#[blending in poorly]

[corrodedparadox]

Testing out some decal stuff

[styusha-10]

Sherlock Holmes was an otherworldly creature indeed. I am no man of superstition, although I vaguely remember my grandmother’s tales of daione sìth. Holmes did not distinctly resemble any of the fair folk, these light, ethereally beautiful golden-haired men and women, and yet somehow he gave the same impression. His smooth, almost catlike movements reminded me of cait-sìth and, in all honesty, during investigations he often was the very picture of a predator pursuing the prey or cat playing with mice. I could easily imagine him in the highlands of my homeland, windy and boundless, as to my mind he had the soul of Scottish winds, but I also understood perfectly well that there was no place for him anywhere except in London, hustling and bustling and pulsating with life, crimes and mysteries.

He was not completely detached from the human world, basically having an excellent understanding of human affections, related to the motives of crimes, such as love or envy, though his knowledge clearly came from prolonged observation rather than from personal experience. He was wise enough to seek my aid when something eluded his understanding, which I prefer to consider as a sign of trust on his part.

He was too theatrical or too aloof at times — traits that I mostly attribute to the eccentricity inherent in genius. He also aged much more slowly than me, but this could easily be associated with our slightly spreading ages and his lack of habit of taking anything too personally, which I am often guilty of. Although in the decade we knew each other, I turned almost half gray, and he remained largely the same, except for a couple of new wrinkles and heavier bags under his eyes.

His voice was the voice of a siren or ben-varrey and he had a natural gift of instantly capturing the attention of everyone in the room with the help of said voice and some kind of internal magnetism, which made people instinctively trust him and obey him.

And yet my favourite of his many noble traits I dedicated myself to immortalise was perhaps his benevolence. With such a mind, such power, it would be too easy to use it for evil, something we had unfortunately seen too many times. His gaze on me which I felt quite often was never heavy or insolent and had not ever bothered me. Clients — those at least who seemed nice and did not irritate him immediately — he treated with kind patience, amiable interest and generous if sometimes mannered hospitality, being rude not out of intention to offend, but simply out of his energetic, eccentric nature.

“I am afraid I have accidentally enchanted you, my dear friend", he suddenly said, somewhat sadly and apologetically, one quiet evening on Baker Street. “That kind of devotion that you show to me cannot be expected from any man under normal circumstances.”

“That kind of devotion,” I thought to myself ruefully later that night, “has nothing in common with sidhe’s enchantments.”

This is my first attempt to capture Jeremy Brett's magnificence, and I feel like I haven't done him justice, so there will probably be other takes. Also first attempt in publishing something on Tumblr and nearly first — in writing in English, so feel free to point out any mistakes.

Following a long and good fandom tradition, I consider Watson to be Scottish, hence the writing of almost all the creatures mentioned in Scots.

The cat-sith, whose existence I learned about unacceptably late and did not change anything much, is hunting in the Scottish wastelands. It has an unhealthy addiction to corpses, so it is recommended to distract him with games and riddles, as well as warmth. Doesn't remind you of anyone? However, while writing, I mostly thought about the classic sidhe, adjusted for, uh, almost everything.

I don't know myself whether he is a magical creature, think what you want. To be honest, being portrayed as a magical creature seems unfair to Holmes as a character — part of his charm for me is precisely the fact that he is human, an outstanding human being.

[secretsimpleness]

Storytime, when I started a second playthrough it was mainly because I craved sudoku. Female Ryder (custom), Scott Ryder / Mass Effect Andromeda (c) Bioware

[seance]

just know that behind every gifset you see, there's a gifmaker who got mad as hell trying to adjust/color correct an awfully dark yellowish-green filter slapped on top of your favorite show, and still they persevered

[trashart00]

I saw a screenshot of Monarch where he looked like some sort of surfer dude… so I decided to draw that… as a joke… AS. A. JOKE.

3 hours later:

(S5E1-S5E3 doesn’t put Gabriel in the basement. it’s not afraid of his shine. it lets him bejeweled.)

[wurm-food]

unstyled and crooked horns idc, but I do not hate this Power wig??? 💥

[t-u-i-t-c]

Inu Brother → One Gif Per Episode (41-50)

[ilhoonftw]

one of my favorite jokes to make is seeing idols with poorly done extensions and saying 'omg their hair stylist must hate them'

also seeing meh stage outfits and saying 'they gotta be terrible to work with no one who likes their client would make them wear such poorly made all ill-fitting outfit' to be fair there's a seniority/popularity level that celebs achieve and stop relying in stylist and just wear what they like. but when outfit isn't well received, they blame the stylist (who just sourced whatever clothes the celeb wanted...)

[cheerfulmelancholies]

I love this idea! The last pic is my favorite. I wonder what they're thinking.

🐙

[renekoyuki]

im gonna try getting into glass-painting again bc i hate myself and havent learnt my lesson that that shit stains your hands like nothing else :D

[fangsandsoftgrass]

Sarisa Rothalen: "it's illegal to sell imports from the Dominion and Covenant here."

Cirwedh, who's been pretending she's a severely stunted Nord this whole time because she didn't want to find out what the reaction to her being a Bosmer would have been, so she's been covering every inch of her skin and wearing a glamoured hood:

[existentialflirt]

You know, I think the reason why tofu isn't a thing (In America? I'm speaking as an American. I know it's at least considered a viable protein in other countries and regions of the world) is cos no one can fucking it cook it properly. I have yet to have it made well at a restaurant. It's either too dry and chewy or barely more than a warmed up chunk of bean curd. Just had some General Tso's made with tofu and it was the most disgusting thing I've ever had. Honestly, I wish I'd just gotten a proper vegetable dish. (And you know it pisses me the fuck off, cos being a vegetarian or vegan is nothing new at this point. It shouldn't be a thing that dining out anywhere is this fucking ordeal. I understand not wanting to necessarily mess with the plant based shit, and frankly I'm not too impressed when I pay for someone to fry me up some impossible or beyond whatever, like bro, I can do that at home. But idek, there's a lot you can do with beans.)

[sgrplumditz]

You had his baby and he didn't know.

She sat with the 3-month-old baby girl. Every time she looked at her she saw His eyes, the eyes of the father of her child that had no idea she existed. A perfect blend of the two, but like her father the most recognizable feature was her eyes. Carrying her mother's soft and feminine features, while having her father's gaze.

She was standing in the kitchen of her two-bedroom apartment preparing to pump her full, plump breasts as her daughter slept soundly in a playpen nearby. Thinking of her daughter had become second nature to her, which meant that her thoughts only revolved around her daughter from the moment she found out she was pregnant. Although she was struggling as a single mother, she did not hold any resentment toward Simon. After all, he had no idea their daughter existed.

Simon was forced to leave for his work responsibilities. He knew he would be gone for a long time, it was a no-brainer that they would go their own separate paths. When her thoughts were not consumed by her daughter they were consumed by Him, she craved the closure, or support, or comfort that she knew he could bring her.

Interrupted. Her thoughts were interrupted by a light knock on the door. Her protective nature took over as she walked to the front door while holding a bottle in her right hand. Her heart sank the moment she looked through the peephole. "What is He doing here?" she thought before slowly swinging the door open.

His gaze immediately dropped to the pink bottle in her hand, "Why didn't you tell me?" he spoke, his voice was soft, yet it still held a slight tone of hostility. His accent was prominent, something she noticed would happen whenever he was emotional. His eyes looked drained, tired, and confused, but physically he looked as good as ever. His tall stature and wide frame cast a shadow over her significantly smaller build.

"Tell you what?" she said as her face flushed red and her heart pounded in her ears. Her ears also burning.

Simon walked into her apartment closing the door behind him, "You have never been a good liar". There it was, the exact gaze she saw in her daughter staring back at her in His body. That same gaze turned to his sleeping daughter in the pink playpen that was littered with stuffed animals and pink accents.

She couldn't tell what he was thinking or feeling. Anger, frustration, joy, sadness -- it was evident that he was on a roller coaster.

"Why didn't you tell me?", he sighed running his hand through his thick blonde hair. She was stunned, but she didn't know if it was because he actually showed up, or if she was stunned because this was their first time standing in a room together as a family. "Who told you?" her voice came out soft, timid almost.

"Price, but that is beside the matter" he paused to take in the sight of his daughter. "Why didn't you contact me? I gave you my cell for emergencies... th-this is an appropriate reason to contact me." he now sounded frustrated with her. She was gripping the bottle in her hand still, unable to relax and let it go. Was he mad?

He wasn't. He approached her and gently took the bottle out of her hand -- he knew her better than anyone meaning that he knew that she reacted poorly to confrontation. "You're okay, Love" he spoke gently as he held her small hands in his, "Talk to me, please." he pleaded as he guided them to the nearby couch, making her take a seat. There was new sense of gentleness when he spoke. The shift came naturally to him as now he was fixated on protecting the mother of his child in all aspects. His thumbs massaged her wrists gently while he waited for her to find her words. Simon has always been patient, a quality she loved about him.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, the only audible noise coming from the cooing sounds of their daughter. "Whenever you're ready, Love. I'm here to stay," he said with his warm hands still on her.

[fudgeez]

When the Nerd Takes Charge - Karina x Fem reader

Synopsis: Quiet bookworm Y/N, tired of being underestimated, clashes with queen bee Karina at a party. Karina's attempt to humiliate Y/N backfires when Y/N reveals a hidden seductive side, leaving Karina both shocked and captivated. The encounter sparks an unexpected obsession in Karina, dramatically shifting their dynamic.

Warnings: 18+ smut | men dni

(masterlist)

The bass thrummed through Y/N's chest, a dull vibration against her ribs, but it did little to drown out the anxious buzz in her head. Winter's parties were always a sensory overload, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights and shouting voices, a world away from the quiet corners of the library she usually inhabited. She clutched her beer bottle, the condensation cold against her palm, and tried to blend into the shadows.

Winter had insisted she come, promising it would be "fun," introducing her to Liz, Rei, and Mina. They'd been chatting, a comfortable bubble of familiarity in the chaos, but then, one by one, they'd vanished, pulled into the swirling mass of bodies, leaving Y/N alone.

Then, she saw them. Karina, a vision in a sleek, black dress, her laughter sharp and bright, cutting through the noise like a shard of glass. Her entourage, a pack of equally polished girls, trailed behind her, their eyes glittering with amusement. Y/N shrank back, hoping to become invisible.

"Well, well, well," Karina's voice, laced with a playful malice, echoed through the small space.

"If it isn't Winter's little bookworm. What are you doing hiding over here? Trying to decipher the meaning of life in a beer bottle?"

"Just... enjoying the music," Y/N mumbled, taking a nervous sip of her drink, not because of Karina’s presence, but because of socializing.

"Enjoying the music?" one of Karina's friends, a girl with bright pink hair, chimed in. "Or just trying to figure out how to invite people to your book club org?"

Karina's eyes, dark and knowing, narrowed. She leaned closer, the scent of her expensive perfume filling Y/N's nostrils.

"You know, Y/N," she purred, her voice low and dangerous, "I've always wondered... what's it like to be so... innocent?" She emphasized the word, drawing it out, her eyes flicking to Y/N's outfit, a polo and a pair of pants, and then back to her flushed face.

"Still a virgin?" one of the friends asked, laughing.

Y/N opened her mouth to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

"Seriously," Karina continued, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "You're always so quiet, so... reserved. It's almost cute." She paused, a cruel smile playing on her lips.

"Almost, but pity you know no one wants to make out with you."

"Leave her alone, Karina," a voice cut through the tension. Winter, her brow furrowed, pushed her way through the crowd. "Y/N's my friend."

"Oh, come on, Winter," Karina scoffed, waving a manicured hand dismissively.

"We're just having a little chat. Aren't we, Y/N?" She turned back to Y/N, her eyes glittering with a predatory amusement.

"Or are you too busy cataloging the literary symbolism of spilled beer to participate in a real conversation?"

Y/N's fingers tightened around the neck of her beer bottle. The urge to shrink away, to disappear, was almost overwhelming. But something in Karina's taunting gaze, the way she seemed to relish Y/N's discomfort, sparked a flicker of defiance.

"A real conversation?" Y/N echoed, her voice surprisingly steady. "Is that what you call it? Because it sounds more like a poorly written character assassination."

A ripple of surprised laughter went through Karina's entourage. Karina's eyes narrowed, the amusement replaced by a flash of something sharper.

"Oh, so the bookworm has claws," she purred, her voice laced with a dangerous undertone. "I'm impressed. Though I suspect they're more like paper cuts."

"Maybe," Y/N replied, meeting Karina's gaze directly, "but paper cuts can be surprisingly painful, especially when you least expect them."

"And what exactly are you implying, Y/N?" Karina challenged, her voice low.

Before Y/N could respond, Winter stepped between them, placing a hand on Y/N's arm. "Karina, just drop it. Y/N's not in the mood for your games."

"Games?" Karina raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. "I'm simply trying to understand Y/N's... unique perspective. It's not every day you meet someone who prefers the company of fictional characters to real people." She gestured around the crowded room.

"Especially at a party like this."

"Maybe I prefer the company of characters who don't judge me for what I wear or who I choose to talk to," Y/N said, looking directly at Karina."Or who doesn't assume I'm a virgin just because I don't feel the need to broadcast my personal life."

A tense silence fell over the group. Karina's friends exchanged uneasy glances. Winter looked at Y/N with a mixture of surprise and admiration. Karina, however, simply smirked.

"Touché," she said, her voice dripping with a newfound respect. "But don't think this is over, bookworm. The night is still young." She turned to her friends, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Come on, girls. Let's find some real entertainment."

"You didn't?" Winter stared at Y/N, her mouth slightly agape, a mixture of disbelief and awe in her eyes. Y/N simply shook her head, a small, almost sheepish smile playing on her lips. "It's because of the alcohol," Y/N explained, gesturing vaguely with her beer bottle. "It loosened my tongue, I guess."

Winter's eyes widened further. "Loosened your tongue? You practically turned into a verbal ninja! I've never seen you stand up to Karina like that."

She paused, then added, a hint of concern in her voice, "Are you okay? You seem…different."

Y/N shrugged, taking another sip of her beer. "I'm fine. Just…tired of being underestimated, I suppose." She glanced around the room, the swirling mass of bodies and flashing lights suddenly seeming less intimidating. "And maybe a little tired of being alone in corners."

"Well, you're definitely not alone now," Winter said, giving her a reassuring smile. "And if Karina tries anything else, I'll be right there."

"Thanks," Y/N said, a genuine warmth spreading through her. "But I think I can handle her now." She paused, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Besides, I have some new material for my next book club meeting. 'How to verbally disarm a mean girl with the power of literary references.' "

Winter burst out laughing. "That's perfect! You should totally do that." She paused, then her eyes lit up. "Hey, you know what? Let's ditch this corner and actually enjoy the party. Liz, Rei, and Mina are probably still out there, somewhere…making out, as Karina so eloquently put it." She made a face, then grabbed Y/N's arm.

"Come on, let's find them. And maybe some better music."

As they navigated through the crowd, Y/N felt a sense of lightness she hadn't experienced in a long time. The alcohol, combined with the adrenaline of her confrontation with Karina, had given her a newfound confidence. She found herself actually enjoying the energy of the party, the laughter and music no longer feeling like a threat, but rather a vibrant backdrop to her own newfound boldness.

Meanwhile,

"Look who it is," said the pink-haired girl from Karina's group, her eyes fixed on Y/N. "The bookworm's trying to blend in with the cool kids."

Another girl from the group, with dark, heavily lined eyes, snickered. "Yeah, like she even knows how to dance. She probably thinks a 'club mix' is a literary analysis of a social gathering."

Karina, who had been lingering nearby, turned her attention to the scene. A slow, predatory smile spread across her face.

"Well, well, well," she drawled, her voice carrying over the music. "It seems our little bookworm is trying to break out of her shell. How…adorable."

"Karina," the pink-haired girl continued, her voice rising with a hint of urgency. "She totally dissed you back there. In front of everyone. We can’t let her get away with that. She’s a loser.”

The dark-eyed girl added, "Yeah, she thinks she's so clever. We have to teach her a lesson. Show her who's really in charge. We should test if she's really a virgin."

Karina's smile widened, a glint of something dangerous in her eyes. "You're right," she said, her voice low and smooth.

"We can't have our little bookworm thinking she can challenge the queen, can we?" She paused, her gaze locking onto Y/N, who was now laughing and dancing with Winter, a beer in her hand. "Let's give her a little…demonstration."

She turned to her friends. "I have an idea.” 

Karina never expected her plan for Y/N to backfire like this. She couldn't tell if it was good karma or bad.

"You know, Karina, I've been dying to teach you a lesson. You're such a bitch, acting like some kind of angel," Y/N said in a raspy voice, kissing Karina's neck. Her hand slid beneath Karina's dress, sending shivers down her spine.

"Don't tease me," Karina said, but Y/N just laughed, slowly unzipping Karina's dress and effortlessly unclasping her bra strap. Karina gasped as Y/N cupped her breast.

Y/N's touch was both gentle and demanding, her fingers tracing the curve of Karina's breast, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. Karina's breath hitched, a soft moan escaping her lips. She had always been the one in control, the one who dictated the terms, but now, she found herself at the mercy of Y/N's touch, her carefully constructed facade crumbling. How? Karina thought, a flicker of confusion mixing with the rising desire. How does this…this bookworm know exactly what to do?

"You like that, Karina?" Y/N whispered, her voice a low growl against Karina's ear. "Do you like knowing someone else is in charge?"

Karina's eyes fluttered closed, a wave of heat washing over her. She couldn't deny the thrill, the forbidden pleasure of surrendering control. "Yes," she breathed, her voice barely audible.

It shouldn't feel this good, a voice in her head whispered, especially not from her.

Y/N's lips trailed down Karina's neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Her hand moved lower, slipping beneath the waistband of Karina's skirt, her fingers tracing the delicate curve of her hip. Karina gasped, her body arching involuntarily. This isn't possible, Karina's mind raced, she’s too…experienced.

"You're so beautiful, Karina," Y/N murmured, her voice thick with desire. "So powerful. But even queens have their weaknesses, don't they?"

With a swift, practiced movement, Y/N unhooked Karina's skirt, letting it pool at her feet. Karina stood before her, clad only in her lingerie, her body trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

Y/N's eyes raked over her, a predatory gleam in their depths. Where did she learn this? Karina wondered, her thoughts a whirlwind of confusion and arousal. This isn’t the awkward, innocent girl I thought she was.

"Now," Y/N whispered, her voice laced with a dangerous promise, "let's see how far you're willing to go." Karina's mind was a chaotic mess.

The girl she’d always dismissed as a quiet, unassuming nerd was now commanding her attention, her body, with a confidence that both terrified and thrilled her. The contrast was jarring, and it made the encounter even more intoxicating.

Karina's breath hitched as Y/N's gaze lingered on her exposed skin. How can she look at me like that? she thought, a strange mix of vulnerability and excitement coursing through her. Y/N's eyes, usually hidden behind a veil of quiet observation, now burned with an intensity that made Karina's knees weak.

"You're so tense," she murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum. "Relax, Karina. Let go."

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Karina's ear. "Tell me, Karina," she whispered, her voice laced with a playful challenge. "Are you still so sure I'm a virgin?"

Karina's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. She wanted to deny it, to reclaim her power, but the words caught in her throat. The evidence was undeniable. Y/N's touch, her confidence, her knowledge of Karina's body – it all spoke of experience, of a hidden depth that Karina had never suspected.

"I…I don't understand," Karina stammered, her voice barely a whisper.

Y/N chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Karina's spine. "Maybe," she whispered, her lips trailing down Karina's neck, "you're not supposed to."

She nipped gently at Karina's skin, eliciting a soft moan. "Just feel, Karina," she murmured. "Just let go."

 Y/N's lips crashed down on hers, a hungry, demanding kiss that sent a wave of heat through Karina's body. The world outside the room faded away, leaving only the two of them, locked in a dance of desire and discovery. The kiss deepened, Y/N's tongue exploring the depths of Karina's mouth, eliciting a soft moan.

Karina's hands, initially hesitant, now gripped Y/N's shoulders, pulling her closer, desperate for more. The taste of Y/N, the feel of her skin against hers, the raw, undeniable power radiating from her – it was all so overwhelming, so intoxicating.

"You taste so good, Karina," she murmured, her voice thick with desire. She moved lower, her lips tracing the curve of Karina's breast, her tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. Karina's body trembled, her hands gripping the sheets, her nails digging into the soft fabric. A wave of pleasure washed over her, so intense it almost brought tears to her eyes. 

"Please, Y/N," Karina pleaded, her voice trembling as Y/N teased her clit with her fingers. Y/N couldn't help but tease Karina, enjoying the sight of the notorious mean girl begging for her touch. "And what's the magic word, Karina?" Y/N whispered, her voice laced with amusement. Karina's cheeks flushed crimson, a mixture of shame and raw desire warring within her. She had never begged for anything in her life, let alone for pleasure.

But Y/N's touch, the way she expertly teased and tormented her, had stripped away her carefully constructed defenses, leaving her raw and exposed.

"Please," she whispered again, her voice thick with desperation. "Please, Y/N, I need this."

Y/N's lips curled into a playful smirk. "That's better," she murmured, her fingers continuing their tantalizing dance. "But you're still missing something."

Karina's breath hitched, her body trembling with anticipation. "What?" she breathed, her voice barely audible.

"Say my name," Y/N whispered, her voice a low, seductive growl.

"Beg for me, Karina."

A wave of heat washed over Karina, her pride battling with the overwhelming need for release. She had always been the one in control, the one who demanded obedience. But now, she found herself on her knees, begging for the very thing she had always denied herself.

"Y…Y/N," she stammered, her voice trembling. "Please, Y/N, please…I need you."

Y/N's eyes darkened, a predatory gleam in their depths. "Good girl," she murmured, her voice laced with a dark satisfaction. "Now, let's see how much you really want it."

With a sudden, decisive movement, Y/N increased the pressure, her fingers moving with a practiced rhythm that sent a wave of pleasure crashing over Karina.

Karina cried out, her body arching off the bed, her nails digging into the sheets. The world around her dissolved, leaving only the sensation of Y/N's touch, the raw, unadulterated pleasure that threatened to consume her.

Karina's body shuddered, a series of tremors wracking her frame as she reached the peak of her climax. A strangled cry escaped her lips, a mixture of pleasure and disbelief. She had never experienced anything so intense, so raw, so utterly consuming.

Y/N's fingers continued their rhythmic dance, milking every last drop of pleasure from Karina's trembling body. She watched, her eyes dark and knowing, as Karina's body convulsed, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

As the aftershocks subsided, Karina lay limp, her body still humming with the afterglow of her orgasm. Her mind was a blank slate, her thoughts a jumbled mess of sensation and surprise. She had never imagined that she, the untouchable Karina, could be reduced to such a state of blissful surrender.

Y/N leaned in, her lips brushing against Karina's ear. "Was that good, Karina?" she whispered, her voice a low, seductive murmur.

Karina could only nod, her voice lost somewhere in the haze of her pleasure. She turned her head, her eyes meeting Y/N's. A flicker of something akin to awe crossed her face.

"How…?" she breathed, her voice barely audible.

Y/N chuckled, a low, throaty sound that sent a shiver down Karina's spine. "Let's just say," she murmured, her eyes twinkling with amusement, "I have a few hidden talents."

She paused, her gaze lingering on Karina's flushed face. "And," she added, her voice laced with a playful challenge, "I'm just getting started."

 A strange thought began to form in the back of Karina's mind. This wasn't just a one-time thing, a fleeting moment of weakness.

This…this was something else.

The way Y/N's touch had ignited her body, the way she had surrendered so completely, it was unlike anything she had ever experienced.

A dangerous, thrilling thought crept into her mind: This nerd…this is my new obsession.

[samsblades]

✶ . ၄၃ . easy, maybe — sam and dean w.

cw : gn!winchester!reader, hurt/comfort, reader’s the middle sibling, peacekeeper/selfless(?) reader, blood, injury & pain, stitches, nicknames (bud), poorly edited, no y/n, 3K words. requested !

summary : you try to hide a bad injury after a hunt. sam and dean patch you up, and spend the night worrying until you wake.

it’s not as hard being easy as some people might think. maybe that’s because it’s all you know how to be. the easy one, the quiet one, the peacekeeper, the blend into the background and don’t worry about me one. and it’s not that you’re weak-willed or unopinionated; there are times when you put your foot down, times when you argue, times when you’re petty or annoying or grumpy because you’re legitimately upset or possibly just a little too hungry.

one must note that easy does not mean perfect. it just means that you let sam ride shotgun despite being two years older. it means you take the couch most nights, you’re often impressively polite, and you patch up your own injuries in the bathroom before helping your brothers out. it means you let annoying little things slide, you pick up food when the other two are too tired to drive, you take care of the most tedious or boring tasks, and you tend not to get into any trouble with law enforcement or regular citizens. life is just easier for you all when sam and dean don’t have to worry about you too much.

naturally, you’ve developed quite a pain tolerance over the years of hunting and killing and nearly being killed; all three of you have. but you have become concerningly and particularly excellent at hiding wounds. it’s mostly about the breathing, you’ve decided. if you can hide the blood, move without any apparent stiffness, and keep your breathing even and normal, then sam and dean tend not to notice. they’ve got enough to worry about, you think.

but, unfortunately, there's certain things you can't quite hide, no matter how good of a little actor you can be. there's just far too much blood, more than you think you've ever bled from any one wound. it's not arterial, that much you know; you're familiar enough with basic anatomy to understand that a knife to your lower left side shouldn't be piercing any main veins or arteries. but it is soaking through your jacket and you're getting lightheaded. and you're almost to the impala, you remind yourself. you can make it that far, you're sure. if you just keep breathing, watching dean's trudging form as the distance between the two of you grows while your sluggish footsteps slow... if you just keep breathing, you're sure you can make it.

the leaves under your feet hush your footsteps, soft and soaked from this morning’s rain. dean doesn't question the fact that he can't hear you right behind him; you're quiet nearly all the time. the growing fog in your head makes you stumble. you slip, deprived of the bearings or stability you'd need to right yourself. the softened soil welcomes the crumple of your body, but your cheek scrapes on a ragged twig embedded in the ground. the dampness of the earth swallows any loudness to your fall, the little strangled noise that leaves your lips in surprise and hot white pain. the twig that draws a line of blood across your cheek doesn't even snap.

but you can't fall in complete silence; there's a rustle and a dull thud and dean's ears are attuned to listen for you and sam. he hears your grunt of pain, regardless of how quiet the sound is. he's immediately on high alert, spinning around and holding his gun at the ready. for split second, he thinks you've disappeared completely. he didn't know you'd been falling behind, twilight is ending, and your brown jacket melts into the color of the ground. but he's got keen eyes and spots you quickly.

"shit," he curses under his breath, all but sprinting back to you, long legs clearing logs and rocks without any fuss. before he's dropped to his knees by your side, he's already asking, "hey, hey, hey, talk to me, bud. what happened?"

you've managed to twist over onto your back by the time he gets there, though not without much effort. there's dirt clinging to the side of your face and wet leaves stuck to your clothes. it's become too dark for dean to see the spread of blood on your jacket.

"just a... just a cut," you breathe out. your voice doesn't sound quite right and it sets off blaring alarms in dean's head.

"where?" he demands, not harshly. his flashlight clicks on and you squint at the sudden brightness. he doesn't need you to answer. his free hand doesn't hesitate to move your bloodied jacket out of the way, and he sucks in a sharp breath before he even sees the full extent of the wound. his fingers gather up your soaked through shirt and gently peel the fabric away from your skin. "jesus, what the hell? when did this happen? just a cut?" he asks, bewildered and beyond concerned.

"b-before," you answer unhelpfully. "it's fine. help me up." you don't feel fine at all. your head pounds and your limbs are heavy and your voice is tight with pain.

dean scoffs, pulling off his jacket with an almost panicked urgency. "you were stabbed, are you crazy?" he accuses, sounding much more worried than actually angry. he messily folds up his jacket, not hesitating to push it against your wound, not so gentle in an effort to slow the bleeding. you grunt and he frowns deeper.

"more like a… a slash… less- less stabby. 's not that bad," you mumble, completely unconvincing.

dean's jaw clenches like he disagreed. "sammy'll fix you up," is all he says. "c'mon, let's get you up. you'll be just fine." dean knows that you prefer patching yourself up. he knows that you don't like letting them see you injured. but this is bad, he thinks, and his blood boils and his heart lurches at the thought that you tried to hide it.

sam, stuck in the motel with his healing broken arm, doesn’t expect much but a “we’re on the way back” sort of phone call from dean when he answers the ringing tone. dean himself is barely paying any attention to the phone. he should be paying attention to the road, but his eyes flick over to you often, and linger for too long. the first thing that sam hears over the phone is the muffled honk of a car horn.

then comes a quiet, “shit. i’m sorry, bud. you’re alright,” from dean. he doesn’t hear the little sound of pain you made when dean had to swerve the car.

“dean?” sam says, voice plainly worried. dean sounds off. “what’s going on?”

“sammy,” dean breathes, uncharacteristically afraid, “they’re bleeding bad. need you to be ready to stitch ‘em up when we get there. five minutes.”

“where? how bad?” sam asks in a rush, already standing and searching for a medical kit. there’s one on the coffee table.

“lower left side,” dean answers, voice a bit more sure when he can actually give a solid, factual answer. then it falters. “just– bad. real bad. they’re barely awake.”

“dammit,” sam mutters. he wants to ask what happened, but dean sounds like he’s driving recklessly through the panic of your injury. he doesn’t want to add anything else for him to think about. “you sure you shouldn’t be headed to the hospital?”

dean shakes his head, then glances at you and your heavy lidded eyes. “nearest one’s too far. you’re closer.”

“okay. alright. just– just drive safe and keep them talking,” sam says at the risk of angering dean in his precarious mental state. asking him to drive safe is a bit silly, and he already knows to keep you talking. 

but dean doesn’t retort, he just spares you another glance. “keep those eyes open for me,” he urges, leaving it up to sam to hang up the phone. he only does so in order to focus on gathering the right supplies for you. and when the impala pulls up into the parking space right in front of tonight’s motel room, sam’s waiting outside by the pale yellow door with a janky metal ‘17’ on the front. he’s at the passenger’s side before dean’s even turned the car off.

you’re leaning against the car door, so he’s precise and careful when he opens it, reaching in with one hand first and cupping the side of your neck to keep you steady while he slips in closer to you. 

“hey,” he says gently, hiding his fear. he’s not sure he can deal with all this shit without you. you’ve always been such a steadying presence. dean’s jacket that you keep clutched to your wound with shaky hands is all bloodied, and the only thing sam knows is that dean said it’s real bad.

dean’s there, opening the door the rest of the way so that sam can bend down and pull you into his arms. first goes your head to his chest, then his arms wrapping around your shoulders and tucking under your knees.

“there we go,” sam murmurs, wincing softly when the movement pulls a groan of pain from your lips. “can you talk to me?” he’s swift and gentle in his movements, getting you through the door and to the bed with the least amount of discomfort for you that he can.

“it’s okay, sammy,” you mumble in response to his request. of course that’s what you’d say. dean frowns, barely able to hear your words despite how close behind sam he hovers.

“yeah,” sam agrees, laying you out on the bed, pulling the ruined jacket away from your wound and gently moving your own clothing out of the way. it’s not a pretty sight, but the bleeding’s slowed enough for him to see that maybe it’s not as bad as they thought. stitches should do the trick, you’re just all messed up from the blood loss. “it is okay,” he confirms, “you’ll be okay.” 

as he soaks a clean rag with alcohol, sam wonders when the last time he’s stitched you up was. it must’ve been a while ago. he even can’t easily think of the last time he helped you deal with any injury. right now, it’s his job to stay calm and patch you up, but the way you said it’s okay, sammy, made him want to act a bit like the baby of the family. he wants to hug you. it doesn’t make him feel small, though, just extra responsible for making sure you’ll be alright. you’re always taking care of him and dean, even if it’s just in the smaller ways, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t fix this for you.

dean’s hands are far more tender than usual as he holds yours. sam cleans your wound, and you don’t react much. it worries them both, but sam assures that it’s not as bad as it seemed before.

the cast over sam’s wrist and forearm doesn’t make giving you stitches all that easy, but he manages. his big hands are somehow always much nimbler than dean’s, the stitches he produces less crude. but no matter how used to the feeling of a few stitches you are, once he gets to the sixth, you’re not sure you can stay awake any longer. you hate the feeling of the needle and thread going through your skin.

you give dean’s hand a weak squeeze. “’m gonna pass out,” you slur in warning. his eyes widen in worry. sam tries to stay focused, but his frown deepens. he’d much rather you didn’t, but he thinks you’ll be alright.

“hey, hey, hey, no. stay with us,” dean urges, brushing his fingers over your forehead. “you’re fine now, just stay awake, bud. look at me.” you meet his gaze with drooping eyelids and a weak frown. you feel bad for making him worry like this. 

“’m sorry,” you mumble, “so tired.” you close your eyes against his wishes, and your hand goes limp in his. 

“dammit,” sam whispers, noticing the way your muscles all go slack. dean’s not so quiet when he curses, standing up angrily. as sam finishes the stitches, dean paces, hands in fists.

“it’s my damn fault, sammy,” he growls. if sam looked up, the tears in dean’s otherwise angry eyes would betray his blatant concern for you. “i wasn’t paying attention.” sam worries now that dean’ll start throwing things. he doesn’t deal well with his little siblings getting hurt.

“they’re okay. seriously,” sam insists. really though, he’s worried out of his mind. freaking out won’t help him give you effective stitches, so he just focuses on the silent promise he’s made to take care of you. “they’ll heal. the stitches will be enough,” he says, instead of asking what happened to avoid upsetting dean further. dean returns to your side just as sam finishes the last stitch. he dresses the wound with a bit of help from dean, but mostly, the oldest just combs through loose strands of your hair, picking out dried leaves and twigs. dean cleans the little cut on your face too, wiping away the dirt from when you fell.

he holds you gently upright as sam trades your bloodstained jacket and top for a simple long sleeve crewneck shirt to keep you comfortable and warm as you rest. he monitors your pulse and constantly checks your breathing, and his nervous behavior doesn’t go unnoticed by dean. but your heartbeat remains steady and the soft sound of your breathing is the only thing that can be heard at times. it’s comforting to them both, taking turns by your side, though they’re most certainly overly concerned now that your body is set to start mending.

you sleep a long while, long enough that dean starts pacing again when he tires of sitting on the edge of the other bed with his head in his hands. sam sits in a chair by your side. he dozes lightly for a bit, until the sun rises and brightens the room through half opened curtains. dean’s asleep on the couch when sam comes back around, despite the completely free bed. when he wakes, dean makes coffee for him and sam, brooding the whole while. he still looks like he’s holding back the urge to throw a rickety motel chair into the wall, but he’s a bit more blatantly anxious than angry by now. he holds your hand for a little while before you wake up.

you start to stir at 9:37 in the morning, which means you’ve been sleeping for almost ten hours. sam had checked the time when you passed out, in the midst of all his worry as he stitched you up. but no one catches the time. you, of course, are not checking the time. you’re barely awake. dean doesn’t think to check the time, he’s much more concerned about the light rustle of the bed sheets that he hears coming from your direction. and sam is drying his hands in the bathroom. he probably wouldn’t care to check the time either even if he were standing right by the clock. he hears dean say your name through the thin bathroom door, quiet and nervous. the hand towel slips off the rack in his rush to get to you.

dean’s sitting by your side, both of his hands wrapping around yours. “hey,” he murmurs, soft and glad to see your eyelids fluttering. you see the water stained ceiling of the motel room and feel the end of the bed dipping by your feet, then a big, soft hand on your shin. that’s sam. dean’s the one holding your hand.

you try to say hey back, but it comes out as a hoarse groan. your throat is very dry. so you just squeeze dean’s hand back as best as you can. one of his hands leaves yours to rest on your tired head. you look over and offer him a little smile. he feels a rush of affection as you meet his gaze like that, and a little bit of guilt for always letting you be the best of them. the quietest and the easiest. he doesn’t know what to do with those feelings, so he asks a sweet, almost teary looking sam to go grab you some water. he does so without a qualm, tries to help you take a sip, and relents with a subtle pout when you refuse the help. you’re insistent about holding that cup for yourself.

“let me help you,” he murmurs, voice all soft. he sounds extra young right now, as his hands try to hold the cup and your head up for you. you grab the cup, shaking your head despite being plagued by a pounding ache at your temples.

“mm-mm,” you hum a no, as if it bothers you that he’s trying to use his hand in a cast to help. you’re truly just that stubborn that it makes you strong enough to hold the cup with your own shaky hands. sam’s hand hovers nearby anyway. when you’ve taken a good drink, and the water starts to slosh a bit because you’re having a hard time holding it steady, dean takes it from you and sets it on the bedside table. 

“you gave us a good little scare there,” he murmurs, voice gentler than usual. he doesn’t even pretend to sound annoyed. sam thinks his demeanor is a bit funny now, considering how much of a mess dean was last night and before you woke. but he easily lets it slide for right now. without a doubt, you’re his main concern.

“sorry,” you mumble, still sort of smiling.

“don’t,” sam scolds softly. “don’t be sorry.” it seems to him like you’re always willing to take the fall, fix the problem, ease the tension. right now, he’d rather you just let him and dean take care of everything for you. you look like you want to protest, keep apologizing for making them worry, but he grabs your free hand as a means to stop you. dean gives your hand a little squeeze to punctuate the same sentiment. 

you have nothing to be sorry for. and they are very grateful for you. losing you scares them more than anything, and for a moment, they will both be a bit vulnerable and ask for you to do the same by holding your hands tight for just a little while.

“okay,” you murmur. you won’t be sorry. i love you, too, you’re saying.

[meglosthegreat]

I see a lot of posts on here talking about the Solas/Elgar'nan segment in Blood of Arlathan and how it's one of the best scenes in the game, and they'd be right, but I don't see enough people talking about how comically the whole thing is undercut by quite possibly the most poorly-conceived, terribly-implemented looney-tunes-ass sequence in gaming history that surrounds it.

Like you show up with your friends to this Venatori party, and you're like great, we're sneaking in! Time for disguises. How convenient that these Venatori guys all wear hoods, right? Should be a piece of cake if we're all, you know, wearing hoods that would helpfully hide our identities. But no. We all go waltzing in with our whole-ass faces exposed, you know, the group of guys that have been murdering Venatori left and right and who Elgar'nan and Ghilan'nain have definitely all seen in person before. Oh, and don't worry about walking into this notoriously racist elf-sacrificing cult if you happen to be an elf! You're only here in disguise so that you can rescue a GROUP OF ELVES THEY'RE GOING TO SACRIFICE but it's ok because you're dressed as a mercenary and not a dalish so it's all good don't worry about it :) :)

Then you get into this fucking party and oh my fucking god it's like they decided to take all of the most comically over-the-top stereotypes of villainy and put them on display. Because why not! The Venatori are all sickos anyway so of course they'd be out here doing sicko things! There's some guys pulling a halla apart with blood magic! There's other guys using slaves as benches! They're all laughing and joking about how EVIL they are, hahaha, how cool is that? The fucking guy from D'Meta's Crossing is here if you don't let him die, because he's a fucked up evil sicko too! You're supposed to be shocked at this hideous display; recoil in horror, even!

And who do you bring with you to help get through this crowd of absolute lunatics? NEVE FUCKING GALLUS. You know, the person so well-known in Minrathous that a Dalish elf living in Arlathan KNEW HER BY REPUTATION. Yup, Neve Gallus with her INTENSELY RECOGNIZABLE PROSTHETIC just waltzes up to some guy and he just lets her in. Because being EVIL also makes you incapable of coherent thought, apparently.

And then. AND THEN. You walk across the bridge where Elgar'nan makes his thought-sounds at you, and YOUR ENTIRE FUCKING PARTY is already there, just hanging out nbd. Also not wearing hoods or any kind of disguises that couldn't instantly be seen through by a five-year-old with amnesia but ok, cool. Why did we bother walking through all those sickos then when we could've just taken the secret back entrance like the rest of them, idk.

But just when you think you've reached peak stupidity, it keeps going. You're now standing there, at the front of a crowd of about twelve people, approximately five feet away from Elgar'nan himself, inexplicably blending in, when the big guy puts the mind control whammy on everyone. Oh no, you think. We've been found out! Here's the part in the plan where things begin to go wrong! NO. Your mage friends SECRETLY PERFORM MAGICAL GESTURES to block the mind control, and then you LITERALLY FUCKING SIDLE OFF STAGE LEFT without ANYONE NOTICING. I should reiterate that at this point, you are still about FIVE FEET AWAY FROM ELGAR'NAN and his fucking ARCHDEMON.

And to conclude this absolute comedy of idiocy, as soon as you enter back into combat mode, you immediately ditch all of your disguises. And of course then, ONLY THEN, Elgar'nan notices you've been there. Cut to the end of the actual good sequence, this dramatic conversation performed by excellent voice actors and written miles better than most other things in this game, and you reach your final prize: about six guys trapped in a little cube. Cool, you tell yourself. This was definitely worth it. You take your fade-to-black teleporter back to the Lighthouse and they're never heard from again.

This was the quest that broke me. This was the moment that all hope for Veilguard finally snapped. I consider myself to be a very resilient person in the face of camp and goofy writing, but this was too much disbelief for my brain to suspend. The mental gymnastics necessary to make this whole sequence make any kind of sense were simply beyond me. Even Solas's dulcet tones could not salvage it for me after that.