#god. im fucking so tired and wrung out.

[beholdthemem]

The universe saw fit to gift my grandmother with a lovely case of covid for Christmas because of course it fucking did, so the past few days have been, uh...

Busy.

#personal #she's not in the hospital- she did end up going to urgent care on the 25th but they sent her home. #she did not TELL US she was going to urgent care we found out via whatsapp from my aunt #who'd been trying to coordinate a family zoom call and was informed by my granddad 'later. we're #at the hospital now'. #why did they not call and ask us to drive given that we live TEN MINUTES AWAY and granddad shouldn't be driving at the best of times? #that i could not tell you. something about 'not wanting to inconvenience-' which is insane #dad and i have been going up to try and get everything we can done for them since then #nana's been granddad's caretaker since he got diagnosed but anyone who's had covid can tell you it takes fucking EVERYTHING out of you #to just fucking walk around. im off work till the 9th thank god so i can be there as often as required but even so... #I have a sense that i should probably be freaking the fuck out but mostly im just... calm? it's not a happy calm idk what emotion this is #but it definitely isn't positive- but im not panicking. i feel like new bad info does not surprise me anymore it's just kind of a grit-your- #teeth-and-adjust-to-handle-shit deal. like. 'mm. god shits in our collective dinner once again. figures.' #there's no point in flying off the handle just figuring out how to fix things. im not happy but im... steady i guess? #im resigned and bitter and optimistic until im given proof not to be but mostly what i am is tired. not physically just- #my brain feels like a wrung out dishcloth. i keep trying to write because i know it'll make me happy if i can but its not working. #i keep writing paragraphs of shit that aren't matching up with what i want and if somebody gives me some meaningless platitude about #how maybe it's a sign it should be there and to try and incorporate it ill rip their face off. shut. up.

[yandere-romanticaa]

For best quality as a person its probably selfishness and that sounds really weird but let me explain.

Ive seen people who are too kind and forgiving, who dont want to say no bc theyll feel bad about hurting or burdening another person even if theyre not at all obligated to help them or this person is judt a damn leech. So im the one who has to be the selfish person in the group who says no and tells people to fuck off, who unabashedly looks the other way when someone else tries to pester me to help them. Its not always great, sometimes you come off as a complete and utter asshole, and maybe sometimes you feel guilty, but its better than the all consuming rage and bitterness that will eventually come from having every drop of your generosity wrung dry to fill another person's cup.

Because at the end of the day there are really only some people who appreciate and care for you, and i rather give them my 100% than split it btwn them and someone who's awful.

Okay but this is actually so important, I'm so glad you put this out there.

It's unreal how many people I've met that they'll do whatever someone else wants them to do regardless of their own feelings because "It's the right thing to do".

Darling, is it the right thing for you though?

Why should you suffer for someone else's benefit, especially if you're not getting anything back? This kind of suffering is a choice and I don't see why it is made. I actually have a friend that's currently working in Croatia as a cook and by God he's being an absolute IDIOT, the people working there are using him so much it's honestly laughable. His shift is supposed to be maybe 3-4 hours but this idiot works overtime for maybe 7 hours (possibly more!), no extra pay btw. He always complains how tired and little time he has but whenever me and my friends attack him he gets so defensive! I'd understand if he was lonely or had nothing to do but he's a really likable guy and he made some friends, I don't see why he can't just finish his shift, get a meal and go to the beach and have fun for Christs sake. There's this quote that I read somewhere that really stuck with me and I'd like to share it with you:

"You work to live, not live to work."

There's a line between being a selfish jerk that only cares about their needs and a person that's trying to take care of themselves. If you really have a hard time saying no to others see it this way - how can you help them if you're falling apart? If you are going to treat yourself like a machine 24/7 you ought to at least take care of yourself. Even the best and most strongest machines need to cool off from time to time.

#psa #anon asks #ana rambles

[the-game-spirit]

i haven't had an anxiety attack this long and awful in... awhile

i mean. im not surprised. this ones been building up for a long time. but i just.

ugh

idk

#i feel like i havent slept in two days #i cannot stop shaking and my shoulders are so tense it hurts #i am so exhausted #i literally cannot bring myself to get out of bed #honestly i can barely look at tumblr rn idk i just #cannot fucking deal #rn i just. gotta get this out sorry #then im gonna go back to alternately reading fluffy fics and trying very very hard not to exist #god #i feel wrung out #i dont wanna move but i think im gonna have to so i can help out mom and frankly im like one step away from Actually Crying which is... #pretty extreme. for me. #its almost certainly not healthy but im usually able to just... bottle this shit. im so fucking good at hiding when im about to break down #and i shouldnt be proud of that but frankly its probably one of the main reasons i can function so. unhealthy coping mechanisms ftw? #but now im so fucking tired and strung out and UGH #i feel like i just need to fucking sleep a full 8 hours and ill be better but i just. cant. #i keep waking up. let me REST #ugghhhhh #anyway bye #ignore me #im just venting #maybe itll help

[a-libra-writes]

are you ever going to write a sequel to that incredible stannis + soulmate journal prompt you did? i know stannis survives the siege, but i still get absolute chills and i'd love to read his reaction to meeting her. it doesn't have to be a story, even--just, like, a couple bullet points would be enough to quench my thirst for stannis content. i understand if you don't want to!

I wanted to write something for this bc i had IdEAS but im too tired soooo lets do the bullet ponts hahaha. anon is referring to this fic!

I think at this point, Stannis is so physically and mentally exhausted, he actually tosses his usual uptight sense of propriety out the window. When you write to him that you're terrified and worried and you're on a ship right now with your family's soldiers, he doesn't tell you to stop.

The siege has ended. Stannis still can't stomach the food that's coming in, he tells his men to have it first, and of course Renly. He's still too weak to write, so he just looks at his journal, reading your frantic words. You're almost on the way, he doesn't have to worry anymore, you'll be there.

Sometimes Davos (with freshly bandaged fingers) catches him snorting in amusement at the journal. He's a bit worried his new lord is losing a few marbles, then he finally sees the journal and realizes what it is.

"The songs and stories won't shut up about the destined meeting," Stannis remarks to him out of nowhere. His words are biting. "This is one they'll sing about."

Which is to say, he's terrified what you'll think, but he's also too tired and fucking done with everything to stop it. He still doesn't write back, but he follows your daily updates, calculating how long it'll take you to arrive.

Stannis meets you on the docks, weak as he is. It's freezing out here, with the wind batting him hard, even if it's the height of spring. He watches the horizon for a long time, waiting for your family's crest to appear over the water. And it does.

The ship docks and he barely pays attention to the soldiers and servants exiting, bringing supplies and reinforcements. A family member - likely an older brother - tries to speak with Stannis, but the Baratheon is dismissive of him. His dark blue eyes are searching the deck, waiting for you to step down...

And you do. You stumble down the ladder and all but run toward him, ignoring the strange looks dockworkers are giving you both. You wrap your arms around him, and as if you're heart wasn't already bursting with excitement and emotion and aching with worry, it gets worse. You nearly knock Stannis over with your enthusiasm because he's so thin and weak. You feel him stiffen up, but then his arms slowly wrap around you, too.

There's a lot for you two to catch up on! And you have the excuse of your men and family members staying in his castle as they prepare to march off to assist Robert and Ned in their battles. The war isn't over, but gods, it looks like it already wrung Stannis dry. You want to stay and support him as best you can, convince him to get some damn sleep and please try to eat more.

By the time the war is over, you and Stannis don't really use the journals anymore. You've been together since you arrived on boat. When the rebellion -- no, the war, your 'side' won - is finished, there's much to do now that Robert is king. Stannis has put up with SO much shit during and after the siege ... he basically demands to his brother that he be allowed to marry you. No he doesn't want fucking Dragonstone, he just wants you.

You two discussed this before, and you both asked Robert for his blessing in private... though you had a sense Stannis may have actually just gone and done it anyway. This is the most you've ever seen him shirk the idea of "duty" and raise his voice at Robert... it's kind of attractive??

Robert allows it, of course. He really doesn't think about any political ramifications; it's Lord Arryn's job to worry about such things. And you and Stannis are a great pair in court, anyway. He'd still keep the journals. You aren't sure when Stannis had them brought in from Storm's End; it's surprisingly sentimental of him. Since you both are together all the time now, there's really not a need for a new one...

It's very possible no one would know you were soulmates, except Maester Cressen and maybe Davos. Stannis prefers it that way. He still thinks some of this soulmate stuff is a lot of illogical fluff... ... Even if he keeps those journals around!!! He's very embarrassed if you do the same.

But everyone once in a while you still like to leave a cute little love note or drawing on a scrap paper and wait for it to appear on the thing he's working on, haha. Just to keep him on his toes.

#v self indulgent in this wendy's tonight #stannis baratheon x reader #got x reader #game of thrones x reader #libra headcanons

[summoner-kentauris]

im not editnig this because its 1 am and i have to work tomorrow suffice to say it almost certainly got errors

i would call this emotional h/c ish territory. people having messy problems but coming out of it okay. alfonse dealing/not dealing with his hel curse. al and zash dealing with the fact that no one wrote him lettterrrrrrssss. no one was more surprised than me to find this one ends positively

-

Alfonse Gustavsvin, First Sword of the Order of Heroes and Crown Prince of the Kingdom of Askr has made some serious mistakes in his life.

Not the kind of mistakes his father would have called mistakes. Not the little things he’d once dragged himself over the coals for. Those things that Kiran calls “healing” to forget.

No, he’s his own man now, or at least he’s trying to be, and in that vein he can admit that he, himself, has made mistakes. Little ones, like sneaking away to practice, when he should have been balancing books, and causing a few hours headache for Anna when she had to do it late at night. Normal ones, like letting Kiran fly the Aether castle. He’s even made some big ones.

He’s not sure what category to class forgetting to tell Zacharias about that tiny small thing with Hel and all that.

He doesn’t even realize he’s made said mistake until he’s face to face with Zacharias again, and Zash is bleeding from a nasty cut on his head, and his shirt is torn and he’s sweating and wincing and grabbing a rib and begging the Order to help his sister-

That’s when it hits. He didn’t tell Zacharias. By the level of desperation in his voice, no one had.

Alfonse finds he doesn’t curse very often unless its around Zacharias, and he really has to work hard at it then, because, well, shit.

He tries to break the news as diplomatically as he can.

He can recognize Zacharias by his lance work alone.

He doesn’t need to see Zacharias’ eyes to read heartbreak.

-

He’s not surprised that Zacharias doesn't seek out the healers that night. He’s seen the what Bunrun- Spring Bruno can do with a staff. Fuck. Another thing Zacharias doesn’t know.

Focus on breaking the news about an amnesiac bunny summon version of him later.

Death first.

Zacharias sits, peculiarly still, as far away from camp as he can get. The cut on his head looks better than it had looked, which is nonetheless worse than it ought to. He doesn’t touch Zacharias. He believes him about the curse, really, he does, even if often his heart doesn’t want to. Wants him back.

“I���m sorry,” he says, because if there’s one thing thinking you were gonna die in nine days did for you, it was help you be a little less equivocating. “I should have told you.”

“You were busy,” Zacharias says, simply, without looking over at him. “There’s nothing to apologize for.”

You were busy, meaning, someone had told him the whole story before Alfonse had got to him. You were busy,meaning, Zacharias is always making up a narrative in his head. There’s nothing to apologize for, meaning, inevitably Zash is writing himself out of that narrative. Again.

Alfonse sighs.

“What were you told?” he says, in lieu of anything better.

“It matters not.” Zacharias goes to rise. “I must-”

“Sit down, Zach,” he says, maybe with more force and less weariness than he thought, because Zacharias does immediately. He almost looks surprised. It would be funny, if Alfonse wasn’t so tired.

“When all this is over,” he says, without thinking, “I’m going with you.”

Zacharias turns and stares at Alfonse through his mask for a long, long moment.

“What?”

He can’t match his stare. Not with the mask on. Not when something that hurts and stretches is unfolding itself, like a spine clicking.

So he doesn’t. The heavy night is deep. It looks endless, but only because its so dark. There’s no way to see a beginning, so there’s certainly no way to see an end.

Zacharias makes a huffing sound. “You can’t come with me. Alfonse, you can’t, I- the curse alone.”

“Nine days.” The voice doesn’t sound like his own. “Nine days.”

Zacharias falls silent. Alfonse feels silent, too, except he’s talking, so he can’t be. He’s moving his hands, so he must still be here.

“I didn’t want to see you,” he says. “So I didn’t tell you.”

Fool that he is, he doesn’t realize its true until he’s saying it. Until its real and invisible in the night air.

Zacharias sucks in a breath, but doesn’t say anything.

“I wanted to think,” he continues, “that I didn’t want you to see me like that. But it’s not true, is it? I didn’t want to see you, to see you and know you were-”

He cuts himself off when he realizes what he means to say. But, there are mistakes, and then there are mistakes.

And he misses his friend.

“…right,” he finishes. “Curses can be solved by death.”

“I know,” Zacharias says, after a beat. His tone is calm, even. “I’ve known that for some time. You know I believe that. So, then… what’s truly troubling you?”

“It’s funny, right?” That’s answer enough, right? “Nine days and all I could think about was how I didn’t want you to show me up.”

“Mm hm,” Zacharias mms. “And the truth, this time?”

Alfonse snorts. “What makes you think that’s not?”

If Zacharias cracks a smile, Alfonse chooses not to notice it out of the corner of his eye. None of this is funny.

“You’re clenching your left hand, where you usually hold your shield. I thought you’d broken that tell?”

He does laugh at that. His laugh doesn’t sound right. It sounds hurt. Why is he the hurt one?

“This isn’t… this isn’t funny,” he tries.

He’s not prepared for Zacharias to lightly reach out to touch his face. He’s not prepared to notice, suddenly, the tears that have begun making their way from his own eyes. He’s not prepared for feeling like someone has shoved Fólkvangr through his heart.

“I don’t understand,” he says. “Why am I… why am I crying?”

“Oh, Alse,” Zacharias says, and then nothing else. He’s too busy pulling Alfonse into his arms, hugging him tightly, pulling his head close and holding him.

Alfonse doesn’t know why he’s crying. He doesn’t know why he can’t stop.

“I don’t… I don’t...”

Zacharias doesn’t say anything. Not when Alfonse starts making choking ugly crying sounds, not when Kiran and Sharena show up in a panic and he waves them off. Not when Alfonse finally beings to quiet into something he can pretend isn’t weeping.

Zacharias is quiet for a long, long time, until there is only the sounds of distant camp, and restless insects.

“Did you kill it?”

It takes Alfonse a moment to realize where he is, that someone is speaking, that it’s Zacharias who’s speaking.

“Hel?” he adds.

Alfonse carefully works his way out of Zacharias’ arms. It’s so cold in the night, but… “I… yes.”

“Good.”

Mistakes he’s made, that he keeps on making. He wishes he could go back. It’s so cold in the night.

“We were supposed to be together. It was supposed to be Embla, supposed to be together-”

“Aren’t we?”

The interruption throws Alfonse for a second. He swivels to look at Zacharias. Masked as always. And yet, Alfonse can feel Zacharias’ eyes on him.

“Aren’t we what?”

“Together. You and I. You’re here. I’m here. We’re here. That counts, doesn’t it?”

It’s like the earlier not-crying has wrung all the words out of him. “I...”

“I’ve learned a lot, being away,” Zacharias says. He looks back out across the night. “Very little has been useful, I think. Some of it, though… Does it matter?”

He turns back to face Alfonse abruptly. “Does it matter? That you didn’t tell me? I don’t want to hurt anymore. I don’t. I’m so ill of it, so… does it matter? Can I choose to let it go?”

“I...” Alfonse doesn’t like feeling dizzy. Doesn't like feeling cold. Wishes someone was hugging him again. Wishes it was Zacharias. “It’s not that simple, I…”

“There’s too much complicated in the world, Alse. There’s so, so much of it. I… know not what deserve is, or what right is, but I find myself wanting to ask all the same: can we be simple again? Let’s be easy. Let’s let it all go and just…”

“I didn’t write you.”

“And I wasn’t there,” he counters. “And next time, something will happen and you’ll run off without me and it will be the end of the world, and I won’t be there and you didn’t tell me. You hurt, I hurt, none of it’s our fault. So hang it all. It’s been a decade. If neither of us is going to change, do you really think our feelings will?”

“I thought I was going to die,” Alfonse says. His voice sounds small. He can’t bring himself to hate it. “I thought I would never see you again. So I though it would be easier to just accept it.”

“That doesn’t sound like a man who stood in a bunny costume and promised to kill a god for me, now does it.”

A spark of an emotion that’s not empty despair.

“This- this isn’t funny!”

Zacharias smiles a bit. “Apologies. My sense of humor has been warped by the voice in my head, you know, the one that regularly demands I disembowel everyone I’ve ever loved.”

He can’t stand this cold. “Hold me, please.”

And Zacharias does, without a pause.

He falls into a running a hand through Alfonse’s hair. It’s soothing, in a way Alfonse hasn’t felt in a long time.

Maybe ever.

“It truly isn’t that simple, is it?”

Zacharias talks to the open air. Alfonse doesn’t want to leave the warm he’s found in order to look at him, so he doesn’t.

“No,” he agrees. “It isn’t.”

“I’m sorry,” Zacharias says. His hand doesn’t falter in Alfonse’s hair. “I’m sorry I can’t be there.”

“Me too.”

That’s pretty simple, Alfonse thinks as they sit there. Two people, being sorry that they can’t properly care for the person they care about. None of it really their fault at the end of the day.

“Alright,” he says, suddenly. “We’ll let it go.”

“Mm?”

He leans up. He untangles himself.

“You’re right,” he repeats. “I promised we’d kill gods together. But, if we’re going to be defiant, well… oughtn’t we do it right?”

Zacharias tilts his head. “What?”

“I was so afraid,” he says, simply. “No more. Damn the gods. I chose you.”

Zacharias’ smile flickers, then settles into something softer and more familiar. “And if we fail?”

“Hm.” Alfonse settles back into Zacharias arms, it feels different, somehow. Less like running. “Well, we’re still young, you and I. Plenty of time to make some interesting mistakes.”

At that, Zacharias genuinely laughs, and then relaxes. He goes back to fiddling with Alfonse’s hair, and, frankly-

Frankly, he’s had a shit day, but in that moment he’s never felt better.

#my wips

[maandags]

the watchmaker (Finn Shelby x reader) {part two}

aaaaand here’s the second part yeehaw

– – –

Summary: After your uncle died, you decided to rid yourself of your troubling past and move to Small Heath, into the flat and workshop he left you. Soon after, though, Tommy and Finn Shelby crash into your life and bring back unwanted memories.

Genre: angst, fluff (at the end. gotta go thru some pain first im afraid)

Word count: 7.9K

Notes: CW: death mention - asphyxiation - panic attacks (?) - {part one} - masterlist - bitch i wrote 17k in like a week and , if i could write like this all the time ……………….. @ the writing gods : please,

– – –

That night, you stayed in your flat, pacing the floor and hesitating, not knowing whether to go or to stay. It was already late. You didn’t know if it was still worth it to go, yet your conversation with Tommy from earlier that day had left you confused and with more questions left unanswered than before. You bit your nail, approached the window that looked out onto the filthy street.

You wrung your hands. Undecided. Undecided.

The coat on its hanger was calling your name. In the distance you thought you could hear singing, and laughing; the sounds of jovial carelessness and mirth. Hesitating, hesitating. Then you frowned at your own reflection in the cold glass. Who were you to deny yourself a bit of fun? When was the last time you’d been truly carefree? As much as you tried to convince yourself of the opposite, there were no reasons why you shouldn’t go.

But… But what? you asked the irritating little voice inside your head; but what, exactly?

And so you went.

You’d never seen the Garrison in its full glory. It was pretty, you had to admit, though you knew you would probably have preferred it during the daytime. The rooms were filled to the brim, men shouting and hollering and singing drunkenly, waving around pints of beer and crystal glasses in which sloshed amber-brown whisky. The barman was having a time of himself trying to keep up with all the orders, hands moving so fast you got dizzy just from looking at them.

A short and stocky man approached you, and you immediately noticed the sheen cast over his eyes like a film of intoxication. He brought his face close to yours and you recoiled as he frowned and tried for eye contact.

“What’s a young'un like you doin’ here all by yeself, eh?” he slurred, stumbling when a man almost twice his size clipped his shoulder. He barely seemed to notice, though, all of his attention fixated on you. “Where’s your mates?”

“Um,” you stammered, scanning the crowd over his shoulder in search for a familiar face–Tommy, Finn, fucking Polly Gray for all you cared–and growing slightly panicked when you could find none of them. “I'm–I’m looking for someone.”

“Fuck ‘em,” the man drawled, draping an arm over your shoulder and effectively pressing his body flush to yours, “come with me. Let’s have some fun, you and I, yeah?” You had to make an effort not to gag.

Someone bumped into you from behind, and you were pushed into the man’s chest. His smell overwhelmed you, pressing into your nose and your mouth and your eyes until your brain spun and dark spots started to appear in front of your eyes. You felt your knees weaken, and you were sure that they would buckle at any given moment.

Then a hand closed around your upper arm and yanked you from the drunkard’s grasp. You expected a shouting match to follow–the drunkard had seemed rather insistent on your company–but all that came from him was a whimper and a mumbled apology. You blinked the dark spots from your vision, heavily leaning on the unknown figure–though you had a suspicion regarding their identity–as they lead you through the crowd. Steadily you regained your footing and your sight, and you stole a glance at the person whose hand still tightly held onto your wrist.

“Hi,” you said, a smile creeping up your lips despite yourself.

Finn glanced down, eyebrows furrowed in a concerned frown. “You okay?”

You nodded. Finn didn’t seem satisfied, but led you to a barstool. He gestured for you to sit down, then told the poor fellow on the stool beside yours, “Fuck off,” and hopped onto his freshly acquired seat.

You shook your head at him, but the smile you tried so hard to push down was still there.

“You look pale,” Finn shouted over the noise.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Finn. I’m fine.” You were a little dizzy still, but you didn’t want to get drunk. Your thirst for alcohol had dissipated with your desire to have a fun night, and you felt sour and tired and only wanted to go home.

Finn didn’t look convinced. He waved the bartender over, and a moment later slid you a glass of water. You narrowed your eyes at him. He shrugged.

“Job’s done, eh?” he stirred his own glass.

You nodded, glaring at your water, fingering the rim of the glass listlessly. “Done. All of it.” You took a sip, just to wash down the dryness in your mouth. “Fucking hell.”

He just watched you, and you looked at him, and then you said, “Do you want to go outside? I hate it in here.” You did. You hated the stuffiness of the place, hated the smell of bodies pressed together, the stench of booze hanging in the air and laying a haze of drunkenness over the very air. You hated it.

After a moment of curious consideration, Finn said, “All right,” and cleared a path for you to get out of the busy pub.

The outside air pricked your cheeks and you drew a few grateful breaths, welcoming the sweet coolness in your lungs. You almost coughed, just to rid yourself of the sticky, syrupy air from inside the pub. You started to walk, no destination in mind, but you knew you had to move and get some feeling back inside your limbs.

“Hey, hey, hang on,” said Finn from behind you, and he jogged a couple of steps to catch up with you. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going home,” you said, though you didn’t plan on going straight home. You’d take a detour, maybe stop by your workshop and take a few pieces home; gears or pistons or anything familiar to keep your hands busy and the nerves at bay.

“But why? You walked in and walked straight back out!”

“Yeah. All this stupid trip did was remind me why I don’t go out in the first place.”

“And why’s that?”

You shoved your hands in your pockets and kept up the pace, forcing Finn to jog a step every once in a while to keep up. “Too many people. Too much drunkenness. Too much chaos. Too much… just too much.”

You rounded a corner into an alley that you knew would take you to your shop faster than the main road. It was a tricky passage to take: it was dark and muddy and a popular spot for the most unpleasant of peoples to gather; but it was faster, and by your side was Finn, so you didn’t feel as nervous as you usually would.

He was trying to understand. You could tell. He was doing his damn best to understand why this affected you so much, why the fullness of the pub meant nothing good to you. You didn’t expect him to entirely get it. He grew up with this; he grew up with the sound of gunshots ringing around his ears, the thump of adrenaline that followed it, the nights of drinking and partying and going wild.

It was different for you. It always had been different.

The village you grew up in was quiet, and the most exciting moments of your early childhood were little walks in the forest with your father, and he would point out to you the birds and the squirrels and the mushrooms and sometimes, if you were very lucky, you’d spot a deer or two in a clearing somewhere; or when there was a big market in London, and he’d hoist you up on his shoulders and let you explore all the colours and sounds and smells unfamiliar on your own, from your perch where you towered above everyone else, and exhilaration would fill you like it was injected in the very air you breathed.

And then your father was sent to France, and never came back. Arrangements were made for you to live with your uncle Henry, who lived a few towns over, and he took you in and cared for you like you were his own.

Of course, when you got a little older, there was excitement enough in the building of bombs. But the town Henry lived in was only a little bigger than your home village, and though it took a while getting properly adjusted, it had finally started to feel like home.

Birmingham was different. It was dark and huge and unforgiving and things happened in its shadows that you would rather stay as far away from as possible. Nevertheless, it was where you’d set up shop. It was where Henry had bought the damn shop, and you still didn’t really know why. Uncle Henry had been an eccentric man, but he hadn’t been stupid. You believed that if he owned a flat and a shop in Small Heath it had to be for a good reason.

Speaking of good reasons…

“One more thing,” you started, rather loudly, and Finn almost jumped at your side, “that you better have an explanation for, is this.” You rammed the key inside the lock and yanked open the door to your shop, not stopping to hold the door open for Finn but instead letting him catch it on his own.

You snatched up your toolbelt and started collecting stuff to take home. “I talked to Tommy this afternoon.” Pause. You looked around, found the copper wire you’d been looking for, stuffed it in a pouch on your belt. “And he said that he never told you to babysit me at all. That he had no idea that you even were at my shop all day.”

Finn froze, and you watched with a sort of grim satisfaction as he seemed to lose some of the carefully constructed composure he always seemed to wear around you. He had begun to look almost a part of the shop when you were still doing Tommy’s job, but now he looked as out of place as he had been the first time he’d set foot in it.

“Strange, eh?” You continued. You didn’t know why you were so sour about it all of a sudden. Maybe you felt taken advantage of. Maybe Finn had pretended to enjoy your company all along, maybe he was doing it for his own intentions. It was just the sting of knowing he’d lied to you that made the words taste bitter as you forced them from your tongue. “There’s nothing for you to gain here. Why would you come at all?”

“Small Heath can be a dangerous place,” he muttered, but he wouldn’t meet your eyes and you scoffed.

“Not to you it fucking isn’t. You’re a Shelby, Finn, and I'm–not–fucking–stupid.” You slammed a drawer shut and knotted the belt around your hips before covering it with your coat again. “Actually, I’m surprised you didn’t tell Tommy; nothing happens in this shithole without him knowing about it, right?”

“Y/N–”

“Maybe you wanted to do something for yourself for once, eh? God knows all you can do is suck Tommy Shelby’s cock and hope for a reward.”

“Y/N, stop–”

“You know what? I think I liked you better when you were pretending.”

“Y/N!”

“What?”

“Listen to me!”

You stopped dead in your tracks. It was the first time he’d raised his voice at you, and through the haze of anger still burning in your chest you were a little offended. “What?” you spat again, shoulders drawn up to your ears and muscles tense.

Finn took a breath, closed his eyes. When he spoke again, it was in a voice that trembled, and threatened to spill over with emotion any moment. He was fighting hard to stay calm. “Your uncle–”

“What the fuck does my uncle have to do with this?”

“You’ll know if you let me fucking finish!” he said, irritated.

You crossed your arms in front of your chest and clamped your mouth shut, your chin lifted high and one hip jutting out to show you were absolutely not content with the situation whatsoever.

“Your uncle bought this place–and the flat–as a safehouse. Because he got in deep with the wrong people. He planned to come here once you were old enough to fend for yourself. He paid the Blinders for protection beforehand, but never made it here.”

With every word he spoke, your eyebrows crawled closer to your hairline. The information was entirely new to you, and you were having a difficult time processing all of it.

“He was murdered, Y/N.”

That hit you like a hammer to the chest and your heartbeat started racing. “No,” was all you managed.

“I’m sorry–”

“No,” you repeated, more forcefully this time, “no. No, he died in his sleep. It was a peaceful death. They said so.” You sounded like a child. You knew you did. But your entire world was tearing at the seams, and the fact that Finn–whom you had known for just over a week–knew more about your uncle, your flesh and blood, than you did, didn’t sit right with you.

“Then why didn’t they ever show you the body, Y/N?” Finn’s voice was gentle, like how he would address a toddler having a tantrum, and that made it all the worse.

“Because I never fucking asked!” you said shrilly. “No. Don’t fucking come near me.” You stuck your hands out in reflex when he took a step towards you, and though he stopped moving, hurt flashed across his face.

“Y/N. You need to understand. The people who killed your uncle want you dead as well. It’s relatively safe for you here, but Tommy’s had men watching the shop and your flat since the day you showed up. How do you think we knew about the bombs?”

“But–but–” Your knees buckled and you only just managed to yank a chair towards you.

“I just wanted to make sure you were safe.” Finn ran a hand through his hair, and looked at you with eyes full of hurt. “Glad it’s appreciated.”

As he turned, you dropped your head in your hands and said, “Wait.” You didn’t hear the door open, so you took that as a good sign. “I'm–I’m sorry. For shouting at you.”

He sighed. “It’s alright.”

“No,” you said with a bitter laugh. “It’s not. Can you sit down?” He did, pulling up a chair beside you. You rubbed your temples, screwing your eyes shut against the bonking. “Talk. Tell me… tell me everything.”

And he did. He told you about the twin brothers whose parents Henry had helped kill by building the bomb necessary–or, well, that’s what he had led them to believe.

“In his last letter to us he explained how, while he had been the one to handle any kind of face-to-face business, you had built the actual bomb,” Finn said. “The Pinfield twins found out somehow and are now hunting you down.”

“But they never found me?”

“Oh, no, they did. But every men they sent here to do the job got caught in… an unfortunate accident.”

You scoffed. Why he would want to spare your feelings now was unfathomable to you. “You mean Thomas got them killed.”

Finn nodded. For the first time he looked uncomfortable, and you realised it had probably something to do with your remark from earlier. You winced internally; that had been a fucking glorious move on your part, hadn’t it?

“So now the Pinfields and their men are after me and probably won’t stop until I’m dead.” You breathed a long exhale, surprised at your still-dry eyes. The tears would probably come later, you figured. When all had settled in and the reality of the situation would crash into you with all the force of a fucking freight train.

“Pretty much.”

It was strange, how light you felt. You had just gotten told that a two murderous brothers were dead set on murdering you just like they’d murdered your uncle, and all you could focus on was the fact that you were still alive, weren’t you? So they probably weren’t that keen on your death.

Then you immediately scolded yourself and internally gave yourself a good shaking. Men were looking to murder you. You should be panicking, screaming, crying–at least be afraid–but you found that you weirdly… weren’t.

Sure, the nerves were there. But you had been on edge since you first moved to Small Heath. You had anticipated an attack every time you stepped out of your flat. So really all the news did to you was confirm that you had a reason to be on edge. That it wasn’t just ghosts or shadows you were seeing.

It was mostly the explanation, you thought. The fact that you knew now why everything had felt as weird as it had. Why Finn had been so insistent on staying with you day in day out while you did nothing but work at your desk. Why he had accompanied you to London for errands you had run a million times in the past. A weight had fallen off your shoulders: things were still looking pretty fucking bad for you, but at least you knew why.

So you said, “Okay,” and stood up, dusting off your coat with only-slightly trembling fingers.

When you started towards the door, Finn said, “Where are you going?”

“Home.” Something was starting to form at the back of your mind. The barest whisper of an idea, fuelled by the calm fury that was starting to bubble into existence and seep into your very bones. And honestly, you hadn’t even considered telling Finn about it. This was something you had to do on your own.

You were going home. But before that, you had a stop to make.

“I’ll walk you,” said Finn, and his voice was slightly apprehensive. Maybe he could see the unfiltered, absolute rage boiling behind your eyes.

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Y/N. I’m walking you home.”

“Before I took Tommy’s job I never had anyone walk me home, Finn. I held out just fine those five months, I won’t suddenly get jumped and murdered tonight.” You tried to keep your voice relatively light, but the remark still came out sharper than you intended.

Finn made a face and touched your wrist. No particular reason; no particular intention. A simple touch, yet the feeling of his fingers on your skin made goosebumps erupt all over your arm and you felt your shoulders stiffen. Then you told yourself to pull yourself the fuck together, Y/N. Blushing like a goddamn thirteen-year-old over a boy touching your wrist. Fucking pathetic.

“I’ll be fine,” you promised. And you knew you would be.

There was still a bit of hesitation in his eyes, but also a grim sort of resignation. “Alright.”

You left him standing in front of your shop after you locked it up, his hands shoved in his pockets, watching as you marched the now-familiar streets of Small Heath.

It was late, and frankly you didn’t expect Tommy Shelby to still be at his office. Yet he was, and Lizzie–the secretary from before–only barely raised a brow at your quick return. You paid her no mind even as she made a snide comment about your appearance, and when Tommy called you in you thanked her absent-mindedly.

“Close the door, Y/N,” he said as he rummaged around for two glasses and poured a finger of whiskey into each one.

You did, and accepted the glass he offered you, even though you didn’t often drink liquor as strong as whiskey.

“You’ve returned,” remarked Tommy as he sat down and lit a cigarette.

You gave a mocking, sarcastic bow. “I have returned.”

“May I ask why?”

“Yeah. Um…” You swirled the drink, wondering how best to start. “I found out about my uncle,” you finally settled on.

“Ah.” Tommy set down his glass, leaned forward in his chair. He didn’t look awkward, per se, but there was a certain stiffness to his movements that there hadn’t been before. “Then you know why we took such an interest in you.”

“Yes. And this time, it’s me that has a proposition.”

He listened as you explained your idea–in a voice clear but trembling with anger–and smoked up three cigarettes in the time it took you to lay out the full details. He never interrupted once, let you say everything you needed to say, and you were grateful for it. If anything, this whole endeavour was to make sure you were never treated like a child again.

When you finished, he sat back in his chair and tilted his head ever so slightly as he mulled over your words. You were silent, waited for his verdict, because your plan would never work if you didn’t have Tommy’s support.

“It will be dangerous,” he finally said, but the four words made you happier than was probably reasonable. Will. Not would. Will. Affirmative.

“I know,” you replied. “That’s the point.”

He smiled then, a smile equally warm and cunning, and it was then you knew that you had him. “You’ve got balls on you, Y/N. That’s good.” He stood up and started pacing his office, and the two of you began building upon the foundation of the plan that you’d lain out before him.

“I’ll tell John to accompany you to London for the supply run. How fast do you think you can get this done?”

“In ideal conditions? Three days.”

“What are ideal conditions?”

“Me being able to work with no distractions, no need to get up from my bench at any point in time for any reason whatsoever so I can stay focused.”

Tommy pointed at you with his whiskey glass. “Lizzie will come see you twice a day with food and drink. No distractions.”

Everything was coming together. You stayed in Tommy’s office until the late hours of the night, and even after you’d gone over everything you didn’t feel tired. Adrenaline coursed through your very being, the prospect of bringing the plan to fruition much too exciting for you to feel any other emotion whatsoever.

When you were finally satisfied, and Tommy walked to the door to open it for you, you thought of one more thing and stopped in your tracks. You hesitated on the threshold, nipping at your lower lip. “One last thing.”

“Yes?”

You didn’t look him in the eye. “Finn can’t know. Keep him busy, away from my shop or my flat. I know you have people watching the streets–make sure he can’t even get close.”

His brows raised slightly. “And why should I do that?”

You glared at him and folded your hands into your coat. “Because we agreed there’d be no distractions.”

You went to London with John–jovial, rude, but fun to be around–and got everything you needed. You said hi to Harry and Jim, who looked up when you entered their shop for the second time in a week, but walked past the tea shop. No time for anything but work these coming days.

John was nice to talk to. Didn’t take himself too seriously, didn’t take anyone else too seriously. Confident in his status as both a Peaky Blinder and a Shelby, never hesitant to make use of it when the situation called for it, or even when it didn’t but he just felt like it. He was nice to hang around–but he wasn’t Finn.

It was easier to concentrate on your work with no-one around, you’d admit that, but it was a lot more boring, too. You caught yourself grinning to yourself a few times when you thought of something funny and already opening your mouth to share it with Finn–before realising that he wasn’t there anymore and that you were talking to nothing but air.

Lizzie brought you lunch and dinner, and you went home every night around nine P.M, exhausted and sore from sitting in the same cramped position for hours on end. You had a quick shower and stretch, then you collapsed onto your bed only to wake up at half past five the next morning.

For three days you worked like that, only allowing yourself a half-hour break to eat and stretch before getting back to it. It wasn’t like what you were building was hard–you had done it before. Not quite as many in as little time, but that was the fun challenge aspect of it, wasn’t it? Tommy expected it to be done in three days, and done in three days it would be.

On the last evening, you had to work an hour later than usual to get it finished, and then another thirty minutes to clean and close up. All in all, it was almost eleven o'clock when you turned the key and prepared for the walk back to your flat, the cloth bag hanging off your shoulder full and heavy. You kept one hand on it as you walked, just for an extra sense of security.

Then someone called your name from behind you, and your heart almost jumped out of your ribcage from the shock.

“Finn! You fucker!” you hissed, pressing your free palm to your chest and trying to keep your racing heartbeat under control. “What–what are you doing here–”

He wasn’t supposed to be here. He wasn’t supposed to see you at all, and least of all before the job was even done. He must have found a way to slip past the men guarding your shop and flat. You felt yourself getting apprehensive again.

“I just–I haven’t seen you in days. I just wanted to say hi.”

“It’s eleven in the fucking evening, Finn. You should be home.”

“So should you!”

“I was on my way there!”

Then his eyes went to your bag, and his brows creased. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” you snapped, turning away, but you knew instantly you made a mistake. Finn wasn’t stupid–incredibly stubborn and cocky, maybe, but not stupid–and you could see him put two and two together.

“You said it was done.” And his eyes were so disappointed that you almost burst into tears right then and there. “All of it, you said.”

You knew there was nothing you could deny anymore, so you went on the defensive, hoisting the strap of your bag back up and preparing yourself for yet another shouting match that you would feel absolutely terrible about afterwards. “That was before I found out my uncle was murdered by the very same shitheads who now want me dead too.”

“I get that. You want revenge. I really do get it–but you’re only going to get yourself hurt.”

You scoffed. “God, Finn–you saying that tells me you don’t get it at all.” You started walking again. “I don’t care if I get hurt. I just want them gone.” You drew a shaky breath. “Besides, it’s too late for that anyway. I’ll be gone from this place after this is over.”

Finn put a hand on your shoulder. “We can do it for you. You don’t have to leave. I can do it for you–you don’t need to do it yourself.”

“I do, though! That’s the problem! I do need to do it myself, because my entire life I’ve had other people do things for me and look where that ended me up. Dead father, dead uncle. Alone in this godforsaken shit-hole of a town where I can barely make a living until Tommy Shelby and his gang show up and ask for bombs.” You ducked inside an alleyway, didn’t even look if Finn followed you as you spoke–because you know he had.

“There’s nothing heavier on the conscience than another man’s death, Y/N,” said Finn, and you didn’t even try to hold back the bark of bitter laughter that spilled from your tongue.

“Oh my god. Wow. That’s poetic, Finn, that really is. Did Tommy teach you that?” Ouch. You could tell that hurt him. It flashed in his eyes, souring his entire expression. It was something you’d jabbed at before, and every time you added onto it the cracks in his carefully composure widened.

And it hurt you, too. Knowing that you were the one who did this to him hurt you; it was a knife to the gut and a white-hot iron to the heart and yet the words spilled out like a dam broke and you couldn’t stop them. You felt the control on your emotions slip and took a breath, closed your eyes. Your flat was only a few blocks away. Focusing on the familiarity of the bland walls and creaky bed cleared the fog in your mind somewhat.

Calmer now, you said, “Stop trying so hard to be like him. It doesn’t suit you at all.”

He didn’t say anything else until you stopped in front of your flat and pulled out your keys.

“Don’t do this, Y/N.”

You opened the door. “I have to.”

“It’ll break you.”

You gave the darkness in front of you a sad smile. “Already broken.”

The trip to the Pinfields’ mansion was cloaked in silence, and the air was thick with tension. In the car sat Tommy, Johnny Dogs and a few of his men, you, and Charlie at the wheel. The boxes with explosives were laid out on your lap, and you were making the last final tweaks to the mines that were to be planted right in front of the Pinfields’ porch. They were inside. It was an early Sunday morning, after all, and they weren’t expecting an attack–you had a reserve of gas grenades, and all the other exits would be blocked, and the only way to get out of the house would be the front door. There, mines would be waiting for them, and the Pinfield twins would go out with a bang.

Or that was the plan. You would count yourself lucky if anything went somewhat according to the plan, which was based on quite a number of suppositions. You couldn’t deny the nerves that were slowly building up throughout the ride, but Johnny Dogs and his mates were joking around, not looking the least bit nervous, and Tommy wasn’t giving away anything at all, so you kept your face straight and tried to stop your knee from bouncing, a jittery habit you’d never quite been able to rid yourself of.

Then the car stopped, and Tommy announced that, for the last mile or so, you’d have to go through the forest. On foot. Nothing you hadn’t prepared for, so you adjusted the bag hanging from your shoulder and started walking.

When the mansion finally came into view, your breath hitched. Until now, it hadn’t felt real, somehow–it had been easy to talk about how you would kill the Pinfields, but now that you were actually pulling through with it… You wondered if you’d made a mistake. If it had been better to listen to Finn.

You shook your head. No. No hesitating now, no turning back. You’d agreed upon this plan–Hell, you had proposed this plan–and you were going to go through with it. No matter what.

It was still dark, and it was fairly easy to sneak into the garden–the Pinfields’ grounds were so big that their gates weren’t even visible from their house, and the miserable little stone wall they’d put up as extra protection didn’t pose a huge challenge for any of your team. As you approached the main door, your heartbeat started to speed up. But you were now visible from the house, and though you were wearing dark clothes you had to get this done quickly.

Johnny Dogs ran beside you, and he gave you one of his trademark grins and a pat on the back before sinking to his knees and starting to dig the trench.

The two of you worked quickly; Johnny digging, and you carefully placing the mines in the trench, activating them and quickly covering them with the loose dirt. They had a timer on, too, so they wouldn’t be fully active until after five minutes. Five minutes to plant seven mines–you couldn’t risk the brothers missing them–was tricky, but you were positive you could manage it. You had to manage it.

A whistle sounded, and you tapped the last of the dirt over the seventh mine. You shot a quick look at Johnny, who nodded and returned the call. Then he grabbed your arm and both of you sprinted back to where Tommy and the rest were waiting. He had his rifle over his shoulder, and didn’t acknowledge your return except for a grunt when you skidded to the ground beside him. Now it was just a question of waiting–waiting until just before dawn.

They were the longest, most agonising minutes of your life, each one feeling like an hour and when you were sure you would burst out of pure bottled-up nerves and excitement, Tommy said, “Now.”

One of Johnny’s boys sprang up and raced towards the house. A second later you heard the faint sound of shattering glass, and wisps of smoke started pouring from the windows. It would do a fine job of alerting the servants, maybe even the Pinfields themselves, and you started counting down the second, eyes fixated on the front door.

And then it swung open, and a man that could only have been one of the Pinfields stumbled out, one arm over his mouth against the smoke. Your hands flew up to cover your mouth, as if you wanted to stifle the sound of your very breathing.

He leant against the doorframe, wiping his sleeve across his mouth, spitting on the ground. Took a step forward. Kicked a potted plant across his porch, and your heart missed a beat–but it didn’t even fall. It was huge, the pot alone half his size, and all he did was probably hurt his foot. He cursed, loudly.

And then he stepped off his porch.

For a split second, nothing happened, and you thought you would faint with the pressure–but then a mine went off, and though you were expecting it, you jumped and turned away against the sheer force of the explosion that slammed into you like a gust of wind powerful enough to rip a tree straight from its roots and knocked the breath clean out of your lungs. The detonation of one mine quickly set off the rest, and the fast mounting explosions had you shield your head with your arms and flatten yourself to the ground.

But when you looked up and tried to blink the smoke out of your eyes, something scratched at the back of your mind and you scrambled up, ignoring Johnny Dogs’ vicious tugging at your sleeve.

“No, no,” you said hoarsely, falling onto your knees again and blindly grabbing hold of the fabric of his coat. “The other one. Where’s the other one?” Only one of the brothers had stepped outside. The other Pinfield was nowhere to be found.

“Fuck,” said Johnny under his breath, then he shouted what you’d said over to Tommy.

Tommy cursed and stood up too, raking a hand through his hair. He pointed at the men surrounding him. “Find the bastard. Find him and kill him.” Then he turned to you. “Stay here. You’ve done your part. This isn’t your fight anymore.”

Half of you wanted to protest, but you knew he was right. You’d never killed a man. Tricking someone into stepping onto a land mine was not the same as pointing a gun at their head and pulling the trigger. The end result may be the same (one maybe a bit bloodier than the other): a dead man on one’s conscience, but it was easier when you could turn away.

They all went their separate ways, some disappearing into the brush, others making for the house to see if he was waiting it out there, leaving you alone, half hidden behind the bushes and the trees, nothing but the beating of your own heart for company.

Your breathing was too loud. Your breathing was too loud, and when you looked down at your hands, they trembled. You balled them to fists. Hide. You had to hide, tuck yourself away so that nobody could find you. Dropping onto your knees, you shimmied yourself in between two bushes, letting the leaves fall around you, making for excellent cover.

The one downside to this was that you were completely blind to what was going on around you. You had expected noise; gunshots, shouting, engines roaring, but it was silent. So silent. Every rustling of leaves made your heart speed up, for you were certain that somebody had found you, somebody was coming for you, somebody was going to kill you–

And then it would be dark again and silent. Oh so silent.

After a while, it became too much. The pressure. The silence. You started to understand why the Shelbys liked having other people around, why those evenings of party and drink were so popular; it was to forget, to forget the events of the day, possibly forget everything if only for just a few hours. Clambering out of your hiding spot, you inched towards the edge of the forest, to try and catch a glance of what was going on.

Nothing. From the house came nothing, no shouts, no bangs. From the forest around you–nothing. You breathed out, letting it last, trying to get your nerves under control.

You would be fine. No one would find you. No one would hurt you. Tommy would kill the remaining Pinfield brother and he would come get you and you would go home. And then you would be able to leave Small Heath, leave Birmingham, once and for all.

Like a mantra you repeated it in your head, over and over, to keep yourself from running out there and finding the remaining Pinfield yourself. If you muttered it often enough, you found, you could even convince yourself it was the right choice.

You would be fine.

From behind you, there was a slight rustling and a grunt, and you exhaled in relief. “Did you find–”

But you were stopped short by two big hands clamping across your mouth, and you let out a muffled scream. Your own fingers instinctively shot up and clawed at the hands, but whoever it was that had got a hold of you was strong and wasn’t planning on letting go.

“Scream, you little fuck,” spat a coarse voice close to your ear. You struggled, tried to wriggle yourself from his hold. Panic seared through you in white-hot bolts and your eyes were wide, darting around to try and see your attacker as well as find a way out. “So you killed my brother, eh?” grunted the voice, and your insides turned to ice.

Nothing could ever have prepared you for this. Nothing could have prepared you for the scorching terror that burrowed itself in your very bones, seeped into your brain, made all rational thought impossible. Instead of going limp, you doubled your efforts to free yourself from his grasp, ripping and pulling and scratching and biting.

“You fucker–I’ll fucking kill you–” He was trying to stay quiet about it. Your feverish brain took that as a sign that someone was close by–within shouting distance, at least.

So you used all of your strength to yank your mouth free from his hand and scream. Scream as long and as hard as you possibly could; no words, just a blood-curdling shriek. A split second later he was back on top of you, more urgent this time, grunting as he tried to get his hands around your throat.

His fingers pressed into the soft skin below your chin, and only a few seconds later black spots started dancing around your vision. You gasped for breath, and, encouraged, he dug his thumbs deeper into the pressure point. A rock dug into the back of your head, and you concentrated on that pain, letting it flow through you, forcing you to stay awake. Fighting to stay awake.

But he was strong, and his knees were on either side of your hips, effectively pinning you to the ground. He was pushing harder and harder–breathing became more difficult by the second, and your grip on his wrists was slackening. You blinked furiously, but your vision was blurring. This was it, you thought. This was it.

And then a gunshot rang through the air. The sound was distant to your oxygen-deprived brain, but you heard it nevertheless, and for a second you feared the bullet was meant for you; but the fingers around your throat loosened, and Pinfield, who had been pinning you down just moments before, now froze and then dropped like a sack of potatoes.

He fell on top of you, and in a last attempt to free yourself you managed to roll out from beneath him, where you lay by his side, chest heaving with coughs and eyes screwed shut. You were vaguely aware of something warm and sticky on your face, clinging to the skin of your neck, your clothes, but being covered in blood was probably the least of your concerns.

Right now you focused on the fact that you were alive. You were alive, and the scorching breaths you sucked in proved it. Your head swam after being almost asphyxiated, and shaking fingers came up to brush the tender skin of your throat. Those would become bruises later.

You vaguely registered someone shouting your name, and a second later they dropped to their knees next to you. You opened your eyes, blinked hard, and slowly Finn’s face came into view.

He was paler than you’d ever seen him before, brows knotted together, lips pressed in a tight line. Only in the back of your mind did you note that he was not supposed to be here. He was supposed to be back in Small Heath. But a gun lay discarded behind him, and that’s when you realised it was Finn Shelby who saved your life.

He was saying something. His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear the words he spoke and you closed your eyes again, rubbing your hands across your face. “Wait,” you slurred. Your tongue felt like lead. Too big for your mouth. You coughed again.

“… you not to go. I fucking told you not to go, you idiot,” he was saying in a sharp but shaky voice, and when he helped you sit up his hands trembled.

“I just almost died. You don’t get to swear at me,” you said, but your voice was barely audible and you doubled over once more.

Despite everything, Finn laughed–jerkily and weak but a laugh nevertheless–and you smiled too, letting yourself fall forward into his chest. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your shoulder.

“I’m covered in blood,” you mumbled into his coat.

“What?”

You pulled away. “I’m covered in blood.”

Finn shook his head. “Not yours, so I don’t care.”

That’s when others started to appear–Johnny Dogs first, along with a few of his men, then Tommy, who immediately ran towards you and started questioning both you and Finn, barely paying any mind to the body lying, like, maybe two feet away from him. When he had quickly inspected you for any serious wounds and was satisfied, he whacked Finn on the back of his head, but he gave a small, tight smile too.

Finn helped you stand up, and didn’t let you go until you got to the hospital.

The nurse dabbed at your cuts with a cotton wad dipped in alcohol, and it stung. Sat on the edge of the hospital bed, you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands, so you kept them folded in your lap. You’d gotten mostly cleaned up; your ruined clothes were thrown in the trash, and all the blood had been washed off your face and arms. You had needed stitches for the cut on the back of your head–scalp wounds bled like crazy–but overall you had gotten away mostly unscathed.

Finn was fine, too. Shaken up, but fine. He’d explained to you on the way back how he’d talked Isiah into following Tommy’s car from a distance, and had just made his way through the forest to the mansion when he’d heard you scream.

You watched him subtly on the other side of the room where he sat with his arms crossed. He met your eyes and smiled tightly, and you stuck out your tongue, which caused him to laugh, which he tried to hide with a cough. The nurse gave your cheek a pat and you looked at her again, blushing slightly. She shook her head, but her eyes glittered.

When she was done, she packed up her stuff and said, “There’s nothing that really warrants a stay at the hospital, honestly. The neck will bruise, but you’ll be fine. Go home, get some rest, come back in two weeks to get your stitches removed.” You nodded and she left.

Finn brought you your coat, and together you stepped outside into the gloomy streets.

Though it was grey and overall a pretty sad day, you found you didn’t really care anymore. If anything, the glum weather had started to grow on you, and you were starting to appreciate some of its aspects. Sometimes. It didn’t beat a nice sunny day on the countryside, but for now it would do.

“So what now?” asked Finn after a moment of silence.

“What d'you mean?” Your voice was still hoarse, and the nurse had told you that it would be for a few days.

“You know. Are you–will you leave Birmingham?”

You had the money. The six thousand pounds from Tommy’s first job. But the more you thought about it, the more you found you didn’t really want to leave. Your flat was shit, but you could finally afford a better one. You had your shop. No one wanted to kill you anymore, which was good.

And of course there was Finn.

“Nah,” you said nonchalantly, kicking a pebble from your footpath. “Nah, I think I’ll stay.”

He immediately perked up, and a grin lit his face and you laughed. He was so predictable. “Good,” he said in a valiant effort to conceal his excitement. “That’s good.”

You would later vigorously blame it on your still-woozy brain whenever Finn brought it up, but in reality you had never thought more clearly. Maybe it was a rush of confidence, or just that you were done with the tension always hanging between you and him.

Whatever the case, you tugged Finn into an alleyway out of view from the streets and kissed him.

It was fireworks. It was the clear sunrise after a long, stormy night; it was everything you had not even dare hope for. Above all, it was worth everything it had taken you to get there. You could have done without the almost-dying, but none of it mattered now, temporarily erased from your mind by pure bliss.

“I’m staying,” you whispered against his lips, your arms around his neck.

He laughed, pulling you closer. “For me?”

You rolled your eyes, even though he wasn’t wrong. “Sure. For you.”

“There’s a contract forbidding our contact, Y/N,” he teased. “You demanded it yourself, remember?”

You groaned, throwing your head back. “Oh my god. Fuck the contract.”

“That’s not very professional of you.”

“You know what else isn’t professional? That fucking hideous haircut of yours.”

He laughed, a full-fledged laugh that bubbled from his throat and rang like the sweetest of music to your ears. “You’re never going to let that go, are you.”

“No. Shut up.” Shut up. And you kissed him again.

#finn shelby x reader #finn shelby fanfic #finn shelby fic #peaky blinders fic #finn shelby imagine #peaky blinders imagine #finn shelby peaky blinders #finn shelby peaky blinders x reader #finn shelby one shot

[wolvesofinnistrad]

we both know that ben + callum like playing their video games but could you imagine ben playing something + Callum just kinda comes in and sits between his knees and starts sucking him off and Ben’s trying not to moan n carry on with the game + he has like jay & people in his headset being like why are you suddenly dying and he has to make up an excuse cos he can’t say that he’s got his finger wrapped in his boyfriends hair and shoving his cock down cals throat (expand pls cos ur more talented)

Oh I really like this one, less headcanon and more drabble here.

Ben and Callum have been dating for a while at this point and it’s great.  They love one another, they’re living together, they have a great sex life its’ just that, well, Callum’s starting to feel maybe that some of that wild passion from before is waning.  Not that they don’t fuck like rabbits in bed, but all that tension from before is gone, and sure it’ replaced by comfort and peace of mind and freedom, but sometimes Callum did enjoy the danger of it all.

He remembers the thrill of being out in public at the park, of knowing that anyone could see them.  Also he remembers that he asked Ben to stop playing his game over an hour ago so they could get ready for bed.

Somehow the two things overlap in his mind, watching from the bedroom door as he sees Ben sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the telly as he chats with Jay animatedly.  He likes seeing him happy, but he wants some time with his boyfriend, and that’s how the idea pops into his head.

Under normal circumstances he probably wouldn’t do this, even with how much he’s grown more comfortable with himself, his desires, everything, it’s still a bit out of his league.  But then he thinks how if the roles were reversed Ben wouldn’t hesitate to toy with him like that so he whips off his shirt and walks over into the living room in just a pair of sweatpants held low on his hips.

“Hey Cal, just a few more matches, promise.”  Ben barely glances at him when he says it, hyper focused on the game.

“That’s alright, thought I’d just come out here for a bit.”  Callum smiles, sitting on the floor by Ben, waiting for a moment to strike.  When Ben get a big kill, whooping and tossing his hands in the air Callum sees his opportunity and quickly moves between his legs, pushing his thighs apart.

“Cal?” But Ben can’t focus on Callum when someone’s chasing him now so Callum has free reign to do as he pleases.

Callum’s big hands move up and down Ben’s thighs, massaging them slowly, rubbing deep into the skin until he hears Ben let out a shaky breath, glancing down just for a second at him.

He moves his head up, burying it in Ben’s crotch which gets another awkward, strangled noise out of Ben.  There’s only a thin pair of boxers covering Ben and Callum takes advantage, nuzzling against the man’s soft cock through the fabric until he it starts to fatten up.

“Callum what are y-, no fuck you stop camping me!” Ben’s still distracted, and Callum smirks, reaching into the man’s boxers and pulling his cock free.

That makes Ben gasp, breath coming sharp as Callum takes his cock to his lips, kissing the head and giving a few tiny licks.  Ben is the master of blowjobs in this relationship, but that also means he’s taught Callum mot of his tricks, and Callum has had enough time to play with Ben’s cock that he knows exactly what gets him going.

Like now when he holds the semi-soft base and starts running a line with his tongue all the way around Ben’s cockhead beneath his foreskin.

“Fuck...”  The sound is punched out and breathy, and followed by an explosion and a louder more angry “fuck!”  Callum giggles as he keeps up his work, hearing Ben yell “I know Jay, I’m just, sorry, I got c-caught.”

Ben’s prick is fully hard now, flushed red and Callum gently pulls his foreskin back and begins sucking on just the head how he knows drives Ben crazy.

“God...” Ben sounds so lost, he keeps glancing down at Callum sucking him then clearly being chastised for not paying attention and tries to drag his eyes back to the telly.

It’s actually been about two weeks since Callum has blown Ben, and he might have been practicing with one of their dildos in his spare time, so he starts bobbing, taking another inch or so every few times until he’s got Ben’s entire cock down his throat, kissing his abdomen and he can swallow around him.

He doesn’t have to wait long before he hears “Fuck Callum, please...”  It’s needy and desperate, and when Callum looks up Ben’s just staring down at him panting.

“Callum’s just here...  Distracting me,” Ben says over his headset and the fact he’s still talking to them, even if it’s labored makes Callum redouble his efforts.

Ben’s going to regret not quitting the match when he had the chance.

Callum pulls back, sucking hard on the head, hollowing his cheeks like Ben taught him months ago.  At the same time he uses his hand to stroke the base and shaft, holding Ben down by the hip with his other hand.  It’s no secret that Ben gets all soft and horny when Callum’s assertive, adds a bit of his weight on him or holds him down.

Ben gasps again, and theres the sound of his character dying once more.  Ben’s trying to talk but he’s just babbling excuses now.  His fingers are in Callum’s hair now, grasping, holding on.

Callum speeds up, sucking Ben aggressively, using his tongue as deftly as he can, making sure his teeth are hid behind his lips to create the best sort of glide with no restrictions.  He’s taking Ben deep on every slide and he hears the man choke and another death followed by the controller falling to the floor.

“Callum, fuck, Callum oh god!”

Faintly, very faintly he can hear what sounds like muffle yelling from the headset, but Ben’s completely forgotten about it all, head pressed back into the couch, eyes shut tight in deep pleasure as he lets Callum take him apart.

Quickly, since he has Ben at his mercy, he tugs Ben’s boxers down so he can get access to everything.  With one hand he moves up, sliding beneath Ben’s soft shirt and taking a nipple and squeezing it, pinching and twisting.  

With his other hand he moves to do a trick he discovered, that his hand was big enough to slide his fingertips between Ben’s cheeks to tease his hole while his palm and thumb could rub Ben’s balls.  The first time he did it Ben nearly lost his mind, and the same is true tonight.

“DOn’t stop, Cal, please, fuck, fuck me, shit, fuck, bloody hell!”

Callum laugh around Ben’s cock, glad he’s finally got his entire attention, game long forgotten.  He keeps up everywhere, making sure Ben’s pleasured in every way he can, attacked on all fronts.

“I’m gonna cum, fucking shit, fuck!” Ben’s fingers wrap in Callum’s hair hard, tugging him down on his cock as deep as it’ll go as he unloads with an intense orgasm.  His entire body seems to cave in on itself, freezing up as his legs wrap around Callum’s head and back arches.

Callum swallows him down, taking care to work over his boyfriend with his tongue and fingers through his entire orgasm and afterglow until Ben’s a moaning, boneless mess.

When he’s finally finshed with Ben, at least for the moment, Callum stand sup, pants obscenely tented by his own erection.  He grabs the headset off Ben, puts it on just long enough to hear Jay screaming.

“BEN MITCHELL IF YOU JUST MADE ME LISTEN TO YOU GETTING HEAD FROM YOUR BOYFRIEND AND MY COWORKER IM GOING TO MURDER YOU!”

“Sorry Jay, Ben can’t talk right now,” Callum says, feeling very pleased with himself when Jay shrieks again before he turns the headset and game off.

Ben’s got a soft little dazed smile on his lips and Callum leans in to kiss him silly.

Ben tries to grab Callum’s cock, but he’s completely fucked out already.  

“Don’t worry bout it, I can take care of myself,” Callum says with a smile.

“No...  Need your cock, fuck me...” Ben mumbles.

“You sure, you’re a little-”

“Callum I can barely move...  But if you don’t fuck me I will hold you down and ride you somehow.”

Callum doesn’t need to be told twice, moving in and rimming Ben fast, loving the way his boyfriend mewls and digs his fingers into his hair.  He fishes a pube packet out form beneath the couch cushion because, well, they hid them around the flat because they tend to fuck all over.

Pulling his pants down and off he gives himself a couple strokes before lubing up.  Mentally Ben is there with him, groaning and moaning, but physically he’s limp and wrung out, letting himself be used by Callum.

Callum hooks Ben’s legs over his shoulders and slides in, not wanting to wait any longer, knowing they both need this.  He loves the face Ben still makes every time he enters him, so lost and vulnerable and open.  He shows every expression of how he feels like this, biting his lip hard as the pleasure starts to overwhelm him again.  Ben’s shaking, breath coming in heavy gasps as his chest rises and falls with every thrust.

CAllum makes sure to get Ben’s spot and even though the man just came he’s already hard again. Smirking Callum grabs Ben’s cock with his lubed hand and strokes him fast and dirty, timing it to his thrusts so he’s twisting the head right as his cock glances over Ben’s prostate and Ben tries to scream but his body is so tired it’s near silent.

Callum feels his heavy balls slapping against Ben’s pert ass, he’s so ready to bust.  He gives a few more strokes and thrusts and Ben’s coming, eyes rolling back in his head as he shoots all over his chest and even up to his chin a little.  That drags Callum over the edge, sliding all the way inside his lover and unloading deep.

“Cal, cal calcalcalcalcallum!” Ben whimpers, using the last of his strength to cling to his boyfriend.

Callum had planned on carrying Ben back to bed and cleaning up, but he’s just as exhausted as Ben now and they end up just laying on top of one another on the couch, kissing lazily until they both drift off to sleep.

#ballum #ben mitchell #callum highway #benway #mine #my fic #fanfic

[inactiveblogxoxo]

whoa i wrote a fic again

crAZY ((sorry i was sick for like two months and then i moved but now im hopefully writing again))

AYWAY: Kiribaku fic

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18345518

what do you mean

Sum:  Kirishima thinks Bakugou has a girlfriend. Bakugou just wants Kirishima to act like he usually does. Will they ever understand what they mean to each other? ((yes. They will.))

tags:  Bakusquad (My Hero Academia), Movie Nights, Jealous Kirishima Eijirou, Misunderstandings, solved almost immediately, No Angst, straight fluff, Fluff, jirou and bakugou are bffs, im so tired, Not Beta Read, One Shot

full fic in read more

They settled into watching some super old horror. The film was in black and white and from before quirks appeared, but it was bloody and entertaining enough.

Kaminari and Sero sat cuddled up on Sero’s hammock, Ashido rested in a bean bag chair next to the them that she had brought up from her own dorm. Jirou sat on the floor, her back resting against the bean bag. Kirishima and Bakugou shared Sero’s bed, their backs both against the wall and their feet hanging off the side in from of them.

They were twenty minutes into the film and every time Bakugou happened to brush against Kirishima, Kiri would shift further away from him. It was driving Bakugou insane. Kirishima was always throwing an arm around him and pulling him closer, what the fuck did he do? He had been distant all week.

Sunday night he had been tutoring the gaggle of idiots he spends his time with, minus the red head who had been visiting his moms that weekend. Sero and Kaminari left early to binge some anime together, leaving just him and Ashido. Ashido jumped into gossiping, which gathered the attention of Jirou, Hagakure and Uraraka, and soon Bakugou found himself surrounded by them at the once productive table in the common room.

That’s how Kirishima found him when he walked into the dorms with his over night bag over his shoulder.

“Kiri! Welcome back!” Ashido called out to him. Kirishima had smiled and sauntered over.

“Hey, Mina!” He smiled and bent down to hug her. Turning as he stood, he made eye contact with Bakugou and rose an eyebrow at him. “So, what’s going on here?”

“Bakubabe was giving us some hot goss!” Ashido rested her chin in her palm as she smiled.

“I fucking told you not to call me that, raccoon eyes,” Bakugou bristled, his chin tucked to his chest to avoid Kirishima’s gaze.

“And I told you not to call me raccoon eyes, bakulicious.”

“bakulicious” Uraraka snorted under her breath.

Bakugou scoffed and rolled his eyes but said nothing else, he was tired and Kirishima was back. The rest of this night no longer mattered.

“Kiri, how are your moms?” he asked instead, partly out of curiosity, partly to draw the attention away from him.

Kirishima lit up, “oh! They’re great! You should come back with me next time, they asked about you!”

“Oooooo,” Hakagure cooed, “you guys know each other’s parents? Just how close are you?”

Bakugou again rolled his eyes and Kirishima just smiled.

“Wait, have I been so focused on the budding romance of Uraraka and Midoryia-“

“W-What!” Uraraka interrupted with a blush.

“-that I’ve been missing out on the one blossoming right before my eyes?” Ashido continued as if Uraraka said nothing. Bakugou groaned and rested his forehead against the table, figured she would say something completely idiotic.

“Hm, I could see it happening,” Jirou mused. Fuck, he forgot she was there. He lifted his head and found her staring at him with a menacing grin. Fuckkk, he never should have told her anything.

“Right?!” Hakagure gushed, “you guys would be so cute together!”

“Aw, c’mon, guys, stop. We’re just good friends,” Kirishima spoke up for them, hand awkwardly rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Bakushima… no, wait, Kiribaku… no, wait, maybe-“

“What the fuck are you doing, Ashido?” Bakugou interrupted her musing.

“I’m trying to make a cute couple name for you two!” She grinned, “like dekuraka! For Midoryia and Uraraka!”

That seemed to KO Urauraka, who slammed her hands down on her face and floated away while bright red.

“Don’t fucking bother! That’s dumb as shit,” He grumbled, sinking into his chair. He felt Jirou’s eyes on him still and he hated the feeling.

“C’mon, it’s kind of cute,” Jirou twirled one of her ear jacks with a smirk. “Admit it, Katsuki.”

“I’m gonna kill you, Kyouka,” he snarled. How dare she taunt him. How dare she use his first name to do it.

“Uh, anyway, I’m gonna go to bed,” Kirishima coughed awkwardly, gaining all of their attentions.

“Me too,” Bakugou jumped up and followed him towards the elevator.

“Good night, guys!” Kirishima called with a wave. The girls jeered after them and Bakugou flipped them off until the elevator doors closed behind them.

They stood in silence for a while but Bakugou didn’t feel uncomfortable, he was glad to finally have a moment away from the idiotic giggles of Ashido and Hakagure and the knowing stare of Jirou.

“So uh, Kyouka, huh?” Bakugou furrowed his eye brows, what did that mean?

“…What?” He glanced at Kirishima with a blank expression.

“Nothing, I just… Uh, never mind,” Kirishima backtracked and the elevator opened. “Well, good night, dude!” He rushed over to his dorm.

“Hey, Kiri, wait!” But it was too late, Kirishima was already behind the door. Bakugou huffed and jammed his hands in his pockets, trailing his feet to his own dorm.

God damn it, how did he fuck up this time?

Kirishima had avoided him the rest of the week.

Bakugou had purposefully arrived at Sero’s dorm late for their movie night. Ashido, Sero, Kaminari, and Jirou, idiots that they were, had picked up on the tension between the two and had left the only empty space the one next to Kirishima.

It was his usual seat anyway.

But even with the ease of their usual routine, Kirishima was still doing his best to avoid him. He really couldn’t figure it out, he went over everything that happened over and over again in his mind. The teasing had been weird, sure, but he didn’t think it was enough to make Kirishima avoid him. Was he really that sensitive about their relationship? Was he disgusted by the idea of them as a couple? He had tried to stop the girls a couple times, but he hadn’t seemed angry… Awkward, but not so uncomfortable as to cut off their friendship.

He had asked about his trip home and Kirishima had seemed over joyed. He was terrible at faking so he knew it couldn’t have been anything from home that had upset him so much.

So, it was something he did.

Fuck, what did he do? How does he make up for something when he has no idea what went wrong?

He moved his legs to sit criss-cross and when his knee brushed Kirishima’s thigh, the other boy shifted until they were no longer touching.

And that, was the final straw. Bakugou, officially, was losing it.

“Kiri,” he whispered, leaning into Kirishima’s space just so he could be hear over the movie. “What the fuck- uh, I mean… fuck.” He took a deep breath to start again. He had to be calm, he was trying to apologize. “Are you upset with me or something?”

Kirishima started at him, wide eyed with an open jaw. “Wha… What, I mean, why do you say that?”

Bakugou wrung his sweaty hands together in a nervous gesture, “you’re not,” fuck he couldn’t say ‘you’re not trying to cuddle with me during the movie and I’ve tried to initiate it, but you keep pulling away and its making me sad and I don’t know why and I also don’t know why you won’t.’ He couldn’t say ‘you’ve been distant and avoiding me all week and I don’t know why and I’ve missed you.’ He couldn’t say what he was feeling and he couldn’t voice what about Kirishima he missed but damn, he had to say something.

“you’re not acting… like you usually are and I… I feel like I must have done something and I’m…sorry,” the last word he breathed out quieter than the rest. He only wanted Kirishima to hear, it was only for him.

“Oh,” Kiri’s face melted into a soft smile, “it’s fine, Bakugou, it’s me… I’m just, being,” he sighed and shook his head. “I’ll get over it.”

Bakugou grumbled at the answer. He purposefully brushed his leg against Kirishima and Kirishima moved away again.

What was he doing? Clearly Kirishima didn’t want to be near him. He bit his cheek in embarrassment and looked away.

He said it was nothing, he said it was just something he was working through, so then why was he still not acting like normal?

As far as Bakugou could see it, he had three options. 1: Leave this fuckfest of a mental headache and go the fuck to sleep. 2: Ignore Kirishima right back and just watch the movie. 3: Force Kirishima back to normal by taking on his role of the initiator for the night.

He bristled at his options.

He deiced he wasn’t a pussy and tomorrow was Saturday so if it went poorly he could just hide from this gaggle of idiots until it all blew over.

He slummed onto Kirishima’s side. He felt the redhead stiffen but he didn’t push him away. He didn’t look away from the movie and he didn’t move to wrap his arm around him. Usually, the idiot had his arm around Bakugou’s waist and was checking in on him every few minutes. Whispering what he thought about the movie and giving Bakugou a shoulder to sleep on when it got late and Bakugou passed out.

Angry, he gripped Kirishima’s arm and wrapped it around himself. Kirishima stared at him again with panicked eyes but Bakugou only frowned at him.

Kirishima stiffly looked from Bakugou to Jirou and back, “uh, I know that you… but won’t… I mean…” He sighed to steady himself, “Bakugou, if you want to… Then maybe you should sit with Jirou, I don’t mind moving.”

What? “Fucking what?”

“I just mean,” Kirishima bit is lip, “I don’t feel comfortable, like, hanging out the way we used to, now that you have a girlfriend.”

WHAT? Bakugou felt his hands shaking. His palms cackled with excess sweat he couldn’t control.

“Kirishima,” he tightened his grip around the red head’s now hardened arm, “I really need to talk to you. Now.” He pulled at Kirishima’s arm as he stood from the bed, forcing Kirishima to follow behind him as he excited the dorm.

“Hey, where are you guys going?” Kaminari called after them but Jirou and Ashido hushed him.

Bakugou pulled Kirishima down the stairs and pushed his way into the other boy’s dorm. Only once inside did he let go.

Kirishima cast his gaze to the floor and sat down on the edge of his bed. “So, what do you need to talk about?”

Bakugou huffed and sat next to him, “Kirishima, I don’t have a girlfriend. I don’t know why the fuck you think that but I fucking don’t.”

“But,” Kirishima finally met his gaze, confused. “You and Jirou, you guys called each other…”

“Oh,” Bakugou ran a sweaty hand through his hair. That’s what this was about, “she just!” he breathed deep a couple times to calm himself down, he didn’t want to scream all this. “She was just taunting me. She was making fun of me because-“ he cut himself off, embarrassed.

He groaned and fell back against the bed, an arm thrown over his eyes. “Because I told her that I… liked you.”

“You liked me?” He could hear the confusion in the red head’s voice.

“Like, I like you, Kirishima.”

“Oh,” he whispered back then again, a few minutes later, “oh.”

He felt the bed shift and moved his arm to see Kirishima adjusting himself to lean over him. He watched with what he hoped were expressionless eyes, but he still felt his ears get hot.

“You like me,” Kirishima repeated, breath fanning across Bakugou’s face. He felt like if Kirishima had a tail he would be wagging it with the way he was grinning.

“Yes,” Bakugou murmured. His eyes watched Kirishima’s. He licked his lips quickly, suddenly feeling so dry, and watched as Kirishima’s eyes followed the movement.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Kirishima spoke, eyes drifting back up from Bakugou’s lips for a moment.

Bakugou reached up with his hands to grip at Kirishima’s shirt where it hung lose against him. He closed his eyes as he breathed in deeply to calm his nerves. On the outtake of his breath, he adjusted his neck slightly to get more comfortable. He opened his eyes and found Kirishima’ red eyes watching him closely. His smile was replaced with a fond expression Bakugou was embarrassed to find he liked.

Flushing red, he leaned up and brushed his nose against the bottom of Kirishima’s jaw and whispered: “okay.”

Wasting now time, Kirishima turned his head and crashed his lips to his. He kissed hard as if he was trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream by adding pain to the kiss.

Bakugou didn’t try to soften it, he met Kirishima’s hard kiss with his own. Their teeth smashed together, nose pressed uncomfortably to each other’s faces. They broke apart and rejoined over and over. Bakugou’s hands drifted from where they fisted at Kirishima’s stomach to wrapping around Kirishima’s neck. He used this leverage to pull himself closer, press harder. Kirishima smiled against his lips, pulling away to plant light kisses all around his face. He left one arm to the side of Bakugou’s head to support himself, the other gripped at Bakugou’s hip. Calloused thumb rubbed small circles into his skin, his hand gripped him tight and pulled him ever closer. Their lips found each other’s again. Kirishima opened his mouth and when Bakugou felt his tongue on his lips he broke away.

Panting, he smiled. Tucking his face into Kirishima’s chest.

“You like me too, then?” he asked.

Kirishima laughed and he could feel the vibrations of it all around him, “I do. So, so much.”

#kiribaku #fanfic #my fic #bnha #bakugou #kirishima #jirou #mina ashido #bakushima #fluff #bnha fanfiction

[voidendron]

The Outside: Chapter 55

Series Ask Blog: @asktheoutside

Chapter 55: News Chapter Warnings: Swearing POV: Chase Brody

March 23, 2031, 5:30 PM Los Angeles, California

“Look,” Chase said, “you two just need to… I don’t know, man. Just—stay away from each other? We’re all sick of your arguin’, and one of you’s gonna get hurt.” He didn’t turn to face the android as he scrubbed at a pan they needed for dinner.

The Septic could hear annoyed beeping from behind him as the only response.

Adjusting to two others now living in what had already been a crowded household was certainly a challenge. Sleeping arrangements had been enough of a hassle to figure out. They’d had to raise their budget on groceries, too. Nine people instead of seven? That was a lot of mouths to feed. Then there was the schedule for the bathroom in the morning, which was a whole different story entirely. They weren’t sure Anti could ever safely find a job due to his glitching, and Jameson likely wouldn’t unless he either perfected sign language or went to speech therapy—which he’d refused with an annoyed glare. It had taken some adjusting, to say the least.

The water in the sink sloshed when Chase dropped the pan; spilling lukewarm water and yellowed suds over the counter and floor. The Septic cursed when it landed on his bare feet to immediately soak his socks. At least that brought a snort from Bing that he very poorly covered up.

“Gross…” the father muttered as he leaned down to pull his socks off. He tossed them aside, grimacing when one almost slid under the fridge.

“Dude,” Bing’s boots squeaked over the now-wet tile as he went to retrieve the sopping socks, “the washer’s literally right here.” He was laughing as he dropped them into the top portion of the stacked machine that was way too close to the fridge for Chase’s liking. They couldn’t put anything on top of the fridge because of it! If the washer got off-center (which it did a lot when the kids tried doing laundry) it would knock against the other appliance and make anything on the fridge just. Fall off.

Chase just shook his head and tossed a grin over his shoulder.

“You’re hopeless, y’know that?”

“Yep!” He emphasized the “p” by slapping the water, only to splutter and reel back when it and suds flew up at his face.

“The Twins make less of a mess than you.”

“Yeah right.”

“They do!”

Chase made a distressed sound when his hat was pulled off from behind. He was sure it was Bing! That is, until he heard the android’s confused laughter. The Septic twisted around as best he could while keeping his hands over the sink.

Sophie grinned triumphantly up at him while the oversized snapback nearly fell over her eyes. Hadn’t she just been upstairs? He grinned at his youngest regardless.

Shaking his hands over the sink, Chase reached for the towel hanging on the oven handle to dry them. “Need somethin’, Sophe?”

She nodded so fast the hat about fell off. “Ky got a text. Jackie’s been trying to call you, and it’s important I guess?”

Chase’s brows furrowed at that. “You know what it’s about?”

“No. Seán just said it’s important and you gotta call Jackie like. ASAP.”

He hadn’t needed to say anything for Bing to take over finishing dishes, while Sophie had scampered right back up the stairs with the snapback still on. Chase had to wonder what they were doing up there. They were all quiet aside from the occasional laughter.

Running a hand through his hat-head, he pushed his bedroom door open. He had to squeeze between the two twin-beds now within to reach the nightstand where his phone was hopefully done charging, grumbling when he tripped over Anti’s shoes and the Velcro momentarily stuck to his sweatpants. It really was crowded.

Chase grimaced when he pulled his phone off the charger and saw a whole lot of missed calls from Jackie and all within the last few hours. Wasn’t it after midnight in Brighton? He carefully picked his way out from between the beds and seated himself at the foot of his own.

Finding Jackie’s contact, it barely rang once before the hero answered. “Chase?” The way his voice cracked made Chase’s breath catch in his throat. Had Jackie been crying? Was he still crying? “It—it’s Marv—oh god, Chase—”

“Hey, hey, easy!” He swallowed. Jackie’s voice was raw and raspy, and Chase could hear him choke on a sob on the other end of the line. “Jackie, easy. Y’said Marv. Everything okay?”

“N-no. He’s…he’s not—not doin’ well.” A shaky breath. “Please find a way here? Please? We don’t…we don’t know if—if he’s gonna make it.”

The phone nearly fell from Chase’s hand. He…he hadn’t heard that right, had he? He swallowed, choking on his own spit. There was no way he’d heard Jackie right. Absolutely no way. “J-Jackie…what do you mean?”

“I mean he might die!” Jackie tried so hard to yell, to drive it into Chase’s head, but his voice broke at the end as he sobbed into the speaker. “Y’don’t…h-he…”

“What…what the hell happened, man? You c…you can’t be fucking serious?” Chase had to blink away his own fearful tears. Marvin? Dying? He couldn’t…how could that… “What happened?”

Muffled sounds came from the other end, and the voice to speak up wasn’t Jackie’s, “This is Bim.” He sounded tired, but not as though he’d been crying like Jackie. “Marvin had an accident with his magic.” Bim’s voice was soft, sad, but far too even. How could he be so calm? “He was trying to track Schneeple,” Chase’s heart clenched at that, “and something happened. We don’t know what, just that it involved fire and he’s badly burned. We just know he’s not doing well. I…” Bim paused; Chase could hear him sigh softly. “I’m surprised he even made it to the hospital. He’s in surgery now, but we don’t know if he’ll survive to morning.”

“But…” His breath shuddered as he scrubbed at his eyes with his free hand. “He can’t be…”

“I’m going to contact Wilford. Seán and Jackie want you and Jameson here. They want Anti, too, but…we can’t risk him glitching something at the hospital. I’m sorry, Chase.”

The call ended, and Chase found himself shaking as a sob wracked his body. That…it couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be true. It was just…some bad dream. He was imagining it, he had to be! He’d just…he’d fallen asleep on the couch, surely! He’d sat down for a moment, only to take an unplanned nap. He’d wake up and call Marvin in a panic, only for the magician to be fine, if annoyed at being woken up at three in the morning.

He didn’t know how long he sat there before Bing came rushing into his room. Had Bim told him?

The android didn’t say anything as he sat down and looped an arm around Chase’s neck. He leaned into Bing’s chest, uncaring that his tears left a spot on the Iplier’s shirt. Bing didn’t say anything for a long time. He didn’t need to. Instead, his core rumbled softly; a deep hum within his chest that Chase shut his eyes to. It was always such a calming sound. Chase tried to focus on that as he evened his breathing.

“What if—what if he—”

“Don’t.” Bing combed his fingers through Chase’s hair. The father couldn’t help but lean into the touch. “He’s survived as long as he has ‘cause he’s not human. Just keep believing he’s gonna make it.” He ruffled Chase’s hair and stood. “I’m gonna go talk to James and Anti. Why don’t you pack a few days’ worth of clothes? Wilford’ll be here when he gets off work.”

The silence to hang in the living room was suffocating after the news had been delivered to the others. Sophie had curled into her dad’s side with tears staining her cheeks while Chase wrung his cap in his hands. The Brody kids would be staying with Bing, Yan, and the Twins, and Chase wasn’t sure he liked that notion. He’d never been away from them for long, but he also didn’t want them seeing whatever shape Marvin was in.

“How long are you gonna be gone?” Kyler asked. His eyes were red, but he’d stopped crying before going downstairs to join the others.

“I dunno, buddy.” Chase leaned back into the couch and ran a hand through Sophie’s hair. “Maybe a week? Few days? And I’ll call every night, and keep you updated on…o-on Marvin,” his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, “okay?” Both kids could only nod.

It wasn’t long before Wilford appeared in a cloud of glitter in the kitchen. Chase wanted to be shocked by the brown mustache, and frustrated at the glitter Bing and the Twins would end up trying to clean up, but he couldn’t find it in himself to so much as glare at the Iplier. He just wanted to get to Brighton.

“James, c’mon.”

The younger Septic stood, and the two of them shouldered their bags. Poor Jameson didn’t even have it in him to speak, and his aura kept pulsing around him to leave him looking like an old film. Chase placed a hand on the back of the younger’s neck, and the look Jameson gave him about broke his heart.

Wilford’s aura made Chase’s stomach churn as the two stepped close to the Iplier. He already felt sick, like he’d throw up from all the crying. He didn’t need the too-sweet smell of the bright aura assaulting him to make it worse. He squeezed his eyes shut when he felt the nauseating weightlessness of teleporting, reaching to hold Jameson’s arm to ground both of them when their feet hit solid ground.

They were in Seán’s dining room when Chase opened his eyes again. Both dropped their bags and ran for the living room, practically tripping over one another. Their creator was on his phone outside what used to be his recording room, Bim pushing past them to speak with Wilford. The King was nowhere to be seen, but Jackie lunged to his feet as soon as he saw them. The hero was shaking when they pulled him into an embrace.

“Seán’s talkin’ to someone from the hospital,” Jackie murmured. His voice was so muffled against them that Chase barely heard him. The hero had one hand closed into such a tight fist that his knuckles were white, and Chase grabbed that hand; squeezed it like Jackie had done for him so many times before. “We ha-aven’t heard anythin’ s-since they took ‘im away. What if he…what if he didn’t—”

Chase tucked the hero’s head under his chin. “Just…just keep hoping. C’mon.”

With Jackie there, it was odd to know Chase was the one taking the lead into bringing the other two to the couch. From there, there really wasn’t much they could do but sit and wait. Chase felt helpless. More helpless than he had for a long time.

Marvin was in surgery. What if he didn’t make it? If he did, what sort of recovery process would there be? It couldn’t be easy, whatever it was. Not when the damage was as extensive as it had to be to make them fear for his life.

Keep hoping. That was…all they could do. Chase swallowed and leaned his head against Jackie’s; twitched his fingers when Jameson’s aura touched them and turned them gray. The father could Feel the fear, the sorrow, the anxiety, permeating the room; even from Bim when the former host returned to take a seat when Wilford left. The Iplier seemed so calm, but Chase could Feel his worry for the magician. He even Felt guilt around him. Was it from Jackie, or their creator? Perhaps both.

Keep hoping. Think about the process of recovery for Marvin; not his funeral. Be right here for Jackie, Chase thought. Be right here, to hold him for whatever news came.

Chase glanced up at a change. Relief, mixed in with all those other emotions, as Seán tucked his phone away and entered the living room. He sat heavily next to Bim; hair disheveled and bags under his eyes, but the relief was from him. Chase could see it in his creator’s eyes.

“Marv’s stable. In bad shape, but h-he’s gonna make it! We can see ‘im in a few hours, when the hospital’s open for visitin’ hours.” Seán smiled, tired and strained, but smiled nonetheless. “He’ll be there a while, but he’s alive.”

#writersofjack #writersofmark #jacksepticeye #chase brody #jameson jackson #jackieboy man #sean mcloughlin #markiplier #bingiplier #bim trimmer #wilford warfstache #the outside #au #chapter 55 #swearing / #mentioned: #major character injury /

[ghoulangerlee]

this is a pretty heavy post like, feel free to ignore it bc im just. in a really bad place right now and i need to vent and say things other than ‘im so tired’ because it doesn’t accurately encompass how i actually feel

So, like. 2012? Sometime after my mom died I got into a really bad place mentally, with everything piling up; my shit life, my shit aunt, my shit roommate, just shit after shit, my money kept going to bills, i didnt eat for weeks at a time. 

I was in a really bad place. Like, horrifically bad. Only made worse by my aunt taking me to the hospital and telling the doctors there I was suicidal. To be fair, I was, but being locked in, what’s essentially a cell with a wooden bed? Not Fun. 

I tried getting better, I went to a therapist and a psychiatrist, got on medicine. talk about my problems, tried moving on. 

it didnt work. i felt a sense of uselessness around that time. i was 20 and my mom died less than a year ago. 

i’d been nursing my bad health since i was a kid, and when mom’s diagnosis came when i was 17...it was a lot to handle. and as time went on, my aunt got more distant until it was me, a barely old enough fresh high school graduate, trying to juggle college, full time work and taking care of my sick (and dying) mom. 

two years is a lot of time to have that much pressure put on you. and it does a lot to a person’s psyche when you go from being On at all times, to suddenly, you’re sitting in a hospice, telling your mom it’s okay to rest now. you’ll be fine. 

you start feeling useless, i guess. you just. don’t know what to do anymore. your mom’s gone, you’re out of work for a week to “mourn” but really. you spend the week staring at the wall wondering what you could have done better. 

(the spoiler is, nothing. nothing. death is fucked up. mom knew. the whole time she was going through the stages, making herself okay with the idea of dying. im glad she’s resting now. the last few years of her life were hard. too hard for one woman to handle.)

some could say that my anger and depression and sadness and just emptiness came from grief, maybe. maybe im still not over it. (spoiler: im not). 

i remember, my aunt calling me the day my roommate was in the hospital, i was with her, sitting with her. and i’d called my manager to let him know that i was on my way to work, i shouldn’t be late but if traffic gets bad, then i might be late. 

my aunt calls, yells at me, calls me a lot of names to the point im sobbing in my roommates hospital room. not an uncommon occurrence at that point. my aunt making me cry. i was 20 and my aunt had been doing that for about 10 years at that point. 

my roommate takes the phone, says something i can’t remember to her and hangs up. and then she calls a nurse who takes me aside, sits me down in a room and asks me if i need to leave. if my aunt’s abusing me or hurting me. 

it was a long day at the hospital. and then, later on that night, as im about to take myself to the local hospital to find out what i need in order to see a therapist, my aunt hijacks my plans and drags me there herself. takes me to the ER, tells them she’s worried about her niece’s who’s suicidal. 

and anyway. to make a long story short. i spend a lot of time in this tiny box of a room, with no shoes or pants or shirt. in my underwear and a gown, sitting on a wooden frame bed with no blanket. 

when i finally get my aunt out of the room, and i talk to the psych lady who came down from the ward, she asks me if i need to leave my aunt, asks if my aunt’s hurt me or hit me. 

at the time, i didnt realize that abuse in the context she was asking also meant verbal, mental and emotional. i didnt realize that’s what my aunt was doing until way later. 

the more i talked to a therapist later on, the more i realized that things were messed up. that my aunt’s treatment of me wasn’t right. that my aunt, as a whole, is abusive. 

i was 20 when i tried to commit suicide. 

i dont talk about it ever, because it was a point in my life i’ve been trying hard to forget. 

i was just. so wrung out. my roommate left me with a 300 dollar power bill despite “promising” to pay her share. my landlord kept bothering me about rent even though i’d always remind her when i’d get paid, my aunt wouldn’t stop. and i just felt alone. 

so fucking alone. i was empty and hollow and my house and life were a fucking mess. 

at that point, i’d been trying to think of a way that seemed natural i guess. just. something that no one would realize i’d done it on purpose. 

i didn’t have any money for food, so starving myself seemed like the best option. and so, i didnt eat. for days and then weeks and then months. 

my dumb brain just, thought that, well, ive already got bad stomach problems. my stomach already bleeds. if i don’t eat then the acid just gets worse, it’ll make me bleed. 

didn’t count on passing out during work and being rushed to the ER. 

i lied then and said it was because i didn’t have the money to eat. and so afterwards, my manager and coworkers made sure i ate something. 

but i mean, it wasn’t a glamorous experience. until today, i hadn’t told anyone that me not eating for those months was actually me trying to sabotage my own life. 

but yeah. 

what all this is leading up to is. i feel myself slipping back into that mindset. only this time, i can’t get out of it. i don’t have a therapist, or medication to help. my aunt is on my ass constantly and won’t let me get a job without threatening me homelessness. 

and its tearing me up on the inside. ive been in so much physical pain these past few days. everyday its hard to get out of bed and find the will to do anything.

we had an argument the other day, because i finally couldn’t handle her yelling. i told her how i felt about her and she told me to leave the room. so i went outside. and. fuck. i kept mapping out the quickest way to get to the busy street where all the cars were. if i could just get out there without her seeing then i could just...

when i keep saying im tired, i mean it as, this bone deep i can’t take it anymore tired. the i need to get out of here before something happens to me tired. the i am at the end of my line and if something doesn’t change soon im going to die tired. 

im trying so hard to stay okay. to keep all this in and not bombard people with it. hatching plans and trying to figure out how to get the money to leave. where to go when i do leave. 

but god its so hard. im just so tired.

and i dont know what to do. 

my aunt “paid” me for the last transport and i got 75 dollars. two days of nonstop driving and caring for 16 dogs. 75 dollars. that’s for groceries and my phone bill. and absolutely nothing for savings. 

fuck.

#suicide mention #tagging it as that just in case #personal #vent