#worst prequel ever written

[itti-the-mouse]

If you're allowed to Unironically Block people for thinking Ocarina of Time is a better choice than Majora's Mask, then i'm allowed to Unironically Block you for thinking Skyward Sword is anything other than the absolute worst the series has to offer. Bye.

[acid-ixx]

I’m new, I just read your fic about neglect reader. I haven’t read through your blog yet but I am so excited after reading this fic. I am an emotional wreck right now and my curiosity is eating me alive with this question “Does reader know about Jason? Will they ever met? Ever have a platonic relationship together? Will Jason be more of a brother to reader?”

I’m sorry I speed through the fic and tears are in my eyes I couldn’t think straight BUT I notice that Jason is hardly there so I’m curious. Please this is such a brain rot, it’s way past midnight after I read this cause I keep stopping to cry.

major (?) spoilers below.

reblogs and interactions are encouraged and appreciated.

hello anon !! im so happy ppl are getting more exposed to the content i have written so far. anyways, i can't believe i also got others to cry bec i did too when i was writing 😭

anyways, to answer ur question: yes! the reader will meet jason and he would actually be the first sibling you would meet after you have left the manor. the way he would turn yandere for you is a different approach to how the others would be because in the prequel, it has been stated that you had your fair share of encounters with him.

"will they ever have a platonic relationship with him/see him as a brother?" maybe, maybe not. because your meeting with him would all be a blur to you, and jason's obsession would stem from the trauma he had experienced, causing him to be more protective of you.

you're not in your best mindset and you're vulnerable walking through the streets of gotham and all alone? oh god, only a dumbass would do that— but once the red hood recognizes your face and the way you carry yourself so pitiably, he immediately tries to take you in his arms just as he should.

but the moment you push him away? tell him to fuck off despite your drunken state? the moment you cry and tell him you could deal with everything yourself without his help or anybody else's? you just remind him of himself and that triggers his first spiral into yandere-ism.

it's the way you share trauma, the way you both feel immense anger. he should've noticed sooner because you two would've been as close as peas in a pod. and yet he failed you by being a hypocrite. you were literally taken into the manor right after his death and discarded like you were mere trash. he should've taken you away when he had the opportunity to but he was too caught up in his feat of revenge.

yet the worst part was that he had taken notice of tim before he did you, and jason had momentarily hated you too because he thought bruce had replaced him. if he had looked through that veil of contempt that he had for you, and saw just how neglected and in need of attention you are, then he would've taken you under his wing.

but he didn't, and he had done the same thing to you as most did.

so take it as you will when i say you're more or less going to be closer (albeit unwillingly) to jason than anybody else because unlike his other siblings who are bound by their vigilante duties, your big brother jason wouldn't mind shooting any creeps who think they could touch his precious angel.

and he gets it, too, angel— you hate him, you hate them all and that's valid. but you can't just walk out in the streets alone and expect to be home in one piece; so leave it to him to scout your apartment alright? leave it to your big brother jason to intimidate the goons who try to stalk you when you're not looking. even if you don't want him near you, you'll always find warm food by your table and a note reminding you to take care of yourself more often.

it hurts when you rip the paper to shreds but it breaks his heart even more if you refuse to touch the meal he would leave for you, because that probably means you saw him as danger more than anything else. and he doesn't know it, but you're already planning to make a run for it now that you're under red hood's radar.

it's obvious that you have no experience when it comes to living by yourself, so please don't fucking push him away and let him protect you from any harm. your self destructive habits only causes him to become more protective of you and it only lets him stalk you more often to ensure nobody would touch his precious angel.

just like dick, you'll be treated more like a child than that of a young adult, but at least jason has the concept of personal space compared to your eldest brother. but still, jason wishes to hold you in his arms.

heaven forbid if the joker ever got his crummy fingers on you. jason would go berserk.

little does he know, little does your family know just how much they had lost the opportunity to keep you in wraps inside the manor.

they should've never let you out in the first place.

[mono-dot-jpeg]

focus and study - viktor

summary; in which viktor gives you a proper incentive to study hard and even helps you relieve some stress

genre/extra tags; small one shot, modern college au, smut, fluff, half baked smut, established relationship, this could be considered a prequel to my jayvik reader smut, viktor and reader were together first and jayce joined in not long after, OR jayce thought they were dating already and viktor reader thought too hard about the relationship, silly shit at the end, jayvik freak agenda, OOC viktor????, open ended

word count; 1.1k

[nsfw] [gender neutral reader]

[warnings; sex toys, dom! vik my beloved, written by a sex neutral asexual, orgasm denial/edging, overstimulation?, voyeurism?, implied dacryphyilia, degradation???, vik call you a slut, whore, dumbification?? idk how to spell that one how fitting, riding, slight oral, a small step up from mean viktor compared to my other fic]

a/n; umm... no notes. written in January, finished for valentines. this world will never give me viktor league for valentines. this is so half baked. im so sorry viktor nation.

studying was the worst. at least for you. you, who usually had a good sense of confidence when it came to your classes, felt like screaming into the void with every curse you knew.

nothing just seemed to be clicking in your mind. no matter how many times you went over it yourself, how you asked the teacher, how you asked some classmates. nothing worked.

but then viktor had this genius idea.

"hah... viktor.. i don't- i don't kn-know.." you gasped between words as you feel how sticky your lower half has become as you sat at your desk. you've never been more thankful to only afford a cheap chair because you just know that any leather seat would have you riding on it like it's viktor's own dick. "i don't know- the- the answer-! ngh!" your body trembles as the stupid hot red dildo stuck in you vibrated gently. it was enough to feel but not enough to satisfy. it wasn't even big enough to hit any good spots, too.

"dear.. you can do better than this. i don't date a dumb whore.. do i?" he said sitting on your bed as he fiddled and twisted with the setting on your vibrator. his smirk is subtle every time he gains a whine out of you when he turns the settings higher or lower.

you shook your head, intensely disagreeing with him as you try to hold back from touching yourself. "n-no.. i'm not dumb.." you whined into your hand that did nothing to cover your moans.

"we have 5 more questions, pretty. can you do them for me?" he asked. you can hear him stand up, and you see his figure at your vanity mirror as he approaches you. you can see how hard he is with his pants tightening by his dick. "i'd be very happy if i could give you a reward."

you look at your written notes, but everything seems to blur and mesh together. you shift in your seat, and the vibrator just grazes your sweet spot. you crumble and whine loudly at the absolute lack of satisfaction you just felt. so close but so far. you don't even realize you're crying.

"is my poor love too much of a dumb slut to handle some math assignments? you can't even think, right? you can't even answer my questions anymore.." he said, his hand resting on your cheek as he turns you to face him. "what will i ever do with you?" he turns the settings higher, leaving your legs twitching and shaking for more.

"v-viktor.. please.." you cried out. "i want- want you so b-badly.." you can't help your hand traveling down to your heated area to start touching yourself for any sense of satisfaction. but viktor stops you from doing too much.

"now, now, what did i say about touching yourself? i should teach you how to behave properly. i'd say i could fuck you stupid but that wouldn't be so right for this scenario, would it?"

you start getting desperate, your hands grip at his pants tugging at them and looking up at him with glazed eyes for a chance to have him in you. "v-vik- ah.. please.." your body is only turned to him now, your face covered in tears as the vibrator is only grazing and brushing at your sweet spot.

"my pretty dumb slut, is that what you are now?" he asked, holding your face by your chin. his thumb rubs at your tears. "you listen to me so well, and yet you can't even finish reviewing your notes as i told you to." he shook his head in feign disappointment before moving back to the bed. you follow him, your bodily fluids drip down your legs in a way that makes you feel so pathetic, but you don't even care at this point. you need him so bad.

"please- viktor- i want to- i want-" you can't even speak right. not when he's unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. you almost drool at the sight of him.

"you should be good enough to not cum until i tell you, yes?" you nodded eagerly at his words. "look at you, you're drooling over me." he commented, but most of your sense is thrown out the window as you start licking at his dick. your warm mouth starts to suck and hollow your cheeks as you blow him. you can see how much he enjoys it, but he stops you from doing too much. he grabs a condom to put on, and your body shivers in excitement.

you both move to a more comfortable position, resting fully on the bed rather than on the edge of it. he takes the vibrator out of you, leaving you whining from the emptiness. "no whining, dear." he said as he sat on the bed, pants tossed to the side, boxers somewhere on the floor, and his white button-up open and loose. "ride." he gives the one command, and you go for it. you keep it careful so as not to disturb his hurt leg too much.

you line yourself with his cock and slowly sink, moaning at him filling you so well. you start riding not long after once you get used to the feeling of him. but you're so close to cumming due to the vibrator simply torturing you earlier that your body shivers and shakes from you holding back. "let- let me cum, v-viktor!" you gasp between pumps. his hands on your hips guide the pace.

"you couldn't even answer 5 questions for your notes. are you sure you're not my dumb slut? you can't even think about anything but my cock, right now? nothing but my pretty whore."

"please, please, please!" you repeated, your eyes unfocused and blown out as your mind draws blanks. "wanna cum! please!"

"you're asking so nicely. perhaps you're not that dumb." he hummed. "you can cum now, dear." he purred before holding your face to his, to kiss you stupid. you instinctively respond to his kisses and the last thrust that hits your sweet spot, leaving you to moan his name out. "that wasn't a great plan, but we learned a lot, didn't we?" you would be mad at him for being so composed and calm this whole time if you weren't so fuzzy brained right now. he slowly guides you to pull out and tosses the condom in the nearby trash bin. you move slowly and lean down to finish him off.

"you don't have to do that, dear."

your response is muffled, and you don't even pull away. you refuse to leave your man unsatisfied, but his next words have you pausing, "jayce can do that for you. isn't that right, jayce?" you pause to look over at the door and see a heaving jayce with a hard rock cock stuffed in his pants and a guilty puppy look on his warm face.

[scary-grace]

if my heart was a house - a shigaraki x f!reader fic

It's been nineteen years since Tomura was sentenced to death, and you've built a life in the space he left behind, braced each day for the worst. You're prepared for everything - the questions your daughter asks, the memories that sting a little more in the winter, the specter of the news you've been afraid of for years. But of all the things life's thrown your way, it's the one you haven't dared to hope for might be the one thing you can't handle. (cross-posted to Ao3) The prequel can be found here: what I can't remember now written for @pixelcafe-network's Challenge Friday event! Banner/divider by @cafekitsune

Chapter 1 Chapter 2

Chapter 1

You know even before you open your eyes that it’s snowed overnight. The world always sounds too quiet afterwards, and you used to have so many words to describe it – almost comforting, almost eerie, almost serene. But that was when you were young. Now you’d replace all those words with a different one: Empty. You used to love the winter, the first snowfall of the year, and you still do. But it always reminds you of him. And he’s gone.

He’s been gone for years now. The length of time you spent with him has been swallowed six times over by the time you’ve spent alone, and you’d like to think that even in the beginning, you wore your sadness well. Now, nineteen years in, it barely shows. You keep it buried through spring, summer, autumn – until the first frost, the first freezing rain, the first icicles on the eaves and the first drifts of snow on the ground, when it crawls free of the grave and sprawls on top of you at night. You met Tomura in the winter. Fell in love with him by spring. You got two more winters with him after that, and then he was gone, and nothing can fill the space he left behind.

But even if one chamber of your heart is frozen open for good, the rest is still alive. And there’s room for a different kind of love, a way for you to translate your grief rather than buckle beneath its weight. There’s a knock at the door to your room, and your daughter’s voice slips cautiously in. “Mom? Are you awake?”

“I’m awake,” you say, and you blink away the tears. “Come in.”

Even at eighteen, Chihiro still hesitates before she steps across the threshold, but once she’s made the choice, she throws herself onto the bed with abandon. “We got half a meter. That’s even more than the forecast said.”

“And we’ve still got power. Lucky us.” You wipe your eyes, just in case, and turn to face her. “Good morning, kiddo.”

“How long do I have to be kiddo? I’m almost done with high school.”

“Okay, you’re right,” you compromise, even as your throat tightens. She’s never met her father, never will, but the tone in her voice when she’s putting her foot down reminds you painfully of him. “What should I call you instead?”

“My name. You’re the one who picked it out.” Chihiro’s dressed in her pajamas with a hoodie thrown over them, and you can see her phone lighting up through the front pocket. “Don’t you like it anymore?”

“I love it,” you say, “Chihiro. Did you sleep okay?”

She nods. There’s something on her mind. You can tell by the way her brow furrows, and the way her mouth thins tells you that she’s planning to keep it quiet. Or that she’ll try. Chihiro has a hard time keeping her feelings inside. She and Tomura have that in common, but while you always gave Tomura space to figure out how to say what he needed to, you always let Chihiro know you’re aware, and listening. “What’s going on up there, Chihiro, my daughter who’s almost done with high school?”

She rolls her eyes, but a smile is pulling up the corner of her mouth. Her smile’s always been a little lopsided, but so has yours. “There’s only one morning of the year you ever sleep in,” she says. “The first time it snows. And then you’re different all day – not mad or depressed or anything. Just different. I was wondering why.”

“I’m sorry,” you say at once. “I’m not upset with you. It’s not anything you did. You could never do anything that would –”

“I know, Mom.” Chihiro’s crimson eyes are intent on your face. “It’s one day. You get to be weird if you need to. I just wanted to know – is it because of him? My dad?”

When she was little, you’d lie, and tell her the snow is so pretty that you can’t help but get emotional about it. There was a while where she didn’t ask. But she’s old enough now that you can admit it. You think. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice is steady. You’re proud of that. “This is around the time of year when I first met him. It brings back memories.”

“Good ones?” Chihiro settles into the pillows the way she used to when she wanted a bedtime story. “Tell me.”

You hesitate. “Not the gross stuff,” Chihiro clarifies. “I don’t want to know about that. Kaori’s mom tells her all about that stuff. And she bought her a vibrator for her birthday.”

“Huh,” you say after a second. “That’s sex-positive of her.”

“You’re being nice. What do you really think?”

You think she reminds you of Tomura. He never let you duck behind the niceties; he always wanted to know your real reaction. “I think it’s weird. Especially if Kaori didn’t ask.”

“She definitely didn’t. She’s really shy.” Chihiro grimaces. “I’m glad you’re not weird like that.”

Not weird is a good thing. Maybe. “You know I’m here if you need to talk about –”

“No, Mom. Gross.” Chihiro buries her face in the pillow. “Tell me about my dad.”

“Okay,” you say. “Your dad. He, um – there was something about him. I never met someone like him before, and I haven’t since. He told the truth about stuff, even if it wasn’t pretty, and he said what he thought even if it was a bad time. One time we went on a double date with one of his friends and their new boyfriend, and the first question out of your dad’s mouth was whether the boyfriend had drawn his facial hair on.”

Chihiro wheezes. “That’s awful,” she says, but she’s laughing – just like you were. “Had he, though?”

“We never got an answer,” you say, and Chihiro laughs harder. “Your dad could be a jackass sometimes, even to people he liked, but when it really mattered, he’d –”

Kill for them. You swallow the words. “He was there for people when they needed him,” you say instead. “He was always there for me. Even if he didn’t know the right thing to say, I could count on him to listen. And he never gave me a hard time for standing up for myself. Not even when we argued about things.”

You were sort of a pushover early on. You were worried that saying no would make you difficult, and being difficult would make him want to leave. It wasn’t how you were most of the time, or how you’d been before you and Tomura got together, and he wasn’t scared to call you out. You remember the grin on his face the first time you really put your foot down about something, set a boundary and held it. I knew you were in there somewhere, he said. This is how I like you.

That was something you loved about being with Tomura: You were good for each other. You made each other better. “It sounds like you were happy,” Chihiro ventures, and you nod. “Do you think you’d have gotten married sometime? Did you guys want kids?”

Married, maybe. Your friends and his all used to joke that the two of you were the old married couple of the group, but while you talked about the future, you almost never talked about marriage to go with it. Not until it was almost the end, and you never made it to the discussion, any discussion, about having kids. Your pregnancy was catastrophic because of what happened before it, but even if it hadn’t been, it would have raised a lot of questions that neither you nor Tomura knew how to answer. “We were really young,” you say. “I was only twenty-two. We hadn’t had that talk yet. But I think we’d have talked about it if –”

“Yeah.” Chihiro’s voice is muffled by the pillows. “Did he know about me? Before he died?”

Your stomach clenches in a tight, guilty cramp, one that’s been getting steadily worse over the years. “I didn’t find out until after he was gone.”

“Oh.” Chihiro’s voice goes small and wavering. “Do you think – um – do you think he would have liked me?”

There’s no way to know. That means what you say next isn’t technically a lie. “He would have loved you,” you say. Her shoulders shake, and you rest your hand on her back to settle her, the same as you’ve done since she was a baby. “Just like I do.”

Chihiro turns her head to look at you, her eyes glassy with tears. “Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. Everything’s okay.” You rub her back in slow circles. “Ask about him whenever you want. I’ll always try to answer.”

“Do you miss him?”

Other than your daughter’s ragged breathing and your own steady, shallow sips of air, there’s no sound in the world. When you open up the blinds, you’ll see an empty snowfield, unmarked by human footprints for a little while longer. Footprints in the snow will be filled in by the next storm or melted away in the thaw, but the marks Tomura left on you are indelible. There will never be room for someone else where he stood, because he’s still standing there, somewhere you can’t reach.

Sometimes you’ve thought, selfishly, that it would be easier if he really was dead, just so you wouldn’t have to cope with knowing that he’s still out there, knowing exactly where he is with no way to get to him. You’ve let Chihiro think he’s dead. You tell yourself it’s easier for her this way. It’s better that she doesn’t know what really happened to Tomura. The fact that you know is bad enough.

“Mom?” Chihiro asks, and you realize you never answered her question. “Do you still miss my dad?”

You still love him. That’s the same thing. “I do,” you say. “Every day.”

Chihiro cries herself out, and then it’s time to get moving. Her school has a late start, not a snow day, and you still have to go to work. You make a special breakfast anyway, play the music you and she used to dance to when she was little, and soon your daughter’s smiling again. Chihiro doesn’t have trouble being happy, not like you and Tomura both did. Still do, probably. Your depression was just that, but the sheer weight of Tomura’s past regularly threatened to crush him, and you doubt the nineteen years he’s already spent in prison have done anything to improve things.

But Chihiro knows how to be happy, and you know, because she tells you when she’s not. You’re not naive enough to think your teenager tells you everything, but she knows she can talk to you. And she does talk to you, getting steadily back to herself as you eat breakfast and clean up and get ready, her for school, you for work. Then the two of you crunch your way to the car and start digging it out of the snow. The snowplows must have been out last night and early this morning, because the road doesn’t have much in the way of accumulation. You’ll have to be careful of ice.

You’re both a little sweaty under your winter coats when you get in the car at last. “I’m already gross,” Chihiro complains. “Why can’t we get a garage or something?”

“Where would we put it?”

“In your room,” Chihiro says. You snort. “Or in mine. Since I’m going to uni soon.”

Your heart sinks whenever she says that, but you’ll be damned before you let it show. “You’ll still need somewhere to stay when you come back,” you say. “Maybe we don’t really need a kitchen.”

Chihiro rolls her eyes. “What? You’re not planning to turn my room into, like, a sewing room or something once I go to school?”

"No," you say. "My parents did that when I went away. I hated it."

Looking back, you took it way too personally. They weren’t saying they were done with you, or that the place you’d grown up wasn’t home anymore. You were just hurting, and looking desperately for a reason why. Coming back on school break to find your room cleaned out was a good one. “I’m not going to do that,” you say to Chihiro.“Even when you live somewhere else, you’ll always have a place with me.”

Chihiro glances sideways at you. “Kaori’s mom is freaking about her moving away.”

“Kaori’s mom freaks out a lot,” you say. You and she should have bonded, because you’re the only single moms in this small town, but Kaori’s mom makes you nervous. “How does Kaori feel about it?”

“Her mom will be fine. She’s not worried.” Chihiro pauses for a long moment. “I am, though.”

Your grip on the steering wheel goes white-knuckled. “About Kaori’s mom?”

“About you,” Chihiro says. You reach a stop sign, come to a full stop, and turn to look at her. There’s a stubborn set to her jaw that’s all too familiar. “Kaori’s mom is crazy. But Kaori’s mom has a life. She goes out some nights and her friends come to visit and she has parties and hobbies —“

“I have hobbies,” you protest.

“Yeah. Your hobby means you hang out in the house all day,” Chihiro says. “You can't carry your sewing machine and all your fabric to a craft party. Maybe if you learned to knit or something —“

“I’m not going to knit.”

“Something,” Chihiro says firmly. “Something that means you’re not alone all the time. I’m excited to go to uni. I’m worried about what’s going to happen to you when I leave.”

You’ve fucked up, big-time. “Chihiro, I understand why you —“ No, you don’t. All you understand is that you were stupid to think your damage didn’t show, awful for making Chihiro think she has any responsibility for your mess of an internal life at all. “It’s not your job to make sure I’m okay. I can take care of myself.”

“It’s not about taking care of yourself,” Chihiro fires back. “It’s about being happy. You want me to be happy, right?”

“Of course I do,” you say. “I love you.”

“I love you, Mom.” Chihiro says it bluntly, unashamedly. “So I want you to be happy, too.”

You don’t know what to say. It’s quiet, and it keeps being quiet, until a car pulls up behind you and honks its horn. You refocus on driving in a hurry. With you distracted, Chihiro pushes the point. “You barely even talk to people, Mom. Kaori’s mom thinks you hate her because you never say yes when she asks to hang out.”

“I don’t hate her,” you say. Chihiro’s skeptical look skewers you to the seat. “Look, she’s just not — it’s complicated.”

“No it’s not,” Chihiro says. “Next time she asks to hang out, say yes.”

No. “What if I sign up for an art class at the community center instead?”

“Do that, too,” Chihiro says. You grimace. “You want me to be happy. I’ll be happy if I know you’re talking to other people and doing stuff that’s not in the house. I don’t want to come back on a school break and find out you’ve only been talking to the trees or something.”

She pauses. “I guess you can talk to them a little. As long as you don’t start thinking they talk back.”

“Got it.”

You drop Chihiro off at school less than a minute before the bell rings, but she still makes you get out of the car and hug her. She hugs really tight. She got that from you. Tomura used to complain jokingly that you were a boa constrictor in a girlfriend suit. You kiss her forehead and send her on her way, then get back in the car and drive to work, feeling even worse than you did when you opened your eyes to a snowy silence this morning.

Chihiro’s wrong about Kaori’s mom. It is complicated — not because you hate her, but because she’s the nosiest person in town, and because you’ve got a lot to hide. You didn’t mean to have a lot to hide. It was just something that happened, and as the years since Tomura’s conviction have unfolded, you’ve gotten steadily more attached to the lie. It’s not about you. It’s about Chihiro, who shouldn’t have to live with the knowledge that her father’s a convicted murderer awaiting execution in supermax prison, who shouldn’t have to deal with people looking at her differently. It’s about Chihiro. It’s not about you.

Or so you tell yourself. But there’s a reason you fled from Tokyo in the aftermath of Tomura’s sentencing, why you cut off contact with his friends and yours, why you dyed your hair and changed your phone number and nuked your social media along with every email address you ever had. People hated Tomura. And because you were with him, they hated you, too. It didn’t matter that you knew nothing. That the murders he was accused of committing took place before you met him. Even if you’d dumped him the second he was arrested, you’d have been called stupid for not seeing it all along. You couldn’t hack it. You were headed for a breakdown at high speed. But you would have stayed, if Tomura hadn’t told you to go.

The last time you spoke to him was after his sentencing, as they were taking him away. You seized his hands, already cuffed, his wrists chafed raw, and for a split second, he held on so tightly that one of your fingers broke. Then he looked up, hopeless fury in his eyes. Get out of here. Don’t come back. I don’t want you to watch.

You thought he meant he didn’t want you to watch him being shoved into an armored truck for transport, but when your letters came back unopened, when he refused to let you visit or even call him, you realized the truth. He wanted you gone, just as completely as he was gone from you. That moment in the courtroom was the last one you’d ever have with him. And that was what tripped the breakdown at last. You were throwing up too much to overdose and you were too chicken to try another way, so you went to the doctor to figure it out so you could kill yourself with your chosen method. You just wanted anti-nausea pills. The doctor did bloodwork, made you give a urine sample, and gave you a diagnosis.

“Hyperemesis gravidarum,” he said, and you looked at him blankly. “You’re pregnant.”

He expected you to get an abortion. Everybody and their mother probably expected you to get an abortion. If Tomura had been there, if your accidental pregnancy had been something the two of you were dealing with together, it probably wouldn’t have even been a question. And for any other pregnancy, it would have been the only viable option in your mind. But when you thought about it, about this pregnancy, your mind rejected the idea so violently that you threw up again. You couldn’t get rid of this baby. You needed it. Looking back, you know your reasons were terrible. You had a kid so you wouldn’t be alone. So you’d keep some memory of Tomura close to you always. So you’d have a reason to keep getting up in the morning, a reason to eat and sleep and exercise, a reason to find a new job in your new town and work hard at it. So someone would need you. So you could do something with your agony at losing Tomura, grab it with both hands and twist it back into love. Deciding to have the baby was the most selfish thing you’ve ever done. And raising Chihiro, loving her, is the most important thing you’ll ever do.

She’s right about you. You do live for her. And if that means signing up for a pottery class at the community center and agreeing to grab tea with Kaori’s crazy mom so she won’t worry, that’s what you’ll do.

You work in the combined billing/records/HR department at your town’s medical clinic, with occasional ventures to the front desk when a receptionist is out sick. You spend a lot of time staring at the computer, a lot of time on the phone, and very little time talking to your coworkers — but you’ve been here for seventeen years, longer than almost anyone else. You were working here before some of your coworkers were out of primary school.

Dr. Kawada is your age, though. He greets you as you walk in. “Glad you made it. Anybody who lives past the town limits is staying home.”

“They should. The roads are terrible even with the plows out.” You hang up your coat, then sit down and power up your computer. “How many patients do you think we’ll get?”

“We have a ton of cancelations already,” Keiko, the nurse-practitioner, reports. She would be the one to make it in — Kawada would crawl here with his teeth if he had to, and she’s his wife, so of course she tagged along. “And there was a call for you, bright and early.”

“For billing? Somebody must have been losing sleep.”

“Not for billing. For you,” Keiko admonishes. “I forwarded it to your phone. It seemed kind of urgent.”

You log into your computer, then decide to check the message while you’re waiting for it to perk up. The voice on the other end of the line is completely unfamiliar. “Hi there. My name is Midoriya Izuku, and I’m a lawyer with the —" There’s a really loud sound on the other end of the line, completely obliterating whatever he was about to tell you about the organization he’s part of. “Due to confidentiality I can’t share much over the phone, but it’s really important that I get in touch with you! Please call me back to arrange a meeting —“

You hang up and delete the message. You don’t like lawyers, and this guy sounds like he has prosecutor written all over him. Or else he’s a reporter lying to you about his credentials to trick you into giving him a quote. The twenty-year anniversary of Tomura’s conviction is coming up, and there were articles at the ten-year mark, too. You’re more concerned about how this Midoriya Izuku got your number in the first place. You’re not easy to find. You made yourself tough to find on purpose.

It’s a quiet day at the office. Almost all the appointments are canceled, which means that the walk-ins get seen almost immediately, and you have time to start on your end-of-the-year reports. And time to talk, because Keiko and Dr. Kawada are in talkative moods, and you’re the best and only target. “How’s Chihiro?” Keiko asks. “Has she picked a school?”

“Not yet. Still weighing her options,” you say. And then, because you’re tired: “She’s worried about what will happen to me once she leaves.”

“Tell her not to worry. We’ll take care of you!” Dr. Kawada says with a grin. “What’s she worried about, anyway? You seem fine.”

“I am fine. But I’m signing up for an art class so she’ll stop worrying that I’m going to wither away alone,” you say. Dr. Kawada snorts. “How I’m doing isn’t her responsibility. She didn’t ask to be born and I didn’t have her so she could take care of me.”

“Nobody thinks that,” Keiko says. She gives you a weird look, but then she changes the subject. “Hey, but even once she moves out, you don’t have to be alone! Me and Shogo know lots of people we want to set you up with!”

You’re pretty sure your face goes dead white. “What?”

“I mean, I know you haven’t been seeing anyone since you moved here —"

“Because it’s not about me anymore. It’s about Chihiro.”

“Yeah, but if it’s about Chihiro, shouldn’t you want her not to worry?” Kawada’s not helping. You feel like you might be sick. “I moved here right around when you did and I’ve never seen you date anybody. Things must have gone down real bad with your ex —"

“Shogo!” Keiko swats him, mortified, then looks at you. “Sorry. He should know better.”

“Chihiro’s dad isn’t my ex,” you say. “He’s — gone.”

It’s the same trick you’ve been pulling on Chihiro since she was old enough to ask, and it works on adults, too. Kawada backs off, chagrined. “Sorry,” he says. There’s an awkward silence. “I’ve known you for seventeen years. How did I miss that?”

“I don’t like to talk about it.” You don’t even like thinking about Tomura, but every winter, it’s unavoidable. Every winter the sadness curls up around you, and although time is supposed to heal things, it’s never gotten any easier to throw off come spring. “I wouldn’t wish it on anybody.”

“Yeah,” Keiko agrees. Her eyes are sad. “Still. Tell Chihiro not to worry. We’ll keep an eye on you.”

You force a smile, force your eyes to brighten. “Thank you.”

It’s the clinic’s slowest day in a while, and you spend a lot of it screwing around on the computer. You sign up for an art class, one that meets the same night as Chihiro’s choir practice, so you can pick her up on the way home. You google therapists, too — maybe she’ll feel better if she knows you have one. And maybe you need one. Chihiro’s your daughter, the most important person in the world, the one you’d sacrifice everything to care for. Caring for her takes up most of your thoughts, distracts you from the pain of losing Tomura. Once Chihiro goes away for school, there won’t be anything left to keep your sadness at bay.

Tomura’s been on death row for nineteen years. They could execute him at any time, and you’d never know until his name was released by the government. During his trial, when you realized the death penalty was on the table, you looked up how it would happen. It still haunts you sometimes. You don’t want to think of Tomura with his neck broken, his eyes open and staring, dying with feet chained together and his hands bound behind his back. You want to remember him before it all went wrong. Back when you still believed he was the best thing that ever happened to you.

You met him at university, on a day when the campus was iced over. Your on-campus job started early, which meant you had to make your way to the library on paths that wouldn’t be de-iced for another hour. Tomura had an early class. He was headed the opposite way from you, and you were both so focused on not slipping and falling that you walked headlong into each other and fell on your asses anyway.

Your backpack slid from your shoulders, and the papers Tomura was carrying scattered across the path. Fuck, Tomura said, with feeling, and you laughed. What’s so funny? You fell down, too.

I know, but — An image popped into your head and set you off all over again. We look like we’re in a cartoon. Except without the stars and planets around our heads.

No stars and planets? I want a refund, Tomura said, and cracked a smile that opened up a split in his lower lip. Damn it —

Here. You retrieved your fallen backpack and a packet of tissues, then started gathering the papers Tomura had dropped. Sorry. It looked like you were in a hurry to go somewhere.

Comp-Sci building. I’m never signing up for a 7am again. Tomura’s phone buzzed, and he yanked it out of his pocket. And now it’s canceled. Motherfucker. I have to walk all the way back —

Maybe not all the way, you said, and he looked at you. I work at the library. It’s definitely open. You can hang out there until they get the paths salted.

Tomura looked at you, the tissue still pressed to his bloody lip. You didn’t know his name yet, didn’t know anything about him, but there was something you liked about his face. Something you liked about how he still got in on your joke, even though he was pissed about the fall. Something about the fact that he hadn’t gotten up yet, even though you’d gathered all his papers and were holding them out for him to take. I’ll level with you, he said after a second. I’ve never been to the library.

I get that a lot, you said, and you stood up. The plan was to hold out your hand to help him up, but you moved too fast, and your feet slid out from under you again. You managed to hang on to Tomura’s papers, but you went down hard. Fuck!

Tomura didn’t ask if you were okay. He just lifted the papers out of your hands, set them aside, and helped you sit up with hands that shook ever so slightly. I’m surprised you swore, he said, and you raised an eyebrow. You look like the type who says fiddlesticks instead.

Fuck off, you said, and he laughed. Making him laugh felt like an achievement, one you were proud to win. Looking back, that was when you knew you were in trouble. Maybe we should just crawl to the library.

It’s cold. Walking’s faster. Tomura got shakily to his knees, then his feet, and you copied him. I bet we can make it.

He stumbled twice on the way there, and you stumbled once, but neither of you fell again. You were leaning on each other to balance, more contact than you ever made with guys you weren’t dating, and nothing about it felt tense or awkward. It was just the only thing that made sense to do.

And that’s how everything was with Tomura. It just made sense, and you were so happy — and you think Tomura was, too. You fought sometimes, sure, but everyone does. Sometimes you didn’t know the right thing to say, but neither did he. He had a rough past, and you didn’t push him to talk about it. You just let him share what he wanted to, when he wanted to, and towards the end you had something close to the whole picture. It just didn’t have the murders in it.

No. You don’t want to think about this. You know what you believe about this, and going in a circle won’t help solve anything. You decide to redirect your feelings of frustration by looking up the lawyer who called you. Sure enough, he’s a prosecutor— or he was. Looking at the profile on his law firm’s website, you’re not sure what he does. He was in the news a year or so ago. Some case involving the yakuza.

The bell rings, and since Keiko’s on break and the receptionist got snowed in, you hurry up to the front to check the new patient in. It’s a good distraction. It helps to stay busy. When you’re busy, you don’t have to think about any of it — not Tomura, not the fact that he’s gone, not the fact that your daughter is leaving soon, too. And you don’t have to think about how it won’t be long before all your distractions run out.

Chapter 2 ->

[sometimesanalice]

Wildest Dreams

Summary: Never in your wildest dreams would you have expected to be waiting at a Naval hangar for a man you’d met two months ago during Fleet Week. Let alone one you’d only known for less than twenty-four hours. (Even if it had been the best sex of your life.)

Pairing: Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x Female Reader

Length: 6k

Warning: fluff, smut, and the return of the summer dress whites (minors dni)

(author's note: this was written as part of @laracrofted's 1989(TV) challenge. It is a prequel to Hey, Sailor, but can be read on its own!)

This has the potential to be the best idea you’ve ever had or the worst.

Although based on the way you kind of want to shimmy out of your too tight skin, you’re starting to think it might be the worst.

You are out of place and out of sorts. There are kids giggling and running around with homemade posters covered in bright neon bubble letters and you aren’t even wearing a bra.

Oh god, what were you thinking?

Never in your wildest dreams would you have expected to be waiting for a man you’d only met two months ago during Fleet Week. Let alone one that you had known for less than twenty-four hours and had sex with within the first two hours of meeting. But you couldn’t think about that too much without your face heating up.

And waiting at Naval Air Station North Island, no less.

Oh, this was a very bad idea.

The happy chatter of excited friends and family of the deployed squadron members, who are due to return within the hour, is bouncing off of the cavernous curved walls of the hangar you’re standing in. Bursts of delighted laughter rippling throughout the space.

And with each passing minute the thumping of your heart pounds a little harder against the walls of your chest. Whether it’s anticipation or apprehension you couldn’t say.

Under normal circumstances the energy would be infectious, the atmosphere around you is bubbly and light, but all it does is make you feel like it is glaringly obvious that you don’t fit in here with the rest of the clusters of families.

That is if your nice yet slightly-too-revealing-to-be-family-friendly dress didn’t already give you away.

The only perk of it at the moment was that the breeze against the bare skin of your exposed back was keeping you from breaking out in an anxious full body sweat in the summer heat.

In your defense, you’d picked this dress out for a reason and had chosen it with a purpose in mind. Even if you were second guessing every decision that has led you here.

Over the last two months, you had changed your mind more frequently than the wind changed direction.

He’d been brought into your life on a high tide of champagne bubbles that had swiftly taken him right back out, leaving a wake of nothing but champagne problems.

Every time you thought about recycling the packet of papers that had taunted you and tempted you in equal parts, you were reminded of the warm brown eyes of the person who had given it to you. And it never failed to set your heart a flutter the same way had when he’d given it to you with that soft, cautiously hopeful smile.

You have the registration form that had gotten you through the heavily secured gate clutched tightly in your hand as if you’re waiting for some uniformed security official to come up to question you then escort you off the base.

Although now it’s so crumbled and creased that you don’t know if they’d even be able to read it.

Worst of all, you had no way to distract your busy mind from all your buzzing thoughts.

They’d taken your phone at the gate, a security measure they’d told you as you watched them tag it with your name and put in a slim cubby for you to collect when you left.

Which might be sooner than you thought, because the longer you stand there waiting and shifting on your feet the more you were fighting the urge to backpedal. To spin on your strappy sandaled feet and hightail it back to your car and drive the legally posted limit only until you made it past those intimidating chain link gates before flooring it, getting as far away from this cheery, happy hanger as quickly as possible.

And yet for whatever reason, your antsy feet and tapping toes stay planted on shiny finish of the industrial cement of the hanger.

This is crazy.

You’d thought it as you slipped on and tied the flimsy straps of your pink ruffled sundress and collected all of your things. Pausing to double check that you had your Driver’s License, Passport, and Social Security card in your purse for the fourth time that day.

This is ridiculous.

You’d thought it as you’d drove along the highway to the Naval base that you had only been to only once a couple of months ago. The sun beaming down on your car with hardly a cloud in the sky. A perfect golden California day, even if your mind was in a hazy fog.

This is foolish.

You’d definitely thought that on loop, like a broken record in your mind, as you’d waited in the long line of cars all done up in window paints and streamers packed with grinning, eager faces all queued up for the same reason.

When you had finally made it to the front of the line, your heart had been pounding away beating a mile a minute. Your palms sweating as you handed over the three-page packet and identification cards to the security working the gates.

The Use of Deadly Force Authorized sign was a stark contrast with the smiles of the officials who greeted you.

You were positive you looked as shifty as you felt. But it seemed the only person who thought you looked like a red flag was you. Because they’d barely given you a second glace as they’d waved you through after checking your paperwork. You had almost blurted out Are you sure?, but managed to keep it together as you waited for the red arms of the barrier gate to lift.

That final hurdle officially out of your hands because you were finally there and soon he’d be here.

During one white wine fueled late night evening on your couch you’d allowed yourself to indulge in those tempting taunting what-ifs.

What-if you went.

What-if you waited.

What-if you met him there.

And in your casual research somewhere between the third and fourth glass of Sauvignon Blanc, before you had scrolled back three years on the base’s official Instagram page and googled the sure-to-be redacted version of the visitor’s map of the base, you’d read that sometimes they’d direct visitors to park in a lot on the edge of the base to be shuttled to the designated homecoming hanger.

Thankfully, there would be no shuttles operating on military efficient timetables for you. Since you’d been directed to a parking lot that sat across from a large hanger decorated with waving and winking banners of bold red, white, and blues.

You couldn’t help release a little sigh of relief knowing that you’d be able to make an easy escape if you needed to.

Because if this was going to take you down, if the sun was going to set on your gleaming gilded what-ifs, at least you could leave with your head held high. Even if your tail would be between your legs.

Just in case, you had built it up in your head.

Just in case, he changed his mind.

Because this was crazy, this was ridiculous, this was foolish. But you didn’t want those memories from two months ago to follow you around like a ghost of what could have been.

You wanted to see what it could be. What you hoped it might become.

You’ve thought about that night a lot.

Flashes of sturdy white twill and toned muscles and a low, raspy voice had kept you up more nights than you were willing to acknowledge. You’d lost time thinking about warm hands and a rich laugh and lips that left hot trails along your body that you still felt like a ley line under your skin.

After the mark beneath your ear had faded, the only proof it all hadn’t been some gold rush dream was the flimsy piece of paper currently grasped in your hand like a lifeline.

Before that night you’d never understood the draw of Fleet Week. It seemed like the type of mess you’d purposely avoided. Nights that left you either with a good story to tell over brunch or in mascara coated tears crumpled like a piece of paper on the ground.

But now, you didn’t think you’d ever be able to think of it without thinking of it and him with only the rosiest of memories.

Your mind wanders as you remember the way he’d made you felt. Of being around him, of tangled up with him. You’re too busy thinking about heated smiles and pretty scars that the sound sneaks up on you.

It starts out as a low rumble that swiftly builds into a roar that shakes you out of that shimmering lavender haze. Cheers break out in the crowd as people flood out of the hanger and onto the tarmac to get a better view.

Looking around you, there are kids pressing their hands to their ears as the squeal and shout in delight. Their faces turning up to the skies as they enthusiastically wave at the aircrafts flying towards the base with perfect precision.

You get as close to the edge of the hanger as you dare. Toeing the line between cracked industrial cement and sundrenched asphalt, still unsure your place in all of this. Not quite ready to fully give yourself up to the swift current of honey hued possibility.

There are at least a dozen jets approaching in sharp triangular and diamond shaped formations.  Clusters of four flying in flawless alignment with one another, their shiny bodies stand out in relief against the cloudless blue skies. It’s a gravity defying ballet as the individual groups merge together in impeccable unison to form one large unit.

Your jaw drops open in awe and your heart soars into your throat at the stunningly impressive sight.

They speed impossibly fast overhead and within seconds all that remains are the contrails of their coming and the knowledge that soon they’ll have their feet back on the ground with the rest of you.

The low, thick whomp whomp whomp of large helicopter propellers approaching behind them in the distance like an echo as more and more of the deployed squadron arrive for their homecoming.

You almost can’t hear it over the steady drumbeat of your heartbeat in your ears.

Because he’s back. He’s here.

After two months of wondering and waiting, you’re about to find out.

It’s all happening now.

“It’s her last fling before the ring! Cheers, bitches!”

You didn’t know whether you were impressed or one enthusiastic woo! away from losing it at the amount of puns Amanda, the maid of honor, had been able to come up with for the evening.

To no one’s surprise, tequila shots and champagne were a dangerous combo.

When the bride-to-be had said she wanted to keep things local and have a staycation type girl’s weekend for her bachelorette party, you and your bank account had been thrilled. It wasn’t until you all had left for the hotel all gussied up in your sparkling hot pink finest to head out for dinner that you noticed all the white uniforms dotting the sidewalks and seated out on some of the outdoor terraces.

It was Fleet Week.

You’ve lived in San Diego for almost five years now. And while running into someone in the Navy was commonplace, in both the grocery store and on the dating apps you’d redownloaded a few months ago, Fleet Week was something that you’d always purposely avoided. Opting to stay home and out of the fray.

However, you were coming off of a break up with a man who had slowly sucked all the color from your world. And this weekend was just the thing you needed to let go, to be unabashedly uninhibited, to reclaim your shimmer.

Your shiny pink dress is three inches shorter and your heels two inches taller than anything you’d ever worn before. There had been a brief moment when you’d felt self-conscious stepping into the lobby of the hotel, aware of just how much skin was on display with short hem and the low dip of the back of your dress, until your best friend had given you the loudest wolf-whistle known to mankind sending you into a fit of giggles.

And instead of shying away from the eyes that had been drawn to you in that moment, you sparkled.

You didn’t quite feel like your old self yet, but you were on your way. You liked this version of yourself so much better than the shell of a girl you’d been before. You liked the one who could be bold and brave and bejeweled.

The upscale bar is packed and it’s just the kind of lively atmosphere where tonight’s bad decisions could become tomorrow’s good stories.

It felt less like a club and more like a large stylish living room, with its cozy clusters of oversized chairs and couches. Pockets of the room were cast in a soft lavender light, while the rest was awash in a golden glow from the massive modern chandelier that ran the length of the room. Gleaming brass accents were offset with the warm tones of the wooden paneling that lined the walls. It was soft, lush, and inviting.

The music was good and there was even a small dancefloor, but it wasn’t so loud that you couldn’t enjoy having a conversation with someone without shouting. The bar looked more like a library than a place to get your drinks with its black leather tufted base and dark wooden built-ins displaying shiny bottles like a prized book collection. And the cocktails were stellar.

It was obvious why so many people had ended up here tonight, both civilians and Naval personnel on leave.

“Oh, hello there,” you hear your best friend practically purr, pulling you from your internal debate about another ordering another shot of tequila.

You look over to see her staring at the door where two tall officers have just entered with a devious gleam in her eyes.

The one on the left was just her type, a pretty boy with the kind of megawatt smile that would have orthodontists dying to get a closer look. He looked the cocky kind of confident now, but you knew if your friend made her move she’d have him wrapped around her finger before the bartenders even announce last call.

The man next to him was the taller one of the two and sporting a mustache that might have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but for whatever reason it suited him very well. Especially when it was paired with that easy grin he was currently wearing as he laughed along with something his friend was saying. Even from across the room you could tell he’d be even more attractive up close.

Their tans and the definition of their arms were offset by the crisp whites of their short-sleeved uniforms. And looking at them you could finally understand the appeal of Fleet Week.

Men like that could easily make a girl lose her mind amongst other things.

You had no doubt in your mind that these two in particular would be a hot commodity tonight. There were already quite a few heads turned in their direction to watch as they made their way towards the bar. Appreciative eyes glinting as they take in just how well they both filled out their uniforms.

Another loud woo! from your group of friends pulls your attention back to them in time to see another bottle of champagne, complete with a bright sparkler, being delivered to the table you had all chipped in for the evening.

At this rate, someone was either going to end up on top of a table or on the confetti covered floor.

You chance another look back over your shoulder towards the two men who’d just saddled up to the bar and are met with a pair of mischievous eyes already trained on you.

An electric touch races up along your spine. 

You’re still a safe distance far enough away to where you can allow yourself to take him in, fighting the urge to hastily look away and pretend it was an accident that your eyes connected when you had definitely been trying to sneak another peek at them- at him in particular. You see his smile pull to the left and his cheek tick up as you hold his gaze.

He’s less than subtle in the way he lets his eyes drag over the exposed skin of your back and down the line of your legs before letting them settle back on your face. When you shoot him a pointed raise of your eyebrow, that smirk on his face just grows even wider.

It makes your stomach swoop, and even worse, it makes your own lips turn up in an amused smile in response.

An unabashed flirt.

There’s no doubt in your mind he knows exactly what he is doing. You’re sure he has practiced this kind of silent conversation many times. That over the years he has polished his technique to a shiny, smooth finish.

You know nothing good can come from a man in a uniform, but a man in uniform during Fleet Week is a different kind of trouble altogether.

And one who looks like that? Big and broad, with confidence rolling off of him in waves?

No, nothing good could come from it.

Taking one more sweep of his face you turn away from him and opt to sip on some cold water instead.

Your best friend is still making eyes with the man with the dimples, so you start up a conversation with one of the other bridesmaids you don’t know as well as some of the others. She was a sweetheart, but you could tell this wasn’t her usual scene so it felt like you were doing a lot of the heavy lifting for the conversation.

It also didn’t help that you were trying and failing to ignore the way it had felt when he looked at you, like sparks dancing across your skin that you could still feel like a phantom touch.

You’re struggling to come up with a new topic of conversation when cloud of white sequins and rhinestones and tulle bulldozes into you.

“Come get a drink with us,” the bride-to-be declares as she hooks her arm with yours and starts tugging you towards the bar.

You see that your best friend is already a couple steps ahead of the two of you and heading in the same direction to the bar, purpose in every step she takes.

“You need a break from free champagne?” you ask with a grin.

“I want something pink!” she sings.

You laugh at her dedication to the theme, “Ok, let’s get you something pink.”

“Yes, let’s,” she agrees.

As you get closer to the bar, you ignore the pull in your stomach and the gaze of the broad man who lingers in your peripheral vision. It had been heady from a distance you had no clue how you’d fair with it directed at you up close.

You’re not surprised in the least when your best friend passes by the open space at the bar and flounces right up to the officer with the dimples. And you’re even less surprised when she takes the shot that was held loosely in his hand and tosses it back in one go, before running her thumb along the bottom of her lip and giving him a sharp, feline grin. The now shot-less man rises up to the occasion and gives her a matching one of his own, the interest gleaming in his eyes.

However, you are very much shocked when your soon-to-be-wed friend all but shoves you towards the man with the mustache.

Your hands dart out to catch yourself on the bar, but one ends up on his thick forearm instead as he reaches out to steady you. His other hand is braced low on your hip, big and warm. Glancing down you can see that his pinky is very near the hem of your short dress.

You toss her a withering glare over your shoulder, but she’s already bobbling back towards the group very clearly pleased with herself.

As you turn to look up at him, all words escape you and your breath gets caught in your throat.

He’s handsome as hell.

And up close, that uniform has the potential to be even more life ruining than it was from a distance.

It is almost obscene the way it clings to the bulk of him. The sleeves of his shirt were stretched out around his biceps and pulled taut across his chest. His pants look almost molded to his thighs and long legs. It’s almost dizzying just how good-looking he is in it.

And you’re absolutely mortified.

“Hey, Sailor,” you say weakly at an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness of how you’ve come to be pressed against his hard body.

He throws his head back and laughs. It’s low and lush, rich and raspy. And god, do you like the sound of it.

But there’s still a rush anxious energy that courses through you, unsure if he’s laughing at you or the situation you’ve both been literally thrust into. You’re tempted to step back out of his reach, but his fingers tighten the gentlest bit where his hand still sits on your hip keeping you in place.

There’s amusement dancing behind his brown eyes and that smile of his up close is even more devastating. And you can’t help but shoot him a sheepish smile in return.

“That’s one way to make an entrance,” he grins.

“I am so sorry about that,” you say gesturing to the gaggle of giggling girls watching on from the corner of the room. You get your feet righted underneath you and take a half-step back.

And this time he lets you, his pinky grazing the skin of your upper thigh as he does.

“I’m not,” he says, leaning against the shiny black and white marble slab of the bar top, “I was hoping you’d come over here.”

You refuse to let yourself get flushed, but the heat races to your cheeks all the same.

Instead you pivot.

“I feel like I should warn you, she’s going to eat your friend alive,” you say, gesturing to your best friend who is looking every inch the menace you know her to be.

He glances over towards where his friend and yours are talking. His friend’s shot has been replaced and they’re both wearing a pair of dueling smiles. Their conversation too quiet to hear, but you know that tone of hers and what it means.

The good kind or the bad kind it was too early in the evening to say.

You allow yourself a brief moment to admire his profile, your eyes tracing over his cheekbones and jaw, noticing a few scars that dot his sunkissed skin.

He lets out a low chuckle and looks back towards you, “Good. Hangman has been a pain in my ass for years. Serves him right. It’ll be good for his ego.”

“Hangman?” you ask, eyebrows pinching together.

“Oh, right. That’s Jake,” he clarifies, nodding over to his friend, “Hangman is his callsign. Bagman if he’s pissing me off, which is often enough. We’re both Naval aviators.”

Well, that explained the aura of self-assuredness that radiated from the two of them from the very moment you’d seen them.

The uniform was bad enough on its own, but a pilot?

Trouble was definitely too small a word for this man, he’d need a different category created for him altogether.

“Can’t say I’m too mad at him right now though. I wanted to go somewhere more lowkey, but he said ‘pretty girls like pretty places’,” he gives you a slow smile as his eyes drift over you, “Turns out he was right. But don’t tell him that I said that, he’ll be insufferable.”

And then he has the audacity to wink at you.

You absolutely will not be getting tangled up with a pilot. But you were definitely up for a little fun, and decide there is no harm in indulging in some friendly banter.

“So are you going to tell me your callsign or do I have to guess?” you tease.

“It’s Rooster.”

You swallow down the quip that comes to your mind first, and ask instead, “Do you come with a first name, Rooster? Or did the Navy claim that too?”

He has Bradshaw emblazoned on the nametag on his chest, but you’re so curious to find out the answer. You’ve never been so interested collecting breadcrumb pieces of someone before, there’s something in the way he’s looking at you that makes you want to know more.

“I’m Bradley,” he grins wider, holding out his hand to you.

You look from him to his big hand and then back to him again, debating on how much you want to give him in return. He lifts a playful eyebrow his hand still outstretched as he waits for your move.

So you put your hand in his and give him your name.

Rooster repeats it back as if he’s testing out the way the syllables and consonants of your name feel in his mouth. And if he’s slow to let go of your hand, you let it slide without a comment.

“Well, since it’s Fleet Week and all, Bradley Rooster Bradshaw, I think would be pretty unpatriotic for me to not buy you a drink as an apology for my friends and for subjecting you that poorly executed line.”

His features take on a very contemplative look as he lets out a low, quiet hmm.

“I don’t know about that,” he deliberates.

“About the drink?” you ask, fully prepared to make a hasty retreat before you make yourself look any more ridiculous than you already did.

“No, about the line,” Rooster says, whiskey smooth, “I think it was pretty effective.”

“Really? That’s all it took, huh?” you laugh, “You must have been stuck on that ship for a while.”

Flagging down the bartender, you order a couple shots of chilled tequila.

You see Bradley reach into his shirt pocket, pulling out a few loose bills to pay. There’s definitely nowhere for a wallet to go in those pants. Sliding in front of him, letting yourself graze up against him just the slightest bit, you tell the bartender to put the shots on your group’s open tab. You can see them still spying on you, so it was the least they could do for a free show.

You spin towards him and rest your elbows on the bartop behind you with a grin. He just smirks and shakes his head at you with a look that you’d almost want to call fond if you’d actually known him for longer than ten minutes.

“So, how long were you deployed? Are you headed back to wherever home is after this weekend is over?” you ask.

“I’m actually stationed here permanently in San Diego,” Bradley says, pausing for a moment before continuing, “But I am headed out for a two-month deployment tomorrow.”

He’s looking at you closely, as if he is trying to gauge your reaction to him showing you his cards so early. Here today, but gone tomorrow.

This open honesty from him makes him even more attractive in your eyes. He’s the type of man who could so easily wreck your plans if you gave him the chance to. And for a split second, you can almost see the end before anything can even begin.

“Well, it’s nice of the city to give you such a nice send-off then,” you say lightly, ignoring the twinge in your stomach.

Thankfully, the bartender returns with the chilled shots, you thank him and then hand Bradley one of the shot glasses cheers-ing him with your own, “To Uncle Sam’s overly inflated defense budget.”

He snorts and watches as you raise the glass to your lips. Feeling bold under the warmth of his gaze, your tongue darts out as you lick the smoked salt off the rim before swallowing down the shot, not breaking eye contact with him once.

You’re beyond delighted when notice the tips of his ears are a little pink as he throws back his own. The heaviness from earlier shifting into a more exciting kind of tension as your gazes bounce off of each other.

Bradley leans a bit into your space as he sets his empty glass on the bartop, “Can I let you in on a secret?”

“Only if it’s a juicy one,” you counter, more than happy to take the bait.

“It wasn’t just the line. Your little tiara thing is doing it for me too,” he says reaching out and adjusting the rhinestone Bridesmaid headband that you’d completely forgotten you were wearing. His thumb skimming over your temple as he withdraws his hand.

You could handle an unabashed flirt, but a charming unabashed flirt whose smile was setting off a flurry of butterflies in your chest was not on the agenda for tonight.

“Do you want to swap, Rooster?” you tease nodding your head towards the white and shiny black-rimmed hat that is sitting snugly on top of his head.

“Nah, I don’t think I could pull it off as well as you do.” He shoots you another wink, one that has your toes curling in your pretty-but-too-tall heels. “Plus, mine is technically government property. They don’t let just anyone wear it, not without earning it.”

You don’t miss the way his eyes dip down to your lips.

The shot of tequila makes you brave enough to contemplate asking just exactly one would have to do to earn a turn wearing his hat, but the two of you are startled out of bubble you had found yourselves in at the sound of a sharp slap.

You peer curiously around Bradley to see Hangman looking equal parts shell-shocked and starry eyed after your best friend as she struts away from him with a swing in her hips, her hair bouncing with each step.

“I should-” your own eyes betray you by slipping down to his parted lips when you look back at him, “I should go check on her.”

“You don’t have to go just because Bagman is an idiot. Let me get you a drink and return the favor. Please,” he says, his big brown eyes asking you to stay.

“No, I really should. Thanks for indulging my friends and for the company, Bradley. Enjoy the rest of Fleet Week.” Before you can overthink it, you lean in a press a kiss to his cheek. Giving him one more smile, one that doesn’t feel as bright as you’d like it to be, you turn and leave.

You hustle to catch up with your friend as she makes her way back to your bedazzled group, “Hey, are you ok? What the hell did he say?”

She waves off your concern with a Cheshire cat grin, “Oh, that man is about to be so obsessed with me.”

Over the next hour it is impossible to keep your eyes from straying back to him. You try to lose yourself to the music on the small dancefloor and in the raunchy girl talk. Every time you dared to take a peek at him, you’d been surprised to see him already looking at you instead of chatting up some other girl.

At one point, he’d even been bold enough to pat the space next to him as an open invitation. You’d simply smiled and shook your head at him, laughing to yourself when he dramatically clutched at his heart in response.

It’s not until a very large bottle of Dom Perignon Brut Rosé is delivered your table, a cheer going up as the bottle service girl discloses who had it sent over, that you’re made to reevaluate your plans for the evening.

The two men are still at the bar, but you don’t miss the satisfied smirk of on your best friend’s face as she helps herself to some of the pink bubbly.

Instead of a glass, you’re offered a threat.

“We all know what she’s doing, but if I see you at brunch tomorrow I’m kicking you out of the wedding,” the bride-to-be cheerfully trills, albeit tipsily, as she presses your clutch into your hand and shoos you away. Officially dismissed from your bridesmaid duties for the remainder of the weekend.

You take the long way around the edge of the room to the bar, giving yourself a minute to debate the pros and cons of what you were planning to do. But as the crowd parts and you see him, still planted in the same place you’d left him, all the bullet-pointed items on your mental list dissolve like sugar in an Old Fashioned at the sight of his warm whiskey brown eyes.

This time it’s no accident in the way you slide up to him.

“Well, Rooster, you’ve got my attention.”

“Good. I like your attention,” he says with an all too pleased grin. “I was worried I was going to have to come join in you over there. The last bachelorette party we ran into kept wanting me to give the bride a lap dance. It looked pretty dire there for me for a moment. You bridesmaids are an intimidating bunch.”

He doesn’t strike you as someone who would shy away from the attention.

“Feral, drunk, horny women aren’t your thing? Or are you just anti lap dance?” you ask with a cheeky tilt of your head.

“Feral and horny women for sure. And I am very pro lap dance, I’ll have you know. I’m just picky about who I give them too. For example, if you were to ask nicely, I’d be more than happy to demonstrate,” he offers, his cheek ticking up on one side.

He made you feel an exhilarating kind of reckless. And if you were only going to get one night with him, you were going to make the most of it.

“That’s a very expensive bottle of champagne that just got delivered to us.”

“Well, it’s Fleet Week after all.”

“We established that earlier tonight,” you note jokingly.

“So we did,” Bradley acknowledges with a dip of his chin. “And in the spirit of Fleet Week, it seemed like a good gesture to further advance and cultivate better civilian and military relations.”

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” you laugh.

“Ok, funny girl. Tell me then, what do you think Fleet Week is about?” he asks, settling in and leaning his elbow on the bartop.

You don’t even hesitate.

“Getting free drinks and getting laid.”

“Ok, ok. You’ve got me there,” he chuckles. “Can’t say that hasn’t been part of the draw for me in the past.”

“So you admit you’re doing it wrong,” you can’t help but tease him as you throw a thumb over your shoulder towards the $500 bottle of champagne that’s bubbling away in glasses.

“In my defense, Hangman and I went dutch on it,” Rooster says as he puts his hands up in surrender. “Plus, if you remember, I already had a very pretty girl buy me a drink tonight.” His eyes drag over you pointedly, then lets them linger at your mouth again.

“Only the one?” you ask peering up at him.

“The only one I wanted.”

“And how many others have offered?” you ask, stepping even closer. You can feel the heat rolling off of him in waves even in the well airconditioned room.

He weighs his words before answering, “A few.”

A moment passes between the two of you as crystal-clear clarity settles around you.

The old you would have dropped it, but this version of you, the one you liked being around him was ready to press further.

“So the free drinks have been covered,” you say, fingertips tracing up along the veins of his forearm, “And what about getting laid?”

“I’d be more than happy with a phone number and a date lined up for sixty-two days from now,” Rooster says resting a hand low on your back, his thumb skimming along your bare skin. “But if you wanted, I wouldn’t mind showing you just how invested I am in furthering those civilian-military relations.”

The desire in his eyes makes any lingering doubts in your mind evaporate like a marine layer.

“Is that so, Sailor? How civically inclined of you.”

“Lieutenant Commander, actually,” he says with pride as he straightens up to his full height, his chest looking impossibly broader as he does.

“Lieutenant Commander Bradley Rooster Bradshaw?” you hum, “Now that’s quite a mouthful.”

The low rumble that escapes his chest makes goosebumps erupt across your body.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs, pulling you closer as he brings his other hand to the curve of your hip.

“Oh please. You handle multimillion-dollar aircrafts for a living, I’m sure you could handle little ol’ me,” you say with a wink.

It’s a challenge, it’s a dare.

“Yeah, I bet I could too,” he rasps, looking at your lips.

He shouldn’t be so easy to like, shouldn’t have you wanting moremoremore when you’ve known him less than two hours.

You bring your hands to his chest, your fingers toying with the little button near the hollow of his throat, “So, you’re shipping out tomorrow…”

You feel as he stiffens slightly under your palms, but his gaze remains steady on you, “Yeah, tomorrow evening. It’s not the greatest of timing, I know.”

“Well then, I guess if there’s a clock we’re working against, we should probably get this show on the road,” you say nodding towards the door.

You watch as the remorse in his eyes is replaced with a mischievous glint. The solemn press of his lips transforming into a slow, knowing smirk.

And you know he’s game.

“You gonna take me home with you, sweetheart?”

“Maybe,” you muse with faux contemplation, looking at him from under your mascara coated lashes, “Do I get a tax break if I do?”

“I’d be more than happy to google it in the cab. And if you do, I’ll even fill out the form for you.”

You see a flash of a grin before he pulls you in for a kiss.

His warm hand and callous fingers glide up your back pressing you against his chest as his lips meet yours. In that moment you are Midas touched, the blood thrumming through your veins feels like liquid gold. Electricity racing from where you’re connected to every nerve ending in your body.

You pull away from him all too soon, smiling to yourself when he chases after your lips.

“I have one condition,” you say, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Name it,” Bradley says, dropping another lingering kiss to your lips.

“Maybe two,” you concede.

“Name them,” he chuckles lightly.

“You wear a condom.”

“Of course, that’s a given. What else?” He leans back just enough to adjust your sparkly headband from the way it had tilted back on your head.

“And my last request is… that I get to try on your hat.”

“We can definitely make that happen. Anything you want, baby.”

“Well then, if that’s the case, I’m also pretty set on getting to have your cock in my mouth.”

“Jesus Christ.” His hands tighten on your hips, and his brown eyes turn molten.

“I think I’m looking forward to finding out if you’re an officer or a gentleman.”

“I’m definitely both,” Rooster says giving you an all too confident look that promises he has the skill to back up his words, “At least until these dress whites come off.”

You hear another woo! ring out that you know has nothing to do with another delivery of expensive champagne as he takes you by the hand and leads you out of the jewelry box bar.

There are already a few cabs lined up at the rank outside of the hotel. He holds the door open for you, and you slide in giving the driver your address. You’re not sure how Bradley manages to squeeze the bulk of him into the backseat along with you, but you don’t mind the way his thigh presses against yours or the way he rests his heavy hand on your knee or the way his thumb makes maddeningly light circles there.

He laughs when you hold up your phone to him at the flurry of all capitalized and emoji riddled text messages in the group chat that had been created for the evening. And when the driver pulls up to your apartment building, when you try to pull out your credit card, he passes the man a wad of twenties. Way more than the ride cost with a keep the change as he hustles you out of the car.

“Lead the way, baby,” Rooster croons in your ear, his voice low.

And in that moment, you decide you really like Fleet Week.

Who could resist a man in summer whites? Especially when that man is Bradley Bradshaw! Read Part 2 here!

Thank you for reading!

If you missed Hey, Sailor you can catch it HERE!

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You can read my other stories here!

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[delusionalme8]

hey, i have been a fan yours since your Instagram and old tumblr days, so just wanted to pop in ask you how you've been doing? also asking for your hinny fic recs!

Hey, that's actually so cool!

It's been about three years since I stopped using that account. Unfortunately I had to study a lot to get into University and my free time has been greatly reduced. But all in all I'm fine now, thanks for asking. I hope you are too!

There are so many fics that I love that it's impossible to remember them all, so I'll try to fit some in here!

Consider that I like really everything from these authors, so I recommend you read their other fics in addition to the ones I suggest. It's totally worth it!

-Brumous by @seriouslysam8 and its prequels (my personal favourite is Backstabber). As far as I'm concerned, it's one of the best fics I've ever read and she's an amazing writer. She's on a break from Brumous at the moment, but is releasing Selcouth which is just as good in my opinion!

-7 Scandals and a Baby by @ginnyw-potter ! It's a story set during the Regency and has an incredible atmosphere around it! She's an incredible writer and has an insane creativity too. Think of any trope and 99% of the time she's already written about it lmao (if she hasn't already, she almost certainly will). Also, her Harry and Ginny are soo good. (Not a Done Deal is one of my favourites too!)

-These Cuts I Have by Melindaleo and its sequels. It's a trilogy set in the post-war period and it's a wonderful read. I just reread it for the third time and I love the way it deals with Harry's horrible childhood and the relationship he develops with the Weasleys! Read it!

-The Path From You by @takeariskao3 too! I feel stupid for only now discovering her work, but I'm spending my afternoons catching up on it all lol. It's a story full of angst and great tension building before Hinny arrives. But I love a good slow burn, I have to admit, and she wrote it so damn good! I really recommend reading it!

-An Hour of Wolves by @solvskrift ! This one is quite heavy and angsty because it deals with a particularly sensitive subject, but I think it's absolutely worth it. The worst thing is that it's about something that could have easily happened in the canon and it's horrible to think about. I love the way it is written and deals with such sensitive topics, as well as the wonderful characterization of the characters. It is a work in progress, but it is definitely worth reading because it is incredible!

These are just a few fics and I don't know how many more I'm missing, but feel free to recommend me some too!

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Tear You Apart Prequel✨

Series Masterlist

A/N: The prequel is finally here! It came to me out of nowhere today while I was listening to “Wait” by Knuckle Puck on a loop. Now that, my friends, is the power of music. I love this little series so much, and it’s one of my favorite things I’ve ever written! I love getting into the pit of Joel’s grief and showing that underneath all the hardness is just a soft man that wants someone to understand him 🥹 He deserves all the love.

Pairing: Outbreak! Joel x fem! reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only MDNI)

Word Count: 2.3k

Chapter Summary: This is where it all began, the first time you ever met Joel. He’s mean, rough around the edges, but you see through him. You feel his grief as much as you feel your own.

Chapter Tags: Outbreak au, Joel captures reader, dark! Joel, tender moments, grief, angst, tension, Joel needs a big hug

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

 The sharp rope scratches at your skin as you try to free your bondaged wrists from behind your back. You rock against the wooden chair and grit your teeth together as you bite back the urge to scream. It’d be no use. You’re under his watch, under his control, under his eyes. Those dark black pits that are filled with nothing but regret that devours his eyes, feeds on his soul like a pit of ash and nightmares. A monster that devours anything he can control, anything he can get his calloused fingers on. 

   He wants control, he thinks he has it, but that’s not the case. Not exactly. Because control is a weakness. He’s just a man that’s ruined from a dark world who has nothing left but his own misery to spread to anyone he can claw his jagged nails into. He wants others to feel exactly how he feels. Grief can do that, can change a man into a blood sucking monster. And that’s exactly what he is, the worst kind of them. Vengeful, disconnected, full of regret, used. Just like you are. 

   You watch him stalk around you, circling you like a vulture as he glides his calloused fingers over your skin. You see the way he moves. Slow, concentrated, shoulders hunched as the green flannel clings to his broad chest. Dangerous, dark, unkind. That’s all he shows, all he knows. 

   “Let me go,” you demand as you scrape your skin against the rough bindings and hiss when you feel blood against your wrists. 

   He clicks his tongue and ends right in front of you as he picks up a piece of your hair. “I don’t think so,” he chuckles darkly as he continues circling slowly. “You gonna tell me what you were doin’ outside my house in the middle of the night? Tryin’ to steal somethin’ from me, hmm?” 

   “No, I wasn’t stealing anything…”

   “Liar!” His voice is blaring, echoing through the tiny basement that’s dark and filled with cold cement walls. Only a little light shines in the center of the room. Just enough to see the scowl that’s stretched across his angry face. 

   “I’m not lying, if you’d only just listen to me!” You fight back, your face burning fiery red as you try to pull free of your bindings again, but it’s no use. You’re stuck.  

   “I don’t listen to filthy little liars, sweetheart. Should’ve never come around these parts of the woods. It’ll only get you hurt,” he grins as dark eyes fill the dim room. 

   He slowly slides his fingers down your arm like a sly snake as you feel the bristles of callouses catch against your glistening skin. His skin is warm, burning into yours as you feel the fingerprints imprint into your forearm. He kneels down in between your legs as he rests one hand on your thigh, slowly opening the other as he settles between your legs. And then he looks up at you. That same unattached stare that belongs to the skin of a lone wolf. 

   “So, jus’ what am I gonna do with you, hmm?” he asks as he glides his fingers over your dark denim jeans. “Maybe paint the inside of your thighs white? Maybe sit you on my lap and have a little fun with you? Maybe…”

   You shut him up as you inhale and spit into his face as a glob of your saliva lands in one of his eyes. You see him flare his nostrils as he wipes the spit off with his flannel sleeve and starts chuckling under his breath. “Oh, I like a little fight in a girl. Kinda turns me on more.”

   Before you can react, he shoots up and grabs the back of your hair as he pulls hard and forces your eyes up. You grimace in pain as he pulls tighter. You look anywhere but at his eyes, so you just stare at his worn leather boots. 

   “Look at me,” he demands with gritted teeth as you feel his hot breath blow against the side of your neck. You turn your face and shake your head as you refuse to follow his strict orders. 

   He pulls tighter against your hair as you cringe and feel a cold teardrop lick at the corner of your eye. You can’t give in, can’t give in to him. You hear him growl loudly as he pulls and snarls a harsh order at you, “LOOK AT ME.”

   You feel the tear run down your cheek as you carefully move your eyes to look at him, your eyebrows knit together in frustration as you stare coldly at the man that holds you captive. His nostrils flare, dark eyes burning into yours as you take a real good look at him for the very first time. 

   He’s so run down looking, tired, just like the broken watch that sits clasped around his left wrist. The hard lines paint maps across his wrinkled forehead, an old scar sits burning across the top of his right eye, his salt-and-pepper scruff is rugged looking as some of his thick, tousled strands of hair fall down into his dark eyes. His green flannel is worn, just like his dust covered boots weighing him down to the ground. And his eyes. There’s sadness, remorse, regret lying in those chocolate eyes. Eyes that beg for someone to take him out of his misery. Eyes that plead for goodness but are weighed down by the hardness of the sick world. Eyes that beg someone to feel everything he does. Eyes that scream for help. 

   He keeps a tight hold of you, fingers still locked around your hair as he pins you in place, the weight of his body sinking against yours as you feel the roughness of his beard slide against the side of your cheek. Before you know what you’re doing, you speak. “It’s all about control with you, isn’t it? You want someone to control because you can’t control what’s going on around you in this apocalyptic world. You want someone to blame, someone to use to take your own misery out on. Is that right?” 

   His dark pupils expand as he snarls against your face, his fingers gripping harder as your head snaps up and pain radiates through your skull. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ ‘bout, sweetheart. Better watch your mouth,” he growls as pain shoots down your neck.

   You see the glisten of the broken glass on his watch, wonder why he wears a broken watch in the first place. It hits you like a hurricane crashing against a weak structure, spiraling your insides as if you feel his pain radiate down your body. He lost something dear to him, went through waves of pain you can only imagine. Just like you lost everything in your life. 

   He grabs another handful of hair until you shout into his weathered face. “I know what it’s like to lose something! You’ve lost someone, haven’t you?”

   His snarl lessens as his narrowed eyes relax, his grip on you growing lighter as he breathes in steady breaths. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” he bites back as you see pain as clear as day in his distant eyes. The dark flecks floating around like pieces of the past as loss is etched in shades of dark brown throughout his irises.

   “That’s why you do this, isn’t it? You need the control, need to feel something other than the loss you carry. Need someone to fasten yourself to as you let the pain slip from your fingers so you can pour it out to strangers so they can feel that bit of pain you carry every single day.”

   His eyes widen, his breath hitching as the weight of your words crashes over him. A realization taking form as his jaw ticks and his thick fingers run down to the edge of your hair. There’s no more pulling, just the mere brush of his fingertips against your thick hair. 

   “You want to do something to me? Fine, do your worst. But at the end of the day, it’s you that chooses to be a monster. You are the one in control.”

   His eyes grow large as his breathing goes shallow. He drops the grip on your hair and stands abruptly as he paces the floor while raking a large hand through his scruff. He looks conflicted, torn up, ruined as he paces and paces the cement floor. 

   His body stills as he turns and looks at you, his eyes full of regret and sadness as the glint of tears wash over his deep brown eyes. He flexes his hand into a tight fist and clenches his jaw as he huffs out frustrated and grabs a sharp knife from the corner of the room. You freeze up until you realize he’s cutting your bindings free as the tattered rope falls to the floor. 

   “Go on. Get out of here. Leave,” he growls as he nods his head toward the rusty stairs and gives your shoulder a slight push.

   “But I…”

   “LEAVE!”

   You stumble over to the staircase and start to move, but after the first rusty creak of the stair you can’t help but to look back at the man that burns with pain. You see him pacing back and forth slowly, his face is so tormented. You almost feel bad for him. Almost. 

   You cautiously step back off the stairs and slowly walk over to him as you shakily reach out a hand. You see his tense shoulders, his lowered head as he holds his hands over his face. That’s when you feel it. The sheer grief that plagues him night after night. You feel it burning deep in your soul as you stare at his weathered features. He’s so lost, scared. 

   You ever so slowly lift a hand and place it softly over the back of his shoulder, holding your breath as you’re sure he’ll knock you down to the floor. He turns sharply your way, and that’s when you see the glisten of tears in his eyes, a shade of dark blue that covers his entire being. Wrecked. He’s so wrecked. 

   “I see you. You’re not as alone as you think you are,” you whisper as you let your hand linger timidly on his broad shoulder for just a few more seconds. He stares at it, conflicted features running over his worn face and then slowly turns toward you, eyes the color of chestnut brown. He flinches when you finally drop your hand to your side and step back out of his reach. 

   His lip quivers, jaw clenching as tight as a fist as he stares at you with big chocolate eyes that glisten with held back tears. You know this pain, the unbearable agony of losing someone so close as they slip through your fingers and never return to the light of day. You know he’s hurting. You know.

   You think of running your fingers over his patchy scruff but quickly talk yourself out of it, afraid he might snap at you again. One more look at dark eyes and you’re backing up, turning back to the staircase as you start to tread up heavy steps. 

   You hear him take a step toward you, hear his leather boots scuff against the hard ground as you look down and see the man with burning eyes. He looks like he wants to say something, looks like he might ask you to stay, but he stays silent. So you go, flee up the stairs, back to a semblance of peace.

   Before you turn the old brass doorknob, you look back and find him looking in awe at you, his breathing ragged and his mouth parted open with bloodshot eyes. Eyes that beg you to stay. 

   “You know, you’re not really the monster you think you are.” His jaw goes slack, his arms heavy at his sides as he stares wide-eyed at you. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch, he just stares. Weepy eyes that cry out for just one soul to listen. You hear him though. You hear him.

   You grip your raw, torn up wrists and feel the pain simmer down to your bones. This is the pain he must feel, too. The pain you might just understand. Maybe that’s why you almost stay, almost turn and reach for him again like you could take his pain away. But you don’t. At least not this time.

   Before you overstay your welcome, you turn the cold doorknob and push past the opening as you flee the house that holds pain and regret. You slip your way outside and disappear into the thick trees, leaving just enough traces of footsteps for him to find you again. 

   This wasn’t the end. No. This was the very beginning, a beautiful cycle that’d keep spinning, a whirlwind of you and Joel. The moment everything changed. He claimed you from the beginning, the very minute he let you out of those ropes. It wasn’t over. 

   He’d find you again, hunt you down till he got his hands on you again. A little lamb that would feed the hungry wolf. A lone wolf that needed to feel again. And you were it. The undoing to his starving form. For he was just a man who longed to rid himself of all the suffering and pain he experienced day after day. You were exactly what he needed. It was you. So he’d follow you through the trees, track you down till he could taste nothing but you. You were the little lamb he desired, craved. And god, did he need you. He needed you…

Tagging some of you that read part 1 🩷 @janaispunk @amyispxnk @mountainsandmayhem @littlevenicebitch69 @lotusbxtch @keylimebeag @untamedheart81 @bbyanarchist @bishtrouille @vividispunk @vivian-pascal @survivingandenduring @wannab-urs @pedrostories @docharleythegeekqueen @rav3n-pascal22 @my-favorite-reading @silk-spun @fanfictilltheend @tuquoquebrute @beardedjoel @msjarvis @syd-djarin

If you liked this, consider reblogging or sending me an ask 💕

[achaotichuman]

What's the best tamcien smut fic would you recommend to me? Also are you open in being sent a tamcien smut fic as a gift 👀

HIHIHIHIHIHI

You have come to the right place for recs, I am the resident rec dealer, here are all the tamcien smut fics on AO3, all of them I have read at least multiple times.

I am quite tired at the time of compiling this list, so there is a chance I have missed some, so I would reccomend looking through the Ao3 Tamcien tag to see all the marvelous works all the Tamcien creators have made!

And YESYESYESYESY I AM VERY OPEN TO BEING SENT TAMCIEN SMUT AS A GIFT, YESPLS!!!

Am I making you feel sick? by @yaralulu

Lucien wasn’t a fool. He'd seen the hatred in Tamlin’s eyes, the confusion and disgust vast as he looked him up and down. And yet after the treaty meeting, he seeked him out in his tent anyways. He wasn’t foolish enough to beg for forgiveness.

my lord (and only mine) by @yaralulu

Lucien takes care of his High Lord after he comes back from a rather stressful meeting with his council. “Why not? You’re my High Lord. It seems fitting it, doesn’t it?” Cruel, teasing words, Lucien knew, but he couldn’t help himself. It was just too much fun having that kind of power over Tamlin. It felt too good to see him crumble all because Lucien wore his shirt and called him a certain nickname. Too fun and too easy. “I’m also your friend. Do friends call each other such things?” “Friends.” The corners of Lucien’s lips twitched up unwillingly at that word. “Is that what we are?”

The Fox and The Hound by @samhatch

Every Fire Night since Lucien joined Spring Court, Tamlin has always sought him out to help release the last of the spirits that possessed him. But now that he's mated with Feyre, Tamlin won't need Lucien's help anymore... Or will he? ********************************************************** “I thought you wouldn’t come.” I admitted. I tried to keep my heart from beating too quickly, knowing his heightened senses could hear it. He said nothing in reply, and walked slowly toward me. As gently as the morning dew, he pressed his lips to mine, but I could feel the hunger behind it barely kept at bay. His scent filled my nose, trampled moss and lilac. “What about Feyre?” I asked. “She’s asleep,” he said as he crawled into my bed.

The Wolf and the Fox by @tsunami-of-tears

Alpha Tamlin/Omega Lucien Tamlin is having a rut at the most inconvenient time. Lucien is a cocky shit and not helping the issue.

The Rite of Spring by @nocasdatsgay

Day 6 Poly Week: Celebrations A Calanmai fic. Tamlin and Flora complete the rite, going to find their loves once it is done and the next day help with cleaning up the festivities

Edging || Lucien Vanserra x Tamlin by @sharksscripting

Oct. 21st 2033 — Kinktober Lucien returned to the Spring Court for a visit when he sees it in a worst state than ever, after talking—arguing—with Tamlin feelings evolve and they end up making love.

Cockwarming || Lucien Vanserra x Tamlin by @sharksscripting

Oct. 28th 2023 — Kinktober Part Two of: 𝐄𝐝𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 || 𝐋𝐮𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧 𝐕𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐚 𝐱 𝐓𝐚𝐦𝐥𝐢𝐧 — The Spring Court has been regrowing and that causes Tamlin’s workload to triple. Lucien finds a way to help.

A sunbeam shining bright into the night by @nocasdatsgay

After the Great Rite ritual is completed, Tamlin always goes back to the Manor to see if Lucien is waiting for him. This year he is. Tamlin Week 2023 Day 3 Possessive

Play With Fire by Sam Tinnesz by @trshtffc

Calanmai fire just got a bit too hot (Bonus chapter/prequel for In This Peace) (pre ACOTAR)

And an NSFW Tamcien fanart series by @samhatch

Not Safe For Tumblr

Below are all the smut fics I've written.

Hedonism

Tamlin has never been good with words. Much less relationships, of any kind at all. He doesn't know how to fix this; he doesn't know if there's any possibility of this being fixed. But he has to try, for the man that is everything he's ever needed. He will try.

A Proposition

The High Lords meeting is being held in the Night Court, and Lucien is bored out of his brains, but when he realises the Heirs of Night and Spring have slipped off, what would have once been a very boring day suddenly becomes the opportunity for something he'd never even thought of.

Naked Poetry

The Seasonal Courts are gathering for an annual meeting. With tensions growing between the Courts, they aim to settle what they can and allow the magic to return to harmony as it was before the Curse of Amarantha. But after so long away, the magic of each Court is writhing for its sister. From Spring's weakened magic, the power of the Seasons is demanding rejuvenation. Magic comes with a price, and this is theirs. Title from Naked Poetry by SKYLAR would recommend listening to whilst reading.

If you want to see more Tamcien content, I would also recommend checking out my main fanfiction rec masterlist and my personal masterlist

[massivedrickhead]

Could you do something for “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”? Maybe as a follow-up or prequel or something to the prompt you did for “I’m not going to yell at you”? Thanks in advance! 🩵

First off, I'm so sorry this took so long! Usually when I go this long without posting any new fics it's because I'm working on something but I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've written anything in the last month.

I've had probably the worst writers' block I can ever remember having and I've just not felt any desire to write anything or work on any of my wips.

I don't even know if this is any good, but I'm hoping it'll pull me out of the slump.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Prompt taken from here

Trigger warning: physical domestic abuse

This is a prequel to this fic

Read on AO3

-

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Chloe didn’t believe him.

She swallowed, the pain radiating from her mouth as she forced a steadying breath through her nose. 

She knew her lip was bust. She could taste the blood in her mouth, could feel the sting when she swept her tongue across it.

“Chloe.”

Chicago knelt in front of her. His eyes were full of tears, one of his hands cradling the other as if he’d hurt it when it collided with her face. As if he was the one in pain right now.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean…” he trailed off. “Are you okay?”

Chloe wanted to laugh, but instead tears stung her eyes. 

“Please don’t cry,” he said. “Please… Please just say something.”

“Can you get me some ice please?” Chloe asked, no longer recognising the sound of her own voice.

He seemed to deflate with relief, and Chloe felt her hatred for him grow. 

“Of course,” he said. “Let me help you up.”

Chloe couldn’t help but flinch away from him as he extended his hand towards her, and she saw the briefest flash of anger cross his eyes. 

She took his hand and he helped her up and onto her feet before he disappeared into the kitchen. 

Now alone, she gingerly touched the split in her lip and winced. It hurt more than she’d expected it to.

He’d never hit her before, and even though he was full of apologies and remorse now, Chloe already knew he would do it again. 

He came back with a bag of frozen peas. “We’re out of ice,” he said. 

Chloe nodded and took it from him, holding it against her rapidly swelling lip.

“I’m-”

“I know,” Chloe said, cutting him off. “I know you are.” She couldn’t bear to hear him say it again. “Let’s just… Let’s forget it.”

“Sure,” he said. “If that’s what you want.”

The rest of the evening passed in a tense silence until Chloe finally crawled into bed.

She feigned sleep long enough to hear the sound of Chicago’s snores fill the room, and then she eased herself out of bed.

Shoved in the back of her closet was a bag she’d begun prepping months ago. When the rose-tinted glasses had come off, she started to really see those red flags that she’d so often dismissed.

The bag contained some clothes, toiletries, a small amount of cash, and her important documents.

She grabbed it out of the closet and, still in her pyjamas, climbed into her car and drove. 

-

Beca had been fast asleep when the sound of her apartment buzzer cut through her dreams.

She groaned and fumbled for her phone, one eye closed as the bright screen lit up the room.

It was close to 2 am, and her stomach lurched as the noise continued.

She stumbled out of bed and hurried to the front door, her heart beating uncomfortably in her chest as she did so. 

No one ever knocks at your door at 2 am with good news…

“Hello?” Beca asked into the intercom.

“Beca?”

If Beca’s heart had been beating hard before, it was doing something else entirely now.

“Chloe?”

“Please can I come up?”

Beca hit the button to unlock the door without a second of hesitation, and she waited anxiously for Chloe to reach her apartment.

Even though she’d been expecting it, Beca still jumped at the sound of the tentative knock at the door and she hurried to open it.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe said. “I’m so sorry for just turning up like this.” Chloe’s hands were shaking as she adjusted the weight of the bag on her shoulder, and her eyes shining with tears. “Please can I stay? Chicago, he’s…”

Chloe trailed off, but she didn’t need to tell Beca what Chicago had done, because Beca could see it for herself.

Beca felt like she couldn’t speak, so she just stepped aside so Chloe could enter her apartment. She shut the door behind them and slid the chain lock across for good measure.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” Chloe said. “I’m sorry.”

Beca shook her head and forced herself to find her voice. “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “Of course you can stay here.”

Chloe seemed to deflate with relief in front of her, and Beca hated that in Chloe’s mind, there might have been a chance she’d have turned her away.

“Stupid question, but are you okay?” Beca asked.

Chloe shrugged. “I don’t think so,” she said, tears filling her eyes faster than she could wipe them away. 

Beca wasted no time in closing the gap between them and wrapping Chloe up in a hug. “I’m so sorry this happened to you,” she said. “How can I help? What can I do?”

“Can I go lay down?” Chloe asked, the adrenaline that had been keeping her going was now quickly fading away. “I’m really tired.”

“Of course,” Beca said, reluctantly ending their hug. “Take my bed until I can get the spare room set up. I can sleep on the couch.”

Chloe took hold of her hand. “Please come with me,” she said. “I don’t want to be by myself.”

Beca nodded and squeezed Chloe’s hand. Her throat felt tight. “Go ahead,” she said, the strain evident in her voice. “I’ll be right in.”

With Chloe out of the room, Beca’s hands closed into fists, and she clenched her jaw shut in order to hold back the scream that threatened to erupt. 

She’d never felt an anger quite like this before, and she needed it to go before she joined Chloe in the bedroom.

She closed her eyes and imagined herself pummeling every square inch of Chicago. Her jaw was clenched so tight she was amazed her teeth hadn’t shattered. 

She counted to ten in her head, and then forced a slow breath out through her mouth.

Her anger was no good to Chloe right now. Chloe needed her to be strong and stable, but not angry.

She could be angry later, but not now. Not tonight.

She filled a glass with water and returned to the bedroom. Chloe was curled up on her side, her face lit up by her phone screen.

“Here,” Beca said, placing the water on the nightstand.

“Thanks,” Chloe said, locking her phone and placing it on her nightstand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Beca asked, climbing into the bed beside her.

“Not really,” Chloe said. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” Beca said. “That’s okay, you don’t have to.”

“I, um, I don’t really know what to do Bec,” Chloe said, her voice beginning to waver again. She let out a small sob, that was quickly followed by another. “I’m sorry,” she said, quickly wiping her eyes.

“Don’t,” Beca said. “Don’t be sorry, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for.” She lifted her arm so Chloe could cuddle into her side, which she eagerly did. 

“What’s going to happen when he figures out where I am?”

Beca felt that anger pulse in her again, but she pushed it away. “I don’t know,” Beca answered honestly. “But we’ll figure it out. I do know one thing though, and that’s that he won’t put his hands on you again.”

Chloe knew it wasn’t as simple as that but she allowed herself, for that moment, to feel safe. To feel protected. She decided to believe her. 

“All you need to worry about now is getting some rest,” Beca said. “We can deal with everything else tomorrow.”

[mwolf0epsilon]

Sometimes being in the SW Fandom is about diving into the annals of the internet researching the most obscure tidbit of batshit insane Canon or EU Lore imaginable to man (which is honestly my favorite thing to do because people have done some pretty insanely funny things with this universe and characters). But for the majority of the time, being in the SW Fandom is also watching people repeat a cycle of asinine arguments that make an absolute ass out of them for the worst possible reasons.

So here's a quick reminder of past arguments to be mindful of and always consider, when you see something in the tags that makes you wrinkle your nose at:

Everyone has something they like or dislike about the overall universe and story. Be it the Original Trilogy, the Prequels, the Sequels, the Animated series, the Live-Action series, EU stuff, Novels, etc. No one is above or below anyone else just because they don't love the entirety of the universe and/or the direction the current writers are taking it.

Canon can be a good baseline for your own creative purposes. You don't have to love it (because yes the whole thing can be inconsistent as hell), but don't get to a point in your fanfic/AU world-building where you vehemently deny that canon is an actual thing. This goes hand in hand with your personal depiction of characters vs someone else's depictions. Reading comprehension and the creative process depend on perspective and how you process the information you're given, so it's only normal that no two person's idea of a character is the same. But saying that your headcanons are how the characters should be written by everyone is not gonna do you any favors in the long run, because it's not up to you to decide on that. Don't forget Blorbo's actual roots and what it took to get him where you took him, but don't try to force someone else to accept the journey you orchestrated for them!

No one's OC should be put on a pedestal. It's good that people feel comfortable enough to play Barbies with each other's OCs in roleplay sessions, or even add a cameo in a fic to a character of a friend and/or artist/writer they admire from a distance. Hell, the fact many people are passionate about someone else's little fella/s is great! But the moment someone's OC becomes an object of obsession within a Fandom community, things can go a little wrong... It stops being fun to be in that kind of space that goes from welcoming OC discussions to suddenly shunning new people in favor of someone's Ultimate Blorbo who now has a Cult Following and should be written into every fanfic ever.

No one is evil for lacking knowledge or self-awareness of certain grievances that people rightfully have with the source material. The SW Fandom has always had a long-standing issue with racial stereotyping, whitewashing, cultural appropriation, sexism and many other equally serious topics that have been more eloquently explained in posts made by people much more eloquent and qualified than I am or ever will be. However, one must recognize that not everyone who joins the Fandom is immediately aware of these things. Especially the younger generations that have either not been exposed to these concepts due to one reason or another (upbringing, biased educational curriculum, etc), or because they were simply never in a position where they could delve into these topics with someone knowledgeable on them (some experiences simply aren't universal, especially if you come from a more privileged family). For the most part, SW is just a silly sci-fi universe that is nothing more than a simple means of escapism or dumb fun. Not everyone is going to study it under a microscope or go through it with a fine comb. That said, another important thing to remember is to listen to those who know their stuff and that have had personal grievances with any of the topics above. You can be excused for lack of knowledge, but you cannot be excused for purposefully ignoring the voices of those who provide you said knowledge for free if you go searching.

This is kinda returning to the second and previous topics, but I really need to put emphasis on this: If you're going to cling to certain design choices with an iron first and incorporate them into your personal ideas/headcanons, please always consider how it SOUNDS when you say characters that are written with basis on real POC people/communities are much better/superior if they have phenotypical trait expressions that are not present (or considered rare/atypical) in their real world basis. This is a CONSISTENT problem I have seen crop up specifically within the Clone Wars and Bad Batch sides of the fandom, especially when talking about Rex (who is a blond) and Clone Force 99 (who do not look like standard clones). Always remember: The problem isn't that Rex can't be naturally blond (genetics can be unpredictable and we really don't have an extensive look into the cloning process), the problem is the way some people think he'd be inferior in some way if he were a bottle blond who chose to distinguish himself (almost as if having darker skin, darker hair and darker eyes is somehow worse than having lighter skin, lighter hair or lighter eyes.. How curious isn't it?). Needless to say, I don't think I need to elaborate further on why CF99's "desirable mutations" giving them considerably lighter skin and less ethnic features, while also making their most POC presenting member look and sometimes act like a moronic brute (something which this Fandom pushes further by infantilizing him relentlessly), is a bit of a red flag...

Star Wars has always been political. It is literally in the name and in the meat of the writing. The entire thing is basically a political and social critique presented in a sci-fi/fantasy wrapper, with colorful plasma swords, cool spaceships, and kickass explosion bow on top. You cannot separate the political conversation from the universe's overall lore, and trying to do so makes you look foolish. Disney may have taken creative liberties with some of its shows, but at the end of the day they can't ever eliminate what the Original Trilogies and even the Prequels tried to tell us about. With that said, complaining about how some of the new shows are "too Woke" or PC is the equivalent of saying you read Romeo and Juliet and that the story is relationship goals. You might need to revisit the original material.

For the love of god if you don't like something, don't go after someone who does, it's not worth it. Sometimes the best thing you can do is either filter something you actively dislike/that makes you feel uncomfortable, or simply unfollow/block whoever is repeatedly bringing it onto your doorstep. And you also have no real obligation to explain your decision to block someone, especially if they hound you for questions. Rule of thumb: Don't like something? That's perfectly fine and valid. Take the steps to make yourself comfortable then, but don't go out of your way to be a royal asshole to someone else just because they themselves enjoy it. This encompasses things from anti-jedi demonization, actual ethnic cleansing in canon, siding with personifications of alt-right extremists, proshipping apologism, etc. The block button was added to this hellsite for a reason. Use it.

Sometimes you can't change someone else's opinions on a matter and that is perfectly fine. Just don't start a feud. People come and go, and their opinions vary (we're all individuals with out own perspectives and unique experiences after all), but getting up in arms every time someone either refuses to yield in a long-winded argument, or continuously tries to shove their unsolicited opinions/advice onto you, or even makes incredibly uncomfortable/forward/gross comments that they definitely shouldn't be saying to a complete stranger on the internet, is kind of pointless and will drain you of energy faster than you can say Death Star. You're not the lesser person for walking away from a lost cause. It's ultimately not your job or responsibility to fix/better someone else. Especially if they don't want to change.

[moreespressoformydepresso]

Fandom's Takes On Trauma Are Terrible And Here's Why: brought to you by terrible Coriolanus Snow and Anakin Skywalker discourse

I've been on the verge of making this post for a while now, but I kept not doing it because this might be a bit of a hot take and I don't like offending people. However, I've been growing increasingly annoyed with the perception of one specific character type so lets see how much my dumb opinions stir the pot this time ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. This will be focused mainly on my current main fandom: The Ballad Of Songbirds And Snakes, as well as Star Wars. You'll see why. Now, I need to make it clear that I'm not judging anyone for their opinions on characters for any reason. In no way am I insinuating you're a bad person for having opinions different to mine or that you’re not allowed to have them. What I am saying is that fandoms have some frustrating and frankly insulting beliefs around trauma and those who survived it, and I'm gonna talk about it because I want to get this off my chest. With that said:

Y'all don't understand how trauma works and it annoys me

As stated in the title, I'm writing this because of the Coriolanus Snow discourse, specifically regarding whether he's a good or bad person. Lets rip off the bandaid straight away: He's a bad person. There's no question about it, Snow is a vile human being. And he's one of my favorite characters because of it. He's fantastically written and hands down one of the most realistic, viscerally terrifying yet utterly pathetic villains ever. And what I hate about the TBOSAS fandom more than anything (aside from how some of them treat the actors) is the way they take away all his agency in the story. But I'll put a pin in that because I have a lot to say about him and instead start at the beginning of my growing frustration with how fandom perceives trauma (feel free to skip through this post, I'll label my sections in case you don't wanna read this whole thing). There's two sides, and both are equally stigmatized and wrong. So lets start with the more obvious one through the lens of Anakin Skywalker.

The Star Wars Fandom's Weird Relationship With Traumatized Children Behaving Like Traumatized Children

So Anakin Skywalker AKA Darth Vader is pretty explicitly a Bad Dude who's done some Bad Things. Bro committed genocide, ain't no getting around that, except... It's a little more complicated. Sure, he did all those terrible things, but a lot of people take that to mean he was always a horrible monstrous big bad in the making who was destined to become the galaxy's worst nightmare. That's missing the whole point of the prequel trilogy, because those movies essentially serve to explain all the reasons for Anakin's descent into villainy, and he had surprisingly little hand in it. Growing up into slavery means he not only has a warped view of the galaxy thanks to all the horrors he's witnessed, it also means he lacks the teachings Jedi younglings get when they grow up in the temple. He was pawned off onto Obi-Wan who had only recently been knighted and was in no way ready to raise a child, and became "friends" with Palpatine who fed him all sorts of lies to manipulate him into becoming little more than an attack dog. Not exactly ideal circumstances for a child in their formative years. Did Anakin shirk the Jedi's rules? Yes. Did he do dumb stuff? Yes. But he was a traumatized teenager, of course he's acting out. When he massacres the Tusken Raiders, it's Padme Amidala who reassures him it was the right thing to do. He felt guilty about it, so this idea that he's some apathetic monster from the second he's born is dumb. It's not that Anakin was born wrong, it's that the people around him either failed to help him go down the right path or were actively trying to push him down the wrong one. Anakin never fully grasped the Jedi's ideals, because the person meant to teach him just wasn't equipped to do so. If he'd had someone to teach him how to get a hold of his emotions, distancing himself enough from them to make the best possible decision and helping him understand the importance of letting someone go when you have to, he wouldn't have fallen to the dark side the way he did.

Anakin did terrible things, but blaming it on him just having an evil heart shows a fundamental misunderstanding of how people's environments change who they are. A life in slavery, where he was not allowed to have anything and risked losing what he held dear at any second with no control over it likely caused him to be very possessive of what he held close to his heart once he did have some control over what he kept and lost. Shmi died because he wasn't there to protect her (in his head), so he clung to the people he loved so he could save them the way he couldn't save his mother. Palpatine actively groomed him, if you think that didn't have any effect on him I don't know what to tell you. Throughout the war, he constantly lost people he was close to. That control he had slowly starts to fade as Ahsoka leaves and he starts having dreams about Padme dying. He does everything to save her, only to find out she betrayed him (in his mind, a thought quite likely influenced by PTSD as well). I can tell you that believing one of the few people you trust has betrayed you can make you act very impulsively. Anakin made an impulsive decision and regretted it for the rest of his life. He wasn't born a monster, the world turned him into one.

However, that does not excuse his actions. It explains them and spreads the blame to more people, but his actions are still his actions. Anakin separated himself from his past because of all the pain it brings him, and in doing so he did a lot of bad things. And he still needed to face consequences for those actions, even if the events that led up to them aren't necessarily on him entirely. If he'd gotten therapy, he wouldn't have choked Padme to death. Possibly he wouldn't have attacked the temple. But he didn't, and he did all those things trauma or not. I have major issues with the way some Anti-Anakin parts of the Star Wars fandom insist on ignoring or writing off his trauma, but that doesn't mean I'm absolving him of all guilt.

An explanation is not an excuse, and that sentiment brings us to the reason for this little rant:

Coriolanus Snow's defenders have a habit of infantalizing trauma survivors and I wish they would stop

Oh Snow, how your amazing character completely flew over the heads of most of your loyalest fans. I'm joking, obviously, but also... It's not exactly wrong. Now, I need to make this clear: I'm not insulting Snow fans here. I'm kind of one of them (I hate his guts but I love how he was written, it's a love hate relationship). However, the way people talk about his trauma... I'll be honest, it's kind of sickening for reasons I'll talk about later after getting through the technical(?) stuff. Where the way people view Anakin disgusts me, the way people treat Snow disturbs me. Because people view The Ballad Of Songbirds and Snakes as if it's some typical tragic villain backstory that humanizes and in some ways justifies who he became, to show what changed him from a normal person into a monster. It's not. It actually shows that Snow has always possessed the traits that made him the monster we know from the OG series. What it does is explain why specific things were so important to him and how he grew to lose all redeeming qualities, letting the worst aspects of his personality grow and take over until it's all there's left of him.

What made Snow do stuff like poison political adversaries and constantly beat down the districts so they don't rebel? A thirst for power. A thirst he's always had, born from the feelings of entitlement he held thanks to his family's previous status. He deserves that power in his mind, so he'll do anything to get it. Power, control, and influence are his driving motivators. It's at the back of his mind throughout TBOSAS, and by the time he becomes a gamemaker it's the only motivation he has left. Those traits, the things that pushed him to do what he did, they were always there. There was just more stuff to cover it up. Stuff that fell away with time. Snow is a terrible person, but people pretend he's some poor misunderstood baby who just needed a hug because... why? Because he has trauma. And that's the root of the problem. Does he have trauma? Absolutely. He survived a war, he lost his parents, struggled through poverty while being raised by propaganda from the Capitol and was arguably groomed by Gaul. Sound familiar? It's kind of like Anakin. Horrible childhood filled with loss, less than amazing figures raising him and grooming. Except people use the opposite argument for him which is equally wrong: he's traumatized, so we cannot blame him.

Yes we can.

Trauma does not justify your actions. It might explain them, but you are still accountable for your own actions. Snow murdered people, starting with Bobbin, and every single time it was his choice to do so. It doesn't matter why he made that choice, because he still did it. He ruined countless lives and ended nearly as many, both directly and indirectly. No amount of trauma justifies that. I've seen people claim he's just an anxious young boy who's a poor victim of circumstance, and anyone who doesn't believe so is simply unable to separate the actions of an 80-something-year-old from the 18-year-old, but... No. That's one of the most braindead takes I've ever heard, I'm sorry. Snow hadn't committed the crimes of his older self yet, but the behaviors he shows in TBOSAS are the ones that led him to doing so later on and ignoring that is just stupid. I don't need to judge Snow based on his later actions to call out how fucked up he was in TBOSAS. Again, he chose to murder several people and deluded himself into believing he was justified. That's what makes him a great character. Bad people always believe, on some level, that they're doing the right thing. It's fascinating. But people take his words at face value when he says he's doing the right thing, and the whole point is that he's wrong. He's lying to himself. Because that's what people do sometimes. Snow's family was knocked off its throne, and Snow clung to the idea that the districts are beneath him and at fault to cope with that. He deluded himself into believing Gaul's dumbass theory to justify continuing the games.

It's the exact opposite of Anakin Skywalker: Trauma is relevant, it does inform your perspective on the world and your actions, but it does not mean you can do no wrong. Snow had every chance to be a good person: Knocking Bobbin out or running away instead of murdering him, joining the rebellion with Sejanus, staying in district 12 with Lucy Gray and being honest with her. But he killed Bobbin. He fucked over the rebels and got Sejanus killed. He lied to Lucy Gray and destroyed any chance he had with her. Every chance he got, he threw into the fire without hesitation. Anakin leaned into being a bad person to forget the past, Snow chose to be one because it benefitted him the most. Neither of them are excused because of their trauma, their descent into villainy is simply explained. You know why? Because both of them created new victims. Snow was complicit in the murder of hundreds of children before becoming responsible for thousands more, he killed people with his own hands and ruined several lives over the course of TBOSAS. All that pain he caused isn't erased because we can explain why it happened. Even at 18, Snow has many things he should be held accountable for. War, being an empoverished orphan, being groomed, none of that nullifies the shit he's done. People who say Snow's just an anxious, young, traumatized boy are one side of the horseshoe theory of the myth of "the perfect victim". The "Anakin's Trauma Should Be Ignored Entirely" crowd are the other side. Which brings us to...

It's all horseshoe theory

To conclude the analytical part of my post, I'll bring it back to what I briefly mentioned in the intro to all of this. Agency. That's the running thread here. Both in cases like Anakin and cases like Snow, the fandom takes away all agency a character has in the story for the sake of justifying one's feelings about them. Anakin was born a monster and he was always destined to be evil. It wasn't the trauma, it wasn't the events of the story, he's just bad. On the other hand, Snow is a good person who was made to do terrible things by his trauma. It's all the trauma and nothing else. His bad childhood caused him to be this way and it has nothing to do with his own worst personality traits. See the connection? In both these instances, the characters had no influence over who they became. With Anakin, nothing could've had any influence because he's just born wrong. With Snow, it's everything around him that shaped him into who he was. Both scenarios completely ignore the character and focus on external factors to explain everything. One demonizes trauma victims by saying those that went off the rails are just bad people and there's nothing to be done about it, the other infantilizes trauma survivors by saying they shouldn't be held accountable for their actions just because they have trauma and it's only when they're older and should know better that we can bring consequences down on them.

Victims of trauma should be held accountable, though. The only thing the presence of trauma should change is what kind of accountability. Merely locking them up won't change anything, they should receive help to work through their problems while residing in a place where they cannot hurt anyone else. Including themselves. That is what acknowledging trauma is useful for. But this? This is doing nothing but stigmatizing trauma survivors even more than they already are, and I hate it. And you wanna know why I hate it? Because I've been both sides of this horseshoe, and it nearly got me killed.

The part where I talk about my Tragic Backstory(TM) to explain why this bothers me so much

This'll be a little heavy, so while I'm not gonna go into detail I advise you to please be careful. If you're not in the headspace to handle talk about actual real life mental health issues, feel free to stop reading here. I'm putting this at the end for a reason. If you really wanna know why people's perspective on Snow disturbs me but don't wanna risk getting triggered, skip to the last bold line in this post.

Without going into detail, I've dealt with some pretty big mental health issues throughout my life. One of them is PTSD, so believe me when I say I understand that trauma can heavily influence one's actions in ways even they don't understand. But I had to learn the hard way that there's a difference between explaining and excusing. I used to believe that, because of my previous experiences, I was entirely justified in doing what I was doing. Kind of. At that point, I didn't know that what I was experiencing was PTSD, but I did feel justified in my actions the same way Snow does. I explained every bad thing I did away and wrote it off as nothing or sometimes even as a good thing. Granted, I never did anything as big as committing murder, but I don't live in a country as dark and horrible as Panem so we'll chalk it up to that. As I grew older, I started to recognize the ways in which I accidentally hurt the people around me, and eventually had the realization that my past does not in fact justify the pain I was causing people entirely uninvolved in what happened to me. They had nothing to do with that, and shoving all my pain onto them the way I did was wrong. My view of myself pivoted to the other side of the horseshoe. If I'm not justified, am I... am I bad? Am I evil? Am I just born wrong?

I don't know how to explain this to anyone who hasn't gone through this themself, but that is a horrible feeling to have. To feel like you're just bad and there's nothing you can do about it... It kills something inside of you. A hope, a will to keep going and keep trying. Why bother when you cannot be fixed? I've lost the will to live at two points in my life, and that was one of them. And now I get to see both of these mentalities be repeated by dumbasses who don't understand the first thing about trauma. It's... not fun. It's grating and aggravating in a way I can't accurately bring across with just my words. It makes me wanna scream and laugh hysterically until I cry.

Here's the thing: I relate to Snow, and the way people perceive him disturbs me on a visceral level.

As I said, I justified my own bad behavior the same way he does. I convinced myself I was a blameless poor victim who had no hand in their actions. But just like Snow, I did. Not nearly as much as I would have liked, but I did. I learned to control the defensive mechanisms my trauma gave me, and I grew from it. Seeing people defending Snow with the same arguments that kept me from ever getting over what happened to me, crying out that he's just traumatized so none of it's his fault... it disturbs me. Because they're outsiders who should be able to see the pain he caused others and realize that nothing changes the fact that he did that. But they don't. They're me, without any of the personal stakes that kept me trapped in my own delusions. It's all just fiction, and I know that, but it hits just a little too close to home for my comfort. It's a little too raw and a little too real for me to just let it go and move on again like I always do.

I'm sorry for the rant, I didn't mean to make this post this long but I guess I hope you find something of interest in here that made it worth reading? Have a nice day 💜

[bonefall]

The only thing that makes sense to me is if they go back in time like they did for DOTS and do like. I don't know. The life and times of Those Guys before we met them in TPB that isn't a super edition. Which like. No, God, let them rest. They're gonna fuck up and retcon the continuity even MORE.

If this is a prequel arc we are fucking doomed. PLEASE god NO. DOTC was the worst thing this new team has ever written and the fact no one has read it is a fandom mercy

Like I've got problems with where ASC is going, but DOTC was a mistake from Book Triple Fridgegirl Combo to Book Evil Foreigner Pregnant Woman Face Licking, ten gallons of dumpster sludge packed between. There was not a single moment it was a good arc.

I can't handle this, but they ruin more established characters instead. Im not strong enough

[fen-luciel]

A little vent

I just want to say that Disney, once again, has listened to the worst fans and made decisions based on money. Just like they did with the sequels, to be clear.

I usually don't share my opinion because I don't want to argue with others, but Star Wars fans are the biggest hypocrites I've ever met.

Today, everyone talks about the prequels with love, but I clearly remember the criticism and hate online, blaming the actors when the fault was with the dialogue, which was half well-written and half terrible. "The Acolyte" isn't a perfect product, but it could have been the start of something well-built.

Technically, there's no confirmation yet regarding the cancellation of the series, but I'm not optimistic about it. In the meantime, we'll continue to experience it through drawings or fanfiction.

Sorry for the outburst, but I've wanted to say this forever.

[not-poignant]

wait okay so now that you're seriously thinking of publishing, will you be writing a new prequel to game theory with the new 'Canon'? like the story as it's meant to have happened between gwyn, augus, terho and the nightingale, or are we just starting from game theory?

ALSO I'm so glad that you might be publishing the ftv soon for wholly selfish reasons -- you're clearly done writing about these characters, but personally I am nowhere near done reading about them, and I'm definitely not creative enough to write fanfiction myself either, so I'm just stuck rotating the characters inside my head like a microwave😭😭 it's really tough out here!!!

imagine the massive wave of new readers and the new community that's gonna come in once the story's more accessible... IT'S SO EXCITING

Hi anon!

No prequel, I'll be starting with Game Theory (and Deeper into the Woods will be published afterwards as a prequel, just as it was chronologically in general!)

Quite a bit of Game Theory is being edited and new content being added (anyone on the Gary & Efnisien tier can already see about 2,000 words of new content in the first three chapters alone, including new scene/s with Crielle), and some content being removed where it's OOC. The events with Terho and the Nightingale will be explained in Game Theory, with Gwyn likely meeting with Terho (or learning about him) a few times within.

As for Fae Tales, you know, it's nice to think there will be some new readers, and there might be like a handful or two, but there will be no massive wave. It is the least popular thing I've written in proportion to the amount of time I've put into it. Even the AUs have all generally done better proportionately.

It's one of the reasons I've never rushed to publish, honestly. It's a lot of work to put into something that you know will never financially justify itself. To the point where I think other projects are far more viable financially (Underline the Rainbow as a series I actually think would be great, because new, meaty omegaverse has a very intense (though small) fanbase and I think that series would bring more people in).

There would be no massive wave of new readers. I think we'd be lucky to see at most about 10 or 20 new folks, and I'll cherish everyone, but I'm also pretty realistic. More people find all my other works these days than Fae Tales, The Ice Plague is still one of the worst performing things I've written in proportion to length + time + work investment (despite being one of my favourite series out of anything I've written).

I think I'm realistic, and I also think there's a chance that the Fae Tales Verse if published could draw some haters. Most people don't want that level of BDSM in their epic fantasy, unless it's much lighter 'romantasy,' which Fae Tales definitely isn't. There's even a chance I might get my KDP author account suspended because of breaching content TOS/violations.

So yeah, it's a risk, but I'll take it. It's just not a risk I'm prioritising right now, because I can't see a way that the Fae Tales Verse will ever really go that far. Hand on heart, way more people who come over from my fanfiction find Falling Falling Stars and Underline and almost no one (with maybe a few exceptions - I love y'all) goes into the canon these days unless they're older / long-time readers.

[frostsinth]

The Pirate King (prequel pt 1)

Masterlist

Hey, so this is the start of what I had for before The Pirate King random scene I posted awhile ago. It was a bit long so I broke it into parts. A bit disjointed and unpolished, as I had just written it for myself.

CW: hinted abuse, threatening behavior, assault. Viewer discretion is advised.

----

The man struggled in his bounds, wringing his wrists against the rough ropes. Around him, the rowdy pirates cheered and taunted, some passing around mugs of ale, others shoving each other. The nearest jabbed at him and his companion with fingers and the handles of their weapons. The wooden boards of the ship felt hard against his knees, and he shook his long black hair as he looked up.

Though the wizard was constantly being shoved to the ground with rough kicks and blunt objects, each time he stubbornly rose, ignoring the jeering and insults spat at him. A pirate even poured the remainder of his ale over the bound man’s head, leaving him sputtering as the onlookers watched. But still he straightened and glared around at the ruffians with a deep scowl.

But Duermon… He was centered, receiving the worst of the verbal assaults from the pirates. A few even dared to shove him, but he remained straight backed even as he kneeled there. Duermon's eyes met his, and the young nobleman’s face set into a grim line. It seemed hopeless; all of them tied with thick rope around their wrists and ankles, prostrated on the deck for show. And Robnard worried about the fate of the rest of the crew. Perhaps they were not considered important enough to leave alive even for torment.

Just then the men parted, turning to look up at the upper deck as the pirate Captain banged his rapier against the nearest railing. A roar of excitement went up as the Captain moved to stand at the top of the stairs, grinning from ear to ear. But he raised his hands, effectively silencing the crew. 

“Today is a glorious day!” He proclaimed loudly. He had to pause as the crew broke into cheers. He waited for them to calm. “Never would anyone have thought that the likes of Captain Kartik and his crew would EVER have been the ones to defeat pirate hunter Duermon!” Another cheer, through which the Captain continued, shouting to be heard, “Let alone capture him! And his blasted wizard bastard!”

The crew went so wild, the Captain simply had to let it be for a time. They shoved and prodded at the prostrated men on the deck, some even through empty mugs or whatever else they could find to chuck at them. The Captain waited, still grinning from ear to ear. His dirty black dreadlocks swung about as he threw his head back and laughed, exposing more than one missing tooth in his foul mouth. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked over his crew proudly.

When they had quieted a bit, he stamped one boot eagerly. “And we owe it all to our catch of the day!” He shouted, turning and extending out one arm. He gestured for the girl to step forward. “A catch we almost threw back!” He teased. That caused a loud guffaw to echo around the deck of the ship.

Robnard had not seen her before that moment. She stepped forward almost hesitantly at the Captain’s beckoning, and it was quite obvious she was not of the same stock as the rest of the crew. She was younger, with fairer skin that had not seen the harsh sun and wind whipped seas for long. Her hair was a dark blonde that caught the sunlight like gold, and though it barely fell past her shoulders it seemed to have a wild life of its own as it played about in the light breeze. Her clothes looked borrowed and over-sized, the discarded garments of a tavern girl which did little to diminish her shapely hips and small waist.

As she quietly stepped over to the captain’s side, he swept her up with his arm, squeezing her tight. Even from where he kneeled, he could see her discomfort, and she seemed to attempt to lean as far away from the filthy man as she could without being overtly obvious.

“Without her, none of this would have been possible!” He continued, giving her a little shake.

The men of the boat raised their mugs and roared their approval. A few even whistled, which gave rise to others laughing. Her cheeks flushed a bit pink, but she set her jaw in a hard line despite that. 

“So tonight, boys,” The Captain shouted to be heard. At his voice they quieted a little. “Tonight, eat!” A cheer, “Drink!” A louder cheer, “And celebrate! For tomorrow, we will give the famous Duermon and his filthy crew EXACTLY what they deserve!”

This was followed by the loudest roar of the men yet, and more than one bottle was popped open in that moment. Kegs were dropped onto the deck and mugs were produced in the hands of the last of the crew which were previously empty. They seemed to swarm as one group towards the taps, shoving each other roughly back and forth.

“Drop the bastards in the brig!” Shouted the Captain, finally releasing the girl to point with one crooked finger at the prisoners. “Let them get the best we can offer them for their last night on this plane!!”

Without much ceremony, and with very rough hands, the two men were half dragged half tossed down the stairs into the belly of the great ship. Beneath the decks were cold iron bars, behind which they were promptly shoved and the door slammed shut behind them. The pirates jeered and taunted them from the opposite side, some tossing rotten food at them. One even urinated through the bars, much to the chagrin of his mates. But the party was growing upstairs, judging by the level of noise, and soon the prisoners were left alone.

“Well, isn’t this just bloody brilliant.” Grumbled Robnard, shuffling to get his feet beneath him.

Duermon looked at him, shaking his head grimly. “I am not sure how we are going to get ourselves out of this one, old friend.”

“We will find a way.” Robnard replied, shuffling over to the bars.

“What do you figure they’ve done with the rest of the crew?” The Captain asked softly, his face uncharacteristically sullen.

That left them both silent, faces solemn. The worst passed through their minds then, because after they had each been drawn out and secured, none could say for certain what had become of the other crew members.

“They are about as well off as you guys,” Came a soft voice from the stairwell, “Except their prison is in the belly of their own ship.”

They turned as one to the dark stairwell, where they could just make out the silhouette of the girl sitting near the top, her legs dangling over the edge. She hooked her arms around the bars and peered down at them hesitantly.

“Oi, shouldn’t you be celebrating?” Robnard growled bitterly, “After all, you are the apparent mastermind behind our defeat.”

He thought he saw her wince at his words, but she drew back from her perch and slowly made her way down the steps.

“I...I didn’t mean to…” She mumbled, pausing on the last step. “I just…”

When she didn’t seem to intend to finish her sentence, Robnard spoke what he was sure they were both thinking.

 “You don’t really seem to fit in much with this lot.”

She looked away from them, rubbing the back of her neck. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.” She replied with a soft, self-mocking laugh.

“Then what are you doing here?” Duermon this time, leaning forward as he spoke. “How did you manage to be on a pirate ship in the middle of no-where?”

She didn’t answer, reaching up to touch her forehead as if the thought pained her. Robnard noticed a healing gash that was almost lost in her hairline. Almost.

“What is your name, my lady?” Asked Duermon gently.

She looked at him, then eased herself closer to the bars. Peering at them through the dim lighting.

 “They call me Catch.” She said softly.

“You seem like a good, smart woman, Miss Catch,” Duermon said, “Why are you helping these criminals?”

She wrung her hands, avoiding his eyes. “Needs must, I suppose?” She offered weakly. She looked up at him sadly then, finally meeting his gaze. “I figured… better the evil I know than a good I don’t…”

“You could have run,” Robnard accused her, using the wall of the ship to slowly bring himself to his feet. “You could have escaped when they made port.”

Catch shook her head. “They haven’t yet. Not since I’ve been aboard.” She glanced up the stairwell anxiously. “I honestly didn’t know who they really were until it was too late…”

“So might as well aid them in their criminal acts then,” Robnard said snidely, scowling, “Since you are with them and all.”

“I’m sorry. I really didn’t know what they were doing. What they intended.” She looked at each of them. “I thought maybe you were worse than them… but you seem like good people.”

“Then help us.” Duermon implored her quietly.

She took a step back from the bars, shaking her head. “...I don’t think I can…”

“Help our crew then.” The nobleman said, “Help them avoid our fate.”

“If you really are the mastermind behind this whole plan, it should be easy enough for you.” Robnard mocked.

She didn’t answer, looking out the tiny porthole beside her. The men exchanged a look, then Duermon leaned forward after a few minutes of silence.

“You said they call you Catch.” He reminded her, “Why ‘Catch’?”

“Because we caught her,” Came a snide voice, descending from the shadows of the stairwell, “Fished her out of the waters in the middle of the ocean. Like our own little catch of the day!”

Captain Kartik appeared then, still grinning stupidly, one hand propped on the overhead beam. He hooked the lantern in his hand on an exposed nail, wiping his hands on his trousers. The light brightened the hull, bringing all of their faces into clarity, and he stalked over to lean against the barrels that lined the opposite wall.

“I was wondering where you had gotten to, my little minnow.” He told her, adjusting his hat upon his head before crossing his arms over his chest.

She winced slightly as he spoke, but hid it well with a slight shrug. “I wanted to get a better look at them--”

“One deadman looks the same as another.” Kartik interrupted, shrugging.

She couldn’t find any words then.

“Don’t fret, little Catch.” Kartik told her calmly, watching the prisoners with a pleased look upon his face, “You’ve done a great service this day.” He stood, stalking over to the bars. “Oh, you do not know how long I have waited to see you like this, Duermon.” He sneered, “Trussed up for me like a holiday turkey.”

Robnard wriggled in his binds. “You had better hope you and I don’t cross paths again, Kartik,” He growled, “Cuz I intend to make you pay for tonight.”

Kartik laughed loudly. “And what are you going to do, Wizard?” He jeered, “Breathe on me? You are weak and powerless. And you won’t be getting your power back before we drop your scrawny neck off the plank tomorrow morning.” His grin grew by a few molars, “I hope the sharks aren’t too disappointed with the boney scraps.”

Catch looked off to the side, seeming pained by the whole interaction. Perhaps Duermon's eyes slipped over to her, for Kartik turned to regard her. He snaked one arm around her waist, yanking her over to him.

“Certainly, my little minnow, there is cause to celebrate!” He told her, leaning close to her ear even as she tried to lean away, “You should join me. I’ll open a bottle of my finest wine, have the cook prepare his best dish. A quiet dinner with just the two of us in my cabin.”

She held up one hand as if to push him away, but stopped short, shaking her head. “I really don’t deserve--”

“Why, of course you do!” He exclaimed, interrupting her again. He swung her around with him, as if to steer her up the stairs. “Your clever plans were exactly what we needed to win the day.” He pressed closer to her, pinning her between himself and the railing at the foot of the stairs. “You deserve the best I have to offer.” He purred.

“Time spent with you? That’s more punishment than reward!” Snarled Robnard.

Kartik spun, considering the man with narrowed eyes. He drew his sword, lightly smacking it against the iron bars.

“I don’t know who you think you are--” He growled darkly.

“The lady isn’t interested,” Robnard continued, chiding him, shaking his head, “Who would want to spend more time with a filthy bastard--”

Kartik snapped the blade against the bars again, the clanging echoing around the narrow space and effectively cutting off his words. “Fuck off, Wizard,” He hissed, “As if I need your advice on the matter.” He spun, turning back to face the young woman, “My cabin. Dinner and wine.” He ordered. He shifted his expression into what was likely his impression of a charming grin. It sent shivers down her spine instead. “Come for your reward, it is the least I can do.”

He didn’t wait for her reply, turning and jogging up the steps. As his footsteps faded, she looked back at the prisoners, rubbing her arm nervously.

“I’m not sure if I should say ‘thank you’ or not...” She told them softly, but she couldn’t meet their gaze.

“You are not safe here.” Duermon said, glancing up at the opening overhead.

She smiled sadly. “Thanks to me, neither are you.”

“Help us,” Duermon pressed, his voice soft, “Help us and we can help you.”

She seemed to think about it for a moment, looking after Kartik. Then back at the men. Agonizing over the decision she had to make. But then, the young woman walked over to the bars, shuffling through her skirts. Untucking something from beneath her corset. Robnard was the closest, leaning over curiously to see what she held out.

“A knife?” He whispered, surprised. He was surprised she had managed to hide such a large blade so easily.

She shrugged. “...When in Rome…”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” She fed it through the bars, handle first. “Here.”

A commotion from overhead drew their attention, and she spun nervously. Robnard quickly took the blade, shuffling back into the shadows of the cell. But the noise died down again, fading amid the rest of the ruckus. She sighed, looking back at them.

“Get the ropes off, but stay here. I’ll be back.”

“Where are you going?” Duermon asked quietly.

She was already halfway up the steps. “...Don’t worry. Just… stay here until I get back. I have a plan.”

“Oh well, if that’s the case.” Grumbled Robnard, crouching beside Duermon to cut his binds.

She slipped up onto the deck above and into the rowdy crowd. The men shoved each other back and forth, hooting and hollering as they smacked together mugs of ale. The wood was sticky with it as the amber liquid splashed about. The girl picked up a discarded coat, pulling it over herself to blend in with the crew. She didn’t need any trouble this time around.

Quietly, as subtly as possible, she made her way through the crowds to the back of the ship. The crew congregated mostly around the main mast for their revelry, so soon she was mostly out of sight. Slipping past a pair of men swapping spit beside the cabin head, she eased open the door quietly. The back cabin was small, mostly used for storage. Most specifically of the herbs and potion stuffs for the ship’s resident wizard as well as some food items and liquor. She started digging through the back of the closet’s supplies.

“Well, well,” Hissed a deep voice behind her, “What do we have here?”

She nearly jumped out of her skin, spinning. 

“Lestat!”

The ship’s wizard grinned, sliding the rest of the way into the closet. And closing the door behind him. With a word, a small magelight sprung to life between his fingers and rose into the rafters overhead. Just enough light for her to see the shadows playing over his features.

“What are you up to, little Catch?”

She shook her head, side-stepping him in the tight space. “Nothing… Just looking for something to eat--”

His arm snapped out, blocking her path. She backed away, but he pursued her, resting his hand against the wood wall even as her back pressed up against it. She swallowed nervously. He didn’t seem like himself tonight. He seemed… more bold. Less like the dark shadow with hungry eyes she had come to expect.

“Just looking for something to eat?” He echoed, then chuckled, lifting a bottle to his lips. She hadn’t noticed the jug before. The strong smell of rum wafted in the air between them.

Lestat was her senior by nearly ten years, with tanned leathery skin and narrow shoulders. He wore a long coat ripped at the tops of his sleeves to bare his lean, muscular arms and battle scars. The wizard had angular features and dark hair, and as he moved closer to her she had to crane her neck back to keep her eyes on his face. He grinned wickedly, offering her the bottle.

She took it gingerly, and he made a point for their hands to brush as she did. She made a point to keep her hands from shaking. She chided herself silently. Lestat had never made any kind of move on her before. He had been the most conservative of the crew, at least in regards to her. Quietly, she took a sip.

“Ay, you’re a tough lass,” He purred, “Not many can take a mouthful of that with a straight face.”

She held out the bottle to him, swallowing the burning liquor. “I should get going.”

“What’s the rush?” He asked, bending his arm to keep her from ducking under. He stepped even closer. “It’s not often we get time alone.”

Lestat leaned against his opposite arm, bringing him so close his body was practically resting on hers. She turned her head to the side to avoid her face being against his neck and tried to stifle her erratic heartbeat. He sighed, and his hot breath fell upon her eyes and cheeks. He took the bottle back from her and took a swig from it.

“No, no. Kartik makes sure of that.” He grumbled softly, then looked down at her. He lifted his hand, tracing the edge of her jaw lightly with the back of one finger while the rest remained wrapped around the spout of the bottle. “... Afraid of a little competition, I bet.”

She dropped her eyes down, resisting the urge to shiver at his touch. “...He’s expecting me…”

“Oh?” Lestat sounded amused, and he let the tip of his finger linger on her chin.

Catch nodded. “For dinner…”

The wizard grinned wider. “Then what were you doing in here,” He crooned, “Looking for something to eat?”

He moved even closer, and she couldn’t contain a little gasp as he closed the space between them and lightly pressed his body against hers. He leaned in, even as she turned away, and let his lips rest against her ear. Catch closed her eyes and gripped at the lip of the wall behind her.

“What were you really doing, little Catch?” He breathed into her ear, his lips moving against her skin as he spoke.

“I-I, I was…” She stammered, then stopped and bit her lip. She tried not to notice his other hand sliding down the wall, moving closer to her.

“Come now, you can tell me.” He murmured, his mouth still against her skin, his breath still hot in her ear. “I promise I won’t bite.”

She felt heat rising to her cheeks. “I was… looking for curare…”

That gave him pause, and he pulled back half an inch. “The Sleeper’s Tea...What would you need with that?”

“I-I...I need it,” She hesitated, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. “...For Kartik…”

Catch jumped as the wizard clicked his tongue at her. He took another swig from his bottle. “Naughty little Catch. Why would you--?”

“For his wine.” She interrupted, then shuffled herself anxiously, “He… he wanted me to come over tonight…” She let the sentence hang in the air.

“Hmmm.” Lestat considered that as she dropped off, taking yet another mouthful of the rum. He offered the bottle to her again. “Not so fond of our Captain’s advances, are ya?”

With shaking hands, she brought the strong liquor to her mouth. She swallowed two mouthfuls rapidly, before lowering the spout once more. She could already feel a numbness in her mouth. She started to pray it would spread much further. Glancing at the wizard, she took another anxious sip.

Lestat chuckled, taking the bottle back from her. With his free hand, he gently tucked her hair back, sighing. “Can’t say I blame ya,” A grin stretched his lips again, “Especially when you have better options.”

She gave a soft yelp as he spun her, dropping the bottle to grab her thighs with both hands and hoist her up. He pinned her against the wall, his hips against hers, pressing his forehead against her own. His grin grew by a few molars, and he glanced down at her lips. His hands slowly pushed up her skirts.

Catch wriggled, trying to free herself. She pushed against his shoulders, but he merely pressed back, easily stronger than her.

The wizard paused, rolling his head back as he looked down at her, her balance broken between her feet and his hands on her thighs, supported by his weight leaned against her lower half. Forced to practically straddle him.

“Kartik doesn’t deserve you,” He purred, eyeing her greedily, “But he can’t have you.” Lestat leaned in, kissing her neck. She wriggled beneath his touch. “You’re mine.”

The woman smacked him with all her might, the force snapping his face to one side. It gave the pirate pause, and she felt her breath catch in her throat. A tiny pinprick of blood formed over a small cut at the edge of his lip. He licked it away and chuckled, turning back to her.

“I like my women how I like my sea,” He growled, “Rough.”

She wriggled against him again as his hands started to slide further up her thighs beneath her skirts. Again she raised her hand to strike him, but he caught her wrist. Even as she twisted it in his grasp, he slid his other hand higher.

“I’ll win you over yet, Catch,” He murmured, leaning in again. “You seem so strong, out there in front of everyone. But get you all alone…”

Her head banged against the wall with the force of his kiss. He tasted bitter, of foul rum, and his tongue was hot as it ran across her lips. The wizard pressed in tighter, trying to force her mouth open and grinding his hips against hers. She felt tears prick the corners of her eyes as she struggled against him.

A loud bang made them both jump. Lestat leaned back, tilting his head to one side as he listened. Even though she struggled in his grip, he remained still, listening. The rackous calling and cheering had him rolling his eyes and shaking his head.

“The bastards are playing with the canons,” He grumbled, “Idiots!”

He stepped back, lowering her to her feet. Gently, he reached out, tracing her jaw with his knuckles even as she flinched. Slowly, he traced his hand up into her hair, pushing it back out of her face.

“I’ll have to go sort this.” He said regretfully, turning and rifling through the sacks and jars in the back of the cabin. He drew out a small pouch and caught her wrist, turning her palm up as he placed the pouch in it. “Curare.” He told her.

“Wha--”

“For the Captain’s wine.” Lestat grinned wickedly, then reached out and stroked back her hair again. “I told you.” He curled his fingers into a fist deep in the base of her hair, yanking it gently to force her to look up at him. “You’re mine. No one else can have you.”

She looked at him, forcing herself not to shake beneath his withering gaze. Clenching her teeth, she glared back at him. His grin merely widened at her stubbornness.

“That’s my girl.”

He bent down, holding the back of her neck still, and kissed her collarbone. Then the base of her neck, then higher. Slowly tracing his lips upon her soft flesh until he made it all the way back to her mouth. He peered down at her for a moment, confidence and arrogance falling off of him in waves as she glared back at him. Then he kissed her lips, almost tenderly, simultaneously releasing the back of her neck. She pulled back as soon as his hand dropped.

As suddenly as he was there, he was gone. Stepping back and pulling open the door. He even scooped up the bottle from where it had fallen on the floorboards. He chugged the last little dreg before tossing it out into the night. Lestat looked back at her, snapping his fingers with a word to call the magelight back to his hand.

“I’ll find you again before the night is out.” He assured her, voice husky.

Then he was gone, taking the light with him.

Catch quivered, placing one shaking hand over her chest. She shook her head, taking a deep breath. Trying to calm herself. Trying to bring herself back into focus. Her cheeks felt clammy to her touch, but she gritted her teeth and straightened her back. One last deep breath in, then out. She didn’t have time to be afraid. Didn’t even have time to wash the taste of him out of her mouth.

Turning back into the cabin, she dug through until she found a bottle of wine. She plucked the cork with a pop and started to open the little satchel. But she froze, looking down at the wine. With sudden gusto, she took the bottle and chugged a quarter of it. Perhaps there was just a little time…

Swallowing heavily, she shimmied a small pinch of the curare into the bottle, then swirled its contents around. Recorking it, she stood, putting the rest of the Sleeping Tea into the pocket of her stolen coat.

Stealing into the night even as she felt her fingertips growing numb, she made her way to the main deck. Shoved her way past a few staggering drunks. Over to the kegs. She was just in time. The current keg was running dangerously low. With a grunt and a sturdy kick, she loosened another from the riggings beside the cargo bay. She crouched beside it and used a nearby rigging hook to pry open a gap between the wood and cork. Through it, she poured almost all the remaining curare, then sealed the crack as best she could.

She wiggled her fingers beneath the barrel and sent it rolling towards the center of the deck. A few pirates sidestepped to avoid it, and a few shouts gave rise to the crew gathering closer.

“A special batch!” She called, walking over to the barrel. She righted it and grabbed the spout from the other now empty barrel. “Special, from the Captain!”

That gave rise to a cheer, and two men staggered over, lifting it onto a table. She punched the cork back into the ale with the spout, and grabbed the nearest mug out of a greedy hand. The ale poured out thick, and another cheer went up.

“Gather round! Get a taste before it’s gone!” She told them, backing up as they crowded in.

“I’d rather a taste of ye, lass!” Slurred a man, snaking his hand about her waist.

She easily ducked out of his sluggish grip, quickly backing out of the growing number of men on the deck.

“Sorry, I have other engagements.” She said as she moved.

The crew laughed and smacked their unfortunate fellow on the back. But they raised their mugs to her, and she raised the one she still held.

“To Catch!” Shouted one of them.

“To Catch!” The rest shouted back thunderously.

She watched them down the ale, and made her way back over to the riggings where she had left the wine. She passed her mug into an extended hand, dodging others, picking up the bottle of wine on her way past in one smooth motion. She ignored the men calling for her, pushing past a particularly staggering member, making her way towards the Captain’s quarters. Steeling her will as she went.

“A few dozen down,” She muttered softly under her breath, “And one to go…”

When she found herself at his door, she couldn’t help but hesitate. She couldn’t help the sense of dread that flooded her. And she had to take a few more deep breaths with her fist poised beside the wood. But then she stopped herself, reaching for the handle instead.

To be continued... (?)

[bumblebyaf]

the pricefield breakup was good

just finished double exposure and while the game had many flaws i entirely disagree with one of the biggest complaints i’ve seen both before and after the games release: the pricefield breakup. in fact, the pricefield breakup is my favorite part of the game and one of the most fascinating character writing decisions that defined a lot max’s character for me…so here’s my essay on why max & chloe could never work long term, the breakup was incredibly natural, and how its the only way for both of them to move on. don’t bother reading of course if you don’t want to hear any of these opinions <3 

to start off the bat (and this will be the paragraph people hate the most): max & chloe are one of the weakest lis pairings (and again this is obviously all my opinion). they honestly never even had that much chemistry to me and i probably never would have shipped them had the game come out later but since the game came out when it did and it was the first gay game i’d ever played and they were like the only gay rep i knew it was brilliant & i think nostalgia for this clouds a lot of what people see when they think of pricefield but objectively they never make sense as a pairing to me and i find their scenes together quite awkward or boring. chloe is an asshole to max throughout the whole game (and i am a huge chloe supporter, i understand absolutely where all of her anger and issues were stemming from and it made sense!) and max is either a pushover who just lets her do it or like entirely indifferent to it/ignores it i guess depending on how you play; and max is shitty too i mean we know she ghosted chloe for years and then went back to blackwell for like a month or whatever without ever looking up chloe and who knows if she ever actually would have. which like max doesn’t have an obligation to do that but she clearly wanted to after she meets chloe again and then she spends so much of the game thinking about how chloe replaced her with rachel when max left first and trying to just slot herself back into the exact spot she left (also chloe did not replace her anyway they were entirely different relationships). (unrelated but this is why i hate when people have max add her name to the wall in the junkyard hide out lol) max spends the entire game watching chloe die in several different ways and trying desperately to keep her alive which has got to make a crazy trauma bond/attachment and honestly aside from one or two very obviously written “gay” scenes chloe barely registers as romantically interested in max to me (which…yeah chloe is spending the whole game going through a lot of stuff!) right up until the end where chloe realizes how hard max has been trying to keep her alive/max has been helping her with all the struggles she’s having this week/backing her up with her family drama etc during a time where chloe doesn’t really think anyone cares about her…which i don’t know again seems like a trauma bond to me! and then max sacrifices an entire town for her? of course they get together. you also have to remember that this game takes place during like the WORST week of these two young girls lives it’s just crazy to me how people define their entire relationship/personalities by this time period 

also like i know a lot of LIS fans don’t love BTS because its a different studio and the original LIS writers never wanted a prequel & that for some reason a lot of LIS fans think rachel is the devils fucking spawn BUT thats a different argument (bts being my second favorite game & rachel my third favorite character) but after watching chloe in bts (still with Issues and trauma but less heavy and more shared) and seeing her fall in love with rachel there i could never see her with max the same way

also to be clear i’m not saying at all that i think max & chloe don’t care for each other deeply; i do believe they love each other my argument is just that this relationship could never really last long term and mostly stemmed from the trauma they were going through which brings me to the main part:

max & chloe breaking up makes perfect sense for their characters, especially the reason given as well. chloe telling max that she wants to move forward and live in the future but max is always looking to the past- this single line sold me on the break up immediately i found it fascinating! max does live in the past! its her entire power! her entire game is about rewinding over and over to make the perfect moment etc. max’s character is constantly being brought into question when it comes to how she uses her powers even when she only ever tries to use them for good reason (in particularly i really like the subtle way the comics handled this too, BY CHLOE, but i know not everyone likes the comics either and they’re obviously not canon to the games since they contradict double exposure lore as well. but in the comics an alternate timeline chloe criticizes max on how reflexively she uses her powers to save/help people without considering how rewinding a moment affects everyone around them as well- and how sometimes things go wrong but can work out anyway. this is proven by us also following a second timeline without max there to rewind and we see how those characters navigate the issues max erased and in some instances they turn out even better and i like a happier healthier chloe having this perspective).  i feel like the chloe we meet in life is strange is so specific to that one game (she is going through so much active trauma and it is literally like the worst week of her life) but the pieces of her i’ve seen outside of that game show me how much her character can change when given space to breathe so i don’t think its fair to hold her to just that week. i can very easily see how chloe would want to put everything behind her and try to fully move on/away from everything that has happened and this being the only way she feels she can move forward- similarly how max could spend everyday stuck living with the choices she made and the effects its had on her, how much harder it is for her to separate and move on. 

i also think it makes perfect sense that chloe could grow some resentment towards max for her mothers death- i’m sure chloe wouldn’t act on this but i can see them both knowing it’s there and chloe not really being able to help feeling it. i mean chloe really is fully accepting of her death in life is strange and its max who makes the choice to keep her alive (and yes it’s shitty of chloe to make it seem like a choice at all but that’s also just like…the game having to give the player a choice too). chloe has to live with knowing her mother and everyone she knew died so she could live and max has to live with knowing she directly made that choice and both of them have to just…know and live and think about this everyday they’re with each other how can they move on? is that not suffocating? with some space they can at least maybe start to really separate from it 

i also think chloe’s implied insecurities around max rewinding parts of their relationship also make sense to be honest…max spends the entire game trying to fix every interaction to be the right one like i KNOW she would rewind mistakes because i DID that as her; and maybe you can say max would never use her powers again after the storm but to be honest i don’t think thats true…i think she would never redo grand scale things again (except i guess she does in double exposure) but i just don’t know if i believe she could resist the temptation to keep her and chloe’s interactions perfect- at least in the beginning. i’m not saying she DOES but i GET it- i understand chloe’s paranoia (if it is just paranoia and not fact) because i don’t think i could trust either because i also understand MAX. max who killed an entire town for chloe & their relationship- wouldn’t you feel like you had to keep doing everything in your power to make sure it works? to keep it good, to keep chloe happy?  it’s a really complicated feeling for both of them i’m sure

and i think chloe is right when she says max is always living in the past because we literally see her doing it during the game. she’s still journaling to chloe, she keeps chloe in her wallet & on her wall, we keep having flashbacks to arcadia, max keeps a box of arcadia with her (even though we know she’s also been traveling/on the road most of her adult life), she’s never discussed any part of her past with her friends, her photography focus is about the lonely and abandoned. the entirely of double exposure is about max learning how to really stop living in the past and the harm it could do (through what happened to maya and safi and how its still happening four years later because no one ever really dealt with it etc) and that’s why this undercurrent and the pricefield breakup is my absolute favorite part of this game and the best part of it

i also think it’s really worth pointing out what a lot of people seem to have missed (in the complaints i did see); max & chloe didn’t have some horrible explosive ending and they hate each other forever now and the two are forever ruined or whatever…chloe simply saw she could never truly move forward with max and maybe more importantly she saw max could never move forward with her (how could max move forward from the worst choice she’s ever had to make in her life when she’s also sharing a bed with it?) chloe still loves and cares for her, max still loves her, they could be on friendly terms very easily- in fact i think the only reason they don’t talk right now is because of max (which is for the best during this time i think anyway) and chloe would be absolutely open to their friendship whenever max is ready. chloe wants the best for both of them & chloe’s text at the end of the game proves she’s still thinking of max & open to talking again whenever max is. max also has feeling by the end of the game that’s ready to really start moving forward from arcadia now and one day she will be ready to confront chloe again and i think whenever that happens the two will be really good friends again- like they always were.