” he says, standing up and holding a hand out to you, “just a drive. Take the lead?”

You grab his hand, you use him to steady yourself as you stand. Mild relief from sitting on the hard coffee shop chairs is overwhelmed by the stiff joints adjusting to being forced back into use.

The two of you walk out. In your separate cars, you make eye contact. Just like you used to before cart races as children.

Your dreams as a child came crashing down around you, but you could build them back up, just adjusted. With Max hopefully staying in your life, maybe he could help.

#max verstappen x reader #max verstappen x you #chronic pain reader #Verstappen x reader #Verstappen x rival reader #max x childhood friend #mv1 #mv33

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existentialcrisistime · 1 year

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D&D: Honor Among Thieves (Xenk/Edgin) fic rec list:

These are just based on those I've read and loved so far. There are so many incredible works coming out of this new fandom that I'm sure I'll have enough recs for a second post in another month or so.

Because this turned onto a bit of a long post, the recs are below the cut.

I've marked the rating by each fic, but please do mind the tags!

Curse of the Green Hag by @moorishflower (E, 16k)

Xenk contracts a fuck-or-die curse and turns up on Edgin's doorstep for the first time since Neverwinter. Also contains an excellent cameo from Holga, a bit of bondage, Xenk's first time, and A Lot of emotions. And of course the actual smut is top tier. Already wanting to read this one again.

High Praise Indeed by enchantedsleeper (T, 3k)

Xenk stops by Holga and Edgin's cottage to find Edgin in the throes of a breakup. In the process of trying to persuade Edgin of his many worthy qualities, he accidentally reveals a little too much. Short and very sweet, with cameos from Holga and Kira. Would recommend for fans of pining idiots.

in the absence of truth by @floralprintshark (E, 13k)

Five times Ed says that he hates Xenk and one time he doesn't. Yes, a 5+1 things, but oh it's so much more than that! There are heists and hijinks, accidental asshole Edgin, uncertain and inexperienced Xenk, and a hint of polyamory between Simon and Doric, but the whole party are featured and written perfectly here. Also contains Many emotions. I sent this one to the group chat, and we were ALL screaming about it (in the best way)

Universal Glue by Korwwa (E, 10k)

A rescue mission goes wrong, and Xenk and Edgin get caught in, yes, a glue trap. The premise may sound like a crack fic, but it's definitely taken seriously, whilst still being very fun. Plus a wee bit of angst for (delicious) seasoning.

Scraping the Moss Off the Standing Stones by @letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (E, 4k)

Established relationship, Xenk comes home after a long time away and Edgin takes care of him. Oh boy, this fic sure packs a lot into just 4k words, and I feel like the author just Gets how I imagine Xenk - always seen as holy or evil, but just wanting to be treated like a person. Also very hot - I'm weak for some well-written dirty talk and this is perfect.

When the well runs dry by demon_faith (G, 2k)

Part one of the Time Heals All Wounds series, which can either be read as a series or as stand-alone fics. Established relationship, Edgin is badly injured, and Xenk is unable to heal him. A classic hurt/comfort with a good bit of Edgin whump, and Xenk struggling with the reality of that.

On the edge of a blade by demon_faith (T, 3k)

Part two of the series, again established relationship. This time, Xenk gets badly hurt, and it's up to Edgin to take care of him. Heavy on both the hurt and the comfort.

lay on hands by @hauntedfalcon (E, 2k)

A getting-together/first-time fic, with a healthy dose of body worship. Xenk gets off on Edgin's metaphors. Beautifully written, and also my initial thoughts were - this is an author who sure is clued up on the names of medieval clothing/armor.

half your life (you've been hooked on death) by roundtriptojupiter (T, 2.5k)

Edgin struggles to process the events of the past six months, when Xenk turns up at his doorstep. Or, Edgin and Xenk process grief together, then kiss about it. A great exploration of Edgin's emotions, not only regarding Zia and Holga, but of the other people he may have harmed along the way.

We can burn much brighter (if we don't look back) by enchantedsleeper (T, 6k)

Xenk apprehends Forge and learns of the events that transpired at Neverwinter. Grappling with the fact that his past almost repeated itself while he was too far away to help, he encounters Edgin. Such a lovely post-movie fic, exploring just how Edgin and Xenk are processing their feelings in the wake of it.

Do you know you'll never fly alone? by MayGlenn (T, 1.2k)

Something a bit more light-hearted to end the recs list on: a fix-it of sorts, but for the poor undead guy in the post-credits scene. Xenk takes Edgin on a late night ride, to fix an issue he'd left behind, but maybe for something more also...

And that's that for now! Please do feel free to recommend your favourite D&D: Honor Among Thieves fics in return, or yell about which of these you loved the most. My comments and inbox are always open :))

And to the fic writers (and all fic writers out there), thank you so much for sharing these stories with us! You're all absolutely wonderful, talented people <3

#dnd honor among thieves #dungeons and dragons honor among thieves #xedgin #edgin x xenk #fic recs #nic's recs #dndhat fic #nic watches dndhat #rec list

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writingshushf1 · 1 year

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Hey you! How are you doing? I was wondering if your requests are open? I'd like to request something angsty with mick, they are bffs and in love with eachother but its kinda like a right person wrong time? like, always something happens and they cant be together.

the 1

Summary: I have this dream you're doing cool shit. Having adventures on your own

Rating: +14

Warnings: them fighting (and ending up hurting each other with words), angst

Word count: 1.7k

Note: gathered those two request that could work together. just sadness, not my best fanfiction really - just having a small block with writing long stories

masterlist

You were so stubborn. Both of you.

Not all love stories come to a happy ever after and (un)luckly, yours didn’t. As much as you two tried, something always came in the middle of it. So much, that you two stopped trying.

Here’s the thing: it wasn’t a new thing, a sentiment you discovered throughout you were getting closer. It happened just like an earthquake, big, destroyed everything it could and more than once.

The moment they announced that Mick was the Formula 2 champion of 2020 you cried out, happy for him. You wanted to wrap him in your arms, say the sweetest things and that you were so proud of him - yet you were hundreds of miles away. That still wouldn't stop you, that night you called him, you stayed for hours talking and pretending that no one else existed in the world but the two of you.

But how could you be the perfect suitor for each other, you managed to be the opposite. You were both stubborn and liked to have the last word, so often when something seemed to develop, you ended up fighting.

“Mick, for fuck’s sake! I’ve already told you: I can’t go to Bahrain, it will be in the middle of my exams!” You crossed your arms, sitting on the balcony. “I can’t just abandon everything and go after you.”

“But you’re my best friend! You’re the only person outside my family I can trust my life with.” He put his hands on his waist, stopping pacing from side to side.

“I love you, bud, I really do. But I can’t do this. I want to graduate being the best, so in the future, I can follow you anywhere, being your engineer.”

“Fine! Then I’ll find someone to follow me through the season.”

Even if he understood what you were saying, he couldn't leave you the last word. He wanted more from you, yet he couldn't say how.

“Fine! Find a little fuck doll that only cares about your money and your dick.”

“At least she cares.”

“Like I don’t? Are you really insinuating that, Schumacher?”

“No, but if the shoe fits…”

“Don’t you dare.” You got up, walking close to him. “Honestly, sometimes I really wonder if you actually value my friendship or you just want some hot girl to stroll around you so you feel more confident.”

“I do.”

“Then why do you talk to me like that?”

It was a few weeks of silence after that. Mick was too proud, yet that conversation stuck in his mind. The feelings the German held were confusing, at the same time he doesn't regret putting it on the line that he feels left out because you never had any real time for him, his heart broke at the thought of him hurting you. He was completely in love with you, a deep and long standing love. Something that you felt too, yet you never had a right time for it to reveal itself.

It was early in the morning and you were watching a movie alone, until you heard the doorbell, at first you took a knife and went to the door. You opened a small crack, however you breathed a sigh of relief when you saw your best friend, almost unconscious, being carried by a girl.

"He only knew this address. He had too many drinks."

"And you are...?"

"We go out sometimes. He's good in bed. You?"

"Best friend."

"Oh. Good luck."

You dropped the knife and took him in your arms, stroking the blond strands, which were messy. You giggled as he started mumbling some things in Italian mixed with German, leaving a kiss on his forehead.

With great difficulty, she managed to get him to sit on the sofa and drink some water. The light blue eyes followed you as you tried to find some of his clothes put away and a towel, he urgently needed a shower.

"Sorry." He slurred, ducking his head.

"For?"

"For being a jerk." Mick hugged his own body. "I get upset that you never have time for me, hence why I want to fight with you. And you like to argue too.... And I say things I don't mean."

"We have very different lives, Micki."

He didn't say anything else, just let himself be led into the bathroom, where you helped him into just his underwear - which he removed without any shame. You turned on the shower and turned on your back, expecting him to go alone, however you felt a hand on the small of your back. A few seconds later you were only in your panties and bra, stepping into the shower with him.

"But I love you. That's why I want you around." He said as he let you wash his hair.

"And I love you too."

"No, but... I love you. Beyond platonic."

"Those are drunken words, Schumi."

"No. They are not."

He pulled you into a slow kiss, letting his tongue pass against yours, holding your waist and pulling your body against his. For a few seconds you had no reaction, it felt like a dream, yet at the same time you knew it was going to be a very big fall. Fortunately for Mick, you returned the kiss, letting yourself go with the moment. The taste of beer mixed with liquor from his lips seemed to get you drunk every moment.

That night, you slept curled up in each other's arms under the duvet.

In the morning, he was more affectionate, more needy, as if he knew he had to leave soon - which wasn't a lie, he had to travel to another country in less than 72 hours.

"Next race you're going, whether you like it or not." He murmured, leaving a long kiss on your cheek and walking away.

And again, it happened during that race weekend, with no attached strings. You two were playing with fire and not being scared about it.

Some of Schumacher’s past acquaintances were on the Paddock, which made you cringe all the way to it. How did they get there? He invited them? No, he didn’t, however they were rich girls, models, famous, of course it wasn't hard to get a pass to see the wonderful boy they stayed for a week or two. Without a doubt, you were insecure, especially that he was a sunshine, so he talked with everyone who approached him - with good or bad intentions. So you ended up alone, inside of his trailer while he did his media obligations. You were so insecure, afraid of your friendship being ruined with all of this shit.

After an hour, the blonde got inside the trailer, surprised, yet happy, to find you there. But his smile vanished when he saw that you had tear stained cheeks.

“Schatz? What happened? We’re friends, you can tell me.”

“Friends. That’s all we’ll ever be.”

“What? Elaborate that for me.” He sat down next to you, holding your hand.

“Mick… I love you, you love me. That’s true, right?”

“Of course! Unless…”

“That’s the thing. Love isn’t the only thing that can hold something. You confessed to me while drunk, after weeks we had a big fight. We can’t communicate properly.”

“But we’ve been friends forever. We always vented out our feelings.”

“Not the ones we feel about each other.”

“For God’s sake. Don’t tell me you don’t want to keep going on because of some hidden feelings.”

“Calm down and listen to me.”

“Calm down? Why should I? I want to fight for this!” He got up, throwing his hands up. “Why don’t you let me?”

“Because it's not the moment, Mick!” You also got up, letting tears fall. “You’re concentrating on your career, that’s going great! While I’m trying to finish university… We can’t be together more than 2 days every month or so.”

“But it’s not that hard, I can fly every time I want to.”

“Also… I don’t think we’re ready to engage in this.” You held his shoulders. “I have loved you since we were 18, I’ve dreamt about you, but… We won’t work it out. I would give it one year till one of us does something unforgivable. And I refuse to lose you over something idiotic.”

“Me either!”

“So do you understand what I’m trying to do? We still be friends, I’m not willing to lose that, but we push this feeling until we’re at the same page in life? How about that.”

“I want it now. I want the instant happiness of having you next to me.” He turned his head away, trying to fight the tears that wanted to fall against his light skin. His defensive side was threatening to come out.

“I’m sorry… I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.”

“Schatz… I’m not your ex.” He shooted back, looking now at you.

“That’s why. Tell me you’re not trying to fix something when you used to go out with multiple women?” You shooted at him, starting to get angry with his words.

“Fine.” He cried out, huffing. “But I’ll come back to get you. Because I refuse to have someone in my life that’s not you and honestly? I’m willing to fight for it.”

“I’m willing too.” Finally thinking he accepted the defeat, you let out a sigh.

“Which is why-” Oh, there he goes again. At the same time, a sob escaped your lips. “I want you now! Why can’t I have nice things happening all the time? There’s always something bad.”

“Mick. Stop. I’m done talking about this.” You shook your head, wiping your tears away. “I’m going. Get some rest, clear your thoughts and I will call you when I think you are better.”

“No! Don’t go like that!” He held your hand before you could step out of the trailer. “What if something happens? What if something happens and this is the last time we’re together? I know I hate you right now, but it’s only now, I can’t feel like that for too long.” His free hand caressed your cheek. “Please. A kiss.”

“Fine.”

His lips crashed against yours, a melancholy kiss of farewell, as if he was trying to bring up some point that might make you give up on not continuing that situation. When you pulled away from him, you held his hand against your face, leaving small kisses on it before squeezing and releasing it. You opened the trailer door, murmuring "see you later," at which he responded with "Ich liebe dich, Schatz.”

Right person at the wrong time always sucked.

#mick schumacher fluff #msc47 #mick schumacher imagine #mick schumacher fanfiction #mick schumacher #mick schumacher x reader #mick schumacher smut #mick schumacher x you #mick schumacher au #mick schumacher one shot #mick schumacher angst #mick schumacher x y/n #f1 rpf #f1 one shot #f1 fanfiction #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you

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zenkindoflove · 17 days

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I'm back on my Games of Thrones/ACOTAR parallels shit. This time to explore how positioning of characters in a scene is used as a foreshadowing device. For ACOTAR, I'm going to focus on foreshadowing for Lucien's true father and his destiny as heir to Day and ultimately how this foreshadows Elucien end game. GOT spoilers under the cut just in case.

So I was thinking about this scene in Season 5 of Game of Thrones, when Sam is telling Maester Aemon about Danaerys' journey in Essos. Maester Aemon says the infamous line,

"A Targaryen alone in the world is a terrible thing."

And then the camera immediately pans to Jon Snow standing in the doorway.

Now the show wouldn't confirm that Jon is Aegon Targaryen until the end of Season 7. But what we see in this scene is the use of positioning Jon's appearance with the dialogue to foreshadow the hidden parentage that he and the audience is unaware of.

Sound a little familiar? That's because it's an awful lot like these two scenes of Elain and Lucien in ACOWAR where she is described as wanting sunshine.

The first is when Lucien overhears everything Elain says about wanting to go home. We find out Elain, who up until now is comatose and not leaving her room, is sitting in front of the sunniest window. She is seeking out what she needs while Lucien is positioned just beyond the room, listening and feeling her sorrow over losing Graysen and becoming Fae. After this reveal, Feyre thinks.

She had been always so full of light. Perhaps that was why she now kept all the curtains open. To fill the void that existed where all of that light had once been. And now nothing remained.

Later, when Lucien tugs on the bond, we get this exchange immediately after.

“What can I get you, Elain?” Only with Elain did she use that voice. But Elain shook her head once more. “Sunshine.” Nesta cut me a furious stare before guiding our sister down the hall—to the sunny garden in the back. Lucien waited until the glass door had opened and closed before he loosed a long breath. “There’s a bond—it’s a real thread,” he said, more to himself than us. “And?” Mor asked. Lucien ran both hands through his long red hair. His skin was darker—a deep golden-brown, compared to the paleness of Eris’s coloring. “And I got to Elain’s end of it when she ran off.”

We see that Elain once again is seeking out sunshine when she is distressed. She explicitly asks for it and then we get this very intentional description of Lucien looking different from his brothers in the same scene.

This all occurs in ACOWAR before Feyre sees Helion and makes the connection that he must be Lucien's father (and connects it to Lucien's appearance) and therefore Lucien is the heir to Day - full of sunshine with powers that wield light and the fire of the sun itself.

It's interesting to me the way both of these fantasy series use this similar framing for two characters who do not know their true fathers and have been led to believe another man who raised them is their father. This framing is showing the viewer/reader exactly who their father is which is made obvious in hindsight. It's a deliberate choice of foreshadowing by the writers of the show and SJM.

And of course, once we know who Lucien's father is and that Lucien has the power of the sun inside of him, it all makes sense how SJM is also using Elain explicitly needing sunshine to foreshadow that Lucien, her mate, is who she truly needs, even if she is not ready to face it yet. Lucien is present both of these times for a reason, so that we can connect him to these moments once we learn how very literally he is associated with the sun.

#elucien #lucien vanserra #elain archeron #elain x lucien #pro elucien #also more game of thrones parallels #spoilers for the show

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sgiandubh · 8 months

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The ripple effect

So finally, it would seem the news from Hollywood are not good at all. A press release from SAG-AFTRA informs us that AMPTP/TPTB chose to drop the towel after a very long negotiation process (not a good sign, in my book), that continued even after their latest unacceptable offer, as you can read down below (https://x.com/sagaftra/status/1712368110253285730?s=20):

The mainstream media (always NYT, in this house) reported also on the studios' offer, which may or may not be helpful for understanding what exactly is at stake (https://www.nytimes.com/2023/10/12/business/media/actors-strike-talks-suspended.html?searchResultPosition=2):

Now that is a very hardball, completely insolent position. I am peeling my eyes in disbelief at the idea of offering 'further protections around the use of A.I.', when it was hoped that the use of A.I. would be treated as an exception, not as future reality the industry should work 'around'. This is what really is at stake, not the almost abusive allegation of 'unbearable economic burden' (that is a mafioso pretext) an 800 million USD yearly viewership bonus would supposedly entail. The real financial impact of such a compromise solution, as disclosed by SAG-AFTRA, is negligible: 'less than 57 cents/subscriber'.

And, to make things worse, it would seem the studios deliberately lied to the press, too (it would not be the first time - we shippers know it so well, eh?):

All this circus, despite a cataclysmic impact on California's economy:

(Sourced at: https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/21/realestate/writers-strike-rent-ny-la.html).

And that was the situation three weeks ago, when I found this article and promptly set it aside, waiting for the right moment to share it with you. And you know the situation is serious, when news like these are to be found not in the business, but in the real estate section of the newspaper. Along with this kind of comments, likely to suggest the possibility of unrest, if things go on like this:

People living in their flats without electricity or sleeping in their cars: it would seem this strike added unwanted insult to the drastic COVID injury in this particular sector of the labor market.

But what interested me the most about this whole affair was the ripple effect on the British film industry, in an attempt to see what is next for OL's Season 8. Thankfully, I didn't have to go very far and speculate more than the NYT did itself. Oh, and before Mordor starts shouting insanities, their LHR's correspondent paper, back in September, is called 'Hollywood Strikes Send a Chill Through Britain’s Film Industry' (https://www.nytimes.com/2023/09/19/business/hollywood-strikes-uk-filmmaking-industry.html):

Despite my unflappable optimism, I have to say that doesn't sound good at all, especially when you know this is precisely the case for OL, a production 'with stars who are SAG-AFTRA members' (or at least compelled to stand in solidarity with the strike, by SAG-AFTRA's own statement of conduct). I predict a very late start for the shooting of Season 8. And further unrest in the UK sector 'in the middle of next year' means that UK based and staffed productions may be fewer and less important, since that calendar announced by Equity could seriously compromise their promotion, a risk not many studios are willing to take. So less alternatives for both S&C, at least for the UK alone.

The writers' strike was a very long one - five months. I suppose the studios are willing to play for time and prefer a long stalemate of the negotiations with SAG-AFTRA, in the attempt of breaking the union consensus from the inside. With people's economies gone and the prospect of a dire, uncertain way ahead, there is no way SAG-AFTRA's compensations, mainly aimed at keeping people afloat with their rent costs, could cover the real impact on its members' everyday lives, on the long run. They would also prefer to foolishly cry over a fictitious 800 million USD 'burden' and not see the (at least) six times bigger negative impact on the local economy, which translates both in net losses of profit for thousands of businesses (mainly SMEs) and thousands of lost jobs.

And in the middle of all this, it would seem that Herself is on her way to the NYCC. Whatever for, sweet summer child, I would brazenly ask this strange, diminutive woman who started it all.

#sag aftra strike

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chocottang · 4 months

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Color, clothes and Golden's lack of agency

Golden's outfits stand out from the rest of the cast. Instead of the normal unifrom, he constantly wears semiformal clothes, always accompanied by the color gold/yellow. It's integral to his brand as "The Golden Boy". However, edd00 has said before that Golden doesn't actually like the color gold. According to his ficha, his favorite color is white. So, why does he always wear gold?

Well, for starters, he doesn't always wear it. In fact, when he lived with his mom and just started to live with his grandpa, he didn't wear it at all. He used brown and green instead. He isn't wearing semiformal or formal clothes either.

Things changed when his life started to be controlled. He started wearing the color gold, shirts, vests and tuxedos.

But there are still times where he doesn't use gold or formal clothes:

When he's with his friends

Or alone with no supervision, like in his room or when he met Chica

But when he's working or at school, he almost always wears that color alongside more formal clothes.

The only times where this doesn't happen that I can think of is in this scene, where he's with The Animatronics while wearing a golden t-shirt.

And in this scene, where he's working on a set (filming what is said to be a video, so I'm guessing a music video) and is clearly not wearing any golden clothing.

But we can easily explain these. In the first one, The Animatronics are still wearing the school uniform, so they may still be in school grounds, which would explain why Golden is dressed in golden. Also, his clothes are not formal this time, so there's separation from his usual working "uniform".

As for the second, he's in a set, and as soon as he leaves he's wearing his usual golden vest again.

So, it's plausible that in that scene he's wearing something that was picked out for him by a costume designer or another member of the creative team.

Getting back on track, it seems to me that Golden doesn't want to wear golden clothing or formal clothes, since he uses many chances he has not to wear them, but is forced to do so by his grandpa or someone who works for him, like Jeffrey.

But, why? as a way to control him, of course. It doesn't matter what he likes or prefers, he's The Golden Boy. He's the face of the family company and a brand in itself, marked by this color and these clothes. It's a way to strip him from his identity and form him into what is wanted. It was the very first form of control too, ever since his grandpa started dressing him. Since it's such a small thing, it serves as a bridge. From not being controlled by his mom, to his grandpa controlling what he wears and does as a child, to his grandpa controlling his whole life as a teen. It got him used to being controlled and not thinking for himself.

Not using the color gold or formal clothes when he can is a small way he has of keeping his own identity, having some agency. Even if he doesn't realize it, it's a small form of rebellion. I imagine the reason he dislikes the color in the first place is it's association with the Golden Boy brand and the family business, which have caused him great pain. And, of course, it's association with the control his grandpa has over him, even in small things. It's just a big reminder that he isn't free.

Now, you may be wondering, but what about his design in season two? He's finally away from his family, but he's still wearing a golden sweater vest.

Here's where we should pay attention to the type of clothes he wears. When he was being controlled, he was wearing semiformal/formal clothes, while in season two he was wearing sweaters, which aren't exactly a formal piece of clothing. And I say sweaters in plural because we can see him wearing them in songs.

He was also wearing a sweater when he was studying in his room, so it's obvious he likes wearing them. It's his choice. The golden color may be a sign that, even though he's physically free, he's still affected by his grandpa's control. We can see it in episode three of season two: when Joy tells him that when he's home their grandpa will be mad at him,

instead of if he goes home. She takes for granted the fact that Golden will be back home eventually. And he simply agrees,

instead of doubling down and saying he won't be back anytime soon. He's free, but he doesn't believe it will be for long. Still, he's mentally getting away from his grandpa by wearing a sweater vest instead of a regular, more formal one. He's doing it slowly, but it's happening.

Going back to the colors, I think the color white also has a role in this. In his z3r0 design, Golden isn't wearing any white.

He's also not wearing any in his reboot design.

Now, why could this be? he has always worn it, and it's his favorite color.

Interestingly, this has happened before, in the camp arc. When Golden was under Cami's spell, he wasn't wearing any white either.

But when he was freed by The Animatronics... suddenly his shirt became white.

This could very well be (and probably is) just an error, but i find the distinction curious. Especially when we take into account that "hypnotized" Golden had a whole different outfit without white, besides the one with the black shirt that mysteriously turned white. So, on one hand, we have Golden not wearing white while under Cami's control. What's the context of him not wearing white in z3r0 and the reboot?

As far as I know, the reboot supposedly takes place right before the camp arc, when Golden was "lost", so it makes sense that he's also not wearing any white. However, he's clearly not under Cami's spell, so, what's the reason? it may be related to the little we know of his home situation at the moment: his grandpa is mad at him.

He doesn't want Golden to hang out with his friends. He can tell he's losing control over him, so he keeps him away from The Animatronics and tries reaffirming control. How? Not only with his words, but also his actions: by forcing him to wear gold and not any white.

In my opinion, the color white is like the last straw. When he's being fully controlled, by his grandpa who is mad or by Cami who is literally controlling his mind, he isn't wearing any white. We never got to see Golden in z3r0 past him posing for the intro, but i have to guess his grandpa wasn't delighted that he ran away in season two, and made him not wear white for the same reason he does in the reboot. He's mad at him for loosening the control he has, responding with even more control.

In conclusion, I believe the color gold and the formal clothes in Golden show he's being controlled. Combined with a lack of the color white, it shows that he's utterly powerless.

#fnafhs #fhs #fhsz3r0 #golden fnafhs #mine #fun fact! this has been in my drafts since last year lol #which is why its not. really well organized. sorry. i hope its still understandable 😭

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lililovesthings · 7 months

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Power of Love (Part 2) They Fell!

Happy Wednesday! Guess what time it is?

I am aware I may be scraping the bottom of the barrel here but hear me out.

I have already discussed the power of love in the GO Universe (Here) but something just occurred to me about 'The Fall'. I have been immersed in GO Meta for 2 months (obv) and my brain/subconscious has pulled stuff together and come up with something.

I shall explain (hopefully coherently). Under the cut...

First, some context:

As far as we know, there has only been one 'fall' which is when Lucifer and the gang all fell and Crowley "sauntered vaguely downwards". As far as we know this hasn't happened since.

I have seen it suggested that each angel/demon has a counterpart. i.e. Each angel in heaven has a counterpart demon in hell.

I have talked about the theme of balance of good and evil running through the series.

We've had Armageddon or indeed "Armageddon't" with the son of Satan and now are talking about The Second Coming which we are all assuming has something to do with the child of G-d.

Of course we know that heaven can tamper with memories.

Now here's where my brain went:

All angels and demons started off as the same stock (which we know) then there was a war and all the demons went off to hell.

What I'm thinking is that it wasn't as simple as that.

I think the memory of the war was implanted into the minds of all the celestials but it wasn't consistent. That's why Fur fur remembers fighting alongside Crowley but Crowley does not for example.

The reason is because of The Power of Love.

If each celestial has a counterpart or indeed a 'soul mate' this makes them powerful. The ones in charge can't have that, as I've already said. They need to keep their celestials in line. If they are constantly fighting among themselves, then they don't have time to think about ruling the universe.

They are literally MADE FOR EACH OTHER. Then either Metatron and/or G-d and/or Satan decided that they were too powerful together so they had to be kept apart. So they took half of the celestials and chucked them down to hell. They 'Fell' because they figured out 'Falling in Love'. They literally "FELL" in Love.

Season 1, last episode at the airbase - Gabriel and Beelzebub said '10 million angels/10 million demons put down their weapons and go back to work' or something like that. It's balanced. Each one has a counterpart.

Now the problem is, is that you have to keep angels and demons apart in order to ensure they don't become too powerful. Doesn't really work if they fight, that's not keeping them apart, that's bringing them together.

This is why all wars/battles are planned but are always ultimately thwarted because you have to keep them fighting without actually bringing them together.

The concept of war and rivalry has been implanted in the heads of all the angels and demons, but not consistently. That's why they're all confused. They've implanted false memories in 20 million beings.

It is no coincidence that Azi was there at the beginning of the universe when Crowley created it. They are literally made for each other. I don't think the angels/demons even know that, they just find each other. It's part of the ineffable plan.

So yes Metatron has to keep Azi and Crowley apart, that's why Gabrielle wasn't cast down to hell - can't have him be with Beelzebub but of course it happened anyway. One angel and demon together is fine but any more is a problem. That's why Metatron only turns up with Gab and Beel go off together and why he left Azi and Crowley alone until now.

To paraphrase Metatron: "One time makes a good story, for it to happen twice, makes it look like there is some kind of institutional problem."

Any more than that and it will start to catch on, more angels and demons will start hanging out together and we can't have that.

Separate the soul mates, implant false memories, keep them fighting. A house divided against itself can never stand.

Thank you for listening.

Edit: Also, Azi goes by "Mr Fell" I have no idea what to do with that but there we go.

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domesantis · 6 months

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Keith and his Fanny Packs and Boots to bed

disclaimer: first post, extremely new to tumblr. but of course my first post HAD to be voltron-related, and it's about keith and his fanny packs and boots. (A stupid, small analysis)

in S1 E2, in the first minute we see Allura doing an unannounced drill (albeit dramatically) to evaluate the readiness, vigilance and speed of the newly recruited pilots. Other than Shiro, he seems to have the best mastery of these traits as he launches across the room to grab his jacket (Wow. His first instinct. Gotta dive into that sooner or later) then get out one second later.

Many people have pointed out the sheer absurdity and comedy of Keith wearing his fanny packs and boots to bed. How uncomfortable can that be? At conclusion, this scene was boiled down to just a trivial animation mistake and I also think that's all it is. But, out of fun, I want to look deeper into this "mistake" (Although many people have already probably concluded my upcoming analysis and I'm just late to the bandwagon.)

His fanny packs and boots are the solid testament to his life.

In later seasons, we find out that Keith has been practically raising himself throughout his childhood. He had an absent, dead (secretly alive) mother and also a completely dead father. In an optimistic sense, at least his father passed when Keith was 10 (?) years old, having a fragment of paternal love and care despite it being abruptly cut off. Oddly enough, orphanages aren't a thing in his time.

As if being stripped of parental love wasn't cruel enough, he also faced ostracization and bullying throughout his entire childhood without any adult to stand up for him whatsoever. Until around he was 16-17, Shiro saw his potential and eventually developed into his implied father figure. Then Shiro disappeared after a year, leaving him all alone once again.

So, during the timeframes before and after he met Shiro, he was left all alone to fend for himself. He lives in an almost dilapidated, shabby shack in the middle of a desert, naturally leaving security unattended and nonexistent.

Of course, for a child/teenager, this predicament alone would transpire paranoia especially when you're in the middle of nowhere with the imminent anxiety of wild beasts/animals without any nearby protection.

Onto my main point now.

Keith is a teenager that was left to fend for himself all alone. Not only does he have no parents, but also he lives in the middle of nowhere and faces extreme ostracization and bullying. His school is an extremely emotionally and physically unsafe environment for him, and so is his shack. Consequently, he makes it a priority to always keep his guard up everywhere at any time. He isn't familiar with the notion of a "safe space". (Perhaps he only literally experiences that concept when he forms a deep connection with a bunch of other teenagers in outer space. Now that's a safe space. LOL)

His only resort and closest alternative to a "safe space"? His dagger, fanny pack, and boots.

Boots, to immediately escape the grasp of an intruder/emergency;

His fanny pack, presumably with all his survival essentials in it, in case of any emergency;

And his dagger, to defend himself.

All of which are stationed on him.

When you've spent the majority of your life alone with absolutely nobody to depend on, vigilance and paranoia creeps itself onto your daily routine. Most likely, Keith feels naked and vulnerable without them, because these three are his fundamental objects of safety.

So, he learnt readiness, vigilance, and speed not by training, but through cruelty. Of course, even with the reassurance of sleeping in a high-security advanced spaceship, old habits die hard. He'd rather sleep through discomfort rather than face danger.

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this would be so good for a klance hurt/comfort fic. just lance slowly easing keith into introducing the possibility of safety and vulnerability coexisting together instead of having to choose between the two. i GOTTA write something like this soon

keith needs a hug bro

#voltron

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lightshiningforth · 1 month

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I watched Season 3 of Star Trek: Discovery, after putting it off for a while bc I didn’t love the first two seasons. My god. Season 3 is when the show finally, finally finds itself.

I had a litany of issues with the first two seasons, which have certainly been hashed out by fans before but which I will divide into two relevant categories for the sake of discussion:

Being a prequel, the show leaned on, altered, and got bogged down with preexisting Star Trek lore. They changed the Klingons’ iconic looks and made them the villains again. They brought in Section 31 in a role that was far too front facing for what that organization is supposed to be. They burdened Michael’s character with the baggage of being part of Spock’s family, and made the family even more dysfunctional and traumatic than it was in TOS to drive the plot forward. Now, there are plenty of things they did well. The integration of the mirror universe was clever. The uniforms, IMO, were a better pre-TOS imagining than those in Enterprise or AOS. Original content, like the Kelpiens, was beautifully done. Overall, however, the show felt stuck. They couldn’t cover new ground without altering pre-established ground, and those alterations were frustrating.

The show didn’t allow us to get to know and care for the crew. This was especially a problem in the first season, when we spent all of a few minutes with the Shenzhou crew before everything went to hell, and then the rest of the season on Discovery was war and trauma. How were the characters before the trauma? What changed, what was lost? We sure don’t know! And who are these characters now? Yes, we know Michael, Saru, Tilly, Stamets, Culber - they get individual moments, or moments with each other. But everyone else? The rest of the bridge crew? What are their names, what are they like, how do they interact with and feel about each other? We don’t know. It’s all a swirl of faces and bad situations. We don’t know these characters, but we’re expected to feel their pain as they’re pushed into the most extreme, traumatic situations possible. I didn’t even understand that Airiam was human until the episode in which she dies. Suddenly, then, we get a handful of sweet, everyday interactions between her and the rest of the crew. And boom! She’s gone.

But Season 3… what a breath of fresh air. Finally, the show is in the future and free to cover new ground. The Burn, a differently configured Federation, the couriers, the Emerald Chain, new planets, new peoples… finally, finally, finally. Yes, there is still the familiar here. We see the Trill, the Vulcans, the Romulans, the Orions, the Andorians. But the show can do new and interesting things with them in the far future, WITHOUT bucking the familiar lore of Star Trek’s past.

And now that Discovery made a journey alone and together, as just their crew? We KNOW them. There are still characters who get more focus, certainly. Michael, Saru, Tilly, Stamets, and Culber, still. But now I would count Owo and Detmer among them - we see more of their personalities, their relationship with each other and with others, and they become crucial support to the character dynamics and plot. Now Bryce, Rhys, and Nilsson are more to me than just faces in the background - they are finally familiar as fixtures on the bridge.

Characters who are more occasional, like Jett Reno, Lt. Linus, or Dr. Pollard, fall into a different category for me - they were always distinct presences, and I did know who they were. Even so, I feel that they get to stand out more now that the main cast feels solidified, as opposed to before, when we had a blur of the Enterprise crew and other rotating characters cycling in and out.

(Don’t think I’ve forgotten Nhan or Emperor Georgiou, who are both impactful, distinct characters. It’s just that Nhan always felt like Enterprise crew to me, even after her transfer to Discovery, and leaves early in Season 3. Georgiou, meanwhile, is both a not-quite-crew character and plentifully developed from her initial appearance. She was never a mystery to me.)

Also! Book? I ADORE him. I adore his relationship with Michael (FUCK Ash Tyler, this is the romance she deserves). I adore Grudge (she’s a queen!!) (just stop taking her on deadly missions ok it stresses me out).

Oh, and Adira? A treasure! A delight! Ready to join the Star Trek category of “local teen collectively parented by starship or space station crew.”

Anyway. After two whole seasons didn’t resonate with me, I’m so glad to finally be able to say that I like the show. It feels like Star Trek now.

#star trek #star trek discovery

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actual-changeling · 5 months

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you’re the only person i feel comfortable saying this to. but i feel like a fake fan for not wanting to/not engaging with tlou2 content. i don’t like the story and i don’t like the characters/characterizations. it makes me really sad and uncomfortable at times. i won’t be watching season 2 when it comes out. i’m sure the making of it and the actors will all be incredible it obviously has nothing to do with them.

i know there’s like a whole thing where you don’t have to engage with content you don’t like blah blah but it just feels like *some* (emphasis on some, not generalizing here) tlou fans really get mad with people who don’t like tlou2, they think that they don’t understand it and are just mad there isn’t a happy ending and just hate abby. which, idk, i would never expect a happy ending of an apocalypse story. but there are so many problems with the story that i cannot get over. and yeah. i don’t really think **** should have died (asterisks for spoiler). honestly these people make me want to engage with tlou2 even less.

i love tlou1 and it’s been such an outlet for me and for so many others with parental trauma. i think it’s okay to want to protect that.

i wonder if you think it’s okay and still good etiquette (for lack of better word) to not engage with tlou2 for these reasons?

i know you’ve spoken about tlou2 before and your take on it. i wouldn’t ask you to go through this all again, but i just felt like this was a safe outlet to say all this. i’m sorry if this was a bother!!!

It is completely fine to send me asks about this, don't worry! I'm glad you feel comfortable enough to do so.

I've watched the show and played both games, and it is always okay to dislike any aspect of a canon universe, no matter what your reasoning is.

A tiny part of me is still riding the denial train and hopes that Craig will at the very least vastly improve the plot if not change it, but since Neil is also involved I doubt it. The first game was perfect as a stand-alone, and just like you, the characters and the world helped me work through a bunch of issues.

It didn't need a part 2, especially not one that demolished everything they had built. The one we got also destroyed some of the comfort the first game had simply because once you know how the story ends, you will never be able to see it again like you did before.

Pedro and Bella will be amazing in season two, that am sure of, and I hope Kaitlyn can shield herself from the hate she will undoubtedly receive.

The fandom is, like you said, very. sensitive about part 2 opinions that aren't "I loved it and want Abby to rail me", and it would be hilarious if it weren't sad and didn't involve those people harassing others. After playing part 2, I realised that 90% of the tlou content I see anywhere is so removed from what is actually happening in the game that I cannot take anyone who praises it seriously.

For some reason, many seem incapable of separating themselves from people's opinions about the game. If you told me you liked the game and constantly talk about it, sure, fine, I am not a toddler, I can co-exist or even be friends with someone who has a different opinion on a video game. 99% of the tlou2 fandom just cannot do the same and I have no idea why, they take any and all non-positive takes and treat them like I personally insulted their mother.

The pure game mechanics of it, the infected, the environmental designs, the details—all of that is beautiful and I genuinely enjoy playing Ellie's Seattle Days because of that; I just try not to think about why she's there. But for a story-driven game, good mechanics and nice graphics aren't enough to balance out the shit writing.

Even if we ignore the Death tm, there are so many other issues, including various flavours of homophobia and transphobia (that I also never saw anyone talk about??? and I mean transphobia in the writing itself, not the characters), plot issues, pacing issues, horrible character development, and much, much more.

Not liking the game and feeling uncomfortable watching/playing it makes perfect sense, and you 100% have the right to block any and all content related to part/season 2. I know you know that, but sometimes it really does help to have someone else tell you something you technically already know (half of my therapy sessions consist of me and my therapist talking about stuff I already know).

No one—and I mean no one—gets to decide that for you. Anyone who demands you expose yourself to something that makes you feel like shit is an asshole and has no validity.

I hope this wasn't too rambly and turned out somewhat coherent. My inbox is always open for you (or others) to talk about anything tlou related. I've weathered several waves of hate from those people and I couldn't give less of a fuck about it.

#alex answers asks #all my hope hinges on craig locking neil in a cupboard until season 2 is written #save me actually good writer craig mazin #save us from whatever the fuck neil did to our characters

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imminent-danger-came · 5 months

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What do you think of the resolution of the Samadhi Fire arc?

I'll take this to mean the "Embrace Your Destiny" special, which effectively closes what I consider to be the first arc in Lego Monkie Kid!

Between liking it as a finale and liking it as set-up for the next season, I decidedly like it as set-up more (but there is plenty to enjoy about what they answered/resolved). I think the 3x13 flashback gives a lot of depth to LBD (which is then later paralleled to by Azure), and it answers a couple questions along the way, like: why? Why did the Lady Bone Demon do any of this? Why was she in her prison? Why is the Mayor in league with her? And ultimately, what is her destiny?

As far as those questions go, I liked the answers the show gave and how LBD's defeat was ultimately brought about (through standing together and with that unity bringing about hope/the future, something that was contrasted by MK's s2 arc and supported by 3x08 and 3x10, doing it together vs doing it alone).

The final confrontation of ideals is beautiful to me, boiling down to perfection vs imperfection (chaos?👀):

Lady Bone Demon: "You would allow this world to continue to fester and rot? The eternal misery of countless souls because of your sentimentality for mortal pleasures!" MK: "*yells* You can't judge things by they're worst qualities!" Tang: "This world might not be perfect, but it's still worth fighting for!" Pigsy: "Yeah! Sometimes it's that little bit of char that makes for a more flavorful meat! Even if it is a bit tangy." Sandy: "You said it Mo! The world may be full of darkness, but to let the light shine, all we need to do is stand together!"

Like this sentiment of an imperfect world being worth fighting for, and by extension imperfect people being worth fighting for, is one I love. It also ties in nicely with MK and his low self-esteem, (like, thematically, heaven knows he has not applied his "you can't judge things by they're worst qualities" mentality to himself), where you can still love/defend things that aren't perfect or wholly "good". This naturally affixes itself to Wukong, who has lifetimes of mistakes. At this point MK chooses to ignore and repress his perception of Wukong's flaws, but eventually, we're going to go the direction of loving people in all there imperfectness. Yes, even when someone has made terrible mistakes, you can still fight for them and care about them (4x08, 4x13).

Though, let me also talk about Samadhi Fire Mei and possessed Wukong! I love both of these concepts, and I love the way they were executed. "Don't use the flame Mei...Be the flame!" linking to 1x09 "You don't use a weapon....you ARE a weapon!" This idea of "using vs being" intrigues me, and I think it works in tandem with being controlled versus having your freewill. The Lady Bone Demon both used Mei and Wukong for her purposes, and her ruin was for them to be themselves. I think you can also view Azure with this lens—he was so focused on using the Jade Emperor's Power to change the world/revenge, he ignored actually being the Jade Emperor.

Overall, I think Samadhi Fire Mei does a good job of continuing Mei's arc (using power to protect those you care about), and perpetuating the pattern of her following in MK's footsteps. For Wukong, he's a character who always desires the ability to do whatever he wants. So possession is delightfully ironic for Wukong, you know. He keeps running off to keep MK safe, but running off is what also put his protege in danger, from his own hands no less ("Can't you see you're hurting the people who care about you the most?" - "Until I know what I am, what my destiny is? I can't risk hurting the people I care about—the one's I have left.").

And obviously 3x14 has one of my favorite scenes in the whole show, that being the "To pain" scene, which continued to blur the "good guy"-"bad guy" lines that have slowly been obscured over the course of Monkie Kid. I will never shut up about that scene. Doing what you think is right and giving it your best can still lead to disappointing and terrible outcomes.

And of course, they began "A Hero is Born" with a Tang narration about the past, and then ended 3x14 with a Tang narration about the present. I always love a good book-ending.

#yeah so you could say I think it was kind of good #I guess I should have talked about EYD more as a resolution but I struggle to view it that way #cause there's just so much damn set-up #but! It answered a lot of questions for me and did a good job wrapping up arc 1. So yeah I thought it was pretty good #Had it been the finale of the show I would NOT have thought it was as good as i do now #(not enough Wukong & MK resolution)#(but it also probably would have been written differently as a finale)#s4 is so special to me. it really is.#asks #lmk #lego monkie kid #lmk analysis

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cant-get-no-worse · 7 months

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i know that barça screwed m/ssi over and that his fans have every right to be pissed at that but i can't help but feel that the number of m/ssi fans and the number of barça fans is so disproportionate.

i love him but a part of me didn't want him back because of his fanbase, particularly the ones who hate barça. our youngsters are already under so much pressure and i don't want them being blamed and hated on for not being like the prime teams that m/ssi had in the past.

I believe you're far from being alone in this stance, anon! The sheer number of internet crowd that Ronaldo or Messi can drain is akin to the swifties or other internet phenomenon : it's lot of users that can together act quite dumb. Any crowd existing erases any nuances the people composing them, as individuals, could bring to discussions. I myself consider that what happened in those years is nothing less than disgraceful - from Luis Suarez's treatment and how Neymar's millions have been handled by Bartomeu, to how one of our biggest club legend has been fucked over by the board, and more specifically Laporta - who remains first of all an ex-lawyer and a politician - in an utterly shameful manner. Meanwhile, I believe that Laporta genuinely cares about the club (I might be wrong since as mentionned previously, he's a politician, but being from the city itself and everything, for now I do believe a genuine care to exist, mingled amongst politics, personal ambition and co) and most probably saved it from a dire wreckage ; so there you go.

Essentially 1) indeed that'd have been a problem, esp with the youngsters being more connected online and more susceptible to stumble upon those senseless criticism springing out of twitter 2) the outweight of what he could have brought to the team, being an experienced football player, having grown up within the club and knowing it as well as he does, good relationship with the coach and being the at the level that he is. Thinking specifically about the passes/vision dev. with Pedri, relationship with Gavi whose rage/energy about the club/on the pitch reminds me a lot of young Messi, Yamal, etc.

So yeah, valid thoughts! At the end of the day though it's chill, a done deal : he's not coming back as a player, probably will for a farewell match and later on as a board member, and eventually all that "true culer" vs "solo stan" discourse (it bears repeating that this is a majorly online discussion - cf the chants for him all throughout last part of the season - and that, as we know, the contrast between online and reality is a crude one lol) will mean nothing down the line as time erases those asperities. At the end of the day whenever there's talk about Messi and Barça, I always like to step back and hightlight that beyond the brand the name "Messi" has become and all the anger/frustration/annoyance that can legitimately spring out of culés/others from the massive cult-like following that gravitates around it, there's a guy who, like Iniesta, Xavi, Puyol, Guardiola and other beloved players, came from our very own academy, repeatedly chose to gave said club - not without rocky moments btw, let's not romantize there - 95% of his career/talent, while standing at times surrounded by "prime teams" and at others seemingly utterly alone in shameful XI sides hanging on by a thread. His coming back could've been beneficial on some plans ; it could've been a disaster on others ; and honestly, talking about the multiple issues there comes with being associated to such a worldwide persona and the consequences it has on his relationship with the club/its fans is quite interesting and unique, since it's a phenomenon that I believe spawned from the social media age, and of which the only equivalent to Messi in that cult-following is CR7, who changed clubs quite regularly and didn't forge such a special connection with one. Thus LM10 really seems to be a quite specific case. Messi's stay at Barça was far from being a steady, quiet journey too, and I think it's always healthy to critize it as it's never alright to idolize anyone, as long as the bottom line - which is why I have a slight irk at some self-proclaimed "true culer" - remains : this guy is as much a culer as anyone sitting in the stands or watching on the TV, and for the amount of things he gave that club, probably more.

#anon ask #that said i'll always be so fucking bitter about him not getting to play with pedri again. there's the mf roman empire. i hate it.#messi

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