#and reliably raise their prices every half year or so

[syoddeye]

useless, part three

Part three (and the finale!) of my submission to @glitterypirateduck's O, Captain! Challenge. As a reminder, I rolled a d100 to select three prompts. I finally used my third prompt.

42. The story spans over a period of 10 or more years

14. Opposites attract

66. Price or Reader is auctioned off for a date as part of a fundraiser

cw: one pregnancy mention (Reader does not get pregnant, has never been pregnant)

Read Part One, Part Two. Tag list: @v1x3n @kiranezra

~4.2k words, Price x f!Reader. This is the most self-indulgent shit I've written in awhile. Please enjoy.

It's past midnight when you limp through the front door of your flat, dropping belongings and articles of clothing alike, shedding both the weight of personhood and your eighteen-hour day. You set your keys down on the end of the counter, ignoring the thin folder for the umpteenth time. James will undoubtedly text about it in the morning, his patronizing messages more reliable than any alarm clock. A half-hour commute home, and you didn't even glance at your phone in fear of accidentally seeing another email from his lawyer. Solicitor. Whatever.

Hamhock slinks out from his lair beneath the bed, weaving between your ankles when you drag yourself into the bathroom.

"Hello Hammy," You whisper, eyeing the newer crop of gray hairs near your roots with a weary neutrality. Definitely the fundraiser's fault. Your hair started to change long before this year's planning began, but this is the longest period you've gone without dyeing it. One thing to thank James for. Not only did his departure give you a crystal clear focus, it freed you from his ridiculous expectations. He'd've commented the moment he spotted the wisps of silver, then casually worked something like anti-aging cream into the conversation.

The prick poisoned the well, and now the only man in the world for you currently lies at your feet. How it should've been from the start, really.

After checking the orange menace's automatic feeder, you slip into bed, allow him to assume his nocturnal throne—your armpit—and plug your phone in one-handed. Your eyes glaze over at the sight of notifications, thumb swiping by muscle memory, and set an alarm. With two weeks left until the big day and more than a hundred unsold tickets, you need every moment you can get. You sigh, counting the tasks of the day ahead instead of sheep.

You'll sign the divorce papers tomorrow.

~~

Naomi practically forces the granola bar into your hands. The assistant stage manager and the props lead—the younger woman is the glue to your glue. A newer fixture at the Bramble Theatre, she was you to an extent, maybe a decade ago: fresh-faced, eager, and optimistic.

"I didn't like how you were looking at the wax fruit."

"We should swap the oranges for plums. Or pears."

"We've been through this. The oranges fit the palette, from the paintings to Dotty's–oh, quit pulling my leg."

You grin, then jut your chin at the stack of slips in her hand. "Are those the waivers? Did all the volunteers sign?"

"Yes, I can post headshots today on socials, so that should boost sales."

"Good. That's one fire extinguished," Rubbing your temple, you lean back in your chair. "I feel gross about it, though. I mean, we run shows that are hundreds of years old, but a date auction? Why don't we raise a guillotine out front and sacrifice effigies to raise money?"

Naomi blinks and whips out her phone. "...Okay, one, I'm noting the effigy idea for next year, but two, the auction won the vote, and everyone participating volunteered."

You grimace. "I know, it's just–"

The sudden opening of the door to your shoebox office interrupts. Theodore, business manager, director, and occasional movement coach, bursts in. Everybody's a multi-hyphenate.

"Terrible news!"

Wonderful. A new fire. You squint, chewing, and watch Naomi try to stifle a laugh valiantly. "Whatever could this be about?"

The older man slams his palms onto your desk, his layered pendants tinkling. "I've punched the numbers, including a best scenario, stars aligning–"

"Teddy. Out with it."

"–we're going to be £40,000 short. Even if we sell out, even if we raffle off the company like cattle, we are circling the drain!"

The tired amusement leaves your body, and in its wake sits a five-digit number and the distant idea to schedule a salon appointment.

The annual fundraiser for the theater, your hard-won home, is a dramatic, demanding, and near-disastrous event every year. The theater has continuously operated a hair above the red, but the laundry list of expenses from the last year cannot be ignored. The new light rig, the stage flooring replacement, the curtain repairs—they never stop. Sponsors and grants only go so far.

Originally, you took this job for its laughable but slightly higher pay and because running around like a madwoman between four gigs at a time wasn't as thrilling or charmingly bohemian as it was in your twenties. Your livelihood depends on the playhouse's success. And the economy. And the general public's attitude toward the arts. All wildly variable. It made you resourceful, and already, you were composing a mental list of people to politely bully for pledges promised in years past. You need time and a phone charger.

"Teddy," you set the half-eaten granola bar down. "Go get ready for afternoon rehearsal. Naomi, cover for me today?"

"'Course."

Theodore swipes his spindly fingers over his brow, nodding fervently at your resolve. "If anyone can pull it off, it's you. Do tell if there is anything yours truly can do." With a flourish, the director departs your office, but Naomi lingers.

"You know if it's donations we need…"

You shake your head, immediately knowing what she intends to suggest. "Out of the question."

"But think of her–"

"I'd rather debase myself and resort to dinner theatre."

"I'm just saying–"

"Naomi," You stress. "I am not calling my mother."

She frowns. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. Are you really so proud you wouldn't leverage your family's connections to save the Bramble?"

It makes you pause. As usual, she's right. Irritatingly so. You could take another salary cut, but you'd need to find a flatshare, a humiliating idea. Hammy wouldn't survive it, the sensitive thing. You sigh and dismiss her with a wave.

"Fine I won't rule it out. But I'm going to shake down half the city first."

~~

An hour later, you've managed to secure a percentage. Not too shabby, but far from the goal. You take a break to read James's team's latest, vaguely threatening missives and entertain the idea of withholding your signature until he makes a donation. What's a little extortion in the name of art?

You know it's wrong to delay this ugly process. How close relief is should you simply sign the papers. But it's another failure, another black spot in your life's ledger. Another dream crushed beneath the boot of reality. With a wave of bitterness, you type out a curt reply, ensuring you will sign the papers and ask them to arrange for a courier tomorrow.

Naomi's suggestion takes advantage of your mind's lethargy, testing the strength of your will and stubbornness. The last time you phoned your mother was months ago, on the anniversary of dad's death. The old man took his last bow five years back, and it destroyed the last bridge between you and your formidable mother. In retirement, she still holds court with major political players stateside…and across the pond.

Before you let your loathing catch up, you pull up her contact card and dial. It's after noon in D.C., the middle of the week. You might get lucky and reach her voice–

"Is everything alright? You're not in the hospital, are you?" Her donnish, sharp voice hurtles you through time and space to your teenage years. 

"No," You answer with gritted teeth. A headache waits in the wings. "No, I'm fine, mom."

"Then why are you calling?"

This is why dad handled conversations. You stand, swiftly shutting the door to your office and locking it. "Can't I just call my mom?"

"Of course. Historically, you do not," There's a low murmur of chatter in the background. She's at a luncheon or at the club. "So I assume there is a reason."

Having an ex-ambassador for a mother is a joke. All that practised charm for everyone else in the world, none of it reserved for you. "Okay, yes, there is a reason."

"Thought so. Well, darling, what is it? Is it James? Don't tell me you're pregnant."

You return to your desk and eye the bottle of bourbon on the corner. "No. James and I are divorcing, remember? This is about my work."

There is no acknowledgement of the separation. Instead, your mother pulls the phone away from her mouth, excuses herself from wherever she is, and the background noise dissipates. 

"Your work."

"Yes, the Bramble? Look, we're two weeks out from our big annual fundraiser, and–"

"Oh, you need me to write a check." The clicking of her heels halts abruptly, and if you didn't know any better, she wilts. "Fine. How much do you want?"

Your face heats with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment. "I am not asking for money. If you would stop interrupting me…Ugh, mom, I need help contacting some of your old friends here. If there's anyone you know looking for tax deductions or a pet project to brag about, the Bramble is in a bad spot financially."

In the past, whenever the theatre and, by extension, your chosen profession came up, your mother took the opportunity to lecture. She reminded you of the wasted opportunities she afforded you. She brought up your old schoolmates and their current positions. And most insulting of all, she always, always compared you to a certain soldier. Bracing yourself for her monologuing, you reached for the bottle.

"Why didn't you open with that, darling?"

Your fingers close around empty air, and you nearly pitch out of your seat in surprise. "What?"

"Send me the information. I've been meaning to reconnect with some old friends. When is the fundraiser?"

"In two weeks," You repeat, scrambling to pull up your email on the ancient desktop. "Tickets are–"

"Email it. I'll book my flights today and let you know when I'm getting in."

Your hands hover over the keyboard, and your neck protests the angle it bends to keep your phone lodged between ear and shoulder. "Oh, no, mom, you don't need to come."

"Nonsense. I'll, of course, make my own donation, and as a donor, I ought to see where my money is going."

Christ. For the Bramble, you remind yourself and exhale. "Okay. You do that. Listen, I have to get going…but mom?" It kills you to say it. "Thank you."

"You are very welcome. Oh, this will be so much fun. I haven't visited since before your father. You know, on the topic of reconnecting, I happened get an email from the Prices the other day, and John–"

There it is. You kick into fourth gear, rattling off your exit. "I've really got to run. Thanks again mom, send me your flight info. Love you. Bye!"

You feel like you've run a marathon and dodged a bullet. And yet, as you send the email and file the waivers, your mind snags on your mother's words. On a name. His name. It's not the first time your unhelpful brain's waylaid you with a trip down memory lane. Admittedly, it's happened more since James asked for the divorce. Most nights, if it isn't life's stresses hounding you, it's an endless parade of what-ifs behind your eyelids.

What if you studied economics instead? What if you stayed in America? What if you hadn't gone to that stupid New Year's party? What if you hadn't kissed John? If you didn't get on the train? 

The people in your circle frequently speak about living life without regrets. It's a romantic notion and a highly unrealistic one.

Your phone buzzes—Naomi. You're needed. Pushing the past where it belongs, back on a dark shelf, and head out to put out another fire. 

~~ 

Three days before the fundraiser, your mother lands in London and hosts you at her hotel for dinner. Playing catch-up is a professional sport with a whirlwind of names you barely remember and memories you remember very differently.

You pick at dessert, listening to another story.

"–and he was so insistent that that school of yours was a breeding ground for monsters, and I told him, isn't that what's needed in today's society? People need thick skin in politics and business. You'll be happy to know, though, he bought four tickets to the fundraiser."

You don't remember who you're talking about but smile and nod. It's a tough pill to swallow, your mother's success at rallying old friends with deep pockets. Teddy's practically in love with her despite having never met her, popping his bald head into your office to sing her praises whenever another pledge arrives.

Your response is rote. "That's wonderful, mom. Thank you."

She prattles on for another half hour before you decide it's time to return home to Hamhock and burn the midnight oil on the fundraiser's date auction. You asked the company for fifty-word bios and actors, bless them, struggle to contain their self-praises. When she finally pauses to take a sip of wine, you rise. "I should head home, lots to do–"

Ignoring you outright, her head turns, and she grins. "There you are!"

Following her gaze, your brow lowers in confusion until you clap eyes on a trio headed in your direction in the company of a server. Very briefly, you consider the melodramatics of matricide. You've been set up.

Mr. and Mrs. Price look well for their age, puttering toward your mother. They are greyer and a little shorter, but the warmth is there.

John, however…

The universe is intent on humbling you.

The hair is the first thing you notice. Short, kempt, and annoyingly a dark shade of brown. It's crept southward onto his face in a beard of a choice style. There is comfort in the finer details that clarify as he nears. He hasn't escaped time's passing with a face marked by crow's feet, frown lines, and forehead furrows. Beneath his shirt, there's a slight suggestion of a belly, though, with his thick arms and the narrowing of his waist, he's clearly a wall of muscle.

The worst part is how infuriatingly kind his smile looks. It's the beard. Softens him. Once an arrogant prick, always an arrogant prick.

John rumbles your name in a whisper, reeling you in for a polite peck on the cheek. "You're a sight for sore eyes."

You're years beyond fifteen and twenty-five, but how swiftly the impulse to snark resurfaces is alarming. Maturity tempers you. "You look good, too."

After a few minutes of greetings, the two of you are tasked with heading to the bar to fetch drinks. Wholly unnecessary what with a server, but it's a clear command to let the 'adults' talk for a spell. Nevermind being shy of forty. John's quick to try conversation when the order's in.

"You haven't changed a bit," He observes, leaning against the bar beside you. 

"Now there's something a woman wants to hear after a decade." You huff, casting your eyes across the restaurant, finding it difficult to look at him. The dark blue of his sweater makes his eyes pop.

"Fourteen years, actually," He corrects. "Drinking martinis, actin'…"

You snort. "You're half right. The Martini half."

His elbow gently knocks into yours atop the bar. "Apologies. My mother told me you'd been in My Fair Lady last summer."

That draws your attention. "No. The theater put it on, but I'm the stage manager. I haven't been on stage in ages." Your eyes flicker to the table, then back to him. Heat crawls up your collar. What other information has your mother passed along? Glancing down at your bare ring finger, you turn the conversation. "Not so different from a Captain, I reckon. How's that going?"

John squints a little, and his mouth pulls into a familiar smirk, tugging at old strings in your stomach. "Can't complain."

"Riveting stuff," He chuckles at that, a deep rasping sound, and you find yourself grinning. "Don't suppose that bit of clandestine, secret agent-type shit your mom's talked about?"

"Secret agent?"

"Yeah. Mentioned it in a Christmas card maybe three years ago?" You smile triumphantly into your glass. Seems both your mothers have a penchant for dressing up the truth.

His jaw works a tick, and something heavy passes behind his eyes. "Well, 'm not. Not exactly."

"Let me guess. If you told me, you'd have to kill me?"

He refocuses some, and a short laugh leaves him. "Something like that."

It's all painfully familiar, but it feels different with a little more life under your belt. His mere presence keeps you on your toes, yet you haven't felt this comfortable in months. For all the history and tension, talking to him is easy. A silence passes, the drinks arrive, and you ferry them to the table.

The night passes better than you expected when you first saw the Prices. They express belated condolences over your father, you chat about the fundraiser, and John politely navigates questions about his work. It frightens you when he briefly mentions Piccadilly to know he'd been there in the carnage. Part and parcel of military life, you guess. 

"John, be a gentleman and walk her to the station," His mother chides as the five of you congregate in the hotel lobby.

"He doesn't need to do that," You hastily say. Not again.

"'Course."

There is something dreadfully giddy to how your parents wish you both goodnight.

At least you do not need to take his arm this time. Still, there is no way John isn't thinking about that night. Not when that look of quiet desperation he wore is seared within your memory. It's silly, but you peeked at his hands earlier, and like yours, they're naked.

You break the silence to fish. "How long are you on leave?"

"A week. Got in yesterday."

"Do you normally visit your parents?"

"Often."

Doesn't mean there isn't a woman in his life. 'Often' is not 'always'. 

"Visit anyone else? Friends?"

He chuckles. "Sometimes."

You roll your eyes. "You know, you haven't changed much either. Aside from the beard and smoker's lung. Still a stunning conversationalist."

John smirks down at you. "Picked it up in the army."

Oh, yes. He remembers.

The conversation lulls, and the walk is short. You figure John's keen on a repeat when he wordlessly escorts you to the platform. But today's not a holiday, and the station is reasonably busy. He watches like a hawk, nonetheless, when you check the time.

"Brings back memories," He quietly comments.

Nodding, your thumb rubs where your wedding band used to rest. "Sure does." You respond and meet his gaze.

You studied theater, moved back to London, went to the party, and kissed John. You didn't regret those choices—only one.

The invitation flies out of you as your train emerges from the tunnel.

"Do you want to meet Hamhock?"

~~

"He's…certainly orange."

"Don't rush to spend all your compliments at once," You glare, arms full of Ham, then coo at the cat. "John's jealous because he's going grey in the beard."

"I am not."

"Saw them on the Tube. Can't those from me," You tease and set the cat down, giving your kitchen a quick glance. A silver lining of work eating up your schedule is that you last cleaned two weeks ago, and it's held.

"What're those on your head then?" He gestures with a finger and toes off his shoes. 

"Details of a person ageing gracefully." You play it confidently, but part of you holds a breath.

He hums and sidesteps Hamhock. "Suits you. It's pretty."

Maybe inviting him over is a mistake. The bolt that runs through you from the compliment pokes at something you thought buried. "What a gentleman," You try to inject as much sarcasm as possible, but your voice quivers. "I'll be right back. Sit tight?"

You leave John in the kitchen to retreat to the bathroom to regroup. Come on, you scold yourself over the basin for getting worked up. It's just John. 

And yet, what remains of your confidence perches on a cliffside at the sight of John pointedly staring at the folder of your copies of the divorce papers on the counter. Fantastic.

His small smile is genuinely sympathetic. It's enraging.

"Y'know, I knew you were married…When I didn't see a ring at the hotel, though, I wondered."

Your chest tightens, and you shove the folder into a bookshelf. "Yep. Finalized the divorce two-ish weeks ago."

You're not in the mood to be reminded of your failures.

"Sorry it didn't work out," John murmurs.

"That's life. That's how it works sometimes," You exhale, then force a smile. "Want a drink? Bourbon? Wine?"

He lets you change the subject, and you let him have a glass of whiskey.

You sit on opposite ends of your short couch, Hamhock acting as a gentlemanly barrier. The conversation rekindles itself after a few fingers of liquor, and eventually, John migrates to the floor, idly playing with the cat. You confide in him about your worries about the event and whether the funds raised will be enough, and he listens. There is no condescension, no bulldozing. Not a trace of smugness at all when he makes suggestions. You don't realize how you've slipped into an old, practically ancient formation until he peers back, eyes creasing from laughter. You're fifteen again, and it is useless to deny it – you are regrettably in love with John Price.

"Can I confess something?" He suddenly asks as your cat waddles off with a catnip toy in his mouth.

Your heart lurches. "If it's a crime, I'm a terrible conspirator." 

"No. Nothin' like that, but I lied earlier." He chuckles, craning his neck to look over his shoulder. "My mother didn't tell me about My Fair Lady."

"What do you mean?"

John turns sheepish. "I came an' saw it when I was on leave last summer. Thought I'd surprise you, but I got to the theater and lost my nerve."

Instantly, you pick through scraps of memories from the production. There is no way you would have known he was in attendance, not with how hellishly busy you are. 

"You, Captain John Price, lost your nerve?"

Color blooms high on his cheeks, and he turns on the floor, rubbing his neck. "I knew you're not acting but I didn't know how to mention it without soundin' like a prick." His eyes look soft. Different from how they looked that night in his parent's garden. Steady, unwavering, but soft. "I know I'm not good with words. I seem to have a talent for making you angry. But I really am happy to see you. Didn't think I'd get another chance after how I bungled it all those years ago at the train–"

At your grown ages, the angle of the kiss is inadvisable. The two of you fix it without parting, and his hands cup your face when you're finally standing toe-to-toe. 

He touches your foreheads together when breathing becomes necessary. "Change anything?"

You don't answer. You lead him to your bedroom and exile the cat.

~~

The fundraiser goes off with a predictable amount of hitches. The caterer is an hour late and forgets half the hors d'oeuvres. The bar runs out of red wine early. Two actors from the children's company slap-fight on stage. Nothing you, Naomi, and Teddy can't fix with elbow grease and stage magic. The caterers re-course. Naomi calls in a favor from her bartender girlfriend. And the children forget their quarrel when they're called upon to defeat Captain Hook.

What you are not prepared for is one of the actors calling out sick, leaving you one date short for the auction. You waste an hour trying to convince one of your fellow techies to step in.

Naomi corners you when you stress-eat a comically tiny piece of toast swiped from a tray. 

"You know, if one person is all we need…"

"Your girlfriend won't be mad?"

"Ha-ha, don't get cheeky. C'mon, isn't it time you got back out there?" 

You suppress a smug smile. Naomi has no idea. Nobody does. You've gotten back out there and then some. 

"Did I not tell you I was grossed out by the auction?"

She's relentless. "Are you really so proud you wouldn't debase yourself a little for the Bramble?"

"Absolutely not."

You'd said it with such conviction, so it's a puzzle when you find yourself waiting in the stage wing, makeup hurriedly refreshed. It takes all your courage and grace not to stumble to Teddy's side when he calls your name. He improvises an introduction on the fly, and you nearly laugh when you realize this is the first time you've been on the stage, under a spotlight, in years.

The bidding opens, and you hold your breath, letting it go when a few unfamiliar voices call out numbers. A humbling embarrassment clutches you by the throat. But then a paddle raises more confidently in the front row. The light is bright, but you know whose hand hoists it high.

~~

He collects you at the end of the night as you lock up.

"There's my prize."

You can't stop the grin that splits your face. "It's just a date, John."

"Yeah, doin' things a bit out of order, aren't we?" A glimmer of his younger, puffed-up self shines through, and his hand envelops yours.

As you walk, your elbow digs into his ribs, "What will our mothers say?"

"That a big deal to you?"

"To some people."

"Well, love, you're not 'some people'."

#ocaptainchallenge #john price #john price x reader #john price x f!reader #price x reader #price x f!reader #lieutenant john price #cw alcohol #i love love #i love corny shit #i needed to write something soft okay? #lightly edited bc i don't think i'll have time to write tomorrow and the deadline is tomorrow!

[cerosin-bis]

Do you have any more hcs for Ghost? Maybe particularly if he got a crush or somethin (if you're comfy with that. if you aren't comfy, you can just do general hcs, I won't mind at all). I feel like I hc him too soft because I like soft but that doesn't really work with COD because these aren't particularly..... soft people. So I really like hearing more nitty gritty and rough stuff bc I think its more realistic. I also love your art and foam at the mouth so hard when I see it!!!!

First of all, thank you anon for the sweet comment about my art 🥺♥ And yes, with great pleasure! 🖤 Ghost has been my "OG" fave for an embarrasingly long part of my life and the character I imagine is by now an hybrid between 2009 mw2 & 2019 MW. Can't wait to see him more fleshed out in MWII. I'll try to two in one your request, and I hope you like this. I know he is a very dear character to many of us.

Rambles aside, here goes: Ghost headcanons!

...Putting these under the cut because it got VERY long oops I love him too much…

Ok so the main thing I headcanon is that he survived Loose Ends. I KNOW that's not canon with the reboot, let alone "survivable" at all in mw2 but this is how things have been cooking in my mind in the past 11 years lol. He survived being shot in the stomach and escaped the fire. Smoke inhalation fucked up his voice though (laryngeal burns are a real thing, and it also "explains" the changed voice lol). He's got burn scars albeit not extensive thanks to his gear.

With all that in mind, he's got like 10 layers of issues, and the first one is that he's a complete control freak, half due to his upbringing and half cos of the "betrayed and almost died" part.

Ghost is both a very focused, cold-headed and efficient soldier... AND the most prone to go AWOL in TF141. If the orders clash with his very strong and personal set of values and morals, he'll either do his thing or vanish. Price is on thin, THIN fucking ice and knows it.

Actual anger issues. The exact opposite of Nikto: Ghost lashes out verbally, never physically. He gets upset really really fast and you'll Hear It. He raises his voice immediately - and he hates that he does it.

A more lighthearted hc that I hold on to dearly: literally so funny when he wants. Sarcasm master but also knows how to deliver a joke with the good tone and a completely unfazed expression. He's a great actor and he's hilarious.

No culinary taste or talent at all but he just straight up doesn't bother trying. Could eat military rations every day.

He's naturally bossy as hell. So, when Ghost has a soft spot for someone, you can see it immediately because he's noticeably Less Bossy. He's the guy who literally cannot hide his soft spots.

His trust is hard earned but runs deep. He absolutely loves his team. He's a reliable friend, colleague, teammate, just watch your damn step because he's loyal, but unforgiving.

Harbours respect for anyone outright. Never underestimates or belittles anyone except for his hierarchy. (Surprising, isn't it.)

He falls asleep easily in the evening… because he's exhausted. His days are spent observing things, shaping his actions along as to know exactly what are their consequences, even for something as minor as like, making food. It's the OCD baby. And it fucking drains you.

He likes when people are defiant. He takes an almost immediate liking to people who think maybe a bit too independentely for the military, in fact.

Weirdly enough, doesn't really like animals. Not the dog person you'd expect him to be.

Bonus: I don't really have a face hc for him. To me he is just his balaclava lol. But I imagine him with dark hair + dark eyes, looking like a regular bloke, not particularly handsome or unique looking. five o'clock shadow, a couple acne scars and, in fact, very kind eyes. Also tall (6'3/193cm) and lanky. [EDIT post-MWII: this one aged terribly but I am in fact 100% adopting his new looks]

#also imo soft and gritty nitty can cohabit and no one should feel ashamed for having like #wholesome hcs or stories. To me that's the magic of fandoms #I do enjoy irredeemable bastards but I reckon you'll see I have a SOFT spot for ghost. #ask #headcanons #ghost #call of duty

[threelittleb73]

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Author Bio: David offers you the best information for the Childcare subsidy Chatswood and that is the reason that you can come up with the most partinent information now.

#Child care in Chatswood #Childcare in Artarmon #Childcare subsidy Chatswood

[crypmentor2ilya]

Future of crypto. What experts say?

Lately, many people have raised the question about the future of the Bitcoin and cryptocurrency in general. There are lots of doubts found in such discussions. Some, allegedly experts, claim that the price of Bitcoin will even reach something unrealistic like 500.000 dollars or more. Well, why may folks believe it and should we trust those wiseacres?

Firstly, let’s remind ourselves that almost all of the coins are somehow affected by the big mommy of all cryptocurrencies - bitcoin. In case you didn't know, all crypto coins can be separated into 2 groups: Bitcoin standing firmly on the one side and the rest of them - altcoins. The reason traders divide them in this way is hidden behind the influence of bitcoin which is not only the first cryptocoin on the planet but also the most famous one (having 40.6% of the cryptomarket) the most expensive one among cryptocurrencies and the most volatile as well(e.g. + 340% growth in the beginning of 2021). So, as we now know how it works, let’s dive into the question which has been around for quite a while - the upcoming future of Bitcoin.

As you may have heard, there are many “professionals” who affirm that the price of bitcoin will reach some insane number like 100.00$ or even half a million by next year or so. There is a significant reason which builds those ideas in society. Reason under the name - government. You might be asking me right now, how the hell can the government affect Bitcoin and other crypto which are decentralized while the government only has an impact on centralized currencies. I have a concrete explanation for you, keep on reading…

As I have already mentioned, the government actually has no direct impact on any crypto coins, especially the popular ones. Some of the national currencies are able to have a tiny effect on the crypto however traders don't even take it into account when entering the market for a trade. Furthermore, all of the countries hate the crypto system since they are not able to track the transactions within it, meaning that they have 0 control over any of crypto coins. Lately, many developed countries tried to bring their own “decentralized” coins to the market in order to become even more modern and conquer a piece of the cryptomarket as a country coin but obviously people would not trust the reliability and privateness of those coins and find no benefit in buying them.

Apart from those attempts of the government to step in the cryptomarket, they also try to collaborate with various companies in the field of cryptocurrencies or which are somehow related to it. Thus, from the last news, in the first week of February 2023, Saudi Arabia announced their partnership with “The Sandbox”. Sandbox co-founder and COO Sebastian Borge said: “We look forward to exploring, advising and mutually supporting each other across the metaverse”

This event noticeably pushed the price of “SAND” token up by 25% for a day which already seems super crazy. One idea of an enormous country and their one investment in the company tremendously impacted the coin. In reality these aspects only can indicate very little changes in prices for coins compared to what is coming up in the next paragraphs…

Let’s recall that we are talking about all of the coins existing on the market, not only one of those millions. We are not even specifying one government or one country, we are considering the entire world. And the results from what is happening here are much more significant than with this example with SAND

It is common knowledge that every government has full rights to print the banknotes of the currency that belong to them. However, all of the countries have limits on how much money they are allowed to print each year to keep the level of inflation at normal and “play fairly” in relation to other nations. In recent years, they stopped caring and went desperate. Overwhelming majority of the most industrialized countries began to pretend those restrictions are just an illusion they should not follow. Found it totally adequate to break those rules, they started to print as much money as their factories could handle. No more limits, no more laws, no more boundaries. Is it good for the country itself? Of course, they just getting richer. Is it good for the citizens and other countries? Absolutely not. From a logical-economical perspective, the higher the amount of items, the less value each item has. The same is happening with currencies, banknotes are getting printed more and more, therefore each of them lose its purchasing value. Today, due to the inflation, you cannot buy 2 chocolate bars for 2$ as you could several years ago. Now, you can only buy one for this price. And it’s currently getting even worse. Sooner or later 100$ may cost nothing for us and all of the prices will start at four-digit numbers.

But folks are smart, they found a way to avoid those issues and keep their money relatively safe. They invest in crypto! Remember in 2021 the bitcoin went extremely viral and everyone turned out to be crypto trader/investor what pushed the Bitcoin price all the way up to 60,000$

These days, when even the oldest tractor driver on the remote farm knows about Bitcoin, it doesn’t need much time for people to understand its safety and consider storing their money in it rather than using national currency. Although bitcoin was mostly used as an asset to invest in and make some money, it will be serving as just a currency to make purchases, keep the money in and avoid awfully high inflation. Daily, the number of people opening an account in crypto wallet and putting their money there is rising. They don’t find it useful and sensible to let the government track their spends, monitor their earnings and ask uncomfortable questions with suspicion. Better and more secure option has opened up in front of them. Modern system does have some drawbacks and due to non-belonging to a particular state, company or person, it has quite poor protection from hacking and fraud. Nethertheless, crypto is also money and you can make purchases with them almost in the same way as with your credit card. A great deal of international companies started to accept crypto payment for their goods/services as well.

One of the latest news about integration crypto payment for insignificant purchases was on 23rd of February. The largest crypto exchange “Binance'' recently integrated their service Binance Pay into payment terminals Ingenico Axium in France. Initially, digital asset settlement will be available at the cocktail bars and clothes stores, but in the near future the company is planning to expand their innovation and allow users to pay with cryptocurrencies in Poland, Italy, Spain and so on.

This is just one of dozens of examples of how the usage of this technology is widening its boundaries rapidly. More companies are interested in collaborating with crypto exchanges and investing, more people rely on it and despite many countries trying to set restrictions against crypto transactions, they still are also engaged in following this “trend”.

All in all, as we see, there are tons of aspects which contribute to the growth and development of this field of the world's economy. Respectively, relying on factors stated above, many trustworthy influentials who may not even have any sort of relation to economy and currencies, still firmly believe in its potential growth. Anyway, you shall make your own decision whether investing in crypto or not and ensure all analysis and facts you refer to are reliable so you don’t lose money and live your financially charming life.

[olko71]

New Post has been published on All about business online

New Post has been published on http://yaroreviews.info/2022/12/buses-more-cuts-to-services-to-come-operators-warn

Buses: More cuts to services to come, operators warn

Getty Images

By Katy Austin

Transport correspondent

More cuts to bus services could be on the way in April when government support for the sector is due to end, an industry group has warned.

The Confederation of Passenger Transport said it still faces struggling passenger numbers and soaring fuel and wage bills.

“Sometimes there is no alternative” to withdrawing services completely, its boss Graham Vidler said.

It comes as a £2 fare cap is being introduced in a bid to boost ridership.

From 1 January, a temporary cap will be in place on many single local bus journeys around England (outside of London), as part of a government-funded scheme which will last for three months.

Currently the average cost for a single journey for an adult is £2.80, but can exceed £5 in rural areas, the government says.

But even with the introduction of the scheme and emergency funding during the pandemic, bus companies say some routes simply do not have enough demand to justify keeping them running.

More than 130 bus operators to offer £2 tickets

Free Christmas parking dropped in favour of buses

Why are prices rising so much?

“Our costs are up about 25%, through rising fuel prices, and the rising cost of living – which is feeding through in to the amount we need to pay our drivers,” Mr Vidler told the BBC.

“At the same time, passenger numbers are down considerably.”

Mr Vidler estimates the industry “would need about £250m to plug a shortfall in the next financial year” as a result, but acknowledges that would be far less than the cash needed to stem shortfalls in the rail sector.

About half of journeys on public transport in England are made on buses, according to the Department for Transport.

‘Daily’ complaints about cuts

But campaigners say cuts to timetables means many are frustrated by limited bus routes – and are using cars instead.

Alice Ridley, of the charity organisation Campaign for Better Transport, says timetables are an issue across the country.

Ms Ridley says nearly every day she hears about bus routes which have been amended or withdrawn.

Recent research by the charity suggested bus services have been cut by a quarter in the last decade.

“Unless there is more funding, we will see even more cuts,” she said.

Cuts to local bus services in the north-west of Sheffield, for example, have prompted some local people to say there are no longer enough routes operating to serve the community’s needs.

“A lot of the routes have been cut – and even if you look at the timetable for the reduced services – the buses often just don’t turn up,” Graham Jones, a bus campaigner in Sheffield, said.

“People are missing appointments as a result, can’t get to church – and a lot more are using their cars.”

Some areas in Sheffield have already brought in the £2 temporary fare in a bid to attract more passengers.

Buses Minister Richard Holden told the BBC that the government has already invested millions in supporting bus services. He hopes temporarily capping single fares will encourage more people back onto buses.

“What I want to see is a reliable service for the future, which is also affordable for people to use,” he said.

“If we do not get that ridership back on, all we are doing is paying hundreds of millions of pounds more in subsidy. What I’d like to see is that money going towards actually delivering services,” he added.

Have you been affected by the issues raised in this story? Share your experiences by emailing [email protected].

Please include a contact number if you are willing to speak to a BBC journalist. You can also get in touch in the following ways:

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More on this story

More than 130 bus operators to offer £2 tickets

19 December

Free bus travel for young people in August

1 August

Stagecoach delivers on free travel to make amends

10 December

[yde50sullivan]

Replica Purses Reviews

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[dollslayer]

Botanical Interest - Thorns

Soft!Mob!Steve Rogers x reader

Summary: After dating the notable mobster Steve Rogers for a couple months you think you’ve got him figured out. An altercation in an alley leaves you questioning whether or not that’s true. 

W/C: 1995

Warnings: Violence, angst, fluff, swearing

A/N: Holy smokes! I am completely overwhelmed by the love that the first part to this story has received. Obviously, I couldn’t help myself so I wrote a part 2 also as an entry for @stargazingfangirl18 ‘s 5k soft dark challenge! Using the Mob!Au and the dialogue prompt “Oh, Honey, you weren’t supposed to see that”.

If you want you can check out part one here and my other mob fic here! Cheers!

Botanical Interest Masterlist I Main Masterlist

______________________________ 6pm was fast approaching as you began to close up shop for the day. Steve was here to pick you up for dinner and much to your embarrassment walked in on you having a very difficult conversation argument with a very difficult customer over pricing and promotion. Having run your small business on your own for years you knew how to hold your own but you completely froze when you saw Steve enter the shop out of the corner of your eye. 

“I- listen Mr. Andersen, I appreciate all the business that your venues have given me but I can’t afford a raise in advertising prices right now. I’ve been reliable and trustworthy and I’ve always treated your venues with respect. I’ve never been an issue for you, please don’t raise the rate. Wedding season is coming up and I need the exposure.” 

You tried to bargain with him quietly, hoping the music overhead would prevent Steve from hearing but it was a low volume and a small shop. You’ve only been dating for a couple months. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of him, especially not at work. 

Mr. Andersen exhaled sharply. You could tell he was annoyed at you for the pushback. “Look, I’m sorry but we can’t be making exceptions every time a business owner comes groveling.” 

Tears stung your eyes, you really did generate a lot of business through Andersen’s venues. They listed you as one of their recommended vendors to their clients, it’s been huge for you. Knowing that Steve was there made this even worse. “If I’d have known you were going to cry like this I would’ve just done it over email I mean really-”

“That’s enough.” Steve cut him off before he could humiliate you any further. He sent a quick text and shoved his phone back in his pocket before pulling himself to his gull height and squaring his shoulders. “You’ve done enough, now get out.”

A scoff from Andersen and a harsh glare directed towards you and he was on his way out of the building. Steve’s phone vibrated but he didn’t check it. Instead he walked over to you and extended his arm to rub your back. 

“Are you okay? That guy was a total fucking prick to you, you don’t deserve that.” Steve consoled you. He seemed calmer than you expected for having just witnessed something like that. You’ve seen him agitated but never upset. Maybe he was restraining himself for you but it didn’t matter, you appreciate him being there for you. 

“I’m fine, I just need to finish closing up shop and we can get to dinner. Just give me a minute” you said as you began to sweep up. 

“Alright, sweetheart. I’m double parked so I’m gonna go to the car and try to find a space.” You nodded as hummed along to the music. 

____________________________

As Steve left the shop he pulled his phone out and checked his text from Thor ‘we got him’. When Steve heard that man talk to you like that he knew you didn’t want him to threaten Andersen and make the situation worse. You were already on the verge of tears so he decided to ask one of his men to hold Andersen out back where he could have a few words with him. 

Stepping around the corner into the alley behind your shop he took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. He needed to be quick so you wouldn’t find out. He didn’t want to upset you further, he just wanted this guy to know that you can’t treat his girl like that. And maybe he could be talked into giving her the advertising for free.

“So you think you can talk to my girl like that huh?” He questioned. Andersen looked like Thor had already punched him once in the process of restraining him. Thor’s hold on Andersen’s arms tightened. 

Andersen was scared, but not scared enough to Steve’s liking. Before Andersen had the opportunity to answer Steve cocked his fist back and launched it directly to Andersen’s jaw. “Shit! I’m sorry, I didn’t know. We’re expanding and we need the money so I have to raise-”

Before the excuse could be finished Steve hit him again. “Stop! Please!” Andersen begged.

Steve chuckled. “No I don’t think I will. I can’t just let people go every time they grovel to me. They’d never learn.” Another punch landed. 

“You’re not gonna raise your prices for her. In fact, you’re gonna call her up in a couple days and apologize by offering her advertising free of charge for all of your venues. Do you understand?” Steve asked coolly. 

Andersen coughed up some blood. “I- I can offer her half price but I can’t just waive the cost like that!”

“Not good enough.” Steve punched him even harder, Andersen was nearly knocked out. Steve thought about the tears that slipped from his girl’s eye and couldn’t stop himself. He struck Andersen one more time with a growl and his head hung limp between his shoulders. Just then he heard the sound of shattering glass behind him and froze, hand still in a fist. 

_____________________________________

Finally done with most of your tasks all you had to do was take out the garbage and empty the vase of leftover stems from bouquets into the dumpster. You opened the back door just in time to see Steve land a brutal punch to Mr. Andersen’s cheekbone. Mr. Andersen’s head fell and it was clear he had been knocked out cold. 

You hadn’t even realized you’d dropped the vase until you felt the shards fall around your feet. You couldn’t look away when Steve looked up at you with wild eyes, you’d never seen him so angry. You felt the way you did the day you met him. Nervous and frozen in place.

His face instantly fell and through his heavy breathing said “Oh, honey, you weren’t supposed to see that.” He was trying to relax his features as he approached you but you could only take steps back and into the shop like a scared animal being cornered. 

Your heart was hammering in your chest and you couldn’t tell if you were more angry or scared. You held your hands out in front of you and stammered “I’d better.. I need to lock up shop I’ll um, I’ll go”. “Sweetheart wait!” Too late. You shut the back door and locked it behind you. 

You went to your back office and sat down, not even sure where to go from here with this. You two had talked about his work a bit, it wasn’t like it could be avoided forever, you just didn’t think he’d bring it into yours. You weren’t scared of Steve doing something like that to you, you were scared of that look in his eyes. His capability of doing something like that with little thought.

Oh, God, what does this mean for the shop? Mr. Andersen will have you blacklisted. He’ll tell every wedding planner in Brooklyn. Now your heart was hammering for a whole other set of reasons. Too busy spiraling as you thought about it all you didn’t hear the bell of the front door ring. 

A knock on your open office door pulled you out of it and you looked up to find Steve. He wore what looked like a truly regretful expression on his face. You fought the urge to yell at him. You’re an adult, you’re going to talk about this like adults. Let him say his piece. 

He had straightened up, his hands were clean and his jacket was back on. He gave a heavy sigh. “Sweetheart, I don’t even know where to begin. I’m sorry you had to see that side of me, but I want you to know I would never ever do anything like that to you or anyone close to you. I only want what’s best for you.”

“And that’s punching one of my main sources of income?” You snapped. You appreciated the apology but you were getting too worked up in anger thinking about the future of the shop.

He was a little miffed at the outburst and became defensive. “That man disrespected you, disrespected your work. No one talks like that to my girl. That’s how we settle things in my world!” 

“Well you’re not in your mob world right now you’re in mine! And things don’t get handled like that! Do you have any idea the toll that could take on my business? He’s gonna have me blacklisted by the end of the day if he wakes up.” The last words came out a bit broken as you felt more tears build. You were more worried about the business than anything. 

Steve walked around the desk to console you just like he had not twenty minutes ago. He gently put a hand on your forearm. “You’re right. It’s not my world, it wasn’t my call to make and I had no right to react like that. I didn’t even think about that. The way he was talking to you, I just.. I got so mad. You work so hard and you don’t deserve that. Sometimes I forget there’s more than one way to handle things.”

Okay, that went better than expected. This is what made Steve so interesting to you. Steve was funny and sweet and charming as hell, but beyond all that there was this tender heart. He was dangerous but he was also fiercely loyal. He was more than a mobster and he was better than the brute force he used. It’s why you were able to accept that part of him, because it wasn’t his entire life, it didn’t consume him.

“Thank you for saying that,” You said quietly. You looked up to him and could tell that he really did feel bad. “I accept your apology and I appreciate it. But you have to make things right with Mr. Andersen. I’ll pay the new rate but you have to apologize before it’s too late.”

_________________________

Steve was beginning to harbor resentment towards himself for fucking this up for you. Andersen just made him see red, he has such a hard time shutting that part of himself down. You work so hard and care so much there’s just no way he could let that stand. He just hoped to work through it and move on. He really didn’t wanna screw it up.

Steve was much more at ease knowing you accepted his apology. “I won’t like it but I can do that. It’s only fair. Can I make it up to you over dinner? We’ll make a quick stop to the hospital to set things straight with Andersen.” When you shut the door in his face in the alley he had Thor take him to the hospital. He’d call another town car to get home. 

He’ll apologize to Andersen and pay the hospital bill, but you’re not paying the increased rate. No way. Steve will pay him off enough that he won’t be telling anyone about the altercation, either. Win-win in his eyes.

You leaned your head against his shoulder in slight exhaustion and nodded. “Can we forget the reservation? I really want breakfast food right now.”

A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “Of course sweetheart, you wanna get takeout and go back to mine?” He felt you nod. “Yes, please”. 

“Let me just order a car and we’ll be on our way. I’m sorry again, sweetheart, I promise I’m gonna make it right even if that guy’s a douche.” You laughed a little bit and wiped the few tears that stayed in your eyes.

“So.... your girl, huh? Is that like some mob slang term I don’t know about? Are we official?”

A smile graced his lips. “I’d like to be, if you would.” 

You smiled back at him. “I might be persuaded with waffles.” 

#siris5ksoftdarkchallenge #Mob AU #mob!Steve rogers #mob!au #Mob!Steve rogers x reader #mafia!steve rogers #angst with a happy ending #fluff #angst #marvel fic #marvel au #mafia!au #steve rogers x reader #Soft!Mob!Steve Rogers

[havenoffandoms]

72 for Geralt/Jaskier?

I meant to post this a lot earlier... sorry about the wait, nonnie. I hope you like it anyway. I'm not sure how it came out in the end after I agonised over this for the past couple of days, but it was fun going back to my Geraskier roots.

Masterlist

Pairing: Geralt x Jaskier

Prompt 72: Character A has a secret. Character B does whatever they can to find out what it is. When they find out, they wish they hadn't.

Warnings: brief angsty episode, mention of Geralt's traumatic childhood

Also, I love that art! Holy Shit!? So of course this had to feature before the fic <3

Travelling with Jaskier had its downfalls.

For one, the bard talks a lot. He never stops, not even in his sleep, and that would drive any man insane if you ask Geralt. He listens to Jaskier waffling about poetry all day, every day, he doesn’t have to endure a lecture on the benefits of iambic pentameters when he’s trying to fall asleep, thank you very much. Jaskier also likes to complain about every little thing that causes him discomfort, which when they’re on the path, ranges from fly bites all the way to sore feet. Travelling with a human also means that they travel considerably slower, unless they’re both riding on top of Roach, but Geralt doesn’t like putting his best girl under that kind of strain very often.

For all of Jaskier’s flaws, Geralt would hate to have to separate from his bard. At least, when Jaskier is close by, Geralt can keep an eye on him and make sure Jaskier doesn’t get himself into any unnecessary trouble. Having Jaskier travel with him gives Geralt peace of mind. He appreciates the singing as well, even if he could stand to tell Jaskier this a bit more often. Geralt deems that his bard’s ego is plenty inflated without Geralt making it worse. Not to mention that life always seems a little bit brighter when Jaskier is around, and the nights are a little less lonely as Geralt gets to pull his bard close and fall asleep to the sound of his beating heart. Knowing that Jaskier is safe is the only thing that lets Geralt sleep peacefully at night.

You’d think that after nearly two decades of knowing his bard, Geralt would have figured out Jaskier’s secret by now. Geralt is, of course, referring to Jaskier’s near supernatural ability to always come up with coin when he and Geralt need it most urgently. Geralt has no idea how the bard does it - his songs are popular, granted, and on a good night Jaskier makes enough to buy a nice room for the night and the better pieces of meat from the kitchen. Still, being a bard doesn’t pay that well, not even if you were as famous as Jaskier. Just last week, Geralt’s horse and most of his belonging were stolen by bandits, leaving Geralt travelling on foot and too poor to afford to buy a new horse. Two days later, Jaskier came trotting up to their camp atop a gorgeous mare, looking mighty pleased with himself but refusing to tell Geralt how he managed to afford to pay for the horse.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole her, Geralt, my dear?”

“Not in a million years,” Geralt admitted deadpan, pulling an offended squawk from his songbird.

“Just because I’m a bard you don’t think I can steal a horse?”

“I don’t think you could ever steal a horse because you’re as stealthy as the proverbial bull in the porcelain shop.”

It’s not just the horse, though. Geralt’s armour needed replacing and good armour doesn’’t come cheaply. Geralt doesn’t hire the services of just any blacksmith or armourer to craft his weapons and protective gear. He has his regular suppliers, the ones he always goes back to because he knows that their work is reliable and of the highest quality. And even though these people know Geralt by now, even offer him a friends and family discount on occasion, their wares still come at a hefty price. Geralt, as it turns out, didn’t have the coin to replace his armour for a few months. He desperately needed new boots, though. A new pair of breeches wouldn’t hurt either, and his silver sword broke in half whilst fighting a particularly vicious griffin a few weeks back.

Geralt didn’t even mention all of this to Jaskier. That didn’t stop the bard from going ahead and commissioning a brand new suit of armour, new silver and steel swords, as well as a few casual clothes for Geralt to wear on the warmer summer days. All of this must have cost an arm, a leg and a fucking lung, and yet Jaskier acted like he didn’t just break the bank all for Geralt’s benefit. He didn’t even get anything for himself and that realisation had Geralt feeling slightly embarrassed about the gesture.

“You don’t have to buy me all this stuff, Jask.”

“I know that, dearest,” Jaskier assured him, eyes soft and an easy smile playing on his lips, “but I wanted to. Only the best for you, my sweet witcher.”

The mystery of where Jaskier managed to find the coin to pay for all this remains unsolved, despite Geralt’s questioning. Well, if Jaskier won’t outright tell him, then Geralt will just have to investigate the matter by himself.

"Where the fuck did you get your hand on all the coin to pay for all this?" Geralt asks one evening, blunt and straight to the point. There was probably a kinder and gentler way to ask this, but after spending weeks mulling over Jaskier's sudden new-found fortune, Geralt has lost the little patience he possessed in the matter. Jaskier, on the other hand, looks perfectly unperturbed.

"From the bank," he offers simply as he sprinkles expensive herbs over the hare Geralt caught earlier that evening, "you know, where people deposit their valuables? I know you witchers don't believe in bank accounts, savings and interests, but-"

"Where does the coin come from?" Geralt interrupts, hissing those words through clenched teeth.

"Why, my inheritance."

Geralt stares for a long while. It takes his brain several seconds to catch up to what Jaskier is telling him, and another few seconds to make sense of the words. Inheritance?

"What inheritance?"

"Well, when my father passed away he left me and my siblings a share of his wealth. That's how inheritance works. Say, pass me my satchel my dear, I think I have some more spices in there."

Geralt wordlessly hands Jaskier his satchel, still trying to process this new discovery. Come to think of it, Geralt knows precious little about Jaskier's family. Sure, that's probably on him for never asking, but Geralt has grown so used to Jaskier oversharing every aspect of his life that he never needed to ask his bard anything. Jaskier just… never talked about his family. Or his childhood, or his upbringing. His life story seems to always begin when he was a student at Oxenfurt.

Geralt is growing curiouser by the minute.

"When did your father pass?"

"Oh? Uh… good question. Maybe a few years after I went to Oxenfurt? I'm not sure. I received a letter from the bank notifying me that a share of my father's wealth was deposited in my account."

Geralt frowns. "You never went back to find out what happened?"

"No."

Well, that's an oddly abrupt response, and Jaskier doesn't seem like he's got anything to say on the matter. Which only makes Geralt feel more curious about the whole thing.

"Why not?"

"Geralt…" Jaskier heaves a sigh before putting on a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, too tense to be genuine. "My father and I didn't get along. I felt no need to go mourn him with the rest of my noble family in Lettenhove when he passed. That's it. That's all there's to it. I was not a good enough man to refuse my share of the inheritance, either, despite my non-existent relationship with him."

That's a lot to unpack. Geralt always assumed that Jaskier had a good childhood. Then again, he would think that, wouldn't he, considering Geralt spent his own childhood being tortured by magnanimous and sadistic mages. Where most children got to spend time outside helping out in the fields or playing with their friends, Geralt was put through drill after drill, after drill… until he was physically unable to walk so much his muscles hurt.

"Wait… did you say your noble family?"

"Hm?"

"In Lettenhove… there's nothing in Lettenhove. Only the Viscount and his family live there on a large esta-" Geralt's mouth clicks shut as realisation dawns on him. "Your father was the Viscount of Lettenhove?"

"Yes. And since I'm the oldest, after he died that title passed onto me. But I much prefer being a bard, so I graciously devolved my duties to my younger brother, who now manages the estate. Are we done with this conversation?"

"I didn't mean to make you mad…"

Geralt watches Jaskier stop dead in his tracks, his shoulders briefly tensing at those words, before exhaling loudly through his nose. Jaskier anxiously rubs the back of his neck as he straightens up and offers Geralt a sheepish smile, that one warmer and softer than the previous one.

"Sorry, dear heart. I didn't mean to be so short with you. It's just… well, there's a reason I don't bring up my family all that much."

"Hm." Geralt gently taps the spot next to him on his bedroll, and Jaskier doesn't have to be told twice. Soon, Geralt has one arm wound tightly around Jaskier's shoulders. Not quite a hug, but the intention is there all the same, and Jaskier eagerly melts in the embrace. "I shouldn't have insisted. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise. You did nothing wrong." Jaskier nuzzles the crook of Geralt's neck sweetly before depositing a featherlight kiss just over his pulse point. "Do you want to ask me anything?"

Geralt ponders over that question far too long before whispering an answer in the air pocket between them.

"Did he hurt you?"

Jaskier hesitates.

"Not physically, no. He didn't approve of my aspirations and choices. He didn't support me. I suppose it hurt a little when he didn't see me away to Oxenfurt at the age of 15, but he never raised a hand on me."

"Hm." Good, Geralt thinks. No child should ever have to suffer at the hand of an adult. Geralt earned plenty a beating at Kaer Morhen, some justified and others not so much. Just because he went through this doesn't mean he condones it.

"At least I get to spend his money on someone I love," Jaskier offers softly, eyes as blue as the deepest ocean glancing up at Geralt through dark lashes, “That, at least, the old man can’t take away from me.”

A happy little rumble bubbles up Geralt's chest, despite the blush gracing his cheeks.

"I never thanked you for the gifts." Geralt blushes a deeper shade of red at the realisation. "Sorry. It's been a long year."

"Well, good thing we're heading North soon then, hm?" Jaskier straightens up so he can cradle Geralt's face in his lute-calloused hands. Their eyes meet then, amber seeking out blue, and Geralt thinks that he must be the luckiest son of a bitch in all the Continent.

"Yes," he agrees in a whisper, tilting his face to place a kiss on the inside of Jaskier's wrist, "good thing, indeed."

Request a prompt

#havenwrites #the witcher #wiedzmin #geralt of rivia #geralt z rivii #the witcher geralt #geralt #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #dandelion #geraskier #geralt x jaskier #jaskier x geralt #geralt/jaskier #jaskier/geralt #dandelion x geralt #geralt/dandelion #request open

[celticcrossanon]

BRF Reading - 3rd of September 2021

This is speculation only

Cards drawn 3rd of September, 2021

Question: Does Meghan want baby Lili to have a royal christening in the UK? What does HMTQ think about that?

Note: The cards appear to have answered a completely different question to what I asked. My focus was on whether Meghan would be able to go back to the UK for this christening or not. The cards are answering the question: What is Harry feeling right now?

Under a cut as this is long.

Interpretation: Harry is the one that wants to go back to the UK, not Meghan

Card One: The Knight of Wands. The card shows Bellerophon, mounted on his winged steed Pegasus, just after he has killed the fabled monster of the Chimera. Bellerophon's reckless and exuberant natures got him into a lot of trouble in his life. He was killed when he tried to ride Pegasus to Mount Olympus, the home of the Gods, and Zeus sent a gadfly to sting Pegasus so Bellerophon was thrown off and fell to his death.

The Knight of Wands can be a fire sign person, particularly a Sagittarius, or it can be a person who is enthusiastic and full of ideas, someone who is focused on making one or more of those ideas a reality, but who is prone to 'leaping before they look' and biting off more than they can chew. They are impulsive and impatient, thinking first and acting later, and they can be very unreliable in the follow through (they run out of steam and abandon the project).

This card is giving me the energy of Prince Harry and how he regards his past behaviour with Megxit. Harry is slowly coming to see that like Bellerophon, he has fallen from Mount Olympus, i.e. from his position in the BRF. Harry is slowly seeing how his over-confident actions and lack of proper planning (i.e. leaping before he looked) have caused him to be in this position, although I still feel that Harry is blaming everyone else and covid for his position - he is not yet ready to accept responsibility for his actions (this is one of the flaws of the Knight of Wands - being irresponsible). So Harry is regretting his past actions and wants to abandon the Harkle's plan for life in Hollywood and return to the UK.

This card can also show how the BRF regard the idea of a UK christening for baby Lili. They see it as an attempt by Meghan to regain membership of the BRF, like Bellerophon trying to enter Mount Olympus. The BRF view Meghan's request for a Royal Christening as an idea that Meghan is pursuing regardless of anything else (as the Knight of Wands does - she is focused on making this idea into reality). They see that it would be a reckless and ill-judged idea on their part to agree to this.

Card Two: The Knight of Pentacles. This is the card of Virgo, and the energy here is of a sun sign Virgo, Prince Harry. This card is confirmation that it is Harry who wants to return to the UK, not Meghan. The impression I am getting is that Harry wants to return for good and leave the BRF to clean up whatever mess he left behind him in California.

The Knight of Pentacles is the slowest moving card in the deck, so any suggestions of Harry returning to the UK are moving very slowly, if at all. The Knight of Pentacles is also the most reliable and responsible of the knights, with a focus on hard work, planning, and working methodically towards a goal. This Knight does all of the work involved, even the mundane, boring and repetitive tasks. They take care of all the details and never leave a job half done.

If you look at the cards, you can see that the Knight of Pentacles is facing in the opposite direction to the Knight of Wands. This tells me that if Harry wants to return to the UK, he has to do a complete turn around in his attitude and adopt the attitude of the Knight of Pentacles. He has to take responsibility for himself, follow through on his deals or break them and pay the penalty, tidy up all the details, and then, with everything cleared up properly, there might be a chance of him returning to England (just him, Meghan is absent from this reading).

With respect to the Christening, this card says that the BRF is examining the idea from every angle and doing into every detail of not just the idea itself, but of the consequences to them. They are examining every way that the Harkles could use this event to wedge themselves further in the ceremonious life of the BRF (i.e. if we come from the christening then we have to come for Remembrance Day as well, and Trooping, and the Jubilee etc), and every way that the christening could be used against them. Like the Knight of Pentacles, they are being slow and meticulous, looking at all the details and the repercussions of this event. Meghan, of course, is pushing the 'Harry is the daddy and he is a Prince so baby Lili has to have a royal christening' angle.

Card Three: The Four of Cups. This is a card of boredom, emotional dissatisfaction, and missed opportunities. The card shows Psyche sitting with her two sisters who are gossiping and raising questions about Psyche's husband - if he won't allow her to see him at night, he must be a monster - and so Psyche is feeling dissatisfied with her marriage. There are four cups (opportunities) in front of the women, but no one s looking at them, they are too focused on their own concerns.

This card shows Harry's current emotional state. He is bored and dissatisfied. His marriage has not worked out as he hoped, and the move to California has not worked out as he hoped. He is missing out on opportunities, either because he does not see them or because he is not prepared to focus on them to make them work. The gossip about his marriage and his life is upsetting him. He is not at the stage of leaving his marriage, but he is bored and restless, and he wants to do something to make things better.

With respect to the Christening, Meghan is focusing so hard on this idea that she is missing other opportunities around her (like a US christening). She wants to come back and 'prove' she is royal as she thinks that will create more opportunities for her (the cups on the card). The BRF are very dissatisfied with the idea of Meghan returning and play-acting at being a royal again to help promote herself to Hollywood/Netflix/Spotify etc (to say the least). The idea of the christening makes them irritated and annoyed.

Underlying Energy: The Four of Wands. This is a card of celebration, harmony, and homecoming. The card shows Jason gathered with his friends on the shore, having a celebration before they set off on the adventure that is the quest for the golden fleece.

As a card of home, this tells me that Harry wants to come home. He misses the days when the BRF took care of him and did things for him, he misses the safety of having them behind him, and he misses being a part of their ceremonial celebrations (Trooping, Remembrance Day, the Jubilee festivities next year, etc and so on). He wants to go back to being able to participate in those events and to having the BRF look after him.

The christening of a baby should be a celebration of life and a welcoming into the family. While those elements are present in this card, Wands is the suit of PR, and I am getting PR energy from this, so the christening would just be as big PR exercise as far as Meghan is concerned. Like Jason on the card, it would be a big party for her before she goes back to the US and continues her search for her golden fleece (i.e. lots of money). The BRF is well aware of this and they are not inclined to disturb the harmony of their home and their place in British society to support such a scheme. They are royal, with all that entails, and not supporting actors in whatever role Meghan wants to play in the public eye.

Repeated Cards: The reading has two Knights and Two fours. Knights are cards of action. Knights want to get out there and do things. Fours represent security, with each card showing a different aspect of it. So here we have a desire for action that will increase the security of some people (Meghan and Harry) and diminish the security of others (the BRF).

Minor Arcana: These cards are all minor arcana cards, which says that all this stuff is going on behind the scenes and has not been made public by either party concerned (the Harkles or the BRF) - excluding the PR that Meghan uses to try to force things to go her way, of course.

Conclusion: We have two readings for the price of one here.

Firstly, Harry is regretting Megzit as it has not worked out as he hoped. He is blaming everyone but himself for this. He wants to leave and return to the UK, where he thinks the BRF will include him in all the ceremonious events and clean up the mess(es) he left behind him in the US. He is dissatisfied in his marriage, but not enough to leave Meghan. The BRF has the attitude that Harry needs to take responsibility for his actions and clean up his own mess, and then (and only then) will they consider the possibility of Harry returning to the UK (not Meghan).

Secondly, Meghan wants a UK Royal Christening as a PR exercise to show that she is still royal. She thinks that this will create more opportunities for her in the US, and she is laser focused on making this idea a reality. This focus has caused her to miss some opportunities. She is pushing for it using the argument that the baby of a prince needs a royal christening. The BRF is not supporting the Christening idea. They see it for what it is - one of Meghan's PR stunts - and they have no desire to be part of it. They know that supporting the idea would be a reckless and ill judged move that would cost them dearly. They are examining every angle of the event and how it could be used against them, and there is a general feeling of dissatisfaction and irritation around the idea.

[madhyanas]

there can be no oceans

It's only when the Child needs a bath that Din realises his ship doesn't have one.

Read this on AO3!

Characters: Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda

Rating: G

Word Count: 2.7k

Warning(s): One mention of ‘spice’ as a drug. Set sometime soon after Chapter 4: Sanctuary. No spoilers for S2.

Notes: i! want! to write! more! character fics! so take this. thank you @pettyprocrastination for taking the time to read this beforehand <3

masterlist

———

The Crest wasn’t built for children.

Her walkways are narrow, interiors unpainted. Any room not taken up by essential utilities has long since been repurposed for weapons and munitions storage. There are no rounded corners, no softened edges; there is no baby-proofing to speak of. A capsule of robust, sturdy durasteel hurtling through the galaxy.

As reliable as she is, especially in the hands of Din’s capable piloting, the bare minimum the Crest offers to any inhabitants at all is an absence of jagged scrap metal jutting out to be slashed on. Which is as close to a miracle as he’s going to get, considering his ship’s survived being taken apart and stitched back together again.

Sometimes the visor’s sight catches on a slivered scar. The junction between the cockpit and ladder, the panel next to the hatch. He’ll look at it for a second, bumpy and gnarled, remembering the Crest’s shell scattered in pieces across desert rock. He’ll remember his ship, peeled to bits without mercy. Then he’ll brush his fingers over the soldered mark, and walk away.

But despite everything, the Crest is comfortable; Din can admit that her resilience, outlasting her age, is something he’s grown attached to. And when it comes to the very, very mundane, the kid seems to have pretty good instincts — doesn’t dangle over heights, doesn’t stick his hands into sockets and plug ports. His ship, in and of itself, doesn’t pose a threat to the little one. So long as he’s not left in the cockpit unsupervised.

It’s a minor weight off his shoulders that the kid’s content to amuse himself with that gear knob, occasionally gurgling commentary to Din — who has found “Is that so, kid?” to suffice as proof that he’s listening — and offering a satisfied, toothy grin. This is typically the point that Din feels his mouth pulling up into a crinkling smile, fond and proud.

It reminds him of something Omera told him in passing. Din hadn’t understood the phrase at the time, hadn’t ever needed to apply it in his day-to-day.

“You’re lucky,” she’d said knowingly. “He’s an easy baby.”

Thinking of mudhorns and mudjumpers and the kid’s inability to follow instructions, Din didn’t think it made much sense. He understands it now.

But, no — the Razor Crest, being a gunship and not a nanny droid, was not constructed for childcare. In all honesty, this hadn’t really occurred to Din beyond the obvious.

Until the kid needed a bath.

A bath that his ship does not have.

Din sighs, standing in the refresher doorway and staring at the slim sonic shower compartment. The Child waddles in curiously behind him, leaning on his boot with both arms hugging the ankle. He coos up at Din questioningly. There’s a slight twitch of his ears before he raises his arms. Two chubby fists clench and unclench repeatedly, a familiar demand.

Din promptly bends down to pick him up, angling him face forwards to stare at the offending compartment together.

“It’s a sonic shower,” Din explains. He frowns, wondering how to go about this. The kid smacks his lips idly. “Don’t think it’s meant for kids, buddy.”

Those wide, dark eyes suddenly turn to him with hope, but Din’s already shaking his head. “No.”

The kid blinks, multiple times. Din could swear the little monster’s batting his eyelashes. “No. You still need a bath, you’re not getting out of it that easy.”

In his arms, the kid deflates with a huff. His ears droop so quickly they bat against Din’s chest and quiet grumbles buzz through the cloth of his shirt.

It makes Din smile, part-amused and part-relieved. He’s never been very good at the whole ‘disciplinarian’ thing, especially not with a kid that can move things with his mind. It’s difficult to tell where to draw the line between kind and disapproving. He’s probably leaning more into the former.

“We’ll just have to… figure something out.”

He glances to the left. The sink is built into the wall, a nondescript metal bowl with a drain and tap. Din avoids looking at the mirror above. After so many years under the helmet, it doesn’t necessarily feel surreal. It’s simply odd to have visual confirmation of what he looks like.

The kid squirms in his arms, and Din blinks, slowly placing him back on the ground. He shuffles out of the ‘fresher quickly to whichever corner he’s chosen to play in today, his stuffy brown robe dragging slightly on the ground. Maybe that needs to be looked at.

Din looks back to the sink, figuring something out.

———

For all intents and purposes, the sonic shower is useful. Or perhaps that isn’t the right word, considering it just does what it’s supposed to.

It’s efficient, then. A way for Din to stay clean without worrying about the ship’s current water capacity. Whether it’s actually pleasant or not is another question, but one that’s never been important enough to be asked.

Now, though, Din thinks he’ll need to find a more permanent solution.

The sink in the ‘fresher has its own water supply, true. But it’s enough for Din to wash his hands and shave every few weeks at most. Since the New Republic started cracking down on smuggling circuits, the price of water transportation fit for hyperspace has spiked. A popular medium for diluted spice, apparently. So he’s careful with how much he uses up, wary of the ever-dwindling pile of credits to his name.

He kneels down next to the sink, craning his head to check behind a panel and exhaling sharply with the protesting ache of his neck. It’s a small slot for a liquid tanker, and Din soon realises it won’t be enough to fill a cup, much less the whole basin.

It won’t work.

———

This brings him to the next idea. Somewhat quickly, because the kid seems to have gotten into his head that no water means no bath. That’s probably bad handling on Din’s part.

There are sealed tanks of water stored in a hull compartment. Bulk-purchased and potable, for prolonged journeys and adverse conditions. Tanks that he’s loath to crack open when there’s water available elsewhere.

He lugs one into the fresher, and when he feels his lower back twinge with the effort, he makes sure to bear the brunt of the weight with his legs. Then his knees begin to strain. He sighs.

He passes by the kid on the way, sitting on the floor and gnawing on his metal ball with intense focus and adoration. He looks up at the sound of Din approaching, tilting his head sweetly at the tall canister.

Din takes it as a question, so he answers. “No idea, kid.”

When he does, finally, manage to shove the tank in the refresher and pour as much of it as he can into the sink’s water supply tube, the Child follows. His head turns from the half-empty tank, to Din, and back to the tank. As the ears swish with every movement, like palm leaves twitching and swaying in the breeze, Din watches the gears turn patiently. It’ll click.

Then the kid thwacks a hand on Din’s thigh, and very insistently garbles something with a firm nod. His approval is understood.

Din smiles. Lets it linger on his face, melt in his chest so warmly he can nearly ignore his aching joints. Gently, he places a hand on the little one’s head, rubbing the spot between his ears and eliciting a fond coo. “Thanks.”

———

That good mood doesn’t last very long when the kid realises, eventually, that bath time has arrived.

———

A tragic wail cuts through the Razor Crest.

From where he’s held over the ‘fresher sink, the kid screeches in Din’s hands, kicking his little legs in the air and keeping a vice grip on Din’s sleeves. Even the ears — those huge, petal bat-ears — are wiggling up and down in his efforts to escape.

“Hey,” Din says. He tries for stern, but it comes out mostly tired. “Hey. Stop that.”

The kid is either ignoring him, or just can’t hear it over the racket he’s making. He scrunches his eyes closed with newfound vigour and shrieks so loud it rings in Din’s ears. He winces.

The Crest’s refresher is built into a cramped corner of the hull. Fitted with a sonic shower, privy, sink and mirror, Din’s fairly certain there are graves dug bigger than this.

It’s never mattered before, since Din spends so little of his time in here anyway, but now he’s stuck in a broom closet — a metal one, with solid, echoing walls — with a screaming child.

Din sighs, with feeling. His headache, which hasn’t let up since the jump into hyperspace, throbs heavily behind his eyes and between his ears. For a second, he toys with the idea of turning off the helmet’s auditory sensors.

The kid had more or less been fine at first. From filling the sink to fetching the soap — a standard, unscented brand that Din only really stores for handwashing — to barely managing to tug his robe over those oversized ears. The kid had insisted on doing that last one himself, until he’d stumbled with the shift in centre of gravity and bowled himself over.

He’d been fine, until his stubby, clawed toes first dipped in the water.

It’s remarkable, Din realises as he looks down at the distraught child dangling from his hands. The kid hasn’t really cried for… for anything till now. At the most, Din just gets a dry, unamused look whenever he hasn’t followed the little overlord’s express wishes. Like eating wild frogs off the ground. Womp rat.

Hearing the repercussions now, it might not have been remarkable so much as just lucky. How does one so small have lungs so strong?

“All right,” Din calls. Trying to be gentle yet also heard over the noise at the same time is a challenge, so it comes out somewhat choked.

At his voice, the kid takes a breather. Literally, his round body heaves in Din’s hands, gasping for breath after his tantrum. Din eyes the tear tracks streaming from his wide, dark eyes, and his sniffling little nose. He can feel the kid’s ribcage pushing in and out rapidly beneath his fingers, stretchy like a balloon fitting in the palm of his hand. He hadn’t forgotten how tiny the kid is but — a lump settles in his throat at the reminder.

He feels his face fall. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, unsure of what he’s pleading for but feeling as if he’s wronged the Child anyway. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise it would upset you so much.”

Whether it’s his tone or the words themselves, something brings the kid to peace. Though still hiccuping, his breathing evens out.

“That’s it,” Din encourages. “Deep breaths.”

He inhales, lifting his head and shoulders slightly with the movement to demonstrate, before lowering on the exhale.

The Child watches him for a moment, blinking wetly, before doing the same. His ears perk up and down with every breath. “That’s it,” Din repeats.

When he’s reasonably sure the Child won’t start bawling again, Din takes a second to rearrange the kid into sitting balanced on his forearm, facing him towards the mirror. With the other hand rubbing circles into the kid’s back, he addresses the reflection.

“Listen,” he starts seriously. The kid looks up, watching the helmet in the mirror’s shiny surface. “I get that you don’t like it. And I’m sorry I upset you. But you need a bath, so we have to figure something out.”

Din swallows, wondering how they’re going to do just that. The kid, in the meantime, clutches the shirt of Din’s sleeve in two grubby claws and starts chewing, not taking his eyes off the helmet for a second.

Just as he’s about to ask the kid to stop, or at least lay off a little so the fabric doesn’t tear, he gets an idea.

———

In the recent past, Din can’t really remember when things last went his way. So he’s almost confused when the third time really is the charm.

“That’s all it took, huh?”

The kid happily ignores him, watching the gear knob through the shallow, mildly-soaped water with fascination. He stares straight down, his ears sticking up like fresh reeds from a pond, enamoured with the sight of his favourite thing underwater. The concentration he uses to roll it around with both hands softens the corners of Din’s mouth.

You’d never guess the little womp rat was raising hell just minutes before.

Fetching the gear knob from outside was a last resort. He’d been grasping at straws, willing to take anything that would calm the kid down.

And it worked. Leading Din to scrub the bar of soap between his hands, trailing suds through the clouding water.

The temperature suits the kid just fine, apparently. With no way to heat the basin, Din had just… waited for it to get more or less lukewarm. Not ideal, not by a long shot. He’d clenched his jaw, uncomfortable and awkward in the face of yet another reminder that he doesn’t know what he’s doing. Standing around doing nothing didn’t sit well with him. At one point he half-seriously considered getting the flamethrower out to speed things along.

But the Child, naturally, didn’t seem to mind. He now slaps his hands into his bird-bath pool with delight, relishing in the waves he can create. The pale, fuzzy hairs on that wrinkly head don’t so much as twitch, and Din has to wonder if the kid’s leathery skin has something to do with that tolerance.

A bubble wobbles into the air, fragile and translucent. A dark, watery gaze snaps to it immediately — the kind of precision only reserved for mudjumpers. The kid stills, and the gear knob is momentarily forgotten in favour of biting through the air to catch the floating parlour trick between sharp, pointy teeth.

Pop. Smack on the kid’s mouth. A light burst of soap residue sprays on the kid’s face, and the squeak of a sneeze he lets out pushes him an inch backwards in the basin.

Din can’t imagine how a thing could be that tiny.

“Nice job,” he offers quietly, because a successful hunt is something to be praised. He gives the kid’s face a once-over — with eyes so big, it’s impressive that the soap missed them entirely. The kid whines disagreeably; he evidently doesn’t care much for the flavour. His button nose wrinkles, and he bounces again with a cough.

Din chuckles. The sound rings in time with water sloshing over the lip of the sink.

“Maybe save the hunting for outside,” he advises, patting the kid on the back. The Child looks up at him mournfully, as if to agree, before returning to the gear knob resting by his foot. A new game is begun; shoving the metal ball so that it rolls halfway up the sink’s bowl before returning straight back, like magic. Every metallic scrape brings a new ripple of laughter.

He should be more mindful of how there’s more water on the floor than in the basin, now. But there are always more tanks in the brig.

In a series of excited, comprehensive babbles, the kid begins explaining the rules of his new game to Din, who listens closely. He interjects here and there to show the kid as much, but is otherwise just a spectator to the kid’s lecture.

Then for a moment, without thought, he looks up. Straight ahead, into the mirror. And he almost can’t recognise the sight.

It’s his helmet, obviously. Comforting; beskar gleaming as much as the day it was first given to him. Unchanged. Same height, same clothes.

But his sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, baring inches of skin and several wiry scars. The front of his dark, woven shirt is darker still with the water lapping over the sink’s edge, a sodden patch forming over his abdomen. He feels some of it drip onto his boots and the floor. His hands are covered in suds, tenderly but thoroughly scrubbing the edge of one floppy green ear.

The kid, sitting satisfied and unaware with his cherished toy, makes the image look complete.

Din looks at the man in the mirror, giving his son a bath in the sink. He thinks that his image probably needed a reset anyway.

Then, with something caring and delicate fluttering in his chest, he moves on to the baby’s claws. He makes sure to scrub between the fingers.

———

#the mandalorian #din djarin #the child #the razor crest #grogu #grogu djarin #baby yoda #din djarin & grogu #din djarin & the child #din djarin & baby yoda #star wars #the mandalorian fic #star wars fic #gen fic #no ship #except the rAzOr cReSt #haHA i am a comedian #there can be no oceans #my writing #sw #teaofpeach #i am sick and tired of looking at this so you can have it now #proud! but sick

[anakinisvaderisanakin]

Grudge; aka a young Jedi tries to drop a bridge on Vader’s head, and it goes about as well you’d expect (for the people out there who want to see Vader being the insanely powerful murder machine he is)

“This oughta buy me some time,” the young Jedi muttered to himself in relief, while he watched the reinforced foundations of the giant suspension bridge stretching across the gouge of which he found himself at the bottom begin to give way.

He strained every muscle in his body, sweat pouring in thick globs down his forehead as the sandstone structure rumbled and whined in protest, cracks appearing in intricate patterns as they traveled and expanded rapidly along the eroded sides. The suspension cables stabilizing the viewpoints that had been carved into the natural overhang of the rock at either side of the bridge’s anchor points had already snapped under pressure. Picking up tremendous speed, the man-made platforms came hurtling down both sides of the canyon - and with them gushed an abundance of loose boulders, rocks, pebbles and sand knocked free by the sheer power of impact. A cloud of golden brown dust rushed past the young Jedi, who fought to keep his eyes open and ignore the grains blurring his vision with tears and mud.

A tiny but sharp rock struck the side of the Jedi’s cheek hard enough to draw blood, and he winced, faltering momentarily but quick to regain his bearings. His gaze remained fixed upon the top of the bridge, and the supporting pillars shouldering its ornate design against the bedrock lining the sides of this artificial crevice mined in the sandstone. Once, this canyon had functioned as a floodgate system, the only reminders of its glorious past now being the saltwater dam waiting several miles downhill. That, and the dry, dusty and cracked salt lake desert resting beneath the young man’s feet. This had been yet another attempt by the Empire to exploit and deploit a new, untouched system for its natural resources. The flood delta upstream was all but dried out, its ancient trackways drained, abandoned and littered with wildlife carcasses. Yet another ecosystem destroyed by Imperial greed.

But Jedi Knight Jarl Oda hadn’t come to Jansenn to become an environmental activist, although he had been tempted to at the very least severely cripple the Imperial machinery ruling the system more than once. No, Oda had come to seek refuge. Like any other survivor of the temple massacre - if there were any left, and he’d like to prefer he was not alone when compared to the alternative - he had seen the message recorded by master Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’d narrowly escaped unseen, lingering clone troopers discussing their plan to execute all Jedi on sight aloud. Following a direct order, gunning down their own generals. Their own friends.

It was shocking, but Oda had never taken to blindly trusting the clones - master Krell had seen to that. In his formative years, and during the war, that had been considered a fatal flaw by the council. He had often butted heads with fellow Jedi Knights like Aayla Secura or Anakin Skywalker over his unwillingness to rely upon his troops. Now, he was beginning to think himself lucky for his suspicions. His master may have been punished, unjustly Oda would like to believe, for refusing to humanize expendable soldiers. He had survived only because of that inherent doubt in their reliability.

Finally, as Oda twisted both palms upwards; he took a wide stance for maximal leverage, closed both fists, and tugged. Hard. With unwavering determination and with everything he had in him, narrowed eyes still focused on the looming, black clad figure atop the bridge. The ominous shadow of a man didn’t move, even as the structure beneath his feet came undone in slow motion. He didn't seem particularly concerned by imminent death, not even when the final fortification shattered and the bridge came crashing down.

Oda was prepared for the shockwave when tonnes upon tonnes of solid rock collided with the manufactured flood bed; salt crystals propelled like projectiles in every direction. What he wasn’t prepared for, however, was just how powerful the impact would be. The Jedi had no time to steady or brace himself as the first shockwave set him off balance, and the second sent him flying. The cloud of debri whirled past him in a flurry, dragging his helpless body with it and Oda instinctively covered his face with both arms for protection.

The sound came a millisecond later. Earsplitting. A deafening explosive crack, like the roar of a thunderstorm and the detonation of a thousand bombs combined. The Jedi covered his ears with a whimper when pain pierced his ear drums. An ominous, distinct pop followed closely by a shrill, high pitched ringing settled in his temples and muted any further noises like a swab of cotton. Panting, the young man found himself feeling quite a bit less confident even as he groggily managed to get up on his knees. The dust cloud kicked up by the bridge’s collapse disoriented him, both sight and sound reduced by the blast. His body ached, and his arms trembled from the sheer extersion of bringing down such a large structure. Oda had never attempted a similar feat before, and had never even imagined he might need to.

Taking a couple of deep breaths, Oda at least figured he had time to recover. No one could have survived a two hundred foot drop into a durasteel reinforced salt lake canyon, with a fifty foot overpass crashing down on top of them. Not even this menace, whoever he was.

He had hunted Oda through the vacant landscape of Jansenn for 48 hours without yielding. The hunt had begun as a creeping suspicion, as a foreboding sensation of being watched. The Jedi had no clue who his assailant was, but rumours spoke of Imperial Force wielders trained specifically to trap and dispose of any remaining Jedi stragglers. Oda had made several good friends in the underbelly of the Galaxy these past couple of years since the fall of the Republic. Perhaps he had become careless, or perhaps the vigor with which the Empire pursued Jedi had grown exponentially. Either way, Oda had a target on his back and a price on his head that not even his friends could erase. It had been a matter of time, but he hadn’t expected these assassins to be so relentless in their pursuit.

Coughing, Oda spit up a garbled mix of salt crystals, saliva and blood. His head was spinning, and he staggered backwards when he stubbornly got up on his feet. The moment felt like it had lasted an eternity but it couldn’t have been more than half a minute. Even in his disoriented state, the Jedi noticed that the topmost sheen of debris was already fading, carried away by the dry acrid winds overhead. But that wasn’t what bothered Oda and drew his attention. As he wiped his nose, attempting to stall the gush of blood trickling from the left nostril, the colour was left drained from the man’s bruised face.

The entire midsection of the expansive, collapsed walkway appeared to be hovering. Oda blinked rapidly, not believing his eyes and with a growing dread setting in, he tried to write it off as a hallucination caused by sudden head trauma. As if whatever external force that was manipulating the levitating wreckage had read his mind; the thick fog of obliterated gravel, sand and salt perforating the air seemed to settle in an instant. There was nothing natural about the way in which every single airborne particle of dust laid down as neatly as if someone had smoothed it out with their hands. In an instant the air was crisp and clear. The sun’s blinding light spilled into the canyon, reflected by billions of salt lake crystals. With one, single synchronized swipe, a serene peace settled as the rubble littering the bottom of the complex was brushed aside to create a perfect pathway. Oda didn’t want to look, but he already knew the culprit behind the inexplicable bending of physics.

Where only a collapsed bridge should have been resting, crushing its passenger under its weight - stood the man Oda had hoped to destroy. One of his large hands was aimed in Oda’s direction, palm open facing him. The other was raised to about eye level in a tightly clamped fist. There was a slight tremble to that one balled hand, but in its Force grip, the man had successfully both blocked and abruptly stopped the remains of the falling bridge mid air before they could even touch the bottom of the canyon. Around his imposing figure laid the shattered marble pillars, the stone railings that had lined the walkway in pieces. Suspension cables hung from the carved sandstone that had supported the viewing platforms. In the midst of the chaos, the majority of the demolished structure remained suspended just a few feet above the mysterious man’s domed black helmet.

Oda could only stare, mouth wide open in horror. His feet seemed nailed to the ground. His eardrums still burnt, but the ringing had begun to subside and the uncanny, eerie silence of the scene was tense and overbearing, suffocating. Shifting slightly, the large, imposing figure of a man on a mission that stood before the young Jedi began to approach. His strides were slow and meticulous, but he didn’t falter. Oda’s gaze remained transfixed by the large chunk of stone still floating freely; its vast shadow blocking out the sunlight.

“Did you believe dropping a bridge on me would be a sufficient way of stalling my advances? I am afraid I must disappoint you. Now, shall we see how you enjoy a similar treatment?” the man rumbled, his voice sharp and its bark was a sinister warning.

Oda instantly realized what it meant, and he did his best to flee on wobbly, unsteady legs as the strange assassin crouched. The man brought his arm back to take perfect aim and in one flawless heave - he hurled the remains of the bridge at the boy full force. The distance was enough to allow Oda to dodge the majority of the formation heading for him, even as it broke apart along the way - but it was not enough to completely escape the explosion that sent shattered rock and gravel raining down on him when its proponent collided with the lake bed. Tumbling, the enormous limestones that had decorated the walkway seemed to chase the Jedi with unfathomable speed for something so substantial.

Oda glanced back, confident he was in the clear when he noted that he was gaining. He thought he might get away despite the burning in his lungs and the taste of iron and copper welling up in his throat - the salt he had inhaled scraping his airways from the inside. He even dared to smile - only to stumble on an unexpected depletion in the ground ahead. With a yelp, the Jedi lost his footing and tumbled forwards onto his palms and knees. Unable to break his fall, he rolled around; the sharp salt tearing holes in his clothes, digging deep into his flesh. A sickening pop and a snap was followed by a wet crack, and Oda came to a sudden stop.

Pain shot up the young man’s spine as he was unceremoniously pinned in place. Adrenaline pumping, Oda twisted halfway around and through the agony he soon realized that his right leg was locked in a vice between reinforced canyon floor and a chunk of the bridge’s support pillars.

The Jedi gulped down the urge to throw up, blood gushing from the multiple spots on his body the salt lake’s unforgiving bed had ripped up and rubbed raw. Nausea struck full on, as he attempted to push the remnants of what was once a craving appropriating the planet’s local population’s cultural, decorative art off of his mangled limb. To no avail, Oda’s hands shook and refused to stay still, blood painting the palms a deep crimson. He was trapped, backed into a corner, tears welling up in his eyes as the monster responsible for his suffering appeared over the crest of this brand new ridge of fallen rock he had created.

The man was impossibly tall, broad shouldered and carried himself with a dark pride. All black, his cape billowed behind him like a pair of giant wings as he crossed the distance between them with one leap. The grace behind it was jarring when linked to the man who had performed the feat. The man appeared to be regarding his handiwork, and there were no signs of strain or struggle within him. It appeared as if the immense power that fuelled the impressive Force wielding he had just performed didn’t so much as phase him.

“Let - let me go… I don’t h-have anything! I’ll disappear, just p-please,” Oda heard himself brokenly sniveling in between sobs and sniffles - put face to face with his own mortality, he found himself pathetic.

“You are as cowardly as every other Jedi. Tell me, how does it feel to look death in the eye?”

There was no malice or direct spite in the man’s deep voice, his wheezing respirator serving as an unwelcome third part invited to witness this mocking display. It triggered some kind of memory, but Oda couldn’t say what it was. Instead, the Jedi focused on the monster’s stoic face plate and how it seemed to emulate something akin to disgust, or distaste despite its perpetual aloofness.

Oda realized he was being treated if he wasn’t human, as if he was just a pest or a vermin this sinister man was looking to exterminate before continuing going about his day. The Jedi could picture this menace of a man going home as soon as he’d been dealt with, and never again think of him. Never again deliberate on his fate, never regret his death. Tears poured down the young man’s bruised, cut up cheeks, and he shook his head vehemently.

“Please, I - I’ll do anything…” he begged in vain, voice cracking mid sentence.

“You have nothing to offer me. I have no use for you, and even if I did, you would be the last person I would consider worthy of making an exception for.”

The man’s montone, almost bothered delivery changed with an uncanny ease. Suddenly, there was a tangible sense of contempt seeping through his mechanical, synthesized vocals.

“I… do I know you? I don’t understand.”

Oda had never sensed such unhinged, unadulterated hatred spilling from another human being. It was enough to taint the monster’s entire Force signature; infecting it like a virus, and the Jedi realized he had never in his life come across someone so deeply connected to the Dark Side. Still, as the tidal wires of agonizing pain continued to send his nervous system into shock and meltdown - the anguish only serving to heighten his awareness of this man’s loathing - the young man found himself perplexed through his terror. Something told him this was a personal vendetta.

A Sith Lord, master Krell had said once. When you meet one, you’ll know. That’s what this nameless, faceless menace was. A Sith Lord.

“No. You do not know me, and you never will. But I know you.”

The Sith Lord drew closer, with a superhuman speed to his calculated, menacing approach. Oda tried to rear back, but with his leg crushed, he could do nothing but whine as agony washed over him and kept him incapacitated. The Sith seized the young man’s temporary weakness as an opportunity, placing one large, heavy booted sole over the Jedi’s heaving ribcage. As the assassin applied pressure little by little, Oda gasped - finding himself nearly unable to draw breath and the panic that had been threatening to overtake his senses broke through.

“I don’t - no - I---” he tried to reason and plead, but his executioner-to-be would have none of it.

“Master Yoda would not have taught you this, but I happen to believe in an eye for an eye. And while it would be decent of me to play fair, I have good reason not to. You owe me an arm, but I believe I will take… your life.”

Oda’s eyes widened as he stared right into crimson red lenses of the face plate covering the Sith Lord’s face. It all came rushing back to him. The lectures in the temple halls, the relentless bullying he had spearheaded. He’d just been a kid himself, he hadn’t enjoyed the new kid’s natural talent with the Force. He hadn’t enjoyed the attention the kid had received, he had been driven by a childish jealousy. He had thought the boy had gotten over it, as they grew up.

Yes, Oda might have accidentally broken the kid’s arm in a wrestling match. Yes, he might not have meant it when he’d said sorry and apologized at the time. Yes, they had gone on missions together when they had both been knighted. Yes, they had shared some sort of friendly connection on Ilum. Still, the kid had always been prone to holding grudges til the end.

Heart dropping into the pit of his belly, the Jedi instantly realized the identity of this Sith Lord. He didn’t doubt he would have died even without the personal connection, and it all made sense. Of course it was that kid who had turned on the Jedi council and their teachings. Of course it was that kid who had slaughtered the younglings in cold blood, who had brought about the Empire’s rise to power. Of course it was that kid, whomst master Kenobi would never sell out by name. That kid, who was excused and forgiven again and again.

Of course it was Anakin Skywalker.

#darth vader #anakin skywalker #star wars #sw #canon compliant #post rots #pre anh #vader #lord vader #anakin #skywalker #skyguy #ani #hayden christensen #matt lanter #james earl jones #david prowse #sith #jedi #jedi purge #order 66 #dark lord of the sith #fanfic #fan fic #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfics #fan fics #the mask of death

[lobitoworks]

Fursuit Pricing, Explained

I had someone message me on Instagram politely asking why fursuits cost what they do. I had a little time tonight to delve into specifics to help enlighten them and others who have asked this same question.

EXAMPLE SCENARIO: A full fursuit that costs $4500 from a professional maker. This isn’t even considered all that high a price today but it’s a fairly average price for us currently, so we’ll use that as an example.

- MATERIALS: 6 yds fur: $125 - 230 half roll 1/2” foam: $15 half roll 1” foam: $15 half roll blue foam: $6 spray glue: $12 plasti-dip: $14 minky/vinyl/fleece fat quarters: $15 glue sticks: $7 2 spools thread: $7 pens, pencils, pins, chalk, etc: $5 2 rolls masking tape: $4 tagboard for drafting patterns: $2 thrift store sheets for testing patterns: $10 polyfil: $10 eye plastic, buckram, paints, zippers, misc: 30 spandex and other lining fabrics: 17 shipping box, tape, packing materials: $8 __________ MATERIALS -$300 - $405

-Payment Fees Every electronic payment service will charge fees for using them- the fees are fairly comparable between Paypal, Square, and Stripe. Mailed payments are possible for less or no fees, but you can’t beat the convenience of electronic payments.

PP FEES ON 4500: -$130

- TAXES: Self employed people have to set aside around 20% of all their earnings for taxes. So 20% of 4500 is $900. Tax refund?? Don’t know her!

- ACTUAL PAY? So $4500 fursuit minus cost of materials, taxes, and fees actually equals around $3100 in pay. And this is assuming no mistakes are made during fursuit construction that require more materials to be purchased, your equipment doesn’t need maintenance, and you don’t need any special materials not listed above. Also, I estimated the fur price based on a $21-35/yd, but faux fur can cost $65 a yard and higher depending on what it is.

OTHER PRICING FACTORS:

- SUPPLY/DEMAND: Anyone in the market for a fursuit has undoubtedly noticed that virtually every full time maker usually has a full queue and opens for commissions infrequently. When a popular maker opens, they usually get to pick and choose what projects they want to take on and inevitably have to turn down some applicants. Despite there being more and more professional fursuit builders out there taking commissions, demand for fursuits continues to rise, and there’s still not enough makers to fill the demand. It is a seller’s market- we are able to raise prices yearly and demand does not waver. It’s anyone’s guess when/where we’ll find the ceiling on this market.

- NICHE GOODS: Fursuits are super niche market and only a relative few of us can 1. produce professional quality costumes 2. successfully run a home business and stay on top of deadlines, finances, customer service, etc So if professional fursuit builders are a rare breed, those who are reliable and timely are basically a unicorn. Niche markets for luxury items equals luxury prices.

- TIME TAKEN TO CREATE: Fursuits are a lot of work! There’s no getting around it. Even those of us who have been doing this a long time can take between 75-150 hours to create a typical fullsuit on average, and this doesn’t include all the other work like research, brainstorming, emails, social media, web shop maintenance, and packing + shipping.

- EXPERTISE: If you’ve been working at the same job for years, you can expect to make more money than someone just starting. The same is true for fursuit builders! We deserve raises as cost of living increases yearly and as we get better at our jobs. So it is not uncommon at all to see fursuit builders gradually increasing their prices year by year.

- NO JOB BENEFITS: Working for yourself is rewarding but also expensive. If you’re doing this full time and don’t have anyone else supporting you, you have to provide your own healthcare and make sure you have extra money saved for sick time, vacation days, all the stuff traditionally employed people don’t have to think about.

It is easy to be dazzled by the prices professional fursuit builders are charging and imagine we must be loaded, but all in all it is quite a modest lifestyle. Those makers who haven’t gotten fast/confident at building and don’t have a huge fan following may really genuinely struggle in the beginning (which is why I wouldn’t recommend just diving on into professional fursuit building without a plan or fallback). The most successful of us are still definitely not rich. We budget for the things we want and we need and have to weigh carefully any trips or luxuries, just like anyone.

Professionally made fursuits are not affordable to all, it’s true- that’s actually why I started making fursuits, I wanted one but couldn’t afford it. I still can’t justify spending the money to have someone custom create something for me, my lifestyle just doesn’t support that kind of luxury spending.

I was actually really reluctant to DIY my first fursuit it in the beginning, I had no experience with sewing or fabrics at all and had to learn everything from basics. I strongly recommend anyone interested in fursuits try making their own at least once- worst case scenario you waste a few materials and figure out you don’t enjoy it, best case scenario it ignites a hidden artistic passion within you like it did me! DIY can be a wonderful solution for those who want a fursuit but can’t afford a commission.

#fursuits #furry #text post