radioactive

[femaledaily]

LILI REINHART as BETTY COOPER in RIVERDALE (2017–)

[fandomslash]

[thesoldiersminute]

— PEAKY BLINDERS S03E02 / requested by anon

[dvrkparadises]

elise holland: recent instagram posts 

[radioactiveramblings]

VASILI STANISLAV​:

“A way to go,” he muses with a small grin. “There are only two things that’ll have me. Death and you.” All good things come to their inevitable ends, and as such, he’s entirely sure that this end is as violent and crude as they come, torn apart by the voice that’s been threatening to break them apart the entire night. If it weren’t someone she knew, it would have been someone he did, and it’s surprising and not at the same time. She’s wrenched away from him, but his hands are still on her hips, the other gently resting against her neck, and he falters. Bee stung lips exhale their terror and he notices that her expression probably matches his own. “Tomorrow,” he scrambles to his feet as she does, running a hand through his mussed hair, and running his hand down his face as if it would someone bring him back down to the harsh reality they’d managed to escape for a moment in the greenhouse. 

It’s a flurry of movement as she ushers him towards the other end of the humid greenhouse, and towards the door. There’s a small set of stairs that lead him into the darkness and he knows that it’s where they must part. The thought traps something in him that he wants to evade, but it’s there, and if he spends a moment too long on it, he’d have to come to the conclusion that she means something to him in a way that he’s not ready to understand. He places a hand on the doorjamb, and leans down to steal a kiss, their last one, his final seal, and presses his forehead to hers. “Tomorrow.” It’s a placation but it helps ease the turmoil that rests in his chest and as he begins his departure, taking a few steps, he feels her hand on his wrist and he turns, almost ready to hear her deny him. He looks up at her, and even his height isn’t enough to bridge the gap between the little platform where she is above him. But instead of a soft rejection, she’s speaking his name softly enough that he feels himself breaking apart, and slipping off her necklace and dropping the dainty thing into his palm. He closes his fist around it and her hand with it, bringing it to his lips for a lingering final kiss to the skin of the top of her hand. “I’ll wait for you at the steps, Bella.”

He lets go of her hand, but not without his own parting gift, sliding the signet ring of the Stanislav family from his pinkie of his right hand and pressing it into her palm. It’s much more symbolic than he’s willing to admit, quite literally giving her his name, but he doesn’t dwell and just leaves it with her to mull with as she pleases. He gives her a small smile, boyish, that betrays all of his elation. Without another word and before he can retrace the steps, he sinks into the darkness.

He’s unsure of how he makes it out of there, stumbling through the light layer of brush until it clears and he finds himself heaving himself over a tall fence, checking for guards, and then landing on the other side of the street and slinking home with the promise of the dawn eliciting a spring in his step and he makes his escape.

When he wakes the next morning, he has to wipe the sleep from his eyes for a moment, and the goofy grin that he finds himself wearing is the only reminder that the night prior wasn’t a dream. It doesn’t take long for him to put his plans into action, donning a crisp suit and making his way to the church early to beseech the friar. The resistance that he expects isn’t there, and instead the man finds it a possible plan to bridge between the two families and agrees to the union. The relief he feels is palpable, and he almost kisses Lawrence, but refrains. He knows it’s all moving fast, but he can’t imagine that the feeling that lingers will fade, and finds himself nervously pacing as he waits. When the friar finally banishes him as his frantic pacing and constant smoking seems to be startling the nuns, he stands outside near the back entrance steps against the stone, lights his umpteenth cigarette and waits. He’s sure that the stress and nervousness can be read in his brows, and half convinces himself that he’s rushing into things, that somehow in the harsh dawn of day, her emotions have sobered up and she realised the error of her ways. But he has to convince himself that she’ll come, and he stares off into the rays the midday sun shines on the stone of the courtyard as he waits.

...

It’s late when Isabella finally succumbs to sleep, the first of the dawns golden rays slowly peaking over the horizon as fatigue consumes her. When she finally wakes again it’s much later in the day, the sun shines high into the sky from what she can see and she takes pause for a moment, hands folding in front of her as she toys nervously with his signate ring that encompasses her index finger. The broad lopsided grin it elicits is instant and without a moment to reconsider the repercussions of her actions she hauls herself from her bed, rushing to ready herself as fast as physically possible. It’s early afternoon when she finally slips free of the Whittaker estate, long blonde curls cascading down the back of her gold and white toned dress. Having concocted some elaborate excuse in her attempt to do so, she wasn’t sure it was going to work given lying would never be her strong point. Nevertheless, she had the trust and respect of her family and they sought not to question her even as she made a rather brisk departure.

Truthfully, the entire trip into the city her head and heart had been at odds; heart leading her to the place he had promised to meet her while her head all but demanded she was about to make a fool of herself, falling for the false promises of a man she barely knew. For all she knew this was but an elaborate plan that the head of the Stanislav family had enacted and Vasili was but the messenger boy, another pawn much like herself in their parents game. But alas the ring that now donned her index finger, his family ring, led her to choose to believe otherwise. There was something between them, an ember that had sparked bright and unwavering. To risk being caught with such a thing belonging to the enemy was no small danger and yet she wore it proudly, fearlessly, consequences be damned. Isabella had rarely wanted for anything, until the man before her lit a fire in her belly that couldn’t so easily be extinguished. There was no turning back for her, not now, not ever. Isabella could only hope that such a feeling was mutual.  

The blonde refused to dwell upon her tardiness as she finally rounded the corner that opened up to the street that would lead to the back entrance of the church. The grand stone structure stood tall and ominous ahead, barely blocking the sun from blue-green hues as she squinted ahead to drink in his form. Taking a moment to study him she watched the way in which he seemed to fidget, inhaling smoke like his life depended on it all but affirmed her fears were not her own, they were his too. “Would you hold it against me if I said I wasn’t sure you’d actually be here..“ she mused as he finally came into earshot and began her approach from the base of the steps. From above, his tall frame looked even more god like, the angles of his face striking under the warm afternoon sun sending a current racing through her, jarringly unexpected and yet not unlike the very rush of what she had written off as adrenaline the evening prior. The weight of his gaze is intense, making it hard to think. To breathe. Or even remain standing as she draws close. Instinctively her smaller palm seeks his, fingers slotting a little too perfectly into the crevasse between his own before offering a gentle squeeze of reassurance. If not for his sake then her own. He was really here, they both were and whatever journey they were about to embark on was one they would do together. Side by side, into the unknown.    

[radioactiveramblings]

ELISE HOLLAND​:

His words are a surprise and she opens her mouth and closes it quickly at the suggestive nature of them. She blushes, furiously so, and hopes that the lights are low enough that he can’t see the traitorous bloom of colour across her cheeks. It’s unbecoming and she doesn’t want him to know that he’d had any sort of impact on her - especially not one that makes her want to see exactly what sort of reaction she can garner from him herself. But words are quickly eradicated from her mind when he takes a step closer, and it’s closer than she anticipates he’d be, and a tiny bubble of shock permeates her well put together façade, surprised that he’s closing the gap between them and to her horror, she doesn’t hate it. He smells like something she can’t identify and hates herself for her own eyes drawing to his lips. Up close, they look impossibly soft and she wants to reach out to touch them gently with her fingertips to check if her theory is correct. It’s such a contrast, because she’s not complete clueless and has eyes so therefore can see that the rest of his body is decidedly not soft, but somehow it chips away at her resolve not to be curious about the man at all. But her own self given obsession with his lips is difficult to shake, and Elise’s theory is proven correct when he presses a gentle, soft, almost inconsequential kiss to her cheeks. Her cheeks flame, and to the onlooker, it could have just been mistaken for some sort of romance, and she’s not entirely sure what it is, but she’s convinced he can feel just how hot her face is.

Clearing her throat when he moves back, she stumbles back too, at a loss for words. “You don’t think so? Play your part and I play mine, what more could they want? This whole thing is a sham, I’m surprised you want to push it more than it already is,” at her own suggestion, she makes her way towards the bar and the world seems to right itself again when she notices a few straying eyes on her. Good. That’s exactly how it should be. The eyes on her, she’s the elusive, mysterious Elise Holland, and nobody gets to peek behind the curtain. Once there, the bartender is immediately attentive, and she orders a round of Patron, turning with a brow raised towards Nathaniel. It’s a silent mull over his words, and she challenges him with her eyes, brow still raised, as if expecting him not to take her up on the offer, perhaps deny the shots, as she’s about to deny his own claims. “Uber exists, I can get home just fine, I don’t need a chaperone,” she sniffs in a distant way, brushing him off. “Besides, it’s just a few to loosen your tongue. I need to know your basics. Favourite colour, go to drink, best friends, that sort of shit.” The shot glasses are placed down on the bar top and she lifts one up, waiting for him to do the same and salute whatever twisted game they’re about to play. “Bottoms up, darling.”

...

The scattering of scarlet that floods her cheeks under the luminescent lighting catches Nathaniel by surprise and he can’t help the small, lopsided grin that makes an easy home within the curvature of his lips. Could it be that he was capable of parting the iron curtain that obscured the real Elise Holloway from the general public? Only time would tell. Or in his case, perhaps even seconds as he draws near eliciting something of a surprising reaction from the blonde, or lack there of. He had anticipated yet another cold front, or sharp jab in his direction, perhaps even something a little more aggressive from the 5′2 pint sized powerhouse. Instead he’s met with compounded surprise and taking full advantage of her momentary lapse of resolve he follows through, raising a thumb to gently brush several blonde tresses from her face to settle behind her ear. His hand hesitates there, his own expression sobering briefly and he fails to miss the way in which her gaze dips toward his lips.  

Had he been a brazen man he may have taken further advantage then and there and dipped his own head to capture her cherry stained lips with his own, daring to enquire if she tasted as divine as she smelt. Nathaniel however, had never been his father. He favored earning the respect of those that he allowed into his life instead of demanding it. Clear and concise boundaries had been drawn in the sand between them and it if they were to survive the coming months, there would be a time and a place for any such boundary attestations. Moving through the scattering of people, his dominant hand finds the small of her back to gently guide her forward, falling back to his side only when they near the bar. “Do you honestly think our parents would go to all this effort of getting us to sign legally binding contracts, if it were going to be that easy to walk away?” He questions quietly, head dipping toward her to ensure his baritone met her ears and hers alone. The last thing they needed was for their truths to unravel before them on a public platform before they had even cleared the runway.

Perhaps the wealthy socialite had very little to do with the corporate realm of business', but where Nate came from he was all too aware of the weight of each and every document that he signed his name too. And the one in which the Holland and Callaghan parents had them sign was no joke. “I’m not sure how you can claim to be surprised by someone you don’t even know,” he drawled playfully, raising a brow in her direction. He can see it now, the way in which various patrons drawn idle glances in their direction, or more specifically in her direction. It’s enough to strike a small minute chord within his chest and instinctively he drapes an arm over the back of her barstool. A silent warning to any that dared drift her way. Alas, as the bartender approaches he settles back into his own stool, only narrowly avoiding raising a brow at her order. “Never said you needed a chaperone Princess. However, no man should ever allow his girl to travel home alone and in an Uber of all things.” 

He pays little mind to the depth of his words, granting her instead with the answers she so politely requested. “And here I was preparing to have our star-signs read and mapped out,” it’s a small tease, nonetheless he fails to allow her an opportunity to protest before continuing. “My favorite color is blue, drink of choice would be scotch whiskey on the rocks--” not that he choose to drink as often as he did in his younger years. Friends were also a subject of contention, as while Nate had a decent circle of friends he wasn’t sure he was close enough with any to deem them best friends as such. His work was to thank for that. “Roman, Katerina and I go right back to middle school -- though not sure I’d call either my closest friends. Eli’s a buddy from law school and Lena, let’s just say our parents are friends.” He added, before raising the shot glass to his lips to drain the vessel of it’s contents. “Your turn, Holland.”

[radioactiveramblings]

VASILI STANISLAV​:

Whatever he expects from her, she turns him on his head each and every time and damn if he doesn’t want to learn everything about her, pull her apart and figure out what makes her tick. He’s so close to it, too, he can see parts of her unravelling for him, and he wants to tug and tug until she’s completely open and free to his gaze, and he wants to drink her in. And the absurdity isn’t lost on him. He’s instantly attracted to her, and it’s hard not to, of course, as she’s dazzlingly beautiful across the room, dancing with that wide grin that he can’t seem to stop himself mirroring. But it’s more than that. There’s something there, a fire, a liveliness, that he’s missed for so long, and he’s not sure if it’s really there or just a reflection of what he hopes he sees but in any case, he wants to find out. And with every step into forbidden territory, he’s more and more sure of his choice to seek her out on that balcony.

Her grin echoes his and he has to tell himself that he’s being reckless, impulsive, all those things he’s so well known for, but can’t help the accompanied feeling that this is also so incredibly right. How else can he explain the way her lips feel on his? The way her skin feels beneath his palm? The scent of her so incredibly intoxicating that he can’t clear his own mind? The only explanation is magic, but he’s never been more sober in his life than he is now, seated on that stone bench, with Isabella wrapped around him. Her legs tighten around his hips and it’s all the permission he needs to drag a palm up her leg, tantalisingly beneath the hem of the skirt, daring to push further and further until it rests on a hip, feeling a scrap of material beneath his calloused hands at her hip, his thumb teasing below it for a quick moment before he stops.

He can hear something, perhaps he’s making it up, but it’s there and he can’t be too cautious. But her hands on his face, and his other hand is on her waist, dragging her ever closer as she answers his own request with one of her own. Only yours. Mine. It’s encouragement enough as it is, and his mind and heart is beating a thousand beats a second as he utters the words that he knows he can’t take back. “Yours.” He confirms with a chaste kiss, drawing her in closer, drinking in her sights. “Only yours. Yours, yours, yours,” each word punctuated with a heady kiss, to her lips, to her jaw, to her neck, hand snaking around her waist to linger at the strings that hold together her corset, dancing at the soft fabric there. HIs other hand rubs circles against the skin of her hip, testing his limits, and he knows for sure now that this moment is built on nothing but magic.

But Vasili knows that all spells are made to be broken, and he can only hope that there’s more time before this one is. He draws her in closer, and he feels as if he could consume her, bringing her in closer, bracketing his sides with her legs until their chests are pressed against each other and she’s too close and not enough all at the same time. “Meet me at St. Francis tomorrow. I want to make you mine. In every sense of the word.” Eyes closed as he steals more kisses down the column of her neck, feeling her heart beat against his lips, he growls against the skin there. Both hands find their way back to her neck, sliding up to cup her cheeks and brings their heavily breathing gazes back to each other. “Send someone you trust to let me know by the morning if you’ll be there. I’ll wait. I don’t know why but this feels real, this feels right, will you meet me there?”

...

If Isabella was dreaming it was not one she wished to ever wake from. Fingertips explore the warmth of his skin, from his jawline to his neck, before slipping under the soft cotton of his shift to dance delicately across his collarbone, mentally mapping out his features should she wake to the startling realization that all had been nothing but a fevered dream. But alas, the way his lips move in perfect synchronization against her own, paired with the very warmth of his calloused palm against her thigh that dauntlessly tests her boundaries were but testament to how very real the situation was. Yours. His confirmation evokes a soft purr of a chuckle from the blonde who toys idly with the top button of his shirt, testing the waters. “You will be the death of me,“ she teases in jest as his request is met with an immediate shake of her head, and slow smile. “I don’t need to send anyone. I’ll be there, I promise.“ 

Searching his gaze Isabella considers her next choice of words, as if needing to accurately convey whatever has sparked in the limited space between them for what it was. Rare, remarkable and unlike anything she had ever experienced. Only it’s then that she hears it, the faint call of her name in an all too familiar tone. Her brother. Of course guards aside, her siblings are all knowing when it comes to her frequent haunts. Without even realizing it, a groan of irritation parts her lips and she’s swiftly moving to untangle herself from his lap. All good thing must come to an end, even albeit briefly. “You have to go, he can’t find you here.” She breathes heavily, hand seeking solace within his before she’s leading him once more down the narrow path and toward a different door. “This will take you to the back entrance of the estate. There’s a path, an old one but it’s there under the old willow --- it will lead you to the road side. You’ll be safe from there.” 

Though she hesitates upon watching his tall frame slip through the door and into the welcoming embrace of darkness. “Vas?” She calls in a heightened whisper, the shortened name rolling over her lips without a second thought before she rushes forward to reach for his wrist preventing his immediate departure. When he finally takes pause she lets him go, long enough to grapple with the latch of her locket; it’s generations old, handed down from her grandmother and her mother before her but in small scripture on the back of the quaint silver is her engraved initials. Swiftly she unlatches the chain, only to reach for his hand to deposit the quaint piece into his larger palm before closing it over with her other. “You said you did not wish to part. This way a little piece of me will be with you.” Bella muses, throwing caution to the wind as warm insurgence stirs in her stomach in the form of kaleidoscope of butterflies taking flight

“Tomorrow.“ The word parts her lips in a promise, before she’s letting him go and stepping back to pull the door quietly closed behind him. Finally exhaling the breath she had subconsciously been holding, a sheepishly wide grin dances across her lips as she works quickly to smooth out her dress and wayward curls. How she could even fathom sleep after such an evening, let alone in the face of anticipation for whatever was to come the following day was beyond her. Nevertheless, upon gathering her thoughts and the settling of her racing heart, she called out to her brother, making her presence known before following the other back to the main banquet. While her mind raced with the consequences of her actions, the organ in her chest had caught fire, slowly smoldering embers set ablaze by the wildfire that was Vasili Stanislav. 

[radioactiveramblings]

TOMMY SHELBY​:

Observation has always been part of his skillset. He’s got many skills, some that stand out in importance and others that supplement the others, but observation has always been his strength. The ability for Tommy to stand back and watch a particular situation unfold and become what he’d orchestrated all along through nothing more than pure suggestion and maybe some manipulation - well, it’s a heady feeling. Butt here’s nothing good about the feeling as he gazes across her body. He takes in her physicality, and it’s nothing different to how she looked the hour before, the day before, even the week before. There’s some colour in her lips, maybe a bit more in her cheeks, but she’s still the woman he held limply in his arms as he roared for an ambulance.

She still felt warm like the blood that seeped from her and it was jarring to feel that warmth against his own skin. He’d begged her then to wake up, to keep her brilliant eyes on his, and Thomas Shelby rarely begged. It was a rare insight into the vulnerability that Polly would have called the ‘Old Tommy’ but it flit away as quickly and as suddenly as the realisation that the Old Tommy couldn’t do anything to save his wife, and neither could New Tommy. 

New Tommy takes a moment to steady his breath, watching his wife’s eyes that are usually reserved with a softness and warmth for him turn to something that resembles more of a wariness, an edge that is tinged with distrust, coupled with confusion and a startling unsureness. The words had been spoken to him a few days ago, something about the potential for the trauma to play with her mind, to eradicate memories, or play keep away with them, but he’d disregarded it all. After all, their love would withstand, it had already withstood so much. It had to, and she had to remember them, him, their son, their life.

A coldness settles into his bones when she avoids his hand and casts her eyes across him again. There’s no recognition, there’s no sign of what he’s become so accustomed to and he recoils. This isn’t his wife, this is the wrong room. His kind smile wanes as his blue eyes comprehend the scene before him. “Grace, what are you talking about?” His go to always seems to be denial. There’s a sinking feeing in his chest, and his hands feel cold. The rain patters against the window. “It’s me, Tommy,” his eyes implore, sinking deep into hers and both of his hands are held up, palms facing her. “I ain’t gonna harm you,” it feels painful to speak the words. “I’m Thomas Shelby, you’ve been in an accident.” He makes a decision, one that he’s not sure is the best. And he decides to play along. He doesn’t tell her of their life, of their son, of their marriage. “You were shot, but you’re recovering now, hey, hey,” he’s seen the same fear in the eyes of horses and avoids eye contact. “You’re gonna be alright, what do you remember?”

...

Fear crawls over her body, prickling her skin in a blanket of goosebumps as wide eyes search his vibrant blues. It’s only then that she notices the way that sharpness, that harsh exterior seems to shift under the dim lamp of the hospital room. From across the room the man looked almost menacing, powerful, a man that demanded the attention of whichever room he entered. Controlled chaos in an exquisitely tailored suit; not a man to be messed with by any means. Only as he drew near did her perception shift as a closer look granted the way his disheveled hair and fatigue ridden features painted a very different picture. He looked exhausted, conflicted by his own conscience perhaps and even a little lost which was a stark contrast to the man that stood in his place just moments prior. And her own question seems to offend him to some degree as there’s a shift within his ocean eyes but not one she dares attempt to understand. 

It’s me, Tommy. His words are met with nothing but the cold afront of discombobulation. The tension in her shoulders eases faintly as she eyes his raised palms, a show of surrender. “I--,” Grace begins only for her voice to falter as she she shifts in the bed, legs uncoiling from her chest as she slumps against the pillow. Every attempt to rack her brain for her very last memory is thwarted with a sharp ache upside her head. Like a silent warning, or perhaps her body’s way of protecting her from whatever trauma she had endured. Either way she couldn’t be sure and confusion meddled with frustration danced accross her features as she picked at the bed sheet covering her. Fact. The last feeling she could remember was something akin to elation as she stepped over the threshold of The Garrison. She could remember the owners face, something of a gentle giant that had lived a hard life if his hardened exterior was anything to go by. Harry was his name. At least that was how she remembered it.

Revenge does not become you, it is but the disfigurement of your own shame. Her mothers words echoed in her mind as if she were in the very same room causing the blonde to steal an uneasy glance toward the door in search of confirmation. Fiction. Her mother was no where to be seen. Nor was her father for that matter. Fact. The IRA had taken him a number of years prior, instilling a level of rage that was unparalleled and the desperate need for revenge to plunge the rusty knife that she clutched in her already bloodied hands into the heart of the organization. The opportunity to go undercover within Birmingham’s underbelly offered just that and what better way to do so than as a barmaid, trading in secrets and alcohol. Realization came in waves as the cascade of rain peltering against the window intensified. Grace Burgess wasn’t any ordinary barmaid, she was a ‘special’ also known as an undercover police officer sent to investigate the IRA’s possible involvement in the theft of arms shipment . “I'm a barmaid --- at The Garrison.” The blonde answers, as if testing the weight of her words aloud, hesitant but with a level of certainty. “I remember my first shift, but it’s hazy...“ she breathed, gaze avoiding his in an effort to prevent further questions she poses one of her own. "Who shot me, Mr Shelby?” Her gaze snaps back to meet his, fear all but faded and replaced now with a hint of the rage that burned eternal in her belly. 

[radioactiveramblings]

ELISE HOLLAND​:

She’s been beneath the gaze of a man before. Hell, she revels in the gazes of anyone, especially when they’re so blatantly admiring her, but his eyes feel different and she almost turns to leave. It feels like he knows something of her, which is ridiculous, but all the same the lingering feeling won’t shake. It’s like he knows something deeper that resides in her that she can’t even shake, and it’s frustrating that she can’t do anything about it, that she can’t mask it away and somehow, her great big secret is nothing more than a simple fact to him. His hand around her wrist is a surprise, and she gasps softly, sobered up almost immediately. The bravado is gone, replaced with a malaise that’s incited by his words that make her falter. The hand he tugs closer makes her trip closer too, and she’s so close she can count the freckles that are so gently smattered across the bridge of his nose that she hadn’t seen them earlier. She’s so close she’s wrapped up in his heady scent and her hand ready to deliver a third jab to the chest is pressed palm flat on his chest and she can feel his heart thumping along steadily against the skin. Or is the music? Either way, she tugs her hand back like she’s been burnt, and in doing so, tugs herself back too, a moment of discontent flashing across her brows, scrunching her nose and sneering her lips. How dare he? She almost wants to say, and almost wants to smack the satisfied expression from his face. 

“No, I came all the way across town to have a drink with my dearly beloved,” she rolls her eyes, putting distance between them. She doesn’t like the untethered and unanchorable feeling around him, as if she’s adrift in the open ocean, and it’s freeing and terrifying all at the same time. “And for the record, I don’t have to try to do convince you of anything. This is nothing more than a business interaction, so you play your part and I’ll play mine, like the good little soldiers we are for mommy and daddy,” she rolls her eyes at her own words this time, adding in a huff. Straightening her shoulders, Elise turns to fix a gaze on him, one that she hopes betrays nothing of the fear that’s become a fixed companion of hers and suggest the only diffuser she knows will work. “So, I guess we might as well get to know each other. Shots or lines?” 

...

There’s a sweetness to her perfume, notes of something entirely unfamiliar and instinctively he draws her closer as his own curiosity gets the better of him. “Talk dirty to me why don’t you,” the taunt passes his lips without little to no second thought. It takes him by surprise that she’s quick witted, slender shouldered and gifted with eyes as stormy and tumultuous as the sea at night. Unlike the drunken girl he had run into all those years ago. It’s her sharp tongue however, that elicits an immediate lopsided mirth filled grin from the man. He makes a show of exhaling something akin to a lowly chuckle at the term dearly beloved; it’s one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes and as she draws back he mirrors her steps, taking his own step toward her. One hand reaches forward to settle upon her hip, fingers pressing into the flesh there as his head dips and lips ghost over her ear before he speaks. “You’re going to have to do a lot better than that if we’re to make everyone believe that whatever this is, is real.” His voice is soft, softer than his usual assertive baritone as he pulls back just enough to press an albeit chaste kiss to her check. To anyone else it may have looked as though he was smoothing over something of a lovers quarrel before he finally stepped back, granting her the space she so desperately wanted as his hand found it’s home at his side.  

It would have been effortless to agree with her, to write off the woman before him as nothing but an imminent thorn in his side, someone that would soon become the bane of his existence -- but Nathan had learnt from his parents at at a young age that there was little space between loathing and loving another. Thus to admit the blonde made him feel anything at all would have been dangerous. It was easier to settle into the warm embrace of denial and ignore the stir of something unfamiliar deep within his gut as she had stood deliciously close moments prior. “If you honestly believe that will be enough to appease our parents for a little while, then I pity your ignorance.“ He breathes, before offering a nod as he motions for the blonde to lead the way toward the bar. Truthfully, he hadn’t been a big drinker for many years. Having wasted too many mornings emptying the contents of his stomach into the bathroom of his penthouse as a teenager, the lack of control that came with getting annihilated through whatever means possible no longer enamored him. “Shots --- and I’ll keep it to a minimum given I’ll be the one driving you home.” It was a small attempt to meet her halfway because contrary to whatever they may have wanted, they did need to get to know one another. For the sake of whatever fake relationship they were about to enter into and perhaps his sanity.

[radioactiveramblings]

VASILI STANISLAV​:

Nobody can ever accuse Vasili of thinking too much. In fact, when questioned by his father, the resounding consensus seems to be that he doesn’t think very much at all. Not compared to the prodigy that is his other children, and Vasili is the last and by default, the least useful to the Stanislav empire. It’s not something he wants to think about but the thought keeps returning to the surface, and when there’s a rustle nearby, he’s somehow convinced it’s the Stanislav patriarch ready to admonish him. It’s unsettling and altogether terrifying and allows himself to trip after the blonde as she leads him away from the din of the party. It’s quieter here, and it’s like his thoughts are also quieter but his traitorous heart doesn’t seem to receive the message. It beats in his chest, useless organ as it is, but proficiently and loudly, incessantly, stubbornly, ignited by the blonde that’s setting everything he is alight. He wants to tell her that it’s not safe anywhere, not for them, not with their own complex familial ties, but it wouldn’t matter if those words were spoken aloud or not - he knows they both know exactly where the line should have been drawn and it’s back on the balcony where he stole their first kiss.

Their second and third and fourth is rushed, but their fifth is here, on the little bench tucked into an alcove in the greenhouse that he’s barely given a second thought to. Following her seems to be his only agenda and he does, willingly, blindly, to that little seat where it seems she’s not close enough. But not for a lack of trying, as she settles on his lap, her thighs on either side of his hips and his hands are on her waist, only tugging her ever closer. He bridges the gap between them as she does, and she tastes like a sin, over and over again, and he’s weak and knows that resistance is futile. Lips that ghost over his skin send shivers rushing up and down his spine, and he needs to feel her skin on his, his large calloused hands running up and down her smooth leg, inching towards the hem of the skirt, and then beneath it, trailing along the skin as he tries to bite back on a low growl that’s growing in his throat. A hand leaves her side, to delve into the mess of blonde curls that cascade down her back, to the back of her skull and tugs when she licks across a particularly sensitive spot against his neck. 

Thoughts of impropriety are the furthest from his mind, but another alarming one permeates what little sanity is left. He never wishes to part, not now, not ever, not wanting the bliss between them to end, and his eyes are closed, heart wildly thumping away as he revels in the moment. He’s reckless and impulsive at the best of times, and this is not different. It’s torture to wrench himself away, but somehow he manages, to utter out the words that he knows will be their unravelling. A hand finds her jaw, cupping it gently with his thumb running along her skin, across her swollen lips, his own breathing leaving his lips in pants. “Beautiful,” he murmurs as he takes her in; bright eyes alight with passion, expression trained on him, and he realises that he’s never been looked at this way before. He takes his time, his hand that’s devilishly trailing up the outside of her bare leg, feeling the smoothness there, his other running down her neck, to her shoulder, and finding their resting place against her ribcage, bringing her in closer. He rests his forehead against hers in a moment of gentle vulnerability, taking the moment to sort through the tempest of emotions in his chest. One rises to the surface, the most intense emotion he’s felt that evening, or ever, for that matter. 

“I want to make you mine,” he releases the words that are a downfall in themselves, devastating as they are. “I never wish to part from you, not now, not ever,” he breathes into the space between them, the thought that she could leave, at any moment, slip away into the darkness like a dream never to be seen again, fills him with dread. “Tell me you feel the same way.” An invariable fact about Vasili Stanislav being that he does not beg, but the one word that leaves him is a soft plead. “Please.”

...

The entirety of Isabella’s life had been nothing but an elaborately drawn out game of chess. Each of the pieces had been moved strategically, calculative and with purpose, though not of her own whim or desire, but of that of her parents. For she was but a pawn to their will which blossomed the bitter after taste of fiery disdain. A feeling which bubbled and crackled beneath the surface over the years. Perhaps that had been what had drawn her down from the cliffs of the Whittaker estate in search of an escape from her metaphorical ivory castle and onto the sandy shores of the coastline. The ocean beyond wild and brazen calling her name. Despite the chaos that was the consistent rolling of waves crashing mercilessly against the seashore and threatening to drag any one under and out that stepped near, there, where sea met land, it was as if chaos and order met. There was an enchantment to be seen there, watching an ever-evolving beast that danced to it’s own melody; a dream within a dream and yet so far removed form her own path. 

Leading with her heart was what came naturally for the emotive young woman but it was at the very last moment that her head usually stepped in, guiding her mind and body in an alternative direction. For the sake of her parents and the ball and chain that was her last name. However, that fuse failed to be ignited even after the second, third and fourth kiss and before she knew it she was slipping onto his lap, releveling in newfound sense of primal passion that had yet to be unlocked in her lifetime. Only when they both part, the picture of labored breathes and matching Cheshire grins, does her adrenaline simmer igniting a sense of euphoria in it’s wake and Bella can’t help but feel somewhat empowered knowing just how much the younger version of herself would be screaming in delight right about now. Alas there was something more to the way in which her 

Feeling the heat of his gaze boring down upon her, blue-green hues flicker upward and it’s as if he’s looking at her for the very first time all over again. Beautiful. Her heart surges rapidly in her chest, slamming against her chest plate so hard that she fears for a but a second that it may leap from it’s ribbed cage. Cheeks flush a faint shade of crimson and she subconsciously bites down on the fleshy part of her bottom lip in an effort to suppress the widening of her omnipresent grin.  The soft caress of his hand ghosting over her thigh leaves a trail of goosebumps in it’s wake and a strange cascade of nerves deep within the heat of her core that she’s inevitably unable to ignore. Her knees instinctively press against his hips, a silent term of encouragement as if even the smallest of gestures, the fervent need to get closer to him showing no signs of dispersing. Nevertheless, it’s in the moment of silence that follows with nothing but their ragged breathing and racing hearts that the cloud of euphoria shifts, allowing for her overly active mind to awaken form it’s slumber. 

His words permeate the space between them all too abruptly, cutting the electricity in the air with such precision she’s left reeling wake. Nevertheless, Bella stares up at him, searching those emerald depths for any sign of a contradiction to such an admission only to find none. And it hits her in that moment, realization hurtling toward her a freight train helpless to the inevitable impact. The mere idea of untangling herself from him, of slipping back into that crowded room and never once feeling the warmth of his embrace, the weight of his gaze of the taste of his swollen lips, leaves her with a sinking feeling. Like she’s fighting against the tide but no matter how hard she swims the current continues to drag her down into the murky depths. Suddenly her corset feels all restricting, too tight to even breathe and her hands untangle from the base of his neck to settle either side of his face, where she holds him for long moment mulling over the words. “I want nothing more,” she breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “I want to be yours, only yours. And you mine,” she adds before leaning forward to seal her answer with a kiss. Only this one is slower. Weighted with something else entirely. A silent promise of what could be.  

[radioactiveramblings]

TOMMY SHELBY​:

If anything, Thomas Shelby never wears his heart on his sleeve. It’s unbeknownst to the rest of those around him what his true feelings or intentions truly are and that’s exactly how he wants it. The air of mystery has aided him more than any other attribute allows him the luxury of letting his myriad of reputations to proceed him and he’s never given any of them the satisfaction of the truth. But the truth is always a disappointment and when it comes to his demeanour, he doesn’t want to dwell. Not on the man he is. Not on the man he once was. Neither of those are particularly worth the dwell. 

Hands furl and unfurl around the railing at the end of the cold metal of a hospital bed, and the ring on his finger presses into his skin for a brief moment as he watches her. It’s hard for him to articulate this feeling, of the one person in his life who has brought any semblance of calm to the chaos, who has seen the man he is and not dwelled on the man he once was but the man he could be, and loved him through it all. Her breathing is evident in the small lifts and drops of her chest, and he knows she’s warm; he’s been holding her hand for what feels like eons. Amidst the sounds of an alarming emptiness, that had been filled with his swears and curses mere evenings ago as he’d demanded to see his wife whilst restrained by the hospital security, he crosses now to the window. It’s been raining for what feels like weeks, and even when the skies clear, the atmosphere still retains the heaviness of a threat of downpour. He looks down at the street below, people rushing around in the rain, umbrellas making their way hurriedly towards whatever their inconsequential destinations are, and lets his mind calm and he runs through the key facts as he lights his umpteenth cigarette of the day.

Fact one: she’s awake. It’s an overwhelming relief to know she’s capable of consciousness. He’s not brought Charles to the hospital, having told the boy that mummy’s gone on a holiday and for the moment, until she wakes for a longer period of time, that’s the lie that’ll have to be told. Fact two: the hitman who had taken the shot is dead. Arthur had taken care of it. Fact three: Vincente Changretta will feel the wrath of his revenge. His mind whirs with the thought but before long they’re disrupted by the sound of a sharp intake of breath. His head lifts quickly to see her, rushing towards her and flicking the cigarette out of his hands and away.

“Grace-” he starts but she asks for water and he’ll drain the rivers and lakes until she’s satisfied. Pushing a glass of water into her hand, he takes a seat beside her, bright eyes seeking her face for a sign of recognition. “Grace,” he repeats again in his gravelly voice. Her eyes are blurring open, he can tell, but they’re still as bright and beautiful as he remembers. “Thank God you’re awake. How are you feeling?” A hand reaches for hers across the crisp white bedsheets.

....

Scattered images come and go like technicolored mirages and between the moments of fleeting consciousness, Grace struggles to get a handle on what is real and what is not. Time and space between dream and reality seem to mold together and she’s left shaken and confused. Nurses and doctors seem to be something of a constant stream, filtering in and out of her room as the minuets turn to hours and the hours roll into days; their footsteps on the hard linoleum draw her back to what she can only assume to be reality as their harsh voices fill the sterile space like white noise. Among them are others that permeate intermittently, though she dares not open her eyes. Not yet. Not until the definite line between fact and fiction can be drawn.  

Fact one: her name is Grace Burgess and home had always been Galway. Fact two: her father had been slain by the IRA and it was his loss that had prompted her to step out of the comfort of her quaint hometown and into the cold afront that was the world, to become an undercover police officer. Fact three: that was really just a cover for the team of ‘specials’ she had been inducted into by her fathers friend and colleague, Inspector Chester Campbell. Fact four: she could trust him -- or was that fiction? There’s a dull ache that reverberates across her shoulder and up her neck to seep into the base of her skull where it lingers as she shifts uncomfortably in her hospital bed. Fact five: she’s in hospital, but why?

The voice that answers her own request is deep, gravelly and immediately draws her attention toward the most vivid pair of baby blues she’s ever seen. Something about them seem almost haunting; and there’s a sharpness to the man, not just from that chiseled jawline that draws her gaze as she studies him but an edge that seems to fade while he draws near. The moment the glass is thrust into her hands she’s raising it to her lips, greedily downing the contents in a graceless manner all but forgetting the strangers presence. That is until he reaches for her and she flinches, her hand yanking away from his as the glass slips free from her other, tumbling from her bedside to shatter into pieces upon the floor. 

The sudden noise is enough to evoke a further jolt from the blonde and it’s as if the echo of a gunshot has ricocheted about the room. Instantly she coils in on herself, legs suddenly pulled into her chest, as wide eyes ablaze with fear seek to survey the room in search of her assailant. Only when she fails to find anyone other than the man with haunting eyes does her attention finally settle upon him, fear remaining but simmering to embers now, as the monitors beeping rapidly to the sound of her racing heart finally reconcile to a normal rhythm. And there it goes, Grace. Away it goes. Fiction. The echo of a dream seems to linger as she searches his gaze for answers, ignoring the pain in her shoulder as she clutches at her knees. “Whoever you are, I need you to tell me what happened. Now.” 

[codychristiansource]

Cody Christian as Asher in All American S01E04

[annabelledaily]

Men always tell their troubles to a barmaid.

[rob-pattinson]

CODY CHRISTIAN Avante Magazine / 2019 › ph. Nicolas Bates

[radioactiveramblings]

VASILI STANISLAV​:

Every single fibre of his being is in contention with each other. There’s a part of him that tells him to leave, that there’s something far more dangerous than simply slipping into a party that he’s not invited to, but there’s another part that tells him to stay. That there’s something worth staying for. That the purpose comes in the package of the blonde trapped between his body and the wall behind her, grinning up so salaciously and enticingly up at him, with eyes that hold the promise of something else. He feels as if his entire life had been lived in the shadows, and her beam brings something of an excitement. Having lived quite a few years of his own with the same monotonous ebb and flow of life that feels all consuming, this is different. This is magnetic. This is exhilarating. And yet wrong. Oh, so wrong. 

But it doesn’t stop him. Vasili hasn’t barred himself from much, and this is no exception. Not tonight. Not when wrong feels so right. His hands draw around her waist and it’s terrifying to imagine that she doesn’t even know his name. Her lips crash to his before he can utter the sounds required though, and he can only draw her in. He knows he’s in trouble immediately, the taste of her lips engulfing his every sense, drowning him in her kiss. It’s soft, sweet, no more than a few seconds before he draws away with a sly grin, a crooked grin, that expresses his pleasure. “Vasili.” Is all he gives her, three syllables that he knows will seal his fate. He knows who she is now, he would be a fool not to, the youngest of a coven whom his family had only sworn to hatred, the brilliant green eyes that shine even in the dark. And he wishes he could stay in the moment between his first name and his surname. He wishes he could bottle that look before he has to inevitably close it, crush it between his palms, squeezing the life from whatever has blossomed between them. But he knows it’s the right thing to do. The words fill themselves in before he can stop them. “Stanislav.” 

The word itself has no weight, but the heavy emotion behind it does, and he can’t stop himself from dropping his gaze to her lips again. The moment has to be broken, he’s so sure of it, but he has to take his fill. A selfish man at best, conniving at worst, he wants to take the chance and he does. The finger that’s still beneath her chin tips her lips up to his again and he steals another kiss, and then another, trailing cold lips down a warm column of neck, breaths in soft and quiet exhales. He ghosts the next words over the skin between her neck and shoulder, taking in a deep breath of her scent. “Don’t overthink it, Whittaker, take the moment for what it is. Lose yourself to me.” 

...

The blonde had always been impulsive at best and reckless at worst, but this was taking a gallant step into unfamiliar territory without so much as a moments hesitation, all logic and repercussions be damned. It was as if her life had been building to this very crossroad where her path would undeniably change; for better or worse however, remained unknown. Because for what felt like the first time, she had made a choice that was her own and not dictated too by her parents and their political stance within society. And while she may have known better than to cordialize with strangers, even handsome ones at that, there was a magnetic air of mystery about him which elicited a fervent desire to crack it and subsequently, the selfish need to remain entrapped in a moment that belonged to no one but them. Something that was their very own. Their little secret. 

Vasili. Was but all the confirmation she needed, even without the echo of his last name she knew it to be true. Her assumption had been correct all along, this man was not of her people, nor her  friends or acquaintances. No. He was the youngest son of her parents sworn enemy and that should have been enough to deter her, to make the right choice and withdraw herself from further escalation in the arms of a man that could have intended to utilize his charm and quick wit to draw her from the crowd before following through with any such ulterior motives. Nevertheless, from her position as her gaze lifted to lock onto his she saw nothing but a reflection of her own emotions staring back at her. He wanted this too. “I know who you are, but I needed to hear it from your mouth, not the whispers of others.” Bella breathed, brows pulling together in the slightest of movements as the raw emotion laced into his admission fails to surpass her. “Our parents actions and mistakes, they don’t define us,” she added quietly. 

Whether her passing comment was to appease her own conscience or his was unclear and otherwise abruptly forgotten as his lips sought hers once more and instinctively her free hand settled against his cheek, fingertips ghosting his jawline as if to ensure he wouldn’t withdraw a second time. Until his lips ghost the length of her neck, evoking a soft barely audible moan which she stifles by biting into the flesh of her bottom lip. Such exposure in any other situation would have rendered the blonde a victim to tension and disquietude. But not here and not with him. His skin felt electric against her own, as if there was some magnetic teether drawing them together and every attempt to pull apart was thwarted by an inescapable pull which sent shivers rushing up and down the length of her neck and shoulders. The sound of a gate creaking open in the distance seeks to violently rip her from whatever reverie she was dancing upon the precipice of and swiftly she’s ducking under his arm as footsteps sound out, drawing closer. No, not now.

Lose yourself to me. His words echo between them and she reaches for his hand, fingers intertwining through his before she’s tugging once again. “It’s not safe here.” Isabella whispers, pausing just long enough to search his gaze for any resistance to her next request. Trust me. She attempts to reiterate through a heavy set of lashes as she leads the way a short distance through the gardens before a large glasshouse looms over them. Slipping silently through the door, she allows him to pass over the threshold before letting the door close behind them as the sound of cascading water from the fountain fills the air. While the guards that walked the perimeter of the Whittaker estate went about carrying out their duty, this was but one of many places that were out of bounds. Safe and secure from the guests inside and any interruptions. Green hues seek out his through the darkened space just as her hand slips free of his, splaying upon his shoulders as she guides him to settle into one of the of a few scattered seats. And before he can protest, she’s raising a leg to straddle him in one swift moment, lips curving upward into a wicked grin of her own as her lips collide against his to steal a searing kiss. “Take the moment for what it is, Stanislav,” she mumbles repeating his words, leaving a trail of heated kisses across his jaw, pausing to nip at his earlobe before continuing south along the strong column of his neck.   

[peakywomen]

💙 GRACE SHELBY — PEAKY BLINDERS S03E02

[radioactiveramblings]

ELISE HOLLAND​:

She spends the majority of the rest of the day attempting to forget his words. You seemed lost. How is it possible that a person she’s met for less than an hour can see through her so much clearer than her own parents? The word tastes bitter when she thinks about it for too long, for Elise Holland can’t be lost. Not when she has more than the average person; heads turning whenever she enters a room and more money than she could ever go through a few lifetimes over. But what she has in material goods, she knows she lacks in other aspects. There are many lacks, and for some reason that she can’t even properly elucidate, she finds that it’s reason enough to lash out and ruin the good things in her life. But lost? There have been many adjectives used to describe her but lost isn’t one of them. She feels exposed beneath those blue eyes, like somehow she can charm everyone but him and it’s infuriating.

It’s that thought that propels her to down a few drinks, amongst other things and whatever she can get her hands before the sun sets, and almost stumbles out of the car as it takes them to the venue. She doesn’t see the heads turn to her, in fact, she doesn’t see much of anything, her own eyes focused on finding the one person she wants to see. Just to tell him that he’s wrong about her. And he’s so incredibly wrong that it completely shatters any other instances of incorrectness in his life. Her heart falls when she doesn’t find him - had she really expected him to show up? She’d more or less insulted him within the first few moment of their meeting, and somehow was she so entitled to assume that he’d show up on a rare free evening to solidify some bet? The voice that appears over her shoulder makes her jump, and goose bumps erupt across her skin at the proximity. “I honestly didn’t think you’d show,” she turns to him, arranging her face into one of apparent nonchalance. But her words are a little minced, maybe even a little slurred. “I’m here to tell you that you were wrong about me,” the words leave her lips before she can stop herself and a finger reaches out to lightly poke him in the upper chest. And she knows this isn’t what was intended. She knows she needs to pretend she’s his girlfriend so their impending nuptials aren’t a surprise. “And you think you’re so smart,” another poke. “And you know everything. But I’m very much not lost, thank you very much.”

...

There was no possible way that Nathaniel could even begin to explain the complexity of his life and the self inflicted weight that he carried on his shoulders. That once carefree, charismatic young man that had dreams bigger than any of his peers had grown into what could only be described as a monotonous shadow of his father; fueled by the need to do better, to be better. But suddenly faced with the responsibility of having his life intertwined with that of another, the usually obnoxiously confident heir to the Callaghan dynasty was floating in unchartered waters. And instead of clinging to the life raft he chose to accept that whatever fate the imminent swell would bring. To drown in the stormy depths or find himself washed ashore, the power remained in the hands of the woman before him and that alone was disconcerting.

His brows furrowed reactively upon her arrival as she made her presence known. “For the record you should know that when I say I’m going to do something I always follow through.” He forewarned, gaze carelessly drifting the length of her lithe body before surveying her features once more. The blonde’s reaction to his earlier response evokes a wry smile of amusement from his lips and he wastes no time in taunting her further. “You mean to tell me you came all this way cross town just to tell me that?” The very corners of his lips upturned slowly as he took a calculated step in her direction; deep blue depths searching her bright emeralds simultaneously. The jab to his chest did little to deter him as he stood his ground, barely even flinching as her finger made contact and the first was blatantly ignored. The second however, evoked a much different reaction and without any consideration for the consequences he reached out and grabbed her wrist in a firm but not yet vice like grip, tugging her her toward him as he did. Brows rose slowly, before his expression sobered as he held her hand to his chest for a prolonged period. “I don’t think any such things, I know I am. Which is why you’re going to have to try a lot harder to convince me of there being any truth to your words, hell, I’m not even sure you were able to convince yourself with that adorable speech. But nice try all the same.” Standing so close, it was the first time he had been able to really get a good look at her -- and the fire that burned brightly within her gaze was unlike anything he had ever seen, radiating the crisp hue of spring growth, bright but sharp and soft all at once.