#except for that one post with willow on her hands and knees after eating the charcoal that was a good post

[the-valiant-valkyrie]

anyways i think it should be punishable by death that when we got the pirate skins we received klei approved roles for who would fill what niche on a ship and we've yet to do ANYTHING with it yet. we should all be drawn and quartered. we should all walk the plank

[queenxxxsupreme]

Hello, there. I hope you're feeling better. I saw your post about wanting soft Eskel blurbs and I would love to read goat dad tending to a field of goats. Like tooth rotting, diabetes inducing fluff. The fluffiest of fluff.

A/N: I hope you like this babe!!

***

One of the goats bleated loudly, catching Eskel’s attention. He looked up from the fence he was working on to see Gus, one of the kids you’d taken in over the summer, standing a little ways away from the herd that lingered near the witcher. 

Usually Gus didn’t stray far from Gertie, a brown calf, and Gus’s best friend. Gertie served as Gus’s eyes since the baby goat was born blind. 

“Gus? What are you doing?”

Gus bleated loudly, panicked that he didn’t know where his friends were. 

Lil Bleater made herself known, trotting to Eskel’s side and butting her head against his knees. 

“That’s rude.” Eskel patted her head, then went to Gus. 

The kid bleated again just as the witcher was scooping him up. 

Eskel placed Gus down by Gertie, then returned to the fence post he was fixing. Before he went back to work, he looked around to do a quick headcount of all the animals. There were three baby goats, Gus, Bastion, and Junior; one adult goat, Lil Bleater; two stallions, Ghost and Scorpion; Willow, a donkey; and Gertie, a calf. 

He smiled a little, content that no one had wandered off. 

Willow suddenly brayed, her ears pressing flat against her head. She was warning Eskel- and anyone else within hearing range -that someone was approaching the house. 

Eskel could hear it too, the sound of hooves on dirt. He almost panicked. There was more than one horse, more than one rider. No one ever came down the dirt road that led to your home. It was a deadend. There was no reason for strangers to stray that way. But then the witcher heard a familiar voice. It was his brother, Lambert, and Geralt was with him. 

Eskel began to move down the hill towards the house. The fence prevented Willow from charging the two intruders. She brayed as loud as she could until Eskel patted her flank. 

“Easy, girl.”

Her ears remained down against her head but she no longer brayed. 

Eskel watched as the two witchers came to a stop just a few feet away in front of the fence. 

“Look at you.” Lambert grinned. “The first ever retired witcher became a farmer.”

“I’m not retired.”

“Not yet.” Geralt got down from Roach first. 

Eskel easily scaled the fence and jumped down on the other side. It was easier than going to the gate and trying to squeeze out without letting one of the kids out. 

“Good to see you, brother.” The White Wolf tightly hugged Eskel, clapping him on the back.

“How did you find me?” Eskel asked as he pulled away from Geralt and moved on to Lambert. 

“Someone saw us in town. Asked if we were looking for another witcher.” Lambert explained. “Thought we’d swing by and give you some hell for retiring.”

Eskel smiled a little, happy to see that his little brother hadn’t changed in the years since they last saw each other. 

“Is that Lil Bleater?” Lambert asked, pointing at the old goat and moving towards the fence. He leaned over it, reaching down to pet Lil Bleater’s head. 

“Sure is.”

“Damn.” 

As Lambert was petting Lil Bleater, one of the kids, Junior, bleated and tried to headbutt Lambert’s hand. When that didn’t get the witcher’s attention, Junior resorted to biting at Lambert’s fingers. 

“Ouch! You little shit!”

“Lambert, meet Lambert Junior.” Eskel grinned, leaning against the fence. “We call him Junior.”

“Little bastard.” Lambert muttered, scowling at the kid as he bleated again. 

“We?” Geralt repeated, crooking one brow. 

Eskel brought his eyes to the witcher, nodding just a little. A faint smile came to his lips. 

“I’ve got someone I want you to meet. Both of you. Follow me.”

***

The three witchers walked across the large green yard that separated the field from the quaint little stone cottage that rested in the edge of the woods. 

“Take your boots off before you walk too far in.” Eskel told them as he pushed the door open. 

“Take our boots off?” Lambert repeated, scrunching his nose up. “I don’t take my boots off for anyone.”

“Take your boots off, or you’ll be the one cleaning the floor.” There was a teasing tone to Eskel’s threat. 

Lambert muttered a few curse words under his breath but did as told. 

“How’d you come across this place?” Geralt asked, looking around the small room curiously.

“There was a cockatrice problem. Three of them took to the town. Managed to take them down, but got a few new scars from them.” Eskel pulled his shirt up to reveal his side. Cutting across his side from his hip to his ribs was a thick, jagged scar. It was much paler than his sun kissed skin. He started to lead the way down a narrow hallway. “Heard the healer in town was exceptional.”

“Eskel? Who is it you’re talking….” You trailed off as Eskel came around the corner with the two men behind him. You stopped in your tracks, lips parting as you took in the sight of the two intimidating men. The dark haired one was lean, but still tall and muscular. The white haired one seemed to be built very similar to Eskel. Broad shoulders, thick muscles. 

“Y/N, these are my brothers.” Eskel gestured to each witcher as he introduced them. “Geralt and Lambert.”

A fond smile came to your lips. You put the rag in your hands down and moved towards them. 

“It’s so lovely to finally meet you gentlemen!” You didn’t shy away from hugging both men. 

Lambert’s eyes widened and he looked to Eskel for help as you wrapped your arms around him. 

“Y/N saved my life two years ago.” Eskel leaned against the counter and crossed his arms. “Had to stay here for a couple weeks to get better. By then, I didn’t want to leave.”

“You make it sound like I kidnapped you.” You pulled away from Geralt and then moved towards your witcher. You put your hand on his arm, smiling happily. 

“What are you making?” Eskel looked over to the pot hanging over the fire. It smelled like something was burning. 

You cursed and moved over to the pot, stirring the soup. 

“Will you boys be staying for dinner?” You looked back at the two witchers. 

Geralt and Lambert shared a little look, then looked to Eskel. Lambert crossed his arms, shifting in his spot. Eskel nodded once to Geralt’s silent question, telling him you were trustworthy. 

“We’d love to stay.” Geralt answered, bumping his shoulder against Lambert’s. “Wouldn’t we, Lambert?” 

“I’m always down for free food.” 

***

After dinner, the sun had gone down and you insisted Geralt and Lambert stay for the night. 

Eskel took his brothers outside to round up the animals and put their horses in the barn with yours and Eskel’s.

You worked on cleaning the kitchen, humming softly and moving around.

“Doll, I told you I’d help you clean when I came back.” Eskel spoke as he walked into the kitchen.

“I can get it.” You assured him. “Where are they?”

“Still outside. They’re discussing plans for tomorrow.” Eskel moved around behind you. You turned your head to watch himm, a smile coming to your lips. His arms snaked around your waist, pulling you back into his body. “Junior has taken quite a liking to Lambert.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah. Keeps trying to eat his boots.”

You laughed, leaning back into Eskel. 

He nuzzled his nose into your neck, eyes closing as he let out a soft breath. 

“Thank you.” He murmured against your skin, tickling you just a little. 

“For what?”

“For being so…. welcoming to them.”

You turned around in his arms, hands brushing up along his forearms. 

“They’re your brothers, Eskel. I’d treat them no different than how you treat my sister.”

“But it’s…. It’s different with us.” He spoke quietly, eyes flickering down.

You brought your hand to his jaw, fingertips brushing along the side of his face. You pushed a few stray pieces of hair behind his ear.

“I know it is.” You gently said. “And I’m so sorry it is.”

He pulled your hand from his face and pressed a kiss to your palm. 

“I love you.”

“I know.” You smiled. “I love you.”

He leaned in to kiss you but just before your lips could touch, he was pulling away and cursing under his breath.

“What’s wrong?” You asked, brows drawing together as you watched him move towards the front door. 

“Willow is chasing Lambert.”

Taglist: @pressedinthepages @mishafaye @whitewolfandthefox@wolfyland07 @belalugosisdead @persephonehemingway @keira-hulmaster @dinonuggs69 @greatestauthorofmygeneration@shadow-hunters-lover @dancingwith-thesunflowers @tedi-fach-las @thecomfortofoldstorries @raspberrydreamclouds @natkowaa@disasteren @weathervanes-my-oneandlonely @onlyhenrys@wackylurker @criminaly-supernatural @magpie343@permanently-exhausted-witcher @hina-chans-stuff @the-space-between-heartbeats @havenoffandoms @carriebee1 @ger-bearofrivia @naominami @writingawaymylife@reaganjenelle@theawkwardpedestrian @scarlettwitcher@badassspaceprincess @just-a-sad-donut @summersong69 @an–actual–human–disaster@rubyqueen819 @omgkatinka @c-a-v-a-l-r-y @vonxcon @mazakeen @bravelittlesunflower @thereagles@awkward-turtles-world @menalliha @cotton_mo @maan24 @she-wolfoftheinquisition @titaniafire

[nanoland]

posting this again in a shameless bid for attention (the usual 2-3 people who already give me plenty of attention pls ignore and also i love u <3)

(Also on AO3.) 

Clean Hands, part 4

Crowley/Dean Winchester/Castiel

Warning: Demon deals, violence, mention of abuse and torture. Also: Crowley is an abuse + addiction survivor and also a cold-hearted arsehole with very little respect or empathy for abuse + addiction survivors, and this story is written from his POV. 

0

What was there to be done when you were enamoured of a man who hit you?

Leave him! the whole world cried back in one voice.

Which was a bit like telling someone trapped in a burning car to get out of the car. Yes. Quite. Thank you. Fully agree. But what if, for a moment, you assumed I wasn’t as stupid as a fucking dog?

That, incidentally, was one of a handful of ways the world had worsened since Crowley last drew breath.

Back in the fourteenth century, the women in the marketplace had noted his black eye and torn dress with immediate understanding. Instead of insisting he pack his bags and walk out of the house belonging to his wealthy shoemaker husband, the father of his child, the man on whom his safety and good reputation and continued ability to eat depended, the man he, for some fucking reason, still loved, they’d actually tried to help.

Sybil had given him willow bark for the pain. Rose had engaged him in long, rambling conversations, stretching the minutes until he had to return home. Jane had walked across the village and rapped on his door every evening she could, always armed with solid excuses, just when the bastard was well and truly in his cups and looking for something to damage.

If ever analytical minds were to try to account for Crowley’s misanthropy and sadism, they couldn’t honestly conclude that either was due to his never experiencing true, heartfelt human kindness.

Yes, Sybil and Rose and Jane had all thought he was a woman and addressed him accordingly, and it had hurt. But that wasn’t their fault. He’d not had the courage to tell them otherwise.

Crowley didn’t regret much. Regret, in this game, was a slow-killing poison.

Still, he did occasionally wonder how things might have turned out if he’d accepted Jane’s invitation and fled with her to London that one warm night, rather than hanging in for years until he finally snapped and beat his husband’s skull into tooth-sized pieces with an iron kettle.

Returning to the present:

As Crowley watched Dean’s fist barrel towards his face, and not for the first time, he reviewed the pros and cons of incinerating him with hellfire.

When fist and nose were one millionth of an inch apart, he teleported across the room.

“Squirrel,” he sighed, “this has nothing to do with you.”

Dean charged and took another swing at him. “Fuck you! He worked so hard! Clean for four years, you piece of shit!”

This time, Crowley reappeared sitting on top of the dead man’s wardrobe, where Dean couldn’t reach him. “Good for him. His family and friends won’t remember him as the thieving, lying wretch he was ten years ago when he sold his soul for a pound of meth. They’ll probably give him a nice funeral.”

“Why couldn’t you make an exception? Just once?”

“That’s not how this works, Dean! It wasn’t even my deal! The contract is in the hands of a relatively inexperienced subordinate and honestly, I’m glad that she pulled it off. She’s got potential. This is her first real win. It’ll increase her standing in Hell and make her more powerful, which will be useful because some older demons have taken to bullying h-…”

“I don’t give a damn about your minions,” he snarled, picking up a lamp sprinkled with blood and throwing it at him. Crowley ducked. “Every last one of you can take an angel blade to the face, for all I care. You’re fucking parasites.”

Evenly, Crowley replied, “Yes. We are. You know that. You’ve always known that. Why are you having a fit about it now? Good people get dragged to Hell all the time.”

Dean stared down at what remained of Martin Booke, now that the hellhounds had left. “He worked so hard. Christ. You could have made an exception. He came to us and I swore I’d help him out.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have cocking well done that, should you?” Crowley cried, throwing up his hands.

Eyes wet, Dean sneered at him. “Parasite. Get out of my sight before I wring your evil neck.”

Crowley left.

Upon arriving back in Hell, he went to the Admissions Department.

The soul of Martin Booke was sitting in one of the cheap blue plastic chairs, knees drawn up to his chest. Probably still reeling from the trauma of the hounds ripping his throat out, though no damage was evident on his form now.

“Mr Booke,” Crowley said, sauntering up with his hands in his pockets. “Could you come with me, please?”

A door appeared in the nearest wall and swung open silently.

Once they were both standing inside Crowley’s office, it swung shut and dissolved into nothingness.

Moving to his liquor cabinet, Crowley said, “I hear you’re a Harvard man.”

“Um… y-yeah. Yes. I was.” Thin voice. Midwestern accent.

“Promising career ahead of you before things – ah – went awry.”

Booke swallowed. “Tom. First boyfriend. Got me into meth. Got me into a lot of stuff. I figured it was okay because we were gonna be together forever and as long as I had him, I’d be fine. Then he went and died and I had to pick up the pieces on my own.”

Smiling thinly, Crowley said, “Isn’t romance grand? As it happens, you may still get your happily ever after. Thomas Abbott is currently waiting in the eternal queue – which, ordinarily, is where you’d be headed.”

“Yeah. Dean told me. Although… um…”

“You have a question? Spit it out. Cowards bore me.”

“Dean said that when you sell your soul, you go to Hell and demons torture you until you become a demon. But he also told me about the queue thing. So that’s confusing. I mean, queuing sucks but it’s not torture.”

Crowley poured himself a glass of bourbon and sat down behind his desk. “Clever boy. Yes; when I became King of Hell, I restructured things. Most of you end up in the queue. The hot knives and whips are a speciality service and, as such, are reserved for our elite clientele. The pedos and Nazis and so forth – and, of course, anyone who pisses me off too much. As for the process of becoming a demon; that doesn’t actually require torture. I know! Surprised me too! We always thought it did, back when Lilith was in charge. Then I started running some tests and it turns out that becoming a demon is a bit like catching a virus; it’ll happen to anyone who hangs around other demons long enough. Everyone in the queue will have black eyes by the end of their first century.”

Booke took off his glasses and nervously rubbed them on his sleeve. “You said that ‘ordinarily’ I’d go to the queue. So am I an – uh – ‘elite client’?”

“Hah! No. Your little life was staggeringly boring and barely impacted anyone in ways either negative or positive. No, the reason you’re here is Harvard. See, I had a snoop and it seems that before you dropped out, you were getting bloody good grades.”

A wistful smile. “I guess. Had big dreams, once.”

Sipping his bourbon, Crowley said, “On track for a Master’s in aeronautical engineering, I believe.”

“Yep. I wanted to work for NASA.”

“Cards on the table, Booke: I might have a job for you. There is, at present, space in one or two of our departments for a man with your talents. But first I need to ask a question.”

He cocked his head. “Um. Sure? Anything’s better than what I was expecting. Shoot.”

“Do you know how to crash a spaceship?”

[antennae-agency]

Chris was writing again.

It was terribly annoying whenever Chris wrote. It was always late at night when Sophie was asleep, which would’ve been fine, if Sophie was actually asleep half the time. And he always hit the keys so hard.

He’d done this just about every night since the two lived in the dorm. Every night and whenever he got free time. Quite frankly, Sophie was a bit sick of having to listen to that awful tapping for hours each night.

What’s a ladybug to do except find out what her idiot insomniac roommate is up to?

So she rolled out of bed, albeit reluctantly, and slumped onto the couch beside said insomniac grasshopper. Chris was sitting cross-legged on it, in the same stupid livid sweater he always wore, hunched over into his laptop screen.

“So,” Sophie started, “What’cha writing, Chris?”

“True crime,” Chris answered, looking up at her, eyes bright despite the hour, “I run a blog and I post a new true crime case to it once a week. This one’s about the Willowville Four, do you know who they are?”

Sophie shook her head.

Chris beamed and leaned back. “Oh, it’s so interesting. So, it happened over in Willowville.”

“Got that much,” Sophie responded, “Branches, or?”

“Willowville Branches, yeah!” Chris responded with a nod.

“Eat the rich.”

“Yes. Anyway, there was a family of five ants who lived in the Willowville Branches, they’re called the Oake- and that’s Oak with an e- Family. Two parents, three kids, right? Dad was Ash Oake, mom was Willow.”

“Oh, awful choice on the parents and also eachother,” Sophie dryly stated, “Your last name’s already Oake, you don’t need more trees.”

“First they had one daughter,” Chris went on, not acknowledging her statement, “Named Birch, and then they had twins, boy and girl, Aspen and Spruce. They had a normal childhood, and Birch had this moth best friend who went by Lilac. Lilac was raised by their mother, who’s name is Georgie. Birch and Lilac were around fifteen, the twins about ten, adults in their forties, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Georgie was hopelessly in love with Ash.”

“Oh, no,” Sophie commented, shifting to put her knees to her chest.

“But!” Chris went on, turning back to his notes, “Ash loved his wife, of course. So, what’s a widow to do but get a knife…”

“Oh, no.”

“Break into the Oake home…”

“Oh, no!”

“And fucking stab Willow Oake to death.”

“Dude….” Sophie whispered.

“I know, right!” Chris exclaimed, flailing his arms excitedly, “Here’s the thing, though! Aspen and Spruce saw Georgie do it!”

“Dude!! She’d better not…”

Chris shook his head, “She did.”

“Dude…” Sophie said softly, voice downcast, “Imagine killing a lady and then killing two of her kids…”

“Awful, awful,” Chris responded, “Ash wasn’t in the house, by the way. He was, uh, at work. Anyway, Aspen and Spruce of course knew who Georgie was and also knew that their mom was dead so, witnesses. Birch, of course, heard her siblings screaming and came downstairs and saw the mother of her best friend driving a knife into her siblings.”

“God…” Sophie sighed, closing her eyes and pinching the space between her eyes.

“And Georgie did this in the kitchen where the phone was. And, because this was the 80s, Birch herself didn’t have one. So, she ran out of the house and headed toward the nearest phonebooth, and Georgie followed.”

“What, and there weren’t any witnesses?” Sophie asked, “I can’t imagine a blood-covered moth running down a street holding a knife is a very normal sight.”

Chris turned to her and smiled mischievously, “She was a cinnabar.”

“What the fuck!” Sophie exclaimed.

Chris laughed, “Right! Anyway, Birch made it to the phonebooth and dialed 911 and told the dispatcher that she just saw her family get killed and the murderer is on her tail.”

“What’d the dispatcher tell her?”

“She told her to get to somewhere more populated and hide, and once she was there, call the police.”

“Did she?”

“Of course,” was all Chris said, eyes gaining a spark of mischief, “But. That was the last sighting of her.”

“Ah, man…” Sophie commented.

Chris nodded, “Going back to Lilac for a sec, they had really bad anxiety and was nervous being home alone. And their mother was gone for about an hour at this point, so they called the police themself to report her missing.”

“I bet they were pissed when they found out what their mother was up to,” Sophie responded angrily.

“Mhm! Before police could make it though, they got a call from a private number who informed them of a cinnabar moth who had weird, dripping red spots wrapping something into a leaf. They also noted they saw something shiny beside them, and thought it was a knife. Of course, Lilac reported their mom as a cinnabar moth, so they wrote that down as a possible tip. They also tried to call Birch, because they knew their mom was going over there, but the phone never got picked up.”

“I imagine that made them freak out more,” Sophie commented.

“Right,” Chris said with a nod, “And Birch always answered the phone, she was on it. So they told the police that and, because the Oakes were rich, some officers went right over. The door was unlocked, but because they needed consent, they called Ash. He was worried and let them in, and started to come home.”

“And in the home they saw an adult dead body and two kid dead bodies, god…” Sophie added, more to herself than Chris.

“That’s right. So they filed two missing persons reports- one for Georgie and one for Birch- and one search for a serial killer. They told Ash his family was dead and he, of course, was devastated. Then they connected the cinnabar moth to the murders and started investigating.”

“How bad was it?” Sophie asked, “Like, just a stab or two?”

“Oh, they looked like they got mauled by a dog.”

“God…” Sophie sighed, “Imagine killing a mother and two children and attacking them so brutally it looked like a dog did it…”

“Awful…” Chris whispered, “The good news is, Georgie did come home and Lilac was very happy to have her back. The bad news is Georgie was very focused on comforting Ash through all this and Ash was having none of it… Then guess what.”

“Huh?”

“Georgie mentioned that Aspen was wearing a white shirt with a heart stitching in the front, and was sad she got killed in it, because it was her favorite.”

“Okay?”

“...Aspen was mauled so badly it was stained red and no one could make out the heart.”

Sophie blinked and stiffened, staring wide-eyed at him. “...holy shit.”

Chris smiled and nodded, “So, Ash turned her in, and, under pressure, she confessed to killing Willow, Aspen and Spruce… she also confessed to killing Birch.”

“Dude!!” Sophie exclaimed, sadly.

“Little did they know, a restaurant in Willowville Roots reported a stuffed leaf on their roof and didn’t unwrap it. Police came by and, inside it, was the body of Birch… guess what her autopsy said.”

“What?”

“Her cause of death was a broken neck and suffocation. Georgie stabbed her, wrapped her up and threw her off the branches. She was still alive until she hit anything.”

Sophie sighed and shook her head.

Chris nodded and only spoke again after several seconds. “Georgie got tried for the murders and Ash sued for emotional damages and she got a life sentence without a chance of parole… oh, and this is gonna make you real angry.”

“I don’t think I can get more upset.”

“She hung herself within the first week.”

Sophie shot her legs out and angrily slapped her thighs. “Fucking don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time, bitch!!”

Chris laughed quietly at her outburst. “There is a happy ending, though.”

“Please.”

“Ash ended up adopting Lilac.”

Sophie smiled softly and patted her chest. “Good. You know,” she went on after a moment, moving her hand back down, “She kinda reminds me of the Cream Killer.”

Chris made a sound and gave his arms one good movement, “You’re right! I need to do her.”

“I don’t know if you’d have much, still don’t have her name.”

Chris hummed thoughtfully.

The Cream Killer was a moth who lived in Daffodilville, south of Barbelville where Chris and Sophie lived. She killed butterflies exclusively- thus cream killer- mostly women, though she had a good list of children and men too. She had at least thirty victims, and she was only caught roughly eight years ago.

Chris huffed, “I still remember when they caught her. My mom came in, switched off my cartoons and then threw me out of the room.”

Sophie laughed, “I saw it. It was wild,” she then huffed and stood up. “Can you try and type a bit quieter, I really want to sleep. Your major might have to do with crime, but mine doesn’t.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m doing this for my major,” Chris responded with a light laugh, “But okay, I’ll try, I’m sorry.”

Sophie yawned, “Keep up the good work.”

Chris smiled to himself, “Thanks, Soph…”

[colorofyourhair]

None So Blind

Prompt:

Prompt Rating: T

Note: Requests are currently closed. I will make a post with guidelines when they are open again. As tumblr is the only site that will let me list an individual rating per chapter I’ll rate them as content demands. However the larger compilation on both FFN and AO3 are rated M.

I don’t know that I’ve ever written something this long in present tense before. There’s likely errors.

Also posted here:

FFN

AO3

The knock is lighter than she expects – and lower. Erza doesn't like to think on how well she knows her own front door or how often she analyzes a visitor's knock, but she's an expert. Lucy is always perfectly polite and never assuming. Natsu's knocks are fast and usually accompanied by a touch on the doorknob before he remembers it's Erza's door and not Lucy's. Wendy's hands are small and her knocks quiet. Jellal's are distinct. Not quite formal but never casual. He doesn't assume she'll let him in, though, she wishes he would. She wishes he'd stop knocking altogether. Jellal is always welcome.

This knock is new and hesitant. Not low enough to be Wendy but not exactly Lucy either. Erza never uses the peep hole so when she pulls the door open she is surprised to find Meredy. She smiles but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Meredy glances over her shoulder quickly and Erza can't help but follow her gaze. The figure waiting in the trees is easy to pick out.

“I'm sorry to disrupt your evening, Erza,” Meredy says, pulling her attention once more. “But I have a bit of a situation.”

“Situation?” Erza's eyes stray back into the trees and unease settles heavily in her stomach.

“He doesn't trust anyone else but you,” she whispers, her expression falling completely.

“What is it?”

“I'll let him tell you about the why and how. I'm just presenting the what. He's blind. I don't know if it's permanent. He won't talk about it or what happened –” Meredy looked back again and her fingers twist in the flaps of her cloak. “Can you help him? Look after him a little until he's more comfortable?” Erza sighs and steps over the threshold. She shuts the front door behind her and slips her feet into a pair of sandals she reserves for lazy days when she only goes out to check her mail.

“Thank you for bringing him, Meredy,” she says. “I'll handle it.”

“I know how much he'll appreciate it,” Meredy says under her breath as they approach the garden fence. As she turns to head down the road away from Magnolia, Erza waves and sucks in a breath.

“We'll see how much he appreciates it,” she mutters to herself. Jellal is standing amid the drooping branches of a willow tree. His fingers brush between the leaves and though he's not quite facing her, Erza can see his lips twitch into a small grin. “Oh, Jellal,” Erza says with a dramatic sigh. “I feel like every time we meet, one of us is damaged.”

“Maybe it's just our way.” He turns toward her voice but it's not quite right. Erza steps to the side and takes a hold of his wrist. Jellal's eyes are covered with a bandage and she frowns. “It looks worse than it is.”

“How do you know how it looks?” She smiles when he laughs softly.

“Because Meredy feels the need to remind me everyday that I look just fine so I assume there's something shocking.”

“It's not shocking.” Erza's hand slides down into his and she tugs lightly. “Come on. If I'm to take care of you properly I can't have you brooding beneath the willows.” Despite the bandages over his eyes, Jellal turns his face toward the sky.

“Will it rain soon? I can smell it.”

“I think so. There's clouds on the horizon.” Erza leads him across the dirt road and beyond the garden fence. “There's a step up. Be careful.” When they're inside the house, she turns to him and lifts his hand to the hooks lining the front hallway. “You can leave your cloak and boots here. Do you need help?”

“No, I can handle my clothes.” His cloak hangs crookedly and his shoes are half out into the walkway but she doesn't correct him. Instead, she takes his hand again and leads him into the kitchen.

“Are you hungry? When did you last have something sustaining?” Erza pulls out a chair for him and positions him in front of it. He sits awkwardly but doesn't let go of her hand.

“Define sustaining.”

“I'll take that as a confirmation you need something to eat.” She leaves him at the table and only glances back at him to make sure he hasn't wandered off. She realizes too late that she doesn't have much in her kitchen except a roast Mirajane left her with the day before. If she intends to host Jellal for more than just this one day, she'll need to go shopping. For now, though, she serves him a plate of the roast and leaves him to eat on his own.

Erza sweeps through her house tidying even though she knows he won't see any of it. She stops in front of the hallway closet containing spare blankets and pillows. The dilemma makes her heart race. Should she put him up on the couch or...

If he's allowed to sleep alone in the living room and needs to get up in the middle of the night, he could hurt himself. However, if he's close by she can make sure he has everything he needs. Erza chews on her lip before closing the closet door empty handed. Having Jellal in her home for an undetermined amount of time was such a rarity that she can't stand to waste.

When she turns around, he's standing at the end of the hallway with one hand on the bookshelf. Erza startles and he smiles.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“You didn't. I just didn't hear you behind me. Did you have enough to eat?”

“I did, thank you, Erza. I hope it's okay that I came to find you.” Though his eyes are covered, he still directs his face to the ground. “The layout of your house isn't a thing I'd forget easily. And It seems I've developed a stealth along with the blindness.” She isn't sure he's joking until the dimple in his left cheek makes an appearance. Erza grins and takes his hand. Her impulse is to correct him. She considers the house theirs – even if he doesn't live there yet.

“I'll draw you a bath.” Somewhere between the bookshelf and the bathroom, his fingers slide between hers. It is always this way with him. She turns around and he's there. No preamble. No warm up (she supposes there's been nearly two decades of warm up). He's just there making her heart pound and cheeks blush.

She switches on the water and gathers towels for him. Over her shoulder and out of the corner of her eye she sees him tracing his fingers over the various surfaces of the bathroom. The sink. The wall cabinet. The mirror, towel rack, and window sill. When he's mapped the room, his hand falls to her shoulder. His fingers brush the side of her neck and his expression is carefully blank. She can't tell if he misjudged the distance or if he intended to touch her so close to a sensitive spot.

Erza covers his fingers with hers and spins around so his arm circles her shoulders. She wants to help him out of his clothes. She wants to kiss him. She wants him to kiss her. He might've if he weren't impaired – injured? Jellal has a system of boundaries. He's trying to let her all the way in but sometimes he's not in the right place. Usually when he comes to her he's there. That's when he kisses her and touches her and stays in her bed. But the bandages over his eyes muddy her perception and gage. She won't push him. Blind or not, if he wants her, he will come.

She isn't a pushover, though. If he wants the couch instead, he should be very sure of his mental map of her home.

Her fingers brush over the bandage where it touches the apple of his cheek. He doesn't turn from her but she won't assume.

“Do you want to take them off yourself?” she asks in a whisper.

“I think maybe –” He pauses and his fingertips move against her neck. They seek out the wispy hairs that have escaped her ponytail. “I don't want to be alone. I don't know what's happening under the bandages.”

“Alright.” Erza arranges his towels on the edge of the sink and positions him on the edge of the tub. She isn't sure what to do – medical treatment isn't her forte – so she washes her hands. When she turns back around, he's removed his shirt and his pants have been unfastened. If he were to stand, she is certain they'd fall. She hasn't been a virgin in a while, but she still blushes.

Jellal's face is still a blank slate and Erza steps between his knees to find the edge of the bandage. His hands tighten in the folds of her skirt that brush his knuckles. He hasn't displayed this kind of unease in a long time. With barely restrained impatience, Erza unravels the bandage. The tail end touches his shoulder and he flinches. His eyes are shaded by a swirling, dark film. She's so relieved she exhales a breathy laugh.

“Is it so bad?”

“No.” She quickly kisses his forehead in reassurance. “Will you tell me how this happened?” Jellal sighs heavily and leans into her middle. His hands finally release her skirt and he wraps his arms around her waist.

“Maybe you can help me decide if I did the right thing or not.”

“Maybe.”

“I want to wash it all off me, though. I can't think straight.” He sighs again when her fingers card through his hair. “I'm so tired.”

“Have your bath and I'll get you some clean clothes. Then you can come to bed.” She hesitates to give him room to object. He doesn't. “Please call if you need anything.”

Jellal nods and Erza leaves him alone in the bathroom. She grabs the dirty bandages on her way out.

He doesn't call for her and when he appears in her doorway with his fingers lightly touching the frame, she smiles. Jellal's eyes are open and his lips are slightly parted. His eyebrows are dented and Erza keeps to herself how much she enjoys the expression on his face.

“You made it,” she says, crawling across the bed and pulling the blankets back. He approaches slowly with his fingers splayed. There's no wall for him to follow here. Erza slides off the bed and takes his hand. “Do you feel better?”

“I do.” She turns to get back in bed but he pulls her into his chest. “I'm sorry you have to nanny me.” Erza can't contain her amusement any longer and she laughs out loud. She brings the palms of her hands to his cheeks and rises up on her toes to kiss him.

“I'm not nannying you. I'm looking after you while you're vulnerable.” As much as she likes his arms around her, she knows he's tired. He doesn't sleep enough when he's out there roaming around. “Come to bed.”

He doesn't speak again until the lights are out and her hair is slipping through his fingers.

“I did something,” he whispers. “I don't know if it was right but it was important.” Erza waits. She lets him take his time. Language is important to Jellal. She is fluent in his subtext. “Natsu said something to me once about freedom. He was right but I may have expressed it wrong.”

“Can you give me a little more context?” Jellal is quiet but she can feel his fingers curling and twisting the strands of her hair.

“My guild is growing.”

“Ah.” Erza isn't unaware of these things. She has nothing better to do with her time now that she's not acting on behalf of a guild. “Do you respect them?”

“I do. I want them to understand that freedom doesn't mean tethers to the past or things they've been conditioned to do.” The only sound in the room is the rain beginning to fall. His thumb brushes over the edge of her jaw and she catches his wrist in one hand. She leaves a kiss on the soft side. “I made my point the way Natsu often does.”

“With your fists?” She laughs softly and his smile is a thing she feels inside of her.

“More or less.”

“Is this how you were blinded?”

“Yes.”

“Jellal –” Erza closes the gap between them and tucks her head under his chin. She fits against him perfectly. “I'm hardly one to judge making decisions with your fists but my advice is simple. Don't be the chains that bind them. I trust you. Meredy does too. Trust them. And trust yourself. You have a good heart but you aren't perfect. No one is.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Say the right thing all the time?” Jellal yawns and the last of her hair falls from his fingers.

“I used to know a boy who always said the right thing to me when I needed to hear it. I don't think he knew how special he was. I keep hoping he'll remember.” She pulls away and brushes a kiss over his lips.

“Maybe he's just a little rusty and is still working things out.” His eyes close and Erza settles back into her place in his arms.

The morning brings more rain and thick clouds. As it turns out, Jellal's mapping skills extend beyond her house. He knows every curve of her body and his fingertips remember everything his eyes can't see.