#he’s a very jolly lad

[cupophrogs]

You should draw. Uh. The first thing you think of when you read "happy"

Have a silly little clown!

[gallusrostromegalus]

How many people (and who) have accidently sent nudes to the group chat?

One guy tried to digitally flash the Gotei-13 by "accidentally" sending pictures of his genitals to the groupchat with every female member directly @'d, and then pretended to flail around in "OH NO! I HAVE NO IDEA HOW THIS HAPPENED! OH NO! DON'T LOOK I'M SO EMBARRASSED!!" instead of deleting them.

Unfortunately for him, his antics drew the attention of "Single Father Whose Young Child Was Just Exposed To Unwanted Penis" and "Former Best and Most Expensive Whore In The Rukongai Who WILL Tell You About It At Length and girth" Zaraki Kenpachi, who had recently discovered how to use Admin Privileges.

Zaraki promptly locked all Minors out of the main chat, Locked The Offender in, gave everyone an "Opt-out-until-all-clear" link, declared it "Hornyposting Hours" until further notice, and kicked off the Sausage party with images of his own "Sword of Heaven".

As one might imagine, the offender did not compare favorably.

Zaraki then Very Benevolently offered the offender "Constructive Criticism" about the shape, size and twenty-two other characteristics of the offender's genitals, along with suggestions about Best Possible Use and Alternative Techniques to develop, "because you're going to need to".

Chat immediately descended into a Bacchanalia of Dicks, Tits, Ass, and even some exceptionally bold Pussy, cheerfully looking to shame the offender and perhaps catch the attention of The Sword Of Heaven's Wielder. DMs were exchanged, Exceptionally Nuanced discussion of sexuality and consent was had, terrible jokes were jokes made, Memes were created (including the "GOT ANOTHER ONE LADS" Bisexual Zaraki flag), and a Jolly Good Time was had by all (save one) until about 9PM when Zaraki declared that it was a school night and he had to go to bed, go bother the Ninth if you want a hornychat.

Tousen, who works nights to get the papers out in the morning, waking up to the sound of his pager going off like a string of fireworks: "...I'm going back to bed."

[bigfan-fanfic]

The Most Powerful Thing in the World (Mage!Reader x Henry Mills)

Sequel to Pay My Price

Eventually you did have to return to Storybrooke

It had been quite a while, and Henry was missing his mothers, most certainly.

"Your moms... you think they'll like me?"

"They've known you since we were kids."

"Yeah, but... you know what I mean."

"You've been my boyfriend since we were sixteen."

"Okay, fair. I do like them, anyhow. Hopefully nothing changes."

So through the realms you travel until your feet touch asphalt and you inhale the familiar scent of Granny's diner.

"Henry!" His mothers cry immediately, rushing him in a hug.

Emma grins. "Hey, kid! Your hair is pink!"

Henry chuckles. "Yeah, it's a little bit of a curse."

Regina frowns, tilting her head. "A curse? Well, why hasn't Y/N helped lift it?"

"Because I cast it." You chuckle fondly, enduring a bear hug from Emma.

They look at you, eyebrows raised.

"Henry here thought the best way to deal with a strigoi in one of the Woods was to charge in there sword flashing. After I saved his butt, I cursed him with bright hair so he knows how much he stands out."

"I mean, it's a little unorthodox, but it gets the job done." Regina muttered.

"Mom!" Henry protested.

You giggle and nuzzle his cheek. "You know just how to lift the spell."

"Fine, fine. I promise to be more... willing to be discreet."

"Thank you." You kiss him, and a rainbow wave of light spreads from you two, restoring Henry's hair to its natural dark hue.

Emma looks between you two. "So... you two do this often? Little curses and such?"

"Yeah. We're being careful, Mom. It's just... sometimes I can get a little ahead of myself. You remember."

"Yeah." Emma chuckles in spite of herself.

"And Y/N's hexes make me think and remember to be more mindful. Besides, they're never harmful, just memorable. Much like my prince."

You blush. "Your prince, am I?"

Henry smirks. "Moms, we'll catch up for dinner? I think my boyfriend and I need to see to our apartment."

Emma and Regina get the Charmings and Hook together a little later.

"Wow. Henry and his boyfriend are... much more confident." Snow laughs softly.

"I'll say. I caught them snogging on the Jolly Roger. It's been a while since I've had to chase a lovebird off me ship."

David raises an eyebrow. "I thought pirates were all for loving on the ship."

"Yeah, when it's the crew, not a pair of wild young ones."

"So is Henry not part of your crew?" Emma teases.

Hook sighs, realizing he's been trapped. David high fives his daughter.

"Y/N's also taken my teachings to heart and become quite the magician." Regina noticed. "I'm not sure how I feel about their... exuberant hexing."

Emma smirked. "It's... well, I won't say every young love goes through it, but similar. I like that they keep things fresh."

Snow smiles. "Henry's a good man. And he's about to make a fine king. Y/N's good for him, to keep him grounded and centered."

"Yeah, the lad needs someone to make sure he doesn't get too big for his sails."

"That reminds me, has anyone given the kid the shovel talk yet?" David chuckles.

Snow shoots him a look, then smirks. "If anyone's gonna need a shovel talk, it's Henry."

"What is that supposed to mean?" Regina says, offended, before Emma interrupts.

"Let's just get ready for a family dinner. I'm not spoiling anything, but... I'm pretty sure Henry's planning to ask a very important question."

And the group moves as one to set the table at Regina's house, eager to greet Henry and you...

And to welcome you to their family, officially.

[bansheeboyy]

Smoking. A terrible habit. Bad for your health. Bad for society. Bad bad bad. There was plenty of anti-smoking campaigns in the UK, from childhood onwards you were drilled in the dangers of smoking, how addictive it was, its horrible side effects. And it worked. The number of young people who smoked in adulthood was one of the lowest in Europe.

The Anti-Smoking & Vaping League - an unofficial and legally frowned-upon group of vigilantes - didn't think that was good enough. The number of young men loitering around parks, lighting up ciggies and having a jolly old time really ticked them off. These two scallies were caught on a bodycam of one of their members after he politely informed them of the dangers of smoking, and of the pungent odour of their smoke in a public park. One lit up another cig in response, the other gave him the middle finger! Although ego-bruised and purturbed, the ASVL member made sure he'd got them on film and returned to HQ. He was certainly going to volunteer these two hooligans for a Smoking Deterrence Session. Hmmmph!

And, alas, his petition was successful. A few days later and these two pals were tied side by side, their flashy trainers and white slazenger socks removed and set to one side, as their feet were relentlessly tickled. You see the Anti-Smoking League had discovered a very interesting thing: most young men were very, very ticklish, and had very ticklish feet. Such a vulnerability, they realised, could be used to deter smoking even further.

Unluckily for these two chaps they certainly fell into the ticklish category, and their brutish demeanour crumbled under the deft, wiggling fingers of the ASVL. Poor sods. Like most lads they didn't realise how exposing it feels to be stripped of your footwear and socks, and to have your bare feet be taken out of your control. For the duration of their torment their ticklish soles were the sole ownership of the ASVL. They were tickled without mercy or pity, until they pledged to stop smoking, to agree to monthly checks that their nasty habit was truly curbed. If they were spotted so much as near a pack of ciggies, they were told, they'd be taken back here for another, even longer session of re-education, one in which nothing they could promise would be listened to at all. At those words both lads hollered their capitulation with pleading desperation.

Luckily for the park warden who reported the two hooligans he was able to get involved in their session, and he was certain to teach Mr Middle Finger a very ticklish lesson. By the end, he was even more wrecked than his extra ticklish friend thanks to the focused torture. It never got old to see two cocky lads knocked down a few pegs. As always their socks were confiscated so that when they got home and kicked off their trainers they'd look down and see the bare feet that had just been tickled like never before. Still exposed. Still vulnerable. A psychological reminder of the consequences should they ever smoke again.

Both lads never touched cigarettes again in their lives.

[thegildedbee]

Journey: May 30 Prompt from @calaisreno

This latest chapter and the previous ones are here at ao3.

(I'm a bit distant at this point from May, I know! . . . and there's one more prompt still to go, but then I'll finally be caught up with everyone else :-) ..................................................... As the train moves through the wintered fields, stations shuttered long ago flicker past, punctuated bits of expired time. An hour out from London, they begin to slow on the approach to Swindon, coming to a stop in a four-minute flurry of going and coming. Gathered round the door are a dozen or so lads in football kit with red dragons across their chests, waiting for the woman and the little boy who had been a few seats down from John to step off from the carriage. They scramble aboard, noisily pleased with having won their match, bringing in a blast of cold air that reaches in and chills John underneath his neck. They muck about as they jostle each other, eventually more or less coordinating their sprawls amongst extra rows of seats beyond what's necessary, some of them popping up to take selfies and shoot videos.

A faint smile whispers and shuts in an instant across John’s face at their exuberance, and he plugs his earphones into his mobile. He dithers about what to listen to, finally settling on a playlist that comes up after he types “welsh music” into the search bar, and then closes his eyes and slackens against the back of his seat as the train pulls away from the station and they resume their journey.

He’s vaguely bemused by young people's social media, especially their attachment to filming their lives; quite different from people his age, who've never been much fussed about having a camera to hand. He does regret, though, that he doesn’t have many photos of Sherlock; he always felt he needed to be surreptitious about taking shots, as if doing it in plain view would disturb their balancing act as flatmates. There are two amongst the small number that he likes very much: one of Sherlock facing the window while playing his violin, sunlight bringing out coppery glints in his dark curls; a second of him laid out on the sofa, allegedly in his mind palace, but actually taking a kip like an ordinary mortal. He doesn’t think Sherlock knew that he had a small set of photos – they were transferred to his laptop and sequestered several levels down inside a folder titled “Household Chores”– but since the git seemed to think that whatever was John’s, was his as well, he wouldn’t be surprised if somehow Sherlock had come across them one day when he was poking his nose about where he shouldn’t.

That thought begets another (didSherlockevertakeanypicturesofJohn?) although he decides to duck out from under that one straight off and leave it behind.

As the soft, plaintive reverberations of a pavane-like harp play inside his head, he recalls with chagrin how he jollied Sherlock into attending the media events that occurred in that last span of their time together. Clients had wanted to thank Sherlock for his successful efforts on their behalf: the rub was that they wanted to do so in front of the press. There was an auction house director for whom he’d retrieved a stolen painting worth nearly two million quid, and the big cheese banker who had been kidnapped, and then rescued by the detective.

The amount of interest Sherlock had in attending these: nil.

But he eventually complied, as he usually did when John asked him to do something; that hadn’t meant, however, that he’d play nicely. He had been cuttingly deductive, peevishly stating at the first event that the gift box held out to him contained diamond cufflinks – adding dismissively, “all my cuffs have buttons!” – and offering a similar pronouncement at the second, giving the box a shake and sharing the reveal – “tie pin!" – adding dismissively: “I don’t wear ties.”

John had intervened, correcting and redirecting Sherlock to concede to propriety and conform to convention, saying pointedly to the auction house director: “He means thank you,” to which Sherlock had snarked, “Do I?” to be countered by John pushing back: "Just say it.” In the second event he just gave it up as a bad job, and . . . shushed him.

The regular way of their world, right? Sherlock being an arse, John trying to save his arse.

As time had passed, however, John had begun to think that his attitude had been flirting at condescension, in a way that hadn’t been there at the start of their work together. When had he shifted to focusing on Sherlock as being deficient as a human being in social situations, as opposed to seeing Sherlock’s idiosyncrasies as indicative of degrees of comfort (or not) with those he perceived as outsiders?

To be fair, Sherlock’s disdain for the gifts was defensible: he didn’t sport the posh affectation of cufflinks for every day; nor had he ever been seen to wear a tie. If it was “the thought that counts,” then the thought appeared to be that, beyond his utility, Sherlock-as-individual was a human-as-null-placeholder.

In being thrust into the spotlight, abetted by John, Sherlock had been diverted from his own circumspect path, onto the one controlled by the ravening press, where it was they who decided on the right of way, whether there was safe passage to be had, and, if so, at what cost.

What if, in running interference in a way that placed John close to the side of propriety and conformity, he’d instead put his thumb on the scale for Sherlock?

It might have gone perhaps something like this: [Sherlock speaks] [John: subtle nudge, subtle nudge] [John (sotto voce): “What a wanker, eh?”] [Sherlock smiles at John] [John smiles at Sherlock] [John and Sherlock are pleased with themselves, and each other, two-of-a-kind people who laugh together at crime scenes, without giving a hang about proper decorum] [Sherlock feigns politeness] [Social order is maintained . . . a bit].

And, actually, for whose benefit were these thank-you events? Looking back with a skeptical eye, John sees them now as highlighting the givers: it was the poncy auction house director and the illustrious banker who were preening in front of the cameras – Sherlock was a pretext, surplus to requirements. Neither of the worthies needed to stage a press availability to thank Sherlock: appreciation could have been conveyed privately.

The simp of an art dealer, smarmily posing beside the “masterpiece by Turner,” with Sherlock off to the other side, while the public relations cameraman snapped images suitable for public distribution. Turning that skeptical eye on the whole scenario, the painting would now command likely a doubled sold-at-auction price, given the publicity and the story surrounding it having juiced up the intangibles that make up any artwork’s value on the open market.

The self-important banker, posed on the stairs within the embrace of his loving family – several steps higher than the detective, turfing him out onto the pavement. The journos gossiping that Mr. Something-or-Other-in-the-City was ready to climb the greasy pole, to one day get himself slotted in as Chancellor of the Exchequer, a launching pad for Prime Minister, as Major, Brown, and Sunak had done. Among the side effects of the kidnapping as media spectacle had been the boost it had given to the financier’s perceived significance, valor, and . . . name recognition.

John’s mind is expletive-strewn as he speculates how it was that these Sherlockian triumphs were choreographed by the hand of the consulting criminal, who likely pulled off a doubled win: had he inveigled the auction house to allow its painting to be stolen, and the aspiring government minister to allow himself to be kidnapped? (And therefore pocketed a tidy fee for the planning and execution of these gambits?) These events set in motion by him toward achieving the objective of setting up Sherlock to be sucked into the publicity maelstrom, as the “hero detective” became giddily glorified by the press? The bastard had probably even conspired with the unscrupulous publishing baron, Magnussen, to stage-manage the journalistic hue and cry to his specifications.

The ramping up of the press frenzy was the piece de resistance: all the fawning adulation naming Sherlock as a hero pivoted on using the Met as a foil, painting them as hapless and ineffectual, turning the table upside down by portraying them as the true amateurs, and Sherlock as a professional disguised as an amateur. Sherlock's overnight overnight celebrity ensured that his detractors at Scotland Yard would become ever more enraged at Sherlock’s existence, increasing their seething resentment and desire to take him down. The deerstalker was the Yard’s I.O.U.

John allows that he may be on the verge of losing himself in the land of the paranoid, but he wonders if Moriarty even stage-managed the thank-you events himself, through a word in the ear of those in charge, ensuring the planting of certain details. To wit, Moriarty, in his Vivienne Westwoods and beyond-bespokes: his shirts were fastened with cufflinks, his always-tied-up self flaunted tie pins. Moriarty knew that eventually Sherlock would wonder if these two data points were taunts that meant Moriarty was lurking just beyond view. And Moriarty would have felt as blissed-out at Sherlock’s sartorial humiliation as his target would have felt beleaguered, cursed as he was forevermore to be crowned by the misbegotten deerstalker in press photos.

He suspects now that Moriarty had drilled down into John’s psychology with a cleverness equal to his emotional profiling of the public, the press, and the Met, and had foreseen that he could steer John into unknowingly working with him, prompting him into facilitating Sherlock being fed into the maw of the beast by providing a platform that tapped into John’s desire to see Sherlock get his due in public.

As twisted as the maggot was, he seemed to know more about John’s and Sherlock’s emotional landscapes than perhaps they did themselves.

What had Moriarty known about John and Sherlock, the each of them? What had Moriarty known about the two of them together? And when? And why had they been blindsided?

............................... p.s. The shooting script at the BBC for S2E3 uses the term "auction house" at one point, and I've used that tiny blip for my between-the-lines jumping off point use of "canon" here, in case anyone wonders :-)

......................................

@calaisreno @totallysilvergirl @friday411 @peanitbear @original-welovethebeekeeper

@helloliriels @a-victorian-girl @keirgreeneyes @starrla89 @naefelldaurk

@topsyturvy-turtely @lisbeth-kk @raina-at @jobooksncoffee @meetinginsamarra

@solarmama-plantsareneat @bluebellofbakerstreet @dragonnan @safedistancefrombeingsmart @jolieblack

@msladysmith @ninasnakie @riversong912 @dapetty

.............................................................................

[nrdmssgs]

Can you do a soap fic where a new girl gets transferred and she’s also a sergeant and she’s short and really bitchy, soap flirts with her and she never fails to reply within an insult or a snarky comment?

Masterlist Pairing: SoapXReader TWs: no AN: I took forever, I know, sorry.

The first thing, you thought of, seeing how people gather around Soap, how attentively they catch every bit of phrase covered with thick accent, how eager are they to become part of the next mischief, his mind plotting, is a Kelpie. By no means you were superstitious, but you remember well, what your granny told you: these Scottish demons are nothing but deception, temptation and constant shapeshift, hiding under calm water surface and dragging anyone, reckless enough to trust them, to the depths of cold northern lakes.

You had enough of 'shape-shifters': you were fed up with friendly looking lads, being all sweet around you, only to find out your soft spots and use them against you. So when his smile sparkles too close to your secluded corner of a bar counter - you frown automatically

"Oi, wee-one, what are you doing here all alone, while all the fun happens elsewhere?" That shit eating grin is too familiar. It only portends lies and mockery.

"Daydreaming of your smooches, Sergeant." You know, this man will start flirting with you today sooner or later: after all, he always does. So instead of fearing it coming - you decide on leading this train wreck.

"A'm sa-a-a-a-ae flattered." Johnny can speak British, very much so, when he needs it. But he must be too used to everyone falling for his accent. So he decides to torture your fogged mind with his gibberish.

"And a`m sa-a-a-a-ae lying." You can't hold back a little aping to make this moment even more harsh for him. But that'll teach him.

From your very first day on the base, this man decided, that his holy duty from now on was to haunt you with his flirtatious comments and stupid jokes. You ignored him once, then twice... on his fifth 'strike' you decided, you had enough and fought back. None of Johnny's line remained unanswered by you ever since.

Your rebuffs usually helped for some time. Today it won you fifteen minutes of peace. Because after that Soaps face reappears on the horizon with a jolly 'Anyway, Sg, hae any plans for t`night?'

"Oh, I have one plan, buddy. The first part of it is to not share the other part with the people, I don't want anywhere around me. So lemme guess, this is the moment, you are asking me about the second part?" You talk loud enough, so that not only Johnny, but the whole group of dumbheads enamored by him, hears you.

"I guess, nae, but if you want me to... What's with the second part?" Slowly but surely the damned accent leaves his speech.

"I can't, love, I'm tied up by the first part." Any person, not familiar with Soap would shame you for such a strong reaction. But you knew better, and soon he only proved you right.

"So someone is into restraining? Ah kin just happen tae know a thing or twa aboot this..." You are in mere seconds from snapping right back at him, but he manages to switch your attention to some completely unrelated question.

And just like that you lose concentration for a moment only to find yourself walking down the street with MacTavish and his company. His speech is all honey and velvet with notes of cheerful laughter. Man shouldn't possess so much charm - it is simply unfair. Yet, here he is - all bubbly and so tempting and warm.

Your group turns onto a quiet road, lit by one streetlamp. "Hey, look up!" calls the voice of one of the soldiers, and you lift your head. There is a soda can on the flat lid of the lantern. God only knows how it got there. You're not even surprised when Johnny asks right next to your ear who's ready to knock down the can on the first try. You just turn to him and clarify, “If I do this, can I ask you for anything?”

Soap nods enthusiastically, and before he can add something about the fact that you can always ask him for anything and without any bets, you pick up a pebble from the pavement.

"Watch and learn, Sergeant." You smirk and throw a pebble. The sound of an empty can hitting the asphalt echoes down the street.

Others cheer your victory, when Johnny leans closer and nods with a face of a defeated one.

"Sae what shuid it be, darlin'?"

That smirk. He is trying to look happy even after he lost. Lying scoundrel. Oh, you'll wipe that smirk off his face.

"You seem very proud of your country?" You can't help, but smile, as Soap nods and moves even closer, invading your personal space. So you go on.

"And very proud of that hairstyle of yours... How about we combine your two biggest sources of pride, Johnny." Some soldiers start getting your idea and you hear a few muffled laughs. But Soap doesn't get it till you specify, "Lets paint this mohawk. Blue and white sounds patriotic enough for you, MacTavish?"

If anyone asked you to name the highlight of that day - it was it. Shining smile disappearing from Soaps face, his head ducking, his eyes looking for something under his own boots. He looked lost... But only for a moment.

"Aye. Will need yer help though, wee-one."

For some time, you forget about this evening. Work and duty are quite effective at helping you to put aside any life outside debriefs, trainings and missions. That is, however, only until one late evening, when Soap appears on the threshold of your room with a towel and a pair of tubes of hair dye.

"Sergeant MacTavish keeps his word. Always." These words you hear from a tiny bathroom, where you wash your hands.

He welcomes your return to your room with a bare torso. You try to not look, but one brief glance is enough for his sculpted six-pack, ribs covered with a thin web of scars and tanned broad shoulders to be forever ingrained in your memory. Scoundrel. Seducer. Kelpie. You turn away almost immediately.

"Out of my room. Now!"

"Naw-naw-naw-naw, ye got me wrong! Ah juist dinnae want ma tshirt to get goosed!" He started babbling as quickly as if his life depended on it. So you take a deep breath and nod.

"Ok-ok, calm down!" You come closer to him and brush your fingers through Johnny's dark hair, trying to understand, where should you begin.

It's so strange to see his face not somewhere above, not even on your eye level, but somewhere below. For the first time, you notice the faint freckles on his face, the dark edges of his incredibly blue eyes, the small wrinkles. That all brings you a very strange thought: maybe there are people out there, who know soft and vulnerable Johnny, maybe there are people, whom he will never fail, never betray. You personally can't have a luxury of trusting your colleagues so much as to let them be close to you. But maybe there are people, that trust these eyes and find comfort in these arms.

Your hands fall down. "You know what, Johnny, consider the deed done... To hell ruining your hair, your self-esteem. Forget, we even had this bet, it's stupid."

"Whaaa? Naw, bonnie, it is hilarious! I want this! With ye only! And ah trust ye." He catches your hands and eagerly places them back into his surprisingly soft hair, making sure, your fingers drown in the mohawk fully and touch his scalp. There is not a single note of mockery in his voice - only plea to keep going and trust, endless trust in you - the person, who always had a few sharp words ready for any his attempt to approach you.

You feel guilt stinging you from the inside.

"Ok, I'll do it. But I must warn you - I don't have a single idea, what am I doing. And this will probably turn out ugly."

Soap only keeps nodding, not looking away from your eyes for a moment. His eyes shine with obedience and anticipation.

Not knowing it yet, you are slowly drowning in deep waters, dragged by a Scottish demon. Your very own Kelpie.

[wufflesvetinari]

ok here is a 1k-word preview of Astarion Holiday Son-in-Law Simulator (it will be choose-your-own-adventure once complete and posted to my ao3)

-

You are ULDER RAVENGARD. 

You have safeguarded your city against dragon cultists, Bhaalist incursions, the many-headed hydra of organized crime, and—not a year past—the absurdly apocalyptic attack of the ELDER BRAIN. You withstood the fall of Elturel; survived the Absolute’s parasitic presence in your very soul.

Your maids are fucking giggling at you. 

They flit from room to room, hanging the holly garlands and blown glass baubles traditional of the upcoming MIDWINTER festivities. They paint red stripes on wooden Canes of Frost to symbolize the aging of the year. They pose an effigy of Hroth’s surprisingly jolly and generous servant Saint Claw on the upper landing, a nod to the coming month of Alturiak, known as the Claw of Winter. 

It’s the kind of exquisite holiday detailing expected of Ravengard Manor, home of current Grand Duke WYLL RAVENGARD. Soon to host Baldur’s Gate prestigious MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL. 

But you are ULDER RAVENGARD, and the maids whisper behind their hands when you pass.

Surely this is ASTARION’s doing.

Your son is completely besotted with his fiance, but you can’t figure out the appeal. And the feeling appears mutual: the lad’s taken an inexplicable disliking to you.

Certainly not due to any action of your own.

He communicates to you chiefly in cutting remarks or cheerful anecdotes about killing people. He makes no effort to hide his fangs when lounging about the formal events you host, and he said something deeply heinous about Lady Gemilia’s parrot mere moments before you would have clinched her financial support for the Fist’s new armory. 

He’s spoiled, and petty, and seems chiefly concerned with draining the Ravengard coffers. You are, frankly, at your wit’s fucking end.

You corner a butler about the giggling servants and he mumbles something about the Duke-Consort-To-Be’s generosity with the staff: with the contents of the Ravengard wine cellars, but also—more importantly—with idle gossip. 

With stories gleaned from the new Grand Duke about his father’s youthful indiscretions. Something about the Blushing Mermaid, a monk, and a redcap. 

This cannot stand.

But you are a mature adult—a politician!—who can control his wrathful urges. Surely Astarion can be brought to heel if approached with respect and an open mind. 

Or perhaps it would be wiser to approach Wyll with your concerns. Astarion would certainly accept correction from his fiance.

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH ASTARION LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH WYLL LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

***

>DISCUSS YOUR CONCERNS WITH ASTARION LIKE A MATURE ADULT POLITICIAN

You seek out your future son-in-law after evening falls. He’s lounging about in the darkened greenhouse, sharing a bottle of wine with SNIDE-WHITE-BRAID. 

Snide-White-Braid is one of Wyll’s little friends from that time he saved Baldur’s Gate and also the world. You do not remember her name, but she is frequently in your house drinking your wine. She is either the cleric or the wizard, and you are terrified of having a full conversation with her in case you guess wrong.

Tactically, you ignore her. 

“Ah, Astarion!” you say, as though you frequently visit your greenhouse at night and have only caught him here by chance. “I was hoping to have a word.”

“You were,” Astarion says lightly. He stretches out like a cat on the—you believe the contraption is called a lawn chair, and he had it shipped in from Waterdeep at full expense. He blinks at you languidly. “Well, go on, then.”

You glance at Snide-White-Braid, who raises a dark eyebrow at you. 

“Alone?” you try.

Astarion sighs, a perfect picture of put-upon luxury, and Snide-White-Braid hums in a distinctly judgemental way before leaving the greenhouse. She takes the wine bottle with her. It is, of course, one of the good years. You will not see it again.

Business-like, you sit on the lawn chair beside him. You pick a disarming opening gambit. “Astarion, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot.”

“The wrong foot?” Astarion says, pressing an offended hand to his chest. “Whatever do you mean, father dearest?”

You fight back a full-body shudder. “Don’t—please don’t call me that.”

Astarion shrugs and sips his wine. He continues to recline, leaving you looking awkward and stiff in comparison. 

“I mean that we are very different people,” you try valiantly. “And I can respect difference. Wyll clearly cares about you—”

“Of course he does!” Astarion flutters his eyelashes, and you grow distinctly uneasy. “And he cares so much about you, as well. Even after…well, you know. All that unpleasantness between the two of you.”

“Er,” you say eloquently, your unease only growing. “Yes.” 

“So of course, I have to play nice,” Astarion says, grinning over his glass. “You needn’t fear any aggression from me. Why, I’m just happy to call you family.”

You flounder. “That’s…good to hear? Perhaps, then, we could discuss some smaller matters of—”

“By the way,” Astarion says silkily, placing his glass on the greenhouse floor. “Ser Augustus won’t be coming to the MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL after all. His invitation got mixed up in the mail somehow—instead he received the rather scathing meeting minutes from the Planning Council’s discussion of his budget indiscretions.”

Astarion covers his mouth with his hand, the picture of scandalized. 

You breathe deeply. He’s trying to bait you, the gods know why. But for Wyll’s sake—for your own dignity—you can’t let him.

“The MIDWINTER’S EVE BALL is an important political event,” you tell him calmly. “For Wyll especially, as the new Grand Duke. Ser Augustus’s presence would have been a boon to him.”

“Or at least to the Flaming Fists’ new armory fund,” Astarion says, examining his nails. “Pity.” 

You grit your teeth. “Anything else you’d like to tell me?”

“I’ve changed the main course to venison.”

“Venison? I—Astarion, I am organizing this event. On my son’s behalf.”

“And your son,” Astarion says, his eyes flashing, “prefers venison.”

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Don’t give into his petty games. Don’t let him drag you down into some insane secret war. 

“Be that as it may, venison is a commoner’s dish. I can provide better for him.”

Astarion looks at you coolly. He reaches down to run a finger over the rim of his wine glass.

“Can you?” he says.

He’s not talking about the venison anymore. This is abundantly clear. You see the distaste in his eyes—the dismissal—and embarrassment washes through you.

It’s quickly replaced by rage. How dare he judge your mistakes, when anyone can see that Astarion is a mistake Wyll is in the midst of making? It’s a father’s duty to correct mistakes.

The INSANE SECRET WAR is declared without a word between you.

You lean forward in your chair, eyes alight. “It’s good that we’re getting along so well, for Wyll’s sake. I’d hate for him to sense any discord between us.”

“Quite,” Astarion agrees with a smile. “That sweet man has enough on his mind. You have my word he will never notice an inkling of a problem.” 

“Then we are agreed,” you say.

The TERMS OF ENGAGEMENT are set. Wyll will never learn of the SECRET WAR. The war that, on your honor, Astarion will lose.

Your honor levels are not inconsiderable.

[https-genesis]

nightmare on elm street | 141 x gn! reader

Sypnosis; The rookie is... strange.

Contents; swearing, reader is a psychopath lmao, drabble

there's something unsettling about you.

sure, ghost wore a mask adorned with a well drawn human skull on it, konig from KorTac towered over every man in his squad and others, alexandro from los vaquiros' iron will was unmatched.

you weren't the biggest. you weren't the fastest nor the smartest.

you weren't as big and bad as the other soldiers. so what made you have such an uncomfortable aura?

your sickeningly sweet smile that seemed to stretch to your ears made ghost squint. the way you tiptoed into rooms with not even a sound suprised even konig. the way you managed to guess what alexandro was gonna say before it even left his mouth made him shudder.

☆

it was late. maybe 11:35 at night, most of the squadron was asleep. ghost was never much of a sleeper - not knowing what could attack while he was at his most vulnerable brought back bad memories. he sat quietly outside his tent, joint loosely tucked between his unmasked lips.

"hi ghost."

the latter shot up from his idle position on his stool to pull his mask up after throwing his blunt somewhere further along.

"fuckin' 'ell. ya scared me, rookie."

you grinned. that awful, god forsaken grin. it made your face contort into something strange - almost scary. the smile felt like it came out of one of those trashy horror movies from the 90's. he could tell your cheeks strained from how large it was, and he shifted in his seat.

your head tilted to the side and a silence took over you before you answered.

"sorry, ghost." your smile didn't falter and ghost felt his skin crawl.

"'m headed back. go too." his reply was rushed and he couldn't muster up the courage to look into your eyes again.

☆

working with the 141 was a pleasure in disguise. konig was shy, anxious too, and his almost seven foot tall frame didn't do him much of a favor. but even though his rough exterior frightened others, they didn't seem to even bat an eye at him. most of them, at least.

captain price was speaking to everyone and his gaze seemed drawn to konig. like he was watching something. surveilling it.

then price shifted his eyes to him again - rather, behind him, and he paused. within the silence he could make out slow breathing from behind him.

"I'm listening, captain. don't worry."

konig jumped and turned to your figure standing oddly still. your eyes already were scouting his features and even though his mask was heavy on his face, he felt as though you could see right through it. he felt sweat pool at his forehead

"sorry for scaring you." you smiled, and walked further into the room.

ghost whispered to him.

"weird lad, that one."

he can agree on that.

☆

it was rare for alexandro to say he loved his job, but in moments like this, where his hand brushed the drink in his hand ( probably vodka, maybe whiskey, who knows? ) and he could hear the laughter of his squadron behind him, he felt content. after a successful mission, los vaquiros and the 141 decided to have a jolly frolic at the pub in town. that's what soap said.

alexandros feet tapped the stool lightly to the rhythm of the music until price's voice brought him back.

"ya okay, mate?" soap whispered to him. "ya good enough to drive back?" he grinned, and alexandro chuckled.

"yeah, si. i don't feel like drinking, I guess." he turns his body towards the scottish man, and sighs. complaining to a very much not sober johnny doesnt sound appealing. somebody takes the empty seat next to him but he doesnt bother to turn.

"you've had a rough week, huh? it's hard being a soldier, but you'll get used to it." your voice. the 141's infiltration operator. the ... strange one.

alexandro turns to your face already staring back at him. it's unsettling, and the little alcohol in his stomach stirs inside him.

"oh, I forgot. you've been in here for a while, haven't you?" his browns connect in his frown. did you not know who he was? or did you not care? or were you trying to spite him?

how did you know him? he never talked to you before.

"guess so." alexandro never felt like that before. like prey. like a lamb staring a lion into its eye.

you didn't speak much after that. you stared at the group of men playing darts and chuckled when one of them almost got hit.

who are you?

A/N; this sucks lol

[as-i-watch]

We got a trailer lads!

I have many thoughts but overall, positively excited by this

Roger's Intro thats a win in my book

The mutiny joke was actually funny to me so thats promising

Kudos to keeping true to the source material (ex: Luffy in the Barrell, the jolly roger, etc)

Really happy to see Kuro and Merry from the Syrup Village Arc (i feared it was gonna get cropped out)

BUGGY - the actor gave it all, another win

SANJI - Taz really captured him, the way he moves and smiles, he really has a Sanji presence imo

THAT SAID i was not expecting Sanji to have a brithish accent

Also the few kicks we get to see...dont look the best

The sets and costumes are amazing tho, still get blown away by every new peak we get

Zoro's fight scenes look cool :3

The cgi not to good but not too bad either (my bar was really low tho so dont come at me)

Those shots of the whole crew in a line up give me chills its so cool

MIHAWK - im running up my walls over this guy omfg i love him

KOBY - its ridiculous how much they nail this kid, he looks like an ai made a irl vertion of the anime charecter wtf

ARLONG PARK ZORO'S SHIRT BRAINROT (you know its one of my fav looks for my boy so i am very happy)

Im not saying this adaptation is perfect but i think i has potential. Hopefully it will be good enough to overlook its flaws or lacking, which im sure there will be, but i really hope the end result is good, i really want it to be good

Sure, it wont be perfect but at least you can tell the people that made this show CARED and that is a plus

[mickmundy]

demoman headcanon thread! a kind anon on twitter asked if i had any thoughts on him, and since he is one of my favorite mercs... i definitely do! :-) i hope you enjoy! <3

demo is one of the most selfless of the mercs! he's smart, capable and just because he has a great sense of humor doesn't mean he's stupid! he's just as fun to party with as he is to make bombs with... either way, the chemistry is explosive!

speaking of weird science, i don't think there can be any science party without demo! he'd undoubtedly have SO much in common with medic and engineer, and would converse with them often about what they're all working on!

tavish is a great one to have around, no matter who you ask. he adjusts himself around who he's hanging out with: a rowdy night out with scout and solly? he's in! a quiet night around a campfire with engineer and sniper? of course!

quick to forgive. gah, there are other things to worry about in life! water under the bridge and so on! just don't make it a habit, lad! he's a generous spirit and isn't above settling things with a good talk... or a fight! ha!

absolutely a great listener. is able to give you honest advice, or crack a joke to lighten the mood and make you laugh! that said, he loves making people laugh. i think he likes it best when everyone's having a good time! always has a quip or a fun anecdote or story to share with people!

workaholic! but that can be said for a lot of the mercs. takes a lot of pride in what he does and takes his job very seriously! don't let his good sense of humor fool you into thinking he's unprofessional!

prefers to be the one helping, not the one needing help! i think he'd be quick to divert attention away from himself if the conversation got Too personal for him. is Reluctant to accept help, but not unwilling, and will always be grateful!

when he's comforting someone, he always seems to know the perfect balance of humor, a gentle touch, and good advice. you might have a good cry with him, but he'll make sure you leave with a laugh!

big on family/loyalty. values the team's lives as his own and will do anything he can to make himself useful! i think he and sniper became their closest after his parents died; demo checked in on him often once they returned back to the base, and sniper never forgot his kindness.

i think he loves literature! i have a running headcanon that spy, heavy, engineer and demo all meet up for a book club meeting every so often! ^_^ enjoys fiction and nonfiction pretty equally, but knows a great deal about mythology of all kinds!!

puts a lot on himself. wants to make his family proud, do right by his mom and make sure everyone is taken care of. very sensitive to the needs of those around him! he's a big softie!

i also love to think about him playing piano... him and spy love playing classical tunes together, or if he's hanging around medic, they'd absolutely make some ruckus with dueling pianos!! HEH

briefly mentioned above, but is a very talented chemist. frequently consults with sniper (natural remedies) and medic (clinical killing tips) and engineer (manmade remedies and killing tips). knows a decent amount about respawn technology and engineer's sentry technology too!

is very touchy-feely. will always greet you with a clap on the back or a tousle of the hair or a smack upside the back of your head (if you're scout!) and a jolly laugh! very warm, rough hands... he knows when to give a tender pat or a loving whack!

loves tropical birds! teaches his macaw how to talk and swear at the mercs!! calls archimedes 'archie' (to which medic gives a Frown. he names his birds with intention!)... even though ol' archie enjoys his company very much! :-)

isn't a great driver, but can sail a boat blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back (according to him)! he can drive the mercs home from a long night at the bar without a problem, but on long road trips he prefers if someone else takes the wheel... preferably sniper!

has very low spice tolerance. the other mercs have been trying to build him up over time with some decent success though! but all in all he'll always prefer the flavor of his own traditional dishes!

the other mercs have fun pranking him with really spicy foods. once he puts out the fire in his mouth, he thinks it's pretty funny and gives them credit for being able to trick him!

talks with his hands and often slams them down on the table (or his own thighs) when talking! very animated, always a joy to listen to whether he's yelling at you or laughing with you!

very social, but can also enjoy some alone time now and then. greasy food, a comfortable chair and his comfy pants are great company sometimes... with a bottle of his favorite scrumpy of course! even if he prefers to share his "quiet time" with someone else, too!

often converses with sniper and engineer about parental hangups and living up to what their families raised them to be like. they take it hard, but he loves his family, even if being a demoman isn't always easy!

demo's a liquor connoisseur, but not just for the taste! it's all about chemistry! he can taste a drink and be able to break down its composition down to the real nitty gritty... and recite it to you if you ask!

can always tell when spy cooks with wine, and exactly what type and how much! sometimes spy tries to throw him off, but tavish's instinct is never wrong! can taste something and break down the exact makeup of it, which spy and heavy appreciate when they cook!

[theodoresgirl]

Tavern Waitress Killian Jones x Fem!Tavern worker!Reader

A/N: I was daydreaming about this all day, and I've recently had a huge obsession with this man. Idk who let him be this fine tbh. 

Once upon a Time, Long before Storybrooke. There was a small village in the Enchantix Forest where a tavern was being run by a family. F/N was the tavern’s owner, But his wife, and their sons helped out everyday or when they could. He also had a daughter from an affair, Though the Affair isn’t known about. She also spends most of her time in the tavern. 

Y/n learned to help around the tavern at a young age, She started out cleaning up until she was old enough to handle drinks. Which started when she was around 16, maybe 18. She was also very pretty, And with where she worked she was new to the comments and the glances she would get. 

Y/n was whipping down one of the big tables in the back corner of the tavern. She was humming a tune to one of the shanties she’s heard over the years. She looked over at the door after hearing a big group of rough looking men walk into the tavern. They were loud and sounded harsh. One of them looked around and his eyes landed on her and the empty table was just big enough for his crew. 

Her eyes were back at the table, She finished wiping the table down and putting the rag in the apron when a shiny silver hook lays on the table. ``This table taken love?`` A male voice asks her, in a musky tone, Something out of a fairy-tale. Y/n blushes at the sound of his voice and looks up to meet his piercing blue eyes, All she could see were the ocean waves in them. 

``I-its open.. W-what can I get you guys?`` She shudders a bit before collecting herself as they sit down. ``Rum for all my men love.`` The male with the hook smiled. ``Coming right up ?`` She turns her head slightly asking for his name or something to call this fine pirate. ``Captain Killian Jones, or Captain Hook`` When he says the last part he lifts up his hook. Y/n nods and laughs a bit at the name choice ``No idea if that was a pun, but darling you're funny. I’ll go get that rum.`` She smiles before counting all the men and going back behind the bar to start pouring the drinks. ``y/n`` one of her brothers called out from over the bar, She looked up pouring the last of the rum. `` Those are pirates Be careful.`` He whispers helping her put the beer steins on two separate trays. `` Yeah, I know. And you should know my response is.`` She stares at him just giving him a look. ``Adventure blah blah blah.`` He shook his head, ``Everything around them gets poisoned. It's your funeral or sleeping spell.`` 

She rolled her eyes at his comment, Wasn’t the first time her brother tried to warn her. Even in an asshole way. She lifts one of the trays and walks it over to the table and hands the drinks on that tray out before going to get the second tray to do the same thing again. ``There we have it, Rum for everyone. Enjoy lads`` She smiles humming softly. The man smirks at her enthusiasm ``Thank you love. Keep em coming too.`` Killian bows his head to her before taking a sip of the rum. ``Will do captain`` she turns around and walks back to the bar to re wipe it down.

—

A few hours later, and a few rounds of drinks later Killian’s crew had headed back to the old Jolly Roger and he stayed behind for some more drinks and the pretty faces.  

Killian finds himself at the bar in the tavern watching y/n go around serving everyone else. He waves his hook and calls for her even after one of her brothers goes over to Killian and asks if he needs a refill. She makes her way over to the bar grabbing the bottle of rum with a smile on her face. She pours more rum into his beer stein, Killian had a shameless smirk on his face watching her. 

`` It could be the few shots i’ve done or are you fond of me?`` She asked, learning on the bar looking into his eyes, Piercing blue eyes, how he was blessed with them would be a question for the gods surely. ``Is it that obvious?`` `` Well I’m sure everyone has noticed your eyes not leaving me, or you not letting anyone refill your drink but-`` Killian cuts her off `` you? You’re smart love`` 

She chuckles softly and shakes her head. ``Yeah? Is that you or the rum talking daring?`` He takes a sip of the rum ``Could be both, But you could also find out`` He smirks. She blinks not really surprised about what he said but if he meant it. ``Oh?-``

``What time do you get off love?`` He finishes the rum he had in his beer stein. ``I am off whenever I wanna be off`` She smiles and raises an eyebrow curiously. ``Are you good with ships?`` He asked. ``Would you believe it if i said i’ve hardly ever left these four walls?`` She leaned in and whispered, smiling softly. ``I wouldn’t believe it but, I could show you what's outside these 4 walls`` He takes one of her hands in his good hand and kisses it. 

``Could you really?`` She blushes at the contact, and is tempted. Y/n’s father wouldn't stop her if she wanted to leave. He may be upset but he’ll get over it sometime. Killian nods, grabbing her other hand and places a kiss on it as well. ``I could show you the sea.``

[leiflitter]

felix before oxford and ollie before oxford head canons plz… u know who this is by now 😋❤️

Let's go my lil buddy!

Felix!

Boarding school, obvi, all boys. Absolutely the people's princess of the place. Had lads lining up around the block to carry his bags for him and all that. Occasionally got off with someone or other, but he was, again, a princess and so it wasn't him doing stuff to them, it was Felix not having to use his own hand.

Ton of school clubs and extracurriculars, but mostly ones he could just fuck about at.

Forced to play rugby, but they couldn't make him care.

Major, major stoner and totally got away with it. Felix Catton smoking a joint on the sports field? Teachers simply do not see it.

Tons of really stupid hijinks. Proper Jolly Hockey Sticks prank stuff. Buckets of water balanced on doors, itching powder, the works.

Summer Hols were for chasing girls. Sometimes he'd have a "girlfriend" for a while, which mostly means he got letters with cheeky photos. He did not share them, but some did get appropriated from time to time.

Absolutely went on a Gap Year around Europe and is very lucky he didn't get some sort of STI while he was shagging his way around the continent.

Venetia always tried to get with his mates and it was always so fucking annoying because uh, hello? Get your own friends Venetia we're trying to watch American Pie? Fuck off?

Oliver

Literally the most invisible kid in the school, on purpose. People don't even really remember him much.

Also did a bunch of extracurricular stuff, but for things like Helping In The Library and Science Club. A few of them he was the only member, because it meant he could avoid going home.

Always secretly wanted to be in the school plays but never went for it.

Got shoved around a bit by the fifa lads and the popular girls occasionally would ask him pointed questions and find the answer hilarious.

One of the fifa lads called him a bender in year 8 and somehow it became like... common knowledge that Oliver Quick Likes Dick. Nobody actually really was invested in it, but it rhymes and it obviously wound him up.

He was always Oliver. Never Ollie.

His sisters pretended they weren't related to him, although they were both nearing the end of secondary school when he started attending.

His eyesight isn't that bad, which is good when people keep stealing your glasses when you're in P.E. and hiding them.

Most of the teachers really liked him except for the P.E. Sports Lad Teachers and the one really grumpy Design Tech teacher.

Complete loner. No friends. No birthday parties. Lived through books and just wanted his own space.

[writers-in-moominvalley]

You might have gotten an ask like this before but I think it's unfair how snufkin often gets misrepresented in moomin media/fandom as either a deus ex machina type of wise traveler whos never wrong, or some sort of awkward teen who's "scared of socializing" could you perhaps analyze the nuances in his character?

I held off on answering this ask for a bit because Snufkin has honestly become such a nebulous character to me after a while that I barely have the motivation to properly discuss him. But now I've finally come to the right mindset to talk about his character;

Snufkin was... A few things in the books. A few very different things, actually.

His character is very notably different between the first half of the books (Comet in Moominland through Moominpappa's Memoirs) and the second half of the books (Moominsummer Madness through Moominvalley in November). These 2 eras of Snufkin make for an interesting character to ponder about even if he isn't as prominent as other characters (ironic, considering he's the first character anyone would know of when entering the fandom and is practically its figurehead)

Snufkin in his first era was... A very regular child with a much happier disposition, he tended to kick the shins of those who are about to say something they shouldn't and had very strange preferences and lifestyle but he was still very much a child unburdened by having to socialize or talk to people. He became quick friends with Moomintroll not because he exemplified an ideal that Moomintroll hoped for - but because he was so gosh-darn friendly and fun to be around.

He claimed himself a tramp and a poet when first meeting Moomintroll and Sniff and tried very dearly to be of help to them along the journey, even consoling Sniff when his plan to nab some garnets went awry, and he continues to be a good-natured fellow and a quick thinker throughout Finn Family Moomintroll. In Moominpappa's Memoirs he was absolutely mesmerized by the idea of his father and wanted to learn as much as he could about him, and arguably taking to idolizing him for both their similarities and simply how cool and punk he considered him.

Snufkin was also a story-teller throughout and contained more wisdom in his self than even some of the adults likely due to his traveling making him accumulate stories and practical knowledge that others wouldn't even think to explore.

Much of Snufkin's "tragedy" boils down to being orphaned so young that he didn't even imagine having parents of his own, thinking that he just came to existence in some basket one day and was found by some unknown "they", whoever they are, but that tragedy is quickly resolved as he reunites with his family in the epilogue of Moominpappa's Memoirs. He also took to traveling out of Moominvalley with great eagerness, it was more of a sudden decision and he didn't seem apologetic about it at all - he wanted so much to go somewhere new again, he was excited!

And it wasn't a goodbye forever, he promised to return in the spring when everyone was going to wake up. Perhaps he found that hibernation just wasn't for him and would rather take the lonely but exciting alternative, who knows! He's just a jolly little lad!

But then came Moominsummer Madness where we are presented with a more mature Snufkin, suddenly taking after his father with his smoking and anti-park terrorism but also after his mother with his care for an impossible amount of children. Although he didn't ring as excitable in tone as before, he still had conviction and a small sense of whimsy in him, he still cared deeply and wanted to be kind and it was almost too easy for him to take on a very parental role for the Woodies. He also still exhibited his greater knowledge of the world through knowing exactly what a play is and how it works.

We lack him in Moominland Midwinter, but he becomes a very romantic subject in Moomintroll's mind, reading his letter a bit too many times and imagining what it's like in the south - even declaring to go and meet him before the reality of winter hits him in the face. Those thoughts are very sporadic and short-lived however, as he has everything about the foreign land of Winter to worry about.

We then have the luxury of having 3 whole chapters mainly featuring Snufkin, The Spring Tune, The Last Dragon in the World and Cedric, all of which place him on the higher ground, whether as a philosophical authority or someone to be impressed. He's clearly depicted as a more closed-off character, much different than the younger Snufkin we knew in the first half of the series.

Where he was excited to make new friends who've stumbled onto his camp in Comet in Moominland, he's totally apprehensive of a Creep invading his space. Where he tried to help make Sniff feel better by looking on the bright side of things and relented when Sniff countered him with his real lament in Comet in Moominland, he lectures to him a story and is too stubborn to stop it when Sniff is clearly disinterested and keeps interjecting.

Finally, Moominvalley in November made him very... Restless in his need for isolation. He hated or atleast disliked these people he was stuck with without even knowing them properly, he freaks out at the sight of signs that only tell the name of Moominhouse and he felt watched by the others even in the safety of his tent. But he grew out of it, his main motif was his harmonica and he kept playing and playing and playing it throughout the book, he became an inspiration to the Fillyjonk, he was a partner in Mymble's act during the party, he helped the Hemulen sail his boat for the first time.

He learned to coexist with new people again. After a long time of getting too used to a family as understanding as the Moomins, he finally formed new bonds with new people, and when the snow came it was his time to depart as the second-to-last person left in the Valley, even if he never got to see the Moomins that time. Toft pondered if Snufkin understood that Toft was meant to be the only one to greet the Moomins upon their return, or even that he understood even more than that.

Snufkin is still a kind person through it all, an unwilling inspiration to others now too, but even when he's become so terribly closed off from others he still makes the choice to help and make the right choice in the end.

He's changed a great deal throughout the books, but his integrity remains all the same.

-

Snufkin in the comics, on the other hand...

Is just kind of there? For about... 4 comics out of the 21 that Tove made?

I mean, not to diminish him, he's still spoken about as though he's Moomintroll's best friend in The Conscientious Moomins but he lacks any stay them. In Moomin and the Brigands and Moomin in Family Life (literally the first 2 comics of the strip), he seems very similar to how he was in the first half of the books, he's very quirky and happy to lend a paw whenever he should. He spouts about using money to plant trees all Lorax-like and barely helps in Moomintroll and Sniff's endeavors (he's characterized as more of a nuisance in Brigands, really), and he becomes an object to impress for Moominpappa because of Moominpappa's emphasis on wanting exciting things to happen in the comics. Snufkin's still a wise guy but he left before we got much of him.

And then we have the Conscientious Moomins and Moomin and the Golden Tail where he's characterized more familiarly to anyone who's watched the 90s series, Moomintroll goes to him whenever he needs advice or to 'get away from it all', and he's super willing to help others with jobs even if he and his lifestyle doesn't fit into the conscientious life. In Golden Tail he keeps asking Moomintroll to fish with him and he becomes the one source of normalcy in the story before being torn away because Moomintroll's fame is interfering with even his friendships. Snufkin is characterized as a support mechanism in these comics.

He's very likeable as a character but like almost everyone else in the comics, he's Not That Deep, Bro.

-

I think the reason why Snufkin gets characterized as dues ex machina who solves problems most of the time is because those adaptations lean into him being The Smart One With Outside Knowledge a bit too hard, however when you look at the 90s series as a whole his characterization there is only seemingly not-good because the series has an overall problem of not letting its characters express themselves, and he gets involved in much more stories than he actually was in the source material so I could hazard a guess that the writers - based on not only Tove's Snufkin but also Lars' Snufkin which continued Contentious/Golden Tail Snufkin's characterization - would reason that since Snufkin was Like That in the comics then he could easily also be like that in their own stories.

Shin Mūmin made an egregious use of the Snufkin-ex-machina card because they aged him up and they reshaped him into a traveling and helpful loner archetype who knows what he's doing 99% of the time, however they did what the 90s series couldn't and actually made him emotional which very much saves his character in my eyes.

Moominvalley 2019 started Snufkin's character in Tales From Moominvalley aswell as Moominsummer Madness and that pretty much dictated his personality for the rest of the show. Because Moomintroll was meant to be a teenager who acted like he did in the comic alot, I could easily believe that the writers also trying to rein Snufkin in by making him more relatable or more like a real teenager. Perhaps they also wanted to stray from Snufkin's previous characterization as a deus-ex-machina character and Gary Sue by going into the other end of the spectrum, but given how Moominvalley2019 is with the rest of the cast... It ended up a little too much.

While I admit Snufkin is a very interesting character and I can see how he's good enough to be a fan favorite, I don't have any plans on delving into him much further when there's other things that interest me. As I said, he's become a nebulous character to me - and no matter how much I read or watch about him in the source and licensed material and get happy to see him, there's always going to be that half of my brain that keeps reminding me about his fans and how fanon has took hold of him that there's really nothing but indifference whenever I think about delving into his character.

I wrote most of this based on memory with some occasional checking so I may have gotten some things wrong, and even when I read or watch stuff with him in it, my attention usually goes to things other than him. It's not because of an inherent fault in his character, really, it's just a tragedy of the fandom tainting my enjoyment of him in general. So... Let this be my one full-length analysis of him.

[sholiofic]

If you're still taking prompts for Biggles - then Bertie, Algy and Fritz on a hunting weekend in Chedcombe? Maybe make it a casefic where there's robbers/spies/murderers? I imagine Fritz being a very skilled horseman, like his uncle :D

I am back to answer fic prompts! This is a LOVELY prompt, and I don't have a full story in my head for it, but have a little snippet of their weekend <3

--

Fritz had been uncertain and shy about the weekend's invitation, but after a slightly awkward car ride and even more awkward introduction to the Chedcombe staff, he was charmed immediately by the horses.

"We've a quiet old lass in the stables here, Lady is her name, you might enjoy her," Bertie suggested, while Fritz was making friends with all the horses, petting and talking to them.

"Oh, but I like this one very much," Fritz said, stroking a silky equine nose. "He's beautiful. I would very much like to ride him. What is his name, please?"

"That's Jupiter, old boy, he might be a bit much for a novice rider, but let's see if he's been getting his daily gallop, what?"

The groom saddled the horses for them. Fritz listened avidly to Bertie's explanations, mounted with a little awkwardness but sat his saddle proudly, adjusting his grip on the reins swiftly at a word from Bertie.

"Let's walk him round a bit, what? Good form, lad," Bertie said happily. "You've ridden before?"

"Only a little. There wasn't much opportunity back home."

"Chip off the old block, I say," Bertie declared, and Fritz flushed and ducked his head. Meanwhile, Algy mounted up on the blue roan hunter he had selected for himself. After a few more turns round the paddock and some corrections to Fritz's seat, Bertie announced them ready for the gallops -- or the walking trails, at least.

"Chip off the old block, what?" Bertie repeated to Algy as they rode behind Fritz, who sat upright and natural, holding the rein self-consciously but with a relaxed grip. Several of the dogs from Bertie's kennels coursed alongside. The well-trained horses danced only a little at the dogs' presence, and Fritz, reacting almost instinctively, tugged his horse back under control when it began to prance.

"Exactly what we all hoped for," Algy said dryly, but he said it quietly, so that Fritz couldn't hear. 

"I told you the lad's a natural. Jolly old Biggles doesn't know what he's missing."

"Jolly old Biggles would be bored off his head in an hour and driving the rest of us up the wall by evening."

Bertie laughed. "Right there with you, right with you. The Chief and Ginger will most likely have found an entire smuggler's den of criminals by the time we're back. Not to speak of old Erich--"

"Let's not speak of him, then," Algy said between his teeth.

But whatever Biggles, Ginger, and (regrettably, in Algy's eyes) von Stalhein might have been getting up to back in London, the Chedcombe parkland and forest lay golden-green and lovely in the afternoon sun. They flushed a pair of foxes, but Bertie called back the dogs -- "Just a married couple on a stroll, let's give 'em a little space" -- and they ended up walking the horses down to a lovely pond with ducks paddling about and pheasants on the far grass. It was a soul-soothing place after all they'd been through, and Fritz looked delighted.

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Immortal Beloved - Chapter Ten.

Thank you very much to all of you still keeping up with this :)

Previous chapters - Prologue One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine

Tag list - In the comments

Words - 3,556

Warnings - 18+ only. Adult themes + vampire content throughout. Minors DNI!

“She’s gonna be a spoilt princess. I could fucking kill Bryn, if she weren’t dead already.” 

The way John viewed the scene before them so adoringly did not match his lightly delivered vexation, him and Polly standing and watching the heartwarming sight of Katie being led up and down the driveway aboard her new pony, Bryn's Christmas gift to her. “We agreed on a fucking rocking horse, and she goes and buys a bloody Welsh Section C!”  

“They’re a good pony for a child to begin on, so I’m told,” Tommy spoke as he joined them, a mischievous smile playing his lips as John turned with narrowed eyes. 

“You were in cahoots with her, weren’t ya?”  

He sniffed, lifting his chin. “Heels down, Katie! That’s it!”  

“Don’t fucking avoid the question, Tom!” 

His laugh rumbled, watching as Bryn circled them around at the top of the drive and ran back up again, the little dun coloured pony trotting along neatly as her new owner squealed and giggled with delight from the saddle. “Might’ve lent a hand in the purchase.”  

John continued to mutter, chewing on his toothpick as Polly gave him a shove with her elbow. “Oh, come on, John. Like you didn’t buy out half of Rackham’s toy department for her as it was! A pony isn’t that different to some of those fancy rocking horses they had there, too. Have you seen the price some of them fetch? Holy shit.” 

“Yeah, but a real horse ain’t got its hooves nailed to a bit of wood, has it? A real horse eats a fuckload of hay and needs shiny bits of expensive metal nailing to its feet, and everything else that comes with ‘em! Bloody money pits, they are.” 

“John?” Tommy questioned, placing his hand onto his shoulder, his brother still viewing him from under a somewhat furrowed brow. “You aren’t exactly short of a bob or two now, are you? Stop being a misery and look how happy your little girl is. My stable lads will look after the pony, and Katie can come up here whenever she likes to ride him.”  

“Yeah, and that’s all gonna be on me, ain’t it, since fanny Anne over there is conveniently asleep all fucking day!” His continued pissed off splutters had his aunt and brother in soft fits, fanny Anne herself overhearing his protests.  

“Tommy is right, John,” Bryn called, halting her jog as she and Katie arrived back with them. “Stop being a misery.” Lifting Katie from the pony, she placed the tot down, watching her run back into the house as one of the stable boys led her favourite Christmas present back to the stables. John shook his head, pulling her close as the others entered the house. 

“For that, you’ll go over my fucking knee, Brynhild.” 

“Oooh,” she purred, stroking his cheek with her fingernail. “Is that a promise?” 

His hand found the round of her bum, smacking it hard several times. “Get in the fucking house.” 

Christmas Day dinner was always eaten on the evening in the Shelby household, the day itself preceded by gift giving and light snacks, plenty of port and whiskey, and a jolly good time had by all. John had felt a little bit out of sorts for not having Bryn by his side until 5pm when the sun had finally melted into the wintery horizon, Katie too making her displeasure known. 

It had been tricky, deciding what to tell the child in order to explain why she only ever saw Bryn in the evenings, John deciding simplicity was the best. “Sunlight makes her poorly, pige, so that’s why we only see Bryn at nighttime.” She’d taken her father’s word as easily as he’d delivered it, luckily. He’d reveal the truth to her when she was old enough to understand what it meant to be a vampire, feeling that four years old was much too young to truly grasp the concept.  

Before the merriment could continue, the matter of the spy locked up in the butler’s pantry had to be dealt with, Bryn, John and Polly going down to see to it themselves while everyone else assembled in the lounge. John picked up the telephone where Bryn had left it the previous night before descending the steps, the three of them waiting until the coast was clear of serving staff who were bustling around.  

“Good evening, young lady,” Bryn spoke as they entered, finding a very disgruntled looking Helen on the opposing side of the door. “I believe you have a telephone call to make, hmm?” 

The girl wanted nothing more than to scream for help, cry out the injustice done to her, but she knew no ears within the household that could hear would come to her aid. She was alone, discovered as a spy, with thirty pounds to show for her trouble. Taking the receiver she was handed, she made the call, uttering the lie she had been fed while the vampire who had instructed her stared unflinchingly, taking the phone away again once she was done.  

“Now I shall escort you upstairs to pack your belongings, as Mr. Shelby has directed me to escort you from the property as swiftly as possible,” she spoke, while John untied her bindings one by one, Polly observing from the corner.  

Shoving Helen in Bryn’s direction, he picked up the rope, beginning to coil it in his strong hands, watching the way his vampire lover viewed him do so with keen interest. “Don’t think I’ll put all of this back where I found it.”  

Bryn returned the wink he gave her before escorting Helen out, leaving him and Polly behind in the pantry, the latter letting out a long breath before picking up a bottle of gin and pulling the cork out.  

“Well, that’s that almost done with.” Holding the bottle to her lips, she downed a mouthful, her face pinching as she swallowed. “Fuck, I don’t know how people can drink this shit! Tastes like perfume.” 

Going into his pocket, John retrieved his hip flask, unscrewing the cap and taking a long glug of the whiskey within, passing it to his aunt. “Me neither.” Taking the flask back, he swigged from it again, sighing as he screwed his eyes tightly shut. “We can’t trust no one. I ain’t even sure that she’s the only one who’s been sent by ‘em. Surely Edward wouldn’t be so fucking stupid as to only send one down here, eh?” 

“One’s all it takes, John. Besides, if it was anybody else in the house with her, reason dictates they likely would have freed her and ran for it while we were all sleeping, regardless of Bryn’s little blood link insurance policy,” Polly advised, lighting up a cigarette. “You’re right, though. This is the time we circle the wagons. Any new people sniffing around should be treated even more suspiciously than usual. I’m going to have a word with Bryn, too. I’ve been thinking. Those tattoos of hers, lovely that they are, are a fucking giveaway. She needs to extend her makeup down from her face and neck, or not show off her tits quite as much.” 

“Shame,” John sniffed, lighting himself a cigar, “they’re fucking cracking tits.” 

She rolled her eyes, opening the door. “Come on, you bloody letch. Let’s see to her getting the fuck off the property.” They headed back up the stairs, hovering by the door only a short time before Bryn and Helen joined them, the latter clutching her small bag in a tight grip. The outside air was crisp, a smattering of snow still present on the ground as she was marched away from the homestead and up the driveway. 

“How am I to get away from here now? Where do I stay?” 

Polly laughed a little bitterly, a final drag taken on her cigarette before she flicked it away. “Should have thought of that before, shouldn’t you, girl?” 

“Could I please have a car take me into town?” 

It was Bryn who laughed this time, her hand reaching out to cup at the back of her neck. “There is no point, Helen. You shan’t be leaving the property.” With a snap, her fangs bared, gleaming white through the darkness. “Ever.”  

Like lightning, her mouth clamped onto her neck, her hand muffling Helen’s scream as she began to drain her. Polly’s eyes rounded in horror, John a little taken aback, but more accepting of the outcome. Bryn wasn’t stupid; he had wondered if she truly intended to let the Rasmussen spy leave with her life intact.  

As soon as she felt her heartbeat still, her body was dropped onto the drive, Bryn licking her lips before receding her fangs once more.  

“Oh, Polly,” she sighed, placing a hand upon her hip as she gestured to the corpse. “Surely, you did not forget what I am beneath the charming woman you are coming to know, hmm? You might not have grounds to fear me, but anybody who crosses me does.” 

“If I did, Brynhild, you’ve certainly reminded me. Holy shit,” she spoke, lighting herself another cigarette.  

“I couldn’t risk her leaving here with only her word that she would say nothing. If someone’s word can be bought, then it is not to be trusted.” Looking down at the corpse, she felt not an ounce of anything, the coldness in her vampiric nature not stirred at all. “She served her purpose; did the job she was paid for. Now, she can do no more.” 

“I suppose Tommy gave you his blessing?”  

Not much got past Polly. “Indeed, he did. Now, can one of you tell me where I might find a shovel?”  

“Round by the stables, next to where they keep the saddles an’ all that.” John told her, Bryn disappearing and reappearing in a flash. Polly headed back to the house, John watching as Bryn struck into the frozen ground, the soil crumbling like sand under the power she wielded the shovel with. Usually, it would have taken two grown men about an hour to dig through frozen soil. For Bryn, she had dug out a deep pit in just over five minutes.  

“Okay,” she spoke, pulling the thirty pounds she had given to Helen the previous evening from her apron, looking down at the corpse with distaste. “Put her in.”  

John rolled the cadaver until it fell from the edge and into the deep pit, thinking what a good job Bryn had done. It was at least eight feet deep. With their inconvenience buried, Bryn also dragging various debris over the unmarked grave so that the plot did not stand out, they headed back to the house arm in arm to join the festivities as if nothing had ever happened.  

Once there, they sat down at the long table with the rest of the family, enjoying the warmth from the fire as they ate dinner, Arthur being Arthur and proposing a very drunken toast that mostly consisted of cussing and hiccupping. Once the children had gone to bed, the later evening saw the arrival of a few close friends, Johnny Dogs among them, John not able to immediately offer an introduction as Bryn had excused herself to tuck Katie in.  

“So, you’re still alive, John? Not come to anything bad on those teeth now, eh?” he joked, John being able to detect the slight trepidation in his demeanour he was attempting to mask with humour.  

“Nah, nothing bad,” he replied, grinning to himself at the memory of just how erotic it was, to be bitten by a vampire. It never failed to do something to him that no human woman could ever compare with. It was fair to say, in fact, that the living had been ruined for John now he’d had a taste of what immortal felt like to fuck.  

Johnny laughed, waving a finger. “Oh, now would you look at that grin on the boy? That’s a grin of a... Jesus fucking wept!” His words were halted by the fact that in the space it took him to blink, John suddenly wasn’t standing alone beside the fire, an elegant looking woman in a dark green beaded dress appearing at his side. “Oh... oh so you’re the shadow walker girl, are ya? Oh, I see now, yes... yes. Um. Yes.”  

Johnny’s usual bravado becoming dented further with every syllable uttered had John snort laughing into his whiskey glass, the gypsy continuing. “Oh now, you understand me apprehension here? There’s a lotta bad blood between my folk and yours, there is?”  

“Not from my personal perspective, Johnny,” she spoke, halting his hand where he rapidly pointed between himself and her, stroking the back of it as she transmitted her energy onto him, calming his nerves. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. My name is Brynhild.” 

“You’re a Scandinavian girl, are ya? Oh, you must be with a name like that, eh?” 

“I am Norwegian, yes,” she confirmed, Johnny still taking a time to calm as his muscles stiffened. Bless his heart, though. He was trying his hardest.  

“Oh well that’s grand, so? I bet you get some fucking terrible winters all the way up there?”  

Bryn gave John a gentle shove as he shook with silent laughter. “We do, yes.” 

“Now tell me, love. You’re not hungry, are ya? Because I know you shadow walkers like the gypsy blood? I don’t want to be getting bitten, so, so if you could keep them teeth away, I’d be thanking you!”  

That was the moment John erupted completely, Bryn not able to bite back her smile. Oh, he was such a card. “Trust me, Johnny. My preferred blood source is standing right next to me.”  

His eyebrows almost vanished off his forehead entirely. “Now there’s a thing?” His eyes darted between them uncomfortably for a few moments. “Well, if that’s what tickles your fancy, John. And, and why not, if you like it? I mean I’m not making aspersions or nothing! If it floats your boat, and um, yours too, Brynhild. I’ll erm, I’ll go and say hello to Tommy now.”  

“Fucking hell!” he wheezed, him and Bryn both in mild hysterics as Johnny shot across the room, calling out to Tommy. “I ain’t ever seen a fella work so hard not to die of fright in all me life!” 

“I’m surprised he didn’t begin to glisten beneath his eyes with the effort, the poor man,” Bryn chuckled, composing herself. “I am sure once he’s used to me, he might calm down a little bit.”  

“I kind of hope he doesn’t, because I’ve never seen Dogs so flustered before and fuck, it’s gonna entertain me for ages, that!” he laughed, pulling Bryn close and kissing her cheek. The gathering lasted into the small hours, John and Bryn the first to depart to their room, Bryn flicking her hand in the direction of the fireplace as soon as they entered. The flames roared into life, the hearth sparkling amber as heat began to sweep through the chill of the room.  

“Right, now you’re probably wondering why it is you ain’t had your Christmas present from me yet,” John began, taking her hands and bringing them to his mouth, kissing her cool fingers as he smiled adoringly at her.  

She began to nod, her grin a little twisted at the corner. “I had thought it to be somewhat lacking, yes, this much is true.”  

His smile grew, while on the inside, his heartbeat began to thrum in frenzy, nerves washing through him. “Well, that’s because I wanted it to be just you and me when I gave it to ya.” Taking a small box from his pocket, Bryn’s hands flew to her mouth with a gasp as she watched him drop down to one knee before her. “Brynhild, I know it hasn’t been long, but you mean more to me than any other woman ever has or will. I love you, sweetheart. Will you marry me?”  

Her eyes filled with tears, nodding rapidly. “Yes! Oh, my various gods above, a thousand times yes!” 

“Good,” he hummed, winking at her as he flipped the box open. “You can have this now.” 

There within sat on a little cushion indent, was the most beautiful ring she had ever seen. It was an emerald cut diamond, flanked by an art deco arrangement of smaller ones that all extended around onto the platinum band it was set upon. “It’s engraved an’ all.” 

Taking the ring from the box as he stood, she studied the inside of the band, gasping softly. 

My immortal beloved 

“Oh, John!” Her tears fell like crimson rain as he slid it onto her finger, taking his pocket square so she could dab them away, placing a kiss upon the tip of her nose.  

“Don’t you ever say I can’t be romantic.”  

“I never, ever would, my love,” she told him, falling into kisses that felt never ending as they began to strip one another of their clothes.  

“I love you,” he breathed, moving her hair from her neck. “I love you.” His lips met the side of her throat, hands cupping her waist to lift her. “I love you.” Clasping her tightly to him, he carried her to the bed, lying her down, thinking how he’d never seen a woman look at him in the way she was in that moment, his mouth falling to hers once more.  

His bee stung lips closed in a suck upon the pebbled peak of her nipple, fingers trailing through the petals of her cunt, pushing inside her, slick wet awaiting his touch. The rotation he used had her hips bucking against his hand, Bryn clasping his face and kissing him with filthy indulgence. Her groan poured out rich and rumbling, especially when his thumb moved to rub sparks at her clit.  

She was virtually dizzy with pleasure when he finally replaced his fingers with something much thicker, his mouth sucking lilac welts against her neck. His body became flecked with the goose pimples from the sensual glide of her nails down his back, charging across his freckled skin like a herd of wild horses. His arm trailed down her body, hooking beneath her leg and levering it forward until it touched her chest, his hand grasping her throat as he pinned her to the bed.  

The way it allowed his cock to sink in deeper had her wailing, teeth nibbling along her jaw, tongue following the patterns of the tattoos that swirled across her chest. His girth dragged at her, making her wetter around him, John utterly saturated with the gloss of her arousal as his hips began to drive like a piston.  

“Fuck.” He gritted, teeth grazing her throat, the wild heat rising between them both, his mouth swallowing down each of her little cries as their lips met, whispering his love tenderly. It was a heavenly juxtapose to how brutally he began to fuck her.   

Their kisses became magmatic, his forehead pressing to hers as he stared unflinchingly into the crystal blue of her eyes, until the fluttering of her cunt had him closing his eyes tightly, burying his mouth at her neck as he groaned almost helplessly.   

He lost any tentative threads of control, his thrusts staccato, cock making constellations burst through the hug of her molten walls, Bryn’s nails digging into his shoulders as she clung to him, rolling her hips up to meet each barbarously delivered thrust. The lightning jumped from strike point to strike point as the storm swelled and crashed, her entire body alight as he pulsed jets of hot cum within her.   

Utterly spent, breathless and all that was electrifying ebbing away, the sparks still gently fizzed through them as they stroked one another, sharing tender kisses. Everything was warm, serene and lazy, words of love whispered, adoration abounding. He fell asleep still inside of her that night, Bryn enjoying his warmth before gently moving him beneath the covers, getting up to go and sit upon the wide windowsill. 

Watching the diamonds sparkle upon her finger, she looked out into the pale blue of the moonlight, her eyes glancing back to where John slept. She knew that running was no longer an option, and it should never have been. An existence exiled from her offspring, standing behind those of power for protection, driven by her fear of being captured again was not who she was.  

Closing her eyes, her memories took her back over a thousand years, back to the siege upon Mercia, Bryn stood before a heathen army of a hundred Vikings, her heathen army. She heard her own bellowing war cry, their advancement descending the great hill in which they had waited atop, running into the valley to meet the oncoming men, while from the east and west, the remaining two hundred of her army had encircled the Mercian’s entirely.  

Wiping out those who stood in her way was in her blood. She had lived and breathed it in her human life, after all. Now, she had to find her way back to it in order to secure her future. Now was no longer the time for hiding. Now was the time to remember who she was.  

Now was the time for war.  

[scotianostra]

Isobel Gunn was born on August 5th 1781 at Orphir on the Orkney Islands.

Little is known of her early life until the summer of 1806, she enrolled as a man in the Hudson's Bay Company and was the first European woman to reach western Canada, using her father's name, John Fubbister.

Gunn quickly distinguished herself for her bravery. Her canoe treks and expeditions through the most remote stretches of Canada saw her travelling some 1,800 miles between remote trading posts. Hugh Heney, who led one of the brigades Gunn travelled with to Pembina, wrote that she “worked at anything and well like the rest of the men.” She even earned herself a pay rise for performing her duties “willingly and well.”

Although she disguised the fact that she was female at least one man knew of her true gender for she fell pregnant. On December 29, 1807, she excused herself from work at the Pembina trading post, citing stomach pains to Alexander Henry, who was the head of the post. She begged him to let her rest in his home by the fire. Henry’s journal takes up the story.....I returned to my room, where I had not been long before he sent one of my own people, requesting the favour of speaking with me. Accordingly, I stepped down to him, and was much surprised to find him extended out upon the hearth, uttering most dreadful lamentations; he stretched out his hand towards me and in a pitiful tone of voice begg’d my assistance, and requested I would take pity upon a poor helpless abandoned wretch, who was not of the sex I had every reason to suppose. But was an unfortunate Orkney girl pregnant and actually in childbirth, in saying this she opened her jacket and display’d to my view a pair of beautiful round white breasts.”

Henry’s journal continued: “In about an hour she was safely delivered of a fine boy and that same day she was conveyed home in my cariole, where she soon recovered.”

The name Gunn registered on the birth certificate? Hudson’s Bay labourer John Scarth, who she said had forced himself upon her.

This story is plausible. There are records to show that Scarth had been with Gunn at numerous HBC postings. Some historians say Gunn was trying to cover up an affair gone wrong; others believe she likely was taken advantage of by Scarth, who could have discovered her ruse as a man, and threatened to tell their employer.

Gunn and her child were returned to Scotland on the ship Prince of Wales on 20th September 1809. There, she lived in poverty, working as a stocking and mitten maker until her death.

Canadian songstress Eileen McGann wrote the following song about Isobel, but called her Isobella, probably for artistic reasons....

My name it is Isabella Gunn, I'm a woman both true and strong From Orkney's rugged Isles I come, but now listen unto my song When I was young I had a lad, as I loved, so he loved me Poverty made him sell his land to travel across the sea It was in the summer of eighteen and six, my lover and I set sail To stay with him I used my wits and my courage it did not fail In men's atire I stowed away to join that jolly crew Side by side we worked each day and only my lover knew And oh how I loved those rocky cliffs and that windy and treeless shore And oh how it broke my heart to leave, but I loved my dear one more, one more But I loved my dear one more. My love was signed by the Hudson Bay for to be a Voyageur To map and explore the northern ways, to trade and to transport fur And if you think I'd be left behind, it's little you understand For on the very next line I signed for to do the work of a man And O how I loved the life we led, though my love and I worked apart But adventure delighted my very soul and the forest had healed my heart The company signed me to work three years, and well had I proved my worth But eighteen months fulfilled my fears and I found that I'd soon give birth. I hoped that the trees would give me rest but they found me where I lay With my newborn baby at my breast there was little that I could say. They sent me downriver to wash the clothes of the men I had worked beside And though I did well enough I suppose, I felt that I'd rather have died. The only thing that gave me joy, the baby grew strong and hale And I looked for the day I'd take my boy and we'd follow that northern trail Oh how I loved those rocky lakes and the stands of birch and pine And oh in the spring how my heart turned north for to search out this land of mine My name it is Isabella Gunn and it's many long miles I've roamed From Orkney's rugged Isles I come, now Canada is my home. For it's here I've come and here I'll be and Here I'll find my rest And my son's son's and daughters will follow me in the land that I love the best