#1400 followers celebration

[builder051]

The big 1400!

We made it, folks. I know I haven’t been the most reliable lately, but the fact that you’ve all stuck around and read my content makes me feel warm and happy inside. Thank you for supporting me along the way!

I will put up the giveaway information shortly in another post.

You guys rock!

[absentmindeduniverse]

I'm never getting tired of how you write Ben Barnes' characters especially the softies 🥰🥰🥰

Cute Alphabet : Ryan Brenner

Here are the answers to my cute alphabet for Ryan! Hope you like it, and thank you for requesting it :)

Afficher davantage

[deanwinchestersbabygirll]

Protective~ Dean Winchester imagine

Warnings// angst, fluff and cock blocking

lil summery// just a lil cutesy protective Dean Winchester

*REPOST FROM MY OLD ACCOUNT*

Dean x Reader

Word count// 1400

(gif from Pinterest)

You Sam and Dean had just finished a pretty rough ghoul hunt, once you guys had all showered the remnants of the night, dean suggested you guys head out for a few drinks to celebrate, once you got to the bar Dean and you slide into a booth, deans arm wrapping around your shoulders pulling you into his side “you get the first round Sammy” Dean said smirking at his brother, Sam rolled his eyes “fine but you’re next” he said walking to the bar

“So how you feeling after you’re first ghoul sweetheart” you looked up at your boyfriend “well I’ve gotta say I won’t be chasing one for a very long time, much prefer a simple salt and burn” Dean chuckled kissing the side of your head, “alright beers are severed” Sam said sitting down with the drinks “thanks Sammy” you said taking a drink out the bottle

You and the guys were having a great time talking about passed hunts before you’d met them “he just looked at me all upset and said ‘I lost my shoe’ all because he lost the damn rabbits foot” Dean laughed finishing his second beer, “alright my round boys just another beer?”you questioned getting up “yeah thanks Y/N” Sam said “yeah me too thank you sweetheart” you hooded moving to the slightly crowded bar you quickly got the bar tenders attention “hi three beers please” the man nodded “that’ll be 12 bucks gorgeous” he said placing three beers in front of you, you nodded handing him a 20 dollar bill, the bar tender went to get your change leaving you standing for a few minutes

“what’s a beautiful girl like you doing at a place like this” a man grumbled out from one of the bar stools, he looked to be a drunk creep no younger than mid 50s “I’m here with my boyfriend and friend” you said back hoping he’d back off at the boyfriend comment “ah bet your boyfriend doesn’t treat you like I would” the man said moving closer to you “look buddy I’m not interested I’m in a relationship” he didn’t seem too happy with that “you better watch yourself you bitch I’m giving you a choice the only thing you should be saying is yes sir, because that’s the only damn thing you’ll be saying when I’m pounding you in front of your little boyfriend you slut!” he spat out, “is there a problem here miss?” The bartender asked returning with your change “no everything’s fine thanks” you said grabbing the change stuffing it in your pocket before taking the beers back to the winchesters

“Hey sweetheart everything good? You were gone a while” Dean said grabbing his beer and pulling you back to your place at his side “yeah fine just waiting for my change” you answered quietly, you could see the man from the bar staring at you his hand holding his glass tightly in his grasp as he wouldn’t break eye contact “I’m gonna head back to the motel after this one guys I’m pretty tired” you said feeling uncomfortable either the stares the man wa giving you, dean nodded “yeah I think we’ll all head out then, you good with that Sam?” Dean questioned, Sam nodded

Once you guys finished your drinks you made your way to the exit, from the corner of your eye you seen the man get up, following your trail to the exit, starting to feel scared you grabbed deans hand tight, Dean turned to look at you concerned “you okay Y/N? You hands really sweaty” you nodded to answer him too nervous to even speak, you thought the night air would make you feel better but knowing the man was following behind was just making your feel sick, before you could get into baby dean stopping you, both hands on your arms as he looked at you “sweetheart my job is lying for a living, I know somethings bothering you and I can’t fix it if you don’t tell me what it is” Dean asked alerting Sam “what’s going on?”

Sighing you looked behind the brothers to find the man staring at you from behind a car “there was a guy at the bar, he freaked me out a little bit I didn’t care too much until he sat staring at me for the last hour so I wanted to leave but he followed us out here” you said, your heart pounding in your chest, Dean got an angry look on his face as he turned searching the parking lot “where the hell is he!” Dean moved to look around finding him quickly, Dean stormed over “hey! The hell do you want jackass? You think you can harass my girlfriend I wouldn’t find out” Dean grabbed the man by his shirt “not my fault she’s a whore man, just wanted a little taste of her sweet p-”Dean didn’t let him finish his sentence before he was released punching him in the face “my nose!” The man yelped but dean wasn’t done yet, Sam was holding you in a hug blocking the fight from your eyes

Once dean was done teaching the man a lesson in how to respect women he walked back over to you and sam “alright he’s down, let’s get back to the motel” Dean said getting in the drivers seat. Once you guys made it back to the motel you followed the brothers back to the room, Sam went into the bathroom leaving you and Dean alone

sighing dean sat on the bed you two would be sharing, he started to wrap his bloody knuckles you let out a shaky breath before sitting beside him and taking his hand “I got it” you said taking out the rubbing alcohol and rubbing it on his wounds, Dean flinched slightly at the sting “why didn’t you tell me earlier?” He asked softly you looked up giving him a small smile “I just didn’t want to bother you, I just didn’t realise how big a creep the guy was till he followed us out” dean nodded “sweetheart if someone or something is ever bothering you I don’t give a rats ass how by or small, you tell me and I will take care of it” you nodded “yeah I will I’m sorry dean” Dean was shaking his head “you have nothing to be sorry for Y/N you did nothing wrong” you wrapped your arms around deans shoulders pulling him to a hug, we wrapped his own around your waist holding you close to him

You pulled away to give him a small kiss, however a small kiss with Dean was never really just a small kiss, this one being no different as Dean was swiping his to tongue along your bottom lip, you parted your lips allowing dean to explore your mouth, you moaned quietly when dean pushed you slightly to lay back on the bed as he moved to lean on top of you as you continued to make out, deans hand was tugging at the hem of your shirt, and just when you were about to take it off the bathroom door opened, the younger Winchester emerged in his pyjama pants and shirt “seriously!” He yelped turning away

Dean sighed moving to stand up “relax Sammy were decent” you chuckled as you moved to get up and get changed in the bathroom, Dean following close behind “seriously don’t guys I don’t want a repeat of the hunt back in Chicago” you giggled “I promise Sammy we’ll keep it PG” you and Dean changed into your sleepwear, Dean sporting the same as sam, minus the shirt, he found them to be annoying when it got too hot in bed, you in a pair of shorts and deans old led zeppelin shirt

When you both emerged from the bathroom Sam was already tucked in for the night, all lights off minus the one in the bathroom, you and Dean made your way to the bed getting in either side Dean quickly grabbed your waist tugging you close enough so you could rest your head on his bare chest and tangle your legs together “we’re definitely getting our own room next hunt” Dean whispered kissing the top of your head, you chuckled at his remark closing your eyes “whatever you say Winchester”

------------------------------------------------------------------------

lil repost of one of my personal favs from my old account :))

[iuchamjohta]

Leave these woman alone ft Yuna

1400 words

Notes: Hi anon thanks for your request, since it’s sent through the request box 😊 here’s a story dedicated for you. Also I will do Yuna justice with a better fic eventually don’t worry! (Yes this is a mix of shade and partial smut i guess) Did'nt proof read this thing cause it aint worth my time. For those who wants to read for the smut you can ignore the first two and last two paragraphs they arent for u but specially for my dear requester XD

First person POV of anon:

My name is Anon. I work a standard 9-5 job and have been doing so for 30 years. I’m a single and have never dated. Everyday I get scolded by my boss but I turn a deaf ear to it , just going through the motion of my routine life. Things however get exciting once I get home. I can induldge in my deepst darkest fantasies.

You see while on the surface, I'm a white knight in shiny armor, beneath that, I'm a self-righteous hypocritical man, living a double life. I've got an entire collection dedicated to Yuna, my ultimate bias, stashed away in a folder on my laptop, hidden deep within a secret folder, safely encrypted with a password only I know. It's my little haven, my sanctuary—a place where I can indulge in my wildest fantasies, free from judgment. I mean, who doesn't have their celebrity crushes, right? But for me, it's more than just a crush. Yuna is my fantasy. She's the one who makes me question my self-control.

The room is dimly lit, perfect for what I have in mind. I pull up a recent fancam from her solo performance.. There she is, in a low-rise jeans that showcased her hourglass figure, strutting across the stage with sheer confidence. The camera zeroes in on her for a solo performance, the lucky bastards in the audience probably have no idea how fucking lucky they are. Her eyes glint with confidence, as if seducing me and sending a wave of anticipation through my body. I bite my lip, feeling my dick twitch in anticipation. It's one of those days when I crave a release, a day dedicated to worshipping her perfect body.

Yuna is everything I want and more. Her magnetic aura draws me closer to the screen as she seductively sways to the music. Every curve of her body is sculpted by the gods themselves. I zoom in, wanting to explore every inch of her, starting from her face. Her huge eyes, her full lips that always look succulent, begging for me to take them. Her skin, pale in complextion that glows under the stage lights. I'd kill to know what she smells like, if she tastes as sweet as she looks. Her long legs they begged to be worshipped.

Her hair, cascading in soft waves, frames her face, occasionally whipping her forehead as she moves, making my fingers itch to run through it, to feel its silkiness between my fingertips. Her crop top reveals just the right amount of skin and her incredibly sexy midriff. They hug her chest tightly. I imagine pinching those rosy nipples, already knowing from countless fantasies that they'd harden instantly. The thought sends a jolt of lust straight to my cock.

The camera follows her every move, and she's teasing the fans mercilessly. She bends down, the low-rise jean - hugging every inch of her toned thighs and plump ass, highlighting the perfect hour glass figure. God, her ass! It's a work of art, rounded and firm, a sight that has me gripping my cock, stroking slowly as I imagine sinking my face into that soft flesh. The way she reveals her cleavage, The way her muscles flex under those jeans makes my mouth go dry. She knows what she's doing, the little tease. Each flick of her hips is a silent invitation to something forbidden.

As the song progresses, so does my hand on my shaft. I can't stop picturing her riding me, those long, toned legs wrapped around my waist. Her abs clench and relax with each provocative move, the sight alone nearly pushing me over the edge. The sweat glistening on her skin, the way it would feel slick under my palms as I hold her hips, grinding into me, fuck, it consumes me. I want to be the reason for her sweat, for her moans.

The performance builds up, and so does my pace. My breathing quickens, mirroring her heavy pants as if we're in sync. I can imagine the lust matching my own as she moves her hair behind her back, giving me a perfect view of her slender neck and the pulse point that makes my mouth water. A collarbone looks so defined and my hands would look so fucking perfect there, pushing her down unto my cock. My cock twitches, the thought of owning this goddess in the bedroom flooding my mind. I want to see her—no, I need to see her submissive side, her begging for more, on her knees, her pretty eyes pleading for me to take control.

I can't resist the urge anymore. I pause the video at the part where she's bending forward offering an eyeful of her cleavage and a hint of her flat stomach. The image fills the screen,  letting me examine every detail. From her perfect breast that I imagine running my tongue all over, to her navel, a shallow indent, a tempting destination for my tongue. I'd work my way downward, hearing her whimpers as I trace patterns on her sensitive skin, marking her with love bites along the way until I reach her wet core. With my other hand, I reach for the lube, needing more sensation. I coat my fingers and continue imagining my tongue's path, heading south past her navel to the place she craves attention. I'd tease her, running my fingers through her wetness, finding her clit, driving her wild. And when she's close, I'd sink two fingers into her, feeling her heat, her tightness, while I suck on that perfect neck, leaving my mark. Her moans would fill the room, echoing off the walls, telling me she's mine.

But, Yuna she's a master at denying satisfaction. The clip cuts just as I can see her biting her lip, probably holding back a moan. That's when my stroking gets wilder. I jerk off fiercely, imagining her on all fours, that ass in the air, begging for my cock. In my mind, I'd stand behind her, taking in the view before delivering hard thrusts, the sound of skin slapping skin filling the room. She loves rough, I know that much. I want to spank that ass, watch it jiggle with each impact, watch her pussy squeeze my dick, milking me.

"Fuck, Yuna," I groan, my vision blurring as pleasure spikes. I see her looking over her shoulder, those eyes half-lidded, knowing she's craving it harder. In my fantasy, I'd tug her hair, making her submit, taking her like an animal. I increase the pace, my balls tightening, then I would reach my peak, exploding with sensation. I come violently, coating my hand and the screen, wishing it was her that I coated instead.

Panting, I lean back, my heart hammering in my chest as I relish the aftermath. The image of her winking at the camera as she says her farewells plays in my head, and I know I'll be back for more—she's my addiction. Cleaning up, a satisfied smile on my face, I wonder if she has any idea the effect she has on me, if she knows she just gave me the best fucking handjob ever. Little does she know, this 'nobody' behind the screen is more than willing to show her how good it could be in reality.

Maybe one day, she won't just be a fantasy, but until then, I'll keep worshipping her on my screen.

Then with this guilty pleasure, I find the need to claim her as mine and "protect" her. Going unto forums, I tell myself I have to put back on my knight in shiny armour image! Telling everyone else to leave all these woman alone especially Yuna.

To me pornography is okay, I have fapped to many of it, nor do I see the need to email all these pornographic companies on what they are doing though more damaging is wrong. Other sexual fantasies are okay, but when it comes to others fantasising about my idols, I have to be defensive since they are my life even though I would never reach them. This is me, a double standard hypocritical white knight, a nameless nobody in my life. Nonetheless, this secret is safe with me, and as long as I live, I shall continue to remain self-righteous on the outside while indulging in my secret fantasies.

Thanks for your request once again! Yes me being an internet troll, anyways not the best smut I have written I apologise. Okay fuck now I actually need to do justice by releasing a proper Yuna fic . Please send ideas for req on Yuna guys a one time offer that the best idea gets it’s fic written on her.

[lightsovermonaco]

an: first time for Oscar, feedback and requests always welcome!

wc: 1400

Summary: fluff. after Oscar's win, you're there to celebrate with him and share some banter.

“Holy shit- he did it- he actually did it!” The laugh that bubbles out of you when Oscar crosses the line in first is one of disbelief. Holding Charles off for so long is a feat in and of itself, but putting in multiple flawless laps one after another is something else entirely. 

Dating a racing driver isn't always easy, but moments like this make it worth it. Hearing the pride in Oscar's voice on the radio has your heart set to burst. You're grateful to the entire team for making this happen; every person standing in the garage (or rather, now in the pitlane), has contributed to his success in one way or another.

Oscar's mum is the one to grab your arm and lead you to the barrier. You cheer with the rest of those wearing orange around you when Oscar parks his car. Blinking furiously, you suppress your joyful tears. You want to soak up this moment. Etch it into your brain so you remember it always. 

“Oscar!” 

His head whips towards you, drawn to your voice like a siren even over the drone of the crowd. He grins, sweat dripping down his temple as he swallows the space between you in one nimble stride. “I'm so proud of you,” you shout as you take his face in your hands, sweaty cheeks and all. “So so proud-”

Oscar cuts you off with a kiss. His team cheers, and you laugh against his lips but happily return the kiss. “Thank you,” Oscar whispers for your ears only. Oscar's attention leaves you only long enough to hug his mum before he's grabbing your hand again. You're his anchor for now, keeping him attached to earth while the adrenaline threatens to take him sky high. 

“Go get your trophy pretty boy,” you murmur, relishing the bright smile that unfurls on his face. “Come find me when you're done with it all.” Oscar bends down for one more peck before he goes to find the steps leading up to the podium. The warmth in your chest comes to a head when the Australian anthem blares over the speakers. Oscar's bouncing on his heels the entire time, all too excited for the trophy to be in his hands. 

When he lifts the hunk of metal over his head, Oscar's eyes are firmly on you. You fear his cheeks will be sore from how wifely he's smiling. He blinks twice- your secret little signal for saying ‘I love you’ in situations when you can't say the words directly. You mimic the action, then follow up by blowing a kiss his way. He doesn't see the champagne coming and is soaked within seconds thanks to both Charles and George aiming for him. 

Oscar wipes his eyes and turns to survey the scene. His gaze sweeps over everything: the stands, the crowd that lingers, the pit lane, the track. Things seem to slow down for him, as if not even father time is immune to the gravity of this moment. Oscar drinks it in, eyes shut as his nostrils fill with traces of race fuel and rubber amongst the alcohol. From down below, you can see the moment it finally sinks in for him. His smile is like nothing you've ever seen, bolder and more brilliant than the setting sun. And that's it- that's your Oscar, the boy who ran away with your heart years ago and hasn't so much as thought of giving it back since. 

**********

Post-podiums are busy for Oscar, always are. The media team will want photos and probably a few videos to post. Team meetings are longer after a win. Not to mention how Oscar's unfailingly polite personality will have him thanking each and every person wearing a papaya polo before he dreams of taking a moment to himself. 

Wishing for Oscar to come find you sooner isn’t something you bother with. You're content to scroll through Twitter whilst you wait for Oscar to finish up, smiling to yourself seeing the overwhelmingly positive response to his drive today. Besides, his driver's room is comfortable enough, and thankfully loaded with snacks for you to munch on in the meantime. 

You're lying on the sofa when a sticky, ecstatic Oscar stumbles in. He still holds onto his trophy, which he carefully sets on the desk near the door before surprising you by flopping on top of you. 

“Oh- Oscar!” You laugh, shoving at his shoulder in a vain attempt to buy yourself some breathing room. “Babe, you're gonna crush me!”

“Well hello to you too,” Oscar says. “Here I thought you'd be happy to see me, considering I just won a race and all.” His arms wind around your middle, firmly encapsulating the two of you in a world of your own. 

You shake your head and tap his nose after wiggling your arm free. “You're lucky you're adorable, because this whole cocky, tough guy act isn't my favorite. Where’s my sweet, shy, bashful Oscar gone?” 

“Your sweet little Oscar just won a Formula1 race and wants to celebrate by kissing his girlfriend until she can't breathe-” 

“Oscarrrr-” 

“And besides, your favorite version of me is a race winner.” 

Seeing as that is an undeniable fact, your mouth remains shut. Which, apparently, is an invitation for Oscar to press a kiss to your lips. 

“Win number two,” he says when he pulls away. Rolling onto his side, Oscar props his head on his hand and cranes his neck to look at his trophy. “Best part is, this time there's no denying it. No one can argue that I don't deserve this one.”

“You deserved both wins babe.” A firm shake of your head prevents Oscar from opening his mouth to say otherwise. “You honestly deserve more than just these two wins- but we've gone over all that so many times. Right now, I just want to be happy that you've added another trophy to your collection. So let's focus on that, alright?”

“Alright,” Oscar murmurs. His eyes say what he doesn't, silently thanking you for keeping him on track. Without you, Oscar would undoubtedly fall down a rabbit hole of keyboard warriors and irrelevant opinions. Luckily, he has you to keep him straight and his eyes on the prize. 

“Now, why don't you walk me through that race?” You sit upright and pull him with you. Despite the champagne-sticky fireproof and lingering smell of sweat, you cuddle into him and welcome his arm around your shoulders. “Tell me what was going on in that pretty little head of yours while you held off Charles.”

“Honestly? You really want to know?” Oscar pauses for dramatic effect, only continuing when you roll your eyes and poke his side. “I was making a mental shopping list. You know, for when we're home next week? I was deciding what I wanted to meal prep.”

“You were not.” One glance at his straight face has you bursting into laughter. “Are you serious? Charles was on your ass for- I don't even know how many laps- and that's what was on your mind?”

“Mmhm. I figured we could do lasagna one night, maybe a chicken bake on Tuesday…” Oscar ticks off his choices on his fingers, clearly amused with himself. 

“Oh my god, Oscar! Are you ever serious for a moment in your life?” You’ll never understand how he remains so incredibly calm under pressure. It's a trait he's had since you were children; very little seems to phase him. 

Oscar shrugs. The smile playing on his lips is perfectly kissable. “Just another day on the job for me babe. It's instinct mostly, and reflex. It's not rocket science, it's just driving.”

“Just driving,” you mumble to yourself. “Said like you're driving a mini Cooper through the streets of London, not piloting a death machine going hundreds of kilometers an hour down a track with millimeters of room for error!” 

“Ah come on babe. I can't be scared, I trust myself! If I panic, that's when I'm in trouble. So I just… don’t do that?”

“Not a day goes by that you don't amaze me. I'd be absolutely shitting it if I was in that car, especially with Charles breathing down my neck.”

“Guess it's a good thing that I'm the professional driver and not you then, huh?”

Oscar yelps when you pinch his side. “You deserve that. Put me in the sim when we get home, I'll show you what I can do!”

[homosociallyyours]

The Ball Guy

by homosociallyyours 1400 words, T, pre-slash

Harry is an unpaid intern on his first film set, and he's pretty excited to see that his number one celebrity crush, Louis Tomlinson, will be a part of the movie. He's on the call sheet for the day, followed by a very odd addition: a ball guy?

Now that's a role Harry wouldn't mind getting his hands on.

This fic was written as part of the @wordplayfics challenge for prompt 8.3: Carry. Check out the other fics in the collection here, and as always a big thanks to @lululawrence for modding this fest-- my year wouldn't be the same without it!

[scotianostra]

Happy St Andrews Day.

As part of our Patron Saint’s Feast Day the Scottish Saltire is proudly flown and many people add it to their posts on social media to celebrate the day, but how did Scotland adopt the saltire? 

There is no actual date, or in fact nothing in our written history of the time, but legend has it that in  AD 832 the king of the Picts, ‘Aengus MacFergus’, ( Anglified to Angus but some stories say Hungus) with the support of ‘Scots’ from Dalriada, won a great battle against King Athelstane of the Northumbrians. The site of the legendary battle became known as Athelstaneford in present-day East Lothian.

St Andrew visited the Pictish leader in a dream before the battle and told him that victory would be won.  When the battle itself was raging, a miraculous vision of the St Andrew’s Cross was seen shining in the sky, giving a boost to the morale and fighting spirit of his warriors. The result was a victory over the Saxons, and the death of Athelstan. Thus, after this victory, according to the tradition, the Saltire or St Andrew’s Cross became the flag of Scotland, and St Andrew the national patron saint.

While there is no written reference to the battle in Scotland from the period it was said to have taken place, this is not surprising, as it was a time for which we have little or no documentation for anything. The earliest written mention of the Battle of Athelstaneford in Scottish history comes from years later in the newspapers of the day, if you follow my posts then you know I dip into these “Chronicles from time to time, the first one to mention  Athelstaneford is the Scotichronicon, written by the Scottish historian Walter Bower. 

The Scotichronicon has been described by some Scottish historians as a valuable source of historical information, especially for the times that were recent to him or within his own memory. But he also wrote about earlier times, and this included the battle at Athelstaneford.

Bower’s account includes the scene where Aengus MacFergus is visited by St Andrew in a dream before the battle. He was told that the cross of Christ would be carried before him by an angel,  there was no mention of a St Andrew’s Cross in the sky in this version. It was in later accounts, from the 16th centuries onwards, that we have the description of an image of St Andrew’s Cross shining in the sky.

Bower was writing in the early 1400s. The bitter and bloody struggle to retain Scotland’s independence was not just a recent memory but also a current reality for him. Parts of Scotland were still occupied by England, and Bower had been involved in raising the money to release Scotland’s king, James I, from English captivity.

Also, Scotland’s early historical records and documents had been deliberately destroyed during the invasion by the English king Edward I. This was done in part as an attempt to remove historical evidence that Scotland had been an independent kingdom. The idea was simple: take away a nation’s history and you strip it of its identity and justification for its independent existence. The theft of the Stone of Destiny was part of this process,  the Black Rood which was believed to contain a piece of the Cross Jesus was crucified on was also removed, I have covered both these in previous posts.

Part of Bower’s motivation in writing his Scotichronicon was to help restore this stolen history. He was a scholar and a man of the church. In his time, the figure of St Andrew had become a prominent presence in Scottish society.

The greatest church building in the land during his time was the Cathedral of St Andrew, which housed relics of St Andrew himself. It had taken over a hundred years to build and wasn’t formally consecrated until 1318, just four years after Bannockburn. The ceremony of course included Robert the Bruce and at it thanks was given to St Andrew for Scotland’s victory.

Less than 100 years after this, in 1413, the University of St Andrews was established and Walter Bower was one of its first students. By this time, the Cathedral of St Andrew was a place of pilgrimage, with thousands travelling there to venerate the saint’s relics. A pilgrimage route from the south took in the shrine of Our Lady at Whitekirk, not far from the site of the battle, and many pilgrims took a ferry across the Firth from North Berwick, where the ruins and remains of the old St Andrew’s Kirk can still be seen close to the Scottish Seabird Centre.

So as he sat down to write his history of earlier times, he was able to trace this connection to St Andrew, using the limited earlier written accounts, such as those of earlier Chronicler I’ve mentioned before, John Fordun, who lived in the 1300s. While Fordun doesn’t specifically mention the location of Athelstaneford, he records a battle which took place between the Picts led by Aengus and a force from the south led by Athelstan, and said the location of the battle was about two miles from Haddington. The account of St Andrew appearing in a dream to Aengus is also described by Fordun.

This creates a powerful link to the development of the written version of the story. Let’s remember Bower came from what is now East Lothian. Let us also remember that people in the early centuries stored and passed on much of their historical knowledge not in the written word but in memory and handed down oral traditions. People told stories, remembered them and told them to the next generation. Undeniably, some details would be forgotten or changed over time, but the bones of the story would be handed down. And that would include reference to locations of significant events in the local landscape.

Bower will have had access to this rich oral tradition of local stories based on handed-down collective memories of past events, which is perhaps why he was able to name the location. The later writers who added to the story of the battle will likewise have found new sources in the oral tradition to add to the narrative. Even in the 19th century, cartographers mapping the area were able to identify locations traditionally associated with the battle from local people who were custodians of ancestral memory.

This is how the story of the Battle of Athelstaneford and its connection with St Andrew and the Saltire has evolved.

The village is home to the National Flag Heritage Centre which occupies a lectern doocot built in 1583 and rebuilt in 1996. It is at the back of the village church. Today the village is surrounded by farmland and has little in the way of amenities. Tourists can follow the “Saltire Trail”, a road route which passes by various local landmarks and places of historical interest.

Athelstaneford Parish Kirk has a connection with the subject of my post last week, author Nigel Tranter, who was a prominent supporter of the Scottish Flag Trust. He married in the church, and in April 2008 a permanent exhibition of his memorabilia was mounted in the north transept of the church. Items include a copy of Nigel Tranter’s old typewriter, a collection of manuscripts and books, and other personal items. The display was previously at Lennoxlove House, and prior to that at Abbotsford House, the home of Sir Walter Scott.

[mercurygray]

Friends! I have a lot of things to celebrate - and one of them is all of you! This blog has just recently passed 1400 followers, so I decided I should have a little party.

Longtime readers of this blog will know that I love a prompt list, so to mark the occasion, I’ve made one of my own - and since friends, followers, fandom, and fourteen hundred all start with F, that's the theme we're sticking with!

Pick a prompt from the" words for the letter F" list, and, using one of the fandoms, frequent characters, or OCs usually on this blog, you can create something to share! This could be a fic, a moodboard or graphic, gifset, or another creative outlet of your choice. Then, when you’re done, tag me and I’ll share it here!

You do not have to be following me to participate! Simply send me an Ask or a DM with the word (or two, or three) you’d like to use for a prompt. (You can mention which fandom you’re using, or keep it a surprise!) I'll add all the words and their authors here, and add links when the work is finished!

More details below the cut - this is a pro-readmore blog, after all.

If your writing is over 500 words, please use a Read More or I cannot in good conscience share it! Please use appropriate tags for ships and for content warnings.

Canon couple, OC fic, and gen fic are all welcomed! (No reader insert, please.) F/M and multi ships are preferred, but I have been known to enjoy the occasional M/M drabble as well, if that’s more your style!

This author does not particularly enjoy kidfic or underage fic, non-con, mpreg, incest, the use of y/n, RPF, a/b/o, coffeeshop or college aus.

This author loves historical aus, original female characters, appropriately tagged smut, punctuation and paragraph breaks, and learning something new. If you would like, I welcome and love work for my own OCs, so if you’ve always wanted your characters and mine to have a teaparty, this is the time for it!

Frequent Fandoms List A Discovery of Witches, Band of Brothers, Downton Abbey, Dune, House of the Dragon, Masters of the Air, Mercy Street, The Pacific, Peaky Blinders, SAS: Rogue Heroes, Vikings:Valhalla

OC List available here.

[weepingchoir]

Imperium Sanctus

(...T)he phrase “Grimdark” may suggest the name of some 2000s era Goth club. It’s a recent coinage for an ongoing craze in “gritty” and dark fantasy settings, epitomised and popularised by George RR Martin, becoming the default tone for a whole range of feted fantasy offerings from Joe Abercrombie’s First Law series featuring a dark, brooding protagonist who kills a lot of people — and occasionally feels bad about it — to Mark Lawrence’s Broken Empire Trilogy featuring a dark, brooding protagonist who kills a lot of people — and occasionally feels bad about it.

Like many fantasists with a bone to pick, mister Milbank doesn't actually know when or where "grimdark" was coined. Knowing fuck all has never stopped a critic (indeed, The Critic): Milbank goes on to blame everything from Breaking Bad to The Sopranos, constructing a spurious history of dark fantasy(?) that ultimately singles out author Michael Moorcock as godfather of grimdark.

While Moorcock’s gory, British sorcery is a major influence on today’s grimdark, the inception point of the trend is in fact googleable: it’s been the tagline of gory, British science-fantasy wargame Warhammer 40,000 since its 1993 second edition.

In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.

Already this betrays the hopepunk's antimaterialist concerns. It doesn't matter that The Walking Dead and Boardwalk Empire are nothing alike. Taking the historicist tack, it becomes even less likely that they have a connection to 40K. But morality, as an immaterial concern, is a laser beam: it vaporizes material history. Grimdark is a specter on the pages of anything that irritates gentle sensibilities.

For the sake of avoiding googleable gaffes, Alexandra Rowland, author of books named things like A Taste Of Gold And Iron, and coiner of "hopepunk", in a follow-up essay:

There’s no such thing as winning forever. Evil cannot be vanquished, only beaten back for a day or two, and then it trickles back in, like water seeping through the cracks in a dam. Ask it of hopepunk, then: "What's the point?" And the answer is, of course, that the fight itself is the point.

In the noble brightness of the far future, there is only (___)?

Unlike Rowland, Milbank is a nothingpunk: The Critic is a conservative Christian rag pontificating everything from trans-exclusionary rhetoric to the dismantling of higher education. Which begs us to consider how Milbank so easily co-opts shades of Rowland's language to peddle a retvrn to Tolkien, on its face the last thing a fantasy author looking to innovate would want.

The Imperium of Man, the central setting of 40K, is an arch-conservative Great Man cult worshipping the once-Emperor of Mankind. This is the gate leading to the inner sanctum where the Emperor's corpse resides. Catholic readers may have noticed similarities to portrayals of the Archangel Michael fighting the Dragon (1400~, 1498, 1860), as narrated in Revelation 12.

Revelation is the tale of darkness enveloping the world, and the noble, virtuous men who persevere despite persecution and are eventually victorious in heavenly war(!). This is not dissimilar to J.R.R. Tolkien's "fundamentally religious and Catholic work", in which ordinary men persevere against darkness enveloping a world. Rowland and Milbank both champion Tolkien as exemplary, the former in the same breath as Jesus. Yes, of Nazareth.

The Lord Of The Rings is unmistakeably about the War of the Ring. Positing Tolkien's apocalypticism as aspirational fails to rebuff the basic conceit that war is a human constant and even a force for good. If this isn't the aim of a genre purported to concern itself with kindness and "giv[ing] a fuck about the people on the other side of the world", what is?

Aesthetics. Rowland doesn't call for a narrative movement with less conflict, but one that appropriately celebrates those that fall on the right side of conflict. Even just those that deigned to imagine, of slaying the Dragon, "probably drunk in a bar somewhere, I bet it can be done, though." (The writer's original temptation: a medal for thinking the right thing.) Millions of people die in Revelation, magnitudes more than in Game of Thrones, but the virtuous go to heaven forever. The Emperor of Mankind sits on the Golden Throne, Frodo bodily assumpted into the Undying Lands, Jesus curled up into a ball and just rolled away. All manner of things shall be well.

The transition from here to open conservatism is again in aesthetics, and thus stepwise. Having established Tolkien as the only fantasy writer he respects, Milbank derides grimdark as immature wish fulfillment. If you write fantasy at all, it ought to have a clear moral message, else you are devaluing reality by infesting Real (not in the Lacanian sense) conflict with magic missiles. But he's also established that realistic fiction with no clear hero is a faux pas. He wants Breaking Good and, like, The Walking Alive.

This is no surprise: if you were around for the Disco Elysium craze, you might remember this tweet (holy shit it's still up) calling for a game that uses Disco's systems to narrate the story of "a young witch" looking for her neighbor's cat. Take another step and this is the logical conclusion of an aesthetic that prizes upright moral posture: a world where the protagonist has to do nearly nothing to be good. The little village in the Alps and the events of Disco Elysium might be unfolding in the same world. But our little German girl with no problems doesn't have to participate in anything as unsightly as a Pinkerton massacre. Milbank disdains C.S. Lewis without knowing that what he wants is the end of Narnia, irrespective of the events that preceded it: the crowning of the king, who once was good. The Emperor protects!

[alotofpockets]

Now the world knows | Jackie Groenen

Pairing: Jackie Groenen x Reader

Summary: You and Jackie are dating but the public doesn’t know about it, until Jackie gets hurt in a game.

A/n: repost from my old account @woso-x-reader

masterlist | woso masterlist | words: 1400

You've been dating Jackie for a couple months now. Keeping it mostly to yourselves, except for some of your noisy friends and teammates that had figured it out. Dating her had been amazing so far. You spend most your time off from training with her, exploring the surrounding towns. Occasionally some fans would run into you, but they didn't expect anything. Just two close friends hanging out, and that was okay for now. It was nice having some time to figure out what this all meant without having the public interfere.

Jackie decided to get some drinks to go and invite you to come take a short trip to the lake, watch some nature and relax before the game tonight. You always get a bit nervous before games, so it was a nice way to take your mind off of it. And you loved that Jackie remembered and tries to ease your nerves.

Eventually you had to get back for the mandatory team meeting, to go over the game plan for tonight one last time. After that it was time to warm-up on the field. There was an amazing turn out, most of the seats were filled with fans.

The match started and not only ten minutes in Jackie managed to kick the ball over to Vivianne who was able to get a clear shot to the goal and score the team their first point. You all celebrated the first goal, jumping into each other's arms and patting Viv and Jackie on the back for the great work.

Soon after the opposing team managed to move past your teams defense and made a goal as well. Sari was quick to get the ball back into play, keeping it in possession, slowly moving it more towards the other half of the field, where the ball met Jackie again. She noticed she had a clear shot to get the ball to you. The midfielder took the shot you had practiced so many times. It landed perfectly at your feet, you managed to turn in a matter of seconds surprising the goalkeeper with the curve of you shot, landing your second goal.

You point at Jackie immediately after the ball goes over the goal line. She runs towards you and jumps in your arms, quickly being followed by Vivianne and Daniëlle who were standing nearby. The game continues with some more goal opportunities from both teams, but it stays 2-1 until halftime.

Going back into the field after half time, the opposing teams seems to have gotten more energy and aggression around the ball. It's hard to keep up at times, but the defence is doing a great job.

Everyone's positions on the field have lowered a bit, trying your hardest to keep the other team at bay. A long ball flies over the field, Jackie tries to reach for it by jumping in the air, while an opposing player must have wrongly calculated the height of the ball. Thereby kicking Jackie straight into her ribs. She falls down to the ground hard, her hand immediately shoots to her side.

You're half a field a way, but you're by her side in a second. Softly brushing the hair and turf off her face. You know there's not much you can do until the medical team arrives, but you want to be with her.

Once they get there they start asking her questions, where does it hurt? How painful is it? Do you think you can stand? On which Jackie answers "My ribs and my side. Very painful and I don't think so." The medical team tells all the surrounding players to give them some room. When you stay they tell you, "You too, y/l/n."

You're about to get up and walk away against your will, but Jackie grabs your hand. "I need her to stay." The woman from med nods and lets you stay. All through being checked Jackie holds your hand tight and you weren't planning on letting go anytime soon.

When it's time for Jackie to be taken off the field you help walk her to the sidelines. She can barely stand which is breaking your heart. "Can I carry you the rest of the way?" You ask her, making sure it won't hurt too much. She whispers a pleading 'yes' before you carefully pick her up bridal style. Once at the sideline you know you have to go back on, so in putting her gently down on the ground again you hug her side and kiss her cheek. "You're going to be okay, take it easy. We're winning this one for you."

And that's what you did. You and the other girls now got more aggressive with the ball as well, angry that they hurt one of your own this badly. Jackie had been resting in the dressing room with an ice pack on her side, ever since she got taken off the field. "How are you feeling, Jacks?" You ask as you take a seat next to her. "Not so good." She says leaning into you a bit.

The medical staff walks into the dressing room, "Are you ready to go to the hospital, Jackie?" She nods and tries to take off her cleats to put on her own shoes, but when she reaches down a sharp pain in her side makes her sit back up again. Without a second thought you sit down on the floor in front of her and untie her cleats and help her get into her other ones. "I'm coming with you." You say grabbing your own shoes to change in the car.

Luckily Jackie didn't break any bones, she bruised some of her ribs and the print of the opponents cleat was starting to show. But she was free to go back to the hotel you were all staying at.

In the lobby most girls were nervously waiting to her the results of the x-rays. After telling them the good news and telling the coach know how long the doctor said she had to be out for. You took her to her room to get some rest. You lay down on the bed with her and open up Netflix on the TV. She cuddles up to you in a position where it doesn't hurt too much, and you let her pick a movie to watch.

About halfway into the movie someone knocks on the door. You call out, “Come in.” too comfortable to get up. Daniëlle walks in with her phone in her hand. “Hey, how are you feeling?” She asks a sleepy Jackie. “I’m doing alright now, but once I have to get up again it will hurt again.” Daniëlle sits down on the edge of the bed with a sympathetic smile on her face. She truly felt bad for her friend, having been in the same position before she knew how much it hurt, even if Jackie was telling her otherwise. 

“Have either of you been on social media since the game?” Daniëlle starts. When you both shake your head she says, “I think you better look at your notifications.” You reach for your phone and hold it so both you and Jackie can see what’s on the screen.

You’re tagged in hundreds of posts on Instagram of the two of you holding hands and some of the kiss you thought you could give her without anyone seeing. Comments on the fans shipping you two start filling the screen. You’re smiling at your phone. “I see you two are both happy that the world now knows, so that’s my cue to leave.” Daniëlle says as she quickly walks out of the room again.

Jackie’s eyes meet your, a smile evident on both your faces. “So…” you start. “Now the world knows.” Jackie finishes. “How are you feeling about that?” As a response, you cup her cheeks and place a soft kiss on her lips. “I’m glad they know, because now I get to do this all the time. How about you?” You ask her back. “I wouldn’t have had it any other way. I was and am so grateful for your support, I really needed you and I want to be able to hold your hand and kiss you wherever we go too.” After sharing a couple more kisses, Jackie melts into your arms again and you finish watching the movie.

[failbettergames]

Mask of the Rose is coming out this April for PC/Mac/Linux and Nintendo Switch, and we are beginning the celebrations now!

As a Feast of the Rose gift for you all, we’ve commissioned fibre artist and games enthusiast The Pigeon’s Nest to create a crochet pattern for your favourite verbacient Master of the Bazaar, Mr Pages!

The Mr Pages crochet pattern is available from The Pigeon’s Nest, for free, as a downloadable pdf. You can work up your own cuddly Master and tell it all of your love stories while you wait to get close to the real thing in Mask of the Rose...

Down the years we’ve often been asked for plushies of our characters, and we have finally found this lovely solution to offer people which doesn’t have the same kind of negative environmental impact as your average plush toy. The Pigeon’s Nest (aka Bex) is an independent crochet artist who creates patterns, crochet kits and crocheted items, as well as courses for learning to crochet and all manner else besides. We’re so delighted with her design for Mr Pages!

In addition to the free pattern, Bex has made 30 Mr Pages kits, containing all of the yarn and fixings you’ll need to make a little Master of your own. Bex is also offering to create 10 complete Mr Pages, who will be made to order. The kits are priced at £25 each and the complete Mr Pages are £65, available from The Pigeon's Nest.

If you make a little Mr Pages, please do share it with us! We’d love to see where they end up.

WIN a crochet Mr Pages

As if that’s not enough, we have a complete Mr Pages for one lucky competition winner to claim!

Simply pop into our Discord or community forums and let us know which Mask of the Rose character you’re most looking forward to spending time with.

The competition runs from today, the 9th of February, until Friday the 24th at 1400 GMT, and the winner will be drawn by random number generator the following week.

Best of luck, delicious friends!

Read the full competition terms and conditions if that’s your thing.

[ikeromantic]

Hiii omg congratulations on 1k subscribers!!!! 🥳 It's been wonderful to see you reach such milestones over the years, has it really been three already? Ig time really flies when you're having fun 😉 For this one, could I please get Chevalier, Observatory and Gingerbread? Thanks a lot in advance, I'm sure it will be just as creative and incredible as every fic you've written so far! 🥰 I hope you're having a great holiday season, XOXO

It has been 3 years ^_^ Hard to believe really. Time flies when I'm having fun! Your kind words are one of the things that keeps me sharing here <3 So here we go, approx. 1400 words of a spicy and sweet Chevalier. IkePri New Years Event story

Chevalier followed his love up the winding stairs, a bemused smile on his lips. A ‘mysterious’ invitation had replaced his bookmark in one of his new novels, and this was the address listed. He wondered what his precious Belle had in mind. It better be worth all the stair climbing.

At the top, the entrance to the observatory swung open. The space, usually dedicated to the scientific study of stars, was now decorated with roses and candles. A small, round table sat to one side, with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The Belle stood beside it, an anxious smile on her face. “What is this?” Chev raised an eyebrow.

“Umm. Welcome, Prince Chevalier. This is - ah - a romantic dinner?” She shuffled from one foot to the other, far less confident of this presentation than her lovely dress would indicate. It was silk, and clung to her curves suggestively, hiding and showing all at once. The sort of dress a seductress might wear to lure in her prey. 

He shut the door behind him and closed the distance between them. “You set this up?”

She nodded. “I . . . thought you might enjoy it? It’s really pretty up here, with the view. And we can use the telescope! I - I got one of the scholars to show me?” 

“Why?”

The Belle looked down and took a deep breath. When she looked up again, her eyes held that flame of defiance that Chevalier found so alluring. “I wanted to celebrate our time together. And to show you what romance looks like in real life. It can be really nice.”

Chevalier snorted. Though his expression was cool, he felt a sudden tightness in his throat. He could not think of a single time someone had done something like this for him. There were only official celebrations, mandated by tradition, put together by servants, and attended by the ambitious. This was none of those things. He avoided replying by looking around.

“I made the bouquets just for us. See, apple blossoms and red carnations to tell you how much I like you and how my heart aches when we aren’t together. And baby’s breath with red roses to say our love will last, and -”

“I know what flowers mean.” He interrupted her to stop her from saying aloud all the things he could read himself in the careful arrangements. When she spoke those words, it made his heart beat faster, his breath shorter. Feelings that he eschewed. Storybook reactions that were inappropriate for a prince. 

The Belle nodded mutely. She walked over to look out at the night sky. The moon hung above them, full and bright, its cold light distant and beautiful. Nothing like the close, warm affection she carried. 

Chevalier followed, unable to let her away from him, even if it would be best for them both. He knew what this emotion growing in him was, with its hooks deep in his heart and mind. It was too late to let her go. Far too late. He grasped her hand and pulled her to him. 

She gave a gasp of surprise, her eyes wide. “My Prince?” 

“I did not say that I do not like it.” 

“So . . . you do?” Her lips curved up in a small, satisfied smile. 

Chevalier brushed a lock of hair from her face, the gesture awkward and a little brusque. Gentle touches were outside his experience, yet with her, he wanted to be gentle. To coax a smile from her that was just for him. “Silly fool.”

There was high color in her cheeks and a heat in her gaze. Chev smiled. “What else did you plan for us?”

“I -” She cleared her throat. “I thought we’d have some wine and th-then look at the stars.” 

He gestured to the table. “Then pour.”

“Right.” She reluctantly let go of him and hurried to the table. 

Chevalier enjoyed watching her as she moved about in this dress. It was revealing in the most interesting ways. Hugging the curve of her backside, clinging to the side of her breast and hip. It made him want to tear it off of her to reveal her beauty in full instead of these teasing glimpses.

The Belle returned a moment later with two cups of deep red wine. “This is a malbec. The sommelier said it was a good choice, since I’m not sure what you like.” She handed him his glass.

“Try it.” He watched her eyes widen at his order. And it was an order, spoken in his crips, chill tone.

“Ok. I thought you might taste it first but . . . just so you know, I don’t know much about wine. Sariel says I don’t have a good nose for it because I didn’t -”

Chevalier interrupted sharply. “Stop delaying.”

She gave a self-conscious laugh. “Yeah, alright. Sorry.” Then she lifted the cup to her lips and took a small sip. Her eyebrows lifted and her lips curved in pleasant surprise. “Oh! That’s really good! I was afraid it might be bitter but it’s sweet!”

“Let me see.” He took his glass and held it to her lips.

“Y-you want me to drink from your cup?” 

“Don’t ask foolish questions.” He tilted it a bit so that the dark red liquid nearly touched her.

The Belle understood, though there was a hint of confusion in her gaze. Still, her lips parted and a trickle of wine poured over them, leaving a bead of moisture at the corner of her mouth. Then he set the cup aside.

Chevalier leaned close, and took her chin in his hand. Then he licked the wine from her lips. She was right, of course. It was sweet, but not nearly as sweet as she was. He pressed his lips to hers and slid his tongue into the heat of her mouth. It was not the sweet kiss of a kind lover, nor the passionate skill of a lothario, but it was the kiss of a brutal beast that hungered for her honeyed warmth.  

The Belle clung to him, kissing him back with as much inexperienced desire. Her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt as if she would hold him in place. 

His hand slid down her side, tracing the line of her breast, her waist. Calloused palms rasped against the delicate fabric, catching. It would take only a small effort to tear, he thought. To take. But he wanted her to give. 

Her breath caught as his hand caressed her lower still. Sliding over the cloth that draped her hips, her thigh. The glass of wine slipped from her fingers, and shattered on the ground. She gasped, and he breathed her in. “Prince . . .” Her murmur was lost against his thirsting lips.

Chevalier didn’t care about the broken goblet. He lifted her up, pressed her back against the thick glass wall of the observatory. His mouth moved from her lips to her throat, where her pulse raced against the velvet of his tongue. Down to her shoulders, nipping the line of her collarbone. 

She arched into his touch, her legs wrapped around his hips, dress riding up her thighs to reveal her satin skin beneath. His hands explored this revealed territory, claiming it with every rough caress. 

“Was this what you imagined,” he asked with a teasing smirk.

“I . . .”

He laughed, a low, hoarse sound that sent a shiver up her spine. “Fated.” He nipped her throat. “That is where you got this idea.”

“Y-you knew?” Her breath was ragged, her voice trembling.

“From the moment I got your invitation. You created the scene where the emperor finds his stars align with the maid.”

The Belle nodded. “Sh-she left him a message in flowers.”

Chevalier’s smile grew. “And when he summoned her, the scene ends with them making love under those same stars.”

Her cheeks were hot, the flush of desire all the way down her neck and up to the tips of her ears. She didn’t say anything, but she didn’t need to. Chev knew what she wanted. He wanted her as well. All of her. The woman that loved him. The woman he had come to love, in defiance of all wisdom. 

“Let us see if reality is better than fiction, then.” His smile was that of a predator about to devour his prey. An appetite that could never truly be sated, a desire that would never fade.

[ro-is-struggling]

I'm Not in Love || Stephen Strange x Reader

Summary: You are not in love with Stephen Strange, he is insufferable and does nothing but get on your nerves every time he opens his mouth. So why do you feel some type of way every time he mentions Christine’s name?

Warnings: enemies to lovers, love confessions, teasing, fluff 

English is not my first language

Word count: 1400

Based on the song lyric prompt 9: “I'm not in love // So don't forget it // It's just a silly phase I'm going through” (I’m Not in Love by 10cc) from my 600 FOLLOWERS CELEBRATION prompt list

'Just admit it, you're in love with Stephen Strange.'

The words of your friend Wanda echoed in your head since she had spoken them hours ago. It was ridiculous, you hated Stephen. He was arrogant, pretentious and a control freak who drove you crazy from the moment you had arrived at the Sanctum Sanctorum to learn how to handle your powers. He had a horrible personality and you hated everything about him. He brought out the worst in you and you brought out the worst in him, something that led you to spend most of your time fighting. 

You couldn't be in the same room together for more than ten minutes without ending up arguing about the stupidest things. Something about him awakened in you a need to contradict him on everything, even when you knew he was right. You couldn't help it, you hated to see the arrogant smile he seemed to have permanently drawn on his face when he talked to you. You hated him. He hated you. You both hated each other and if it wasn't for Wong you would have left that place a long time ago. 

Wanda's words made no sense, you were sure of it. You could never fall in love with someone like Strange, how could you when you were barely able to spend a few minutes with him without wanting to murder him? It was a stupid idea and Wanda was just saying it to annoy you. 

But then you saw him with her. 

Christine Palmer was everything you were not. She was smart, successful, charismatic, beautiful, and most of all, she was able to hold a conversation with Stephen for more than five minutes. She was the love of his life, you could tell by the way he looked at her. He missed her and regretted every day for letting her go. He still loved her and for some reason that made you feel weird. A lump formed in your throat every time you saw them together and you couldn't bear to listen to Stephen talk about her for too long, the admiration in his voice making your blood boil. 

And then it hit you. 

"No!" you exclaimed aloud in the solitude of your room. "Nonono! This can't be happening." You were panicking, pacing back and forth in your room as you desperately tried to find another explanation for what you were feeling. It wasn't jealousy. You weren't in love with him. He was an arrogant jerk and you couldn't stand him.

"I'm just... sad because no one will ever love me the way he loves her. Yes! That's it!" You tried to reason. Sure, you had been single for a long time and craved love, and in a way seeing the way Stephen looked at Christine made you think that you had never known a love like that, but that wasn't the reason behind your feelings. You weren't sad when you saw them together, you were jealous. Jealous that he didn't look at you that way. Jealous that you couldn't go more than five minutes without wanting to tear each other's heads off. Jealous that Stephen never saw you as anything more than an annoying apprentice who thought she was bigger than she was.

"No! I'm not in love," you asserted looking at yourself in the mirror, your eyes daring your reflection to contradict you. "It's just a stupid phase I'm going through. I'll be back to normal in no time. I'm not in love with Stephen Strange!"

Just as you finished saying those words a knock on your door caught your attention. When you turned around you found Stephen's figure leaning against the door frame, looking at you curiously. Your heart dropped and embarrassment came over you as you pleaded with the universe that he hadn't heard anything.

"You're late for practice," he said in his usual monotone voice and you breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't heard anything, if he had he would have mentioned it by now. You knew he would never waste an opportunity to annoy you like that.

But then you saw a mischievous smile creeping across his lips and your heart began to beat rapidly against your chest.

"What were you doing here?" Stephen asked, though you both knew he already knew the answer.

"Nothing! I'll be right down," you replied quickly, trying to kick him out of your room before he had a chance to humiliate you.

"Really?" he said, walking into your room. It was obvious he didn't believe a word that came out of your mouth. He knew the truth, but you would never admit it to him. You refused to give him the satisfaction of knowing how much power he had over you. "I could have sworn you were saying my name."

"No! No I was not." You sounded pathetic, your voice was trembling and you were using a higher pitch than normal. Anyone who knew you a little would know you were lying, but you refused to tell the truth. That was exactly what Strange wanted and you weren't going to indulge him.

Stephen took a step toward you and you instinctively backed away. He paused for a moment, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. You looked like a deer caught in the headlights, your big eyes watching him cautiously as your brain scrambled to come up with an escape plan. But he wasn't planning to let you escape. He was tired of the tension between you and it was time to do something about it.

"Why won't you admit it?" he spoke in a deep, seductive voice that awakened a tingle inside you. He continued walking towards you and for every step he took forward you took a step back. You needed to keep some distance between you if you intended to maintain your composure. But then your back hit the hard wall and you knew you were screwed. 

"There's nothing to admit," you said, clearing your throat to make sure your voice came out steady and clear. You were lying through your teeth and they both knew it, but you weren't about to give in. 

Stephen looked at you, his deep blue eyes inspecting your face closely. He was too close to you and it was starting to get to you. You could feel his warm breath crashing against your face, your noses almost brushing together. You felt self-conscious under his gaze, but at the same time you couldn't take your eyes off him. You were completely frozen in place, admiring the perfect angles of his face as you waited for his next move. 

"Is that so?" he said in disbelief. His eyes drifted down to your lips, pausing on them for a few seconds. He looked at you as if he wanted to devour you and you had to bite your tongue to keep from letting out a moan. "And what if I told you that I really wanted to kiss you? What would you do then?" 

"I don't know" you feigned innocence, feeling a wave of confidence momentarily wash over you. "I guess you'll just have to wait and see."

Stephen didn't waste a second, crashing his lips against yours the moment those words left your mouth. There was nothing sweet or tender in the way he kissed you, only desperation as you clung to each other's bodies. His hands cradled your cheeks, tilting your face so he could deepen the kiss, stealing what little breath you had left. Your head was spinning, your lips struggling to keep up with his kiss as your hands clutched at his chest desperate to find something to keep you grounded.

You surrendered to him completely, letting him do whatever he wanted with you. You were flying high in pure bliss, lost in the desperate caresses of Stephen's soft lips on yours. You didn't have the mental capacity to fight against his clear dominance over your body, you couldn't even feel ashamed of how quickly you had surrendered to his charms. 

You didn't want the moment to end. You wanted to live in Stephen's arms for the rest of your life, to feel his lips on yours until you ran out of air. However, the moment was interrupted when you felt the sound of someone clearing their throat behind you, forcing you to suddenly pull apart.

"It was about time," Wong said from the doorway looking at you with a firm expression that showed you how tired he was of you dancing around your feelings for each other. "We're waiting for you downstairs." And with that he left, leaving you alone once again to address what had happened.

"He's going to get back at us for everything we put him through, isn't he?" you muttered as you watched Wong disappear behind the door.

“Oh yes, definitely.”

[scifrey]

you requested more Keepsakes prompts, and I have to say, I LOVE the way you write Eleanor. perhaps some little scene from her married life with Hob? general domestic bliss? or something less blissful, like getting into their first bad argument and figuring out how to deal with it?

alternatively, Hob and Morpheus go on holiday and Morph is very bad at taking vacations...

xo @hardly-an-escape

Oooooooooh. What an excellent prompt. Thank you!

Keepsakes: A Kissing Bough

Fandom: The Sandman Series: Hob Adherent Series Rating: Slightly Spicy. Please curate your experience accordingly. Pairing: Hob/Eleanor

Hob and his wife have been charged with finishing the decorations before Christmas Morning and the start of the Twelvetide celebrations.

Eleanor's parents call her 'Nell' at home. It is a common enough diminutive for Eleanor, as common as 'Hob' had been in the mid 1400s, when it seemed that every Robert he met went by it.

The problem is, Hob didn't know that was her nickname. They'd been married eleven months, and he'd been calling her 'El' the whole time.

But how was he to know? The Giffords only ever called her Eleanor in public, and called him the full 'Sir Gadlen' or, 'my son-in-law', even after his marrying into the family.

No friendly "Robert-my-boy!"s from Master Gifford as Hob had secretly hoped for, as his own father had once chortled while thumping him playfully on the shoulder. The man still resented Hob for his lack of old-family connections, for all that he'd mellowed toward Hob after seeing how seriously Hob took his duties as Husband and Father. And where Master Gifford led, his wife dutifully, dolefully followed. 

Not even a nice cordial "Robb dear" from Mistress Gifford in all those months.

So it is quite a surprise when, after the elder Mistress Gifford's after-supper lamp had finally burned down, and she declares her old eyes too weary to continue her needlework by firelight alone, she calls Eleanor 'Nell'.

Her husband had gone straight to bed after their meager supper, grumbling heartily about the privations of the Advent fast and how a morning of eggy pies and the Twelvetide feasts could not come fast enough.

With no husband to chivvy along before her, Mistress Gifford rises from her stately chair by the hearth in the Great Hall, and bestows each of the three Gadlens arrayed on the piled furs on the floor before it a fond kiss on the forehead. One to Hob, who helps steady her with a gentle hand on her elbow as she stoops, her own hand on his shoulder, to offer the kindness. Then one for her daughter, sat opposite him. And the last to her grandson, dozing with all the abandon of a small creature who knows that it is utterly safe and utterly loved, in his moses basket beside Hob's knee.

 As she kisses them, she murmurs, "Happy Christmas Robb, Nell, my wee little Redbreast."

"Nell?" Hob asks, as soon as his mother-in-law has creaked her way out of the room. "Why have you not told me you are called Nell?"

"It is grim," she pouts. "It sounds very much like knell , wouldn't you say?" This is accompanied by a theatrical shudder that makes her bosom jiggle, and so burns its way into Hob's memories for that alone. "Death knell."

"Ah, never mind that. Death's a mug's game," Hob says, and cups her fire-warmed cheeks in his palms to bestow his own kisses on his wife. "I'm never going to die, so you shall never need ring out for me." Eleanor giggles as he digs his fingers into her hips for leverage, and scoots her closer to him, so he can bury his face against the pleasing softness of her neck. "Though you may keen in other ways for me, should you like."

"Hob!" El laughs. "Pray, do not leave a mark , we have to sit at the top table with my father in the morn—"

He had promised El that he would tell her his secret when they'd been married forty years, but here, sitting by the fire in the Great Hall, surrounded by warmth and plenty, the proof of his devotion to this life wheezing out the sweetest little snores a babe could make, he was tempted to break that oath and confess all.

There was something about the Twelvetide that encouraged confession, even now as a Protestant celebration, without a confessional to be had in a Catholic church.

"Enough," El gasps at length, pink-cheeked and panting prettily. "We have work to do, and if you wake Robyn I will be very cross with you."

The elder Giffords had left their daughter and son-in-law, with their youthful energy, to finish the kissing boughs before Christmas morning. It was well on midnight now, the feeble light from the rush-tapers dwindling and the fire in the big stone hearth beginning to fade to nothing but toasty-red coal. It was just the right sort of fire for toast.

Hob says as much.

"It is always one appetite or another with you," El huffs with a roll of her eyes, but rises. "I shall go to the kitchen, but I will share not a morsel with you when I return if these last boughs are not woven when I return. And do not throw the remaining greenery into the fire to make it look like you finished, Robert Gadlen," she scolds, catching him thinking that very thing. "There are to be twelve Crowns of Green, and I know how to count."

Hob plucks the hem of her skirt off the furs, and brings it to his lips for a revenant kiss. "As my Queen commands." 

She frees herself with a smirk and an imperious tug, and sways away to the kitchen.

"There, Robyn my lad," Hob says to his son, who has opened his dark eyes just long enough to take in the spectacle of Hob's oath. "That is how you keep your wife happy. Learn the art from me, my fine wee apprentice, and you will make of me a very indulgent and biddable grandfather in no time at all."

Robyn smacks his lips, clearly unimpressed with his father's training, and returns to sleep.

Hob is in the process of tying off the ribbons of the final garland when El returns with a napkin bundle consisting of a fresh bottle of wine, an old loaf of bread, and a tiny pot of new butter. 

Hob prefers old butter, likes the tangy burst of salt on his tongue, and his darling wife knows this. As such, she has also nicked one of the leftover bundles of sea salt that are meant to be gifts for her father's servants at his annual St. Stephan's feast, so Hob can powder his toast as he likes.

This is what love is, he muses, as he cuts them slices of bread with his belt-knife, and El retrieves the toasting forks from their hook by the hearth. Old bread, and stolen salt, a sneaky taste of butter before the advent fast is officially over, and a babe sleeping with his little milk-pout mouth gaping open like a little boor.

As Hob threads the bread onto the fork tines, and holds them carefully over the coals, El busies herself by tidying up the leftover sprigs of greenery. Bringing the winter growth indoors to remind the world that no winter lasts forever, that life persists and waited under the snow even now, is a tradition older than Hob himself.

He's seen Twelvetide traditions come and go, but this one persists, as immutable and comforting as knowing that in a year ending with eighty-nine, Hob's Stranger will be waiting for him.

It is nice to be younger than something.

El bundles her posy of leftover holly and mistletoe, finishing it with a crimson-red ribbon, then stands and dangles it over his head to coax a kiss out of Hob. He leans back against her legs, tips his chin up obligingly, and lets her fold down to meet him.

"If you continue to distract me, I will burn the toast, dearest wife," Hob murmurs into her mouth.

"That would be a waste," El agrees. She releases Hob to his duties, but does not relinquish the posy.

They eat toast, and brush away the crumbs and butter grease on the napkin, and share the bottle of wine between them, and laugh, and whisper in hushed voices. El holds the posy over the moses basket, and they kiss Robyn's fat cheeks. She dangles it over her head, and Hob kisses her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the dear swell of her chin. She loops the ribbon on his belt, and takes him in her mouth. When he has come to his pleasure with his fist jammed in his own mouth to prevent waking the baby, he hooks the posy on her belt and breaks his fast in the cool darkness before the dawn.

In all, they have quite a splendid Christmas morning indeed.

Like her mother before her, El chivvies her boys up to bed before the night grows too light. Robyn wakes long enough to whimper for his own break of fast, and Hob cuddles El up between his legs on the bed so he can hook his chin over her shoulder and watch Robyn's eyelashes flutter as he drinks his fill.

Morning will come soon enough.

The Christmas cake would be served to mark the official end of Advent, Hob's father-in-law would get his eggy pie, and they would all go to church so Eleanor could show off her new son to her old parish. The days of the Saints would be filled with acts of charity, feasting, dancing and delight. Someone would find the Bean in the Bread and be named the Lord of Misrule, and they would play silly games, and drink too much, and wrestle, and jest, and sing. On the Twelveth Night, Hob would gift his wife with the handsome leather-bound notation book he'd commissioned for her, a place for her to record her favorite composition. To Robyn, who was too young to know what presents and Twelvetide were, he would gift a handsome toy duck he'd spent the Advent carving. It had slappy leather feet attached to little wheels with hobnails, which clattered and flapped when one towed it along on a string.

And then the decorations will be removed from the house in order to preserve the good luck accrued through the Twelvetide, and the Gadlens would bid the Giffords a Happy New Year, and tromp home to their estate on the unfashionable south bank. Hob would review the profits for the year with Mr. Fletcher, his steward, and visit his warehouses with a gift of ale and an afternoon's leisure for his dockworkers, and come Candlemas, he'd join his groundsmen in rolling up their sleeves and readying the fields to feed the estate anew on Plough Monday.

But for now, Hob will keep his peace.

Christmas is not a time for such a confession as the one that teased at him.

"Dearest Nell," he says. "Darling Nell. My sweet call to ruination."

"No, no, you brute, stop calling me that," she gasps as he wriggled the three of them down into a comfortable nest of feathered pillows and thick wool blankets.

"My ruin?" Hob asks, mouth resting against her nape as Robyn stretched and unlatched, offering his fist to his father now that his tummy is full and he is ready to be spoiled in other ways.

Eleanor rolls over to hand the baby to Hob to wind.

"That name, you wretched, wretched man," she complains, burying herself into his side as he pats Robyn's bottom obligingly. "Call me Nell again and I shall really make you regret it."

"If that is your command, my queen, my wife, my Eleanor." He kisses her crown, her forehead, her shoulder with each oath. "Sweet El."

He expects her to reply to him with haughty teasing, but when she does not, he shifts Robyn out of the way to look at her face. She is already asleep.

"You see, my wee lad?" Hob whispers to his son. "That is how it is done."

Robyn spits up on his shoulder to show his appreciation for the lesson.

[une-sanz-pluis]

The 'normative' years of Edward III witnessed the establishment of sodomy as the ultimate statement of political unfitness. Inheriting this aspect of gendered monarchy, among many others, Richard II was made to fit into an interpretative scheme that had been created over the course of many decades. Many of the charges from the Lancastrian period repeat nearly word for word the accusations familiar to us from the 1330s and onward. A fifteenth-century Lincolnshire chronicle, for instance, notes that, after being crowned king, Richard 'immediately, after the manner of Roboam, despising the counsel of the wise, attended to the suggestions of the young. Infatuated by their persuasions he oppressed his native subjects.' [...] Similarly, Adam of Usk writes in his Chronicle that 'this Richard, with his callow counsellors [consilium iuuenum], should more correctly be compared to Roboam … who, because he followed the counsel of youths, lost the kingdom of Israel'. The Kirkstall writer raises the spectre of Edward II when (writing after Richard's deposition) he reports the opinion of 'learned men' that Richard, like Edward of Carnarvon, had spurned the counsel of the greater dukes and lords in 1386, relying instead on the wishes and advice of the young lords and of others of less power and influence.' [...] Like these examples drawn from the Lancastrian propaganda of the early 1400s, the queering of the king in the 1380s and 1390s was accomplished through the invocation of certain stock rhetorical figures and characters - like Roboam, for instance, or like the generic type of the excessively passive young man, or the tyrannically perverse old man. Richard himself assisted in the drawing of his reputation as a deviant by stubbornly invoking the memory of the deviant Edward II: in 1383 the king arranged for his great-grandfather's anniversary to be celebrated each year at Gloucester Abbey, and beginning in 1385 he began to press for Edward's canonization - a course he continued to pursue, unsuccessfully, throughout the 1390s. Unlike Edward Ill's calculated restoration of Edward II's moral reputation, Richard's more vigorous attentions toward his ancestor were politically disastrous insofar as they led more or less directly to the revival of the cult of Thomas of Lancaster, who had been murdered and his inheritance seized by Edward II in 1322. No one in this period actually charged Richard with sodomy. But no one needed to; the cultural discourse of sexual misrule from the 1330s onward was so profound as to serve as a kind of code with which to speak about unnatural politics, and its punishment, while preserving the status of sodomy as the 'unmentionable' sin.

Sylvia Federico, "Queer Times: Richard II in the Poems and Chronicles of Late Fourtheen-Century England", Medium Ævum, vol. 79, no. 1, 2010.

[pangtasias-atelier]

Hey there your back,can you write an modern au of Corrin being roommates with obese Keaton and obese Kaden. Corrin having to live with them results in him gaining weight on his hips and losing mobility in only a year?

I see Corrin request, I go feral ajnjabnsj. Also love seeing the two furrybait lmao. Kinda went crazy with like describing sized instead of much else but this got long lmao so I hope you enjoy it!

Warning: This is a fetish story!

Corrin has no time to grab anything from the fridge to make dinner. Not when his new roommates come up from behind him. 

“Why don’t we order out? My treat this time,” Kaden rubs up against Corrin, his massive hips that billow outward pressing into Corrin’s own lithe limbs.

“Yeah! And I’ll get the dessert,” Keaton on the other side of Corrin, he wedges him in between the two of them. His large sagging gut bulges out in front of him and to the sides.

Corrin’s face is a flushed red. In between the two massive men, he has no form of escape. “I… Well we’ve been eating out for the past week,” Corrin speaks up. Looking at himself, he stares at the small bubbling bundle of flab that is his belly, the bad habits of his new roommates already heavily affecting him despite only being a week in to living with them.

“And? Ordering out beats cooking,” Keaton belches, the meaty sounding burp sounding out for  several seconds from his light snack half an hour ago. Keaton pulls Corrin away, his large, flabby hand wrapped around the far thinner man’s wrist.

Kaden follows behind the two. His ass wobbles with each step he takes, the two ponderously sized thighs that have reportedly been the reason for a much wider door—a story that Corrin takes to heart with both Kaden and Keaton’s weight—struggle to make much movement, especially anything halfway passing for graceful or quick. “We’re still celebrating you moving in,” For all his weight, Kaden still manages to give Corrin one final push on to the couch. 

“I guess,” Corrin stays in his spot. His face still shows off the bright little streak of faint red on his cheeks despite his supposed complaining. Seated at the very center of the couch, the furniture still has ample enough room for several other occupants.

Most of the room quickly goes away from the 600 pound lardass of a wolfskin on Corrin’s right. “Ahh,” Keaton sighs. He rubs his gut, the pile of flab easily giving from the pressure of his thick, fattened fingers. 

It only takes a couple of minutes for dinner to arrive. Kaden already prepared, he grabs the multiple bags of food from the all too accustomed delivery man who doesn’t even bat an eye upon seeing the 600 pound kitsune that’s dressed only in shorts that hide none of his flabby rolls. “Hoshidan takeout. Just how you like it,” Kaden plops the several bags onto the low, wide table that’s right in front of the couch.

The other side of open space next to Corrin is taken up by another fattass. Kaden wastes no time in propping open a couple of boxes and digging in. His large breasts make a great table for his box, the two meaty tits larger than the container is. 

Corrin takes a moment longer than the other two men, but the passing moment is only brief before he too starts to eat at the feast in front of him. Being squeezed in between so much fat by two men alone still leaves Corrin surprised at the sensation. A nice sensation, he thinks. 

The three men tear through the bevvy of take out boxes in front of them as the tuned out sound of the television playing some sort of rerun for the countless time. The same is true for their daily routine, another day lazing about and eating on the couch happening for the eighth day in a row.

Despite having to deal with just over 1400 pounds of man fat, the couch does its very best to deal with the staggering weight without a single complaint. Kaden on the left side of the couch, the obese kitsune has an hourglass figure at his size, well as close as one can get with his still substantial gut from weighing slightly above 600 pounds back when Corrin had just moved in. His large thighs stretch out the thin strap of fabric for shorts. The taut fabric meant to be a deep, royal shade of blue is now a lighter shade with how taut it is. Especially with his ass that juts out behind him and stretches out the fabric, his ass also slipping out the waistband of them. His thighs are large enough to struggle with any chair meant for thin, regularly sized people. The two massive tree trunk sized thighs are pushed up against each other as much as they can be with all his own blubber in the way. His breasts larger than any women’s, Kaden’s large rack manages to sit on top of his large gut despite the size of his tits. They begin to creep over the edge of his gut and play slightly down the flabby hill of his stomach. Keaton on the right side of the couch, the also 600 pound, obese wolfskin sports most of his heft in his enormous gut that blankets his thighs and anything else that gets in its way. The large pile of lard has nothing in the way of clothes to obstruct it, not when keaton only wears a scantily tight pair of shorts that bulges from his fat pad. The upper rolld of lard that makes up his fat pad pushes past the waistband, sweaty rolls of lard making contact with the lower, hidden underside of his gut. Keaton’s stomach takes up the majority of his lap, all space needed to accommodate such a fine, hefty piece of meat. Keaton’s breasts also have a sizable amount of fat in them; his large chest has no definition to it anymore, the two tits splay down both sides of his gut to touch his large love handles when seated. His large, flabby arms practically use his breasts as a cushion with how much both body parts jut out in all directions. Keaton’s thighs and ass still struggle with his shorts despite his large top-heavy shape.

And Corrin, well Corrin is an absolute twig compared to the two of them. Even compared to just one of the obese, gluttonous pigs for me, Corrin is the model of healthy eating and fitness. And with him wedged in between the two men—an increasingly common occurrence—he is nothing more than the daintiest tree branch ready to snap off next to two full grown trees, even after his noticeable weight gain from just a week’s worth of living with them. Always the thinnest, most svelte man in any room from his lithe figure, Corrin still holds the title next to Kaden and Keaton even while sporting a small tummy from his constant binging from the two bad habits that he now lives with; a tummy that now presses against the tight, non stretch material of his shirt, the slightest hint of his creamy skin visible with a small bit of pudge that peeks out of his black tee. And his shorts also struggle against his extra weight. Corrin still wears his workout shorts, probably in some vain hope and thought that he’ll work off the extra bit of weight, despite having never done anything more than walking around the house before Kaden and Keaton cajole him into gorging with them. Corrin’s lower half already takes well to his extra girth. His two thighs that were already pretty notable from genes and some extra guidance with his workouts are now flabby; the two legs have a sizable amount of blubber encasing them. Though his shorts fit him fine for the most part, the only issue arriving when he puts them on or takes them off, getting them past his perky bubble butt that’s gotten flabbier and larger along with his legs. 

And despite his increased weight, or perhaps even because of it, Corrin still indulges with Kaden and Keaton. He tears into the food in front of him with gusto. He only thinks about the wonderful belly rubs and insistence on eating even more food he’ll get from the two far more obese men by the time the most likely tubs of ice cream for dessert finally arrive.

————————

“Bouurghp…” Corrin lets out a small burp. Reclining in his own personal chair now, Corrin pats and rubs his paunch as he digests his meal. Already well influenced by Kaden and Keaton, he no longer resembles his former self. Especially when he’s managed to put on more than 200 entire pounds of nothing but lard in just three months of living with the two men. 

The largest recipient of Corrin's gorging and feasting is his hips and ass. The two wide legs spread out on the armchair, the now 400 pound, wide Corrin taking up the entire expanse of the chair with his thighs pressed up against the armrests. Corrin's shorts are now replaced with a larger pair, multiple pairs purchased as he simply got fatter and fatter. His preference for fight fitting clothes continues to work in his favor, the shorts immensely tight with Corrin not having bought a new pair in some time. His shorts especially struggle with covering up his ass. The two bountiful curves that make up his large rump spill out his shorts, the flabby bits of his ass that is covered squished underneath the stretchy fabric. His stomach also having grown from his habits, the gut droops onto his lap, the lowermost layer of flab just barely creeping up onto his lap and sinking into the crevice of blubber where his two large thighs press up against each other. Especially with no shirt to keep his gut contained, Corrin adopting the same dress code as his roommates along with their eating habits. Corrin's moobs have little shape or definition to them anymore. The two flabby breasts relax right on his gut as he leans back. Corrin keeps his arms to the side after eating his meal. His biceps that are filled out with flab press up against his gut while they rest on the armrests.

"I hope you're ready for your after dessert snack," Kaden smiles from the comfort of the couch. The obese kitsune gropes himself after enjoying his usual dinner, the messy remnants of plates and boxes still littering the living room. 

The couch is half empty, the entire right half of the massive furniture barren with Keaton currently standing up. "You're going to eat everything I give you, you hear? Especially after you did it for Kaden yesterday. Not that I care," Keaton huffs. His tail still wags behind him despite the small frown on his face Keaton carries an entire gallon of gainer shake; his lips still are smattered with the remnants of his own smaller portion.

Unlike Corrin, the two men have gained only a small amount of weight, the extra dozen pounds rather negligible on the two lard asses. Corrin's weight staggering, and also enjoyable to see the twink absolutely blimp out, the two men have been focusing on fattening him up. And incredibly happy to see the results, Corrin fat enough now to no longer be able to sit on the couch with them from there no longer being enough room for all three of them.

"I- of course I will," Despite the usual flush of embarrassment on his face, Corrin tries to keep his calm. His nerves still get the best of him sometimes even if he is enjoying himself, the dragon still retaining some of his embarrassment even after becoming more confident with two great examples in front of him.

Keaton grins as he brings the overwhelmingly large volume of gainer shake to Corrin's mouth who all too eagerly chugs the forcefully tilted liquid with some muffled moans sounding out in between each heavy, viscous swallow, both Keaton and Kaden watching just as eagerly.

————————

Keaton at the diligent workers bustling in and out of the massive garage.

The extra room currently going through renovations, what had originally been touted and lauded as an amazing steal with the property that can fit three whole cars is now getting fitted with actual flooring and insulated so that the air conditioning can get taken care of soon with the encroaching deadline. 

The deadline being Corrin's weight, the dragon continuing to blimp out with even more lard as the weeks turn to months. 

Everyone in town used to Kaden and Keaton—two massive men who constantly ordered enormous quantities hard to ignore when every restaurant spoke of them—an additional lardass living with them seemed more like an inevitability than anything, though everyone had expected Keaton and Kaden to be the larger ones. But, everyone already prepared for it, the renovations are almost done after just over two weeks. And the extended time spent around Keaton and Kaden shows on the workers' figures, all of them sporting a small belly to a hefty paunch now. 

Keaton making sure that everything is as planned, Kaden is inside along with Corrin. The two in Corrin's room, the three fourths of a tonnage really cramps up the room. 

"Oh look at you! You're so hungry today," Kaden smirks down at Corrin. He does his best to straddle Corrin, lard smothering lard, while he feeds him. 

Corrin on his bed—the mattress all by itself with the frame removed long ago from the men's weights—he nods with half lidded eyes. "I want more," Corrin huffs after failing to nod properly with his tire for a neck. 

Underneath Kaden, Corrin's immense body is still apparent next to the now 700 pound kitsune. Corrin weighing one hundred pounds above Kaden, the dragon still manages to hold onto the last vestiges of mobility from his draconic strength. But even with his minimal capability for movement, occupying so much space and being filled out with so much lard still makes moving difficult. Especially with his enormous, tremendous thighs. The morbidly obese dragon carries so much of his weight in his thighs. The two thighs struggle with chairs, the fatass needing four chairs now to withstand his width. His broad thighs spread out on the bed, nearly taking up the entire width by his own enormity alone. His legs over encumbered with lard, his rolls of thigh fat already seep down over his knees, the bloated joints losing their definition. His calves are in the same situation, the bloated limbs like tires of flab that make up his legs and creep onto his ankles. He no longer wears shorts at all anymore, the time and effort to get a suitable pair far too much when he simply outgrows each and every article of clothing like nothing. Corrin's ass gives him extra height, the two enormous ass cheeks rising up despite being spread out and smothered underneath the rest of him. Corrin's ass no longer has the same shape to them, the sagging multiple handfuls of ass fat spreading out. His gut rests on his thighs with him lying down. Though the width of it can't compare to his massive thighs, the large gut still unable to cover it all. His bountiful breasts splay down both sides of his enormity.

Corrin opens his mouth expectantly and is rewarded with more snacks shoved into his mouth. 

"Unfortunately, that's all I have for you. You're going to have to wait a little while longer," With a final pat, Kaden climbs off of Corrin, having to slowly maneuver himself with two gelatinous men sloshing on top of each other.

The heavy footsteps mingled with just as heavy footsteps cue the two men to Keaton's return. Multiple bags in his arms, at least five in each, Keaton easily walks through the widened doorway to Corrin's room. "Food's here. And garage is all good to go for AC once that's taken care of. Your new room is almost ready fatass," Keaton smirks.

The room feels much more cramped with three men who weigh more than an entire ton combined. But none of them care with the presence of more food. 

No space for more furniture besides Corrin's bed—and the living room where they all spend the most time—the two 700 pound men rest on both sides of the bed. Bags littered around them, the sounds of crinkling plastic and containers popped open fill the room as they feed themselves and Corrin like clockwork.

————————

The house cleaner than it has been in quite some time, the entire kitchen is completely covered in sealed food, ready to be devoured. And yet, it's all only for three men.

"Do you think this is enough?" Kaden can't help but fret. Though such a special occasion does call for concern from most people, especially when both him and Keaton have planned it for over an entire month now. 

"It probably is, but I'm going to want more. And so are you," Keaton's arms are crossed as he inspects enough food to even make everyone who knows the three men stunned beyond belief, especially when more food is already ordered to be delivered later throughout the entire rest of the day

"Yup! Well, we might as well start with breakfast. Corrin should be waking up soon," 

The two heavy set men waddle their way to Corrin’s new room, the space formerly the garage. They leave all of the food that is meant to be their post breakfast dessert in the kitchen. They enter the room one by one, no doorway equipped to handle them walking side by side, or Corrin by himself for that matter.

Corrin rests on his back completely. The once twiggy dragon fully no longer resembles himself before moving in with Kaden and Keaton. He rests on a Nohrian-King sized bed. Two of them, actually. He has more than enough to grow with the two mattresses shoved together; which is something he desperately needs with how he voraciously devours everything that’s given to him and still able to complain and whine for more. The extra space on his makeshift bed also gives some room for his roommates to rest with him, more than enough room still available even with the three men on it together. 

Corrin still asleep, the immobile man loudly snores away. Resting on his back—moving Corrin only possible with the assistance from the system of levers and tarps from the ceiling—his entire engorged, bloated figure puffs into the air as he continues to dream away. The truck-sized dragon’s flab billows out in all directions, Corrin having a very distinct lack of shape besides round. Corrin weighs more than Kaden and Keaton combined now; the ridiculously fat man’s weight careening closer and closer to an entire ton of lard from his unrepentant, unabashed gluttony. His gut is far from the largest thing on him, but even that piece of meat weighs enough to nearly rival his roommates’ weight. The tank for a gut rests atop his expansive body like melted butter. His stomach is divided up into multiple sections from his weight, each bit of his sagging gut filled with rolls big enough that require more than a single person to properly hold and grab. Corrin’s breasts currency splay forward with him lying down on his expansive back that’s broad enough to be wider than he is tall at this point. His large chest is larger than anyone else's; the two large jugs resemble someone's gut from their sheer size now. Corrin’s multiple tiers that make up his tire like neck thankfully stop his breasts from resting on his face. Corrin’s enormous neck is made up of multiple rolls from his neck along with the several sagging chins he’s gained. Corrin’s face is absolutely cherubic now, the ovular shaped face bulging out from his porcine jowls that jiggle just as he breathes now. Even corrin’s shoulders are rounded out from his weight. The two doughy shoulders lack any shape to them just like his massive arms, the two limbs swollen and looking like a flabby stack of tires more than an actual limb. His biceps larger than a tree trunk now, the oozing fat bulges out to swallow his elbow and most of his forearm that does the same to his wrist and hands, the over swollen digits lacking any sort of flexibility now. Not that he needs it when he has two doting caretakers to feed and fatten him up. But the most staggering part of Corrin is his lower half. Each thigh rivals Keaton’s and Kaden’s own enormity, Corrin’s entire lower half larger than the two men standing together. His thighs are composed of a staggering amount of rolls, each bit of hefty lard sagging onto itself and its lower rolls. The entire length of Corrin’s legs are inundated with overlapping bits of lard. His ankles are overblown from all the lard; his feet sink into his cankles from his weight, Corrin unable to move them as well. Despite how far apart Corrin has his legs—the two table sized thighs sticking out from underneath his blanketing gut that can’t match the enormity of his lower half—the fat from his thighs still stick and touch each other all the way down to his feet. Corrin’s ass gives him a sizable amount of lift as it’s squished underneath him. The two mounds of ass fat are absolutely immense. The fat that makes up his rear gives him a couch sized ass that can be used as seating like the rest of his mattress sized body.

Corrin still snores away as Kaden and Keaton are a mess of huffs and wheezes, the two 700 pounders gaining some extra weight themselves. Walking back and forth into the garage to organize all the food—with the help of half a dozen delivery men who never once showed any sort of shock at their size or even Corrin’s—the two men need a well deserved rest. Waddling up to Corrin, both of them let themselves fall down onto the mattress. The cool air blowing in from the AC thankfully keeps them all a nice temperature, the chilling air able to help with so much fat heating up the space.

“Whaaht'sh hahhppened?” Corrin wheezes out as he wakes up. His speech is mumbled from all the fat on his cheeks. His eyes slowly flutter open, the near noon wakeup time early for him with how long he binges into the night. A banner taped to the ceiling, placed directly so he could read it, it takes his fuzzy brain a while to process the “happy 1 year’” text displayed. “Ha-hahppy ahnniveershaary…” Despite his tired state, Corrin is indeed grateful for the time spent with Kaden and Keaton. “Shooryy, I’m,” He groans. His stomach thankfully finishes the rest of his sentence for him, the mass of fat rumbling with hunger. 

“Nah, you just need to fill up that tank of yours first. Good thing we got just the thing for you,” Keaton also tired, he gropes Corrin’s fat as he rests against him like a pillow, a pillow that weighs more than twice his weight that is. 

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it! We got you a cake to celebrate you living with us for a year. We also got you a special present,” Kaden reaches underneath his right breast and pulls out a small remote. Only a few buttons on the remote, he presses the largest one.

The sound of whirring coming from behind him, Corrin is unable to shift his head around to look at it right away. He does get a small look at it as the machine comes to life and inserts a feeding tube into his mouth.

“We did get you a four tiered cake but we thought this would be easier,” Keaton gains back some energy upon hearing how Corrin guzzles down his cake, all of it going to him. As he reaches for containers of food to feed himself, he pulls out his own remote and presses the second largest button to speed up his feeding. Afterwards, he greedily digs into his own food.

“There’ll be much more after that. And we’ll make sure to hand feed you some of it too,” Kaden says as he tears into his own several plates of breakfast.

Corrin’s moans begin to sound out in between the churning mushed up cake the feeding tube pours down his throat. “Mhmmh…” Corrin doesn’t even bat an eye or struggle as he hears both Keaton and Kaden press a button, the speed picking up once again. His stomach only rumbles instead, as if daring them to feed him faster. Which they both do, the two pressing the button once more after they each finish their second plate.

“You’re gonna love today, fatass,” Keaton continues to grope Corrin’s fat as he shovels food into his mouth with his free hand. “We’ll make sure you’re too full to want anymore. Got it?” Keaton presses the button multiple times, cranking it up to maximum speed.

“We’ll take good care of you. I’m sure you’d like that too, huh?” Kaden lovingly pats whatever part of Corrin’s immense flab he can reach, all of Corrin impossible to grab with just one free hand. Kaden keeps the feeding tube at its maximum setting.

“Here’s to many more years,” Kaden and Keaton both cheer as they open up another box.

Corrin only moans deeper upon hearing the two obese men, unable to see them but more than able to hear and feel all their own weight pressing up against his titanic lard. He guzzles down his feeding tube faster, only thinking about wanting more food and to get fatter.