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stevieschrodinger · 5 months

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I really want to write this as like a fully fledged, 100k word fic, but I just do not have the time. I need to get the idea down so here it is.

So modern AU. Steve is an Alpha, always known he wanted to help people, little boy who wants to be a police officer or a firefighter, that sort of thing. Mother humors him, Dad is disinterested, both parents are hands off to the point of being borderline neglectful without actually crossing the line - the second Steve can legally get out, he goes to college. Ends up taking an interest in Omega studies, of all things - which leads neatly into the career choice that Steve didn't even know he needed.

By the time Steve is 23 he's leading his own little team under the watchful eye of his superior - Jim Hopper. They're a special branch of the FBI, geared specifically to finding and breaking up illegal Omega abduction and trade rings. Steve's good at what he does - really good - top of his class for firearms, has an affinity for the Omega he comes into contact with, and his control over his Alpha is pretty second to none. Steve can radiate comfort in the middle of a firefight if he has to - if it means keeping these people safe.

Steve sees some pretty horrible shit - he's miraculously well adjusted, goes to his mandated therapy sessions like a good boy, and gets on with Hopper surprisingly well for how surly the guy can be.

Steve's worst attribute is that he's a workaholic - he has a history of failed relationships, so he gives up entirely and has no social life to speak of.

And then Steve's out with his team - it's taken months to track this down. Steve's been supervising undercover agents, starting with a tip off about illegal drug trades that pinged Steve's radar as Omega hormones. So rather than heading in and arresting at base level, Steve, with Hopper's nod, pulls the thread.

They assumed the hormones were heat inducing - they were wrong, and what they find is horrifying. The drugs have been used on un-presented kids. Stolen kids, as young as 11, to try and force them into presenting as Omega. These kids have been abducted from everywhere, no sense to it that anyone can see - except that these kids all come from poor families. Marginalized by society - in a lot of cases, kids that haven't even been reported as missing.

To top it off - the kids are being abused. Neglected, starved, left in filthy conditions and being regularly sexually assaulted. It is by far the worst thing Steve, or even Hopper, in his long carer, has ever seen.

They go in, break up the ring, the perpetrators are either killed in the ensuing firefight or captured and brought in.

Steve sustaining only minor injuries in the altercation, continues on with his job to clear out the kids and get them to safety- in his haste to get to where the final group of kids are being held, sets off a booby trap of some sort.

Steve is badly injured- his lower left leg taking the vast majority of the damage- for the first time in his career, Steve panics. But then he has a kid with him, big brown eyes and a mop of curly hair, skin too pale and drawn, dirty fingers and bare feet. And this kid is trying to comfort Steve, obviously understanding that this is a rescue. By the time the rest of his team get to him, Steve is finding comfort in the scent of un-presented pup - the little guy curled up right against Steve.

The pup is, evidently, also finding comfort in Steve, both of them locked together, faces buried in each others scent glands.

They wont let go of each other, even in the ambulance, and it's decided pretty quickly that if they're keeping each other calm, to let them stay that way. On arrival to the hospital, they're both sedated for their own good - Steve wakes up to find he's missing his left leg from the knee down, and Hopper asleep slouched in the chair next to him.

The first thing he does is ask about the pup - Hopper tells him what he can, the kid is called Eddie, was small because he was starved and actually was thirteen years old - and he's safe and well, already reunited with his uncle.

Steve can relax. But not really. Because once his leg heals, he's in physio, and then learning to regain his mobility with a prosthetic, also dealing with the deafness the explosion left him with in his left ear, and the scarring that stretches all the way up to his left hip.

Hopper is determined not to loose Steve off his team - he basically invents a roll for him, if he wants it - Steve is too good to be wasted, so he goes back to work for Hopper in an investigative roll. He'll never work in the field again, but he becomes the brains behind a lot of successful operations.

But still, he's listless, missing the hands on aspects on his roll. He treads water for nearly two years, before he happens to have a conversation in the office break room, with one Robin Buckley.

Steve's known Robin for years, she's an Omega behaviorist, and works a lot with traumatized Omega, rehabilitating, therapy, that kind of thing. She's always been there, on the periphery of Steve's team, taking the Omega off their hands. After Steve's rescues, it's with Robin that the real work often begins. From the conversations they've had previously - Steve handing over information about conditions he'd found Omega in, likely what they've been put through, and anything else that will help Robin do her job, he's always found her sympathetic but no nonsense. He's always respected Robin.

And maybe that's why their conversation easily slips into Steve confessing his listlessness - and what prompts Robin to suggest he retrain. She's heard herself how bombproof Steve's Alpha is in the field - would he be interested in a day or two a week with her team? Positive Alpha exposure is often a vital step in the reintegration process.

Steve thinks about it. He talks about it with Hopper. Between them both, Steve figures he has nothing to loose, and Hopper agrees to release Steve a day a week to Buckley's department on a trial. Steve takes on extra training - bolstering up his Omega Studies qualifications from College. Steve loves it. it's fulfilling. It gives him the hands on aspect of his job he'd been missing.

And then Hopper lands a file on his desk - it's come to them via unorthodox means, through a local doctor, then a hospital specialist, then flagged by Buckley's team as it's an old rescue case. A closed case. And Steve opens the file to find a picture of himself, grainy, black and white, but unmistakably Steve. He's sitting on a gurney, someone desperately doing something to the mess of his leg, but in his lap, the curly haired pup he hadn't let go of that day.

The pup who, apparently had presented an Omega. Steve reads, doing the math, reading the hospital records from that day. The kid had presented basically the second he'd woken up. He'd presented, most likely, while Steve was in surgery still.

That stirs something in Steve. Something a little unfamiliar; the feeling that he hadn't been there and he should have been.

There's another picture, Edward Munson, the kids put on weight, he's grown some. Still has big brown eyes looking out of a very pretty face; and that stirs something in Steve too.

Munson basically hasn't been okay since the rescue. At first they put it down to the usual stuff, the kid had survived being abducted, drugged, sexually assaulted, physical harm, that kind of trauma can take years to work though, decades, a lifetime. But everyone is maintaining there's something a little off with this kid, something else wrong, something hindering his recovery that really shouldn't be; it's like he's mate sick.

But he doesn't have a mate.

The one time they tried to expose this kid to an Alpha, it ended so badly he became aggressive. And then someone dug deep enough to find this photo, to read this file.

Steve's standing up before Hopper gets to the end of the question, yes, he wants to see the Omega, yes, he's going to work with the Omega.

There's a frustratingly long song and dance around it - Buckley wants to follow protocol to the letter, so their first meeting is in one of the Omega work rooms, just Eddie and Steve, very calm, very controlled, with Robin and Hopper observing from the other side of a one way glass mirror.

Eddie backs away at first, is dubious of Steve, but Steve has a worn shirt with him and leaves it on a chair within reach, and once Eddie, finally scents it, he bursts into tears, "is it really you?" he sobs, and Steve confirms that it is, and Eddie is climbing into Steve's lap, still sobbing, "I thought I'd never see you again."

And they stay like that, until Robin finally breaks them up, but Eddie will not let go of Steve, not completely, and Steve doesn't want to let go of Eddie either, but he has to.

He has to make his case. He has to explain that that sixteen year old Omega, a decade Steve's junior, is without doubt Steve's mate. There's a lot of back and forth, they need the uncles blessing, which after a thirty second conversation with Eddie, Wayne doesn't hesitate.

Steve takes Eddie home, with instructions from Hopper to take all the time he needs.

This is where the real work starts, Eddie is traumatized, has been mate sick since the day he presented, and needs a hell of a lot of work. Their bond is solid, but formed in trauma, so the attachment issues become almost immediately apparent.

They put in the work - Eddie has a therapist who is not Steve, and Steve still goes to his own therapy sessions like a good boy. They deal with a lot of things, Eddie's night terrors, his awful relationship with food, his inability to settle, the panic attacks. Eddie's first heat, where nothing happens because Eddie is still terrified of sex. They work through Eddie's confused feelings; Steve falls utterly and completely in love.

Eddie slowly picks up his reading - the education he's missed - starts gently with a distance learning course. Steve goes back to work, a gentle three half days a week to start with.

They get through it all, and make a life together.

#eddie munson #steve harrington #stranger things #steddie #ao3 writer #ficlet #alpha steve harrington #omega eddie munson #omegaverse #plot bunny #writer #my writing #robin buckley #jim hopper #mentions of child abuse #mentions of trauma

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vilentia · 10 months

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Edge of Sanity

Shane Walsh x reader

Summary: As the world crumbled, Shane Walsh, once strong, now teetered on the edge.

Author's Note: He never had an affair with Lori in this little story.

****

The sun dipped low over Hershel's farm, casting long shadows across the serene landscape. Shane couldn't help but feel a growing unease as he watched the horizon. He had been feeling it for weeks now, the pressure of their world closing in on him, driving him to the brink.

You, his wife, noticed the change in him more than anyone else. The once-steadfast, tough-as-nails Shane was slipping away before your eyes. He had become more erratic, more paranoid, and it was tearing him apart.

One evening, as you sat together on the porch, Shane's eyes darted to the darkening woods. He whispered, almost to himself, "They're out there, y'know," his fingers clutching the grip of his gun.

"Shane, we're safe here," you reassured him, reaching out to touch his trembling hand. "Hershel's farm is secure. We're together, and that's what matters."

But Shane couldn't shake the fear that gnawed at him day and night. He patrolled the perimeter of the farm obsessively, his once-calm demeanor now replaced with a hair-trigger temper. He snapped at the others in the group, often escalating minor disputes into shouting matches. His comrades were growing wary of him, but you remained steadfast.

One evening, tensions reached a boiling point. Rick, the group's de facto leader, confronted Shane about his increasingly erratic behavior. Their argument was explosive, echoing through the quiet farmstead. Shane accused Rick of weakness, of putting everyone at risk by clinging to a sense of morality that had no place in this new world. The confrontation turned physical, fists flying as their friendship shattered.

You couldn't stand to watch the two men you loved tearing each other apart. You stepped between them, pleading for them to stop. It was then that Shane's madness was laid bare for all to see. His eyes, once filled with determination, were now clouded by a dangerous intensity. He was losing himself, and it was tearing your world apart.

One night, you took his hand and led him away from the group, away from prying eyes. Under the moonlight, you looked into his troubled eyes and said, "Shane, you're scaring me. This isn't you. We've been through so much, and I can't bear to see you like this."

Tears welled in his eyes as he finally let his guard down. "I'm scared," he confessed, his voice cracking. "Scared of losing you in this mess, in this world. I can't lose you, baby. You're the only thing that's keeping me sane."

You held him close, feeling the weight of his fears and insecurities. "I'm right here, Shane. I'm not going anywhere. We'll face this world together, just like we always have."

With those words, a flicker of hope returned to Shane's eyes. He leaned in and kissed you, a desperate, passionate kiss that spoke of all the love and longing he had been keeping bottled up. In that moment, you both found solace in each other's arms, holding onto the fragile thread of humanity that bound you together.

As the stars shimmered above, Shane whispered, "I love you. Don't ever forget that."

With your arms wrapped around him, you replied, "I love you too, Shane. We'll get through this. Together."

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queers-gambit · 2 years

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The Bathroom Scene, Act One

prompt: ( requested ) during the season three chaos, reader is captured and drugged by Russians with Robin and Steve. while in the bathroom, retching their guts out, confessions are made - revelations confessed - and previously wrecked hearts find solace.

pairing: Robin Buckley x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Stranger Things

word count: 3.8k

warnings: cursing, symptoms of purging after involuntary drugging, pretty ladies being oblivious and Steve being wingman. ❗️ season three spoilers.

"Hey, hey," you leaned over to 'whisper' in Steve's ear, "I, like, need water like you need your Farrah Fawcett spray. C'mon!"

"Wait, wait, I don't have any water or hair spray," he looked at you with shock and confusion. "But there's a sink..."

"In the bathroom," you nodded along, eyes slowly widening.

"But - they're watching us," his eyes widened too.

"W-We gotta be quiet," you held your finger to your lips, nodding at Steve before nudging him with a giggle. He nudged Robin then to follow you both blindly as all three got from your seats and snuck away from your babysitters and towards the thick metals doors.

"Oh, hey, hey, hey, what're we doing?" Robin asked, stumbling over her feet with your hand in hers to keep up stable. And also cause the feeling of her hand was nice...

"She needed water," Steve pointed at you.

"I needed water," you waved your free hand.

"There's water there," Robin pointed towards a fountain, making you and Steve gasp sharply.

"An outside sink," he mumbled, nudging you towards it first.

"We're not outside, dingus," Robin pointed out.

"No, no. Outside the bathroom," you waved her off, slamming your hand to the mechanism and slurping down water like you had wondered the desert 40 days and nights.

You took a few minutes before letting Steve in your place, stumbling to your two-left-feet as Robin helped steady you with a hand to your upper arm. You both leaned back on the light-up poster board for Back to the Future, hearing Steve gulp and pull his head up, "That's amazing."

"Let it get down your neck, man," you chuckled, gesturing to your own. "Feels really good."

You missed the way your movements caught Robin's attention, her eyes staring at your bare throat before forcing her gaze away.

He groaned as he slurped noisily, Robin then staring off into space before speaking up, "So, like, I wasn't totally focused in there or anything, but... I'm pretty sure," she nodded at you, eyes tinged red, "that mom was trying to bang her son."

"Call that the ultimate Oedipus Complex," you reached up to gently boop the end of her nose, her genuine smirk turning to you. Then you gasped, "What kinda message does that send to the children?"

"Wait, waist," Steve looked up from the fountain, "the hot chick was Alex P. Keaton's mom?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure," Robin confirmed.

"But they're the same age," Steve pointed out, hovering over the steady stream.

"No, but he went back in time."

Steve snorted through his nose and paused to swallow the water his his mouth, asking, "Then why is it called Back to the Future?"

"Is he his own dad?" You mumbled with earnest confusion pulling your brows together as if a string was thread between them.

"He has to go back to the future because he's in the past," Robin explained to Steve.

"So, he is his own dad?"

"So, the future is actually the present, which is his time," Robin concluded, looking at you proudly.

You nodded with a growing smile of impression, "You figured all that from the 5 minutes we watched?"

"Kinda."

"So... Is he his own dad?" You muttered, leaning in closer to ask her.

Steve, however, just seemingly caught up to the conversation, asking, "Wh...What?"

But Robin only groaned, "No, no, it's my turn." She reached for Steve and pulled him out of the way, "You've had enough."

When Steve Harrington rightened, he gazed up towards the ceiling of the mall and you cocked your head in curiosity. Pushing off the movie poster covered in glass, you let your feet stumble towards him, "Whatcha lookin' at, Steven?"

"Up," he gasped, pointing his finger upward; not noticing the use of his full name (which was a major no-no). You cocked a single brow and turned your head, humming in thought as your eyes saw what he saw - or maybe a variation of it. "Wow... Hey, you seein' this?"

"Uh-huh," you agreed dumbly, mouth slightly agape; feet uneasy in stance as the lights above you glowed and distorted in shape. "Hey, Robin," you half-heartedly called over your shoulder with a lazy wave of your hand.

"You gotta check this out," Steve followed up, both of you breathing out in wonder as your necks were locked to keep your gaze upward. When Robin pulled herself away from the water fountain, she let her feet slap over the carpet to reach you both before semi-grunting when she came to a halt. "Check this..." Steve mumbled, gesturing with his finger, "This... The ceiling, it's beautiful."

"Oh, wow," Robin beamed as her eyes finally zoned in on what you and Steve were seeing. She chuckled breathlessly before starting to turn in her spot, keeping her eyes up, "Oh!" She chuckled again before the lights started to blur dangerously.

Only problem was, staring up at the lights made you lock onto the sight numbly, and for the drugs to force the lights to swirl sickly. You groaned when you felt your stomach lurch with nauseousness while watching the lights, lowering your gaze as the others groaned when they felt the same illness.

Fearing you'd spill your guts over the floor, there was a free-for-all charge towards the bathroom - nobody bothering to clock whatever gender it was assigned to. Knees hit the floor as puke was spewing from everyone's lips only just barely in time to spit into the toilet.

Like the independent woman you were, you held your own hair back as you involuntarily, violently purged whatever was in your blood stream and system. Slowly, you started to feel more and more normal but it was a long, slow process.

Eventually, you ended up laying on your back - uncaring for the dirty floor after enduring the secret Russian lab - and only wanted to bring relief to your newly-wound tight muscles. The cold floor helped.

You felt swelteringly hot and like your skin was crawling with pinpricks of unwelcome heat. Discomfort crowded your stomach, but you were content to remain in place and silent if it meant the room would stop spinning.

Slowly, the sounds of your friends retching slowly ceased and everyone more or less quit groaning. Eventually, the sounds of toilets flushing echoed around the brightly-decorated bathroom, leaving you all to sigh quietly as your stomachs slowly calmed down.

"The ceiling stopped spinning for me," Robin was heard from the first stall. "Is it still spinning for you two?"

"I'm not even opening my eyes to check," you groaned from your place in the third stall, brows crinkled in displeasure.

"Holy shit," Steve spoke from the second stall. "No. You think we puked it all up?"

"Maybe. Ask me something," Robin recommended. Then, she feigned a Russian accent, "Interrogate me."

Yeah, she was fine if she's still cracking sarcastic comments and little jokes, you thought to yourself.

"Okay," Steve chuckled breathlessly. "Interrogate you, sure. Umm... When was the last time you, uh, peed your pants?"

Robin heard your quiet giggle, replying without thought, "Today."

"What?"

"When the Russian doctor took out the bone saw," Robin explained over your smothered giggles.

But you and Steve both broke, laughing in an echo as Steve swore, "Oh, my God."

"It was just a little bit, though!" Robin insisted, much to your amusement.

"Yeah, Stevie, it's definitely still in her system," you giggled from your star-fish position. Robin giggled, too; and Steve just sighed in amusement.

"All right, my turn," Robin called, sitting up from her place on the floor; back to the bathroom wall with her Converse-covered feet planted firmly.

"Okay," Steve muttered. "Hit me."

"Have you..." Robin sighed gently, your head turning on the floor in her direction out of curiosity, "Ever been in love?"

Oh, man - anyone who's had eyes the past two years would know that Steve Harrington was totally, 100%, unmistakably in love with Nancy Wheeler; Hawkins' resident "good girl". Only a select few had the astute pleasure of knowing she was much more than what met the eye. And like you predicted, Steve was answering,

"Yep. Nancy Wheeler. First semester, senior year." The sounds of an imitated gunshot came from his stall, and your head lulled to look up again as you knew how Nance and Steve had crashed and burned.

"Oh, my God," Robin groaned. "She's such a priss."

"Hm," Steve hummed. "Turns out, not really."

"She's much more badass," you mumbled, taking a deep breath.

Robin scoffed quietly before asking, "Are you still in love with Nancy?"

"No."

"Why not?"

It was quiet for a pause and you slowly lifted your head, catching sight of Steve's feet. He gently tisked his tongue before answering, "I think it's because I found someone who's a little bit better for me." He chuckled stiffly, "It's crazy." Your head lowered as you listened to his words, eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling as nerves swallowed you whole. "Ever since Dustin got home, he's been saying, 'You know, you've gotta find your Suzie. You've gotta find your Suzie.'"

"Wait, who's Suzie?" Robin questioned.

"It's some girl from camp, I guess his girlfriend," Steve sighed heavily. "To be honest with you, I'm not 100% sure she's even real."

Your hand rose to slap the stall wall between you and Steve, "That's not the point."

"Right, uh, that's not - that's not really the point," he allotted with another sigh. "That doesn't matter. The point is, this girl, you know, the one that I like, it's somebody that I... Didn't even talk to in school."

Okay, cool, so that's not me - I've know Steven 'Dingus' Harrington since the 3rd grade and he kicked Tommy Hagen in the balls for making fun of my divorced parents, you thought to yourself.

"And I don't even know why," Steve continued. "Maybe 'cause Tommy H. would've made fun of me or... I wouldn't be... Prom king," he sounded a little disgusted with himself and your heart swelled for the boy you considered your best friend. "It's stupid, I mean, Dustin's right, it's all just a bunch of bullshit anyways. Because, when I think about it, I should've been hanging out with this girl the whole time. First of all, she's hilarious. She's so funny. I feel like, this summer, I have laughed harder than I have laughed... In a really long time."

Suddenly, your drug-hazed mind clicked and you felt tears slowly collect in your eyes because you knew who he was talking about, and there was nothing for you to do now but listen as your best friend confessed his feelings for the girl you've loved since... Well, probably sophomore year of high school.

"And she's smart," Steve listed to your agreement. "Way smarter than me. You know, she can crack, like, top secret Russian codes and..." Your hand rose to press against your mouth and force your tears to remain undetected. "You know? She's honestly unlike anyone I've ever even met before."

Slowly, you pulled yourself up to sit; pushing back between the toilet and stall as you hooked your arms around your bent knees. Noting the quiet, you perked up when Steve questioned, "Robin?" There was no response, prompting him to rap his knuckles against the plastic stall wall between himself and the other girl. "Robin, did you just OD in there?"

"No," Robin answered before sighing shakily. "I... Am still alive." It was quiet as you listened, hearing something slide across the floor. A moment later, Robin's voice sounded again, "The floor's disgusting."

"Yeah, well, I already got a bunch of blood and puke on my shirt, so... What do you think?"

And here it comes - she'd confess her feelings, too, and you'd have to listen. The tears fell uselessly as your chin rested on your knees, hugging them tighter to your chest.

"About?"

"This girl."

"She sounds awesome."

She is...

"She is awesome," Steve voiced your thoughts. "And what about the guy?"

"I think he's on drugs, and he's not thinking straight," Robin answered softly.

Speaking of not being straight...

"Really? 'Cause I think he's thinking a lot more clearly than usual," Steve's rebuttal was swift.

"He's not," Robin sounded uncharacteristically serious. "Look... He doesn't even know this girl. And if he did know her, like-like really know her, I don't think he'd even want to be her friend."

"No, that's not true. No way is that true."

"Listen to me, Steve. It's shocked me to my core, but I like you. I really like you," Robin admitted, shattering your heart in your chest and sending fragments down to twinkle through your organs. "But I'm not like your other friends. And I'm not like Nancy Wheeler."

"Robin, that's exactly why I like you," Steve chuckled lowly.

She scoffed quietly, "Do you remember what I said about Click's class? About me being jealous and, like, obsessed?"

"Yeah."

"It wasn't because I had a crush on you. It's because... She wouldn't stop staring at you."

Your head picked up, confusion swirling around your heart and mind. You refused to feel hopeful - because that's how disappointment was born. But you were listening intently.

"Mrs. Click?" Steve asked.

It made Robin softly chuckle before admitting, "Tammy Thompson. I wanted her to look at me. But... She couldn't pull her eyes away from you and your stupid hair. And I didn't understand, because you would get bagel crumbs all over the floor. And you asked dumb questions. And you were a douchebag. An-And you didn't even like her, and... I would go home and just scream into my pillow."

Much like I want to do now, you thought sadly.

"But Tammy Thompson's a girl."

"Steve."

"Yeah?"

Silence encased the bathroom, wrapping you three in an embrace.

"Oh," Steve breathed, finally understanding.

"Oh," Robin repeated.

"Holy shit..."

"Yeah," Robin sighed. "Holy shit. And to make matters worse? I then had to watch you be best friends with the only girl who's ever made me feel authentically me," Robin admitted, making your head raise and heart rate increase. "And instead of admitting to her that I... I have a massive crush on her, I just..." Robin shrugged, tears filling her eyes as she looked at Steve, "I admit it when there's literal walls between us."

Steve nodded before realizing what she was saying, perking up and calling your name. "Hey!" He snapped, calling your name again, "Did you OD? Are you choking on your vomit?"

"No, Steve, just... Processing for a moment," you answered meekly, unsure what to do in that moment.

After a beat, Robin spoke softly, "Steve... Did you OD over there?"

"No, just, uh... Just thinkin'."

With courage, and disgust, you pushed off from your spot and slid over to Steve's stall before again over to Robin's; taking the place beside Steve with Robin's feet between you.

When Steve's head turned to you, you saw the clarity there, but also a hint of hurt; before it erased when he clocked the leftover, dried tear tracks on your cheeks. "I mean, yeah... Tammy Thompson, you know, she's cute and all, but... I mean, she's a total dud."

You choked on a laugh as Robin defended, "She is not."

"Yes she is. She wants to be, like, a singer. She wants to move to, like, Nashville and shit."

"She has dreams."

"She can't even hold a tune," Steve pointed out. "She's practically tone-deaf. Have you heard her?" Robin giggled. "All the time!" He started to sing mockingly as you and Robin both giggled, your eyes too shy to meet hers after her confession.

"Shut up - she does not sound like that!" Robin still tried to defend.

"She sounds exactly -"

You and Steve chimed in union, "That's a great impression of her."

"You sound like a Muppet," Robin accused.

"She sounds like a Muppet!" Steve laughed through his words, "She sounds like a Muppet giving birth!"

Like the best friends you are, you and Steve started to mock Tammy in Kermit the Frog's voice - Robin joining in before you all broke out into laughter. "Exactly like that!" You giggled.

"I know," Robin laughed.

Steve smiled at you two, speaking up, "But for what it's worth?" He waited until you both quieted down a little, "You've excellent taste in women because the girl sitting next to me is the best lady I know." Heat flushed your system at Steve's compliment, his head rolling to look at you, "There's nobody more loyal, or a better friend. She's got real dreams, of being a doctor and shit. Nothing like a Muppet."

You smiled at him before shyly meeting Robin's eyes, nodding slowly, "Can't say I was crushing on Tammy, because while you were staring at her, staring at Steve, I was, um..." Steve nodded in encouragement, nudging you gently with his elbow, "I was staring at you," you admitted with a whisper.

"You were?" she asked breathlessly.

"How could I not?" you smiled lightly.

"Tammy's a total dud, like I said," Steve waved, "but this little lady?" He pointed to you, "Solid 11/10. Can't get better than her - honest to God."

"Cheesehead."

"Hey!" He laughed at you. "I'm trying to help here!"

"Do we really need your help if we both admitted to crushing on each other?"

"Well, maybe, since you're taking your sweet time asking her out!"

"Least I don't sound like a Muppet," you teased, making you three snort out another round of laughter - the door of the bathroom shoving open and two figures entering.

However, none of you noticed because you were just giggling to one another, glancing up when Dustin snapped, "Okay. What the hell?"

"Oh, he sounds maaaaad," You whispered to Steve; Erica and Dustin glaring at you three as you melted into more laughter.

"Hang on, Dusty," Steve sniffled, stumbling to his feet and glancing at you two, "we, uh... We just need to step out for a minute."

"No, we need to - "

"Dude," Steve sighed, directing the kid from the bathroom, "tell me outside. Oi!" He snapped his fingers back at Erica, "You too, Sinclair!"

"Did you just snap at me?" she seethed, following the two boys out; the door shutting and leaving you and Robin to a moment of privacy.

"So," you drawled out, "Tammy Thompson, huh?"

She snorted, "Didn't say it was a rational crush."

"No, no," you smiled, "but it's cute. Here I was, thinking I was the only one checking out the pretty ladies in town."

"You did?"

"C'mon, Robin," you sighed, "in this small town? Being different makes you a pariah and I couldn't risk that..."

"And now?"

You smiled, "And now, I think I'm gonna have to take a huge leap of faith."

"Yeah?"

Your head nodded, slowly reaching a hand for hers. "Yeah... 'Cause if I don't admit now that I've a huge crush on you, I might not ever, and I could miss out on dating a really incredible woman."

Her hand tightened in yours, "Sounds like something you might regret."

"Whole heartedly," you nodded, finding the one serious bone in your body. "Robin, I uh... Look, I get that we're both gay, and in this town, it turns into a 'take what I can get' situation, but you've gotta know, I admire you too much for that. So, if you're serious about liking me, I'd really like to see where this goes, but... If you're not, I think it's okay if we just stayed friends. Okay? No harm, no foul. I've been through this before, all right?" Her brows crinkled. "Y-You don't know?" Her head shook. "Kinda thought everyone knew," your throat cleared. "Freshman year, I had this friend, something like a best friend... Chrissy. She was everything to me, and I made that known, and it totally backfired. She didn't feel the same, and we haven't spoken since. I don't think I could handle it if that happens to us, too, so, just know, there's nothing wrong with rejecting me now before we're in too deep. Your comfort is all I care about right now."

Robin's eyes turned sad, "I don't want that for us."

"What do you want, then?"

She gulped, "I-I thought I wanted Tammy, but... I think that was just a fantasy, because when you and I started to get closer, I-I-I just... My whole mind goes blank, my stomach feels weird, and I don't know if you could tell, but my palms get all sweaty, too - "

"Robin," you smiled, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze, "I've liked you for longer than I can remember, but I won't jeopardize this friendship - that's how much I value you. But if you'd let me, I'd really like to take you out on a proper date when this is all over."

And softly, her lips pulled into a genuine smile, "Yeah, I... I'd really like that."

"Good," you smiled. "So, we just can't get kidnapped by Russians again and, uh... Find all the others to figure out what the fuck is really happening."

"Sounds easy enough."

"Well, now that we've got you, master puzzle solver, I think we might stand a bit more of a chance," you chuckled, standing to your wobbly feet and offering her both hands. "Whatcha say, pretty girl, we figure this out and you'll let me take you out?"

She beamed, "I'd really like that."

"Good," you smirked, feeling a surge of confidence. "'Cause I think if I gotta wait to kiss you any longer, I might go a bit crazy... Or, crazier then I already am."

Robin chuckled, looking nervous now, "We were just throwing up."

"Mhm," you nodded, "which is why, I'll wait until this is over and we can - mmh!" You were cut off by Robin's slender hands cupping both of your cheeks and smashing her lips to yours; forcing you back a step into the stall wall, but to also enthusiastically return her affection. Hands to her waist, you relished in the feeling of her lips on yours; moving in sync without pushing the envelope too far.

You jumped when the door burst open again, Dustin, Steve, and Erica scrambling in for refuge. "Nice," Steve grinned when he saw you two, nodding and giving a thumbs up.

"Okay, you two will have time for all this later - right now, we've gotta go!" Dustin rushed before pausing and looking back at you both. Slowly, a grin stretched across his lips, "I'm happy for you both - but c'mon!"

"Let them live, Dusty, they just confessed their love," Steve sighed dreamily, almost sarcastically.

"Okay, great, congrats or whatever, but there's bigger issues!" Erica rushed, rolling her eyes and stomping up to you and Robin; snatching your wrists, and tugging you after her. "We have to find a way to get out of here without getting caught."

You checked your watch, "Okay, well, movie should be over soon..."

"So?" Dustin sighed.

"So, why don't we just sneak out with the rest of the movie-goers?" You perked a brow, looking to Robin, who nodded. Then, to Steve, who shrugged.

"Can't hurt to try," Erica told Dustin, who nodded and cracked the bathroom door open to peer out. Your hand found Robin's and slowly laced your fingers together, ignoring Steve's all too proud and smug look.

"I did that," he 'whispered' to Erica, who only rolled her eyes as the older boy gave you and Robin another proud thumbs up.

#robin buckley #robin buckley x you #robin buckley stranger things #robin buckley oneshot #robin buckley x reader #robin buckley x female reader #robin buckley blurb #robin buckley x y/n #stranger things #stranger things x reader #stranger things imagine

179 notes · View notes

bobsfic · 2 years

Text

My works on AO3 are quickly multiplying with more to come, so I thought I would keep a list of everything here. Feel free to check them out and comments are always appreciated!

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keep my hand in yours (3/3)

Summary: 6 times JJ struggled with affection and 1 time he didn't.

Word Count: 28,222

She slips her hand into his before leaning her head back against the hard seat as well. She positions their joined hands on her thigh, lacing their fingers together, and he immediately stills.

His pulse jumps as his eyes zero in on their linked hands. It’s far from the first time they’ve held hands, and considering they just kissed for the first time like a day ago, it’s not even the most romantic thing they’ve done recently.

But the way she simply sat down next to him and held his hand, pulling it into her lap like it’s something they do every day, sends his mind spinning.

And it’s not that he doesn’t want to hold her hand, because he absolutely does. He craves her attention more than he probably should, and he never wants to lose the warm feeling in his chest, but he just… doesn’t know if he deserves it.

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fractured moonlight on the sea (1/1)

Summary: What if Kiara was the one who got hit with the machete?

Word Count: 13,995

It feels like things are happening in slow motion – her hair fluttering in the breeze, the blinding glint of sunlight catching on steel as the machete approaches Kiara, a resounding thwack he knows he’ll hear echo in his nightmares. Her lips part in shock as she stumbles backwards from the force of the blow, her boots skittering across the rough floor of the ship while he fights to scramble to his feet, his own head cloudy…

Everything speeds up after that. It’s blurry – flashes of light, snatches of sounds that he can’t quite pin down. Honeyed curls floating through the air. The sound of a fist connecting with flesh, a strangled “Kie” in a voice he barely recognizes as his own.

KieKieKieKieKie

He manages to struggle to his feet, powered by pure rage. He takes down the man with one solid punch to the face that carries all his fury and fear, before rushing to the edge of the ship and finding his worst nightmare below.

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oceans between us (1/1)

jiara week day 7 - missing moment

Summary: A look at the anniversary party and the aftermath from Kiara's point of view.

Word Count: 5,327

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wherever you stray, i follow (1/1)

jiara week day 7 - missing moment

Summary: JJ and Kiara are both dealing with the repercussions of what happened on the Coastal Venture. A missing moment from the early days of Poguelandia.

Word Count: 6,154

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hold me close, love me most (1/1)

jiara week day 6 - 5+1

Summary: Five times Kiara and JJ danced together, and one time they didn't.

Word Count: 23,910

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waking up slow (1/?)

jiara week day 5 - based on a book/movie/tv show

Summary: Short on options, Kiara moves in with three single guys. [aka the New Girl AU]

Word Count: 11, 294

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a single thread of gold (1/?)

jiara week day 4 - au

Summary: JJ and Kiara meet in the emergency room when they're fourteen, and their lives are forever changed.

Word Count: 24,275 (1/?)

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everything comes back to you (1/1)

jiara week day 3 - protective

Summary: Luke comes back and threatens everything that JJ's worked for.

Word Count: 8,919

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we all need someone to stay (1/1)

jiara week day 2 - only one bed

Summary: On a stolen yacht, in the middle of the ocean, JJ comes looking for Kiara. A missing moment from 3x03.

Word Count: 5,993

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home is where you are (1/1)

jiara week day 1 - 18 months later

Summary: After an unexpected run in, Kiara finally attempts to work through what happened with her parents.

Word Count: 9,524

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the light guiding you home (1/1)

Summary: A week after returning home from South America, Kiara's struggling, and JJ knows exactly how to help.

Word Count: 10,622

“Where would we even go?” she asks eventually, and she watches the concern in his eyes fade into the background.

JJ just quirks an eyebrow and pokes her gently in the side. “It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises, JJ,” she groans, the familiar banter helping to banish her fear too. “Just tell me.”

“I can’t tell you. It would ruin the surprise.”

“But I–”

“Hate surprises,” he finishes for her. “Yeah, yeah. You’ll like this one, I promise.”

He smiles at her fondly, and even though she doesn’t want to go anywhere, she is a tiny bit curious about what he’s planned. But before the thought is even fully formed, she’s remembering cold hands tightly gripping her arms, her mom apologizing as Kiara begged and pleaded with her to stop, to let her go, wriggling to escape their ironclad grasp.

No, it’s safer to stay here, she thinks.

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tangled in the ties that bind (1/1)

Summary: A few missing moments from 3x05 and 3x06 as Kiara attempts to deal with the fallout of everything that happened.

Word Count: 9,141

As the moment stretched on, she felt something else bubble up inside of her the longer they silently stood there. She fought to breathe properly, to calm her racing heart, to push back the tears threatening to fall. Her relief quieted into something deeper, more solid and heavy, as he shifted his weight back and forth, having the good sense to look a bit embarrassed the longer she glared at him.

They’d already gone through this once, in the lifeboat, his face pale and unresponsive as she screamed at him to wake up, panic clogging her throat. She couldn’t keep doing it.

“Don’t… don’t you ever do that again,” she said lowly, in a voice she barely recognized, amazed that it only wobbled slightly.

She wanted to say more, to make sure he knew how afraid she was, the stabbing pain in her chest that wouldn’t go away even though he was right there in front of her. How much she needed him, relied on him, always looked to him, but she couldn’t seem to find the words.

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you're all i need (1/1)

Summary: JJ and Kiara's first night back in the OBX after returning from South America.

Word Count: 7,777

So while he doesn't doubt that they love each other, he does worry, because being back home brings up a whole other host of issues. And the last time they came back, those differences in their lives pushed them apart. The awareness of how different they were, their families, their lives, everything.

He doesn’t want to let that happen again, but a part of him deep down knows that he can't control it. There’s so many deep seated issues and ideas and thoughts buried in his psyche that a simple I love you – no matter how very not simple it felt at the time – isn’t going to magically solve all those other things.

But when he glances over at Kie as they step off the plane together, feels her fingers laced tightly with his, her comforting smile as though she knows exactly where his mind has gone, well.

Like she said.

Whatever happens, they’re gonna handle it together.

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what we're fighting for (3/3)

Summary: 3 times JJ realized that he might possibly get the one thing he wants most.

Word Count: 9,766

Luke’s always found a way to ruin every good thing JJ’s ever had.

And Kie’s the best thing.

But the little comments were consistent. And he doesn’t wanna think that anything Luke told him has stuck with him, but he knows that's not possible. He’s absorbed years of little comments and jabs, pieces of questionable wisdom that just became part of his everyday life. Things the Pogues would roll their eyes or laugh at because they didn’t really understand where they came from.

But this – Luke’s certainty that Kiara would eventually see JJ for the trash he was and leave? That idea burrowed its way into his very being, no matter how defiantly he proclaimed that it would never happen.

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fall into me (1/1)

Summary: Kiara's world is crumbling but JJ's there by her side.

Word Count: 9,595

His fingers brush against her wrist, bringing her out of her thoughts. “Kie, you’re a Pogue,” he says firmly, his thumb tapping on her newest bracelet. “It doesn’t matter what your parents think. What shit they tell you. There’s nothing that’s ever gonna change that. I promise.”

She swallows thickly. It feels like more, like there’s an underlying meaning to his words. She grabs onto them, holds them tightly against her heart, reminded of who she is – and who she is to JJ.

Who he is to her, too.

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darkest before dawn (1/1)

Summary: a vaguely season 3 adjacent fic in which JJ goes missing and Kiara loses her shit.

Word Count: 11,476

There should be four of them returning.

And there’s only three.

Three exhausted, bedraggled Pogues stand in front of her, all watching her cautiously, with varying degrees of worry. She feels like her heart might explode right out of her chest as it settles over her just who’s missing. The one face that she needs to see, the arms she wants wrapped around her, the person whose presence she craves like some kind of drug.

Her eyes run across them one more time before darting to the surrounding area – because maybe he just fell behind? But there’s no messy blond head in the distance and no playful smirk appears, teasing her for worrying so much. Instead everyone seems frozen as the severity of the situation settles over them, as though they’re waiting for the final shoe to drop.

And so, with her heart her throat, she opens her mouth, asking the question that they’re all waiting for, her voice startlingly strong.

“Where’s JJ?”

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little things we tell ourselves (1/1)

Summary: a spec fic based on the season 3 still that sent us all into a jiara induced haze.

Word Count: 6,149

“Hi.”

The wrench in his hand goes skittering sideways at the sound of her quiet voice behind him, thudding into the dirt. When he turns and finds her standing at the edge of the driveway, his heart can’t help that familiar fluttering as he watches her draw closer – long tanned legs, a John B-esque shirt buttoned over some stupidly small thing that barely classifies as a top. Relief sings through his veins as he stares at her, all in one glorious piece.

He's paralyzed, remembering the way she’d run to him on the dock and thrown herself into his arms. The way he’d refused to let her out of his sight until he was forced to, their hands laced tightly together until her parents had led her away. He tries and fails to force his racing heart to calm down.

“Sup,” he manages, his greedy eyes taking her in.

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leave the lights up 'til january (2/?)

Summary: A jiara holiday fic collab with @jojameswinter!

It comes to him all at once, crystal clear through that jumbled mess in his mind. Something he can do for her, what he’d wanted to for a while, not knowing how. But then she’d given him a piece of her, handed him that present all messy and imperfect and he thought, he could do it too–

Be brave.

Because she thought of him on Christmas – thought of him even at all. And he needs to show her he’s thought about her too.

“You up for another ride?”

Or, JJ and Kiara create their own holiday traditions.

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i'll look after you (6/6)

Summary: When JJ's world shifts drastically, Kiara's by his side like always. This time though, it's a little bit different.

Jiara Bingo prompt - JJ's house

Word Count: 8,575

She steps closer, her chin tipping up. “JJ,” she says. “I’m staying here, y’know. Like for good.”

It still amazes him sometimes how this girl is able to read him like a fucking book. The way she seems to sense what he’s trying to say when he can’t quite find the words.

He blinks, not daring to hope. “What about seeing the world, and–”

“I can see the world and still be here,” she replies, her eyes darting away for a moment. “I just… I was away at school for so long and nothing felt right until I came back here.”

Here .

A tiny part of his stupid heart desperately wishes that she means here with him, but he knows she doesn’t. It’s the Banks, it’s her family being here, her friends, the salty ocean air, everything familiar…

“Yeah, Kildare is really somethin’,” he replies lowly, looking anywhere but at her, his shoulders curving inwards. “Paradise on earth, right?”

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can this be a real thing, can it? (1/1)

Summary: A vaguely Halloween themed one-shot featuring JJ and Kiara getting their shit together, a keg stand, and lots of sexual tension.

Jiara Bingo prompt - "If you want me to come, I'll come."

Word Count: 7,311

“Well. That’s not how I saw that going,” JJ says, his tone light but a faint thread of annoyance lingering under the words.

She laughs. “Yeah. Me either. I thought…” She lets the words trail off, because she’d thought that JJ was about to kiss her there in the backyard at a stupid Halloween party. Part of her is disappointed, but a tiny part of her is secretly glad, because she doesn’t know if she wanted their first kiss to happen in such a public place, for everyone to see.

She wonders when she started thinking of their first kiss as something inevitable.

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find my way back (1/1)

Summary: JJ and Kiara reunite after she's separated from the group. A oneshot based on the S3 sneak peek.

Word Count: 3,224

She crashes into him with a force he’ll feel for the rest of his life, her body colliding with his. She’s warm and solid and whole and he’s never fucking letting her go, not ever. His arms close around her tightly, one around her lower back and the other reaching to cup to her shoulder. She throws her arms around his shoulders and buries her face in his neck. He can feel her shaking under his hands, and she’s talking, whispering something that he can’t quite make out, her breath hot against his skin. It doesn’t even fucking matter because all his brain can seem to comprehend is KiaraKiaraKiara.

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can't get you off my mind (1/1)

Summary: Kiara and JJ spend their nights after they return from the island on the phone, talking about everything and nothing, until Kiara lets something slip that changes everything.

Jiara bingo prompt - Early Morning

Word Count: 11, 491

Fuck it, she thinks, picking up the phone and pushing the call button before she can talk herself out of it again. It’s JJ. He won't mind. She just needs to hear his voice and then maybe she’ll be able to get some fucking sleep, stop obsessing over the trauma in her life, and move on from it instead.

He answers on the second ring, his voice hoarse but sounding surprisingly alert for the middle of the night. “Kie?”

“Hey,” she whispers, as the sound of his voice sends a pleasurable rush through her body. “Did I wake you?”

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no turning back (1/1)

Summary: What if Kiara and Pope came back early during 2x04 instead of staying out all night, and ran into some unwelcome guests?

Featuring protective JJ, badass Kiara, and the hammock.

Word Count: 6,958

JJ’s heart feels like it fucking stops when he sees Kiara and Pope walk into the backyard together.

No. They can’t be here.

If he was annoyed when they’d left together, obviously heading off to mack or whatever, he’d pushed those feelings deep deep down in his chest. Because he obviously didn’t have a chance with Kie, but Pope - Pope was someone he could see being with her. And then when Rafe had shown up and they’d scrambled up into the trees in the backyard, he’d been fucking grateful that they were wherever the hell they were and not here with them, in yet another dangerous situation.

But here they are and the panic already building in his chest reaches an immediate fever pitch.

No. This cannot be fucking happening. Why are they here? How are they here?

No no no.

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maybe it's you (1/1)

Summary: After graduating from college and moving to Charleston for a new job, Kiara realizes she's lonely and decides to adopt a rescue dog. Along the way she meets JJ, who immediately welcomes her into his world.

AU.

Word Count: 10,951

He’s got messy blonde hair that curls out from under a faded red ball cap. Bright blue eyes that currently eye her with interest, as though she’s done something particularly endearing. He’s dressed in a navy t-shirt with the rescue logo printed on the chest and it fits him especially well. She’s always been a sucker for a well fitted t-shirt, and the way the sleeves sit snugly on his well defined biceps, well…

She’s a fan.

“So, can I help you?” he eventually asks, forcing her to stop checking him out like a sex depraved fiend and actually remember why she’s here in the first place.

“Oh, uh yes! I’m looking to adopt a dog.”

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the future is bright (1/1)

Summary: For months, Kiara has been dragging JJ to dinners to charm her potential new boss as her fake boyfriend. This one turns out a bit differently than the rest.

Future fic.

Word Count: 6,681

“Hey,” he says, his face so close to hers that she can make out every individual eyelash around his unfairly blue eyes. His voice is soft, almost breathy, and it does weird things to her insides.

“Hi,” she breathes back and she wants to wince when her words come out in a ridiculously high pitched whisper, but JJ just smiles down at her. His hands are warm against her hips, fingers holding on tight to the smooth fabric of the dress she chose for this holiday party. She lets her fingers play with the hair at the nape of his neck, just this one time, the strands silky against her skin.

She gets kind of lost in his gaze, in the way he looks at her like she’s something precious to him. Which is ridiculous, she knows. This doesn’t mean anything to him. She’s just his friend. It’s all pretty words and fake gestures.

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stuck in a moment (1/1)

Summary: What happened after Pope and Kie argued on the HMS Pogue in 1x08.

Word Count: 2,751

“He wasn’t wrong though,” Kiara spits out, her voice hoarse. “That’s the worst part. I did leave. I did abandon you. I did all of that.”

JJ doesn’t say anything right away. He and Kie had aired their shit ages ago. He’s not one to keep his feelings hidden and she’s not one to let things slide. They’re both fucking stubborn and so within days of Kiara coming back they’d had a shouting match in the driveway of the Chateau followed by a day of silence, and then they’d basically hugged it out and things were cool now. Maybe even better than they were before, because JJ feels like Kiara coming back has made things in his life much brighter. Like there was a Kiara shaped hole the whole time she was gone that’s now filled.

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where do we go from here? (1/1)

Summary: JJ and Kiara finally have a talk about their conversation on the freighter and their future.

Post S2.

Word Count: 3,998

It takes a while before they talk about it again.

A while before she can think about their time on the freighter and on the island without it sending her into a panic attack. The memory of JJ’s dead weight pulling her under the water. The inky blackness and nothingness. The way she’d just accepted that she wasn’t going to let him go because she couldn’t quite picture her life without his easy grins and stupid jokes and incessant chatter. The way he’d worked his way into her heart and set up permanent residence there.

#my fic #jiara fic #my writing #outer banks #jiara #kiara carrera #jj maybank #obx #writing #ao3 writer #read on ao3 #outer banks fic #outer banks fanfic #jiara fanfic #jiara fanfiction

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dawngen · 1 year

Text

"What do you smell?"

"Um..."

Eagleburn does not need his vision to know what face Leopardpaw is surely making. The young tom-cat has always been the lazy sort, shameless in his efforts to sneak around his duties as an apprentice, and trying to ride on the backs of other apprentices. Perhaps that was why Oatstar had selected Eagleburn as his mentor. He knew well that Eagleburn was a firm teacher, if not a bit too stern at times.

"Don't just use your nose," Eagleburn reminds him, expertly flicking his tail against Leopardpaw's side. He senses how concentrated Leopardpaw is by how he leaps into the air in surprise at his touch, hearing the air shift around the apprentice as he shook out his pelt and tried to regain his composure.

"I think I smell... Monsters?"

Confusion interwove through Leopardpaw's voice, threading together an implied question that Eagleburn understood.

"Good," he praises, and Leopardpaw preens under the rare compliment. Simplistic as it is, Eagleburn did not hand out such rewarding dialogue easily, as cited by former apprentices Ferntail and Squirrelbite. Squirrelbite, especially, loved complaining from the elders' den that early retirement due to her leg wound saved her from suffering him too long.

"What direction is it coming from?"

Leopardpaw focuses again, and this time, Eagleburn doesn't pressure him. They are only one moon into training, and he wants him to flourish without too much pressure this early on. Intentionally had he decided to have them set off alone after noticing Leopardpaw's reliance on other apprentices' to avoid investing too heavily in his patrol training.

"... I think... towards the bottom of the mountain?"

He can hear Leopardpaw pause.

It isn't uncommon for cats to forget his blindness and try to point with their tails, and he senses that Leopardpaw had been about to do the same. Eagleburn does not comment on it, simply nodding.

"Take us there."

Leopardpaw's silence is full of unspoken confusion, that much Eagleburn could sense, but the apprentice knew better than to speak out against his mentor, and trekked onwards. Eagleburn took up the rear, ears constantly swiveling and nose held up in the air as he slinked by thick tree trunks and delicately stepped over frosty foliage. Leaf-bare was coming soon, and soon, their training would have to come to a temporary pause to focus on hunting.

Shaking these thoughts out of his mind like clinging cobwebs, Eagleburn senses they're close. His ears press forward, and he smells the slow-developing fear rolling off of Leopardpaw's pelt.

"Is that...?"

"Keep going."

Eagleburn's voice is firm, and Leopardpaw, hesitating, presses onward in silent obedience. Eagleburn imagines he is slinking low to the ground, tail down and ears pinned, and he understands why. The further they trekked down the mountain, the more the sounds below this side of Mist-Bound Mountain rose upward. Distantly, with his keener hearing, he could hear it.

The rumbling of Monsters.

In silence did they continue walking, Leopardpaw not daring to speak, until they were there. Over the tall, waving wild grass roared the Monsters Eagleburn had Leopardpaw scent, and with a swift motion of his tail against Leopardpaw's chest, he brought them both to a stop.

"That's--!"

Leopardpaw's voice is full of amazement, stunned.

"Is--is that a Thunderpath?"

The air is full of the stench and sound of Monsters roaring by. Eagleburn remembers his own journey down here, led by his own mentor, Dusktree. With seeing eyes then, he had watched in horror and amazement as great swathes of Monsters went streaking by like comets. Blink once, and they were gone, replaced with a fresh wave taking up the rear.

"It is similar, yes," Eagleburn explains, voice rising to be heard over the snarling din of Monsters, "This is the Roaring Stone. You must take great caution if you ever come here."

With practiced pawsteps, Eagleburn strides forward, with a subtle gasp from Leopardpaw.

"Eagleburn--!"

"Don't question me, Leopardpaw."

His voice is sharp like his claws, and Leopardpaw obeys with a barely-heard whimper of understanding.

Confidently, Eagleburn steps close to the Roaring Stone, but still too far for the Monsters to snap him up.

"This," he begins, sweeping his tail over the brown, dying grass, "is where our border ends on this side of the mountain. You must never try to cross the Roaring Stone."

He turns, returning to Leopardpaw.

"At night, the Monsters lessen in numbers, but they run too quickly here to cross."

Eagleburn can foggily remember as a young kit hearing about Darkstar, their previous leader, declaring this rule. After her personal assessment of the never before seen Roaring Stone, she decided it too dangerous for her warriors to try and cross. Wide and expansive as it is, he understood. Just to get to the safety of the patch of grass in its heart is a gamble on one's life, but to do it twice when running across the other side?

No Thunderpath is comparable to the Roaring Stone.

"Where are they going...?"

Leopardpaw's voice swells with forced confidence, obviously trying to find the bravado he displays around his den-mates that he lacks around Eagleburn.

"We don't know." Eagleburn shakes his head. "We just know they use this path to migrate. Maybe they are on their own patrols, or hunting for the Twolegs in their bellies."

Eagleburn turns his head back, as if looking at the Monsters flying past.

"You must always be careful when patrolling this part of our border."

"Yes, Eagleburn."

Nodding his approval, Eagleburn flicks his tail, indicating for Leopardpaw to follow him as he took the lead back up the mountain.

"Let's go and find some prey for the elders. If you don't find at least two things, I'll have you on tick duty."

Eagleburn's voice gains a rare, teasing lilt, and Leopardpaw revels in it.

"I'll do you even better," Leopard declares in a proud challenge, "I'll find four!"

#clangen #warriors #eagleburn #leopardpaw #just wanted to throw in some good ole worldbuilding yaaay

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illegally-blind-and-deaf · 6 months

Text

Anastasia characters' outfits but they're historically accurate and I can't draw so you have to go with verbal descriptions

ANYA: Her first outfit is plain, but unusual. Her travels around the USSR means that she's met lots of people; a Ukrainia peasant family who gave her an embroidered blouse. A Polish woman who gave her a traditional floral shawl and taught her how to braid her hair. The Lithuanian girl in a family full of boys that gave her a striped wool skirt in deep greens and reds and dragged her into dances in the barn. The old Russian who taught her how to make Russian felt boots and gave her his son's old cap. Her outfit, as chaotic and jumbled as it is, is traditional and special to her.

In Paris, it's flashy, drop waisted dresses and hair pinned up into slick waves and bobs. She loves the bright greens and blues and pinks and purples and enjoys the shorter skirts and sleeves. Her favourite will always be the blue velvet dress with the small train from her shoulder and gentle flair from her thighs. She feels pretty again.

Her ballgown from her grandmother is a light cream- like the ones from when she was little. The neckline wraps around her shoulders, leaving her collarbone and shoulders bare, and the sleeves are open and flared like petals. The bodice dips to a point at her stomach before dropping into an a-line skirt with a long train. She wears a matching kokoshnik on her head.

DMITRI: Worn boots, barely held together by frayed threads and old glue. Shirt is too big and patched, and the bottom is torn and stained. His jacket is too small and hangs above his wrists, and he can't pin it closed because the buttons are all gone. His pants were once Vlad's; he managed to take in the waist and used the extra fabric to patch up the knees. His hair is uneven and askance; it hasn't ever been cut by a proper barber. He uses a small knife if it grows too long, but when they're wandering around Europe he lets Anya tie it back because he's too tired.

Paris is heaven: three-pieced suits and shiny shoes, colourful ties and bowties, a fresh haircut and a bottle of hair cream to keep the stray locks in place. He has more clothes than he's ever had in his life and the all fit him perfectly, though he hates how small his waist is. His clothes are warm; they're clean and fresh with no holes or patches.

The tuxedo is both liberating and restricting. His arms can't reach above his head properly, and he feels a bit as though he's in a corset at times, yet he feels distinguished. He feels like a person who is noticed for once.

#rambles #anastasia #anastasia broadway #anastasia movie #anya #dmitri

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ihasafandom · 2 years

Text

One Line, any Fic

@bakagaka tagged me

Rules: pick any 10 of your WIP fics (or finished; go nuts), scroll somewhere to the mid point, pick a line, and share it! Then tag 10 people.

Same with Bakagaka, I'm totally up for any questions/thoughts/discussions about any of these or anything else I've written.

Couldn't decide on just 10 and dunno if I have 10 friends on here let alone ones that are currently writing so I'll split the difference.

Tagging @that-which-they-defend @arbitrarity @fabledbrush @pulchrasilva @cupidsbower @glassesblu @inklesspen @bluemoonhoundsart @argentdandelion

Mostly Movie!Venom, a bit of Homestuck and some original worldbuilding, in order of how recently I've worked on them.

Horizontal Gene Transfer (Mitochondria is the Powerhouse of the Cell): <<[WITH] (host-other-self[EDDIE]) YES. ALSO (pasthost-dog[Gemini]), (pasthost-human-ally-friend[ANNE]), (pasthost-human[Maria]), MORE.>>

Roll for Investigation: "Eh, he’s some kinda brainweird, some kinda mutant or enhanced or whatever, and probably some kinda queer. What kind? I dunno, nunna my business."

We Like Being Like This: "WHAT DOES ANNE’S WARPAINT HAVE TO DO WITH FOOD?"

Aro/Ace 5+1 Sex: “Ah. I don’t know, Vee. I’m not sure I’m really up to much in the way of touch right now.”

Untitled: It traced their connection, flowing up and through the writhing puddle of symbiotic mass overlaying and abutting their mammalian body on a plane just above, every host cell a doorway to the bridge between the planes which Eddie inhabited and the pocket where the majority of their klyntar body lay.

Cancer: And little by little she did, a few tears at first but soon sobbing desperately into his shoulder and clutching at the clump of silky flesh that was sprouting from his back to hold her hand. They held her up as she crashed, cradled her as she crumbled, and kept up a steady stream of comforting babble while she wrung herself out.

Quadrants: Concupiscent Pity - Red Romance - Is a complacent quadrant. You have no desire to fix or change your potential partner; if they improve too much they no longer need your pity and if they get much worse they're no longer worth throwing your genes with.

Spawn a Baby: Eddie raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the evidence of live prey all over their apartment.

“FOR THE LAST TIME WE ARE NOT EATING SONNY AND CHER."

Depression Eddie: While it would normally be perfectly happy with them wearing whatever was lying around, and it knew that most humans’ senses of smell were not nearly as acute as its own chemo-sensory array (or even Eddie’s since they had augmented his scent receptors), it still felt instinctively risky to advertise an ongoing weakness more than necessary.

5+1 Separation: Of course, this only makes the separation worse; a mental quilt with half its fabric suddenly and violently ripped out; the chessboard now a patchwork of holes with bare threads holding any of it together.

ABOquest: (human) “Female” & ”male” secondary traits correlated to immune system. Healthy groups have a variety and betas are a bit more attracted to groups with both variety and F/M traits not highly represented in their own group to help diversify the immune stuff.

You Think You're Helping: "You are so very, very lucky that we convinced them to condense and shore up their redundancies rather than eliminate them for efficiency, or you'd be holding nothing more than dead bodies right now and their lawyer would be drawing you up and quartering you right now."

Headworld: It is extremely dangerous, the magic levels enough to quickly warp anything exposed for more than a few minutes. Dwarves wear hazmat suits and pass through many levels of decontamination when they have to go aboveground.

#meme #writing meme #my stuff #text #my writing #writing #venom #homestuck

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sassyhobbits · 3 years

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rowaelin with their first child and they get into that stranger anxiety phase and cry with everyone except when they're in their mothers arms and it's exhausting but also adorable but rowan sometimes feels like a bad dad because his kid doesn't want to be held by him so aelin has to reassure him and then some day this phase is finally over - prompt 😢🥺

ok i adored writing this one. dad rowan is so much fun to work with. i hope everyone enjoys!!

~~~

In his over 300 years, Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius had been awoken by many different things. Whether it was a call to battle while sleeping in a war tent, a summons from his queen late at night, or a lover trying unsuccessfully to disappear quietly before dawn. Yet, none of these manners of waking up had filled him with as much dread as he felt currently.

He was woken in the middle of the night by a shrill shriek coming from the room that adjoined the one he shared with Aelin. In the recent months, what had once been a leisure room had been converted to a nursery for their new baby girl.

It took three years after Aelin’s coronation before they decided to start trying to have a child. It took another year before they were successful. Rowan counted his blessings. He had seen plenty of Fae couples take decades before they finally conceived.

Eliora was four months old now, which meant four months of troubled sleep for both him and his mate.

Rowan was instantly on alert at the sound of his daughter’s cries. He knew that they were no more than a normal babe’s troubles, but his instincts made him tense anyways. He quickly sat up, looking down at his wife quickly to see if she had woken up. Luckily, she still slept, likely beyond exhausted from the mix of raising a child and ruling a kingdom. If Rowan was successful, she wouldn’t have to wake up at all.

He got out of bed and swiftly stepped into the nursery, coming before Eliora’s crib. Her tiny face was pinched up in dainty outrage, small limbs flailing as she cried. Rowan took a deep breath, sending a prayer up to the gods more out of habit than faith at this point, and picked his daughter from the crib. Hopefully, this would be the time he could get her to stop crying.

The little princess shrieked and protested whenever she was in anyone’s arms besides her mother’s. Rowan’s included.

“I’ve got you, my little light,” Rowan whispered to his daughter, cradling her tiny body to his bare chest and lowering himself onto the rocking chair they kept beside her crib. “Everything’s alright.”

Despite his soothing words, Eliora still continued to cry. It broke Rowan’s heart to hear, broke it even more to know that nothing he did could seem to calm her down.

“Please stop crying, love,” Rowan pleaded, threading his fingers through the fine, silvery-blonde hair growing on his daughter’s head. “Your mother is so tired and needs her sleep.”

Unfortunately, even begging didn’t seem to work.

Over the sounds of Eliora’s cries, he heard the door hinges creek, and the sound of bare feet scuffing over stone. Rowan glanced over, finding Aelin walking towards him. Exhaustion weighed down her beautiful face, but her eyes were still full of fondness at the sight of the two of them.

Rowan looked to her apologetically before his face crumpled in defeat. “I can’t get her to stop crying. I’m so sorry, Fireheart.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for, love,” she whispered, leaning down and pressing a kiss to his hair. “Give her to me.”

Rowan handed the squirming bundle of blankets to his wife. Aelin situated their daughter in her arms before she lowered herself on Rowan’s lap, allowing him to wrap his arms around her waist, press a kiss to her shoulder, and begin to rock them.

Quickly, Eliora’s cries began to fade away. Her face unscrewed, looking at Aelin with those wide, Ashryver eyes that she had.

Aelin began to sing a low, Terrasenian lullaby as he continued to rock the three of them. It never ceased to amaze him how good she was with their daughter, how quickly she was able to sooth her temper. He only wished that he could do the same, that Eliora would look at him the same way she looked at Aelin and not scream and scream and scream.

Rowan’s heart was full of love as he watched Eliora’s eyes begin to droop shut at the soothing rocking motion and the sound of her mother’s voice. It wasn’t long before she was once again asleep, the night perfectly silent.

Rowan helped Aelin stand, keeping a hand against her back as she brought their daughter back to her crib and laid her down. Perfect. She truly was perfect.

A gentle hand on his arm drew his attention away from the slumbering babe. Aelin nodded her head towards their room and Rowan dutifully followed, shutting the door quietly behind them.

“I’m sorry, Fireheart,” Rowan said again, drawing Aelin into his arms and kissing her forehead. “I know you’re exhausted.”

“No more so than you.”

Rowan could only sigh, pressing his lips together tightly. His emotions were troubled, and he should have known that Aelin was going to notice. She leaned back slightly, peering up at his face.

“I know what you’re thinking, Rowan, and you’re wrong,” she said matter-of-factly.

Rowan wanted to believe her, but he couldn’t help but ask, “What am I doing wrong?”

He had faced many challenges over his years. Wars and battles and tortures. He had survived them all and came out victorious. And yet, the thing that brought him to his knees, was the fact that he couldn’t bring comfort to his own daughter when she needed it. A baby had finally defeated him.

“You know you’re not doing anything wrong,” Aelin said firmly. “The nurses said this happens sometimes. It’s not your fault.”

Rowan had heard this what felt like a thousand times. It did little to soothe his troubles.

Rowan was good at many things. He was a warrior and a general, had stepped confidently into the role of king consort. His hands could kill and heal and build, but they couldn’t get Eliora to stop crying. He couldn’t help but feel that, perhaps, being a father… wasn’t something that he was made for.

It broke his heart to think. He remembered how excited he was when they found out Aelin was finally pregnant, how they cried and kissed and clung to each other, whispering about the future. He had been ecstatic, but also terrified. He knew Aedion, who had welcomed his own son into the world a year before Aelin got pregnant, had felt the same before he was born. But, Aedion hadn’t had the troubles Rowan did. He had stepped into fatherhood gracefully, and his son loved him immensely.

“Hey,” Aelin said, a bit snappily. She put her hand on Rowan’s cheek and urged him to look at her. In those eyes was a familiar fire. “Stop that. I know what’s going through your head. You’re a wonderful father.”

Rowan sighed and hung his head, pressing Aelin’s hand more firmly against his cheek. “How can I be a good father if I have no idea what I’m doing?”

“Do you think I’m a bad mother?”

“What? Of course not.”

“Well, I don’t know what I’m doing either,” Aelin said. “Neither did Aedion or Lysandra. No new parent has any idea what they’re doing. It’s part of the job.”

She made it sound so easy. Aelin had always had a knack for that.

“I wonder if there’s some secret behind it,” Rowan mused as Aelin tucked herself back into his chest and wrapped her arms around his torso.

He felt his wife shrug. “I don’t know… but if there was, I think it would be to love them. To support them. To do everything in our power to make sure they’re happy.”

“I love Eliora more than life. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.”

“I know, love.” Aelin rolled on the tips of her toes and brushed a soft kiss against Rowan’s mouth. “Now, all you need to do is have patience.”

He chuckled. “Look at you. Who would have ever guessed that Aelin Galathynius would be lecturing me on patience.”

Her grin was a slash of white in the dark. “I’ve been told I’m wise beyond my years.”

“Who the hell has ever told you that?”

“People. Now, will you come back to bed with me?”

“Of course, Fireheart.”

They climbed back under the covers, pressing their bodies close. Aelin fell back asleep almost comically quickly. Rowan wasn’t far behind, holding his wife tightly throughout the night.

…

Another month went by and little changed. Both Rowan and his wife were getting little sleep during the night, leading to some groggy mornings. He had seen Aelin taking short naps at her desk or dozing off when an advisor spoke for too long. She would, of course, deny it if Rowan ever brought it up, so he wisely stayed silent.

Eliora still abhorred being held by anyone except Aelin. The fact that it wasn’t just him brought Rowan a bit of solace. His daughter cried when held by Lysandra or Fenrys or Elide. She had a particularly nasty meltdown last time Lorcan had held her.

“I know, sweet girl,” Aelin had murmured, taking Eliora from Lorcan. “I wouldn’t want to be that close to him either.”

Still, Eliora’s reactions didn’t deter Rowan from trying to hold and soothe her, though he had not yet been victorious. Patience, Aelin had said. It was easier said than done.

The sun had set below the Staghorns hours ago. Eliora was asleep in the nursery, Aelin was treating herself to a long soak in the tub, and Rowan sat in one of the plush armchairs they kept in their room, sharpening and polishing some of his blades.

It was an easy practice to get lost in. The simple, repetitive movements were a welcome distraction. A good way to cool down before bed.

However, his hands froze when he heard a tiny whimper sound from the nursery that quickly morphed into a shrill cry. Eliora.

Rowan placed his blades down on the low table before him, pushing to his feet and quickly striding into the nursery.

Eliora was wiggling as she wailed. Rowan wished he could read her mind so he knew exactly what was bothering her and how he could help. But, all he could do was take a deep, bracing breath and scoop his daughter into his arms.

“What’s wrong, little light?” Rowan whispered, carrying her over to the rocking chair. “What is it?”

Eliora’s only response was to continue crying.

Rowan sighed, wondering how much longer he had before Aelin got out of the bath and came in to calm Eliora down. He had seen Aelin do it countless times. She would take Eliora into her arms, smile down at her, start to whisper nonsense or sing a low lullaby. She made it seem so easy.

“Everything’s alright, Eliora,” Rowan murmured, switching to the Old Language. “I’ve got you. I’ll never let anything happen to you, little love.”

And then, something amazing happened.

Slowly, Eliora’s cries began to fade away to a whimper and then, to nothing at all. Rowan held his breath, worrying that one wrong move would put her back into a fit of hysterics. His daughter slowly opened her eyes and peered up at him.

Rowan smiled down at her. “You’re just as lovely as your mother. Just as stubborn, too.”

And then, as if she understood his little joke, Eliora flashed him a gummy smile. The shift in expression floored him. She had never given him a smile before.

Rowan felt his throat tighten and his eyes begin to burn, but he smiled back at the tears welled up. A tiny laugh escaped his throat. Finally, finally, he had done it.

Eliora’s chubby arms reached up. Rowan held out a finger, letting her wrap a tiny hand around it. He always forgot just how small she was.

“I love you more than you could possibly know, Eliora.”

He was too distracted by his daughter and the little grip she had on his finger to notice that Aelin had entered the nursery until she was almost upon them. Rowan looked up at his wife, knowing that his eyes were still watery and there were likely tear tracks streaking down his cheeks. Regardless, he beamed.

“It would seem, once again, that I was right,” Aelin said with a triumphant smirk.

“As you often are, my love.”

She laughed and dropped a kiss to his forehead before draping her arms over his shoulders, leaning over and watching their daughter, who was studying them with wide eyes. Once again, Eliora smiled. Rowan would never tire of the sight.

“She looks like you when she smiles,” Aelin mused.

“You think?”

She nodded slowly, reaching out and running her knuckles along the smooth curve of Eliora’s cheek. “I still can’t believe she’s ours. She’s just so… perfect.”

“Like her mother.”

Aelin snorted. “Kiss ass.”

“Maybe a little.”

They faded into silence, simply standing there, wrapped up in their little, blossoming family. They stood there until Eliora’s eyes fluttered shut once more and she drifted off into a peaceful sleep. One she enjoyed for the entirety of the night.

Rowan didn’t know what he had done to deserve such bliss, but he knew it must have been something good.

#every time i write a baby fic im like #is it obvious that i know next to nothing about babies #rowaelin #my writing #tog

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bleuwrites · 3 years

Text

Tomorrow is Hard to Find

Chapters: 1/2 Fandom: Six of Crows Series - Leigh Bardugo Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Kaz Brekker/Inej Ghafa Characters: Kaz Brekker, Inej Ghafa Additional Tags: Past Rape/Non-con, graphic depictions of Dirtyhands doing Dirtyhands things, Angst, they may be able to touch each other but they're still disasters, the one where I chase them up a tree and throw rocks at them (figuratively), Kanej-related Rule of Wolves spoilers

Chapter 1

Since Jordie died Kaz does not stir into wakefulness languidly, he startles into it. His heart inevitably jouncing as his eyes reel around his rooms, looking for any sign of threat, always on alert. When he is not in the Slat it is even worse. It takes him bare moments to remember they are Shriftport, but in those moments between waking and recognition his hand reaches for the pistol left stuffed between the mattress and the bed frame.

There are gold rings stacked on the little table to his left, part of his and Inej’s disguise as a married couple on vacation in Novyi Zem. They left the glass-paneled doors to the terrace open to try to coax in a breeze, but the netting around the bed is still. He doesn’t know how it can be so hot before the sun has even risen, but at some point in the night he pulled his shirt off. Inej is still asleep, curled on her side to his right. He presses a kiss to her shoulder and slips out of bed, doing his best not to disturb her because even if he can’t sleep she should.

Kaz finds a chair out on the terrace and takes in the sweeping views the promontory their hotel is situated on affords, rolling the rings between his fingers like the trickster he is. The rising sun reveals the deep turquoise of the bay; the buildings painted in vibrant oranges and yellows like the jurda flowers Novyi Zem is known for. Mercifully, the dawn brings a breeze with it, rustling the green crowns of the date palms and kicking up little white caps on the ocean.

When he was a child in Lij, morning was his favorite time of day. Kaz thinks of the boy he was then, so mesmerized by the subtle changes that would reveal themselves to him each morning. The wheat stalks a little taller, then with leaves, then spiked heads of grain. It used to drive Jordie mad the way Kaz would demand his attention, pointing out each subtle change. That boy could not have foreseen the man he’d become, the things he’d have to do to survive, but little Kaspar Rietveld would have loved this morning in this strange new place, too.

For a long time, he thought that boy died in Fifth Harbor. But the truth was, Kaz had buried him somewhere deep inside himself. With every act of violence, act of cruelty and callousness, Dirtyhands had thrown another shovelful of dirt into the grave he put the boy he was in. It wasn’t until that terrible day on Vellgeluk that he realized Inej had slowly been digging Kaz Rietveld out, clearing the grave dirt from his mouth, letting him breathe again.

The first year was the hardest. He thought vengeance would finally silence Jordie’s ghost. It didn’t. That ghost had screamed and raged inside him. When Inej told him rage was just grief we’d held onto for too long, he screamed at her too. There were times - many times - he lashed out, used his cruelty like a whip to try and drive her away. He wanted her to leave, to turn her back on Ketterdam, to prove his worst instincts right. He wanted to put his armor back on, so, so desperately.

And always, inevitably, the question, asked with the kind of patience he found maddening, What are you afraid of, Kaz?

That you will leave me. Like Jordie. Like everyone I’ve ever loved. It took Kaz a long time to admit it to himself. He never admitted it to Inej.

The second year was harder. He took her to Lij and told her everything, wove together the whole rotten tapestry of his life for her. The wounds inside him opened up and wept so much fresh blood he thought he would drown in it. He would wake gasping from dreams of Jordie playing cards at the Crow Club, his skin mottled and bruised and sloughing onto the felt of the card table. Or his father leaving a bloody wake of entrails as he pursued Kaz through the Barrel. They died in his dreams every night, so he stopped sleeping. Kept himself going on coffee and jurda until he collapsed from exhaustion.

When Inej returned to port early she found him slumped over his desk after days of refusing to rest. Her face had been etched in sadness and worry when she roused him enough that he opened his eyes. “I was angry too. It took me a long time to realize I needed to grieve the life that was stolen from me,” she said, her voice quiet and her fingers gentle as they traced the too prominent hollows of his cheeks. “Did you never mourn, Kaz?”

He didn’t answer, just held her hand over his heart and asked her to stay once she had forced him up to his bed for some proper sleep. She did, for a while anyway.

The third year had been a nightmare for different reasons. That was the first time he asked her to be his wife. It didn’t help.

Her legend had grown by that point, big enough to put a target on her back. Per Haskell’s name on her indenture documents was enough to get the Slat, the Crow Club, and The Silver Six raided and turned inside out. They wanted Inej, but Kaz still had enough enemies in Ketterdam that they would have settled for throwing him in Hellgate for the trouble. They both knew what taking on slavers would cost them. His businesses had been clean and she had been free of them since he took over the Dregs, save for certain, select occasions.

When that didn’t work they put a price on her head. Inej’s wanted posters littered the city; no matter where he went her face was staring at him. She couldn’t set foot in Kerch or its colonies without risking arrest or assassination. Her partnership with Strumhond, and by extension the Crown, had granted her safety in Ravka. She had a home in Os Kervo (a house, she would chastise him, you are my home), and a life he felt only distantly a part of no matter what she said.

As he watched her dance and laugh so easily with Nikolai at Nina's wedding that year something had splintered inside of him. It wasn’t jealousy -- Nikolai’s love for Zoya was so obvious Kaz knew there was nothing to be jealous of --, but longing. The same longing that had him clutching at her hand on the deck of the Ferolind. The longing for impossible things.

What they wanted had been divergent after they kidnapped Kuwei; she wanted to turn her back on Ketterdam and never return; he wanted to bring it to its knees, rule it like a shadow king. After the auction Kaz got his power, Inej got her freedom and they found a way to forge a future together. Until it had been taken from them, at least.

Later, when they were alone in their quarters he’d asked her to marry him.

“Why?” she asked, her eyes searching for something she wasn’t going to find.

“Because the odds of us surviving will sink to zero at some point. Because if we’re going to die I want to go to the other side as your husband.”

“I will not marry you out of fear, Kaz.” She’d said it softly, tenderly, her voice heavy with regret.

He knew the words were coming before she even opened her mouth. The knowing did nothing to quell the pain in his heart as she said them. Kaz didn’t argue with her, but later, when they were in bed and the distance between them felt greater than the breadth of the True Sea, the thread that connected her to him felt perilously thin.

Keep Reading

#kanej #kanej fanfiction #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #six of crows #soc

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stanleywbaxton · 2 years

Text

Forming a Parasocial Relationship With My Printer

Not actually my printer; it just looks nice [x]

I'm Forcing You to Sit in This Chair While I Talk About Books

In its barest form, a book is some folded paper attached to a cover. This seems like something simple to make, but have you ever folded a stack of paper in half? Not just one or two sheets, I'm talking a chunk of the things. Enough that it could make a dent in your skull if you got the angle right. Go on. Grab a stack of old papers, thick enough that the ligaments in your thumb start to scream. Fold the whole thing in half. I dare you.

Bit tricky, right? You've got a lot of bulk in the way, and I bet that the paper on the outside has barely a crease in it, let alone a fold. Oh, there's also the length of the paper. Notice how the sheet on the top, on account of all the other paper pushing it back, appears much shorter? If you look at the stack from the side you have a full diamond on the edge. A far cry from the lovely straight finish books have. You could trim it (in fact, all books need to have their paper trimmed), but that's a lot that's going to waste. This is all a bit of a problem. Now obviously, books exist that are more than just stacks. They're tomes. How do you get that much paper in a book if folding everything in half leaves you with an absolutely awful time?

The solution: fold several smaller stacks, then stick them all together.

Go pick up a book, any book, and take a closer look at the spine from the top. See the little grooves? Each of those is one of those stacks—which are called signatures—all held together to make your book. If it's a cheap paperback it's been squeezed together with the force of a thousand suns with a little luck from God to make sure it stays tight. Also glue.

When you're binding by hand you use thread and needle. It's much nicer than glue, and means you get a lot more freedom in styling how the pages lay when you're reading. From this, making a book seems pretty simple. Get a stack of paper, put them into smaller stacks, fold them into signatures, stick them together as one text block, and put a cover on it.

Ah! But now you have to consider how printing works. You know how you had special printouts back in school to make little booklets? Fold it this way, that way, flip it around and spin it like a pizza, and all the pieces printed upside-down and rightways-left magically ended up in the correct spot? Printing full books is similar. For a signature, you have to arrange your pages in a specific order, or Lord knows what it's going to look like when it's all folded. If you have, say, a lined notebook with numbered pages, that order suddenly means a lot.

So. Here's a story about making the first journal I ever designed from scratch, and how the journal itself was absolutely the least notable part of the experience.

Introducing The Printer

It's a piece of shit.

Every printer is a piece of shit. I am very certain it's in the job description of a printer to be a piece of shit.

No matter what we do there's always streaks on the page when it prints in colour. If the tray isn't left slightly ajar it makes grinding noises that ultimately result in paper jams. It never seems to understand that the ink being below 70% doesn't mean the apocalypse is imminent.

But it does, in the end, function. This is better than most printers.

And the Tale of it

I got myself some lovely paper from some store that claimed heritage tracing back to the 1800s and being British as British blood could possibly British.

You know smooth paper? Where you can just trace your finger along it and watch it glide like a figure skater to ice? Oh, it was smooth. And had these little marks dappled all over where you could see the imperfections that promised human hands touched it in a factory, at some point. But not enough that it looks cheap. We need to be rustic and home-made but not poor, you know?

I do a test print to see if the printer loves the paper as much as I do, and it does. We're set.

Now, let me explain the setup. My PC with the book design is upstairs. The printer is downstairs. I cannot move either of them, before you see the immediate solution to this. Each signature is a separate pdf. Because the printer is convinced it was built before I was born, it does not understand that document queues exist.

This means:

Sending the first signature to print, upstairs

Going downstairs

Retrieving the signature

Returning upstairs with the signature

Folding and piercing the signature with holes, ready for sewing

Sending the second signature to print

Repeat ad nauseam

Or at least until everything's printed.

This was the first time I'd done double-sided on this printer, which was fun. By 'fun' I mean 'slightly more entertainment than staring at the wall until it finished'.

I hadn't got much else to do. I left my phone upstairs, and will forget to grab it every single time I go back up there.

I pull up a chair and just watch it.

You might call this sad, but a little part of me believed that watching it would prevent something bad happening. You might also call this sad.

This goes mostly unimpeded, returning back up, and punching holes with my bookbinding kit. The holes are more fun than they should be. Then I'd go back down, watching the printer print. This continues for several signatures.

For some reason, one round I get bored and leave the room. I'm not entirely sure why. I got bored of sitting and needed to stand up, then got bored of standing and needed to sit back down.

The printer tells me the paper is jammed.

It's decidedly not, as opening the back as the screen instructs shows no signs of wayward sheets crushed between the wheels and crying out for mercy. I put all the panels back, mildly confused.

Whatever happened interrupted it, besides. I now have this random sheet that's only been printed on one side. It's like the printer completed one half, had a breakdown, and made up some excuse about 'jammed paper' to save itself the embarrassment.

Which, I sympathise, but you're also a printer.

The rest continued as normal, even though I had to run back upstairs and do some mathematical equations to figure out which two pages belonged to the failed sheet. I could try putting the unfinished sheet back in, sure, but I had no idea which way up and what direction it should face in the tray. I had, what, a one in four chance of nailing that with one try? Doing the whole thing again was much easier.

Send to print. Downstairs. Retrieve paper. Upstairs. Fold the paper and punch holes for the—

I realise I've printed the wrong one.

...Resend to print.

Downstairs. Retrieve paper. Upstairs. It's correct this time, fortunately.

Next signature is up for print, and by this point I'd got used to the motions of going up and down and up the downstairs again. It was exercise at least, even though my recently-injected-with-testosterone leg wasn't agreeing with it, and sitting back down to watch was just another part of the routine.

At some point, my dog starts howling. Who knows at what. I find him and give a lecture about the importance of using his inside voice—or bark, if you will—and go back to my signature.

The printer tells me the paper is jammed.

Alright. This is what we're doing.

Once again, the paper is only printed on one side with no attempt to pull it back and print on the other. I open the back again just to double check there's nothing there, which there isn't.

I need to stress, everytime the printer claimed a paper jam, there's no actual jams, no mechanical failures. The printer just decides at random points that it didn't want to print the other side of this one page, in particular. I never see it happen first-hand so I don't even know what caused it.

I'm well aware that my printer is shit, so I'm not even mad. I signed up for this, really. I'll have to reprint some pages that fail. That's fine, and the exact reason I bought 50 more sheets of paper than I actually needed.

Then I realised something, while I was watching paper pulled in and out of the printer's jaw. Why was I wasting time? I could be working on the current signature while the next one was being printed. That way it would be ready as soon as I'd finished.

Yes. I'd printed five of these things before I thought of doing this.

A smug little grin creeps across my face after sending the next one to print. Like something so obvious should be celebrated. I should be celebrated. This time I go downstairs with a spring in my step.

The printer tells me the paper is jammed.

It didn't get past the first sheet. It cried out as desperately as it could on a screen smaller than most bank notes that the paper was jammed, that it needed attention right now, that its untimely demise was imminent if someone didn't come to its aid. I press the button, and watch as the rest prints as if nothing happened. I didn't even open the back this time.

And of course I did watch it this time, because I was back with nothing to do. The signature that I'm supposed to be working on was still stuck in the damn printer.

Then, I make a very stupid observation.

The printer was 'jamming' when I wasn't in the room.

It didn't fail at any other time. If I sat there, pulled up the chair and watched the printer diligently complete its task, it did it without fail. The only times it had stopped was when I'd left and pulled my eyes away from it.

Now I'll be honest. I'm superstitious, and have had far too many coincidences to believe there isn't someone looking down on me and laughing. I've always had inklings that there's [something else] behind the scenes, and little day-to-day rituals could influence how it might act.

But this, this is a printer.

And I'm a man of the modern age! My ancestors did not live and die by the scientific method for me to declare baseless accusations on faith. I slam the button to continue printing and leave the room. There was literally nothing else to do, so I just stood in the kitchen for a few minutes. I decide it's time to check the results of my experiment when my mum asks what I'm doing.

The printer tells me the paper is jammed.

...

I pull up a chair and sit down, face in my hand.

The rest of the signature prints just fine, because of course they do. I sighed, sifting through the papers and maybe hoping for a misprinted number, some bleeding ink, a rule not parallel that could prove that my stupid superstitions were no more than that. Stupid.

It's perfect.

Alright. Fine. But I'm not about to be defeated by a printer. I get owned by my friends daily, I'm not taking that from an inanimate object. I send the next signature off to print, tongue stuck out, and work on punching holes with no care what the printer thinks of me staying up here. I took a particular amount of anger out on the last one and went downstairs.

The printer tells me the paper is jammed.

First page, again.

"Really?" I said. "You're doing this to me? Really?"

I thought about smacking it, but I felt bad.

I mean, when you got down to it, when it did work it was doing a good job. It wasn't jamming with the new paper. It hadn't called for a replacement of ink once despite being reasonably low, for its standards. The colours weren't even streaking like they normally did. It just...

Needed me to sit by it.

I stare at the printer the entire time while dragging the chair over, saying nothing. I wanted it to feel every ounce of biting disappointment I had behind my eyes. The first page begins printing.

You know the sound a printer makes, don't you? That back-and-forth repetition like the pull and push of a wave. I could have sworn, when I listened closely, the pull sounded like 'love', and the push sounded like 'me'.

The printer finishes the first page, which I take and confirm printed correctly. It starts on the second.

"Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me"

It pauses, and drags the paper back in, ready for the other side.

"Love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me, love me"

"Loooooooove," it finishes after spitting out the paper.

"Meeeeeeeee," rumbles deep within the machine.

It starts on the next.

"Hug me," it sounds like this time.

"Hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me, hug me"

Hm, I think. There's worse machines to go mad over. A printer has precedent.

It continues like this. "Love me, love me, hug me, love me, hug me, hold me, love me... "

We're on the last signature now. I'm tired. It's been hours. I expected a bit of a slog but I'd had to scale those damn stairs at least twice as many times as I was expecting. The muscle in my leg still recovering from a needle screams at me. My God, I did not want to do another cycle of this I didn't need to.

I swallow my pride, and lean towards my printer.

"Ok, buddy," I said, "we need to have a talk about this."

The printer does not respond.

"I've been a bit harsh. I'll admit that. I haven't been the nicest to you on the last few runs."

The printer does not respond.

"And despite that, you like me sitting next to you while you work. I know a lot of people who need emotional support while doing something stressful. It means a lot that you still get that from me, even after snapping at you."

The printer does not respond.

"But I don't need to be here. I get that you think I do, but I don't. I don't even know the first bit about how to print things. That's why I'm asking you."

The printer does not respond.

"You're better than you think you are. You don't need me to hold your hand, alright?"

The printer does not respond.

"You can do it on your own."

The printer does not respond.

"I believe in you."

The printer does not respond.

I pat its scanner lid.

Double checking that my parents aren't dialling a mental asylum, I return to my workstation and set the next signature to print. While I'm poking holes, I'm already bracing myself for another trip after failing on the first page, rubbing the injection site idly. I go downstairs, ready for a wave of inky tears over jammed paper.

To find, much to my surprise, a fully printed signature waiting for me.

Every page was done. All the prints were perfect. The graphic on the screen bobs up and down happily over a job well done.

I smile. It's a genuine smile; I don't smile often. I smile in a mixture of joy and relief, that my printer did it all by itself.

I'm

proud.

I'm proud of my printer. My printer.

I pat it's scanner lid again and graciously accept its gift. It could rest now, so I turn the light off like a father leaving his children to sleep.

Then I leave and laugh hard enough I nearly throw up.

Why am I Like This?

The rest of the journal went without a hitch, but who cares about that? This isn't about the craft project. This is about the fact I gave an inanimate object the same care and respect that I would my fellow man.

Why? Why do I do this?

Giving a printer, a printer, a full peptalk over its job. A printer that has no emotion, rational thinking, or any possible qualifiers that could make it slightly human.

And the peptalk worked.

Of course, it didn't. If I didn't talk to it nothing would have changed.

But if I didn't do that it would have jammed again. Absolutely.

Oh,

I do love it, as a paradox. Everything's made up. All these rituals and bits all so complex and tied into each other are a complete waste of time. Not stepping on a crack. Saluting a magpie. Knocking on wood.

But it's also completely real.

When I try to explain this to people, they look at me like I'm a complete idiot. Which is correct. I am. I'm an idiot for doing this. I treat most anything as if it has a level of animacy and I'm a complete idiot for doing so.

But I'm not. Because it works.

Which is to say,

faith is for fools, and so a fool I'll remain.

#life

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sennextheassasinkingoflight · 4 years

Text

Firelight

Gerlion Rated T and up for minor swearing and minor nudity.

Also, I'm sorry I'm bad at technology and I've only got mobile and they updated it and I dont know/can't figure out how to put a read more break in.

Geralt and Dandelion reunite after a long time apart. Its fluff, complete fluff. They're so soft with one another.

This lovely piece was inspired by art created by @johix with permission I'll figure out how to link it. But I recommend checking out all the art.

It had been nearly nine months since he last saw his bard. It wasn't unusual for their paths to cross and diverge like the threads of a tapestry twinning around one another; close but never consistantly together. Dandelion was often called away to court, to Oxenfurt, or some festivity or other and he always went where he was wanted. Geralt never stopped him; though he often wanted to reach out, grab a slender and deceivingly muscled arm and say, "stay you're wanted here more than they want you anywhere else." But his lips stayed stubbornly shut as he watched the blond ride away on his muleish stead. He would turn his back and tend to the nearest contracts he could find. At first he'd been glad for the others departures, now they left him aching in a way he feared to define. So he would focus on his work, on the Path and push all thoughts of the Bard away until he was alone with inky night and moonlight for company. Then and only then he would wonder what his friend was doing.

This year he had been eager to get back on the path and left the keep far to early. The others had warned him but he was restless, concerned even. He hadn't heard anything from the bard in the three months leading into winter. It was May now. Summer had yet to grace the continent and snow continued to stick stubbornly to her. He hadn't made it to town, and that was okay. He was freezing but he'd dealt with worse. He stoked the fire up and leaned against the tree behind him. He flexed his fingers in his gloves to keep them from growing stiff.

He knows he should have found a cave or some other shelter but he'd been loath to leave the road. The more time he spent on it the more likely he was to run into Dandelion. Instead he began to meditate and wrinkled his nose at the scent of rain permeating the air. He hoped it would hold off until the morrow. He didn't mind rain when he didn't need to be out in the path. Meaning, he liked the rain if he was cooped up in an inn with Dandelion. He always tried to keep him from getting sick, despite the need to be on the oath. But tonight he wasn't in an inn with Dandelion. He was in forest clearing bustled against a dry spot beneath a tree with snow and ice all around him. The thought of being at a warm inn with his musician made his chest ache desperately. Slowly he managed to meditate. Meditation turned to sleep as soon as he chose to lie down in his bed roll. Roach shifted to his left to keep herself warm but never went far.

He woke cold and stiff to blue grey light. If he were a normal human and not so fucking cold he'd have probably rolled over and gone back to sleep. But instead he was a witcher and rain scented heavier on the air. That alone is enough to incline him to get a move on with the day. Carefully he stood rolling his joints, they cracked and popped at the movement sore from the last hunt and the cold. He breathed through his nose and set about feeding Roach. Then he turned to begin gathering his supplies. His heart jumped in his chest at the sound of distant music. There was a troupe, if the noise was anything to go by, traveling up the road. They were a ways off and he couldn't make out individual instruments yet. The music was to far away. Still, he forced himself to slow and methodically work through packing everything up at a more subdued pace. He had no way of knowing if Dandelion was with them, but he hoped he was. It was safer for the trabedour to travel with a group and more to his and the bards liking as well.

Satisfied that the group would catch up if he kept Roach to a walk he rejoined the road. This way he would be far enough ahead not to bother them, and close enough that if Dandelion was with them he'd be able to see him. He kept Roach at a careful pace and she seemed content to meander. His coin purse was currently full at his side, and the season was early. He could dally a little. Still he wondered at the futility. It would have been better to write to Oxenfurt or go himself. They would know where to find the poet. He listened as the music drew closer. There were several lutist. Which he could say wasn't uncommon as it was one of the preferred bardic instruments. He strained his ears none the less, Toruviels lute had a specific sound and he was well aquanited with it. He smiled and forced himself not to turn back towards the musicians. He was a witcher, he'd scare them off. He slowed Roach as much as possible. And then he heard it, the stutter of a chord gone off tune and forgotten. They way it would if he complimented the musician while he was playing. He always made the best faces.

"Geralt." He kept Roach moving, gripping the reigns hard in anticipation. Then he heard the murmurs of surprise as Dandelion ran ahead and called out,

"Geralt of Rivia, you gigantic oaf, I know you can hear me!" The indignant tone of Dandelions voice pulled him over the edge of his little game and he stopped. His heart beating a little faster, a little stronger than it ought, as it always did around the poet. He dismounted his horse and held out one hand to give or receive a hug. Something he was growing accustomed to doing with Dandelion. The bard rushed forward unabashed and wrapped his arms, one hand still holding his lute firmly, around Geralt and squeezing with all his strength. Geralt returned the favor, one armed, the other still outstretched to hold Roaches reigns.

The hug lasted longer than it ought to have, and then some. When they finally came apart Geralt raised an eyebrow and absently reached a hand out to brush shoulder length blond curls. He smiled softly amusement curling in his stomach with something far more dangerous.

"What are these?"

"Curls Geralt. You've seen them before."

Dandelion notes with brightness in his eyes. Geralt is being very tender he thinks as he flicks his eyes to the hand still in his hair.

"I know. But I've never seen them on you before. Nobles. Whores. The like."

Geralt says simply and something like sadness tugs at Dandelions heart. He was prepared with a quip but it slips from his tongue and instead he whispers out a breathy,

"You don't like it."

He looks to the ground, body language changing. Geralt smells the acrid scent of disappointment on him almost instantly. Even if he hadn't he'd have realized his mistake. He brushes his hand down and catches the lutists chin pushing it up and then dropping his hand to his shoulder. They have an audience.

"That's not what I said, nor is it what I meant, Dandelion. Introduce us?"

The poets meets his eyes and blinks. Right. Okay. He smiles,

"There isn't much to be said in introduction. I only met this lovely group last night. I don't even know all their names yet."

A short brunette in bright colors hands him his geldings reigns. They know he won't be continuing with them.

The brunette nods to Geralt and speaks softly,

"It was a pleasure to play music with you master Dandelion."

And with that the group turns down the path to the right. Geralt must have worked hard to time it so he'd be seen before they had a chance to turn down the other path. Though Dandelion would not have gone that way anyways.

Geralt looks him up and down again and and he flushes under the scrutiny and then speaks through a genuine smile.

"What is that on your face?"

He nearly reaches up to brush his hands against the white beard. He refrains barely as Geralt does it himself. He's fairly certain the man had forgotten all about it.

"Left the keep early this year. It's warmer like this."

Then he watches Geralt glare at the sky and take a deep breath.

"You'll want to put that in it's case. Smells like rain."

Dandelion moves quickly to follow his instruction and nearly jumps when thunder claps across the mountain range. He shivers and mounts Pegasus.

"Where to?"

Gerlat hesitates a moment. He shouldn't be caught off gaurde but he is. It's always this easy with Dandelion. Easy in a way it has never been with Yennefer, or with anyone else. It's natural almost to the point of being dangerous. He knows that Dandelions will follow him anywhere. Hen wont ask questions, but will walk beside him loyal and true.It eases something in his heart to see the other man beside him again. He settles something in him the way Yennefer never did. He realizes Dandelion is looking at him with raised eyebrows and a cheeky grin.

"That glad to see me?"

He swallows and clears his throat ignoring the second question.

"There is a village up ahead. If you're mule moves fast enough we may make it before the rain gets bad."

Dandelion laughs and the remnants of tension in him depart. They ride in companionable silence for a while before he asks,

"What are you doing all the way out here? The roads and weather are hardly fit for traveling, even for me."

He glances over and meets pools of bright blue sky. The poet is quiet for some time and it's only broken by the wind picking up around them and whispering through the woods as boughs bend beneath its force. The rain comes next and Dandelion finally speaks. Geralt remains facing forward carefully neutral.

"I hadn't heard anything about you in months. I had no idea if you even made it to Kaer Morhen. So, I thought to myself, Dandelion if you get closer to the keep you might hear something. Now, here I am hoping to find out if you're still alive. Figured being close would increase my chances of running into you too. And I suppose it worked."

He seems almost embarrassed Geralt thinks. Only embarrassment isn't an emotion he's ever seen on the musician. He was shameless and full of mirth. He felt deeply, certainly had had bouts of sorrow at times. But embarrassment… no this had to be something else. He seemed sombre. Almost sad as he fell into a silence that meant his thoughts had hold of him. Geralt shook his head, grateful when Dandelion did not ask him the same. Unfortunately he fell unusually quiet, normally he would grumble or speak his thoughts allowed. The silence upset him and he could sense the poet growing morose and gave him some space until he noted the bards teeth chattering. He looked miserable, lips pushed together to keep his teeth from chattering, curls gone limp with the rain. His fingers were probably just as cold as Geralts own. He slowed Roach.

"Wheres your cloak?"

" Forgot to pull it out of my bag."

He laughs. Gerlat could kick himself for not reminding the bard, but then, he was a grown man. Still the thought of him sick…. Absently he removed his outer cloak and handed it over. It wouldn't do to much now but it was a kind gesture none-the-less.

"Geralt, no sense in both of us being cold."

He simply cast Dandelion a withering glance and the trabedour smiled as he took the cloak. Geralt returned to his normal speed and missed the way Dandelion smiled into the fur and breathed deep. He almost missed the whispered "thank you" as well, but the wind carried it to his ears and he held it close.

By the time they passed through the archway of a sleepy little village he didn't know the name of, Dandelion was shivering from the cold. It had started as a thunderstorm and quickly devolved into a snowstorm. And while he had already been soaked through he was grateful for Gerlat's cloak around him. Though he was sorry too. He knew how cold Geralt often got, likely from having a slower heart rate.

They made their way with practiced ease to the local inn. Dandelion watched in slight awe as Geralt made arrangements with the matron. She had known his name, no one had so much as even batted an eye at the witcher. He shivered and tried to focus on keeping his feet warm.

The matron knew the witchers who passed this way every spring and winter. She'd been quiet young when Geralt had first met her, now she was a mother who had aged kindly.

"I'll have the boys tend to your horses. Jason's getting a fire going for you. He'll bring up some more wood in a bit."

As if on queue, summoned by his name, he came around the corner of the desk and nodded at her before heading out the back door. She smiled and handed Geralt the key. "Go on go get warm before your friend catches a cold "

"Thank you."

He handed the key to Jaskier who moved quickly forgetting his bag in his rush to get himself and his lute dry. Geralt smiled a toothy grin and shook his head shifting his own bags to gather Dandelions.

"Oh dear, I had better ask, will you be going out for supper or shall I bring some up when it's ready?"

" If it wouldn't be any trouble. And maybe a demijohn?"

She winked,

"Vodka?"

"Please."

"No problem, off you go. He's waiting."

He would have blushed if his biology allowed it. There was something about the way she looked between them and spoke that made Geralt feel vulnerable.

He followed damp footprints to their room and stepped in the door left slightly ajar. Dandelion had already hung his cloak up and stripped out of his shirt and boots, and was currently putting his lute on the chair a good distance from the fire to draw out any moisture.

"Finally Geralt! I was half naked before I realized I forgot them. And the fire was so nice I couldn't bare to go back and get them. What kept you?"

He stepped back as the bard reached for his bags and started removing his armor. He shook his head,

"Supper arrangments." He says simply.

"Then were staying in?"

"Yes."

"Excellent!" He watches the musician swap a change of clothes for his night clothes.

Although he was fairly dry beneath his armor and cloak Geralt was freezing. He removed his boots and looked up only to freeze. Breath stilling in his lungs as he swallowed tightly. He followed bare leg, muscled and lean, from floor to hip, over the curve of the poets ass, over the dip of his back and up the curve of his shoulders. He let out a breath and pointedly averted his eyes. His armor needed cleaning, he was sure of it.

He hadn't thought it possible to make Geralt uncomfortable at this point. But what he'd seen out of the corner of his eye told him otherwise. Though he'd only caught him looking away. He could have looked for a moment, or minutes he'd never know. Slowly he dressed in his sleepwear. The fire had been nice against his skin and he hadn't wanted to dress damp. You got sick when you did that. He dried his hair out with a thin towel from his pack. He'd need to replace that. He made his way back over to Geralt as he pulled his shirt on.

"The fire is nice." He says gently as he sits beside him. Geralt looks up at him from his armor and nods. They stare at one another for a moment then Geralt speaks.

"You seemed upset earlier. Was it just the weather?"

Oh. He wants to lie but he would never. Besides, Geralt can read him like a book, never mind the enhanced witcher senses. He'd never stand a chance. Instead he looks away, towards the crackling fire and let's silence reign while he thinks through what he means to say. The truth but not all of it. Just enough. The only noise is the wind rustling the shutters against the walls and the gentle crackling of the fire.

"I wouldn't know." He starts voice gentle and far away. "If you died. I wouldn't know. And if I ever did find out it would be from some rumor in a tavern passed through far to many drunken mouths to hold much truth. There's no one to tell me if you die while I'm not there Geralt. And that… scares me a little. I worry for you and it would pain me to never know or to find out so late. And know that I'll never know the truth of what happened." He looks to the witcher now and meets molten sun with ocean depths.

"But," he continues, "we're both here now. No sense in dwelling on something like that."

Something shifts in Geralts face like he wants to argue. He's already working out some way to change the topic so he doesn't give himself away. He loves the man next to him that's why it scares him. The knock comes loudly from the door and he moves to open it grateful for the matrons timing.

He smiles and opens the door wide.

"Thank you." He says to both the matron and her husband as he drops wood near the hearth and she places supper and a flagon of something on the table.

"No problem. Enjoy, its roast." With that they leave them to their dinner and Dandelion is grateful for the distraction. Geralt joins him at the table but neither speaks.

Geralt presses his lips together. What Dandelion said nearly ruins his appetite. He won't press but it makes his gut twist to think of the pain his friend would be in. The agony of not knowing. Though those same thoughts run through his head when he doesn't keep them in check. He knows if anything happens to his poet there would be hell to pay. He shakes his head and focuses instead on eating. The quiet of the room is unsetteling. They should be talking, reminiscing about their time apart and it's almost grating that he can't move past the last conversation. But then Dandelion uncorks the vodka and pours them both a generous amount. He hands a cup to Geralt and raises his own.

"To reunions." Geralt smiles and clinks their glasses together. Grateful that they're falling into their rhythm.

Dandelion asks how the winter went and Geralt sighs. It's always the same. His brothers are great but he always find himself missing his poets softness and sound. He wont say this of course. He wont say he lays awake wondering what he's doing in Oxenfurt. Who hes with. If hes happy. He won't admit that loneliness creeps in on him when they're apart, that he misses pulling the bard close to his chest when they sleep.

Instead he tells him that they repaired the battlements, the walls, the stables. That Vesimir had made them clean and catalogue the library. The library he knows Dandelion wants to see and would have to be forcably removed from and he knows that the poets only joking when he says "you'll have to show me one day" but that doesn't mean he doesn't want to grab him by the wrist and take him there. He talks of training and running the trail with Lambert and Eskel like they did when they were young.

"And what of you Dandelion? How was your winter?" The musician smiles and takes a drink straight from the bottle.

"Boring Geralt. This bach of students don't care. They have no heart and less inspiration. It's like they're only there to please their parents or something. To mingle. They don't care about learning what the truth behind folk tales are or why they're wrong. The composition courses are a bit better I suppose," another drink, his face flushes pink in the flickering light of the fire," at least they can make things rhyme even if it's meaningless. And it was so lonely Geralt. I missed traveling. I know it's better for my purse, retirement, and the like to work straight in the winter and travel in the summer months but honestly, I regret it this winter. Not that I could have traveled much alone."

He's rambeling now and Geralt loves it. Loves listening to him talk about nothing and everything. The way his face goes soft and his eyes grow bright and he can only be described as whimsical. How his voice dances always lulling and pulling him in. He takes the vodka and drinks a long pull from the bottle, he shouldn't let Dandelion have much more if they want to start out early. Though if the storm keeps up they might be stuck a few days.

He acknowledges the ard with a soft hum as he gets up to stoke the fire and add a few logs. It's gotten late. He makes his way back towards the bed and brushes his hand down the poets shoulder and his arm before passing on. He crawls to the far side of the bed and waits wondering if he'll understand the invitation and join him or take the other bed. He hopes that the Dandelion understood the gesture. The poet stands and looks at him.

Dandelion takes a breath to steady himself. There are two beds and he desperately wants to join Geralt, help him stay warm, bury his face against his chest, breath in leather and earth and musk. He blinks looking at Geralt for any sign of what he's supposed to do and just as its growing uncomfortable long in his slightly tipsy mind Geralt reaches out and hand and he knows he's wanted.

"It's cold."

Geralt offers quietly as he shuffles under the blankets next to him. He needn't have bothered Dandelion doesn't need an excuse. But if it makes him feel more comfortable he'll roll with it even as it feel like lead on his chest. He rolls onto his side and buries his face into the blankets between them. The bed is small for two but they'll make it work, they always do. He watches as Geralt lounges beside him thinking about how beautiful he is with shadows dancing against his skin as hes bathed in firelight alone. Then Geralt sits up so abruptly and swallows so that Dandelion joins him instantly.

"Is everything alright Geralt?"

"Yes. Just. Don't move."

And he laughs gently, breath coming out calmer now. He catches the way Geralts throat bobs as he swallows and the shadows dance across his throat. He both wants to kiss it and compose about it. Instead he shifts a leg underneath himself and leaves the other outstretched. He's not sure what's going on but he will do as told. But then Geralt moves and lays his head in his lap and when he looks down comatose pools of cooling gold meet his own cobalt depths and his breath catches. He stutters in another one and then smiles fondly. Geralts eyes flutter shut and he can't help himself as he places a hand in white hair and runs his fingers through it. He's certain it's been months since he had physical contact that wasn't violent.

He doesn't hum or sing. This moment is precious. It will be locked in his heart, witnessed only by the firefight and remembered in the lonliest of winter nights. But then Geralt looks at him again so he smiles softly and starts to open his mouth but theres a hand in limp gold locks by his face and he stops. Heart rate picking up, but not in fear and distantly he knows Geralt knows the ways he's affecting him. But he makes no move to pull away even as the calloused hand in his hair moves up to cup the back of his head and pull him down. Instead he closes his eyes and smiles. The kiss is everything he imagined it would be and then some.

#geraskier #gerlion #firelight #fanfiction #was going to add a read more link but im bad at technology and the update is making it worse #fluff #domestic fluff #soft bois #romance

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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 4 years

Text

Synergy - Part 2

Part 1

This is Part 2 of the first DamiRae I ever wrote... And it is long overdue. @ravenfan1242 Happy belated birthday!!!

Prompt List

---------

Figures.

A dark brow flew up as Damian motioned for Raven to board the plane ahead of him. Therein lay another poorly packaged excuse to check out her ass or legs. She had already caught him tonight.

Twice.

Ignoring a prickle of panic, the heels teetered her up the stairs. But moments later, the blinds drew up around a pale face at the window. Narrowed blue-violets scanned the tarmac, observing the animated conversation in Arabic. After he finished up with the attendants, long legs lifted him onto the jet with an irritating amount of ease.

Instead of taking a seat, Damian excused himself to prattle on some more. This time with the pilot.

A slew of impatient texts rapidly fired off to Beatrice. As more time was allotted to Damian, Raven increasingly relied upon her assistant. Since the initial meeting, they'd had over a handful of dinners. Accounting for flights and travel time, she'd probably been with him in the last month more than she had anyone.

As she typed, she glanced down at her blue-black nails with concern. Another side effect of breaking out of usual patterns - a lot of time between nail appointments. Although her veneer was overall impeccable, there was but the slightest crack breaking through to the surface.

An alabaster neck craned subtly in the direction he had disappeared to. She wasn't eager for his return or anything trite like all that.

But really, where was he?

He was certainly taking a while.

Did he think his time was more valuable than her own? They had barely discussed work when they were together. So what was to be accomplished between them, really? What was Damian trying to do - actually get close to her?

Suddenly, the familiar shuffle of Brioni loafers left her to ponder these deceitful thoughts no longer.

Finally.

Raven gave his olive-green sweater and black trousers a once-over. The hue managed to contrast with his dark skin in a distracting way, while simultaneously bringing out the color of his eyes, an arresting vert.

It was undeniable and utterly unfair for someone so aggravating to look like that.

Stupid, sexy Damian...

"Wayne. Thanks for dinner. You do have great taste." Raven noted. "I was skeptical about the use of your plane to take me to a ranch in Montana, but it was the best burger I've ever had..."

A hardened jaw slackened at her assessment. "Glad it was up to your standards, Roth."

"So far." Raven backtracked. "The best burger I've had so far." She couldn't concede completely.

"Tch..." He clicked his tongue in the way he did. "Next time, we'll swing by the coast and maybe get some ceviche..." Damian began, telling her what her future plans would be with an air that stunned and excited her. And he sat beside her, all the while moving closer to her, her hand laying on her cheek. "Or we'll do a weekend trip. Get some poke at this little stand on the side of the road in Hawaii -"

"Wait..." Raven held up a hand, recoiling slightly. Her indigo eyes flashed. "Damian?"

Damian let out a humorless laugh. "Is something wrong? Is it the fish? We have had sushi twice."

"No, not wrong...exactly." The pale girl worried the rose-colored skin of her lip.

"Alright, then." With that, Damian leaned back in his seat.

"What are you doing?" The man turned to her as if she was crazy.

"I thought I was having a good evening." His jaw was no longer loose, it tensed. Twitched. "What is it now, Roth? Do you have a problem? Or an itch?"

That patronizing attitude only confirmed her need to keep their distance.

"Just one." A pale finger gestured to the top of the sleek, white leather and polished cherry wood cabin. "Why are you sitting so close to me?"

His lips pressed into a hard line. "It's my plane. I'll sit where I want." Damian said definitively, offering no other explanation.

He was so irritating in that way.

"It's a large enough plane to comfortably seat twenty - at least." Raven tried. "Surely you can sit somewhere else besides next to me?"

The deep voice was barely inflected and unwavering. "I want to sit here."

"Your legs are longer than mine - that one has more leg room." Raven pointed across the aisle. "And you'd have the adjacent seat for even more room."

"Hmm. Still, no. I'm sitting here." The calloused hand tapped the arm of the seat, slowly, one thick finger at a time.

Raven gritted her teeth. "Damian, please."

"Make me."

"Make you?" Raven blinked rapidly.

She could barely believe the words she was hearing him speak aloud.

"Yes." The white teeth sparkled brilliantly against his deep skin. "If you want me to move so badly, why don't you make me?"

"Oh, I see." Raven smirked. "Are you finally making the change from a man-child to an actual child?" She retorted with her arms folded. "Long overdue, if you ask me."

"Yes, Raven," Damian echoed. His tone grew steadily more self-righteous. "I'm a child. And this child can sit anywhere he wants on his "PJ"."

"No. I am not going to stand for this." There were some things that were inexcusable. And this was one of them. "I know it's yours, but please - never call it that again. It's a private jet. It is not a PJ -"

Damian continued his tirade, as if she hadn't spoken. "And this child wanted his apartment, but of course you had to have your way there, as well."

Here we go.

Was this whole maneuver some ploy to seek petty revenge? "Fine." Raven retorted. "You like your planes and your cars, but Damian: Why won't you just find another apartment?"

"I'll have you know, I do have other things I desire - things that are not solely materialistic." Damian appraised her openly and received a series of smoldering embers. "And for the record, I have found a place..."

"Well, good." Raven mumbled. "That's great..." She tried again, but she was overtaken by an odd sense of loss. "Really great." The apartment was a source of guaranteed discord between them; it was something they bickered about consistently. And though she was happy for him, they had built up a rapport on top of this (supposed) slight. What would become of their banter without a collective source of contention? "Was yours also your first?"

"My first...?" He curiously searched her. "The first apartment I bought on my own - yeah." With the lessening of crackling static, the air in the cabin had begun to shift.

"Congratulations..." Raven offered. "Our firsts, they're always milestones..." And she swallowed. "So, I guess we can move on."

Damian repeated wistfully, "you want to move on from this?"

"Yes." The pale girl exhaled, relaxing her posture a fraction. "You lost the place you wanted initially, but maybe this one will be better?" She flicked the arm of his seat coyly. And Raven couldn't resist the compulsion to get one last dig at Damian. "Though, I doubt it." She hissed. "Second. Place."

"There." Damian growled, as if she had proved his point. "It's because of that..." He paused. "You say you want to move on, but you don't." Then he sighed, carving a rough hand harshly through his hair. "I - want so badly to like you, Roth. But, you just can't resist pushing my buttons. And gloating."

"I don't gloat, I'm confident." Raven spat. "And confidence comes from knowledge and experience, not arrogance." She was a CEO after all.

"Alright, bravado is good in business..." Damian licked his lips. "But, does that over-inflated ego satisfy you at the end of the night when you're alone in your office?"

Her dark bob shook at the lecherous undertone. "What are you getting at, Wayne -"

"You alone in your office, Roth..." His voice, it had gone dark and decadent. "Sliding off your Jimmy Choos under your desk and sinking back into your chair... To slip a hand up your thighs under one of your tight pencil skirts..." An angry flush was rising on a pale face. But her body warmed at his words, as it, like her eyes, found Damian a pleasurable point. And it too betrayed her. "Or how about in bed? I bet when you finally lay yourself down on top of those thousand thread count sheets, it's just you and your bloated ego. Does it manage to keep you warm at night?"

"Actually, yes. It does. But, thank you once again for your overly-invested concern." It was true about her ego. But if it ever didn't, she had a steady rotation of men to do it for her. "If you think you're going to shock me, you can't." She deadpanned. "Think about me alone, quite a bit, Damian?"

"You didn't answer my question..." The beautiful smile was cruel. "Raven, I'm not talking about the... uh, toys you've collected to keep you warm. I mean, have you ever had a real relationship?"

"Are you prying to prove a point?" Raven raised a brow. "In case you were asking "for a friend", you should know that, I have."

"I find that hard to believe." Damian scoffed.

As if.

"I think you're... projecting." Her heartbeat surged as she countered. "Wouldn't be the first time."

"There's that misdirected overconfidence making you assume things again."

"Misdirected? No, I think... you've never been in a relationship." Damian glared, she could even see his nostrils flare. "No... I know you haven't. You wanted to find out if I had been though... You've also mentioned, what did you call them... my toys - several times before now. So the question is why?"

"It's not as a big deal as you're making it." He rolled his eyes and settled back into his plush seat, facing away from her. "You're delusional."

Damian wanted to end this; he knew he was going to lose. But Raven was not going to end this. Not yet. She faced him. "So you're obsessed with my love life? I think I know why."

"I'm not doing this with you," He growled. With a click his seat belt came undone. "You're off base, Roth. You're not as perceptive as you think." Damian motioned to his temple.

Raven realized faintly that she did indeed "make him". But she no longer cared about that.

No. This had become so much more.

"I'm every bit as perceptive as I think I am." Pale hands unbuckled her own seat belt and inched closer. Damian started to rise, pulling out his phone, suddenly finding it fascinating.

"Sit down, Damian." Raven forced him back down into the white leather, and his phone clattered to the ground. Damian probably could have overpowered her, but he allowed it, just like she knew he would. "You wanted to sit here, this plane is your real estate, so don't change seats on my account. I'll accommodate you."

"You're - crazy." Wide emeralds darted around madly.

"Yes, I am." She leaned on either side of his arm rests. Raven had caged him in. "You knew that already. And yet you keep inviting me out."

"What are you doing?"

"Proving my point." She gripped his hair in a fist. As his cool façade cracked. The faintest hint of pink rose up his cheeks, as he glared at the floor. Damian refused to meet her eyes, but she wanted to see it. The seconds leading up to the break, when he gave in to her. Raven pulled his hair back with a devious, self-satisfied smirk, forcing him to look up.

In what was so obviously a last ditch effort to keep his pride, he growled, "Roth, I'm warning you. If you don't get your highfalutin manicured talons off me -"

"You'll what, Wayne?" His Adam's apple dipped down again. Damian was all bark and no bite when it came to her.

They both knew that.

"Do it, Raven. By all means, test me..." Underneath, she could hear a faint plea masked by his harshness.

"I bet you'd like it if I did." And Raven knew he longed to see what she was up to.

Raven concentrated on the widening stare of deep jade, finding herself transfixed. That unique shade, so much darker and more dangerous than dollars. Damian's dollar bills... She could recall to mind a certain photo shoot. But in her mind, it was decidedly less philanthropic.

Damian Wayne. Hard and sculpted under taut, rich caramel. Supine and outstretched. Enticing with nothing but dollars sliding down his decency. Down and down they fell... Raven licked her lips, feeling famished after that huge meal. But in a way that was more carnal.

"What the hell are you staring at anyway?"

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oisaaac · 4 years

Text

“ Six feet under ”

Pairing: Crowley x Reader

Summary: Crowley decides to pay a little visit to his one and only love.

Warnings: angst, character death, sad boi crowley

Notes: English isn't my native language, so sorry for any mistakes this hasn't been proofread either.

This is very out of the blue and maybe a little cliché idk, but i hope some of you enjoy it nonetheless <3

kinda off from the original show plot but try to bare with me uwu

inspired from billie eilish's song 'six feet under'

Help, I lost myself again

But I remember you

Thick heavy grey clouds shrouded above the cemetery as if it read Crowley's mood. It was the same heavy weight he felt everyime he decides to pay you a visit. The same weight that seems to get heavier as time ticks by.

It had been a year since you died. A year that seems to be dreadfully longer than the time Crowley stayed above earth.

It was always a reminder for him how different his celestial form is from a human being like you. You always joked around that he had to see you die at some point—with grey hair and wrinkling skin while he didn't age even a bit, yet look where he is now.

He didn't expect it to come too soon, too fast, too sudden and too painful. It made him think what was really God's ineffable plan? He couldn't even ask it himself. Besides it was ineffable after all.

He should've seen this coming though. A demon falling in love with a human? Both of you knew things can't get normal. For one he was an immortal under a lot of circumstances and you on the other hand was—fragile. The moment you saw the bright light when you were brought to this world you were already hanging on a thin thread. Surviving for only a small barrowed time. Crowley always thought it was some kind of inside joke made by God, a very cruel joke.

Small droplets started to fall down from the sky as Crowley stood looking at the flowers he have in his hands.

You would've loved this. He thought to himself kneeling down on the moist grass, not bothered by the uncomfortable feeling of the contact with his jeans before staring at your grave stone.

It still feels unreal for him, seeing your name precisely carved on the stone which made his heart wrenched.

Retrace my lips

Erase your touch

It's all too much for me

But Crowley knew he would rather feel the pain in his chest over and over again rather than forget about you even if he could never be the same when he was with you.

His closest friend Aziraphale felt pity for the demon, but loving someone always has a cost to pay and he could only give much reassurance to his dear friend. Besides, he was somehow at fault considering you died in his shop trying to help him. Crowley didn't blame the angel though, knowingly you wouldn't either, but that didn't stop him from blaming himself and giving the silent treatment to the angel (which Aziraphale understood where he was coming from) for months. You would have opposed to if you knew, knowing their friendship was one of the strongest bonds you had ever seen. Luckily they were good now yet Crowley still needed more time to mourn.

You were always so kind and gentle, one of the traits Crowley loved about you. Good or bad you seem to look surpass every label knowing it was more than just what they perceive. To you Crowley isn't just the demon who had fallen to spread evil, he was your Crowley; your sassy kind hearted loving demon. He never wanted to have such vulnerability, but he let himself otherwise.

Of course he didn't regret any of it. He would need to die first before he ever regrets choosing a path with you in it. Even if he knew the moment you walked in Aziraphale's bookshop clumsily waltzing in his life only to bring this kind of pain he was currently feeling he would never choose of you not being a part of him. If only he could have had more time just one more second to see you smile, to feel your soft touch, to look directly into your loving eyes that made him feel like he was home. It sometimes brought Crowley anxiety with the thought that he didn't deserve what he was feeling with you—the joy, appreciation and love, yet you always said that he did, he did deserve happiness but the tragedy that comes with it had come unforeseen.

Blow away

Like smoke in air

How can you die carelessly?

Why did you have to go inside? Why didn't you just wait for me. You were human afterall. You weren't built to withstand heavy flames and thick smokes. You've always been so reckless for the sake of others. You knew it was dangerous, but you risked your life nonetheless.

Crowley laid the flowers near your headstone before he caressed the letters of your name closing his eyes trying to remember every detail of your face.

"Just for a second. If you're really listening to everyone's prayer then bid mine. Just for a second. Look at me you've foresaken me and let me fall into the pit yet here I am calling out for you." He looked up calling out to somebody, something or someone who was listening to his mantra. "Please!" He choked through the verge of tears. "I love her. I'll always will. If this is my sin then punish me for eternity, but let me see her just for a second." The only response a low rumble of thunder and finally the heavy clouds opened its gates letting the rain freely fall from the heavens camouflaging Crowley's tears.

They're playin' our sound

Layin' us down tonight

And all of these clouds

Crying us back to life

But you're cold as a night

It was no use. You're gone. The pain settled in his chest eating his insides. It was his punishment after all.

Crowley was soaked by the time he was snapped out of his small trance. He fixed the flowers on your grave before putting the individual red rose in the middle remembering how much you loved that red flower then grabbing the old ones to dispose them before standing up and taking one last glance of you until his next visit.

He whispered his promise that he would come back over and over for the rest of his eternity, he had all the time in his hands anyways.

Six feet under

I can't help but wonder

If our grave was watered by the rain

Bloom

Again

Crowley turned around to head over his bentley only to be met by your e/c eyes. He didn't even realized his grip on the flowers loosened as he blinked once, twice, more than enough to make sure he wasn't seeing things while raining and there you were like an epiphany standing on your red dress drenched in rain smiling like an idiot at him. You took deliberate steps closing in the gap between the two of you while you kept your eyes locked on his yellow serpent eyes that you grew to love.

"Y/n," Crowley whispered still trying to figure out how.

"Crowley," You put your hand on his cheeks caressing his wet skin with your thumb. You didn't even understood how, but you were happy. You missed him so much that you didn't say another word and just leaned in connecting your lips with his he didn't respond at first, but slowly he recognized you. It was really you, his beloved y/n. He had so many questions hanging on the back of his head, but he didn't dare to utter any of them. He didn't want to let you go and waste whatever miracle it was that brought you here.

All the muscles in each of your bodies molded into one. You and Crowley were in sync like a melody that you both practiced over and over again. Your hands made its way on the back of his neck tangling your fingers on his wet ginger locks, Crowley's hands gripped you tight yet at the same time gently trying not to break you under his touch. The intensity of yearning and all the other emotions that comes with it all swirled into one.

Out of breath you both parted staring at eachothers eyes. "I love you too." You softly spoke your truth.

Maybe whatever was up there was really listening. Either way Crowley held on you to the very last second of your borrowed time.

"We'll be together again someday." You reassured him while you smiled. Crowley just studied your face and for the first time in a while genuinely smiled and was happy. And it was enough as goodbye for the both of you... for now.

Help, I lost myself again

But I remember you

Kinda long A/N: honestly idk what to feel about this if its good or not in my 19 years of existence i always wrote fanfics imagines and stuffs but usually i usually put it up then delete it later because i dont have any confidence of my work but im trying again. this is my first time posting in tumblr though.i hope this is good, like it gave you feels because it did when i wrote it. please don't kill me that i made crowley straight oof 🥺 sorry for any mistakes again! thank you for taking time on reading this and if you reblog and press the heart thingy thank you so much i will love you forever 💕

#crowley x reader #crowley #anthony j crowley #good omens #david tennant #aziraphale #crowley imagine

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itspenisparker · 7 years

Note

could you do a follow up to the baby osterfield one where tom and reader now have a kid and they tell haz and his wife they're having another or something?

Alexander toddled after Robin, babbling complete nuisance. You cooed after him, watching the chubby toddler make his way around the garden. You and Tom had the Osterfields around for the day, nothing unusual, but pleasant nonetheless. The warm summer sun allowed you all to venture out to the decking, lounging on the furniture. You had spent a majority of the day out here, and you watched as the children continued to play. Robin Osterfield had recently turned three, and was considerably quicker than Alexander Holland who was turning two next month, yet they were already the best of friends. It made you all glow with pride, seeing your boys already developing such a strong friendship. Rachel and Tom were putting away the paddling pool, seeing as you didn’t want the kids in the actual pool, not just yet. The paddling pool had allowed you all to continue your chats, no one has to stay near the pool itself.

“How will Alex like the plane?” Harrison mused, sipping his beer. His dark shades took up most of his face, but the skin which was uncovered had slowly become pink, seeming as the gentleman had refused to put on appropriate sunscreen, declaring when first coming out here that he wouldn’t burn. Everyone else had put it on, had lavered the children head to toe in the stuff.

“Probably hate it, but Tom’s the one taking him,” you smirked, watching your husband fail once again at putting the paddling pool back in its box. Rachel stood back, giving him pointers on what he should be doing, but Tom didn’t listen. No, Tom was now shoving it in, grumbling expletives as only half of into the box. He dubbed that acceptable, throwing the box in the general direction of the shed before stomping his way back over, Rachel laughing as she followed after him.

“Why can’t you come with us to L.A?” Harrison quizzed, picking at a loose thread on his shorts. “You love America.”

“I know, but I have some stuff to wrap up over here,” you sighed, shuffling over in your seat as Tom came and sat next to you. His arm fell around your shoulders and you nuzzled closer, “but I will be coming out in a couple of weeks.”

“What’s this now?” Rachel sat on the seat next to Harrison, picking up her own beer.

“L.A,” you and Harrison replied together, “Harrison is complaining about why I can’t fly out with you guys,” you continued.

“But we’ve explained why?” Tom chuckled, “or is he sad because it means that he’ll actually have to help me carry my stuff?”

“I’m not your assistant anymore, Holland,” Harrison grinned. It was true. Harrison was soon spotted for a role on a Netflix show, and once Marvel saw his talent, they scooped him up, casting him as the next Johnny Storm.

“Who makes more money? Oh yeah, me,” Tom pointed at himself with a smile.

“Only because you basically replaced Robert,” you pointed out, prodding his ribs. He jerked away, squealing. You couldn’t help but laugh at how ticklish he was.

Alex got interested by the tickling and waddled over, making his way up the small steps. He wasn’t the most steady on his feet, but once he got running, he wouldn’t stop. He came over, arms wide, asking to be picked up, squealing also just to ensure that he was noticed. Tom pushed away from you, picking up his son, cuddling him close, “you can’t tickle me now,” he giggled, blowing raspberries on Alex’s bare stomach. “I better go and get him dressed actually,” Tom decided, holding Alex out at arm's length. He was still wearing his swimming costume, little sharks decorating his trunks, and as the temperature started to decrease, Alex would feel the cold very soon. So, Tom got up, tickling Alex as he went.

“Just wait until they get dressed themselves,” Harrison chuckled, tossing his son a shirt. Robin picked it up, tugging it over his head before going back to the mud. His shirt was on wrong way round and inside out, but at least he had it on. Harrison shrugged, drinking more from his beer as Rachel rolled her eyes, yet didn’t bother going to correct her son.

“The fans are going to love him,” you mused. So far, whenever possible, you all have kept the children out of the limelight, at least until they had some form of a personality. Tom wanted Alex to come to L.A, it was promising to be a long shoot and he couldn’t bear being away from his son for so long. Usually, Nikki and Dom looked after their grandson, with frequent video calls to his parents. But this time, he wanted his boy there. You weren’t overly busy this time you're needed in L.A, and the days you were, you could take the boys with you. Rachel would have them, but last time that Robin had gone in a hair and makeup trailer, he had ended up crying and needed too much attention.

Tom came back out, Alex now wearing a sweatshirt with his Spider-Man PJ bottoms. He loved those things, screaming the house down if he isn’t allowed to wear them. Robin has a pair also, and a pair of Fantastic Four ones, but he preferred Spider-Man, much to Harrison's dismay and Tom’s delight. Tom was playing one handed pick-a-boo with Alex as he walked over, his son howling with laughter, causing Tom to laugh which caused Alex to find the game even funnier. Tom sat down, and Alex rocked backwards and forwards with laughter on his dad's lap.

“Is that your new jumper, baby?” You cooed, getting your son's attention. He nodded, determinedly, tugging on the shirt proudly. “Do you want to show Uncle Haz and Aunty Ra?” Another nod, a confident “yes”, and down Alex crawled from Tom as he excitedly went over to Harrison and Rachel. He held out the bottom of the shirt, looking down at his belly, trying to read the font upside down. “What does it say?” You prompted, gripping Tom's hand.

“Big … Brotha to bee”, Alex read out, looking up as Rachel squealed. She covered her mouth, looking over at you both with wide eyes, Harrison slowly taking off his sunglasses. Alex decided he got bored of the adults and made his way back over to Robin, who was now lying, sprawled out on the grass.

“No way,” Harrison stated, taking off his sunglasses. Tom grinned, looking smug. “No way,” Harrison repeated.

“Yeah, we decided another little tike would fit in, we’ve got the room for it,” Tom motioned around, the large gardens and the massive house. It was true, you did have the room for another, possibly more.

Harrison stood, Tom mirroring him also, “you little shit,” Harrison cursed, pointing at Tom, “you want to outnumber us!” Tom laughed, you did also. “Honey!” Harrison grabbed Rachel's hand, “we must compete. To the bedroom!”

Can you tell I love this concept so much? Gah! Also, I adore the thought of Harrison being Johny Storm, so ofc had to include it.

(The ‘to the bedroom’ part was inspired by Jared Padalecki when he discovered Jensen Ackles was expecting twins)

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