#i think i'd like mother mother's music i refuse to listen to them out of spite bc theyre super popular in the playlist sphere

[starswallowingsea]

speaking of character playlists, i am going to relisten to my rinne playlist

[luxlightly]

A story, while I'm thinking about technology and the demonization thereof in relation to child raising:

When I was a kid, we had a little mini tv with a build in vcr and later another with a built in dvd player. We'd set it up between the back seats of the car so me and my sister could watch movies together on long car trips. And it was lovely. It made trips so much easier and more fun.. Sometimes we'd hook up the gamecube to it and play games. Sometimes I'd play alone, sometimes my sister would play. Sometimes we'd listen to audio books together instead. Sometimes we'd separately listen to music.

My point being that we had a lot of technology on these car rides.

Later in life my step mother would brag about how *her* children *never* watched movies in *their* car" and how she *refused* to get a car with a built in dvd player and screens. She was so proud of that. Her kids were forced to "appreciate the sights" and bond as a family.

Of all my memories of childhood, those long car rides are some of my fondest. My sister and I singing along to a movie while my mom drove. The fact that my mom knew almost all the lines to one without ever knowing what the main character looked like. Staring out the window at night while listening to music. Listening to an audio book we got from the library before the trip. They're some of the moments I felt the strongest connection to my family members.

14 hour trips in a car with small kids are more often than not a nightmare. It was for my stepmom, for sure. But my mom prepared us things to do. And made sure she had ways to engage with us no matter what it was we were doing. Because if you make the effort to be interested in your kids and your goals when giving them entertainment of any kind is for them to be happy and comfortable, not just quiet and out of your hair, then you don't have to force family bonding to happen. Sometimes bonding is sitting in comfortable silence together. Sometimes it's you and your sister cupping your hands around the screen of a tiny televisionto keep the sun glare away while you watch lord of the rings on the highway.

I guess my point is that if you're focusing too much on individual physical things, whether it's over reliance on or willful abstaining from them, you lose sight of the fact that it's how and why you use those things that your children remember and what shape their experiences with them and with you.

[lucreziaq2001]

•TV show: "Criminal minds".

•Content warnings: Mentions of teen pregnancy, cheating done by a boyfriend to his girlfriend, them basically breaking up, the boy not having told his parents his former girlfriend is pregnant because he is scared of his father's reaction and him breaking the promise to marry his now ex girlfriend and also refusing to be a part of their soon-to-be-born baby's life (even suggesting adoption, with the mom refusing) despite the baby's mother's attempts to convince him to be in it, her threatening to tell his parents about the baby and him warning her that things would be better for her if she didn't do it basically.

•Yes, I know that even as teenagers, Derek and Penelope wouldn't have done something like this, but that's what I needed them to do for the sake of the story.

•I also know that in "Criminal minds", Derek's father died when he was 10 years old, but here, for the sake of the story, he is still alive.

•I was the one who named all the girls at the institute except for Emily and JJ, by the way. None of them had their name said in "The goodbye room".

•DISCLAIMER: I'm absolutely not trying to say that mothers who choose to give their babies up for adoption are bad moms or don't love their kids. What I'm saying is just that Jennifer has wanted her baby from the moment she found out he or she was coming, so even without Derek's support, she wants to keep him or her. That's it.

•Tags: @lex13cm, @golden1u5t, @rynwritesreid, @reidmeister, @justalesbianwithsomegayshit, @thatonewritersstuff, @marril96, @c-m-stuff, @criminal-addict.

Between their two hearts

Chapter 13: Cheating and threats

On June 10, 1968, the young women who lived at Saint Bridget's got to do another outing in town, and while there, Emily, Jennifer and two other girls, Rachel and Joanne, decided to go into a record store.

They didn't intend to buy anything, also because they didn't have a lot of money with them, but they did intend to look around and listen to the music playing in the shop.

"Look what I found!" Jennifer exclaimed at a some point, running towards the other girls "We can record our voices with this!".

Then, she, Rachel, and Joanne started to sing, pretending to record themselves, and Emily couldn't help but smile at that funny and cute sight.

Suddenly, however, after singing just a few lines, Jennifer stopped and began to stare at a place in the shop, not far from where they were standing.

"What's wrong, Jennifer? Are you okay?" Emily instinctively asked her, immediately getting worried about her friend.

"Derek..." the younger girl whispered, immediately walking towards her boyfriend, whom she hadn't seen in almost a month.

"Jennifer, I didn't think I'd find you here" he replied, evidently as amazed as she was.

"Why don't you wait for me in the car, Penelope?" he then told the blonde girl standing next to him.

"She is very pretty" Jennifer commented, clearly saddened.

She had almost immediately understood that Derek and that girl weren't just friends.

"I hadn't heard from you in a long time" her now former boyfriend replied, as if that justified him starting a new relationship while he was still with her.

"Have you been able to tell your parents about the baby?" Jennifer asked, basically ignoring what he had just told her.

"No" Derek told her, shaking his head "I can't get married. Not now."

"But you said you wanted to do the right thing. You promised me!" Jennifer protested, but Derek didn't really listen to her.

"We are only 17!" he exclaimed "We are kids!".

"Yes, and soon, I will be a mother" the girl replied "You have to tell them immediately".

"I can't do it" Derek said once again "My father would kill me".

So, trying what in her opinion was the last resource she had to change the boy's mind, Jennifer took his hand and placed it on her round belly.

"Here" she then told him with a smile on her face "Can you believe it? Your son or daughter is kicking".

"Jennifer, stop it!" Derek exclaimed, taking his hand off his former girlfriend's stomach.

"What can I do?" she whispered.

"You could give him or her up for adoption" the boy suggested, since he was only looking for a way to get out of that difficult situation at that moment.

"Absolutely not! He or she is our Sunshine" Jennifer retorted, horrified at the mere possibility of leaving a child she already loved and wanted so much.

"But I don't want to be a father now!" Derek protested, not realizing that he no longer had an actual choice in that regard.

"You already are" Jennifer responded in a firm voice "And if you don't tell your parents, I will".

And after saying those words, she called her friends over and left the shop with them, without looking back.

Derek tried to tell her to come back more than once, and also to warn her not to try to say a word about the baby to his parents, but she couldn't hear him anymore.

She was firm on the decision she had made, and in her former boyfriend's mind, now there was only one way to solve that problem.

[futurebird]

My mom hates fiction.

My mom is a really strange person. Not least of her oddities is that she insists that she "hates fiction" -- You'd think this would have upset me more growing up being a kid who was interested in nothing more than making up stories, the more fantastical and detached from reality the better, but it never really bothered me.

There is a kind of villain archetype in children's fiction: the evil one who hates imagination and probably also bright colors and laughter. My mom is nothing like that. Although she does like mathematics, and space documentaries better than any novel. When I still made her read all the stories I'd write she'd always sigh and say "I don't understand why you can't write about something that's real?" I'd try to explain that all the stories were as good as real to me. And I'd get nowhere.

A vivid memory: a long car ride down south, driving at night. We couldn't get the radio to work. No music, no local news. We decided to tell stories to pass the time and keep whoever was driving awake.

I just sat there bursting with ideas hardly able to listen to the other stories. (I'd like to think I could be more mature than that today, but... I can't make any promises.) Everyone told a story and then we got to my mom.

My mom tries to tell stories we already know like "Little Red Riding-hood" and everyone angrily vetoes this choice. "No no no you have to make up a story!" "I can't just... make up a story." "Yes you can. Just make one up. It could be about anything." "... I just can't. How about I tell you the story of David and Goliath--" "NOoooo! Make one up!" "I've never been able to do that."

As a child, I flat out refuse to believe this is true. I remember being angry that she was keeping her story a secret for no good reason. Because, in my mind everyone had a story resting on the tip of their tongue. Threatening to come out if invited or not!

Everyone has to have stories, right? Maybe my mom's stories just didn't seem enough like the goofy over-the-top fantasy and sci-fi tales everyone was telling in the car that night, so she didn't think we'd like them? Maybe. So we moved on to the next person but that always stuck with me. The idea of not having a story just bursting out of you... desperate to be told was confusing. And I wondered if that's really what it was. Everyone has to have stories, right? Maybe my mom's stories just didn't seem enough like the goofy over-the-top fantasy and sci-fi tales everyone was telling in the car that night, so she didn't think we'd like them?

Maybe growing up with 4 very artistic & creative siblings made her feel like giving up on such things: just focusing on her mathematics?

What are people saying when they say "I don't have an imagination?" or "I don't like fiction."

I don't think it's as simple as them being boring people, since the people who say this, in my experience, are far from boring, far from uncreative too. The creativity comes in other places-- but, its there. This is specifically about stories--

--or the kind of thing that people expect when we say "tell me a story."

Sometimes? I feel like I agree with my mom. I enjoy documentaries more than fiction-- a lot of popular fiction is so full of the world and all of the ugliness in the world. Mass media can get me down, the tropes, their predictability get me down. I try not to lean into this too much, I don't want to seem pretentious, after all. But, mass media can be very boring from a certain perspective.

It takes a kind of creativity to breathe life back into it. Like how people online fabricate all of these elaborate backstories and intrigue for characters in mass media. That seems like the only way to have fun with those stories. Maybe my mother just had a bad case of that?

Or maybe it's something else I still will struggle to understand.

So here I am fascinated by the claim of "having no imagination"

I need to write about it!

If you are such a person can you say a little about what's really going on?

[midnightxscape]

i'm reading a book rn which is the sequel of another, but it's the exact same story, except that it's from the other lover's perspective. And basically, one of the main things that character goes through is the loss of his grand-father, and how close he was to him. So, now, in this book with his perspective, there are flashbacks of moments with his grand-father, going out for ice-cream, exploring parts of the city they live in together, listening to music, just spending time together and his grand-father being so full of love and care. And the more i read, the more i want to cry. Because i constantly see these tight-knit relationships that grand-kids have with their grand-parents be it in the media or in real-life, and that makes me ache so badly. Because i never had that, and maybe i'm romantizing the living shit out of this, all the while being aware that it's not always perfect, but i feel like i'm missing out on one of the purest forms of family love that can exist. My paternal grand-parents died when i was quite young and i have very few memories with them. My maternal grand-parents were always there when i was growing up, and i'd stay at theirs when my parents were at work, and quite frankly, i think my love for walking and nature has been instilled in me by my grand-mother. But other than that? Yes, i had a roof over my head, but i think that's when i first started feeling out of place. I recall never being able to talk, fearing my grand-father's snarky remarks, the ways they'd always compare my cousins and i, how they'd constantly criticize everybody. I remember walking on egg-shells when my grand-father was there, staying as quiet and discreet as possible. I remember his angry demeanor, his angry words and the ways he'd judge everything. I remember how strict he was and how i just wanted to disappear every time he was home.

And now i'm well into my twenties, and every now and then, i'm struck by how much my grandparents don't love me, or at least, i don't think i have ever felt loved by them. My grand-mother says "i love you" when she hangs up the phone, and i don't believe it. I can go months without seeing them, and i don't even miss them. I'm angry at them all the time, for the shit they pull, and the drama they refuse to see and/or cause. When i'm left alone in the room with my grand-father, i don't know what to talk about, and then i see how easily my sister makes conversation with him.

I think more than anything, i always long for the feeling of belonging, of being loved for who i am, and not masking that in any way. So when i read a beautifully written storie about a queer boy whose grand-father was his biggest supporter, i ache in ways that feel like tiny paper cuts on my soul.

[hotdrinkluvr]

I was talking to this guy about art and such, stuff I said before about ideas I have like the crime scene thing. Conversation dies down and I ask him what his newest script is about and he says, "I won't tell you my idea since you won't tell me yours." Because I'd previously refused to tell him about what new stuff I'm working on. I reply, "OK. Well I don't really care anyways, I'm just being polite." Which was true, I really couldn't give a shit what he's up to. There was a tangible moment of silence where he seemed genuinely hurt, and then confused whether I was sarcastic or not, which I found very amusing. Shockingly to no one, he ended up telling me anyways because all men really want to do is talk about themselves. He said he loved movies about women's struggles, I let him talk for a while and I really couldn't help smiling because everything he was saying was so damn amusing. His sudden transparency and unearned trust in me was so apparent. I'm not sure if he was trying to impress me or not, but our little conversation certainly had me thinking about how much some men are just little boys. It was like I was his mother and he was showing me a drawing he did in school or something.

He kept asking questions about my artistic process and I think all of my answers disappointed him. He asked how long it took for me to think of my crime scene idea, I said "maybe two hours". He said it sounded like I'd thought about it for a while, I said "I haven't thought about it that much really." He asked me what I do to become inspired creatively, I told him "I don't know." Because I truly don't. He said he listens to rain sounds and the music from taxi driver, I said "I guess I listen to Boards of Canada." Which is sort of untrue, I listen to them mostly when I'm just wallowing. He asked me about something I apparently said before about a fly or something, I said "I don't remember what you're talking about." Because I didn't and still don't, I told him "I don't think about what I've done in the past or will do in the future, I just do what I'm doing now." Which is pretty much how I live nowadays, most of the time anyway. My memory has steadily declined, and I found its made me a more stable person. But it also makes me feel close to nothing unless its in the moment, so its been a struggle to create art recently because I'm just not feeling that often. And when I do it doesn't last long.

I reflect back on this conversation because it continues to amuse me, a man who I'd previously viewed as some philosophical film snob was suddenly creasing into a little boy who has apparently thought about me for weeks (I told him about the crime scene idea over a month ago). He remembered more about my idea than I did, he's remembered conversations I can't even remember. I appreciate him, because now I feel a certain encouragement to actually create something worthwhile, something to put effort and thought into. Its weird to have someone actually interested in my art, even if he hasn't seen it. I want to make something I'm proud of, something tangible, and it all thanks to this snobbish scorsese worshipper unknowingly boosting the hell out of my ego.

[sleepynegress]

Dave Chappelle is the exact kind of man that abused me. He's the man that "slaps the queer out of you" and laughs and laughs, except a grown man just hit a kid. He's someone who'll scream homophobic abuse in your face, but if you try and ask to be treated right, suddenly you "can't take a joke". He's the man who threatens your mother because "boys don't need soft shit." I think a lot of people are very familiar with men like him.

Okay. This may be a long response...But I have been thinking a lot about the dichotomy of a black man, who can be considered a thinker, who literally ran away to Africa because he felt so much discomfort at the idea of his white audiences laughing *at* him and black people, vs. him...SAYING and believing, and worst -proliferating and enabling others to feel normal inflicting violence upon queer people. So. Here are the conclusions I've come to about this entire thing (bulleted because ADHD and I'd be here all day w/o it)

● Chappelle is an old "Unc-ish" black man who thinks he's still being edgy by reciting his old black man fears and insecurites to an audience who (he thinks) is shocked by it in a way that makes him "brave" for "telling the truth of what many feel" vs. being one of many very common and typical people, who age w/o growth w/ the social changes in society... i.e. those you see fold their arms and complain about "new words" like agender, them/they, et al, instead of just learning how to use new words.

● You see... Here's a secret of aging that no one tells you. Everything you knew "back in the day" even if you were empathetic and loving enough, strong enough to see and combat regressive hatred back then/go against the grain.... Will shift for new generations. And lately, so much for the good of marginalized people... i.e. undoing the normalized harassment, dismissal and hatred of marginalized queer folks back in specifically Dave Chappelle's day. The simple truth of it is this: Many people age and lament the loss of normalized cruelty. And many (thankfully, these are the elders you see w/o 'the old man yells at cloud' vibes...) simply change w/ the evolving norms.

● Dave. Refuses to grow. Point blank. His fame and privilege and his personal sense of thinking he's being "old school black and honest" helps w/ that.

● There are also many toxic specifically 'black' masculine traits that he has swallowed hook-line-and-sinker; rooted in ancestral trauma/memory. Specifically in black men, hat has caused many to adopt many of the thought processes of yt masculinity, i.e. misogynoir, and homophobia, while pretending it's some kind of super-black man b.s.

tl:dr Many black men flex extra hard in toxic ways to compensate for all the racial humilations they've dealt w/ in history and day-to-day. I've seen many an angry black male elder who went through Jim Crow, pass that ish; that righteous anger in sadly toxic ways, to their male children. And I've seen many elder black woman spoil their black sons (i.e. not teach them to respect queer people because the bible) to "make-up" for the hardships black men would experience in life.

● I guarantee Dave grew-up w/ that. A specific black male youth experience, in his day of listening to homophobic and misogynistic music and chatter from friend-groups trying to "date" i.e. mistreat as many black girls as possible to puff up a deflated sense of masculine self in dealing w/ cops pulling him over for nothing but melanin. ...A certain kind of black male "cool" that acts as a shield for those normalized racial traumas.

● Dave still traffics in and peddles the old style of "cool" that has evolved past him (shout-out to Lil' Nas, the entire cast of POSE, etc.), to the point where all that remains are dull, baggy eyes and a voice ruffened by all the weed smoke over the years. He is an old man standing still, in the singular "black" good old days...that doesn't know or want to know shit about the black queer community that also had to carve out an existence in those days.

● That is where his stubborn transmisogyny comes from. And why he can seperate the fact that he literally ran from people laughing past the joke because he realized it was at black people's expense...from throwing trans woman (many of whom are also black...intersection what??) under the bus of all the violence inflicted upon them, with that TERF head-ass bullshit.

● And one more thing... because I am also on twitter and it disgusted me to witness... So many transphobic black people on that platfrom were wiping their brows in relief at being able to parlay that into a misdirect at "anger" at yt trans woman co-showrunner of Dear YT White People for it's lacking show quality and *successfully* squashed the transmisogyny at the heart of the discussion around Dave. ...That shit irked me to no end. So, queer community. I hear you, I see you all. I love you. ....Especially my trans black brothers and sisters. I'm a demi elder black woman who feels incredibily fortunate to have had the life experiences and perspectives necessary to still *see* people and grow in that seeing every year I exist on this earth. That is *not* an experience everyone gets or WANTS to get, sadly. There is a certain kind of stubborn safety in aging and staying in what is already known to you, while crossing your arms and scoffing at all the "changes". My message of wisdom, is DO EVERYTHING YOU CAN to NOT do/be that.

[noa-ciharu]

oh wait i have more! ranpoe,

Who's the cuddler: Ranpo definitely, Poe likes it too but is way way more shy about his wants and longings. Not to mention even after a whole year of relationship his brain still short circuits for a second or two when embraced or hugged. RIP Poe but Ranpo is just built differently.

Who makes the bed: Ranpo is a person who won't get up from chair to get sweets and bullies Atsushi or Tanuzaki to do it instead. Not even in a parallel universe he makes bed. So yea, it has to be Poe otherwise bed would never in lifetime be in proper state (both from sleeping and ya know...)

Who wakes up first: Poe, because there's no explosion loud enough to wake Ranpo up when he falls into deep slumber. At those moments he takes the only chance to sneaks a peek at Ranpo (especially when he's relaxed and not on implicit guard as when awake) free of self-consciousness and unsurety as his stare would remain undetected. Poe cherishes those moments. He always let's Ranpo sleep for way longer than what's deemed proper.

Who has weird taste in music: neither, but for different reasons: Poe genuinely has no interest in any music other than classic one or one's that suit his writing style (mystery + crime + detective tropes). Ranpo on other hand, he simply refuses to listen to "anything below his standard", but deep down is tempted to. Once Dazai came into agency with radio on arm, blasting on pure trash, Kunikida was out at that time but when returned 30 mins later chased Dazai into oblivion. Still music wormed itself into Ranpo's brain but he'd rather die than admit it.

Who is more protective: hm tought one: Poe sure would be protective but 1) if there's an active threat to Ranpo's wellbeing he'll challenge it and be more upfront 2) if there's no active threat and situation is safe he'd turn into mother hen but would be really awkward and at lost what to do. Ranpo on other hand, he'd become much more serious and quiet as he keeps on planning how to eliminate that person from existence. Quiet terrifying of him I'd say.

Who sings in the shower: Ranpo does sometimes, not too often. Also nothing fancy or opera-alike, just humming lyrics without any firm intonation or rhythm. Nevertheless Poe likes to hear it.

Who cries during movies: if either if them cries it's due to frustration of how many plotholes the movie has. Neither of them can be normal about films, be it popular ones, cliched ones or crime detective ones they find a first plothole in movie's intro. God forbid they ever go on movie double date with some other couple they'll drive them insane. Also they got kicked out of the cinema ones for exact same reason, plus Ranpo couldn't understand why he had to shut up, wasn't it better to let people know how bad the movie is?

Who spends the most while out shopping: Ranpo definitely, mostly on sweets. You only the saying "same content just different package"? Well Ranpo doesn't because he keeps on buys 10 same chocolates just the wrapping looks different. Poe himself doesn't spend much but sometimes some fancy equipment for writing catches his eye, but he decided he objectively looking, isn't in dire need of it. Ranpo is quiet shapr and ofc pays attention and each time a week later said item appears at Poe's door.

Who kisses more roughly: I don't think they're a couple that has roughness high on their intimacy types list, but that's not to say they can't be from times to times a bit forceful and over the top passionate with each other. Since both are competitive, I'd say that's where roughness can kick in (especially if they have some mind battle as prelude, oh the sapiosexuals) but they'd be equal on that part.

Who is more dominant: hm, I'd say Ranpo, in terms of personality, demeanor, affection and sexual activity. However on mental chesgame and solving mysteries I'd say they're equal. However Poe too has competitive and bolder side that's rarely seen, but always as a response to something Ranpo said or did, so it's possible for him to take more active role as well, just under special circumstances.

My rating of ship from 1-10: 7/10 for fellas is it gay to write a fanfic of both of us novel for 6 years to impress my future bf rival. In bsd rival is a queer code for your honour they're not only idiots but also in love: not only did they choose home of sexual but dumb of ass as well. Also fellas is it gay to be detective, whose privates are you investigating? Other men? And both of them said yes, God bless.

Send me a ship and I'll tell you:

[kirieshhhka003]

may i have yandere yasuho headcanons? i'd prefer both sfw and nsfw but i get it if you don't wanna do nsfw for her

I love this girl SO MUCH!!! Thank you for your request, my dear anon💚

Warnings: yandere behavior, possessiveness, stalking, blackmailing, manipulation, NSFW

Yandere! Yasuho Hirose headcanons

If Yasuho falls - she falls hard. I think even canon Yasuho has some yandere tendencies, she acts like a total lovestruck bimbo around her darling, it’s not a secret to anyone that pink-haired has at very least deep affection for darling

Even if she wants to kidnap darling, keeping them away from everything and everyone, having them just for herself, Yasuho won’t do that. Firstly, she doesn’t have enough resources to provide darling with everything they need - Hirose can’t just lock them up in her house, her mother would be a big threat. Secondly, even if she does abduct her darling and captivate them - she’ll destroy every kind of bonds that exists between them. Would someone love their captor? Of course not, so girl spends a few weeks trying to make another, not that harmful for darling plan

So, Hirose’s plan is to make darling fall for her, make them crave for her attention and love. She’s a sweet pretty girl, it wouldn’t be a big problem to charm darling and make them grow liking her. The main problem is her feeling for them - Yasuho wants to look cool and collected around darling, but how the hell is she supposed to act so indifferent when her biggest crush is in one meter away from her, looking her straight in the eyes and giggling at her inane jokes??

Yasuho is the type of girl to get along with all of darling’s friends, so that she can easily join all their parties and hang outs, absolutely not being suspicious and keeping an eye on her beloved one. “Oh, you guys are going to the cinema? I’ve been waiting for this movie to be finally released for so long, can I please join you?”

Yasuho will use Paisley Park on her darling without any hesitation. Scour their phone and laptop, reading all their chats and having full access to all information about their private life. It also applies to all darling’s close friends and relatives - she does it not only to have control over their interactions with darling, but also to research them and their behavior, so that Hirose can understand what she should expect from those people

If darling are already in relationships with someone else - well, all I can do is to with them luck because oh lord, how much Yasuho hates them. She’ll roam all their chats, all gadgets, just to find literally anything that can be harmful and provocative. And hell yes, does Hirose find it! Once pink-haired girl has compromising evidences like suggestive chats with others than darling, or nudes - she’ll blackmail darling’s partner until one: they break up with darling and leave Morioh, two: end their life. And yes, Yasuho is not opposed to bringing someone to suicide, if it gives her chances to win darling - she’ll do it without any hesitations

Pink-haired also uses her stand to get to know darling better. Music they listen to, games they play, manga/movies/tv-shows they search for in Google - she looks through ALL their search history, keeping every smallest detail about her beloved in her mental journal, so that approaching darling would be way easier

It’s most likely that darling will end up in relationships with Yasuho. This girl is persistent, especially when it comes to her love interest, so she won’t give up even when her beloved rejects her feelings. Of course darling’s refusal would fully devastate pink-haired, but some time later she comes to terms with this situation and makes a new plan of winning their heart

NSFW

Remember when I told that Yasuho rummages darling’s search history? Yes, she uses it to ascertain what porn darling prefers, and be sure that pink-haired has watched every single video. She does it to find out what kinks her beloved darling are into, what they like and what they don’t

Yasuho would be the best sex partner darling ever had in their life. I mean, she knows all of their kinks, and she’s also a switch. If darling wants to be dom - pink-haired gladly can be the bottom one and vice versa

Soft dom energy!!!! Hirose has problems with keeping her composure, so when it comes to sex girl just lets her emotions go. She whispers praises into darling’s ears all while worshipping every inch of their body, littering soft kisses all over their skin. It doesn’t matter for her if darling are tall or short, chubby or thin - they’re perfect and Yasuho won’t ever get tired of saying it again and again

Masterlist | Smut Masterlist

[angrylizardjacket]

it's in the blood // this is tradition

Summary: Children inherit all sorts of traits from their parents. Not all these traits are good.

"My reputation preceded me before I was born."

[ charlotte & lola au ]

A/N: 2292 words. Halsey's new album killed me on the spot. i talk a lot about the next gen being mirrors of their parents, but i'd like to go into detail about that not necessarily being a positive. @misscharlottelee this made me feel things. i love these kids.

Warnings: overdose mention, addiction discussion, mentions of drug abuse.

Penelope Dingley-Lee

Tommy can count the amount of times he'd seen Razzle truly angry on one hand, and here and now he can see it again, written all over his neice's face. He'd thought she would look like Charlie when she's angry, and occasionally she does, the way her lip curls derisively, dismissively, that's very reminiscent of his cousin, but here and now, her blue eyes are hazy, cloudy, and her lips twist with an irate arrogance that is worryingly familiar.

Angry and high and wearing clothes that don't quite match, in this moment she's exactly her father's daughter.

She's been in the papers again. Her tits have been in magazines again. Tommy bites down on his instinctual desire to repremand her; she'd call him a hypocrite, call him an old man, tell him to keep his opinions to himself while she could still buy his sex tape out of a shady car boot down the street.

Charlie was like that too, on occasion, wit too quick for him to keep up with. When she got into a mood like this, Tommy didn't have to worry so much; usually Razzle would egg her on, but knew when to pull her back.

"It's my god given, motherfucking right to go feral -" he'd heard Charlie back in the eighties holler at three in the morning, high on amphetamines and waving a gossip rag above her head. Razzle would be on the sofa, equally fucked up, but gazing at her like she hung the stars in the sky.

"Lola gets photographed at least once a month stark naked along the strip like it's a sport, why is my Playboy shoot a national crisis?! My tits are fantastic!"

"They are, my love," Razzle nods seriously, and Tommy pulls his pillow from beneath his head, trying to either block out their voices through the thin walls, or maybe smother himself. The girl beside him, the groupie whose name he doesn't know, asks blearily why there's so much yelling. Tommy doesn't answer.

A week later, Tommy is the one to bail out Charlie and Razzle for public indecency, and they're both beaming from ear to ear.

Here in the present, Penny is draped out on the sofa, laughing low and pleased as she watches TV.

"TMZ blurred out my tits," she snorts, "cowards."

"Penny..." he can't help the faintly disappointed notes in his voice when he says her name.

"Thomas, I've read The Dirt," Penny fires back venemously. Hypocrite he hears in her tone, you have no power over me.

There's something hollow in her eyes in the photos he sees of her in the papers. She wears her father's inflluence and her heart on her crushed velvet sleeve, on the arm of a shallow, pretty, band boy who plays badly and loudly. But she laughs louder, though tthe sound is low and unconvincing if anyone bothered to listen hard enough, and Tommy wonders if he has enough dark hair dye left for when that boy breaks her heart.

Jupiter Lee

Tommy is proud to watch Jupiter on stage, but he is afraid.

Their anger is something he remembers from Lola, the way they cling to the past with vitriol echoes their mother, but on stage, they drink up the attention, get high off the love the audience gives, and he sees himself in those moments.

A child of addicts, Jupiter had drawn lines in the sand for themselves that they refused to cross; no alcohol, no drugs, and they'd stayed loyal to that. But highs come in all forms; they simply picked a different kind of poison without realising.

On stage, halfway between the gutter and a god complex, Tommy knows the smile they wear all too well.

Rebellion from Jupiter didn't shock the world like it did when it was Penny's name in the papers. Jupiter's trajectory was spot on in the eyes of the public, but rebellion wouldn't be the thing that broke them.

Once, so long ago that it's a miracle the memory survived, Tommy remembers asking Lola what she would be doing if she wasn't with the band. Lola gave him an easy, bleary smile, laughing sweetly when she told him that one way or another, she'd be here. In the moment it overwhelms him with love. In hindsight it breaks his heart.

"Come on, I think this is inevitable," Jupiter smiles on television as an interviewer asks them the same question; if they weren't making music what they'd be doing, "as if I'd do anything other than this."

'Don't you know where I come from?' is left unspoken, but Tommy still hears it.

He tries to picture himself in a life without the world at his feet the way he has now. No image comes to mind. Nothing else makes sense. Even if he wanted to do something else, wanted to grow up to be something else, he couldn't even begin to picture it for himself, tragedy and all.

They play their parts. They let history repeat itself. Jupiter makes mistakes Tommy and Lola had already learned from. Penny plays Jupiter's conciousness until the role grates on her nerves, diving head first into chaos, taking Jupiter with her with little convincing.

Tommy remembers this too.

When the world looks at Penny and Jupiter, they like to remember how Lola was seen as a bad influence on Charlotte, but forget that Tommy would have followed Charlotte in to Hell without hesitation.

Leo "Seo" Sixx

Lola has google alerts set up for her son, Seo, because he disappears for months without warning. Tommy asks how he is, and Lola looks to her phone with a tight smile, telling him that he's competeing in a skateboarding competition in Prague. She learned that from Twitter.

Seo comes and goes without warning, and talks to his siblings more than his parents. He loves them, but he hasn't allowed himself to stop for years. He doesn't know how. Then again, neither did Lola or Nikki.

"Jupiter thinks a lot about legacy, don't they?" He's in Tommy's kitchen, eating a poptart, when Tommy returns home one friday evening. He's waiting for Penny and Jupiter to finish getting ready, the three of them going out.

"Do your parents know you're in town?" Tommy asks with faint amusement, though there's a twinge of guilt in his gut when Leo considers that he should probably let them know. Says he forgot. Tommy's not sure if he believes him; like his parents before him, he tends to leave a lot unsaid. It's part of his charm, the world seems to think, but Tommy knows all to well how deliberate of an act it can be.

"Jup's got all this stuff in their head about legacy and who they should be," he continues his earlier thought, "which I guess makes sense, they tie a lot of themselves up in their identity," he shrugs, then, "I don't know Leo."

Tommy's not sure if he's talking about the grandfather he's named after, or himself.

"You've given this a lot of thought," Tommy says quietly, humouring him.

"I think a lot," Seo responds, "I've been thinking about going back on my meds, its weird being off of them." Of course this concerns Tommy, who knows objectively that Seo isn't his kid, but he's close enough that Tommy feels like he's allowed to be concerned. "I'm worried a doctor's note isn't going to be enough to let me compete at the Olympics on speed," falls too casually from Seo's lips, alarming Tommy in an instant. Though it must clearly show on his face, as Seo breaks out into an apologetic grin, "dextroamphetamine, for my ADHD. I've been trying to wean off it for the Olympics, it's been hard -" but his next words, said so blithe, so casual, have Tommy's heart stopping in his chest as he's thrown back thirty years, "I've been on them since I was like eleven years old; it was great, I could think, like the right amount, but now I... I think everything. I feel everything. Its a lot." He shrugs, like he didn't just become an echo of his father.

Seo's parents both died twice from overdoses, and now their son feels like he can't function without amphetamines.

Objectively Tommy knows that they work for Seo, that he's not abusing them he simply uses them to help him function, but the irony is not lost on him. It's a lot to unpack. He doesn't think to ask about the Olympics; it slips his mind until he sees Seo and a silver medal on his Twitter feed.

Lola calls Tommy in tears. She's proud, but she wishes she'd known, wishes she'd been able to watch it live, or go over and support him in person.

No-one in Seo's life seems to fully know or understand his intentions or actions, no-one can predict his next move. He puts up a bright facade, but like his parents before him, he does not trust the world to know him.

They don't know where he goes in the few months after the Olympics, all they know is that he doesn't come home.

Cerie "CerieThree" Sixx

Since she'd turned sixteen, Tommy has never seen Cerie Sixx without a smile. That is a very deliberate choice that she's made.

She's made a choice to rise above the percieved grime of her origins. She's halfway across the country, smiling for a camera she can control, editing her image before she lets it out into the world. Cerie Three - even the name the world knows reflects this; she's picked apart the context she was born into, disecting it, deciding which was useful to show the world, disposing of the rest.

She speaks warmly to her family, from what Tommy can gather, but the people on the peripheries of their life seem more like associates in the coldest sense of the world. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes half the time when she sees Tommy, and she shakes his hand when her brothers will hug him. The internet is closer to her than he is.

Cerie looks the most like her mother of all her siblings; she's 21, the exact same age Lola was when she met Tommy, but half the time he can barely see the resemblence. Lola had let the world see a villain at that age; Cerie had learned from that, had rejected that, rejected the cold, hard humanity of her mother's fronting. Cerie wanted to be perfect. Cerie had to be perfect, hyper aware of her own image, like her siblings seem to be, but the way she'd so effectively shaped her public identity was kind of terrifying.

Perhaps this was what it was like for people who didn't know Lola, only allowed to know the image she put out into the world, or people who only knew Nikki for his stage presence.

But the more Tommy thinks about it, the more he remembers just how effectively Lola had wrapped the band around her little finger when she set her mind to it, how she talked her way around exectives despite being dressed like she'd woken up in the gutter and fucked up on any number of drugs. Lola understood people, and it seemed Cerie did too.

Cerie Sixx, twenty one, doesn't stop creating content, doesn't stop studying, and doesn't stop smiling. Two of those three things are inhereted traits, inhereted determination, and the third is a choice.

Cyrus Sixx

Though Cyrus had inhereted much of his parent's musical talent, the same way Jupiter had, Cyrus had also inhereted a love of the high life. Even so, he's so full of love, kissing his mother on both cheeks before he goes out to get shitfaced in the bars she was decades before he was even born.

He works hard, at his job, on his music, but his partying matches it just as well. He knows exactly how far he has to fall before he meets the depths his parents' had sunk to, and though he doesn't voice this, his arrogance comes across in his actions.

There'd always be someone to pull him away from swan diving to rock bottom. He takes that for granted, and keeps getting closer and closer.

The only one of Nikki and Lola's children who still lives at home, he's the only one like them in the way they'd feared.

"He's going to have more success than he will ever be able to comprehend," Nikki had told Tommy, the day after Cyrus had been admitted to hospital after staying up for four days while high and obsessing over a song he had been working on. Nikki had found him having a fit after having fallen from his desk chair. Now, sitting on Tommy's patio in the sunset, he looks tired, he looks afraid, "if he doesn't end up killing himself first."

A month ago, the fire department and the police had to pull him, kicking and screaming and bareass naked from a tree in the middle of town. His parents had bailed him out, had felt a familiar sting of guilt as they find themselves reminded of their own youthful exploits. They repremand him, of course, but they both know the only reason they stopped climbing trees was because there had been no-one to pick them up after.

Nikki sees himself in his sons mistakes, but he'd had to learn concequences the hard way.

Tommy loves his family and all it's strange branches, as well as their raucous youth, but his closest friends were some of the most volatile people he'd known, and somehow he'd forgotten that as time as taken people and memories from him.

But these children were made in their image.

[aelin-queen-of-terrasen]

𝐕𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 | 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 - 𝐎𝐧𝐞

full masterlist - fic masterlist

Rowan glanced at his pocket watch and attempted to swallow his irritation.

How was it only nine-o-clock still? He had already suffered through enough social niceties to last a lifetime.

Now, he listened with but half a mind to his cousin drone on about the night's guests. His head was filled with all the tasks he needed to see to, including searching for a new governess for his sons. His boys kept chasing away every woman he employed and he was hesitant to hire a tutor, because he believed they needed a woman's influence too, now that his own wife was too ill. The physician had done all he could but there was not much hope she would wake, loathe as he was to admit it. Perhaps he should have accepted his mother-in-law's offer and send the boys to their her after all?

"--and Arobynn's here too—"

That caught his attention. "He is?"

"Mhmm. Look, over there, no, no, to the left—besides the pretty redhead, yes, just so."

A man stood by the entrance with a red-haired woman on his arm, tall and muscular, with a fine-boned face. His auburn hair were pulled back into a bun, offsetting his pale skin and the fine cut of his suit was a stark reminder of his prominent position in society, despite the whole stigma around tradesmen.

"I knew he was fond of flaunting convention but escorting his mistress to a ball?"

"You haven't heard?" James approached them with a drink in his hand. "She is not his mistress but an adoptive daughter of sorts and his apparent heir."

Fenrys choked on his drink.

"He named a girl heir to his trade empire—and not even his own blood—stupid!"

"Spoken like a man," said the gentleman and shook his head. "He raised her himself, is introducing her to all his associates and she doesn't look dumb either."

James nodded towards the redhead he had seen earlier, dressed in the finest black silk with a neckline low enough, it bordered on scandalous. Her copperish-red hair were pinned into an elegant coiffure with pretty, gold hair combs and a simple, pearl necklace completed the striking picture she made. Her sharp, defined features were barely beautiful until she laughed—a musical sound in itself—and he wondered whether he had seen anyone prettier.

"If hers was the last face I ever saw, I'd die a happy man." Fenrys sighed and walked off.

James rolled his eyes. "He's about to seek an introduction to her, isn't he?"

Rowan's lips twitched up.

He had always liked James. The man was completely without artifice and his enthusiasm for everything was so infectious, no one could remain angry with him. He had spent a few summers with the Galathynius children, until their youngest daughter was abducted and the visits stopped.

"I say you must frown a little less, sir, unless you wish to give offense."

Rowan looked up, startled at being addressed by the object of his thoughts. She looks even lovelier up close, thought he.

"I detest these events."

"So do half the people in this room and yet, appearances must be maintained."

"Deceit is not in my nature."

The lady frowned. "It is not deceitful to pretend you are interested in an event in order to spare your host's feelings."

"Your motive may be charitable but it is no excuse for dishonesty."

The lady looked amused but did not pursue the topic further. "I hope you will forgive me for speaking without a proper introduction, sir. I am not a fan of convention."

Rowan smiled.

An unmarried woman, not even of age, and already a heiress to a trade empire—by all accounts, she did not seem like one.

"I will, if you allow me to remedy the situation now." He bowed with exaggerated formality. "I am Mr. Rowan Whitethorn of Harcomb, in Doranelle."

Her cheek dimpled. "Miss Celaena Sardothein—my father—"

"Mr. Hamel, yes, I know." He almost cringed at how rude he sounded. "He and I, we are—"

"—business associates, yes, I know," she teased with an impish grin, replying in a poor imitation of his own deep voice.

Her eyes twinkled with amusement, filled with laughter and mirth—turquoise orbs, ringed with brilliant gold.

All of his resolve flew out of the window. "Miss Sardothein, will you allow me the pleasure of leading you into the first set? The dancing is about to commence."

"The pleasure will be all mine."

In hopes of starting a conversation, he said, "You are a fine dancer."

"I would have believed you to be a liar if we hadn't already established that deceit of any sort is your abhorrence."

He smiled. "And if I were being insincere?"

"I would take it as a compliment to myself, for it will mean that you are acting on my advice from earlier about lying for the sake of appearances."

They fell silent again.

"We must talk some, you know," said Rowan. "For someone who claims to be concerned with appearances, do you not think it would look odd for us to spend a half hour together but in silence."

She startled at the sudden statement. "Introduce a topic then and I will do my poor best to maintain the conversation."

Rowan complied and was pleasantly surprised to find her lively and good-humored and well-informed on most subject from current fashion disasters to books to political bills and movements. Her arguements were passionate and far from taking offense at his dry humor, she matched it with witty quips of her own; and to top it alll off, she was as skilled a dancer as a conversationalist.

Rowan was almost annoyed when the song came to an end. He could not recall the last time he had been half as well entertained.

"You will be the death of me, you foolish, foolish chit!" screeched the old matron.

Fenrys had allowed himself to be dragged into a bookstore, which happened to be one of his least favourite places, by his cousin, James—the second son to his uncle, Lord Rhoe, the Earl of Narrowcreek—and was now eager for any sort of amusement. He turned towards the high-pitched shriek with interest.

A young lady stood near the shelves, tall and proud, even in the face of her mother's ill-bred manners.

Her blonde hair fell down in waves, half pinned by dragonfly-shaped hair combs. The fabric of her dress was fine enough for her to belong to the first circles and yet, he could not recall seeing her—or her mother—anywhere.

"Ungrateful child! Wait until I tell your father what you did; he will be most displeased."

She bit her lip to contain her mirth, though her cheeks flushed with embarassment. Her eyes flitted to the door and back, as if she was looking for some escape.

"Poor girl," the bookshop owner murmured.

The following words had the unfortunate attention of drawing the mother's attention towards the owner.

Lord Fenrys almost laughed at the alarmed look on the owner's face when she began lamenting to him instead and then looked over at the lady who was staring at the door with a thoughtful look, as if wondering whether or not to attempt an escape.

She must have decided in it's favour because she gathered her skirts and made a mad dash towards the door.

Fenrys realised he was standing in her way and hastened to move but it was too late—

"Darn!" cried she.

The commotion drew her mother's attention and upon spotting her wayward daughter lying on the floor with a grimace, she rushed over with a whole new litany of complaints.

Fenrys could have sworn the lady cursed under her breath.

"Stubborn, stubborn child! I told you not to run off without me but oh, how you love vexing me," shouted her mother in her high-pitched voice. "And what are you doing, bothering this fine gentleman over here? You had better not to talk to anyone if you are determined to refuse them all. You broke that poor man's heart—"

Fenrys quirked an eyebrow in interest, looking thoroughly entertained.

Her cheeks flushed further.

He frowned.

Up close, her face looked awfully familiar. He searched his brain for an answer.

A memory flashed in front of his mind. A highly unconventional black dress, a tinkling laugh and a ballroom.

Realisation dawned.

"Miss Sardothein! Fancy seeing you here," said he. "I almost didn't recognise you because of the hair."

"The hair? Oh, yes, I am very fond of dyes, but you have caught me in my natural state."

"I find you lovelier than ever. If you will forgive me for prying, I could not help but observe you haven't bought a thing yet, even though I know you to be a great reader! Is the reading material not to your taste, Miss Sardothein?"

Celaena answered wryly, "As a matter of fact, the books here suit my tastes very well—It is only that I am not allowed to buy books for a month—as punishment."

"No books! And what awful crime did you commit to merit that?"

"I rejected a marriage offer."

"A capital offense!"

Celaena smiled, "Indeed."

"I hope you are appropriately ashamed of yourself!"

"Horrified at my own audacity, really."

The lady looked up at him and grinned; Fenrys' own face turned pale and his mouth fell open in surprise. Ashryver eyes! She had ashryver eyes—like James, Aedion, and their mothers Helen and Evalin and—gods. The little poem his cousins had made up in childhood came to the forefront of his mind.

"The fairest eyes, from legends old,

Of brightest blue, ringed with gold."

But how...?

He looked at the woman again: her eyes bright and mirthful and thick eyelashes resting on her cheek, the face tugged at his memory; and she smiled so impishly, he had seen that smile before—

"Aelin," he blurted out.

He was startled when her smile dropped and recognition flickered in her eyes.

Fenrys shot an alarmed look towards the shelf behind which James had disappeared. Aelin was here! But how could this be? His heart thumped loudly inside his chest.

"Aelin?" She inclined her head in question.

He smiled uncertainly.

Was she really his little cousin? Aelin had been five year old when he last saw her.

But if he was wrong about this, could this come to bite him in the ass? She was certainly as old as his cousin would have been, had she been alive and she had the same unruly blonde curls and those ashryver eyes, teeming with life.

It couldn't be...

Arobynn's adoptive daughter.

"Yes, Aelin was my favourite cousin—you, uh, you remind me of her."

"If she is your favourite, then I am inclined to take that as a compliment." Celaena—Aelin?—smiled again, though her eyebrows remained drawn still. "The name does sound familiar. Perhaps I would have heard of her in the newspaper? The society column is a great source of amusement to my father. He reads it aloud to us from time to time."

Father? He wondered if she was talking of Arobynn or Mrs. Rhunn's husband.

Fenrys smiled sadly. "That is not possible for you see, my cousin died when she was five."

At least I thought she died.

"I am sorry for your loss." Then, with an arch look on her face, she asked, "If she was like me as you say, she must have been delightful."

He chuckled. "An absolute troublemaker."

"Definitely like me then," said she, sparing a look towards her mother. "I should leave now, before my mother lists you off as yet another suitor!"

And before he could think to stop her, she curtsied and scurried off.

Fenrys stared at the door, somewhat dumbfounded. Aelin is alive. He marvelled at the thought and then wondered how on earth he would inform her family—James would be ecstatic and his father would have to be informed, and Edward would have to be called to London, gods. Edward!

Aelin had been missed by all but no one grieved her as the poor man had.

Edward would be ecstatic; everyone would.

Fenrys ran towards his cousin out of breath, who was still examining titles in one corner.

"Fenrys, god, slow down, man! Whatever happened? You look like you saw a ghost."

He blinked.

Then, without any attempt at tact or discretion, he blurted out: "Aelin is alive."

"Aelin, Aelin, stop that—no, look at your frock, mother will be so angry, no, Aelin! You will hurt yourself like that."

The man watched, concealed behind the ridge as a little girl skipped from one mud puddle to another, blonde curls bouncing up and down as she moved. Her elder brother followed at a more sedate place, calling out admonishments and threats, not that they had an effect on her.

Aelin grinned over her shoulder and ran, leading her brother on a merry chase.

The man was still debating how to go about abducting the girl when fortune smiled upon him; she twisted her leg and fell down, prompting the boy to run towards her.

"It hurts," she whimpered, refusing to stand.

The man smiled maliciously and waited as the boy looked around. "Very well," he said finally. "If you promise not to go anywhere, I will fetch papa. Do not move, Aelin."

The boy rushed towards the manor house, ignoring the twisted knots in his stomach and burst into his father's private study. In his panicked state of mind, it took a few attempts for Rhoe to make sense of his garbled words.

A foreboding feeling rose in his stomach.

She will be fine, he tried to reassure himself. Aelin, troublemaker that she was, had had a lot worse than a twisted ankle.

But his alarm grew the nearer they came to where she was supposed to be and his heart pounded inside his chest. All colour drained from his face when they didn't find Aelin where she was supposed to be.

"Are you certain this is where you left her?"

Edward nodded.

Rhoe suddenly felt dizzy, his knees buckled and bile rose up in his throat.

He reined himself in and with admirable composure, organised search parties to search around the estate and the neighbourhood.

The search carried on until late that night, when an express rider from the nearby magistrate arrived with a letter: a nearby warehouse had burned down earlier that day and two bodies were found: a man in his forties, who could not be identified and a seven year old girl who had on a silver anklet bearing the word fireheart and requested Mr. Galathynius' presence tomorrow at the warehouse to confirm the girl's identity.

Rhoe folded the letter, excused himself from company and sent his sons to their beds.

Then he entered his study: the study no one was allowed to enter without permission—except his Aelin—slumped into the armchair by the fireplace and wept.

note: ...and it's here. I have so many drafts of this chapter lying around, I'm surprised I actually finally posted it lmao.

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if you'd like to be tagged, let me know.

[bardic-inspo]

🍂 🌈💧 for Nat?

Thank you friend! :)

🍂- What music does this oc like?

As a performer, Nat has eclectic taste and can appreciate most genres. I think she sees singing different types of music as sort of, trying on different outfits, or slipping into a different costume. It's sort of like acting for her, and she's usually happy to oblige someone else's preferences.

But to listen to, for herself, she's got a preference for angsty alternative or grungy anti-establishment rock music. I think she would really like Green Day and Rise Against.

🌈- What does this oc like and dislike about themselves?

Ahh gosh, Nat has a lot of self-loathing. Mostly related to, feelings that she does not have leadership qualities, that she is a burden on others, or that she is otherwise a negative influence/presence in others' lives. She is passionate but not always the most responsible, and I think she tends to resent that disparity between her passion and her ability to create positive change. She also gets easily discouraged/frustrated when she doesn't immediately see the fruits of theses sorts of efforts.

As for what she likes about herself, hm. I'd say, her refusal to give up/her determination. She knows what she's about and she won't let herself be shaken from that. And, on a lighter note, her ability to distract/entertain others with antics/jokes/sarcasm or make them laugh, even if it's at her expense.

💧- What is this oc most passionate about?

In an abstract sense, Nat cares a lot about fairness and equality. Pre-war, she had really strong feelings about legal inequalities in the justice system and was very passionate about fighting for positive change in that realm. I think the whole nuclear war thing kicks the wind out of her save-the-world-streak, but she does eventually rekindle some of that spark and feels just as strongly as she used to about advocating for disadvantaged groups (particularly synths and ghouls).

Nat also becomes a really passionate mother and teacher later in Reclamations, which isn't something I've gotten to explore as much yet. She cares really fiercely about her family, which is something she didn't really think she'd get to have. She really loves kids in general, and takes to teaching with a lot of love and excitement.

[OC Ask Game]

[lovelyirony]

Hi! “If I fail, I’ll fall apart/Maybe it is all a test/because I feel like I’m the worst / so I always act like I’m the best” -Oh No! This is one of my favorite lyrics ever, and I'd really like to see what you bring out of it :) You're amazing, ily! 💞

what if maria had more of an effect on tony’s upbringing than most? howard’s still a dick but make it funny

Tony has known he was probably not the best human on earth ever since he was five and his dad made a bigger deal out of a dead man’s birthday than his own. 

At age five, you don’t really know a lot about the world yet. There were about two things that Tony didn’t know that he wishes he did know: 

1.) The word “fuck.” It would have helped with a lot of his situations. 

2.) The concept of jealousy. He probably could have gone to a child therapist or some shit, he’s not sure if those even existed back then, or if his parents would have even let him go. 

(After all, he’s supposed to be their perfect little boy, just the right amount of precocious and the other amount being something like genius or respectability.) 

It is actually his mother who takes the reins on his life. Howard has effect, he has huge effects. 

Maria is a socialite who absolutely refuses to let her son succumb to Howard’s devil-may-care attitude that he’s so infamous for. Her son is going to be well-mannered, respectable, and know exactly how to treat a lady of high social standing. 

This involves training at a young age. Six would be a fine age. 

It’s not Howard who sends him to boarding schools, it’s Maria. She ensures that he goes to the finest schools available, most abroad in Europe. She trains him out of the American accent, into something a bit more refined. 

He spends summers learning different languages and different skills. He learns how to fence by the time he’s ten, and becomes quite proficient at it. 

She quizzes him on established families, up-and-coming families, and never keeps him far from her sight. 

Anthony Stark is not going to be a wild-child, she decides. 

-

Anthony isn’t, for the most part. Sure, he usually stays up past what is acceptable for the night to work on some mechanic stuff and uses the word “damn” a bit too much for his mother’s liking, but that’s the reason make-up and apologies were invented. 

He follows rules and is known to smile like his mother and enjoy listening to quartets play out in the open air during the summer months. He travels to Europe and participates in various activities and is the talk of many socialites who eagerly await his arrival. 

He’s a portrait, holding still for all’s approval, and he’s not quite sure how to move. 

That’s troublesome, he thinks. 

The problem is this: Anthony Stark doesn’t have any interests outside what is required. He loves working on inventions, and they are necessary for the company to survive, but his father hates any robotic invention he pushes for, and mother thinks that if he tells people he’s rather fond of AC/DC then he’s a plague to society and will be shunned. 

(He doesn’t say it to her face but they haven’t shunned Sunset yet, and she’s a whole world of problems, so rock music is the least of their problems.) 

There is one thing that he pushes for: university in the United States. He’s been traveling to Europe since he was a child, and he honestly needs to do something for himself. 

Maria is not pleased. 

“So after I sacrifice so much for you, this is how you repay me?” she asks him over dinner. 

He places his fork to the correct side. 

“Yes. This is how I am repaying you. By getting a perfectly respectable college degree from a critically-acclaimed university that anyone would be lucky to attend. Not to mention it might reflect badly on Stark Industries if I don’t go to an American college. Do I not trust American institutions to run an American business?” 

“You shouldn’t.” 

Anthony laughs. 

“Mother, they cannot teach me anything that Europe can’t. Let me go to college in the United States. Please.” 

“No.” 

- 

It takes Howard to convince her, and a.) Howard doesn’t even like Anthony that much, and b.) he also doesn’t like his wife that much. 

“He’s going to a damned college here, Maria. We don’t need him to go to any more of that fancy bullshit you call school over there.” 

“Fancy bullshit, Howard?! Bullshit?! You mean what has gotten him this far in life and will make him a better man of social standing than you?” 

“My god, is social standing all that matters to you? What are your little friends going to do, choke on their silver spoons when they find out that your son is going to an American college?” 

- 

Jarvis also convinces her. 

“It will be easier to monitor his progress from a shorter distance,” he advises. “And you can visit frequently.” 

Anthony gives him a very dirty look. Apparently, he wasn’t supposed to mention that. 

Oops. 

-

But, Anthony gets his way. He’s going to MIT, and he has a roommate. 

(Okay, so mother doesn’t know that. But he supposes she will if she ever visits. Or maybe not considering if Tony can successfully convince his roommate to “disappear” for at least a day.) 

-

Rhodey does not give a singular shit about high society anything or anyone. Anthony Stark is a name he registers, but doesn’t recognize. 

“Anthony’s a mouthful,” he says a week into their cohabitation. “You have a nickname or something?” 

“Ah...no? I mean, not yet,” Anthony says. 

“How do you feel about Tony?” 

“I...I suppose that that is alright.” 

“Are you from Europe?” 

“No, from New York.” 

“Well holy shit, you sure as fuck don’t sound like it.” 

- 

Anthony--well, Tony now--learns quite a bit about American schooling and what he’s actually supposed to be doing to pass off as normal. 

Rhodey (yeah he got a nickname that ended in ‘y’ too, Tony said he wouldn’t be the only one) takes him to the thrift store and tells him to pick out some clothes. 

“...there’s a shirt that’s advertising a restaurant from Montana.” 

“And? Does it look hilarious?” 

“Is that the point of this?” 

“Fashion is supposed to make you like what you’re wearing or like yourself. I swear if you say that those boring black suits make you feel better about yourself, I will be dragging you to any therapist that will take us for at least five dollars.” 

“Five dollars?” 

“Maybe less if I can negotiate.” 

“Hey!” 

- 

Tony learns how to have fun. He loves it. 

Rhodey makes him go to record stores and find the bargain bin, and they play the warped records and laugh as voices go up and down in pitch. Tony blasts Black Sabbath and Iron Maiden until the RA begs him to go to bed and Rhodey throws all of his pillows off of his bed. 

In return, Tony teaches Rhodey how to read other’s facial expressions, dress for any occasion and be the best-looking there, as well as avoiding any sort of conflict by bringing up past embarrassments. 

“Are you serious about the color of my shoe affecting my social standing?” Rhodey asks, trying to shove his foot into a shoe that was a brown color that Tony had described as a “golden mahogany.” 

“Yes, I’m dead serious.” 

“No fucking wonder everyone says eat the rich all of you are so fucking pretentious. It’s brown, Tony.” 

“Tell that to any high society woman over fifty.” 

“I will.” 

- 

As it turns out, he ends up doing it much sooner than anticipated. 

Tony’s parents come to visit. 

They call him Anthony. Which is gross. Rhodey hasn’t used the name “Anthony” in about six months. 

“I wasn’t aware that you were his roommate,” his mother says. 

“Well, here I am,” Rhodey says. “Name’s also on the information they sent out to the parents about the living situations.” 

Tony tenses as his parents brush off the obvious comment on how little they actually know about his situation and move right into the room. 

Maria stops at the huge poster of a rock band. 

“I assume that this is...James’?” 

“No,” he says timidly. “It’s...it’s mine. Their use of movement on the guitar strings-” 

“Take it down,” Maria demands. “It’s unsightly.” 

“Oh give the kid a break,” Howard says tiredly. “For once he’s not listening to you talk about the merits of paisley prints.” 

“I’m training our son for a more successful life than yours,” Maria hisses. “Of course, you’d have to stay away from your friend Jack to understand that.” 

“Rhodey, leave,” Tony says. “Trust me, it gets messier from here.” 

He does think about it. How easy it would be to walk out and check in with a couple of his other friends and talk about how crazy Tony’s parents are. How he could check back in near dinner time and then Tony could tell him all about how terribly it went. 

But Tony already looks terrible, and he’s doing that weird thing with his hands where he wrings them and then remembers he’s not supposed to wring them and makes it worse. 

“No,” Rhodey says. “I am staying until the bitter end. Who knows? Maybe I can give your mom a heart attack when I ask her the difference between kelly and forest green.” 

Tony grins. 

“You can leave any time, it’s about to get...interesting.” 

- 

Tony’s family is quite dysfunctional. They can put on a good front in public, for what it’s worth. 

Howard is impressed that Rhodey’s planning on going into the Air Force and then talks about Captain America for a lot of the dinner. Rhodey is very uncomfortable and then asks about business and Maria rolls her eyes and orders another glass of wine. 

After Howard finishes up talking about some contract and making vague threats against businesses that Rhodey thinks might actually be in trouble, it’s Maria’s turn. 

“So, Rhodey, where is your family from?” 

“We live in the Boston area,” Rhodey answers. 

“And what do your parents do?” 

“Dad works as a consultant for a local construction company, and my mom works as a high school history teacher. They both like their jobs.” 

“Hm,” Maria remarks, and it’s so light and casual and yet so cutting. Tony can see how Rhodey squirms, and he can’t just let it stand. 

It’s one thing for Maria to cut her own son down until he’s nothing. Still fucked up, but Tony can handle it. He’s been handling it for years. 

“Rhodey, how did your mom come to want to know she liked teaching?” Tony asks. “That sounds like it could be really hard to figure out.” 

“Oh, well it all started when she was in high school and wanted to change how one of her teachers treated students. It was a really inspiring moment for her.” 

“That sounds really cool,” Tony says. “What does she like most about her job?” 

“Probably the kids,” Rhodey says. 

The conversation carries on about Rhodey’s family until their dinner arrives and his mother manages to cut in with more questions. 

“So, what else does your mother do?” 

“She volunteers at the local food kitchen and helps some of the younger kids at the after-school program,” Rhodey answers. “She also makes a mean Thanksgiving turkey.” 

“Would you look at that,” Tony says. “Mrs. Rhodes sounds like a fine cook, I wish I could say the same for you, mother.” 

“Oh?” 

Howard actually laughs at that as he signs for the bill. 

“The kid is right, Maria. At some points I think your kitchen is only used for decoration.” 

“Oh, and you know how to cook, Mr. Stark?” Maria asks, raising her eyebrows. “I’d love to see you make anything other than coffee.” 

“I’ll make toast.” 

Rhodey laughs, and so does Tony. 

“Ready to go?” Tony asks, and part of it is a way to get away from an isolated conversation, and part of it is to make his parents leave for their hotel room sooner. 

“Tony, I want to have a talk with you before we retire for the night,” Maria says, and Tony tenses up. 

Rhodey can’t protect him from that, and he squeezes Tony’s hand as they walk behind his parents. 

“It’ll be okay,” he whispers. 

“Maybe,” Tony says. “Maybe.” 

- 

Rhodey goes into their building, and Howard waits in the car. He nods to Tony on his way out. 

“You’ve...changed,” mother says. 

“Well, that’s how humanity goes,” Tony says dryly, looking anywhere but her eyes. 

“Rock music? These snappish remarks towards your own mother? I don’t know if this college was such a good idea.” 

“It is,” Tony says. “I just...learned new things and incorporated it into my life. Nothing the matter with that.” 

“Nothing wrong with that?” Maria reiterates, surprised look on her face. “Rock music is for other people, you know things that others don’t know! You can perform violin and piano, you don’t have to listen to the personal manifestation of a headache!” 

“And if I like that headache?!” Tony asks. “If I like something that’s outside of what you approve, why so angry about it? Is it because you finally can’t control every single aspect about my identity? Is it because I’m not like your perfect little toy that you can make walk and talk how you like?” 

“You know it’s not that.” 

“Isn’t it?” Tony asks. “Because you want me to change every single interest that I’ve found I like by myself. I bet you want me to listen to Bach for fun.” 

“I do not want you to change from who you are,” Maria says. “You have eaten at the finest restaurants in the world and now you brag about making something called ramen in a microwave. A microwave?!” 

“A surprising amount of families in America have them,” Tony says. “And I’m a college student! I’m supposed to eat crappy food and then laugh about it in twenty years!” 

Maria turns red, and her lips screw up into a tight line. 

“I don’t think you should be here,” Maria says. “You’re forgetting your place. Your roommate is...” 

“My roommate is what,” Tony starts, glaring at her. “My roommate is what, mother? You want to honestly finish that sentence?” 

“He’s not good enough!” she yells at him. “You are a Stark!” 

Tony stares at her for a moment. And then another moment. 

“Leave,” he says. “Get the hell out of here.” 

“You don’t tell me-” 

“I do,” Tony says, using his full height to his advantage. “You can tell me how many times I’ve fucked up as many times as you want, but you never talk about James that way ever again.” 

He twists on his heel, forcefully opening the door to the dormitory and not once looking back. 

- 

Rhodey finds Tony back in his room when he gets back from getting ready for the night, and Tony is clutching a pillow and laying face down on the bed. 

“You know, you’ll have to turn over eventually to get some fresh air.” 

“Leave me to die, Rhodey. Oh my god.” 

“That bad?” 

“That bad. She’s probably going to try and put me in a prestigious college or some shit.” 

“Oof. Wanna fake your death and run away?” 

“Please.” 

“Well, too bad. I have a test next week, and you need to do your poetry notes.” 

“But poetry sucks.” 

“It only sucks because you don’t like modern poetry, suck it up and pull it out of your ass or something.” 

“Ugh, fine.” 

- 

Maria is trying very hard to get her son away from MIT and towards a fancy school in Europe. She doesn’t even care where, just away from his roommate and his classic rock posters and the dormitory. Anthony needs an environment where he can focus on networking, meeting more people. 

Howard says no. 

He can’t even bother to remember her son’s birthday, and he says “no.” 

“We need Anthony to go to an American school, and nothing is better besides maybe Cal Tech, and he’ll have to finish another year of college and Hammer Industries can use that as a sign of an unsteady heir.” 

“Well then get rid of his roommate.” 

“I’m not doing that, you’re asking for a PR death sentence.” 

“He’s a bad influence.” 

“No he’s not,” Howard says tiredly. “The kid is finally standing up for himself, and you hate that.” 

“I don’t hate that he can be his own person.” 

“You just wish he were his own person under your specifications,” Howard drawls. “He’s staying at MIT, that’s final.” 

“Hmph.” 

Howard rolls his eyes. 

“Go back to planning whatever charity gala you’re hosting this week, honey. I’m sure things will be fine.” 

Maria doesn’t speak against her husband, just fumes and decides she’s going to try to get Jarvis’ opinion. 

-

Edwin is also a flat no. 

“He will not forgive you if you do this,” he says, pouring her tea and adding in one sugar cube. “He loves his school, he talks about it all the time.” 

“And what, he calls you?” 

Edwin Jarvis realizes he shouldn’t have mentioned this. 

“At times, madam. At times. Will that be all?” 

“...that will be all.” 

Jarvis does bring up a good point. Besides her, of course, he knows Anthony best, even if he does keep calling him Tony. Anthony will grow out of that nickname soon enough. 

She has hope for her boy. He will most likely grow out of this silly little phase in life and finally appreciate her lessons. 

- 

Tony Stark doesn’t. 

Well, he learns her lessons. Can appreciate some of them and how much he hates that he uses them. 

But he learns a far more important lesson from Rhodey, and it shapes everything: 

“You’re your own person, and you’re far better as your own person,” Rhodey says. “I wanted to kick the shit out of you when we first lived together.” 

“You did?” 

“Of course I did!” Rhodey explains, gesturing with his coffee mug and getting yet another stain on the pillow. (Laundry again. Ugh.) “You talked like you were from a movie from the forties, it sucked.” 

“Oh, you mean the transatlantic accent?” 

“It’s pretentious, just ditch it. You’re interesting enough to listen to on your own. I listen to you talk about how much you hate Picasso sculpture, don’t I?” 

“You do,” Tony admits. 

“So then be yourself. Use what your mom taught you sometimes, but otherwise don’t.” 

“You sure?” 

“Of course I’m sure, I’m a fucking genius.” 

Tony snorts. 

“Okay, Mr. ‘I Forgot to Run the Dishes Again.’”

“I already said I was sorry!” 

-

Tony takes Rhodey’s advice into account when he walks into any board room. He wears the worst possible shoes with every single suit, usually uses all sorts of cultural references that fly over the old board members’ heads. 

He does things his way. It’s unconventional, it’s unpredictable, and it earns him a reputation. 

He’s in an interview in a suit and patterned tie (patterned with tiny robots), and the woman is smiling in a plastic way on the other side. 

“Now, a lot of people are saying you’re taking the business world by storm with your unconventional methods and personality. What helped you formulate this, your father?” 

“Oh god no,” Tony says, laughing. “He’d probably curse me to hell and back for even wearing this tie. My mother would drag me back down to hell again for this.” 

“Then who helped you with this?” 

“Rhodey, who else?” Tony asks. “He always gives the best advice, even if I’ll deny that about fifteen minutes later. He really is the reason that I’m who I am today.” 

“Seems like a great guy.” 

“He is. He always is,” Tony says with a grin. “Except, of course, when he doesn’t fold his laundry, that bastard.” 

The interviewer laughs and moves on, but Tony smiles to himself. 

He doesn’t have to be the best, he just has to be Rhodey’s. That’s all that matters. 

[janekfan]

I'm a little hesitant about this prompt, because it might need a longer story to fill it, but based on reading your fics it may be to your taste for h/c? I've seen a few Geraskier stories where Geralt is cursed to lose his sight and hearing, but I'd be interested to read one where it's Jaskier who's cursed instead. You seem to like exploring growth in stories, and I could see Geralt having to step outside his comfort zone, learning to help and support Jask while they try to break the curse.

I was inspired by this prompt because in my youth, when families go to water parks and things, my mother insisted on holding my glasses so I wouldn't lose them, not realizing I cannot see hardly ANYTHING without them, just colors. She left me like half a dozen times in a throng of people and it was scary. And even though I kept telling her I couldn't SEE HER, she wouldn't listen. I felt scared and stupid because I couldn't keep track of my family.

So I hope you enjoy :D

Thank you for the prompt! @obscurebookwyrm

Sankofa

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25965268/chapters/63119659

“Geralt.”

“Hm.”

“I. What do you want me to say?” Jaskier’s grip on his lute tightened and he had to forcibly relax himself so as not to snap it in twain. “That you should have gotten hit with it instead? That you should be the one waiting for the effects of a curse to take hold so that I? The mighty bard can be the one to protect us both?”

“Hm.”

“Need I remind you that had you not pissed her off, we wouldn’t even be here?”

“Hm.”

“Fine. Leave me at the next village and I’ll just succumb to whatever this ends up being while you continue witchering or whatever.”

“Hm.” Roach picked up her pace and he could hear Jaskier curse Geralt’s stubbornness as he loped after them.

Geralt was angry. Angrier than usual with the musician and definitely not impressed with his self sacrifice because now, if anything, he would be an even bigger liability. It was bad enough he fumbled along behind him, constantly jabbering, writing the most ridiculous songs. But now, Geralt had to wait and see what would become of him now that he’d been hit with some unnamed affliction. Geralt refused to admit that Jaskier was right. That it was better that the stronger of them was curse free and able to continue on unimpaired.

But he was now an even larger inconvenience and Geralt hadn’t thought that was possible.

And yet.

As brave a face as he was putting on, he could smell the sour scent of anxiousness as Jaskier filled up the silence with more talk about inane things, stray lyrics, random observations, all because he was nervous.

Nothing happened yet. Maybe nothing would happen at all.

“Geralt.” Even and steady, Jaskier’s voice hovered somewhere to the left of him. There was something strange about the quality of it and it immediately set Geralt on edge.

“What?” He couldn’t help the exasperation, it had been a long few days, and he felt Jaskier tense beside him on his bed roll.

“There.” He paused and Geralt knew if he turned to look at him he’d be worrying his lip between his teeth.

“What?” They were late as it is, the sun three fingers above the horizon already.

“There are no stars.” His whispering was shaky and trembling. Fear. It was flooding Geralt’s sensitive nose. What was this lunatic on about? Of course there weren’t any stars.

“It’s late morning. Of course there aren’t.” He rolled his eyes and began packing up camp. They’d eat on the move to make up for lost time. He nudged Jaskier with the toe of his boot. “Get up. You’re wasting daylight.”

“Daylight.” His hand was hovering over his face and he kicked him a little harder.

“Yes. Daylight. Move or stay here, but I’m leaving.” Instead of following his directions, Jaskier swallowed a few times, blinking hard and staring at his palm in between. “Jaskier.” Growling, grabbing the collar of his chemise and slinging him to his feet himself, confused when his arms shot out for balance and he nearly fell. “What are you--are you drunk?” No. He’d smell it. But it was all becoming a little too clear and Geralt didn’t want to be the one to say it aloud.

“No.” A weak exhale, a disbelieving laugh. “I’m. I’m blind.”

Blind.

The curse.

“Are you sure?” Geralt was a hair's breadth away from his face, examining his eyes, blank and vacant and staring off into the distance despite their proximity. There was nothing wrong that he could tell. Still the same cornflower blue he was so familiar with.

“I think I’d know.” He scoffed.

“Then we’d better get moving.” Geralt couldn’t help it, the thread of anger twisting around his words just happened. All Jaskier seemed to do was slow him down and get in the way. “Find a way to break this thing.” It took the bard three times longer to pack his belongings and Geralt became more impatient every time he dropped something or stubbed his toe or lost his balance. He knew it wasn’t fair. But this was all the bard’s fault in the first place and he’d have to deal with the consequences.

Jaskier played his lute even more and was even slower, not yet sure on his feet without the advantage of sight. Geralt saw that he kept his ear canted towards Roach’s hooves crunching on the stones, using her as a guide and he wondered if maybe Jaskier should be riding her instead. The music he was picking out on his strings was simpler and felt more like practice than anything new and he realized that he was comforting himself with easy exercises and wondered how long he’d insist on doing it.

All day, it turned out, and Geralt was just about on his last nerve, turning his irritability into action by setting up camp and batting Jaskier out of his way, finally just sitting him in the dirt. He stoked up the fire, tossed down Jaskier’s bedroll and stalked off to find dinner and clear his head before he started yelling.

When he returned with a brace of rabbits, Jaskier was gone and Geralt swallowed down the spike of panic in his throat, dropping his catch and looking for signs of a struggle and instead finding odd marks that looked like Jaskier had crawled across the ground. And he found him, cowering amid Roach’s legs, a dangerous spot for probably anyone else, but she was as calm as ever, letting him stroke the length of her forelimb. There were drying tear tracks on his face.

“G’Geralt?” His voice was small and wavering, barely above his shaking breath.

“Who else would it be?”

“I didn’t know where you’d gone.” He didn’t leave the horse. “I, I called out. But. And then. There’s a lot of noises in the woods at night.” This laugh was self deprecating, as though he knew how ridiculous he was being, like a child hiding from shadows.

But his whole world was in shadow.

“You’ve camped before. It’s foolish to be afraid.”

“Y’yeah. Of course it is.” He extricated himself from his position beneath Roach, petting her neck, and Geralt let it be. “Thank you for your protection, good lady.” She lipped the collar of his doublet and he rested his cheek on her velvet nose for just a moment before stumbling back to his bedroll.

“Here.” Jaskier looked confused. “The rabbit. Dinner?”

“Oh, uh.” He reached out, drawing his hand quickly back when he burned the tips of his fingers and slipping them into his mouth for a second. “Ha, it’s hot.” Geralt yanked his wrist and pressed the stick he’d roasted the meat on against his palm and watched Jaskier’s fingers wrap around it reflexively.

“Just eat. We’ll figure this out tomorrow.”

They didn’t. Not the next day, nor the day after that, but Jaskier was trying to adjust more and more each day despite how he seemed to be withdrawing. It was easy to forget he was blind and Geralt was easily frustrated by his sense of direction, or rather the awful lack of it. More than once, he’d misjudged the path and toppled into the bushes. Twice, Geralt had come back from a hunt to find him trapped in the corner of their rented room. He’d gotten turned around and hadn’t been able to figure out how he was boxed in by the bed, the small table, a chair. Jaskier laughed it off.

He’d been upset each time.

At the market the next day, Geralt told him off handedly that he was heading to the blacksmith, and to catch up when he was ready, because usually he wanted to dither about at the stalls looking at some trinket or another. When he’d finally realized, tapping his foot and waiting for a blind man who didn’t know his way around this village to somehow find him, he followed his scent, laced with terror, to an alley where he’d pressed himself up tight to the wall, protecting his back. They didn’t speak, Geralt just grabbed his wrist and dragged him back to the room. Told him to stay there if he couldn’t figure out how to find his way around.

The hurt on his face cut like a blade.

“Get down and stay down.” Geralt shoved Jaskier’s face into the dirt, both of them narrowly avoiding decapitation when the beast attacked out of nowhere. Caught flat footed, Geralt found himself pinned to the ground, struggling under the weight of it and hooking his thumbs in the corners of its maw to keep the teeth from closing around his head. Fetid breath came closer and closer and he thought for a moment this might be it when the resounding crack of a tree limb colliding with the side of its skull stunned it enough for Geralt to kick it off him. He used the momentum to roll and draw his steel sword, cutting off its head with a wet and sickening squelch.

“Geralt?” Jaskier, covered in black ichor and mud, stood swaying in the road, clinging to a length of splintered wood, blind eyes wide with shock. And then, panting with horror, Jaskier fainted dead away.

He’d lost him again.

“Fuck.” Geralt didn’t know where or how long ago and began retracing his steps, scenting the air and picking up the faintest traces of the oils he’d used last night in the bath. It was tainted by the smell of fear, acrid and sharp, and he ran.

Saw Jaskier pinned up against a wall by a larger man than he, a broad, ugly hand clasped over his mouth and a knee between his thighs. He was struggling to breathe, high pitched whimpering slipped from behind his attacker’s palm and he grabbed a fistful of hair to slam the back of Jaskier’s head into the wall behind him.

The brute didn’t notice the knife slipped between his ribs until it was too late. He’d die in this place and Geralt wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

“Who--” He sobbed, choked. “Geralt?” Tears cascaded down his cheeks, slipped off his chin.

“Who was that?” Why couldn’t he be kind to Jaskier when he needed it most? Why did he let his own fear of the situation manifest as blame?

“He’d. Solicited me in the tavern and I told him no.” He shuddered. “I thought he might be following but.” He swallowed with a wet click. “You were walking so fast, I lost the sound of your steps.” Drawing a sharp intake of breath he swept a hand through his tousled hair, trying to calm himself down. Geralt could hear his heartbeat hammering madly away behind his breastbone.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jaskier flinched at his volume, hugging himself around his middle and casting his face to the ground, and if Geralt was a stronger man he would tell his bard that this was not his fault. That he was scared of what he almost let happen.

“I. You were angry.”

“What?” With the heel of his hand, Jaskier scrubbed at his face. His bruised face, the imprints from where he was held darkening around his mouth and neck.

“You said I needed to figure this out and. I.” Had been snatched off the street by a predator and very nearly badly hurt. “I forgot my dagger back at the inn.” He took a deep breath, and then another. “I’m sorry, that was. That was stupid.”

“Hm.” It wasn’t. He should have been safe with Geralt in broad daylight. This time he took his hand, laced their fingers together and squeezed. “Let’s go.”

Exhausted from his earlier panic, Jaskier could barely stand when they reached the room, and Geralt helped him the last few steps to the bed, divesting him of doublet and chemise to expose even more bruising. He should have killed the guy slower. Much slower.

“Sorry. I’m sorry you have to do this.” Barely above a whisper. “I shouldn’t have. This curse.”

“Hush.” Geralt wrung out a cloth in the wash basin, touched it to his face and caught him when he jerked away in fear and surprise. “It’s alright. Just me. I’m going to get you cleaned up, Jaskier.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Muttering, he reached for the flannel.

“I know. Just. Relax, alright?” He swept it up his arm, lingered at the space between his neck and shoulder. “I’ve got you. I’m. Going to do better, Jaskier.”

“What do you mean?” This time, he allowed the touch and Geralt dabbed at a cut on his lip before rinsing and wringing again.

“You’ll ride Roach. In towns, I won’t let you out of my sight.” Jaskier was relaxing, blinking sleepily.

“You can’t babysit me all the time, Geralt.” Though he detected the hope that he wouldn’t have to keep doing this alone beneath his voice.

“No. But I can take care of you until we find a way to break this. Like I should have been doing from the start.” Jaskier’s head was nodding as he fought to stay awake. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

Geralt let Jaskier sleep in. The man was dead to the world, bruises stark on his pale skin, and no doubt exhausted from the day before and trying to manage as a newly blind being basically traveling alone. They had to get moving. Maybe Yennefer would understand how to break this curse or at least point them in a direction. But they had to find her first.

“Jaskier.” There was no response, not even a twitch, and Geralt spoke his name louder, and louder still before shaking him awake and dodging his flying fist. “Jaskier!” Nothing but panic in his face and Geralt was tired of seeing that there. He settled his hands over his shoulders, cupped his neck on either side. “Jaskier, what is it? A bad dream?” That wasn’t uncommon after an experience like he’d had.

“Geralt?” His breathing picked up, tears lined his dark lashes. “I.” The witcher snapped his fingers on either side of his head and watched his stricken face stay the same. “Geralt?” This time he drew Jaskier into an embrace, hugging him tightly and allowing him to do the same.

Because he couldn’t hear.

[my-tony-stark-drawings]

CHAP 7 - THE SONG

The mermaid was swiming, spinning slowly before she stoped and, bitting her lips, she looked at her mermaid scales. Something was bothering her.

Something strange had happened earlier. As she and Tony kissed, her tail had begun to sparkle like it never happenned before. She had notice it.

She had heard of this phenomenon in the stories about mermaid and their human soulmate that the old mermaids told, but she had never seen it happen to anyone in real life. The problem was that it was said that when it happened to a mermaid, her sisters would know about it and she really didn't want to be found. She was too happy here.

Her thoughts were interrupted when she heard footsteps coming from the hallway. For a moment she froze, wondering who it could be. But the man poked his head in the doorway and it was none other than Tony.

"Tony!" exclaimed the mermaid, relieved and happy to see him again. "What are you doing here?" She suddenly took a worried tone "Did something go wrong?"

"Oh no, no, on the contrary, everything is fine" Tony reassured her immediately, touched by the woman's sincere concern.

"Good!"

"The investors listened, I was able to talk to some of them and they seemed quite interested actually..."

"But then what are you doing here?" The woman asked as Tony placed the glasses and bottle in his hand on one of the desks.

"I thought I'd celebrate with the one who's been most supportive of me through all this" The mermaid smiled

"And since I couldn't bring you to the party..." Tony set one the glasses on a table next to her and began to pour the drinks. "..I bring the party here!"

The mermaid took the glass.

"Careful, it's strong."

And took a sip and coughed softly as she scrunched up her nose.

Tony smiled tenderly at her before adding with a wave of his hand "I wish you could have tried the canapés too, they were delicious but bringing them here would have seemed too suspicious"

"Don't worry it's perfect" she giggled

"To your first party" Tony raised his glass to her.

The mermaid imitated him.

"To my first party!"

Tony was now sorting out his hologram files in the void. It seemed magical but it was all out of Tony's mind.

Then he started humming a piece of one song he heard during the party.

"Do you sing?" Asked the mermaid as she was watching him, so handsome and dexterous in all his movements.

Tony stopped what he was doing and turned back to the mermaid.

"Sometimes and you?"

"Pretty much obliged for a mermaid." "Can I hear you?" Tony asked, raising an eyebrow. "I always wondered what mermaid's song would sound like"

Y/N nodded.

"Wait," said Tony, pointing at her before she start. Then under the mermaid's amused gaze he moved further into the room where there was an object under a sheet. He pushed it closer and removed the veil of the piece of furniture to reveal a piano.

"Wow what's that?"

"It's a piano, a musical instrument. My mother taught me to play it since I was a little boy" Tony said as he sat astride the seat.

"Please play for me"

It had been a while since Tony had the opportunity to play. And he was happy to share it with her.

He laughed and sat down properly at the keyboard. "Sing and I will follow you with the melody."

The mermaid lightened her voice and began to sing. At first timidly, then with more and more confidence, and in sush a beautiful and indescribable way that Tony turned his head towards her while he play and could not take his eyes off her. Her voice made him feel very calm which was rare. It was like if her voice was temling him that everything was fine.

Y/N was continuing her melody when Tony joined her in her singing. His voice was so beautiful and matched her voice so well.

She felt so happy and felt chills run through her body.

"You're voice is so beautiful" said the Mermaid as Tony looked at her tail and asked, "What is that?"

The mermaid looked too and oh no it happens again.

"It happens to us sometimes. When we have a strong connection with someone, when we're... overhelmed," Y/N avoided his gaze and ran her hand through her hair to distract from the fact that she was blushing again.

"I didn't know I could have that effect" Tony joked, smiling, making her feel better, and poured himself another drink.

The party was now over for hours and the guests had all gone home.

But the little party Tony and Y/N were having in the garage continued and neither of them wanted it to end.

Tony was standing by the mermaid's pool with a drink in his hand and they were talking about their lives. Always thirsty to know more about each other.

"So you risked your life to save dogs?" "Of course, these poor animals were used by the terrorists to place their explosives"

"Not many people would do that Tony"

"It's nothing."

"It's not nothing!" Laughed the mermaid as she took another sip of her drink.

"I know I don't do enough, that the world is not safe, people remind me of it all the time.."

"They are wrong, don't listen to them"

"Sometimes I feel... useless"

"How can you think that Tony.." the said Y/N, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You take care of everyone around you, and you want to help so badly that you hurt yourself.. You deserves so much more"

Tony stared at her with a frown "What?" she asked with a sneer.

"You know what, I have to confess something to you." He said as he slowly drew closer to her. "I feel much better with you than with some people I've known for years... and," He took her hand "I don't want you to leave..."

"Good, because I don't go anywhere" answered the mermaid immediately. "I have never felt as happy and alive as since I am here, with you"

She booped his nose in a cute way before placed her hands on his cheeks. She moved closer to him and kissed him gently.

"I could do this everyday.." breathed Tony.

The mermaid smiled. "And I think you're my soul mate..." she whispered softly, helped by the effects of the drink and the fatigue.

She realized what she just said and wondered what the spell was that made her say that out loud.

Tony looked at the mermaid with a smile of disbelief and then took her drink away.

"Hey why?"

"I think you've had too much drink little mermaid, the night is over, time to sleep" giggled Tony.

"Ok but stay a little longer..." the mermaid asked.

Tony looked at Y/N and her begging eyes waiting for him to stay, and unable to refuse, he grabbed a blanket and lay down on the large couch in the center of the room.

"I'll stay here until you fall asleep, okay?"

"Okay!" the mermaid replied happily as Tony smiled.

And for the first time, they both quickly fell asleep, reassured and soothed by each other's presence.

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Chap 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 8 / 9 / 10 / masterlist for other chapters

sorry if there are mistakes, i tried best but english is not my natural language 😅

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join us on twitter on 24th april and spread the hashtag #bringbacktonystarktolife 💖

[1smolbean]

ok rant (? started out as a rant but descended into chaos) time

no but I find it absolutely fucking hilarious that my parents are like "oh just move on from your trauma" and then don't tell me how to do that, trigger me even when I've told them about my triggers, make me talk to people that trigger me, and make me go to places that trigger me. like...ya think maybe, just maybe, that, idk, I might have trouble moving on from those events if I have to relive them all the time? and I've explained it to them but they just refuse to understand it and they don't understand the word "no" either and I just,,,find this the funniest thing ever cause like they don't fucking understand! they don't! and I've told them but they refuse to! and I'm laughing this is so funny they refuse to understand

I CAN'T STOP LAUGHING I'M SORRY THIS IS SO FUCKING FUNNY LIKE THEY REFUSE TO UNDERSTAND IT AND I,,,,,I JUST JKDJFKDLSJFLDKJFD THEY REFUSE TO GET IT AND THIS IS THE FUNNIEST THING EVER THEY REFUSE TO HELP THEIR CHILD LIVE A HAPPY LIFE

what kind of parent does that? a shitty one. they're the most hypocritical people I've ever met cause THEY'VE moved on from their trauma and they respect each other's triggers and my brother's triggers but like,,,not mine and why? CAUSE THEY'RE BAD AT THEIR JOB. THEY'RE BAD PARENTS and I'm literally laughing so hard this is so funny to me and my mother has said before that she is proud of me for not skipping school because she assumed I would but she's proud that I haven't. like,,,,wow okay I literally have no reason whatsoever to skip school though??? why would you assume that? and idk I just find it hilarious that my mother both expects me to get an A+ on every subject and also skip school. like bitch excuse me? that's...HHJFDHSFKHFDSKH THAT'S FUNNY IT'S FUNNY THIS IS FUNNY. I'M SORRY. I'M REALLY SORRY THIS IS HILARIOUS TO ME AND I WROTE OUT A WHOLE GODDAMN RANT ABOUT THIS BUT IT'S JUST THREE PARAGRAPHS OF ME BEING LIKE "MY PARENTS' HORRIBLE TREATMENT OF ME IS FUNNY" AND LIKE...IT IS THOUGH!

I feel like Alvar Vacker and Winter Schnee right now. like I just,,,this is so funny but I also want to stab something right now. is this normal? I don't think this is normal. I should talk to a therapist or doctor but I'm my own therapist and everybody else's too and idk it just seems...wrong to burden people with MY problems when they have their own. i should stop telling people when I'm sad, they don't need that. No, no but they care. why do they, though? my parents "care." they yell at me, say I'm not enough, tell me it's hard to take care of me, but they care. I guess. i think they care. caring is bad. caring for someone is bad. i shouldn't...i shouldn't trust people, because trust gets you hurt. and i hate being hurt. and i shouldn't care about people. i shouldn't care. do i even care? did i ever care? yes. but i won't anymore.

I have gone back to wishing I could acquaint a ridgdly edged object fundamentally used in the construction of walls with my biological father's facial structure. (translation: ok nvm I wanna hit my dad in the face with a brick)

maybe if you didn't yell at me i wouldn't listen to music so loudly. father

father (derogatory)

i am going to lie down on the floor and listen to Special Girl by dodie until i die

i'm the eldest daughter but I'm not a daughter i'm a son but my parents don't care

i feel nothing but the crushing weight of responsibility on my shoulders

I believe I need a counselor, or therapist, or- no, I have one already, I'm my own therapist

I can deal with this on my own

hey mother when you look through my tumblr and read this PLEASE GET ME SOME ANTIDEPRESSANTS OR ADHD MEDS IM NOT DOING TOO GOOD

the powerpuff girls reboot script made me speedrun the five stages of grief I hate it so much

cats opening partially closed doors with their FACES is wild and I love it

I want more soda.

everything hurts and I'm dying

Okay so what the hell happened here Nina please get yourself into shape you need to figure out why you did a 180 from being sad to being angry to being sad to being angry and also that gender can fluid you really be switching from "gender is for mortals" to "none gender left boy" with your emotions too

this picture of Winter Schnee perfectly encapsulates my mood right now

im in pain everybody! were in pain! specifically in my chest! what the hell is happening with my lungs

nevermind we're good now

YOU WILL NEVER HAVE TO HURT THE WAY YOU KNOW THAT I DOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

I FEEL LIKE I'LL BE OKAY AND I HOPE I CAN JUST MAINTAIN IT I WILL NOT LET MYSELF BECOME MY PROBLEM

AND I'M JUST WAITING FOR THE DAY YOU SAVE ME FROM MYSELF 'CAUSE I CAN'T HELP THE WAY I FEEL FOR YOU FOR YOU

AND WRITE IN EVERY SPACE THE WORDS "I LOVE YOU" IN REPLACE THEN MAYBE TIME WOULD NOT ERASE MEEEEE IF YOU COULD ONLY KNOW I'D NEVER LET YOU GOOOO AND THE WORDS I MOST REGRET ARE THE ONES I NEVER MEANT TO LEEEEEEAAAAVEEEEEEEE UNSAID EMILYYYYYYYYYY

*muffled sobbing*

it's projecting onto fictional characters with trauma hours everybody

DO OR DIE YOU'LL NEVER MAKE ME BECAUSE THE WORLD WILL NEVER TAKE MY HEART GO AND TRY YOU'LL NEVER MAKE ME WE WANT IT ALL WE WANNA PLAY THIS PARY I WON'T EXPLAIN OR SAY I'M SORRY I'M UNASHAMED I'M GONNA SHOE MY SCARS GIVE A CHEAR FOR ALL THE BROKEN LISTEN HERE BECAUSE IT'S WHO WE ARE

hey remember that "fuck therapy I'm becoming a knight" post I spam reblogged yeah that's my current mood rn

anyway that concludes round one of my annual mental breakdown don't worry I'll be back in approximately five minutes after drinking an entire bottle of soda