#obviously they would treat him unkindly

[mayhaps-a-blog]

Just one fanfic idea that I got from aysyndic: Thrawn snapping at the Ascendancy for all the manipulation and bantha shit that he was put through while the rebels watching with popcorn

That's a cool idea! Not sure it quite fits with how I tend to write Thrawn - in my head, he doesn't snap, really, and I'm fond of the "I don't see any of this as unusual" idea of how Thrawn sees his treatment by the Syndicure.

If I wrote something like this... it wouldn't necessarily be snapping, and something would have to precipitate it. The Grysk war, maybe, Thrawn (or Rebel!Thrawn) returns from Imperial space with the forces to turn the tide, and while doing so, is stymied or taken to task by the Syndicure in some fashion. Rather than snapping in the angry "how dare you treat me like this" fashion, Thrawn instead simply loses the last of whatever faith in the Syndicure he ever had, decides that they have clearly lost the last of their competence in leadership and have fallen too far into the trap of the Grysk, and calmly and logically (to him anyway) stages a military coup to replace them.

Insert This Is Fine gif.

[inklore]

forbidden cravings

premise: stay in your room; that's all you had to do. a simple demand that you planned on following until something goes bump in the night and you're trapped between two monsters.

pairing: vampire!din djarin x reader x vampire!bo-katan kryze

word count: 5k

contents: blood and biting obviously, oral, threats, murder mention, reader is a little clueless, power imbalance, bo is kinda evil but we love her for it, brief mention of piv.

note: this took me way too long to write and by the end of it i was very tired so hopefully someone out there enjoys this lmao. i could possibly see myself writing more within this little world, maybe.

haunted hoedown day five.

You had never noticed how creaky the house was until tonight. Until you were stuck in a dark, dampened room. Your only light coming from the candle at your bedside, the moon, and the flashes of lightening through the windows. The deep red drapes that match the ones that hang around the four poster bed in the middle of the room, that look ancient and eerie, set your already on edge nerves into a frenzy of fight of flight.

You had dusted this room many times. Have been past the threshold and seen it painted in the daylight. 

But never at night. 

You were prohibited from being here past nightfall. 

The master of the house—your boss—had made it clear upon your first interview a year ago that you’d only be needed in the daytime. That staying after nightfall was not something he needed you around for, and it would be of best interest to the house if you departed once the sun set. 

It’s a rule you questioned little. A rule you were fine and happy to obey. 

It wasn’t your job to question it. It wasn’t your place. 

You were the housekeeper, nothing else. Nothing less. Nothing more. 

And you’d never think of going against the lord of the manor, Din Djarin. 

The infamous inventor. 

The mysterious scholar.

The man with whom you’ve slowly bloomed a friendship with while you’ve worked here. The two of you have spent hours in his library with your fingertips, running along old books, relics he’s come across in his travels, and blue prints for inventions he one day wishes to create. 

The pair of you bonding over the love of old words and worlds you wish you could have been a part of. 

Working for him and being in his home—the dark gray spiraling staircases, the arched doorways, the black and red wallpaper that look hundreds of years old and yet look like they’d just been done yesterday—was a joy. 

A better job than working at the mill or getting by on your looks alone to put food on the table. 

You lucked out. Was honored to get the position and even more honored to befriend the destinguishinly handsome Lord Djarin. 

His staff soon became like a second family to you. A home away from home—a much more beautiful and sprawling home than your own, but a home in all senses of the word. 

Not even the curfew could dampen your love or the job. 

The only thorn in your side, the only downfall—negativity—to working for the Lord was his companion, his wife, Lady Kryze. 

While most days, the two of you would rarely cross paths. Her off on travel, or in the west wing of the house that you seldom find yourself in. 

But when appearance’s were known, brief or not, she always had a look of haughtiness about her. Her red hair laying perfectly on her shoulders, and her dresses always form fitting and beautifully cascading to the floor. The neck line plunged lower than what’s usually considered proper—that always made your cheeks heat when you found yourself rudely staring, a smirk on her lips that quickly got washed away with a scornful arch of her brows. 

She had never been rude to you. Had never demanded of you or treated you unkindly the way one would think when you looked at her intimidatingly beautiful face. The power you know she held with just a look, a twitch of a smile, or the flick of her fingers. 

She was the opposite of Lord Djarin. 

The two seeming an odd match for two people destined to be together. 

Your schoolgirl crush on the Lord of the Manor definitely having little to do with your opinion on the fact. 

It had been Lady Kryze who had suggested you stay. Almost demanding it, with the weather outside being too dangerous to travel. The winds whistling through the old bones of the house. The rain coming down like heavy hail. The thunder that you could feel deep in your bones each time it rumbled. 

Lord Djarin had protested on the matter. Said you could wait out the storm but insisted you leave after. 

“Don’t be rude, honey.” Lady Kryze had said. The sentiment, honey, came off more as an insult than as something sweet and tender. The look on the Lord’s face one of strain and frustration. A warning flashed in his eyes before he gave you a tight lipped smile and nodded in agreement. 

And now here you are. Dressed in a nightgown that Lady Kryze had supplied you with. The white fabric feeling almost like satin against your chilled skin, the lack of heat coming from the radiator on the other side of the room making you frown as your breasts made it more than clear how your body was reacting to the draft in the room—to the cold storm outside. 

The loud thump that startles you from outside of your door tears your gaze from the window and elevates your unease when you put your ear to the dark wood and hear nothing but the old house talking in the way one does in storms or settling.

Lord Djarin had ordered you to stay in your room. To lock the door from the inside and try to get some rest. Assuring you that all was alright, the drafts liked to open the doors at night. 

Listening to the plea in his voice that he tried to hide with his endearing smile was enough to convince you not to try it. To listen to his words. To do what had been asked of you without question once again. 

But the thump comes again. This time, sounding closer. Perhaps a glass broke somewhere in the hall. 

Your teeth chew at your bottom lip in worry. 

What if the Lord or Lady needed help? What if they had fallen? The lack of electricity in the house was more than a factor, a reason, for something that could cause a fall. Candlelight only shows so much in these dark halls. 

And while there had been no cry for help. No croak, groan, or indication that someone needs help; you can’t help the way your heart escalates or why you ignore the nerves, making your hand shake as you unlock the door, twist the cold handle, and open it a sliver. 

Your eyes search the vast darkness of the hall within the tiny space you’ve given yourself. The lit candles in the holders on the wall do little to aid in you seeing anything other than small glows of orange light past the railing that lines the hall. 

The words of the Lord push into the back of your mind as you open the door more and poke your head out into the dark space. The strings of lightening outside paint the empty hall in blue light. Streaking against the dark wallpaper hauntingly. 

“Lord Djarin?” Your voice is faint compared to the booming thunder outside. A gulp of air fills your lungs when you get enough bravery to step fully out of your room and speak a little louder, “Lady Kryze?” 

The silence only pushes you forward. 

Has your bare feet cold and weary against the long rug on the hardwood floor. The floorboards creak with each step that you take.

The portraits of unknown people by unknown painters look more intimidating and scary the longer you venture through the hall. The candles shadow their faces in scowls that aren’t normally there in the daylight. 

Your fingers dig into the side of your nightgown, bunching up the fabric as your heart hammers against your ribs. 

Maybe you should go back to your room. Maybe it was nothing. The rooms with open doors were dark and abandoned. The staircases are bare, and the entryway below, when you look over the rail, is completely encased in darkness.

Maybe it had come from the west wing of the house. Maybe it was a branch outside. Your mind isn’t sure. Isn’t thinking about anything other than getting back to your room, engulfing yourself in the bedspread, and trying to ignore every creepy sound that the storm outside aids in the houses off putting nature.

Being here at night was, in fact, something your nerves could not handle, it seemed. 

You sigh. Come to a stop at the last door along the hallway. Your bottom lip sore from your worrying. Whatever the thump was, it’s not something as drastic as your mind had probably come up with, and unless you feel like venturing down the stairs and through the rest of the house, it wasn’t your concern—and the prospect made you shiver knowing some parts of the house didn’t have candles lining the walls. 

But when you turn to head back to your room, your body crashes into another, and the scream you let out rings along with a crack of thunder, filtering the hallway into a horrific sound of chaos and fear. 

“You were told to stay in your room.” 

“Oh my—" your hand flies to your chest. The beat of your heart feels as if it might beat it’s way out of the cavern of your ribs. Your lungs finally fill with the air that had been whooshed out of you when you had collided with the other person once you realized who it was. “Lady Kryze.” 

“I was told you listen to directions well,” her smile is pressed and sure. Humorous in the way her eyes move along your appearance. The relief you felt from it being her soon dying when you remember how see through your nightgown is. Your arms cross over your bare chest. “How misguided.” 

“I-I was just,” you swallow. Try to get your breathing back to normal. Try to stop the pounding in your ears matching up with the rain outside—with the booms of thunder. “I heard a noise.” You manage to get out. The amused raise of her brow makes your body heat up in something akin to embarrassment or a child running to their mother at night because they are scared. 

Lady Kryze hums, “many things go bump in the night around here. It’s an old house.”

“Of course,” you nod. “Yes.” You laugh nervously, breathy, and unsure. Trying to ease the tension that’s growing between the two of you. Worried you might be jobless come morning. “I apologize. I was just worried that you or Lord Djarin may have been hurt.”

“You’re a doctor? Here I thought you were a maid.” Her smile is mocking, unkind. But that’s when you finally take her fully in. With the flashes of lightening through the window at the end of the hall, giving light to the shadows that dance along her face in the candlelight.

She looks…different. 

There's a deep red tint to her lips that’s not usually there. You can’t recall the last time you saw her wear lipstick, let alone that shade. Her hair is darker and more unruly at the bottom than usual. Than the sleek look of perfection it’s always at. Her clothes—her dress—stained a deep red and ripped at the top, standing her paler than normal skin out. 

Your eyes look down to her nails; they’re longer. Stained the same shade as her lips and her dress. 

Somethings not right.

And when your gaze meets hers again, you can see how much darker her eyes look than what you’re used to seeing below that scowl. Bigger. Almost as if her pupils had doubled in size.

Your lack of subtlety seems to give you away when you quickly try to sidestep her and head for your room. 

“Now that I know you’re both fine, I’ll just go back to my room now.” You say softly, give her a forced smile as you try to keep your composure and act as normal as you would if you weren’t scared out of your skin. 

Lady Kryze laughs under her breath. Let’s you step past her and walk one, two, or five steps before there’s a grip at the back of your elbow and your back is being slammed into the wall. The gasp of your lungs deflates from the pressure puffing out against her face with how close she is. 

“Lady Kr-”

“Bo.” She corrects, her eyes wandering down your face, pausing at your lips and the junction where your jaw meets your neck. Swallowing hard before her gaze cascades to your chest, “I always hated the pleasantries Din demanded we go by to fit in with you…humans.” 

“You humans?” You give her a quizicall look, too much going on in your nervous system to comprehend her words. To make sense of them when the fear of the emotion in her eyes reads hunger. 

And when she laughs again, her smile more genuine than any you’ve seen spread across her perfectly proportioned lips before; you see it. See them.

The pointed teeth that have replaced her normal ones. 

The way they gleam off of the orange glow of the candles. The way they make you swallow. Make your chest hurt from the bruising your heart is doing to your ribs from beating so fast. 

What is she?

“I thought you were smart? With the way Din talks about you, I imagined you would have figured it out by now. Especially with how close the two of you have been getting.” The accusation makes your heart stop. A cold fear pricking at your insides that makes your skin feel clammy. 

The raising of her brow makes the feeling worse as you shake your head. Open your mouth to protest on the matter, to not encourage the accusation that there might be something going on with Lord Djarin and you, her husband. 

“Don’t worry,” she smirks. Leans in closer so her lips are ghosting over the shell of your ear as she murmurs, “I like to share.” Your body trembles when her hand leaves your shoulder and her fingers run along the side of your breast. Her pointer skating along your erect nipple, making you gasp softly. “We both do.” 

“Lady Kryze–I,” there’s words meant to come out. Words meant to put an end to whatever this standoff, or showdown, is. You’re lost, you’re captivated, and you’re frightened. But her cheeks and lips brush against yours as she moves herself back so she can look at you; her dark eyes make every syllable on your tongue lay thick and weighted down like sludge. 

There’s a silence that has enough tension to make your body buzz and your brain catch up to put the puzzle pieces together with the information that has always been laid out for you. Things you took as old family traditions you didn’t care to understand. 

The presistant curfew, the eerie darkness that hung over the manor once the sun started to set. The mysterious cases of maids and butlers going missing without a trace. The town just beyond your own’s population dwindling down. Neighbors and friends gone. 

Lady Kryze’s dark eyes, her teeth. 

“You’re the cause of all the disappearances.” It’s not a question because you already know the answer. The slow spread of her lips only solidified the gathered information in your head to fit neatly in a box of truths. “And,” you swallow, hate how your heart aches at the very thought. “Lord Djarin..he–”

“Is much more discrete than I.” She seems to find a silent annoyance in the statement. In the way your body lets out a shaky breath as if you’re relieved. It makes her eye twitch before she’s leaning in again, her lips closer to yours now. Her breath smells of metal. “He doesn’t like to indulge in the bounty we’ve been given. Says it’s not right to eat thy neighbor.” Her tongue runs across her bottom lip, one of her sharp teeth catching on the skin. “I say, why waste such delicious gifts? And delicious they are, especially the ones who beg. The ones who let me play with my food before I eat it.” 

Her laugh makes your body shiver. A reaction she seems to like too much, as her lips skim across yours. The metallic scent of her tongue inhaled by your shaky breaths and swallowed down, leaving your throat dry and your tongue itching to reach out for the source. 

The source of it’s weight, the source of the ache in your jaw with the need to drink. A thirst for what you’re sure is water and not the nourishment that’s so clearly painted Lady Kryze’s lips red and her tongue. Your body willing to use any source of fluid to aid you. 

Not because the metallic linger of her breath sits on your tastebuds like an open invitation. Not because her fingers are still at the side of your breast, your peaked nipple aching to be brushed over by her again. 

“Will you let me play with you?” Her nose brushes yours as her head turns, and her lips just catch the corner of your mouth, a gasp leaving your lips as they move across your cheek and her teeth clip on your jawline. “I know how hard it is for my husband to be near you every day and not sink his teeth into this beautiful neck. You look as good as you’ll taste.” 

A moan racks your ribcage when her hand grips the side of your neck, bending it so the other side is on full display and her lips press to the sensitive flesh. Her tongue coming out to run the tip lightly against you, like she doesn’t dare indulge too much. Like it’s an appetizer to what she really wants. 

A trail of bruising kisses and hungry noises coming from the woman making your chest heave, your fingers daring to come up to her elbow to grip the fabric of her dress as an anchor—or to pull her closer—you're not too sure what your body wants, your senses not matching up with the fear still plaguing your brain. 

“Will you run for me, little rabbit?” You can feel the amusement at her own words with the smirk that’s pressed just below your ear. Your body canting at the derogatory pet name.

Until her next words come out of her mouth in a booming shriek that makes your ears ring and your body recoil from her in defense to protect itself from wrath. 

“Run!”

And you do. 

Not turning back to look to see if she’s chasing you. All the heat once again drained from your body, any pleasure you had been feeling doused out, and brought tears burning at the corners of your eyes. 

The candles on the wall continue to be your guiding light. Even when you step on something that makes you hiss. That tears the skin on the bottom of your foot enough to stutter your sprint. A limp catches in your leg as you try to make haste.

You were foolish for staying here. Foolish for leaving your room. Foolish for not seeing what this house really was or what it’s occupants really were.

Foolish. 

If there had been a spell, you had fallen for it. Like a silly little girl.

The closer you get to your chamber door, the harder your heart beats against your ribs. The harder you try to ignore the sting in your heel. The harder it is for you to breathe. 

The distance only seems to get further and further away from safety the longer you try for it. The longer your eyes strain in the candlelight to not step on something else that could make you completely imobile. Completely at Lady Kryze’s mercy. 

Who you don’t hear behind you. 

Who—upon your better judgment, one would say—you look for as you turn your head towards the path behind you. Your blood running cold when you see that all the candles have completely gone out and you can’t see a thing. 

The flashes of lightening from the windows down below cascading the barest amount of light onto the floor. 

It’s the least of your worries when your body collides with a wall. 

Or what feels like a wall—a strained ache coming to your chest upon the collusion, your body thrown backwards as you groan from the impact your tailbone makes against the hard floor. 

And when your eyes open, you realize it’s not a wall you’ve collided with; it’s Lord Djarin. 

“I told you to stay in your room.” His voice is full of authority and aggravation as he pulls you from the floor. It’s a tone he’s never used on you, a grip on your arm that’s much more cruel than the light touches of fleeting moments spent together. 

“She–Lady Kryze–She.”

“Is insatiable, yes.” There’s a growl that’s completely for his wife’s sake and not your own. But the sound still makes your stomach clench. Your body dragged along the hallway by the hands of the man you’re now realizing is more dangerous than any normal man. 

A monster.

Like his wife.

And yet, you feel safe in his tight grasp. Feel safe with the memories you share with him. Of him. The man you knew before the monster. 

The fear of him never coming. 

The fear only comes back once you’ve reached your room, and he’s pushing you through the door only for your back to collide with something icy that grips your wrist and snakes it’s fingers along the column of your neck to hold you against it.

“Bo.” Lord Djarin’s voice is stern. Angry. 

“Darling.” You can feel the smile that’s wrapped around the word even without seeing Lady Kryze’s face. 

The cold of her body seeping through your night dress and against your skin—a cold that’s not from the fear of what she is rather than what she’s doing. What has stained her lips and tongue and what you wanted so badly to taste just minutes ago. The same deep red clearly stained in the front fabric of your gown that you hadn’t noticed until now.

Until you’re standing in front of Lord Djarin, your night dress more see through and clinging to your body, where it’s damp from blood and straining against your breasts. 

Lady Kryze’s grip tightens on your throat, and it makes a breathless noise fall from your lips. A noise that has Lord Djarin’s eyes honing in on your mouth, moving along to his wife's hand on your throat, before plunging down to your chest. A hard swallow and a deep scowl shot at the woman holding you in her vise. 

“Let her go.”

“We were just having a little fun. Weren’t we?” Her teeth knick your earlobe, and it makes your body contort against her hold. “See,” she smirks. 

“Bo. No.” His tone has finality. Has something that wordlessly lets you know he’s tired of this topic; he’s clearly told her no on before. 

Something inside your stomach lightens up and burns at the thought of Lord Djarin denying his wife the pleasure of making you a meal time and time again. Was it out of respect? Care? Want?

Did she want to sink her teeth into you so badly because of jealousy at the closeness you and her husband had found the longer you worked here? No, she said they like to share. Said she likes to share. 

Was it want then?

The want to do more than end your life by draining you.

“Come on, Din.” The hand at your wrist does a show of crawling with her sharp nails over your midsection and to your hip to start pulling up your night dress. Your thighs quickly come into view as she bunches the fabric further and further up. A shyness takes over you as you wiggle in her grasp as you watch Lord Djarin’s eyes follow the movement with a hungry look. “We all know you want her.” 

Her lips press against your jaw as she murmurs to you, “he never allows himself to indulge in the things he wants. He’s so disciplined. Such a good man. He’d never let it slip that after you leave his library, he bends me over his desk and fucks me the way he wishes he could fuck you.”

An involentary noise that get’s choked out of your throat makes her laugh softly, “tell him he can have you. Tell him you like it.” Your eyes lock with his; his eyes just as dark and monstrous as his wife's now that you’re really looking at them. His lips that deep red—the same red you smelled and craved to taste on her lips. 

Your thighs inwardly press together, causing the pressure between them to ease the slightest, but grow worse when your backside pushes back against Lady Kryze and she lets out a noise that sounds just as lovely as she looks. 

“Look, Din.” A heat comes to your cheeks as the rest of the fabric of your gown is pulled above your hips, showcasing your nakedness to both of them. “There’s no denying she wants you,” her fingers move down to grip your inner thigh. The clear and evident proof of your arousal—that you’re not sure was caused earlier or right now—coats your skin and her fingers. 

“No, she is not-”

“What? Food?” Lady Kryze laughs, “we both know you’d never let me drain her. Nor could you bear to have anything but her essence touch your tongue. But she can be a toy. You can fuck her. We both can.” 

You can see the internal battle he’s fighting with himself—against his wife, against what’s right, against his want. 

And there’s a part of you that understands. That knows this is wrong. That has barely come to terms with what they are—monsters, myths, and scary stories you tell little children at night to get them to go to bed. 

But then the proof of your arousal, of your own want is being toyed with between your thighs as Lady Kryze runs a finger through your wetness. Your hips canting against her hand as she pulls it away just as quick as it was there and holds her finger out to her husband. 

“Taste her.”

His head is about to shake; you can sense it. See it before it happens by the way his fists bunch at his sides. Maybe that's why you finally find your voice, “please.”

And it’s as if those are the words he’s been waiting for you to say since the day you’ve met. Since you’ve started working for him. The speed at which he’s against your front and his lips are wrapped around the finger that has gathered the wetness from your pussy makes you feel woozy. 

Makes you sway on your feet and loosen in Lady Kryze’s hold. Her nails dig into your flesh as she holds you tighter, keeping you upright for her husband. 

Whose finger is under your chin, mouth daringly close to yours as he murmurs, “are you certain?”

Do you want this?

Do you want all it entails if you let this continue?

His dark eyes speak; let you know that he’ll stop this. That while you might be weak in comparison to who they truly are, you have a say, and he’ll do whatever you wish. 

A wise woman would heed the warning that’s in the brow he raises. Thats in the descent of his finger down your chin and to your jugular. Your heartbeat thudding against the pad of his finger. His tongue comes out to wet his bottom lip as his eyes cast to your neck and then up to his wife. 

Who's giving him a smile you can’t see but can feel in the way her body shifts, pulling your thighs apart easily. Lord Djarin needs no more confirmation for either of you as he falls to his knees, a rough hand cupping the back of your thigh to lift and bring it up and over his shoulder. 

Your back arching, and a gasp rakes through your body when you feel the bite of teeth against your inner thigh. Feel the sting of punctured skin, the pull of something inside that’s making your eyes flutter, and the pressure in your lower belly thumping at the same speed as your heart. 

When your eyes shift down, when he’s stopped, when you feel like you could either pass out or come from just this, you see blood—your blood—staining his lips and tongue. See his eyes go even darker, black, and void of any human attributes. Making him look entirely like a monster that’s hungry, starved. 

And you’ve completely offered yourself up for the taking. 

There’s a deep moan coming from Lord Djarin as his fingers and tongue clean his mouth. It’s obscene as much as it is beautiful to watch. Your arousal only grows worse at the sight. 

“How does she taste?” 

“Exqusite.” He murmurs against your skin, his tongue running over the marks he’s just left in your thigh, working it’s way up to the apex of your thigh. Your legs shake the closer he gets to your pussy. 

A cry burns your lungs when you feel him dive into you without any warning. His tongue licking through your wetness, his nose pressing against your clit. The tip of it creates a slow grind that only intensifies when you cant your hips up. When you thrust against the air, his tongue slips inside of you, pushing it further inside. Your fingers dig into the sides of your dress as you try not to completely collapse against either of them. 

The pleasure coursing through your body makes that easier said than done. 

Lady Kryze is humming against your cheek, her hand coming down to slow the movement of your hips. “Take your time, little rabbit.” She trails kisses and soft bites over and under your jaw to your earlobe, where she lets the tip of her tongue run against it. “Because once you’ve come, you’re mine to play with.” 

[bubuslutty]

pirate!captain Price au

word count: 1.2k

warnings: none. pretty sfw

a/n: im so in love with him it's pathetic. that's all I have to say

I need pirate!Captain Price.

I need him smoking with his foot propped up on the edge of his ship, the wind making his long coat dance in the wind.

I need him to stroke his beard while listening to whatever poor excuse someone gives him while owing him money before he orders his boys to tie them up and throw them to the sharks.

I need him to be ruthless with a soft spot for the misfits and orphans, more than often giving money to the beggars when he thinks no one is looking.

I need him to be a huge tease and start trimming his beard with his knife, or sword when someone’s boring him with loads of bullshit.

I need him to kiss a Lady breathless right before he jumps out of her window after he and his boys just robbed them of their riches.

I need him to place his hat on his face and take a nap on his hammock, snoring loudly away while his boys are daring each other to jump naked in the cold sea.

I need him to be so confident in himself and his skills, but not feel the need to prove it to anyone. He can take up anyone in a fight and win. He could have chugged 4 pints and was a bit wobbly on his feet, but as soon as he has his gun or sword in his hand, he never misses. Or heck, even his own fists could kill a man even if he was drunk, with pink cheeks, glassy eyes and all.

He’s fast, rude and absolutely despised by the Royal Navy. He’s been caught a couple of times and thrown in prison so he could be hung for his crimes, but he managed to escape every time. And when he didn’t, he would be standing in the middle of a clearing, waiting to be hung when his boys come out of nowhere, raining bullets and fire on the Navy, rescuing their Captain like they’ve done it a million times before. And the only reason he allowed himself to stay in the hands of the Navy for that long is because his boys begged him to let them rescue him, because according to their words, “It’d be fun."

I need pirate!Captain Price to be loved by pub owners and whores. Because not only is he generous when it comes to paying for everyone’s food and drinks, he’s generous in giving out as many orgasms as his partner for the night wants. He would treat the whores like Ladies, even though they won’t consider themselves anything close to high-class proper Lady. And when everyone’s satiated and drowsy, Price makes sure to leave a hefty amount of money under their pillow before he leaves.

Pirate!Captain Price who wouldn’t want to settle down any time soon, who feels more comfortable in constantly moving around and being surrounded by his boys, who’re practically his family. He feels like he’s meant to be some sort of shepherd to those who the streets treat unkindly. He’d rather offer a job to someone than see them lost in the streets, with no one to rely on. So he’s some sort of Robin Hood in his own ways.

And when fate finally slaps him across the face with love, it happens in the most unexpected ways. It happens on a random Monday, Gaz shouts that there’s another ship not far off on the East and everyone gets ready to attack it. When they do attack the ship, swinging abroad and scaring the crewmate shitless, John finds himself in the middle of a wedding, a bride, groom, guests and the priest about to make them say their vows.

And everyone is obviously terrified, but John’s no cruel man, he can’t ruin a poor couple’s special day, so he thinks about leaving until he meets the bride’s eyes. She was pretty, oh so pretty all dressed in white lace and pearls, but she also looked terrified, hands trembling on her sides and he understands, she was scared for her life. John glances at his boys and tells them to leave without saying a word, and then he notices the tables with wine and champagne, and John has to have a sip or bottle, doesn’t matter.

And that’s how he makes the biggest mistake ever, he walks to the front, where the couple was frozen along with the priest with the table to their left, and really, why put the drinks at the front? Why not at the back? But John doesn’t care to think too much of it, he ignores an old woman flinching and slapping a hand over her mouth and he hums, picks a flute of champagne, and their biggest, most expensive bottle of wine.

Right as his lips were about to touch the edge of the flute, he sees a blur of ivory white in the corner of his eyesight, and everything happens so fast that he failed to stop the bride from grabbing his sword right under his nose. John meets her eyes and it was the first time he truly felt scared for his life, her eyes were dark and absolutely furious and he thought that was it, he was about to die by the feet of a priest and groom, stabbed to death by the prettiest bride he’s ever seen, truly an Angel sent down to pierce his heart and make him bleed for all of his sins.

But she doesn’t stab him.

Instead, she buries the sword in her groom’s heart and the ship erupts in horrified gasps and screams. John watches in real time how the priest faints and how the groom meets his bride’s eyes, unable to breathe while his clothes are getting soaked in pure red at a concerning speed. He curses her out and John is so lost, what the fuck did just happen?

And it seemed like that was not all because the bride is panting and had a wild look on her face, and she turns to someone in the crowd, screaming at the top of her lungs, “I TRUSTED YOU!”

John looks at the crowd and quickly sees an older woman with a guilty and terrified look on her face, hm, must be her mother, same eyes and hair. Then the click of a gun somehow reaches John’s ears in the chaos and he sees a man lift his gun, pointing it towards the bride, and John realises it’s the poor bloke’s father who the bride just killed. John’s hands drop the bottle, the liquid staining his clothes and he grabs the bride without thinking, he throws her over his shoulder and snatches back his sword and jumps out of the window, landing on his ship.

And he doesn’t have to say anything before his boys steer his ship away and they sail as fast and as far as the wind carries them, away from the mess the bride left behind. Well, she wasn't a bride anymore, was she?

When John’s senses catch up with his reality, he finds himself hovering over the bride, her see-through veil still draped over her angelic face, doing nothing to hide her wild eyes as she stared at John, chest heaving up and down. And he was still clutching onto his sword, the blade bloody and warm, matching the same colour of the wine that was now staining his trousers.

What did I just do?

tag list (pls ask to be added or removed): @obiwankenobis-lap @goapgrim @smalldemonlover @silviafantin15 @reveluving @bobastayhigh @originalsimp @h-leigh @gxldyjess @msdrpreist @chaoticevilbakugo @Lacunaanonymoused @whore4dilfs @canadianmilkbag

[baldurs-gape]

The Price Paid

A continuation of A Little Sacrifice but can be read as a standalone.

As predicted, returning for Astarion took a bit of time. Longer than the few days Shadowheart had hoped for but they were determined to not only get him back but also end Cazador's tyranny. Getting a small party together took some thinking and arguing. All of them bundling in at once wasn't exactly great for a stealthy attack but they all did so want to go and rescue their friend.

Given what they knew about their foe, Karlach was an obvious choice to go, Halsin with his healing and wild shape was probably a useful addition. As Gale already knew the lay of the land, he volunteered to go back as well as bringing Omeluum's ring. If it was powerful enough to stop an elderbrain's connection, it had to easily be able to deal with a vampire spawn's compulsions. To round out the party, Lae'zel joined, arguing that she was more refreshed than Wyll and Shadowheart.

Getting back into Cazador's palace wasn't all that hard. In fact, it wsa almost too easy, like they were expected. Sure enough, upon entering the main chamber, Cazador was sat on his throne and an all too familiar figure knelt, head bowed, next to him.

"How long you been sat there like that, just to make this meeting dramatic?" Karlach asked with a snort. "Didn't you feel silly an hour in?"

Rather than respond, Cazador's hand stroked through Astarion's hair unkindly, nails raking over his scalp.

"Isn't this quaint?" His hand fisted in white curls and forced Astarion's head up. "This is your fault, boy. Kill them."

The fluidity with which Astarion rose spoke volumes about the compulsion. As he stood, his injuries became more apparent. His back was a fresh web of blood and flayed skin, there were bruises on his wrists, around his throat, his ankles. Obviously he'd struggled in his bindings. Worse though were the streaks of blood down the inside of pale thighs, all too telling of what other horrors he had been out through.

Knowing Astarion meant knowing how he fought. He had no advantage over them but it didn't feel like he was trying. If anything, his swings were wide, left him exposed. Lae'zel had half a mind to chastise him on his sloppy form when this was all over. His eyes were also full of sadness, of an emotion that had no name but held resigned despair. There were so many openings she could have taken lethal advantage of. Too many. When even Gale had to work to not land a crippling blow or one that would exploit Astarion's injuries, the pieces fell into place. Unfortunately, Cazador also wasn't stupid.

"Stop playing, boy. Kill them and kill them quickly."

The change was instantaneous. Gone were the openings, the easy targets. This time they were facing a hunter. Even worse, whatever it had been in Astarion's eyes was gone. Halsin had seen it before, in refugees he had treated. It was a complete divorce of mind from body, whatever shreds Astarion had been clinging to had been severed and he was gone for the moment.

Fighting turned dirty. Lae'zel got a hit in on Astarion's leg, heard the bone snap. Yet Astarion kept going, body locking stubbornly even as his leg should have given out under normal circumstances, the pain should have rendered him immobile. From his throne, Cazador rose as the group managed to crowd around Astarion. Karlach wrestled him to the ground, Halsin grabbing one flailing arm while Lae'zel pinned kicking legs, needing to press on the break to shock Astarion into a moment of stillness.

"Gale! Now!" Halsin had Astarion's wrist in a grip, fighting to keep it in place long enough for Gale to slip the ring on. Despite hope, Astarion didn't, couldn't, make it easy. Hissing, teeth gnashing, he fought them at every turn, tried to buck Lae'zel off while biting at Karlach's armour clad arm.

As soon as the ring was secure on his finger, everything fell quiet. They were pinning nothing more than a rag doll, Astarion was limp, gaze distant. Looking to the throne, Halsin grumbled to see it empty.

"We got our friend back. Cazador will have to wait for another time."

Nobody argued. Despite their victory, it all felt rather hollow. Bodily they had Astarion but they couldn't rouse him. Spells healed the worst of his wounds yet he still didn't even stir. Dripping blood from a cut finger between parted lips were swallowed sluggishly but it seemed reflexive, almost painful. If it hadn't been for the fact Astarion's eyes were closed as he slept and half lidded but without focus when awake, it would have been all too easy to think him truly dead.

Everyone took turns to try and help. Gale cooked and jokingly threatened to taint Astarion's portion with his rancid blood to serve him right. Shadowheart tried every healing spell she could and then a few more, just in case she missed something. Yet nothing worked. Lae'zel actually slapped Astarion, hoping to shock him out of his stupour. The only thing she achieved was the rest of camp glaring at her and refusing to let her try anything else. Meanwhile Karlach pleaded, made sillier and sillier promises, even offering up Clive if Astarion would just at blink or groan already. To find help, Wyll ventured out, looking for any kind of answer he could find.

It left Halsin who simply sat with Astarion. Occasionally he'd read out loud from some inane book or just quietly talk about camp life. Interspersed with such chatter were reassurances that they were glad Astarion was home with them, that they were sorry they couldn't get to him quicker, that all they wanted was their friend back. The longer Astarion didn't move, didn't respond, the more the group began to lose hope.

"What if it's the ring?" Gale asked Halsin quietly, sitting in Astarion's tent with them. He handed over a bowl of stew and got comfortable to tuck into his own portion.

"It isn't. We take the ring off and Cazador's compulsions will force him to try and kill us again." Sighing, Halsin squeezed Gale's knee. "Astarion was highly strung already when we met, teetering on the edge of breaking. I can't imagine what he's gone through before us and after us. But it would enough to break anyone. All he needs is time to come back to us. And he will, I promise, I've seen it before."

"I miss him," Gale whispered. "His snark, his flirting, his company. I was hoping to show him some magic, see if he'd like to take things further."

Softly, Halsin smiled. "I think he would like that. Hear that, Astarion? You've got a date to look forward to when you're feeling up for it. Hells, I might have to race Gale for your affections. I hear he's not the sharing kind." Playfully, he bumped his shoulder against Gale's and winked.

"I don't know," Gale drawled as he figured out the game, "if Astarion asked, I would do it. You're not half bad. And I'd rather him happy than to call him all mine. But you'd have to lead us through this new territory. As you've said, sharing isn't something I'd considered before."

Keeping their shoulders pressed together, Halsin hummed. He could most certainly do that, show the other two just how wonderful it could be. But that was all pending Astarion's preferences. Both he and Gale glanced at him at the same time.

"Shit!" Gale set his bowl aside in a hurry to lean over Astarion whose unfocused eyes were trickling tears. "Astarion, it's okay. You have a say in all this. You don't have to endure either of us if you don't want to. We were just..." Trailing off, he looked to Halsin pleadingly.

Taking a cold hand in his, Halsin stroked it with his thumb. "It's okay, little one, you're safe." The hand twitched, even if Astarion remained unresponsive. "We've got you."

"Yeah," Gale agreed quickly. "We'll be whatever you need. Friends, bodyguards, penfriends if you need distance." He watched as the tears dried up as quickly as they came and Astarion returned to his unresponsive state.

From then on at random times Astarion would cry. There was no rhyme or reason to the tears starting up but Gale and Halsin dutifully wiped them away and held his hand in reassurance. It was only when a sob finally broke through chapped lips that they knew Astarion was back.

[flutishly]

LBD rewatch, part 1

I’ve already gotten through just around half (certainly the thematic half-point), so I won’t be able to get into all of my observations and thoughts, but I thought I should still write up something before I kick off the Darcy era. So... here are my thoughts, in bullet points, in no particular order, and likely completely incoherently:

Lizzie’s highly judgmental nature comes across a lot stronger than I remembered. The first time I watched the Lizzie Bennet Diaries (and I think the subsequent 2-3 times I rewatched it not long afterward), I obviously recognized Lizzie’s snark and judgmental tendencies. She’s meant to be prejudiced, after all! It’s part of her character. And yet upon rewatch, I can’t help but feel like Lizzie reminds me of so many people who go through life convinced that they’re the good guys, while actually being pretty awful. (I’m vaguely reminded of the line in Megan Whalen Turner’s Return of the Thief: “They were born beautiful and mistake being beautiful for being good”, but that might be a whole other conversation. In a nutshell, it’s as both Lydia and Charlotte observe, that Lizzie’s diaries will always be biased. Which is not a bad thing.) Lizzie is often mean. And needlessly so, it goes without saying. It’s an obviously important character beat, but I think that in 2012, I was more readily forgiving of people like that. But today? I see a Lizzie who is constantly talking down to Lydia (who very obviously worships her older sisters and is constantly seeking their approval/time), who is casually cruel about Mr. Collins, and is unrelentingly negative about Darcy (which... okay, yes, again, plot point! but it’s still really mean to put online!!).

That said, Lizzie’s love for Charlotte is the positive flipside that I also hadn’t remembered. Their mutual hurt in “Friends Forever” and Lizzie’s hollowness in “Missing Charlotte” is evident and it’s hard to fully fault either friend. Both say and behave in a way that’s unfair to the other. It’s brilliantly done and the resolution and reconciliation was great.

Mr. Collins is definitely not as annoying as I remembered. Sure, he’s definitely irritating, but Lizzie treats him way more unkindly than he deserves. Like other than the “barging into a room uninvited” thing (which is definitely not cool!), he’s just trying to share in his part of the passion! And the degree to which Lizzie’s impatience is somewhat out of step with modern norms is only emphasized by how clearly Charlotte is able to manage later on. I also didn’t remember just how much the show subtly teased the possibility of his proposal being romantic after all. Even knowing where things were going, I watched the episode with a distinct sense of discomfort, which is quite impressive. If I wasn’t intent on doing a full rewatch, I probably would have skipped these episodes because they’re “cringe-y”, but no, they were worth it! Unexpectedly.

Lydia, oh man, there are essays to write here. Lydia comes across as so much less put-together in retrospect in how she presents herself to the camera, and I think a huge part of that comes from knowing just how much of her we’ll end up seeing and just how much she needs her environment. If Lizzie is the Bookstagram star, Lydia is clearly a wannabe influencer on TikTok. Yes, Lydia seeks attention in “negative” ways, but she’s also constantly trying to get Lizzie’s attention and acceptance and it’s specifically about Lizzie’s attention and acceptance. She’s hugely loving and loyal to those around her. She is lonely. She’s a youngest daughter who likes to party, but also likes to party with her older sisters and with her older sisters’ friends (which is not trivial). She fiercely defends Mary and Lizzie in this first half of the story, which I think beautifully sets up her struggles in the second half. Lydia’s insecurities are bubbling below the surface, but they’re already there. I could absolutely write so much more here, but maybe that’ll end up in another post, who knows.

Fitz is a nice interlude, but I had a harder time believing he didn’t pick up on Lizzie’s massive NOPEing when he told her about Darcy’s intervention. I never thought of Fitz as a particularly important character, and indeed he isn’t. Definitely doesn’t hurt the story, but he doesn’t really add much either. I found myself wishing he could have offered more insights into Darcy, but... alas.

Like I said in my first post, it’s somewhat strange to discover that a lot of the parts that stretched credibility in 2012... don’t anymore. I don’t especially like that observation, but there it is. And like I mentioned above, there’s a feeling of dissonance between the different types of social media stars that the characters would be. Lizzie could still be a Youtuber, I suppose, but she strikes me more as the sort who would make short videos about “intellectual” topics - her research (?), culture, books, etc. And Lydia would obviously be the sort who is constantly trying to get perform.

I felt this at the time and still feel it: Caroline and Bing are somewhat unnecessary to include on camera. It would have been fine without them. Not, again, that it’s bad with them? But it just doesn’t feel quite as critical and there is the slight ick factor with how everyone just lies to Bing all the time about him being on camera. Nope.

Continuing with the things I didn’t like, the way everyone talks about Jane and Bing’s relationship in terms of purity is unpleasant. The story does this weird thing with Jane and Bing that sort of strips their relationship of depth by using “sweet” terms. And it’d be fine if the show came outright and said how this ties into this particular couple’s choices regarding their relationship (romantically, physically, etc.), but they don’t. Not a fan. Didn’t age well.

Jane’s anger in “Snickerdoodles” is so beyond justified, considering that at this point we’re talking about two modern adults who have been dating for months. Don’t forgive him, Jane. He’s not worth it.

The pacing is excellent. I thought it’d be a slog to rewatch, but not at all. It’s delightful.

No, not everything aged well. The casual sexism - while possibly intentional and tying into bullet point #1 - is irritating. Certain phrases that are obviously meant to emphasize character flaws still should not have been used; the same effect could have been conveyed differently.

As with my endless rewatches of Pride and Prejudice (1995), I continue to relate to and appreciate Mrs. Bennet more upon rewatch. Go figure!

Having Kitty Bennet be a cat who follows Lydia around is still one of the most genius adaptation decisions I have ever encountered in any media. Ever.

So those are some of my initial thoughts from this rewatch. It’s entirely likely that I’ll remember more when I pick it up again later this week, but I’ll obviously also be posting (hopefully shorter) analyses or thoughts about the next episodes as I progress. It’s definitely a positive experience so far and I’m so excited to keep watching not only LBD, but also the next shows on my list.

(And to everyone asking: I’m doing this rewatch independently of The Look-Back Diaries! I did watch a few episodes of those when they started, but somehow never ended up following consistently. And now I’d rather finish my own rewatch “naively” before I add the extra context. That’ll be the next stage!)

[bi-bats]

so intrigued by ALL of those titles 👀 tell me more about “the couch” please?

adkjfalksdf didn't expect that to be the one everyone wanted to know about so I'll tell you about the reason I started writing this fic since I just posted a snippet of it!! (and if you want to ask about one of the others feel free)

(...and I'm going to put it under a read more, because it got much longer and more personal than I expected it to be)

So, I used to have a couch that was... horrible. I bought it with my ex during covid with our unemployment money since we needed a new one, and it was a disaster start to finish. It was the wrong color, it was small and too low to the ground, and it was horribly made.

But also, he always sat down on it too hard. And I always told him he was sitting down on it too hard and that one day, it would break. And then the next day, he would sit down on it too hard, and I would tell him the same thing.

And one day, unsurprisingly, he sat down on it too hard and one of the center beams broke. He blamed it on the couch. Which was not necessarily false, it was not built to last, but it wasn't the whole truth. He also strained it until it broke by refusing to be aware of his own actions.

Obviously, this was also representative of our relationship as a whole. We had been together for 5 years, and in January of 2022, I broke. I finally managed to get out of that relationship (not for lack of trying, for the record). It was one of the best things I ever did for myself.

But I still had the couch.

It was ugly; it was obviously broken; it was uncomfortable to sit on. Friends would comment on it being uncomfortable, tell me I needed a new one (not unkindly, but still). And I knew I needed a new one. There were many factors in me not getting a new couch for a while, including plans to move in with a friend that fell through (we were going to pick one together) and plans for my own future that fell through (not getting into the phd programs I applied for, which was a gift in disguise) and generally recovering from being in an abusive relationship.

But every time someone pointed it out, I got mad about him all over again. I hated having the thing, and I hated that it was broken, and I hated that it reminded me of everything that had been broken in our relationship and how he essentially treated me as carelessly as the couch. And ALSO, I'd always hated it!! It was supposed to be RED!!!

So, in May of this year, I bought a new couch. The new one came before I could get rid of the old one, and for a week, I had both couches in my living room. My new couch is fucking gorgeous and I'm obsessed with it, by the way:

It felt so good to see my beautiful new couch, the one I got to pick for me, the one that I unpacked and assembled (okay, screwed the legs onto, but you get the gist) and moved myself, next to the ugly reminder of a shitty situation, and know that it was going to be gone in a week.

And in that week, I started writing The Couch. It's obviously very different from what I just wrote about if you saw the snippets, but the gist is that there's a busted, broken, fucked up couch in Jason's safehouse that he won't get rid of and Tim doesn't understand why, because he doesn't know about the memories attached to it.

It's sort of self-indulgent but it's cathartic and sweet and soft, and it was what I needed that week. Hopefully, it won't read like me pasting my feelings onto it, but I think it has a heart of its own.

Alright, sorry that got so long and personal!! Thank you for the ask and sorry that this DEFINITELY wasn't what you were looking for when you asked this, and feel free to ask about a different one if you want. Regardless, thank you for giving me a space to get this off my chest 💕💖💚

[demonicpi13]

RHPS Theory

Like everyone else people have theories on what the plot of RHPS is. My partner and I have a theory, that thought I would share here. This theory involves the original script,the movie and the unmade sequels.

In the beginning of the film we see Frank, Riff Raff, Magenta and Columbia at the wedding. If they are making Rocky, they would need body parts so working at a place that does weddings and churches for body parts and victims would be great idea. Now, why do they target Brad and Janet, one, they needed humans to witness that human life can be by aliens or that Frank is trying to find a human to repopulate with. I lean more with the later due to one of the scrapped sequels Frank had gotten Janet pregnant and Riff Raff was tasked with getting Janet to come back with him to the planet.

When Brad and Janet arrived at the castle, they ask for a phone. It seemed Riff Raff was trying to lead them to a phone, he was leading them where but gets distracted with Magenta singing Time Warp, the song of their people. Magenta didn't know what Riff Raff was trying to get them to a phone.

By the time the song is over it's too late. Frank has arrived. Now Riff Raff has to carry on his plan to get rid of Frank around the two humans. Magenta is on board with this plan to kill Frank. The two have been treated unkindly and Frank has abused them. In the commentary of RHPS Richard O'Brien says that the looks Riff Raff gives Frank are due to envy and anger. Riff Raff could be envious for a number of things, one of them being Frank being seen as a genius. In the original play when asked what they think of Rocky Riff Raff says this "It's a credit to my-I mean your genius Master" and the magenta pipes in quickly to calm Frank then Columbia says Rocky is just okay.

Frank continues his plans to lure, fuck, and try to keep the Brad and Janet. Obviously to Riff Raff and Magenta Frank's plan has gone two far and his life style is seem as too extreme. We don't know much about life on their planet but it is hinted through out the film and play that it's different then earth. Riff Raff and Magenta's plan does seem to work. They drive Rocky and Janet together, like how Columbia and Eddie were able to bond and fall in love due to Frank's abusive nature to them. Frank tried to kill Eddie once due to his jealous nature. He was able to kill Eddie a final time.

After the dinner scene Frank believes he is the one who messed up creating Rocky. He gets upset when Magenta doesn't want any reward from Frank for being 'Loyal' so Frank continues on with the floor show while that is going on, The two are able to continue with their final plan. They get into their planets outfit and grab the gun. The kick in the doors and tell Frank that it's all over, his lifestyle is now two extreme and they are going home.

Frank begs to be heard out, Riff Raff and Magenta agree to hear him out. Frank sings about wanting to belong and how he feels like he finally found where he belongs (I believe Frank is a Trans Male. Most think he's trans woman but I believe he's a Trans Male who likes feminine things.) But it would be nice to go home. Magenta think it's sentimental and Riff Raff thinks it's amusing how Frank thinks he's going with. They kill Columbia, because she screamed to try to distract them to let Frank run away, or jumping the way if it's the play. Frank tried to run but gets killed along with Rocky (Columbia and him where brainwashed by frank by this point due to the transducer.)

Magenta was surprised that he actually killed them."I thought you liked them,they liked you." She thought they were going to take them prisoners and hinting that Riff Raff had a thing for Frank.

Riff yells back at her, as he cried "They didn't like me! They never liked me!" In the movie but in the play he's response is " You saw the way the things were going. "

Dr. Scott applauds them for doing the right thing. Riff Raff and Magenta walk over and lower the gun. They apologize for Eddie's death and allow Dr Scott, Brad and Janet time to leave before the manor is shot back home. As they leave Riff Raff and Magenta talk about how they can't wait to go home, see their lovely planet and do the time warp again.

I plan on doing a theory for Shock Treatment as well at some point. Yes they are some things I left out, like the sibling incest. That I don't think was that important to the theory or plot of the film, we don't know how it works on their planet.

[jariktig]

Fandom ask!! 1, 3, 6, 9, 13

list 3 positive things about your current fandom(s)

(a) the sheer inventive enthusiasm for a multiplicity of readings and fanons and ships and - well - everything, really. What's not to love about a fandom that is prepared to adopt at least four ways of having sex, and to deploy more than one of them in the same fic. And I also love the variants where it's not a thing at all, for everybody or for some people. And the number of one-fic wonder rarepairs where the one fic is actively good. I suppose it may be similar in other fandoms, but I think the official everything-is-canon approach probably helps. And there's such a range of tones and content in canon to play with too.

(b) Small sample stuff this, but the people I have met here and their kindness and the ways lots of them leverage their talents to make the world a better place. Which is absolutely a multi-fandom thing - you only have to look at fth for that - but of course I see it here and some of those people seem really special to me.

(c) The art - robots are just hard to draw and lots of TFs very similar because of the way the designs link to the toys and the constraints of manufacturing. And yet there are so many people who make them clearly visibly identifiable (even to my somewhat face-blind self) while creating a really unique style. How cool is that?

And I'll add the thing that got my snobbish would-be highbrow tweenage self into a silly children's cartoon - the joy of the underlying concept of robots who turn into planes and guns and tapes (yes, yes, and cars and trucks and...) and who are people too.

3. a character that fandom has helped you appreciate

Optimus, most obviously. He was the one that my baby brother admired as the hero and my contrary history-is-written-by-the victors-so-this-is-autobot-propaganda reading of all the contradictions in G1 treated most unkindly. But a whole bunch of really good writers have seen him very differently and I've gained a lot from their readings.

6. something you see in art a lot and love

The way people use kibble to express emotions - Optimus' finials for the most obvious examples, but there are loads of others. And the amazing amounts of detail people manage to fit into even the silliest drawings.

9. oh, lots of them. With a few very specific exceptions I'll eat almost anything either / or &. And moreso if you add other bodies into the mix - I can't be doing with Jazz/Prowl in general, for example, but Jazz/Prowl/Soundwave has some lovely stuff. At random, the intra-group Stunticons and Combaticons pairs or groups in lots of combinations, Soundwave/Shockwave, Ravage/Soundwave, Megatron/Ratchet, Grimlock/Starscream, the whole of Decepticon Command in one big tangle, Bruticus/First Aid, Megatron/Optimus/Ratchet... And people have sold me on quite a few I wasn't fond of - for example Vortex/First Aid, Megatron/Optimus/Bumblebee (which is surprising because in general Bumblebee irritates me), Deadlock/Starscream...

13. your favorite type of fandom event (gift exchange, ship week, secret santa, prompt meme, etc)

My favourite favourites are probably the ones like fth and the recent cartoonists' get-together for Gaza and the tf tarot and the Represent zine, where people use their art and writing to raise money for good causes. That feels like getting all the joy of the fan-thing with extra goodness on top. The ones I find easiest to participate in as a writer are the gift exchanges/secret solenoids/etc where you're writing for an individual and you get quite a bit of scoping of what they like.

[askgothamshitty]

Hello! This is totally random but before you became a feminist, uh let's say you haven't read theory or any literature and you only know about feminism through mainstream media, did you also feel confused with the disparities between men and women when it comes to privilege? I haven't read any feminist theory at all, so maybe I feel this way (I definitely think I have some sort of internalized misogyny): I over-obsess with women's actions towards men and how men perceive them (like if she treats him unkindly, then I fear that he would use that as an excuse when he does something rude back). This society is heavily imbued, covertly, with “m*ns right activists” rhetoric so I unfortunately guilty when I don't sympathize with a man during real life situations where people tend to skewer it as “oh they're both at fault” when there's obviously an imbalanced dynamic present. Also, I tend to fall for those “if the roles were reversed” or “if a man did this” posts too 😖. It's like the situation has to be less complex and just blatantly misogynistic for me not to be lukewarm 🫤. I don't like it!!!! Maybe I just grew up within a really patriarchal society or I feel terrified with what people would think if I took a stance and wouldn't know how to defend it properly. Idk I sincerely want to be pro-women that wouldn't cede feminism for male opinions or in times of a woman committing a crime.

I definitely think it’s easy for most people to be swayed by MRA and anti-feminist rhetoric, especially in the age of social media. Don’t beat yourself up too much - at least you’re aware of what’s going on!

I’m getting the sense that you’re maybe referring to abusive situations and not knowing which side to take. These topics are perfect breeding grounds for misogyny because MRAs have a whole slew of tactics up their sleeve for DARVO-ing the situation.

Once you get a firm grasp on feminism and learn how to think like a feminist, the misogynistic motivations behind that rhetoric will become more obvious to you because you’ll know what the actual realty of man/women relations are.

Is there something specific you want to learn about?

[stevebabey]

not if it’s you.

word count: 7k summary: After the events at Starcourt Mall, you have a hard time convincing Steve that he’s allowed to be not okay. You want to take care of him. And if you harbour some more-than-friends feelings at the same time? Well, that’s nobody’s business but yours. [angst + hurt/comfort + friends to lovers]

You’re bone-deep tired.

The red and blue lights of the ambulance feel branded onto the inside of your eyelids, there even when your tired eyes slide shut. The cool metal on the ambulance door soothes your forehead and for a moment, head tilted against it, you could honestly just sleep even with all the noise.

It’s been a hell of a night.

You blink. You need to keep yourself awake, you’re not home yet. Gazing blankly across the crowded parking lot, reporters and townspeople milling between the yellow police tape, you can feel your brain begin to try to grapple with all the events of the night.

It’s like some warped horror flick of memories, parts of the film blacked out that you can’t quite recall. The elevator, the Russians, and some god-awful melted monster of people — even in your mind the image makes you shudder.

The longer you think about it, the more it feels like the stress is fusing with your bones, attaching itself to every cell in your body. It makes you shake, a forceful twitch of your head to put all the thoughts to rest.

Process it later. Make sure you can stay stitched together physically tonight. You must look a tad loony from the outside, twitching and shaking, but considering your night it’s more than warranted.

The gash on your arm is the worst of your injuries. A jagged stretch of torn skin that was gifted by one of the Russian soldiers who had hoped it would loosen your tongue. And when that didn’t work, the pliers nearly had — you would’ve told them anything when they took them out and lined it up with one of your fingernails.

But Steve then had done something stupid — kicked to get a guard’s attention since his yelling obviously hadn’t made a difference, let one of them lean down real close, and then headbutted him with all his might.

Relief had shocked your system, some broken cry as you slumped over when the pliers moved away. Fingers saved, if only briefly.

It had all turned to dread when they had lugged him out of his chair, preparing for round two of questioning. You had felt it then, a twisted gurgle of emotion lurched up your throat — violent enough it might have made you sick if you had managed to open your mouth. You hadn’t. There was a chance you would’ve said something worse, some jumble of feelings that wouldn’t have helped.

So, you had bit your tongue. Tasted blood and pretended that closing your eyes meant you couldn’t hear Steve pleading in the room over.

He hasn’t said much since the two of you had been sat in the back of the ambulance, gloved hands of the paramedics roaming over skin to find and treat injuries. There’s just one guy left now, still hovering around Steve with a flashlight and treating him with much less care than you’d like.

Steve looks as tired as you feel and when he can’t focus enough to look ahead, the paramedic prods his cheek unkindly. Steve winces.

“Hey,” you snip, cutting into the interaction. “Are you done? Can we go home?”

The paramedic turns the flashlight on you, blinding you for a moment. It confirms your asshole hypothesis of his character and you cringe at the brightness. It’s gone in the next moment, finally clicked off. He observes you both for another moment before an annoyed drawl comes out.

“Yeah, scram. But first you,” He jabs a finger at Steve who blinks but doesn’t react. “Lots of rest. No big brain work, no alcohol, and don’t run any marathons or anything.”

Steve nods, then grimaces at the pain the movement causes. You can’t help the wrinkle in your brow as you watch - you startle a bit when the paramedic turns his pointed finger on you.

“And you. His pupils are still dilated so keep an eye for seizure symptoms. Wake him every couple of hours and get a CT scan tomorrow.”

Some part of you is perturbed that he’s put you in charge of taking care of Steve. Another part gleans and blushes because you’d accepted the task the moment he’d asked, without question.

“Tomorrow?” You ask hotly, at the same time Steve says, “I’ll be fine on my own.”

The paramedic shakes his head, tsking as if you’re bothersome school-children not patients, and steps back with his hands raised. “Figure it out, I don’t care. I’ve got a dozen other people to check over.”

He winds around the door of the ambulance and leaves the both of you alone. A cool wind skirts through the parking lot, ruffling your hair. A sigh wrestles out your chest, a pathetic attempt to alleviate the tightness in your chest.

You don’t think you’ve ever hated the colours blue and red more than right now. The blazing colours atop police cars that flood the parking lot, the colours of Steve’s Scoops uniform, the colour of blood seeping into your pale blue shirt.

If you squint, you can see your own car parked alongside Steve’s in the distance — it feels like a lifetime ago when you had driven in and parked up. Your keys are lost down, down below you, taken in the interrogation. You stand to shake off that train of thought. 

You turn back and offer your hand out to Steve. After all the blows he’s taken tonight, you desperately want to offer him kindness. Offer him a touch that doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make him flinch or wince. Steve stares at your hand for a long moment, eyes contemplating — and then puts his in yours.

He lets you pull him to his feet.

One of the police cruisers takes you to Loch Nora, Steve and you tucked away in the backseat. His hand is still in yours, barely holding it in his tiredness; when the car rounds a corner though, you can feel his fingers clench tighter so your hand doesn’t slip away.

They detach eventually when the wheels roll up on the curb outside Steve’s house, late in the night. Like the rest of the sleeping houses, the lights are all off. There are no cars in the driveway. The loneliness of it yawns out down the drive, like visible smoke plumes that escape every window.

Steve somehow looks tenser at seeing it; he still forces himself out of the car, bloody sneakers scraping against the gravel. You follow. It aches to move too much, even just shuffling out of the car feels like moving a mountain. The door clips closed quietly behind you. You hear the engine fade back down the road.

Steve is still stuck in place — you have a feeling he’s not looking at the house at all but stuck in thought, looking through the timber and paint and seeing all the horrors of the night. You step up beside him and gingerly reattach your hands.

It seems to surprise him, jumping ever so slightly at the touch and turning to look at you. “I didn’t...”

I didn’t think you’d stay. The sentence dies in his throat, a little embarrassed by how relieved he is that you’ve stayed with him - so much it shows in the quiver in his voice. Steve doesn’t finish it because then you’ll hear the other part of the sentence, even without him saying it. No one stays.

“C’mon,” you urge him to walk with you, beginning to drift up the driveway.

There’s no rush, you’ll wait as long as he needs to before moving, but it’s colder out tonight. Maybe it just feels that way with all your tiredness, the frostiness nipping at your skin. All your energy is focused on staying on your feet, on helping Steve. There’s none left to keep you warm.

He ambles after you like walking is an afterthought and following you is the priority. His sneakers drag, soft scraping noises with every step. You can feel his gaze burning into the back of your head, his fingers squeezing as if he’s checking you’re really still here with him.

The front door is unlocked and it’s only when it snicks shut behind you, do you wonder if you’ve overstepped. It’s awkward, but only a bit. You’ve been in Steve’s house before — though, who hadn’t with all his parties in sophomore year?

But not quite like this. Not just the two of you, and never holding his hand.

The events that had transpired last fall in Hawkins had thrown Steve into your life, along with a dizzying revelation of new dimensions and an unsettling truth about monsters that came right out of your nightmares.

Though, maybe it made more sense to say you were thrown into Steve’s life. You had always known of him - he couldn’t say the same about you.

Like the hoards, freshmen you had not been immune to the boyishly good looks and charismatic nature of Steve Harrington. Once upon a time, before someone called him King Steve and it stuck, there had been a crush.

But like red wine on white linen, with time — and plenty of distance — it had faded.

Not even the adventure that bound you two together, the tunnels that snaked beneath Hawkins and your shaky hands lugging him into the car, had been enough to reignite old affections. Not his insistence on you leaving the tunnels first, not even the way he clutched you when you all made it out. Not unscathed, but alive.

Pitifully, it had been his shoddy attempts at flirting in his ridiculous sailor uniform to kick-start your heart back up.

You had sighed, chin in hand, and leaned into the foolish feelings — because going crazy over a boy felt the most normal thing you could do. And after demodogs and slithering vines kept creeping from the past into your slumbers, normal was all you wanted.

But Steve needed you as a friend, more so considering his fallout with Tommy H and Carol had become permanent. He flirted with customers, every girl you’d recognised from your year, but never you.

It felt a good enough reason to bite your tongue. Keep him close, but never as close as you’d like.

But now you’ve done it again — been pulled along on another adventure that’s brimming with terrors that will take years to forget.

Everything feels worse this time round, a decay that ebbs away your hope. It’s somehow harder to heal from wounds that come from evil, but not the supernatural. It’s all the heavier when the boy who holds your heart made himself a punching bag so you didn’t get hurt. 

The warmth of his hand, squeezing for only a moment, brings you back to the present. To now, still standing in the entryway to Steve’s house. You blink, coming back to yourself, and turn back to him. There’s a crinkle between his brow, and worry washed across his features.

“Are you okay?” He asks it tentatively like he’s afraid to spook you. It sends a rush to your system, a pleasant throb in your chest. You can’t deny you like knowing he worries. That he cares.

“Yeah,” you croak out, nodding as you speak. “Do you— I mean, you don’t mind me staying, do you?” 

Suddenly, the potential embarrassment of inviting yourself in, even with the good intentions of taking care of Steve, is overwhelming. The next words tumble out without thought.

“I just, I don’t want to be alone right now.” It’s a bit hurried, tinged with nervousness. You stammer. “And I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

Something like pure affection blooms in Steve’s chest at your words, the heat of it stealing his breath and pain for just a moment. It’s a different sort of ache in between his ribs, something white-hot and pure.

He hadn’t been able to voice his relief when you’d gotten out of the car and stayed with him — and it fails him now at your admittance.

You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want him to be alone.

Steve doesn’t think he’s deserving of your good will, nor the kindness in every touch. He can’t help how he consumes it greedily, drinks in the touches like he knows it’ll be taken from him soon enough. His eyes stay fixed on you.

There’s something so alluring about your silhouette, the golden street light let in through slits in the door. It halos you, soft amber that softens every curve. You’re enchanting, even when bloodied.

Steve’s not sure his heart has felt like this before — so molten hot, valves working overtime, ribbons of affection tied tight across his chest. He’s sure they’ll leave scorch marks, testimonies to his bleeding heart that pulses with each beat for you, for you, for you.

Because you’re still here and something in his trodden on heart perks up before he remembers to crush it. It’s not that Steve has never thought of you as more — god, the mere thought of you as more to him.

More than a friend, more than this, it’s enough to make his head spin. To make his hands shake and return a nervousness to his system he hasn’t felt since sophomore year when he first laid eyes on Nancy Wheeler.

But you’re not Nancy. In the best way, that makes all the difference,

You were some breath of fresh air, bursting into his life in all the middle of his estranged drawn out break-up with Nancy — brash in all the right ways, kind when he needed, and far too soft to be tangled up in any of this mess.

You’re still too soft for it now, and it shows in the jagged cut torn into the fabric of your skin — it doesn’t matter how it happened, Steve still feels like it’s his fault. It’ll scar, red puckered skin that twists down the expanse of your shoulder. A living reminder of the night burned into you to carry forever.  

It hurts Steve maybe more than he’s warranted to. You’re both just friends.

But when Steve thinks of how he’s accidentally pulled you too close, put you first in the heart, it aches evermore.

He’s not sure when you went from barely a friend to this — you’re a crush, an Achilles heel, the unattainable from the moment he met you, the moment he knew you. Steve feels like he’s been building himself towards you, pushing his growth to aim for anywhere near enough for you. You’ve been too good for him from the start.

It doesn’t stop him from loving you.

Steve realises after a moment that he hasn’t said anything when your fingers start to slip from his. His grip tightens to keep your hand in his.

“No, I— Stay. I...” It’s a struggle to say it, too many years of suppressing any urge to ask for comfort. “I don’t want to be alone, either. Or for you to be. Stay.”

Your lips, chapped and still with a hint of blood, twitch into somewhat a smile. “Okay.”

This time it’s Steve who drags you along, both slowly moving up the stairs. Each step threatens to reopen the scabs that have only just begun to form. It’s like some micro-dose of torture, Steve thinks, hearing your winces behind him.

The fluorescence of the bathroom lights is bright enough to make your eyes fly shut. Steve’s braver, taking only a moment to pause. He ignores how the lights dance, a sickening comparison to his experience with the drugs that had barely left his system. Though it’s the last thing he wants, Steve drops your hand to begin his search.

When your eyes blink open, prepared to face the lights, you’re a bit perplexed to see Steve hunting through the linen cupboard. He produces a towel, white and fluffy.

You cringe internally at the thought of sullying the pale colour with blood but it’s but a blip in tonight’s problems. Besides, the Harrington’s could certainly afford to replace it.

“Here.” Steve murmurs. You both seem to have agreed to keep softly spoken for the night.

He presses the cotton into your hands as he walks, ready to shoulder out and take care of himself. There was an en-suite in his own room — and sure, it would hurt like hell rinsing his wounds but he’d done it last year. Blasted the heat so he was wincing at the burn atop his skin and not the ache underneath it. 

“Steve?” You question, turning and halting his feet. He pauses, confused by the questioning expression on your face. He gestures to the shower, hiding how the movement makes his ribs sting painfully.

“You can shower here and- and the guest room’s all made up.” The words trip a bit on the way out, weakness beginning to weigh on his voice.

Somehow being back home crumbles his walls sooner than he’d like. Tonight has been heavy, a burden that lies thick on his shoulders and creeps down, taking root in his muscles.

But Steve will do what he had done last year; take the punches, burn them off in the heat of the shower — hot enough that he can’t feel any tears — and then deal with it.

“No, s’not that.” You shake your head, a strand of hair coming loose. “I... What about you?”

What about all the blood? The bruises and cuts? You’d seen the scars littered on the skin of his face from Billy, cuts that had healed wrong and left marred skin. Wounds left uncared for, only healed with time.

The question only begs more confusion from Steve. He gestures to somewhere behind him as he says, “There’s another shower, don’t worry.”

He pulls a smile to ease you. It wobbles at the ends of his mouth. Something claws into your heart, a profound heartache at the thought it doesn’t even occur to Steve to take care of himself.

“Steve,” you begin, beginning to get a sense of the wall you’re encountering.

Steve Harrington has some very thick defenses and not without good reason; they’ve got him through some treacherous times. Even now, he uses it like a crutch, a seal to hide away horrid memories. Ignored in favour of temporary strength. 

You don’t need his display of strength — you’re not one of the kids that needs to be shielded from the reality that even Steve has a breaking point — certainly not when his state is far worse than your own.

But you have a feeling he doesn’t know how to switch it off. Steve doesn’t seem to understand what you mean when you say you don’t want him to be alone. 

“Steve, you’re not okay.”

“I’m- I’ve done this before, alright?” He insists, eyes darting between yours, features turning stonier. You can see his defensiveness begin to curl his shoulders in. “I’m alright, I promise.”

“Are you?” You say, not unkind. “Tonight was— Steve, you were tortured.”

The effect of your words is instantaneous. Steve’s face falters, his icy expression dissolving with a shudder he can’t stop. You watch it warp him painfully, jaw clenching and eyes misty; he blinks furiously to clear them. You continue.

“You can’t just- just bounce back from that. Nobody can.” You shake your head as if it proves your point. “It doesn’t matter if you’ve done this before, this— this is a lot for anyone, even—”

“Well then, why are you still here, huh!” His words interrupt your own, tone angrier than you’re expecting. “If this is so much!”

His chest rises and falls quickly, brows draw together like it hurts to breathe so harshly. The words don’t sting, but his tone does. You reel in your hurt and focus past his anger, focus on what it really is.

A final line of defense. A ploy to make you upset or angry, to make you emotional enough to storm out and leave him to lick his wounds alone. Another way to ignore it, compartmentalize what happened instead of facing it head on.

Maybe it’s cruel of you to make him deal with it so soon. But you care, too much to pretend to ignore his pain. 

“Steve.”

“Don’t.” It wobbles, voice weak. His anger has already drained away in a moment.

“You’re not alright,” you insist, voice barely above a whisper. “C’mere.”

You don’t give him a choice, your free hand reaching out to snag his own, which hangs loose at his side.

Steve stumbles forward as you tug him back into the bathroom. Without his anger, he’s pliant and goes without protest. Your gentle fingers on his chest nudge him in the direction of the sink, the cool porcelain pressing through the back of his soiled Scoops top.

“Can you do something for me? Can you...” You bite your already bloody lip, nervousness sketched across your features.

How can you say this without giving too much away? It feels too intimate, like flying too close to the sun, well within the realm of potentially hurting your own feelings. You’ll do it for him gladly. 

“Can you just...let me take care of you?”

It hurts like a sucker punch to the gut. Like a breath has been forced out of his chest, because when was the last time someone has asked him that?

Silence stains the air.

“It won’t be pretty.” He croaks finally, still giving you an easy out. Still prepared to spare you the ugliness of his emotions.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” You respond, lips twitching. You bare your heart and half hope he sees it — sees it and knows he’s loved when you say, “Not if it’s you.”

Another beat of quiet.

“Okay.” Steve breathes, so faintly you barely hear it. Then as if you’ll rescind the offer any moment, he nods fervently.

Your smile is genuine, maybe the first in hours and something in you relaxes. He won’t fight you on this. He may have taken the beating earlier for you but, at the very least, you can do your best to patch him back up — let your hidden feelings translate into a gentleness he so very deserves.

It takes only a quick rummage beneath the sink to find a first-aid kit. It feels wildly underprepared; an afterthought purchase once upon a time that was only ever intended for scraped knees. It hasn’t ever been opened. The tear of the zipper is the only noise in the bathroom, bouncing off the tiles.

As expected, there’s not much in it. It contains a box of plasters in multiple sizes, one roll of gauze, a bottle of antiseptic, and a mixture of other pills and eye drops.

Some loose safety pins rattle around in the bottom as you take inventory. It’s not stellar and you’re no doctor, but it’ll do. It has to do.

When you finally look up, wondering where to begin on his injuries, Steve is regarding you with a look you can’t quite name.

If you were sure of yourself, you might call it awe.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re here, helping him, and it can be awfully easy to mix up feelings when you’re getting stitched up. You don’t let your hopes rise, not even for a moment.

Steve’s blood sings, ears rushing with the sound of it when you step closer. You’re so damn close. Steve can’t ignore the scent that carries with you, his brain involuntarily committing each detail of you that he can get to memory - lest he never gets you this close again.

You want to take care of him; Steve thinks this might be a dream.

Nimble fingers work to gather some cotton with antiseptic and then you’re holding it up, posed, and ready to mend.

“Can you sit up on the counter?” You ask, all sweetness. Steve obliges easily, despite the protests from his sore body that cries out as he shifts up. You smile, then warn, “This might sting.”

It’s overwhelming as you step closer, between his legs, and take the cotton to his face with a gentleness Steve hasn’t felt in years. His eyes close instinctively.

It does sting. The wince leaks out through his clenched teeth, soothed instantly by your soft apologies that pour out like honey.

For a moment, it’s easier this way; with his eyes closed, Steve can pretend this is usual. That when he gets roughed around, there’s someone to tend and clean his wounds — instead of just himself and the harsh rinse of the hot shower.

He tries and fails not to think of last year, his poor attempts to patch himself up. Hands too shaky, touch too rough.

The memory bites. The injuries of tonight somehow feel worse. A tinge of bile taints his mouth and Steve swallows it back down, concentrating on you.

You’re not quite humming but soothing noises, low and soft, come from your throat. Steve’s not even sure you know you’re doing it. His hands clench emptily as his side — the split knuckles make them hurt and when you’re this close, the itch to hold you is near unbearable.

It doesn’t take long for the first cotton pad to turn a violent shade of pink. Steve’s face looks a tad clearer than before but uncovering old blood means finding new wounds.

Your stomach burns pitifully as you take them all in. There are too many to count, a thousand different hues — broken blood vessels that run in all directions, little labyrinths under his skin.

Why does it hurt so much? Even with your bound shoulder that still sends out pain with every motion, it all dulls away when you look at Steve. Lashes fluttering, eyes still closed, marred with wounds you’re begging to ease. You know it hurts so much because you care.

Love is pain, you suppose, with only a twinge of bitterness. It’s swallowed instantly, consumed and disintegrated by the fact you get this. The boy you love, between both palms, trusting you to take care of him.

A year ago, you’d met only the steely exterior he’d put up — and thought it had simply been remnants of King Steve. Maybe Steve Harrington was as much of an asshole as half the town said.

He was all bite, glowers, and clipped answers. With time though, he’d softened like snow melting in the sun; all the parts of him trickling into your life until he was cemented by your side. 

He hadn’t even let you patch him up after the scrap with Billy that had taken him out. You hadn’t felt you could ask.

But this time...your throat grows a bit thicker at the trust that binds the pair of you. Affection rushes your system and forces a sharp inhale from your lungs. You step back.

The space makes it easier to breathe. Dials down the chances of pressing your lips against his skin — if only to give him a mark born of love. Hands searching through the first-aid kit again, you produce some painkillers and locate an arnica pill.

You give yourself one more moment; inhale and withhold the tidal wave of devotion that begs to spill from within you.

“Take these, please.” You say quietly, uncurling one of his fists to press the pills into. He swallows them dry.

You prep more cotton and begin again with the gentle touches, coaxing off dried blood. This time, Steve’s eyes stay open. He watches you, an unreadable emotion in his eyes.

You work away the blood from a cut above his eyebrow and when it’s clean, your thumb follows. You caress along the broken skin as if you could meld it back together with pure will.

Steve’s chest grows tight. Something about you being here, taking care of him makes the night’s memories all too present. Nausea sways in his gut. It’s impossible to shove them to the back, to press them down, when it feels like each cut is being reopened. Cleansed with a douse of love.

You’re altering the history of each wound but to do so, he has to recall how each of them was carved into his skin. It hurts. Why are you still here?

Steve’s head pulls back unexpectedly, eyes shuttering closed in a scrunched expression. You startle a bit.

“Shit, I’m sorry — too harsh?”

He makes a strained noise, effectively gutting you with it. If you weren’t so close — an inch further and you could press your forehead to his — you wouldn’t hear it. Hear the tiny whisper that scratches out the word, “Why?”

“What?” You whisper. You don’t understand.

“Why...Why are you...?” He’s clearly struggling to find the words he wants. His hand reaches up, fingers brushing the bridge of his nose before he drops it again. His chin quivers. It stops your heart for a moment to realise he’s crying.

“I don’t— I don’t understand.” Steve grinds the words out, voice thick. A tear splatters, seeping into the blue of his uniform. He won’t look at you, eyes trained on the loose thread on his shorts.

“Steve?” you murmur, wary and heavy with concern. This is— you don’t know what this is.

“I don’t understand.” He repeats, shaking his head slightly. He seems to choke on the next words. “You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody...”

He trails off, some whimper of sorts forcing its way out his throat. You’re stuck, absorbing each of his words and putting together the pattern that Steve can’t seem to voice. I don’t understand. You’re still here. Why are you...? Everybody... Everybody leaves. 

Oh.

Rich King Steve who’s got it all. The house, the car, and any girl he fancies, all of them fawning for a look from him at one of his legendary parties.

His lack of parental supervision had been lusted over in high school, furious whispers of envy over the fact he could get away with parties every weekend. That booze went missing and he never seemed to catch any shit for it. It occurs to you now that nobody was around to notice.

The absence in his life is vast and suddenly blindingly obvious — a chasm in his chest that is bleeding all his secrets to you.

Steve Harrington is lonely.

When you surge forward, injuries be damned, and your arms loop around his neck, there’s a moment of stillness. You can feel the tension in his muscles, hear his ragged inhale, and then— he sags into you, finally, finally letting himself lean on someone else.

His arms wind around your middle in a desperate motion, tugging you closer and the fabric of your shirt clenches between his fingers. His face buries in your neck and hot wet tears soak the collar of your shirt. You can hear his raspy noises, soft cries as he clings to you like a lifeline.

“Why did this happen to me?”

It fucking hurts to hear. You don’t know how to tell him there’s no why — that there is no reason that can justify why he’s gone through this much suffering. Just the bitter fact that, sometimes, bad things happen to good people.

“Steve,” you feel like you’re saying his name an awful lot tonight. You say it because you can’t begin to think of how to answer his heartbreaking question. “I—“

“I-I used to think,” The words are muffled into your neck. His grip on you is nearly tight enough to hurt but you don’t dare relent any space. His voice is barely above a whisper, just loud enough to hear. “That- that it was like karma, yanno?”

“Steve, no,” you whisper, horrified. If he hears you, he doesn’t show. 

“B-Because that first time,” He’s stuck on some belittling ramble about himself, continuing between his sniffs. “I definitely deserved it. But then I grew and I changed.”

Something twists painfully in your stomach.

“And then last year, it made sense, yeah? Billy, he was— a real piece of work.” He sniffs again, his voice a little harder at the mention of the deceased.

The tension falls away at the next sentence, voice wobbling through the thickness in his throat. “And I used to be like that, so—“

You pull back instantly, hands shifting back from around his neck. It effectively halts him, and whatever he was saying dies in his throat. Your hands move to cradle his jaw and, as lightly as you can with his injuries, you tug him from his hiding place and stare him in the face.

Steve’s eyes look bigger and browner full of tears. His nose is red, just the tip, and runs messily at the onslaught of tears. Pink splotches bloom underneath his cheeks, patchy and warm, his face etched in complete misery.

It wrecks you to see. More so to think he’s been shouldering all this alone since ‘83.

“People don’t deserve suffering, Steve.” You state it strongly enough that he can’t refute the truth, punctuating with your thumbs on either cheek, pressing light touches.

“You don’t deserve suffering. You never did.” Your voice quivers a bit, some shred of your heart shriveling pathetically at the fact you even need to tell him this. Your hands shake ever-so-slightly. A hot tear streaks down your cheek.

Steve crumbles. You don’t resist when he drops his head down, only move back in— offering a place to hide away again. You let him stay hidden away, a sanctuary in your arms, safe when he’s buried in the curve of your neck.

“And- and just ‘cause,” you say, sniffling a bit now. He holds his breath, a sharp inhale that quietens his whimpering crying. “Just ‘cause no one has stayed before doesn’t mean you don’t deserve this, Steve.”

His fingers press harsher into your back and your feet stumble a bit, pulled off balance. Adjusting your arms, you pull him tighter yet, hoping that the closeness will make all your sentiments seep in. Your shoulder aches terribly; you don’t dare move away.

“You know that, right?” You whisper, unable to stop your fingers from grazing the nape of his neck softly. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

A soft kiss to the side of his head, barely noticeable between his shakes, but it eases the strain on your heart. Time wanes and melts beneath the glow of the bathroom lights, an unending amount of tears that you suspect reach back further than just the memories of tonight.

You stay like this, holding him close. You give him all the time he needs, sweet nothings mumbled until he feels strong enough to face you— to face the world.

Eventually, Steve’s breathing slows, crying turning to trembling gasps. When he finally does retreat, you curse internally because of course, only Steve Harrington can still look devastatingly beautiful after crying.

Tears cling to his lashes, sparkling reflections. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand.

Silence ebbs. Steve gathers himself, another sniff, and wipes his nose before he lifts his head. You can see in his face the moment he’s about to apologise; the word sorry is about to come tripping out his mouth. You beat him to it.

“I’m sorry to inspire more tears,” Your voice, still quiet, aims for a comforting jest. “But I’m not quite done cleaning you up.”

You twist the cotton between your fingers to show him. Steve blinks, eyes focusing on your hand, perhaps surprised you’re still taking care of him. He forgets about his needless apologies. 

“Though, your tears did a lot of the work.” You say cheekily, a smile teasing at the edges of your lips. It makes him huff a laugh. Steve could nearly cry again; you’re so nice. He thinks about the last time cried, thinks about Tommy’s sneer, his scoffed words that told him toughen up, King Steve.

He lets you wipe them away, clear his face and patch it up as best you can. Any tension from before, the mental barb-wire defenses he had still held up to keep you out, has ebbed away. It’s softer now, easier between you two.

Trust flows from Steve in the form of his allowance, letting you fuss. It flows from you in the form of your touch, which still dances too close for just friends. You let your fingers dot the kisses across his face since you can’t.  

“You’re good at this,” Steve murmurs, breaking the silence. He allows himself the privilege of your touch, his fingers burning where they graze your sides.

Patching people up? Injuries from last year made sure you got decent practice on yourself. You’re decent, you’ll admit.

Maybe he means taking care of him. You’re proving to be very good at that. 

You want to. Somewhere rooted in feelings that sway closer to love, genuine love, is the urge to be the one who does it. The shoulder to cry on, the one who carries his woes when it gets too much — and you want him to do the same for you. Achingly, you want to take care of him; and him, you.

The thought burns so viciously through your chest, you sink your teeth into your bottom lip a bit meanly. It stings.

You don’t notice it, trying to rein in your drifting heart that sings to be closer to him, but Steve does. His fingers twitch; he wants to rescue it, pull it from your harsh grip with his thumb.

He does.

You stop moving.

His thumb is calloused, a bit rough against the supple plumpness of your bottom lip. The blood beneath it tingles, gloriously hot at the attention. Either all the air in the room has been sucked out or you’ve stopped breathing.

You’d hazard a guess it’s the second, given the stillness your body has taken on. Muscles locked, eyes frozen on his face — the only part of you that moves is your heart, thundering pumps going far too fast.

Steve’s gaze stays on his thumb on your lip. You’re desperate to find out what to call the emotion swimming in his eyes.

“Steve?” you say his name yet again, lips moving against his thumb. He blinks like a frog, one eye after the other, and drags his gaze up to your eyes.

His hand shifts, brushing across your mouth to hold the side of your jaw, cupping it sweetly. The cotton falls from your grip as Steve urges you closer with a gentle tug.

Then his eyes are back on your lips and even though it feels like slicing your own heart open to do it, you speak before he can kiss you.

“Please don’t,” you whisper, eyes crushing closed.

You want to terribly. The want for his kiss warbles from deep within you, a yawning ache. But it might just finish you off if it’s all heat of the moment — a kiss that is just some twisted thank-you because Steve isn’t used to being taken care of.

You clear your throat, swallowing heavily. “Not— not if it’s just for tonight. Not just because I stayed, please.”

There’s a pause. His shaky exhale breezes across your face. It’s possible your ears might be ringing as if straining to hear the sound of Steve’s heart— dying for a clue to what he’s feeling. You’re not brave enough to open your eyes and read it in his face.

His thumb scrapes across your bottom lip again and then— then, he kisses you, impossibly tender.

The tiny gasp that escapes you is consumed instantly, swallowed up by Steve’s kiss. He kisses gentle, touch so soft that it has you searching for more the moment you’ve got a taste of it.

You barely get a moment to lean into it, to kiss him back before Steve breaks it. He hovers close, close enough that you could steal another taste of his lips if you wanted. You want to— the ferocity of your eagerness sends a shiver along your spine. He speaks before you seize the opportunity.

“I want to.” He says, voice a bit raspy and the words inspire enough bravery to look at him, eyes creasing open. “I- I’ve wanted to for a while.”

You nearly sink in your relief, knees trembling for a moment as your hand comes up to enclose the wrist of the hand that holds your face. Thumb sweeping short strokes, you clutch the tan skin and lean into his caress.

“You mean it?” You whisper, far too excited. Your heart may as well be on your sleeve, cards once played close to your chest now splayed on the table. Your tone reveals all, spilling with hope, even as you ask whether it means the same to him as it does to you.

Yes. The word seems stuck in his throat, suddenly too thick to speak. Because it’s only three letters and that can’t possibly cover what Steve means when he says I’ve wanted to for a while.

That you’d somehow snuck into his life and intertwined among all of his heartstrings, like spun gold mixing until the whole organ felt terribly tangled in a way he’d never want to change.

Nancy had given him the thump of his head.

But you? You were the thump on his heart. Not a push for change, nor for growth — but permission to grant himself a second chance in love.

“I mean it.” He says, emotion coating each word. “Yes, god, I really mean it.”

And you let him tell you over and over again with his mouth pressed to yours, searing kisses that make your head dizzy and pulse speed.

Steve knows he’s not alright — not physically or mentally after what he’s faced tonight, not with the vice grip on his chest that had clung tightly and all the ugly parts of him had all slithered out for you to see.

He also knows that he will be alright, sometime in the far future.

When wounds have healed, when scars are beginning to fade, and the nightmares start being every couple of nights, instead of every night, then he’ll be nearly okay. It’ll take time, lots of it.

But when your gentle hands coax him to bed and you slip beneath the covers beside him, leaving a warm quick kiss upon his shoulder — Steve thinks that, maybe, that future isn’t nearly as far away as it seems.

Your hand finds his under the sheets, twisting your fingers together to act like an anchor in the inkiness of the night.

There are no nightmares that night.

—

tags below! @hawkinsindiana @harringtonbf @spideystevie​ look technically there’s no tags this is just all da bitches i’m always talking to <3

[lesbianjackies]

Would you be able to do a steve harrington x reader ever after high au?

He's obviously a royal and reader is just... weird(like maddy hatter??)

idk, i would like to see what you do with it

No pressure or rush to do it though!! <3

yessss this is amazing. steve is just yet another charming and y/n can be maddie's sister i suppose (adopted ofc- it's established in the eah universe that adoption doesn't really change the flow of destiny so)

word count: 551

warnings: fem!reader, slight angst, mild family issues

taglist: @gg-is-a-loser @yesshewrites1

Steve Charming had only one year of peace before his family's expectations for him started weighing painfully on his shoulders. His brother Daring was born on April 2, a year and seven months after Steve, and that very day was the day Steve's life began to fall apart.

Steve was your average Charming - handsome, heroic, exceptionally athletic - but compared to his younger brother Daring, he was simply never good enough. He was the eldest child but treated more like the middle one, in between Daring's excellence and his other younger brother, Dexterous's, failure. Daring was given the expectation to fill the role of Snow White's Prince Charming, the most highly regarded fairytale in all of Ever After, while Steve and Dexter were expected to wait till Legacy Day to figure out where their destinies led.

Steve had been plopped into the role of Cinderella's Prince Charming a year ago, destined to one day marry Princess Nancy Ella after dancing with her once at a ball. Nancy was a nice girl, he liked her well enough, but he didn't love her, a terrible truth that has haunted him since the day he signed the Storybook of Legends. He really had his eye set on you, (Y/N) Hatter, daughter of the Mad Hatter of Wonderland and Steve's very best friend.

Oh, destiny was a cruel thing, wasn't it?

"Stevie?"

Your bright, bubbly voice jerked Steve out of his thoughts, and he turned to you with a forced smile. "Yeah, (Y/N/N)?"

"Why don't we just ignore our destinies?"

Steve blinked. The question was so specific to his thoughts he was half convinced you'd read them.

"I can't read thoughts, silly." You giggled. "The narrator just said that you didn't wanna marry Nancy and that you liked me instead. And I say: why don't we just ignore our destinies? I like you too, and my sister's best friend didn't follow her destiny and nothing happened to her, so why don't we just do the same thing?"

Steve gaped, unable to form a single sentence.

"Well, that's easy, Stevie. You just open your mouth and say words, like this: the spotted cow jumped over the bright blue moon. See?"

Steve shook his head, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. "It's not that easy, (Y/N). How do we know that Raven hasn't just not disappeared yet? It's- Destiny is all we've ever known. Who are we to just turn our backs on it?"

"Who is Headmaster Grimm to tell us who we are?" you retorted, not unkindly. "Maybe destiny doesn't have to be set in stone. Maybe it can be something we can choose. I don't know about you, but I'm willing to see where following our own destinies - the ones in our heart - takes us, if it means I get to spend my Happily Ever After with you."

Steve remained silent for a moment, then took your face in his hands and kissed you, like he'd never kissed anyone before. "I'm a Charming," he whispered after you broke apart, resting his forehead against yours, "which means I need to be brave. I think I can do that, (Y/N/N). So you know what? Call me, Steve Charming, the rebel."

You beamed up at him and he kissed you again.

[drarrily-we-row-along]

Day 161: Truth*

Hello friends, here's the whole prompt for today: One is called Truth, where Draco overhears Harry talking to Ron and Hermione about how his life at the Dursleys was a living hell. And he gets confused since he always though my Harry was always pampered.

CW: Deals with canon typical child abuse.

"No!" Ron shouted from across the break room where he was sitting with Hermione and Harry, and Draco's head snapped up, attention successfully taken from his magazine and dedicated to them.

"Shush," Harry said, bumping his shoulder.

Hermione's eyebrows were furrowed and Draco quickly dropped his gaze back to the quidditch magazine in his hands as she glanced furtively around the room. "But they were horrible to you."

"Yes," Harry agreed and Draco's ears strained even harder to listen, anyone that treated his auror partner (and secret love of his life) unkindly deserved to meet a terrible end. "But-"

"They put bars on your window, mate," Ron inserted, voice loud once more, and Harry glared at him.

"Would you lower your voice? For the love of Merlin," he groaned rubbing his head.

Hermione leaned closer, "But he's right. Harry, they were awful-"

"I'm aware," Harry snapped. "Do you think I don't remember the way that they kept me in a literal closet? Or the way that they treated me like I was a servant meant to do all of the things they found distasteful?"

"Harry-" Hermione started.

But Harry cut her off, continuing over her, "Or maybe you think I forgot what it was like to be berated for my hair and the color of my skin, to be called stupid and useless and other vile things." His hands were shaking where they were balled into fists on the table, "Do you think I don't remember what it was like to only have clothes that didn't fit? To steal broken toys from the rubbish bin? To have a pair of used, broken glasses given to me by the school nurse just so I could see? Do you think I've forgotten what it was like to be so hungry that I couldn't even think straight and all I wanted to do was cry?"

He covered his face for a moment and Draco watched him take a slow deep breath, watched as his best friends stared at him in shocked silence.

(Read more below the cut)

Lifting his head, Harry said, "Because I haven't forgotten." He rubbed a hand over his jaw, "I know who they were, but I know who Dudley is trying to become, and I know who I am. So, if Dudley wants me to come to Petunia's funeral, I will."

And it dawned on Draco in that moment that they were talking about Harry's family, about the people who'd adopted him and raised him until he went to Hogwarts. The world shifted on it's axis as Draco processed that information and he couldn't figure out why he hadn't seen it before. All of the signs were there, if he'd just taken a moment to look, but as a child he'd been so sure that Harry was a spoiled child. Any wizarding family would have spoiled him rotten, so it had only stood to reason that his own family would have too.

But they hadn't, he realized, and as that realization was settling over him, Harry happened to look up and their gazes met. A complicated series of emotions flitted across Harry's face in the span of mere seconds, so quickly that Draco couldn't isolate them fast enough to understand what the other man was feeling, before Harry was standing, knocking his chair over as he bolted out of the room.

Hermione and Ron both called out for him, obviously confused, but Draco was up a second later, following him out. When he reached the hallway, Harry was nowhere to be seen, but Draco knew where he went when he needed a few minutes to process a case they were working on, or deal with his emotions, or when he just needed a break.

He heard the door behind him open and slipped into an alcove, casting a quick notice-me-not as Hermione and Ron rushed past, not wanting to give them the chance to follow him.

Once they were gone, he headed toward the stairs, not letting himself rush even though he wanted to, because he knew Harry would want a minute to compose himself before he got there. He climbed the stairs all the way up to the door that let out onto the roof. As his hand rested on the door handle, he took a slow breath, before opening it.

Harry was standing at the railing, leaning his elbows on it as he stared out over the city. "How much did you hear?" he asked without looking at Draco.

"Enough," he said softly, taking only a moment to decide that he was going to come and stand next to the other man.

He nodded once and didn't turn his head to look at Draco. "I don't want your pity."

"Alright," he said.

"I'm the same person," Harry continued, his entire body tense. "Lots of people have shitty childhoods. I've gone to therapy and I'm fine. I don't need-"

"Come here," Draco said, his mouth speaking and body moving without his brain's conscious consent as he grabbed Harry and dragged him into a hug. "You," he said softly, "Are an amazing human being. Your past doesn't define you and I am not looking at you any differently than I was an hour ago."

Harry's body softened against his a bit and his arms wrapped tentatively around Draco's waist. He wanted to apologize for making Harry's childhood harder, but he'd already done that, they were past it, and this wasn't about him.

"I'm sorry that I overheard in the staff lounge," he said instead, "That I didn't give you the chance to tell me yourself or to not tell me at all. It was an invasion of your privacy and-"

"It's okay," Harry said, leaning into the embrace a little more. "I don't," he broke off and gave his head a little shake, "I don't mind that you know."

"Oh," Draco said, not entirely sure what to make of that.

Harry didn't move away, he trailed his fingers over Draco's back and Draco wondered if it was a conscious movement. "I'm not always okay," he whispered like a confession. "I'm not always fine."

"Is anyone?" he asked. "I don't mean to minimize your experience, but none of us are always okay, Harry. It's okay for things to still hurt sometimes. It's okay for the things we thought we'd moved on from to still impact the way we exist and move forward."

Harry turned his face into Draco's neck. "It doesn't feel like it's okay."

"Yeah," he conceded, "But that's a lie. We're all healing from our own trauma. If you want to go to the funeral, if you want to support your cousin, you should," he said, "but if you don't think it will be good for you, you don't have to go. You don't have to give any more of yourself to them."

"I don't want to go alone," he confessed.

"I'll go with you," Draco said before he could even think about the words that were going to come out of his mouth.

"What?" Harry asked, pulling back from the embrace far enough that he could look into Draco's eyes.

He searched Harry's face for a long moment, "I'll go with you," he repeated softly.

"Why?"

Draco licked his bottom lip and contemplated how he was meant to answer this question.

"Come on," Harry prompted with a self conscious little laugh, "You've just learned my deepest, darkest secret. Tell me. Why would you come to this funeral with me?"

"I love you," he said, shocked by his own boldness, by the easy way those three words had spilled from his mouth.

Harry's face broke out into a slow smile at the words, "Do you mean that?"

He nodded, "I do."

The other man tugged him a little closer until their foreheads were pressed together. "I love you, too."

"Do you?" he asked, surprised.

"I have for the past six years now," Harry laughed. "Since that day you emerged from that burning factory carrying Snowball and telling everyone who would listen that you were adopting that ugly little dog."

He scowled, "Snowball isn't ugly," he said. "She's adorable, she was just all covered in dirt and grime."

Harry laughed, "Well we know that now," he conceded. "But no one, you included, knew it then. In that moment, though, I knew I was gone on you. You've got such a good heart."

"Well, don't make me out to be a saint. Last week, I put fart-juice in Hillard's coffee so he'd embarrass himself in front of the Minister because he took credit for your idea."

Harry laughed, the bright, delighted one that always made Draco's stomach feel like he was diving on a broom. "I knew that was you," he said. "You did it for me, though, so I don't think that counts against you."

"I'll always support you," he said earnestly.

He brushed the tip of his nose over Draco's. "Can I kiss you?"

Draco nodded and closed the distance between them, kissing him for the first, but certainly not the last, time in the next chapter of their lives together.

-----------------------------

Day 160: Deja Vu | Day 162: Horror Movie*

[asweetprologue]

me lámh le do lámh - Part I

Ahh I can’t believe it’s finally done! After a year of working on this beast, it’s finally ready for me to share. This is something I started way back last summer, and I decided to finish it as my project for this year’s @geraskierbigbang. It will be ten parts in total, and I will post one part per day until it is complete! There are several art pieces that were created by the wonderful @herostag​ and Miranda.draws for this story, which I will link when the appropriate section is posted. For a summary and further links, please see the masterpost.

Next | Ao3 | Masterpost

“Alright,” Geralt said. “Don’t laugh at me.”

Yennefer looked up at him with bright eyes, curious and already mirthful. She was sitting across from him in his quarters, reading through a tome she’d found in Kaer Morhen’s disheveled library. Geralt had just come from a bath after hours spent training Ciri in the yard, and the room was filled with the warm evening light, supplemented by the fire crackling in the hearth. Yennefer had insisted on carting dozens of tapestries and drapes to hang around the drafty keep, and the room was nearly stuffy with their bulk keeping the heat in.

Yennefer gave him an amused smirk. “I will make no such promises before I even know what you’re going to say.” The gentle teasing brought a fond smile to Geralt’s face. After the events of the mountain all those years ago, things had been understandably tense. Yennefer had been reluctant to join them when she had finally met up with Geralt after Sodden, but had eventually agreed to seek refuge in the witchers’ keep and teach Ciri to control her magic. Once she’d met the girl it had all been a wash; it was clear as soon as their eyes met across the room that Yennefer was as much a part of Ciri’s destiny as Geralt was.

Geralt had expected that to either mend the rift between them enough for things to go back to the way things were, or make things even more awkward. Instead, they found themselves in a sort of in-between. Over the years his affection for Yennefer had only grown, but he found himself looking to her more and more as a friend—maybe his best friend. After Jaskier, of course.

Speaking of. “I was thinking about Jaskier.”

Yennefer rolled her eyes obviously. “As you are so frequently wont to do. The thaw will come soon enough, dear, and you can run off in search of your bard.”

Geralt felt his ears grow warm. Witchers couldn’t blush, not truly, but he still felt the tingle of it as he fidgeted with embarrassment. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, absently tracing a finger against the grain of the wooden table. There were two goblets of wine sitting between them, but so far neither of them had begun to drink. “Do you know how many winters it’s been since I found Ciri?”

If she was confused by the odd turn in subject matter, Yennefer didn’t show it. Instead she looked thoughtful. “Two, perhaps three? You know I don’t follow the seasons with diligence.”

“Neither do I,” Geralt agreed. “I was thinking the same though, two or three years since the fall of Cintra. Which means Jaskier is…” He paused, trying to do the math. “He was a few years past forty, during the dragon hunt, I think. He must be closer to fifty now than not.”

Yennefer raised an eyebrow at him. “I recall mentioning something about his crows feet. What of it? Humans age. Are you only just discovering this?”

Geralt forced himself not to grumble. In a way, he was only discovering it. He’d known humans across the years, of course, and knew that many that he’d once been acquainted with were no longer alive or were in their twilight years. For decades Geralt had wandered through the world, changing no more than a ghost would, touching the lives of regular mortals for a brief instance, maybe a few times if they were particularly unlucky. No one had stayed by his side, dedicated themselves to a relationship with him, the way that the bard had. The amount of devotion that Jaskier showed to him had made Geralt antsy, in earlier years, and then confused and angry by turn. He had hated the idea of someone needing him, had hated needing someone in return. The way his chest felt heavy when he and Jaskier parted ways had left him furious with himself and the bard.

And then Ciri came into his life, and everything had changed so quickly.

With Ciri, it didn’t matter whether Geralt felt like he should care for her, or if he wanted to. He needed to. Without him, the girl would die, or be kidnapped by Nilfgaard for who knows what purpose. He had to feed her, and clothe her, and teach her, and he had to love her for her to thrive.

She made it very easy. It was only afterwards that he realized how much of an idiot he’d been to Jaskier, and the thought of how he’d treated the bard over the years had plagued him. It had been months before he could find him to apologize, but Jaskier forgave him almost immediately—which Geralt found both relieving and infuriating at the same time. This was the first winter they’d spent apart since. Geralt left the keep more rarely now, heading out on the Path only when the months grew truly warm and returning at the first hint of falling leaves. Ciri was safe on her own, he knew, but he missed her when he was away. And he could admit now that one of the forces driving him back into the world over the last few years had been the itching desire to find Jaskier again and settle the yearning in his chest for another year. He was less inclined to venture forth when his bard, his daughter, Yennefer and his brothers were all in one place.

This winter Jaskier had begged off, saying that he had “work in the south,” which could mean anything from spending a decadent winter in the court of some noble or sludging through the front lines as a Redanian spy. Geralt had learned not to pry too deeply into Jaskier’s business when he wasn’t around. It was often either too explicit for him to stomach or too confidential for Jaskier to share freely.

It worried him, being away from the bard for so long. He could get hurt, or captured by Nilfgaard, or worse. But what really terrified Geralt was the idea that he would find Jaskier in a tavern along the Path and realize that the bard had grown old, to find silver in his hair and wrinkles beside his eyes. “He’s getting too old,” Geralt said to Yennefer, who looked at him with sympathetic eyes.

“You must have known when you started travelling with him that he would eventually leave you,” Yennefer said, not unkindly. “Humans are so short lived.”

“I didn’t exactly get a choice about becoming his muse,” Geralt said with a huff. Despite his improved relationship with Jaskier over the past few years, he still found it difficult to admit that he had always been more than willing to let the bard tag along. If he’d wanted to travel alone, he would have. But he never had. “I just didn’t realize…”

“It always comes sooner than you think it will,” Yennefer sighed. She set her book aside and picked up her goblet of wine, turning to look out the large window their table sat in front of. It faced west out of the keep wall, towards the mountains and the forest beyond. The sun had set below the craggy peaks, throwing the snow covered valley below into darkness. Geralt could just make out the ruins of the old tower, its stones dark against the white landscape. “You can’t cure his mortality, Geralt.”

“We did.”

The look that Yennefer gave him was sharp, almost angry. The firelight in the room turned her violet eyes darker, like mulberry wine. “At great cost,” she snapped. “I can’t imagine you would put him through the Trials.”

A stab of panic shot through his gut at the thought. “No. Of course not. He wouldn’t survive it anyways. Only children stand a chance at all.”

Yennefer nodded, apparently satisfied that Geralt hadn’t completely lost his mind. “The boy hasn’t got an ounce of Chaos in him, in spite of his rather chaotic nature, so I highly doubt they’ll accept him as a late trainee at Ban Ard.”

“There must be other ways,” Geralt said, feeling petulant. “Less conventional.”

“I cannot believe we are actually discussing this,” Yennefer said, rising to her feet. She picked up her book from the table as well as her glass. “There is no way to achieve immortality, especially not without sacrifice. You know that, Geralt. Drop this foolish line of thought.”

Geralt rose after her, reaching out to catch her retreating wrist. A grasp loose enough that she could break it, if she wanted, but Yennefer paused. “Please, Yen. Just… look into it for me? I can’t—the thought of—” He cut himself off, dropping his hand away from her arm. The look she gave him was more pitying than he would have liked.

“I’ll do some research, but nothing more. Don’t get your hopes up, Geralt. There’s a reason there are so few of us,” she said. Her face softened slightly, as much as it ever did. Despite Ciri, Yennefer was still made of more glass and fire than anything else. “I know you love him, even if you can’t admit it to yourself. I promise, I will do my best.”

Geralt nodded wordlessly as she left and wondered if Jaskier's eyes would be as bright next time he saw him.

*

For weeks Yennefer said nothing about his request, and Geralt refocused on spending time with Ciri and preparing to depart for the spring. Lambert and Eskel had already left a month before, as soon as the road down the mountain began to thaw, but Geralt had hung back. The roof needed repairs, a difficult job to do in the midst of winter, and it was a hard task to leave for Vesemir alone. It was always like this, now—him looking for odd jobs to keep him at Kaer Morhen, with Ciri, making excuses until Jaskier’s jitteriness or Vesemir’s raised eyebrows forced them on the road again. Some of that was mitigated this season by the silence he heard when he found himself listening for the sounds of lute strings strumming gently in the background, and Geralt’s increasing anxiety about Jaskier’s wellbeing. Even so, it was hard to leave Ciri behind.

The girl was progressing rapidly as she entered her teen years, the chubbiness of her youth morphing into lean if awkward muscle as she continued to work on her swordsmanship. When Geralt and his brothers weren’t pushing her through drills, she was studying monsters and alchemy with Vesemir, or practicing her magic with Yen. She never seemed to tire, eagerly absorbing any lessons passed on to her and desperate to prove her worth. The only person she seemed to let her guard down around was Geralt, who found himself often goading her into mock wrestling matches (which he refused to throw on principle) and humoring her when she became restless and wanted to explore beyond the keep. Kaer Morhen was dangerous in the winter, but as spring approached and the deep snows on the surrounding mountains began to thaw, the duo spent more and more time trekking through old ruins and sleeping beneath the stars.

He could put off his journey south no longer.

“I’m going to be fine, Geralt,” she said, rolling her eyes at him. He wondered if he’d been this petulant as a teenager. Certainly Lambert had. “I can take care of myself, and Yen will be with me.”

Geralt tapped her wooden training sword with his own, indicating that she should prepare to go again. When he was a boy he’d trained against the other foundlings, stumbling around like pups through drills and sparring matches. Ciri trained against full witchers, and only Eskel ever faked a misstep here or there to allow her to get in a good hit. When she won a fight for the first time, it would be on her own merit.

The girl raised her sword into a decent fighting stance, and Geralt moved to correct her footwork. Her sword work was exceptional above the belt, but she consistently forgot her stances, throwing herself off balance. They’d begun putting her on the pendulums to force her to focus, dancing between posts to attack the dummies. Geralt had spent many a night rubbing salve into her bruised shoulders, gained from taking fall after fall from the low poles. No one forced her, but if there was one thing Ciri hated, it was admitting to weakness in herself. “Sword up,” Geralt said, and launched into his attack.

He stayed on the offense, forcing her to practice the defensive drills they’d started going over recently. “I know you’ll be fine,” he said, continuing their conversation. His breathing was relaxed, almost meditative through the slow exchange of blows. “Just seems cruel to leave you with only the old man and Yennefer for company.”

Ciri giggled despite herself, and Geralt found himself grinning back before he smacked her lightly in the ribs with the training sword. She swore—Lambert, Geralt thought with chagrin—and danced back a few paces. “Gotta focus,” he said, still smirking at her.

She poked her tongue out at him childishly and reposted off of one of his blocked attacks. He easily swayed out of the way, but the movement was fluid and smooth, which meant someday it would be fast, faster than he could dodge. He gave an encouraging nod.

They continued to spar for another half an hour or so before breaking, heading to the well to fill their water pouches. Geralt sat on the short ring of stones and Ciri slumped on the ground beside him, leaning against his leg. The simple trust and familiarity she exhibited around him still took him by surprise, sometimes. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, rubbing a hand over the top of her head. Her hair was almost as white as his.

She sighed, wiping dripping water from her chin as she tossed her water pouch down. “I figured,” she said. “Say hello to Jaskier for me, when you find him? I missed his songs this time.”

Geralt’s caress turned into a playful ruffle. “I will. Any requests for books?”

“Ones about Elves,” she said immediately, “and Skelligan alchemy. It’s different from ours, did you know? The Druids—”

Geralt chuckled. “I know. You’ve said half a dozen times. No fairytales this time?”

The girl hummed, reminding him for a brief and touching moment of himself. “Just bring Jaskier back. He tells about your adventures so much better than you do.”

“He’s certainly made a career out of it,” Geralt grumbled, feigning annoyance. “I’ll do my best. You know how he is.”

“You missed him too,” she said, hitting his knee with one closed fist. “I know you did. You get all…Well, more grumbly and mopey than usual, when he’s not around.” She wrinkled her nose up at him in exaggerated disgust. “It’s gross. But I do want you to be happy.”

Geralt knocked back against her gently with his knee, swallowing around the feelings that rose in his throat. “You just think I’m a boring old man who won’t help you put toads in Eskel’s bed. But you never even ask. I’m the expert, not Jaskier.”

Ciri laughed, bright and crisp in the morning air, and Geralt felt warm despite the fading winter chill. Tomorrow he would leave, and he would find Jaskier, and next winter he would tell Jaskier that he had to stay at Kaer Morhen. For Ciri, if nothing else. And if it was more for Geralt’s sake than anything, well, no one had to know.

*

Yennefer found him before he left, saddling Roach in the stables.

“Go to Triss,” she said by way of a greeting. Geralt knew what she meant by the gravity in her tone and the tension sitting in the corners of her mouth. “Ask after Ida. I don’t know where she is or if she’ll speak with you, but a Sage is the only one that might be able to give you anything.”

Geralt reached out to grasp her hand firmly in his own. “Thank you, Yen,” he said honestly.

The sorceress sniffed. “Well, you owe me one, I suppose. I hope you find what you're looking for. But be careful.”

“I won’t do anything that might put him in harm’s way,” he promised. “I swear it.”

“Good.” She gave him a slight smile before leaning in to brush a kiss over his rough cheek. The simple touch warmed him from inside out. “Say hello to the bard for me. Tell him I heard about that disastrous competition in Vizima. Ought to have him stewing for a good long while.”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “I’ll give him your love as always.”

“Goodbye, Geralt,” she said, patting his arm lightly. “Be safe. You know how to reach me, if you have need.”

“I do,” he said. “I will. Take care of Ciri.”

“It’s more the other way around, I’m afraid,” she said with a soft smile, and Geralt understood exactly what she meant. Ciri had saved them both, in more ways than one. Every time he left her was more painful than the last. Someday, he knew, they might travel the Path together, a witcher, a sorceress and their daughter. Maybe even a bard, if he was extremely lucky.

Geralt hoped he would be.

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

If I Fell For You (Part 1) - The Nanny

Summary: The reader interviews for a new live-in nanny position with Jensen and quickly gets the job but she starts to slowly see that her new employer is going to be different than any other she’s had before...

Masterlist

Pairing: Jensen x nanny!reader

Square: Slow Burn

Word Count: 4,800ish

Warnings: language, mention of death of a spouse/death of a parent

A/N: Please enjoy the first part of this series! This was also written for @supernatural-jackles​ Tell Me A Story Bingo!

________

If someone had said you’d be celebrating your 30th birthday by accepting an interview to be a live in nanny when you were a kid, you would have told them they were nuts. Beyond nuts. Beyond help for that matter.

But there you were. Thirty. Single. Childless. Taking care of other people’s families and not doing much else with your life. You weren’t sure if your mom would have been on you about the no kids thing or the no boyfriend thing more to be honest.

But the pay was normally good and sometimes great and it gave you a taste of family, even if you were just the help to the adults most of the time.

You buzzed the button by the gate at the end of the driveway, a brief moment passing before it opened. It was probably on a timer like most of the people you’d worked for before, an alarm system kicking on at some point in the evening that required a buzz in, the code or a car sensor. You drove down the driveway and parked a little behind a black SUV. The house was a little modern, a little grand, a little overwhelming. A fence and lots of trees surrounded the property. The yard appeared large but you could see houses on either side. Private but suburban. 

The cadillac wasn’t a shocker. Most everyone in these neighborhoods had Escalades. You walked past an open garage on the way up, a muscle car and a more modest smaller SUV parked inside. You went up the very short path and stepped up, ringing the doorbell and fixing your shirt. You were in jeans and a plain gray shirt. It was your normal wear for chasing small children around all day and you weren’t a fan of uniforms.

“Hi,” said a very tired, very handsome man as he opened the door. “You must be from Nanny Core.”

“I’m Y/N Y/L/N from Home Pair,” you said with a smile. He shut his eyes and leaned his head against the door. 

“The last girl was from Nanny Core,” he said. He blinked them open and shook his head. “I’m so sorry. Yes, Y/N. You’re the one that’s a consultant, not firmly associated with Home Pair, right?”

“Correct,” you said as he opened the door more and you stepped inside.

“Can I ask what the distinction is?”

“Mostly it has to do with benefits,” you said. “Consultants pay out of pocket for their own or negotiate with their client for those to be covered.”

“Gotcha,” he yawned. You looked ahead and he wiped his hand over his face. “I’m sorry. I must seem like an ass.”

“You seem tired is all Mr. Ackles. Not a crime,” you said with a smile. He nodded and he returned it, no fake cheesiness to it. 

“Mind if we do the interview in the kitchen over a cup of coffee?” he asked.

“Wherever you like, sir,” you said. You took off your shoes when you noticed he didn’t wear any inside and he chuckled as you walked back farther into the house.

“Uh, for the record, call me Jensen. None of that sir stuff. They must teach that at nanny school or something huh?” he said, motioning to a table. “I noticed all of you do it.”

“Something like that,” you said. You took a seat and watched him go to a coffee machine, fumbling with it before he spilled some ground coffee on the counter. He shut his eyes and gripped the counter’s edge, taking a deep breath to himself. “How about I make the coffee and you take a seat, hm?”

“I’m okay,” he said as he opened his eyes. 

“Well making you coffee is probably going to come up in my job quite a bit so consider this part of the interview. It’s alright, really,” you said. He glanced over to you and you smiled. 

“Thank you,” he said. You swapped places with him and got him a cup going, taking a mug off the counter and waiting a beat before liquid started pouring out. “I’m gonna ask you the same question I’ve asked all seven other women I’ve talked to today.”

“Yes?”

“Why should I trust you to watch my children?”

“Honestly?” you asked as he nodded. You smiled and carried the cup over to him, Jensen taking a long sip. “You shouldn’t.”

“I shouldn’t. That seems counterproductive.”

“I wouldn’t trust any stranger with my child. Trust is earned, not given. I think the real question is do you believe I’m capable of earning that trust with you and that’s something intrinsically only you know.”

“How so?”

“You meet a lot of different kinds of people with this job. My gut reaction to you is stressed, overwhelmed, sleep-deprived father who doesn’t really want any nanny at all but is forced into this situation. It’s going to be impossible for you to trust any of the seven woman from earlier or me off the bat, Jensen. You should be thinking of who will you come to trust. Who can you count on.”

“This is why my wife should have been the one doing this,” he said, smiling to himself as he drunk down most of the hot liquid.

“We could always re-schedule for when she’s available.”

“Oh, we’d have to wait a very long time for that,” he chuckled. He sat the mug down and glanced down briefly, smiling as he looked up. “She passed away unexpectedly six months ago. Car accident.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” you said. He nodded and made a face like he wanted to make a comment. “My mom died kinda unexpectedly. I know it’s...harder.”

“You’re young. How old?”

“Turned thirty today,” you said. He laughed and you heard the life behind it, Jensen shaking his head.

“Well Happy Birthday. I meant with your mother though. If that’s okay with you I mean.”

“It’s fine. I was sixteen,” you said. 

“That...fucking sucks doesn’t it?”

“So does losing your wife,” you said. 

“Yes it does. I’ve grieved. We all have. The kids are small. They’ll be okay.”

“Is dad okay?” you asked.

“Yes. Ready to start moving on with life again,” he said with a soft smile. “You’re kind. Not in a I’m trying to get this job kind of way. Just kind.”

“Well being cruel doesn’t sound like very much fun,” you said.

“You’re not trying to impress me.”

“The first rule of nannying, Jensen. You think you’re interviewing us when in reality we’re interviewing you too.”

“How am I doing so far?”

“Nice coffee choice,” you said with a smile that he nodded at. “You respect people. You’ll employ me but won’t treat me like I’m second class. You’re checking the boxes so far.”

“What if I don’t check all the boxes?”

“You don’t get to know the luxury of knowing the answer yet, Mr. Ackles,” you said. “Interview isn’t over.”

“You got fucked over by somebody, didn’t you.”

“Also perceptive,” you said. “Like I said, I don’t tolerate being treated unkindly anymore. It’s why I left my last position.”

“I have one more question,” he said. “Would you treat my children like they’re your own?”

“Again, asking the wrong question,” you said. He sat back and crossed his arms, smirking at you.

“What exactly should I be asking?”

“Will you treat my children kindly and with respect but take charge when required?”

“What’s the difference?”

“One is me doing my job and the other is me doing yours.”

“How old did you say you were again?”

“Thirty today.”

“Right. Well I think I know where I stand. Do you have anything for me?”

“Can you show me a picture of your kids?” you asked. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet. “You answered my question.”

“I didn’t show you anything yet.”

“You’d be surprised how many fathers I’ve met don’t carry pictures of their children in their wallets. That one is just a me thing.”

“Your dad do that?” he asked as he tucked it away.

“Maybe,” you said with a shrug. He was polite enough to not go down that route though and this was already getting more personal than you anticipated. “I think I know where I stand as well.”

“I’d like to hire you,” he said.

“Assuming our negotiations go well, I accept,” you said. He held out his hand over the table and you shook it.

“I did come up with what I thought was fair for salary and benefits. Let me go grab the paperwork and hopefully settle on something,” he said. He excused himself and you looked around the house, already trying to familiarize yourself with things. He was more relaxed when he returned with some papers and a notebook, handing you a few sheets. “If I’m missing anything let me know. I-”

“This is my weekly rate?” you asked when you saw the number at the top of the page.

“Oh no. That’s your daily,” he said as he took a seat. “So I think that’s-”

“Jensen,” you said, pushing the paper back. “I have to ask, things like insurance, are those coming out of your pocket or mine?”

“I’ll cover the expenses of your health, dental, all of that. You just choose and I’ll subsize it as part of your paycheck,” he said. 

“This is for a live in position. Um...can you just...explain what makes up that daily rate number?” you asked.

“It’s simply your base pay. Obviously I pay for housing, utilities, gas obviously. I will get you a credit card to make purchases with for the kids and all of that so it’s simple to keep track of. You’re free to any of the food in the kitchen. I’m guessing the salary is the sticking point here.”

“Jensen,” you said as you scratched your head. 

“I can go up fifty more dollars a day.”

“Jensen. This is way, way too much money. Way too much,” you said. “The average rate around here is about twenty five an hour or two hundred a day. Jensen this is double that. Are you factoring in like time and a half for additional nights and weekends?”

“No. That’d be on top of that. I thought that was a fair value based on the fact you are going to be taking care of the most valuable things in my life. It’s gonna get taxed too so it’s not like you see all of it.”

“You’re sweet, Jensen,” you said, writing down a number at the top of the page. “The average in Austin is twenty five an hour. I would be very happy with that.”

“You have to literally be the first person in existence to negotiate their salary down from the offer,” he said.

“Are you rejecting my offer?” you asked. He took the paper and crossed your number out, jotting down his own and spinning it back. “Jensen.”

“Y/N,” he said, crossing his arms. “I came down. Now it’s your turn. Do you accept?”

You knew thirty five was still way overpriced for the job, especially considering everything else he was paying for.

“I will accept on the condition that you get four hours of what we’d call evening or weekend at the normal rate ever week.”

“I can agree to that,” he said with a smile, writing that down. “So medical plan. Single, plus one, family?”

“Single for all that,” you said. 

“I should mention that there is an in-law suite off to the other side of the garage where you’ll be staying. It’s just down the hall but it has its own small living area and kitchenette. There is a separate entrance to it. If you have guests over I just ask you keep them to your area of the house,” he said.

“Absolutely. I don’t tend to bring people over much anyways while I’m on the job,” you said. He let you read over the rest of the benefits, a good amount of sick and vacation time too. Technically you were free evenings and weekends but he could ask you to work longer if he needed you and you were available. Overall everything seemed in order. “Alright. Everything looks good to me.”

“Awesome. Are you available to start Monday?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said. “It gives me plenty of time to move in things tomorrow so I can jump into the kids routine first thing Monday.”

“Perfect,” he said. “I’ll show you around. We can start with your side of the house.” You got up and followed him over to near the front door and down a long hallway, past a set of doors. There was a frosted glass one to your left just before he pushed open a wide white one.

Behind it was a living area and kitchen. Not huge, about the size of a small apartment. There was a TV and sectional, a table tucked against the wall and a kitchenette like he’d mentioned with full size appliances. 

“Like I said, I know it’s small. Please like, seriously watch TV out in the family room at night if you want or hang out wherever or the yard or pool. This is just your own space when you want to be away from us.” You hummed and he showed you a closet and then a bedroom and bathroom. It was simple but decorated nicely and looked relaxing. “If there’s something obvious I’m missing please let me know. A cleaning service does come by every two weeks on Tuesdays at around ten in the morning. They’ll do in here too. Otherwise you can keep after yourself. Cleaning stuff is in the laundry room. Oh yeah. Um, this is probably the last time I’ll like, ever come in here unless you need help moving things in since this will be your space.”

“Thanks. I don’t have too much. I do have one request before we sign all the paperwork.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to meet the kids if that’s alright. There’s not much point in hiring me if they hate me.”

“Fair point. We’ll get ‘em over here and then get you all squared away.”

Monday Morning

“Good morning,” you said, a cup of coffee in your hand already as Jensen yawned. 

“Morning,” he mumbled. His hair was a mess and he was in only a pair of boxer briefs before he paused and looked down. “I should probably put on some clothes.”

“This is your house. Wear whatever you normally would. Pretend I’m invisible,” you said as you poured a cup of coffee into a mug for him.

“Sounds like you worked for some real assholes,” he said, graciously taking the cup. “As long as it doesn’t bother you, me walking around in my undies.”

“No, not at all,” you said with a smile. “Would you like me to drop the kids off at school and daycare this morning?”

“Sure,” he said. “Car keys are on the table by the garage.”

“Okay great. I’m used to driving that kind of SUV,” you said. You snuck a look at your schedule you’d printed out again, knowing the twins would get need to get picked up around noon. You started to work on their lunches and snacks for the day while he took out the carton of eggs from the fridge. He cracked one into a pan and turned the heat on, yawning again as he got out some bread and threw it on a plate. “Would you like me to make lunch for you as well?”

“No thank you. I’m getting lunch with my manager today. You don’t have to make me coffee in the morning either, Y/N. Your job is to take care of the kids, not me,” he said.

“A cup of coffee is not difficult, Jensen. My job is to help you so if I can make dad’s life a smidge easier it’ll make theirs better too,” you said with a smile.

“You’re not like, a morning person are you,” he chuckled. “I don’t do peppy in the morning.”

“Oh no. I’m always a little nervous when I start a new job. I’ll get a rhythm down soon,” you said.

“So what do you normally do once the kids are dropped off?” he asked as he got out a spatula.

“On a weekday I’ll review their schedule, see if anything different is going on. An average day like today I will clean their rooms, their bathroom, do some laundry while they’re at school, maybe some shopping. I’ll pick up the twins, bring them home for lunch, a little playtime, a nap. We’ll have some quiet time and maybe a craft or coloring before we get JJ from school. Then I’ll give them all a snack, we can get outside and play to get some energy out. I’ll help JJ with any schoolwork she has while the twins play and then I will start on dinner about the time you’ll be getting home. Since you have no plans currently tonight I’ll leave you guys be at that point until tomorrow unless you ask me for help.”

“So when do you take a break?” he asked.

“Naptime. I’ll have lunch with the twins. Don’t worry about me Jensen. That’s my normal plan but if you would like me to run some errands in the morning I can,” you said.

“No, no. Just…” he trailed off. “I still want to make them breakfast and dinner and play with them too is all.”

“We’ll figure out the right mix of things,” you said. “You just gotta tell me is all, okay? It can vary day to day too,”

“Yeah,” he said, taking his fried egg out of the pan and placing it on one piece of bread. He made a sandwich and took a big bite, looking out the back window. “I never asked. How was your birthday?”

“Hm?” you hummed, dropping some carrots into a reusable bag.

“On Saturday you said it was your 30th. You do anything fun that night?” he asked with a soft smile.

“I got a new job. That was the highlight of my day,” you said, Jensen cocking his head. “I ordered pizza, binged netflix. My normal Saturday routine.”

“I know everybody jokes about 30 but it’s really just jokes. Wait until you’re 42,” he chuckled. “Then you really feel old.”

“Most 42 year olds would kill to look like you,” you said. You shut your eyes and shook your head. “I’m so sorry. That was so inappropriate.”

“It’s alright. I took it as a compliment,” he said, smiling again. “So you did nothing for your birthday, huh?”

“Uh, no,” you said, mixing in some grapes into each of the snack bags.

“I’m gonna get you a birthday cake,” he said.

“Mr. Ackles-”

“I thought I said it’s Jensen. I’m the boss so what I say goes. We’re gonna have a birthday cake for you tonight. So. What’s your favorite flavor?”

“Whatever you want is perfectly fine.”

“Y/N.”

“...I like red velvet,” you said. He smiled and chuckled. 

“That was my wife’s favorite,” he said. “Haven’t had that since her birthday. She would have liked you.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. You’re quite kind to me. She was always protective of me, even if she was the scaredy cat most of the time.”

“Can I ask how…” you said as he took another bite.

“Accident. Tractor trailer versus her car. He tried to miss her but it was too late. I wanted to hate the guy too but it was an accident and I couldn’t blame him for that.”

“My father died in a car crash when I was six. It does get better with time,” you said.

“That’s why you didn’t know if he had a picture of you in his wallet or not,” he said as you nodded. “You’re too young to have that much tragedy in life.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not young anymore.”

“You’re young and overly generous,” you said with a smile. 

“Misery loves company,” he said as you both heard a few feet above you running around. “Munchkins are up.”

“You want to make breakfast or should I?” you asked.

“Give me five minutes to get them in some clean clothes. Then I can show you how they like their eggs.”

“Sounds like a plan, Jensen.”

Later That Evening

“Y/N?” said Jensen, knocking on the door to your room. You got up from the couch and answered it, Jensen standing there with a smile. “The kids and I were wondering if you’d like your birthday cake for dessert.”

“You actually got me a cake?”

“I did indeed,” he said. You followed him down the hall and back into the living space, Arrow running up to you.

“Y/N! Are you sleeping over?” she asked as she gave you a hug.

“I live just down the hall now, cutie,” you said.

“Daddy, can we have ice cream too?” asked Zeppelin as he climbed up into his chair at the table.

“Sure thing bud. Girls, would you like some too?” he asked. Both the little ones said yes as he looked back at you.

“I really shouldn’t,” you said.

“We eat ice cream in this house,” he said.

“You don’t have to twist my arm over it,” you said. He got out the container and set it down on the table by the cake, lighting the match on the candle on top. “Oh please don’t-”

He started to sing though and the kids joined in, Jensen having a really good voice actually. You blew out the candle when they were through and he dished up some dessert for everyone.

“Y/N, can you read me a bedtime story later?” asked Zeppelin and you glanced at his father, Jensen making a face.

“Well Y/N’s not at work right now so she doesn’t have to unless she wants to,” said Jensen. “We’re already cutting into her-”

“I would love to, Zepp,” you said, his little face lighting up. “Maybe you guys want to join us?”

“JJ’s a little big to get read to at night I’ve been told,” said Jensen.

“Am not,” she said. “I can get a story too, right?”

“Of course,” you said. You took a bite of the cake and hummed. “This is really good.”

“I bought it myself,” said Jensen. 

“Well you have good taste,” you said. “In fact, I’m gonna have another slice.”

“Good,” he said as Zeppelin grabbed the ice cream container. “Alright, alright. You can have a bit more, bud.”

“Night, JJ,” you said, getting a hug from her as you put her back to bed an hour later. JJ smiled from her bed and you flicked off the light, pulling the door shut after you turned on her night light.

“Thanks for giving up your night with them. I didn’t mean to have that happen,” said Jensen as you headed downstairs with him.

“It’s no problem. It’s good bonding for us,” you said. You helped him pick up the plates at the table and wash them off, Jensen grabbing a bottle of whiskey from a tall cabinet as you covered up what was left of the cake. 

“Drink?” he asked.

“A small one,” you said. He poured a single into a whiskey glass and slid it over to you, smirking when you took a sip. “Oh that’s smooth.”

“Very,” he said, drinking from his own glass. “Thank you for tonight. JJ’s been…”

“She’s the oldest. She’s gonna have a harder time with it.”

“You were about her age when your dad died you said?”

“She’ll be okay. She’ll miss her but it won’t be a deep pain. She’ll have nice memories of her mom. She’s doing pretty good, trust me.”

“Can I ask another personal question?”

“I’m off the clock. Shoot,” you said.

“Your mom ever...try again with someone else?”

“Yes. Years later she found a good guy. He actually is who I stayed with after she passed. He’s married now, has some kids of his own but I know if I call him up he’d drop everything for me.”

“Good. I was getting afraid you were a complete Shakespeare tragedy,” he chuckled.

“Nah. I’m not at that level of crazy in my life,” you said. “As long as we’re off the clock, can I ask if you’re asking because you’re thinking of getting back out there?”

“I am. My wife kind of insisted on it. When we first got serious we had this deal that we’d go try again if something happened. I mean, I don’t cry everytime I think about her now. I can smile and be happy and that ache doesn’t try to swallow me up everyday anymore. I think it’s time I could get back out there.”

“I’d say it is. The kids are ready. They’ll understand.”

“You think your mom loved the second guy as much as your dad?”

“For sure. She was a bit of a free spirit but she didn’t think you had to have just one soulmate. She told me that after she’d met Ray. She said she got two so maybe I had two out there. I haven’t found either one of them yet so I’ll take increasing my odds as best I can.”

“Well you’re not gonna meet your soulmate sitting at home on Saturday nights, Y/N.”

“Just a lot of douchey guys,” you said.

“Ah. You need to meet a better kind of guy is all,” he said.

“Yeah see I’m thirty. All the good guys are married by now.”

“Oh all of them are taken. I didn’t realize that,” he said with a chuckle. “What am I then? Another douchebag?”

“You don’t count. You’re…”

“Too old for you?” he chuckled.

“My boss. Plus you’re like famous. You can go get like a victoria secret model or something.”

“Looks ain’t everything.”

“Maybe I ought to try older guys now that you say that,” you said.

“Y/N, you gotta be careful with that. I don’t want to see you get taken advantage of.”

“And this is why I watch netflix on Saturday nights,” you said.

“You serious about the older guy crack?” he asked. 

“I do find them more...attractive sometimes. I guess it depends on how old. Why?”

“I got a friend my age, might be interested?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” you said. “No offense to your friend but...I mean if he’s 42...I want kids and stuff you know? Although a dude it doesn’t really matter how old...I don’t know.”

“It was just a thought,” he said with a smile.

“I’ll think about it,” you said. “He’s not a weirdo, right.”

“No. He’s an actor. Something to think about,” he said.

“I will,” you said. “Thank you for the birthday cake, Jensen. You’re a good person.”

“I bought a cake.”

“Yeah but I haven’t really had one of those in years. You’re a good person.”

“You’re very welcome,” he said as you slid off your seat. “You’re free to hang out if you like.”

“I’m kinda tired. I won’t be getting up that early from now on I don’t think.”

“I completely understand,” he said. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight Jensen.”

________

A/N: Read Part 2 here!

[oliviapopesgf]

The thing is Defiance is the only time Fitz shunned Olivia. It destroyed him yes,  but a key thing is he didn't know at the time about how deep Olivia's fear of abandonment went. It's not a coincidence that even after the 509 breakup or s7 after Olivia pretends she’s going to quit he doesn't avoid her or treats her unkindly. It’s not that Fitz stops being confrontational or annoyed by some of the things Olivia does but he’s so much better at responding to her, he creates healthy boundaries while still trying to take care of her somehow. When she goes back to him asking for help during the crossover, Fitz is still hurt and he hadn’t made any efforts to reach out to her. When Liv comes to him, even if he's only on work mode, he welcomes her, there’s always a door open for them to start over again.

A colder Fitz hurts Olivia bc she always wants this warm version of him that always makes room for her to feel comfortable and loved. Still, it’s like after Defiance he never pushes her away, his love becomes increasingly more kind. It’s as if as soon as he found out Rowan is her dad and knew more about their relationship it became about never leaving any room for Olivia to feel like he would punish or leave her. This is obviously a key point in their argument in 509 since Liv has trouble understanding Fitz grew from the kind of behavior that isolates her, he actually does the opposite and it’s like sometimes he goes too far, clinging on too much to someone who has trouble letting herself be fully embraced.

[mrows-fan-works]

Chapter 32

Words: 1173

Rating: teen and up

Tags: Medical Inaccuracies and tending to wounds. Also Koroks.

Chapter 31 and Chapter 33

A03 Link

Elenor was getting too old for things like this. She loved Wind, she did, but watching him talk to the fog and apparently getting an answer was pushing her understanding of reality. But whoever was leading him seemed to know where they needed to go. She put aside her lingering questions and walked as quickly as she dated through the entrance of the Deku Tree's home. 

Elenor had to force herself not to look around as a beautiful forest came into view. A comfortable breeze filtered through the trees. Elenor could hear toads and chattering birds as she quickly walked straight to the middle of the forest. The Deku Tree had to be the tall pink one, right? 

Whatever. She had to take care of Wind now. Tree or not, Wind needed his leg treated now. She had put it off for far too long. Elenor heard water nearby and she had the tools needed to bandage the wound if she was frugal with it. Wind was warmer than she would have liked. Elenor walked up to a pedestal holding a rusted sword and sat on the stairs leading up to it. 

Wind leaned heavily on her as she reached for her supplies. 

"I need to fix up your leg, okay?" 

Wind grunted his assent, letting Elenor situated him where she had good enough leverage to do what had to be done. She pulled her hunting knife out of its place in her coat and carefully cut the arrow as closely to his leg as he dared. He didn't cry out as Elenor sawed the arrow away, jostling the wound enough to make it bleed once more. 

"I need to pull this out. Get ready okay?" 

Wind merely gave her a thumbs up from his position.

"Three, two, one." She grasped her knife carefully and quickly making the exit wound larger and yanked the arrow through. 

Wind let out a garbled whimper as Elenor quickly soaked the meter bandages they had with one of their remaining potions, tightly wrapping it around his wound as quickly as she could. 

"It burns." 

"I know, I know. I'm almost done. Hang in there okay?" 

She tied off the wound, eliciting one last scream as it was secured. Elenor cleaned her knife and tucked it away, making sure to make him comfortable. He was still too hot to the touch. 

Damn it to Hylia she had waited too long to fix him up. 

________________________________

Wind had fallen asleep when Elenor heard a rustling in the nearby bushes. A small acorn with a leaf on its head popped out of the bushes. It must've noticed her quickly because it let out a loud squeak and jumped back into the bushes. 

“Hey,” she whispered, not unkindly, “I’m sorry if I startled you. I mean no harm.” The bush rustled slightly. A bit of a bright green leaf poked out from amongst the foliage. Elenor continued, “My friend is hurt and needs a place to rest. Do you know a place where we can sleep? He needs his rest to get better.” 

The acorn dared to put nearly half its leaf out of the bush. Bells jingled as it suffled shyly towards Wind, obviously trying to get a better look. 

She heard it do a high jingle in alarm, then it ran forward quickly, jingling furiously at her. 

“I’m sorry little one, but I can't understand you.” It did an irritated looking dance, then grabbed her pant leg, attempting to pull her to her feet. 

Elenor tried not to laugh, it was cute, but she had more important things to worry about. 

“I can follow you, just show me the way.” 

It stopped so suddenly that it fell back on its bottom. Undeterred, it sprung up quickly, ushering her as she rose, carrying Wind as he slept. It led her past the rusted sword to the roots of the largest tree, right in the middle of the forest. Right to what she assumed was the Deku tree. Not that it had anything to say…it was a tree after all. However, the little seed trotted right up to its roots, revealing a small opening. Once it reached the entrance the little seed stopped and waved at her. It jingled a sweet tune and hopped inside the entrance. 

Elenor hesitated for a moment, trying to think about how to actually get inside the tree. She must have taken too long because the acorn came back out to stomp its feet and jingle at her to come inside. 

“Hey, hey I’m coming. I just don’t want to wake him up, you insistent little-” Elenor walked up the “Deku” trees roots and decided on squatting as she tried walking into the entrance. Thankfully, the room opened up enough for her to stand somewhat, hunching her shoulders as she walked in the tree. The acorn excitedly ushered her to a pile of leaves situated like a bed. There were makeshift pillows and everything. Acorn, as she decided to address it in her mind, let loose another jingle. She could imagine it say TA-DAAA at the top of its little lungs. 

Elenor smiled at the creature, “Thank you, this is perfect.” Carefully she shuffled Wind in her arms, moving the blankets back before setting him down. He subconsciously curled on his side, cuddling the second pillow as Elenor tucked him in. She quietly shushed Acorn. Acorn repeated the gesture back to her as they both quietly stepped out of the room. 

She looked at Acorn, “Do you have a place I can stay? I don’t want to disturb him. He’s had a rough day.” 

Acorn thought for a moment, then jingled as it nodded and turned. It led her to a smaller space with another bed. The exception being that this one was merely a pile of leaves on the ground with no frame or mattress. 

“Thank you.” Acorn jingled what she assumed was a “You’re Welcome!” When Acorn wasn’t being impatient it was rather sweet. Elenor moved into the room and set down their bags as she settled in the blankets. Her mind drifted to Kit for a moment. She was sure he could take care of himself, but that didn’t stop her from worrying. She prayed to Hylia that he would show up soon. There was nothing she could do now. Just rest and take care of Wind tomorrow morning. 

Acorn came in with several friends carrying a basket. Within she could see supplies; jars of medicinal herbs, potions, some seeds. Elenor gasped, touched by their kindness. This was enough to get Wind through his fever and then some. 

“Not to sound like a broken song, but thank you.” Acorn jingled happily and saluted Elenor as it rushed all its friends out of the room. It stopped just short of the entrance and shushed her as it hopped out of eyesight. 

Elenor laughed. Guess it was time for bed. She laid down, got as comfortable as she could, and fell into a heavy sleep.