Okay But That Whole Genre Of Steddyhands Fics That Were Like "edizzy Used To Hook Up On The Reg In The

the worst part of the second round of trials the mages put Geralt through actually came after the fact.

he lost his human ears. his ear holes moved up his head and he grew actual wolf ears over them, but his old ears were cut off once he was awake and concious for it.

he grew a tail. once they were sure it was done growing, they strapped him down to a table and cut it off. he was awake for that too. the damage to his nerves was so bad, the instructors went behind the mages backs and got an exile from aretuza to reverse the removal of his tail. he doesn’t let anyone touch it.

he grew dogteeth. the mages pulled out the smaller ones so newer, larger ones would replace them. Geralt’s mouth aches for years. he can’t speak through them, he cuts his tongue trying to talk, can’t open his mouth enough to chew, can’t stop his jaw from shaking, can’t sleep for the bone deep pain at the slightest movement of his mouth.

his jaw trembles when he cries.

when he grew furry swathes over his chest, belly, and back, the mages tried strapping him down and skinning him. again, awake and given nothing for pain. Vesemir, who did not particularly care for children at the time, charged into the room before they could pull their knives from the cleansing fire and killed them.

Geralt flinches when anyone tries to touch him, even in simple affection, for over a century.

so. when Geralt is through all of his changes and emerges a witcher juvenile, the first of this new witcher-kind, he takes to standing guard outside the trial room and keeping the mages at bay. holds both his swords, annointed in Hanged Man’s Venom, between the remaining mages and the helpless boys beyond. he cannot stop them from making more witchers, but there will not be another like him.

Eskel is the one to tell him that they will begin putting more boys through secondary trials after Geralt reaches maturity and is sent on the path and cannot interfere. they even have a specific boy in mind to start.

Geralt packs up his things, sneaks into the pups’ room, and steals Lambert away into the mountains just before dinner. Eskel covers for them. not that anyone notices the disappearance of two children with Kaedwen’s army making it’s way up the Killer.

and after the pogrom, Geralt and his stolen brother return to the keep, and find Eskel and Vesemir. with no mages to uphold pretenses for, they form a family to survive. Geralt grieves their lost brothers, doesn’t say he’s glad the knowledge of the second trials was lost in the chaos on the sacking, but Vesemir doesn’t need him to.

and if Lambert favors Geralt, clings to his brother well past the age any boy would otherwise, looks to him for protection from nightmares and monsters alike, for approval of his choices on the Path, and love in spite of them at times, well, Vesemir isn’t in a position to do anything about it.

Being in a relationship sucks when your body/weight keeps changing.

I know that 7 kg to or from is not the biggest difference to others, but explaining that it will go back and forth every few months like this for years to come, to a partner that found you attractive at one end of the scale (when you met) just sucks. Especially the weeks when i feel disgusting because of my weight and do not want to be ✨perceived✨

Bucky knowing at least 31 languages according to CACW, super serum brain enhancements and the fact he learned Xhosa in Wakanda, leads me to believe he must have the fucking gnarliest of language blurring. You know when you can't seem to figure out how to word something in one language so you skip over to a different one but wait no one knows that...

I also don't think English would be Bucky's default language anymore. It's his birth language, sure, but Russian is probably the language he defaults to now after 80 years right?

So if Bucky's ever delirious for whatever reason, extreme tiredness, magic, super drugs or whatever who knows, do we think he talks in the most insane blend of languages, does he say a sentence in Japanese then switch to Korean and then to Polish, do we think he'd point blank say "I'm sorry I don't speak English" in English to his English speaking friends or teammates because he thinks in Russian and about fifteen other languages before he gets to English, and then goes "oh wait I do" or...?

Theory: Nobody who writes a physics textbook gives any fucks

Evidence:

I identify as a villain because I'm already queer-coded and don't feel like being the quirky best friend who dies for motivation.

Theo: I get really offended when people tell me I'm going to hell for being gay, because I feel they're overlooking all the perfectly valid reasons I'm going to hell

moth girl giggling and blushing kicking her feet in the air writing in a pretty pink journal with a cute glittery pen and when you look at the page its just a bunch of drawings of streetlamps

horrid little brainworm

Frenchie is still green at the start of the Kraken era.

He isn't, by the end.

But back then, when it all begins - when he isn't used to the sting of kohl-mixed sweat dripping into his eyes - he makes mistakes. Lots of them. Simple little things - fluffing a knot in the rigging that has their sail unfurling midway through the dogwatch, goods left unstowed to roll with the list of their ship.

Most of the time, Izzy yells himself hoarse for five minutes, then shows Frenchie how to fix it, interspersing his lecture with expletives. Whatever. That's fine. Let the little man scream - he's not the scariest thing aboard anymore.

Never was, really.

But then Blackbeard (Ed? The Kraken?) stomps out of his cabin, hair a black thundercloud, and snarls 'which one of you men is responsible for that fucking mop', pointing to some cleaning equipment Frenchie forgot to pack away.

And everything goes still, as if they're becalmed.

[CW: whipping, abuse, non-explicit mentions of Frenchie's past locked-box traumas]

No one says Frenchie's name - not even Izzy. He just ducks his chin and refuses to look his captain in the eye. But the eyes of every other crewmember jump guiltily to Frenchie, at least once - and Blackbeard is too smart to miss such a tell.

"A ship needs discipline," he says. "Isn't that what you always tell me, Iz?"

"I'll attend to it," says Izzy, voice scratchier than ever. Frenchie knows this is a bad fucking situation - memories battering against the inside of his locked box, trying to get out - but somehow he can't feel fear. Can't really feel anything.

"With the cat," says Blackbeard. "Give the culprit fifteen. Really make the lesson stick."

Ah. There's the fear.

Frenchie's breath stifles itself halfway up his throat, as screams sneak through the keyhole of his box, along with the crack of a whip -

No. No, no, no. He can't. Not again, he can't -

Izzy glances up. Frenchie expects him to grin, all vindictive sadism - but whatever he sees on Frenchie's face has his mouth pulling into a tight line.

"Yes, sir," he says, though Frenchie barely hears over the dull roar of his heart.

He casts his gaze about, looking for an escape. Over the side? They're too far from land, but fuck, if it isn't tempting -

Jim fondles their knives, glaring mutinously at Blackbeard's back as he returns to his cabin. They don't spring after him (though Frenchie selfishly wishes they would). They're well aware - as is everyone - that right now, with Blackbeard black-eyed and bloodthirsty, they'd lose.

Izzy swallows. Shuts his eyes. Then calls for Fang to fetch the cat.

Frenchie loses time then. Scarcely a blink passes before Fang reappears above the deck, the strings of the knotted whip scraping the floor like the tentacles of a shrunken sea-monster.

They're flaky with rusty residue. Old, dried blood.

Frenchie's fingers twitch in the chords of the first song his Ma taught him. No rituals or superstitions will save him. Nothing will. Because his old crew are marooned, almost certainly dead, and his new crew are - with the exception of Fang and Jim and Ivan - fucking monsters.

He's going to be whipped (again). He's going to shred open all those old scars. The box is going to open, and -

Oh, God. Oh God. Fifteen lashes is survivable (Frenchie knows, he knows) but he's still not sure if anything of himself will emerge from the other side.

He's still frozen, staring at the whip held in Fang's big hands, flat out like he's presenting it to Izzy. Only... Izzy doesn't take it.

No, Izzy moves to stand in front of the mast. Walking stiff, with a bit of a limp. While Frenchie's reeling, struggling to process what's happening, he yanks off his shirt. And - fuck, his back is almost as ugly a sight as Frenchie knows his own would be, if he could bear to study it in a mirror.

A few of the crew draw shocked inhales. Most don't look surprised.

Frenchie is one of the latter group. Sound travels, on a ship.

"Um," says Fang, cat dangling limp. "Boss?"

Izzy grabs the hawsers wrapped around the mainmast. Heaves a deep breath. Rests his forehead against the wood.

"You heard the captain," he croaks. "Fifteen lashes."

Fang's eyes are moist - though they are more often than not, nowadays. "Boss - "

"The captain wants the culprit disciplined," Izzy says. His muscles flex beneath their coating of scars. Bracing himself, Frenchie's mind supplies. For the oncoming pain. Not that any amount of tensing is ever enough. "First mate's responsible for maintaining a tidy deck."

This turn of events finally settles into Frenchie's bones. The whip's not for him, thank everything. His key slides gratefully into the lock of his box and turns, ensuring it's shut tight.

Still, sickness churns in his guts. Last week, sleep eluded him. He'd intended to skulk above decks and breathe the sea air to clear his head. He never made it - because who should stagger out of the captain's cabin, so dead-eyed he didn't even notice Frenchie lurking in the shadows of the galley door, but the Revenge's thrice-cursed angry gremlin of a first mate?

Izzy hadn't looked much like a gremlin then, though. Doesn't now, either. Just looks. Tired. And old. And bruised to shit beneath his shirt, and not all of those lash marks are old, weathered scars, and -

Frenchie's fingers twitch more rapidly, pressing through their imaginary chord sequence.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit -

"Fifteen lashes," Izzy reminds Fang. "If you can't do it, anyone else is free to step up. I'm sure there'll be fucking volunteers."

Frenchie eyes Jim. They and Izzy aren't exactly friends - not when Frenchie has heard them mumble a word that sounds horrifically close to 'Oluwande' in their sleep.

But Jim stays right where they are. Hand on the hilt of a knife. Ivan emulates, and, well, Frenchie's feet have damn near put down roots. He couldn't move from this spot if he was ordered to.

Fang's tears well over, and his hand shakes on the whip handle to the point where Frenchie thinks he might drop it.

A clash from the great cabin has them all jumping - all but Izzy, who rests his cheek on the mast like it's a particularly splintery pillow, eyes drifting shut. Blackbeard barges back out, sousing the air with body odour and smoke and self-hatred and whatever the fuck else he's been marinating in.

"What's the fucking wait?" he demands. "I expected way more screams by now." He halts, frowning at the sight of Izzy, stood where Frenchie ought to be (because fuck, he shouldn't have left that mop and bucket out; how many times has Izzy told him - ). For a moment, the harsh line of his brows crumples on itself in something that could be mistaken for regret. But then that dark sneer crawls onto his lips, the one with which the whole crew is becoming familiar. "Can't pick who gets the privilege, eh? Well, lucky for the lot of you, that's what a captain's for."

He stalks forwards, feline-graceful. Frenchie scuttles from his path. When Blackbeard snatches the whip from Fang (not seeming to notice his whimper, his flinch) Frenchie fully anticipates that he'll turn on Izzy, not him.

He certainly doesn't expect Blackbeard to smile, cold and white as a toenail moon, and thrust the whip towards him, hilt first.

"Oh, no." Frenchie raises both hands in surrender. "No, no, no. I couldn't. Awful with a whip, me. Wouldn't, um..." There's the noise of it again, slithering out through the keyhole of his box. The swish. The crack. The scream. "Wouldn't be able to strike hard enough," he stutters. "No upper body strength, yeah."

Blackbeard doesn't approach Frenchie. Just keeps the whip held out towards him, like the accusative finger of a god.

"You give him fifteen," he says, gently. "And make each one count. Or I give him fifty."

Against the mast, Izzy makes a sound - not quite a whimper. Worse; it's far too much like relief. His hands don't shake, but only because they grip the hawser tight as rigor mortis.

Fifty can kill. Has killed before. Frenchie's seen it.

But Blackbeard doesn't want Izzy dead, right? Who would he torture then?

Blackbeard's blank, lifeless eyes pour into Frenchie's.

Who indeed?

Fuck. Frenchie swallows dry. He tells himself it's for self-preservation that he unsticks his boots from the deck and shuffles forth to take the whip. Not for Izzy. Not like he likes the angry little prick. Man's vicious as a cat and thrice as cursed.

Maybe, if Frenchie tells himself that, it'll make this memory easier to lock away with all the rest.

"Ready?" he asks Izzy, softer than he intends. Izzy twists over his scarred shoulder. He looks at Frenchie - really looks at him - for what feels like the first time. Not even glancing to his left, where the Kraken lurks.

Frenchie can't decipher his expression. Pity, for whatever made him offer himself up in Frenchie's place? Frustration, that Frenchie prevented Blackbeard from whipping him into the grave? Misery and fear - no, that's far too sane for a guy like Izzy.

Izzy turns back to the mast.

"Give me your worst," he says.

Frenchie breathes in, breathes out, and obeys.

I love drawing Rumlow and his scarred face.

(Full pic on patreon)