#but there’s so many stitches that just a pattern won’t always do

[delicrieux]

𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 & 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐥𝐞 | endless oneshots (winter edition)

pairing—regulus black x reader genre—angstyyy summary—a moment shared in the living room word count—3.4k

masterlist. ☕. reqs are open!

the wall distracts you. the great family tree of the noble house of black. on their velvet sofa you find yourself quite small faced with the vastness of the room – in front, the magnificent tapestry of a lineage woven into time and into objects, like a permanent impact; in back, the frost covered windows, and further still, the late afternoon glow of the sun burning the whole of london. you imagine, briefly, yourself painted in. your small portrait and your name. you long for it in moments; you know no other wish. the shape of you has been made for this only.

how tedious. how meticulously exact the needlework must be to look appealing. how with your wand you can only return the inner lapel of regulus’ coat to its pristine condition and begin again. each time, the frustration threatens to spill through bitten lips. an uncaring loop thrusts through skin and hits bone. you give up, almost, with the silver thread coiled around your fingers like a hair. r. a. b. shouldn’t be too hard, should it? three letters only, sown by hand, a small, meaningless claim to a coat he already owns. as if he can’t recognize his things, how silly. by the seventh poke you wonder if this odyssey has any significance to it. why grapple to capture a tempest in a teapot? you could easily weave it into existence with magic.

it would still be a kind gesture, a thoughtful one. an affectionate one, even, if regulus cared to look – see the tired hands, the waxen expression, the lapel grasped so tightly. the look you’d give for a second because you couldn’t bear to be more honest than that. i did it for you, please wear it and think of me.

but no, it must be done by hand, else the magic won’t work. something about labor, the repetitive loop and pull that sows in more than letters. fixes more than thread. such a potent protection, only from what you can’t say. in a blood-warm waters of a dream, you puzzled over a crystalline cave in search of something precious, only you couldn’t recall what. in april of next year, regulus will die there, and you’ll never know. but he’ll wear the coat with his initials woven by your hand, and that will be enough.

you don’t look up when he enters, but you recognize the footsteps. regulus is never direct, at least, not with you. he’ll circle the tapestry and then circle the windows and circle the coffee table and then he’ll have nothing left to admire so he’ll admire you. sit beside, throw a glance at your pious work and draw, with his eyes, the shape of your profile. think, perhaps, of a branch of the family tree from his portrait to something that doesn’t yet exist, or the rose-bush pattern of the couch and how one branch connects his shoulder with yours.

“what are you doing?”

“making sure you don’t lose your things,” what a non-response, as if he’s known to misplace objects or articles of clothing. regulus can be careless, but never to warrant worry over useless matters such as this. he has many coats, and can purchase just as many if not more, and if petty, he can pilfer from sirius and row because the silence had grown too loud, “don’t make fun of me, it has to be hand-stitched or the enchantments will fade."

"i was never going to," he says, a faint twitch of amusement about the mouth. regulus always likes that you take his jokes seriously or his comments too light. that, from anyone else, you'd hardly even register. it makes him special, perhaps. as though only he is worth the recognition, or you desire him to have it, "...is this my birthday gift?"

"birthday, don't make me laugh," you mumble, biting the inside of your cheek, "would hardly be appropriate. it's a christmas gift."

"christmas." is the offhanded response. a statement, an assessment, but without judgement. only regulus can wield that so cooly. can live in between worlds that should not overlap. androgyne in tone and disposition, and the sound of it, your name, sweet as any chocolate. you glance up and smile wryly, "oh."

"oh indeed," you utter, and the final, hesitant thread is plunged to the fabric. his initials gleam as freshly cut silver. you offer him the needlework, "there." pride fits in your mouth like a candy well liked, sweetens the tone into something likely mocking, "not bad, is it, regulus? or perhaps you think hand-stitching is out of fashion and outdated, a lost art of our aristocratic roots."

regulus doesn't respond. his touch is a cautious one. fingers slide gently across the intricate curve of his initials and trail it upward to the collar and you pretend not to notice. regulus must always inspect things like an artist inspects his pieces. with a certain amount of scorn and longing.

"if it's for christmas," regulus says quietly, still running his fingers along the letters, "do i need to return a gift to you?"

you stop yourself short of giving the response that is right at the tip of your tongue. the verbiage is odd. instead, "return?"

"yes. to match, or rather, one that compliments. does such a custom matter much?"

"ah, well," it does, of course it does. such gifts are not for two sides. they're something sacred for one side only. he's not nimble with his fingers nor patient enough to wield a needle. he'd quit before the first draw of blood on cloth from his useless hands. he could magic it, but that would feel like a lie. what is this offer, or is it a suggestion? an implication? more daring than the look he gives you, certainly. no, he couldn't possibly imply something so domestic. regulus is not the type. so it can only be you reading too much. a stanza where there should be none, "you'd ruin my coat."

"naturally," regulus doesn't smile, not even to go along with his deadpanned tone, as though he could think of no better possibility, but you know better, or at least you tell yourself this. you do; how his head tips slightly towards you, the steady gaze, and the quirk of his brow, it's a rare breed of expression he dons only to you, when he can't bring himself to a more chaste form. you could spend hours sorting every fraction of difference, so keen they are to the point that you swear they must exist. you wouldn't be surprised if someone else says they see nothing,"... a handmade gift for a handmade gift. just for you."

"for me," is all you can muster in response, perhaps hoping you'd hear it clearer, and less vague and silly, in your mouth than his. he has given you presents. lovely, but impersonal. his brother shows more interest even if he has none for you. sirius hears but regulus listens and then willfully picks things everyone would like to receive. the ideal gifts, never with heart or consideration, yet you wear them proudly to hide your bitterness, because such attention is not unwanted, and neither is this. regulus is not incapable of more but his more is reduced to a subtle nothing, like a glance at the tapestry and a thought.

"...the needle's sharp." is the offhand observation, "you're bleeding."

regulus's concern is odd and undefined; you're not the most affectionate of friends. the fondness shared, the gentle jibes, are for you, really, because how else can you convince yourself you're happy. or to soothe the aching of that pesky hope, the wish and want of the moon reflected upon water. your gaze is steady. your hand is steady, "see how much i care?" and you hold up your middle finger with a smile, "i bleed for you."

he does look at it. his lips quirk into a ghost of a smile. "do you." he says, and returns to you, the trace of a frown on his face as though he's grown distressed with such a gesture, and like an adult will scold their pet for bad behavior, says, "really, that's quite silly. no, worse. don't do such unnecessary things to your pretty hands."

pretty, he says, and how easy would it be to mock him or put him in his place with a joke and a teasing word or two. is he making fun of you again? it's only an insult when delivered to the point. and it would feel worse when he isn't, when he's just offering a compliment in a strange sort of way.

"doesn't hurt that much." you say with a confidence unshaken, and the wounds are so meager they're not even worth healing. they'll dry and close before he can lift his wand for episkey or conjure a bandage. but they'll remain, for a day or two, as proof of your diligence. the methodical elegance that comes from creating a handmade gift. you'll look at your hands and know they have worked to protect him.

it hurts a bit more when he reaches for them. if you really did want to press, he'd insist or, with a haughty glare, defy you and prove the strength of his own silly pride, but he only asks, and then, does so with such tenderness you would think he held glass and not your injured hands, the result of a restless task meant for his comfort. your fingers stings the slightest against the brush of his fingertips, calloused and slightly cold, "...you've always been a fool."

"only when it matters," you say softly.

when he says your name, he lingers on the last syllable, with the tilt of his head and the curious narrow of his eyes. to pick apart and discern. to wonder. only briefly, like all his attentions, does the hand linger. the expression you want is not one he'd be willing to show so clearly, not even in the warmth of the dying light.

"stop saying ridiculous things." regulus says after a pause. he won't, however, release your hands. they remain there in his grip, unmoving and together.

"learn to take a joke," you answer.

he leans forward. "make it funny and perhaps i will."

"funny," you can't say a thing to that, yet you've thought up many. later, when he is asleep and his pale face is illuminated by the moonlit night, you'll recite all the things you could not.

"got nothing else to say?" a quirk of the lip. joined hands, fingers intertwined, though not so securely. loose enough that if the mood strikes or a strange sentiment overcomes him, he'd break them apart and away.

"oh, plenty," you can't keep your face straight, and so your smile is quick to return, "i’ve only taken pity on you. did you miss the sound of my voice already?"

"very presumptuous, aren't we," he glances aside, "and really, so outlandish. the nerve. you have the nerve."

"i suppose i do." you squeeze his hand lightly, "nerve. candor. the quality that earns a great admirer."

"or the ire of all who know you best," he tilts his head to the side, glances quickly at you, and with a surprising amount of assertiveness, curls his fingers tighter around yours, "i appreciate that you'd like to share your charisma but some people don't consider charm to be a particularly laudable virtue."

"that's such a bad lie that i might as well be told you don't think i'm charming at all, not in the slightest. and oh, there we are, what a pout. you're entirely predictable."

"and you entertain me, still."

"you're the one that holds my hands hostage," you note wryly, wiggling your fingers slightly.

regulus doesn't have a quick response for that. at most he offers the roll of his eyes. doesn't let go, simply presses. let's a drop of your blood stain his skin. when he speaks again, he's grown thoughtful, "...hostage, yes?"

"...oh, do stop that," a pause. the silence lingers, "no, that's quite unfair."

"do you think so or not?"

your pulse throbs loud enough to deafen you. it is a foolish question and the answer is a clear enough indication of what you think. what motive could he have? to delight at the humiliation of your confession or to watch you tangled in a lie you clearly don't believe? the truth is so obvious it's untactful to inquire about its validity.

he sounds so serious as his thumb brushes along the dips and hills of your knuckles, "well? your answer? or is a minute not enough to think of something witty?"

at this, you frown, "regulus." and it comes quiet, like a warning.

"thought it came naturally to you. such creativity."

he has grown to be cruel sometimes. most times, rather, when it suits him to be. a petty, petulant thing not yet ready to leave its comfortable shell and grow beyond, "you must be eager for me to release you," he adds. a bitter afterthought.

"are you done?" you ask.

"what shall you do with your hands once they’re free?" he wonders, "sow something for sirius? he’d be wrecked if he didn’t receive a gift like mine."

"regulus." you repeat with a frown, "don't."

"why not?" he blinks.

"a gift doesn't mean anything if it's a gift for the masses."

"well, it'll be custom, i imagine," he says, "with his initials this time."

"regulus," a third time you've said it, a sharp tongue to cut, "stop it. you're being mean."

his eyes are cast downward, expression impassive. "if this is what it takes to get you to respond, then perhaps i am."

this isn't the game. the one where he'll pretend not to care so as to observe how you'll react. it is the type where you'll act cold enough he'll hesitate. then he'll carelessly expose himself so the hurt can be delivered with ease. an offense so great you'll seek the sweet relief of exile.

"i made it for you," you utter, barely a whisper, "no one else."

"is that so."

"if you don't want it, i won't force you to keep it."

"no, i like it," his expression has remained the same, if not with a certain lack of conviction, a flat tone you want to interpret as some half lie, but you don't. instead you nod. a half-hearted turn of your head before meeting his eyes.

"a bit possessive, don't you think? getting so cross over a made up problem?" you inquire.

"made up, huh?" you like the inflections of his voice, and even in his reluctance he maintains them, the gentle flow, the steadfast determination to the subject.

"mhm."

"thought it was logical to assume. you're friends."

"i have a different gift planned for him."

"different?" he clarifies.

"quite," you say, all sorts of bitter, "a broom cleaning kit."

that, at least, seems to somewhat appease him. and regulus settles, ever so slightly, his brow a faint twitch. the motion you always want to trace with your fingers, and map along until you memorize every curve and line and plane of his face.

he adjusts your hands again, idly thumbing over the slope and curve. he is thoughtful again, contemplative and somber and nothing more. a lingering fear clings to the curve of his mouth, "do you ever wish you could disappear?"

the question has no context, and it strikes you as the type that never did, with a subtle heaviness he is familiar with the implications of. it is only in a selfish way that the fear occurs. his isolation, perhaps. or he must assume that all others can share a similar loneliness, though only in different quantities.

"do you?" you ask instead.

"perhaps. sometimes. maybe not." he does, you think, look as though he often considers running away to somewhere no one else is aware of him. or if he's not wanted there, then elsewhere. somewhere remote and a touch fantastical. a desperate escape from family tradition, from being the second born son. a desire, or rather, absconding from responsibility. to be far and forgotten; to live a life you believe would bring you some semblance of peace and happiness, though not enough for the longing to subside and never enough for him to admit to it. no, regulus would first die than admit it out loud.

admit the envy he has for his brother. admit to wonder if anyone would look for him if he was to disappear.

you would. even if the rest wouldn't, you would. and if they did, how angry it'd make them if you refused to quit searching. it strikes you suddenly and without remorse, as if you've been pushed into a pile of snow. it's him you were searching for in your dream.

"no, then?" his voice shakes you away. your expression had frozen over, had it? how rare it is, to see worry worn so openly in the shape of those brows.

"sometimes," you answer honestly, though you're never quite sure where that might be. a growing, restless worry expands in the pit of your stomach. as though your nightmare is not so far from becoming reality. that one day, you'll search for him to the edge of the earth only to never find him again, "you aren't thinking of leaving, are you?"

he's taken aback by your expression. "of course not," he reassures, and he seems as though he means it, "i'm only indulging hypotheticals."

"alright."

"are you okay?"

"sure. yes. yes, absolutely."

regulus peers at you closely, scrutinizing, the gesture intense and pointed in its nature. and he returns to tracing the veins on your skin, a practiced art. a light tickle that has you shivering, not that you'd want to move away. never from him.

you hear him, soft and hushed. perhaps it is more suited to the intimacy of the moment and not that he's become ashamed. a faint, lovely mumbling that you would like to indulge forever if possible, "i'm really not going anywhere." he brings your hand to his lips after a moment of hesitation, like he needs the courage, the comfort. an earnest reassurance in a form of a small kiss as if it were his own insecurities at play, "here's okay. here's more than enough."

you nod. whisper, when you realize how close the two of you have become, "yes, stay here."

"...you as well."

"i will."

"wouldn't want to run around looking for someone who's meant to stay within my sights, anyways."

and it is you that laughs a little too hard to seem genuine, "as though you'd do such a thing."

he answers with a confidence unshaken yet poorly disguised by the restraint shown, "i don't plan on ever losing sight of you."

your eyes meet and hold, but neither will ever confess to be the one who glanced away first. for different reasons, perhaps, and no less of a humiliation. no less difficult to accept. the sight of him is too difficult to bear; the hair framing his face and the gentle hue of pink that grows steadily redder the longer he holds your gaze. he drops your hand first, and you resist the urge to run your fingertips down the sharp of his jaw and feel the softness of his skin or tug his bottom lip and hear the shuddering intake of air. to feel what can't be expressed, at least, not so simply.

you can't blame regulus for not wanting to admit it. he's shaped by his surroundings, has grown up in a family that doesn't permit affections. he doesn't know the structure of i'm sorry or thank you or i love you. but if only for a second, surely, he can try to imitate. you treasure each of his clumsy syllables and failed tries because he has never attempted anything of this sort for anyone else. the success doesn't matter, because he is earnest, at least to the degree of his own understanding and limit, and it's easier to say what's painful in silence.

or, maybe, nothing's difficult when the sun's nearly gone. when the window pane burns pink and white, and when the stars appear through the haze of fog and snow, and you think of the future, with him, but as the heirs of two prominent houses together, and it feels like a fairy tale that way, not quite real. so long as you imagine it with a dreamy detachment, you can convince yourself it doesn't matter further than a wish that will never come true.

because you've never learned to say i'm sorry or thank you or i love you, either.

thank u for reading <3

[aaron-m-geist-ff]

Back again cause I cannot get enough of Mahito. I've got Mahito brain rot but asking this time for both W and X just Mahi this time though he's so baby girl. 💖😩🩷🥰😘

I’m happy that you’re back! I love receiving requests 😄🩷 and yesss Mahi is so bbg

_______________________________________________

W - Wild card (random headcanon)

Mahito doesn’t like it when you’re frightened. That’s something that he really doesn’t understand no matter how hard he tries to.

As a cursed spirit born from human hatred and fear, Mahito loves to terrorize humans. He finds genuine delight in their screams of terror or anger. It fuels him.

But with you…?

He doesn’t want to hurt you.

He wants to keep you safe and content. Mahito feels the best when your energy is at peace. It is likely due to the curse bond, and it has definitely turned you into one of his biggest weaknesses. The smart thing to do would be to kill you because you could be used against him by other cursed spirits. But he would never dream of doing that. The idea of you dying makes Mahito sick to his stomach. Especially if it was by his hands.

Because of this, Mahito is very possessive over you. He needs to make sure that your life is perfect according to his standards. He won’t settle for any less. He needs to keep his human protected at all costs.

Also, he loves when you call him ‘Mahi’. There’s something very endearing about it. It sounds cute and delicate, which is a bit ironic considering he fucks you into the mattress nearly every night ;)

_______________________________________________

X - x-ray (what is going on underneath their clothes?)

Oooo la la.

Mahito usually wears baggy clothes. One of his favorites is a basic black shirt which hangs loosely around his collarbones. It brings attention to his neck and strong forearms.

You always end up looking at his arms and hands. They look so muscular and lean. Mahito would have no trouble wielding a sword or other weapons. He appears as though he has effortless strength. Just naturally strong with veiny hands. Your eyes often linger a bit too long.

You love to watch Mahito move chess pieces with those hands of his. See how they work and grip the small pieces. It never fails to give you dirty thoughts. You find yourself imagining those big hands wrapped around your breasts instead. Squeezing the soft flesh firmly.

And when Mahi is naked..?

His abs are perfect. He looks like he was chiseled out of clay. And the stitch marks run in symmetrical patterns across his skin. You want to count all of them and see how many there are.

Mahito is clueless about his own attractiveness.

He truly has no idea that his physique is considered highly attractive in the human world. He would genuinely be surprised to learn that hundreds of human women would be interested in sleeping with him. You haven’t told him about any of that yet. You’re far too busy appreciating his body all on your own.

And his dick?

It’s big. Even when it’s flaccid. When he is fully hard, you get to see the size and girth in all its glory. It looks really big inside of your smaller hand. But to you, it’s the perfect size. It hurts slightly if he fucks you too hard. But you would be lying if you said that you didn’t enjoy it.

He doesn’t have much body hair. You find yourself wondering if he shaves it, but perhaps it has something to do with being a cursed spirit. You doubt that Mahito would know the first thing about shaving.

Read more Mahito here

[hippolotamus]

writing patterns

rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there's a pattern!

it's tempawrary (Stevie Budd | 3.1k | T)

Stevie is at least 87% certain this week can’t possibly get worse. For starters, she’s in the motel lobby surrounded by overstuffed bankers’ boxes. Boxes that now belong to her, courtesy of Aunt Maureen’s highly inconvenient death.

stay here honey (i don't wanna share) (Lutalia | 1.8k | E)

Lucy drapes one arm around Natalia, burying her nose in her hair. Nat smells like the overpriced mousse from the salon. Like sweat and sex. She smells like Lucy. That knowledge sparks a primal, possessive urge, just enough to make itself known. The one Lucy isn’t ready to admit to having and Natalia won’t admit to loving.

if this love is pain (let's hurt tonight) (Buddie | 3.2k | T)

Eddie knows it’s him immediately. Feels the weight of his presence like a favorite coat that doesn’t quite fit anymore. Of course he does. Try as he might, Eddie will never not know when Buck is nearby.

with eyes wide open i tore you apart (Buddie | 377 | G)

“Which is why I have to make the most of every single moment.”  Even as Buck says the words, they taste like ash on his tongue. Because his heart’s not in them and he knows Eddie’s not buying it either.

if i’m being honest (it scares me to death) (Buddie | 2.9k | T)

Just got in. See you tomorrow.  Buck pockets his phone and enters the apartment — it’s not home, never really has been — his movements slow and easy, like he’s floating. Buoyed by the sort of love and contentment that can only come from spending an evening at the Diaz house.

the only thing that matters now (is everything) (Twylexis | 882 | G)

Alexis combs her fingers through her hair, letting manicured nails lightly scratch along her scalp while she stares at the ceiling. Golden wavy strands glide between her fingertips before dropping back to the pillow, a feeling she wants to take advantage of while she can. The self-soothing act had always calmed her as a little girl. Tonight she’s not exactly troubled, but ever since the tests came back, and the immediate future is wrapped in so much uncertainty, she’s found herself doing it more often.

a prelude to a kiss (Twylexis | 335 | G)

It’s no secret that Alexis has kissed lots of people. Like, so many. Men, women, non-binary, genderfluid… Alexis Rose has locked lips with them all. Even so, none of those could ever compare to the woman standing in front of her. To the moment they’re about to share.

I know all your secrets (David/Patrick | 4.6k | E)

In all the years of artfully sneaking around for missions, Agent Patrick Brewer never thought his expertise would lead him here. At least, not as many times as it has.

Whatever may come (your heart I will choose) (Buddie | 77.4k | M)

Love /lǝv/ (n) - strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties. Warm attachment, enthusiasm, or devotion. Unselfish, loyal and benevolent concern for the good of another. Thousands of years ago, the Ancient Greeks identified eight types of love: Agape (unconditional), Eros (romantic), Philia (affectionate), Philautia (self-love), Storge (familiar), Pragma (enduring), Ludus (playful), and Mania (obsessive).

all in the Jee-tails (Buddie | 4.5k | T)

Okay. Just a little turn aaaand- yes. Alright, only one more to go. You got this, Buckley.  Buck watches with fascination as the sewing machine’s needle dips and resurfaces, piercing the shimmery blue fabric. A wave of satisfaction and pride washes over him when the final stitches meet seamlessly with the beginning ones.

umm... i don't even know how to categorize whatever's happening there. although i feel like i can confidently say that i love using parens in titles 🙃

tags below the cut. if you see this and wanna play, too, consider this your tag!

thanks for the tags @lemonzestywrites @honestlydarkprincess @wikiangela @spotsandsocks @tizniz @thekristen999 @jesuisici33 @hoodie-buck @apothecarose 💖

no pressure tagging @stereopticons @blackandwhiteandrose @shortsighted-owl @eddiebabygirldiaz mi amor @disasterbuckdiaz @elvensorceress @barbiediaz @buddierights @chaosandwolves @daffi-990 @diazsdimples @eowon @fortheloveofbuddie @gayedmundodiaz @giddyupbuck @heartshapedvows @indestructibleheart LOML @lizzie-bennetdarcy @ladydorian05 @loserdiaz @monsterrae1 @spaceprincessem @statueinthestone @steadfastsaturnsrings @the-likesofus @theplaceyoustillrememberdreaming @thewolvesof1998 @vanillahigh00 @watchyourbuck @wildlife4life @your-catfish-friend @rmd-writes @weewootruck @welcometololaland and anyone else who wants to 😘

[knotalot]

Hi ! I saw your Aether doll, and I was just wondering what's your process for the hair and the clothes? A friend's birthday is coming up (very) soon, and they really like Aether, so I'd love to know how to make this kind of stuff. I think you're really talented! :)

Hi! Thank you for your kind words :)

My process is largely on a ‘trial and error’ basis, but I’ve done my best to make a guide for you (using Aether as an example, since you mentioned him specifically). Unfortunately right now all of my stuff is in storage due to unstable living conditions, so I hope you’ll forgive me for only being able to offer pre-existing photos and hand-drawn diagrams. When I get access to my stuff again, I might do a step-by-step process for hair (for Lumine, since she’s my current WIP) but that could be quite a while yet.

Stuck under a read more because this is gonna get long lol

I’ll start with clothes because I always leave hair til last.

The first thing I do is hoard as many references as I possibly can, from as many different angles as possible. These are the one I used for Aether (made myself because I couldn’t find any online that met my needs), though I did also sometimes log into my game and rotate him in the character menu haha

From here, the next step is to start dissecting the layers. Work from the base up, and break it down specifically into what you would make as a single piece, rather than say the shirt base AND the sleeves AND the decal. If that makes sense.

I don’t normally draw diagrams or anything like I will be for this, but if that helps you visualise it by all means do!

(I also tend to go really ham on the details because I’m a perfectionist, but please don’t torture yourself unless you really want to. Making things a little more simplistic is perfectly fine and valid.)

I won’t do the whole thing or I’ll reach image limit but here’s an example of how you might break it down:

The more you simplify it, the easier time you’re going to have.

The next step for me, after I raid my cupboard and the local craft store for the right colours, is to work out which pieces of the clothing I’m going to incorporate into the doll’s base body and which will be separate.

For Aether, for example, the ‘hand’ part of his gloves are the actual doll’s hands, but the bit that flares up his arm isn’t. The boots are part of his actual legs up until the part where it flares up over the top of his pants, which I made as a separate piece. The seat of his pants are the bottom half of his base body, but the pant legs themselves are add-ons. Does that make sense?

Next, make your base body! If you’d like to use my pattern, you can find it in my pinned post :)

Once you’ve got the base doll, I start adding layers of clothing. I always use a smaller hook size for the clothes than I do for the base body. In my case I like 2.5mm (and a teeny tiny 1.25mm for fine details and thin layers – but we’ll get to that later). I normally start with the pants.

My normal method of doing pants is this:

Essentially, I crochet directly into the base body in a circle around the base of the leg (so I am not chaining, but actually single crocheting through random stitches on the base in a loose circle shape), and then work in rounds until I reach the length I want.

Because Aether’s pants are puffy at the bottom and have two colours (*shakes fist at hoyo designers*), though, the process ends up being a little different.

I made his pants in two pieces: the outer side and the inner side. So instead of rounds, it ends up being rows. To get that nice puff, just do some standard increases in the right spot and make sure to decrease on the lower rows to taper it back in.

Once you have both pieces, you can just sew the two halves together.

The flare of the boot over the top of the pants is exactly the same process. Attach and single crochet directly onto the leg from the top of the boot, working up towards the waist.

For trickier shapes like the gloves, it’s sort of just familiarising yourself with what kinds of effects different stitches do and allowing yourself to get it wrong about a dozen times before it actually works lol

If you break down the gloves properly, you end up with a shape similar to this:

(this is not great i am so sorry – I am realising once again my reference was awful for the gloves)

But you can kind of see how it’s largely bulb shapes for the brown part, which is easy to do with increases and decreases. The white part I made separately and attached afterwards. Yes it was a huge, tedious pain in the ass.

For finer details, like his jewellery and, like, the shoulder armour, etc etc, I use the smallest hook I can tolerate. Please do not attempt this unless you lowkey hate yourself because it is torture.

So when you look at yarn, you can see that it has a bunch of smaller strands wound together, right?

You gotta split em.

Like this.

(image borrowed from http://illuminatecrochet.blogspot.com/2015/03/what-is-ply.html)

And then. You are going to use that tiny ass hook. And crochet those individual strands. It sucks. It breaks constantly. It makes you want to commit a crime. But damn if it doesn’t look good.

On a similar note, don’t be afraid to use the 2.5mm/whatever hook you use for clothes with less than the full ply of the skein you’re using. For Aether’s cape, I did the outer facing white part with only 2 of the strands in my 8ply yarn, and the inside orangey part with the 1.25mm and one strand. It’s still a little fatter than I’d like but it’s better than doing the whole thing in single strand torture mode lol

I’ll wrap up clothing here but if you want some help with anything specific just let me know!

On to hair!

For hair, I use felt square sheets that are like $1 each. Except for Aether because he has to have a Very Special Hair Colour that my craft store doesn’t stock so his cost me $7 :/

It’s a similar kind of deal for hair as it is for clothes. Break down the shapes and start from the bottom up.

(This is not a good look for him rip)

Layers are your friend! As are sewing pins! For real, do not glue anything down until you’ve got the whole thing pinned down because once you glue you’re in for a bad time if you need to fix something.

I’ve made two Aethers (one as a custom gift commission, one for myself) and they’re both a little different from each other, but this should help give you an idea of how I translated it to felt. I like to simplify if I can, purely because larger pieces tend to look a bit neater and less chaotic than a bunch of smaller ones.

For his braid, I found the easiest way to do it was to just cut three really long straight pieces, braid em, and then trim the end to the length I needed.

My absolute biggest #1 tip for hair:

If it looks bad but you haven’t finished, do not stop and restart.

It will always looks stupid as hell in the early stages. Don’t make a judgement call on whether or not it looks right until you’ve at least got the whole front part/fringe area fully pinned in place. Trust me.

I think that’s probably about all I have the energy for right at this second, but again if you have any questions or want help on anything specific, my inbox/DMs are always open – and that goes for anyone reading this! I’m always happy to help :)

[alyjojo]

Love Reading 💖 - March 2024 - Aries

Singles:

Who is Coming In: The Tower & The Chariot rev

Regarding: The Hierophant

Long-Term Potential: 4 Swords & Strength

222 on the clock as I start your message, you either have a tumultuous history with this person or maybe they do in general. The Hierophant is clarified by 9 Wands, which is hurt, pain, feeling wounded. You could be on again, off again, on again, off again, over and over. There’s always drama, but you’re still committed to this person. Or some may be married & separated, some are trying to work out a difficult connection, it’s been a hell of a ride no matter who it is. This person could be legally married or have been, and they’re just going through it when they/you come around. They could’ve just gone through hell or something like this, and aren’t ready for something serious. Whatever has happened with them or between you might be some kind of disaster, they’ve gone through some major obstacles, one in particular being unexpected and changed everything about everything. The Sun clarifying with the lightning storm of this Tower could be a trip that gets canceled, blocks and problems, near-misses, things coming to light you didn’t expect or never saw coming. Maybe with their ex. Or you with them. Long term, this doesn’t go anywhere, you two aren’t even speaking. It’s a heavy weight to have had to carry (for one or both of you) and it’s like done is done, it’s a burden to even consider a new beginning…or have to go down one because this connection caused CHAOS. You could ghost them, if they try. Or that could be switched. The Oracle shows meeting them for a reason or a season, but not forever.

Messages:

- Lighter Skin Tone

- Shady Ex’s 👀

SHIP 🛳️

- Cutting Ties

- Moving On

- Receive What You Need

- Progression & Arriving

“A toast to no worries.”

Signs you may be dealing with:

Heavy Cancer, Sagittarius, Taurus, Leo, Scorpio & Libra

Couples:

Them: The Hermit rev, 5 Pentacles, King of Pentacles

Regarding: Wheel of Fortune

Curious energy on their side. It’s definitely some drama, but on your side I can see you’re not pressed whatsoever, if anything you’re amused. A song started playing in my head that made me laugh, I’ll put it at the end. So this person, for many of you they were gone for awhile, could have even been with other people. Wheel of Fortune can show a karmic, someone you’ve known a long time, or things are just changing in a big way for them right now. The changes are probably job related, if you’re actively together. Losing a job, losing hours, getting a new boss that’s just the *worst*. If there’s a 3rd party situation, it’s looking like you’re the 3rd party. This person may be leaving someone else for you, or they’ve been left by someone and they’re crying on your shoulder. They don’t know what to do, they never planned on xyz, I’m sensing damsel in distress energy. They’re going through tough times or something karmic even, could also be relating to their family. Or you. You’re ready to jump in and play hero. Male or female, both significators are here, you got this 💯 Almost eagerly, an opportunist and it is your TIME to shine 😆

Messages:

- Cannot Handle Reality 😵‍💫

- Gorgeous 😍

CUT DOWN 🪓

- Cutting Out

- Separation

- Stop the Pattern

- Silent Treatment

“In other words, meditate.”

You: 4 Pentacles rev, The Fool, 3 Wands

Regarding: 9 Swords rev

Your energy has me 😂 In stitches. You’re amused as hell, like “it’s about time”. Especially for those where this person has been with someone else, I just keep hearing that song. It’s like this person is drama but they’re *yours* and “go be dumb all you want, that’s fine, I’ll wait.” You are the definition of unbothered, and when this person needs you, you’re ready to rub their face in it a little. Like they can replace you psh, go find better then! They can’t, won’t, or don’t want to, they’ll be back and you’ll be extremely giving and loving towards them…cuz you knew they would. If you were worried at times, it’s showing with 9 Swords rev, but they don’t gots ta know about that. It’s not obvious. Whatever they need, you’re there, immediately, and whatever issues or grudges you had, that’s gone just as fast too. Your “give that shit up” oracle feels like something you’re saying to them, you’re perfectly chipper, waiting on this goober to get on your page so you can prove *why* you’re the best. Or why they need you. You’re a winner, that’s why. I heard “silly bitch”, this reading is killing meeee. Some of you, this is flat out about money. You like someone that could be broke, and you are not only NOT broke but you enjoy flexing it, it’s part of your personal power. Aries to the rescue, financially, and then you can work them with the charm and passion once you get there right? People underestimate just how generous Aries is for their people, this reading is a perfect example. Is there something in it for you, psh yes, always 😆 but that’s besides the point. Now if this is someone that does it all the time, then yeah, give the shit up. I don’t think you will, engagement ring being the mutual Oracle, but it’s possible.

Messages:

- STATUS 😎

- I’ll Wait Forever

THE DRAGONFLY 🌺

- Light-hearted & Adapt

- Finding Out & Change

- Things Coming to Light & Heal

“Give That Shit Up.”

Mutual: The World, Queen of Wands, 9 Wands

Regarding: 6 Wands

You two are definitely making up, and however you act or whatever you do makes it seem to them like this all was supposed to be this way. Cheering them up, making them laugh, putting on the Aries special sauce or some shit, you’ve definitively got them right where you want them. And it’s mutual. You want it, they want it, you’re generous, they’re generous. You and they both could be questioning the dynamics of this, it’s off the wall or strange for sure, but stranger things have happened and “Silence Your Inner Critic” is like Spirit saying shh. Don’t worry how you got here, you got here. It’s being pointed out that the hard times are over, any hurt you’ve felt before is over with, even if you’re still a bit cautious, or they are. Both of you. That’s fine, and I don’t see anything to worry about. 6 Wands is victory. Ace of Wands is about that passion…which is inevitable too. I’m done here, it’s GREAT. You win. 5 Stars ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Engagement Ring 💍

- Higher Commitment

- Eternity

- Partnership & Union

- Completion

“Silence Your Inner Critic.”

Signs you may be dealing with:

Heavy Aries, Taurus, Sagittarius, Leo, Capricorn & Pisces

[coconutcows]

SHE"S GORGEOUS!! IMMACULATE and PERFECT in every way!! And what a cute little baby she has there, they're just a little guy :3

You did a wonderful job; she looks so soft and huggable <3... Every time, without fail, whenever you knit something I'm just completely blown away like, "WHOA, how'd you do that with your hands??".

Some mages cast spells that call lightning, but those amateurs don't got jack on the wizard who can weave familiars from thin air!

Hello!!!!! I’m so sorry this has been in my inbox for awhile, but this ask makes me so happy every time I think about it ^-^

It always makes me happy when people enjoy my knitted plushes, they never get too many notes, so far my earthworm has the most out of any of my projects. I recorded all my patterns into one notebook last night and so far I’ve made 15 unique patterns on my own using just the basic stitch and knitting rectangles/squares.

Sometimes I feel like my stuff isn’t that great because it’s knitted, not crocheted, because crocheting seems to be the big and popular thing right now (I’ve seen some people say knitting is so much harder which is wild to me??? I learned to knit when I was eight, and almost twenty years later I still can’t gather the mental energy to try crochet lol)

Sometimes I wonder if my projects are worth it, would anyone buy them???? They aren’t crochet so would people want them?? I already know they won’t pay what they’re worth because people undervalue labour poured into arts and creative projects but will people like or want my stuff at all???

I’m currently working on a couple Pokémon projects so anyone who enjoys my knit projects and or Pokémon look forward to these upcoming guys :3

[repost-this-image]

Tips For Sewing Doll Clothes

I’ve been doing this for a while, so here are some tips for sewing doll clothes.

Go to your fabric store and look in the remnants bin. This is where all the bits of fabric go that are too small to make human clothing out of.  Don’t use bulky stuff like felt or fleece unless your doll is huge.  Go for thin fabrics, like jersey knit, super-thin performance stretch fabrics, and handkerchief linen.  Quilting cotton is OK too, if your doll is Barbie-sized or smaller.  DO NOT use quilting cotton to make clothes for American Girl or Super Dollfie.  It won’t be pretty.

Don’t fret about mistakes, even on expensive brocades.  The nice thing about doll clothes is that they don’t use a lot of fabric.  Just cut new pattern pieces and start again.

Learn to hand-sew.  Trust me, even if you own a sewing machine, you will occasionally need to do things by hand.  If you can whip-stitch and backstitch in a neat little line (which only takes a few hours of practice to learn), then you can sew doll clothes by hand.

Machine sewists:  Don’t be a speed demon.  It’s fun to really hit the gas and be all “haha sewing machine go brrrr” but that is how mistakes happen.  You have more control at low speeds and are less likely to run over pins.

Start with a T-shirt and a basic pair of pants with an elastic waistband if you’ve never sewn clothing before.  They’re easy and will help you build confidence.  Also easy: drawstring skirts.  They are literally just a rectangle sewn into a tube.

Always double-check your pattern instructions.  Are there places where you need to trim down the seam allowance after sewing?  Is there a step that you absolutely need to do before another step, like hemming sleeves before you sew them to your shirt?  Make sure you know going in, so you don’t have to re-do your doll clothes as often.

Always double-check your disappearing-ink fabric marker before you mark your pattern pieces with it.  Nothing is more frustrating than finishing a cute garment, only to discover a few days later that the disappearing ink....didn’t disappear and now looks like an ugly stain.  Alternatively, use a piece of tailor’s chalk.  (You can also take a hobby knife to a piece of regular chalk and sharpen the end a bit.)

If you are hand-sewing, you will need to put approximately 184365 pins in your project.  This is normal, and why sewists always have so many pins.

If you are machine-sewing, you will need to make sure to take pins OUT of your project before they reach the needle.  Running over a pin will (if you’re lucky) break the needle, or (if you’re unlucky) break your machine.

Part 2 will be for those with a bit of experience.

[pet-genius]

A complex and many-layered thing

But Harry’s anger at Snape continued to pound through his veins like venom. Let go of his anger? He could as easily detach his legs. . . .

This is the first Occlumency lesson. Harry is right, of course. Feelings don’t go away because you want them to. To let go of them when they’ve not been addressed or validated can be as hard as detaching a leg. And yet, it’s what Dumbledore asked Snape to do, and it’s what Snape had to do to survive the first war as Dumbledore’s spy. You have to ask yourself… how?

Trapped animals chew off their own legs to escape. It’s a sacrifice they make to survive.

If there’s one thing in a fic that turns me off it, it’s the idea that Occlumency shields are a thing, that Severus was so gifted at it because he’s got some power like Second Sight or being a metamorphagus. I always preferred to think of Occlumency and Legilimency as skills that can be learned, even if some have more aptitude for it than others.

Severus entered Hogwarts with the kind of life experience that primed him for developing these skills, and left it with even more. Occlumency is magical dissociation, a post-traumatic coping mechanism, and Severus has C/PTSD. More under the cut; tw: just general angst.

To survive, he would have had to develop a knack for telling how explosive and unpredictable people feel. Over his life, he faced at least two egregious examples of what Pete Walker, author of “Complex PTSD” calls “the Charming Bully”.

Especially devolved fight types can become sociopathic. Sociopathy can range along a continuum that stretches from corrupt politician to vicious criminal. A particularly nasty sociopath, who I call the charming bully, probably falls somewhere around the middle of this continuum. The charming bully behaves in a friendly manner some of the time. He can even occasionally listen and be helpful in small amounts, but he still uses his contempt to overpower and control others. This type typically relies on scapegoats for the dumping of his vitriol. These unfortunate scapegoats are typically weaker than him. […] He generally spares his favorites from this behavior, unless they get out of line. If the charming bully is charismatic enough, those close to him will often fail to register the unconscionable meanness of his scapegoating. The bully’s favorites often slip into denial, relieved that they are not the target. Especially charismatic bullies may even be admired and seen as great.

These would be James Potter and Tom Riddle, who are distantly related, I might add. Harry inherited the tendency to default to the fight response, but since he grew up the scapegoat and not the golden child, he never becomes quite as appalling, and after all, a fight response is normal when they are after you. Even so, Harry, who has both James and Voldemort inside him, triggers Severus to no end. It’s not a coincidence that the memories Harry sees when he is with him are largely horrible, and vice versa. There had to be happy or at least neutral or even boring moments, but these two detest each other, and they know they detest each other. Negative emotions and associated memories are so close to the surface they can’t be contained. This is the purpose of the Pensieve in this context - to contain the emotions. Since Severus knew what was in there when he pulled Harry out, my theory is that you don’t suddenly forget the memories you placed there, but rather you make them less fraught with emotions.

“Get up!” said Snape sharply. “Get up! You are not trying, you are making no effort, you are allowing me access to memories you fear, handing me weapons!”

Harry stood up again, his heart thumping wildly as though he had really just seen Cedric dead in the graveyard. Snape looked paler than usual, and angrier, though not nearly as angry as Harry was. “I — am — making — an — effort,” he said through clenched teeth.

“I told you to empty yourself of emotion!”

“Yeah? Well, I’m finding that hard at the moment,” Harry snarled.

“Then you will find yourself easy prey for the Dark Lord!” said Snape savagely. “Fools who wear their hearts proudly on their sleeves, who cannot control their emotions, who wallow in sad memories and allow themselves to be provoked this easily — weak people, in other words — they stand no chance against his powers! He will penetrate your mind with absurd ease, Potter!”

A lot to unpack here.

“Memories you fear,” “weapons”, “easy prey”.

Fearing your own memories, viewing your own lived experiences as weapons to be used against you, being easy prey… Severus could not be speaking louder of himself here. He is the one whose mind had been penetrated with absurd ease, he is the one who handed weapons to Voldemort, and he is the one who had to do the psychological equivalent of detaching his own leg – again and again – to survive.

I’ll argue that Severus developed a fawn response and a flight response, as fighting had never really worked out for him if it was possible at all. He had at least two more people I’d describe as bullies in his life, Tobias and Lucius.

Again from Pete Walker:

These [fawn] response patterns are so deeply set in the psyche, that as adults, many codependents automatically respond to threat like dogs, symbolically rolling over on their backs, wagging their tails, hoping for a little mercy and an occasional scrap. Webster’s second entry for fawn is: “to show friendliness by licking hands, wagging its tail, etc.: said of a dog.” I find it tragic that some codependents are as loyal as dogs to even the worst “masters”.

Remember what Sirius called him? Lucius’s lapdog. Bellatrix called him Dumbledore’s pet, Dumbledore said he dangles on Voldemort’s arm, the narrative compares Snape to a rabbit in SWM and Harry compares the Half Blood Prince to a beloved pet who had gone feral (yes, this does mean a lot to me on a personal level, yes my username is not a coincidence).

His unconscious fawn response might have been his undoing, drawn as he was to figures like Lucius and Voldemort. As an adult, I think he utilized the skills he had developed to survive in order to stitch these people up, and involuntary dissociation and fawning became Occlumency, which to me, is his signature magic. Harry needed only to banish Voldemort from his mind; Severus could not settle for this. He had to give Voldemort something, and knowing how to fawn meant knowing what to give him and how to draw himself in such a light that Voldemort would believe it. We see how he wanted to be seen by the Death Eaters: a self-serving coward who sought to hide behind Dumbledore’s apron, playing his pet. But that’s Pettigrew, not Snape. Imagine the self-immolation, the self-violation, it must have taken to convince everyone that you’re an ersatz Wormtail! Snape is a man and a prince, and the text recognizes this as Harry calls him, in the end, Dumbledore’s man, the bravest man, and as that chapter is called “The Prince’s Tale”. Voldemort thought Snape was nothing more than a “good and faithful servant,” and that his last words were “My Lord”.

But Severus had an unequaled gift for Occlumency, specifically against Voldemort, because Voldemort could not legilimens what he couldn’t feel; and he couldn’t feel love, grief, guilt, and remorse. This was Severus’s secret weapon, which would not have worked against Harry - who can feel these things, and who is also Lily’s son. I can prove it. The first time Harry gets the hang of Occlumency is after Dobby dies:

His scar burned, but he was master of the pain; he felt it, yet was apart from it. He had learned control at last, learned to shut his mind to Voldemort, the very thing Dumbledore had wanted him to learn from Snape. Just as Voldemort had not been able to possess Harry while Harry was consumed with grief for Sirius, so his thoughts could not penetrate Harry now, while he mourned Dobby. Grief, it seemed, drove Voldemort out . . . though Dumbledore, of course, would have said that it was love. . . .

Harry learned to dissociate, though fortunately in a healthier way than many of us ever get to.

Of course, Snape was a good and faithful servant… to Dumbledore, which brings us to the flight response. The chapter wherein he escapes after killing Dumbledore is called “Flight of the Prince”. He should be fighting, he had just proven that he can cast a killing curse, and yet he flees. He can literally fly, in fact: He, Lily, and Voldemort are the only ones we see pulling this off.

As a child, we see this too: He copes with his home situation by reminding himself “it won’t be long and I’ll be gone.” He is thrilled when he imagines Hogwarts, his escape; he follows Lily out of the carriage instead of confronting James and Sirius head-on (which might have saved them all a lot of pain eventually). But this doesn’t work out, we see that in terrifying detail. The next attempt at an escape is joining the Death Eaters, but this too doesn’t work out.

He can’t flee anymore.

“Severus, you cannot pretend this isn’t happening!” Karkaroff’s voice sounded anxious and hushed, as though keen not to be overheard. “It’s been getting clearer and clearer for months. I am becoming seriously concerned, I can’t deny it —”

“Then flee,” said Snape’s voice curtly. “Flee — I will make your excuses. I, however, am remaining at Hogwarts.”

Shortly thereafter:

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, turning to Snape, “you know what I must ask you to do. If you are ready . . . if you are prepared . . .”

“I am,” said Snape.

He looked slightly paler than usual, and his cold, black eyes glittered strangely.

He was ready, and he was prepared. He didn’t fly; he walked toward what might well have been his end with open eyes, armed only with the strength of his mind. Before Voldemort killed him, he looked pale, again, and terrified.

“I sought a third wand, Severus. The Elder Wand, the Wand of Destiny, the Deathstick. I took it from its previous master. I took it from the grave of Albus Dumbledore.”

And now Snape looked at Voldemort, and Snape’s face was like a death mask. It was marble white and so still that when he spoke, it was a shock to see that anyone lived behind the blank eyes.

I ask myself if this was the moment he realized he had been betrayed, that by giving Dumbledore a painless death he had secured his own. Maybe he wasn’t pale because he was scared; maybe he was pale because he was shocked. He was at his absolute limit, Occluding with all his might when he could have easily saved himself. The dam is about to break. All the memories he feared, all the weapons, the entire content of his heart is about to spill through - literally.

He fawned for Voldemort, the worst of all possible masters, but in the end, he was Voldemort’s undoing. All the ways in which he was weak and powerless against Tobias, James, Lucius, et al., proved to be part of goodness and source of his power. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that Snape is so loved. I’ve never actually seen such love for any other fictional character. He represents a kind of courage that many of us need to get by, lest we simply become evil or give the fuck up (“I wish I was dead”). A kind of courage rarely celebrated. The more time I’ve spent in the fandom in general and in the Snapedom in particular, the more I am convinced of this.

[tsukishumai]

pairing: Sakusa Kiyoomi x f!reader word count: 2.7k (idk I’m sorry) tags/warnings: fluff, smut, NSFW, bondage, oral(f!receiving), MINORS please DNI with this post a/n: a big thank you to @forgetou and @neobakas for beta-reading this piece for me. ilysm <3

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

You were always incredibly considerate of Sakusa. It had been that way from the moment the two of you had met. You didn’t scoff at how he needed to be the first one in the locker rooms after practice, or laugh at his post-game rituals. You quietly adjusted to his odd habits, no fanfare or complaints. You never did so with any disdain nor treated his quirks as if they were a nuisance. You just accepted those parts of him without a second thought, considering it just as important to him as his limbs.

So yes, Sakusa fell for the kind girl that made him feel normal – the one that avoided taking him to crowded places, and stitched his jersey number onto a face mask. He thinks your jokes are hilarious, and he feels proud when he’s the one making you laugh. He likes it when you cook his favorite meals, and he appreciates the way you stay up to wait for him when he gets home a little late. He notices the effort you put into always looking pretty for him every day, always waiting for him to initiate contact for fear of invading his personal space.

But that’s just the thing.

Sakusa doesn’t want any personal space from you. He loves the way you smell, and the way your skin feels beneath his fingers. He daydreams about holding you in his arms, and rubbing circles along your back as you relaxed against him. He gets butterflies in his stomach when you kiss his cheek without asking him first, and he revels in the timid look on your face when you apologize for doing so.

He doesn’t mind. Why would he? Despite any preconceived notions one might have of him, Sakusa enjoys affection – from the right person. He’s not going to give Bokuto a high five, nor is he going to shake Hinata’s hand. Sakusa never fails to get the odd look from Atsumu when he slides his hand into yours without a second thought, or when he ‘allows’ you to brush his hair away from his face.

Sakusa wants to scoff whenever he hears that phrase. He doesn’t allow you to touch him. He yearns for it like his lungs need air.

So of course he notices when you try to keep him at arm’s length.

You were never afraid to tell him how you felt, easily slipping I love yous and I’m missing you into daily texts and conversation. It made his heart flutter, but Sakusa wasn’t a man of many words. He’s not sure how to write a love letter, and he’s never even picked up a poetry book. When you ask him how much he loves you, he’ll just look you dead in the eye and say “A lot?”

No, you won’t be receiving sonnets nor prose about his undying affection. He’d much rather just show you.

His every touch is filled with so much care, delicate but sure as they travel across the stretch of your skin. He places gentle kisses along your pressure points, feening for the feel of your pulse against his lips. He wants to taste every inch of you, and commit the sensation of you on his tongue to memory.

Yet whenever he tries to lower his head past your navel, you push him away. You try to distract your rejection with your kiss, rolling him over instead to take him entirely in your mouth.

It’s not that Sakusa is complaining; how could he when he’s pumping his dick into your silky throat, watching your saliva dribble past your chin as you choke on his length?

He forgets about your denial until his next attempt, when he’s nipping at the skin of your hips, moving his mouth to forge a wet trail that lead to the space between your legs, and yet again you pull him up from his spot, kissing him and grabbing him until he plunged himself inside of you instead.

As he collapses next to you in bed, wrapping his arms around you while you nuzzle your face into his chest, for the first time ever, he feels unsatisfied — as if he hadn’t done all that he could have.

He brings this issue up to you the next day, unabashedly asking why you wouldn’t let him kiss you.

“What do you mean, Omi?” You asked, confused. “We kiss all the time.”

“No, I mean,” he turns slightly red as he gestures to your crotch, “There.”

The flustered look on your face shouldn’t have made him hard, but it did. He liked the way you stuttered and widened your eyes, searching desperately for the right words to say.

“I dont know,” you answered finally, “I figured you thought that kind of stuff was gross.”

You cut the conversation off there, no longer wanting to speak on the subject, but it haunted Sakusa for the rest of the day.

Gross? Why would you think that of him? Don’t you know that he wants to claim ever single inch of your body, wants to dip his fingers into you and watch your eyes roll to the back of your head, wants you to sit on his face until he can’t breathe? Had he not been doing a good enough job showing you this?

Sakusa shakes his head, feeling disappointed in himself.

It’s alright. He’s got a plan.

Later that night, as he ran his hands along your waist, lightly dragging his nails across your stomach, he leaned down and whispered in your ear, “I want to try something new tonight.”

You didn’t even think about it as you nodded your head eagerly like he knew you would, gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes that screamed of lust.

He sits up, and you try to sit up with him but he just pushes you back down onto the mattress. You looked up at him curiously as he reaches down the side of the bed to where he placed a plastic bag with his earlier purchase.

Sakusa’s hand emerged holding a pair of silver handcuffs, and he smirks at the way your eyes gleamed with excitement.

“Hands up,” he commands, and you quickly obliged. He looped the handcuffs behind the bars of his headboard, cuffing one of your wrists on each side. He left it slightly loose so as not to injure your skin, but as you struggled against your bindings, Sakusa was pleased to find that it would be impossible for you to get out.

Your arms were outstretched above you, and Sakusa roves his hungry eyes over your dips and curves, so exposed and vulnerable to whatever he wanted to do.

But only one thing was on his mind.

He begins with a soft kiss placed in the crook of your neck, ghosting over your collarbones before leaving marks all across your chest. You fidgeted beneath him, and he placed two hands on your waist.

“Stay still,” he commanded, and you simply gulped.

Sakusa dips his head back down, supple lips enclosing around your hardened nipple, and you arched into his touch. You shiver when his teeth nips at you, while he brings his other hand to cup your other breast, fingers pinching and twisting the previously ignored bud until you were a whimpering mess.

He disconnects his mouth a loud pop, but it wasn’t long until he begins to drag his tongue across your stomach. His direction slowly moves further down, and he can feel you slightly tense up. He ignores the way you try to wiggle your body away from his ministrations; you have nowhere to go, and he has you right where he wants you.

Sakusa draws circles around your navel, his hands finally coming down to rest on your hips.

“Omi,” you say nervously, the handcuffs lightly clinking against the metal bars they were attached to, “I’m not sure if...”

Your words died on your tongue when Sakusa’s grip tightened on your hips, looking up at you through his lashes before darting his tongue out to wet his lips.

“Relax,” he cooed, “Be a good girl for me.”

You nearly choked, your throat feeling dry watching Sakusa move his hands down to your thighs, kissing his way down to uncharted territory. You felt uneasy, and nervous, unable to keep your insecurities at bay when you felt Sakusa lick at the junction of your thigh and pelvis. He was so close to you – what if he thought it was dirty? Or didn’t like your scent? You could feel the warmth of his tongue trace up your pussy lips, and it was involuntary the way you tried to kick him away.

Suddenly, you felt a hand grip you tightly behind your knees, forcefully pushing your legs apart and up against your chest. You gasped in surprise, face turning red at your position. You squirmed against Sakusa’s grip, but his hold on you was strong, and the silver cuffs around your wrist were doing their job well.

“I thought I said be a good girl?” Sakusa questioned, his expression stern while he had your legs pinned down. “Or am I going to have to punish you for being such a disobedient little slut?”

The butterflies in your stomach manifested themselves as the slick wetness between your legs, and Sakusa smirked at the starstruck look on your face.

“I’m a good girl,” you whispered, though the position you found yourself was anything but.

Sakusa responded by pushing your legs even wider, looking down to admire the view. He could feel the tip of his dick struggling against his boxers, a large wet spot on the material indicating just how much he wanted to wreck you. But that could wait.

You start to feel shy under his intense stare, trying not to wiggle away and get another reprimanding.

“Omi, what are you – ahh!”

Sakusa licks one long stroke up your slit, and you couldn’t stop your entire body from shivering. He could feel your legs tremble beneath his fingers, and who knew just one lick could already elicit such a reaction from you?

He moves one hand away from your leg, using two of his fingers to spread apart your folds. Like a man finding treasure, he plunges his tongue onto your swollen red clit, sucking and nipping at it gently before flattening his tongue, drawing patterns that made you feel like your entire body was on flames.

Your head was thrown back against the pillows, back arching as you struggled to catch your breath. Sakusa flicked his tongue against your pussy so expertly, alternating his speed and rhythm in a way that had your legs shaking violently.

“Ohh fuuuuckk,” you managed to groan out, gripping onto your bindings so tightly, your knuckles were turning white. The lewd sounds of him lapping at your clit could only be heard in between your gasping breaths.

Sakusa flicks his tongue up one last time before pulling away slightly, staring up to drink in your flushed expression. Your tongue was lolled out the side of your mouth, eyes rolled back and chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Your arms hung limp from its tether, and Sakusa can’t think of a prettier picture.

He looks down at your shining cunt, glistening and swollen and Sakusa didn’t think twice about slipping two fingers into your slopping entrance.

He hooks your leg over his shoulder, smiling as you thrashed helplessly, body reacting fiercely to the way he hooked his fingers and found your gspot with ease.

You squeezed your eyes shut, screams and moans filling the room, unable to adjust to the pleasure of Sakusa rhythm.

You could feel the heat pool into your stomach, tightening in a knot so fraught with tension, it was only seconds before you snapped.

Sakusa could feel the way you pretty little cunt began to tighten around his fingers, quickly slipping in a third one and burying them in deeper.

“Ki...kiyoomi.. I’m .. I’m gonna —“

Sakusa latches back onto your clit, flattening his tongue and sucking in rhythm to the way he pumped into you.

Your legs tightened around his head, but Sakusa didn’t stop. He could feel every tremble, every shake of your thigh against his cheeks, blocking out the sounds of the way you called out his name.

You bucked your hips up into his mouth, and he could feel you gush on his tongue. Sakusa lapped up every single drop, and you felt your body twitch as he continued to lick your sensitive clit. Finally, he surfaces from his meal, looking up at you with your sex dribbling down his chin. It was sinful the way he withdrew his fingers from your cunt and reached up to shove them in your mouth. You sucked on them eagerly, eliciting a smirk from the wavy haired man.

“You taste so fucking good, don’t you?”

Sakusa pulls away, standing up to get rid of his boxers before quickly returning to his spot on the bed.

Your arms were numb, and your legs felt weak, but Sakusa gave you no chance to recover from his previous performance, grabbing your ankles once more and pressing your legs down into a press.

“Such a good fucking little whore,” Sakusa murmurs in your ear, nearly crushing you in the process. “You just let me do whatever the fuck I want, don’t you?”

Without a warning, he slams into you in one hard thrust, the only retaliation coming from your mouth was a strangled groan.

“This pretty pussy is all mine,” Sakusa muttered, keeping your ankles steady by your ears, his cadence unforgiving, and unwavering.

“Omi.. I.. I can’t —!”

Sakusa responded by angling his hips to hit your sweet spot, reaching deeper than you thought possible.

“Yes, you fucking can.”

The crude sounds of his drive were only amplified by the way you gushed all over his dick, the mess you made staining the 400 thread count sheets he so carefully picked out for the both of you.

Sakusa wanted to hold out longer, he really did. But the way you looked under him right now, so fucked out and stupid, he couldn’t help but feel himself get closer and closer to his limit.

“Kiyoomi— please!! I can’t —“

In one swift movement, Sakusa pulls out, pumping his cock until he spilled hot white all over your stomach.

You hadn’t done anything but lay there — bound, at that — but you were desperately gasping for air, your heart beating so fast, you thought it would explode out of its cage.

Sakusa sits back on his heels, equally out of breath, his dick growing limp in his palm, though it still twitched at the sight of you covered all over his cum.

He leans over to give you a peck on the nose, leaving you to walk to his attached bathroom.

He returned a few seconds later with a warm towel, gently cleaning the mess he had made all over your stomach. You nearly fell asleep at his touch, only opening your eyes when he unlocked the cuffs around your wrists.

Your arms fell back down limp, and Sakusa chuckled, kissing the red marks left by the cold silver metal.

“I’m sorry for this,” he mumbled against your skin.

You smiled at him lazily, bringing a hand to tuck a loose strand of wavy hair behind his ear.

“Don’t be sorry.”

He smiled once more before planting a soft kiss on your lips. He settles into the empty space next to you, pulling you on to his lap. You laid your head on his shoulder, and your hand settled on top of his chest, sketching soft circles with the pad of our fingers. He rested his cheek on top of your head, while he supported your back and held your thigh.

“Did you… like that?” He asked quietly, his deep voice disturbing the calm that had nearly engulfed you.

You felt your face heat up, burying further into his chest. He chuckled lowly, holding you tightly and placing a kiss on your temple.

“I did… d-did you?”

Sakusa brings his hand up to your chin, tilting it upwards until you were facing him.

“I loved it.”

He leaned down to place a gentle kiss, filled with all the tender love and care he never gets to say.

Suddenly, He pulls away.

“Hey, what are you—“

He slid his hands beneath the back of your knees, picking you up bridal style in one easy movement. He turned around and made his way back to the bathroom.

“Come on, let’s take a bath first.”

[reidyoulikeabook]

A is for Ankle Socks

Summary: The first installment in my A-Z of Spencer Reid series. Spencer Reid is very particular about his socks.

Ship: fem ! BAU reader x Spencer Reid

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: Discussions of case-typical violence, blood, brief description of a fight, minor injury to reader that requires some stitches.

A/N: hello! this is my first ever series and i’m very nervous about it! it’s going to be a chronological a-z series with Spencer, detailing the progression of your relationship!

Spencer Reid permanently wears odd socks. The only time you can recall him wearing matching ones, in the year you’ve known him, was on days he had to go to court. Then, it was required that he wear the technically mandated uniform of proper leather shoes, and monochrome socks. On those days, Hotch would turn up with a pair of black socks tucked into his briefcase, just in case. Spencer had needed them, twice.

However, today is not a court day. Today is day 8 of a case in back of beyond Oregon that, quite frustratingly, seems to be going absolutely nowhere.

It says quite a lot, really, that in a day spent combing over convicts with domestic violence charges, the sight you look up to see is more viscerally disturbing. Spencer’s perched on the end of a desk, as he so often seems to be, his ankles crossed over each other. Signature black converse on his feet. And he appears...not to be wearing socks?

He notices you looking at him, and flicks his eyes downward self-consciously, “Is something wrong?”

“Are you wearing socks?”

He lets out a quiet laugh, “Uh. No. I meant to go to the laundrette last night but then Hotch called us into that meeting. I wasn’t expecting to be out here this long.”

“Is it comfortable?” You ask, “Wearing those without socks?”

He kicks his feet around just slightly, “Not really. I guess I’d forgotten about it until you mentioned.”

“Sorry,” You say, with an apologetic smile.

“Not your fault,” He says, looking back at the paperwork in his lap, “Hey would you mind coming to take a look at this actually? I think I might have something.”

***

By day 2, you’d learnt that the only sandwich shop in town had a reputation for bad food hygiene that none of you felt like risking. Normally, everyone would roll their eyes at Spencer for his investigation into such things. However, in this case, everyone else seemed to be as thankful as you always were.

It’s your turn to do the lunch run today, so you head to the grocery store that isn’t too far out of town. Putting your car in park, you mentally run through the list that the team had given you: cheap pasta for everyone but Rossi, who was willing to risk running foul of their microwave meal selection, as many coffee supplies as you could manage, some sour gummy worms for Spencer, mineral water for Hotch, and tights for you. It was frankly quite impractical to wear the things. You ran through so many brambles, fell down so many times, that you almost felt you should get pantyhose hazard pay. In fall in Oregon though? You’d splash out the $6 for the sake of preventing frostbite. If only because Hotch would be furious.

You smile at the thought. Wandering through the aisles, you collect everything you need. Spencer only asked for a pack of sour gummy worms, but, with a smile on your face, you decide to get him the strawberry laces he likes too.

It’s only when you scan the cart, last minute, that you realise what you’ve forgotten.

Tights. Shit.

Wheeling the cart around, you weave through the aisles looking for them. The underwear aisle is aisle 20, and it looks like it’s been ransacked. Flicking through the disorganised display, you see them.

A five pack of socks, adorned with farm animals and backgrounds of a completely clashing colour. It’s almost too bright for you, but you know a certain sockless Spencer who will be sure to appreciate them. Out of curiousity, you navigate your way over to the men’s section and have a look through. Mostly, it’s all black and navy. Right at the back though, you spy a similarly garish looking pack, this time with vegetables on.

You put them in the basket, eyes flickering over a pair of matching aubergine patterned boxers, as you make your way over to the tights. You select your usual kind, turning your attention back to the boxers.

Is it weird to get him boxers?

He’d know it was a joke, right?

Is it weird to get him socks?

Well he didn’t have any

Yeah but you don’t need to get him two packs

Yes I do we might be here a while

10 more days?

He could fall. He could spill coffee on his shoes. He could get shot.

How would socks help with him getting shot?

Your internal monologue gives you a moments reprieve, and then.

Kinda weird you got him socks

Nobody else would have got him socks

Yeah well I’m just thoughtful.

The last thought crosses your mind without permission, and you almost bristle at the brazenness of your lie to yourself. However, you decide, examining the real reasons you’re so eager to provide comfort to your favourite co-worker would require mental stamina you didn’t have right now. Mental stamina that would be better put to use on the case at hand. Mental stamina that definitely wasn’t being used to employ the BAU’s favourite defense mechanism: denial.

***

“I got you a surprise.”

“A surprise?” Spencer spins around in his chair to face you.

“Yep,” You say, plopping the sweets down onto the desk in front of him and grinning.

“Strawberry laces!” He says, smile lighting up his face, “Thanks ____!”

“That’s not the surprise.”

He quirks his brow, confusion tugging at his features, “Then what’s the surprise?”

You untuck your arms from behind your back, handing him the pairs of socks.

He looks down at them. He’s silent for a moment, and your heart thuds.

Fuck.

Told you it was weird.

It’s definitely weird.

He definitely thinks you’re-

You don’t have time to finish that thought, however, because Spencer scoots his chair back. Standing up, he pulls you into a hug. He gently squeezes you, and when he speaks his voice is low, cracking a little.

“Thank you,” He says quietly, “That was really thoughtful of you. Thank you.”

You lean into him, allowing yourself to be enveloped, “No problem. I know you have some issues with sensory things sometimes and I just thought, you know,” you trail off, “Anyway, I didn’t know which ones you’d prefer and I know you like to mix and match anyway so I just got both.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he squeezes you again, tighter this time, before releasing you. Strangely, he won’t meet your eye as he does.

“I’m gonna go put them on, okay?”

“Okay,” You say, watching a little quizically as he hurriedly heads out of the room.

Derek happens to be heading back to the room, bumping into Spencer on his way out.

“You alright kid?” He asks.

“I'm fine," Spencer says, waving him off. He tries to avoid meeting Derek’s eyes, knowing as well as he does that if the profiler catches the look on his face he’ll be found out.

Derek allows him to shrug past him with a confused glance over his shoulder. He walks into the room, scooping the nearest file off the desk and asking in your general direction, “You know what’s up with him?”

“Nope,” You say, popping the p.

You don’t. And it’d bother you, except you genuinely don’t have time right now to dwell on it. Although, try as you might to focus on narrowing down this list of factories in the area, it niggles at you.

***

You don’t see Spencer again until you’re heading out to the unsubs location. You get called out by Hotch in the minute before he returns, and then it’s all guns blaring. Emily and Dave managed to work some magic with Penelope, and the place he’s holding the hostage has been narrowed down to a factory quite far out of town.

You’re perched in the back, discussing entry tactics with Hotch when your eyes travel down to Spencer’s shoes.

One chicken, and one broccoli sock sit on his left and right feet respectively. It’s hard to see them though, with how far they are down his feet.

Hotch answers his phone then, immediately barking down commands at the local PD who are apparently failing to summon adequate manpower, in Hotch’s opinion at least.

You take the moment to cautiously lean over to Spencer, whispering, “Were they not the right size?”

He smiles at you, “They fit just fine as ankle socks.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t even think to check the sizes, womens ones are pretty much all one size. I completely forget that men have massively different sized feet.”

He laughs, “Are you suggesting I have huge feet?”

You feel yourself flush a little, “I don’t think that’d necessarily be an inaccurate suggestion.”

Amused, he smiles. Hotch turns around to you both, momentarily taking his eyes off the road, “I need you to call Penelope, and tell her to get us all the CCTV she can get in the area. If we’re going to have to go in without enough men to cover the perimeter we’ll need all the tactical advantages we can get.”

“Of course, sir.”

***

Lunging forward, you tackle the unsub to the ground, effectively freeing Spencer from the grasp he’d previously been held in.

“It’s over Peter,” Hotch’s voice comes, even and steady.

“No it’s not.”

Before you can even register what’s happening, you’re being tossed backwards, landing against some barbed wire. Immediately, you’re on your feet again, running after him. Not noticing how the wire has ripped a hole in your tights, and cut into your leg a little.

Grabbing his arms behind him, you use all your strength to subdue him to the floor, handcuffing him. Wiping the sweat off your brow, you breathe out a deep sigh of relief.

Derek has it from there, patting you on the shoulder and giving you a “Good job kiddo.” He leads Peter out.

You rub your chest, feeling the adrenaline start to flood out of your body with all the excitement now over. A stinging senstation in your calf gets your attention, and looking down you see the nasty wound oozing blood. It isn’t much, nothing that two stitches won’t fix.

“Are you alright?” Spencer asks, having gotten up from his position on the floor, “You didn’t have to...Derek would have gotten him.”

“Why should he be the only one that gets to tackle people?” You ask, letting out a breathless tinkle of a laugh.

“Statistically, he is the one who does the most tackling out of all of us. Then Hotch, then Emily, then Rossi, then me, then you.”

“I am not the one that tackles the least,” You say indignantly.

He tips his head to the side, “Are you gonna argue with the guy who has an eidetic memory or are we going to get you stitched up?”

“Both, please.”

He laughs at that, linking his arm around your waist. You limp against him a little, out to the paramedics. Mostly it’s for Spencer’s benefit. That’s what you tell yourself, you’re letting him help you so he doesn’t feel emasculated.

When has Spencer Reid ever fallen pray to toxic masculinity?

He might have

When?

Well he could

You just like how he smells

It’s true. The faint waft of his cologne is incredibly comforting. He doesn’t loosen his grip on you for even a second, helping to hoist you so you can sit on the ambulance bed while the medics attend to your leg. You’re feeling a little woozy, so Spencer sits next to you, allowing you to lean on him for support.

“Can you tell me something?” You ask, gritting your teeth, “Distract me?”

It doesn’t really hurt, getting stitched up, you’ve just never found it the most comfortable of processes. All your favourite cases have ended with you not having to get sewn up. You know that much.

“I’ve actually only tackled one more person than you in my entire BAU career,” He says, deciding to return to your former discussion, “I didn’t really go out in the field all that much until a couple years in, it was only because of Hotch that I really went out in the field to take down an unsub for the first time. That was March 12th, 2005. You’ve only been here 9 months and have done almost as much physical stuff as me. One more and we’re even.”

“Well, if you could try not to be the person getting tackled by the unsub next time. Then I might not have to make a tackle.”

His mouth turns up at the corner, “You tackled him for me?”

You feel yourself growing embarassed, “Not for you. For the socks.”

“Oh the socks?”

“Yeah, I mean, it’s a little unfair to go putting yourself in harms way while wearing a gift someone got for you. 5 dollar socks Spencer, practically designer at that price, I’d hate to see them ruined day one.”

He laughs, his tone playful, “Well you’ll need to bare that in mind.”

“Huh?”

He tilts his head towards Emily, strutting her way across to the ambulance with Spencer’s go-bag in her arms. She hands it to him, smiling at you.

“Should I let Morgan know the team will no longer be in need of his services?”

You snort, “I’d hate to steal his brand.”

She shakes her head, “Drinks when we get back? Hotch said the jet’s ready for whenever you’re done, and Rossi says he’s buying.”

“You got it,” You nod.

She pats you on the shoulder, exaggeratedly eyeing your leg again and rolling her eyes as she walks away, “Idiot.”

You smile, turning back towards Spencer, “Are you coming for drinks? I can drive you home.”

He visibly considers it for a moment, “Yeah. That’d be nice.”

“You’re all done here,” The paramedic interrupts, wiping down your leg with an anti-bacterial wipe, “Was a really smooth tear for barbed wire, shouldn’t leave that much of a scar.”

They press a bandage over it and you thank them, getting to your feet with the help of Spencer.

“Wait, why’d you get Emily to bring your go-bag if we’re going home?”

He looks almost bashful. Out of his bag, he pulls a three pack of tights. Just the kind you always wear. Down to your preferred brand, and everything.

“When did you-?”

“I noticed you rip them a lot while we’re on cases. I didn’t know if it was weird but then...the socks?” He gestures at his feet, floundering, “I’m sorry if that’s...I just didn’t-”

“No,” You cut off his ramble, “No, Spencer, that’s really sweet. Thank you, thank you so much. Can I hug you?”

He nods, happily. You wrap him into your arms, pressing your face against his chest. Inhaling the scent of him. Reveling in how safe you feel, how protected, thinking how you’d take three hundred stitches if it meant you got Spencer out of harms way. He was so thoughtful, so kind, so attentive to detail.

Oh fuck.

You can barely look at him. It hits you like a train, the realisation. Co-workers save each other from unsubs. Friends buy each other gifts that have meaning and value. But only somebody who is in love feels like this when they get handed tights. Oh.

It’s a warm feeling. Overwhelming. So much so that you miss Spencer saying he’ll be right back, scooting off to Rossi who’s shouting him over with a question the local PD need answering for their report.

You stumble a little, thankful that you have the blood loss and adrenaline rush to blame if anybody were to notice.

You wait for the wave of denial to hit, to come and lock your feelings back in the treasure chest you’ve managed to shove them down into now. It doesn’t come. Instead, you look at Spencer with a sense of awe that feels newfound, but has actually been here all along. Watching him speak to Rossi, you really notice him: just how much he gestures with his hands, how quickly he relays information, how the huge smile on his face, when he turns around to notice you staring, truly meets his eyes.

***

You can’t tell if it makes you a good profiler, or somewhat of a stalker, that you notice Spencer wears the ankle socks you got him to work everyday for the next 9 days.

Spencer worries he’s being a little too obvious, but he can’t help that whenever he sees the socks he beams at them. They remind him of you. Unbeknownst to everybody but Dave (who somehow notices everything), he spends a good minute or so a day sneaking a peek at the novelty socks under his converse. And then trailing his eyes over to you. Thinking how much he loves the person who got them for him.

----

B is for Blindfolds

Tagslist (this is just people who replied to the post about this series and said they’d like to be tagged! let me know if you’d like to be added/removed to this series masterlist): @reidingmelodies @rem-ariiana

[samstree]

Hi Jin, I love both your fluff and your angst a whole lot so I come offering with either 34."Please don't" or 33. "Are you delirious?” from the Responses to “I Love You” Prompt List for Geraskier 💙

Mend What Is Bound to Break

Some hurt is unavoidable.

Responses to “I love you” prompt list: 34. "Please don't,”

(1k, hurt/comfort, angry jaskier, geralt tries his best, cw: blood and injury, read on AO3)

“I love you.”

That is the wrong thing to say, because Jaskier is growing more agitated.

“Please don’t,” he hisses, shifting away from Geralt on the small bed. The fit is too tight, so even when he ends up on the edge there’s still only a hand’s breadth between their bodies. Stubbornly turning his head away, Jaskier lets out an audible huff. “And don’t look at me with your puppy eyes. I know you are! You’ve fucked up real good this time, mister witcher. Batting your pretty eyes is not going to work.”

Geralt reaches out but thinks better of it. Instead, his arm wraps around the bandaged wound at his side.

The worst part is that Geralt knows he fucked up. In fact, he already knew when he set out for the kikimora with half of his potions empty and that barely healed concussion. The deep gash right below his ribcage is as inevitable as it is painful at this moment.

Yeah. He fucked up real good.

Jaskier is right to be angry. It’s just that Geralt wishes he knows how to deal with an angry Jaskier. A sad one? Sure. Geralt is a connoisseur at lifting his bard’s spirit at this point, but the best trick for that has no effect here—he’s just used it, and made it worse.

Jaskier being this mad at him is a first.

Geralt wants to curse but carefully swallows the urge.

“I’m sorry.” An apology seems to land better. Jaskier still has the back of his head in Geralt’s direction, but he’s listening. “I shouldn’t have done it.”

“What shouldn’t you have done?”

Geralt sighs.

“Not take care of myself.”

“And why?” Jaskier deadpans, his shoulders rigid.

“Because—” Geralt shuffles towards the warmth of Jaskier, but the throbbing pain shoots up his spine. A low grunt escapes his throat. The next thing he knows, cornflower blue is all that’s in his vision and full of concern. “Because it worried you. Made you go into the woods and drag me back all by yourself. Again.”

The worry in those cornflower blue eyes freezes over.

“You think—” Jaskier pauses. “Seriously? You think I’m mad because you inconvenienced me?”

“No…?”

The bard makes an indignant squawk and plops down on the bed, fuming, his face bloated red. The only thing missing is smoke coming out of his ears to paint the full picture of his mood.

“There was so much blood, Geralt.”

The accusation comes out a lot softer this time. Something inside Geralt unfurls.

“I would have healed. Even without you.”

“You mean lying in a pool of blood for days, next to some dead creature and waiting for your mutation to knit your skin back together?”

Geralt feels like he shouldn’t answer the rhetorical question, so he purses his lips into a thin line. It turns out that is the wrong answer too.

“Unbelievable,” Jaskier scoffs under his breath.

“There were people nearby. A family living by the woods. A delay would have been too risky.” Geralt adds to the defense that Jaskier surely has learned from that farmer and his wife. The bard is still staring at the ceiling, his jaw clenched tight.

“I don’t care about other people.”

Geralt takes Jaskier’s hand. There’s still bloodstain under his nails.

“That’s not true.” He frowns. Only the gods know how much Jaskier cares under his frivolous appearance, or he never would have followed Geralt so many years ago. “It’s just…the way of the path. You have to understand that these things happen—”

“I have to unders—” Jaskier draws a shuddering breath, and to Geralt’s horror, the salty tang of tears fills the space between them. When their gazes meet again, Jaskier is crying openly. “As if I don’t—”

A whimper interrupts the sentence. The sight of Jaskier choking back tears is too much for Geralt to bear. He manages to get closer this time despite the stitches tugging at his skin.

“Come here. Please?”

It only takes a gentle pull for Jaskier to curl himself around Geralt, who immediately takes the chance to bury his nose into the crook of Jaskier’s neck and nuzzles into the calming scent of chamomile.

“I’m all right.”

“You almost weren’t,” Jaskier sniffles. His damp cheek rubs against Geralt’s forehead. “When I found you, the way you… Geralt, how can you say I don’t know what a witcher’s life is like? How can I not understand that each time you walk into danger you might not come back to me? How can I not when it’s all I can think about on some days? When I can’t even breathe at the idea...”

Geralt laces their fingers together and brings Jaskier’s hand to his lips, another silent apology sealed into the kiss.

“What can I do?”

After a long stretch of silence, Jaskier pulls back, his eyes still glistening. “I don’t know,” he whispers.

Jaskier’s distress won’t dissipate from the air. It’s not logical too, for him to be upset about something he already accepts as the truth, something set in stone. A witcher’s life is volatile. Geralt can’t promise he’ll always come home, and it’s something anyone close to him must come to terms with.

Maybe it’s not something Geralt can make better, but he can still try.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, inching towards Jaskier. “But it is what it is, Jask.”

When Geralt presses another kiss at the corner of his bard’s mouth, something in both of them sags with acceptance. Jaskier leans into the touch, allowing himself to be soothed.

Puppy eyes, right. Geralt gazes upon his bard with all the softness he can muster, and finally, finally, the furrow between Jaskier’s brows smooths over. Calm resignation replaces any trace of his earlier outburst.

Geralt wants to pride himself in the small triumph, in mending Jaskier’s heart. If only he wasn’t the one who broke it in the first place.

A deft hand hovers over the bandages before resting on Geralt’s hipbone, a thumb tracing gentle patterns. It’s all that needs to ease any pain in the world.

“It is what it is,” Jaskier agrees.

And there’s nothing more to it.

---

Tagging: @wanderlust-t @rockysstupidity @flowercrown-bard​ @alllthequeenshorses @mothmanismyuncle @percy-jackson-is-sexy- @constantlytiredpigeon @behonesthowsmysinging @kitcatkim3 @endless-whump @rey-a-nonbinary-bisexual @llamasdumpsterfire

Please feel free to tell me if you want to be removed or added to the list <3

[needleanddead]

remember when i was like ‘i will probably use this blog to write some horrible reader-insert fanfiction too’? yeah. 

knife-edge, strade x reader, 3.2k

trigger warnings: not sfw, non-con, blood, violence, gore, references to torture/snuff films, honestly i figure you probably know what you’re getting into if you’re seeing this. reader uses no pronouns/neutral pronouns but is vaguely implied to be afab. 

cross-posted to ao3

You do not know how you still have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg.

Well.

That’s a lie, really; you have it in you to scream, and cry, and beg, because you know that the moment you stop – the moment you let yourself truly succumb to that pit of nothingness that lies heavy and waiting in your chest – he will lose interest in you completely, and you will meet the same fate as all of the rest of them do.

Despite the shock collar that lies heavy around your throat; the proof that he had seen some value in you beyond what you might feel like if he tore you into pieces and let you rot, you know that any peace you have here is temporary. He’ll get bored. He’ll lose control. He’ll--

Sometimes you wonder if those things might be better. The idea of death hovers at the edges of your vision like a spectre, waiting for you – and you are a coward and you run from it, whimpering and sensitive with tears rolling down your cheeks whenever he takes you back down the creaking basement stairs and wraps rope around already rubbed-raw wrists.

You don’t think you’d recognise the sight of your own wrists without the rope burn any more. It seems so long since you’ve been anything other than captive. You’re not sure you even know who you are unless you have a blade half-buried in your thigh or thick fingers digging and reopening wounds or pliers too close to vulnerable flesh.

You think he likes that, too – that you don’t seem to exist unless you’re hurting. Delights that he’s broken you without breaking the part of you that he really likes; the one with the trembling lip and the gasping and the tears beading in your eyes. You beg less now; you have learnt that he’s always able to turn a ‘please, please don’t, not that--’ into something that’s somehow worse. But when you’d first woken up all rope-burnt and disoriented with your arms wrapped around a pole in a basement that smelt like copper and oil, you had begged until your throat was sore.

What you had gotten for your troubles was your own hand wrapped around the knife handle as you sliced into too soft, too giving flesh and stared in horror at bubbling rivulets of blood with the dim thought in the back of your mind; I did this to myself.

It’s a dangerous knife-edge that you’re walking; don’t fight too much, but don’t give in too much. Don’t break, but don’t entirely yield. If he gets bored of you, or if you push him too far – then the collar around your neck will be carefully unlocked and you’ll regret everything. You’ll meet the fate that you so narrowly avoided, bleeding and broken and disoriented as your life slips away to the tune of Strade’s fingers wrapped too hard about your throat.

Or worse, you’ll meet the fate you’ve seen some of the ones who have broken too early become acquainted with; bandana wrapped around his mouth and camera painstakingly readjusted to perfectly centre a sobbing, terrified face. You have been far too close to the ones who end up that way; brought down to the basement and given a nail gun as you’re shoved onto your knees in front of a girl who might once have been pretty but is a little too matted with blood and bruises to be called the same any more.

“I thought they might like to see someone else hurt her this time, schatzi,” his smile had not dimmed a watt. When you had first met him, that smile had put you at ease; his eyes had reminded you of honey, and you’d been so flattered, so warmed, to have the attention of someone who oozed easy charm--

You know now his eyes are not the soft amber of honey but the sharp yellow-orange of a hawk; a predator. When he had smiled at you, he had not been thinking of the kindness of making someone feel comfortable – he had merely been imagining how prettily you would break. Which, as he had not failed to tell you after you’d sobbed out every plea you could and had jagged stitches and broken bones and blood crusted on your face to prove it, had been even more lovely than he had imagined.

The nail gun had been too heavy in your hand; the trigger sweaty, because Strade himself was over-excited and flushed dark pink under tanned skin and excitement beading at his brow. Your fingers had slipped all over it as he’d murmured;

“They want you to put a pretty pattern in her up her shins to her knees. Start at the . . . haa, start at the ankle--”

You’d felt something inside of you snap as if it was very far away as you stared at her legs; already cut up a little and stitched messily, as Strade is so wont to do to make sure his captives last longer. You hesitate too long, because suddenly thick, strong fingers are gripping your jaw and squeezing too hard as they turn your face towards the camera like a rabbit caught in headlights.

His fingers will bruise your face, you know – and he will see it tomorrow, and dig them harder, make the bruises deeper until you can barely open your jaw--

“Ah, they think you’re cute, mäuschen,” Strade says, an uncomfortable lilt in his voice that sets your teeth on edge. “They’d be happy to see you as the star instead – and I’m sure our other guest would much prefer it too.”

(The girl in the chair leans forward, babbling words that don’t make sense; bubbling drool slips from her lips, tinged pink, and you think that this one must have talked too much and Strade has done something to her tongue).

“Now,” his tone is endlessly patient. “You know I want to keep you, ja? You’re very sweet. I like you a lot - so be good and do what the audience want, and I won’t have to do something I don’t want to, will I?”

He is hard to read. Cheerful to angry in moments; snapping and bouncing from side to side with a laugh and a wild light in his eyes that you don’t understand. He does like you – insofar as you think Strade is capable of really feeling for other people – but you can’t wager your life on him bluffing. The girl looks at you with agonised eyes and you pull the trigger, the nose of the gun pressed against her ankle.

You hear her scream – wet, through a throat clogged with blood, the sound mixing with the disgusting crunch-squelch of the nail being driven into her skin too close to the bone – and it echoes far longer in your head than it actually lasts. You feel far away as you trail the gun further up her leg, pulling the trigger, your marks on her surprisingly straight considering how much the both of you are trembling – but you know you’re crying because you can hear Strade breathing a little heavy, see the bulge in his pants (level with your face) from the corner of your eye as you finish the first leg and move to the second.

It’s not the last time he makes you hurt someone on stream. Sometimes, he checks the stream whilst you’re there and whichever poor soul he’s got taped to a chair whimpers and squirms, whistling cheerily through his teeth as if the situation is perfectly normal. You see the comments as they scroll by; asking you to do horrible things, the ping of donations, the occasional plea to dig a screwdriver into your eye socket and make you scream or pull out your teeth with pliers or slash a heavy knife through your ribcage and fuck the wound he leaves there--

You think he lets you see them on purpose, as a reminder of what he could do to you. He always makes sure the stream sees your face perfectly clearly, too – and you never fail to think; ‘he is making me an accessory to his murders’.

(It is not just you; you find out that Ren is subjected to this same treatment, this same reminder that Strade’s moods are volatile and he loses self-control too quickly and there’s every chance that one day, he will go too far. You do not share your thoughts with Ren that even if, by some miracle, the two of you found yourself outside of Strade’s control, your face is probably plastered all over the darkest shadows of the deep web. You never talk about what might happen. You do not quite trust each other beyond sharing in patching up each other’s wounds, occasionally seeking one another out for company, trembling in the night. There is a kind of tension between you; fear that the other is the favourite. That Strade perhaps isn’t capable of keeping both of you long-term.

It makes Strade himself laugh when he sees that you’re on edge around each other and he leans forward to rest elbows on knees and tells you with a wicked glint in his eye that he just wants the both of you to get along. Perhaps you two need to share something very special, like what he shares with the both of you.

When he tells you to hurt one another, Ren has the advantage of animal nature. It’s clear to you where you stand in the pecking order of predators. You think, too, that Strade prefers you there. Master, fox, mouse.)

You never hear anything from the room designated as yours; it doesn’t escape notice that there is no other bedroom, aside from Ren’s domain and the one that Strade himself barely uses. Nowhere for someone else, if Strade were to take it into his head that another captive would be an interesting pet to keep--

It has been long enough that there are some things you have asked for, tremulous and whimpering, decorating surfaces and scattered about the room. There are also reminders of Strade, too; a hammer and nails on a chest of drawers, a knife in the bedside cabinet, too many things that could be used as weapons at the same time as being summarily excused as simply the detritus of a man doing home improvements.

You’d woken up that morning (you know it is morning because early fingers of dawn have penetrated even through the curtains you keep closed) to see Strade silhouetted in the doorway, smile on his face, shirt spattered with dark red and brown. You know that expression. You sit up, letting the covers fall, and he keeps smiling as he closes the door behind him and approaches you like a wolf approaches a frightened rabbit.

“Last night was disappointing,” he says, his tone light. You’d heard a thump in the middle of the night; assumed it to be Strade dragging a body down to the basement, and had resolutely buried your face into your pillow and pretended you heard nothing.

It’s easier to think of Strade’s other victims – the ones not so lucky as you or Ren – as faceless, foolish creatures. Food. Sustenance. Not people.

“I’m sorry,” you say, voice quiet, cracking. Strade reaches across and chucks your chin, too fondly, bright smile and bright eyes.

“It’s alright,” he tells you. He’s pleased with the apology. He likes it when you’re polite. “It just means that I’m feeling a little . . . ahh. Restless. You’ll help me with that, won’t you?”

“Of c-course I will.” The stutter; he likes that, you know. He shifts as he sits on the bed.

A chuckle.

“You’re always so well-behaved,” he tells you. “sehr süß.”

The knife-edge you walk; the tight-rope. Well-behaved, but not broken. Responsive, but not troublesome. You’ve gotten it down to a fine art.

He’s on top of you before you can respond, knees shoved between your legs, your hand shoved hard against the bedside table so it knocks uncomfortably against hard wood and you flinch at the shock of pain.

The brief pain, though, is nothing to the anxiety that crawls up your throat as you realise he grabbed the hammer and nails as he walked in.

He chuckles as he sees your eyes widen in fear, cooing softly to you;

“That expression. So hübsch. Stay still for me.”

Your wrist is shaking as Strade carefully places a nail right in the centre of your hand; testing the angle, the positioning. His breath is uneven and panting in excitement at what he’s going to do – and excitement, too, that he knows you won’t pull away. Because you know if you do, it will not merely be a nail through one hand, but perhaps through your other and your knees and your feet, perhaps a knife slicing through you like butter, perhaps the feel of chisels and needles and sharper and more painful objects (knife, pliers, screwdriver, chisel, bradawl, drill--).

He lifts the hammer. He watches intently. His eyes are lit with bright excitement, chest heaving, sweat-soaked and greasy. You taste copper and realise you’ve bitten through your lip.

You’ve grown used to the smell of copper and motor oil and meat. If it weren’t for the flood of blood across your tongue you doubt you’d have noticed.

Crack. The first blow. The pain is blinding.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Every single hit of the hammer sends a new shock of pain through you that echoes through the inside of your arm through to the bone marrow, shaking you. It’s not the most painful thing you’ve felt at Strade’s hands; but you are still partly asleep, still not quite aware, and you are simply looking at your hand with the crunch of fractured bones (twenty seven bones in the human hand; is that your capitate, that’s been splintered through?) and the sick wet noise of blood and muscle and you can’t think.

You stare, unblinking, at where your hand is nailed to the bedside table - the gore and blood that oozes from the wound as he uses the clawed end of the hammer to drag it out again. Strade’s smile is beatific, eyes wide and bright, sweat dampening his collar and his cheeks flushed and ruddy.

You’re unable to process anything for another long, agonising second; relief flooding you when finally, you respond. The whimper a delayed reaction, the tears that roll fat and hot down your own face taking a beat longer than usual.

You fear that you’ve broken for the moment you’re staring in horror; that he has finally, well and truly snapped you in half. Because if you’re broken, that means he’ll lose interest, and that means the basement and the fear of death finally catching up with you.

Occasionally the thought flits across your mind that death perhaps would be preferable; but you are a coward, and you have hurt people (even if it was on Strade’s command), and you do not want to know what awaits you on the other side of a non-beating heart and the light in a tunnel.

Strade chuckles, affectionately rubbing his nose against the line of your jaw, teeth digging just a little too hard into the flesh of your neck.

“You had me worried for a second, mäuschen,” he practically purrs. “I thought I’d heard the last of your squeaking.” Big fingers, tugging at your thighs, guiding you to wrap them around his hips. Despite the softness of his body, the proof that he enjoys lazing around and cheap beer and meat a little too much, there’s raw muscle beneath the chub. Even his hands on you are a reminder of how strong he is.

(Strong enough to drag dead bodies across floors, to lift them into kilns, to hold down unwilling, screaming captives and make them regret they ever laid eyes on him.)

“Unzip,” he tells you. One of your hands is free; unpierced, though scarred from being pressed against stove burned and soldering irons and heat guns, from grabbing the blade of a knife when he’s told you to fuck yourself with the handle, from sanders applied to formerly soft skin. You do not use that hand.

You force yourself to move the one dripping in your own blood, the ruined hand pierced straight through. The movement of your fingers burns, sending shock waves of pain all through you; but you tug at the zip of his pants nonetheless. You get blood all over his clothes but he just chuckles low and dangerous, as you reach into his underwear too and squeeze your eyes shut when you feel how hot and hard and heavy his cock is in your grip.

“Eyes on me,” he reminds you, soft, and you force yourself to open them. He drinks in the expression on your face like he’s a starved man and it’s his first meal.

There’s a bloody handprint on his shaft when your fingers and wrist finally give out and your hand falls onto the sheets and pillows beneath you, staining them too, and you think that Strade is going to drive more nails through your hand just to prove a point about not doing as he says.

But his cock presses hot and needy against your inner thigh, smearing blood and pre-come on your scarred skin, and he’s panting and practically drooling as he murmurs;

“You know you’re not going to break, schatz. You want to live too much.” He leans his face further down. He does not kiss you so much as take control of you; worry teeth into your bottom lip, transfer his own saliva into your mouth, conquer the cavern behind your lips and teeth (one of them is loose; from being hit and squeezed. He pushes his tongue just a little too hard against that one and your body contracts, a whimper transferred from your throat to his mouth, and he swallows it up like your protests are a fine steak). “Ah. That’s what I like about you.”

Are you going to break? The push of him pressing inside of you makes your toes curl, a soft noise that might be a moan escape; Strade laughs, again, the sound too hearty and friendly to come out of the monster that you know he is.

“You like it,” he presses, as his thumbs come to your hips and dig into wounds that have been stitched together; you hear the stitches pop, feel him re-open barely healed gashes. “You like being special to me. You like this.”

You don’t think you do.

You don’t think you like any of this; his body on top of yours, the pain, the mistrust, the fear that prickles hot and sharp and sour in your throat whenever you hear the door (the one you can’t go near) open. But you also know that saying that is the wrong answer. Hitting and screaming like a wildcat is the wrong answer. Saying nothing at all is the wrong answer.

So instead, you open your mouth, you shiver and shudder as his thumb presses deeper into the re-opened wound, and you manage to choke out a mouse-squeak of;

“Pl-please—”

It’s the right answer. His face does not soften; but his smile widens, his hips tilting until you’re so full you can barely move and you ache everywhere, and Strade simply smiles down at you as whatever passes for affection for him leaks into his tone and he coos;

“Don’t worry, mäuschen. I’ll give you exactly what you want. For as long as you need.”

[german translation dictionary;  schatzi - sweetheart/dear/darling/treasure mäuschen - little mouse sehr süß - very sweet/very cute so hübsch - so pretty idk how accurate these are i am just using google translate always]

[roach-works]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

[whatifxwereyou]

The Oncoming Storm Part 21: Huangshan

Liu Kang x Reader and Kung Lao x Reader (gonna do both, two paths!)

Listen, I am giving myself whiplash with how much I keep wildly swinging between whether I prefer Liu or Lao LOL. Hope you guys are having just as much fun! I missed Liu. Lawd, did I miss him. Also I did not intend for it to take this long to get to the CHOICE. It's coming after the part with Liu and some plot stuff that has to happen to trigger it! Also, I miss Chen, so she'll be back after Huangshan. ALSO have you looked at pictures of this place?? SO PRETTY!! Much love, hope you are all well. <3 Thank you for the love as always. I appreciate you so much.

Next Update on Saturday. New story on Sunday!!

Part 20 Part 22 Chapter Index

Kung Lao was a bruised, bloodied, and pale mess the next morning and much of your spare moments were spent tending to wounds and trying to get him to sit for a damn minute. He fought you at every second, as if taking care of himself would somehow make it worse.

The morning dragged on, and you were grateful to check out and make your way to the roof. Kung Lao closed his eyes, praying, and lightning struck the roof for you to travel through. It was still weird and a little beyond belief, but you’d fought a monster last night, so you had to suspend your inner skeptic and go with the flow. You handed over the carefully wrapped bell which Raiden set behind him on a pedestal that had been added since you left.

He thanked you for your duty and you offered Kung Lao a hug and tried to convince him, again, to take care of himself. He insisted he was fine, of course, but also wished you good luck. You wasted no time. Raiden summoned his magic lightning again, offered you a neatly written note from Liu, and then you were alone.

The weather in Huangshan was gloomy, just the way you liked it. The sky was gray and rumbling with thunder, the slightest hint of sun peeking through to offer warmth between the gaps in the clouds. You unfolded the note as you walked along the tourist filled streets. He’d even started the note with niceties. Oh, Liu. He hoped you were well, he found you a place to stay and took some liberties that he hoped you were okay with. He also left you a time and place to meet him. It was the lobby of the hotel that he had booked for the occasion.

You were early and it felt nice to be alone. Your nerves were shot from the lack of sleep the night before and from Kung Lao’s… everything. A walk alone would do you some good. The small town halfway up the mountain was geared toward tourists. Hotels, boutiques, restaurants, and the like.

You’d missed China. Japan had been beautiful but this was home.

You stopped a man who looked confident in his way around town and asked him for directions to the hotel that Liu had written about. You bowed politely as he pointed you in the right direction. As you turned the corner, you heard a choir of angels in your head. Clothing stores. Real clothing stores. This was how you were going to blow the rest of your money.

You spent the rest of your alone time shopping and afterward you were proud to say you’d had enough clothing for an actual wardrobe. Different kinds of shoes, cute and practical, underthings, things to wear to bed, casual things, dressy things. Things you never would have allowed yourself to spend money on before. Money didn’t seem to matter as much as it had before all this. Then you’d bought a little bag to pack it all in and shoved it away. You’d got some other necessities too, things that had seemed everyday basics had become luxuries.

You’d changed after purchasing your clothing and jeans and a t-shirt had never felt so good. Even though you’d bought a bunch of new things you decided to keep the hanfu and gi that you had been gifted. You liked them well enough. It was the lack of choice that had bothered you.

The Huangshan Yeechoi hotel was more modern than the one in Japan had been and much tidier. You felt out of place, but no one gave you a second glance, so you were grateful. It wasn’t that it was fancy, just that it was different than you had expected. There had been no room number in the note Liu had left you, just instructions to meet him in the lobby.

Thankfully, Liu Kang came from the stairwell moments after you arrived. You’d been just about to ask the clerk behind the desk for his room number and so instead you dismissed the clerk and walked to join Liu. He’d gotten new clothes too! How nice. Not much different from what he usually wore but it was novel to see him in something other than the three gi that he rotated daily. It was mostly black, except for the red sash around the middle, a different shade of red than usual, and the sleeves looked like they had been torn off- as if he had been terribly angry that they existed. There was a subtle pattern stitched in white on the side of the gi. It looked to you like an abstract dragon, but you didn’t linger long on it. As always, his prayer beads were wrapped around his wrist.

He greeted you with a smile and stopped just before you with a respectful bow. “It’s good to see you, Y/N.” His smile faded quickly as he stood upright, and you averted your eyes immediately. Bruises. There were bruises and you knew he was going to hate it. You’d briefly forgotten about them with all the other craziness.

“Good to see you too, Liu!” You tried to save face, but it was too late.

“Japan must have been something.” He furrowed his brow with concern and tilted your chin up to get a better look at your neck. Your face was instantly red. “Are you okay?” That had been the worst of it, but you’d barely had time to think of it that morning because Kung Lao had been so much worse off than you were. You should have worn a scarf. Damnit. It looked bad when you thought about it. Like you were either being abused or had a very specific kink.

“It was an adventure but I’m fine. I promise. It’s obviously sore and bruised but I feel great otherwise.” You were tired, so that was an exaggeration, but it felt good to have accomplished something and to be out of the temple. He continued to examine the bruise as if he didn’t believe you, so you swiped his hand from your chin, gave it a squeeze and then set it down. His disbelief faded and his smile returned. Your nerves about your connection, your friendship, returned screaming into your brain.

“You brought a bag?” He gestured behind you. You realized that probably seemed funny since you had no intention of staying for too long.

“…yes.”

“Well, the woman at the front desk will make sure it gets to our room. We have plenty to do.” Liu rested his hand on the middle of your back and guided you to the front desk. You spoke to the clerk there. She was incredibly accommodating. Liu offered her your room information and you handed over the bag. Then you went on your way. He led you from the lobby of the hotel and walked slowly through the streets of the tourist town. “Tell me about Japan.”

Boy, there was a lot to say about Japan, but you figured he probably meant the artifact and how you’d fared.

“There was a monster which I didn’t think existed so, processing that.” You were surprised to hear Liu Kang laugh. You’d had a lot to process that had been otherwise beyond belief. “It was protecting a dotaku which I now know is a decorative bell used in rituals during ancient times. The monster was very grabby.” You gestured to your neck. At least it hadn’t left a bruise when it had backhanded you across the room. The last thing you needed was people looking at you like you were in an abusive relationship. At least the neck thing could be explained away for the most part.

“Tell me about the monster.”

“Monster is maybe not the right word for it uh… okay, never mind, it’s the only word for it. It was made from tar and stunk to high heaven, and it was huge.” You jumped so you could reach the height of the monster, which was higher than your jump, but Liu would get the point. He was an excellent listener.

“How did Kung Lao handle that?”

“Oh, you know, like Kung Lao does.”

“Chaotically?” Liu chuckled.

“I’ve never seen one man thrown through so many doors.” You drifted off and he laughed again. The sound of his laughter was sweet, not as hearty as Lao’s but more under his breath and twisting his face into the cutest smile. You’d made Kung Lao out of ink to protect you. That seemed important but you hadn’t processed it yet, really. Your brain was buffering.

“Really though, is he okay?”

“Much worse off than I was because of all the doors and walls but I took care of him the best he would allow. I’m hoping he’ll actually keep his promise to go to the infirmary.”

“Raiden will make sure he does.” Liu reassured you. “Trust me, this won’t be the first time he has to be dragged there. Or likely the last.” He stopped, looked you over and then continued, purposely avoiding eye contact. “Was he on his best behavior?”

“Is he so often in trouble that I should have been that worried?”

“Kung Lao doesn’t like to listen to directions, and he was with you and I know how he is so…” He glanced at you curiously again and you laughed in disbelief. Liu Kang was fishing for information! Interesting. Now that you knew they gossiped about you, you wondered what exactly the gossip consisted of. They were up to something, and you were going to get to the bottom of it. Maybe you had spent too much time with Kung Lao. Liu Kang had always been honest with you, you thought, and now you were suspicious of every word. “He has a track record for trouble, that’s all. I just wanted to make sure he didn’t give you a hard time.”

“If you have something to ask me, Liu, then you should just ask me instead of this little word dance you’re doing. Are you feeling me out for information and what about?”

“I say what I mean, Y/N.” Liu knit his brow in confusion but still smiled at you. You sighed because that didn’t seem right. Something was off. He could be frustrating too sometimes, you supposed. He had a way of saying things without saying what he meant to say and leaving you guessing at what he had meant. You’d had so many close calls between you now romantically. At least four that you could think of offhand that had nearly killed you. But then it was like nothing had happened. You didn’t talk about it. There was no follow through. If he said what he meant to say, then what did saying nothing mean?

That hurt.

And they’d gossiped about you. Kung Lao and Liu Kang had in some way gossiped about you. You clenched your jaw in frustration. You didn’t have time for this. You had work to do.

“We can talk about it later.” You decided. “Have you figured out anything about where we should go?” That had been the reason he’d gone early you’d been told but you had no idea what was true and what wasn’t anymore. Your head was mixed up and your brain was buzzing.

“Yes. One of the areas from your vision is called the Seas of Cloud. Raiden mentioned that you saw images of deceased emperors, so I was looking into that too.”

“It was in quick flashes. I didn’t understand what they were at first.”

“There are tales about this place and the yellow emperor after which it is named. He used the waters of the springs here to gain eternal life in these stories.”

“Is that your way of saying that you think the springs might be related?”

“Anything is possible, but I figured it was worth looking into. There were springs in your vision too if I recall.”

“Yeah. I saw a bunch of dead emperors and a spring, but it wasn’t… it was different than I expect the ones here to be? It was in a cavern. It felt secret.” You admired the gray sky but still felt tense all over. You had to breathe and let it go but the more you tried the more frustrated you became. “So, we’re narrowing it down to the springs and the Cloud Sea?”

“Yes. We aren’t too far from either of them but it’s still an endeavor to explore. Yet, it is less than the whole of Huangshan.”

“Probably somewhere between if I had to guess. I followed him in my vision through the mountains up to the clouds and into this cavern that had a spring inside it. Oh! Do they have maps of the mountain? Sometimes with places like this they will list caves on the little brochure to explore.”

“I thought of that. Regrettably, the caves are not mapped out and most are off limits without a tour guide.”

“What if we told them that we lived in a cave. Do you think that would help or cast aspersions?” You considered. There you were, trying to defer your frustration and inner struggle with sarcasm again. Liu chuckled.

“Probably the latter. We know what we’re looking for at least and it shouldn’t take terribly long to hike the area. If we don’t find it then we can start to worry.”

“I have a feeling that it’s secret. I don’t think it’s going to be easy to find. Maybe we should try to feel around for information instead of wandering blind?” You stopped walking, trying to take things more seriously. That was hard.

“I suppose that we can play tourist. We’ll stop at the springs and ask an attendant if they know anything about a secret or hidden spring in the caves.” Liu suggested. At least it was a better lie than fake date.

“Fine.” You said flatly and were annoyed with yourself almost immediately. This would be so much easier if your visions weren’t all over the place and fuzzy.

“You seem irritated.”

“Oh?” You bounced on your heels and shook it off. You were sulking. You had to cut it out. “No. I’m sorry, Liu. I didn’t mean to come off that way.”

“Are you sure, Y/N? Because you seem… annoyed and that’s not like you. If I’ve done something to offend you then we should discuss it.”

Oh no. He was good at confrontation. Damnit. “No, you didn’t do anything like that, Liu.” He had but not on purpose, you were sure. You were just touchy after the day before and overthinking. You had to stomp out that inner voice, but it was so loud. Your anxiety hadn’t been this bad since you were a kid. “I’m annoyed with myself. I’m sorry it’s coming out at you. It’s not intentional.”

“Y/N, you…”

“Don’t tell me not to be annoyed with myself, please. If I could navigate these visions in a way that made sense, then we wouldn’t be so lost on where to look and having to spin ridiculous tales and theories of where to go and what we might find. I could just lead us there and that would be that. And if my brain would just calm down, I wouldn’t be so annoyed. It’s a perpetual cycle.”

“You’re being too hard on yourself. Besides, I don’t mind spending a day or two in Huangshan with you, Y/N. It’s a nice change of pace from Raiden’s Temple.” He smiled sympathetically.

“It’s just like you to put a positive spin on everything.” You scoffed.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing!”

“No!” You huffed defensively and then pouted. “I’m coming off grumpy, aren’t I?”

“You are.” He smiled, but amusement danced in his eyes. He thought that your frustration was either funny or cute. You supposed you were grateful for that.

“I don’t mean to. I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’m surprisingly sore from the whole monster thing too so there’s that.” You rubbed nervously at your neck.

“That is a pretty bad bruise, Y/N.” He tilted your chin up again and you grabbed his hand and pushed it away.

“I really should have worn a scarf so you wouldn’t keep pointing it out.”

He laughed and led you through town and along the path that went to the springs. Liu had picked the perfect location for you to begin your search. It was a short walk from your hotel. There were buses that offered transport, but it seemed such a short walk that it was likely for those who were elderly or drunk.

“This is a popular tourist spot. It was difficult to get a room. I don’t usually stay in places like that, but it was the only vacancy that would accommodate us both and be close enough to where we needed to look. I figured that we didn’t know how long it would take us so the luxury would be a nice break.”

“Makes sense.” Why was he trying to justify his selection to you? You liked the hotel. It was nice.

“Grumpy,” he whispered, leaning close on one foot with his hands clasped behind his back.

“I’m trying so hard, Liu.”

You reached the gate to the springs. You couldn’t see the water beyond it, but you could hear people within, and you could feel the steam and heat even from outside. There was a large building with two doors separated by male and female for changing. In front of that was a booth where a young man sat reading a magazine and looking extremely bored.

“Should I meet you inside? We can see if anyone knows anything?”

“Or we could try the attendant first.”

“Him? He’s a distracted kid who has no interest in our questions, Liu. Look at him.” You nodded discreetly toward the young man. He was likely in his early twenties and doing this just for a paycheck by the look of him.

“Yes, but you’re well… you.” He gestured to you, and you looked down at yourself, brow furrowed in confusion.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You laughed in disbelief.

“You know what it means.” He turned his gaze away from you, hiding his smile but you saw his cheeks turn pink just enough. As quickly as you had noticed it, it had passed. “Now, go be charming and ask that kid about a private spring in a cavern closer to the Seas of Cloud.” He grasped your shoulders gently and turned you toward the booth then gave you a gentle nudge forward. You stuttered on your words and stared forward in complete awe. What the fuck?

Fine. You’d try but he was biased, at the very least. You weren’t built for this kind of thing. You’d always been awkward and terrible at flirting. Gah, you were blushing now too. This was the worst. Okay, deep breaths. You could do this. You didn’t have to be flirty or cute. You could just ask the question. Liu waited behind you, but you didn’t think he was far enough away to be as subtle as he thought he was being.

“Excuse me,” you began politely.

“Just you? Or your friend too?” The attendant didn’t bother looking up at you from the magazine that he was reading.

“I have a question for you, actually.”

“I’ll try to help if I can. Go ahead.” He closed his magazine and finally looked up at you, looked you over, and then was still clearly disinterested. He was working. You knew he would be!

“I heard some stories that there’s a spring in a cavern offsite. Further up the mountain and closer to the Seas of Cloud. I think that it’s considered private. Maybe even off-limits. I was curious if you knew anything about it.” You did your best to sound curious and charming, but you had no idea how it actually came off since you’d been so damn grumpy. The attendant looked from you and then peered around you to Liu. He closed his magazine, folded his hands, sighed heavily, and gave you a knowing look. Oh no, he’d immediately misinterpreted your intentions.

“Look, I’m going to be honest with you.”

That was a bad start.

“Oh, I think you maybe…”

“I’m just filling in for my sister today. I needed the extra cash, and she has a date this afternoon.”

You laughed nervously and looked back to Liu since that was where the attendant kept looking suspiciously. “I think that you misinterpreted my intentions. This doesn’t have anything to do with him. I just had heard a story and was curious. A private spring sounds really beautiful.” You were the world’s worst liar. You couldn’t even come up with an excuse other than you thought it might be pretty.

“Yeah. Sure.”

“Do you not know then?” You were grumpy again. Damn.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I can’t help you.”

You were flustered beyond recovery now. He had misinterpreted your desire to see a secret spring and the only thing you could think to do was stutter that he had done so. Then Liu was standing behind you, one hand on your back, the other on the counter.

“Is there a problem?” Liu sounded curious and offered a smile, but the attendant rolled his head back and groaned.

“I am not making enough money today to deal with this.”

Liu straightened his posture in surprise and looked to you for further explanation. At least you weren’t the only one flustered. That made you feel a bit better. You turned toward him and he placed his hand on your arm gently. That was probably not helping your case, but it felt nice. “I asked him about an off-limits spring closer to the Seas of Cloud and now he seems to have confused my desire to see this beautiful spring with something…” You stuttered in a frustrated whisper and couldn’t seem to find the word, the obvious word. Instead, you smooshed your hands together in front of you.

“Oh?” Liu tried to interpret your hand motion and then laughed in realization. “Oh. Intimate.”

“That’s it.” You pointed at him. “That’s the word.”

Liu let go of your arm and leaned against the counter with a sigh. “How much would it take for you to give us an answer?” You snapped your head back to Liu so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash.

“Look, dude, I don’t even work here usually and…”

Liu Kang placed some yuan on the counter and you stared at it in horror, mouth hanging open. Then you had to close your mouth tight to keep from bursting into hysterics. Your eyes were burning, trying not to cry with tears of laughter. Liu Kang was bribing a stranger to give you directions to a romantic hot spring instead of just explaining himself. Of all the possible outcomes you had expected this was the funniest one.

“Whoa, man… look I…” The attendant stared at the money on the counter and Liu tapped the bills before sliding them toward him. You were dying. This was where you died. RIP. Tears. You blinked them away. Your cheeks hurt from keeping it together. This was amazing. “If you take the main path up it branches about an hour in. Take the left fork and then walk for a bit. As you get close to the Seas of Cloud there’s a few caves. One of them has a spring in it but it’s hard to find with all the trees and not exactly safe. Gives me the creeps. That’s all I got.” He scooped up the bills. “Have fun man and if you get caught it wasn’t me who told you.”

“Thank you.” Liu bowed his head politely and then, hand on your back, led you away from the booth. You started up the hiking trail that had been pointed out to you and then you burst into hysterical laughter, practically hyperventilating from having held it in for so long. Liu pulled his hand back and stared at you with some concern as if he didn’t understand why this was hilarious.

“Y/N, are you okay?” He gently brushed his hand over your shoulder.

“What the hell was that?”

“Oh. I guess it was funny. He was going to think whatever he was going to think, Y/N. Sometimes we have to use other resources to get what we need.”

“Oh my god, does that mean you bribe people often? I didn’t expect this. I’m sorry. I wasn’t emotionally prepared for how funny that would be.”

“Only when they’re more convinced by money than words, Y/N.”

You took deep breaths to get yourself together and cleared your throat.

“How very Zen of you.”

“Come on, now.” He chuckled and placed his hand again at your back to lead you along the path that would start your hike. “We have private springs to find.”

“This day keeps getting weirder by the second.” You blinked away the remaining tears from your fit of laughter.

“Was it really that funny?”

“Liu. My stomach hurts from laughing.”

He shook his head with a smile as you continued on your way.

[missblissy]

HERES MAH TWO CENTS ON ALASTOR

1. He only knows swing dance. Like that's the only ballroom dance he knows which he does well don't get me wrong - but he doesn't know waltz, tango and so on. While he only knows one that doesn't mean he won't learn the others like a duck out of water after a few minutes of teaching him the basic steps, that man can freestyle and improvise like a figurative muthafucka!

2. This mans attention goes brrrrr. Since he gets bored easily he makes multiple projects only to either abandon all of them or only finish one (am I hardcore projecting? No tf you mean–)

3. Circlin back to the second point he learns all the hobbies and retains none. He gets into paper making, book-binding, and calligraphy, a bit on leather craft with the intention of making his own grimoires. Buuut like most of the time he overestimates his patience and attention so that ends up under the desk. Alternatively he puts it in his drawer and forgets its existence as soon as it's out of sight.

(Ha I'm not calling out myself ha ha help)

Final point!

4: Contradictory to Alastor's overall presentation as a neat gentleman (the word 'neat' is on thin fuckin ice my man can't even tailor his suit back together or tie his hair back) he has scratchy ineligble handwriting. Its like Morse code decided to hook up with slashes for the night and we end up with something that looks like a doctors prescription done on gun point. (This is my personal favourite, I like handwriting I think it says alot about a person.)

Oooooo 7.5/10 nonny. Personally, I think Alastor does have some hobbies he sticks to forever, and he does them perfectly. Like cooking, stitching, writing, music, and my personal fave, radio mechanics (like how to build and fix them), and a few others I won't name. I can TOTALLY see him constantly trying new things though, only to abandon them halfway through because he got bored, or because he wasn't perfect at it. I like to think that Alastor is a perfectionist and hones his craft until it's second-hand nature to him, the ones that he keeps that is xD

Though I have to say I think Alastor can dance many dances of all kinds but that's just because I feel like he also did a little musical work as well, like in theaters and such just for fun. Musical acting is something that would always keep him on his toes, he'd never know what to expect next, he enjoys the stage and it fills his ego to have all those people clap for him. BUT THAT'S JUST ME LOL I can def see him avoiding dances he doesn't know just because he doesn't want to look stupid doing it.

I also am a believer that Alastor has many styles of handwriting, much like we all do. I have my natural written pattern which is TRASH but fast. Alastor's natural handwriting is def messy, but this man also has times when he can do some lovely cursive, seeing as in history that most people from his time were still writing in cursive. THAT DOESN'T MEAN ANYONE CAN READ IT. Yes, It's lovely, loopy, feminine and it seems like a girl wrote it with lots of T's and Dot's crossed with a little curl. But Can you read that shit? Because I'VE TRIED READING HISTORICAL DOCUMENTS WRITTEN FROM THE 20s AND YEAH THAT SHIT LOOKS PRETTY AS FUCK BUT I DON'T KNOW HOW TO READ IT.

[heretherebedork]

Yesss! Okay, so thank you for that in-depth response! I’m sorry I sent so much because honestly I wouldn’t even know where to start if I got that. It just has so many little threads that are unraveling, stitching together, unraveling, and stitching a new pattern throughout each episode as they weave the story together and Black was the missing piece that’s back but has confused the hell out of me.

I wasn’t sure what to expect with him, mind you, but the overly aggressive, shrugging his brother off as soon as he reunites with him, that wasn’t what I was expecting. I probably should’ve but like, it’s been so long, and your first reaction is to tell him to go?!

But you’re right, he was super protective of White, and he probably did resent that he failed at protecting him when their parents separated them. And honestly, I wouldn’t want anything to do with my mom (I already don’t for other reasons so I get it) if I was Black. I do wonder if he’ll be able to force White away and not talk to him because now he’ll know that White’s back, he’s around, and that’s going to be on his mind, no way it won’t. Especially knowing that for however long he was out (does he know how long he was out?) White stepped in to take his place while unknowingly dancing with the devil (Demi Lovato is at fault for this).

I just don’t see him being able to push White away that easily. Maybe I’m wrong, but honestly, sure he didn’t want White involved, doesn’t want to see his brother hurt, but is he going to be able to ignore that White knows enough to get himself in trouble if someone mistakes him for Black now?

I do think White is going to fight tooth and nail for Sean, and I honestly am expecting to see him fight his brother, that’s going to be (I think) one of his biggest moments. He’s going to force his brother to realise that he’s changed just as Black has, they need to relearn each other (I wonder how that’ll play out).

That's how these shows go! And I do definitely enjoying finding the threads that work and getting them back together to make them into the picture we see and also the picture we don't see. Because there's so much in this narrative.

Ironically, this was one of my first expectations of Black. I didn't even expect the hug first. I fully expected Black to reject White out of hand. Because he's always been the protective asshole and the entire rest of the cast had set me up to fully expect Black to reject White. He did so to protect White the same way he did to Eugene and it makes so much sense. I mean, if you add in my many levels of headcanons about how Black handled their separation, it makes perfect sense.

He might be thinking about White now that he's back, but I think Black has worked very hard to put himself in a position of not 'needing' anyone. He doesn't trust people and he doesn't trust himself to protect people and so he doesn't fully let himself care. Gram might be the one he does, if we go the GramBlack route, but I'm not a hundred percent sure. I want it, very badly, to be true... but I just don't know if they're gonna go for that in the last 5 episodes. Even if they have been teasing it. Could go either way.

I think Black thinks he can push White away that easily. He's spend all this time without him, he broke up with his girlfriend to protect her, I don't think he sees this as any different. Even if it is harder, I don't think it's beyond Black. His protectiveness has gone beyond just trying to protect the ones he loves. He protects them by pushing them away and behind him, by putting himself in danger instead and taking comfort in knowing they're far away and safer for it. Which would make pushing White away easier to handle, no matter how much he misses him.

I also noticed a distinct lack of acknowledgement of the twin connection. So I wonder if Black wrote it off as a figment of his imagination over the decade they were apart, that he's forgotten the twin connection in an attempt to protect himself from his own failure to protect White, his own lack of knowledge of how White is doing.

Did Black ever hold himself underwater the way White did or did he find a different way to move on instead of clinging to the past?

White is gonna fight for Sean. White will do everything he can for Sean. Though I am torn on how far against Black White is willing to go. White has been seeking Black and their connection for most of his life... but he found a similar connection to Sean.

Actually, in just me going off on a tangent of an idea, I wonder if the twin connection is actually the White connection and he's going to find himself experiencing Sean's pain as well as Black's due to their feelings for each other and if that will also apply to Sean and White.

That's probably a bit far into the fantasy genre for this show but damn. Let a boy dream.