#i love fic that do children's pov so this was basically just that cranked up for me

[mikichko]

Begging for more of your ‘chao mi niño’ story🙏

hi cariño! thank you so much for the love on that series! it's one of my favorites 💖💕 i wasn't sure what you wanted to see but i wrote up something from zach's pov for the first time!

beekeeping part of chao mi niño cw: child pov, depictions of anxiety in children, all lowercase

there are bees under zach’s skin.

it’s the only possible explanation for the buzzing, itchy feeling living right below his skin. he’d tried to tell daddy, who after a thorough inspection that included getting shaken upside down, his absolute favorite part, had concluded that there were no bees in him. pa was no better, pressing his ear against all the body parts that zach offered him to listen for bees, but nope. he also missed the bees completely. 

but if it’s not bees, then what else could it be? 

zach is familiar with the bees. they’re not friends, he doesn’t particularly like how they make him feel, but he doesn’t dislike them either. he guesses the bees are always trying to warn him of something. the bees always come before change after all. he wonders if they’re like the geese, flying south. but instead of flying south they fly to zach and warn him that something big is coming. 

which is why zach finds himself squished between his dads in their own bed, feet wiggling between the two of them as they go over their plan of attack. though, zach worries that daddy isn’t really listening because he has a book in his hand. and zach knows that daddy can multitask very well but he’d really ‘preciate it if daddy could at least give him all his attention. pa at least looks zach in the eye, even if zach doesn’t meet his gaze, busy tracing the crisscrossed white lines on papa’s knuckles.

“and you goin’ to wait outside for a little bit right?” he bites his lip and peeks into papa’s eyes. 

papa’s blue eyes crinkle, the front of his mohawk wet and flopping onto his forehead, “aye z, told ye we’ll wait in case you dinnae like it.” papa’s other hand squeezes his ankle, “but i promise ye, school’s very nice. daddy and i already checked it out to make sure you’d like it.”

zach’s head turns at the sound of daddy placing his book on the beside table. he slides his glasses off and folds them before placing them on top of his book. daddy finally looks down at zach, ruffling his hair. “what’s got you all worked up? bees again?” 

zach nod’s solemnly, arm wrapping around himself as the bees intensify just a little more. papa’s hand curls around his and he shares a look with daddy. it’s the same look they shared when zach hid behind daddy’s leg when they first met clover. he’d had bees then too. clover was just a tad too big and too excited to meet him and zach was still scared of puppies. now clover snuggles with him occasionally and he gets no more bees around her.

“i used to get bees too, you know,” zach’s eyes widen at the rumble of daddy’s voice. daddy’s never been scared of anything, he even caught the neighbor’s dog that tried to jump on zach without flinching. he’d never thought that daddy would be the one to have bees too.  

daddy nods, wrapping an arm around zach pulling him close, “had really bad bees before your pa and i got married. they got really loud and were moving around so much i got pretty warm.”

zach leans into his daddy’s side, looking up at him with wide eyes, “but daddy why’d you have bees then? weren’t you ‘cited?” daddy chuckles a little, the low sound filling zach’s ear the same way the chocolate papa gave him earlier melted in his mouth, warm and sweet. 

“was worried your papa was gonna say no.” zach’s head immediately whips to his papa, had he even thought of saying no to daddy? papa is just as surprised as zach, with eyebrows raised and pulled together in the middle. he’s looking straight at daddy, not even noticing that zach’s wide eye expression is on him.

“he hadn’t said or done anything. if anything he’d made sure to tell me how happy he was. but, i was still a little worried i’d walk all the way to the altar and he’d still say no.” daddy’s eyes flicker from zach’s over to papa’s, naturally zach follows his gaze too.

papa’s eyes look a little wet. well, more wet than usual at least. zach’s recently learned eyes are always wet, that’s what blinks are for, but daddy’s eyes look wet like from tears. his head whips back and forth between daddy and papa, trying to decipher the silent conversation that they’re both having. daddy’s cheeks are a little pink, his lips pressed inward while papa blinks, the wetness in his eyes still not spilling over. it’s like this for a moment, the silent conversation between his dads before papa laughs a little silently and his free hand comes to scrub at his eyes.

daddy looks back down at zach, “but papa said yes and now we’ve got this house, we got clover, and we got you.” he leans down, real far down for daddy, to press a kiss on his forehead, “all the best things i could have got. because i didn’t let the bees scare me away.”

zach nods earnestly, chewing on his inner cheek as he thinks through daddy’s scenario. daddy is the bravest man he knows. he knows papa is brave too but he squealed at a mouse once so he knows that daddy is a little bit braver than him. zach is too, he named the mouse rupert. daddy had bees even though he was brave, they even got loud for him. daddy’s bees didn’t scare him away from papa and now they’re here, in this bed, with clover on the floor all together. 

papa’s hand is back on his ankle, rubbing at the skin there just like he does before zach falls asleep, “you got us here too bud. you don’t have to deal with the bees alone.”

papa’s right. daddy was brave with his bees alone. but daddy is also very big and zach is very small, so it’s nice that daddy and papa are both here to help with his bees. 

zach goes back to tracing his papa’s scars, quietly for a moment before, “but you promise you’re going to wait outside, right?”

daddy laughs, zach’s head moving a little with his shakes, and papa’s forehead falls forward against his leg. papa laughs and it tickles him, making his leg squirm.

papa smiles at him, daddy’s hand patting his head, “promise we’ll wait outside for you bud. always will.”

a/n: as always a special thank you to xavi for reading this over before i push this out here. 💕 always immensely thankful for you 💕

[lichfucker]

hi and hello! I would love to hear anything you wish to share about "to cross running water"; seeing you tag things for it/talk about it on my dash is always so cool <3

ty for indulging me lskdfsdf g-d where do I even start

'to cross running water' is my black sails vampire fic because I only write vampire fics anymore. some vampire lore says that they can't cross running water, so if you wanna get away from a vampire you basically just need to lead them to a river and then leave them stranded on the other side, which I thought was very cheeky considering. flint is a pirate. literally all he does is cross running water.

I'm hewing pretty closely to canon with it; it's not a full genre/plot swap, it's literally just "black sails but what if flint were a vampire."

I've been alternating back and forth between flint's pov and miranda's pov. and then of course once she dies it'll be all flint all the time lmao. flint is a vampire and thomas had also been a vampire but miranda is human. she is flint's shelter, she is his haven, her blood is what fuels and sustains him. it has the very fun effect of taking her already incredible isolation in canon and cranking it all the way up. miranda is horrifically alone, the bearer of more awful secrets than anyone can fathom, and there's only so much longer she can hang onto this powerlessness before something breaks.

and flint is... a beast. flint is a monster. he's the thing good men fear, what they tell their children to fear. he's been deemed an abomination for so many reasons, in so many ways. he has a primal rage, an insatiable bloodlust, a conviction that he is meant to lead and to rule. he is the man who cannot die, who can only be unmade in sunlight. all the interplay of dark and light, the thematic resonance of night and day. all of that is canon. I'm just adding fangs.

tcrw is also slowburn silverflint because of course it is lmao. I'm writing it in order because I Need To but uhh I have some plans for later scenes that are. the closest I will ever come in my life to writing smut. so. there's that. I just think that the eroticism of the vampire figure is important, and every vampire fic I've written approaches it differently. this one meets it head-on.

mmm I posted the whole first miranda section a little while ago... since you so patiently sat through this infodump I'll give you a bit from the first flint section :3

It's far from the most depraved thing Flint has done today but wringing Singleton’s blood out of his shirt only to lick it back up is certainly undignified. He takes no pride in wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand before all but shoving his entire fist into his mouth, but in the privacy of his cabin, hunger so putrid and bellowing it rots in him, he finds he cannot truly feel ashamed of it, either.

He does what he must. Hunger alone won’t kill him, his infernal constitution made of sterner stuff, but he needs the strength. It’s a horrid combination, endurance and enfeeblement, the knowledge that he could be utterly hollowed out and still he must crawl his way through every rotation of the Earth, dragging his pathetic body ever closer to the end of time, his only true hope at final oblivion save for the business end of a wooden stake. But until such a fate becomes inevitable he will do what he can to avoid it, even if it means slurping Singleton’s blood off of each finger with indulgent obscenity. He feels invigorated with it, however slight the nutrition from feeding like this, and the adrenaline still thrums through him, all abuzz with the satisfaction of a good fight. Flint enjoys fighting in the sun. That enfeeblement he so dreads, the sun is its ultimate benefactor, its rays draping weakness across his shoulders like a heavy cloak, weighing him down. He’s known of others, throughout the years, who are flayed alive by the daylight, or whose skin breaks out in unbearable burns and blisters (Thomas, in particular, glittered in the sun as though his skin were made of crushed diamonds while ghastly red welts that stung and hissed were bubbling beneath the surface, threatening to burst), but Flint is merely dampened by it, his preternatural strength and speed made natural. It humanizes him. A daylit skirmish presents a challenge, his muscles heavy and his reflexes sluggish; he has no biological advantage, only his skill and his drive. Such a fight is as close to fair as one could ever be—and still Flint has yet to be bested. Still his might reigns supreme. At his weakest he is still the pinnacle of them. When will it be enough? When will they learn? Thomas’ voice, in that almost paternalistic way, slinks out of the depths of Flint’s mind, beseeching, What have you got to prove? Well, everything, it would seem. It was Singleton today. It’ll be someone else tomorrow. The ever-constant threat of mutiny breathes hot on his neck like a slobbering dog. If they’re going to be dogs, my sweet, I will show them the wolf. Miranda hates to be cooped up in that little house, stranded on the island for weeks at a time, but she hates even more to see him like this, the lengths he must go to secure any sort of existence for her. At least locked away in the interior she does not have to see the animal in him. The new cook saw it today. Everyone saw it, to be sure, Flint’s captive and captivated audience, but Mr. Silver saw it for the first time today. Mr. Silver recognized it today. Flint stood there, quaking, snarling, drenched in his soon-to-be lunch, and he caught Mr. Silver in his teeth, held him in place as those ice-blue eyes reckoned with the beast before him.