#i personally feel like it's somewhere in between

[whytheylosttheirminds]

home for the holidays (part two) - r.c.

❄️ a frat!rafe cameron holiday mini series ❄️ (part one here!)

summary a simple favor for a friend ends with you reluctantly bringing Rafe Cameron, resident campus fuckboy, home for the holidays. It���s gonna take more than a little mistletoe for him to win you over…

content “enemies” to lovers, copious amounts of flirting, eventual smut, a dash of familial angst, parental illness and mentions of parental death, 18+ mdni

(taglist for this series is closed. please see author's notes at the end of the chapter for important info about the taglist!)

Somewhere between his house and yours it dawned on Rafe, much to his annoyance, that he had a big, stupid crush on you.

He tried everything to suppress it. He reminded himself that you didn't like him, that you probably thought you were better than him. He reminded himself how stupid it’d be to get attached to someone only a few months before graduation. 

Jesus, really man? He thought. She’s not your type, Rafe. She hates you. Be a fucking man and pull it together.

But it was the way you were perched in the driver’s seat, scooted all the way forward leaving no room between you and the wheel, smiling as you sang along to Mariah Carey. You looked so soft and cute, the sleeves of his hoodie slipping over your hands as they clutched the steering wheel.

Fuck, he definitely had a crush on you, and he hated having a crush. There was way too much room for rejection. This was one area in which he’d never really grown up, so he opted for his usual defense mechanism - pushing your buttons, like he was ten years old on the playground, pulling your pigtail just to get a reaction.

“So was I right about you not having many hookups in college?” He blurted out sometime during the third play of All I Want for Christmas is You.

Your head snapped toward him, complete confusion and not even a smidge of amusement on your face.

“What the fuck?” You grumbled. “That’s kinda personal, actually…”

“I’m just saying, I’ve never seen you at parties, and you don’t seem to have a boyfriend. Four years is a long time…”

“Everything is about sex with you, huh? Some of us are actually in college to learn,” you scolded him. It was his intention to push you away, and yet the repulsion in your voice still stung.

“Alright, I’ll stop asking,” he conceded.

“Good,” you huffed, shoulders slumping a little.

He looked over at you every so often, determined to find a flaw, some blemish or ick that he could use as a dealbreaker. This plan backfired terribly, his eyes only discovering more pretty features and cute little mannerisms that made his stomach leap every time he looked at you. He felt like a moth, brainless and hopelessly drawn to the warm light of a lamp that was sure to zap him dead at the slightest touch.

After twenty minutes of freezing him out for his “no hookups” comment, you gasped and excitedly pointed out the first of many road signs for your hometown, your annoyance with him replaced with excitement as the signs advertised you were getting closer and closer to home. 

Then you finally gave him something to resent you for. After a remark about how excited you were to see your family, you looked over at him with big, kind eyes, nervously broaching the topic with a light touch on his arm, “I’m sorry about your family leaving you behind. That totally sucks.”

There was a softness in your tone that was so warm and inviting it made him want to jump out of the moving car. He knew he was fucked up for being mad that you were being nice, but he couldn’t help it, the tenderness in your gaze made him feel like a wounded puppy, and he hated your pity.

He pulled his arm away from your gentle fingers like they’d hurt him.

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “They didn’t leave me, it was just a miscommunication.”

You withdrew in more ways than one, pulling your hand back and falling awkwardly silent. Rafe kicked himself mentally, of course just when you’d started to come around to him, he pushed you away. Little did those girls in your dorm know, that was the true Rafe Cameron special.

“So, uh, you were saying something about presents for your brothers? How old are they?” He asked, praying he hadn’t made you shut down for good, trying to re-stoke the fires of the friendship you had been building since you offered for him to come home with you.

You were chewing on your nails, picking at the dead skin nervously. At his prompting you started to speak again, though a bit less enthusiastically than before he’d shut you down.

“Uhm, well,” you sat up a little. “There’s Luke, he’s sixteen. And then Reese is thirteen and Bennett is ten.”

“Fun ages,” he nodded, wincing at his cliché words.

“They are fun,” you nodded, a smile returning to your lips at the thought of your little brothers. The sight of you smiling again soothed the ache in his chest and he leaned back into his seat, full of relief.

“Luke is such a teenage boy, too cool for everything. I got him some Nike cleats because he plays football, he’ll pretend he doesn’t like them but I think he’ll wear them. And Reese is quieter, he’s always been a bit more sensitive. He wants to be a photographer, so I got him a vintage Polaroid camera. Benny was the easiest to shop for,” you smiled at the thought of your baby brother, Rafe could tell you had a special love for him. “I got him one of those giant gummy bears that comes in its own plastic case. It cost a fraction of what I spent on the other two but I guarantee you he’ll be the most excited.”

“I’m sure they’ll all like what you got them,” he assured you.

“They better, they cost me a whole paycheck,” you huffed, thinking of all the hours you’d worked slinging drinks at your college’s go-to student bar to pay for the presents that were currently sitting in your trunk.

“It’s better than what I got my sisters,” he reminded you with a laugh.

“Hey! I spent six whole dollars on those souvenirs!” You scolded him, smiling at the memory of the crappy little knick-knacks in the backseat.

“And I’m sure they’ll love them,” he agreed.

“What about your sisters? How old are they?” You asked.

Surely, you were just being polite, keeping the conversation going after he’d asked about your brothers. But he wanted nothing less than to talk about his family right now, the thought of them all hanging out at the Bahama house, completely forgetting that he existed, still stung fresh. He wondered if Sarah and Wheezie even asked his dad where he was, why he wasn’t on the plane. Maybe they were relieved to celebrate the holiday without him annoying them, he probably deserved it. 

“Hey, isn’t that your exit?” He pointed at the highway sign, advertising that the off ramp to your hometown was only half-a-mile away, trying to distract you from your question.

“Yes!” It worked, you sat up in your seat, excitedly pressing a little harder on the gas as you celebrated the proximity to home.

“Woah, slow down, I’d like to celebrate Christmas alive,” he joked as the needle on the speedometer climbed higher and higher.

“Oh shit sorry,” you giggled, pulling your foot back to slow down a little. “I’m just excited. It’s gonna be so cozy. My dad will have put a bunch of colored lights all over the front of the house, and the tree will be up, probably a fire going and Christmas music playing. I can’t wait to see them!”

His jealousy was almost debilitating. What must it be like to feel this excited to go home? To know what was waiting for you was going to bring you so much joy? He wanted what you had so badly, he was tempted to reach out and touch you just to see if he could absorb your happiness by osmosis.

The little town you called home was just as small as Rafe was picturing, if not more. Though, the tiny houses lining the main street were decked to the nines with Christmas decorations, so much merriment in such a tiny little hamlet. The further into the country you drove, green street signs giving way to rickety, hand-painted ones, the more he felt like he understood you.

You smiled at all the lights, body absolutely buzzing with each turn that brought you towards home. Finally, you turned on a long dirt road, past a field of horses Rafe recognized as the farm you said you grew up next to. Approaching a mailbox with your last name on it, your smile fell from your lips, eyebrows creasing as you turned onto the property.

At the end of the long driveway was a small little split level home Rafe surmised to be yours, only where he expected a display of twinkling christmas decor, there was only one single flickering porch light. If he hadn’t known better, he’d assume the family who lived here didn’t celebrate Christmas at all.

“What the hell?” You mumbled under your breath, concern on your face growing as you pulled the car up and parked behind an old, rusting mini-van. 

Arms full of presents, Rafe helping with your bags, you stumbled anxiously through the front door. The inside of your house was just as disappointing as the outside. It was messy, dishes on the counter and the echo of obnoxious video games ringing through the halls where there should be the familiar chatter of your family having dinner.

“Hello?” You called out, setting the presents down on the kitchen table. You peaked your head over the island, into the open space of the living room. In the far corner, where there should’ve been a Christmas tree, there was a pile of unfolded laundry. 

Two messy headed boys peered over the back of the couch, the third head not moving from its fixation on the TV as his fingers continued to click away on his controller.

“Gigs!!” The smallest one, who Rafe assumed to be Bennett, shouted, he and the second smallest, who he identified as Reese, rose from the couch and made their way towards you.

“Gigs?” Rafe repeated under his breath.

“As in Giggles. It’s my childhood nickname,” you explained, and when you saw his teasing smirk added, “shut up.”

Reese and Bennett nearly tackled you, colliding into you with little bear hugs. Reese was nearing your height, though not quite there yet, and Bennett was small but stocky, his chubby arms squeezing the air from your lungs.

“Rice and beans!” You sang affectionately as you returned their hugs, messing up their hair and pinching their cheeks. You looked to Rafe to answer the question you could see already forming on his lips, “rice and beans, as in Reese and Bennett, their nicknames.”

He smiled at your affectionate embrace with your brothers, nodding with a little, “ah.” Something in him ached, like a haunted limb, a muscle he didn’t even have that was sore from lack of use.

After several moments, Bennett pulled away, eyeing Rafe and pointing a stubby little finger right at him, “who’s he?”

Reese covered his brother’s finger, forcing his hand down correctively.

“Benny, that’s rude,” you said, unable to suppress the little chuckle at your brother’s boyish indifference.

In your concern over the state of the house, you hadn’t planned out how to explain Rafe to your brothers. ‘He’s a friend’ wasn’t totally accurate, but it was the only language they’d understand. Before you could open your mouth to explain anything, though, your youngest brother blurted out, “are you Giggy’s boyfriend?”

“Bennett Alan,” you snipped at him through gritted teeth, giving him a motherly glare as you used his full name in warning. “You’re being rude, and he is not my boyfriend.”

This was true, though Rafe wasn’t sure there was any need for the tinge of disgust in the way you said it. He could sense Bennett formulating another pot-stirring question and jumped in before he had the chance.

“I’m Rafe,” he set his bag down next to the counter and held out a hand. 

Bennett puffed out his chest, putting on his best adult voice as he shook Rafe’s hand, “I’m Bennett, my friends call me Benny.”

You and Reese gave each other knowing smirks, sharing eye rolls over your brother’s precocious antics. 

“And which should I call you?” Rafe played along with his all-business tone.

“Depends, how much money you got?”

Rafe smirked, but you were mortified. “Oh my god, Beans! You can’t ask people that. Here, make yourself useful and put these presents under the tree.”

“We don’t have one,” Reese told you, the first words Rafe had heard him speak, and by his quiet tone and the way he avoided eye contact he understood why you’d called him the sensitive one.

Rafe caught the way you allowed worry to flash across your face for only a second before you smoothed your features back into faux nonchalance, like you were putting on a show for the kids.

“Oh okay, well then I guess we’ll just leave them on the table,” you shrugged, as if you hadn’t been raving about your family’s grand Christmas trees just minutes ago.

Your eyes drifted back to the living room, where your remaining brother still hadn’t risen to greet you.

“Lukey? Help me with my bags?” 

The shaggy haired boy finally turned, eyeing Rafe with a cold distrust that felt like looking in a mirror.

“Looks like he’s already got ‘em,” he grumbled.

You gave him an authoritative glare that had much less playfulness than the one you’d given Bennett.

“Where are mom and dad?” You asked Reese in a hushed tone, shielding the question from Bennett, who was busy dragging a chair over from the kitchen table.

“It’s Thursday,” Reese responded, giving you a knowing look like you should know what that meant. When you clearly didn’t, he added, “chemo day,” in a whisper so quiet Rafe could barely hear it. “Mom’s been asleep since they got back and dad had to work the evening shift.”

Rafe did hear though, and your eyes flicked to him quickly with a vulnerability he hadn’t seen from you yet, like he somehow had something to hold over your head now. He wanted to say the exact right thing to put you at ease, to let you know your family’s business was safe with him. As he was formulating the words, Benny was climbing up on the chair he’d dragged over, standing directly between you and Rafe.

“How tall are you?” Benny asked Rafe once he could meet his eyeline.

“Uhm,” Rafe cleared his throat, pulled from the moment, “I’m 6 '2.”

“I’m 4 foot 1 and three quarters,” Benny explained, as though if this were a competition, he was just a few points behind Rafe, and gaining.

“Nice! 4 '1 is very respectable,” Rafe smiled, deciding it was best to be on Benny’s good side.

“And three quarters,” Benny corrected through gritted teeth.

“Right, sorry, and three quarters,” Rafe put his hands up in defense.

Benny crossed his arms and gave Rafe a once over, as if he was the man of the house deciding if he was allowed to stay. 

Sensing your brother was about to say some other rude thing to embarass you, you stepped in, “Benny why don’t you go show our guest where we keep the air mattress,” you grabbed him off the chair and lowered him to the ground with some difficulty, “and be nice,” you added in his ear.

Benny obeyed but gave Rafe narrow, suspicious eyes the whole way down the hall.

“There’s like a thirty percent chance Benny tries to fight him,” Reese noted as the two of you watched them go.

You chuckled, settling on the couch between your two brothers.

“So who is he really?” Luke asked, still not pausing his video game but at least acknowledging your existence. 

“He’s just a guy from school,” you shrugged. “He’s Brody’s friend.”

“Is Brody here?” Reese asked hopefully. You and Brody had been friends your whole childhoods, and your brother’s were always big fans.

“No, he had an internship or something, but I’d already told Rafe I’d give him a ride, and when we got to his house his family was just, like, gone,” you explained. “They went on a trip and didn’t even tell him.”

“Yikes,” Luke said. “That’s shitty.”

“Language,” you scolded, making him roll his eyes. “But yes, it is shitty,” you added, making him smirk. 

“He’s like Kevin from Home Alone,” Reese quipped. All three of you laughed.

“Honestly? It was kind of exactly like that, only sadder. Like a lost puppy. I mean, who just forgets their kid?” You lowered your voice a bit, hoping it wouldn’t carry down the hall. “I felt so awkward I didn’t know what to do so I said he could come here.”

Your brothers seemed satisfied with your explanation. Even though nothing you said was technically untrue, you still felt like you were somehow being dishonest. You’d never admit it, but it wasn’t all out of pity, there was some small part of you that wanted to bring Rafe home, that was intrigued by him and wanted to see more. But there was no way to explain that to two teenage boys, so you settled for the Home Alone excuse.

Benny came back around the corner, leaping onto the couch and nearly knocking over Luke’s soda.

“Beans, chill,” Luke groaned as he narrowly caught his Mountain Dew before it spilled all over the coffee table.

“Where’s Rafe?” You asked Benny, looking around to see if he’d followed your brother back out.

“He said to tell you he’s going to bed, he seemed kinda grumpy,” Benny shrugged, stealing Luke’s soda when he wasn’t paying attention and taking a swig.

“Oh,” you said, trying to hide the hint of disappointment in your voice. “Okay.”

Down the hall, Rafe snuck quietly into the laundry room as the fading voices of you and your brothers were drowned out by the sound of the water heater, which sat in the cramped space right next to the air mattress Benny had helped him set up.

Your voice echoed in his head, ‘I felt so awkward I didn’t know what to do.’ 

So it was a pity invite. You saw him as some sad character from a 90s movie, not an actual companion you wanted to spend the holiday with. 

He settled on the uncomfortable inflatable mattress. He was in a house full of people, and yet he was beginning to think he might actually feel less lonely all by himself in Tannyhill.

Up before the sun, out the door before breakfast’s done; that’s the way your dad had been your whole life, working a string of manual labor, blue collar jobs that meant he was usually gone before you woke up.

This morning however, you were determined to talk to him before he left, to confront him about the complete lack of Christmas you’d found at your homecoming. You set your alarm at an ungodly hour so you could wait for him to come down the stairs.

Hunched over the counter by the brewing coffee pot, you ran your hands over your face. Your holiday homecoming was nothing like you imagined, the biggest surprise of all being the person you came home with, but you’d figure out how to broach that subject later.

“Hi Gigs.” Your dad’s footsteps were so quiet, you hadn’t heard him enter the kitchen. When you turned to meet him, he flashed you a tired grin.

He’d gotten home after you went to sleep last night, this was the first you’d seen him since your anticlimactic arrival. He looked more exhausted than you ever remembered seeing him. Even more tired than after Bennett was born and he had colic for six months.

“Hi dad,” you approached and gave him a hug before returning to the coffee pot to pour some for him in a travel mug.

“Couldn’t sleep?” He asked.

“A lot on my mind,” you said, turning to face him. “Made you some coffee. If you stay and talk to me I might just be persuaded to make you breakfast.”

Your dad slumped into a chair at the kitchen table, pulling on and lacing up his heavy work boots.

“No time for breakfast,” he waved you off. “You know that.”

“Dad, what’s going on?” You asked, knowing your window to get answers was closing quickly.

But he didn’t answer, he just sighed heavily and shook his head, avoiding your gaze.

“Just not a breakfast guy that’s all,” he joked. You knew he knew that’s not what you meant.

“You didn’t even hang any lights,” you mumbled softly, feeling a bit childish. “And there’s no tree.”

Your dad sighed again. You wondered if there was a record for how many times someone could sigh in one conversation.

“I’ve been working double shifts, there just hasn’t been time. I’m sorry,” he shrugged. “It’s been a long year, kid.”

“Why didn’t you tell me it’s gotten so bad? I would’ve come back sooner,” you said, pulling a side eye from him that you read as: and that’s exactly why I didn’t tell you.

“I don’t know, why didn’t you tell me about the frat boy in the laundry room?” He countered.

‘Oh, right,” you blushed, feeling like when you were twelve and he found you hiding a stray cat in the garage. “Was gonna mention him but, you know, you were working.”

“Could’ve told me you were bringing your boyfriend home,” he scolded you.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” you rushed to explain. “He’s Brody’s friend. He needed a place to crash.”

“Ah, Brody’s friend. That makes me feel so much better,” he rolled his eyes. 

Your dad was never a fan of Brody, too much of a ‘knucklehead’ as he called him. You knew Rafe wouldn’t fare much better in your dad’s good graces, no guy you liked ever did. Not that you liked Rafe. Fuck, your blush was getting deeper. You quickly looked down at your feet, hoping your dad wouldn’t notice. 

Luckily, he was too tired to read your facial expressions, he huffed as he rose from his chair and approached you, digging in his pocket for some cash. “Here, grab a tree and some gifts for the boys -”

“You haven’t even gotten them gifts yet?” You sighed.

“I know, I know,” he nodded, his baggy, tired eyes begging you for a little slack. You’d never seen him look so tired, sympathy overpowering your disappointment. “I’m trying here, gigs.”

“I got it,” you gave him a small, dutiful smile and pocketed the cash.

“I knew you would,” he gave you a side hug and accepted the travel mug of coffee you handed him. “I’m sorry things aren’t exactly what you expected. but I am glad you’re home.”

As he slipped out the front door into the chilly dusk, your mind spiraled. You knew your mom was having a rough patch with her breast cancer, but you had no idea it’d gotten this bad. No Christmas was simply not an option, maybe things would never go back to normal for you, or your parents, but that was adulthood wasn’t it? Your brothers shouldn’t have to grow up just yet, and you’d make sure they didn’t.

Everything felt wrong, off kilter in a way that made your stomach twist with the familiar anxiety that comes with any situation you can’t control. So you did what you always do when things feel uncertain; you made a list.

Pulling a notebook from the kitchen junk drawer, you uncapped a pen and quickly scribbled everything you could think of that needed to be done:

Decorations 

⇢ box in garage? lights working?

Presents for the boys 

⇢ wishlists? budget??

Buy and decorate tree 

 ⇢ Douglas Fir? tree lots still open?

Under each item you scribbled all the steps you could think of, as well as any conflicts you might hit along the way. Maybe if you could just work the problem, you could fix this, save Christmas and by extension, your family.

You eyed the empty checkboxes next to each item with worry. If you were going to pull all of this off in just two days, you’d need to call in some reinforcements. 

The door to the laundry room squeaks if you open it slowly, which you did deliberately, milking it for all the disruptive sound it’s worth. Rafe was sprawled out on the air mattress, which had deflated just a bit in his sleep, making his legs stick up in the air a little higher than his upper body. 

He was snoring away, just like he had in the car, your noisy opening of the door not doing what you’d hoped it would. 

You sighed loudly, he didn’t stir. You cleared your throat, still nothing. You coughed theatrically, he was still out cold.

Finally, you opened the lid to the washing machine, taking off one sock and dropping it in, letting the heavy metal lid slam closed as you started a rinse cycle. At the crash, Rafe shot up, nearly falling off the air mattress.

“Oh good, you’re up!” You chirped, as if you hadn’t caused the sudden awakening.

“What the hell are you doing?” He grumbled at you, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His hair stuck up at all angles and he squinted, barely able to open his eyes in his exhaustion. You gave yourself one second to think about how cute he looked before redirecting your focus to the reason you were in here.

“Just doing some laundry,” you told him as he reached around in the dimly lit room for his phone. “But since you’re awake...”

“What time is it?” He slurred, still half asleep.

“I dunno probably like 9,” you shrugged, knowing full well that wasn’t the case.

“I can’t find my phone,” he sunk back into the mattress, making like he was going to go back to sleep. That wouldn’t do.

“Oh, here!” You flicked on the fluorescent overhead light, making him wince and pull the covers over his head.

“Gah! Turn them off please!” He cried out, voice muffled from under the blankets.

“It’s time to get up, we have a big day ahead of us,” you walked over to the mattress, kicking it to jostle him around on the half-inflated plastic.

“I’m on vacation,” he protested. 

“Yes, exactly, Christmas vacation,” you walked around to the end of the bed, grabbing the covers in two hands and pulling them from his body, making him groan and curl up in the cold air like a rolly polly bug. “We have Christmas things to do.”

You tried not to notice the sculpted arms revealed by his grey tank top, and you really tried not to notice how the thin material of his flannel pajama pants was leaving very little to the imagination. He looked up after a moment, blinking his eyes open to catch you staring, his lips twisting in a cocky grin. He opened his mouth to say something smug and flirtatious, but before he could, his eyes caught the clock on the wall behind you.

“It’s 6am?!” He yelled.

“Oh is it?” You laughed, no longer trying to hide your scheme. “My bad, 6s and 9s look the same to me.”

Swiftly, Rafe stretched out his long leg, hooking his foot behind your knee and pulling you toward him, sweeping you off your feet and onto the mattress. A sharp “oof!” left your lips and as you crashed down onto what little air was left in the mattress to catch you. Landing hard, you immediately slid towards him, your body settling square on top of his.

“You wanna talk some more about 6s and 9s?” He grinned at you, his morning voice low and raspy in a way that sent goosebumps rushing up your spine.

“Ugh, you’re a pig!” You smacked him on the shoulder, pins and needles lingering in your hand where your skin had met his, and tried to push yourself up.

Wobbling on the plastic mattress, your attempts to get off of him only had you wriggling further down until your face was hovering over his. This was the closest you had ever been to him, suddenly noticing just how blue his eyes were. The glow of them under the fluorescents actually knocked the wind out of you, freezing your body in place over him as you took them in, feeling like you might drown in them if you stared too long, but letting the waves pull you under anyway.

“Morning,” he lips curved into a smile that was so handsome it almost made you forget your mission.

Grasping at your reason for coming in here like it was a lifeboat, you decided to use the compromising position you had him in to your advantage, leaning a little closer as you said, “I need you.”

Rafe’s eyebrows shot up in shock, was this really about to happen, right here in your parent’s laundry room?

“Oh yeah?” He flirted, muscles tensing in anticipation beneath you. “What do you need, hmm?”

“Just say yes and I’ll tell you,” you purposefully dropped your voice lower, adding a tinge of suggestion to your words to really bring it home.

“Anything,” he agreed, his mind five miles ahead of you in the wrong direction.

You sat up, straddling him, and pulled the list of tasks from your pocket.

“Great, get dressed, we’re leaving in five,” you smiled down at him, relishing the completely baffled look on his face. “We’re gonna save Christmas.”

“No, we don’t have time to stop, we gotta stick to the list,” you protested as Rafe turned the car off the road and pulled into a drive thru.

After tricking him into agreeing to help you, you’d rushed him through getting ready and out of the house, convinced the stores would be packed as soon as they opened. He dragged his feet the whole way, but somehow you’d managed to wrangle him into the car, insisting he drive so you could look through some catalogs to map out gifts for your brothers.

“If I have to be up at the asscrack of dawn, I’m getting coffee,” he shot you down.

“Okay, fine, but if we get there and all the good deals are gone, I’m blaming you,” you conceded.

You tapped your knee anxiously as the line of cars in the drive thru crawled like a herd of snails. Rafe watched your fingers strum out of the corner of his eye, noticing for the first time the way your nails were bitten down to the beds. He wasn’t paying much attention, but he was fairly sure they weren’t that messed up yesterday.

“What do you want to order?” He asked, unsure why but suddenly only caring about finding a way to distract you.

Without needing to look at the menu, you recited, “venti blonde americano with two extra shots of espresso and a splash, like a really small splash, of oat milk. Actually no oatmilk. And four shots.”

Rafe blinked back at you, your fidgety fingers lifted to your lips as you chewed on your cuticles.

Pulling up to the speaker, he leaned in and said, “yeah grande black coffee for me, and uh, a tall green tea please.”

“That is not what I ordered!” you snipped as he pulled forward to the first window.

“Yeah, I’m cutting you off,” he explained. “If I let you have any more caffeine, you won’t have any fingernails left.”

You dropped your hand quickly, surprised that he had noticed. You were miffed that he was denying you your coffee, but he was probably right. You took a deep breath and sipped your tea as he drove to the first stop on your list.

Somewhere along the highway, the radio jingled the familiar first notes of All I Want For Christmas is You. You sat up, excitedly reaching to turn the volume up.

“If I have to listen to this song one more time, I swear I’m gonna drive the car off this bridge,” he groaned, his hand covering yours to stop you from making his misery louder.

“Oh my god you’re so dramatic,” you raised your eyebrows, giving in and returning your hand to your lap. “She’s the queen of Christmas!”

“Please,” he gave you a pouty lip from the driver’s seat. “It’s killing me.”

“Okay, fine,” you laughed, rolling your eyes at him. “No more Mariah Carey.”

The department store parking lot was swarming with last minute shoppers. You hated that you belonged with them, punished for procrastination. Usually you did things early and thoroughly, now people would think you were one of the careless who pushed things to the last minute. It was a silly thing to worry about, but everything seemed to worry you today. You even made Rafe exchange phone numbers with you in case one of you got lost in the crowd and you couldn’t find each other. Your mind was running wild with worst case scenarios.

Rafe found a spot far from the door, as you walked towards the store’s entrance, you flipped through the catalog you’d snatched from your parent’s junkmail.

“Okay, so I circled everything that’s similar to what’s on the boys’ lists but on clearance,” you explained to him as he grabbed a cart, not fully listening to you. “We’ve got like fifty dollars for each of them, I think we can find a couple good things.”

Once inside the door, Rafe immediately grabbed a bag of chocolates off of the stocking stuffers display.

“That’s not on the list,” you reminded him, jaw dropping when he opened the bag and started eating the candy right there in the middle of the aisle. “And you didn’t pay for that!”

“Relax,” he held the bag out to you, “have some chocolate. Get into the Christmas spirit.”

“Since when are you the expert on the ‘Christmas spirit?’” You eyed him, noticeably not accepting a piece of his stolen candy. “You just threatened to throw Mariah Carey off a bridge.”

“No, I said I was gonna throw myself off a bridge if I had to listen to her one more time,” he placed his hand over his chest as if he was proving his innocence. “Besides, one of us has to have a little joy,” he noted, tilting his head a little to emphasize his point.

He was right, you were stressing a little too much. If Rafe Cameron was out-Christmasing you, then clearly you needed an attitude adjustment. 

“You’re right,” you sighed, accepting one of his chocolates and popping it in your mouth as you looked around the store to map out your shopping plan. “Alright, aisle ten for Reese’s camera lens and then aisle four for Benny’s lego-”

Your sentence was cut short at the feeling of Rafe’s thumb on the corner of your mouth, his face cool and casual as the pad of his finger ran across your lip. Your eyes shot around, there were at least a dozen people in this section, all close enough to see him circling your mouth with his finger.

Before you could push him off, not that you really wanted to, he pulled back. You stumbled a bit, subconsciously chasing the feeling of his touch. He revealed his thumb to you, he’d collected a little glob of chocolate that had smeared around your mouth.

“You’re gonna get us caught for our little shoplifting scheme,” he joked, licking the chocolate off the pad of his thumb as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and not an incredibly sensual action for a fluorescent lit department store at 7am.

“W-we are not shoplifting,” you stammered, fighting speechlessness and praying he didn’t notice the way your cheeks were burning. “You better pay for those.”

“Okay, okay,” he laughed. I’ll pay for them, I promise. But if I forget, I’m saying you took them.” He dropped the chocolates into the cart before you could protest and wheeled toward the first aisle on your list, making you scurry a bit to catch up with his long legs.

“Bastard,” you mumbled, still feeling flustered.

Somewhere between the frozen food section and the office supplies aisle, you actually started having fun. 

Your cart filled slowly, the rush you were in when you entered the store slowing with every moment that passed walking around the store with Rafe. You joked about the hideous holiday decor, and the cheesy romance novel shelf. You stood on the back of the cart as he wheeled you around, nearly taking out a display of canned goods, and got a stern warning from a stock boy that sent you both into a fit of mischievous laughter. He tried on a series of truly awful hats for you, and even let you snap a few pictures.

As you laughed and shopped together, you couldn’t help but notice the cheery looks of the older ladies that passed you in the aisles. You returned their friendly glances with a blush, wondering, though it made you feel like a silly schoolgirl, if they thought Rafe was your boyfriend.

You’d remind yourself how foolish the thought was as you checked items off your list, seeing as this was not the real Rafe Cameron. The real Rafe Cameron wouldn’t be caught dead shopping for gardening gloves and barbeque tongs for your parents, he’d rather be pregaming a party or kicking the girl from last night who’s name he’d already forgotten out of bed. 

And yet, here he was, pushing the cart while you rattled on about Christmas when you were seven when it snowed so hard the power went out, the last time you remembered actually having a white Christmas. The way he nodded along intently had you actually wondering if it could be real, if being with him could be more than just a distraction from a stressful morning.

Your thoughts spiraled even further when he stopped to point out a his and hers sweater set, one reading “naughty” and the other “nice.”

“As long as I get to be the nice one,” you smiled as he pulled the itchy wool over his head.

He leaned down to tug its partner over your head, his voice low in your ear,  “Only ‘cause I know you like it when I’m naughty.”

Butterflies did pirouettes in your stomach, you snapped a picture of the two of you in a mirror, Rafe towering over you from behind as he smiled for the camera. 

“Yeah, we’re definitely buying these,” he said, tucking the tag into your collar, his knuckles ghosting over the skin of your neck.

After a few more shenanigans, you realized two hours had passed, and you still had several more items on your list.

“How about this? For your brothers?” Rafe asked, pointing out an Xbox in a display case. 

You snorted, “there’s no planet on which my brother’s would think that actually came from our parents. They’re still using an old PlayStation someone gave us years ago.”

“Well then I’ll get it for them, you can say it came from Santa,” he shrugged, as if the astronomical price tag below it didn’t even exist.

“Our Santa brings, like, socks and candy. He doesn’t have a black card,” you pulled his arm, guiding him to a cheaper aisle.

“And what does your Santa usually bring you?” He questioned, a not so subtle way to find out what you wanted for Christmas. 

“I don’t ask him for much,” you brushed the question off. “I just want my family all together.”

Rafe didn’t push any further, watching you out of the corner of his eye, realization dawning that you were serious, you actually didn’t expect to get any gifts for Christmas.

Not noticing his eyes on you, you scanned over everything in your cart, adding it up on your phone’s calculator for the hundredth time. You couldn’t remember a day in your life you weren’t worried about money. Every penny counts now more than ever with your mom not working and your dad unable to find a job that pays enough to keep everyone afloat without completely running himself into the ground.

Without realizing it, you brought your fingertips back to your mouth, biting your nails anxiously for the first time since Rafe had pointed out the bad habit several hours ago.

“Hey you know what?” Rafe said, and you were so lost in worried thoughts that you flinched at the sound of his voice. “Why don’t we split up to get the rest of the list? We’ll cover more ground that way. Also, I think I saw some fake trees on sale back there, so I can grab one.”

“Okay,” you agreed, feeling the little bubble of your flirty shopping spree pop. 

He was clearly ready to be done with this little excursion. But you’d had more fun than you thought you would, and there were still several days of break left to enjoy with him. You could feel the walls you’d so carefully built around your heart swaying just a little bit in his wind. The thought terrified and thrilled you all at the same time.

After collecting your half of the gift list, you searched the store for Rafe. You found him in the jewelry section, leaning against the glass display case. You made your way towards him, prepared to tease him for wasting time in a section that wasn’t on the list, before you saw his reason for being there. You stopped short, ducking behind an inflatable Santa to watch with a disappointed glare. 

He was chatting up a pretty sales girl, her store uniform fitted tightly as she smiled down at him, her cheeks rosy pink and pretty smile blindingly white.

Rafe gave her the charming grin you’d begun to hope he only reserved for you, probably drawling some cheeky compliments to cause her to blush in the way you surely did when he talked to you.

The feeling in your chest was unfamiliar, and painfully uncomfortable. Reluctantly, you identified it as jealousy. No, no, you were not jealous over this obnoxious frat boy, you wouldn’t allow yourself to be. That was not how you were gonna start your Christmas break.

Just as you’d resolved not to be jealous, he reached up and brushed his hand against the necklace she was wearing, admiring her jewelry surely just as an excuse to bring his hand close to her chest. She beamed at him, his attempts at flirting clearly working. 

A deep frown settled on your features. He was supposed to be shopping for your little brothers and instead he was feeling up a sales girl? You felt so delusional for thinking you’d misjudged him on the drive down. He was the same guy you thought he was when he showed up at your car yesterday, you should've trusted your gut.

Hoping he wouldn’t catch you watching, you turned quickly on your heel, beelining for check out.

Taking the bag from the sales girl with a wink, Rafe tucked the small item at the bottom of his cart, under the presents he’d collected for your brothers, and began searching for you in the crowded aisles, looking forward to the pleased look on your face when he informed you he’d found everything on his half of the list.

When he found you, you were already half way through checking out, loading items onto the belt and watching with tense shoulders as the total on the screen climbed higher and higher.

“What, were you gonna leave without me?” Rafe joked as he started adding his items to the belt.

“We’re on a schedule, we don’t have time to keep fucking around,” you grumbled. 

Rafe met eyes with the college-aged guy who was working as cashier, both of them flashing knowing smirks as if to say, “chicks, am I right, man?” Their boyish camaraderie made you even angrier. 

Once your cart was empty, you started to help Rafe empty his cart, but he jumped around to the front before you could, blocking your access.

“No, no, I got it,” he said nervously, his body blocking you from reaching into his cart.

Irritation crept up your chest, threatening to take over completely. You suddenly felt so petty and immature, like you were Benny’s age, knowing you were about to say something rude you’d later regret. 

“Fine!” You shoved the cash your dad had given you in Rafe’s hands, “I’ll just go pull the car around then.”

Rafe watched you leave through the store’s sliding glass doors, arms crossed as you exited to the parking lot, which was wet and slippery from the wintery sleet mix that had started falling at some point when you were in the store. You paused and huffed deeply, annoyed by the shift in weather, throwing the hood of your jacket up as you jogged across the lot to your car.

He had no idea what had changed in the thirty minutes you’d been shopping separately. There had been a moment earlier when he thought he’d finally won you over, and now you were back to treating him like he was the bane of your existence.

“This too?” The cashier asked, holding out the decorative mistletoe Rafe had thrown in the bottom of his cart, thinking he could work in some cheeky joke with you and get that perfect eye roll/reluctant smile expression you make that he’d become a little obsessed with.

“Yeah, sure, whatever man,” he agreed with a frown.

As promised, you brought the car around, giving Rafe the cold shoulder as you loaded the gifts into the trunk. When you got to the fake tree Rafe had snagged from the holiday section, you paused.

“What’s that?” You questioned him.

“A tree?” He snapped back. “I told you I was gonna grab one.”

“No,” you shook your head, “we have to get a real tree.”

Rafe looked up at the sky pointedly, the worsening weather causing shoppers around you to duck and run to their car to get out of the misery.

“Are you serious?” He grumbled. “What’s wrong with this one?”

“It just…it has to be real, okay?” You huffed. “I found the last tree lot in the county that still has Douglas Firs, so you can take this one back.”

“Why don’t we keep this one just in case you change your mind,” he suggested.

“Fine, keep it, but I’m not changing my mind,” you threw the box with the fake tree into the trunk and slammed it closed, nearly catching Rafe’s hand in the heavy door as you did.

You stomped around to the driver’s side, leaving Rafe to return the carts to the main entrance, his jaw clenched in frustration the whole way. What had started as disappointment in your change in demeanor had turned into full-on anger. He may not be your favorite person, but you weren’t the only one having a shitty Christmas, and he definitely didn’t think he deserved whatever the fuck this was.

“I’m telling you, it was veer left, not turn left!”

The windshield wipers were working overtime, squeaking against the glass as they tried and failed to keep the freezing rain out of your line of vision. You sat all the way forward in your seat to see through the watery streaks they left behind. You had pulled onto some muddy back road as Rafe read directions from the GPS, trying to find this obscure tree lot several miles outside of town.

“Veer left doesn’t make any sense, I know that road, it’s all factories and empty lots,” you waved him off.

“Okay, well it’s clearly not this road! Is this even a road? It’s like a fucking swamp out here, I don’t know how your tires are even still moving,” He argued back.

“Not everything around here is as nice here as it is in the Outer Banks, Rafe. We’re doing our best, sorry if we don’t meet Cameron standards,” you griped at him.

“Oh my god, that’s not what I meant, just admit you’re fucking lost,” he snipped back.

“I am not lost. It’s probably just taking me on a shortcut. The road will clear up any minute.”

As you said those fateful words, the road got even more unstable, dirt and gravel mixing with the precipitation to make what looked more like a vat of chocolate pudding than a road. 

Stubbornly, you accelerated, determined to get out of this patch of road and prove to him you were right. As you sped up, the steering wheel turned erratically under your hands, your tires skidding on the slippery road, eventually stopping movement at all.

“Hmm interesting,” Rafe quipped sarcastically, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched you try to navigate the situation you’d gotten yourself into.

“It’s fine, I just need to…” you accelerated more, your spinning back tire kicking up mud as it fought for forward motion.

“Stop, you’re gonna - “

POP! The car skidded forward violently just an inch before stopping altogether, the weight of it sinking underneath you as a loud whistling noise echoed from the rear tire.

“- blow your tire,” Rafe threw his hands up in exasperation as the low tire pressure light on your dash illuminated with a little ‘ding!’

You avoided his eyes, hands still clutching the steering wheel as you clenched your jaw in anger. 

“Thanks a lot,” you mumbled.

Rafe blinked at you in disbelief, jaw hanging slack. 

“Me?” He scoffed, looking around the car as if there was someone he could look to for confirmation that you were being insane. “How is this my fault?”

“You’re rushing me! I know how to drive on back roads but you were distracting me!” You were grasping at straws, you knew it, he knew it, but logic had flown out the window when the tire blew. 

Rafe just chuckled humorlessly, pinching the bridge of his nose, “let’s just call someone and -”

But you were already opening your door, booted foot landing with a squelch in the mud.

“What are you doing?” He called after you.

You leaned down to look at him through your cracked door, “never changed a tire before, rich boy?” With a smirk, you slammed the door in his face.

Scrambling in the mud behind you, Rafe tried to reason with you.

“It’s pouring, you’re gonna get sick! Please just let me call someone and we can get a tow home - ”

“We still have to get the tree,” you shut him down, loosening the spare tire from the back of the hatchback.

Rafe threw his hands out in disbelief, “you’re not serious right? You’re still trying to find this fucking farm that, I gotta tell you, I’m starting to think doesn’t even exist.”

“Yes,” you said simply, lowering the tire to the ground and pulling the lug wrench from the trunk.

“You might actually be the most stubborn, ridiculous person I’ve ever met. What is it about getting this tree?” He yelled over the steadily increasing rainfall. 

“Because, Rafe, I can!” You dropped the wrench in the mud and turned on him, tears stinging your eyes as you yelled, letting all your frustration out on this boy, who just yesterday was a stranger. “I can’t get my dad a better job, and I can’t buy my brothers the presents the really want, and I can’t cure fucking cancer! But I can get a goddamn Douglas Fir, like we have every year since I was born. So I’m getting this tree! You can call your new friend from he jewelry department to come pick you up, but I’m staying here and changing this fucking tire!”

Standing back, Rafe buried his hands in his coat pockets, nodding along as you let it all out, the loose threads all twisting to finally weave together an explanation for your shift in mood. He spotted the tears as you mentioned your powerlessness over your dad’s job and your mom’s cancer, feeling like he was starting to understand your stubborn insistence to make this cursed Christmas joyful.

Though he knew he should be comforting you, he couldn’t help the little upward twitch of his lips at your comment about the jewelry girl. That explained your mood at check out, and if he was being honest, made his heart leap a little at the thought of you actually being jealous for his attention.

After several moments of his eyes on you, sizing you up as he digested your outburst, you suddenly felt exposed, and a little silly, “what?” you asked him with a burning blush.

“Nothing,” he shook his head with a grin, leaning down to pick the wrench up from the mud, “just didn’t know you were the jealous type.”

Your jaw fell slack, out of all you’d just said, of course he was zeroing in on your comment about the girl in the store. You were somewhat relieved though, glad to have an excuse to move on from talking about all the sad, stressful things going on at home.

“You’re such an ass,” you laughed, the air between you growing a little lighter. “I bet people call you that a lot.”

Rafe knelt down in the mud, beginning to loosen the screws of the flat tire.

“Not everyone, some people go with ‘lost puppy’,” he muttered under his breath.

Your smile fell from your lips, your eyes grew as you realized he was quoting you back to you. He had heard you talking about him to your brothers last night. You replayed all your words in your head with a wince - laughing about how he was like the kid from Home Alone, saying you only brought him home because you felt awkward. God, now you felt like an ass.

“Rafe, I’m…I’m so sorry, that was not cool…”

“It’s fine,” he said, a small grunt leaving him as he used the wrench to loosen a particularly rusted bolt.

“No, it’s not. We shouldn’t have been laughing. I didn’t just bring you home because I felt bad-”

“Why did you then?” He stopped what he was doing, his eyes landing on yours so suddenly, you jumped back a bit, taken by the striking blue, and the vulnerability you were seeing in them for the first time.

Deciding it was time to get your own jeans muddy, you knelt down next to him, hands wrapping around the wrench handle next to his to help him pull, both of you struggling due to the rain making the wrench so slippery.

The bolt still didn’t budge, and you paused for a minute, sitting back on your heels and looking at him.

“Because it’s Christmas,” you answered his question. “And I wanted to spend it with a friend.”

The tips of his ears burned red, he hoped you’d think it was just from the cold.

Going in for a second try, you both tugged on the wrench again, gritted teeth and white knuckles as you combined your strength to turn it as hard as you could. Frosted rain slipping between the end of the wrench and the bolt made it slip, the metal flying through the air. You and Rafe both slipped in the mud under your knees, Rafe trying to catch himself on his hands so he didn’t land on top of you, but not quite in time. His large body landed on top of yours and you both went tumbling down the side of the road, landing side by side in the muddy ditch with an unsettling squelch.

Both of you completely covered in mud, panting and shocked, Rafe turned his head to look at you, “fake tree?”

“Yeah,” you breathlessly agreed. “Fake tree.”

You and Rafe snuck in through the garage,  both of you tracking mud with every step. There was no way you’d make it all the way up to the bathroom without destroying the floors in your wake.

You’d laughed together the entire drive back to the house. What a disaster the shopping trip had turned into, and yet, you were more in the Christmas spirit now than you had been in a long, long time.

“Oh shit,” you yelped, slipping on your own muddy boot and knocking down a pile of boxes as you tried to stabilize yourself.

Rafe’s arms shot out to catch you, your nails digging into his forearms to hold yourself up. You eyed him, still wearing the “naughty” sweater you hoped he’d remembered to pay for.

“Well these are ruined,” you sighed, looking down at your own mud-soaked pullover. “And there’s no way we’re making it upstairs without tracking in mud.”

Before your sentence was even finished, Rafe was hooking his hands into the collar, pulling the sweater up and off with one pull, peeling off the soaked t-shirt underneath it, too. 

Failing miserably to hide your shock at his sculpted form, you bit your lip to silence the gasp that was begging to escape. He was just as built as you expected, if not more. His abs creased in a perfect set of six, sturdy pecs and two thick blue veins running through each bicep. He was somehow tan in the middle of December, and his skin was perfectly smooth apart from the little line of rough hair that ran from his belly button down to the waistband of his jeans. 

He caught you staring, of course he did, and smirked as he flustered you further by unbuttoning his jeans and letting them fall to the floor in a muddy heap, left in only his black boxer-briefs.

Frozen in place, you subconsciously pulled your sleeves down over your hands, as if covering yourself up more could clear the cloud of attraction fogging your brain. Rafe turned and walked towards the door that led into the house.

“Wha-where are you going?” You asked him, snapped out of your trance.

“To take a shower,” he said, like it was obvious. “I’m fucking freezing, but you can stay here and drip.”

He smiled at you expectantly, there was a challenging dip in his voice as he over pronounced the last word. Something competitive rose in your chest, he clearly didn’t think you had it in you to strip down, too. At the end of the day, you were a classic oldest child - you didn’t take kindly to losing.

Keeping your eyes locked to him, you grabbed the hem of your sweater and pulled it off over your head, copying him by pulling the shirt underneath off too until you were standing in front of him in just your bra. Rafe tilted his head as his eyes raked over you, raising his eyebrows when he got to your jeans, just as muddy and destroyed as his had been.

With a hard swallow, you undid the button and zipper with shaky hands, shimmying your hips a little to pull the wet denim over your curves. Rafe went pale and speechless, taking in the little show with a heavy rise and fall of his chest. You piled all of your clothes in the corner, hoping no one in your family stumbled upon them before you had the chance to wash them.

Rafe didn’t even try to hide the way he was drinking you in as you padded towards him in your underwear, brushing past him to get to the door first.

“I mean, damn,” he wolf-whistled at you, quietly so no one inside the house came looking for the sound.

“Shut up,” you rolled your eyes, stepping ahead of him so he couldn’t see your pleased smile.

He followed your tiptoed steps through the hall and up the stairs, stopping at each corner to make sure no one was going to come around it and catch the two of you sneaking around in your underwear. 

Once you made it to the upstairs bathroom, you turned on the shower, excited to step into the steamy water and finally warm up. You were surprised to find Rafe still standing in the open doorway when you turned, sure he’d get the hint that he should wait outside when it came time for you to really strip down.

“What are you doing?” You whisper-scolded him.

“Enjoying the view,” he winked.

“Oh my god,” you groaned, pushing him by his chest so he stumbled back into the hall. “I don’t need your help for this pa-”

Your sentence was cut short by the creaking of wood under incoming footsteps. Panicking, you grabbed Rafe’s wrist, pulling him into the bathroom and locking the door behind him. 

“Woah, is this really happening?” He asked breathlessly, licking his lips before you slapped your hand over his mouth to shut him up, his eyes going wide at your boldness.

“Someone’s coming,” you mouthed, urging him to be quiet as you kept your palm firmly sealed over his lips.

The footsteps in the hall grew louder, their owner getting closer and closer to the door, not knowing you had a half-naked man pushed up against the other side as steam swirled around your bare bodies.

As you both waited with baited breath, your eyes drifted over Rafe’s body, so close to yours in the tiny bathroom. You couldn’t help it, sure that desire was painted all over your features. There was no use in denying it, as the warm steam caused a single drop of sweat to roll down his chest and into the ripple of his abs, you finally allowed yourself to accept that you wanted him, bad.

He felt it too, you were sure of it, his eyes half closed with heavy lids as he looked down over you, drinking in all the exposed skin and soft lace of your underwear set. 

Just as his hand slowly started rising toward your hip, a knock on the other side of the door made you both jump, a little yelp of surprise almost leaving your lips before Rafe threw his hand over your mouth, the tables turned. 

“Hey Gigs?” Benny’s little voice called from the other side of the door.

You tried to move Rafe’s hand from your mouth, but he only allowed you to lift it enough to respond before covering your lips again.

“Y-yeah, Beans?” Your voice cracked in response, Rafe flashing you a teasing grin at your flustered state. You shot him a warning look, praying your little brother couldn’t sense what was going on.

“Can we open the presents you bought us now, pleaseee?” Benny asked.

Normally you’d say no, that they had to wait until Christmas day. But as you were about to reject his request, Rafe pulled his hand from your mouth, letting his thumb tug your bottom lip down as he dragged his fingers to your jaw and brushed the soft skin of your neck. You could tell by his wicked grin he was enjoying seeing how far he could push you, drunk off your blushes and gasps.

“Yes, sure, th-that’s fine,” you told Benny, eager to get him away from the door. Rafe chuckled quietly at your compliance, making you clench your jaw even harder in annoyance at him.

“Sweet, thanks!” Benny called, hurrying back downstairs, clearly not having expected you to give him the answer he wanted.

Once you were sure the coast was clear, you glared up at Rafe, “you can’t do that!”

He threw his head back in satisfied laughter, bringing it back down only to drop his lips close to your ear.

“So, how about that shower?” He whispered.

With a little grin of your own, you leaned in too, “Rafe?”

“Yeah?”

“Get out.”

Rafe managed to find his way back to the laundry room without bumping into any of your brothers. He ran his hair under the utility sink faucet to get the flecks of mud out, throwing on some clean, warm clothes before heading to the kitchen in search of a much needed glass of water, his mouth still full of cotton at the thought of you nearly naked in front of him.

As he rounded into the kitchen, he stopped short, surprise flashing across his face.

A painfully thin woman, who he could only assume to be your mother, stood in the middle of the small space, bony hands on the back of an empty kitchen chair. Her bald head was wrapped in a silky scarf, and she smiled an easy grin that reminded him so stunningly of yours.

“You must be Rafe,” she said. “Have a seat.”

(to be continued)

a/n: okay not the single longest post I've ever made on this website. period. thank u for reading!! two more parts w the last taking place on New Year's Eve. merry everything!!

taglist note: the taglist for this series will be posted in replies asap and has gotten very long so it is closed. I'm soooo thankful that ppl want to know when I post you have no idea! but it takes me a long time to do and makes posting difficult, so I am asking that in order to stay on the list for the rest of the series, you interact with each post in some way (reply with feedback, a rb, an ask - anything you'd like!) it really helps me as a writer! thank you!!

if you missed the taglist, just follow @whytheylosttheirminds-works and turn on notifs to be first to know when I post!

[furbyfubar]

I'm a game designer. Admittedly mainly on a hobby basis as I have a real job. People are still often surprised when I, a real actual human, respond to e-mails and random Discord messages about my games.

Like, come on? It's like being surprised fanfic writers like comments on their fics! Talking to about the games and puzzles I've made with people who've played them and obviously care about them is awesome!

Sure, game devs of AAA games or devs of indie games that have found a huge number of players are likely less likely to have time for all that personal replies to players contacting them. But that's for mainstream stuff. But the weird indie games? Those are typically made by one or maybe two people who almost have to have strong feelings and opinions about their games; otherwise they wouldn't have gone through all the steps of making it exist!

But yeah, the same is likely true for academics writing papers on incredibly narrow subjects, curators who've spent months putting together some niche exhibition for a museum, or most people who's spent lots of time and effort into putting something slightly strange or highly specific into the world, regardless of if that's what they do for a living full time, it's their hobby, or it falls somewhere in between.

Send the e-mail!

[horrorslvts]

chris doesnt know how to change a tire 🤍

nsfw: car nsfw, no sex, switch chris and reader, female reader, breast play, making out, sweat, cum, fingering.

awful idea.

all of this was an awful idea.

you and chris wanted to celebrate him getting his drivers license by going on a trip to the beach with matt’s car. however, you didn’t think about the chance he would demolish his brothers car on your way back. now? youre wet, hot, almost dehydrated and drenched in your own sweat and salt.

you watch as chris tries repeatedly to turn the engine again and go somewhere, anywhere, but the car is limping more than you after a good fucking on a sunday night. you look over as the brunette goes out of the car, an after a few seconds comes back in the car hitting the door behind him.

“what is it?!”

you tell him loudly, on the verge of choking him with your own hands.

“flat tire!!”

he yells back at you and puts his hands on the wheel, allowing his head to fall between his arms. your eyes trace his salty and glued-together locks, and momentarily you want to grab them and rip them out his head from anger.

“you dont know how to change a t-“

“no y/n i was half asleep when matt was showing me that!”

chris rises his head from its hiding spot between his arms and looks at you with a pissed off expression.

“oh my god chris! how did you even get that damn license anyways-!”

you throw your head back as grunts are exchanged between you two, and you feel the sweat beading on your temples and making a beeline towards the veins on the side of your neck. you fish your phone out your denim booty shorts pocket and send a message to matt to come here asap.

“jesus christ it will take him like half an hour to get here-“ chris whispers beneath his own heavy breath as if you chose the worst possible solution to this mess.

“i know-!”

you officially decided it, your best friend is an absolute idiot and there was no explanation for it, he had been this way even before the almost heat-stroke you two were going through.a few seconds of silence make you sigh loudly.

”you good?” chris asks looking off into the distance of the sunny hill as he turns on the ac.

“just dizzy..”

you say back at him in a low, tired voice. you despise being hot, its your personal nightmare fuel. you lift your hand and place your fingertips in front of the car ac to cool your limbs down.

chris does the same and after half a minute of his hand getting chilly, he places it on your inner thigh in an attempt to cool you down and wake you up by snapping you out of your slumber.

“holy fuck chris-“

you let out with a gasp that was almost leaked out of a porn category, more so to the feeling of a large hand gripping your inner thigh than the temperature of his skin itself.

“shut up, you need to cool down.”

he says and looks ahead at the rocky landscape, his hand still tightly holding your soft salty skin.

you sit back on the car seat and cross your arms as you let him do his thing and look to the other side trying to hide the red blush across your cheeks. at worst case scenario, if asked you could blame it on the heat.

his thumb starts rubbing circular motions on your skin, occasionally playing with the rim of your denim shorts. you slowly creep your eyes from out the window towards chris and your gaze immediately spots the elephant in the room. your best friend had an erection that was visible as day beneath his trunks.

“uh chris-“

”i know. sorry, its tricky having my hand on your thigh and not letting my mind go places-ignore it.” he said completely avoiding to turn his head and look at you.

“places like..?”

god, why would you audibly ask that? some times you really wish you could hold your thoughts INSIDE your head like they are supposed to be.

“you really wanna find out?”

he turns to face you, tired eyes look at you in curiosity as they creep towards your thighs and you feel your parts tingle and your heart skip a beat. your silence was followed by a tiny shrug and nod, you could feel your lower lip trembling in need.after a few seconds his lips fell agape, surprised you didn’t immediately slap the audacity out of him.

he turns his head again to look elsewhere and starts sliding his hand upwards, slowly sliding down the zipper of your shorts. you feel your breathing get heavier, warmer and even though the ac is helping, your own body temperature is now playing tricks on you.

his fingertips fiddle with the fabric of your bikini and eventually slide their way under towards your warm skin. a little gasp makes your body slightly jolt upwards as you see the slight tent on his trunks grow and hear his breathing get heavier and head lower.

you hesitate but eventually let your hand travel towards his own thigh, and slowly touch his bulge. that makes chris immediately look at you and grab your wrist with his free hand.

“y/n dont make me do something we might regret.”

“..we can blame it on the heatstroke.” you say without thinking at all.

a slight silence follows and before you know it  chris frees both his hands to move you on his lap, letting your legs spread and find their way across the car. one on top of the steering wheel and the other stretched towards the passenger seat. his hard on your ass makes your face red and you instinctively move your thighs slightly, making chris groan and place his lips on yours.

you two start kissing like animals that are fighting over raw meat.

his tongue pushes yours, and you can feel his breath on your upper lip tremble. he lets out soft moan and groans as his fingers go under your bikini again, and without hesitation this time play with your clit

“f..fuck..” he mumbles under his breath and places his head to lean on your chest. his tongue then softly runs across the salty skin and he moans softly in pleasure before pulling down your bikini bra. your nipple peaks out just enough for chris to kiss and lick.

his teeth softly play with it as he looks up at you with the neediest eyes ever, like a puppy that is begging for your attention. his lips purse around your pink skin and he smiles while his tongue runs circles on your breast.

this is so overwhelming for you that you cover your mouth and lean back. his free hand holds your neck softly from the side and you can still feel him lick your breasts.

at this point you two were posed like a large instrument and the worlds most delicate musician in the world playing with it. only that the music was coming from your throats.his finger slides inside you and at the feeling of your warm and wet pussy he gasps.

“youre drenched..” he says in pleasure with a tone that reminds you of a whine. he proceeds to continue moving his finger inside you. in and out softly while his thumb is running circles on your clit.

”fuck..chris..”

”y/n i swear to god im gonna burst on my own fucking clothes-“ he says.

you believe him because you can feel his stomach raise and then drop from his breathing, and the hard feeling on your ass is now accompanied by him softly grinding his cock across your body.

you slightly look down to see the tip of his cock try to escape the rim of his waistband, and wet precum dripping from it and sticking to his skin.that view alone was enough to make you get even more wet on his fingers and feel yourself building up.

“chris im gonna-fuck im-“

he covers your mouth with his free hand, snaking it around your neck and shoulders and you feel yourself moving your body and fucking yourself on his fingers. you hold onto his hand and feel your nipple wet from his mouth again.

in between your orgasm, you feel him stop and lean his head on you as his fingertips start losing pace.after a few seconds you feel his hand slowly release of your mouth and you hear him breath heavily.

“..holy..fucking..”

you look down on your best friend only to see his stomach drenched in white, sticky cum. his dick is pulsating letting out the last drops of semen and you both are a salty, cummed on and sweaty mess.

then, the phone rings.chris, looking defeated reaches for the phone and picks it up on speaker, setting it on your thigh.

”yeah?” he says with a shaky breath.

“uh..did you guys..finish with your business so i can change your damn tire?” matt asks in a whispered tone.

you turn your head to see him only a few feet behind your car standing and looking elsewhere.

[wandering-winchesters]

First Moments: Kiss

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader Summary: The first time Dean Winchester kisses you Word count: 861 A/N: I am debating on making this a series, covering different "Firsts" with Dean.. Any interest in that? Let me know!

The first time Dean Winchester kisses you, it happens in the least romantic place imaginable—an old gas station parking lot on the outskirts of nowhere. The sun is setting, casting an amber glow over the cracked asphalt and the Impala parked nearby, her paint gleaming like polished obsidian. The faint smell of gasoline mingles with the crisp scent of impending rain, a storm brewing in the distance.

It wasn’t planned. Nothing about Dean ever feels planned, really. He’s a mess of contradictions—cocky and self-assured one minute, guarded and vulnerable the next. You’ve been riding shotgun with him for weeks now, chasing down leads, salt-and-burning restless spirits, and fighting things most people wouldn’t dare to believe existed. Somewhere along the way, you became more than just hunting partners. You don’t know what to call it yet, but there’s a connection between you, an unspoken pull that you’ve both been too stubborn—or scared—to acknowledge.

Until now.

It starts with an argument. Of course it does. Dean has this way of pushing your buttons, and tonight he’s doing it with the precision of a master.

“You can’t just run in there without a plan!” you snap, your arms crossed over your chest.

“And what was your plan, huh?” he shoots back, his voice rising. “To stand around and wait until the ghost decides to play nice? That’s not how this works.”

“It’s called strategy, Dean. Maybe you should try it sometime instead of going full kamikaze every damn hunt!”

He scoffs, dragging a hand down his face in frustration. “You know what your problem is? You think too much. Sometimes you just gotta act.”

“And you think too little!” you retort, your eyes narrowing. “One of these days, your impulsiveness is going to get you killed.”

The words hang in the air, sharper than you intended, and for a moment, Dean just stares at you. His jaw tightens, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—hurt, maybe, or regret—but it’s gone before you can be sure.

“Fine,” he says, his voice quieter now. “If you’ve got it all figured out, why the hell do you even need me?”

It’s not the first time you’ve fought, but there’s something different about this one. The air between you feels charged, like the storm rolling in above. You don’t answer right away, and Dean takes a step closer, his boots crunching against the gravel.

“Why, huh?” he presses, his tone softer but no less intense. “Why do you keep sticking around if I’m such a screw-up?”

Your heart pounds against your ribs, a wild, erratic rhythm that matches the storm clouds overhead. You open your mouth to respond, but the words catch in your throat. Because it’s not that simple. Because you don’t stick around in spite of his flaws—you stick around because of them. Because Dean Winchester, for all his faults, is the kind of person who will throw himself in harm’s way without a second thought to save someone else. Because he’s loyal to a fault, fiercely protective, and has a smile that could light up the darkest corners of the world, even when he doesn’t believe it himself.

“Dean…” you start, but his name barely makes it past your lips before he moves.

It’s not hesitant or tentative—it’s sudden, like he’s been holding himself back for too long and finally snapped. His hands cup your face, rough and calloused but somehow gentle, and then his lips are on yours.

The kiss is everything you didn’t know you needed. It’s not perfect—Dean’s lips are a little chapped, and the angle is slightly awkward at first—but it’s real. There’s an urgency to it, a raw, unfiltered emotion that leaves you breathless. His hands are warm against your skin, grounding you even as the world seems to tilt on its axis.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly your hands are fisting in his jacket, pulling him closer as if the space between you is unbearable. He responds in kind, deepening the kiss with a low, almost involuntary sound that sends a shiver down your spine. It’s like the dam you’ve both been holding back has finally burst, and there’s no going back now.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard, your foreheads pressed together. The storm is closer now, the first drops of rain starting to fall, but neither of you seems to notice.

“Wow,” you murmur, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean chuckles, a low, self-deprecating sound. “Yeah, uh… sorry about that. I probably should’ve—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt, your fingers still gripping his jacket. “Don’t apologize.”

His eyes meet yours, and for once, there’s no wall, no mask, no bravado. Just Dean.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he admits, his voice soft and almost vulnerable.

You smile, your heart swelling in your chest. “Took you long enough.”

He laughs, the sound warm and genuine, and the tension between you finally seems to ease. The rain starts to pick up, but neither of you moves. For once, the hunt can wait. For once, the only thing that matters is this moment—messy, imperfect, and absolutely perfect all at once.

Tag List: @roseblue373 @hobby27 @jc-winchester @whump-loverz @pizzagirlxnsfwx @king-of-milf-lovers @jollyhunter

[cupcakeslushie]

the fact that ew!donnie is the only one who knows of all his brothers existence is so painful

Leo wasn't really aware at all

Mikey knew of Leo and Raph

Raph knew of Mikey and Leo

but none of them knew Donnie existed/was their brother, until now

He grew up with imagining his brother's to be better than him, maybe pity him or be disgusted but I think that they didn't even know he existed makes it worse.

Like he wasn't even worth knowing

Yeah, i really can’t decide which is worse…

Leo, fighting against remembering even the little scraps that Kitsune’s magic can’t erase, actively seeking her sessions out because remembering anything hurts too much on top of everything else he has to deal with.

Mikey, so lonely and feeling like something is always missing, despite being spoiled with a huge room and so many toys, but no one to play with.

Raph, knowing exactly what he had, and seeing how much worse Splinter’s depression gets after the “death” of his siblings, and imaging how much brighter his life would’ve been if he’d protected them.

Or Donnie, constantly pulled in opposing directions, wishing his brothers were next to him, but then also wanting to keep them as far away from Draxum as possible. Always conflicted between his own selfish desire to not be his father’s sole target, and happy that they’re safe, somewhere else.

(Personally I think Leo’s might be the one that hurts the most, because the idea that he starts to go to Kitsune of his own volition, and then fakes it the rest of the time, when a part of him always knows something is wrong, but it’s always less painful when he keeps his mouth shut 🥲…)

[bunny-jpeg]

the company you keep

fernando alonso & lance stroll

cw: smut/pwp, age gap (20s/40s), threesome, convincing, oral sex (reader & fernando receiving), ditzy!reader, large chested!reader

like the fic? leave a comment or suggest your own! i love hearing new ideas and would love to take a crack at any ideas you have.

i am sorry to the 5 stollonso fans out there.

lance never thought that fernando would actually retire. he honestly thought that the older man was going to drive off somewhere and never be heard from again. but when whispers of his retirement started to fill the paddock, lance knew he had to act fast. he didn't need a new teammate, he needed fernando.

and it took dinner in montreal and putting those soft brown eyes to work to convince his darling, loving girlfriend to help him keep fernando on the team. with that boyish smile after two glasses of wine, he asked, "will you help me?"

and you, beautiful as ever replied, "of course, honey!" with an eagerness that almost made lance melt. anything for him, anything for the team, that was your personal motto.

so it took place after the canadian grand prix, you and lance's stomping ground. while the results of the race weren't spectacular for either driver, you were all smiles. you had on an aston martin t-shirt shirt that was a bit too small for your big breasts, and a short pleated skirt in white. paired with white tennis socks pulled up as high as they'd go and a pair of sneakers.

fernando couldn't believe it when you happily pulled him into your apartment with lance close behind. the older man didn't know what to expect when you placed a careful kiss on the corner of his mouth and the older driver was already smitten.

you pouted when you pulled away, "is racing not fun anymore, mister alonso?" this was your attempt to be seductive, as if your fat tits in his face and your pouty lips didn't have fernando weak in the knees.

lance wrapped his arms around fernando's waist and asked, "yeah, is it not anymore?"

fernando swallowed, he was trapped between two people almost half his age. but when you went in for the kiss, the concern left his head. especially when you giggled as he touched the bottom hem of your t-shirt.

"does someone want to me, sir?" you pressed your chest up against fernando's. you briefly looked to your boyfriend and giggled, "i think someone does?"

fernando replied, "who could resist you?" then his hands found your behind and he pulled you closer to him. he shuddered when lance's hands pulled at his t-shirt. the poor older driver was still sandwiched between you two. he felt the rush down to his cock when you lazily made out with lance while the both of you tried to get fernando shirtless.

when you pulled away, you got the shirt off of the driver before you took him by the arms and pulled him into your bedroom that you shared with your boyfriend.

"this feels a little... intimate."

"well, it can be. but you want to promise us something." you said as you took a hold of the bottom of your t-shirt. the poor fabric was straining, the logo stretched across your breasts.

lance was already shirtless and on the bed next to you. the devils in fernando's ear. the rational thing would be to leave and act like it never happened. but how was that possible when the devils were so pretty.

"anything." fernando replied.

you smiled at him, "promise not to leave us, okay? if you don't retire then we can do this all the time!" there was a joy to your voice that was the final straw for fernando. maybe he could hold out for a few more seasons. if you kept true to your word.

lance also added, "that means staying on the team too. means we'll be around each other more." he placed a had on the side of your thigh, "what do you say?"

the older driver nodded, he was trapped. seduced by two beauties who wanted nothing more than for fernando to keep racing. and would do anything to keep that reality alive. so when fernando's cock strained in his jeans when you took off your top, he knew any morals or rationality were long gone.

and soon he joined you both in.

"i told you he'd join us." lance laughed before he helped you out of your clothes and you did the same. occasionally kissing as you both did so. fernando had seen the two of you kiss multiple times, but to see it so close and with himself already painfully turned on. it was something he wanted to get in on.

he took you by the bare shoulders once you got your bra off. he looked to lance and asked, "can i kiss her?"

lance beamed at his teammate, "of course." then leaned back and stroked his cock as the older driver kissed you on the lips. he shuddered when you giggled.

"scratchy." you said in reference to fernando's facial hair. then worked to getting his clothes off. kissing him was different than kissing lance. he was more mature, older with more experience. even though he groped at you like a teen boy.

"she tastes good, lance." fernando said as he pulled you closer to him. he groped your ass and eyed his teammate, "i feel like this is a dream."

lance beamed, happy that he got his teammate where he wanted. you deserved something nice for all of your hard work. he stroked his cock at the sight of you lazily making out with fernando. he said to the other man, "well, only the best for you."

you soon ended up on your back with your face up near fernando's cock while lance was between your legs. tonight was a sampler of good things to come. this was about getting fernando to commit to staying on the team, and lance would get his way with a promise of your sweet cunt.

you kissed fernando's cock and felt the man tense up. you giggled and kissed it more. you ran your tongue up against it while you worked it with your hand as well. it was a bit impressive in size, even though your boyfriend was taller than him. fernando's cock was a bit bigger.

"trained her good." lance chuckled as he got your thighs around his head. he gave your your wet cunt long strokes of his tongue and watched your nipples grow hard.

fernando's gaze met yours as you continued to pleasure him. he cupped your face and you leaned into his touch, "she does feel very good."

"well, of course. teammates share everything." lance said before he really started to eat you out. lance squeezed your thighs around his head and felt his cock grow achy with want. all three of you naked on the bed.

you knew after you were finishing getting fernando off, you'd have get your boyfriend off too. you giggled a little against the older man's cock before you continued to stroke it.

soon you found the right angle to suck him off. your mouth fully on it as you tried to take as much of it as you could. what you couldn't fit in your mouth, you stroked with your hand. fernando was captivated by you, such a pretty thing between his legs.

he felt something course through him when you gazed up at him and smiled a little with his cock in your mouth only for your eyes to flutter shut in lust when lance continued to eat you out. he would've never guessed in all his time racing that he'd be in bed a teammate and said teammate's girlfriend. having you orally pleasure him with a promise that he'd still be in formula one.

how could he leave now?

you whimpered against fernando's cock from the sensation of lance at your clit. your eyes opened once more and leaned into fernando's touch. this was the performance of a lifetime. you had to make the older driver feel good if he was going to stay.

"such a pretty thing. i can see why you keep her in montreal, lance. she would cause problems in other places." fernando said as he pushed you further down onto his cock which made you moan a little louder.

the feeling all of hot pleasure made you squirm a little bit. it felt painfully good, it was unlike anything else you had ever experienced before. you never thought you'd be sucking another man's cock, but there you were. with fernando's hand in your hair.

lance was gorging on your cunt, he loved to eat you out. he loved trailing his fingers across your slick, needy cunt as he focused on your clit. he felt you shift under him and the moans muffled be the other man's cock.

you continued to move your head up and down, you tried to go deeper on fernando's cock, but it was hard to without tensing up too much. eyes closed, you felt amazing. it was a heat through you as you gave and received pleasure. you whined a little bit against his cock as the older man's hand tightened in your hair.

"i am pretty lucky. not every day i get to see something so beautiful. you must really want me on the team, don't you, lance?" fernando asked.

lance looked up and took his mouth away from your pussy. he fingered you quickly and smiled. the bottom of his chin covered in spit and your wetness, "well, i thought maybe we could grow a little closer."

fernando laughed, "this is a way to do that. would you like that?" he asked as he rubbed your cheek and you leaned against it. lance smiled a little before he went back to eating you out.

you nodded a little, your mouth still on his cock. unable to say much as you felt the heat in your core bloom into something more. you knew that you wouldn't last much longer. you held onto fernando's thighs and arched your back a little bit from the sensations. you had never done something like this before. you were always the good girl, a little on the dumber side but that was what lance liked about you. he knew that you'd be so good to him. like getting you to suck his teammate off.

lance worked you towards orgasm and you worked fernando towards his. it wasn't long before you were holding on for dear life and could feel yourself closer to orgasm. you whimpered with the man's cock in your mouth and arched your back a little more from the feeling of it all. you weren't think about much else besides getting to your climax. so you worked hard to get the older driver off.

you tightened your thighs around lance's head and your hands on fernando's thighs. you whimpered, it sounded muffled as you climaxed. it hit you hard and made you arched your back with want. you whined a little bit and continued to work your mouth on fernando's cock.

the older man soon finished while lance over stimulated your cunt with his fingers and mouth. the three of you moved together and you felt your thoughts go blank for a moment as both men pulled away from you and you could breathe properly for a moment.

lance eyed you with want, his cock was painfully hard. he stroked it a few times before he grabbed you by the hips. you whimpered as fernando's cock pressed against your cheek.

"we have all night beautiful. and i don't think fernando is done either." you needed to get lance off too, which meant another round. and more orgasms.

but it was all for the team, for fernando to stay.

-

you almost jumped for joy when it was announced that fernando was staying another season. you did a little jump on the balls of your feet and clapped your hands a little. you and lance were so smart!

you perked up when your phone chirped and it was from your loving boyfriend. it was a request to meet them at the hotel, and don't forget to wear the t-shirt. tonight you three were going to celebrate and lance wanted to make sure it was a night none of you would forget. <3

[ivohex]

NSFW Headcanons: Xavier || LaDS

Please mind the tags!

Rating: E for EXPLICIT. MDNI! 🔞

Word Count: ~800

Note: Everything described below is done between two consenting adults with discussions beforehand regarding boundaries, safewords have been established, etc. Just didn't want to have to thrown in a disclaimer multiple times lol.

Note 2: i am ovulating and i am in hell

Tags/Warnings: xavier is freaky are you surprised?, consensual nonconsent, mostly fem perspective, dominant/submissive dynamic (Xavier is the dom), bondage (F receiving), mentions of mild pet play(? I think), anal sex/assplay (F receiving), rimming (F receiving), unprotected sex, predator/prey dynamic, risky sex, recording the act, impact play (spanking), sex in public, breeding kink, me being very self-indulgent

More below the cut!

Starting with two obvious ones: Xavier is capital F Freaky. Also, when it comes to dominance versus submission, don't let his angelic appearance fool you. He's very much a dom, but he's not opposed to occasionally letting you take control.

A very playful partner. Likes to have fun in bed, and likes to explore new kinks with you. He's down to at least try most things with you.

I feel like Xavier would definitely like being a brat tamer, while also being a bratty dom himself. When it comes to initiating, he's all about teasing you and then pretending that's NOT what he's doing. A brush of his hands across your hips. A comment with a double meaning. He likes seeing you all riled up and then asking why you're so flustered, as if he didn't accidentally-on-purpose touch you somewhere you're sensitive to get a rise out of you. And then when you try to be a brat right back, he'll remind you who's REALLY been in control all this time.

Loves playfighting and predator/prey play. Wants to chase you down, grab you, wrestle you into submission and then have his way with you.

Very mildly into pet play, though the extent of it is in the form of putting animal ears on one or the both of you, and then rutting into you like you're animals in heat. I don't think he's into cages or collars buuuut he'll absolutely tie you up. He'd love a rope bunny. 🙂‍↕️

Addendum to the above: If he can make a solid wall of light, he can definitely use his Light Evol to restrict you, too, and would favor that over actual ropes.

His favorite pet names for you in bed are (no particular order): good girl, bunny, and–if you're being bratty, obviously–brat. However, I don't see him being into degrading his partner much. He'll call you his "good little slut" but probably wouldn't go further than that.

Body worship and praising you. That is all.

Loves roleplay.

He likes blow jobs, but he prefers eating you out. He's crazy for it, and while he's at it, he'll mark up the inside of your thighs.

His favorite place to cum is inside you, duh. Then he'll pull out and watch, mesmerized, as it slowly drips out of your cunt. He'll use his fingers to either spread his release all over your pussy or push it back inside.

He likes spanking you and pulling your hair, especially as a way to get you to behave.

Insane refractory period, it's borderline inhuman. He'll cum and be ready to go again in a matter of minutes and can do it several times. You and Xavier could have sex for hours, not stopping until you're both on the verge of collapse. Sex with Xavier almost always lasts multiple rounds, if you're up for it.

Goes feral for a thigh job, especially if you're in front of a mirror so he can watch his cock thrusting between your thighs, hitting your clit over and over until you cum all over him.

Obsessed with recording you and taking pictures. He has a password-protected folder in his gallery filled with videos and photos. A personal favorite is a video of you draped over his lap, one hand holding your wrists in place at the small of your back, the other alternating between stroking you between your legs and spanking you. (Bonus: he's dressed as a bunny butler, fully clothed, while you're completely naked.)

Anal sex is a big YES. He also loves rimming you.

His favorite position is doggy style. He likes fucking into your cunt from behind and using his thumb or a toy to play with your ass. He has a video of this, too–another favorite.

Likes quickies. Be warned, though: a quickie with Xavier usually actually means multiple spread throughout the day, at the most random of times, and he's not afraid to be risky about it, either. You'll wake up and have a quick round before breakfast, then he'll yank you into a storage closet or private meeting room at UNICORNS head quarters, then he'll take you behind a tree at a park. Absolutely abuses his teleportation ability for it, this man is a MENACE.

Ridiculous sex drive. He's really like a bunny in that way 😳 Also like a bunny, he likes breeding you.

He loves it when you pretend you don't like something he's doing, so that he can ask you if you hate this so much, why are you so wet? You clearly like it, so he's not stopping, and you're not allowed to push him away anymore.

[windvexer]

I actually do think that doing magic takes a lot of work and is kinda hard and there aren't very many good shortcuts, and many modern shortcuts actually just amount to leaving out steps, which means you either have to be powerful enough to brute-force it or it fizzles.

Look, I know some people are just much better at magic and witchcraft; anything they do works with little effort, and the lengths some of us have to go to accomplish magic seems bizarre to them. Those people are cool and I wish I was like them but I'm not.

But I also think some of the truth of how to work effective sorcery gets paved over by these "witchcraft has no rules, do anything you want" support posts.

Because A) that is not true, I believe that witchcraft has lots and lots of rules (it's just that nobody else can tell you what they are), and B) I think do anything you want is taken to mean anything you do should work, which is also not true.

I feel like I always see advice given that you don't need to do things (like use physical tools, or cast circles, or whatever). But I never see anyone explaining the techniques and paths of power that are supposed to replace them.

Let's just imagine for a moment that clear quartz really is a universal substitute. Discordians would say that it totally is. So does that mean all you have to do to sub out clear quartz is to just put it on the altar and do the ritual as if it's something else?

Or do you have to do something more?

Do you have to consecrate the stone as being something other than what it is? Do you have to ritually birth it into a new life and baptize it like a baby? Do you have to spend weeks or months honing your technique of focus and beliefs so that you can mentally shift from consensus reality to a personal reality where there is literally no difference between clear quartz and sodalite?

Do you have to raise energies of sodalite and imprint them into the quartz crystal, perhaps working over it for an extended period of time? Do you have to use energy work to tie the clear quartz into Ideal Sodalite so that it becomes like an avatar?

No, you don't have to use physical tools if you don't want to. But that shouldn't be taken to imply that tools are useless or can be replaced in a way that matters by just visualizing that you have them.

A witch spends six months propitiating a tree, ingratiating themselves with the land, offerings and acts of fealty to the tree, a week-long branch harvesting ritual, blood offerings at midnight on a holy day, then another year curing the wood and crafting a wand. Big effort, right?

And you don't need to do that. But if you want that power, what are you going to do instead?

Same with circle-casting. Same with magic on the full moon. No, you don't have to wait until the full moon. You don't have to wait until the moon is in Libra. But there's a really good reason people do those things. So if you want those effects, what actions can replace those effects?

You literally could not do the spell while the full moon is in Libra. That's fine. But then what will bridge the gap? Will you have to raise more energy somewhere else? Include a new aspect? Modify the spell for the moon you can work with?

"You don't have to follow the moon phase for magic" doesn't mean the moon phase is irrelevant and some witches just like to inconvenience themselves for no reason. But it does mean that you can probably adapt your working to overcome the moon being in the inopportune phase.

Every time I talk about how much time, energy, and effort magic can be I feel like someone always replies, "well, it's just not that hard for me! I do what I want with what I have when I need it and it always just works, with very little effort."

Which I think is very great for them, but I also don't think that most people can get results with such low effort.

So anyway my entire point is that I think sometimes the reason people struggle with getting witchcraft to work is because they are operating off of out-of-context soundbites that make it sound like you can just completely cut out some of these foundational concepts of witchcraft.

Maybe you don't have to accomplish those steps in traditional ways. Maybe you don't need all of those steps for every spell you're doing.

But if you've just cut out swaths of steps only because you heard someone say you don't need them (not because of your own experiments working with magic and determining what works best for you), then is there enough left to constitute a functional system of magic?

[vespaer77]

Aside from the fact that I think I might be the only person on the planet who could genuinely be interested in the Executors (I say "could" because my faith in good storytelling from BW is on shaky ground), I fully agree with this post.

And I say this as someone who wasn't sure that the Veil coming down was the right move. But whether someone thinks the Veil should come down or stay up is immaterial. The whole point is that no arguments for the validity of either claim were really ever truly examined. The only reasoning in the game that we get for the Veil remaining intact is that its collapse would "drown the world in demons." Which is... almost a fallacy on its own. Aside from naturally occurring malign spirits (that we learn about from the Mournwatch), demons exist as a direct result of the Veil simply existing.

Perhaps the danger is in not knowing what would happen to all of the mundane, unmagical folk when confronted with the full power of all the raw, unfiltered, chaotic magic of the Fade. But that's still thinking of magic within the confines of the Fade itself. We have no perspective, outside of Solas, on what magic really looks like when the Fade and the mundane world combine. Does it change? Is it still dangerous? Who does it endanger? Are we wrong? Are we right? Who knows? The whole point is that there's never an opportunity to ask those questions. And we have at least three characters fully immersed and available in the story who could provide concrete, first-person, lived and experienced answers.

But we never ask.

We have a spirit of Wisdom who loves answering questions.

And we never ask.

Hell, in addition, we have two dwarves that are connected, isatunolly, with the Titans, who were also there before the Veil.

And we don't get to really ask anything of great value. Even our characters are canonically frustrated with how little we get to ask.

I just think it's very interesting that this game was called Dreadwolf for so long, and then it wasn't. The game we got has very little to do with, and makes very little use of, the Dread Wolf at all. So the game is called The Veilguard. But at no point does the Veilguard really ever.... guard... the Veil. Or make any mention of guarding the Veil. Or have any discussion on why guarding the Veil is so super important or what it even means, especially considering that, in the first 20min of the game, the only real element threatening the Veil is neutralized until the last 10min.

The game, called The Veilguard, isn't about the Veil at all.

In my humble opinion? This game should have been given a title that had more to do with the Blight or the gods or something. Or, given how many times it gets said in game, it could've just been called, "Dragon Age: It's Just So Hard." Even on a meta level, that's a title I could've believed, lol.

All this without even mentioning that one mural memory. We all know the one. The one that falls somewhere between a shameful, textbook retcon and a blatant attempt at gaslighting.

Whoops. I mentioned it, didn't I? Maybe I'll make a longer post about that someday. That's the part of this game that really grinds my gears, the status of the Veil notwithstanding.

In short, I firmly believe that the vilification of Solas is purely based on a retcon (and one that makes no logical sense when properly examined) and it's a hill I'm prepared to die on.

Anyhoops, if someone told me that, even though this game had been in development for 10yrs, the final version of this game was produced from start to finish in 16mos or less, I'd honestly believe it. I also feel like they were 100% shooting for a game that would have DLC afterwards and were told late in their development cycle that there wouldn't be so they tried to gift wrap everything with the ribbons and bows that they had. Like... go to the Halls of Valor and tell me that this is a fully finished game that was intended to be complete from the very beginning.

Castles in the Fade, or What Was the Point of the Veil Anyway

Something that will now haunt me until the end of time is why was the concept of the Veil ever introduced into this series.

We’ve been hearing about it since the very first game. There’s a codex entry about tears in the Veil in Origins. Tamlen mentions a thin spot in the Veil if you play a Dalish elf. Sandal has a prophecy in Dragon Age 2: “One day the magic will come back—all of it. Everyone will be just like they were. The shadows will part and the skies will open wide. When he rises, everyone will see.” Admittedly, this is just one line said by a character who often says odd things, but it hinted to the fact they were planning to do something with the Veil from the very beginning. The state of the Veil is repeatedly brought up. It all had to mean something! Or so I thought. 

When I saw “The Dread Wolf Rises” quest in Veilguard, I said, “Oh, here we go!” The Veil is coming down, magic is coming back, and it’s going to set up such an interesting story for the next game. 

Alas, no. 

I hadn’t really enjoyed my time playing Veilguard up until this point. It felt like the game was ducking and dodging every bit of world building and lore that could possibly bring nuance or complexity to the story. Every returning character or faction was a cardboard cutout of themself. They shoved Solas is a time-out box and gave him nothing to do. They refused to let him have any impact or influence on the story when he had been set up to be our main antagonist back in Trespasser. This game used to be called Dreadwolf! And while we learn about his past… we never talk to him about it. In the present, he’s in stasis.

Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain are our villains. And they are your typical evil for evil’s sake villains. They are mad, bad, and only as dangerous as the narrative will allow as to not give Rook and co too much trouble. They are surprisingly patient while Rook fixes all their companions’ problems… until Elgar’nan moves the moon to cause an eclipse. A vital component in making his own lyrium dagger. For some reason. This guy can move a satellite!? And he just let Rook walk away in previous encounters… twice. Ok. Sure.

The Evil Duo need their own dagger ostensibly to tear down the Veil, because they want to unleash the full force of the Blight onto the world. Because they are evil. And they were thwarted last time they tried to Blight the entire world. Why do they think Blighting the world is a good idea? What’s the point of ruling a world if everyone is dead? I guess they haven’t thought that through, because of the madness and the evilness.

Ok, I thought. Perhaps the gods will be the one to tear down the Veil. Or maybe we’ll have a choice to let Solas do it his way before they can, which will be less chaotic and less full of Blight. Because the Veil has to be coming down one way or another? Why introduce the concept of the Veil, especially a Veil that has been thinning and failing since the series began, if it’s just going to… stay.

There is a principle in storytelling called Chekov’s gun. If something is mentioned in a story, it must have a purpose. If you keeping mentioning that gun hanging on the wall over the fireplace, it’s because at some point in the story, someone is going to take it down and use it. The Veil felt like Chekov’s gun to me. Chekov’s Veil, if you will. It’s been here from the beginning of our tale, the spectre hanging over our protagonists’ heads for multiple games.

The Veil has been a character unto itself. It was the central focus of the third game, and its dissolution was set up to be the core conflict of the fourth game. We learn everything we thought we knew about the Veil was a lie. It was not created by the Maker to separate the Fade from this world because of jealous spirits, it was created by a guy named Solas to trap the elven gods and the Blight from destroying the world. Also, the elven gods were never gods, and they are also evil.

This reveal will surely throw the Andrastian religion into chaos! This puts the very existence of the Maker into question! The Evanuris are a lie; it’s only fair Catholicism—oh, I mean—the Chantry is a lie too. We briefly touch on that in Veilguard… then it is quietly discarded. Religious crisis averted.

But I digress.

When the title of the fourth game was changed from Dreadwolf to Veilguard, I started to see the writing on the wall. Still, I held out hope the Veil would have some greater purpose in the story. That its introduction as a concept was for a reason. That something in this world would change.

Instead, from the get-go, the question of the Veil is no question at all. We only get Solas and Varric making oblique or catastrophizing statements about it. Solas says little beyond he has a plan. If I ever wanted to hear a villain monologue about their plan, it was now! Varric, on the other hand, decries Solas’s plan. He warns that should the Veil fall, it will destroy the world and drown it in demons. And that’s that.

We never really learn why Solas wants to tear the Veil down, or why he thinks it will help anyone. “The Veil is a wound inflicted upon this world. It must be healed,” he says. And that’s basically all he says about it in Veilguard. In Inquisition and Trespasser, we learn it took the immortality from the elves. It cut most of magic off from the world. Spirits are trapped and are being corrupted into demons, and most of what we know about spirits and demons is wrong. There are ancient elves possibly asleep? That part is left vague, but ancient elves are still about. We meet some in Mythal’s temple. There seems to have been some merit in bringing it down, because elves were flocking to Solas’s cause at the end of Trespasser. He had agents working for him already. What do they know that we don’t know?

Apparently nothing, because by the time Veilguard rolls around, there are no mention of agents. He is working alone. His only motivation now seems to be he’s too deep in his sunk-cost fallacy. The Veil is unnatural, so it must be removed—consequences be damned. We are never given any reason to think Solas has a leg to stand on in his pursuit of tearing down the Veil. We never hear any kind of counter argument from anyone, not even Solas, as to why the Veil should come down. We are only told it will destroy the world. It will drown the world in demons. This is all Solas’s fault.

There is no nuance. No complexity. No moral quandary to mull over. The game gives us vague warnings with no explanation as to what exactly is so world-annihilating about the Veil coming down. We must take Varric’s word at face value. We’re the heroes; Solas is the villain. Stop him.

It makes me wonder why Solas was ever a companion in Inquisition, let alone a romance option. Solas was presented to us as a complicated character in Inquisition. We had the potential throughout the game to make him see the value of this world, to help him realize he was wrong about it. “We aren’t even people to you,” the Inquisitor says in Trespasser. Solas replies, “Not at first. You showed me that I was wrong...again.” He began the third game viewing the world as tranquil, seeing the people in it as nothing more than figments in a nightmare, just as we saw our companions in the In Hushed Whispers quest. He ends the game having made friends, having recognized he was mistaken. He might have even fallen in love. (Or he may still seen no merit in this world if the Inquisitor antagonized him the entirety of their time together.) But something makes him continue with his plan to tear down the Veil, despite recognizing this world is real. He must know something we don’t. Something we’ll learn about in the next game.

We’ve been hearing about the Veil for three games now. We’ve set up our complex antivillain for the next installment, and he’s going to tear the Veil down. We swear to stop him or save him. But it has to be more complex than that. It can’t be so straightforward. Uncomplicated. Simple. Boring. Right? Right?

Nope. He really is just the villain, mustache-twirling and all. He apparently had no greater motivation, no as of yet unrevealed knowledge that would put this whole Veil thing into a new context. It was really as simple as the Veil falling will destroy the world, so Solas must be stopped. There is no new information that is revealed which makes us question what we are doing. Solas is never given any nuance or complexity to his actions. Nuance and complexity have actively been taken away. Both him and the Veil are looking like they are the worst things to be in a story: pointless. Why introduce the Veil if it’s just going to remain unchanged? Why introduce a character like Solas, bother humanizing him (for lack of a better term), giving us his backstory, setting him up as a cunning antagonist, only to make him look stupid, then put him on a shelf until the last ten minutes of your game?

Solas was the trickster archetype of this tale. He was our version of Loki from Norse mythology. What is the role of the trickster archetype? To challenge the status quo. To bring about events of extreme change, like say, the tearing down of a Veil that holds back all of magic. Loki is a huge contributing factor in Ragnarök. Through his manipulation, he causes the death of the beloved god, Baldr. This ushers in a long winter, which signifies the beginning of the end. Loki is imprisoned for this crime. When the final battle between gods and giants begins, the sun and moon are swallowed, plunging the earth into darkness. The earth shakes and Loki is freed to fight on the side of the giants. The world burns in raw chaos, falls beneath the sea, and is reborn. The world is remade, and a new realm of the gods and a new, better earth is formed.

It really felt like this was the setup they were going for. Solas causes the death of Mythal, and this is his catalyst for creating the Veil, which ushers in a world without magic. This could be seen as equivalent to the long winter. Solas falls asleep, trapped in dreams. He wakes and sets in motion bringing about the apocalypse. It’s not a perfect one to one, but it’s there if you squint. We have a war against the gods in Veilguard. I was expecting a few remaining Titans to wake and join the fight. But we don’t get any of that. There is a final battle, but it does not end in the end of the world. Or a better world. It just ends, and everything is the same.

It seems our trickster god caused his apocalypse thousands of years before our story started, when he created the Veil. His role in this tale was over before ours began, and he really is just some relic from a long-past age. He has no role, no purpose in this story. He is here to be thwarted. He is no Loki at all.

If you can’t tell, I wanted the Veil to come down. Did I think the Veil coming down would be painless? Have no negative consequences? No. Of course not. But keeping it up has negative consequences too. And it made for an interesting story. Or at least it could have. But we never explore that. The game presents no counter argument to having the Veil stay up, which, again, begs the question: what was the point of introducing the concept of the Veil at all?

Did I think the Veil coming down was actually the best solution to help Thedas become a better place? I don’t know, and I never will, because the game never argues for it one way or another. It just tells you to want it in place and to stop asking questions. In real life, a catastrophic event is not the best way to solve any of the world’s problems. But this is the realm of fiction. We have gods and monsters, magic and myth. We have introduced the status quo of Thedas, recognized it needs to change, then our trickster god appears ready to fulfill his role in the narrative. 

Instead, it all comes to nothing.

I got to the end of Veilguard… and everything was more or less the same as it was at the start of Origins. Veilguard actually tries its hardest to pretend any previously mentioned problems don’t exist, so of course the Veil coming down has no merit. There are no problems to solve in this world, apparently. Solas is just stuck in the past and can’t get with the times. Silly Solas.

The Veil isn’t even a permanent solution. It wasn’t to begin with. It was some duct tape wrapped around a broken pipe, and we’ve just slapped an extra piece of tape on it. It’s still leaking. It is still unnatural, and will fall eventually one way or another. Large amounts of bloodshed weaken it, so I guess Thedas better achieve world peace real quick to avoid any battles. There were seven super-powered mages holding it together… now there is just one. Ironically, the Veil was going to fall after two more Blights anyway. The Wardens were doing Solas’s work for him! It would also have released the full force of the Blight at that time… which Solas was trying to avoid, I presume.

It feels like keeping the Veil up just pushed a big problem onto Thedas’ future generations. We’ll keep slapping bandaids on it until it all falls apart. Someone else can deal with the fallout, but we’ll be dead by then, so who cares.

Primarily, I wanted the Veil to come down from a storytelling perspective. The Veil was an interesting concept and I wanted the story to do something interesting with it. Conflict is what makes stories stories and the Veil coming down could create so much compelling and complex conflict. And the Fade is weird, and I like weird. Stories are also about change, and I wanted to see Thedas change. Yet, Veilguard is over, and barely anything has changed. Instead of magic coming back being a conflict for the next game, they went with Fantasy Illuminati. Oh.

The Veil turned out to be a nothing-burger, and no problems in this world are even close to being solved. Slavery is still rampant in Tevinter. The elven people are still oppressed everywhere. Mages have no more rights in the South than they did in Origins. Spirits are still trapped and being corrupted. The Calling still exists, though might be different somehow now? They don’t really get into that. The Chantry’s validity is still not allowed to be questioned. The Blight still exists in some form, but again it’s vague. Oh, and we learn the dwarves have been gravely wronged, and the Titans are still tranquil. At least if you redeem Solas and a romanced Lavellan joins him, they can work together on healing the Blight and helping the Titans. Oh, good. One problem is being acknowledged and some action will be taken. Offscreen. Hurray? Solas doesn’t have a really great track record of fixing problems, so Lavellan is definitely going to need to be there to make sure he doesn’t fuck it up.

For some reason, this game seemed terrified of letting us think about anything for more than two seconds. It shied away from complexity or nuance at every turn. The game is called The Veilguard—ironically, that word is never uttered in the game—but we are given no real motive for guarding the Veil. We’re unquestionably the hero. The villains are uncomplicatedly evil. Save the world… never wonder what you are doing or why.

I wanted the game to make me question if the Veil staying up or coming down was the right choice. I needed to be given a real counter argument. Convince me the alternative would actually be better or worse, because as I mentioned… things suck quite a bit in Thedas already for a lot of people right now. Let the Veil’s fate be a difficult choice to make. If the conflict cannot be what to do about the Veil, it should be am I doing the right thing about the Veil. If the heart of your game is so thin on motive, everything else falls apart around it.

I hoped they were setting up a complex, Thedas-sized existential conflict for this game in Trespasser, but no. I wanted something to happen, but nothing did. 

I want to feel challenged and changed by a story, not left feeling empty. I’m tired of superficial entertainment. I want to sink my teeth into a narrative that doesn’t paint the world in broad strokes of black and white, good and evil, heroes and villains.

Ultimately, I think my issue is why even introduce a concept like The Veil if you’re not going to do anything interesting with it. Or anything at all. What I thought was Chekov’s Veil turned out to just be a MacGuffin. And that’s disappointing.

[threestarsinline]

The Word of Your Body

Jason Todd x reader one shot

Summary: Jason comes back from patrol, but something is keeping his mind still somewhere out there. You're always there to bring him back and let him know he's safe. At home. With you.

Word Count: 5.8K

Category: Angst-ish because Jason is going through it but fluff because reader is there to comfort him

Warnings: Jason having a bad time

Author’s note: I know, I know, three fics in one year?? Who am I? Jsjksks truly an achivement for me, very happy and very proud hehe. Thank you for sticking with me and supporting my fics, I love you all. That said, enjoy!

It’s really incredible how much one can know about a person just by their body. From the way they move, to how they carry themselves, to the small gestures that they make in their day to day that reflect who they are, to the little telltale signs of how they’re feeling. A smile, a wrinkle between the eyebrows, a twitch of their hand.

And not just the movements of the body but you can also learn a lot from the singularities and marks that one has on their skin. A child with a scrape on their knee from running too fast on the playground. A chef with hundreds of small cuts on their hands from mastering the use of a knife. A ballet dancer with wounded toes. A painter with watercolors under their nails. A piano player with soft and delicate hands.

You can have a lot of information about a person just by observing them, knowing how they move and how their body reacts to things. A flinch from fear at the threat of danger. A shiver at the gentle touch of a lover.

That’s how you immediately know that something’s wrong when Jason returns from patrol. And you don’t even need to see him.

You’re reading in bed when you hear him come in. Always waiting up for him whenever you can. It isn’t difficult for you since you’ve always preferred staying up late rather than waking up early. Unless you have something to do early the next morning, you always wait for him to come home, to come to you, liking to see him as soon as he returns to make sure that he’s made it back to you safe and sound.

You either read or watch something on TV while you wait despite how many times he’s told you that you don’t have to wait up for him, that you should sleep. And every time you shake your head and say, “And go to sleep without you next to me? Never.” And every time Jason rolls his eyes at your stubbornness while his heart thrums in his chest at how much he loves you and then gently cups your face in his hands and kisses you softly.

And even when you can’t help it and you do have to go to sleep earlier or exhaustion wins over you and brings you to the depths of slumber without warning, Jason always approaches you quietly so as to not disturb you and kisses your forehead to let you know he’s home. If you’re on the couch he brings you to bed, and if you’re already in bed, he settles the covers better over you, just the way you like.

And those times you always smile in your sleepy state and unless he’s injured and needs your help patching him up, you follow semi consciously the sound of his footsteps around the apartment. The sound of the shower as he steps inside to rinse away the Gotham night clinging to him, the sound of rustling sheets as he finally climbs into bed with you, and are finally lulled back to sleep when warmth surrounds you as he brings you into his arms.

You’re no metahuman but you’ve developed a sixth sense for everything regarding Jason Todd. You would be able to easily spot him in a crowd of thousands after having just faintly heard his voice in the distance even if he didn’t have that white tuft of hair singling him out, all your senses zeroed in on him. It’s like your body and mind are always tuned to find him, like tweaking the dial of the car radio to find your favorite station and finding it on the very first try.

You have a master’s degree on Jason Todd and all of his movements, small gestures and twitch of expressions that he doesn’t even realize that he’s doing, you know it all by heart. You know that when the right side of his smirk pulls slightly at his cheek as he’s admiring you doing something mundane, he’s going to kiss you. You know that when he flexes his hands at his sides something is bothering him. You know that he’s going to laugh loudly and wholeheartedly when the sound makes his shoulders shake slightly before making its way up his throat, as if he’s trying to contain it but the laugh is so strong and spontaneous that he can’t fight it. And you know he’s in pain from a bruise on his ribs when he shifts his weight on his feet and a grimace appears on his face for just a second.

That’s how you know that something’s up when you hear him climb through your living room window and his steps don’t sound as if he’s trying to not make too much noise in order to not wake you up in case that you’re asleep, but as if he's trying to make himself as small as possible. It’s a subtle difference but it’s there. You know it because you’ve encountered it before.

Your worry only increases when in the next four seconds that it takes you to find your bookmark between the sheets and place it in your book, you don’t hear him move at all. He doesn’t come find you and he doesn’t call your name.

When you exit the bedroom you find him in the middle of the living room. He just stands there, shoulders hunched, red helmet gripped tightly in hand, head looking down, his hair falling over his forehead.

Something has happened. You don’t know what it is but your first worry right now is making sure that he’s okay. If he heard you come into the room he doesn’t show it. You take a couple of small yet purposeful steps towards him, making sure that they can be heard so that you can alert him of your presence, not wanting to startle him.

But nothing. He stays frozen.

You take a deep breath as your heart clenches at seeing him like this. It’s bad. Whatever has happened is really, really bad and it seems like Jason’s mind is still there. He’s not fully present with you right now.

But you know what you have to do. You have to bring him back here with you. Help him to separate himself, your loving, wonderful, and kind Jason from the horrors that Red Hood has to face every day.

You take another step in his direction. “Jason?” you whisper softly.

He doesn’t react. But he doesn’t flinch either. That’s good. He knows he’s somewhere safe. But he still needs to distance himself from whatever was out there. You finally come to stand in front of him, still not touching him. “Jay?” you try again while assessing him over, trying to pinpoint if he’s injured.

Again, nothing. But the hair that hangs over his forehead moves ever so subtly, almost in an imperceptible way, but you catch it nonetheless. The hair moved because he tilted his head in the slightest of ways. He’s listening to you. Knows that you’re there. You sigh in relief when you see his grip on the helmet lessen too. Good signs.

“I’m going to touch you, okay?”

He releases a deep breath, slowly allowing himself to let go, the tension that his shoulders held not as tight as before. Leaving his body slightly, leaving him at your mercy. He’s saying, Okay. Satisfied at that and at finding that he doesn’t seem to have any major injuries, you nod. Then, you gently and very slowly take his face in your hands to look at him. His eyes acknowledge you for a split second but then his emerald gaze returns to the floor, and you feel a crack forming in your heart at the utter sadness, desperation, and despair that you find in it.

Still, you feel him melt into your touch at his cheeks. “It’s okay. You’re safe. You’re home,” you offer softly.

He closes his eyes in response, reveling in the comfort that you bring him. Next, you take the helmet from his hand and set it on the kitchen counter before moving to the holster with his guns and very carefully unfastening its belt and leaving it all on the table. Helping him that way to step out of the Red Hood persona and everything that claws into it.

“Let’s take a shower,” you say, wanting to keep him informed of your every move. You take his hand and pull him with you towards the bathroom. He lets you guide him, fully trusting you but still not reacting to anything much.

You don’t ask him what’s happened. You don’t need to know. There are things that Jason doesn’t tell you about patrol. And you have no problem with it, knowing that he wants to separate those two parts of his life. But no matter what it is, you always let him know that he can come to you about them, that you’ll listen. That you’ll always be there for him. Always.

The other few times that you have seen him come home like this, slouched over and not talking much, you later learn, either by context from what you hear on the news and the streets, or by Jason directly telling you about it when he needs to let go and finally feels able share it, that the people he was after got away, that someone got hurt, or something like that.

But this time… This time something’s different. You have never seen him as bad as this. At least not from coming back from patrol. And it worries you. It worries you a lot and it kills you that you can’t do anything more than just be there for him. But it seems that that’s all that he needs right now so you settle on focusing on him.

From the guiltiness that hangs over him, tensing his shoulders and keeping his eyes down, and the distress and sorrow that you see in his gaze, you have a feeling that something terrible happened. Something that he couldn’t prevent. He couldn’t save somebody.

You can almost see how he’s replaying it in his mind, the shame and regret swirling in his head until they stiff all of his body. You need to reassure him, make him see how it isn’t his fault, how he did everything he could, and how he gave his all but how sometimes, despite how much you fight it and try to stop it, Gotham doesn’t let you escape the rot that runs through its streets.

Once you two reach the bathroom, you flick on the mirror light above the sink, casting you two in a soft golden light, not wanting to overwhelm him with the overhead one and its strong intensity.

You stand in front of him and help him take off his jacket before taking his hands in yours. He still doesn’t look at you as you take off his gloves. Once they’re gone, you take a moment to examine his hands, and you let out a sigh of relief at seeing that his knuckles aren’t wounded. Your thumbs softly trace the marred skin, small scars and irregular healing adorning his hands. You can’t help but bring them to your lips and press a long kiss to them, closing your eyes, trying to will away all the mental scars that they hold too just by the touch of your lips.

His hands, that could break bones but also mend and heal the most broken parts of yourself.

Despite what those hands either curled into fists or holding a gun could mean to other people, they’re precious to you. And one of the many wonderful parts of him. To you, they mean soft caresses while you’re laying in bed. They mean warmth when winter comes and he rubs them against your arms. They mean comfort, and safety, as he holds your sobbing body when you break down.

Their roughness both from handling dangerous weapons and using a pan to make you dinner. Jason Todd has a duality that still amazes you to this day, but you love all the multitudes that he contains all the same.

You then begin to remove his equipment. The chest armor, the knee pads, and any other protective gear, putting it all on the pile that you started with his jacket and gloves on top of the laundry basket to sort out later. Jason doesn’t move, only doing the movement necessary to help you undress him, like lifting his feet so that you can slip his boots off after having unlaced them.

But still, his gaze remains lost.

You set the boots to the side and get back up to your feet again. You walk around him to get the tub started for a bath, adding some oils and soap. You pass by him to exit the bathroom and grab some comfortable clothes for him after. Most of the time, unless it’s very cold, he normally sleeps shirtless with some sweatpants or even just his underwear during the hotter months, but you know that tonight he needs to feel covered, enveloped, protected. You begin to plan in your mind. A comfortable old shirt and sweatpants will do.

However, before you can even reach the doorframe and begin your walk to the bedroom, a hand wraps gently around your wrist. You whip back around, both surprised and glad at the same time that Jason has finally interacted with you on his own accord, this being the first contact with the outside world initiated by him. Another good sign.

You see Jason’s eyes fixed on your wrist before lifting his gaze to lock with yours.

Stay.

Your gaze softens and you take another step closer to him, almost being chest to chest. You lift your free hand to caress his cheek. “Of course,” you whisper. “I’m just going to grab you some clothes, okay? It’ll be five seconds.”

As you assure him, without realizing it, your thumb traces his cheek in the exact same motion that he has begun to rub soft circles into your wrist. He nods slowly.

“Okay,” you say and Jason releases his hold on you just enough for you to quickly slip to the bedroom. And just like you promised, you’re back just as fast, closing the door behind you so that the steam from the tub can warm up the room, starting to fog up the mirror too, and setting the clothes on the counter. And Jason still hasn’t moved an inch.

You stand in front of him again and delicately grab the hem of his shirt before looking up at him. And you don’t need words to understand each other. Can I?

Jason’s chin tips slightly. Yeah.

You slowly lift the shirt up his body and he raises his arms to help you. Once off, you leave the shirt with the rest of his discarded clothes. Then, with your hands in front of you so that Jason can see what you’re doing and anticipate your movements, you rest them on his shoulders and then gently slide them down his chest, feeling his well-worked muscles and creases from the scars on his skin.

Jason lets out a deep breath, the skin to skin contact grounding him. His eyes never leave you now, following every single one of your actions. And not because he needs to see what you’re doing in order to prepare himself, not anymore, but because you’re the only thing that seems real right now. The only thing tethering him to Earth.

Because to him, you’re his center of gravity. No matter how far he went, both in distance and into the depths of his mind, he will always come back to you.

You lean forward and press a tender kiss between his pecs. Jason shudders, feeling warmth, comfort, and light blooming from the spot that you kissed and extending through all of his body, from his torso to the ends of his limbs. Your touch like the first rays of sunshine after the coldest and longest night of the year in a frozen landscape, melting the frost and bringing everything back to life. Chasing away the Gotham chill clinging to his bones and the rigidness that holds him hostage. Replacing it all with you, just you. The warmth and safety that you provide.

Jason thinks that he wasn’t actually brought back to life all those years ago, just went through some kind of purgatory on Earth again until he reached his very own personal heaven. You. And he still has no idea what he did to deserve it.

Then you help him out of his pants until he’s standing in his underwear in front of you. His back is hunched, making him lean towards you but this time it’s not because of all the negative thoughts hanging over him, but because of the pull that you have over him, your gravity drawing him in.

You round him again to check the temperature of the water in the tub, though this time, Jason rotates his body to follow you, like a sunflower chasing the sun. Satisfied with both the water’s temperature and quantity, you close the tap.

“You want me to get in with you?” you ask, not minding that you have already showered for the day. Jason nods.

You nod to yourself and peel the shirt of his that you wear to sleep off your body, leaving you just like him, wearing only your lower underwear. And even with how exposed you two are, you’re not vulnerable. The air in the room thick not only with humidity but with the intimacy between you two. A kind that can only come from honest love and a complete feeling of trust.

But the air isn’t humming with electricity like in the other situations in which you two find yourselves with as little clothing as right now. Instead, the air is lulling, like a soft and warm wave gently rocking your body when you lay with your eyes closed in the sea. Comforting and lightening.

You discard both your final pieces of clothing and step into the tub, holding a hand out to Jason so that he can step in in front of you. When he joins you, you two finally sink your bodies in the warm and bubble covered water. You lean back at the edge of the tub with Jason between your legs, his back pressed to your chest, his head resting on your shoulder and your arms draped over his chest, all of you surrounding him, enveloping him, protecting him.

Even though the tub is relatively big, considering Jason’s huge frame, it wasn’t exactly meant for two, so you’re a mess of tangled limbs and warm bodies, but you can already feel Jason relaxing against you. You kiss the crown of his head and he finally closes his eyes.

You two lay there for a while, enjoying the hot water and letting it wash your worries away, the scent from the lavender oil that you used hanging in the air, calming your minds. You’re glad to see how the bath is helping Jason to let go of the events of the night, the remaining tension that clung to his body stripped by the water, and the memories from the night relegated to another place as you see the crease on his brows disappear as you draw gentle caresses on his chest.

You grab the shampoo bottle and start to wash Jason’s hair, working the roots and massaging his scalp to help him relax even further. Soon, hundreds of tiny white bubbles replace the sight of his black locks. You work on his hair longer than necessary but you can see how much it’s helping him, his breathing becoming even more deeper and slower. The only sign that he hasn’t fallen asleep, the hand that settles on your knee at his side.

You then rinse his hair, his white streak majestically poking between the black again. With a sponge you start to wash his body where you can reach, his shoulders, his upper arms and torso. When you’re done you maneuver yourself to sit in front of him, facing each other now. As you start to wash the rest of his arms, you see in his eyes that his thoughts are beginning to slip away, the events of the night calling him again. But you’re not having it. Nothing is taking Jason away from you tonight. Your goal, making him focus on you and only you.

“Can I tell you a story?” you say softly, your voice and the soft splash of water at the slightest movement the only sounds in the room.

Jason just shrugs his shoulders slightly. You nod as you focus on passing the sponge over his hands.

“It’s the story of a boy and a girl. About a wonderful boy and a girl who couldn’t believe her luck,” you begin. “One freezing winter afternoon, the girl slipped on some ice and the guy caught her by the waist, saving her from a pretty hurtful fate, though she almost brought him down with her. She apologized profusely as her cheeks warmed not only because of the embarrassment but because the man who’d caught her was the most handsome one she’d ever seen. But in her haste to step back from the stranger to try and save some embarrassment, she slipped on the ice again and he saved her once again.”

Jason can’t help the small smile that pulls at his lips. Because the story that you’re telling isn’t just any story. It’s your story. The story of how you met.

He wonders how you always knew exactly what to say. Hell, you could just be reading the grocery list out loud and he’d think that you deserved a Nobel Prize in Literature just because it came from you.

The sight of Jason’s smile pulls your lips into one too, and it warms your heart just like his worried gaze had done to your cheeks that very first day.

Both of you remember that day as clear as day, though neither of you could have ever anticipated how important it would be, how it had changed the course of your lives. You can still perfectly recall how he had cleared his throat awkwardly after catching you for the second time and his You alright, miss? How breathy his voice had sounded, as if something had taken his breath away, his heavy lower Gotham accent that had both surprised you and stirred something within you, and how vivid the green in his eyes was.

Just as bright as it is now as you continue the story. The shine that was always there whenever he looked at you.

“She had been pretty awkward, and she still can't believe how she’d managed to pull the kindest and hottest man in all of Gotham, the world even.” Jason snorts and you throw him a look, telling him not to question you because if there is one universal truth in this world—apart from the fact that a single man in possession of good fortune, must be in want of a wife—is that Jason Todd is the kindest and most gorgeous man that you have ever met.

“Though later he would reveal that he had found her nothing but endearing, despite what she might say about her awkwardness,” you continue.

Something about you already drawing him in. But just as quick as it all had happened, the moment passed by, and you two went your separate ways. Though not for long, because some time later, another afternoon, you were walking home when a running figure turned the corner and clashed into you. As you took a couple steps back to stabilize yourself you realized that you were head to head with the Red Hood. Which was strange since the sun was still setting and he had never been seen other than at night.

Jason hadn't planned on starting patrol so early but Tim had tipped him that some guys that he was after were having a meet up and Jason decided to give them a little surprise. Though that plan flew out the metaphorical window in the room of his mind as soon as he saw you again.

He had tried to forget the encounter in which he had saved the most beautiful girl that he’d ever seen from tumbling to the ground, and just as it seemed like he was about to succeed (not really, but at least manage to push the encounter to the back of his mind instead of your soft voice plaguing his every waking moment), he ran into you.

He stared at you bewildered, not believing that it was you, the sweet girl from the ice, and he was at a loss for words.

“Sorry,” you had said and at the sound of your voice he finally came out of his daze and shook his head.

“No need, it was my fault." He tilted his head. “You okay, miss?” You nodded, trying to ignore the shiver that ran down your spine at how similar he had sounded to your ice savior, his voice ingrained in your mind. And as much as Jason would have loved to stay there with you for a bit longer and hopefully learn your name, he had to get going, so he apologized again and you watched as he left.

And that should have been it. But somehow, it seemed like the universe had other ideas, crossing your paths later once again. And then one thing led to another and here you were now, sharing laundry and rent. Who would have thought? Certainly not you, when those strong arms caught you and you had no idea that they would become the place where you would feel the safest in.

Home.

Jason keeps listening as you finish recalling the start of your relationship. “And so their adventure together began. The clumsy girl from the ice and the boy that despite his rough exterior, had the gentlest, bravest, most selfless and most beautiful heart that she’d ever come to know.”

You finish the story with an enamored smile on your lips, the sweet memories fueling even more your love for him. A love and reassurance that you hope you have been able to convey in the story.

Jason sits in front of you with a small smile of his own, his heart beating golden light through his body, the love that you put there. His body finally relaxed and at peace, your hands holding his.

But then the smile falls from your lips as you see his eyes glass over. And even before he starts to tremble you pull him into you, wrapping your arms around him, his face hidden in your neck, his own arms snaking around you, holding you tight. And as the first tremors shake his shoulders, the first tears start to fall.

And you hold him through it. Taking everything that he needs to let go of in stride.

Because without the armor that he had built to keep his emotions at bay, swimming in the guilt and regret, once he finally relaxes, accepts that he’s safe and allows himself to be vulnerable, the dam breaks. And all the feelings come tumbling over.

The impotence. The sadness. The failure.

He’s not outright sobbing, the feelings working slowly but surely through him one by one. His body trembles slightly, a few tears falling onto your shoulder and a couple of sniffles here and there.

“I- I couldn’t-” He shakes his head and keeps silent once again. The first words that he’s said since he came home. The cracks in his broken voice forming ones in your heart. It stings more than salt in an open wound. You hold him as tight as you can. It’s like he needs to exteriorize these feelings and his body is allowing him to, but his voice can’t even go further than repeating that phrase over and over again. You shush him gently, letting him know that he doesn’t need to force himself to say anything. You’re here for him and that’s all that matters.

“It’s okay. You did everything you could, Jason. You’re a good man,” you whisper, trying to soothe the torture that he’s submitting himself to. But he shakes his head even more vehemently at your reassuring words and beautiful thoughts of him. Right now they don’t make any sense to him with how much he failed tonight. He’s not brave. He’s not kind. And he certainly isn’t good. He doesn’t know how you can say all of those things about him when he couldn’t-

You feel his internal monologue with how the time between his trembles, tears, and sniffles stretches. He’s lost in his head again. Thinking instead of feeling.

“Jason, hey, no. Stop,” you whisper gently but firmly. You unwind your arms from around him and take his head in your hands, holding his forehead to yours, looking into his eyes though his gaze avoids you.

“You are good. You’re kind, stubborn, funny, brave, determined, sarcastic, gentle, and loving. You’re all of those things. And sometimes things just go wrong and you can’t do anything to prevent them. You didn’t make any mistakes tonight, okay?” You don’t actually think that he can do anything wrong but you keep that to yourself. “Not being able to prevent something bad doesn’t make you any less of a good person.”

You can see how the thoughts race in his eyes.

“Jason. Look at me.” He finally locks eyes with you. “You know I’m not good at lying so listen to me when I say this. Whatever happened tonight is not your fault. You can cry. You should cry. You have to let go of everything that is storming inside you. What I’m not letting you do is convince yourself that you’re not good enough. Because you are, you hear me? You are.” You can’t help the tears that begin to prick at the corners of your eyes.

“I love you and I’m always going to be here for you for whatever you need, okay?” As a tear slips from your eye, Jason nods and hides in your neck again, letting his tears flow again. Letting himself feel. You envelop him in your arms once again.

“Okay,” he mutters against your skin. You sigh in relief and start to trace long shapes on his back.

You two stay there for a while, until both of you stop crying and his breathing returns to normal. And then you stay a little longer, just holding each other, Jason letting himself get lost in your soft skin and soothing scent, finally, finally, letting the night go. At least for now.

And then even a little longer, until the water turns lukewarm and a chill runs through your bodies.

“Want to go to bed?” you ask softly, threading your fingers through his hair, brushing away the damp strands falling on his forehead.

He nods slowly, lifting his head from your neck. “Thank you,” he whispers. You shake your head and he knows what you mean, You don’t have to thank me, I’d do anything for you.

“Come on,” you say and get up, offering him your hands. He takes them and gets up as well. You let the tub drain and step out of it, Jason following you. You quickly wrap Jason in a towel and then do the same with yourself. When you're done, he takes one of your hands gently and, while looking deep into your eyes, he kisses your knuckles. Thank you.

This time your gaze softens and you rest your hand against his heart. Of course.

After drying off you put your sleeping clothes back on and when you see Jason with the briefs that you brought already on and reaching towards the sweatpants, you gently swat his hand away. Let me take care of you.

He raises his hands in surrender and takes a step away from his clothes. Yes, ma’am.

“Are you hurt anywhere? Do you need me to patch you up?” He doesn’t seem to have any injury but you want to make sure. He shakes his head. You arch an eyebrow. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s tried to lie to you about that. He nods, extending his arms so that you can examine him, showing how he doesn’t have any wounds. You wait for a beat before nodding.

You help him get dressed and all the while his fond gaze follows you. He’s sure that the best feeling in the world is being taken care of by you. That sunshine feeling blooming again in his chest. You’re so bright and he’s just so- No. He’s promised that he isn’t going to think like that anymore. At least not more tonight.

He follows your directions as you make him sit on the toilet and watches as you comb his hair. But then he can’t help but close his eyes at how relaxed he feels under your care. When you’re done you kiss his forehead and he hums as you run your hand through his hair. When he opens his eyes again, you’re extending a hand to him and he takes it without hesitation.

You turn off the bathroom light and guide him to the bedroom. You climb into bed, your side always the furthest one from the door, no matter where you are, at home, at the manor, or traveling, Jason makes sure of that, and you open your arms, inviting him into your embrace. Jason gets into bed, laying half on top of you, and wraps his arms around your waist as he nuzzles into your neck, your legs tangled. You drape the covers over you both, practically burying yourselves under them and wrap your arms around him, protecting him from anything that could hurt him. Your very own cocoon.

He gives your waist a slight squeeze. I love you. You kiss his hair in return, hugging him even tighter.

And as you hold him tight, the two of you know that what happened tonight out there would still haunt Jason despite all your reassurances. But just as you know that, you also know that you’re always going to be there for him. To love him and care for him. So, for tonight, Jason lets himself be lulled to sleep by the sound of your heart. Each rhythmic thump thump telling him, I got you, you’re okay, I love you, over and over again.

Just like for you with him, your arms the place where he feels safest in. Home.

Please let me know what you think! Thanks for reading!

[felassan]

Some more DA:TV and related snippets from Sylvia Feketekuty, Part 3. rest of post under a cut due to length and spoilers. [Post One, Post Two]

Ran out of characters or something in post 2. :)

User: "I LOVE the line "a raw, strangling fear, struck somewhere deep past the heart". It's beautiful and it resonates with me since I myself struggle with anxiety. Now for the questions! 1) Can you talk more about the banter between Emmrich and Harding after we start romancing him? What is her motivation behind it? Is she critical of their relationship or is she worried about Emmrich? 2) I love the argument Rook and Emmrich have before Tearstone Island, it gives nice depth to their relationship. But what did Emmrich think he would accomplish with that conversation? Did he want to break up with Rook because he thought it would be easier for him if something happened to Rook? 3) Not a question but I love Hezenkoss. Such a dedicated hater lol. -- Sylvia Feketekuty: "That was one of the first lines where I started to feel I had a handle on his voice in the first draft, so that means a lot to hear. (And thank you for noting the team effort, I got a lot of great feeback from the other writers and the editors on Emmrich. He wouldn't be as good without them.) On to questions: 1) My personal take: I think Harding is worried because she's very perceptively noticed how hard Emmrich's fallen for Rook, and that he's a man of large emotions. (And because they become pretty good friends over the course of the game.) 2) I think Emmrich let his anxieties run away with him, afraid that this romance wasn't, couldn't possibly be the One True Love he so wanted, and that's how his fear expressed itself. (Did he WANT to break up? No, but he was bracing himself in case Rook did think it was only a fling and so on and so forth, they should get it out in the open, and so on.) 3) Thank you! I loved writing her. She will always be a hater until her (un)dying day."" [source, two, three, four, five, six] -- John Epler: "someday we'll get the Hezenkoss/Anaris reluctant team-up the world deserves" [source] -- Sylvia: "Somehow, in the realm of pure imagination, they're already trying to strangle each other." [source] -- User: "Very important question- would Anaris finger gun? (Finger crossbow?)" -- John: "as a man defined primarily by his tremendous insecurities Anaris also takes himself incredibly seriously and unconsciously mirrors Elgar'nan, an elf he both loathes and desperately wishes he were so the real question is, would Elgar'nan finger gun?" [source]

User: "On my 1st run I thought some choices felt like the 'bad' ones and avoided them - Lich Emmerich, Harding's Anger, Qunari Taash etc. But on my 2nd run I was so pleasantly surprised to see that it wasn't the case! None of the companion choices feel right or wrong, just different, and that's fantastic." / Sylvia: "Thanks! We tried to make either choice compelling, to have something for different players either way. So I'm so glad to hear that." [source]

User, on Manfred winning a character award: "Congrats Manfred we knew you had it in you!" / Sylvia: "He did it! My little skeleton pal did it! (Especial thanks to the animators and voice actor, Matt Mercer, because like 90% of his personality lives in those gangly limbs and his hissing)" [source]

User: "I just wanted to say that Emmerich and Josephine are so interesting and well-written" / Sylvia: "I feel very lucky I got to bring them into DA, with teams that went for them 100%." [source]

User: "I enjoyed Emmrich's addendum to the codex about Templars in Nevarra: are they primarily there as backup if something goes profoundly wrong? Would they ever get someone who just wants to help down in the Necropolis, pretty please? (also <3 Vorgoth, they're great)" / Sylvia: ""are they primarily there as backup if something goes profoundly wrong?" That was my own take. You don't NOT want Templars, in case some ritual gets disrupted in an utterly disastrous fashion. But other times...the Mortalitasi flex their clout. "Would they ever get someone who just wants to help down in the Necropolis, pretty please?" Some Watchers might not be immune to flattery. I think a few templars could be all right under some circumstances, but that they'd be assigned a mage. (A bit of a reverse of the southern mage-templar pairs.) "(also <3 Vorgoth, they're great)" Thank you! I was so pumped when I saw the final art for them, everything I'd dreamed. (And their voice actor, Brent Mukai, was amazing.)" [source, two, three]

User: "I wanted to ask you what you think nevarran wedding attire might look like? or if you’ve considered it? asking for science." / Sylvia: "Geeze, that's a good question. I imagine the couple would exchange some custom-made grave gold pieces to mark the occasion, given how important it is in Nevarra. But other than that, you should let your imagination run wild." [source]

User: "Is seeing Josephine as Asexual or part of the Ace Spectrum a valid interpretation of her character?" / Sylvia: "Totally, if that's how you want to see the character and relationship. (My policy is generally that if it's not directly contradicted in the game, you can take that kind of thing as a valid read of the character.)" [source]

Sylvia: "I'll say this (spoiler free): there's a scene in "Walking the Graves" where I felt Emmrich's voice finally click for me on the first draft, so that one's special to me." [source]

User: "I remembered some questions I had about Emmrich.. Can he play any instruments? I always invision him playing a pipe organ or maybe violin! If not, are there any he would like to learn? 😊 Also, I was curious, can he ice skate? out on that frozen Nevarran lake in winter" / Sylvia: "Those are interesting questions. Because they're something I never considered or wrote, there's no real canon there yet. I see Emmrich as more an appreciator of music than a musician, but can't rule it out. As for ice-skating, I'm not even sure we've shown that in Thedas. I think Emmrich would enjoy it though. UPDATE: a friend reminded me about this tidbit from World of Thedas 2: "Ice skating – during the winter in Nevarra, people often skate on the frozen over Minanter river." So it's canon now. Emmrich ice-skates. He instantly manifests a scarf when doing so. (I fall on my sword for forgetting this.)" [source, two, three]

User: "about Josephine: what would her ideal/dream wedding be? I was tickled when I read about that in her letter to her Inquisitor I just have to know" / Sylvia: "what a delightful question in turn! I think she'd want a big, flower-filled, no-holds barred wedding at her family's estate. All her relatives, friends she made in the Inquisition, the Inquisitor's relatives (if they have any/keep in touch.) She'd begin planning 16 months in advance." [source]

Sylvia: "Aw thank you! (On behalf of me, and the rest of the team, so many people worked so hard on our eccentric necromancer man.)" [source]

Sylvia: "The Mourn Watch and Emmrich are a bit eccentric, but I really wanted their reverence for the dead (and the living) to feel genuine." [source]

User: "As someone who himself gets awful pangs about the thought of death and nothingness, it was really refreshing to see a character have those same thoughts as me, especially as he also happens to be a Necromancer who is around death daily." / Sylvia: "You're welcome, and thanks for the kind words. It's a familiar thing for me too, so I really wanted to talk about it. I suspect it's far more common than we might think." [source]

User: "My HOF was a spirit healer, very kind & very curious, & for years I've considered how that special connection to spirits might lend itself to an interest in Thedan necromancy & puzzling out where spirits & souls begin & end. Emmrich, Manfred/Curiosity and the wisps gave me so much to think about!" / Sylvia: "Thank you so much! And that's interesting about your HOF. They may've found some kindred spirits if they ever ventured further north." [source]

User: "No questions other than thank you and the team for Emmrich and Nevarra / The Mourn Watch. Seeing death treated with such kindness, empathy and as beautiful renewal rather than grim end is so refreshing and personal to me, it was a great experience to have!" / Sylvia: "That's one of the things I really wanted to express in Emmrich's arc, so I'm so glad you felt that way." [source]

User: "I feel that my Rook would want to learn more about the Mourn Watch after saving the world." / Sylvia: "Emmrich and the Watchers would love that. Emmrich probably has like, five lectures he could rattle off without preparation for your Rook already, haha." [source]

User: "do you have any favorite tidbits about Audric or Myrna that you can share?" / Sylvia: "As for tidbits, hrm. I did post something on what Audric's up to these days. Nothing surprising, but he's doing well! And I never wrote it in-game, so it lives in the hazy world of "only canon in my head": while Emmrich doesn't come from nobility, Myrna does-the Van Markham branch. She had the finest education, even before the Watchers. She doesn't play it up much, though. Her real passion's her work. And the theater. (I did a small bit about her love of theater here [link or see Post Two]. I think she's a regular attendee.)" [source, two, three]

Sylvia: "I also really wanted to explore more of the Necropolis ever since I first read about it. I'm very lucky the team and I finally got to show everyone the crypts..." [source]

User: "he stories, the worldbuilding, the characters, the locations, I loved it all so much I played my MW Rook twice" / Sylvia: "Nice. The Mourn Watch appreciates your studious interest in the hallowed art of necromancy." [source]

Sylvia: "thank you on behalf of the whole team, as you've surmised there were a lot of people bringing him to life. (Especial props to Nick Borraine, his VA, who's wonderful in the role.)" [source]

Sylvia: "It always makes me happy when people mention the short stories, and glad you enjoyed meeting (and perhaps romancing...) Emmrich." [source]

Sylvia, on Vorgoth: "I'm afraid I deliberately left our cloak-shrouded Watcher a mystery. But I'll say this: I'm sure they'd show your Rook in that picture their art collection, an honor Vorgoth bestows only on those they like or trust." [source]

User: "does the watch have any rules in regards to courtship/marriage between fellow watchers? An does Emmrich lecture at the Necropolis or at the College of Magi in Cumberland?" / Sylvia: "1) I actually got into that a little here [link or see Post Two]. Short story, it's not forbidden for mages within Circles to court or marry, so no particular rules there I think. 2) That is a very good question. Full disclosure, I am answering on the fly with what I think makes most sense. I can see Emmrich doing a bit of both in his younger days. But as he grew older, more specialized in his field, and had more MW responsibilities, he probably worked more out of the Necropolis. (And prefers it anyhow.) By the time DAV starts, it's probably been years since he was in Cumberland." [source, two, three]

User: "Thank you for your moving portrayal of thanatophobia. While most people have some fear of death, it was amazing to see the thanatophobic panic attacks etc portrayed so accurately." / Sylvia: "Thanks - they're not an unfamiliar phenomenon to me, I wanted Emmrich to try to get across that helplessness and wretched terror. (I suspect more people are affected by them than we commonly talk about.)" [source]

User: "whoever decided “DA liches are immortal protectors and not always evil?” Chef’s kiss. It’s all I’ve ever wanted!" / Sylvia: "Thanks again! It was in Emmrich's first draft. The other writers and editors gave me good feeback on lichdom and the philosophy behind it especially" [source]

User: "I wonder, did you prefer writing for either lich Emmrich or mortal? I would imagine it's a bit different." / Sylvia: "I wouldn't say I had a favorite, but it was fun to try to figure out what approach to take in scenes that had split lich/mortal lines. I didn't want Emmrich to be unrecognizable as a lich, but I did want him to occasionally be a little different, slowly absorbing what he'd become. We see him at the start of this new stage of his existence, so I think even by the end of Veilguard he's still just at the very start of adjusting to, and exploring, what he is now. I liked giving him that wonder!" [source, two]

Sylvia: "The Memorial Gardens were the heart of the Necropolis to me, the level artists and level designer and our audio team worked so much magic there. (And the lighting team! First time I saw it properly lit I think I clapped.)" [source]

User: "Also wanted to know if you wrote Josephine’s letter to Inquisitor if romanced?" / Sylvia: "I did write that letter, thanks! It was a joy to return to Josephine, even in a codex sent to her dearest Inquisitor." [source]

Sylvia on where Emmrich sleeps: "As to his sleeping arrangements, I gave a tantalizing (non) answer here [[link] or see [Post Two]]. (Though I think he'd prefer a proper bed, whatever form it takes. Emmrich's too old to be sleeping on cots like a student anymore.)" [source]

Sylvia: "So glad the team and I got to crack open the ancient doors of the Grand Necopolis, I've been curious about it too ever since reading about it eons ago. (And very glad you're liking MW Rook, I really wanted things to feel different when chatting with Emmrich as a Watcher yourself!)" [source]

User: "I enjoyed Johanna IMMENSELY and she is most definitely my favourite villain of all time now, so thank you for her as well!" / Sylvia: "She was a treat to write. (And Hezenkoss would 100% applaud you on your fine judgement and obvious taste.)" [source]

Sylvia on Emmrich's fear: "I'm not unfamiliar with that fear either, and it means a great deal to hear getting to know Emmrich helped you out even a little. (And happy to hear you dug Manfred!)" [source]

Sylvia: "I'm especially glad you liked the battle theme. Our music director instantly got the tone of Emmrich's arc, he and the audio team spun off so many great tracks from that core theme." [source]

User on Emmrich: "He's a brilliant character and everyone involved in his creation should be very proud!" / Sylvia: "There were a lot of people working on him, I was lucky so many people got onboard right away with our professor of necromancy. And I loved writing him chatting with Bellara, the mentor/student relationship was fun to hash out with her writer." [source]

User: "(1/2) Hello Sylvia! Like everyone else, I love Emmrich, but I also wanted to say thank you for your work in DAI. Josie was my first romance in DA and I love her a lot. My question had to do with her codex entry in Veilguard for a romanced Inquisitor: (2/2) Her letter in Veilguard implies she hasn't married yet, 10 years later. Josie is so image-conscious in how she conducts herself, so I was surprised she would put off marriage for that long as the first born noble of her house. Curious what the idea behind it was if you can share." / Sylvia: "Thank you! I'm honored to hear Josepine was your first DA romance. Re: marriage, you're right, that is a big time gap. I basically didn't want to surprise returning players with a marriage that had already happened to their Inquisitor offscreen. I'm sure Josephine has kept busy with world affairs, and so has the Inquisitor, which isn't a bad reason it's taken so long. But I thought it'd be more engaging for players to imagine the proposal, how they'd react, what the wedding would be like, as something good happening to them in the future." [source, two]

User: "I wanted to ask about banter I saw online; why does Taash say Emmrich smells like potash? Isn't that a bad smell, like rotten eggs? He doesn't strike me as a smelly person outside of being around the dead. Maybe Trick would know too" / Trick Weekes: "IIRC, I based it on residual scents that would come from chemicals -- can't remember whether it was what you'd get from working with embalming liquids or something used to style hair. That said, Taash comments on scents non-adaari can't detect, so it's not like he smells bad to normal people." [source] / Sylvia: "Chiming in late, but what Trick said. Taash has an incredible sense of smell, but they're detecting the tiny residuals. (Which is why poor Taash can smell that burial Emmrich helped with, even though he scrubbed down thoroughly afterwards. Gotta keep hygienic!)" [source]

User: "I wish more games had Romances like this, he was just simply perfect. [Emmrich] believably cares for Rook." / Sylvia: "I'm glad that part felt heartfelt, it was one of the cores of his romance for me." [source]

User: "What inspired you to want to go into writing for games? Or just writing in general?" / Sylvia: "I've played games since I was about 5 years old and that's what really did it. I fell in love at once with these cool, weird little worlds you could visit as someone else. As for writing in general, it feels goofy (or ominous) to call it a Calling, but it's just something I've always enjoyed doing. It's also probably what I'm best at, which means I'm unfathomably lucky I ended up at BioWare. I don't think I would've been happy until I was doing game writing somewhere, somehow!" [source, two]

User: "I have two questions about his and Johanna's childhood. 1. How and when did he and her(johanna) meet? 2. What was the story between him and her back then? Sorry if it's too long a question. Thank you! Oh I'm so sorry, how could I forget another important question���😓 3. How tall do you think he is👀 He's almost as tall as Taash!" / Sylvia: "I have not forgotten the other two questions, I'll get to them later (it's just getting late here) but this one's a little easier. I THINK he's about 6 foot 2 inches without his boots, so about 6 foot 3 with them on. (A character artist would have to confirm or deny if I'm remembering right.)" [source]

Sylvia on her time at BioWare: "So I gt a 5 year award statue that looked like a glass disc, and then we swapped over the to the BioWare Character award statues so I got Wrex as my 10th one. (I think I remember people who'd been around earlier than me with those clocks on their desks!)" [source]

[italiangirlcoresblog]

main masterlist \\ f1 masterlist

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... 𝐢'𝐝 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐲𝐨𝐮

✩ : as the 2024 season comes to an end, so does the time you have left to finally confess your feelings to carlos

𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭. : carlos sainz

𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 : pure A N G S T

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 1,7k

✍︎ : i'm SO SORRY it took me this long to write, but i was literally swamped with school work and i had no time to do anything. anyway, i hope you like it because i put my soul and tears into it (i'll probably write some cute christmas themed one-shots to recover from this, don't worry 🙃).

enjoy 🩷❤️

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Wrong.

If you had to use any word to describe the situation you found yourself in, it would’ve been wrong.

Everything felt out of place: the laughs, the chattering, even the clinking of champagne glasses. It was all too loud, almost as if everyone was trying to fill the void that loomed in the air.

Though, now that you thought about it, ‘fake’ actually fit the scene better. To your ears, the jokes that rang across the motorhome were nothing but a lame attempt to lighten up the mood, every word sounding empty and meaningless. Each one of the persons crowding the room were just actors playing their part in a show they’d been rehearsing for months, and between them stood the main character, the best liar of them all.

Carlos had been smiling the entire night, going along with the setup for some reason that your brain really couldn’t seem to grasp. What was the point of celebrating his departure, even worse when the people he was hugging with such warmth were the same ones who’d dropped him from the team to replace him?

As for you, you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him: every time you did, you caught the flicker of hurt hiding behind the forced grin he'd carefully plastered on his face, the sight making you feel sick to your stomach.

To be honest, you didn’t try to approach him at all, the mere thought of confronting him keeping you away. What was the point, anyway? He was leaving Ferrari, and nothing you might say or do could ever change that.

You hated it. You hated that you had to stand there and watch him leave, you hated the team for making him, you hated yourself and how powerless you felt, you hated Carlos… especially the way you didn’t hate him at all.

It wasn’t something you’d planned: it just happened. Somewhere between the race debriefs, the jokes, and even the fights, you’d inevitably fell for him. What a shame you were only realizing it now.

You avoided him all night, slipping into the shadows every time he came too close or tried to approach you, ignoring the pang of guilt that hit you when you saw the half-smile he flashed falter. His eyes were questioning, almost pleading, burning holes right through you as you turned your back to him once again. You told yourself that was the only way you could survive the “party”… or so you thought.

You knew it was coming, and yet when the lights dimmed and your teammates’ voices lowered to whispers your heart dropped to your stomach, all the noise from before replaced by a piercing ringing in your ears.

The video.

The wide screen suddenly lit up, its brightness almost blinding in the dark room, the clips playing out on it in quick flashes: Carlos’ first podiums, his maiden victory with Ferrari, the celebrations with the team and the Tifosi, the challenges with Charles… each one of them was a dagger to the chest which twisted in a wound that had been bleeding for months now.

The motorhome had fallen silent, the stillness interrupted from time to time by a choked laugh or a quiet sniffle that echoed like gunshots. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, unable to look at the taped moments without your sight getting blurry, forcing yourself not to let it wander over the faces that surrounded you—until you eventually did, and that was the worst mistake of your life.

Carlos’ eyes were glistening under the violent screen lighting, puffy and bloodshot from the tears he’d clearly already shed, which stained his cheeks and slightly parted mouth.

The walls started closing in on you, your breath coming out in shallow gasps as you felt a lump tightening your throat, panic rising in your chest. You couldn’t see him like that.

You should’ve stayed. For him. You should’ve been close and hugged him, like everyone else was doing now that the video had ended, but you couldn’t.

So you ran like a coward.

You stumbled back, bumping into people that you didn’t really see, mumbling weak “Sorry” in their direction, until a hand on your shoulder stopped you in your tracks.

“Where are you going?” He put it as a question, but the concern in his tone made it sound more like a warning, almost as if he already knew the answer.

“Let me go. Please,” you breathed out, the words painfully scratching your throat as you let them out. He didn’t budge. “Charles–”

“No, listen to me,” he said firmly, his hold tightening slightly more to prevent you from getting away. “He needs us. All of us.” He searched your eyes with his, a quiet request in them: we have to be strong for him.

“He doesn’t need me. Not like this,” you muttered, shame washing over you as you shrugged his hand off and finally reached the door, rushing outside like your life depended on it.

It was pouring, but you couldn’t care less; in fact, the cool raindrops were soothing against your burning skin, their sound drowning out the thoughts that had been running through your mind relentlessly all night.

You didn’t hear his steps, either.

“Why are you out here?” Carlos’ voice cut through the storm like a knife, and you froze. He’d followed you.

You didn’t turn around. Instead, you swallowed back the tears you hadn’t even noticed had started streaming down your face, mixed with the rain that soaked through your clothes. “Go back inside. Everyone’s waiting for you.”

“I don’t care,” he shot back harshly, maybe more than he intended to, because he quickly added: “Why are you acting like this? Did I do something?”

“No,” you replied flatly, the genuine confusion in his tone making it harder to keep yours steady. “I just needed some air.”

“So what, you just left without saying anything?” He stepped closer, frustration bleeding through his words.

“It’s your party, Carlos, not mine. And it’s not that deep.”

“Not that–do you hear yourself? This “party” is my last one here at Ferrari; we’re supposed to say goodbye.” His voice cracked, followed shortly after by the walls you were struggling to keep up.

“I’m sure there are plenty of people in there who are dying to say–”

“Dios mío, do you even care that I’m leaving?” he spit out, the venom in his words hitting you like a slap right in the face. “Of course I care–” “Then look at me! Please, at least look at me.” He was so close now that you could feel his shaky breaths ruffling your hair, his warmth inches away from you, so familiar and yet so distant.

Slowly, you turned around, your vision blurry as you took in the sight of him: he was completely drenched in rain, the fireproof he was still wearing from the race clinging to his body, his usually perfect hair sticking to his forehead, and he looked so effortlessly handsome it made your heart ache.

“And now?” You let out a bitter laugh that sounded more like a sob. “What do you expect me to say? That I’m happy for you? Because if that’s it, I’m sorry but I’m not. I don’t care if I sound selfish, and if that makes me a horrible teammate then be it, but at least I’m not a fake friend like half of the people in there. So yes, Carlos, I care, I care so much that I couldn’t stay inside and watch you act like you didn’t.” The words had spilled out of your mouth before you could stop them, leaving you breathless once you came to a halt.

Carlos blinked a few times, taken aback by your sudden outburst. Then, what you’d actually said clicked in his mind.

“I don’t care? You’re the one who’s been avoiding me all night–”

“Carlos, stop,” you choked out, tears welling up in your eyes once again at his sharp tone.

“No,” he said, firmly. “Not until you tell me what’s really going on.”

“It’s not that simple, okay?” Your voice cracked as it raised, trying to outshout both the storm that surrounded you and the one raging inside your chest.

“Then make it simple!” He yelled too, but his words sounded like a cry for help. That made you finally snap.

“I love you, Carlos! Is that simple enough for you? Because for me it’s not. It hurts so fucking much knowing that I can’t do anything anymore, that I’m too late, and it’s… easier this way. Distancing myself, I mean. I prefer walking away from you on my own than having you taken away from me.”

Heavy silence stretched between the two of you after your voice trailed off, your words still lingering in the damp air as you just stared at each other for what felt like ages.

“Say something, please.” You were the one begging now, his numbness worse than any sentence you’d heard tonight. “Shout, scream, just–”

He didn’t let you finish, his lips finding yours in a desperate, urgent kiss that tasted like tears and regrets. You poured every ounce of you into it, your hands roaming over each other and pulling you impossibly closer, almost as if you wanted to melt together and become a whole, so that nothing could ever separate you anymore.

When you parted, he pressed his mouth to your forehead, his hands cradling your face like you were the most delicate and precious porcelain doll in the world and he was afraid he might break you; too bad he already had.

“I love you,” he then whispered against your wet skin, before letting his lips fall to your right cheek. “And I’ll miss you…” he pressed a kiss on it, then moved to the other. “… so much,” he left a third one, capturing the single tear that had escaped your eye.

“I’ll miss you, too,” you breathed out, words getting lost in the howling wind.

You stayed like that for a while, wrapped in each other’s arms as the rain soaked you both, washing away the tears that silently strolled down your face, and with them the promise of a future that ended before it even started.

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©italiangirlcoresblog // do not copy, rewrite, or translate any of my work on any platforms

[ikkyfics]

Night Flight

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: "I… I don't know how you can be so confident about this," you murmured, still feeling the warmth of his touch on your skin. "Because it's the truth," James replied without hesitation, his voice steady and full of sincerity. "When you love someone, you know. There are no doubts, no room for uncertainty. It's like… well, like knowing the sky is blue or that you look ridiculously beautiful with windblown hair."

Warnings: just fluffy - a James breaking some rules to spend time with you

Masterlist

The castle was submerged in silence, illuminated only by the soft light of the moon that filtered through the tall windows. The corridors, usually full of voices and hurried footsteps, were now empty, and the only company was the shadows dancing on the walls. You weren’t quite sure how James had convinced you, but there you were, walking beside him, hidden under the invisibility cloak.

He held your hand under the enchanted fabric, his fingers warm and firm around yours. The mischievous smile he wore as he confidently walked through the castle made you roll your eyes, but deep down, you couldn’t help the small smile that played at your lips. James had that effect on you — he was pure energy, carefree and full of life, a complete contrast to your more reserved personality. Yet, there was something about him that made you feel lighter, as if the world around you simply disappeared.

"We're almost there," he whispered, leaning slightly toward you. The warmth of his body beside yours was comforting, and the way he made everything sound like a grand adventure made your heart race a little faster.

"Aren’t you going to tell me what we’re doing?" you asked, keeping your voice low. Despite the cloak, you could feel the adrenaline of being out of the dorm after curfew.

"It’ll ruin the surprise," he replied, a playful gleam in his voice. You could see him raise his index finger theatrically, even under the cloak. "But I can guarantee it’ll be worth it. Trust me."

"I don’t know if I should," you teased, trying to sound firm, but the light tone in your voice gave away that, in reality, you trusted him more than anyone.

James chuckled softly, and you felt the gentle pressure of his hand on yours, as if he were reaffirming that silent connection between you. Finally, you reached the door of the Astronomy Tower. He carefully took off the cloak, revealing the satisfied smile you knew so well, and his blue eyes, vibrant, were shining like the starry sky outside.

"You really love breaking the rules, don’t you?" you asked, crossing your arms, but you couldn’t quite hide the laugh that escaped.

"It’s not just about the rules," he replied, stepping closer to you. His hair, always rebellious, was even more disheveled from the rush, and you had to fight the impulse to fix it. "It’s for you. I want to take you somewhere where you can feel... free. Without all that stuff in your head that makes you doubt yourself."

Your smile faded a little, and you looked away, already feeling the familiar wave of insecurity start to rise. James noticed, of course, he always noticed.

"Hey," he called softly, leaning in until your eyes met his again. "I don’t want you to think about any of that right now. I just want you to be with me, here, now. Can you do that for me?"

You nodded, feeling the warmth of his hands sliding down to your arms, and he smiled, this time more gently. "Great, because I brought my broom." He stepped aside, revealing the object that had been leaning against the wall.

"You’re kidding," you said, your voice a mix of laughter and disbelief.

"No way." He picked up the broom and lovingly ran his fingers over the polished wood, as if it were a trophy. "Come on, it’s just a little ride. I promise you’ll love it."

"James..." you started, but he was already mounting the broom and reaching out for your hand. His smile was a blend of excitement and tenderness, and there was something in his eyes that made you forget any reluctance.

With a sigh, you took his hand and let him help you onto the broom. The warmth of his body against your back was immediate, and he adjusted his arms around you to grip the broomstick firmly.

"Comfortable?" he asked, his voice low near your ear. You simply murmured a "yes," feeling your cheeks burn.

"Great," he said, and before you could process, he gave a push, and you were flying.

The night air was cold but not uncomfortable, and the sense of freedom that came with flying left you speechless. The castle soon disappeared behind you, and all that was left was the open sky and the stars shining above. You instinctively held onto James's arms, and he chuckled softly.

"You don’t have to be scared," he said, his voice full of tenderness. "I’d never let anything happen to you."

"I'm not scared," you replied, even though your grip on his arms betrayed the opposite.

"Oh, of course not," he teased, leaning slightly to the left, just enough to make you cling even tighter. "See? You're completely at ease."

"James!" you exclaimed, half laughing, half annoyed, and he just laughed along, returning to his usual balance.

After a few minutes of flying, he stopped over a moonlit clearing. You hovered there in silence, while the world seemed so small beneath you. He rested his chin on your shoulder for a moment, and you felt the steady rhythm of his breathing.

"I can't imagine anyone I'd rather have here with me than you," he murmured, his voice low and full of emotion.

You turned your face slightly, meeting his eyes, and the smile he gave you was so sincere it made your heart melt. He leaned in slowly, and his lips met yours in a soft kiss, as gentle as the wind around you.

When he pulled away, still close enough for you to feel his breath, he smiled again. "You mean everything to me, you know that, right?"

You stayed silent for a moment, trying to organize your thoughts and process what he had just said. It was as if his words were made to pierce your heart directly, dissolving any doubt that might still linger in your mind. His blue eyes shone brightly, full of something deeper than usual affection—an unwavering devotion that made your chest tighten with emotion.

"I… I don't know how you can be so confident about this," you murmured, still feeling the warmth of his touch on your skin.

"Because it's the truth," James replied without hesitation, his voice steady and full of sincerity. "When you love someone, you know. There are no doubts, no room for uncertainty. It's like… well, like knowing the sky is blue or that you look ridiculously beautiful with windblown hair."

The last part was said with a playful grin, his eyes scanning your face with adoration. He tilted his head slightly, as if waiting for a response, but you just shook your head, feeling your cheeks begin to warm.

"You never get tired of making me blush, do you?" you murmured, avoiding his gaze for a moment, but James, ever attentive, raised a hand to gently hold your chin, guiding your gaze back to his.

"Not at all," he said, the playful tone softening. "I love seeing you blush. It's like watching the most beautiful sunset in the world. And it's my fault, which just makes it even better."

You couldn't help but let out a soft laugh, and he took the opportunity to plant a kiss on the tip of your nose, followed by another on the corner of your lips, before whispering against your skin, "By the way, you look even more beautiful when you laugh."

"Do you have any idea how impossible you are?" you asked, but your voice was already far from any irritation. It was soft, with a touch of affection that James didn't miss.

"Impossible?" He feigned offense, his eyes sparkling with mock disbelief. "I'm a Potter. Impossible is my middle name, but no one's ever complained before."

You let out a full laugh this time, shaking your head in surrender. But then, with a sudden courage you didn't know where it came from, you leaned in slightly and whispered, "But you know what I think is most beautiful about you?"

James blinked, surprised by your change in tone. "What?" he asked, genuinely curious, his blue eyes fixed on yours.

"When you turn red," you replied, smiling as your fingers traced lightly along his jawline. "It's like, for a moment, you're a little vulnerable too."

The flush that rose to his cheeks was instant, and you found yourself amazed by how adorable he looked in that moment. His eyes blinked a few times, and he tried to hide it, but the shy smile that appeared on his lips gave it all away.

"Oh, so that's it," he murmured, his voice a little lower, but still with that playful tone. "You like seeing me like that, huh? Who would’ve thought my girl knows how to fight back?"

"Maybe," you said, leaning in closer. "But it's nice to know I can make you blush too."

James laughed, but this time it was a softer laugh, filled with something deeper. He rested his forehead against yours, his unruly hair brushing lightly against your skin. "You have no idea how much I'm yours, do you?"

Before you could answer, he kissed you again, this time with more firmness, but still with the same sweetness as before. It was a kiss that spoke everything he might not have found words for yet—a reminder that, to him, you were more than enough.

When he pulled away just enough to look at you again, the smile that lit up his face was pure and genuine. "Now, how about we take one more round? I want to see if I can make you laugh a little more before we go back to the castle."

You smiled, feeling all your insecurities melt away under the intensity of James' affection. And as he adjusted his arms around you again, ready to send the broom back into the starry sky, you thought that maybe, just maybe, you were starting to believe that with him, you would always be enough.

[hyperlexichypatia]

Follow up to this post where I was asked about the "Autism presents differently in girls" myth, which is one of my many berserk buttons.

Here is a non-exhaustive list of reasons this concept makes no sense and you should stop saying it:

A. Autistic people are more likely than non-autistic people to be trans, nonbinary, or otherwise gender-non-conforming, so any attempt to group autistic people by binary, birth-assigned gender is even less likely to be accurate than the gender binary already is in the general population.

2. There is absolutely no evidence supporting the "presents differently" theory that could not be better explained by clinician bias.

iii. The alleged "presentation differences" between autistic "girls" and "boys" are just bog-standard gender stereotypes with "autism" plugged in somewhere. "Boys are better at math and science and logic and not having feelings and their dominant emotion is Anger, but girls are better at socializing and caretaking and brushing hair and their dominant emotion is Approval-Seeking." "Huh, that sounds like reactionary sexist hogwash." "No, I mean, autistic boys are better at math and science and logic and not having feelings and their dominant emotion is Anger, but but autistic girls are better at socializing and caretaking and brushing hair and their dominant emotion is Approval-Seeking." "Oh, okay, now it's Objective Science."

four. Sexist bias, including among clinicians, tends to frame "male" neurodivergence as essentially cognitive and "female" neurodivergence as essentially emotional, because, as we all know, Men Think, Women Feel. Psychology is obsessed with the idea that "girls" are universally and inherently self-loathing and self-destructive -- anything a "girl" has trouble with cannot possible be a skill she hasn't learned or an ability she doesn't have, let alone merely a different way of being; she must simply be self-abnegatingly denying herself the thing she cannot do. So a "girl" with the same traits as an "autistic boy" will have those traits attributed to something emotional, like depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, or eating disorders. "Autistic girls" aren't being "missed" (read as neurotypical); they're having their exact same autistic traits as "autistic boys" being framed as mood disorders instead of neurodevelopmental disabilities.

cinco. Fundamentally, this premise gets completely backward what diagnosis means and why pathologization happens. People are pathologized and diagnosed, with any kind of disability, when they have traits that fall outside the range of traits considered "acceptable" for their position. "It's more acceptable for boys to have meltdowns, so autistic boys have more meltdowns than autistic girls, so the boys get diagnosed with autism" -- No, this doesn't make sense. That's not how diagnosis works. If it were more acceptable for boys to have meltdowns, then boys who have meltdowns would not be getting diagnosed with anything. Their behavior would not be seen as pathological. If "It's more acceptable for boys to have meltdowns" were to explain any kind of diagnosis differential, it would be "Therefore girls who have meltdowns are diagnosed, while boys who have meltdowns are just considered normal boys." And, to be clear, that kind of thing is absolutely a factor in gender differences in diagnosis, but in the opposite direction from how people mean it. Like, as a "girl," I wasn't really expected or pressured to be athletic, so my absolutely abysmal gross motor skills were just shrugged at and not seen as a sign of disability. Can't run or throw? Well, I was a girl, and a nerd to boot. What do you expect? A "boy" with my level of gross motor skills would draw a lot more Concern.

ζ. "Girls are pressured to mimic/mask more than boys are," even if true (debatable), elides over the fact that many autistic "girls" can't "mimic/mask," because they are disabled. They have a disability. Because some of the things their society expects them to be able to do are things that they cannot, in fact, do. "Girls don't have meltdowns because they're not allowed to. Girls don't forget to do essential tasks because they're not allowed to. Girls don't --" Okay but they do. Girls do in fact very much do those things. Because they are disabled. Because they have disabilities. Because there are things they are expected to be able to do, which they cannot, in fact, do. And it's weirdly disability-erasing (ableist) to claim that people simply develop the ability to do things they can't do just because they're expected to.

heptad. Circling back to point A., while I can't prove it, I really think a lot of this "gendered autism" stuff is a way to pathologize and also explain away queerness/transness/gender-non-conformity in diagnosed-autistic kids. "Oh, no, don't worry, the reason your son consistently Fails At Masculinity isn't because he's some kind of sissy; it's actually because he has this Masculine Male Boy Disorder where he just doesn't understand how boys are supposed to behave. Lots of boys have it. No, no, the reason your 12 year old son is kissing his male friend on the mouth isn't because he's gay; he just has a social skills disorder and doesn't know that boys don't kiss their platonic guy mate dude friends. It's a very masculine disability. Elon Musk has it." I know somebody who was told by an Autism Mom that all autistic people are bisexual because "They don't know the difference." Sure, keep telling yourself that.

8️⃣. In the past, when I was less Galaxy Brain Mad Radicalized, I conceptualized the phenomenon of "'Boys' are diagnosed with autism while 'girls' with the exact same traits are diagnosed with depression/anxiety/OCD/BPD/ED" as a phenomenon of "Autistic girls, who objectively are autistic, whose objectively, scientifically correct diagnosis is autism, are misdiagnosed with psych disorders instead." But what neither autistic nor Mad people really want to admit is that "autism" is as arbitrary a diagnostic category as any other. No two human brains are exactly alike. All systems of classification are made up. I happen to think that the proposed explanatory mechanism of "autism" (brain processes sensory input/information differently than average, results in wildly uneven skill development) is generally more accurate than the proposed explanatory mechanism of most psych diagnoses (people are weird somehow and that's bad somehow), but it's still fairly arbitrary. People with autism diagnoses get ABA and people with psych diagnoses get CBT/DBT, and you can argue about which is worse, but ultimately anything with a B in it is fundamentally abusive. Abolish psychiatry.

[morganski-19]

Chills Right to the Marrow Part 62

ao3 link| part 1 . . . part 59, part 60, part 61

the first part takes place somewhere between parts part 37 and part 39, the second part takes place during part 40, and the last part takes place sometime between part 40 and part 41.

“No, no, no,” Steve complains as the radio just keeps talking. He had switched it to the game while he was making dinner, seeing if it was anything worth watching. “Come on.”

Considering how bad they were losing, it might give him more stress to watch it happen.

“Something goin’ on,” Wayne asks, rummaging around the fridge to find something to eat before going to work.

“Nothing serious. Just a bunch of idiots who can’t seem to actually score anything good.”

“Listening to the game?”

Steve laughs. “Yeah. Might just turn it off, it’s pissing me off.”

“Oh, I know the feeling. I normally listen to the game on my way to work, find myself turning it off when I can’t take it anymore.”

He turns to stir the stir fry he was making in the pan. Lowering the heat so it doesn’t burn. “If there’s nothing good in the fridge, you can have some of this. I made too much for myself anyway.”

“Thanks.” Wayne grabs a bowl. “If it won’t piss you off too much, we could go and watch some of the game before I have to leave.”

Something in that makes Steve freeze for a moment. No one ever offers to watch the games with him. Nancy would sometimes, back when they were dating, but was never really into it. Back when he was friends with Tommy and Carol, they would sneak off halfway through. And just the mere mention of watching it now makes Robin gag, and Dustin roll his eyes.

The only person he can remember watching it with was once with his dad. He was seven and his dad called him into the living room, made him sit down. Asked somewhere between the fifth and sixth inning if Steve ever wanted to play. He knew, then, that if he did, it would make his dad proud. He said yes.

He never liked playing baseball as much as watching it, though. He switched to basketball and swimming in middle school, played that the rest of the way through high school. But that moment was one of the only nice memories he had of his dad.

“Yeah,” he says. Trying to play off whatever he was feeling. “That would be nice.”

Wayne walks away, waiting for Steve as he searches for the channel on the TV. Steve sits down on the other end of the couch. Watching the train wreck of a game, but that’s not what he was focusing on anymore.

It’s stupid, he knows. But somewhere, right now, that hole in his chest fills a little bit. For a moment he can pretend that he’s seven years old again, watching the game with his dad. It’s better this time, though. Now it’s with someone who cares.

“If you ever wanted to make this a little sweeter, a small bit of honey goes a long way,” Wayne offers during a commercial break.

“Really.”

Wayne nods. “Just a little bit, don’t need to go wasting it. But it just adds a little more flavor to it.”

Steve smiles. “I’ll have to try that next time.”

. . .

Steve’s out in the garage when he hears it. Someone in the house calling out his name. The closer he gets, the more distressed it sounds. He tries to remain calm as he finds who it is, but the panic is there.

And then he realizes that it’s Dustin, and everything starts to crumble.

“Dustin,” he says, trying to mask the panic in his voice.

Dustin’s just standing there in the hall, tears streaming down his face. He opens his mouth to try to say something, but all that comes out is a sob. His knees buckle and Steve rushes forward to catch him.

“What’s wrong,” the panic asks. “Are you hurt?”

“You—” is all Dustin says, the words broken off with another sob.

Steve holds him upright and brings him to the living room. Gets him to sit down, calm down. When he starts to breath less frantically, Steve leaves to go get some water from the kitchen. He finds Dustin’s backpack, the radio inside going off like crazy.

“Dustin,” Mike’s voice cracks through. “Dustin, do you copy?”

He finds the walkie. “It’s Steve, he’s at my place.”

“Oh thank God. He just ran off; we didn’t know where he went.”

“Is he ok,” Lucas speaks over Mike to ask.

“Doesn’t look like he’s injured, I’m pretty sure he had a panic attack, though. I’m making sure he’s ok.”

“Ok. Thanks, Steve.”

He returns to the living room, finally gets Dustin to tell him what happened. All of this started because Steve wasn’t at work. Because he called out. The panic on his face says something different, though. Something deeper.

“Dustin, talk to me,” he tries to coax. “What’s going on?”

“No one tell me anything,” Dustin practically yells. “I have to find out everything from someone else, or days, or weeks later. I never get told anything by the person themselves. I’m always the last to know.”

“Dustin—” Steve tries to explain.

Dustin doesn’t let him, though. “No. I’m tired of the excuses. I’m tired of you saying that it’s not my thing to worry about. Because I do. No matter how hard you think you shield me from it, I worry about it. Every day I wake up and wonder if your head is killing you. If when I see you later, you’re going to be how you were before, or a ghost of yourself. If I’m going to look at you push yourself for my betterment. When I know that you’re in pain.”

Stupidly, Steve thought he was hiding it well enough. There was that little bit Dustin saw last week, but that was a one-time thing. He didn’t need to know more; he didn’t need to worry about Steve.

“You’re like a brother to me, Steve. You’re family. I don’t know why you think you can just get away with hiding this from me, but you can’t. Because I love you and all I’m asking is to know what is going on with you. Is that such a big thing to ask?”

Brother, family. Hearing those from Dustin hits Steve harder than he thought they would. Because, deep down, he knew that. He knew that him and Dustin were close, and that they acted like brothers would. There was just that voice in his head that told him it was all fake. That Steve couldn’t really mean that much to Dustin, not when he had a family of his own.

Steve pulls Dustin into a hug, holding him closer than he needs to. But really, he does need to. “I’m sorry.” It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s a start. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

. . .

Steve shoots out of his sleep, sitting upright. Breaths leaving his lungs faster than he can suck them in. Heart beating so fast, it could run right out of his chest.

A trembling hand reaches out to click the lamp on his bedside. Three things. The swim trophy he won in his senior year. The picture of the party on his desk. His overflowing laundry basket. All things that can’t be in that place. They are all too new.

He wasn’t there. He was home.

In for four, out for eight. Until his breathing slows, his heart calms. The jittering comes to a steady pace. He won’t be able to go back to sleep. But he’s at least not panicking.

Well, not as much as he was.

Because he needs to do something, he stands and grabs the laundry. Takes it to the laundry room and throws it in. Stops to go and change his clothes, before shoving them in the washer too. It isn’t enough.

He heads to the kitchen, pulls out a book and opens the dog-eared page. Begins a recipe that he probably knew by heart by now, but needs to read. Because the steps, the simplicity, the method, it was calming in a way he couldn’t voice.

Robin was the first person Steve ever baked with. She had come over one day back in the summer complaining that her mom was trying this new health trend, and refused to buy any chocolate chips. And well, since he had an empty house, and at that point a hefty food budget from his parents, he offered to get the stuff to make it.

At first, they used the recipe on the back of the bag. Spent most of the time laughing, and spilling half the ingredients on the floor. He didn’t care. It was the first time that the house felt alive again.

What he didn’t realize, then, was how calming baking could be. How following a recipe precisely could calm nerves. Place the fear into something productive, and give it away. Steve didn’t make much, sometimes he would stray from the simple recipe, but nothing brough comfort like homemade chocolate chip cookies. Nothing reminded him how much he wasn’t alone.  

“We have to stop meeting like this, Steve,” Eddie’s voice echoes through the kitchen. He walks over to the island, taking a seat. “What will the town say?”

Steve smiles. “I don’t care for what the town says about me anymore.”

Eddie stares at him for a moment, thinking that Steve doesn’t notice. He does. It was painfully obvious, but Steve didn’t care. It’s been so long that someone stared at him for who he is, instead of who they want him to be. The look made Steve feel alive, in a way, like he was still capable of something.

And really, if Steve wanted to push, it could mean that the ignited heat that traveled with each stare might lead to something. Because, if his peripheral wasn’t fooling him, Eddie looked at him with such adoration it made Steve simultaneously melt and feel like a phony. How someone as amazing as Eddie looked at him like that, he didn’t know. But he felt like he didn’t deserve it.

“What are you making,” Eddie asks as Steve cracks the second egg into the bowl.

“Chocolate chip cookies.”

Eddie hums. “Didn’t take you as much of a baker. Especially a midnight baker. There’s a backstory to that one, I’m sure. Let me see.”

He does this thing, sometimes, where he just goes off on a tangent of one thought melding together with the next. Creative thoughts stringing together in one story, much larger than it needs to be. Steve likes listening to it, though. It’s kinda cute.

“So either,” Eddie continues, “you are so ashamed of your secret love for baking that you only allow yourself to partake in such activities in the dead of night. Or. You are secretly a night owl, which is why you are so perky in the morning. You’ve already been up for hours, and are not tired.”

He laughs. “I’m not that perky in the mornings.”

“If you smile at me before eight am, that therefore makes you perky.”

“Maybe I just like smiling at you. Ever think of that?” He looks at Eddie when he says that. Sees the teasing smile turn into shock. Unexpected shock, but not unpleasant.

Steve’s reckless with his feelings sometimes. It makes him say things like that. Makes that beating of his heart come back. But instead of fear, it pumps him full of something else. Something terrified him in a way he was comfortable with.

And it meant that Eddie looked at him like that, and let Steve know it. It made Steve think that maybe, just maybe, he isn’t crazy for this. He hasn’t lost his mind. He isn’t making a stupid mistake. He might just be making the right decision for once.

The oven beeps that it’s done preheating, breaking Steve away. He hopes that it doesn’t mean Eddie does too.

“How’d I do,” Eddie asks as Steve starts to place cookies on the sheet pan. “With my guesses.”

“Not entirely wrong, I am up for longer than you think I am, sometimes. But not because I’m secret night owl.”

Eddie reaches out and steals the spatula. Hesitating for a moment to see if Steve would stop him. He doesn’t. “Why then?”

“Nightmares.”

The room falls to silence except for the clicking of the scoop.

Steve sighs. “When I get a bad one, I need to do something to get my mind off it. If it’s light out, I go for a run, or a drive. If it’s night, I bake. Sometimes I clean, but that never really helps as much as baking does. Not sure why that sticks so much.”

“I get it,” Eddie almost whispers as Steve slides the cookies into the oven. “Before, when my hands didn’t actively hate me, if I couldn’t sleep, I would play something on my acoustic. It helped calm me down. Playing songs I knew by heart, feeling the motions of my hand playing the notes, it was the most calm I ever felt.”

He wishes he was there to watch Eddie play. He could only hear it, just slightly able to differentiate the live playing from the recording. Steve can imagine what he looked like, but he wished he didn’t have to.

“You’re going to be able to play again, you know.” He doesn’t know what compels him to say it, but he really believes it. “With your determination, I think you could do anything.”

Eddie scoffs, rich in pain. “I wish I was as optimistic as you are.”

“Just because you think that it won’t ever happen again, doesn’t mean it won’t. That pool out there, I haven’t been able to fill it for two years. Something happened in there that made me never want to fill it again. But I did. And maybe when I stop thinking something’s going to pull me into another dimension, I’ll be able to swim in it again.” He turns to look out the kitchen window, seeing the moonlight reflect on the water. “I used to love to swim.”

He did. Before the upside down, when it was just a normal life that were giving him problems, he would swim lap after lap. Until his muscles were sore and his body still felt the waves of the water even when on land. Each time his arm crashed into the water, his frustrations melted away.

“Maybe both of us could find a way to love what we used to again,” Steve finishes.

He turns back to look at Eddie, seeing a mix of emotions in his face. The thing that stands out the most is the want to believe him. The want to believe that the weakness in his hands won’t stop him from playing again. That somewhere in the future, it could be possible to.

Steve really believes that it’s possible. It will just take time. Far too much time, creating nothing but frustration and anger. But it is possible. He believes that. And maybe, just maybe, if Steve could still be lucky enough to have Eddie in his life, he could witness it happen.

If the secondary look that Eddie’s giving him is any solace that what Steve feels isn’t one sided, maybe it could guarantee that. Maybe, if Steve could find the words and tell him, or lean forward and just take a chance, he could see if it’s possible.

The timer beeps, breaking whatever moment they had. It’s for the best, really. Steve can’t lose a friendship over the possibility of maybe. He’s lost too much already to that.

apparently my goal when writing this is how much I can make myself cry, because that bit with Wayne and Dustin definitely got me there

tag list (closed): @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar,

@tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda,

@fandomsanddeath, @marismorar, @wonderland-girl143-blog, @glass-bottle03, @gutterflower77,

@here4thetrama, @goodolefashionedloverboi, @jaytriesstuff, @cryptid-system, @manda-panda-monium,

@resident-gay-bitch, @anaibis, @xxsutherlandxx, @forevermineliv, @mugloversonly,

@gregre369, @n0-1-important, @different-tale-student, @spectrum-spectre, @tartarusknight,

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@greeniebean911, @cr0w-culture, @stillfullofshit, @connected-dots, @daisynotquake,

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@papergrenade, @waelkyring, @sweetheartprincess28, @katouasobj, @astercomoasflores

[syndrossi]

This setting tends to lend itself well to angst, political and family drama, and the premises of the stories revolves heavily around family feels. But which one of your AU's has the greatest potential for comedic nonsense? The silly antics, the absurd shenanigans, all of them.

Most of them have some potential, if you're willing shift the tone for a story!

Restoration: Utter shenanigans with the dragons and starklings. Ned getting roasted for his honorable bastards way of life. Every holdfast in the Vale watching a dragon approach and a white-haired, wild-eyed Targaryen throwback demanding to know if they've kidnapped his children. Popcorn popping across the Free Cities that Daemon doesn't terrify at the stories coming out of the south and across the Narrow Sea.

Reverberate+Regnal: All the chaos the twins can get into as they grow up. The terrible twos from Daemon and Rhea's POV. Baelon appointing the five-year-old twins his advisors for the day to the small council and the eyebrow-raising council session that ensues. Any of @inkykate's pitches for Jon accidentally upending mountain clan politics after stubbornly trying to find his way around a collapsed bridge and getting lost. The King's Landing trio (Laenor, Laena, Rhaenyra) pining after Daemon and egging one another on into stupid dares for his attention. Baelon trying Daemon out as a diplomat...somewhere he doesn't mind pissing off in case it doesn't work out and the mess it creates. Daemon and Rhea getting into a battle of increasingly ridiculous one-upmanship over the twins' affections...the possibilities are endless!

Rescue: ...okay, this one probably doesn't have any.

Reversal: Every stupid thing every person does to win the affections of the twin princesses. Rhaegar/Rhaella having an absolute field day, sending suitors on increasingly ridiculous quests to see just how stupid they're going to be, until it becomes a competition between her and Jon/Aemma. Aegon and Aemond being the stupidest about it, possibly. Otto despairing at them being idiots.

Knight of Stars: People actually believing that Arthur is Daemon's bastard son (either because they go with that cover story for some reason or because a singer writes a song and it's all over from there). A short story about Jon and Rhaegar (during a rebellious phase) evading every single Princesguard set on them except Arthur, who is always summoned to find them and always manages to succeed. (The Cargyll brothers have a 50% chance of success.) Political absurdity as the Iron Throne and Sunspear exchange nasty ravens about kidnapping, plots, stealing precious national artifacts (Dawn), etc.

Aemon's Sons: I feel like there's a Corlys-stuck-responsible-for-the-twins story in here where they drive him to panic. Twins + Daemon likely get up to quite the shenanigans, too, and any time the twins go missing, it's a realm-wide crisis because those are the heirs after Aemon.

Resonant: Not an AU, but still room for comedy! @textbookchoices's suggestion from long ago about the smaller council, aka the small council but for all the Targaryen kids and their little sessions, complete with props that Viserys commissions because he's so charmed by it, where the adults fight over the "honor" of being the kids' cupbearer of grape juice, and Daemon uses underhanded tactics to win whenever possible.