#i cannot wait for it to be reliably empty again

[unnamed-atlas]

WE FUCKING WIN THESE!!!!

#my mom's shitty ex bf just announced over text that yesterday was his last night in the house #after fucking bunkering himself in the back bedroom like he was trying to secede from the household for two weeks #good fucking riddance i hope i never see your face again o7 #i have been home alone all week with his unemployed ass coming in and out at erratic times #i cannot wait for it to be reliably empty again #i know this has nothing to do with anything I've posted on here I'm just so excited lol #anyways fuck that guy for real #hope you slept horribly in that twin sized lightning mcqueen race car bed the last two weeks #hope you're cursed forever to sleep on a twin sized mattress so on and so forth

[thestonedknifeman]

Now I normally don't do product reviews and for two reasons one I'm not famous nobody's going to listen to me anyways and two no company is going to pay me to tell the truth about their piece of shit product.

I present to you the stroger pcp (pre-charged pneumatic) xm1 air rifle.One of the worst air rifles I have ever had.. this is actually the second rifle I've been through the first one seals gave out the third time I shot it. After fighting with the stroger / Benelli company I finally got them to send a replacement it only cost me a hundred bucks to ship this one back east and wait 6 months to get another oversized overpriced substandard paperweight!

Now my first concern overall my concern I can't stress that enough as well as my first dislike of this air rifle is an order to read the air gauge you must put the muzzle end of the barrel in the general direction of your own head in order to read the gauge.

I don't believe I need to elaborate on how much of a no no this is! But that's what stroger / Benelli did! There's the photographic evidence folks!

My second dislike of this air rifle is the lack of reliability and durability. As I said the first one I got I was able to shoot three times before the internal seals gave out. The second one will not even accept a charge from the pump that sold with the rifle. Thus rendering it the overpriced substandard paperweight that it is.

My second complaint that designers or engineers whatever you might call them,i call them jackasses we're too ignorant to put a barrel strap where it was needed. Anybody who knows their ass from a hole in the ground realizes that everything needs to be supported securely! Yep stroger / Benelli that's real craftsmanship there with that sloppy barrel 😂. I laugh even harder when I think of trying to take a perched shot with this rifle and it's sloppy barrel.

We'll discuss the pressures and again putting a barrel strap or at least some kind of reinforcement where it's needed and I'm talking about here by the breach. Most PCP airguns run at about 2000 bar which is equivalent to 3,000 PSI give or take a bit. I'd like to see a little bit more than a piece of plastic for the rotary clip that jams up all the time and again a barrel strap right in front of where it's only press fitted in. Not to mention if stroger / Benelli can't make internal seals that withstand these pressures how am I supposed to have the confidence that these pressures won't blow up in my face, how can any of benelli's customers be confident that their firearms will not blow up in their face!

And since we're discussing the pressures of the air gun is a good moment to tell you about the consistency of the shots. Or rather the lack of consistency. Stroger / Benelli claims that you could get 30 shots per charge of the air gun. I say that that is a straight-up marketing lie the first air gun that I was able to shoot three times meaning the gun came pre-charged I emptied it to a certain point of pressure refilled it and shot again twice. Had an average of 5 to 8 consistent shots and a total of 15 to 18 shots per charge. The replacement that I had to fight stroger / Benelli to uphold the honor in their warranty and replace the air rifle, got a total of four consistent shots before the decline and pressure was so rapid as well as the drop in the projectile that the rifle cannot be sited in!!!!! Now we'll talk about actually charging air rifle itself given that it takes roughly 3,000 lb PSI. In some states the compressors that are compatible with PCP air rifles are either banned or highly regulated which means a certain percentage of these PCP air rifles owners are stuck with the hand pumps which suck. They are prone to failure the gauges on your pump never match the gauges on your air rifle. And like the air rifles the pumps only have a lifespan of 1 to 3 uses before failure!!!!!

I guess next is to comment on the loading and feeding mechanisms which the first rifle I received had no issues at all. The second rifle I received on replacement however jams every shot! I'm not sure if this is due to the sloppy rotary clip and plastic molding injection that they use or if it's due to poor quality machining tolerance on the bolt breach, receiver, and all that good stuff. I have no confidence in Benelli / stroger or their workmanship!

They claim to have an adjustable trigger but it's very little adjustment for those who have fat or narrow fingers it does not in any way adjust of the pull of the trigger and is in no way a multi-stage trigger nothing fancy just you can slide it back enough to fit your finger with a glove around it. The trigger pull itself isn't all that bad it's one of the better things I have to say about the air rifle.

Next we will talk about the designer/engineers/jackasses placement of picatinny rails and their scope mounting we'll start with the placement of the picatinny rails.

I'm 6 ft and wear a size 13 shoe. The brass threaded inserts on the front part of the foregrip to the end of the barrel is over 12 inches. Good luck being able to use a flashlight on your picatinny rails. And this is a good moment to remind you guys a lack of barrel strap with such a long barrel and they gave no option of a picatinny rail on the bottom with a heavy rifle to put a bipod. So good luck trying to get any kind of good shot resting your end of your barrel on a log or tree branch or whatever to make that vital shot so that you can eat dinner because there is no fucking rations. Yeah stroger Benelli I just pointed out vital design flaws again how many times have I done this in this post. I'll be giving you a link to this in a email Pat.

Scope mounts as well as the scope that comes with the rifle are as Bart Simpson would say craptacular.

So as for the very few things I do like about this air rifle first and foremost is that it is slightly easier on scopes and does not kick as much as barrel break air rifles. Second would be the adjustable stock pads the interchangeable cheek rest on the stock and the interchangeable sized grips. That is all

Overall I would give the stroger xm1 22 or 177 caliber PCP air rifle a rating of overrated overpriced substandard paperweight! Which in reality my best friend just pointed out the wind would probably blow the papers out from underneath this useless paper weight. And when I say overpriced I spent about $400 for this POS when I would rely on my Chinese take down recurve bow at 40 lb draw weight I paid $35 for on Amazon with my life before I would consider using any product from stroger and or Benelli! The fact that I would trust my life to a Chinese recurve bow before this supposed "top quality" Benelli product says a lot!

I've been living and surviving outdoors for 30 years now not part-time not on the weekends but full-time 365 days a year outdoors since I was 17 years old. I have owned many firearms many airguns many bows I have learned I've learned to make and use atlatels good enough to be proficient at taking game. As well as Spears bows in any other primitive hunting implements or technology you want to throw at me. And let me tell you stroger / Benelli I would take any one of them over your products any day in any situation even target shooting. I cannot begin to belittle companies like stroger / Benelli who practice such unethical business ethics. The only thing I can say is that such companies that practice these bad business ethics should be eradicated like a common cockroach or termite.!!!!!

15 minutes after original post my dog walked up to this rifle and hiked its leg to piss on it and my dog is a female!!!!

#survival gear review #product review #gimmick products #bullshit you don't need #shitty survival gear #companies that will scam you #survival gear #outdoor gear #air guns #PCP airguns #PCP airguns suck #outdoorlife #art of bushcraft #outdoors #bushcraft #ways of survival #ways of old #my art #art #knowledge is the best survival gear

[ink-sinner]

a guardian's yoke

— cinnabar x chief

genre : angst, hurt / comfort

warnings : none.

wordcount : 1,896

summary : this is her own choice, the burden she has chosen to carry. even if she shouldn't belong in a place like this.

notes : cinnabar got new clothes and i made angst for it. chief-centric, because i love it when she's pretty and depressed.

Your footsteps click like gunshots in the empty silence of the Bureau, little clicks in the morning that sound like tiny explosions in this confined, quiet space. On the wall, the clock has struck midnight, and its distant ticks are engulfed whole by your hurried steps. You have a recon mission to the Rust scheduled in an hour and, since you didn't want to disturb Hecate and Hella's sleep, you've decided to bring Cinnabar instead to guard you.

Cinnabar is waiting in her room. She's sitting on her bed, already garbed in the MBCC uniform you got for her, her shield resting heavily in the corner of the wall. Her room is alight with fluorescent light, and the bright yellow cloth of her Serpent Eye uniform spills across the floor like a beacon.

Your steps slow.

She's holding her old uniform so tenderly in her arms, and there is an expression on her face that you cannot read. A melancholic curl of her lips, a distant gaze, and her fingers trace the embossed diamond patterns of her old uniform absently like trying to remember a dream after waking up.

Something about that expression, that scene, her. You stop in your tracks, and stare.

In the days following Reagan's speech and your consequent visit in the Serpent Eye base, you've grown closer with Cinnabar. She's always been reliable, lowkey, the kind of person you would leave your keys with even before you know her name. She never gave you a headache — having her near actually gave you a sense of security, a feeling of being grounded in the gentle curve of her smile.

You like to think you've gotten to know her better, after all this time you've spent with her. She hangs out in your office almost all day, standing as your guard, and you've spent enough time with her to know that she likes her coffee black and rarely drinks it with sugar or cream. That she likes to stand in the patches of sun in your office because she can't stand the cold very much. That she actually likes sweets, but she's scared she'll overindulge once she gets one taste. That she's so dedicated to protecting people because it is the only legacy her father has left her.

But, you've never seen such a . . . sad expression on her face before. You almost want to leave, let her be, just go on the stupid mission on your own and give her peace.

But Cinnabar notices you first.

She gingerly tucks the old Serpent Eye uniform under her pillow, before standing up, and walking towards you. You unlock her door, guilt crawling up your throat.

She smiles the smile you're accustomed to. “Good morning, Chief. I've already made all the necessary preparations. We can leave when you're ready.”

She greets you the way you're accustomed to, as well. You nod, but you can't help but search her eyes, looking for a hint of that melancholy you saw before she hid it neatly underneath that warm smile.

A hint of yellow peeks out from her pillow.

“Chief?” Her voice is so gentle. “Are you okay?”

You wrench your eyes away from that slip of color. But it's so eye-catchy, the only bright thing in here aside from Cinnabar's brilliant eyes, and you find yourself looking at it again.

It's hard to find the words. There is always a lingering sense of sadness in your chest, choking the air out of your lungs every time you interact with your Sinners. It lingers on like your own personal cloud, kicks up dust and dirt in your chaotic thoughts, and it whispers when it rains: your purpose of existence is to clip their wings — you rip their freedom from their hands, chain them to the ground, and then wrap your shackles around them like glass cages.

This is your purpose; and when it rains, it floods.

“You know you don't have to stay here, right?” you ask. “I can easily get you acquitted, if you wanted. Serpent Eye and Eastside would welcome you back with open arms.”

This guilt boils hotter with Cinnabar, you think. There are many here who are unjustly incarcerated, trampled down underneath the foot of the elite. Injustice, you come to learn, defines DisCity. It will crumble without this casual oppression to keep it afloat, and it is your job to keep its foundations steady, carry its sins on your shoulders and offer a flickering light to your Sinners.

But Cinnabar . . . has never done anything wrong. The only thing wrong here is her presence here. It's all wrong. She's all wrong. She doesn't belong here.

Cinnabar smiles, and shakes her head. “Thank you, Chief, but I've made my choice. I want to stay here in MBCC.”

But she doesn't belong here. If you had any power, if you were any stronger, you would unlock many cages in here, and Cinnabar would be the first one you would set free.

It's all wrong. And when it rains, it floods.

Her pictures glare at you like your thoughts do. They are neatly arranged on her desk: one of Cinnabar as a young child, carried on a grumpy Alyosha's shoulders; her, graduated with flying colors from the police academy; a group picture with the rest of Serpent Eye, and she is in the middle of them all, flushed brightly and brimming with happiness.

When it rains, it floods. Your memories extend to mere months, but you have already stolen so many things during these few months. Lives, freedom, futures. Dreams. Families. You tear things apart with your teeth, you break them apart in your naiveté, and fix it with messy bandages like you can ever make anything right at all.

“Chief.” Persephone, dragged into hell. The earth weeps where her steps lead her to you, but she holds your hand, nonetheless, and gives you the sun in her smile. “You don't need to look so guilty. Like I said, this is my choice, and I'm the one who will bear the consequences of this choice.”

Her hands are so warm. You look down. “I understand that. But, if you ever regret it, come to me and I'll —”

“I won't regret it,” and her voice is so full of conviction that it forces you to look up again, and meet her lilac eyes. She stares at you, determination set harshly in the arch of her brows and the earnest expression on her face.

It makes you uncomfortable. You can't pinpoint why, but it makes you uncomfortable. That look gnaws on your chest, bubbles in your throat, and the itch settles deep in your marrow like a virus. You want to remove yourself from her gaze. You want to cry.

“You're giving up your life and your future,” you mirror Alyosha's words. Back then, hearing it meant little to you, a consequence written in sand, blurry and unimportant. You played your role and Cinnabar did hers, and you barely blinked when cutting apart the life she strived so hard to achieve, and shackling her to your side like a slave.

But now. But now.

Why would a free bird fly back to her cage? The door is open, and she is shackled but she can fly out until she is out of view and you can never hold her back again. She should be free.

No one has ever chosen to willingly stay by your side like this when they could have been free instead, and the thought makes your heart turn to stone, heavy.

“Chief.” She squeezes your hands, and calls you back from your thoughts. “I'm here because this is the way I've chosen to protect everyone.”

You laugh dryly. “By rotting here all your life?”

“By protecting you,” she says. “I'll do my best to protect you, so you can go on and save many more people.”

That look in her eyes. You finally pinpoint that expression. It's the same expression you saw in the Legion members when they looked at Zoya. Like beholding a god, absolute devotion, blind faith. The expression of an apostle readily embracing danger and peril for her belief.

She believes in you.

Your eyes fall to your hand, where your Shackles burn red. You wish you were half as confident in yourself as she is in you, but you are fumbling in the dark most of the time, stumbling and falling and breaking apart in the confines of your doubts. You do something right once, and then ruin a hundred good things in return.

You also want to save people like the you reflected in her vivid eyes. But you are walking in quicksand, and the more you try to get out, the faster you sink. You wake up underwater, and you think, you can do it. You can save people with your Shackles. You can make a difference.

Except you are never strong enough to make a difference when it counts. Countless ghosts haunt your days, and countless nightmares dye your dreams red. You shoulder it all: the lives of your Sinners, their hopes, their dreams, their ambitions and passions and nightmares. The lives of your subordinates, the people who depend on you, the people who look after you, who follow your orders to death. You shoulder it all, and you are sinking.

When it rains, it floods. And you are sinking. And you are drowning. You can't make a difference when it counts at all. There are so many people that follow you, and all you do is put them in harm's way, again and again and again.

And yet, they still follow you. All because you have these stupid Shackles. You take your hand away from her grasp, and clench your fist.

This Chief that Cinnabar sees . . . you wish you could be her.

“You can do it,” she says suddenly. You look up at her, and crack your heart open in your rib. “I'll support you. No matter how long it takes, no matter if you get lost, or fail, I will definitely stay by your side until you get back up again.”

Such blind, devoted faith. How does a god carry this faith? You feel like crumbling on your knees and falling.

Her jacket is a bit crooked. You step up, and fix the collar, and Cinnabar looks at you steadily. She is so bright, so radiant, beautiful like a flower in the sun, and in the back of your mind, you think about her face haunting you, too. About walking through the maze of graves in the cemetery, among the countless people felled because of your weakness, and seeing her name on the obituary.

Another hope to carry. Another person who believes in you. Another person who will brave the darkness and meet death in the eye because you asked her to.

You need to be stronger. Stronger and stronger and stronger still, so that you won't betray this faith. So that you don't have to watch her bright eyes dim in front of you because you are always too weak when it matters.

The MBCC uniform looks good on her. Your hands splay on her shoulders, contemplating. You don't think you will ever get used to this feeling.

“Then, I'll be counting on you, Cinnabar.”

She bows her head. “It's my honor to fight alongside you, Chief.”

#path to nowhere #cinnabar #ptn cinnabar #cinnabar x reader #ptn x reader

[animeomegas]

In your post about Light and the reader being childhood friends, I absolutely loved it.💕

So if Light genuinely loved the reader, and the reader loved him back. Does that mean that they had both of their virginity's taken by each other?

If so, then can you give us some hc about it~?😏

And did they become mates after that? Who confessed first? I wanna know everything!📖✍👀

I'm glad you liked it!! I enjoyed that post too haha

Descriptions of n-sfw below~

Yeah, they absolutely lost their virginities to each other. How long they waited would depend on what the alpha's house was like.

At Light's house his mother was almost always there, and if she was gone, she wasn't gone for long, so losing your virginity at his house was not really feasible. If alpha's house was the same, they waited a bit longer, if alpha's house was reliably empty to longer periods of time, then they did it there earlier.

If it had been fully up to them, they would have mated literally immediately when they were like, 16.

They didn't though because of the drama that might've caused.

But they did get mated the second they were 18. Light hid his mark for a bit until he finished school. His alpha proposed in the summer between school and university, and only after Light had a ring on his finger did he reveal that he'd got mated. It was better for his image like that.

(Although part of me thinks it's hilarious for L to figure out that Light is mated while he's still in school and mention it in front of Light's dad XD Light denies it lol He will play the uncomfortable omega card if anyone asks to see his neck, pretending he doesn't want strange alphas to see somewhere like that now that he's older which is why he's wearing high necked jumpers. It works because people jump on L for making Light uncomfortable lmao.)

Both parties were very confident for their first time. They meant everything to each other, there was no embarrassment, they'd changed in front of each other before, they were just both committed to making it as pleasurable as possible for the other person.

Light wanted to lose his virginity riding his alpha because it felt less vulnerable and more like he had control.

That's his favourite position generally.

There was a lot of fumbling around and figuring stuff out, but they both really enjoyed that stage.

And they find out quite a lot about themselves during their first few times. Like Light loves being on top of his alpha and cannot stop spewing dirty words and phrases from his mouth unless you go hard enough to wipe the cocky look off of his face.

(Yes, both of them get off on talking about the perfect new world they're going to create. Psychos XD)

After their first time, they took every opportunity to try again lol, they're both completely love drunk on the other one, but they hate everyone else, so they spend as much time as possible with each other.

When L put cameras in Light room, he didn't use dirty magazines as the excuse for his secrecy, he used condoms and genuinely fucked his alpha for the cameras to throw L off.

Or, perhaps it'd be more accurate to say his alpha fucked him because he was playing the submissive omega as part of his plan.

They went to university in the same place, literally they couldn't handle not being together so they both stayed in the same part of Tokyo. Ideally, they would go to the same university, but if the alpha wasn't as academic, that wouldn't be an option.

Light and this alpha kissed for the first time when they were 12. They knew that their relationship was special, that they didn't feel things for anyone else but each other. It grew very gradually and naturally. Neither one was particularly moving thing forward more than the other, they were just moving forward together.

They absolutely write in the death note together and use each other to cover from L.

Light doesn't refrain from physical affection with his alpha when he's handcuffed to L. He says that he has needs like a normal person and if L doesn't like it he can take off the handcuffs.

When they both lose memory of the death note, they still have a crazy deep relationship that's very intensive.

And yeah, that's basically all I can think of at the moment haha.

It's a very nice soft yandere x soft yandere dynamic that confuses the hell out of L who watches them interact like he's watching a nature documentary.

:D

#asks #death note #n-sfw #light x reader #a/b/o #omegaverse #reader insert #alpha!reader #headcanons #hcs

[notastraykid]

Clean Up!

Chan x gn!reader (I hope? Sorry if I messed up somewhere.) Warnings: It’s just silly almost fluff. ‘Guys’ is used as a description of a collection of people rather than a gender. Also… this is very poopy joke centric. I am 100% immature with the jokes. I say I’m sorry but I’m really not. I have not sense/spell checked this. I'm not going to, neither so nyah-nyah. :P Word Count: 1671 You tightly held the black refuse back in your grip as Chan threw in a few more empty cans and plastic cups. The bag was now half full of litter from following your friend around the lounge.

It was stupid o’clock in the morning and the birthday party had finally broken up. Most people had left save the odd few who refused to believe it was finished or were too drunk to keep their eyes open and slept where they fell. Your ears buzzed at the now-odd silence. The way his arms flexed in his black shirt as he crushed another beer can made a hot flush creep up from your neck and you hoped it wasn’t too obvious you were staring. You could always blame the alcohol, anyway. You hadn’t had much but he didn’t need to be privy to that. “You know,” Chan said, as he tried to brush pretzel crumbs off the sofa and into his hands, failing miserably. He gave a self-defeated shrug and brushed them onto the floor. “…you didn’t have to stay and help. You were a guest, I was the host. Well, one of the hosts of this birthday party…” He narrowed his eyes a little as he looked around for his co-host, Felix. “Of course, clean up time and he's nowhere to be found. Well at least I have you!” Chan sat down where the pretzel crumbs just resided and patted the little space beside him. You perched on the edge of the sofa after moving a small pizza box onto your lap. Mmm. Pepperoni. Chan sighed and crossed his legs on the coffee table in front of him, closing his eyes. “I don’t mind,” you quietly responded, looking at the small pile of discarded paper plates with half eaten food, a smashed chocolate bar and what looked like half boiled egg next to his feet. The egg was in a puddle of what you hoped to be beer. “I like to be helpful. You know me.” You gingerly picked up the boiled egg and threw it in the black bag and sniffed your hand. Yep. Stale beer. “Mother Hen complex kicks in and I’m cleaning, offering people water and calling taxi’s for people… I’m just waiting on the day someone asks me to sign a note for school.” a half-hearted chuckle left your lips. You were always the sensible one of the friend group. Good ol’ reliable. Silence fell between the two of you for a moment and you wiped your hand on your thigh. You looked up at Chan who still had his eyes closed. A smile grew on his face, dimples deepening. “Dear Mr Anderson,” He said with a fake high-pitched voice as his hand dancing through the air as if writing a letter, “Please excuse Seungmin from swimming as he has a terrible case of the botty squirts and one simply cannot afford to drain yet another pool. It went everywhere! Kind regards, Seungmin’s Ma-ma.” A snort fell from your mouth causing you to drop the top of the black bag and cover your mouth. Eyes wide, you looked at Chan. One eye had opened to look at you and his grin widened. “I didn’t take you for a snorter! Haa! Of all the years we’ve known each other…” “Shut up it was an accident.” You could feel another blush creep up your neck. “Just caught me by surprise!” “Cuuttee. Okay. Okay.” Chan nodded to himself as he turned sideways to face you, one leg crossing under another. “Let’s see if I can get that to happen again.” Your eyes rolled and hoped your face wasn’t as red as it felt. “Why on earth… Listen. I don’t usually snort. It won’t happen again.” “It was cute and I like the challenge!” He paused, mouth turning into a thin line as he thought. “I can only think of poo jokes now.” Chan’s eyes closed into crescents, dimples deepening. “Mature. But go on!” You raised your eyebrows at him and nodded slightly, brushing past the fact he thought your snort was cute. How much had he had to drink? He seemed pretty with it when you were cleaning up.

“But! You won’t hear another snort from me.” You let your hand pick at the fabric on the sofa cushion by your leg to help ground yourself and distract yourself. Stop blushing for the love of… There was a slight intake of breath before Chan spoke, “By the way, did you know that diarrhoea is hereditary?” “Hmm.” You said, nodding once, smiling. “Yeah I heard it runs in your …genes...” You leant forward slightly in a challenge. “Next.” “Right Okay. How about the constipated maths professor? Yeah he worked it out with a pencil. No?... Hmm.” You waited for a few beats. Then a few more. You looked questioningly at Chan and wondered if he had fell asleep with his eyes open? “Cha-“ “Hm? Oh sorry.” Chan rubbed his face. “Blame the alcohol… My concentration… it’s like Seungmin’s diarrhoea… it’s all over the place.” Head dropped, eyes closed, you had to raise one finger to let him know that he was close… close to a laugh and probably a snort. “Almost. Almost had me there.” “What’s the definition of a surprise?” Your head was still lowered, and you shook your head left to right once. Chan put a finger under your chin and lifted your head. You gazed met his own, eyes dancing with laughter. “A fart with a lump in it.” Forehead creased, you made a groaning sound as you kept your lips tight. He was not going to win. Chan knew. Just one more… One more joke or pun. He had no idea why but he had to get you to laugh. Be it the snort or an actual laugh, he didn’t care, but he had to hear you laugh again.  Of all the ways he knew to flirt with someone, why did he have to run with these kind of jokes and puns? He felt stupid but it seemed to be working. You were flushed and happy and Chan took that as progress. Chan leant closer still. You made a ‘mmm-mmm’ sound of denial, lips still forced closed gave a shake of your head. So pretty… you thought to yourself as you looked into his eyes. “Why did the baker’s hands stink?” He himself began to blush when he realised how close his face was to yours. His hand moved from below your chin to rest on your cheek. Your face relaxed and you were no longer holding your mouth together. You sucked in your lower lip a little, wondering if he wanted you to answer or not. Was this happening? Over these kind of jokes? He slowly moved his face closer still, a small quick lick of his lips had you feeling a flutter in your stomach, his eyes glittering before slowly blinking. A quick glimpse down to your own mouth then back up to your own eyes.

Your heart was beating so fast you were sure it was either going to give up and flatline with smoke emitting from your ears or explode out of your chest like something from a sci-fi movie. Time must have stopped because how else could you take this moment to admire the depth of his brown eyes, or count the faint freckles across his nose and cheeks? Them dimples up close were as deep as the ocean and them lips… You let out a little sigh. Closer still. Were you still breathing? You didn’t know. Could you see yourself reflected in his eyes? You wouldn’t know now; Chan had closed them and tilted his head so slightly. His breathe… gin? Orange juice??... invaded your senses. You’d always liked the smell of oranges. You closed your eyes and felt the ghost of his lips against yours. The butterflies in your stomach were about to start doing a conga. The sound of someone walking and the crinkling of paper made you both look up and Chan’s hand dropped from your cheek. Seungmin was hobbling past you both, streamers wrapped around one foot, dragging behind him as he walked. You looked at Chan, at Seungmin, back at Chan… Seungmin frowned and rubbed his face, causing a round of giggles from you both. “Whah??” He kicked his leg with the streamers attached. Chan giggled. “Seungminnie - My love for you is like diarrhea! I just can’t hold it in!” You tried to hide your face against Chans arm.

“Ah I don’t get you guys.” He rolled his eyes and tried to kick the streamers off his foot again, lost his balance ever so slightly and stumbled towards the hall leading to the bathroom. “Don’t be a party pooper!” Chan called. Seungmin threw his arms over his head in despair. “Let me know if you need more toilet paper!” You hollered as the door slammed shut. “And Happy Birthday!!” Another snort. Chan smiled with triumph, although it was your own which made your snort. He shook his head in an endearing way before pulling you back to his lips. Warm and soft, moving against your own, gently, and slowly. You tilted your head as your noses brushed ever so slightly. Your right arm dragged up his left, stopping at his neck, fingers curling against his hot skin. It was delicate and Chan definitely tasted of oranges. You felt him smile against your lips. “To answer your last...” You said to Chan as you broke apart, slightly breathless. You gave a little sigh and rested your forehead against Chans, not believing you were about to say this after your first kiss with him. “I know the answer. It’s because he kneaded a poo.”

Again, sorry not sorry about the poop jokes. I don't know why it went down that route but yeah. It's done now. If you got this far, you're also immature and I like you. You're my people.

#Chan #bang chan #bang chan fluff #bang chan x reader #bang chan x you #bang chan x y/n #stray kids #skz #stray kids bang chan #stray kids chan #stray kids fic #bang chan fic #chan fic

[thebuginthecornerofyourroom]

It sucks ass to be from a city in the forgotten and empty part of Spain, because going and coming back is a Royal pain in the ass.

The Going Journey

I don't live in one of the big German cities, so the airport only connects with, you guessed it, the mediterranean coast, the Canary islands and Mallorca, so I have to move to one of the bigger airports, which means that I have to trust

Stage 1: The Fucking Deutsche Bahn.

The happenings during the Pandemic have fucked DB to the point that every other train is late. Even trains that start at the spot you take it, start late sometimes. I have to trust these machines to be at least 2h early to the flight departure time and it's a lot of trust to put in this god damned company. This is the most anxiety inducing step of the going journey because I have usually to take a regional train and then an ICE, and if the regio is late, the whole trip falls apart. My heart is taking the tension hardly. Regardless, if everything goes well, I arrive with enough time for checking in to

Stage 2: The God Damned International Flight to Spain.

Connections of the regions of Spain with international airports are very different from one region to another. You see, if you trace a diagonal line that crosses Spain from Andorra to the bottom of Portugal, the southeastern half, is super well connected to international airports (Barcelona, Valencia, Alicante, Malaga, Mallorca, Sevilla, Madrid for example), but the northwestern half is... not (Madrid, Bilbao, Asturias in the summer sometimes). So, I cannot go directly to my hometown, I have to be damned by the stupid centralist design of the transport network and go through Madrid. Once there, it comes the last part of the journey,

Stage 3: The Bus/Train Home.

This stage is usually fine in terms of timing because luckily the trains and buses are on time. This is just loooooooong. If I'm feeling loaded of cash and planning, I could take an AVE to my hometown, but I'm not usually, so is either bus or slow train. Fine. I can take it. For now, because I'm not getting any younger.

Now I'm in my hometown, trip's done. The whole thing took like 19 hours, but it was fine. I had to spend 5 hours in Madrid and saw some friends I had not seen in person in a long time in the meantime, so, fine, I'll buy.

The problem comes with

The Journey Back

because, yes, it seems simple enough to do the same thing backwards, and yes, it sucks that I have to eat again the long, LONG, trip in

Stage 4: The Train/Bus to Madrid

and it sucks that I have to depend on that stupid city for

Stage 5: The International Flight back to Germany

But those steps are somewhat reliable. The bus will be on time, the flight will arrive on time or only slightly late. My problem is with fucking DB, because the trains later in the day are ALWAYS LATE. The last time I has to wait 2 hours in the airport, that became 3+ because the fucking train was more than an hour late. Then, of course, missed my connection to the regional to take me home and had to ask a friend for help getting home (He's a lovely guy, I love my homie so much, I got him cheese for christmas). Total time of the joke was 20+ hours that should've been noticeably less.

The points of this story are 2:

Fucking Deutsche Bahn, lately it sucks ass so much.

This whole bullshit of travelling and transports would be much better if train and bus companies would still have regular nocturnal trips. The time on trains and buses could be spent at night, when I can sleep, instead of wasting whole days fearing getting stuck in some middle city because the connection with the last train of the day missed.

I hate travelling in scales, that's the gist of it

#personal #travelling #spain #germany

[focolvapes]

How to Fix a Disposable Vape Pen

Disposable vape pens are designed for easy use, even for vapers that don't have experience using them. However, like any other equipment, they can suffer malfunctions and need some intervention to continue working properly.

If it's your first time using a disposable vape pen, and it is giving problems, this guide will walk you through different common disposable vape pen problems, how to troubleshoot and fix them.

Getting no hits from your disposable vape pens is the most commonly reported problem. Most vapour report not being able to get any vapour even when the power LED blinks. There are several reasons that could cause this problem:

No e-liquid – When your disposable vape pen stops hitting, the first thing you should check is the e-liquid level wildly when the power LED is still blinking. Running out of e-liquid is the most common reason for not getting hits. Disposable pens come with a pre-set amount of vape liquid that will last for a certain number of puffs. After the vape liquid runs out, you cannot get any hits.

Dead battery – If you still have some e-liquid left inside the pen, it’s possible the vape battery is dead. This is usually the case if the power LED is not blinking. Sometimes the device might allow you to get one or two puffs on a low battery if you let it rest for several hours. In most cases, the disposable pens are designed with a battery that will outlast the e-liquid supply. So, if the battery is out, it is possible the vape liquid supply is almost depleted as well.

Insensitive airflow sensor – If you’re using a draw-activated disposable vape pen, it is possible the airflow sensor is obstructed by condensation. Although it sounds like a unique problem, it is quite common. The best way around this problem is to vape with one of your fingers around one of the inlet vents. This increases the airflow pressure and might get the sensors up and working again.

The device has never worked – If it has never worked since you purchased it, it could be a factory defect. Sometimes, you can fix some of the problems quickly with the right tools instead of shipping the device back to the factory and waiting for a long time for a replacement while you need the replacement now. This fix works for most rectangular vape devices. Use a pair of tweezers to remove the mouthpiece of the device. Under the mouthpiece is the cotton pad. If the cotton looks clustered, remove it and place it aside, then check the rubber stopper. There's a hole that leads directly inside the device. Check if the hole is blocked. Remove the stopper and readjust.

You can also use a wooden toothpick to open up the hole. In most cases, the delivery will work perfectly after the hole is reopened.

Next, I would like to introduce the empty disposable vape pen with reliable quality and stylish appearance of focol.

Empty CBD Thco 3 Gram Custom Disposable Vape Pen

3 Gram Thco Thc Hhc Empty Disposable Vape Pen

3 Gram Delta 10 Delta 8 Refillable Vape

#Disposable Vape Pen #Delta 8 Refillable Vape #Empty Disposable Vape Pen

[kj-1130]

Hihi!

Could you pls do platonic bau w/ a teen intern reader that sings and plays piano in her free time (the v little free time she has) and she has a school show where she plays and sings but her family didn’t go bc they don’t rlly care about it but the bau came to support her!

(Pls I need sweet platonic fluff w/ the cm fam!)

Familial Love

criminal minds x reader

warnings: sadness but fluff at the end

a/n: sorry this took so long, hope you enjoy!

criminal minds masterlist || main masterlist

     You peaked through the curtains once again before looking at your watch. You were supposed to be going on any minute now, but the two reserved seats meant for your parents were still empty. 

     You walked further backstage and leaned against the wall, fidgeting with your hands. You weren’t sure why you had such high hopes for this performance. Perhaps it was because you started piano in hopes to please them. Perhaps it was because they didn’t outright ignore you when you brought the recital up. But there was no amount of wishful thinking that could downplay the facts. 

     These were the same parents who dropped you off on the first day of kindergarten when everyone else walked their children to their classrooms. These were the same parents who couldn’t be bothered to show up to your fifth or eighth grade promotion ceremonies. These were the same parents who never remembered your birthday. These were the same parents who were rarely home and left you with microwave breakfasts and dinners. 

     So maybe your hope was unreasonable. After all, when have your guardians been reliable figures in your life? 

     You scolded yourself internally for continuing to have such a naive mentality. Your parents have never been there for you and most never will be. The optimism only ever left you heartbroken, but it seems that you never learned. 

     You were snapped out of your thoughts when you heard your name being called over the microphone. It was your turn. You had to push everything to the back of your mind and concentrate on doing your best.

     You walked onto the stage and made your way over to the piano. Sitting down and resting your fingers over the keys, you exhaled, letting any distraction go with your breath. 

     And then you played. 

     You played your heart out, putting all the emotion into it that you could. You let yourself get lost in the music, not a care in the world at the moment. 

     It was over before you knew it. Your daze was broken by the resounding applause throughout the auditorium. You stood with a smile on your face and walked off. 

     The rest of the recital flew by as everyone else completed their acts. Once the show was over, you saw many, if not all, of the students run over to their families and watched with a bitter and sad heart as their parents congratulated them. 

     “Why the long face, sunshine?” 

     You whipped your head around at the familiar voice and saw Derek with the rest of the team behind him. He, along with Emily, were holding flowers. Penelope was holding balloons, a bag that had who knows what in there, and a teddy bear. 

     You leaped into Morgan’s arms and gave him a tight hug. Tears formed in your eyes as you stuffed your face in the crook of his neck. 

     “You came,” you murmured. 

     “‘Course we did. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 

     Eventually, you let go and gave everyone else a hug, expressing your gratitude for their presence. 

     “You did so good, pumpkin,” Garcia said, squeezing you extra hard. “I wanted to get you a bigger teddy bear, but Derek said no. But I do have more stuff in the car that I cannot wait to give you and-” 

     “Pen, you really didn’t have to,” you interrupted with a sheepish smile. 

     “But I wanted to,” she said. “Only the best for my favorite person in the whole wide world.” 

     “Hey,” Morgan said with faux offense, causing everyone to laugh. 

     As everyone chatted you looked behind you and saw the two empty seats that seemed to glare at you. 

     “You alright?” 

     You looked back at JJ after another quick glance and faced her with a smile. 

      “Yeah. Couldn’t be better.” 

     The blonde returned the smile and swung an arm around your shoulder, the two of you walking behind the rest of the group as you all walked out of the building. 

     It still hurt but things were better knowing that you had a whole team--a whole family that would be there for you no matter what. 

     “Drinks on me!” 

     “Dave, they’re underage.” 

     “Nobody has to know!”

-_-_-_-_-_-

Taglist 

@sebastian-vettels   @blueposthings @idek-5 @10-19-17uswnt @jesuswasnotawhiteman  @sirsell @augustvandyne  @uselessgay101  @rookie-prentiss @bunnyweasley23 @atlas-nex @daniphantom1 @stillmanicc @annestine @ymzki-haruki @moonslattes @yomama010101 @louisprettybaby

#criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x teen!reader #bau x reader #derek morgan #spencer reid #jennifer jareau #emily prentiss #david rossi #penelope garcia #aaron hotchner

[keanureevesisbae]

You're on a roadtrip and in the middle of nowhere, your car breaks down. Obviously your phone died too - what happens next?

This, is very interesting and my horny brain figured out what would happen next 👀👀

Walter Marshall x fem!reader

Wordcount: 1.5k (yes, a lot happens)

Warnings: Fingering, squirting, unprotected sex 👀

‘Piece of shit,’ you mutter under your breath. You cannot believe this happened again and to make matters even worse, you're in the middle of fucking nowhere. Last time your car decided to break down, at least it happened downtown, meaning there were around five men who saw you hopelessly staring at your car, not knowing what to do and offered their help.

Now, you’re by yourself.

You grab your phone from the passengers seat, only to discover the most horrible thing that could ever happen to you.

Your battery died.

It’s probably around thirty minutes until you reach some sort of civilization and it’s getting darker and darker.

Oh no, is this how people get murdered?

Great, now you’re not only by yourself, but you also scared yourself by envisioning horrible scenario's. You pop the hood of the car, only to realize that everything looks the exact same and you have no idea where to start. Why do the problems have to be so complicated? If it were a flat tire, you probably would’ve managed to fix it, but this is on a whole new level of complex.

A car stops behind yours and your heart stops for a few seconds. Please don’t be a serial killer, please don’t be creepy in general. You peek around your car, only to see the very familiar truck. You’ve seen that car around in town, including the owner of it.

You watch him step out of the vehicle. His shoulders are broad, his strut is confident and his brows are furrowed, but that is nothing new. When he sees it’s you, one corner of his mouth curls up. ‘Sweetheart,’ he says and you can’t help but slightly giggle when hearing that nickname.

Detective Walter Marshall is a very well loved customer at the cafe you work at, mostly because he comes by every day and has become a reliable income. He always orders one cappuccino to go and sometimes he goes a little crazy and orders a cookie with it as well. He rarely smiles, but recently you noticed that whenever you took his orders, you not only earned yourself a very lovely 'Sweetheart', but also a small smile. Sometimes, he would even go as far to asking you what your plans were for after work and when you answered with whatever the plans were, he would simply nod and tell you to not have too much fun without him.

It was cheeky and slightly flirty, but it was always within the four walls of the cafe and nothing happened. You wished though. Walter Marshall was a very desired bachelor in town.

‘Hi detective,’ you say with a smile.

‘Car trouble?’

You nod. ‘Yes, it’s just that my car gives up from time to time.’

‘I see, I see.’ He rolls up his sleeves and stands next to you, examining everything. He starts to say something about some sort of liquid/fuel-thingy, but you have no idea what he means. Not only are you distracted because it’s too complicated, but also because of his outstanding beauty. No man in town tips to him.

Of course you fantasized about him, just like everyone else. There was quite the age gap between you, a rough fifteen years, but that never stopped you from having the most disgusting, NSFW dreams about him.

‘What?’ you ask him, when he looks at you, obviously waiting for an answer.

‘You weren’t listening,’ he chuckles. ‘That’s okay. What I said was that it’s too late to call for a tow truck and that I can’t fix it right away. We can leave your car here and I can drive you to your place if you want.'

'But what if it gets stolen?'

'How?' he asks. 'The car doesn't work, right?'

You shake your head. 'Maybe it's for the best. It's a stupid car anyway. The only reason I have it, because I got it for free.'

'Maybe that should've been a red flag. Free cars are rarely reliable.'

You scoff. Dammit, you hate it when other people are right. 'You sure you want to give me a lift?'

Walter scoffs. ‘I’m not gonna leave you in the middle of nowhere by yourself.’ He closes the hood of my car and adds to it: ‘Besides, I don’t want anything to happen to my favorite barista. You’re the only one who hasn’t messed with my cappuccino.’

You shouldn’t giggle or feel nervous, yet you do both.

‘Come on, go grab your stuff and we’ll go.’

You walk over to the driver’s side and lean over the seats to grab both the key from the ignition and your bag. Then you realize that you are wearing a pretty short skirt and your underwear is a bit on the flimsier side. You hear an approving hum from behind you. Part of you wants to die of shame, the other part however makes sure things heat up in between your thighs.

When you get out of the car and close the door, Walter has his arms crossed in front of his chest. ‘One condition, sweetheart,’ he says, taking the bag from your hand.

You frown. ‘For what?’

‘For me to give you a lift back home.’ He holds out one of his hands and says: ‘That piece of fabric you call your underwear, please.’

You blink your eyes once, twice and the universe how many times after that, mostly because you cannot believe those words—those dirty words—left his lips. His expression barely changed. It’s the emotionless look you are so used of seeing, but the words that take you by surprise.

You have had many dirty daydreams, but handing over your underwear in the middle of nowhere wasn’t one. You hook your thumbs behind the waistband of your panties and push it down your legs. When you step out of them, you hand them to Walter, who nods in approval.

The two of you walk towards the passenger’s side of his truck, when he grabs you by your hip and turns you around. With your back pressed against the door, he lets his hand slide underneath your skirt between your thighs. Your lips slightly parted, as his rough fingers knead the soft flesh of your thighs. ‘Do you have any idea how much I’ve been wanting this?’ he asks you. ‘It’s always those pretty smiles,’ he continues, ‘the way you lean over the counter in those tops with a deep neckline and how you bite your lip when you’re focused. Have you got a clue of what that does to me?’

‘No detective, I don’t,’ you whimper.

Walter smiles at your desperation, as you’re already grinding against his fingers. Fuck, he knew deep down what you could be, but this he didn’t expect. He dips in one finger, but when he discovers how wet you are, how ready you are for him, he pushes in another.

Your pleasured moan fills the emptiness around you. You’re a loud one too, Walter thinks to himself. You sure are the jackpot. His fingers brush against all the right spots. He watches your eyes rolling back, your breathing become ragged and your thighs and walls clenching together. ‘Beg for it,’ he says.

Instantly, you obey. ‘Detective, please, please, can I cum?’

There is no way you are truly real.

He barely has the change to answer, when you tumble over the edge. When you have to hold onto him since you can’t trust your own legs. When you squirt passed his fingers down your legs. The sobs and strained moans that leave your lips, make him grin in satisfaction. He roughly slams his lips against yours and within a second you melt against him.

He pulls out his fingers and without letting go of your lips for one millisecond, he opens the door of his truck. ‘They always say you are such a lovely young lady. So innocent and sweet,’ he says to you. ‘But you’ve got a dirty streak.’

You bite your lip and let out a sweet giggle when he turns you around, bending you over the passengers seat of the truck, your toes barely finding the ground. As Walter uses one hand to knead the soft flesh of your ample behind, the other unzips his pants and pulls out his cock. After pumping it a few times, he lines himself up at your throbbing cunt, before pushing himself in entirely.

The sounds that leave your lips, make him go feral. Part of him wants to take the time, worship your body and look you in the eye as you fall apart in his arms. But that part doesn’t have the upper hand now. The part that wants to destroy you, rail you, fill you is completely taking over.

There is no stopping now. Skin slapping against skin. His groans mixed with your cries of pleasure. He can feel it, your warm walls that feel so good around him, start to squeeze his hard member. ‘Detective, I’m close again,’ you wail.

‘Let it go, sweetheart,’ he tells you and on cue you start to shudder, your orgasm washing over you and that’s enough for him to reach his limits. He holds your hips tightly, probably imprinting you with some bruises, as he paints you from the inside.

He gives himself a few seconds to regain himself, before he pulls out and watches it all drip down your legs. You’re limb, barely able to stand on your legs. Your skirt is still bundled up near your waist, revealing your beautiful round bottom.

He grabs you by your arm and pulls you against his body, pressing his lips on yours. ‘You’re gonna make a mess on my seat,’ he says.

‘You’re fault,’ you mumble against his lips, only for you to earn a sharp slap on your behind. ‘Sorry, detective,’ you whisper. ‘How— Where do I sit then?’

He smiles. ‘Right on my cock as I drive you to my place, because we’re not done yet.’

✨ Okay, I'll see myself out now ✨

#walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #walter marshall smut #walter marshall drabble

[jade-parcels]

A classical music piece that reminds me of Ajax. Enjoy this unedited word vomit 💕

❄️Anne Akiko’s Estonian Lullaby❄️

This piece feels a bit sad to me, it’s beautiful, soft and overall genuinely nice to listen to. I heard it in the car the other day and I cannot get this image out of my mind.

Ajax has returned from a 4 month deployment out to Liyue, leaving you back in Snezhnaya with his family. Every day you wait for a letter that will never come, not with the new restrictions on contacting those outside of the Fatui ranks. And every night you sit by the windowsill after dinner, resting your forehead against the cold glass as you silently watch, hoping to see your fiancé’s silhouette emerge from the snow. Tonight is no different.

Downstairs, Tonia plays her violin and her mother sits at the piano, the two playing a piece from an old book from Fontaine. The sweet melody threatens to lull you to sleep, your eyes droop, your body wanting to rest after hours of work earlier but no, you force your eyes back open, wiping fog from the window so you can see properly. What you see now isn’t the usual landscape, the sun has set, the moon reflecting a blueish glow onto the snow outside. Though there is a new blue glow that is not provided by the moon- no, that is a vision. That…Is Ajax.

Your body moves on its own, tugging on your boots, sliding into a thick jacket and slipping out the back door undetected. He’s there, standing on the frozen lake, waiting for you to come to him. And you do

The snow crunches beneath your feet as they carry you to him, your arms extend to wrap around his warm body, your tears wetting the Fatui uniform you’d buried your face into

“Shhh…I’m here, it’s alright” Ajax whispers, swaying you side to side “Don’t cry, you’ll make me cry” he tries to laugh but you can hear the quiver in his voice

You join him in the gentle swaying, fumbling for his hand, placing your other on his shoulder. Ajax picks up on what you’re doing, wrapping his arm around your waist as he begins to lead you in a dance. He isn’t the best at it, neither are you, but no one is here to see. Tonia’s violin and her mother’s piano playing can be faintly heard from here so the two of you steal this moment for yourselves, silently swaying side to side, finally holding each other after months apart.

You look up at him, taking him all in. He’s paler than usual, his beautiful eyes have purple bags beneath them. He looks so tired, utterly drained. The way he moves is stiff, as if he’s sore. You don’t doubt that he is, he’s told you about what it takes to be a harbinger. Being injured isn’t even the worst that could happen.

Ajax rests his head on top of yours, breathing in your scent. The swaying becomes slower, his grip on you tighter “This…this isn’t me coming back” his voice sounds strained “I have to be back to the palace by dawn I just…I just had to come see you. I feel so empty when we aren’t together it- I don’t know how to describe it” he shakes his head, sighing into your hair

“I feel the same way” Your hand leaves his shoulder to trace comforting circles on his back “Why can’t you stay? Haven’t they worked you hard enough? You deserve to come home for awhile”

Ajax merely shakes his head “You know there’s no such thing as them working me ‘hard enough’. This is my job, I’m used to it” he looks out at the stars, his vision blurred with unshed tears “I know it’s childish to wish for things. Teucer likes to wish on stars, he says if he really believes then maybe they’ll come true. Well…I wish that you and I could run away”

His admission catches you off guard, you pull back in order to look at him and are surprised to see him crying. Ajax has shown a range of emotions. You’ve seen him jump for joy, grit his teeth in anger, but you’ve never seen him cry. You use your sleeve to wipe his tears away “Now why would you want to do that?” You ask “Your family would miss you”

Ajax takes a stuttering breath before talking again “Thats the hard part. I’d have to bring them with me. We’d live far away where the others won’t find us. My brothers and I can build us a house in the woods, we can all live happily without any responsibilities…wouldn’t that be nice? I could be there all the time, I wouldn’t have to worry, wouldn’t have to miss out on everything all the time…I could just…be a normal guy”

Your heart aches for him. Ajax is a complex man. In a way, he’s still a kid who grasps at fairytales and wishes they were true. On the other hand, he’s a beast. You don’t like to think about it, don’t want to think about that side of your husband. The way his abyssal form froths at the mouth at the sight of blood, the way he grins when striking enemies down. He turns into a different person out on the battlefield. If you two ran away, would he be able to tame that side of himself?

But overall, Ajax is a family man. He loves his mother, his big sisters and brothers. He’s a role model for his younger siblings. He looks up to his father, respects him more than any other male figure in his life. He strives to be like his father: a good husband, a reliable man who will do things out of the good of his heart. A man who will care for the sick and help out a neighbor without expecting a favor back.

Ajax chose a profession without thinking about the long term effects it would have. He never saw himself living long enough to get married, never saw himself able to settle down. Now he has a dilemma which cannot be solved. As much as he longs to run away he knows the other harbingers would track him down easily. They’d drag him back and dispose of his family to prevent future distractions.

So this is what he must do. His deployments are getting longer and longer. He doesn’t know when he’ll get to come back. All he knows is that he needed this time with you, he needed to hear your voice, feel your touch. Even it would only last an hour

The stars above flicker, the snow gently falling to land on your eyelashes. You know he has to go, he has to go back to being a killing machine for cruel, loveless archon. You want to be selfish, you want to drag him inside and curl up under some thick quilts together, to drink hot tea and listen to stories about Liyue. But it won’t happen.

Ajax composes himself, cupping your cheeks with his warm hands. His lips are chapped and cool when they meet yours, his kiss tastes like firewater and gingerbread cookies. He tells you he’ll be back, asks that you keep this meeting a secret…Then all too soon he pulls away, leaving you feeling cold and empty. You call out to him “I love you! I love you, I love you, please come back to me soon!” He says he will, promises to try and get some vacation time.

You stand there numbly as pretty snowflakes dance around you. Clouds roll in, blocking the moon’s glow. You watch as Ajax disappears into the darkness, the soft glow of his hydro vision getting further and further away until you could no longer see it.

Again, you hear the sweet melody from the house. It sounded much louder when the two of you danced, now it sounds so far away. You trudge back up to the house, kicking off your boots when you step inside. Teucer bounces over to you, toy ‘cyclops’ in hand

“Hey! Where did you go? You coulda froze out there!”

You ruffle his hair and force a smile “Ah, I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just…dancing” he looks confused but doesn’t question you further. Instead, he grabs your hand and takes you to the livingroom, where everyone else is now, in order to enjoy the music together

#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin imagines #genshin impact writing #genshin impact childe #genshin impact tartaglia #childe x reader #series: classical music stuff #idk if it’ll be a series I have a song picked out for diluc #but not the motivation to write it rn

[doctorofmagic]

My thoughts on Stephen and Carol

That was... unexpected, to say the least. Now I have this task to elaborate my feelings and opinions in a way that is paradoxically personal and rational at the same time.

Let’s begin.

Background

Carol and Stephen know each other for a very, very long time. Their first team-up happened in Marvel Team-Up v1 #76 (1978), when Silver Dagger captured Clea (again - and yes, I’ll talk about her later). Both Spider-Man and Ms. Marvel decided to offer a helping hand to Stephen.

Stephen also assisted Carol in a mystic issue, combining their powers in Ms. Marvel v2 #4-5 (2006). It’s from this very run I suspect Kelly Thompson pictured the idea of a relationship between them. Nothing official, but all it takes to assume there’s something else going on is a mere look.

It’s true they were on opposite sides post Civil War, but Carol decided to join the New Avengers later on, which also gives this relationship one more layer.

Lastly, Aaron’s Avengers also featured them on the same team for a while, in addition to the previous Captain Marvel v10 #6-7, in which they swapped bodies and Carol had a taste of Stephen’s pain. We’re also considering Captain Marvel v10 #19 because, at this point, it’s clear that Thompson had plans for them since 2019.

Captain Marvel #27

Since this a blog dedicated to Stephen, it’s hard for me not to look through his perspective. I know the story is about Carol and how she’s struggling to mourn. But you’re all here for him. So this is my very detailed yet not-so-reliable review about their moment together.

....

Stephen is so sweet, wtf.

First, he confesses that he lost a patient on the table, WHICH MEANS that Thompson is following the events of Surgeon Supreme. Honestly? It’s the first comic book to do so. But fine. I can live with that.

Man is not having a good day. In fact, it’s a terrible day, which probably justifies the end. Here we another glimpse that Stephen still can’t deal with loss. Life is so important to him precisely because he has lost so much. In addition, for a moment, he forgets that Carol isn’t supposed to be drinking. So he turns the whiskey into Seltzer. In the meantime, Carol can’t help but relate to him. I know, Carol, I’VE BEEN THERE.

There’s another moment that warmed my heart (in a sense because it’s quite sad when you think about it). Stephen asked Carol if he was bothering her. Do you have any idea how insecure Stephen is? BECAUSE HE IS. He’s always afraid of bothering people and that’s why he isolates himself. That’s why he’s always pushing people away. That’s why he’s so miserable and lonely.

Stephen is the sweetest, I can’t. He doesn’t even know his own favorite color. COME ON, STEPHEN.

I admit, though. They know how to flirt. Stephen is the kind of person who flirts through self-loathing, which is only natural given his mental health. And Carol... Well, she’s a girlboss. It’s perfect. Also he’s sassy. And do I love my sassy boi? Very much.

But here’s another sad thing. Stephen is not seen as a “good addiction”. He’s simply not the worse one. And he’s aware of that. Do you know how I know? I mean, despite all the countless articles I wrote about his self-loathing?

Because of this:

Yet again Stephen is aware that he used someone else to fill his void. And yet again, he was used. I can’t remember the last time Stephen had a healthy relationship. In fact, I can. It was with Linda, the Night Nurse. And that was a loooong time ago. I can’t even begin to comprehend how lonely he feels. And how miserable he feels whenever he fails to create a solid bond. Not only romantic ones, but also platonic relationships and friendships as well. I want him to be happy, it’s not too much. So why am I on the verge of tears?

Fine. I dissected the issue panel by panel, such is my commitment. But how I truly feel about them? Before answering that...

Things to be considered

Hear me out. There’s a very famous forbidden OTP party in Secret Wars: Secret Love #1. I can’t remember the author of the post but here, on this very hellsite, they confirmed some of those OTPs were ships that Marvel would never allow to happen because they’re, well, LGBTQIA ships. Cherik? Yes. Stony? Yes. Kate Bishop and America Chavez? Yes. CarolJess? YES. It’s the closest we’ll ever get to Marvel’s main characters to be queer.

I’m quite open to shipping Stephen with any character. However, I cannot look away when I’ve always rooted for Carol to be an LGBTQIA character. So, much to my surprise, as I was checking the spoilers on the hopes that Jess and Carol would finally have a revelation... STEPHEN HAPPENED. Trust me, Carol stans, this was as much unexpected to me as it was to you.

Truth be told, as a Stephen stan, I get tons of hate, because people mostly know him for his Illuminati era and how patronizing he behaves sometimes. But this is the reason why I made this blog. I want more people to know Stephen as deeply as I do. I know it’s frustrating. But I’m not the enemy. You have no idea how hard I try to find subtle words and clues that Stephen is not straight (because he isn’t, please).

So, after all is said and done... I still think they’re cute. And please, do not hand me down a guilty verdict yet.

I think of Stephen a lot on a daily basis, so it’s only natural to headcanon which heroes he has hooked up with throughout the years. And I swear to Vishanti, Carol crossed my mind a few times. I only figured it would never happen. But it did and now I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel. But it’s okay. Because it’s not going to last - and I’ll explain why.

The future

Despite the fact that CarolJess should be a thing™, when it comes to canon, she’s deeply connected to Rhodes. Their relationship is so important to Carol that she sacrificed it out of love. She’s mourning. There’s this feeling of emptiness in her heart, pretty much similar to what Stephen experienced when Clea left him the first time.

They’ve met in a very delicate and frail state of mind and spirit. Some (most?) people do it, as an attempt to fill the void with anything or anyone that resembles affection. They’re aware of that.

That’s why I don’t think it will last. It’s not a relationship born through mutual growth, it’s a relationship born in mourning and sorrow.

You know me, mates. I’d do anything for Stephen’s happiness. But that’s not it. His happiness lies on a powerful sorceress from the Dark Dimension. You know her name. And Carol? Well, if not on Jess because Marvel desires to keep selling comic books to homophobes, then on Rhodes.

It feels just like my hook up list headcanon, only better because there’s angst. And boi, do I love angst?

That said... We have more issues coming, in addition to that beautiful cover for #29. Let’s wait and see. I do think Carol and Stephen share an angsty a beautiful background and that’s why I’d rather have them instead of Elektra. No offense, Elektra and Stephen are HOT. But I believe Carol and Stephen offer deeper layers. And this is why I made such a long post about them and didn’t do the same to Savage Avengers. No matter how hard I try to be rational, when it comes to Stephen, it’s just stronger than me.

PS: forgive me if I missed something, I’m truly exhausted but my mind wouldn’t allow me to rest until I made this post. Thank you for your support.

#doctor strange #stephen strange #carol danvers #captain marvel #jessica drew #spider-woman #james rhodes #war machine #kelly thompson #captain marvel 27 #analysis #wednesday tomes #marvel comics

[prof-peach]

Hello professor, I have a pretty heavy question I’m afraid, but I’m running out of people to ask, so I’ll try my best to keep it PG13.

It’s my Mienshao, Daisy. Up until recently, she and I were members of a police task force tasked with rooting out illegal Pokemon smuggling rings and underground high stakes tournaments. We’ve been partners for a long time, me and Daisy, we grew up together, and I dare say we made a great team. But then things went wrong.

For the sake of security I can’t go into too much detail, but we were participating in a raid when we got ambushed. Someone must have tipped the smugglers off, because they were waiting for us when we got there. During the firefight, there was an explosion, a gas tank got set on fire by a charizard, I believe, and Daisy and I happened to be close. She got out with a few minor burns and scrapes, I... Did not.

I’ll spare you the gory details, but I have been confined to a wheel chair ever since, and I am due to be fitted for a prosthetic leg next week.

I won’t lie, the transition has been hard for everybody, me, my friends, my family. My other Pokémon have been hovering around me like over protective nannies for weeks. But I think out of all of us, Daisy has been taking it the hardest. Half of the day she spends locked to my side like a bodyguard, threatening to punch anyone that gets too close into oblivion. And the other half, well...

She’s started putting herself through some kind of hellish self training routine. Doing katas until she all but collapses from exhaustion, running laps for hours, fighting every Pokemon she can convince to fight, wild or trained. Daisy’s always been tough, and she’s always loved training, but this... This isn’t training, it’s a death march. I’m getting extremely worried, and that’s not even everything!

She’s stopped eating her favorite foods, deliberately choosing ones I know she hates, she won’t let me pet her anymore, she just steps out of reach, trying not to look at me. But most worryingly, she’s started cutting off her whiskers. She’s always been so proud of her whiskers, she groomed them every day, always got grumpy when I teased her for having a big ol’ mustache. Now anytime they get longer than an inch, she slices them off with her claws and throws them in fireplace, like some kind ceromony.

I’m almost certain Daisy feels guilty for coming out mostly unscathed, when I didn’t. She’s always been a bit protective, even before we joined the police, and she’s saved my life multiple times out in the field, but now she feels like she’s failed me, I think. I’ve tried to convince her that it wasn’t her fault, but that only seems to redouble her efforts. I’m terrified she’s going to burn herself out if she keeps going like this, and I don’t know what to do.

I know this is a pretty heavy question, but I I’m not sure who else to ask. Is there anything I can do to convince her that she doesn’t need to hurt herself like this? Or, something? Just anything to help! Losing my leg was jarring, but losing Daisy would be unbearable!... I just... I just want my best friend to be okay.

I am sorry for what you’ve been through, I cannot begin to understand what it’s like to be in your shoes, but like all recovery, physical or mental, this will take a fair bit of time to get past, you both may never fully return to how things were, but it can get better and you can both return to a full life together with work and dedication.

I’ve certainly seen Pokemon go to extreme lengths after dangerous incidents to protect their loved ones or themselves, in this case it would be wise to assume your pokemons suffering with a hefty bill of PTSD, and needs some actual therapy to handle the feelings and thoughts they’re having. We have facilities to accommodate that if you’re local to Johto, but most Pokemon centres will be able to put you in contact with reliable and certified practices to begin unravelling the issues that now plague Daisy.

That she considers herself to have come away reasonably unscathed is not true, yes your life has physically changed, but she needs to step back and take a look at her life too. Everything’s different now, and more specifically how she’s treating herself and handling her feelings. If that’s not trauma and injury, I don’t know what else it could be. You both came away with damage that day, physical or not. The first step is to help her see that, and to begin to understand that despite this all, you can both continue to move forward together if you can overcome the injury together, it is an event you shared, and you two can aid each others recovery with time and care.

There’s some seriously gifted therapists out there, those who study for years and can help far more than me, they’ll take time to break down the events, and start to really get into the feelings that your partner is going through. The cycle for Daisy right now comes around to self-punishment, and seems to be stuck on a loop. She needs time and space to process her feelings of guilt, grief, fear and loss, facing them instead of burying herself in her rigorous training. While it is difficult to discuss, you two have a strong bond that means you could talk with her. Try to remind her who’s truly responsible, she may be blaming herself, which is pretty common in these situations, but at the root of it, you were doing your routine job, and the bad guys, the Pokemon smugglers and goons are to blame. THEY caused the issue, not her, and while it may not sink in right away it’s worth saying, and sticking to. You said you told her that it wasn’t her fault, which is the gut reaction, perhaps giving her a logical target instead of herself will work better for now. Reiterating the true issue, and taking the heat off of her may help with other tasks such as self care, later down the recovery road.

Her guilt will feel terrible, but it kind of works as a protector, keeping her distanced from the worse, more overwhelming feelings of helplessness and powerlessness. In fact the guilt that masks this all will slowly make things worse over time. That underlying intense emotion below the guilt is what you both need to work through, but more than anything, she needs to face it, in her own time, come to terms with it, and eventually (hopefully) come to an understanding that life is an endless cycle of events, things will happen, but you have to pick yourself up and turn the lemons into lemonade. She could have lost you that day, that you came away with your life is a miracle, and now you two get more time together because of that. Luck isn’t something that runs out, it’s not like there’s only so much of it to go around, it is like wining the lottery. Sometimes 20 people win, other times no one does. It’s hard to accept, but there’s no greater order to stuff that happens, but when we can come to this conclusion, it’s oddly freeing. I’ve seen a fair few Pokemon in a symilar state who can move on when they realise there’s an odd randomness to the world and everything that goes on.

This is a job for someone with far greater skills than I, but you must help her by also looking after yourself, laugh when you can, show her that your life is still very full, and that you have loved ones, and joy to share with others. You mentioned that you’re due a prosthetic, and though the transition will be long and no doubt a little difficult at first, getting yourself back on two feet (kind of) will show her, and your other Pokemon that you’re willing to move forward. I think there’s a lot to be said about talking during this all. She wants to fight, to be strong, if this is how she’s going to cope, fine. If she’s out training, sit with her, spend whatever time you can by her side, as she’s taking this the hardest. You don’t have to say a thing, just try to do your best, without putting yourself in too much discomfort or pain. Reminding her who would be devastated if it had been her who got hurt, if she was not around, may help ground her back in reality a bit. You both got granted a gift that day, you came away alive, if she works so hard she burns out, that gift was wasted. She can use her kindness, and strength to help you, she can pass her knowledge and skill forward, but it’s hard to help others, and do your best if you’re exhausted beyond reason. Kind of like trying to give people bread from a basket but the damn basket is empty yknow? You got to take time to refill so you can help those around you again, so you have some bread to give. I know, probably sounds a little dumb but it’s always been the way I remember it.

Another very useful thing I’ve found with trauma survivors would be meeting others who have been in the same position. There’s plenty of support groups for both people and Pokemon who have been through events that left them in a difficult situation, emotionally and physically. Even here at the lab we have many species who have been left without limbs, with life changing damage, and a lot of them also have the emotional trauma too. She would probably do well to spend time with them, you can send her to a resort to retreat and recoup erase, mix with others who were just as angry as she is now, or you can take time to go with her to groups to interact with others. It’s one thing to have humans help, but it’s a whole other level of connection when Pokemon can help their own. They bond quicker, trust faster, and generally are more open to listening when it’s coming from a place of mutual experience. If she had time to talk to pokemon who actually lost their trainers, or parts of themselves, she may find some peace, even if only temporarily.

Don’t mention the whiskers, and where possible don’t offer her foods she actively likes, but also not ones she actively dislikes. Just for now. Start the ball rolling with just plain simple things that are neither good or bad. Indifferent is better than bad right now, the punishment she’s inflicting on herself will need addressing further, so contact a therapist, they use Rotom or porygon to translate from poke-speech to human language, and the repair can begin with a registered professional. My advice is not sound proof, I certainly feel like I have missed something important, it’s a big response, but it’s a start in the right direction, and should you come up to any further issues, message back and update us with what’s going on. With work you two will be on track to recover. Remember, patience is the biggest thing here, you two have history, and a therapist will no doubt take the sessions as a pair, and work with you to help Daisy feel less guilty over time. I hope you both find peace, and that both of you repair in due time. Good luck with the new leg, a step towards recovery for sure.

#pokemon #prof.peach #peach talks #take this one with a pinch of salt #I’m no therapist #but I certainly hope you both find some peace

[xiu21chen99]

hxh headcanon/imagine.

again... still about hisoillu but about their engagement instead of illu's influenced fashion choice.

also this is more of... idk it gave reason why they chose to marry instead of uh other ways i guess??

i've seen so many fanarts where illu would break the news to the zoldycks or how killu would react to having hisoka as his brother in law- like srsly it's meme worthy at this point- and lotsa ones that showed how hisoka proposed as a joke or smtg but... I've been overthinking abt it these past few days sO i present to you how i think "the big question aka the proposal" happened... (manga spoilers??)

it's after hisoka resurrected himself obviously, and def after he killed kortopi and shalnark (so he knew there was gonna be empty slots in the spiders' lineup)

i imagine illu went back to the zoldyck estate after the whole fiasco and only heard of hisoka's "death" from rumors while he was on a mission

and then when he was idk maybe contemplating on whether or not he should visit the body(?) to pay respects or something, he gets a text message from the devil himself

their text went like this probably:

hisoka: hey~ where are you right now?♠️ (and no u can't tell me hisoka doesn't text w card suits u just can't-)

illumi: who are you and how did you get the phone you are currently using?

hisoka: ooh~ illu~ i feel betrayed, did you delete my number?♣️

illumi: hisoka is dead

hisoka: *image attached*

illumi: oh

illumi: hello hisoka, how are you still alive?

hisoka: you sound disappointed~♦️

illumi: i kind of am...

hisoka: rude, just tell me where you are♥️

...and that's how they met up?? ngl i think illu has a know-it-all syndrome where he just has to,,, k n o w everything

he's curious so he agrees to the meetup ofc

he's also surprised when he sees hisoka is in good shape when they meet (idk at a bar in an unknown city?)

they drink whiskey on the rocks because... you know...

hisoka explains how he survived and his next plan of action (which is terminate the spiders)

illumi makes a mental note of nen after death bc he's heard and seen it all before but... not to this extent,

this is gonna be,,, bland but i think this is the logic behind why hisoka chose to get married/engaged instead of just paying up front (reference to the ten dons' commission to get chrollo killed and chrollo's commission to get the ten dons killed)--

anyways here's how their conversation goes:

i: "why did you want to talk in person?"

h: "oh y'know, for old times sake."

i: "...right"

hisoka laughs, "okay so maybe i want to ask you for a favor..?"

confused, illumi asks, "why could you not have just texted if you wanted me to kill someone for you?"

h: "no, no- wait, actually, you're not too far off."

i: ~mOrE cOnfUsiOn~ "huh?"

h: "how do contracts for assassination work in your... family business?"

i: "half the promised pay before, the remaining half afterwards. should the target be eliminated by a third party, the assigned zoldyck still gets the pay and should the employer die, then the contract is terminated and the zoldyck will report back immediately."

h: "and has anyone made a contract to have themselves terminated?"

i: "i beg your pardon?"

h: "what complications will arise should your employer's target be... themselves?"

i: "i believe... i have never encountered such circumstance before. the people who hire us are those who have enough money and resource to have their enemies killed quickly. no one's tried to test the zoldyck assassination prowess."

h: "so... how will that work?"

i: "are you implying this is the reason why you have contacted me today?"

h: "yes~ ♥️" (how he said a heart emoji out loud is up to you, reader)

i: "it will be a pointless paradox. logically, the zoldyck will only get the employment bill. and i, myself, do not find pleasure in going for the kill like you lest i get my reward, so you will not get a contract out of me, hisoka."

h: "is there no leeway?"

i: "a zoldyck stands up to their word. so no."

h: "even for a friend?~ ♦️"

i: "we are not friends, hisoka-"

hisoka raises his glass of whiskey along with his eyebrow.

i: "oh..."

h: "didn't you tell dear killua that a zoldyck didn't need friends?"

i: "you... are an associate, someone reliable in the killing world. it's different."

h: "hypocrite"

i: "i ask you for favors and you make me return them. it is not like we spend our time together leisurely like killu with that island boy..."

hisoka clinks their matching glasses of whiskey even though his is already empty, a shit-eating grin on his lips.

i: "you suggested we meet here."

h: "this isn't the first time we went out to drink, right illu?"

i: "regardless!! i will not kill you just for half the money. i do not like wasting efforts on fruitless missions."

h: "as i said, is there no exception, to make sure you get my money if you were to succeed in killing me?"

i: "are you doubting my skill, hisoka?"

h: "that's not the point right now~ ♠️"

i: "wait, why do you want me to get all of your money?"

h: "haven't we just gotten over this subject? because you're my friend, of course."

i: "i... we are not friends, hisoka."

hisoka claps, "that's it! illumi!! ♣️"

i: "eh?"

h: "marry me! that way in our prenup I'll make sure you get all of my money, and even without a prenup you'll still get it since you'll be my only relative! that solves it!"

i: "hisoka, are you sure death did not took a toll on your brain? you did say you used Bungee Gum only on your heart and lungs..."

h: "i'm being serious, illumi!! and doesn't this solve your earlier conflict? we don't have to be friends, we'll be husbands!"

i: "do not use that tactic with me, you manipulative bastard. stop joking."

h: "this is purely beneficial for you, honestly i don't get why you just won't accept it."

i: "then humor me this first, why now?"

h: "dear illu, i've been to literal hell and back. i think it's time to leave my mark in case i fail to escape death again."

i: "was it that bad?"

h: "you'll love it there, illu~ ♥️"

h: "on a more serious note, though, i do plan to marry you. out of everyone i've encountered, you're the most eligible candidate. you're powerful, fully capable and extremely pretty to boot! you're the ideal husband!"

(blushing obviously, illumi downs the remaining whiskey in his glass) i: "death has changed you, hisoka."

h: "so?"

i: "fine."

h: "excellent!"

and in one fell swoop, illumi has a pin against the curve of hisoka's jugular, wrist held tightly by hisoka- a card matching against his own neck.

"not yet, dear husband." hisoka whispered into his ear, "we have to manage the papers first. and i've a request before you do."

they let each other go at the same time, not even breathing an unnecessary breath in the other's personal space (well, they're nearly pressed thigh to thigh anyways, what's the point of personal space anymore-)

"a condition rather than a request, really."

"what?" hisoka orders them refills, and downs his when it arrives.

"join the ryodan first."

glass already pressed on thin lips, illumi's confused hum resonates softly into the concave utensil. "why?"

"so things can get more interesting. i assume you know of the dark continent expedition that's soon to take place?"

"father has advised i take part on it, since kalluto told me the ryodan plans to rob some cliches who'll join the expedition- to look after him. you want me to join them?"

"yes, and i plan to board as well, don't fret."

illumi's eyes turn to slits, "how should i know you would be there? i can't take your word when you might just disappear when we've all boarded."

hisoka grins, wide then wider, "you should know by now illu, i plan to avenge my wounded pride. that damned chrollo didn't even fight me properly."

tilting his head, illumi stared at the man beside him, "is that not contradictory? i thought you did not mind your opponent using whatever means necessary to win?"

"magicians use tricks and misdirection to awe the audience," hisoka says almost thoughtlessly, "chrollo's a narcissistic hypnotist who used the audience as a damned shield because he knew he couldn't handle me face-to-face."

he groans, tinged in regret. "i shouldn't have picked heaven's arena, if i'd chosen a more discreet location then maybe the damage won't be this bad."

"damage?" illumi rests his chin on his palm, facing his husband.

hisoka swipes a hand over his face, and the glamour comes off. the picture he sent illumi now present in front of him. he was missing a nose, his left hand didn't have any finger left and dried blood chipped on his white skin. "oh."

with another swipe, everything's made correct again. hisoka was grinning again. he downs the remaining alcohol and leaves jenny bills under the emptied glass.

"come, lovely husband. we're to elope and legalize our union!"

illumi follows suit after downing his own glass, "i think there might be another loop hole, if you were to join the family. zoldycks do not kill family."

"so if i were to wed you, here and now, you'd think me more of a family than alluka?"

"alluka is not family."

"are those your words, illumi? or silva's?"

"i..."

"wow, you're really just as fucked up as i am."

"where do you plan to take me? i've just said i cannot kill family."

hisoka chuckles, "then you're the one to take my name, of course."

"preposterous!"

"who the hell still uses that word?"

"i am and will always be a zoldyck-"

"exactly. it's just legal papers, if you kill me then you'll just be a widow and even get your name back! see how everything'll work out in the end?"

"hisoka-"

"are you doubting your skill of assassination, my dearest husband?"

"... i better get the most expensive ring in this damned city."

"that's the spirit! now let's go get married!"

"wait, hisoka. what is your last name?"

later that night, when they leave a chapel, something gold glimmers on hisoka's bungee gum/texture surprise ring finger. a matching one around illumi's finger.

unlike hisoka, though, illumi had an extra red glimmer right under that gold, in the dead center of a silver band of intricately designed pattern. hisoka had foregone the traditional diamond in favor of a 16 carat ruby engagement ring, such a curious choice but illumi accepted it all the same...

(much later on, hisoka took both rings as collateral and reminded illumi that he would get them back even if he died bc it was in their damn prenup- and bc it was technically bought under illumis name and that's how hisoka assured illu that he'd be on that black whale,,, bc he had the rings and planned to give them back to him there)

"I thought a red gemstone was better suited for the rather bloody and murderous ending that our relationship will inevitably come to, wouldn't you agree?"

-Hisoka Morow whenever someone mentions his preference of proposal ring...

"I disagree with most of his ideals, our relationship has always had a fragile foundation, and I knew from the start that we'd eventually end up killing each other."

-Illumi Morow, nee Zoldyck when asked about his thoughts on his husband...

#prenup #engagement ring #hunter x hunter #hxh #headcanon #imagine #hunter x hunter 2011 #hisoillu #hisoka #hisoka morrow #hisoka morow #illumi #illumi zoldyck #hisoka x illumi #chat?? #conversation #marriage proposal #incorrect texts #hisoka wanted illumi to kill him to make things more interesting #how i think the conversation went #hisoka and illumis engagement #married hisoillu #my own plot twist #illumi just wants the money #or so he says #hisoka is actually rich tho #how do u think he keeps having a full deck of cards #their engagement ring is a ruby #change my mind #you can't

[ignitification]

Colour Analysis III: (LoV Series II) - Dabi

Yes, no - you don't have any hallucination. It's here. It is. And yes, it took an absurdly long time to, but it's here so mh, yeah - enjoy.

I suddenly remembered that an ask, long ago, asked me about the design pattern evident for Dabi. It's here in case you want to have a look at it.

As I stated there, Dabi is a living contradiction, especially in terms of colour theory.

His colour pattern is a chameleon of sorts: he both represents light and dark at the same time, as if he cannot decide which one to stick with. I think that this duality has all to do with his genealogy. Inheriting his mother constitution and his father's Quirk amplified, Dabi goes through an adaptation process, manifesting especially by the change in his hair's colour (same as Tomura, that is - you can find the link for his analysis at the bottom of the post). The dyeing hair is also part of the process, but this time it comes about with a voluntary part, which brings us to the point that even if not entirely, Dabi's personality is build around a feeling and a character, which he wants to express and contrast at the same time. This is why, as I already specified the most important colour when it comes to Dabi are Blue, Purple and White (with a sprinkle of Red).

I.) Royal Blue

More than any other colour, Blue is what fits Dabi the most. His eyes are blue, his fire is blue and his clothes are blue (different variation, but you get the gist).

Blue usually stands for coolness, loyalty, intelligence and responsibility. But pushing this aside for a minute, blue has a distinct effect on the human body: it lowers the heart rate and the body temperature and has a calming effect. It's a constant colour which represents the tide of waves and the never-ending blue of the sky. In respect to Dabi, it can be seen how this hardly applies - but, at the same time it does. As Dabi inherits Rei's constitution and her resistance to the cold - but his father's 'fiery' personality, his fire manifests as both. It creates a friction, until the burns on his body become an evident purple. This characteristic has a distinct connection to Red (section IV) - however, the leitmotiv is that Dabi's body is used to the effects that blue should have on him, and instead of seeing it realise they are brought down and counter-affected by Red (which is a metaphor for his entire persona).

Blue has the feature of being ever-changing, which, as you'll have understood by now, is one of many contrasts in Dabi's appearance. He indeed goes through an exterior change - but as blue, he remains steady on a path (which is revenge, and will to actually prove to Endeavour that he is not a mistake), making his character consistent with his ideas throughout the arcs and steady.

An overuse of blue is cold and impersonal - indicating the presence of deep dark secrets and having a  connection with feelings of sadness and depression. It creates the pictures of someone hiding in the dark just not to reveal their secrets, and for a long time we see Dabi trying to keep a low profile and then approach with an attitude of uncaring and cold indifference. He has burned his eye glands, which should allow him to express this feelings - but they are expressed, on the contrary, in the strength of his fire, and causes old feeling to settle and burn their way through his persona.

Blue is a susceptible colour and it hurts deeply - because in the first place, people associated with blue tend to feel too deeply. This fits the pattern of Dabi's fire being conditioned by his emotions, and why likely it creates deep wounds on his body: as a remainder that his feelings, expressed through the fire are way too intense and affect Dabi deeply. Deep enough for him to survive an astonishing fire and to hide for years in wait of having the right opportunity, the perfect opportunity to actually redirect this feeling onto the subject which caused them. As the constant colour that it is, indeed, blue (and Dabi) lives in the past.

Light blue is associated with healing, understanding and softness (his eyes), while darker hues are instead expression of power and knowledge (clothes - as a reminder of adulthood).

Finally, back on the literal meaning of blue: blue is a giver in the relationships that matter, but at the same time this colour can be unfaithful and deceiving (and we saw this in his interactions with the League at first and with Hawks, too). It is associated with intelligence and and consciousness (and indeed, the one who sort of had the reigns of the Training Camp was Dabi, and furthermore he is the only one who Ujiko retained mature enough to control a High End). This encompasses his characteristics of being reliable and responsible - and of course, Dabi embodies the whole spectrum.

Also on a final, funnily enough note, blue is usually associated with voice communication and someone who needs order, and strives for perfection as well as tending to be the one to speak in public. It's idealistic and expresses a will to satisfy its higher needs - and by doing that it expresses devotion in these ideals. So if you think about how Dabi's character is focused on reforming society, and giving Stain's will freedom and realisation, Dabi comes full circle - with a devotion which makes him focused on his goals (Stain's will, reformation of society and the Endeavour' downfall) , the commitment to actual plan their perfect realisation, and the ability to achieve it through the right means (The Broadcast).

II.) Pure White

White. Integrity, purity, innocence. Mourning, for some cultures. In particular in Japan, it is used as a colour meaning death, and is used in funerals. Same as for Tomura, Dabi uses both White and Black to somehow mourn himself and his loss (Tenko for his family, Touya for the himself he leaves behind) and especially in his adulthood, the concealing of such a colour through pitch black, is not only an effort to hide his identity but also to express a refusal to be the same person. White represents a new beginning, a blank slate. And if we consider these two to be somehow related (because death is seen as not the end, but instead a new beginning) it is clear how this colour, has a relevance to this character. After Touya's death, and his white hair hidden - he becomes Dabi, who has no time to still appeal to the childish feeling of wanting to impress his father and instead throws himself onto a new chapter of his life, because the past he will always remember, has been burned.

Same as blue, white brings serenity and peace - and at the same time it represents coldness and emptiness. I think this somehow emphasises the change in colour from red to white, and the loss of believing in strength (read: Endeavour) instead leaving an empty space in his heart, filled with emotions which he cannot control. The loss of innocence and the acquisition of the fact that Touya will never be what his father wanted him to, and the acceptance of such a thing - further brings out the meaning of the colour blue. (As already stated before, white, in Dabi's case is of enormous relevance - because it amplifies its relation to blue.)

Finally, white brings forward independence and freedom - and it stands for perfection. And I think it's really ironic how white, is not only the colour he inherited from Rei - a cold stark white - but at the same time, Endeavour has tossed him aside for the same reason, and that is because in his eyes he could not be more 'wrong'. But when his hair settles into his ultimate colour of white, Touya also breaks free from his father's expectation (but does he, really?) to start instead a new chapter as Dabi. Hiding the mistake he thinks he is, an instead embraces the personality that has been thrown onto him.

White is also the symbol of truth - which is tied to the revelation that Dabi is Touya Todoroki, and his dyed black hair becomes white, again (revealing the truth of his persona).

II.I) Pitch Black

Just to be as precise as possible, I'm adding a tiny section on black, which can be summarised in two sentences: black is associated with mystery, sophistication, power and authority. It brings forward the symbol of darkness, rebellion and ultimately it stands as a synonym of death. It's a colour which, when considered in respect to white, stands for the struggle between right and wrong - good and evil. Dabi presents himself as someone mysterious, and he does not reveal his name until far down the line. But he is still a representation of power, in terms of quirk and his position both inside the LoV and the PFL. Furthermore, him covering up his hair colour with black, as already said, has to do with wanting to appear a villain more than it has to do with his identity. He wants to fade into background for a while, and then come from the darkness to sweep everyone away - covering himself in black so it sends a clear message to everyone looking at him: that he is dangerous, and that there is no escape from his evil.

III.) Daunting Purple

Now, this is a controversial section. When I first thought of Dabi, I associated him with blue more than anything else, because after all, even if purple is an ever-present colour, it is just a reminder of how dangerous his quirk is, and how his body does not fare well in the friction of his firepower and his constitution. However, I think it is still important to put things into perspective when it comes to Dabi.

It is not a surprise, that Purple comes about as a combination of Red and Blue. The eternal struggle - which comes forth into the most detrimental way possible, for him. The shade of this colour has different meanings (not surprisingly) but, as far as I am concerned, Dabi's is a 'darker purple' (which is the one we have figured in the pictures) and fulfils its duty to evoke sadness and gloom. This is just a constant reminder of his story, and also the why Dabi is not very big on concealing the scars: because he thinks of them as a fair punishment, and that they remind him constantly of what and when exactly things did go wrong. Purple is also a colour associated with royalty and people with authority. On this meaning, there might a controversial stake, because it would actually give a relevance (or positive connotation) to the colour, however, as already stated before - I think that the scars are not only a reminder for himself, but same as the conscious choice of wearing black, Dabi makes a conscious choice to reveal his burn marks and to stitch his skin with evident metal piercings. He is putting them in evidence for a reason, and I'd guess this is the same reason for why he sticks on wearing dark colours, and to due his hair black: Dabi's objective is to appear as a heartless villain, and usually the image of somehow badly injured and wearing dark clothes, as sad as this might be, projects the image of exactly someone you'd like to avoid on the street.

Purple is also the colour of 'Fall', with its fading light. I found this particularly poetic when it comes to Dabi, as Fall might as well be the eternal representation of his character, and the fact that instead Dabi's fire just grown bigger and bigger, hurting him even more in the process - is the total contrary of fading light. But on the other hand, the light of his own personality, and those emotions he keeps tucked away just tend to be fade, dwindle at every sign of possible emotional connection.

Purple promotes the balance between mind and emotions - between the spiritual and the physical world. The balance between Red (emotions) and Blue (mind), and to which Dabi is not accustomed, yet. Finally, purple - among others - is also a mourning colour (reminder that both White and Black are also mourning colours). And it also inspires mystery, which again the image Dabi likes to project about himself onto others.

IV.) Flourishing Red

Red is Dabi's curse and representation. The contrast to white, and also the exacerbation of Blue. Red is the colour that gets the blood going (or rather, in this case, 'The one that turns up the heat' and which contrasts the calming effects of Blue) and the one who expresses passion and strength (which is why Endeavour's personality colour is Red - it's not a case that Red is associated with violence, anger, blood, obsession of power and strength, danger and fiery passion).

Red is the colour which Touya denies, and that instead comes back to bite him back. Red is energising and full of spirit and passion - and the image of a young Touya, striving to get better and make his father proud comes to mind. It's prideful and full of power - the will of a child, and his enormous Quirk-power struggling to keep it in check. This is why, Red after a while fades to Blue - and burns even more than it used to. Passion felt too deep, the exploitation of power which brings destruction. An all clear sentence to actually see why Dabi ends up with denying the all-too-overwhelming presence of Red and its characteristics, opting instead for a more suited to him Blue, which is also highly contrasting to the pure anger and passion associated to Red. The fact that Touya's hair changes, is an indicator of how he negates his father's influence, but still insists on hanging on those feelings, because he cannot let go of them. A walking oxymoron.

Thank for staying all the way, and for reading.

P.S. The colour analysis featuring Izuku and Shigaraki are respectively linked.

#bnha #mha #dabi #mha dabi #boku no hero academia #my hero academy #my hero academia #bnha spoilers #mha spoilers #todoroki touya #colour theory #bnha colour theory #bnha theory #bnha analysis #bnha color theory #bnha dabi #todoroki family #mentions of #todoroki rei #todoroki enji #endeavour #hawks #lov #league of villains #pfl #paranormal liberation front

[let-it-raines]

Black Velvet (1/1)

1919. The War is over, but life is far from normal. While the imminent danger is gone for many, it is not gone for Emma Swan. Her secrets have always been dangerous and had the ability to control her, but they have never been more dangerous than now as she is forced to work undercover as a barmaid and keep her true intentions hidden from the most notorious gang leader in England. 

Her life depends on it, but unfortunately for Emma, Killian Jones can read her better than anyone ever has. 

Rating: Mature 

a/n: I was going to wait to post this next week since I’ve been catching up on posting other things this week and flooded you all with words, but I am sooooo excited for this one! Like, I haven’t written a big one-shot in awhile, and this one is a little different for me. But I love it, and hope that you do as well! For my Peaky Blinders fans, I think you’ll recognize some similarities because this is def based on it😘

Found on AO3 | here | 

-/-

There is a sudden crash of glass shattering against the battered wood floor, stains of alcohol, blood, and the scuff marks of boots covering it to make it a darker wood than it originally was. She’s scrubbed that floor until her hands were dry and cracked, but the stains are as imbedded in the wood as the Jones family is in this place, their place. The stains might well be purposeful, and really, they could have been, a sure sign that the Joneses are not scared to let anyone know they do not mind getting blood on their hands or mind leaving the evidence behind. In fact, they are likely proud of it.

Loud cursing fills the usually subdued pub, arguments over whose fault it was for the spilling of the whiskey, but Emma knows that it doesn’t matter whose fault it was when she’s the one who has got to clean it up and scrub the damn floors clean when all is said and done.

Damn drunk men and their damn petty fights over what always amounts to being about a woman who has no interest in either of them.

Sighing, she turns on her heels behind the bar where she was polishing tumblers and other glasses and walks back into the storage room to retrieve the broom and dustpan along with some cloths. She is not supposed to leave the bar and the alcohol unattended, but she has been working here long enough to know that anyone who stumbles into this particular pub is smart enough to know not to steal from the Jones family.

They’ll be dead faster than the rum can pass their lips, and the Joneses don’t give out the good stuff to just anyone so that would be one pathetic last drink.

Twisting on the lights in the closet, her eyes scan over shelves of supplies and half-empty bottles that have somehow made their way back here, until she finds the broom, unattached from the pan.

Of course. Why would the broom ever be stored away with its matching set?

“Fuck,” she mutters, adjusting her trousers. They are too large around her waist, but she hasn’t had time to buy any new clothes lately. From what she’s gleamed, trousers on women are not widely accepted in Birmingham, but some days she cannot be bothered to wear a dress that squeezes the breath out of her. Today was one of those days, but unless she wants her knickers on display for everyone to see, she is going to have to buy new clothes soon.

“That’s no language for a lady.”

Immediately, she twists around to look at the other side of the room where the deep, accented voice originated. He’s standing with his gray suit clad legs crossed over another, arms stretched over his chest so that his shirt tightens around his muscles, and there is a bloody smirk plastered on that ever-handsome face under the dark brush of his facial hair. He’s without his cap and suit jacket today, but he’s never without his vest and the shirt that stays indecently unbuttoned. It is the one thing that never changes about his appearance, and the day she sees his shirt fully buttoned, Emma knows shit will start flying in every direction.

“Well, as you know, I’m far from a lady. I work here after all.”

Blue eyes flicker up and down her body, taking in the curves of her hips and her breasts even under her loose clothing, the bastard, and if possible, the smirk intensifies, curling from one side of his lips to the next.

“Now, darling,” he croons, uncrossing his legs and taking three strides forward to stand in her space, hovering just enough above her to make her feel smaller than she already is, “you and I both know that is not true.” “Do we?” she argues, raising a brow in his direction.

He chuckles, something dark that heads straight between her thighs, and then warm hands are on her hips, rough fingertips brushing against the skin at her waist, and hot breath brushes over her ear and down her neck while whiskers prick her skin.

“Did you miss me, love?” Killian whispers before pulling back, putting space between them as quickly as he closed it off.

“Were you gone?”

His head tilts back with laughter, and she watches him roll his shirt sleeves up, revealing angry red scars and marks on his left hand. She’s heard the rumors of how he received those scars, but when it comes to Killian Jones, rumors are not reliable. He’s done things the average person could never dare dream of, and fiction and reality toe a thin line, both of them crossing until everything is blurred.

“I was in London for two weeks, love. I cannot believe you didn’t notice my absence. I would have thought it would be at the forefront of your mind.”

“Well, I know this may be hard for you to believe, but my thoughts do not revolve around you.”

His brow lifts, lines on his forehead moving with it, and he cocks his head to the side, disbelieving. “A woman as fascinating as you must have too many things to fill her mind other than me, so I can actually believe it if you must know.”

“You flatter me.”

Killian clicks his tongue. “I intend to.” He moves around her, footfalls quiet, and presses open the hidden door in the closet he must have walked through to be in here. “My brothers and I will be in our dining room today. Get the good stuff from the safe.”

Emma mockingly bows. “It would be my pleasure.”

He stares, blue eyes bright compared to the darkness of the rest of him, and then he slips out, moving through the back hallways and compartments that were installed during the War but are now used for the family to avoid their enemies and the coppers, who are usually paid off but can sometimes still question the Joneses’ business practices, especially when there’s a new hire for their more questionable ventures. It is a fascinating thing to watch how a family who supposedly manufactures automobiles and distills rum has such a varied number of enemies. Maybe that is simply how it is for all businessmen, but Emma wouldn’t know.

She is simply a barmaid after all.

When she exits the closet with both broom and pan in hand, the argument is over, but the shattered glass remains. She quickly cleans it, dumps the glass outside, and gets back to tending bar, talking to the men who wander in and out of the place. Half of them fancy her, she knows. It’s obvious in the way they speak to her, even more obvious in the way they will often attempt to touch her, but Emma does not get paid to appease the baser desires of the patrons of My Fairest Lady. If she did, she would be in an entirely different type of business where her purse would be full for once.

As the day passes, men come in and out in their tailored suits and carefully curated ties, and Emma watches all of them, seeing where they go and what they order. She watches as some walk up the stairs and only appear again hours lately, but mostly she watches the ones that walk into the pub and immediately turn right into the private room the Joneses sit in when they decide they are going to conduct business at the pub instead of in one of their offices. When the rest of the place quiets, she can often hear them, especially if she decides to rest near the small trap door through which they order their drinks.

Tonight, they are talking about needing new men, but she cannot hear well enough as to why. This has been her problem for weeks. She gleams a little information, but not enough, and if Killian Jones wasn’t so in tune to every noise in the place, she’d sneak through the back tunnels and listen from there.

That would surely get her killed.

The sun sets early, the smog from the factories outside aiding in the darkening of the world, and when her shift is over for the night, Emma grabs her things and leaves, walking through the streets of Birmingham until she is at her flat, a small, dingy little place that reminds her of the homes she grew up in. It wasn’t her first choice, but so often, things aren’t.

Emma twists the key in the lock and walks inside. For all of its faults, the place has electricity. That makes her life much easier since she does not have to go about striking matches and blowing out fire every few hours.

“Hello, dearie.”

Emma’s skin pales, and heaviness settles in her stomach, weighing her down to keep her from moving. Sitting at her kitchen chair is Robert Gold, and no matter how long she has worked with him, she will never feel comfortable when he decides to show his face without notice.

She will never feel comfortable even when he gives notice.

“Gold,” Emma nods, straightening her back. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Slowly, he stands, using his gold-encrusted cane to prop himself up, and Emma shuts the door behind her. She has a knife in a strap around her thigh, and while she technically works for him, she doesn’t trust Gold as far as she can throw that knife.

“Have you located the guns?”

“If I had, you would know.”

“That doesn’t work for me.”

Emma tilts her head back and scoffs, her rapid heartbeat calming as her skin heats, rage and fire and disbelief settling in the bumps of her skin. “Oh, my deepest apologizes. It is obviously a simple bloody task to infiltrate the most notorious gang in the city and gleam where they keep stolen guns. They don’t talk so openly about their business!”

Gold walks closer, beady eyes reflected under the lamplight, and Emma stays steady. “We hired a woman to do this because women are Killian Jones’s weakness. Get to know him, get in his bed, and then you will be in the inner circle.”

She spits. “I am not sleeping with him for your cause.”

“Is my cause not your cause? Getting rid of undesirable gangs and criminals that disrespect the Crown and steal from our arms factories?”

Emma laughs, her heartbeat racing again. “I work for you because I have no other choice. It was this or death.”

He shrugs, tapping his cane. “You shouldn’t have made a deal with me, and we wouldn’t be in this position. Alas, we are, and you must deal with the consequences of your actions, dearie. All deals have a price. I’ll be returning.”

Gold steps around her, making Emma move to the side, and then he exits her flat. His presence, however, lingers, and she feels as if grime and smog are coating her skin. That is a feeling that never goes away, but it is especially present after one of Gold’s visits. Emma curses and stomps her foot, despising her situation. She is only twenty-three years of age, but she has lived the life of an elder. Growing up in orphanages does not set a woman up for a good life, and seven years ago when she fell pregnant but couldn’t afford to take care of the baby, she went to Gold for help. He was known to be able to do anything, especially find homes for children without charging the birth mother exuberant prices, but no one told her the price of his services would be to work for him and the government in backhanded deals. It was this, death, or harm done to a child she has only held once but loves as if she was allowed to raise him.

She couldn’t be a mother, doesn’t know if she ever will be able to again, but she will not let harm fall on that child.

So, now, she is shipped across Europe, putting her life at risk every day. After all, what is the potential of death when compared to certain death?

-/-

Days pass, and Emma learns of no new information. She works long hours, taking extra shifts and standing behind the bar until her feet bleed from blisters, her heels too small with swollen feet. Every day, Killian and his brothers Liam and Lee walk inside, often with William Scarlet and Rob Locksley following behind them, but they say nothing more to her than greetings and drink orders. Killian will spend additional time leaning over the bar, his voice deep with his flirtations, but she pushes them away. She will not sleep with him to get information, and she will not sleep with him because he thinks she is easy prey.

Men like him, no matter how enticing, do not lead to good things.

Knowing he’s the head of a gang doesn’t reassure her.

Knowing one day he will have a price on her head, well, it does not give her any confidence that she could ever be anything more than a warm body in his bed. Most likely, he wouldn’t give her the curtesy of taking her there, instead taking her behind the bar.

If only she had been born into a family with means. Maybe then she could live a life where death did not linger so closely.

“Swan, darling,” Killian calls from his private room, “can you come in here?”

Emma stills, gripping on her glass, but she quickly composes herself. It’s not often she is called into the room, and while she would like an invitation to the inside, she knows it comes with risks. Slowly, she moves around the bar and heads toward the door. Liam opens it for her, nodding, and she steps inside as Liam closes the door behind her. Killian, Lee, William, and Rob are sitting in the cushioned booths, and Killian pats the seat beside him. She nods and sits next to him, keeping her posture straight and face neutral.

“Emma, love,” Killian starts, “you’re educated, are you not?”

“I am not.”

Killian twists and looks at her with wide eyes. “You speak like you’ve been educated.”

“Natural intelligence,” Emma shrugs. Gold gave her an education, but she refuses to give him any credit when most of it has been of her own doing. “I attended school as a child, but not much else. Everything has been self-taught.”

“See,” Lee sighs, “I don’t need more schooling.”

“You damn well do if you want to be a part of this business! We are educated men, and you will be no different.”

“Where did you go to school?” Emma asks, not able to help herself.

“Oxford. Though, my studies were interrupted by my needed service in the War.”

“It’s a shame.”

“I think I’m doing well for myself, regardless, love.”

“You should go to school, Lee,” Emma tells the youngest Jones brother, a bastard child of their father they brought into the family business. “You have the Jones Corporation to fall back on, but if you want to be a true asset, you should better yourself as much as you can.”

“Oi, am I bloody well supposed to take advice from a woman? A woman who is a barmaid no less? What could you possibly know?”

Killian slams his hand down on the table, glass and silverware shaking. “This woman is far more competent than you, lad, and I suggest you respect her. Everyone is your equal, no matter what dear old dad told you to make you believe otherwise.”

Lee curses under his breath, and Emma slinks back into the booth as the room stills, the air heavy with unspoken words waiting to be set free. She doesn’t know if she should stay or walk out of the room and back to her job, but Killian makes the decision for her. “Why don’t you all go? Get back to work.”

“What about what we were discussing?” Liam questions, but he still grabs his cap and his coat.

“We will discuss it later.” The men nod and then begin to shuffle out of the room. Emma moves to join them, but Killian reaches out and grabs her wrist, the warmth of his hand spreading over here. “Stay, Swan.”

She doesn’t dare deny him as she cannot give up any opportunity to learn more about him, so she turns and takes the seat opposite him, smoothing out her skirt and her hair. “Is everything alright?”

“The horse race is this weekend, as I’m sure you know, and I’d like to bring you as a guest.”

Emma blanches. “Excuse me?”

A smile creeps onto his face, and he reaches into his pocket to slide a bag of coins across the table. “I’d like to take you to the races as my companion. You should use this to buy a nice dress and hat.”

“Are you trying to buy my affections?”

“I think we both know you cannot be bought.”

If only he knew.

Emma studies him, trying to read past the smile and the friendly invitation, but she sees nothing of any use. “Why me?”

Killian leans forward, elbow pressed to the table and chin resting on his knuckle. “I fancy you from time to time when you aren’t ignoring me, as I have made no secret.”

Emma thinks to all the times where she’s forgotten herself and has allowed Killian to get close in the way she doesn’t want, all the times he has lingered close to her and pressed his lips to her neck before she pulls away. She will not sleep with him for money or for Gold’s cause, but she would be telling a lie if she said she has never considered it for her own personal reasons. Her mind is constantly contradicting her there, and Emma has never been able to settle her thoughts one way or another.

Getting into bed with dangerous men leads to getting into bed with dangerous things.

Emma has already put on the sheets and started slipping out of her shoes despite her best efforts not to.

“So, you expect me to buy a nice outfit and spend a day away with you as nothing more than an ornament on your arm because you fancy me?”

“I expect nothing of you. Every choice is up to you.”

Emma reaches her fingers across the table and takes the purse of coins. “Any color in particular you’d like for my dress?”

“Surprise me.”

-/-

Her dress is red, and when she walks into My Fairest Lady on Saturday morning, she can feel the eyes of the entire place on her. It’s made of a delicate lace and flowered accents and flares out at the hips, but the corset makes her breasts push up, cleavage showing where she usually hides it. Her heels were dyed to match, her hat too, and it is the nicest thing she’s ever worn. It feels foreign on her skin, and while Emma would prefer comfort, she doesn’t mind feeling elegant for once. Anna, the woman who lives next to her, saw Emma carry her dress home, asked where she was going with it, and insisted she allow Emma to roll her hair with hot curlers and apply paint to her lips. She thinks the redness of her lips along with the cleavage may be the thing that brings down the Jones Company, and if she’d known that, maybe she would have dressed like this earlier.

“You look,” Killian begins.

“I know,” Emma finishes, taking his hand as he helps her into the carriage. “You look nice as well.”

“And much like you, I did know that.”

The drive to the races doesn’t seem long, but Emma knows they’ve traveled for at least two hours. Killian doesn’t talk for much of it, but when he does, it’s to point out something on the side of the road. He’s able to tie everything in with a story from the War or something William Scarlet has done, and Emma chuckles, seeing the lighter side of them. She knows how they spend much of their time, and it is not taking all of Killian’s suits out of his closet and replacing them with Lee’s so they’ll be several sizes too small.

When they arrive at Cheltenham, it is like nothing Emma has ever seen before. The building around the track is glamourous and obviously newly built, and everyone around is in their nicest clothes. To Emma, this is foreign, every bit of it. Her life is a life in the shadows in tattered clothes and normal things. Her life is not spent betting on horse races and wearing dresses worth more than her flat to accompany the head of a gang while she secretly attempts to discover where he’s hiding the guns Gold wants.

She does not even know why Gold wants those guns so badly when the factory can surely produce more, but her entire life is about finding them.

She should have never stepped foot in his house had she known these would be the consequences, but she needed to give that kid the good life he has.

“This is spectacular,” Emma says as the carriage stutters to a stop amongst all the others, motors slowly dying out.

Killian takes her hand and guides her out of the carriage, placing his hand on her lower back when they set foot on the gravel. “You haven’t seen anything yet, love.”

Killian is right in that she hasn’t seen anything because when they walk inside, the floor is lined with black and white tiles, and the ceiling is home to ornate paintings and chandeliers that look too heavy to stay there. Emma shouldn’t feel overwhelmed by it all, but she does. Killian knows every other person they pass, some greeting him with reverence and some greeting him with fear, but they all greet him just the same. His hand stays steady on her back as he moves her though the hallways, and he introduces her to several other women before disappearing into another room. She wants to follow him, to see what business he’s doing, but she knows she can’t.

“How do you know Killian Jones?” a woman with long brunette hair asks. Emma thinks her name is Ruby, but she cannot remember. It was too much talking at once.

“How do you?” Emma counters.

“I was his lover years ago.”

Emma arches her brow. “Well, that does not shock me.”

“Oh, you don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

Ruby steps closer to her, whispering so no one around them can hear. “He had an affair with the wife of a powerful man, and the man killed his wife in front of Killian and burned Killian’s hand. After that, he slept with anyone who so much as looked like his lover because he was often too drunk to realize the difference. So, you, you’re different. I have never seen him go with a blonde.”

“Well,” Emma steadies, trying to keep her heart from racing after what she heard, “I am not his lover, so I imagine you’ll have to keep waiting to see that.”

“Not yet,” Ruby tells her before stepping away, dress trailing behind her.

“You ready to watch the races?”

Emma jumps at Killian’s returned presence, and he chuckles, placing his hand on her back again while looking down at her, amused. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Emma lies. “Just fine.”

She flashes a smile that reaches her eyes, making it as genuine as possible, and before Killian guides her to their seats, she sees a spot of blood on his shirt. She doesn’t know if it is his or someone else’s, but she does know that whatever business he had at the races has very little to do with horses.

-/-

Emma’s feet ache when she settles into her seat in the carriage, and she immediately toes out of her shoes and tucks her feet underneath her. Killian eyes her with curiosity, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he shrugs of his jacket and lays it over her lap.

“You may not have been able to move, but you cut quite the figure in that dress.” Her cheeks heat, but she doesn’t say anything, simply smiling at him. “Did you enjoy the races, Swan?”

“I did. Though, not as much as you.”

“What makes you say that?”

Emma hums and taps her fingers over Killian’s suit jacket, moving it to cover more of her. “Well, your purse is fuller. Your horse won, and if I heard correctly, you are now in charge of all bets.”

He turns to look at her, and if she were talking to any other member of the gang, she would back away. For some reason, however, the leader doesn’t scare her tonight, not like he should. She had one too many glasses of fine wine.

“How exactly do you know that?”

Emma points to the small blood stain on his shirt. “I’m assuming that is the blood of someone from the Mills family, who all mysteriously went away before the races even started. Everyone came to Rob and Liam to make their bets. It does not take a genius to figure things out once the pieces begin to fall into place.”

“Not a genius, no, but someone with an observant eye.” He leans forward, invading her space like he so often does. “You, love, know a little too much.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Emma whispers, breathless.

He leans closer, until her air and his air are the same, and Emma closes her eyes to brace herself, not knowing what is coming next. His lips ghost over hers, but they do not firmly touch. Instead they linger, and Emma feels every move he makes. “Keep you close,” Killian finally says. “I believe you would know too much for me to let you go.”

Enough but not what she needs.

“I believe you may be right.”

Killian rests his hand on her thigh before pulling back, their air separating into their own entities once more. “Lee would have a bloody fit if he ever knew you so quickly figured things out. The boy has potential, but he is too much like our father. I believe that will be his downfall.”

“I believe underestimating women will be his downfall.”

Killian clicks his tongue and nods. “You see, that stems directly from our father, the bastard of all bastards, and you are correct. Many a man was brought down by the kiss of a woman, but few of them have the smarts to know it was her brain that truly brought them down.”

“And you know that?”

“Aye, I do.”

Emma wants to ask about the woman Ruby mentioned early, but she doesn’t dare. She’s already toeing the lines of danger tonight, and mentioning the deceased woman Killian used to love seems ill advised.

So, she stays quiet and keeps her place, knowing she is one step closer to where she needs to be. She is gaining his trust more and more each day, but she also feels herself slipping into a place from which she cannot return.

Fuck.

-/-

Weeks pass, and the weather chills, Birmingham’s winter quickly creeping upon them. Emma freezes every day on her walk to the pub, but one day a coat appears in a box with her name on it. It is long and warm, and besides her red dress, the nicest thing she owns. Killian never confirms it is from him, but she knows it was. She knows the coat, the gloves, and the scarves are all from him, and while she tells him thank you, he never accepts any of her words. Instead, he invites her more into his life. She knows about the gambling and the illegal businesses of the Jones Corporation, and her knowledge gets her foot in the door.

Everything that happens inside is up to Killian.

He brings her in from the pub to settle arguments, to help with the numbers after he discovers she’s better with them than Rob ever has been, and when Liam goes away for some time to take his wife to visit her family in France, Killian often has Emma sit in Liam’s seat with his hand on her thigh underneath the table.

Killian Jones is not a man who takes his time courting women, but Emma cannot help but feel like that is exactly what is happening with her. It is surely not proper, but there’s too much lingering between them for it to be anything else.

Though, it does always stay lingering, never crossing the line, and Emma finds herself thinking more and more about the woman he loved and the string of women who followed.

She finds her resolve to keep her heart away from him teetering over the edge of no return.

She also thinks of Neal, of how much he promised her, of how much he let her down. He was going to give her a better life, but then he disappeared into the wind, never to be heard from again when she realized she was pregnant.

Surely she must take some blame for her situation, but Emma always remembers that so much of it is because of Neal.

Tonight Killian is allowing singing in the pub. He never does, says it makes the place too cheery when that is not his style of pub, but once a week, he allows the men to sing after she leads them off in whatever song she knows. The joyous mood leads to more drinking, which is more money for them, and she imagines that is the only reason Killian allows it.

If she were a conceited woman, she would say he allows it to hear her sing.

The Joneses and their associates march into the pub, some of them disappearing into the back room, but most come to the main part of the pub, moving around the crowd and disappearing into the thick of it. Emma watches Killian, and she can feel his eyes on her no matter where he is.

He never does come to the bar for long periods of time, not while the place is full of people at least, but then when Arthur Pemberton’s hand gets a little too close to Emma, suddenly Killian is there, standing with her, hand possessively on her hip while he warns Arthur not to let his libations get to him.

“I can handle myself,” Emma hisses when Arthur has stumbled away. “I do not need you.”

“Of that I have no doubt.”

“Then what was that? You wanted to show off who had the bigger cock?”

“Darling, I know that would be me.”

Emma’s head tilts back with feigned, exasperated laughter, but Killian does not seem amused. She waits for him to laugh, for the blue of his eyes to light up, but instead his jaw clenches from beneath his whiskered chin.

“Fancy a song then, sailor?” Emma asks to change the subject and keep them from getting into a row. For all the nights they have spent talking about small little details of their lives and their wishes, so, too, have they spent nights arguing. She knows when they’re on the verge of both.

“Why would I fancy a song?”

“To make you smile.”

“Alright then.” He taps his hand on the bar top before helping Emma up to her new vantage point, arching his brow while he looks at her. “Sing me a song then, lass.”

Emma nods and inhales, knowing the entire room will be listening, but she only focuses on the one man with blue eyes as clear as the ocean on a sunny day.

“In a neat little town they call Belfast, apprentice to trade I was bound. Many an hour’s sweet happiness had I spent in that neat little town. A sad misfortune came over me, which caused me to stray from the land. Far away from my friends and relations, betrayed by the black velvet band. Her eyes, they shone like diamonds. I thought her the queen of the land. And her hair, it hung over her shoulder, tied up with a black velvet band.”

When she finishes, the room is silent, her voice echoing between the four walls, and when she looks at Killian, she can see water in his eyes, a new ocean amongst the blue.

“Another!” someone in the crowd yells, but Emma doesn’t turn away from Killian.

“Oi, the lady sings one song. If you want a new one, sing it yourself!”

Emma chuckles and allows herself to sit down on the bar top, Killian helps her to the ground, her heels clicking against the hardwood. His hand lingers, warmth spreading through her, but as soon as it warms her, it disappears as Killian walks away, disappearing upstairs.

“Are you truly not going to sing us another song?”

Emma rolls her shoulders back and turns around, Leroy standing in front of her. She smiles softly and takes his glass, pouring him another drink. “If you ask me nicely, I just might.”

The night passes quickly, My Fairest Lady filling as it does on this day every week, but eventually everyone leaves, the place emptying as the streets quiet outside, the drunks all returning to their homes or their mistresses. Emma takes her time sweeping up, toeing out of her heels to let her feet rest, and she hums all of the songs sung today, their lyrics filling her usually tired mind.

She doesn’t hear him come in, and it would startle her if he didn’t step directly to her, taking her hands in his and pulling her close, joining in the songs she was singing. She didn’t think he could sing, but he carries a tune almost better than she does.

“I don’t dance,” Emma whispers.

“That is because you have never had a partner who knows what he’s doing.”

“And this partner is you?”

“Aye.”

Emma hasn’t danced in years, and she doesn’t know any of the traditional ones. She would be out of place at a ball for many a reason. She could wear the dress, have the nice man on her arm, but her footing would give her way. One wrong step, and everything would be over.

One wrong step here, she could be dead.

Once more, she has no interest in thinking of the real reason she’s here. She wants to stay in this moment, allowing Killian to sing sweet melodies to her, and she wants to forget about Gold and her mission and everything else.

Emma wants to pretend that for now she is nothing more than a woman dancing with a man she has come to fancy despite herself, no darkness and secrets between them.

What a world that would be.

Emma tilts her head up, looking at Killian, at the softness of his lips and the length of his dark lashes. He is different in this light, softer than his usual hard edges, but Emma knows they are still there, just below the surface.

“I took a stroll down broadway,” Killian sings, continuing her song from earlier, “meaning not long for to stay. When who should I meet but this pretty fair maid come a-traipsing along the highway. She was both fair and handsome. Her neck, it was just like a swan.”

Here, he runs a finger down her neck that ricochets into a tremor down her spine.

“And her hair, it hung over her shoulder, tied up with a black velvet band.”

“I thought you didn’t like music,” Emma whispers as his fingers toy with the ends of her loose hair. She’s enchanted by him, and for once, she isn’t afraid to admit it.

“That’s because not everyone sings like you, love.”

Slowly, Emma presses up on her toes, and her lips go gently over his, feeling the softness that resides there. He lingers, not pushing her forward, but before Emma can do just that, his hand comes to cup the nape of her neck, tilting her head for him to control the kiss. She never did imagine Killian Jones wouldn’t be the one to take charge of a kiss, so no part of this surprises her. He tastes like rum, the alcohol burning her tongue as heat overwhelms her, and Emma is so consumed by him that she doesn’t notice the way he’s backed her across the room until the edge of the bar is pressing into her lower back, leaving a mark that will linger longer than the burning of this kiss.

When Emma gently bites at his bottom lip, he growls, moving his hands to pick her up until she’s resting on the top of the bar. Emma cups his cheeks, the prickle of his beard scratching her palms, but she pays no attention to that when her legs wrap around his back and she feels his hips roll into hers, the firmness of him pressing into her in ways she hasn’t felt in too long.

It feels damn good, and if Emma were a proper woman, she would have stopped this and kept it from going too far.

She is not a proper woman.

Killian, however, seems to be a proper man, because he pulls back, sweat slicked forehead leaning against hers, and then he moves away, putting more space between him than Emma wants now that they’ve finally closed the gap they’ve lingered near since her first day on the job. All she wants now is to feel him pulsing inside of her, creating a rhythm that matches with the beat of her heart and brings her the pleasure she so craves.

“I am not having you on this bar,” he grumbles, his voice deep and hoarse. His hand falls down her back, grabbing onto her hip and pulling her closer to him. “You deserve more.”

“I wouldn’t mind.” And she means it. She once thought that he wouldn’t care enough to take her to a bed, but now she finds she’s the one who doesn’t care. Her blood is running hot, and she would be fine with it right here even if the countertop digs into her arse. “This is fine.”

He kisses her again, all teeth and tongue and rough determination, and she thinks he’s given up on his sense of chivalry, especially when he encourages her to wrap her ankles around him, but then he’s stumbling with the kiss and lifting her off the bar. She gasps at the sudden movement and circles her arms around his neck to keep from falling.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Emma protests, pulling away as Killian runs his mouth down her neck.

“I said I wasn’t having you on this bar, and I meant it. I have a private room upstairs for when I can’t sleep at home.”

There’s a dark hunger in his voice, one that thrums between Emma’s thighs, and while she’d much prefer to walk herself to the room, she allows him to have this moment. Her legs are likely too shaky with desire for her steps to be steady.

This is not what she intended to do when she kissed him, but she should have known. It’s been building for months, and Emma has shown enough restraint.

She is tired of convincing herself that she wants anything other than this. s

When they get to Killian’s room, he lays her down on the bed, and Emma immediately starts unlacing her dress at her breasts as Killian undoes the buttons on his shirt, pulling it off before he leans down to assist her, his tongue and teeth tracing her exposed skin and leaving red marks with all of his kisses. The heat between her thighs is a sharp throb now, and Emma writhes underneath Killian has his mouth touches the hollow of her throat and his hand reaches behind her knee, pulling her up until he drags against her in the perfect way that has them both moaning.

“You have tempted me since the moment you walked in this damn pub asking for a job.”

His mouth is eager with its ministrations, especially when he finds her nipple, and Emma is left searching for words as her heart threatens to beat out of her chest. Snow falls outside, cold white flakes coating the ground, but Emma is nothing but warm. Parts of her feel like she is on fire, and even as things progress and clothes no longer lay on her body, she might as well be wrapped in down blankets with a fire burning next to her and a hot drink in her hand.

Instead, she’s pressing into the mattress, Killian’s hand palming her breast while his mouth goes lower and lower until her back is arching into the air and she’s dragging her nails down his back and up into the soft tresses of his dark head of hair. Sweat is beading down her chest and collecting at her hair, and Emma never thought it would be possible to sweat in December in Birmingham.

“Killian,” she moans when he does something sinful with his tongue. “Oh fuck.”

He doesn’t say anything back, simply keeps working how he’s working, and for a long while, it’s like the pleasure is never going to end. It’s a constant working up and up and up until she’s dangling off the cliff, ready to let go.

Killian barely gives her any time to recover from her fall before he’s working his way back up her body, settling over her and settling against her so she can feel him bare where she wants him. Emma licks a stripe up his neck, salt on her tongue, and he grunts in response, rolling his hips against hers until both of them are messes.

Shifting beneath him, Emma moves until Killian is face to face with her, his lips lingering over hers and his wild, sweat slicked hair in front of her. She imagines her hair is tangled as well, and it’ll likely never be the same.

“Hello, beautiful,” he whispers, cupping her cheek with his hand.

“So, this isn’t the bar anymore,” Emma jokes, looking for levity in a moment that seems heavy.

“No, no it isn’t.”

They’re both quiet as he presses into her in a slick stretch of heat, and Emma immediately spreads her legs wider for a better fit, allowing him to settle. He’s thick and heavy inside of her, and Emma digs her nails into his back, holding on tight as she moves her hips to get a more perfect fit.

She is going to leave her mark with him tonight, red scars from her nails stretching across his back.

“You are wonderful.” He kisses her again, muttering soft words while his hips start moving, creating a rhythm that might just burn Emma alive, especially when Killian’s hand slides down to her arse and helps himself slide in deeper. “So fucking wonderful.”

“You are too.”

He groans above her, and his hips become that little bit more frantic as his chest hair creates friction against her breasts. This is the best Emma has felt in months, maybe even years, and she wants to chase this high for as long as she can, even as she feels herself tumbling over with each thrust of Killian’s hip and swipe of his thumb as his lips devour hers, only stopping to mutter filthy encouragements.

This is not how she expected today to go.

She wouldn’t change it for a thing.

Her skin is boiling now, and if the curtains were closed, Emma wouldn’t know it was winter outside. Sweat is slicked everywhere, but she doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care about anything except how good it feels when Killian engraves her name into the side of her neck as he succumbs to pleasure as well, his bodyweight pressing down on her, melding them from two to one.

After, Killian is gentle when he helps her clean up, and they settle underneath the blankets. Emma presses her right leg between his and rests her cheek against his collarbone as her fingers tread through the dark hair on his chest. She moves it around from where sweat has matted it, and she traces the red scars that make up so much of him. They look almost silver in the moonlight.

They look stunning.

Emma feels lips press to her temple, and she smiles, burying her face in his neck and breathing him in.

Happy. This is what happiness feels like. It’s been so long that it surprises her.

“I have to go.”

It’s like she’s been slapped.

“Sorry?”

“I have to go,” Killian repeats, but Emma can’t quite come to terms with the words. “I have…business to attend to.”

Her walls immediately come back up, brick by brick.

“You have business to attend to? Seriously? What the fuck kind of excuse is that? What? You fuck me and then leave? Were you using me because – ”

Emma pulls back away from him, sitting up and pulling the blankets with her, and Killian stays settled against the headboard, hands behind his head. “I had this business before I slept with you. Believe me, there is nothing I would rather do than stay in bed with you until I’m bloody dragged out of it, but I have to do this tonight.”

Emma scoffs and crawls out of the bed, getting finding her undergarments. “I’m coming with you.”

“Swan.”

“If I’m jumping into bed with you, I want to know the exact details of the man I’m jumping into bed with.”

He arches his brow, mouth curling into a smirk as his head nods to how exposed he is. “It may be a little too late for that now.”

Emma should be flustered, but she’s not. She’s determined that she won’t be left behind.

Her hands fall to her hips. “That depends on if you let me come with you.”

“Grab your damn coat and a scarf. You’ll freeze without them.”

“Are you a gentleman now?”

He clicks his tongue. “I’m always a gentleman.”

They take Killian’s carriage, only with him driving this time instead of the two of them sitting in the back, and they don’t speak wherever it is they’re going. Anticipation courses through her veins, gooseflesh spreading across her skin wherever it can reach, and a lump permanently lodges itself in her throat. She doesn’t know what to think, what to feel, and when they drive to a graveyard, Emma is certainly confused. When Killian grabs a shovel out of the back and leads her to his mother’s grave, her skin crawls for a reason entirely unrelated to the cold.

“She’s not buried here.”

“Oh?”

“No. I had a stone made, but she is closer to the ocean. It’s the place she loved the most.”

“Then what is – ”

Emma doesn’t bother finishing her question when she sees the gleam of guns underneath the moonlight. Her heart drops to the pit of her stomach, and for all that Emma has pushed away her thoughts of Gold and his threats lingering over her, there is no denying them now.

She found the guns.

Rather, Killian showed her.

She knows where they are, and by sunrise, she could be out of this place and out of this damn deal.

But Emma knows better than to think she’ll truly be free from Gold. He’ll find her again and bring with him new threats, and she’d be a fool to think otherwise.

Life as a moll has not seemed too bad lately, especially now that she knows how Killian feels when he kisses her, but she’s still torn between two places.

If she tells Gold where the guns are, she’ll be under his control for the rest of her life.

If she tells Killian, he’ll surely kill her.

For a moment, she contemplates a third option, one where she both keeps her breath and is able to truly live. It would never work, however. Gold would manipulate her, and she’d spend her entire life leading a double life, betraying the man who has obviously given her his trust.

The strange thing is, she has given him the same.

It’s not enough, and Emma, surrounded by all these graves, already knows she will have no headstone. There will be no one to mourn her.

She needs time to figure things out, and she’s running out of time.

Emma floats through the rest of the night, not knowing what she’s saying or doing, and when Killian leaves her at her flat with a resounding kiss that shakes her to her core, she thinks of running away with him. It should be easy. She’s been doing it her entire life.

“It’s late,” Killian whispers, “You should go inside and get some rest, but tomorrow, I have different plans for you.”

“Oh?”

He kisses her again, warming every bit of her body that is chilled. “Goodnight, my love.”

“Goodnight, Killian.”

Emma exits his carriage and walks into her building, a smile on her face until she unlocks her door.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Fuck,” Emma mutters, her senses coming back to her as Gold stands across from her. She hasn’t seen him since the last time he broke in, but he’s here now.

It’s too late for her to run away.

She is no longer floating through tonight.

“Where have you been?” Gold asks, his voice as cold as the snow outside.

“Working.”

“I noticed that Killian Jones himself drove you home.” The floor creaks underneath him, and his cane thumps against the floor at the same beat as her heart. “Interesting that. You didn’t come from the direction of the pub either.”

“We went for a drive.” Emma takes off her coat in an attempt at nonchalance.

“To where exactly, dearie?”

“Around the town. Nowhere in particular.”

“Is that so?” He steps closer and taps his cane. Emma doesn’t have a gun on her. She can’t risk anyone finding it at work, but she knows Gold has one on him. Fuck. She doesn’t even have her knife today, and they’re both across the room where Gold is. “Would your drive happened to have gone near the cemetery?”

Emma’s skin goes colder than the outside weather could ever make it, and it is difficult to keep her breath from shallowing.

She’s been caught, and Gold is most likely going to kill her for her disloyalty to him.

“The guns are in Allison Jones’s grave.”

She had to tell him. She had no other option.

She hates herself for it.

“That is what I needed to know. Meet me in Nottingham in a week. I’ll have a new assignment for you then.”

Emma nods and backs against the wall as Gold moves around her, his hand turning the knob on her front door. “What are you going to do with the guns? Return them to Churchill?” she asks against her better judgment.

He laughs, and gooseflesh appears on her arms and down her legs, pebbling her skin as nausea settles in her throat. “Well, I’m going to return them to Churchill, of course, but not before I have a little fun with Killian Jones. Wouldn’t you know that a gang leader was mysteriously shot in his home in the middle of the night? Must have been one of his many enemies that did it.”

“Why?” Emma whispers.

Gold smiles. “Jones is known for sleeping with another man’s wife years ago, and well, I was that other man.”

And then he’s gone, limping out of the room with that slow, aching walk of his. Emma feels as if she’s been slapped across the cheek by his cane, and she immediately turns to her sink, releasing her insides and heaving, waiting for her breath to come back.

It never truly does.

Gold’s carriage sputters to life outside as Emma heaves once more, and even though her brain is functioning at half of its capacity, she knows what she needs to do.

She has to tell Killian.

Everyone in town knows what he does is illegal, but there’s no proof of his family’s crimes. They make it all as legal as possible through their legitimate businesses, and often the local coppers are on their side.

Gold, Churchill, and the Constabulary on not on their side.

Gold is going to murder him just like he murdered his wife.

Emma grabs her coat, shrugging it on as she runs out the door, and she wishes she had a carriage. She doesn’t however, so as snow falls down around her, Emma runs through the streets of Birmingham, taking the alleys she frequents so often, to get to Killian’s home. She’s only been there a few times, nearly all of it for business reasons, but she knows the way.

Her lungs are heavy, her breath short, and her feet ache from the heels of her boots. She imagines frostbite is hitting her toes, but she can’t stop. She was foolish and allowed herself to develop feelings for this man, to fall in love with him in the midst of all her protests otherwise, and she can’t let him get arrested.

She certainly cannot allow him to be murdered. Gold has an agenda against him, and Emma knows the only reason Killian isn’t dead is because he wanted the guns first to cover up his crimes.

Fuck.

When Emma comes across the house, she runs into the door, banging her fist against the wood before picking up the clapper and hitting it. It seems like hours before anyone comes to the door, but eventually someone does, Lee opening it with his gun in his hand.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” he grumbles.

“Where’s your brother?”

“If you’re here to fuck him, you’ll have to get in line.”

“What?” Emma gawks, her heart still pounding. She knows he’s fucking with her, but of all the people she doesn’t fully trust, Lee Jones is near the top of the list. She’s heard Killian talk about his similarities to their father too much to think of him as trustworthy. “No, it doesn’t matter. I need to talk to Killian.”

“If it’ll get you to be quiet, fine. First door on the right upstairs.”

Emma nods and hurries up the stairs, her steps as loud as a heard of elements, and while she does hesitate to enter his room because of Lee’s words, she still does. He’s sitting in his bed, alone, and now is really not the time for her to be focusing on how Lee is constantly trying to fuck with her because he spent too much time with their arse of a father.

“Swan? Bloody hell. What are you doing here?”

She may get murdered for this, but she’s trusting that she won’t. Maybe he’ll understand that she’s done him wrong in the past, but she’s trying to save his life now.

“Robert Gold.”

Killian immediately sits straighter and moves the blankets off him until he’s standing in front of her, looming. “How do you know that name?”

Emma rolls her shoulders back, the adrenaline pushing her words forward.

“I got pregnant when I was sixteen, and I didn’t have a job or a family. I had nothing. I heard of this man who could help with discreet adoptions, get the baby into a good home, you know? So I went to Robert Gold, and he took care of me and my baby, and he found the kid a family who could love him. I believed I didn’t owe him any debts, but he’s threatened to hurt me and my son if I don’t do what he says. I don’t think he’d hurt the kid anymore because I now know the kid’s parents are in the government, but I know he’ll hurt me.”

Emma starts pacing. She can’t look at Killian. She cannot look at the blue she loves so much because it is surely about to turn black while looking at her.

That would break her heart.

“I’ve been working for him. This entire time. He had me gain employ at your pub to learn the location of the guns you stole from the arms factory. All this time I thought it was because Churchill wanted them so they could send them to where they were intended. But tonight Gold was in my flat after following us to the cemetery, and he told me you had slept with his wife, which means the man who shot his wife and your lover in front of you was Gold. He’s going after the guns, Killian. He’s going to get them, and then he’s coming here to either kill you for your crimes against him or arrest you for your crimes against the Crown. Either way, he’s going to kill you.”

Emma doesn’t notice the silence between them as her heart is still pounding like the loudest of drums, but the silence is surely there, being filled second by second with Killian’s rage toward her and toward Gold.

She gained his trust, and then she betrayed him.

“Why are you telling me this?” he whispers, his voice as even keeled as she’s ever heard it.

She nearly falls to the ground at the sound of it.

“Pardon?”

“Turn around and look at me.” Emma braces her shoulders and turns, having no idea what she’s about to see, but she imagines it will be a low-burning fury. She’s wrong. “If you were anyone else in the world, I would have your head for this. I don’t take betrayals lightly, and I will not take this one lightly even though I understand what it is like to be under Gold's thumb. Do not be fooled. But for fucks sake, Emma, I love you. I haven’t loved a woman since Milah was taken from me, but I love you. I also believe all sins can be forgiven when you love someone, but that does not mean I forgive you tonight.”

Emma doesn’t know what to do or think.

There are too many thoughts stampeding in her mind, and she isn’t caught up with it enough to process it all. For now, all she can think is she isn’t dead.

But Killian may be soon.

“What are you going to do about Gold?” Emma asks even when she meant to say something else entirely. She meant to say the three words that reside at the tip of her tongue, but they keep being pushed back.

More important matters are at hand.

“How long ago did he leave your flat to go after the guns?”

“I don’t know. I ran here as soon as he left.”

Killian nods and cups her cheek, kissing her soundly, before he turns around and starts pulling luggage from his drawers before quickly grabbing onto clothes. “Find a few warm things for you. Quickly.”

“Why? What the hell is happening?”

“It’s not safe for us here. We have to go until I can figure something out. There isn’t time to ask every bloody question.”

Lee comes rushing into the room at the same time that Emma grabs a thick blanket and some of Killian’s shirts and what she can only assume are clothes women left here. She doesn’t have much time to process that particular fact. “What the fuck are you two doing?”

“We have to go. Gold is coming after us. Pack a bag and start the carriage.”

“What about Liam? He’s in France. We have to warn him.”

“Liam isn’t set to come back until February. We’ll have time to get him a message. Gold is only coming after me for now. Go, go, we don’t have much time.”

“I thought we didn’t run from a challenge.”

Killian’s jaw clenches, and he turns to face his younger brother. “We’re not running. We’re allowing me to conjure a plan so we don’t get our heads blown off. Fucking go or I’ll leave you here!”

Lee nods, and then he’s out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the hallway for a quick moment before he’s heading out the door and the carriage turns on with a rumble. Emma’s collected enough clothes to last her weeks, and she watches as Killian stashes money into his suitcase before handing some to her.

“For if we get separated,” he explains.

“Where are we going?”

“I have a place in mind, but I can’t tell you yet. Now, come on, go get in the carriage. He works fast, and he shows no mercy, as I’m sure you know. Don’t worry, love. We’ll be fine. I’m a survivor.”

Killian’s hand finds Emma’s back, and as they walk down the stairs, she takes in the beauty of his home. A lot of love has been put into it, and by all accounts, it looks more like a house than a home.

Emma would have liked to have this place as a home. She’s still aching for that place she can call her own.

Now is not the time to think of that.

The cold hits her when they walk outside, and it doesn’t fade away when she climbs into the carriage next to Killian, Lee sitting behind them. Emma clutches onto her luggage, her knuckles white but her fingers pink, and Killian quickly reaches down and hands her a pair of gloves. She takes them without protest, and in the dead of night, she begins moving with the Jones brothers, leaving a white-covered Birmingham behind them.

She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to anyone, not to William or Rob or any of the other Jones Corporation associates. Gold will surely go after them to try to learn of Killian’s whereabouts, hers too, but there’s not time to drive to their homes and tell them. They’re smart and resourceful. They’ll figure things out. At least, Emma hopes so.

There’s no way for them to avoid Gold forever. Emma knows firsthand that he has connections across Europe with his ties to the government, and he’ll never stop until he gets to Killian. She has so many questions about what happened between Killian and Gold’s wife, a woman he obviously loved, but now is not the time for questions when she’s being driven to who knows where, every breath she bringing her one closer to her last.

Now is not the time for a lot of things, but since she didn’t say it earlier, Emma whispers a quiet “I love you,” not knowing if Killian or the wind catches it.

When he places his hand on her thigh, the comforting movement he’s been doing for months now, she thinks she knows.

Emma’s exhausted, but she dares not fall asleep. Instead she sits silently, Killian’s hand still on her thigh, and she watches the sun rise, bright lights reflecting against the pureness of some of the snow. In some places, it is nothing more than slush, but in others, it is beautiful. She can smell water around them, the salt of the ocean becoming clearer with each passing minute, and eventually, she can see the budding activity in a port, a large ship waiting in the water as people walk on board.

“Where are we going?” Emma asks.

Killian turns to her and flashes a tired but bright smile. “America, my love.”

-/-

-/-

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#black velvet #cs fic #cs ff #cs fanfic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #captain swan fanfic #captain swan

[hotchley]

heyy sumayyah! firstly: i'm so sorry you got hate asks >:( some people really can't be nice... that sucks. i'm back with my hc to (maybe, hopefully) distract you/cheer you up!! just saying, it's LONG and it's kind of angsty in the beginning lmao sorry oops, but it gets a little better towards the end!! i promise!!

tw mentions of (bad) eating habits, very briefly implied abuse/domestic violence and alcoholism, brief mention of almost-fainting!!

so my own horrible eating habits got me thinking of Hotch who already doesn’t eat that much because of how he was raised (on his father’s bad days, his mother wouldn’t even be able to get up to make food and his father would be batshit drunk anyway, so no one made food and there’s nothing at home, and Hotch is too young and doesn’t know how to cook for himself, and that just carried its way into adulthood even after he learnt to cook (for Sean, because Sean is a growing boy and still has to eat and he would do anything to make sure Sean grows up happy) and even after he gets together with Haley, who always has to check in on him to make sure he's eating properly)

like, man would throw himself into his work, sometimes not on purpose but because he just was so intent on finishing just one more document, and time just slipped by and when he looks up again it’s 8pm, the bullpen’s almost empty, and then he realises that he actually hasn’t ate anything since he had his morning coffee. and after especially bad cases (Vincent Perrotta, Carl Buford, Tobias Hankel, that case on the pig farm, Foyet, etc.) he just, avoids food on purpose, distracting himself by finishing all the paperwork he has, even if they’re not urgent, sometimes even completing the team’s paperwork (as much as he can) just because he feels like he’s failed them. the team doesn't deserve to be bogged down by all these bureaucratic issues but he does, because what good is his role as their unit chief if he can’t even shield them from the evil out there, if he has to send his team into the abyss every single time and every time someone else gets more injured/fractured, and the least he could do is to help out the team with what he’s best with, right? all those behind-the-scenes, messy, cutthroat politics, because it’s okay if he takes the brunt of the scrutiny of the brass and if he could he would not even let the team relive what they’ve been through because they don’t deserve that, they don’t deserve having to recount their traumatic experience in a bloody report that will eventually just be filed and chucked aside but will leave emotional and mental scars on his agents that will never be erased.

or sometimes he’s just stressed out and anxious and food just really doesn’t go well with his stomach, and he opts to skip meals entirely - he drinks coffee only because he still needs to keep awake, to make sure he’s paying full attention on all these cases and victims and his team who deserve his 120%, and because his stomach’s been conditioned to accept coffee no matter what (over 10 years of being in the BAU after over another 5? years as a prosecutor, where he drank coffee like his life depended on it). and sure, he’s lost weight, his ribs slightly showing when he raises his hands to reach for things/take off his sweaters, sure he’s looked a little more gaunt and tired as the years go by, sure he’s had some almost fainting spells in his office after a long day without food, where his vision just blacks out for 5 seconds after he stands up and he has to clutch onto the edge of his desk to stabilize himself, but it's okay to him, because he must be the strong, stoic, reliable leader for his team and he can’t faint in his office, not when the blinds are open and the team can look in and when he knows that Derek, Emily and Spencer are all looking in concerned because he hasn’t left his office all day

and i’m just also thinking about how the team would just, do their best to feed him??? like, when they stop for gas on long road trips to/back from cases, he always doesn’t buy anything besides a coffee (black, as usual, with just a dash of sugar and cream on good days) for himself, but then JJ passes him an unopened nutri bar which she claimed she bought earlier for herself but now 'doesn’t feel like eating anymore', Dave silently hands over a cookie (chocolate chip, his favourite) and stares at him with his eyebrows raised until Aaron accepts the cookie and actually eats it, Derek slips a wrap into his hands somehow and offers to drive because 'Hotch, you gotta finish your wrap', Spencer casually asks Hotch if he can help him finish off this sandwich which he bought but cannot finish, and Hotch looks down and sees a perfectly fine egg and ham sandwich which hasn’t even been bitten into, but Spencer’s looking at him with those eyes (he thinks of Jack and how strikingly alike his sons they are) so he takes the sandwich and eats it, Emily openly challenges him and says ‘here’s the bag of chips i owe you, you better finish it all because i took the trouble of actually getting them or else’ and he goes along with it because he’s learnt that arguing with her is sometimes equivalent to arguing with Penelope, and that mostly ends up with him going along with both their ‘suggestions’ in the end anyway, and on the rare cases where Penelope goes with the team out into the field, she always packs homemade cookies and cupcakes that are so wonderfully bright and colourful, like everything about her, and when she gets to him with those sparkling hopeful eyes and says ‘I made these myself, come on, have a taste and let me know what you think?’, Hotch can’t help but accept it because he doesn’t ever want to disappoint Penelope and make her sad, because her bubbly and innocent demeanour reminds him of Jack and he would never do anything to kill that bright light that is Penelope

aND I’m getting some big emotions. imagine all the subtle (& not so subtle) things the team does just to make sure he eats (regularly) which may include and are not limited to: inviting themselves over to Hotch’s house for homecooked meals (Spencer, Derek), inviting him & Jack out on outings or playdates which most often than not end with them at restaurants where Hotch eats because Jack needs a good role model on healthy eating behaviours and he’s got to be that for Jack (Derek, Emily, JJ), or just showing up at his house/office to leave him baked goods/cooked meals that were always somehow ‘extras’ or ‘leftovers’ (JJ, Penelope, Rossi, Spencer) i'm sorry this got so long!! it was written a little over a month ago when i was procrastinating on my literature essay in the middle of the night, so i got a little angsty LOL. i hope this distracts you somewhat from the horrible ask you got! take care of yourself! sending love and hugs <33

🌙

Putting my answer below the keep reading for scrolling x

Aww thank you for sending it!! When I saw I had an ask, I really thought it was you, and then it was that stupid anon and I was like: Oh okay then... I have to go eat dinner so....

Ohh... his childhood... the poor kid would've been so much smaller, but so determined to do everything for Sean because that's his little brother and he loves him more than anything... I love Haley though <3

He would so do that though. He would tell himself he could eat once he's done something- which is really unhealthy, if you're reading this do not ever withhold food, if you're feeling hungry just eat something it doesn't matter what it is because something will always, always be healthier than nothing- and then he would pick something else up and the cycle would repeat...

He would convince himself the coffee is enough, that there's nothing wrong with his habits because he's never done anything different, but he would know deep down that it's not right. But he still wouldn't eat anything because he knows it'll make him naesous either way.

The worst part is what are the team meant to do in that situation? They can't force him to eat... as much as they may want to, they can't...

YES! The team would have a tally chart of who last had to make Hotch eat, so they would have a rota, and occasionally (all the time actually) they would deviate from said rota and then they would all look at each other and then laugh because eh, it's fine!

That ending was so cute, I love them <3

Noo!! Don't be sorry it go so long, I love it so much!! I might have to work it into a fic... wait... one of them may have referenced JJ giving him in a sandwich, unless that was only in my head lol

#tw eating habits #tw implied abuse #tw alcoholism #tw almost fainting #🌙anon #people talk to me