#god forbid i draw the same character the same way twice

[hawnks]

Alpha!Nanami/Omega!reader

Word count: ~2,800

warnings: a/b/o typical sexism, abuse of authority (from side character), mention of leg injury

……………………………………………………….

He brings the storm with him.

You learn him in whispers, along with a bevy of myth and rumor. He drifted here from the East. His clothing has been mended at least a dozen times, but his shoes are sturdy, expertly crafted. He makes no noise when he walks — hardly any noise at all. Rōnin, not samurai. And you can’t trust a man with no honor.

He killed his old master, I heard.

No, he was exiled.

Maybe he killed his master because he was exiled.

“He’ll be gone tomorrow once the rain lets up,” the innkeeper says, cutting off all further speculation. “Now, mind your work, not the guests.”

Beside you, someone grouses, “He chose a funny season to wander, if he’s afraid of the weather.”

…

The rain does not let up.

It puts everyone in a sour mood. The streets turn viscous and tacky, the air brutally cool. You draw the short straw, sent to fetch the days meat in the early morning, a long trek to the fishmonger that leaves you drenched down to your underwear.

It takes twice as long as usual — you lose your sandal a few times in the muck — and when you arrive the stand is vacant. The old man had come down with pneumonia.

Frustrated, you take the long way home. They can wait for the bad news, and you’re so soaked a few extra minutes won’t make any difference. You catch the eye of a few of the daimyō’s men, leering at you from beneath awnings, snickering as you walk by.

“Wanna hear a joke about wet omegas?” one of them calls to you.

You grit your teeth and keep walking.

You deliver the news about the fish to the innkeeper at the door to her room, so you can dart out again before she has a chance to say anything. God forbid she sends you out on another errand.

Soaking, furious, you change into your uniform, and begin your shift at the tavern.

The work is tedious, but decently lucrative. You like to talk to travelers, learn what’s happening beyond the boundaries of your town. It’s hard to put into words what you get out of this, hoarding information like you’re starved for it. Maybe the sheer notion that there is someplace else. That this town and its people are not the only things in the world.

The comfort of knowing away is still possible.

You expect to ask the rōnin the same, starry eyed questions, regardless of how the other server is avoiding him. It might even be enough to salvage this shitty morning.

But you don’t get a chance to ask him where he’s from, what he’s seen. You open your mouth to say something, and choke on air thick with the scent of wisteria.

He meets your gaze.

He won’t look away.

Your wet hair drips on his table.

You can’t feel your fingertips.

Shoving yourself away from the table so hard it rattles against the floor, you excuse yourself in a mumbled tumult. You recruit the other server to take over your tables for the rest of the morning. You must look as awful as you feel, because she doesn’t even question it as you retreat back to your room, throw yourself under the quilt. Close your eyes and pray for your heart to settle.

The one thing the gossip didn’t prepare you for — an alpha.

…

Another day of storms. Another morning you draw the short straw.

Another day you limp home through the mud, empty handed.

The soldiers don’t leer today. Instead, the daimyō is waiting for you. It feels like he’s always waiting for you, that he could swoop in any moment, as quick and ruthless as a hawk.

He’s said he could follow your scent straight to you, no matter where you’re hiding. Sometimes you believe it.

He’s leaning against a wall under an awning, but you know the casual stance is deceptive. He can be fast when he wants to be.

He calls your name, an inferred order to come.

You pretend you didn’t hear, keep walking.

He’s standing straight now arms at his side. Ready. Your insides feel leaden. It takes all your willpower to keep moving forward. To disregard an alpha is one, painful thing. To disregard the daimyō is simple insanity.

Water blurs your vision. You can’t tell from the corner of your eye what expression he’s making. Sometimes he finds your insolence humorous.

Sometimes not.

Just a dozen feet further and you’ll be at the bend in the road.

“You should greet me,” he says. Quiet, but you’re so hyper-vigilant, there’s no way you could miss it.

“Good morning, My Lord,” you whisper to your feet.

He doesn’t step out into the rain, but his voice follows you around the corner. Teasing, condescending. “That’s a good omega.”

He could kill you for your bad manners. A servant, ignoring their lord. No one would question it, no one would dispute it.

But then — he would be killing the only omega in the whole town.

As much as he resents your disobedience, he would resent the loss of you even more. An alpha must have an omega, he told you. That is his right.

Chin tucked and scurrying, you don’t realize you’re on a collision course until you’ve already run into the man. The impact sends you tumbling to the ground.

Through the buffer of the downpour, it takes you a minute to recognize him. His scent.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” he says. “I apologize.”

He bends to offer you a hand up. You just stare at his outstretched palm. Silent. Reeling.

You wait for him to give an order. Demand you take his hand, or that you come to stand on your feeble legs all on your own. It’s simply an alphas nature to wield their power like a cudgel, to bend everything and everyone to their will.

And now you have two of them to deal with.

Another moment of stillness. Your breath steams. Your pulse drowns out all other sounds.

He kneels.

Like this, on the same level, you can see the color of his eyes. So perfectly brown they’re almost black.

“Are you alright?” he says.

His voice is staid and calm. Not demanding. Not cruel. It — confuses you. You don’t understand what he wants from you.

You rise to your knees, shoving him with all your strength. He doesn’t budge. He remains solid and upright beneath your hands. You can feel the muscle, the innate strength. He’s warm, beneath the wet clothes. So incredibly warm.

You wonder if he could soothe your chill. You wonder if the touch of his bare skin would burn.

With a gasp, you tear away, appalled and mystified by your own reaction.

He stays kneeling as you rise and step away. He stays as you rush home, the scent of wisteria heavy in your lungs.

…

The innkeeper is displeased with your performance, of late. She gives you a stern warning that you shouldn’t let your “licentious nature” interfere with work.

“I don’t know why I agreed to take an omega on,” she sighs. “Not like you’ll be around for much longer, anyway.”

You wince. “Am I fired?”

The old woman laughs. “No, no. Not yet, anyway.” She waves at you, a full body gesture. A reference to the omega in you. “You’ll be wed to His Lordship soon, anyway. You won’t have to worry about the toil of work anymore.”

You excuse yourself shortly after.

…

The days are a monotony. Even the fear is so commonplace you lose track of it. The daimyō grows impatient with you. He calls to you from the shelter of the awning, each time a little bolder, a little less demure about his intentions.

“You know, I have a bad habit of breaking my things when I get bored of them,” he tells you. “I wonder what other tricks you have to keep me entertained.”

You hang your clothes to dry every evening, and the drip becomes a steady cadence, like the ticking of a clock.

This is your life.

The rain.

The rain.

The rain.

…

The decree is issued that afternoon. Marriage.

You’re to report to the royal estate before sundown, along with everything you own. You will not be coming back.

You pack your bag; you take the road out of town. With the city at your back, you’ll have to pass through the outskirt woods. Then across the river, a dangerous gambit when the water is this high, but that just means you won’t be followed.

You can’t imagine the consequences if they catch you.

The path grows looser the further you go, the mud deep, silt as slick as ice. Arduous and exhausting. And dangerous, too.

You don’t realize your footing is off until it’s too late. You slip, land badly. You cry out before you can stop yourself.

You struggle to your knees, get one of your legs beneath you. A shock of pain has you tumbling down again.

You can’t stand. You can’t run.

Just moments after you fall, a shadow overtakes you. And a man, looming, familiar, crouches before you.

“I heard your voice,” he says. “Can you walk?”

You shake your head, timid, overwhelmed.

“Pardon me,” he says, before hefting you up into his arms.

The ease he does it with is startling. An alpha’s superior strength.

He brings you to a small hunting cabin. Clearly abandoned, but decent enough. It’s dry, and a small fire is going in the hearth.

There’s no furniture except for a rudimentary pallet, which he sets you down on.

“May I?” he asks, hands hovering above your stockinged leg.

He takes your silence as answer enough, unrolling the material gradually, trying not to disturb your injury. He inspects it briefly, pressing carefully. You wince, he stops.

He reaches for his bag, retrieving a small tin. “Your ankle is sprained,” he tells you. “You should return to town in the morning.”

“I need to leave,” you return absently. “I have to get past the bridge.”

He frowns.

“The bridge has collapsed. The river is impassable.” He had tried to leave that morning, only to face the same dilemma. He considers you leg. “Besides, you won’t make it very far.”

The reality of your situation dawns on you, a slow tide of dread.

You missed your chance. You’ve lost your only opportunity at freedom.

You yank out of his grasp, dragging yourself across the floor, to the corner on the far side of the cabin.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you—“

“No. No.” You gnash your teeth at him, feeling wild with fear, unable to see past the dark curtain of it. “I have to go. I can’t be trapped in here with you.”

He raises a hand, a placating gesture, but all you see is motion, canting toward you. An alpha. A threat.

You grab whatever is closest. You throw it at him.

The stick doesn’t even hit him, but that doesn’t stop you. You throw everything within reach.

He just waits for you to give up, but soon enough he realizes how stubborn you can be.

“Enough,” he says. His voice fills the shack, not loud, but indomitable. The undeniable command of an alpha. “I’m not going to hurt you. I would appreciate if you would offer me the same courtesy.”

You drop the stone you were going to hurl at him, suddenly incapable of aggression. You feel — groggy, but less terrified now. Very nearly calm.

His pheromones, you realize.

The notion that he’s using them on you should incense you, but you can’t muster it. You close your eyes, exhausted.

Eventually, after long minutes of tepid silence, he murmurs, “I was here first, you are aware of that, right?” His tone is almost — sullen.

And for some reason, that very human show of petulance is enough to thaw you.

You laugh.

You can’t stop. You laugh so hard it’s hardly laughter anymore. It’s so intense it makes your ribs hurt, brings tears to your eyes.

It feels like the first time you’ve been able to think clearly in weeks.

When you finally calm to a few soft hiccups, you lay down and throw your arms out. Passive.

“Alright, swordsman,” you say, “Fix me.”

He’s slow to approach you, cautious of another rock coming at him. But you remain still.

His touch is gentle, so soft it’s like he’s barely handling you at all. He retrieves the tin of salve you kicked out of his hand, and begins to apply it. It’s cool, slightly astringent. Beneath that, the scent of wisteria.

His fingers are just as warm as the rest of him.

It’s over before you can get used to the sensation of him touching you. He pulls away, returns the tin to his bag. “That will help with the swelling. You should still avoid putting weight on it until it heals.”

“Thank you,” you force yourself to say.

You think you hear him chuckle.

…

Night blooms, full and dark.

Despite your anxiousness, the waiting has grown tedious. Unbearably so.

“Is there anything in that bag to alleviate boredom?”

He glances at you for a moment. Hesitating.

Finally he reaches inside, pulls out a small binding. He passes it to you.

A book of poems. You recognize the shape of the sentences, some of the words. You wonder what use a swordsman has for literature, but the swordsman is full of surprises evidently.

Th pages are worn, the edges soft from thumbing.

“I can’t read,” you say. You look at him. Expectantly.

You hold the book out. He takes it, slowly, gingerly.

He reads.

He’s not much of a performer, although you didn’t expect him to be. It’s clear he’s not used to reading aloud, but he knows these passages well. He’s tone is even, with little inflection. The words come out perfectly paced.

They’re love poems. Not flowery or decadent, but earnest, gentle.

It seems at odds with what you know of him, what you’ve assumed from his status, both as a rōnin and an alpha. You’re not sure what to make of him anymore, how to reconcile the image you built of him in your head and everything you’ve witnessed here.

His swords are leaned against the wall beside him, sure proof of a history of violence.

The question comes, unbidden. “Have you ever killed someone?”

He pauses, glances at you. He searches your face for something, the fear that should accompany those words. But your expression is blank.

Silence, fraught with the tense memory of how you ended up here. What were you running from? Why? He must understand, to some extent. No one reaches desperation without pretext.

“Yes,” he says, simply.

“If I asked you to kill someone,” you murmur. “If I paid you…”

The implication feels enormous within the tight confines of the cabin.

“I don’t believe that’s what you want.”

“What do I want?”

“To not be put in a position where you have to make that kind of decision.”

That makes something in your chest feel tight, on the verge of snapping. Another thing you can’t wrap your head around. Another emotion you can’t name. Uncomfortable, but not frightening. Not like before.

You feel displaced, unmoored.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I’m not being nice,” he says. “You need help. I’m in a position to provide it.”

And that seems wrong to you. Just because someone has the means doesn’t mean they’ll offer them, certainly not freely. Especially not when someone is a such a burden.

“I’ve never met an alpha who’s kind to an omega just for the sake of it,” you say despite his denial.

He mulls that over for a moment, head cocked as he decides how to respond.

“I didn’t know you were an omega until tonight,” he says, quietly. “I had my suspicions, but…”

“Were my bountiful charms not enough to tip you off?” You snort at his blank expression, too polite to disrespect you with an answer. “Why now?”

“Your scent. It’s…subtle. Easy to miss, especially under these circumstances.”

“What do I smell like?”

He smiles, for the first time since you met him. It softens his severe features, makes him look younger. Less world-weary. “You smell like rain.”

He continues reading as the sky continues to churn, until you can hardly keep your eyes open, just barely holding on to the soft thread of words.

“Sleep,” he says gently. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”

Despite yourself, you believe him.

#nanami kento x reader #nanami x reader #HAPPY FOUR AM #here’s this <3 #I knowwwww there’s like a thousand typos in here I just know it #I wanted to finish this tonight I felt compelled to #also I’m so sorry if u actually know stuff about history I am just making stuff up as I go <3 #JSJSJDJDJDJD #anyway…… #one of the stranger aus I’ve written #cw: a/b/o #tw: a/b/o

[owlpellet]

Hewwo I am sending u this message about the detecting AI and I am shaking your hand. Another good one personally is ears and glasses especially. They have a hard-ass time keeping paired objects (glasses arms, earrings… tittybooby sometimes) matching.

Oh they have the WORST time of it. It's really bad at making the same thing twice, anything that is supposed to be symmetrical or match in some way is always a good place to start your scrutiny if you're feeling something is off. This is also why it's absolute dogshit for something like making a comic, because even if you feed it exclusively models of the characters you want it to draw it will still somehow make them look different in every panel (and god forbid they have a tattoo or other detailed feature).

This lack of consistency is especially true if the piece is otherwise a very polished-looking render. A lot of beginner artists express concern at their work being mistaken for AI because of their errors ("I can't draw hands either!"), but the thing about human vs. AI error is the consistency of the errors/shortcuts-- does it look like it's an error someone of that skill level would make? Your average deviantart user just learning how to digitally paint will probably fudge the design on some filigrees or draw glasses sitting wrong, but someone seemingly capable of producing literal Rembrandt-quality paintings would not.

[biorust-art]

Ah, the irony of never being able to draw the same character the same way twice but some of your favorite characters are clones. 

Anyway-- can’t get Echo outta my head so we have some redesign doots. Are they perfect? maybe not-- but are they better than TBB? yes I think so. 

Also, I really hope we see Echo actually act like someone whos been traumatized and you know who lost a lot of their body. Not because I want to see a character of color suffer, but because I want to see him recover. I want to see him snap at TBB for how they treat him and other ‘regs’ I want to see him grieve for Anakin and his lost brothers and I want TBB to actually support him and care for each other. I want a lot out of The Batch Batch as a show but if I’m not going to get it then I’m going to draw it.

Got questions on why I drew smth the way I did? Check yourself first (for any racism/ableism etc. ) and then ask! 

#the clone wars #the bad batch #clone trooper echo #echo #TBB echo #god forbid i draw the same character the same way twice #no clowning on this post #i will come for kneecaps #does echo have his handprint on his chestplate? yes #does he also have 'domino' on his shoulder plate and fives' goatee? also yes #also look i gave his skull a little echolocation thing #get it? #cus... he echo #so many little decisions went into this #will i draw him this way again? who knows #i wanted to try something so i did

[tetsurobunni]

Kita Shinsuke : Matchmaker

☽ suna x reader ; 2.6k words

☞ characters mentioned : kita shinsuke, aran ojiro, atsumu miya, osamu miya

☽ fluff, he takes care of you when ur sick ! even tho he’s a menace, kita being an angel

☽ a slight mention of adult themes (its a teasing joke)

☽ notes : hiii i wrote this for a friend and i figured id add it here teehee :))

hey Jesus, i know we don’t talk much but...fuck you. i feel like literal dog shit

You groaned as you shoved yet another tissue in your nose. You were sick, and God forbid it wasn’t the worst cold you’d ever had.

This morning you had pulled on your uniform in a haze; honestly it's a miracle you even made it to school. Aran had stopped you in the hallway when you arrived, putting a hand on your shoulder and placing the back of his palm against your forehead.

He immediately got out his phone and texted someone-presumably Kita, since he was the one most qualified to handle this. The captain had dealt with him and Atsumu both when they were sick so he could surely help you and get you to go the hell home.

You had pushed weakly at Kita when he ushered you towards the entrance of the building, assuring that you were a-o-kay. You ended up making friends with a nearby trashcan and emptying your guts right after the claim. Kita had held your hair back and rubbed your shoulders reassuringly. Afterwards, he pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to someone. Who? You didn’t know.

Kita had made sure to get you home in one piece. He tucked you into bed, placed a cold rag onto your head, and you think you heard him say something about bringing you soup later. Sleep crept up on you quickly and you were out before he even stepped out the door.

Now you were unfortunately awake, cursing whatever God could hear. This was absolutely awful. A dull throb ran through your skull insistently, mucus clotted your nose and throat, making your breaths uneven and raspy. You wanted to quench the ache in your throat but even the idea of sitting up seemed to drain too much energy, so you laid there in pain.

You assumed it was mid-afternoon. Kita had drawn the curtains above the window closed, leaving the room dark. You were especially grateful for this, for you knew any light would make your eyes hurt.

Your phone lay unchecked on the table face-down. The fear of worsening your headache is what caused it to stay there. Whoever wanted to talk would have to wait. You switched out the tissue in your nose for a fresh one, groaning again.

You wanted to take a shower so bad. You hated getting sick because you felt disgusting and knew you looked it too. Embarrassment bloomed when the events from this morning played in your mind.

Aran’s gonna joke about that for weeks.

A soft knock from the door drew you away from your thoughts. That’s probably Kita. A hoarse “come in” fell from your chapped lips and you internally cringed at how awful you sounded, even if it was just your childhood friend.

“You look like shit.”

That was not Kita.

“Suna? what the fuck?”

“Shut Up. You’re going to hurt your throat worse.”

Is this what I get for saying fuck you? I apologize so much anything but this please

“You’ve gone through two boxes of tissues already? Kita wasn’t lying, damn.”

You turned your head away from Suna’s voice, attempting to cover your sick-stricken face. Out of all people. It wasn’t that you didn’t like Suna- the two of you actually got along (if you count bickering back and forth all the time getting along). The problem was you happened to have a humongous crush on him.

The wing spiker had gotten on your nerves at first- smirks hidden behind a hand, foot sticking out to trip you in the hallway, drawing on your notes- he was almost unbearable. But as the both of you got older, you started returning his remarks, nudging him lightly into lockers, laughing at the twins together and sharing footage of their stupid fights.

Your crush had crept up on you almost unknowingly until one day he slung an arm over your shoulder and shot you one of his signature smirks and you were gone. It was infuriating, to say the least.

“Earth to y/n, hello y/n.”

“What.”

“Ah-ah, no speaking, remember?” You shot him a glare, receiving that smirk yet again. You cursed at the butterflies swarming your stomach.

Infuriating.

“You’re shivering.”

It was a simple comment. You realized after a beat that he was right and pulled the blanket farther up your body. He sat down the bag he held in his hand and made his way over to your bed. You squirmed in protest, trying to scooch away from his outstretched hand. Your actions caused Suna’s brows to furrow, a small line creasing on his forehead.

“I’m just going to check if you still have a fever,” he whispered, moving forward despite your futile attempts at moving away. You gave in, allowing him to gently place his hand on your forehead.

He wasn’t terribly close, he had been closer to you before this, but this felt different. More intimate.

“You’re burning up,” he said, leaning back with a sigh. “Sit tight, I’ll start a bath for you.”

You tried to keep your swarming thoughts at bay with no luck. Your crush, Suna Rintaro, is drawing a bath for you. A bath. He’s taking care of you.

Why is he being so nice? This has to be a set up, or Kita probably forced him. There’s no other way he would willingly be doing this...is there? You shut down the thought as quickly as it came. No sense in getting flustered over nothing. No need to fuel your growing crush.

You weren’t fit to complain anyways. The exact thing you wanted is being done right now, so you did as you were told, slightly sitting up to fetch yet another tissue. The pounding in your head still hadn’t ceased and a sudden cough racked your body. You wanted to cry- and you didn’t cry often. But you felt horrible.

“Hey, you okay?”

Apparently you hadn’t held up your facade well enough because a look of concern washed over Suna’s face the instant he stepped back into the room. You shook your head lightly in response to his question, feeling tears welling up behind your eyelids in spite of your attempts to keep them at bay.

The last thing you wanted to do was cry in front of Suna. It was practically a death wish. You could imagine the jokes and poking laughter he would send your way over the next few weeks, and it made you feel even worse.

“Hey, hey now, look at me.”

The words were whispered closer to you than you anticipated. Suna had sat down on the edge of your bed while you were caught up in your thoughts, that same line present between his brows. You fought the urge to touch it, facing away from him again and reaching up to wipe your eyes.

“I’m fine.” That instigated a scoff.

“No you’re not. Now c’mon, let’s get you into the bath. You’ll feel better.”

Right. A bath. Despite the fact that Suna’s presence was wearing you thin, a bath sounded great. The only problem was, you knew you were too weak to walk to your bathroom across the hall. It took so much energy to even sit up, much less actually get on your feet.

Suna must have sensed something was wrong because in mere seconds he was lifting the heavy blanket off of your body and moving closer. Your breath hitched when he moved one strong arm under your back and another under your knees, eyes concentrated.

“Put your arm around my neck,” Suna murmured. You failed to notice the blush that had lifted to his ears because your own was blossoming on your face, making your already warm cheeks heat up even more.

This is purgatory.

You did as he said, lightly wrapping your arm up his shoulder and around his neck. He picked you up in one smooth motion, shocking you. You knew he worked out because of volleyball, but jesus christ. Your head throbbed in protest to the movement, and you winced involuntarily.

“Sorry, shouldn’t have moved so fast.”

“S’fine.”

Your heart was beating frantically in your chest from the proximity. You were so close you could see the long eyelashes that framed his eyes, light traces of black eyeliner around the corners. You saved that in the back of your mind to ask about later.

Suna carried you into the bathroom and placed you gently on the counter. You pushed away the noise of protest that you wanted to let out from the loss of contact. No need to embarrass yourself even more.

“I’ll get you some clothes and leave them outside, take as long as you want.”

You murmured a small thank you as you watched him move towards the door. You hated that you missed him already.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be here the whole time.”

“Like I care.”

“Yea, okay princess.”

You glared at him as he closed the door behind him with a small chuckle. Princess. You fumed at the reaction you had to the pet name.

This is horrible. I’m horrible. I’ll just blame it on him. Him and that stupidly hot smirk.

The bath became increasingly inviting as you sat, eventually leading you to strip of your dirty clothes and step into the warm water. It felt amazing. After a few minutes you felt your eyes begin to droop, the steam luring you to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You didn’t know how long you had slept but judging by the temperature of the water, at least 15 minutes, maybe longer. The water hadn’t cooled completely but had lost its comfortable warmth. Begrudgingly you stepped out of the water and dried off.

You wrapped the towel around yourself and padded towards the door, opening it to retrieve the clothes Suna said he left for you. Just like he said, a small stack of clothes laid on the floor. You grabbed them and faced back towards the sink, wincing at your reflection in the mirror.

You really did look awful. Embarrassment settled into your bones again as you unfolded the clothes to put them on. A small part of your brain pointed out that they were big, too big to be your clothes, but a fit of coughs cut off your train of thought.

A knock came from the door. “Y/n? You okay?”

“Ye-“ Another cough broke off your sentence.

“Knock twice if you’re dressed.”

A small smile crept up on your face at the thought of Suna being considerate. You knocked on the door twice signaling him that it was okay for him to come in. A moment later it opened. Suna was holding what seemed to be a cup of tea in his hands and you reached for it with a sigh.

“Lavender, right?” You halted in your movements.

“Yea...how did you-“

“I pay attention.”

Your face flushed. His gaze never faltered from your face. How did he say that so casually?

“You look good in my clothes.”

So that’s why they were big. You looked in the mirror again, eyes locking in on the large “Inarizaki Volleyball” plastered on the front of the black material.

“Should wear ‘em more often.”

“Shut- shut up.”

“Mhm, okay. Feelin’ better?” You nodded.

“A little. Still feel like shit.”

“Look it, too.”

“Thanks, asshole.”

A light chuckle escaped him and he moved closer towards you. Something felt different. You noticed his eyes linger on you longer, many lapses of silence filled the spaces where playful arguing usually was.

“Cap texted me and asked to bring you soup, he had to do some more shit before he came over.”

“Hm.”

“What do you mean, hm?”

You didn’t get it. Why of all people would Kita send Suna to tend to you? What about Aran? Osamu? Hell, even Atsumu would have been higher on the list than Suna. Maybe…

“That bastard.”

“Woah now, what did Cap do to you?”

Kita was one of the only people who knew about your crush. Of course he would pull some strings to get Suna to come over. That little-

“Hey now pretty thing, don’t frown too much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

It was then you noticed a light touch on your forehead, right in between your eyebrows. Suna was rubbing the space there, just like you had wanted to do to him.

You hoped Suna couldn’t tell how fast your heart was beating or just how much you knew you were blushing.

After a moment of silence Suna still hadn’t removed the touch on your face. He met your eyes, slowly moving to cup your cheek.

“Why are you here, Rin?” His thumb stroked your cheek with a feather-like graze and you swore you saw his eyes flit downwards to your lips. “To take care of you, of course.”

“You’re going to catch my cold.”

“You’ll just have to pay me back later, yeah?”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips, the corners of his mouth edging upwards.

what the fuck did i do to deserve this?

You pushed his hand away and looked away from his gaze. You could manage standing from afar and pining, sure, but what you couldn’t deal with was Suna messing around with you like this. You ignored the ache in your chest, choosing to cover it up by reaching for another tissue.

“Y/n.” You ignored him.

“Y/n, look at me.” You braced your arms on the bathroom sink with a sigh.

“What, Suna.”

“Rin. It’s Rin, to you.” You scoffed.

“Why am I any different than anyone else?”

“Because…”

You turned to face him again, confusion and slight annoyance bubbling under your skin. “Because what?” Suna groaned and ran a hand over his face. “You’re so oblivious.”

Okay, now you were annoyed.

“Oblivious? How am I oblivious?”

“Because you haven’t realized how different you are.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you fucking messing with me Suna? Look, I’m in no mood for your stupid games-“

“Would you shut up for one second and think.”

You leaned back against the sink with a cough, wincing as another throb of pain shot through your head. Any traces of anger or annoyance vanished from Suna’s face in an instant. He left the bathroom and you heard him rustling through the bag he left in your room. He returned with a bottle of pills and an ice pack.

“Here. Take these.” You took the small pills from his outstretched hand and washed them down with the now lukewarm tea. “Have you thought about it?” You rolled your eyes dramatically, placing your hand under your chin to mock a thinking position. “No, I don’t think I have.” He rolled his eyes in return. “Fine. Would I be doing this for anyone else? Hm?”

It’s a good point. One you didn’t bother thinking about. Sure, maybe he would do it for his teammates, but that was a hard maybe. He just wasn’t the caretaker type, much less with someone he wasn’t close with. You realized the implication behind his words in an instant.

“You...you like me?”

“��Bout time you figured that out, sweetheart.”

All of the moments between you two passed through your mind in a frenzy, and you started to laugh. It was hysterical, really. All this time you just knew Suna could never like you back.

i take it back. thank you. sorry for saying fuck you

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” He scoffed, “And risk losing my appearance? Hell no,” he said, sending you that damn smirk again.

“You are a menace, Rintaro.”

“Yea, but I’m your menace. You’re stuck with me.”

“That’s horrifying.”

“Oh shush, ya love me.”

“Yea, yea. Now, get me back in my bed. I need to sleep.”

“Inviting me to bed already? Wow y/n.”

“I hate you.” He reached over and pecked your cheek.

“Hate you, too.”

#haikyuu #haikyuu!! #fanfic #suna rintarō #suna x reader #suna rinatro #suna x you #hq fluff #haikyuu x reader

[sanchoyo]

Looks like you’re gonna have to gush some more cuz I meant in general uwu🌸

🌺😌🤟 Always happy to! Okay here’s just some General bnha Thoughts ™ Mostly Lov centric. You asked for them, and you said GUSH about them, so here’s. A Lot! :)

This isn’t a lov one but it’s really funny so I thought I’d put it out there:

-when bnha was first gaining traction on tumblr, it was all art of Tsuyu. I have no idea why. People were talking about the funky frog lesbian superhero anime. Maybe it was just the people I was following, maybe it was a general trend, but I LOVED her design!!! my fav color and frogs r super cute!!! And I already loved superhero media, so I was like. I’ll watch it. For Her. SO. FROPPY IS THE REASON I WATCHED/READ BNHA. I went in thinking she was the protag and I was sooo confused when Izuku was... tbh I still think it’d be more interesting if she was lmaooo aus where? ...seriously if anyone has good aus where this is the case send them LOL

-I don’t actually feel that bad abt what Shigaraki’s doing. I still feel bad for him. I’m this post. yes im an apologist. its not my fault hes sexy and has been running around shirtless. hes a lesbian icon like thor is. I want to touch his hair. hes never done anything wrong in his life. he could kill all might, deku, bakugo, whatever, I’d still be sayin this. I don’t feel bad for gt. like. was anyone genuinely attached to him? lmao

-well u know how spinner’s quirk is just sticking to things? We haven’t seen him use it in canon except like, (1) time iirc?? I think this is probably bc he’s embarrassed about it even in front of the league... I loooove the idea that he gets more comfortable with it around them :”) and also how shigaraki. um. does that falling asleep thing while standing up with his eyes open, canonly? (which I still love lmfao) Imagine someone in the league walking in a dark room, turning on the light n just seeing. Spinner upside down, stuck to the ceiling asleep bc heat rises and its Warmer Up There. (cold blooded thing like tsuyu?? come ON give him a big fuzzy coat and scarf...) and Shigaraki in the center of the room, slouched but still standing, eyes open and motionless. Theyre both sleeping. Whomever sees it just...slowly walks out. LMAO

-Toga roller derby au. No deep thoughts I just think she’d be good at it. 

-Toga 100% is a social butterfly and could befriend anyone if they didn’t just judge the fact she was trying to stab them smh :/ (ok but seriously anytime I see cute friendships with her n the other kids im like :) aw. I feel like her and Camie...would be good friends. Camie feels chill enough to be like ‘ok whatever thats totally fine I forgive you!!’ LMAO we love airheads here)

-HOW DID TOGA GET SO GOOD AT FIGHTING? We know she’s been on the run since middle school or so, but good enough to pin Deku down after he’s been formally trained at a ~hero school~ for a while? (she pinned him TWICE I think, once when his arms were messed up, but, the other time as Camie, so? AND THEN WAS ONE OF THE 100 PEOPLE TO GO THRU TO THE 2ND ROUND OF THAT? even tho she didn’t bc she had to leave) good enough to beat Aizawa in a fight and stab him? A professional hero and teacher for YEARS? Is that seriously just street training??? Can people acknowledge how amazing her combat skills and reflexes are??? More Toga appreciation when?? Also her backstory??? SO subversive and incredible, hate when people reduce her to just a ~typical anime yandere~ :/

-Tomura doing stuff with his hands/fingers to train his quirk!!! And to learn to be careful with it!! obv I’m a Big Fan of him playing piano to do this and video games are prob the canon answer, but like, guitar or any stringed instrument that requires Hands would work too. Or knitting/sewing? EMBROIDERING? ??? Please, let me give you the mental image of him knitting aggressively while mentally scheming, watching a twitch streamer or smth too while doing it. (Doing stuff with your hands is a great way to let your mind come up with creative stuff, that’s how I come up with writing/drawing ideas 70% of the time)

-Tomura actually PREFERS cutesty, relaxing games. I mean, he does fighting and bloody stuff irl, games are a way to relax...he’ll play shooters and gta type games with The Lads, but. on his own?? animal crossing. pokemon. kirby games. mario. zelda. BIG ZELDA FAN (not saying this bc I, personally, am biased, but,) slime rancher, stardew valley, funny simulator games... he really enjoys those :”) God forbid he has a kid bc they’re 100% getting named after a viddy game character unless someone can talk him out of it LOL. Toga and Tomura are that animal crossing /doom meme where she’d be asking for doom and him asking for animal crossing :”)

-Bits and pieces of Before are kinda stuck in Kurogiri’s brain, but like. mostly useless stuff the doctor didn’t care about removing. Like, types of clouds. So Tomura kinda picks up on stuff like that. He can just look at clouds and tell you what type they are because Kurogiri used to take him up to high places in the city and point them out to calm Tomura down from a panic attack when he was younger. He can tell you if the sky looks like it’ll rain with a 80% accuracy rate too. 

-Kurogiri left food out for kitties in the alley beside the bar. They weren’t allowed in for Health Reasons (it IS a bar with sanitation standards!!) And Tomura really wouldn’t stop it or encourage it either way so long as Kurogiri did his job, but occasionally would stand outside with Kurogiri and just watch the kitties from a distance. If any approached he’d go back in (lowkey afraid he’d hurt them by touching them :( ) They kinda kept that between them tho, bc they both Know AFO is a big bag of dicks and no fun

-people have pointed out how similar aizawa and tomura look. this was 100% the intention. tomura has a hatecrush on him. THIS IS SO FUNNY AND HORRIBLY AWKWARD FOR KUROGIRI LMAO

-Sako??? Mr. Dramatic?? Opera fan. Drama kid. Like, obviously, but. Really. He is. I feel like he can speak a dozen languages. I also feel like he used to be an overachiever but got too ambitious. He was def some kind of leader at one point of a diff Group or something that fell apart. I LOVE how creative he is with his quirk and the magician theme??? incredible. I don’t show him enough love but I Love Clowns :o)

-I don’t care what their canon heights are. Spinner and Dabi? short kings. My height hcs are (tallest to shortest) Kurogiri, Twice, Sako (who also has heels on his boots and a tall hat, keep in mind), Tomura, Magne (Tomura and Magne are about the same height imo) Toga, Spinner, Dabi. LISTEN. Dabi has short energy. Sorry. it’s true tho

-This is a semi-popular hc I think bc I KNOW I’ve seen it before, but Dabi having Terrible Vision and needing glasses is so so good. (seriously, with burns THAT close to his eyeballs, how could he not?) 

-he tries to be a tough loner coolguy. you’d think he’d smoke, but I hc his ‘weak constitution’ comes with weak lungs (esp from years of a flame quirk?? inhaling smoke over so much time is SO bad for you, most people who die in fires actually die of smoke inhalation...) so he’s got like, an inhaler, can’t smoke, actually gets carsick, needs glasses, overuses quirk to save friends constantly, likes napping, a little awkward and rude. Tomura put him in charge of the vanguard so he’s smart, and good with strategies too, like a nerd. this is the Dabi I wanna see, not the popular fandom version of him tbh also step on hawks one more time sir :”)

-I wish all the lov fics weren’t?? villain!deku like I said earlier, but also, chatfics? I have nothing against them but most of them are just a bombardment of Memes with NO PLOT!!! Listen. text/chatfics CAN have plot and be an interesting way to tell a story. I almost want to write one just to show what I mean...

I know I’ve said I like spinaraki and blackmagic, but I am a multishipper, so a few ships I don’t talk about that I like that involve the lov in some way:

-toga/any of the 1A girls??? or Camie??? super interesting. ALSO in the radio drama, bakugo’s voice actor said Toga was his favorite girl??? so?? bakugo/toga ?? I WANT TO SEE IT. but specifically my fav dynamic with her is when someone ELSE is the one to like her first, it’s what she deserves.

-Kurogiri/aizawa/mic?? any variety of that is also 👌🏻 I also kinda wanna see kurogiri/all might bc. Dads. COME ON. they bond over ‘well, I raised him, and you want to have a part in his life now?? ok. earn it. prove it. I’ll screen you first’ or something LMAO they’re both genuinely concerned for the boy, and SOOO biased. let them bond.

-WAIT WHERE IS THE MIC/COMPRESS CONTENT. THEYRE BOTH DRAMATIC. ENEMIES TO LOVERS?? HELLO??? SOMEONE?? ANYONE. rarepair hours

-giran/twice is cute. like he was hyping him up so much and so ready to go save him...

-dabi/magne where is the content. when. why not everywhere??? I’ve also seen magne/compress which was cute!! or twice/magne? they’re the big sibs of the lov...

-dabi/spinner?? come ON dabi could get over his learned biases and spend time with him and they could hold hands. I want them to.

-dabihawks. Obviously bc the Drama. yes even still, don’t @ me. (also, shigahawks, seen some REAL interesting fics with it tbh) or spinahawks?? adding hawks to a ship is like adding extra chili powder. makes it SPICY dramatic)

-nine/tomura don’t @ me once again. both kinda afo’s playthings, nine obviously was the test for tomura’s new upgrades...they both love their friends...That Scene in the Flower field </3 hmmm tragicships are fun.

-tomura/mirko. more enemies to lovers. big fan of her and bunnies. remember when he wore bunny ears in bnha smash. (ok its crack but. CUTE.) 

-I’ve also seen shiganatsu and shigafuyu and I’m like. these are cute, but also Dabi’s reaction always makes me cry laugh. so good.

-MOST EVERYONE IN THE LOV IS LGBTQA+!!! heres my personal headcanons:

Toga: pan or bi (CANON BASICALLY)

Magne: transwoman (CANON BABEY) bi, leans towards men. (her crush on dabi in bnha smash... uwu content where)

Shuichi: gets sooooo flustered canonly, I think he’d go for the first person Who Hit On Him (I can see him being the target of those mean pranks where someone says ‘my friend likes you!!’ and the friend is like ‘eww!!’ :(((( ) he’s super hesitant for romance, lots of repressed stuff. gay but takes sooo long to realize it bc he thinks most women are conventionally pretty Aesthethically, feels obligated to Like Them, but has bad self esteem so never goes after them, then only likes (1) guy so hes like?? is this allowed?? is this allowed???? (HES LIKE. IN LOVE WITH SHIGARAKI)

Dabi: bi but rly hasn’t ever gotten to date anyone, so he’s actually more reserved about it and while he’ll tease, he absolutely is absent and kinda oblivious (again, I KNOWWWW bnha smash isnt canon, but. my god. when magne is hitting on him and he Just Doesnt Understand.) also hes ace

Tomura: doesn’t care. (just prob says ‘its whatever’) trans/nonbinary (i’M NOT PROJECTING, BUT. :’/) probably goes with like, the label queer if any but doesn’t care much for labels

Kurogiri: bi??? kind of??? I say kind of bc well, I hc U Know Whom as bi, I feel like thatd carry over but he’d be really avoidant to date anyone bc hes gotta Watch His Kid u know? this is gonna sound surprising but I think he’d be the type to be like ‘ok we can have a one night stand/fling BUT it cant get personal bc I have a Job to Do for my Son so don’t get up in your feelings’ and act a little coldly at first or very ..not personable... depending on who it was he’d prob turn around eventually, esp if that person valued his feelings/job :”)

Sako: that mans Not Straight. I hc him as gay and also trans :3c

Twice: Bi and HAS dated prob more than anyone else in the league imo, super comfortable with his sexuality and supportive of everyone else’s :)

ok that’s about all I can think of atm, come back in 5 minutes and my brain will refill with lov headcanons :3 thank you for asking!!

#bnha manga spoilers #bnha #sanchoyoanswersasks #league of villains #lov #i am NOt tagging all of them im so sorry its Too Much #but ask to tag #for triggers #if anyone needs them tagged #? #long post #word wall #bananaapplewaffle #im pretty amicable to most ships n stuff and love rare/crack ships lmao #also if anyone has their own headcanons #and wants to share #feel free! #love hearin them too

[eldritchsurveys]

791.

1. What made you pick up the last book you started reading? >> I’m not sure why I’m back into my Dark Tower reread (which I’d originally started like a year-plus ago but then abandoned once I got to Wizard & Glass, predictably). Maybe it’s just that time. But god, are these books fucking long-winded (and not even for good reason, if you ask me). 2. Have you received any bad or troubling news lately? >> No. 3. When was the last time you were relieved about something? >> I’m not sure. 4. What about your life concerns you the most? >> The only major concern I have right now is whether my income is going to remain the same now that I’m part of a household, and since Social Security takes a dog’s age to fucking process anything, having to wait for months to find out is not helping. 5. Is there a common thing most people seem to do without trouble, but it scares you (talking on the phone, driving, interviews, etc)? When was the last time you had to do one of these kinds of things? >> I am horrible with phone conversation, I can’t drive, and I have no idea how I would perform in an interview because I’m generally unemployable enough that I haven’t had a chance to experience an interview. So those three examples are actually pretty good ones. I also have trouble with connecting with people even superficially, navigating relationship dynamics, managing my emotions without resorting to destructive impulses, dealing with the ups and downs of being an organic creature (this encompasses a lot of mundane shit that I’m sure most people don’t even think twice about), and properly managing sensory input.

6. Is a pen pal something you would enjoy? If so, what kinds of little things would you send your pen friends? >> I don’t know. I’m just not sure what-all I would have to say to a pen pal. 7. Describe a time when you were there for a friend? >> --- 8. When was the last time you went somewhere for the first time? >> January was the first time I went to Texas (aside from layovers in the DFW airport). 9. What is a situation that makes you feel especially confident? >> I’m not sure. 10. What was the subject of your most recent conversation? >> Can Calah and I were just talking through something I was going through. 11. Hypothetically and generally speaking, how would you go about breaking up with someone? Is there anything you would make sure to say, or perhaps not say? >> I don’t know, man. The last time I broke up with someone it was a pretty quick and vicious affair on both ends. I don’t know when, if ever, I will be in that situation again but I guarantee you it won’t be any time soon. 12. Are you more of a night person or a day person? What is it about the night/day that you favor? >> Day. I like to see the Sun (or at least experience the possibility of seeing the Sun). Also, I sleep at night, so it’s not like I see much of it... 13. What do you find particularly offensive? Would you say you’re easy or difficult to offend? >> I’m not sure what I find offensive, aside from, you know, bigotry. I guess that means I’m difficult to offend? I really just don’t have room in my head for most people’s bullshit, I’ve got my own bullshit to deal with. 14. Is there a belief you have that most others around you don’t have? Do you share this belief with others, or do you tend to keep it to yourself? Have you ever offended anyone with this belief? >> I don’t know if I have a belief that most others around me don’t have, particularly because there aren’t many other people around me in the first place. 15. Do you consider internet friendships as important as offline friendships, or do you view them differently? >> I think a friendship is a friendship, and the importance of said friendship is simply based on how committed the people involved are. 16. When was the last time you visited relatives or friends of the family? Is visiting family something you enjoy? >> --- 17. What did you do for the last holiday or event you celebrated? >> I don’t celebrate V-Day, but we did go out to an event simply because it looked fun (and it was). 18. If you’ve moved out from home, what was the scariest thing about it? What was/is your favorite thing about it? >> The scariest thing about it was that I ended up homeless and stayed that way for a long time. The best thing about it was that my life was finally my own. 19. Are there any fictional characters you like even though they’re “bad” or “evil?” What qualities draw you to a character? >> Well, yeah, those are the ones I usually gravitate towards. I just greatly appreciate a good villain. Also, the people in stories that have qualities that I relate to -- unresolved trauma, difficulty managing emotions, feelings of alienation and of being monstrous, coming off as aloof or impenetrable to others, an insatiable hunger for something, etc -- are often the “bad guys” of the story. Because, you know, gods forbid we be anything else. 20. What are your thoughts on “forgiving” murderers, rapists, attackers, etc? Do you think it’s even possible to forgive these people? >> I mean, the only person who is in the position to forgive or not forgive is the person who was wronged. It’s not up to me to forgive a murderer unless the person he murdered was a loved one of mine; it’s not up to me to forgive a rapist unless I was the raped, etc. If I was the victim of one of these crimes, then I guess I’d find out whether it was possible to forgive the attacker or not. 21. What was the last series you finished watching? Do you have any plans to begin another? >> Damn, what was the last series I finished watching. I’ve been in the middle of several shows for a long time. 22. What is one way in which you are different from a year ago? What is one way in which you are still the same? >> I’m not sure. Not enough time has passed for my hindsight to be able to knit a narrative out of it. 23. When was the last time you had to walk somewhere in the rain? How about the snow? >> It was raining when I took a walk this morning. Not heavily, though. It was actually kind of nice. 24. Are there any types of survey questions you dread or don’t like answering for whatever reason? What kinds of questions do you like best? >> Yeah, there are plenty of questions that I sigh when I encounter them, either because I’m tired of giving the same answer all the time or because I never have an answer for it in the first place. Or because it’s yet another “what is your favourite [x]” question. But I accept that as part of taking surveys. It’s never going to change, lol. Generally I just like questions that I don’t recall having answered fifteen times in the past week, it doesn’t even matter what the question is about. 25. If you could learn about anything without the stress of grades or cost, what kind of classes would you take? >> I mean, I can learn about anything without the stress of grades or cost. The Internet is a wonderful place and so is the library. 26. What was the last item of clothing you purchased? Do you wear it often? >> Two pairs of sweatpants from Old Navy. I will be wearing them often when the weather gets cooler. 27. Has anything made you feel nostalgic lately? >> Yeah, probably. 28. What was the last chore you completed? >> Uh... I don’t remember, but at some point I’m going to have to empty the dishwasher and vacuum. 29. Name a song you’ve listened to today? >> Skeksis by Strapping Young Lad. 30. Is there anything you’ve promised yourself you’ll never do again? >> Probably.

#surveys #survey #random survey

[dearlazerbunny]

Jane Eyre AU (untitled, Ch 1 of ?)

Pairings: Kylo x Reader

Genre/Ratings: Jayne Eyre AU

Words: 4000

Summary: someone requested a Jane Eyre AU and for some reason my brain refused to keep it a ficlet. I have very little written for it so far, but many ideas. Currently also untitled, but if I don’t post it to give me motivation I’m afraid I will never finish it. 

I have always thought that carriage rides were much conducive to thinking. The pit-pat of the horses’ hooves, the gentle crunch of wooden wheels on dirt and cobblestone, an occasional punctuating crack of the riding crop. Such intricate monotony lends itself to the mind wandering where it pleases. I have never been apt at daydreaming in times of stress, so my thoughts as of now tend to list towards the more practical- taking stock of my situation and surroundings, and putting my thinking into orderly, manageable rows.

I come to the conclusion that my current surroundings have never been so nice as this. The carriage is functional, but with plush detailing that whispers of wealth and elegance the likes of which I have never seen before. My seat is cushioned and covered in a soft fabric; the curtains drawn to the sides of the windows are velvet, if my limited knowledge of the finer things in life rings true. The scenery passing outside may as well be a painting on some artist’s easel: green grass dotted with the most delicate flowers wave in the light breeze, topped by a sky bluer than a newborn’s eye. Clouds float by lackadaisically, as though they have all the time in the world to get wherever they might be going to, and one would think you could lie back and wish the world away curled amongst their feathery fingers.

I take a breath and marvel at how easy and light the air is this far from the city. It tastes of honeysuckle and a babbling brook; cotton warmed by sunshine on a summer’s day, sensations I have only read about in books or dreamt of in the dead of night. The hour’s journey has already purged the ash and soot of home from my lungs. Indeed, I find it hard to recall what it was like to not breathe so easily, so intrinsically. The matched pair of horses drawing my coach whinny with pleasure, in time to my admiration of the surrounding lands.

My fingers find the worn handle of my suitcase to clutch. I would be lying if I said I did not feel out of place in such an idyllic countryside. I was born to an industrious cityscape, surrounded by brick and stone, coal and human filth. A place where it is nigh impossible to wash all of the grit out of your hair, or avoid the noise of the bustling crowds. My ears ring with the absence of market chatter and factories clanging in the distance- that harsh dissonance is now replaced with birdsong and the rustling of foliage. I shake my head. How abruptly my life has changed in just a few days.

The notice, written on paper much too fine to be tacked onto the warped message board as it was, called for a governess- full time and live-in- for the child of a master I had never heard of. But as I passed, the address caught my eye. So remote, so far from the city and its struggles, and further still from the war and its efforts that continuously cripple the entirety of the country along with its people. I have no formal training, really, and no specific qualifications that would give me the authority to nurture a child. But I read and write as well as anyone, perhaps better, since the time most women my age spend working in the war factories I in turn spend in libraries and my cozy attic, consuming stories and penning whatever thoughts come to mind. I could teach sufficiently, I think, if the pupil would be willing to listen, and given adequate books on various subjects. So I went home and wrote a response, offering my services, posted it to the address stated with a few coins dug from the bottom of my bag, and prepared myself to wait in cautious optimism.

Imagine my surprise when not even the day after next a letter arrived for me, in the same hand as that illustrious address that first drew my attention. My application- could you even call it that, bare bones and plain as it was?- had been accepted. A coach would arrive for me the next morning.

I suppose in that moment it was a strange sort of blessing that I had little to pack. A few sets of clothes and an extra pair of boots; what little writing materials I had managed to scrounge up the past few years. They all fit easily into my little suitcase, with room to spare. My satchel, in contrast, was heavy and filled to the brim with every book I had ever acquired. I refused to leave any behind- they were hard won and much loved, despite most of them having cracked spines and wrinkled pages. Besides, I supposed any sort of teacher worth their salt would most likely arrive with some sort of collection of novels.

And so here I sit, in a carriage I fear I am contaminating with the dust permanently ground into my clothes from the city’s smog, my meager life packed into only two bags, with no idea what lies ahead other than an address and what I could glean from the handwriting of my new employer- which was not much. I never claimed to be a detective, after all. But the view is more exquisite than I had even hoped for; my worries bleed out of my person and mix into the fragrant air. I think I could survive any assignment set in such a place. Should I, god forbid, find myself beaten and bloodied by a madman, at least my soul will rest in a place with lasting happiness.

I scold myself for being so morbid. How bad could this possibly be?

At this very thought, the carriage creaks to a halt. I risk a look outside the window. The manse before me is stately, with rich brickwork contrasting the pastels of the grounds on which it sits. Vines climb their way up to the second story windows, worming their way into the nooks and crannies that have been weathered away as the years have passed. The lawn and its walkways are generally neat, with only a hint of overgrowth beginning to creep through the cobblestone. Balconies dot the upper-story.

In short, it looks like a fairy-tale; the home of a shut away princess condemned to roam the hills barefoot for the rest of her days, or a faerie house magicked to grow ten sizes, large enough for humans to live in. I am sure the house is far from the most impressive in this countryside- I have seen renderings in the papers of castles that could house all of London within its walls- but this estate holds much more character than those extravagant flauntings of wealth. I can practically hear each brick singing with its own stories to weave and whisper into my ear. My fingers are already itching for my pen.

The coachman opens my door, seeing as I have not emerged myself; too charmed by the villa to move. I shoulder my satchel, ignoring the muscles that strain under the weight of my books, and take my suitcase by the handle. Stepping into the fresh air feels as though I’ve dived into a clear river for the first time. My skin prickles as the breeze winds its way around me and lifts the corners of my skirts; a child wishing to play.

“The Master is expecting you, ma’am,” says the driver, and I nod at him in thanks. Rather than lead me up to the door, he simply sits back on his perch and turns the horses away, trotting back down the path we just traversed. All right then, I suppose introductions are up to me. Shouldn’t I feel anxious, as my boots click along the stone path, carrying me towards this unknown new life? That would probably be the rational response to the complete upheaval of one’s life in less than a week. Despite all that, my heart feels at ease and indeed almost at peace- far more than it ever was in my old home. Perhaps some sort of guardian star has led me to this place, knowing that my destiny, whatever it might be, awaits here.

The door is twice my height, with a carved brass knocker the size of my head hanging in the center. I go to let it fall against the wood, but think better of it. If I am going to live here, I will not put up any ideas of pretentiousness or good breeding, as I have none of that and furthermore no use for it. I shall come just as I am, and they will have to decide if that is sufficient enough for them. I ignore the wrought brass and instead rap my knuckles against the door succinctly, eager to see who or what will greet me first on this new adventure I have stumbled into.

As it turns out, it is a boy. He looks to be around ten to my unfamiliar eye, with untamed hair and sharp green eyes that look at me with cautious curiousness. It is a gaze of intelligence, and he holds himself well amongst the soaring architecture. Despite his size, he isn’t swallowed up by the surrounding space. “Who are you?”

Straight to the point, then. I believe I like him already. “Well, my name Jayne Ruth Linton, though you can call me Jayne if you like. Who are you?”

“Ben.” He doesn’t seem to want to offer any further information as he studies me closely, from my scuffed boots to the bag slung over my shoulder and in my hand. His shoulders sag. “He went and hired another one, then.”

“Beg pardon?”

“You don’t really look like a proper governess though. I guess he’s getting desperate.” Loud footsteps approach from further inside the house, and the boy- Ben- turns to address I would assume the person responsible for them. “I’ve told you, I don’t need a bloody nanny! Can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Benjamin, language,” a tired voice scolds, as though he has done it ten times today already, and then the door opens wider to reveal a tall man with worry lines furrowed between his brow. “You must be Miss Linton.”

“I prefer Jayne, please.” I shift my luggage to the opposite hand and hold out my right to him. “Mr. Ren, I presume?”

For a moment he looks at my outstretched hand as though it is an alien thing come to life. I am about to apologize for overstepping some invisible boundary when he stands aside from blocking the entrance. “Please, come in.”

The second I do, Ben is off, running to who knows where. I suppose I shall find out soon enough. I study his retreating form. He is by all accounts a handsome boy, and though I’m not sure where serpentine green eyes were inherited from in the family genealogy- possibly his mother?- it is clear that his dark curls, his sharp features, and cool gaze come from the man now leading me further into the house. They must be father and son, or otherwise the younger is some outrageous science fiction clone of the elder. I have to keep myself from giggling at the thought.

We emerge into,  by all accounts, a well-loved sitting room. Books and papers are strewn about, along with oddities that might attract a child’s attention and just as quickly lose it. To my relief, the furniture is not gilded and upholstered in finery- the sofas are meant to be sat upon; the coffee table has scratches at the corners. It is far more utilitarian than one might expect from the exterior of the house, but I find that to be a comfort. At least I have most probably not walked into a place where manners the likes of which the Queen uses are mandatory.

“Please, sit.” Mr. Ren gestures to a seat and after relieving myself of my baggage, I do so. He remains standing, pacing the room slowly but efficiently a few practiced times before he speaks. His spine is ramrod straight, his shoulders back, his footfalls heavy and sure. Military, a voice in the back of my mind says, but the assessment doesn’t make much sense- why would a military man of some obvious rank be so sequestered in the countryside?

“I trust your journey was comfortable?” His tone of voice indicates he most likely does not care, but I answer nonetheless.

“Extremely. The coach was very fine, and the weather is excellent today.” He nods, but does not respond, his mind seemingly elsewhere. After a minute of glancing around the room, noting this and that, I clear my throat. “Well, Mr. Ren, I see you are not a man to mince words. Perhaps we should start with your intention on hiring a governess?”

He sighs heavily, and for an instant, despite his posture, I can almost envision the heavy load that weighs upon his shoulders. “Ben,” he says simply, as though that answers every question a philosopher might ever pose. “He is an extraordinary child, and he needs more than just I in the house. I have my strengths, but giving a child a proper education is not one of them.”

“I see. And I take it you have hired help before?”

Mr. Ren nods. “Several. Benjamin can be… contradictory, at times.” He eyes me wearily, as though these few words will already send me running for the hills. “And he doesn’t take to new people well.”

“Indeed, I don’t believe I should be entirely thrilled for a strange woman to be moving into my house.” I rise and straighten my skirt. “Well, then, if you will point me in his direction, I shall make proper introductions, yes?”

Brown eyes take in my face, as though searching for some unseen agenda. But I am apparently deemed satisfactory, because he simply nods and holds a hand out for my case. “I will take your things to your room. It is down the hall from Ben’s- up the stairs and to the left.”

And so while my new employer turns into the depths of another hallway with my things, I part from him in search of my ward. It isn’t hard to find him- scuff marks and crumbles of dirt lead to a well-worn door that has clearly been slammed one too many times for its hinges. I knock lightly on the wood. “Benjamin? It’s me, Jayne. May I speak with you a moment?”

There is a long pause, then some shuffling, and finally the boy cracks his door just a hair, so that I might not see what lies within. His glare is stony. “What.”

“Well, I wanted to apologize for earlier. I did not mean to upset you.”

Benjamin opens his mouth in order to what looks like give a fiery retort, but the words never pass his lips. “A- apologize?”

“Indeed. Might I come in? Only for a moment, then I shall leave you be.”

Many gears appears to be turning in his head- the gleam in his eyes gives it away- but finally he stands back a little, allowing me entrance.

His room is what I might imagine a wizard’s lair should look like. Books strewn across every surface, shoved onto shelves and teetering in giant stacks in the corners of the room. Lamps are strewn haphazardly in seemingly no order. Tinkering projects- gears and oil smudges on the desk, bits and bobs set about like they have been forgotten- dot the room. The small wizard must dance and turn in order to avoid knocking over this or that covering the floor to get to his bed, which mimics the rest of the room in its untidiness. Still, it has a sort of charm about it, or a coziness- a little hideaway from the rest of the world, full of oddities the owner sees loveliness in. It quite reminds me of my little attic, in fact.

Benjamin sits on his bed, cross legged, and shifts a few times to make himself comfortable. It occurs to me that he most likely does not let just anyone into his sanctum. “I’m quite fond of your room, I must say.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Really? You’re just saying that. Everyone else just nags at me to keep it clean or to shelve my books correctly.”

“Often I find rooms like these are indeed organized, but rather than by normal methods, by the owner’s specific and unique standards.” I tilt my head, taking in an oddly shaped pile of tomes under the nightstand. “For example… do you know what books lie in this stack? Without looking,”

“Mostly ecology books. Geology and the like. I was studying the rocks I found by the pond.”

I give him a small smile. “See? So long as you know where things are located, I see no reason to upend your personal space.”

“Hm.” He looks down at his hands, clasped in front of him, and I get a look at his features illuminated in the lamplight. I would guess he is eleven or twelve, certainly no more than thirteen. “Maybe you are different.”

“I can assure you I am, even without knowing what I am being compared to,” I tease, and I am pleased when I am rewarded with a small grin. “Different than…?”

“The others father has hired.” He glances at me, and I can see the worry in his eyes. “They were all horribly overbearing. Never leaving me alone, telling me to do this and that and always exactly their way. And most of them were stupid as well. They never listened,” he mumbles, and his fingers twist.

“Well that sounds perfectly horrible. I can see why you were upset.” Holding up my skirts so I don’t trip, I lithely jump from empty space to empty space on his floor until I can reach the bed. He watches me with razor precision. I have a feeling if I were to misstep, some delicate trust that has been forged would all be lost. And so, I do not fall. Instead, I land next to him and pat my skirt, as though the effort was nothing. “Now then, Benjamin- or do you prefer Ben? I would like to make a deal with you, if you will hear my terms. I think you will find them quite agreeable, but I am always open to negotiation.”

“Ben.” He vaguely gestures with his hand. “Go on.”

“Well, Ben. I have been hired to give you an education. Education is important, even when we must study the things we do not like. However,” I say, glancing around the room, “I can see you have already found more than enough interests that please you, and I am happy to explore them with you as our time allows.”

“Really?”

I nod. “In addition, I promise to always recognize that you are your own person with your own boundaries. If we are going to work together, we both need our space from time to time. I will not encroach on yours if you do not encroach on mine. Does that seem reasonable?”

For an instant, I am afraid I have overstepped, because his face is blank and unreadable. But then, in a moment of sunshine, a smile splits his face, and he holds out his hand as though we have signed and sealed an official document. “I think that sounds perfect.”

The handshake is firm. “Excellent. I believe we will get along famously, don’t you?”

To my delight, he giggles, a happy sound that contrasts with his serious face. “Won’t father be surprised.”

“Hm. Indeed he might be.” I give him a conspiratorial wink. “Let’s see if we can make that a habit, yes? He looks as though he could use a good shock every once in a while.”

Ben dissolves into muffled laughter and steals my heart right in the very same moment.

A/N: I’ve imagined the story in sort of a steampunk era. Their technology and society is more advanced then ours of the eighteenth/early nineteenth century, but they still use petticoats and carriages. 

Jayne is named for Jane Eyre and Catherine Linton in Wuthering Heights

#star wars #Star Wars fanfic #kylo ren #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren x you #reader insert #jane eyre au

[wisdomrays]

The Four Great Deeds Which Take Willpower

QUESTION: The following is related in Al-Munabbihat (The Counsel) with reference to Ali ibn Abi Talib, may God be pleased with him: “The following four virtues are the most difficult of deeds: Being able to forgive while enraged, showing generosity during hardship, remaining chaste in the face of temptation while in private, always speaking up for truth in the face of another whom one fears or from whom one expects a benefit.” Could you expound on the deeds mentioned in this statement, and the Divine rewards to be granted in return?

ANSWER: When you consider other statements that are ascribed to noble Ali, his words included in Nahj al-Balagha (The Peak of Eloquence) and his style and use of language, and then also consider the fact that the Muslims had newly emerged from the Era of Ignorance so notions and concepts about different fields of knowledge had not fully flourished, and works about language and eloquence had not yet fully appeared, then these words, which require a certain literary background, do not appear so likely to be his. Therefore, one cannot help but imagine that perhaps the people of the third and fourth centuries, when different scholarly fields had been developed, ascribed the words they said to noble Ali, may God be pleased with him. However, when we consider his unique qualities such as being open to spirituality, having dynamic inspirations and his position as the father of a chain of saintly people, then it is highly possible for him to have said these words as a result of inspiration. On the other hand, the previously mentioned possibility should not be dismissed. In addition, it is also possible for those people from a later period to have rephrased his original statements by enriching them with the meanings and concepts of their own period. As it is not easy to have a decisive view on this, let us say “God knows its truth” and discuss the subject of the four deeds that are mentioned.

Our master Ali firstly expresses that the most difficult deeds number four. Actually, every deed has a difficult aspect of its own. Making ablutions five times a day, observing the Prayers, Fasting throughout the day particularly on long, hot days, donating from lawful gains, observing the duty of Hajj, observing the rights of parents without any complaint near them... When such acts of worship and responsibilities are viewed, it will be seen that each of them has certain difficulties of its own. I imagine that nobody views these deeds and worship as easy. However, he particularly draws attention to four issues that he sees as the most difficult among deeds.

1. Forgiveness while enraged

The first difficult deed is being able to forgive others while in a state of rage. Actually, swallowing one’s rage and showing forgiveness at the moment when a one’s rage overflows like magma is a deed the Qur’an praises and encourages people to do. For example: “They spend (out of what God has provided for them) both in ease and hardship, ever-restraining their rage (even when provoked and able to retaliate), and pardoning people (their offenses)...” (Al Imran 3:134). With this Divine verse, God states that swallowing one’s rage and pardoning others is a quality of God-revering and pious ones (those with taqwa). He brings to our attention that swallowing one’s rage is as difficult a task as swallowing a thorny cactus. Surely, the reward for a person who accomplishes such a deed will be greater accordingly.

Forgiving is easy for a person who is not disturbed by anyone, who is in a good mood, who is shown appreciation and love by others. What really matters is a person’s giving his willpower its due at a time when he is bothered and troubled by others, and is in a rage because of that—to not respond in the same way and show forgiveness.

In fact, a human being is not a creature that has to react in the same way when some others touch him with their horns. God Almighty, may His glory be exalted, left no gap in human abilities. He endowed humanity with the way to perfection and created them as perfect beings. He granted them such a willpower that, when a person is able to harness its full potential, he can carry out the most difficult deeds and subjugate his feelings of anger and rage by taking them under control.

As you know the original word for forgiveness is afw, and it means “erasing something.” That is to say, you deliberately ignore some of the attitudes and behaviors displayed by others which disturb and enrage you, and virtually white them out in your mind. You do not even allow all of these negativities to take a place in your mind or leave a trace in your neurons. Even if they pressurize you to the degree of affecting your health, you erase them from your cortex. This truly is a difficult deed to fulfill. However, once a person is able to accomplish that, namely, build a character predisposed for forgetting others’ evils, then the rewards in the afterlife will be very different. It is likely that in response to this forgiving attitude, the Divine punishment due for certain wrongs and sins committed by that person will be erased and he will be blessed with Divine forgiveness in return for having forgiven others.

2. Showing generosity in times of hardship

Secondly, our master Ali, may God be pleased with him, emphasized the importance of acting magnanimously when seized by hardship. It is easy for a person with a substantial fortune to be generous because it will not seriously diminish by giving some of it away. What will a person who has a thousand dollars lose if he gives away one dollar of it? What really matters is being able to give for God’s sake during hardship. As forgiveness during rage is an invitation for Divine forgiveness, generosity during times of hardship is an invitation for Divine generosity.

In a way, he drew attention to the altruistic virtue of ithar, preferring others over oneself; ithar is a person’s giving his food to another while he himself is hungry and thirsty. God Almighty states the following in relation to this issue: “...and in their hearts do not begrudge what they (other believers) have been given, and (indeed) they prefer them over themselves, even though poverty be their own lot” (al-Hashr 59:9).

During the Battle of Yarmuk, a Companion with dried-up lips, on the verge of death, was about to drink the water they brought for him. On hearing another dying Companion asking for water, he beckoned for the water to be taken to him instead. When the second Companion received the water, he heard the same moan from a third and beckoned for the water to be taken to him instead. This repeated until the water was taken to seven different people. In the end, all of them were martyred and none of those altruistic souls was able to drink the water. It is one of the most striking and beautiful examples of the virtue of ithar, preferring others over oneself, as an outward reflection of living for the sake of others in the true sense and remaining loyal to real human values.

3. Being able to remain chaste in the face of temptation when in private

The third difficult but good deed mentioned by our master Ali is remaining chaste in spite of being in a situation that allows one to sin in private..

In a saying, the Messenger of God, peace and blessings be upon him, referred to the seven categories of people who will be provided with shade by the Divine Throne on the Day of Judgment when no other shade exists. He revealed that one of these is someone who rejects the indecent invitation of a woman of status and beauty by responding to her by saying, “I fear God.”

In a way, it is easy to appear decent in others’ sight. It is not easy for people to commit sin while others’ eyes are on them. However, when someone finds himself in the vortex of such a tempting opportunity, when someone immoral is attempting to seduce him, it is very difficult for him to master his willpower and become an example of chastity; refusing temptation by exclaiming as Prophet Joseph, peace be upon him, did: “God forbid!” (Yusuf 12:23), and thus taking a clear stance against that temptation. In such situations where one is pushed toward negative things, it truly takes a willpower of steel to stand perfectly upright with the soundness of a mountain without being shaken at all. Undoubtedly, the reward for a person who withstands such temptation will be as great in the same degree.

During the caliphate of Umar ibn al-Khattab, may God be pleased with him, a seductive woman laid her eyes on a handsome young man and set a trap for him. One day, she somehow managed to make him take one step in through her door. However, the young man found himself reciting the verse with the following meaning: “Those who keep from disobedience to God in reverence for Him and piety: when a suggestion from Satan touches them—they are alert and remember God, and then they have clear discernment” (al-A’raf 7:201). Upon this, the young man’s heart stopped and he passed away right there. The Companions did not wish to inform the caliph about it; they took the body, which was found in front of that immoral woman’s house, and buried him quietly. On realizing the absence of this devout youth, who would normally take his place in the first rank of the Prayers, Umar ibn al-Khattab asked where he was. The Companions told him about the situation. After this, the caliph ran to the grave of the young man and recited the verse meaning, “But for him who lives in awe of his Lord and of the standing before his Lord (in the Hereafter), there will be two Gardens...” in address to him. Then a voice from the grave replied with the following words: “O leader of the believers! I have been granted twice more than that.”

This event also indicates that it is so hard, so valuable, and very important for a person to remain chaste in case of immediate temptation while in private. Unfortunately, as the recent few centuries have taken away so many values from us, it also destroyed our idea of chastity. We Muslims have become so miserable and corrupt in this regard. Under the banner of “freedom” some have laid all indecent means of immorality before us and thus made our atmosphere vulnerable to all kinds of immorality. But in spite of everything, we hold the belief that as far as those who protect their decency and chastity in our time are concerned, God Almighty will treat them with His Divine favors, honor them with two Paradises, and crown them with His good pleasure, absolute acceptance, and seeing Him.

4. Speaking up for truth when this is difficult

He explained the final good deed he thought to be difficult as “speaking out against another whom one fears or from whom one expects some benefit.” In situations where one fears someone or is promised some benefits by them, if a person cannot be morally upright and speak up for truth but instead agrees to engage in a deal, then the holders of power virtually shackle him and bring him under total control. They then make him do everything they want. As it can be seen in different circles in our time, fear is a factor that restrains, paralyzes and totally disables a person while running on the righteous path. Likewise, cherishing expectations of certain benefits puts a person in the position of a mute devil who cannot speak out against oppressive rulers. It causes that person to knowingly distort realities, speak wrongly and commit wrongs. As we witness its very bitter examples, so many people today are saying just the opposite of what they said yesterday because of certain opportunities laid before them, some expectation they cherish, or due to being paralyzed by fear and anxiety. Like a chameleon, they change from one hue to another with the changing conditions and thus—may God protect—they commit successive wrongs in a way that will ruin their life in both worlds. By means of different engagements of benefits, they virtually live like slaves and cannot manage to break free. So it is true heroism to speak up for truth during a time when fear and benefits prevail. Such a heroic act will surely be rewarded accordingly in the next world.

In short, rewards for deeds will differ according to the time and conditions in which they were realized. However, one point should not be missed here. Receiving a much greater reward for having fulfilled a difficult deed depends on keeping the sincerity of intention and not making any overt or covert complaints. In other words, in order to gain a greater reward in accordance with the difficulty of a certain deed, one must not complain about the difficulties. One should show patience against all odds, not dare to criticize Divine destiny and fulfill that deed in a willing and voluntary fashion.

#allah #god #muhammad #prophet #sunnah #hadith #quran #ayat #revert #convert #reminder #religion #dua #salah #pray #prayer #islam #muslim #muslimah #hijab #welcome to islam #how to convert to islam #new muslim #new revert #new convert #help #revert help #revert help team #convert help #islam help

[sophiainspace]

OMG, Sophia, you know where my heart lies. The first time Sara cried in front of the Legends (all at once or just one or two of them).

Prompt list: Firsts in found family/friendship

The aim of these is to get myself out of a stuck writing headspace, so this isn’t at the standard I like to get fics to… but, hey, I don’t have to put it on AO3!

Sara’s cried at least twice in LoT canon that I can think of - but, to my (possibly-faulty) memory, not since becoming captain. So that’s where I ended up going with this. After a couple of false starts where the characters did not want to play, because the Legends have their own minds about *everything*. “You call this a team?!” (Thanks to @hiverforesteevee for beta reading, and to @zariadriannatomaz for ideas help - sorry I ended up going in a slightly different direction from your idea!)

Bad Day 

(gen, 1720 words, Sara Lance & Team Legends, cw for anxiety/stress and bad memories/nightmares - brief)

By the time they get back to the bridge, Sara’s barely keeping it together.

If this total fuck-up of a mission wasn’t enough, she’s been awake since 5 this morning. She hasn’t even had a cup of coffee. Ray and Charlie drained the pot and didn’t bother to refill it, and then they had to move out to deal with the troll rampaging through the Swedish countryside. Sara would be throwing up her hands and going to find caffeine, if she wasn’t currently putting up with the traditional post-mission trash fire they call debriefing. Captain’s fucking privilege.

Every time she thinks things can’t get any more annoying, her dysfunctional crew piles in with new ways to torture her—along with a few of the old standards.

Charlie’s getting right up in Sara’s face. She’s whining about not being invited to the pre-mission team meeting, sneering that she would have been able to give the troll a beat-down if she’d just known what it was.

(She was invited to the meeting. She couldn’t get out of bed in time. She’s making Sara long for the simpler times when she met threats head-on with a kick or a knife, not with the drawn-out torture of diplomacy.)

Leaning against the parlour door frame, John’s interrupting her with occasional smug opinions.

(Zari calls it warlock-splaining. She says the phrase needs work. Seems pretty spot-on to Sara.)

Speaking of Zari, she’s sitting on the step, her head buried in an iPad, only bothering to look up to roll her eyes or say something appropriately sarcastic.

(She yawns, and Sara stomps down on the urge to ask if they’re keeping her up.)

At the console, Ray looks like he wants to head for the hills. He could, too, what with the irritatingly idyllic landscape of the Scandinavian Mountains just outside the window.

(Sara’s got half a mind to hand him a compass and two sticks, remind him he’s an Eagle Scout, and wish him luck.)

In the corner, Mick’s trying to sneak away unseen.

(Clearly it’s been more than half an hour since he’s had a beer, and God forbid he should do any work without his perpetual alcohol IV. Sara doesn’t even bother telling him to stay.)

“Told you it was no use trying to kill it with fire,” John yells after him helpfully. “Shouldn’t even have brought the flamethrower.”

Bracing her hands on the console, Sara restrains herself from spinning on her heel and losing it at him.

Mick steps back into the room. “It’s a fucking heat gun. If you call it a flamethrower one more time—”

“Give it up, mate,” John interrupts, laughing.

“I’m not your mate.”

Finally acknowledging something outside the internet, Zari rolls her eyes at them. “Could you two shut up?”

Charlie gives a dramatic sigh. “Sara, you didn’t even explain why I wasn’t—”

Sara starts counting down from ten in her head.

And, just to tie this shit-show of a meeting up with a little bow, Gideon chooses that moment to manifest her blue head above the console. “I’m afraid, Captain, that Mr Constantine is technically correct. The reliance on fire, while a reasonable backup plan in the case that iron and running water failed—”

“No, you said fire would kill—”

“I said Thor’s lightning could kill it! It’s not the same—”

Ray spins around, his voice resounding above the cacophony like an alarm bell. “John, are you saying this is Sara’s fault?”

Constantine takes a threatening step forward. “Yes, I bloody well am!”

Sara’s countdown reaches one. She slams her hands down on the console. “Everyone out.” She barely raises her voice above a whisper, but the chorus of consternation has fallen silent around her.

“Sara—” Zari starts, iPad forgotten, her gaze intense on Sara.

“Not now, Z,” she says, not meeting her eye. “Just… give me a minute.”

They trundle out, one by one. It’s generally worrying when the Legends go quiet, but Sara doesn’t care who she’s pissed off now.

When the bridge is finally empty, she draws in a deep breath, sits down on the floor, drops her head onto her knees and cries.

***

She’s not sure how much later it is when there’s a firm hand on her shoulder, comforting as the rising smell of coffee that’s arrived with it.

Zari’s pulling herself into a seated position on the floor next to Sara. She’s holding two mugs.

“One of those,” Sara croaks, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, “had better be for me.”

“Yes, you goober. And stop that.” Zari reaches into her pocket and passes Sara a tissue. She holds onto the second cup of coffee till Sara’s finished sorting her face out, then passes it to her.

Sara accepts it gratefully, though she can’t quite make herself smile yet. She wraps her hands tight around the mug, heat seeping into her cold hands through the metal surface.

(How long has she been cold?)

Both of them are quiet for a while, looking out at the scene beyond the bridge window, where the sun is eking out its last minutes of light over the mountains. Sara shields her eyes with a hand.

“I know we were being pretty Legends-y,” Zari says, her tone apologetic, and Sara chokes out a little laugh. “But, uh. Kind of a strong reaction to our usual crap…?”

Sara blows out a long sigh. “Didn’t sleep well.” She focuses on the mug in her hands. Warm and solid.

Zari tilts her head to eyeball her captain. But she doesn’t push, and Sara’s grateful.

She shifts around so she’s facing her friend. “D’you get nightmares, Z?”

There’s an edge of bitterness in the replying laugh. Zari catches her eye. “You too, huh?”

(The crack of breaking bones, the jab of a knife into a man’s side, the bright crimson of blood—)

Sara nods tightly at her mug, swirling the tawny liquid around. “Sometimes I wake up, and it’s so dark that I don’t know if I’m in Lian Yu or on the Am—” She coughs. “Took me a few minutes, this morning.”

(Just a few brutal seconds.)

“And then you know you’re not getting back to sleep,” she finishes, keeping her voice light.

(Breathe in. One, two, three, four. Breathe out.)

Zari’s hand is on her arm, her eyes still fixed on the shadowed mountains, and Sara looks down at shaking hands again. (For fuck’s sake.)

“You know you can talk to us, right?” Zari’s voice is soft, understanding. Not patronising. “Don’t be alone if you’re having a bad day.”

Sara attempts to cover up her laugh.

Zari grins. “Fine, maybe not when we’re being all…”

“Legends-y?” Sara quirks an eyebrow.

(She’s breathing easier already.)

“That.” Zari’s grip on her arm loosens a little. “And if we’re being complete bastards, you can kick our asses.”

Humming in reply, Sara suppresses a grin. “Think if I drop the Waverider over a convenient ocean, I can get Rory and Constantine to walk the plank?”

“Oh, definitely.” Zari winks.

Sara rolls her eyes. “He really can be very… warlock-splainy.”

“Needs work.” Zari’s smiling into her mug.

Nodding seriously, Sara says, “Yeah, you’re right. We should add ‘cis’ and ‘white’ in there somewhere.”

Footsteps behind them, in long strides. Ray.

“So this is where we’re sitting?” He glances at a spot on the floor next to Sara. She gives him a wry grin.

He drops down to sit next to them, all a tangle of legs and a too-cheerful smile that usually comes with a 50-50 chance of either annoying the hell out of Sara, or blanketing her in welcome, familiar warmth. She’s surprised when he offers her his hand, and takes it. He grips hers tight in his bigger one.

(There’s power there, like all the Legends have. Dangerous and comforting in equal measure.)

“You okay, Sara?”

She nods, matching his smile. “I’m good now. Thanks, Ray.”

Charlie’s next to arrive, frowning at the floor before shrugging and bouncing down. She frowns harder at Sara. “You’ve been crying.”

Zari snorts and pats Charlie on the back. “Blunt, aren’t you?”

“Shut her up with cake,” says a gruff voice behind them, and Sara looks up at Mick Rory, struggling to get down to the floor. “Joints ain’t what they were,” he grumbles. He sets down a chocolate cake, already cut into six slices, and a pile of plates. “Made it yesterday. Was gonna bring it out later.” He shrugs.

“Great timing.” Sara grins at him, grabs a slice and shoves it at Charlie. Who does, in fact, shut up to eat it.

“Ooh,” Zari says, snatching up the biggest slice.

“I cut that one bigger for you,” Mick mutters at her, and she awws at him, clearly only half going for sarcasm.

There’s a hesitant cough behind them. “This a private party, or can any thoughtless smug bastard join in?”

John actually sounds a bit embarrassed—Sara raises an eyebrow. “Please. Take a… bit of floor.”

He laughs and does as he’s told. He’s oddly quiet once he’s sat down, but he accepts his offered slice of cake.

Sara looks around at the bridge.

(Where they’ve all been through so much. Where she punched Rip for not telling her about Laurel. Where they mourned Leonard and Martin and, later, Rip himself. Where the Legends scrambled together countless ridiculous plans, some that actually succeeded, surprising her every time. Where she had her earliest encounters with Ava, strained at first, then stumbling into something wonderful. Where she’s found so many friends… family.)

On her right, Ray and Zari are arguing about chores. It sounds mostly good-natured.

On her left, Mick and John are comparing war stories of extra-legal activities, one more battle in their ongoing contest of performative masculinity.

Opposite her, Charlie glances up from her cake to smile at Sara. She smiles back.

(It’s good not to be alone.)

Sara lets her eyes drift up to the bridge window. The horizon is a perfect masterpiece of oranges and reds painted across a stunning mountainscape. Maybe they should stay tonight, see if they can spot the Northern Lights.

She sits there, just smiling out at the mountains, as Ray and Zari’s argument gets significantly less good-natured, John and Mick’s voices rise into what could definitely be described as yelling, and Charlie starts randomly threatening to punch someone.

#bold-sartorial-statement #my fic #sara lance #team legends #legends of tomorrow fanfic #prompt fills #ficlet #CWs: #crying #nightmares #bad memories #helped by some low-key team support #team legends love sara

[like-a-bag-of-potatoes]

Finding Our Way

A/N: Repost of an old fic. I’m actually really proud of this concidering I had only been writing a couple of months when I wrote this. Feedback is highly appreciated y’all!

Warnings: Death, some angst and some fluff.

Characters:  Dean, Reader, Sam (kind of)

Wordcount: 2726

The rain is pouring down as I stand in the middle of the almost empty field. My black dress is soaked, my heels are digging into the wet ground, and I’m uselessly trying to brush a few wet hairs away from my face. Cold, shivering, I wrap my arms around me as I look up to the dark sky. I don’t know how long I’ve been standing here, but it’s certainly been a while. My eyes are fixed at what’s left of the fire that was burning so vigorously just a while ago; now in the pile of ash, I can barely see some specks of orange between the gray. Tears are forming in the crook of my eyes again as I take in the sight before me. How can it be that a man who was full of life a mere twenty four hours ago is now reduced to a pile of cold, wet ash.

The hunter’s funeral serves a purpose, I know that, but now the smoldering pyre seems barbaric, now that it’s Sam we’re burning. Sam Winchester, the man of my dreams, the man that I fell so hopelessly in love with, the man that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Sam Winchester, friend, boyfriend, son and brother. Gone. Dead.

I can feel the strength leaving my body, my knees coming dangerously near to giving out, when the feeling of a blanket being wrapped around my shoulders startles me, but the familiar touch of strong hands gripping me makes the fear fade away. I turn to look into the green eyes of my best friend, Dean; I’ve seen his face so often I could locate every freckle, despite the dark. I’ve known Dean since I was nineteen, when our fathers met up for a hunt, and we’ve been close as brother and sister since.. He looks as exhausted as I feel, reminding  me that however much it hurts me to lose my boyfriend, it’s twice as hard on him, losing  his baby brother. And yet, he takes a step to the side and reveals a picnic blanket and cooler,  likely filled with beer, that he brought, taking my hand and guiding me towards it. The rain has stopped completely, and as we sit down, I can  see some stars peeking between the clearing clouds. Dean offers me a beer and even though drowning my sorrows is tempting at the moment I choose not to. I pull the blanket he gave me tighter around my body, drawing my knees to my chest to rest my chin on them. We don’t speak, choosing instead to sit in silence, watching the clouds slowly disappear as more stars comes to view.

I glance over to the remnants of the fire, and I am powerless to keep my body from shaking, tears falling once again. It only gets worse as Dean wraps his arm around me and pulls me close, guilt clenching at my heart. I should be the one comforting him, after the loss of his brother. The bond between Sam and Dean couldn’t be explained: it had to be experienced.  I can’t even begin to imagine what he is feeling right now, and still here he is, comforting me. Dean never puts himself first; there is nothing that he wouldn’t do for the people he loves. But he is going to have a hard time finding his way after this - the memory of him after John died is still clear. So, of course, it’ll come down to me to watch out for him, as he does for me. I pull away from him slightly and stretch out my arm so that he can join me under the blanket; he pauses for a moment, ever wary of affection, or care for his own well-being, but then he slides closer, pulling the blanket around both our shoulders. The sky is completely clear now and I can see the millions of stars that are blinking down on us. It’s beautiful, a night Sam would’ve loved: just the two people closest to him, the silence of the plain, and the eternity of stars shining overhead. The only thing missing is him.

“I’m sorry” I murmur, without looking at Dean, eyes too blurry and wet too focus. I hear him breathing deeply before he responds, swallowing his own tears.

“I know, sweetheart,” he finally says, sliding his hand into mine and squeezing “Looks like it’s just me and you now.”

“Yeah,” I respond weakly before burrowing my face into his shoulder, no longer able to repress the sobs shaking my chest. Dean pulls the blanket tighter around us and settles his face in my hair. I feel his own quiet tears kissing at my scalp even after I stop crying.

“Just you and me.”



2 months:

I throw myself down on one of the beds in the shabby motel room, more grateful than I should be for the grungy comfort of the mattress. We have been hunting non stop for the past two months, half of which I’ve spent swallowing my own sadness and fear and convincing Dean to take a day or two off. After John died, Dean spent every day restoring Baby after the truck accident and every night indulging in whiskey and women. Now, however, it’s work, all day, every day. I like to think he’s changed tactics because I’m with him, and I suppose it’s better than STD’s and a defunct liver; but right now, I, for one, need a moment to breathe.

“Hey, it’s only for a day or two, just a breather,” I say cautiously as I watch him anxiously bounce his knee, desperate for movement, for some distraction. A part of me feels the same way - the part that keeps me from curling up into a ball of depression - but we are still only human. How proud Sam would be - instead of watching out for his brother, I let him run himself into the ground. The memory of Sam still makes my chest tighten, so I pull my favourite book out of my duffle, hoping that it will be distraction enough for tonight.

“I need to get some air” Dean  says abruptly and stands from his chair “Do you need anything?” He briefly meets my gaze, a rarity these days; I shake my head, and a second later he closes the door behind him, leaving me completely alone.

The week after Sam’s funeral, we caught the demon who killed him. Dean took great pleasure in torturing him, listening to the thing curse, then beg for mercy, and finally for death before he ended its life. I will never forget the look in his eyes while he carved into the demon, a look of rage that I wouldn’t think possible from this sweet, selfless man; but the way Dean looked at me after the deed was done frightened me the most. The green in his gentle eyes  had been replaced by a dark brown, almost black. His spark was gone, whatever made Dean the brother I loved was gone, replaced by something as sinister as what had killed Sam. Perhaps it was the terror in my eyes or his own self-relfection, but since that day, he has barely looked at me, talking to me only when necessary - God forbid we discuss what happened, in typical Winchester fashion. I suppose he is out blowing off some steam, but to my surprise he comes back only half an hour later with a pizza and some beers.

“I brought us some food” he says with a tentative smile before laying the spread  on the table “I even ordered it with pineapple” he adds proudly. I can’t help smiling back - he knows I love pineapple on my pizza, and I know he hates them with a passion. I make my way over to join him at the table, half-pleased, half-worried about this change in his behaviour.

“Pineapple huh?”

“Mhm..” he mumbles with a mouthful of pizza, and gestures for me to dig in..

Half an hour later, I open another bottle of beer after clearing away the empty pizza box, mildly impressed that two people devoured an entire large pizza. The mood has lightened somewhat, but I’m still scared to talk to him, afraid I’m gonna say the wrong thing.

Dean suddenly takes a deep breath, as if about to dive off the deep end.“I’m sorry that I’ve been working us so hard lately,” he says, watching me as I slowly sit back down across from him and take a long pull on my beer.

“You know, I don’t mind hunting, Dean, but…it’s the tension between us that wears me out, how we can’t even talk to each other about…I mean, after…you know…” I’m unable to stop the words from spilling, and I silently curse myself. He digests my words for a while before he answers.

“I know. And I’m sorry about that, too.” He takes a deep breath and leans forward in his chair. “I know I’ve been kind of a dick to you, but ever since… since Sam died and the demon…I’ve been trying to figure out how to be around you.” I must look confused by his words, because he bites his lip and thinks for a moment before continuing. “I mean…I know that you need me, I promised Sam that…and we need each other, but I don’t…I don’t know how to be there for you, to help you heal, when I’m such a mess myself. Especially after you saw me doing what I did to that demon.” I can see a shimmer of tears in his eyes. He shakes his head a little and grits his teeth, trying to keep the tears at bay. In all the years I’ve known Dean, this is a side I’ve never seen before. I would’ve sworn he’d die before allowing anyone to see him this vulnerable.

“I don’t judge you for what you did to that demon, Dean, even though it scared me. But it was what happened afterwards that frightened me. You just closed yourself off from me, you shut me out.” I try my best not to let my frustration show, I need him to know that he hurt me, but I also need him to know that I forgive him. “I just need my friend back,” escapes my lips, as I swallow hard on the lump that’s forming in my throat. “I feel like you’re pulling away from me, and I have no idea how to bring you back.”

“I’m sorry” he says, “I really am.” I can see the remorse in his eyes and I know then that he truly is sorry. For a while we sit in silence.

“I’m gonna get ready for bed,” I say, once my voice is steady, and I get up and head for the bathroom.

“Come here” he says, softly  and I turn around to see him standing with his arms stretched towards me, more open than he’s been since the funeral. I don’t even think about it before I’m walking over and wrapping my arms around his waist. We stand there, just doing our best to hold the other together for a long time.

“I know we still have a long way to go, but I…I think we’ll be okay,” I say as I look up at him. He nods back, still a little tentative, but something’s shifted.



8 months:

“You broke a guy’s nose?” Dean almost cries from laughter

“He grabbed my ass!” I respond defensively, even though I’m laughing with him.

“I’m not even surprised” he says smirking, as he throws me an icepack from the medical kit in my duffle bag.

We have our ups and downs, but we’re slowly finding our way back to some kind of normalcy. Dean is acting a bit more like his old self, he laughs moore, he teases me at times, and I even saw him flirting with a bartender a few nights ago. He wouldn’t admit it though. He doesn’t even argue with me when I suggest we take a few days off anymore. I feel more like myself these days too.  I think about Sam every day. For a while I was afraid that I would forget something about him if I didn’t, now it’s more to remind myself that I will always remember him.

I remember that when the sun hit his hazel eyes it revealed a hint of green in them, I remember the dimples forming in his cheeks when he threw me one of his boyish grins and I remember the sound of his laughter. I miss him like crazy, but I’m finally able to focus more on the happy memories and not just on the pain of losing him. For a while, I felt guilty every time I smiled or laughed, as if I wasn’t allowed to be happy without him, but I don’t anymore. We are not healed yet, I don’t think we will ever heal completely, but it’s getting better.

It’s moments like these that helps us, when it’s just the two of us goofing around, no evil chasing us. Just us, getting back to being ourselves.

“So, what do you want to do tomorrow?” he asks me as he leans back on his bed.

“I don’t know. Something fun!” I smile at him.

“Wow you’re specific..” he scoffs, rolling his eyes at me.

I teasingly bat my eyelashes. “I know right! What do you want to do?”

“Well, there’s this small lake not far from here, I read in a brochure that it’s a nice place for fishing”

“I say fun and you think fishing?” I chuckle.

“Yep” he answers confidently.

“Fine, Winchester. If we can go swimming afterwards, I’m in”

“Deal.”

We decided to bring a tent to the lake, agreeing that we would spend the night if we liked it up there. It’s certainly gorgeous - the sun is up and the water is completely still. There are a few people in boats and a few more swimming, but we managed to find a secluded area to pitch our tent. I dig a book out of my bag and lean back against a tree, smiling to myself as I watch Dean throwing the line into the water. We stay like this for hours until I realize how much time has gone by  - the sun was about to set for the evening. I grab the extra chair that we brought and make my way over to Dean, setting it up by his side.

“I think it’s too late for swimming” he says with a little snort as he turns to look at me. I feign a little annoyance, but honestly, I’m just so happy to see that  spark in his eyes slowly returning that I don’t mind about the swimming at all. Every day that goes by, I can see more and more of my old friend in him.

“I guess you’re right,” I nod “Do you want to head back to the motel or  spend the night up here?”

“If you want to, we can stay.”

“Only if you want to,” I tease back.

This place is so peaceful and quiet and so much what Sam would’ve loved that I can’t help feeling a little sad..There is always going to be a part of me that’s missing; I suspect it’s the same for Dean. We will carry Sam with us for the rest of our lives, and I’m slowly getting used to the fact that there are always going to be things that remind me of him, things I wish he could be a part of. I lean my head on Dean’s shoulder and let out a long sigh. Despite the sorrow, I know as long as I have him by my side, there is nothing in this world that can break me, break us. Dean packs away his fishing rod and gently drapes his arm around my shoulders. We sit again in silence and watch the last rays of the sun paint the sky. The rays melt away and the stars begin to appear, and for the first time, the thought of Sam being near does not bring tears, but rather a smile.

Everything SPN

@docharleythegeekqueen @deansgirl215 @feelmyroarrrr @emoryhemsworth @essie1876 @sleepylunarwolf @angelsandwinchesters @roxyspearing @dustycelt @captainradicalpassion @grace-for-sale @fandomsstolemylife00 @laurenisnot @mrswhozeewhatsis @superapplepie @mogaruke @girl-next-door-writes @luckyfriess @duckieburns @melonshino @dslocum89 @sea040561 @smoothdogsgirl @megasimpleplan4ever @supernatural-strangerthings-1980 @itseverythingilike @riversong-sam @x-waywardaf-x @thing-you-do-with-that-thing @thereisnolumos @just-another-busy-fangirl @mamaredd123 @yoursmilemakesmeloveyou @iliketowrite02 @nanie5 @wwecrazed2010 @its-not-a-show-its-a-lifestyle @obsessivecompulsivespn @impalaradio @organicapple022 @heyitscam99 @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @azlinh @mystrie

Jensen/Dean:

@its-not-a-tulpa @mizzzpink @jayankles @torn-and-frayed @whimsicalrobots @luckyfriess @sandlee44 @viviandarkbloom06 @imaginesofdreams @mayasmedberg   @iwriteaboutdean @wingedcatninja @capsheadquarters @trunk-full-of-ideas @lavieenlex @angelsandwinchesters @applepielyf

#spn fanfiction #spn fanfic #dean winchester #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester angst #spn reader insert #spn one shot

[nyodrite]

Fantastic Fics (As I Find Them)

Lady Knight Volant

Summary: Continues Lady Knight to the end of the Scanran War. K/D eventually. Rating is a high T, borderline M, for sexuality, violence, and tauroses, with all their consequences; some character deaths. A long novel of action and manners, featuring immortals, gods, the timeway, and a serious battle amid some unlikely topography and even more improbable architecture. Enjoy!

Rating: T

Status: Complete

Words: 450,163

Comment: This Protector of the Small fanfiction is my all time favorite, it picks up where canon left off and continues in such a way that it might as well be canon itself. Now has a sequel! (AO3)

Favorite Part;

“What a lot of things you choose to ignore, my Lord.” Runnerspring recoiled where he sat. The Councilors had heard that dead flat voice twice before, and fell silent but Kel barely noticed in the icy, roaring rage that clamored to possess her. “Beginning with the fact that you’re a confessed traitor under arrest. Keep your advice. All I require from you is whatever you know about the forces massing outside my gates.”

“Piss on you, bitch. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“Yes, I will.” She turned to Turomot, seeing his face blank with shock. “Your Grace, do you concur that Lord Carolan is a manifest and self-confessed traitor to his King and his realm?”

The old man blinked once. “He is undoubtedly so, my Lady.”

“And so, though noble, liable to torture.”

He blinked again. “Yes.”

Kel’s head swung. “Do you forbid it, sire?”

Jonathan shook his head, voice hard. “No. We must know what he has done.”

“So.” Somewhere within her rage Kel thought of Rogal as she took her shuriken from her belt, aware of eyes fixed on her every movement. “Lord Carolan, do you remember when we first met?”

His bravado was ebbing as her voice continued flat, and she wished desperately her father was not present, nor Raoul. Nor Wyldon.

“Vaguely.” He managed a sneer. “You ran away, I recall.”

“You recall wrong, but you were drunk and revealingly crude.” Her voice sounded far away and the shukusen swung from her hand. “Since then, my Lord, wondering how a man as ill-minded as your son comes to be, I have made it my business to listen to people who know you, and they all say the same. Beneath your obsessions with pride, wealth, and race, your daily habit is to grope, ogle, and swive women, willing, bought, or forced. So that’s where we shall begin.” She snapped open the shukusen, tilting it so light gleamed on Yamani steel. “Lord Carolan, hear me well. I ask what you know of the forces massing here, and the plot you have laid. At the first refusal I will cut off your left hand, at the second your left eye, at the third your pizzle and stones.” In the horror she turned to Baird, voice never wavering. “Your Grace, I must ask you to be prepared to stem the bleeding, if necessary. Not pain, of course. The shukusen will leave a neat stump.”

He looked ill but took a deep breath, nodded, and rose. “My Lady.”

Runnerspring’s eyes widened as Kel moved forward to stand before him and Baird came round the table to flank her, drawing up his sleeves.

“You can’t do this!”

She pinned him with her eyes, no more than an enemy in the way of her glaive. “Wrong again. You are a confessed traitor, without standing in law, and you threaten my people. I will do anything it takes to defend them and I bear the Black God’s grace from his own lips. I need knowledge of your treason, now, and I will have it.” If Runnerspring doubted her he was the only person who did, and she looked at Uinse’s men behind him, as stiff as boards, eyes intent. “Hold him down, please, hands on the table.”

Heavy hands bore down on Runnerspring’s shoulders and each guard leaned forward to pin his forearms. The projecting hands reminded Kel of starfish on the beach at Mindelan, and she turned the shukusen, seeing the trajectory needed and abstractly regretting the use she found for Shinko’s beautiful gift. It came to her that neither fierce Cricket nor the Crown Princess would object, and she tightened stomach muscles as she sent up a prayer from the clear mind inside the rage and fear compelling her.

“Last chance. Who comes to my gates with what purpose?”

He wasn’t a coward and attempted defiance, though his eyes were screaming. “You haven’t the gu—”

If she’d slammed the shukusen down it would have gone through the table, but only its sharpened vanes pierced the wooden surface as the same liquid movement she’d found in her pattern dance brought the fan to a precise halt. Baird’s green magic flared around it, and when the rising fan flicked hand from forearm no blood spilled. She saw agony and shock in Runnerspring’s eyes and while her mind wailed behind blessed glass her rage bored into him as his world and self buckled. The razor-edged extending vane of the shukusen slid smoothly to a halt where he could just focus on it, and slowly forward. Her gaze locked with his and his eyes bulged terror as he tried to focus on her and on the blade an inch from his eye.

“Second time of asking. What do you know of this attack?”

Everything she had went into her voice and she saw it break him as she heard his babble begin and twitched the shukusen aside, indicating to the soldiers that they could ease their grips. Both were white-faced but she saw nothing in their looks to match the revulsion in her mind. Runnerspring barely seemed to notice Baird as he continued to stream green fire into the raw, bloodless stump, frowning concentration. The severed hand was leaking, Kel saw, as the controlling part of her mind listened to the skeltering tale.

The knights riding for New Hope were Garvey, Guisant, Ansil and Arknor, Belar, and Quinden, and Genlith was with them, and Torhelm’s faithful steward, and they had been waiting north of Bearsford with nearly five hundred men—liegers and hired—in case the King fled south before Maggur could invest New Hope, and met up with a Scanran company sent with the force besieging Mastiff, and the valley was sealed, and they should surrender because Maggur had mages who could beat Numair and engines no walls could resist, so it didn’t matter he wouldn’t be able to drug the gateguards as he’d promised, and Maggur would win, he had to, but he only wanted the woman who’d killed Blayce and burned Rathhausak raped and dead, as anyone would, and some of the lands Jasson had conquered, only as far as Trebond, worthless places anyway, he was welcome, it was a small price and a smaller, southern Tortall with a new ally on its northern border would be better off and could again become what it should be, without the unnatural women of such places as Trebond and Mindelan, Sarain and Yaman.

The frantic speech trailed into silence and Kel had to lock her throat against rising bile. “You believed Maggur only wanted me dead and the northern third of the realm? Goddess, you really are stupid.” Her throat still tight she looked at Numair, face as blank as rock. “Were you able to make those doses?”

“Baird has them.”

His voice was cold. She looked at the guards behind Runnerspring, whose eyes were glazing as Baird eased pain he hadn’t stopped with the bleeding, and made herself speak briskly. “Lord Carolan is to be confined to the cell, and drugged. His Grace will supply dreamrose pills. He gets one meal a day and a pill, by force if necessary, until I say otherwise. No guards—once he’s unconscious report to Uinse. He’ll know what’s happening by then.” Ebony would be telling Seed.

“Lady Kel.”

They saluted, lifted him, and went. After resting a hand gently on her shoulder for a moment, pity she couldn’t bear in his green eyes, Baird followed and she turned to the King.

“I must ask you to excuse me for a moment.”

She didn’t wait on a reply but fled, just making it to the nearest privy before her stomach emptied itself in appalling heaves that left her white and sweaty. She took a moment to wipe her face and swill out her mouth, but there was no time for more and she straightened, squaring shoulders and ignoring whatever was behind glass.

Through the Eyes of Minerva’s Owl

Summary: When Albion calls Merlin, he returns to puzzle out why. Meanwhile, two years of peace are shattered when Harry Potter is attacked and left badly beaten, the Elder Wand stolen from his grasp. Then a sword appears in front of Buckingham Palace and a dragon escapes from Wales. As the Ministry of Magic and the Order of the Phoenix scramble for answers, Merlin gathers his allies (both old, new and unexpected) as he prepares to greet Albion's Darkest Hour. Morgana declares war in a single, devastating blow that leaves England's wizards stunned beyond words, making it clear that the time of the Once and Future King is upon them... if only they knew where he was. Will wisdom learnt through the eyes of Minerva's owl be enough to prevent disaster?

Mostly cannon-compliant for both series.

Rating: M

Status: Complete

Words: 171,166

Comment: This crossover is awesome, it's a reincarnation fic - which I love - and has an Immortal Merlin who does actually manage to live his life after Camelot rather then the usually angst-ridden takes, the Malfoys play a significant roll and Charlie meets talking dragons - what's not to love?

Favorite Part;

He could practically hear the smug smile in Elena's voice when she answered. “Oh, then you'll be wanting to talk to Doctor Kingsman over there. He's a senior lecturer at Oxford in the Medieval Studies Department. The Arthurian legends are his specialty.”

It was rather comical how predictably the reporter's eyes lit up in surprised excitement. He immediately stepped closer to Archie.

“Professor Kingsman-”

“Doctor. I am a member of the department, not its head.”

“My apologies, Doctor. Would you be willing to answer a few questions about the sword?”

“Excalibur.” Archie looked at the man and smirked. “If you're going to be writing a story about it, you really shouldn't shy away from saying its name.” He pointed to where the outline of a letter could just barely be seen at the point where the sword met the stone. “This is definitely Excalibur.”

“Then you believe the legends are true?”

“Oh, not all of them, obviously. The legends have been passed down from generation to generation through a long history of verbal storytelling both by travelling bards and by village elders and then eventually written down. I imagine the original legends looked quite different from what we know today. However, having said that, considering there has just been an army of swamp monsters and an army of skeletons terrorizing London – not to mention the dragon and the sorcerer that arrived to help – I don't believe it is that much of a leap of faith to think this part of the legends, at least, is true.”

The reporter nodded. “There have been people gathering here daily to catch a glimpse of the sword, to attempt to pull it out or even just to touch it. I've spoken to quite a few of them and they all have different things to say about the sword. But, what does it mean to you, Doctor?”

“Hmm...” Archie looked back to Excalibur and ran his hand along the hilt again. “Oh, it means a great many things to me, childhood dreams and stories among them. But I think what you're really asking is what do I think it means for England, for Albion.”

He paused, considering his reply. The reporter waited patiently.

“It's a harbinger of sorrow and destruction.” He glanced to the side, smirking in amusement at the shocked look on the reporter's face. “Come now, surely you know the legends. They say Arthur will rise and take up his sword during Albion's Darkest Hour. And here is Arthur's sword waiting for him to come and claim it. Logically, that means that we are about to face our darkest hour.”

A hush had settled around them and Archie looked up, suddenly realizing he was the centre of attention. He blinked at the startled, horrified, grim faces. He remembered Gwen and Lance mentioning there was a group of dedicated people watching the sword. Believers in the legend. He smiled at them and then turned back to the reporter and his camera.

“However, whilst this sword's presence does act as a warning, it is more than that. Excalibur is, first and foremost, a symbol of hope. It tells us that no matter how difficult the times ahead will be, how dark the days will become, Arthur Pendragon will rise once more to defeat Albion's enemies. The Once and Future King will take up his sword and brandish it as a beacon of hope to shine through the darkness.”

i solemnly swear (that i am up to no good)

Summary: Shawn Spencer, Neal Caffrey, and Mike Ross meet at a midnight premiere. New York may never be the same.

Rating: G

Status: Complete

Words: 6,304

Comment: This crossover is actually what got me interested in White Collar, so it has a very dear place in my heart, but it also is really good on it's own merit. Plus, these three teaming up is hilarious.

Favorite Part;

At first, Harvey doesn't think much of it when Elizabeth asks what everyone's favorite part of the movie is – standard small talk – but then he sees both the responses it garners and the way she uses them to fold new insights into her view of the people around her, and he reconsiders.

Neal responds first with, "The Prince's tale."

"Tragic love story?" Peter asks, and Harvey would think it a joke were it not for the way Neal's group folds in around him protectively. There's a story there, of that he is sure.

"Tale of redemption," he responds instead. More interesting than the subtext underlying his explanation is the way the two men on either side of him respond to it; Peter bumps arms with him whereas Moz bristles. Harvey is used to cataloguing weaknesses, so he takes note of the interestingly decisive rift present.

Mike doesn't tend towards dull people – although he has a habit of finding troublesome ones – and both Shawn and Neal (and their respective groups) certainly qualify. Harvey leaves Mike to his own devices for five minutes, and he comes back with an FBI agent, his former art thief of a partner, and two detectives from the West Coast. To be fair, Harvey's weakness has always been interesting people. Case in point: Mike speaks next, chiming in with, "Neville. I'm a sucker for the unexpected hero," which, okay, Harvey thought they'd already have that conversation about subtlety, because the parallels there are almost painfully obvious.

"Tonks and Lupin," Shawn says last. It prompts a tangent on the saddest death, which turns into Gus having an allergy attack about Fred on Shawn's shoulder, which turns into a heated debate between Moz and Mike about whether the Weasley Twins or the Marauders are the more admirable pranksters.

"The Marauder's Map," Moz says with an air of superiority, tinged with a hint of disdain that this is even up for debate. "Do you know what I could do with a map like that?"

Just when it looks like Shawn is going to get away without explaining his reasoning, Mike and Neal gang up on him. "It's just sweet," Shawn says at last. "Lupin finally grew up enough to find love and settle down."

This is the point where Harvey realizes Mike has found two kindred spirits: a child at heart in Shawn, and ambition for a better life in Neal. The weekend before Shawn and Gus return to Santa Barbara is either going to be sent soaring to night heights or crashing down in flames. Either way, it is sure to be spectacular.

Dark Waters

Summary: Eren, a young mermaid, meets his dark and intriguing mate, Levi, for the first time by the edge of a large lake in the middle of the wetland forests. Hanji and her team of biologists hide nearby to document the elusive merfolk and their interactions.

Or that one merfolk au where Levi (merman/male/dominant) and Eren (mermaid/arguably still male but in the submissive role here) are a pair of mates living in the wild, meeting for the first time by the lake that Levi inhabits.

Rating: M

Status: Complete

Words: 169,709

Comment: Generally I do not read merpeople stories but I love this, it introduced me to the idea of documentary - which lead to mockumentary - fics. It's really well written with worldbuilding - even extra worldbuilding on the author's tumblr - of all the details of the mers as a species that make it interesting to read. Also, Levi's mer-dick which earned it's own tag.

Favorite Part;

Hanji had felt both elated that this merman, a supposedly vicious creature, would take the time to go and get a meal for his mate. The mermaid had been a little confused when he couldn’t find the raven anywhere, unaware that he was down in the deeper parts of the lake looking for fish. Even Hanji had been confused for a moment when the merman had dived suddenly, but it became clear what he was doing when he surfaced for a brief moment to set the first fish on a rock before diving once more. And of course the mermaid had been too wary of the water to risk going out to get the food, playing and hunting for easier prey in the shallows.

And now they were resting together. It was almost too cute a sight to bear.

More than that, however, was the incredible evidence that these creatures could bring out such peace and playfulness in each other. Mermaids spent their days living with their pod and were relatively shy creatures. Mermen spend their days fighting with their other kin and anything else that encroaches on their territory. And yet bringing these two types together could make their personalities do a complete one hundred and eighty degree shift. So different even though they were the same species – it was a wonder how they could get along at all. But just being around one another could bring out the adventurous side in mermaids and the gentle, affectionate side of the usually aggressive mermen.

TELL ME A PIECE OF YOUR HISTORY

Summary: An account of the media reactions to the reveal of Nations (anthropomorphic national embodiments) with scholarly commentary.

Heavily inspired by: United States v. Barnes, 617 F. Supp. 2d 143 (D.D.C. 2015) [fallingvoices, radialarch] with mixed genres.

Rating: G

Status: Complete

Words: 16,290

Comment: I adore Hetalia fics where the nations are revealed to the world, they're fantastic but this makes it for the magnificent depiction of Social Media reactions and China's interview in chapter eight.

Favorite Part;

“I do not know what to say most of the time. He is five thousand years old. He has lived through the rise and fall of the empire, again and again. From the Tang to the Qing. I’m so insignificant compared to him. I'm a speck of dust. And I told him how I felt that way. He tried to explain it to me, what it’s like for him. And what is like for all of this to be known. For people to react the way they are.”

Wang Yao: You are all so young. For me, a human life is… a flash. Five thousand years. What is seventy? I was brought up in a time of respect for elders. Filial piety, when all respect was paid to those older. Relationships were valued. When the earnest were meant to be raised up and the truthful were praised. In every history I have lived, all of them, there are earnest and good people— and there are selfish and cruel people. Faithfulness and sincerity exist now just as they did then.

Now, I see the history repeating itself. Good and bad, repeated. You all are not the first to know, and you will not be the last. No matter how angry you get, I will live. I will blink.

“Are we… disappointing? To you?”

Wang Yao: What a question, aru! To say I’m disappointed in you would be to say that I’m disappointed in myself. You are me. I am you. We are living being of the same history. I remember it; you do not. I am the best and the worst of my people and my history. I am all of my people. I am all of you— Zhuang, Hui, Mongol, Bai, Buyei… I am my people. I feel as a human. I feel love. I feel pride. I feel hatred. I feel fear. I feel as my people do. Times are different.

As old as I am, and I am old man, you do not fear the new generations. The new generations always surpass the ones before, as long as the ancestors are acknowledged. No one knows the Great Arts, save for a few, but the Scholars would never dream of our technology— Bamboo slips to this. How far we’ve come. I can be disappointed, but I also wonder at what is possible, even after all this time.

“You leaving a lot out though, aren’t you?”

Wang Yao: Of course. There are many things you will never know. There are things that I will never know. At times, there are aspects of life that we will never fully comprehend. It is better to admit what one knows and what they do not know, as the old Masters used to say.

“If you could say anything to the humans condemning your existence? The ones that are shouting for your condemnation?”

Wang Yao: ...Respect your elders.

#f2aift #rec list #tortall #protector of the small #White Collar #psych #suits #merlin #hp #Harry Potter #snk #attack on titan #hetalia

[musingsdeme]

Pantry

Happy Birthday to the absolutely incredible @alullabytoleaveby​.  I am late, but it’s not less filled with love for that.  For your birthday I give you, two dorks in love being domestic as hell.

ao3

Cas reads the cereal boxes.  The backs of them.  The long, indecipherable lists of the ingredients, and the percent daily calcium intake, and the weird little blurbs on the front with weird cartoon characters; Cas reads them all.  He reads them all painstakingly.   Dean knows this because he has been standing in the cereal aisle, watching Cas read the cereal boxes painstakingly for, he looks down and consults his watch, thirteen minutes and forty-three seconds.  It was cute for two minutes.  Cas had that little furrow between his brows and he was squinting as he read.  There was something just fucking…fucking endearing as shit about Cas giving that much attention to fucking breakfast food.  But Christ, it’s been fucking, Dean looks at his watch again, fourteen and a half minutes, and how long can the guy keep critiquing Tony the goddamn Tiger.  

“Casssssss,” Dean whines, “just pick one already, c’mon.”

Almost in slow motion, Cas lifts his head, looks at Dean, and raises one perfect eyebrow as if to say, “excuse you, foolish mortal.”

Dean blinks, for a moment struck dumb by Cas’ cocked eyebrow and challenging expression, before collecting his thoughts and forcing out an eye roll.

“We’ve been here for fifteen minutes,” he points out, “just grab a box and let’s go.  We don’t have all day.”

Cas’ eye brow ticks a centimeter higher because, no, actually, Dean, we do have all day. He’s gracious enough to not point that out.  Instead, he spreads his arms, Frosted Mini Wheats in one hand, Cocoa Pebbles in the other.  He looks vaguely lordly, loose fitting grey sweater, dark washed jeans, five o’clock shadow, and all.

“Dean,” he begins, “You may not have noticed, but we are standing in an aisle devoted to nothing but cereals—”

Oh shit, Dean thinks, here we go. 

“—of different flavors, textures, and dietary benefits, some of which I am not certain are even worth the calories it would take to masticate them.  Did you know—”

Dean looks up to the ceiling, hoping to encounter salvation amongst the obnoxious florescent lights and industrial metal work.  

“—that there no fewer than sixteen flavors of Cheerios alone?”  

He ducks his chin and stares almost conspiratorially at Dean as if there is some secret they both know about the prodigious variety of Cheerios flavors, a dark, disturbing secret.  Dean has no fucking clue what that’s about, and he eyes the Fruity Cheerios warily, his nose crinkling:  now that he thinks about it, they do seem weird …when the hell did they even start making Fruity Cheerios?  Were Fruity Pebbles just not good enough anymore?  And, fuck; Dean’s mouth curls, Apple Cinnamon Cheerios?  That’s like a fucking travesty and insult to pie.  

Wait, no. He shakes his head; he’s not getting sucked into this.

Cas nods sagely at him, apparently pleased that Dean understands that Cheerios, and possibly the entire General Mills corporation, are not to be trusted, and Dean almost bursts out laughing, but catches himself just in time.  He bites his lip instead.  Laughing will only provoke a Rant, Capital-R Rant, the kind where Cas uses “abomination” at least twice to describe relatively mild inconveniences.  

“I’ll grant you, there do not need to be that many flavors of Cheerios,” Dean concedes, Cas smiles, smug.

“But,” Dean continues, “you still gotta pick a box, Cas. If you don’t like it, we’ll get you a different kind next week.  It’s not life or death.”

Cas frowns at Dean, then frowns at the boxes in his hands, and then frowns at the sign for aisle fifteen as if it has personally wronged him.  He grips the boxes harder than necessary.  His mouth twists in frustration.  He places them both back on the shelf, stalks away. Dean grabs the cart handle, ready to chase after him, but Cas returns.  He shoves a box at Dean’s chest.

His face is blank.  Curiously blank.  “Strange celestial being is new to earth and does not understand your silly human customs” blank.  Except Cas is not new to earth, he understands way more than he lets on, and there is a tiny, almost invisible smirk lurking at the corner of his lips.  

He intercepts Dean’s hold on the cart and wheels away, like an ex-angel on a mission, while Dean is left standing in aisle fifteen holding a box of Fiber One Bran Cereal.

“Fiber is important for men of your age, Dean,” Cas calls back as he rounds the corner to aisle fourteen.  Dean blinks down at the box, blinks at Cas, looks up at the ceiling for help.

“Son of bitch,” he mumbles, “good for a man of your—that’s rich coming from someone literally older than dirt!” He yells as a woman and her toddler come around the corner.  

She draws up, offended.  He fumbles the cereal box and blushes, “Not you, ma’am, I was talking to my—that is, I—you’re a beautiful, young, clearly, prime of—”  

She scowls at him, wholly unimpressed.

“Right, so I’m gonna just,” he jerks his thumb behind him, “go now, so you, uh, you have a nice—”  

Dean grabs the nearest box of Captain Crunch as he turns on his heel and half runs half stumbles out of the cereal aisle.  

Cas is not snickering, exactly, but he is contemplating the pastas with way too much glee when Dean rounds the corner.  He’s snickering on the inside.  Dean knows it.  He can feel it.  

He narrows his eyes.   Cas has a bag of Rigatoni in one hand, and a bag of Linguini in the other, in a row filled with at least four different brands and twenty different styles of pasta.  Dean realizes suddenly, with a bone crushing weight of dread, that this is going to be a long, long, long, fucking long ass day.  

God he fucking hates grocery shopping.

*

Dean has legitimate reasons to hate grocery stores.  For starters:  too many people, two few exits.  It’s a goddamn bitch of an unsatisfactory situation in terms of manageable escape routes. Then there’s the aisles: rows and rows and rows and rows and fucking rows of metal shelving, stacked full of boxes, and cans, and who knows what else at least three feet deep.  The damn things are heavy, full, and the space between them too narrow.  If one of the things falls over?  Splat. That’s it.  Game over.  He and every other mother fucker in here will be smashed flat like an Aunt Jemima pancake (two for one in aisle thirteen) in a domino-effect topple.  Don’t even get him started on the grocery carts: more like infant death traps and grown man traffic jams.  He’s seen little old ladies start screaming matches about who could go first through the aisle with their overstocked carts to buy the last can of cranberry sauce.  It was NOT pretty.  

You know what else is not pretty?  Grocery stores.  Everything is beige.  What the fuck is up with that?  The tile is always this weird off white speckled with brown and black, so you can’t tell what’s decorative and what’s dirt.  Sam thinks that Dean’s over exposure to garish motel room décor and livid crime scene carnage has made him wary of anything colored neutrally.  Dean thinks that Sam is not properly appalled by the way that grocery store chains use interior design decisions to potentially mask health code violations.  He’s threatened, on more than one occasion, to dig out his health inspector badge and take it for a spin, but Sam has, so far, managed to put a kibosh on that idea…so far…

Then there is the music.  God, the fucking music.  Could they at least turn on a damn radio station instead of this weird pre-ordained mix of top forty and smooth listening?  Who the hell thought that was a good idea?  Every time he thinks that he’s finally managed to just tune it out enough to be aware of his surroundings and focus on his shopping, an announcement comes on over the speakers five times louder than the music had been, making Dean jump out of his skin and reach for his gun, which would, if he pulled it, cause an entirely new set of issues.  

It would be great if the grocery store sold liquor, and even better if Dean could just casually down shots as he worked his way through his shopping list.  At least alcohol would take the edge off, never mind that he’s supposed to be giving (modified) sobriety a try.

The real thing he hates about grocery stores, the real goddamn clincher, is that Dean has never been inside one when he didn’t feel like he had a target on his back.  

As a kid, he ventured into these places when dad was away on hunts and he and Sam finally ran out of food.  He would take the crumpled up bills that dad gave him, walk the however many blocks to the store, holding Sammy with one hand and a shopping basket with the other.  Dean was good at math from an early age; it’s easy to be good at math when you have to figure out how far you can stretch five dollars for two weeks of food.  The cashiers sometimes looked at him fondly, sometimes suspiciously, and Dean learned quickly that a sure smile would do him a lot better than uncertain eyes.  He walked into grocery stores worried how far the money would stretch; he walked out of them praying what they had bought would be enough and feeling the grown up gazes watching him walk off with his little brother in tow.  Don’t call the cops, he prayed, don’t call the cops.

When he was in his teens, he chanted the same mantra.  Dad’s oversized jacket was Dean’s constant companion.  It pulled chicks and a few boys in hidden corners behind the high school, but it also had deep pockets and an inner lining that made it easy to hide bread and peanut butter, and a small carton of milk.   He would smirk and smile and use two dollars to buy juice, and his jacket to hide the rest.  He hated the families with their full carts and full purses.  He knew it was unfair, he knew it was stupid, but he hated the whole damn store.  There was enough for him and Sammy here and a hundred kids besides, but fucking god forbid if he got caught leaving with a jar of peanut butter.  He sweated more shoplifting the first few times than he did on his first hunt.  If he fucked up on a hunt, Dean got hurt.  If he fucked up stealing, Sammy went hungry.

As a young man, he hated how he got the money to pay for food.  He was proud that he had it, proud that he provided for his brother, provided for himself, but…the money felt dirty sometimes.  There were stains on some of the bills, and Dean knew where they came from, who they had come from.  It made him cringe.  Made him hate the whole damn system.  Not to mention that he was wary enough of the world, by this point, to feel claustrophobic in a store this big, a store with so few doors and too many people, any one of whom could be a monster in disguise.  It made him feel like something was crawling at the back of his neck.  He rushed out of there with his bags in hand and his tarnished pride left behind in the cash drawer.

When he lived on the road with Sam, he avoided grocery shopping.  It wasn’t like they needed food for a nonexistent kitchen.  

When he lived a year with Lisa, she did the shopping.  Dean begged off and she let him.  He was a mess, she was probably afraid he’d start shooting up the place.  

Now he lives in the bunker, which has an industrial kitchen.  Now he lives with Sam who wants all sorts of green, organic tofu nonsense.  Now he lives with Cas who, newly fallen, is experiencing the joys (and disappointments) of food for the first time. Now he is living in a home and discovering that he likes…no, he fucking loves, cooking for his family.  

So here he is, in the grocery store, shopping with an indecisive, very thorough former angel/brand new human, who has never actually tasted…well, anything, and a grocery list that includes about a hundred things, only about half of which Dean’s actually ever seen, and a very, very long afternoon ahead of him.

*

Cas fucking loves the grocery store.  That much is apparent.  Cas likes missions.  He especially likes mission that he chooses himself.  Hence, his careful, tactical, precise contemplation of every item on their list and some besides.  Dean has been a human for going on almost forty years (a man of his age, Cas had said, jerk) and he finds this place overwhelming as fuck.  He’s not sure how Cas is managing.  

“I’ve made a plan,” Cas says, squinting at a bag of Rotini.

“Huh?”

“You asked why I wasn’t more overwhelmed,” Cas responds, “I googled the store layout before we came, cross checked that with our grocery list, and prepared a “plan of attack.””

Dean blinks, impressed, but not surprised.  

Castiel puts the rotini pack on the shelf and picks up a bag of fusili, “I made a flow chart with our planned recipes for the week and our household grocery list, broke that into an ingredient list, organized said list by the products and then adjusted for the organization of aisles at this particular store.”

“That’s intense, Cas.”

Cas shrugs, “I like being prepared.  Which of these is more texturally pleasing?”

“I think it’s less about the texture and more about how the shit absorbs the sauce.”

Cas tilts his head, frowns, and considers the bags of pasta in his hands.

“Which of these do you think has better sauce retention?”

Dean chuckles, “I dunno, man.”

Cas rolls his eyes, “You’re the chef in this family.”

Dean’s heart flutters like it does every time Cas calls them a family, but he tries to put that aside and focus on Cas’ question.  He scrutinizes the proffered bags.

“Hmmm…” He makes a show of squinting at the contents and purses his lips dramatically

“Dean, this mortal life is finite, and I’d rather not waste it contemplating pasta.”

Dean looks up through his lashes, “Says the guy who spent an hour choosing a cereal.”

“It was hardly an hour, Dean,” huffs Cas.

“Sure it wasn’t.”

“Deeeaaaannnn.”

Dean grins up at Cas, “Neither of these.”  

He replaces fusilli and rigatoni with farfalle and penne. Holding each up for Cas before adding them to the cart.

“These ones look like bowties,” he says, “and these you can turn into whistles.”

Cas’ mouth twists, half exasperated, half amused, “And yet neither embodies the quality you suggested we look for in a pasta.”

Dean shrugs, “Like you said, I’m the chef in this family.”

They add four boxes of lasagna noodles because Cas and Dean are making a veggie lasagna for Sam and a lasagna Bolognese for themselves.

“What’s next?” Dean asks leaning over Cas’ shoulder to peer at his list.

Cas smiles at Dean’s proximity, at Dean’s hand on his waist.  Dean smiles because Cas smiles.  It turns into a feedback loop for a moment.

“You wanted to make chili?”

“Yep,” Dean lets the ‘p’ pop obnoxiously.

“Then the canned goods are next.”

Dean rolls his eyes, “Lead the way.”

Cas does.

*

The canned goods aisle gives him the creeps.  For starters, it reminds him of his trip to 2014, when 2014 was years in the future and not years in the past.  He half expects Chuck to appear around the corner, rambling about toilet paper shortages and mass grocery runs.  Secondly, it reminds him of his childhood when he invented over a hundred ways to prepare spaghetti-o’s, only about a tenth of which were actually good.   Thirdly, they weigh down the damned cart like nobody’s business, and if he’s gonna get crushed to death in a grocery store, this is the aisle where it would happen.  

Old habits die hard, so Dean loads down the cart with “worst case scenario the bunker is called the Bunker for a reason” provisions, while Cas squats down to scrutinize canned beans.  

“I don’t understand what the difference is,” he complains.

By the time Dean has made a third trip to deposit an armful of emergency rations to the bottom rack of the grocery cart, Cas has built a small pyramid of black beans each with a different label professing a different brand, preservation technique, or flavoring style.  

Dean’s knees groan when he squats down to Cas’ level.

“I think we would be better off buying beans that haven’t been preserved in large amounts of sodium.”

His mouth twists in disdain. Dean tries really, really hard not to laugh.   He coughs pointedly and clears his throat, while Cas rises quickly to his feet and wheels away dramatically, muttering about heart disease, manufacturing plants, and “not as god intended.”

Dean, much slower to get to his feet, shakes his head and shoves his hands in his pockets, smiling brightly as he follows in Cas’ wake.  

There’s a fifty-fifty shot that Cas will be charmed or disgusted by human inventions.  Dean’s never sure if he’s going to have a Little Mermaid moment or a Smitey McSmiterson rage fest.  Both are endearing because Dean’s just that in love with the dork.  Strolling behind Cas as he mutters darkly about dangerous preservatives like the hipster health nut he so surely is, is so bizarrely awesome that, by the time he makes it to the next aisle, Dean’s cheeks hurt from grinning.

*

Dean is big on samples at the grocery store.  One, because they’re free (duh!).  Two, because they’re usually shit he’s never gonna buy so he might as well enjoy it as a perk for all the shopping related stress.  

He bats his eyes at the little old lady giving out slices of apples, makes small talk with the middle aged man giving out tiny cups of soup, and he grabs five little coffee cups and runs from the exasperated kid at the coffee cart.  

At the deli counter, though, you get to ask for what type of sample you want and they’re give it to you.  

Dean does it for the hell of it.  Cas tries things so that he knows what he likes and doesn’t (Cas’ lack of food experience is a travesty that Dean considers it his mission in life to correct).

Cas’ running commentary and fluid, completely unfiltered facial expressions bring joy to Dean’s life, but generally seem to concern the delicatessen employees.

Dean comes up with a different lie to explain it every time:  amnesia, he recently regained his sense of taste, he just woke up from a coma, he’s ending a lifelong commitment to vegetarianism.  

Today, Dean tells them that Cas was a monk, living a completely aesthetic life.

“Free from pleasures of the flesh,” Dean shakes his head sorrowfully and then wraps his arm around Cas’ shoulder, “that’s all over now, ain’t it, Cas?”

Cas, who has just bitten into a piece of bella donna cheese, moans appreciatively, and Dean laughs until he can’t breathe.

Cas, who enraptured by the cheese, had missed the exchange, and is not sure why Dean’s laughing so hard, places their order with a lot of side eye to Dean.  The poor son of a bitch working the counter has to tolerate Dean’s increasingly hysterical laughter and his increasingly complex array of sexual innuendo about pepperoni and aged cheese.

*

Dean’s favorite section of the store is, without doubt, the bakery.  It smells amazing:  flour and butter and yeast.  There are shelves filled with muffins, trays of pastry fresh out of the oven.  There are bins of bagels in a dozen different flavors, cases of cookies:  chocolate chip, macadamia nut, oatmeal raisin, sugar cookies with sprinkles and icing made to look like animals and characters.  Cupcakes with frosting piled high sit next to cakes ready to be decorated for birthdays and graduations and welcome homes.  

Dean’s never had a grandmother, but he always imagined that if he had had one, her house would have smelled like this, warm and inviting and delicious.

Cas is enraptured by the breads:  all the different shapes and textures and smells.  He sniffs at them with rapturous eyes and listens carefully to the sound they make when he presses down on the crust.  

Dean makes a beeline for the pies.  Ugh, the pies.  Freshly made that morning and gloriously golden even in the shitty grocery store lighting.  He can’t decide between Triple Berry and Apple, so he adds them both to the cart.  Cas makes his own contribution of Italian bread, French Brioche, and a dozen croissants.  He also, with a kiss to Dean’s cheek, add a box of cookies made to look like the bat signal.

“My husband’s the best,” Dean declares, grinning like a moron and holds up the box as proof to the nearest shopper.

She nods bemusedly as Dean scurries to catch up to Cas, squeezing his ass (Cas has a great ass) and kissing his neck when he does.

*

The butcher’s shop is a trial.  Some days, Dean loves it, some days, he remembers the Mark of Cain or the most recent hunt and he feels bile in the back of his throat.  Cas wears a frown not like he’s distressed, more like he’s mentally recreating the physiology of whatever animal they’re looking at and contemplating how best to rebuild it from the parts available, which creeps Dean out, being, himself, a fleshy creature that Cas once rebuilt from available parts.  He pats his own chest, making sure that he’s still intact.

“Dean,” Cas says as he eyes the steaks, “it always surprises me the way in which trade has shaped the evolution of food consumption in this country.”

“Does it?”

“Yes. Just a hundred years ago, if you wanted a cow to eat, you would have had to raise it yourself until maturity and then slaughter and preserve the meat…or, of course, an alternative would be to build a trading relationship of some kind with a neighboring human who raised and slaughtered cows and exchange a different slaughtered animal or material good in exchange for dead flesh.”

“That’s fascinating, Cas.”

“The railroad was instrumental in making trade across long distances possible.  I recently watched a special on PBS in which…”

Dean places their order while Cas continues the economic history and technological evolution of the cattle industry in the US, which segues into his insistence they purchase free range chicken only, and Dean needing to explain that PETA is not really the best organization to join up with if Cas wants to advocate for animal rights.  

*

Cas loves the produce section as much as Dean loves the bakery, if not more. He loves the textures and colors.  He loves his unfiltered ability to touch and investigate everything.  Dean loves watching him explore. It’s a good thing too because it takes him forever to make his way through (that’s why the produce section is their last stop).

Cas holds out herbs for Dean to smell and smiles joyfully at Dean’s reactions, be they sneezes or nods of approval.  He laughs when Dean juggles oranges, charming a nearby child as well Cas with his antics, and giving a theatrical bow when he’s finished.  Cas gives him a kiss and the kid gives him a round of applause, both of which Dean accepts graciously.

He listens to Dean’s opinions of different types of apple with absolute focus, and he shares mini lectures on the uses, both culinary and ritualistic, of different fruits and vegetables and spices.  It takes them over a half an hour to gather all the things that Cas wants to try and all the things Sam had asked for and all the things that Dean knows he likes, but it feels like the quickest stop on their trip because they’re both relaxed.  

*

Dean provides commentary on Okay magazine articles while they wait in the checkout line, thinking of Bobby as he does so.  Cas rolls his eyes good naturedly, digging their reusable shopping bags out from where they’ve been buried beneath their shopping.  Dean is the type of person who goes grocery shopping with reusable bags these days (or, he’s at least married to and brother to people who bring reusable bags to the grocery store).  That’s a thing.  Cas’ extraction is careful and delicate.  Dean helps Cas’ work by providing comedic background noise.  

Dean slips an arm around Cas waist while he proffers coupon after coupon after coupon for the cashier.  She’s a teenager, but she smiles at them the way that Dean smiles at babies:  like they’re the cutest goddamn thing.  He’s not sure how he feels about that:  he’s a grown man after all, but Cas seems entirely unfazed by the adoration.  

The light outside is different when they leave than when they entered:  it’s getting on towards dinner time.  They load their groceries into the trunk of the Impala, send Sam a text with an ETA so he knows to come up and help unload their stuff when they get home.

Cas reaches over and takes Dean’s hand as they pull out of the parking lot, and Dean laces their fingers more securely together, smiling as Cas turns on the radio and they hit the road.

When they get back, Sam helps them unload everything and unpack everything.

Cas rehashes the conversation that he and Dean had had about the meat industry.  Sam, unsurprisingly, perks up eagerly at the topic.

“Have you read Upton Sinclair, Cas?  You might really enjoy it.”

“Woah.  No,” Dean interjects, throwing up a hand, “Not before I make my Lasagna, you’re not.”

“Good point,” Sam says, suitably contrite.

Cas considers them with squinted eyes and then refocuses on Sam, “Sam?”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“How much do you know about the General Mills Company?”

Dean busts out laughing, doubles over, and can’t stop for ten minutes (“Dean, this isn’t funny!  This is a very serious concern.”).

When he does finish laughing, he shoos Sam away from the stove, oven, and counter, (he loves his brother, but Sam could literally burn water), and sets him to chopping vegetables.  Dean dons his “Kiss the Cook” apron, puckers up his lips, and Cas obliges him, before returning to his verbal tirade against General Mills.

Dean makes the sauce; Cas makes the pasta; Sam chops anything they need chopped, and keeps their glasses filled with wine.

Dinner is delicious when it’s done.  Warm and filling.  Fresh vegetables, homemade sauce and sautéed meat; the bread is warm and crisp and Dean uses it to sop up the extra sauce on his plate.  They’re all groaning and relaxed by the time they’re done, smiling contentedly.  

Dean surveys his family.  Sam places the apple pie in the oven (“I can turn on the oven and set a timer without burning down the bunker, Dean.”   “This place has survived fifty years but I don’t know if it can survive your cooking.”)

Cas rubs his foot against Dean’s calf under the table and shakes his head fondly at their bickering.  

The pie is as good as it smelled earlier, but it can’t beat how warm and content Dean feels eating it here in this company.  

When the dishes have been cleaned and the (few) leftovers put away, they curl up in the family room.  When Dean kisses Cas, he tastes like apples and cinnamon, and Dean hums in pleasure.

“You know, Cas,” Dean smiles, “I think we might have to go back for more pie.”

Cas shakes his head and smiles, “Next weekend, Dean.”

“It’s a date.”

#I LOVE YOU EMI #deancas #destiel #domestic fluff

[mayphoenixfanfictions]

Quiet Voice — Chapter I

Universe: Haikyuu!!

Title: Quiet Voice

Chapter: Chapter 1

Author: mayphenix

Characters: Iwaizumi Hajime, OCs, Oikawa Tooru, Hanamaki Takahiro, Matsukawa Issei, Aoba Jousai

Pairing(s): Iwaizumi Hajime x OC

Genre(s): Romance, Friendship, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Family

Overall Rating: K

Summary : Shy, socially-awkward Akiyama Kiku never was noticed by anyone. She didn't speak up and the gods forbid ever making eye-contact with anyone. So, she couldn't understand why Oikawa Tooru suddenly decided that she was the perfect match for his best friend. Iwaizumi Hajime would never admit outloud how grateful he really was to his friend.

Chapter warnings/triggers: /

(This fanfic can also be found on fanfiction.net here ; I am the same author)

Table of Contents

Chapter I

FANFICTION

HAIKYUU!! : QUIET voice

CHAPTER I : Prologue

“Just because you don't say much doesn't mean people don't notice you. It's actually the quiet ones who often draw the most attention. There's this constant whirlwind of motion and sound all around, and then there's the quiet one, the eye of the storm.”

― Amy Efaw, After

“When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.”

― Laurie Halse Anderson, Speak

The loud voices of the third-years were resonating in Aoba Jousai High-school's halls as friends found each other after holiday. People would call out each other and laugh. They would talk about their holidays, about their clubs, about this new school-year.

“Yoohoo~! Iwa-chan~!”

Iwaizumi Hajime stopped and turned around, ignoring the squeals, screams and sighs that escaped the girls around him just as his childhood best friend caught up with him.

“Why didn't you wait for me at the entrance, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa Tooru whined as he reached him, pouting childishly.

“It's Oikawa-san~!” A girl squealed.

“Kyyaaa, he's so handsome~!”

“I have missed him so much~!”

Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow and gave a quick nod towards the group of girls who screamed when Oikawa waved and smiled at them.

“I didn't wait because of that.” He answered with his usual tough voice.

Ignoring the complain and annoyance from his friend, Oikawa continued:

“I'm in class six this year, what about you?” He asked.

“Class five.”

“Aaaw, we're not in the same class! That's too bad! Mattsun and Makki aren't in our classes either… it'll be lonely…”

“I doubt you could be lonely with all of your fans,” Iwaizumi answered, slightly rolling his eyes.

“Won't you miss me, Iwa-chan?” Oikawa asked with a fake saddened gaze.

“Nope.”

“Mean!!” He exclaimed immediately.

Iwaizumi couldn't help it, the corners of his lips quirked up lightly. He could have almost missed his friend's antics. Almost. As quickly as it had appeared, this almost smile disappeared.

“I'm going ahead. See you tonight at practice!” Iwaizumi said with a quick wave of his hand, his other hand in his pocket.

“Aye, aye~” Oikawa answered.

Iwaizumi turned around but hit something. He looked down and saw a girl he had just bumped into, now sitting on the floor after hitting the powerful Ace.

“Ah, sorry,” he said.

She looked up at him and instantly hissed and paled, her entire body freezing in terror. Surprised by her reaction, Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow but she looked away.

“You're ok?” He asked.

He was about to lean down to help her up when she suddenly stood up on her feet, holding tightly her bag.

“I-I… I am… f-fine…” She said in a whisper, blushing before walking away.

Iwaizumi watched her leave with his eyebrow still raised.

“My, Iwa-chan… You really have to stop frowning – you're making girls so scared they run away!” Oikawa – who had assisted to the whole exchange – said from over his shoulder.

Iwaizumi frowned and glared at his friend, making Seijou's setter gulp down and take a step back.

“Eh? What you said? You want me to punch you that's it?” Iwaizumi started angrily.

“S-sorry, Iwa-chan! I'm sorry, Iwa-chan!” Oikawa exclaimed, clapping his hands together.

“Tch.”

Iwaizumi decided to not let himself be pissed off by his annoying Captain so early in the day and walked away. He joined his classroom and went at his favorite seat – the back of the class. Unfortunately, the one next to the window was already taken by a girl so he let his bag fall on the desk next to it. Recognizing a few people from other clubs and last year, Iwaizumi walked to them and talked until the beginning of class.

He went to sit next to the girl but when she didn't speak up and kept her head turned away from him, he shrugged it off and turned towards his other seatmate who was in the soccer club.

The first day of school, as boring as it was, went awfully slow. Iwaizumi was impatient to practice. He wanted to play volleyball – he hadn't played with his team in so long. But of course, their last teacher of the day decided that keeping them as long as possible was the best thing to do. Hajime was about to hit his head against his desk when the teacher kept going on and on about the importance of their last year when finally, he freed his students. Almost at once, Iwaizumi heard squeals and screams coming from the girls.

“Yoohoo~ Iwa-chan~! I came to pick you up because you were taking too long!” Oikawa exclaimed as he waltzed over to his friend.

Iwaizumi got up just as Oikawa waved and smiled at the overjoyed girls. Hajime got up and threw his bag over his shoulder but stiffened when he heard a sound it wasn't supposed to make, followed by a heavy sound of someone falling. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the same girl from this morning – who had been the one sitting next to him all day apparently – who had just fallen back into her seat after being hit by his bag as she had stood up in the same time he had swung it.

“Ah, sorry… erh… what's your name already?” Iwaizumi said.

The girl blushed and looked away, fiddling with her fingers. Oikawa threw a curious glance and smiled.

“Ah! It's the same girl as this morning! Iwa-chan, I had no idea you were the type of guy to constantly hit on girls~” He teased, chuckling at his own joke.

Iwaizumi threw him an annoyed look then shook his head, already exasperated by his antics.

“Stop talking nonsense and get moving already, Trashykawa! We're gonna be late!” He exclaimed, slapping the back of Oikawa's head.

“AIE! It hurt, Iwa-chan!!” Oikawa screamed, but following him anyway.

Iwaizumi glanced over his shoulder at the brown-haired girl he had bumped into twice already. She had grabbed her bag, holding it against her as if it was a shield. He wondered if he should say something like “see you tomorrow” - they were seatmates after all. But when she didn't look once in his direction, he just shrugged it off and continued behind an excited Oikawa.

“This girl… she reminds me of someone…” Oikawa muttered to himself, deeply thinking.

“Eh? The girl from my class? Must be one of your fan or something.”

“Mmmm… I don't think so… But I had never noticed her before. Is she newly transferred?” Tooru asked curiously.

“Eeeh… I don't think so?” Hajime answered with a shrug but he had to admit that until now he had never noticed her – and even when she was standing right next to him, he didn't notice her, even if it wasn't his intention.

The next day was similar. The girl didn't seem to acknowledge him and so, Iwaizumi didn't as well. The only thing he could see was her shoulder-length, brown hair because she kept turning her head away from everyone. At the end of the day, he got up and started swinging his bag over his shoulder but stopped mid-way, glancing over his shoulder.

As he had expected, the girl had just stood and had avoided being hit by his bag (again) thanks to him stopping his move. She glanced up at Iwaizumi, looking shocked by the fact he had purposefully made sure not to hit her with his bag.

“See you tomorrow,” Hajime said as he turned around and left the classroom with his bag over his shoulder.

He'd have to make sure he wouldn't hit her another time with his bag.

#haikyuu!! #haikyuu #haikyuu!! fanfiction #haikyuu fanfiction #HQ!! #hq!! fanfiction #iwaizumi hajime #oikawa tooru #may phoenix #may phoenix's fanfictions