#poor buggers though; what a way to go

[fastofthekillones]

25

I'm just going to pin this post and use it to find weird tags that I have inexplicably written on something, mostly for my own gratification, but if any of you wonderful weirdos wanna look, feel free

[ellecdc]

Dude, I read the one where you talked about pregnant reader and you said it'll be a cute fic.... are you really gonna write it!!? Poly moonwater with pregnant reader!?? Will you? Will you? Will you!!?? Please, will you!!!!!???

well.....since you asked so nicely........👀

poly!moonwater x afab fem!reader who finds out she's expecting

CW: mentions of pregnancy, how people get pregnant (nothing discussed in detail, SFW and minors), reader is concerned the boys will leave her, reader wishes to keep the pregnancy, based off a discussion on this post.

Now that you knew, you weren’t sure how you could honestly feel surprised. In fact, now you were kind of surprised that it hadn’t happened sooner. 

For all the claims that wizardingkind makes to be ahead of the curve in comparison to muggles, they don’t exactly have the best contraceptives. 

Potions are fine if you remember to take them, the same can be said about charms, and condoms are a foreign concept to the likes of wizarding society.

You’d been feeling so incredibly exhausted lately, and it had gotten to the point that you couldn’t make it through the day without having at least one nap. It was when you’d actually fallen asleep at the dinner table that Regulus started to fret, though Remus found it terribly funny at the time. 

Then came the aches and pains that never seemed to dull no matter what you did. You’d tried potions, over the counter muggle medications, hot baths, cold showers, lying flat, sitting up – nothing stopped the aches that seemed intent on plaguing you. Remus had even given you full body massages that, whilst absolutely heavenly, did absolutely fuck all. 

“Maybe you’re coming down with something?” He’d queried, holding the back of his hand to your head. “Reg? Can you bring me the thermometer?”

You swore you heard whatever Regulus had been fussing with in the kitchen fall unceremoniously onto the counter in his haste to come over to you.

“Why? Is she poorly?” He asked severely, placing the back of his hand against your head like Remus had, only far more aggressively and to the point that it actually made a slapping sound as it made contact.

“Och, babe! If she wasn’t poorly yet she’ll surely have a concussion now!” Remus chided, pushing Regulus’ hand away and cradling your head protectively to his chest.

Needless to say, the thermometer didn’t pick up a fever either. 

So, when you woke up the next morning and spent most of the day hunched over the toilet bowl, Reg insisted you see a Healer.

Once the Healer started to ask the more...pointed questions, the pieces all started to click together in your mind.

Are you sexually active? Yes.

When was your last menstrual cycle? They weren’t exactly regular so... you supposed it had been late.

Any nausea? Yes.

Fatigue. Uh-huh.

Body or muscle pain? Fuckin’ hells.

So now you were standing outside of yours, Remus', and Regulus’ shared flat with a copy of your test results in your hand wondering what in the buggering fuck you were going to do now.

Both Regulus and Remus were pretty set on not wanting children of their own. They loved children, and they were both really good with children (in their own, very different ways); but with Regulus’ past, his family's reputation, and “the sodding inbreeding, amour; I’d be surprised if it didn’t come out with everything upside down and backwards”, he was sure that it’d be better for everyone if he stayed childless.

And Remus.

Poor, sweet Remus.

Too ashamed of his own affliction to a) pass it onto his own biological child or b) force any child to live with the knowledge that they had a ‘monster’ for a father.

And that was that.

Children just wasn’t in the cards for you three.

Yet here you were...

Suddenly, you weren’t just worried; you were terrified.

They didn’t want this, they never wanted this. They had always been clear about that. They could have been more careful to prevent this, but here you were.

Here you were.

There you stood; outside of your shared flat, unable to bring yourself to open the door.

They were going to leave you; they’d leave you, surely. Yeah?

They didn’t want this.

They wouldn’t want you. 

Fuck.

“For the love of Circe, I’m jus- Salazar’s saggy balls, Y/N!” Regulus said as he stumbled in the doorway, startled after having been in the middle of shouting something over his shoulder only to nearly collide with you. “How long have you been standing out here?”

You stared dumbly at him; you weren’t ready to go inside. You weren’t ready to have this conversation.

Too bad.

“Not long?” You stated in the form of a question. He furrowed his brows and looked you up and down before offering you his hand up the two steps to your doorway. 

“I was just opening the doors and windows; you’re lovely boyfriend tried to make us dinner.” He explained with a fond eyeroll, stepping into the flat and squinting through the smoke flooding the living space.

“Yeah, yeah. Last time I try something new in the kitchen.” Remus muttered as he threw away an entire baking dish.

“What was it supposed to be again, sweetheart?” Regulus asked with a mischievous smirk you knew he picked up from spending too much time with Remus, Sirius, and James.

“Just never you mind, you tosser. Hi dove.” He muttered to Regulus, though his tone changed dramatically once he turned to you, his eyes softening as he took in your form.

“How was your appointment?”

Your appointment? Your appointment. The appointment you just had. The appointment where you found out. The appointment where you were told you were pregnant. That appointment. The appointment you were still holding the slip for. The slip with your results. The slip with your pregnancy test results. The slip with your positive pregnancy test results.

That appointment.

“I-”

And you took off to the bathroom, slammed the door behind you and heaved into the toilet. 

There was a gentle knock on the door as you sat back against the tub with your knees to your chest, trying to catch your breath. “Dove?”

Another knock.

“Okay, we’re coming in.” Came Regulus’ more authoritarian voice through the door before it slowly opened to allow both of them entrance.

Remus had to fold himself a number of times in order to sit on the bathroom floor beside you whilst Reg flushed the toilet (while you flushed in embarrassment) and closed the lid to sit on it, facing you and Remus. 

“Did you get any answers from the healer?” Regulus asked quietly.

You smothered a humourless scoff and nodded your head in the affirmative. 

The boys let you sit there with your head laid back onto the edge of the tub and your eyes closed before Regulus couldn’t seem to handle it anymore.

“And? Are you... okay?”

You took in a deep breath and pulled that paper - now crumpled within your fist - cast a gemino duplication spell on it and handed one to each boy. 

You curled yourself inward and rested your forehead on your knees, reminding yourself to breathe even though you knew these two men now knew that you were expecting, that you were expecting their child. 

It could have been moments, or it could have been hours; but it was Remus who broke the silence.

“Pregnant?” He whispered on an exhale.

You cautiously raised your head to look over at him by your side, noticing that his eyes were shining with unshed tears.

You brought him to tears.

He never wanted this.

He wouldn’t want you.

“You’re really pregnant?” He asked again.

You nodded and swallowed around your gag reflex; unsure whether the nausea was nerves or...pregnancy related.

“You’re...” Reg started, still looking down at the paper in his hands. “You’re... gonna have a baby?” He whispered in awe.

You felt your brows furrow when you heard an emotional chuckle from beside you.

You turned back to see Remus wiping tears away from his eyes as he looked back down at his own paper in front of him.

“We’re gonna have a baby?” Remus corrected, nudging Regulus’ calf with his foot.

“Wait, you... you guys aren’t upset?” You asked urgently. Both boys snapped to attention to look at you in various degrees of worry or horror.

“Upset!?” Remus gawked as Regulus started shaking his head emphatically.

“Why? Why would you be worried of such a thing?”

You shook your own head and looked down at your hands as you began picking at your nailbeds. “Neither of you were ever interested in having kids of your own.” 

“Oh, dovey.” Remus cooed and quickly pulled you into his side. “When was the last time we talked about this, huh? When we first graduated Hogwarts? I think we could manage a kid now, yeah?”

“Or four.” Regulus added, causing you and Remus to straighten up significantly.

“Four!?” You and Remus chorused.

“Since when did you want kids?” You questioned incredulously.

“The moment I saw you hold Harry for the first time.” He answered without hesitation. 

“Ha ha.” Remus taunted. “Mine was watching her shop for Lily’s baby shower.” 

“What!?” You nearly screeched.

Regulus sighed before ultimately moving to sit on the floor on your other side; you knew this was very serious considering he was a notorious germ freak. 

“I was always a little afraid of having kids of my own, you’re right. I mean, you’ve seen the way that Sirius and I turned out, yeah?”

You and Remus scoffed at that.

“I just hated the idea of ever being anything like my parents, because that’s all I know. Or I guess, that was all I knew. But... I think you guys have taught me an awful lot.”

You watched Regulus’ stormy grey eyes as they moved between you and Remus. “You’ve both taught me to slow down, to be more patient, to see the fun in the mess and the burnt food and the change of plans. You’ve taught me that I won’t perish if I sit on the bathroom floor for a minute. And, I think most importantly, you’ve taught me how to love. And when I see how happy Harry is, I realize that’s all a kid really needs, yeah? Love?”

“You... you really want a child? This child?” You asked in a whisper.

Regulus’s face turned heartbroken for a moment. “You’re child? Absolutely, amour. There was never any doubt.”

“I always thought I’d pass on only the worst parts of me to any child.” Remus added, turning your attention to him. “But I find I’m only ever my best self when I’m around the two of you. And any child that’s even a fraction of either of you, well, I’d be one... one lucky man to call them mine.” He whimpered the end of his sentence before breaking out into a sob.

“Oh, Rem.” You murmured empathetically, pulling his larger frame into your side. He chuckled through happy tears as he moved one of his hands tentatively to your abdomen.

“A baby...” Regulus breathed, looking back at the paper in his hands. “We’re really going to have a baby?”

You and Remus exchanged a shy glance, understanding seeming to pass between the two of you before you both turned back to Regulus.

“We’re going to have a baby.” You concurred. 

[rose-tea-and-strawberries]

A Game Of Cat And Mouse

Leona Kingscholar and Che’nya x Fem!Jerry Mouse!Reader 

Note: Reader is Yuu/The magicless Ramshackle Prefect from another world

I have a ton of WIPs that I really want to complete but to help motivate myself to finish them I decided to write this

So Jerry’s personality seems to fluctuate depending on his iteration so I’m just going to tone down his more sadistic tendencies and make him more like the early shorts where he’s more mischievous and acts when provoked instead of going out of his way to ruin Tom’s life for no reason. 

Honestly as a Tom girlie I felt so sorry for Thomas. There were times where that poor cat did not deserve what he went through - even when I was little I would root for him. Though this might just be an oldest child thing since my little sister and mum (who’s the youngest in her family) prefer Jerry.

LEONA KINGSCHOLAR 

Honestly, his first impression of you wasn’t the best. Yeah, you’re a girl and he chugs gallons of respecting women juice for every meal but come on - you’re this tiny little mousegirl from another world who can’t even do magic (not to mention that he’s heard rumours that you don’t even speak that much). You’ll get eaten alive!

Then he met you and all of that went down the drain

The meeting went as it usually does: you stepped on his tail, he angrily confronts you (whilst subtly warning you of the dangers of NRC) but then you just give him this flat, unamused look.

“Hey pussycat,” you deadpan, raising an eyebrow and crossing your arms as you jut your chin up so you level him with a glare, “maybe don’t go leaving your tail lying around everywhere if you don’t want people to step on it.”

Okay, so maybe you weren’t the meek little mouse that he thought you were. Even the predators in his dorm don’t have the guts to talk back to him. Honestly, respect.

Then word gets out that you defeated an overblot and his opinion of you gets more and more favourable.

Long story short, you start dating after his overblot.

And it does cause a few turned heads.

And who can blame them? A lion going out with a mouse. That’s definitely something.

And to the untrained eye, it does sound concerning. But to those who know you (read: have been around you for more than five minutes)? Well, they’re praying for Leona’s sanity because you are nothing more than an agent of chaos.

There was this one time before you and Leona got together where a bunch of Savanaclaw predators were trying to push you, Ace, Deuce and Grim around and without even blinking you just pummelled all of them right then and there. At one point during the curb stomp battle you just pulled a mallet out of nowhere and just started thrashing everyone until they were black and blue. 

Congratulations the entire Savanaclaw dorm is terrified of you

All that training with Big Cousin Muscles really does wonders

NRC have two new rules: 1) don’t even think about going after the nagicless prefect because you will lose and even if you try to use magic she will dodge and it will be your funeral and 2) DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES hurt Ace, Deuce or Grim because that will probably be the last thing you ever do (memories of Jerry completely annihilating Tom after he hurt Nibbles are resurfacing)

One thing he admires about you is your cunning and intelligence and how you’re always a step ahead of everyone no matter what their plans are. Even when you do find yourself in trouble 

Even Rook Hunt has trouble trying to catch you. Don’t worry though, he’s far too fond of ‘petite mademoiselle souris’ to be irked by that.

He does get jealous of how close you are with Ruggie though. Since the hyena is also a greedy little thieving bugger like you, you have found a kindred spirit in him. The two of you bond over raiding the NRC kitchen and making off with as much as you can. And also taking the mickey out of Leona.

 You also get along great with Cheka. He’s noticed that you have a soft spot for children and other animals. The pro is that he gets his nephew off of his back by pawing him off to you (who he knows will make sure that no harm will come to him) the con is that you get along too well and your chaotic natures mixing will probably send him to an early grave - if your mischievous and provoking nature doesn’t already.

One thing he loves to do is tease you over your mouse-like qualities. Yeah, anyone with eyes can tell that you’re nowhere near as innocent as you look but those mouse ears, wide eyes, squeaks and cute little tail are objectively and indisputably adorable. He takes great pleasure in telling you how cute ‘his little mouse’ is, especially when you give such sweet reactions when you're flustered.

Though he does get taken aback by how bold you are. You definitely did that thing Jerry does where he holds mistletoe above his head and made kissing noises at Tom.

Your high pitched laugh makes his heart melt and he definitely uses his rich boy money to buy you all of the expensive cheese you can eat.

CHE’NYA

He loves you so much. Finally, someone he can be chaotic with - you’re a match made in hell.

His interest in you starts when he tries to sneak up on you whilst invisible but you pull one over him and just turn around, look directly into his unseeable eyes and sprAY WATER RIGHT ONTO HIS FACE-WHAT THE HELL?! WHERE DID YOU EVEN GET THAT SPRAY BOTTLE FROM????

At first he was pleasantly surprised before his face broke into a Cheshire Cat grin. He felt cupid’s arrow hit him square in the chest and he just looked at you with heart eyes.

By asking Trey and Cater and hiding in the rose maze, he gathered enough information to decide that you are his future wife

Turns out that your troublemaking antics have you paired with Ace and Floyd for the position of ‘bane of Riddle Rosehearts’ existence’. Mainly because everytime you break a rule you always, without fail, evade punishment by avoiding getting caught - even when you are clearly the culprit

Trey has bribed you with so many cheese based baked goods to stop you from sneaking into Heartslabyul and causing mayhem (you felt sorry for him so you promised him that you’ll only steal from the main kitchen near the cafeteria. That’s not what he meant but he’ll take it)

One day he catches you kidnapping the dorm’s pet dormouse before an unbirthday party so that you ‘can help your fellow mice by freeing them from their subjugation’. He shrugs and nods in understanding before asking you if he should let out the flamingos and hedgehogs from their pens as a distraction. 

And so a beautiful relationship was born as the two of you ran off with a tray of choux pastries and a bunch of angry card soldiers chasing you.

The two of you have a competition over who can sneak into and stay in Heartslabyul the longest without getting caught and you’re currently the winner.

He loves that you’re not scared of anyone and you’re not afraid to stand up to people that are almost quadruple your size. In fact, he’s there cheering you on whenever you fight back or plot your revenge (he does know that he has a whole other school to attend, right?). One time you showed him one of your revenge plans and he even helped you set the traps and everything. Oh the two of you working together has NRC running for the hills.

Like Leona, he does like to tease you but what do you expect? He’s a cat, you’re a mouse - that’s nature. Though he does love the fact that you’re always one step ahead of him whenever he does try to outsmart you. He loves a good puzzle and you certainly keep him on his toes.

[kay-elle-cee]

@jilytoberfest 31 Prompts: Day 10 || 543 Words || Read on Ao3 —

3 July 1977

03 July 1977 1:06pm

Lily: I need to tell you something but you have to promise not to do anything stupid about it.

Cross-legged on her childhood bed, Lily chews on the end of her pen as her eyes stay trained to the little scrap of charmed parchment that sits in front of her. Light pours in through the open window, bathing her in its summer glow and her stomach churns, unsure if he’ll have the ability to reply immediately, though she desperately needs it.

James: …that’s a hell of a way to start.

Lily: You have to promise.

James: I don’t even know what it is I’d be doing something stupid about. I’d like to have the rest of the information first, if you don’t mind.

Bugger. She supposes it’s not that unjust of a request.

Lily: It’s my mum.

Lily: She’s gone and set me up on a date with a friend’s son.

James: I see. And you were expecting me to…what? Come crash the date? Show up like some jilted lover angry to find his girl with another?

Lily: I cannot emphasize how much I don’t want to go, but I told her I wasn’t seeing anyone and I’ve fallen into her trap.

Lily: I just wanted to let you know it’s happening, and it’s not my choice, and I am not happy about it, so please don’t make an already mortifying situation any worse.

James: You haven’t even told me where the date is going to be. Virtually impossible to show up unannounced that way.

James: Unless…

James: Evans, do you want me to crash your date?

Lily: Of course not!

James: You sly thing. You want me to ruin your date so you don’t have to hurt this poor bloke’s feelings all on your own, don’t you?

Lily: Now you’re just being ridiculous.

James: Me? Lil, there is a whole other way this conversation could’ve gone. “I told my mum I wasn’t seeing anyone so she’s set me up with a friend from her knitting group’s son (ugly mug, I’m told, poor thing). It doesn’t mean a thing but I have to go to fulfill some sort of blood oath between knitting club members. Please know my heart beats only for you.”

Lily: Quite the poet, you are.

Lily: And Gerald’s not got an ugly mug!

James: Oh it’s Gerald now, is it?  

Lily: Just a quick bite for dinner tonight and we part ways as friends. I promise.

James: Lil, I’m just teasing you. I trust you, of course. I know we’re keeping this under wraps for now…I won’t pretend that I expected something like this to happen, but it’s fine.

Lily: …You’re really great, do you know that?

James: Of course I do. You might want to tell Lily of 1976 that though.

Lily: Poor thing would never believe me.

James: She’d think it was some elaborate ruse on my end.

Lily: Oh, absolutely.

Lily: If you promise not to make a scene…I’ll let you know where I’m meeting Gerald for dinner. If you’re not busy, maybe we could get some ice cream after?

James: I’ll be on my best behavior. Watching in dutiful silence from the other side of the diner.

Lily: Oh, don’t you dare.

[biblical-chronicles]

Bun in the oven

_______________________________________

where Noel and the reader announce to Liam that he's gonna be an uncle.

_______________________________________

You were perched on the couch in Liam's house next to Noel, who had one arm slung lazily over the backrest, fingers idly brushing your shoulder. The two of you exchanged a look—half excited, half nervous—before Noel leaned in and murmured, “Y’ready for this?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you replied, nudging his knee. “He’s going to take the piss, isn’t he?”

“Undoubtedly,” Noel muttered, a smirk tugging at his lips. “But we’ll get through it.”

Liam’s voice echoed down the hall as he shouted something indistinct about finding some “mint beers” he’d been saving. Moments later, he strolled in, triumphant, three bottles in hand.

“Right,” he said, plunking the beers down on the table and cracking one open. “One for you, one for you, and—” His brow furrowed when you held up a hand, shaking your head.

“Can’t, sorry.” you said, trying to keep your tone casual.

Liam froze, bottle halfway to you. “Eh? What d’you mean, can’t? It’s beer. Beer’s god's apology for makin' us self-aware.”

You glanced at Noel, who snorted into his drink before setting it down. “She means,” he started, voice laced with sarcasm, “she can’t have a beer ‘cause there’s a bun in the oven.”

Liam blinked at him, clearly confused. “A bun in the—what, you’ve taken up baking or summat? You? Never in a million years—”

“No, you div,” Noel interrupted, rolling his eyes. “She’s pregnant.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, and you watched as Liam’s face shifted through a series of expressions.

“Shut up,” he said, pointing a finger between the two of you, a grin breaking wide across his face. “Yer havin’ a baby? Like, proper? I’m gonna be an uncle?”

“Proper,” Noel confirmed, leaning back and crossing his arms with a smug look. “Congratulations, Uncle Liam.”

“Bloody hell,” Liam said, setting his beer down before throwing his arms around Noel. “I can’t believe it! Little Gallagher runnin’ around, eh? This is mad.”

Noel stiffened at first but softened, patting his brother on the back. “Yeah, mad’s one way of puttin’ it.”

Liam then turned to you, pulling you into a tight hug—but not before hesitating, his hands hovering awkwardly near your arms like you were made of glass. “You alright? Everythin’ good? I don’t wanna squish ya love.”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. “Liam, it’s early days. You’re not going to squish me.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, pulling back slightly but still beaming, “can’t be too careful, can I? Gotta look after the little bean. Or whatever it is.”

“It’s not even the size of a bean yet,” Noel interjected with a laugh, but there was no mistaking the affection in his tone.

Liam ignored him, looking at you with wide, almost childlike excitement. “D’you reckon it’s a boy or a girl? Have ya thought about names yet? Oh, mate,” he added, turning to Noel, “we gotta teach ‘em all the good stuff. Football, proper tunes—none of that shite they play on the radio now—”

“Let’s get through the next few months first, yeah?” you said, grinning.

Liam plopped down on the couch beside you, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is brilliant. Honestly, I’m made up for you both.”

He glanced at Noel, then back at you. “You lot are gonna smash it.”

“Cheers.” Noel muttered, though his tone carried that slight wariness he always had when his brother was too nice for suspiciously too long.

Liam leaned back, one arm casually slung over the couch. “Right, but let’s not forget who’s really gonna make this kid’s life a laugh, yeah? Uncle Liam. Gonna be the one showin’ it the ropes, teachin’ it the important stuff. Like how not to take after its dad.”

“Oi,” Noel barked, narrowing his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Means you’re boring, our kid. Imagine this poor little bugger growin’ up listenin’ to you ramble on about vinyl pressings and guitar tunings.” Liam grinned mischievously. “But don’t worry, I’ll balance it out with some proper fun. You’re welcome.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, leaning into Noel as his hand moved to rest protectively on your knee. “You’ll probably just teach it how to wind everyone up.” you teased.

“Exactly,” Liam said with mock sincerity. “That’s a life skill, that.”

Noel rolled his eyes. “Don’t go gettin’ any ideas. I’m not havin’ you corrupt the kid before it even knows how to talk.”

Liam feigned offense, clutching his chest dramatically. “Corrupt? Me? Nah, I’ll just be there to keep things interesting. And while we’re at it…” His smirk returned, full force. “If it’s a lad, Liam’s got a nice ring to it, don’t ya think?”

You burst out laughing, shaking your head. “You really think Noel’s gonna let you have that one?”

Noel scoffed. “Not a chance. The kid’d never live it down.”

“Oi, don’t knock it,” Liam said, wagging a finger at him. “Liam Gallagher Junior’s got a nice bit of charm to it. Better than Noel Junior, imagine the poor kid havin’ to walk around with that.”

“I’ll have you know Noel’s a solid name,” Noel shot back, though there was a spark of humor in his eyes. “It’s classy.”

“It’s old-fashioned,” Liam countered, leaning forward. “No offense, mate, but if you want this kid to have any street cred, you might wanna leave the name-pickin’ to me.”

You couldn’t stop laughing at their bickering. “Alright, alright,” you said, raising your hands. “How about we just call the kid Noel Liam Gallagher? Settles it, doesn’t it?”

Liam’s grin was instant. “Now we’re talkin’. Rolls right off the tongue, that.”

Noel groaned. “Don’t encourage him, love. Whose side are you on here?”

You just laughed, slowly leaning against him.

“Typical,” he muttered, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

Liam leaned back again, clearly satisfied with himself. “Well, whoever picks the name, just know I’m gonna be the favorite, yeah? Uncle Liam’s got this one in the bag.”

You glanced at Noel, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “This is gonna be one spoiled kid.” you said, resting a hand on your stomach.

“Yeah,” Noel muttered, squeezing your knee gently. “But they’ll be loved, and that’s what matters.”

Liam just raised his drink towards you two. “To the kid. Lucky little bugger, gettin’ to have me around.”

_______________________________________

cute little scribble to get back down from yesterday's filth xx

might do summat more today, since I have the time and will (and a couple of Noel smut requests are lookin' at me nicely. Genuinely so so so excited to write all these requests I'm seeing xx)

and proper thanks to @tashi-3 for the request !!

[kauriart]

Hero

An NSFW Dragon Age fic for kaijuburgers as part of the 2020 @black-emporium-exchange | m!Cousland x Loghain | Read it on A03

Oren Cousland is drunk.

But not drunk enough.

There’s a serenity, surely, waiting at the bottom of a bottle that he hasn’t found yet. And he is nothing if not determined to find it.

Stubborn determination has carried him this far, after all.

He’s in the kitchens — second kitchens? Some over-stuffed yet tidy room near the wine cellar. It smells comfortingly of food and flame, and is as much a balm to his frazzled senses as the drink. Moreso perhaps.

There are oil lamps strung along the walls, but the fire in the room is smokey-low and dim, flickering erratically as though uncertain if it ought to go out. He lifts his latest bottle and pours. The glass fills so quickly some of the wine spills out over the rim and over his fingers. A puddle of deep burgundy forms on the table, glossy as velvet. 

The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic.

But that was years ago.

And he is not nearly drunk enough to go wandering into those memories, no matter how close they press to the surface.

Oren lowers his mouth to the glass, carefully slurping up the excess wine as the door to the room slides open, wood creaking and shifting heavily. Alastair blinks. “Sorry. Didn’t think anyone would be here. What are you doing up at this hour?”

The drunken detritus on the table should be obvious enough. 

Oren lifts his wine glass carefully. It’s still rather full. “Celebrating.” 

Alastair raises a single auburn brow, but makes no comment. Instead he crosses the room, boots dragging heavily across the polished floors and sits in the chair opposite his fellow Warden. 

Or, ex- fellow Warden. No one has bothered to explain if Kings get to be Wardens after all.

“We won, didn’t we?” Oren says, voice rough from the wine. “Successful landsmeet and all.”

Only it doesn't feel that way. Not really.

Surely victory ought to carry with it some semblance of satisfaction. Of accomplishment.

Alistair is quiet and still. Brow furrowed. Everything about him has changed to a striking degree. So much at odds with the half-giddy, nervous energy he usually displays. “What do you intend to do with him?”

Loghain.

Strong hands and broad shoulders. Eyes like grey steel in the candlelight. A hard mouth, and hard kisses. Each one sweet, and salty, and stolen.

Oren dips his fingertip into the puddle of spilled wine, and tries not to frown. “You’re the King now. I should think that deciding the fate of prisoners to the crown falls to you.” 

For the barest moment, Alistair looks old. Then he reaches across the table and snags Oren’s wineglass, draining what’s left in three long swallows. “Loghain’s crimes were foremost against the Order. You’ve been our Warden Commander for the better part of a year. Doesn’t matter that you were never officially promoted.”

“Weisshaupt might disagree.” Oren says drily, and pours Alistair another glass of wine.

“Weisshaupt can go bugger itself, for all the help they’ve been.” Alistair mutters. He swirls the wine in the glass, but doesn’t drink. “It’s your call. I’ll stand by you, whatever you decide. I owe you that, at least.”

“Poor thanks, if you ask me.” Oren’s mouth twists into something that is almost a smile. “Couldn’t you just shower me with riches and titles? Half-naked noble women?”

“I hear Gwaren needs a new Teryn.”

He gives Alistair a startled look even as his insides twist, unsure if it’s a joke or not. Alistair is rarely cruel, but… 

… things have changed.

Alistair holds his eyes for a moment, copper gaze unreadable before he grimaces and heaves a tired sigh. “Sorry. It’s… it’s been a day.”

“I know,” Oren swallows hard. “ For what it’s worth, I’m… sorry too.”

“I’m sorry… your Majesty.” Alistair’s brow quirks up, and the line of his mouth eases, just a little. Just for a moment. 

Oren snorts, and clinks his wine bottle against Alistair’s wine glass. “I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

Alistair takes a drink, and the line of his mouth twists. “In war, victory.” he says so quietly, it is almost to himself.

*

In the morning, when Oren wakes, it isn’t really morning. The sun is already climbing down from his peak, and he has the grain of the table etched into his left cheek, a monstrous headache thundering through his right temple, and a deep sense of regret for that last bottle of wine.

Or bottles. Plural.

He’s not even sure how many he regrets, because he’s not sure how many he had — some industrious soul has already dispatched the remains of the celebration. But it had been an expensive evening.

And for all his excess he had never quite reached that floaty place where he could forget about Loghain, their past, and the decision laid out before him.

Loghain had been found guilty of treason, and had been summarily stripped of his titles and position. Even his daughter had failed to speak in his defense.

Fereldan judgement is swift. Fereldan punishment, even swifter. The nobility may have backed them in the Landsmeet, but it would not go well for the new King were he to falter in the dispatch of justice.

But Loghain’s crimes carried a particularly personal sting for Oren. 

So he bathes, and changes into his cleanest uniform, donning a warrior’s full plate. Even strapping steel to his hips. He doesn’t shave. His hands shake too badly to manage a blade, but the quarter-inch of stubble makes him feel unkempt — and the bloodshot eyes don’t help – too much like a year-old Warden who sleeps in a muddy tent, and too little like a man fit to judge the Hero of River Dane.

He tugs a hand through his dark curls feeling suddenly as though he were fifteen again, half in love with a man he’d known since boyhood, watching him cross the length of his father’s hall, and silently begging to be noticed.

He hadn’t been — not then. 

But then, one year, there had been a kiss. And then another. And then it was more than just kisses. And Loghain’s yearly visits had become twice a year, and then, every few months, and then every month.

And Oren had thought— 

But then Loghain’s visits had ceased abruptly, and without explanation.

That had hurt.

But what came next hurt even worse.

Rendon Howe, Loghain’s right hand, had swept in and murdered Oren’s entire family.

And everything that had happened from then until now had been a blur of grief and betrayal and bloodshed. 

He frowns at himself in the mirror.

This will be the first time in two years that he has spoken to Loghain alone.

He remembers the last time, though they’d barely spoken then. Loghain had kissed him breathless in the hall outside his room. And inside…

Oren shakes his head as hard as he can to stop the memories from coming. Even so they punch through, bright bursts of starlight behind his eyelids. The drag of Loghain’s fingertips across bare skin. The feel of his mouth curling into a smile. The taste of him. The mass of dark hair in Oren’s hands. The rumbling sounds of pleasure Loghain always kept locked tight in his chest. 

It feels like a thousand years ago.

Everything has changed.

Everything.  

And yet as he takes the long way to the part of the castle where Loghain is being held, he has to pause, and lean against the wall, hand against his face to still his breathing. There’s a sick sort of unease in his belly. Giddiness and dread and enough wine that he’s still halfway to drunk.

Maybe he just needs a good vomit.

There are a pair of guards stationed outside the door, but he orders them away. Whatever he means to say is for Loghain’s ears only. 

Oren takes a deep breath, and pushes the door open.

It is not what he had expected of a prison.

The room is large and richly furnished, with polished wood, and jewel-toned tapestries, and furs flung across every bare surface. There are no windows, but a fireplace is lit and well-stocked, casting the room in a warm, dramatic light. 

There are benefits to being the Queen’s father, it seems, no matter one’s crimes. 

Loghain is sitting near the fireplace, with a large book open on his lap, dark hair pulled back into a neat tail. He’s unarmed and unarmored, but Gwaren’s heraldic crest, a wyvern, done in gold thread, still winds down one of his shoulders.

Figures.

“Loghain.” 

Loghain looks up slowly, supremely unconcerned. One finger presses to the page, marking his place in his book. “Has Maric’s bastard decided what’s to be done with me?”

Oren glares, hands curling into fists at his sides, though he refuses to rise to Loghain’s insult. “Your King,” he says instead, leaning heavily on the word, “has sent me.”

“You,” Loghain says, voice expressionless. He looks Oren up and down with a calm sort of intensity. And if he recognizes him — or remembers what they once shared — he doesn’t acknowledge it. He tilts his head, inviting an answer. But the shadows shift along the sharp planes of his face, and all at once he’s too hard to look at — too imperious, and starkly beautiful, even in his defeat.

Oren looks away.

The silence between them stretches before Loghain speaks again. “Do you know they call you the Hero of Ferelden?”

Oren clenches his jaw. “No one calls me that.”

“They will.” He snaps the book on his lap shut. The sound is startling enough that Oren looks back at him. “That should please you. You always did love… heroes.”

Oren’s heart gives a small, painful jolt. 

“So you do remember me.”

Loghain looks at him for a long time. And the world spins and spins, flickering between what was and what is. 

“At Ostagar you didn’t… you didn’t even…”

“What would you have had me do?” Loghain’s words are sharp, and his eyes even sharper. 

Oren has no answer. Nothing that isn’t childish or petulant. Thousands died at Ostagar. 

Duncan died at Ostagar. 

Half of all living Wardens died at Ostagar.

He shakes his head, breathing heavily through his nose. He can still remember the stink of the battlefield, even before it began. An army is all noise and sweat and shit even before it is broken into pieces. And he and Alistair had watched it all from their tower. The tidal wave of Darkspawn crawling over the men below, and Loghain’s banners turning round, leaving them all to their fate. There’d been no sound –– they were up too high. But Alistair’s screams filled his ears, drowning out the tiny crack that splintered across his heart.

He really is a fucking child.

Loghain stands and moves closer, and Oren shifts from foot to foot. He won't back away, he won't. But having Loghain so close makes him uneasy. 

The table at the center of the room is laden with food, mostly untouched. Loghain uncorks a bottle and begins to pour. “Wine?”

Oren makes a sound of disbelief. “No.”

“Ori—”

“Don’t call me that!” Oren roars. Rage rises up so fast it nearly chokes him. “My family called me that. Before Rendon Howe had them slaughtered!”  

He doesn’t even realize he has his sword in his hand until Loghain moves to take it from him, grasping his wrist and twisting so sharply that for a moment everything goes numb from his elbow down. There’s a burst of pain, sharp and sweet, and Loghain has his sword.

This close his armor will make little difference. Loghain is well known for his unholy strength and brutality on the battlefield. And he has already tried to kill Oren. More than once.

More than twice.

A question burns his mouth. “Did you know?”

Loghain doesn’t answer, but his head tilts back slightly.

“Did. you. know.” Each word is as sharp as a slap, but it’s Oren who feels it. A bright broad sting across his heart. But he has to know. He has to.

“I did.”

Without hesitating, Oren smashes his forehead against the bridge of Loghain’s nose. Everything whites out in a starburst of pain. The two men stagger away from each other swearing breathlessly. Oren holds himself up one handed as the room tilts wildly before righting itself with a nauseating jolt.

Loghain is glaring at him, blood all down his upper lip and down his chin. His nose doesn’t look broken, but it’s already beginning to swell. “Idiot,” he says stiffly and uses the hem of his tunic to stem the blood-flow.

Oren chuckles, thinking he is definitely, certainly, still at least a little drunk.

And maybe brain-damaged now.

Loghain tosses the sword aside, still glaring.

Maybe they’re both brain-damaged.

“Ori,” Loghain starts. 

“Fuck you,” he says.

Loghain sighs. “Why do you ask questions when you don’t want the answer?”

“That’s fucking retorical too.” Oren mutters. The bottle has tipped over, spilling a stream of wine onto the carpet below.

The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic.

Loghain still has the tunic clamped over his nose. Fine linen spotted with blood. He pinches down a few more times, but the bleeding is already beginning to slow.

“Is it broken?” Oren asks.

“Probably.”

“Good.”

Loghain narrows his eyes and Oren nearly laughs again, still a little dizzy. “You don’t headbutt someone in a fight.”

“I didn’t realize we were fighting. I thought you were admitting to your part in the slaughter of my family.”

“No,” Loghain says, making a face at the splotches of blood all down his tunic. He peels it off, wads it into a ball and casts it into the fire. “You were asking questions you didn’t want answered.”

Oren wishes they hadn’t spilled the wine. It would give him something to do besides trying not to look at Loghain’s bare chest. 

“Alistair gave you the choice, didn’t he?”

 Oren grunts, and picks at the grapes on the table. “Why? Trying to seduce me into sparing your life?”

Loghain’s mouth twists into something too dangerous to be a smile. “Never had to seduce you before.”

Now it’s Oren’s turn to glare even as his cock gives a jolt  in response. It never took much from Loghain to get him hard. But he’s older now, and hopefully not so easily baited.

But —

“Your birthday was two days ago,” Loghain says softly. 

Oren freezes. Even his heart stops beating, if only for a moment.

“Every year I came you asked me for a kiss.” Loghain takes a step forward, then pauses, brows knitted into a frown. His hand twitches at his side, fingers clenching and unclenching in tiny, measured movements. “I never understood why. But I gave it to you.”

“You never understood why you kissed me?”

“I never understood why you wanted to be kissed.”

Despite everything, Oren’s chest feels tight with a sudden longing. “I was raised on stories of you. The Hero of River Dane. The right hand of the King. You,” he says carefully, “were like the sun.”

“Maric was the sun. He was the golden boy. I was only ever his shadow.”

“Not to me,” Oren breathes. “You were my first.”

“I assumed,” Loghain says dryly.

Oren bites back a dozen sarcastic replies in an instant, but he’s tired, and his head hurts. And all that is left to him is honesty. “I was in love with you.” 

The sudden flare of anger in Loghain's eyes isn’t bright, but cold and bitter. He reaches out, almost calmly, and grasps Oren by the throat.

It’s so still and deliberate that Oren doesn’t jerk away, not until Loghain begins to squeeze. He tries to claw Loghain’s fingers off his neck, but Loghain barrels him backward, until the back of his legs hit the bed and they both tip over. Oren writhes trying to break away, but Loghain is monstrously strong, and has all the leverage.

He folds his hand into a fist and drives it into Loghain’s mid-section, but he uses the arm that’s still mostly numb, so Loghain grunts, but doesn’t let go.

“Murderer!” Oren hisses, thrashing ineffectually. “Fucking coward!” 

Loghain has an extraordinary voice. Low, and rough and impeccably expressive. It could be bright, or thunderous, or sharply brittle as ice. But now it is so thin and thready it is difficult to hear. “You were never in love, Ori. You mistook hero worship for love, and now that you’ve finally grown up and realized the world isn’t made up of fairy tales, and happy endings, you want to blame me. Well go ahead.”

Oren grunts and tries to kick out, but Loghain’s weight is across his shins.

“One day there will be a boy who looks at you the way you looked at me. And you will have to explain to him that you became a hero because there was nothing, and no one that you weren’t willing to shatter to do what must be done.” His fingers tighten, mercilessly. “Heroes aren’t kind. Heroes aren’t just. They don’t have that luxury.” 

Oren makes a choked sound as his breath falters. Tears run into his ears.

“And then he’ll look at you the way you are looking at me now,” Loghain says quietly. 

Oren manages to get a couple of fingers wedged beneath Loghain’s grip, and sucks in a thready breath. “That’s... because you’re choking me, you fuck.” 

“Or maybe all you ever wanted was a hand on your cock that wasn’t your own.”

Loghain leans in, the thumb of his free hand sweeping against Oren’s bottom lip and for a brief moment Oren thinks he might try to bite Loghain. But all he does is take a single, strained breath. 

And wait.

And wait.

His eyes flutter closed.

The grip on his neck relaxes a little.

And Loghain shifts closer, breath warm and unsteady.  “Ori...”

The sound of his name in Loghain’s mouth twists inside him. He makes a tiny sound, dismay and distress and a bright streak of shame at his own inexplicable arousal. But then Loghain is kissing him, and the tumult of emotions dissolves into pure shock.

Loghain smells the same. Feels the same. Tastes the same. 

And Oren cannot help but press deeper into the kiss, even as his hand comes up to the broad expanse of Loghain’s chest, hovering, certain at any moment that he’ll push Loghain away.

But then he feels Loghain fumbling first at his belt, and then at the laces of his breeches, and then Loghain’s hand is cupping his bare cock. 

Oren’s head spins. He makes a sound that's a sob and a prayer, all harsh and broken and begging.

But his hand slips down Loghain’s chest, and starts working his trousers open. Loghain’s nearly entirely hard, and the shape of him in Oren’s hand is familiar and strange and overwhelming. 

What is he doing? 

He ought to squeeze the fucker’s balls until they pop.

Loghain slots their bare cocks together, wraps them in his large hand. 

And Oren makes a shuddery sound through his nose. Maker, it’s been so long...

“Did Maric’s boy not do this for you?”

“No,” he manages. “Fuck you.”

Loghain chuckles, the sound a low rumble. And Oren realizes he’s never heard him laugh.

And he wants…

Maker what does he want?

Loghain’s grip on his throat eases deliberately. “Take a breath,” he says.

Oren does. A full, sweet lungful, even though it hurts, and it hurts when Loghain grips his neck once again, clamping down. 

It goes quick after that. They’re both too riled up to savor anything. Loghain twists his hand around the pair of them as Oren tries to thrust up. There isn’t enough slick, but the sensation is still dizzying — sharp and insistent and demanding. Waves of pleasure rocket up Oren’s spine and radiate through his core. He grabs a handful of Loghain’s hair tugging him down for another kiss, until he’s thoroughly breathless and quite literally seeing stars.

Their cocks slide together, Loghain’s thumb brushing over the wet tips and the hand at his throat is like a vice, anchoring him, even as he drifts higher and higher and far far away. And Loghain growls something, rhythm suddenly jerky and harsh, and there’s a sudden slick of heat between them, and yes yes—

He bows off the bed as he comes, thrusting hard into Loghain’s fist. Any sound he might make is choked out of him, and there’s only a strangled silence and the quick sure sound of Loghain’s hand, as he guides Oren through his orgasm. 

Then all at once the hand at Oren’s throat is gone, and Loghain shifts, bending, taking his spent cock in his mouth, sucking hard enough it feels like he may bruise. 

Oren makes a startled cry, jerking bonelessly as the sensation rises, so sharp it’s almost painful. 

But it’s gone nearly at once, and then Loghain is kissing him again, mouth tasting of copper and salt and sin. 

A goodbye kiss.

They both know it.

“Loghain…” Oren’s voice cracks. Broken, ragged thing. “For the crimes you have committed against Fereldan, you will be put to death.” 

The room is perfectly quiet. As is Loghain’s expression. But he reaches down and brushes the backs of his knuckles across the faint stubble on Oren’s cheek. The only bit of tenderness he has shown the entire night.

His eyes shine faintly with approval.

Oren slides a hand across his own abdomen, half expecting to find himself gutted and bleeding though Loghain had tossed away the sword. It hurts just as much. 

More, even.

He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, as much to stop the ragged sounds of his breathing as to scrub away the feeling of the kiss, of the taste of himself and Loghain in his mouth. 

*

It is a small group who gathers in the early morning for the execution. The weather in the courtyard is properly morose. The sky, a solid sheet of grey, dark with the threat of rain. It is wet everywhere, the trees droop, heavy with dew, and the ground is scattered with silver-brown puddles.

It is a rather peaceful place to die.

None of Loghain’s supporters are present. Neither is the Queen. But Alistair is there, dressed in his Warden armor, and hefting a great, two-handed sword. He has a wide silver band upon his brow, not precisely a crown, but a clear mark of his new status. With his hair slicked back, and his expression dark and severe, he looks nothing at all like the young man he’d been — and every inch a King.

In turn, Loghain looks like the man he’s always been. Straight backed and severe, head to toe in black doeskin and velvet, with his hair loose upon his shoulders. He looks like the whole affair is beneath him. The spectacular bruising across the bridge of his nose and beneath both eyes is all that is out of place. 

“Loghain Mac Tir,” Alistair’s voice cuts through the silence. “For crimes against Ferelden and her people, and for grievous harm done to the Order during a blight; the Ferelden Wardens sentence you to death. Kneel.”

Nothing shifts in Loghain’s expression as he drops silently to his knees. He obeys, but concedes nothing.

Alistair raises his sword, the weight of it dragging against time itself. Slowly slowly the world stills.

A drop of rain suspended in the sky.

It might be blood. It ought to be blood.

Red. Crimson. Burgundy.

The first time they kissed, Loghain wore a burgundy tunic.

Oren closes his eyes. Hears his own breath begin to splinter apart.

He knows what happens next. The slice of the sword. The thunk and squish of finality. The silence. Long, dark hair spilling across the flagstones, still and wet. Grey-blue eyes unseeing, slowly filling with rain.

Oren gags.

“L-Loghain…” His voice is weak. Scratchy and half-broken from the bruises from Loghain’s hands that ring his throat. He coughs, nearly retching, and steps forward. “Loghain…” He takes another, and then another, and then his feet carry him, tripping over himself, stumbling as he rushes forward faster than the blade can fall. “I conscript you to the Wardens!” It feels like something tears, and he clutches at his throat, coughs again, and spits out blood. “Loghain Mac Tir, I conscript you to the Wardens.” This time at least, his voice is clear.

Stillness.

Silence.

No matter how long he lives he’ll never forget the look on Alistair’s face. 

A raw thing, torn open and bleeding for the world to see. Then Alistair swallows it all behind a mask of utter blankness. He lowers the sword slowly. “Out.”

No one moves. 

“Everyone, out!” Alistair bellows. 

It takes a moment. Long, shocked moments of silence and shuffling feet before the courtyard is cleared. Only the Wardens, and the new Warden conscript remain.

It begins to rain.

Loghain turns to Oren, still kneeling. “Have you gone mad?” he asks mildly.

“The Wardens need men.” He answers Loghain, but looks at Alistair, pleading. “Whatever they’ve done... their crimes are erased once they are conscripted and take the joining.”

Alistair’s shoulder’s shift, a nervous sort of twitch like he wants to shake his head, but can’t. 

“I’m sorry,” Oren tells Alistair raggedly.

“I told you it was your decision, so I’ll stand by it.” A breath, and Alastair flings the sword to the ground in a clatter of steel, expression stony. “But I won’t make that mistake again.”

He stalks away just as the skies spill in earnest. The rain becomes a downpour, a rush of sound that swallows even the broken sounds of Oren’s breathing. A single flicker of lighting arcs across the sky. 

Oren closes his eyes, thunder in his ears. Rain sting the back of his neck, and slide beneath his collar. He doesn’t realize he’s tipping over until he feels his knees slam into the wet cobblestones. 

He feels Loghain’s arms come up around him, fingers at the collar of his uniform, undoing the buttons, easing the constriction against his throat. It takes a few moments kneeling together in the rain, but Oren’s breath comes easier. 

“He hates me now,” Oren says hoarsely. 

“It’s me he hates.”

Oren shakes his head wearily. “I’ve married him to a woman who doesn’t love him. Bedded him to a woman who can’t stand him. And now this.” 

Loghain snorts. “If keeping his favor was so important, you should not have spared me.”

Oren feels something slide down the bridge of his nose. Tears, or rain. “Why is throwing people away so easy for you?”

“You mistake what is easy, for what is necessary,” Loghain sighs. “I’m not sure you’ll make a very good hero.”

“Unlike you?”

Loghain takes a deep breath. “I am not so concerned with being good.”

“Well that’s a fucking revelation.” Oren mutters.

Unbelievably, Loghain laughs. It isn’t a cruel sound. Or a bright one. It is soft and strangely warm.

It is still raining heavily.

And Loghain’s arms are still around him.

Oren swallows hard. “Why is it so easy to fall in love, and so hard to fall out of it?”

Loghain doesn’t reply.

And he doesn’t let go.

“I didn’t spare you,” Oren elaborates after a moment. “You may die in the joining. Or get promptly eaten by an archdemon if you don’t. And the uniforms are itchy.”

“I consider myself unspared.” Loghain says solemnly. 

And together they sit in the rain, not speaking. Not moving.

And for a brief moment, Oren thinks he feels the touch of a feather-light kiss upon his brow, but he can’t be sure.

1/1 my tumblr writing masterpost

[snippychicke]

Kinktober Week Two-- Garp

Prompt: Phone Sex

Warnings: these poor communication snails. Otherwise just a lot of dirty talk. Nsfw, 18+, just look at the title.

You sat at the library of the marine headquarters, mindlessly reading quite possibly the only piece of fiction in the entire place. The library was calm, quiet, with just a few soldiers as well as cadets milling about, looking through old journals and log books. Pieces of history to help them plan the future.

You sat at the library of the marine headquarters, mindlessly reading quite possibly the only piece of fiction in the entire place. The library was calm, quiet, with just a few soldiers as well as cadets milling about, looking through old journals and log books. Pieces of history to help them plan the future.

The quiet was interrupted by a chirping sound. Not the transponder snail on your desk, but the ear-slug in your purse.

Garp.

Your breath caught, he rarely ever reached out on the private line, usually happy using the official lines even if it was just to whine and tell you how bored he was, or how much he missed you. Often to everyone else's annoyance.

You quickly fished the small conch out of your bag as you stood and retreated into your office, sure whatever he was calling for was private. "Garp?"

"Heh. Wasn't sure you'd answer," Came your husband's reply. "You do still keep the little bugger with you."

"Of course I do!" You said, though relief wasn’t instantaneous. You knew Garp, he'd chit chat before admitting he had a massive hole where his stomach was. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, I was just missing you." There was a huskiness to his voice, making you frown. It wasn't pain. But… "Are you able to slip away and talk in private for a little bit?"

Something about the way he said it made you blush, as if he was right there whispering into your ear. "I'm in my office with the door closed."

"Perfect. Have you got a new desk yet?"

You blushed as you looked at your desk, covered with papers and books, it wasn't nearly as grand or large as the last one. Or the one before that. Or the one before that.

All broken by your husband during his… visits.

"I do. It's not very well made, I guess they got annoyed about how many we've broken."

His laughter echoed in your ear. "I can't wait to get back and break that one too. I'll push all those boring dusty reports to the side, throw you up there and start railing you. Whole place is going to hear me fuck my wife."

If your face was't red before it was now as you slumped in your chair. Throat became dry as you listened to his slightly-heavy breathing. "So that's why you called me."

His chuckles echoed down your spine, goosebumps pricking your skin. "I've been out to sea too long. Can you blame me for wanting to hear my wife's voice as I jacked myself off."

You could just imagine him in his quarters, sitting at his desk, legs splayed wide open, cock hard as the mast as he teased himself. After all, how many times had you seen it when you worked as his secretary? First on accident, then on purpose.

"Are you already touching yourself?" You purred, switching mental gears, and heard him groan in response.

"Barely. I wanted to see if I could get you at least breathing heavy first."

You relaxed back in your chair, teasing your nipple through your outfit. "What got you all hard and bothered, sailor?"

"All this goddamn paperwork made me remember the days you used to sit beneath my desk and reward me for doing my reports," He answered. "Talk about initiave when you have a pretty woman giving you head, knowing you get to fuck her wet pussy once you're finished."

Your breath hitched between his words and memories. Hearing him growl in frustration as he tore through his work as you lazily sucked him off. "It was the only way to get you to work," You teased, making him growl.

"You fucking loved it. You start loosening the buttons on your blouse, showing your cleavage as you delivered reports. Bright red lipstick. You were begging me to fuck that pretty mouth of yours."

"I was," You admitted with a sigh, now fully groping yourself. Eyes closed as you focused on his voice and memory. "But could you blame me? I was serving under the vice admiral. Those huge muscles, that smile. I swear your eyes smouldered when you’d eye-fuck me. And then that is cock of yours. So big and girthy. I felt like a cat in heat wanting to be fucked by it."

"I shouldn't have wasted time. I should have just bent you over my desk that first day and claimed you right then and there, instead of hoping you didn't notice me jacking off under my desk while watching you work."

Your pussy clenched at the thought, and your hand pulled up your skirt and brushed the fabric of your underwear. "That would have been some first impression. But I admit, it felt rather nice realizing I had the legendary Monkey D. Garp lusting over little ol' me."

"Turned you into a little brat," He moaned. You had no doubt he was touching himself now from the way he was breathing. Stroking his hard cock, head leaned back with eyes closed. It was such a beautiful image. "It was like you were testing your limits. Seeing how far you could push until I snapped."

"No. I wanted you to snap. I knew you wanted me. I knew the mess you were making beneath your desk--you're hardly quiet with those growls of yours. I wanted to hear those growls in my ear as you fucked me. Those hands gripping my hair."

That growl was cutting every breath now. "Fuck darling. Please tell me I got you a little wet."

"A little?" You moaned as you pushed your underwear aside and teased yourself. "Sir, I am dripping."

"That's my girl," He snarled. "Always so wet and willing. How long would it take for you to come for me?"

"I thought you just wanted my voice," You teased.

"Plans change. I wanna hear you come. I wanna hear you whine and moan as you fuck yourself. I want to hear you begging me to come there and fill your pussy up."

You whimpered as you started to finger fuck yourself, rolling your hips in time with your thrusts. "Please, promise me you will. As soon as you're back to headquarters."

"Oh yes," He panted. "As soon as this ship's close to shore I'm jumping overboard and running straight for you. Fuck everyone else, I'm going to find you first. I'm gonna carry you into that little office and eat that pussy until you're a sobbing mess, and then we're gonna break that damn desk as I fuck you. The whole base will know I'm back just to satisfy my wife."

[cinnamontoastcrunch-15]

How to Find a Werewolf (a week before the full moon)

The title will probably change lmfao

7 days

Sirius notices the signs from the moment Remus is awake. He's flinching every single time a fork hits a plate in the wrong way, for starters. Sirius ends up gently kicking both James and Peter, forcing them to catch on. It's clearly much too loud in the hall itself, Remus is barely contributing. Not for lack of trying, but he seems more than a little dissociated.

Then it's the walking.

As much as he's trying to hide it, the slight exhales that come with every step is enough to show Sirius that he's in pain. The hip's usually the first of his joints to start acting up, so Sirius wordlessly starts picking up and shoving Remus' textbooks into his own bag. Thankfully, Remus isn't ready to bicker about that.

No, it's much too early for that.

5 days

It's two in the morning when Sirius notices.

He's a light sleeper, so Remus' tossing and turning is more than enough to wake him up.

For a moment he just observes carefully. He knows full well that Remus is going to be exhausted, and the fact that he's still up means his skin must be crawling.

"Moons?" He says softly, and Remus stops in his tracks.

"Sorry, didn't mean to wake you."

"Nah, s'fine," Sirius waves him off easily. "We can go sit by the window, if you want?"

For a moment, he thinks Remus is going to say no and resign to a sleepless night, but instead he just sighs.

"...yeah. If that's okay."

Sirius is already sliding out of their bed, glancing at James and Peter to make sure they're still asleep. Then, he reaches out and offers Remus his hand. Remus takes it, letting himself be led to the big window. The windowsill was charmed years ago. Initially it was to fit the four of them, but four seventh years can't fit on it even when it's been extended. Two, though? It's absolutely perfect.

That's how the two of them end up sitting together on the sill, Sirius wedging the window open slightly and letting the cool air hit them both. He can see the way Remus relaxes as he starts to cool down, eyes sliding shut. He leans his head back against the wall, and Sirius smiles to himself as Remus finally starts to fall asleep.

3 days

It doesn't take long for the anger to hit.

Remus isn't what people expect when they think of a werewolf before the full moon. He doesn't have all consuming, blinding rage. There's no world where Remus Lupin will turn and start screaming at teachers.

Instead, it usually starts pretty suppressed.

At breakfast, he sees Remus' hand tighten around his goblet the moment Snape strolls past, making another snide comment about the moon. It's enough for Sirius to make a mental note not to push anything too far. Bickering can turn into real fighting and hurt feelings much too quickly around the full.

James, however, hasn't caught onto the timeline the way Sirius has.

They can all see Remus fighting his own tiredness in the common room, quill in hand as he absentmindedly tries to do his homework. Remus' handwriting is shit at the best of times, but before the full? It's barely legible.

Sirius' solution is to walk over and sit beside Remus, not saying a word and just making sure Remus knows he has support.

"Moony, you might need to take a break," James says softly, and Sirius almost sighs.

Poor bugger.

"I'm fine," Remus starts, and Sirius feels him tense up beside him. He tries to shoot James a glance that essentially means 'stop fucking talking', but he doesn't get the hint.

"Minnie's offered you an extention. It's probably best to wait until you feel better."

"Christ, I said I was fine! Get off my fucking back!" He snaps, James lapsing into silence.

Okay, it's hit him too.

Sirius tries to wrap an arm around Remus' shoulder, but he's shaken off like it's nothing, Remus standing. He winces as he does it, and Sirius forces himself to take a breath, not get too het up about that.

"You all just need to fuck off! You're all so bloody clingy!"

With that, he's gone. He turns and walks upstairs, and Sirius just shrugs at James.

"Give him a day, it'll be fine."

1 day

Remus doesn't get out of bed the day before.

Sometimes he does, but recently his good days before the moon are getting fewer and further between. The only reason Sirius actually bothers to go to his morning classes is to take notes for Remus, and he makes Pete promise to get Remus' notes for his last few.

That sorted, he heads up to the dorm, a hot chocolate he got from the kitchen in hand. Knocking once, he pushes the door open to find the curtains drawn in the room, the whole dorm flooded in darkness.

"Moony?"

For a moment, he thinks he's asleep, until-

"M'fine." His voice is rough, sounds almost like he's been crying.

Yeah, this is definitely one of the bad ones.

He steps into the room, letting the door shut behind him as he gets to Remus' bed. At first, he sits on the edge of it, Remus not moving.

"I've got hot chocolate?" He tries.

"...could you put it on the bedside table?" Sirius nods, setting it down.

"D'you need anything?" He asks gently. Not that he needs to ask, he knows what the answer is going to be.

"If you- maybe you could... stay?"

He doesn't waste a moment in climbing into the bed with his partner and wrapping his arms around Remus' waist from behind.

"Sorry I was such a twat before," Remus says quietly, and Sirius smiles to himself.

"Don't worry about it."

To be fair, his body is literally getting ready to break itself. In what world is he going to have boundless excitable energy?

Sirius just wants to take care of him.

"I love you," He says softly, shifting his weight to reach up and press a kiss to Remus' temple.

"I love you too."

[cassiana-on-dark-side]

"This is an excerpt from my memoir, "Love and Truth”.

Roger Waters

This is a true story of My love for two animals Both wild in their own way Which I read to the audience at a Live performance of DSOTM REDUX At the London Palladium On the day after October 7th 2023. Yes, The Campaign Against Anti-Semitism Were outside the Theater that day trying to cancel me. Free Palestine! From the River to the Sea! ✊🏻🇵🇸🇵🇸🇵🇸

So Chocolate Charlie Brown was my third brown Burmese cat. This is a drawing of him and his friend Lilly, an Abyssinian, above the skirting board on the wall of my youngest son Jack’s room in the early nineties. This story isn’t about Chocolate Charlie Brown, well, just this first little bit is, but the rest is about a Duck called Donald. First though a brief history of Chocolate Charley Brown, I got him through Keith Butt, the vet in Knightsbridge where I used to take pets to be euthanized on Sunday mornings if they were beyond repair. Like Cloudy for instance, my daughter India’s pet gerbil, she was beyond repair, cancer, (Cloudy that is, not India), poor little scrap. So into the Merc we jumped one Sunday morning after breakfast, Cloudy and I, well Cloudy didn’t exactly jump in, if truth be told, I had to help her in, in her little cage, just the two of us, the condemned Cloudy and me, and a cardboard box for later. Bloody hell, I’m getting a bit weepy. Off to Keith Butt, Mr Butt was already cognizant of Cloudy’s condition, so, look the other way, is it over? The trick before bringing the deceased home was to make her look comfy in her little cardboard box, arranged curled up resting in eternal peace with a garland of forget me nots. After lunch, down the garden, spade in hand, a not very heavy cardboard box, a little girl’s hand, held tightly in mine. Job done.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Chocolate Charley Brown. The day he arrived he was a wee brown scrap and scared shitless, so I took him upstairs to the bedroom for a settle in. He ran straight under the bed and wouldn’t come out, so I took off my cowboy boots and got into bed in my jeans and dangled enticing things like feathers on bits of string in front of the dark places under the bed. Sure enough after about half an hour the hunting gene emerged and so did CCB’s little paw. I enticed him out into the open and then scooped him up and stuffed him under the covers next to my big warm leg. I was wearing a brown leather belt to hold my jeans up. I’ve still got it, it’s got a silver tip that always flops down. I was sitting up in the bed reading when I saw a tiny paw reach out and bat at the dangling silver bit on the end of my belt. We said hello, and we were inseparable after that. What a magnificent animal CCB was, beloved by all. Well obviously not all, all. He was not beloved by rodents or birds or Brian the gamekeeper from Kimbridge Farms next door. I saw CCB limping one day, favouring his off hind. I couldn’t find anything amiss, nothing broken, but, just to be sure I took him to the local vet for an X-Ray. Bugger me! Three #5 shot gun pellets in his rear end. I went to see Brian.

“Er Brian?”

“Yes, Sir?”

“Happy Christmas Brian, there’s a hundred quid.”

“Thank you very much Sir!”

“You’re very welcome…….. Brian, If that big old brown cat of mine is still alive next Christmas there’ll be another hundred, and so on until he dies of natural causes.”

“I hear you Mr Waters, can I ask you a favour?”

“Anything Brian”

“Could you put a fluorescent collar on ‘im sir? Make my job a lot easier, that would.”

Anyway, one summer I hear the cat flap bang, and in comes CCB with, as usual, something dead in his mouth. He flops down in front of the AGA Stove, (half central heating, half cooking, much beloved in posh country kitchens) panting.

“What you got there Charlie?”

“Oh nothing much, just a newly hatched duckling, I’ve already eaten all it’s siblings and I’m a bit full. I’m just gonna rest here for a minute and then eat this‘un later and then I might go for a kip in the laundry room.”

“Jesus Christ Charlie, let’s have a look, oh for fuck’s sake it’s still wet.”

“Cats will be cats son”

“Jesus! Come on little‘un it’s the bin for you. Fuck me it’s still breathing, Jesus! Charley!”

“Oi! where are you going, I was looking forward that.”

So I put the wet scrap of baby bird, bits of shell and all, out of reach of the magnificent beast and went in search of a shoe box. Got one. Screwdriver for holes. Dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap, dap. That’s enough, it’ll never live anyway. Where to put it? I know, guest bathroom on the radiator.

Next morning drinking coffee. Halfway through second cup….! The shoebox! I better go and clear up the remains. So, I run up the stairs and go into the guest bathroom.

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

Fuck me! Open the lid. Oh my god it’s a fluffy brown golf ball with a little yellow face and a line of mascara through its eye!

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi “

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi?”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi?”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi”

“Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi Tsi”

Translation; Mallard to English.

“Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy,

I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry, I’m hungry,

Where have you been?

Where have you been?

I was frightened,

Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy, Mummy.”

It was Donald.

“Fuck me! ……….. What do they eat?”

“What about milk ?”

“Milk! Don’t be stupid, when did you ever see a duck with tits?”

Ducklings should be fed a diet of mealworms and plant matter at an early age, though grasses tend to make baby ducks bloat. Wild ducks tend to stick to whatever bugs they find, and they will eat food that is fed to them by park visitors or guests. Bread has been long regarded as a bad thing to feed wild birds.

“Oi, no bread!”

I probably went out to try and catch bugs on the river that runs through the garden. Duh! Have you ever tried to catch a bug? Exactly! It probably didn’t take me long to read up on it.(Roger all through your life you’ll be faced with many challenges, my advice is to read, read, read, read. Thanks Mum.) Dried mealy worms mixed with crushed barley or oats, and water of course. Donald stayed in the guest bathroom for the first week or so, except of course at my bath time when he came into the master bathroom for bath time with me.

What bliss, my own duck to play with in the bath. Donald loved bath time, swimming about and then coming up onto Mummy’s chest for a snuggle and a bit of chin peck preen time, then back into the warm water.

What has always intrigued me is how can something that small produce that volume of duck shit? I mean, the guest bathroom floor was knee deep after a couple of weeks. I know you think I’m exaggerating; you’re thinking.

“How could it possibly be knee deep?”

“Ah, well that’s because you’re thinking Mummy knee deep, I’m talking Donald knee deep, which as you can see from the photo is only about half an inch.”

Anyway Donald grew and grew, I taught him to swim in the bath, even thought of buying him a plastic duck to play with……..no I didn’t!

The guest bathroom started to pong a bit, and it was a warm summer, so I decided to build Donald a run in the garden. We had a very small stream, only about a foot wide, that ran from a parallel carrier stream across the lawn under some cherry trees to the main river. Perfect.

I got some chicken wire and built an enclosure which spanned the stream. Running water, fox proof, enough bank for a snooze, in sight of the chairs on the logia, heaven. The long summer days of, what? 1993? Passed. Donald grew and grew, never losing his attachment to me, his Mummy. We used to go for walks together down the garden, never too close to the main river, I was always afraid of him falling in. Stupid I know. I was living at the time with Pricilla, my Jack’s mum, and we were in the habit of sitting on the logia at the cocktail hour with a very large vodka and cranberry juice each. I know, I know, but in those days we didn’t know any better. Anyway, Donald would always come and sit with us and preen a bit and quack-le quietly until bedtime. I’m not sure how many months passed before one day I looked at Donald and I thought, fuck me shouldn’t his head be starting to turn green? Christ almighty! Donald’s a girl! Well, too late to change his/her name now. Thank god, (NTTIAG) as far as we know, ducks don’t have pronoun issues.

One day, as September approached, I was looking at Donald over the rim of my vodka glass thinking, that duck looks almost full grown, when another thought occurred to me………………………..?

“Christ she can’t fly.”

So I called her over and picked her up and held her between my thumb and the four fingers of my right hand, half way between her lovely neck and her beautiful webbed feet, like a fat feathered paper dart, and pointing her slightly up, launched her forward. She didn’t even flap her wings, just nosedived into the turf at my feet, looked over her shoulder at me disapprovingly and waddled off to lick her wounded pride.

“Jesus Mummy! Why’d you do that?”

It was a conundrum, how to teach Donald to fly, until one day walking down the edge of one of the paddocks on my way to give Mossy Fern (Retired racehorse) some polos, I was going too fast for Donald who broke into a stumbling waddle-y run and then instinctively put out her wings and flapped and flew for about five yards before crashing. Eureka! We started to practice every day and before long if I broke into a run she would fly beside me at shoulder height,

“Look at me Mummy I’m flying!”

She didn’t fly away. Until one day she did.

“Where’s Donald?”

“I don’t know I haven’t seen her.”

I’m a bit weepy writing this………I mean it was great that she’d gone off with her friends to the barley stubble or wherever they went, but……………well it left a big hole.

Then a couple of days later, a few ducks landed by the bridge, below the top pool, near the house, when we were sitting in front of the logia with our Vodkas and cranberry juice, and one of them swam over, calmly climbed the steps out of the river, walked across the lawn and sat down next to us.

“Hello Donald.”

“Quack, quack,”

She did that several more times that September, until finally she didn’t.

I confess, though it pains me to admit it, before 1993, I would occasionally take the odd barley fed mallard off the river in September, delicious.

That was thirty years ago.

I never did it again."

via substack © by Roger Waters

[fly-boy-in-the-sky]

Banana Fish & Films PART 1

Recommendations based on aesthetics, themes, decade etc…

These are just my personal recommendations for movies similar to Banana Fish. Most of these films from 1960-90s revolving around some sort of street culture gangs, prostitution, trafficking, drugs all that good stuff…also a few of these I haven’t watched in years so the description may be a little off LOL

TAXI DRIVER 1976

“All the animals come out at night. Whores, skunk-pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies. Sick and venal.”

Taxi Driver follows a former Vietnam solider insomniac 26-year-old Travis (Robert De Niro) who takes night shifts as a cab driver in NYC. The story is mostly told through his inner monologue, where he talks about his his loneliness and depression along with telling stories of his interactions with his customers. He crosses paths with a 12-year-old prostitute Iris, (Jodie Foster) whom he tries rescuing from her situation.

This film was recommended by Yoshida.

THE WARRIORS 1979

“Since when the fuck are you a diplomat?”

After being blamed for the killing of a rival gang leader in the Bronx, the Warriors have dozens of New York City street gangs are out for revenge battling over turf that ranges from Bronx to Coney Island where the Warriors reside.

STREETWISE 1984

“No one to tell you where to go or what to do.”

A documentary on Street Kids in Seattle Washington 1984. Many of the teenagers do dangerous hustling gigs to survive on the streets.

There’s a story about a girl who is a prostitute with her mother’s knowledge, though her mother is against the idea she doesn’t stop her since it brings in money. Similar situation with Ash and his father..I have seen people say “I can’t believe his father would do that!” or that it’s totally unrealistic. Unfortunately these terrible things do happen, and even though Banana Fish is fictional and exaggerated, the crimes featured are really not far off for the time. Child exploitation human trafficking was huge, that’s one of the reasons how the milk carton missing persons started back in the eighties, especially through mafia/politicians in Europe.

PLATOON 1986

“Any way you cut it, Barnes is a fucking murderer.”

This movie was recommended by Yoshida.

Chris Taylor (Charlie Seen) leaves university to enlist in the Vietnam war. His experiences in combat fades his idealisms of what war is really about and what the troops are fighting this war for. His two Sargents, Barnes (Tom Berneger) and Elias (Williem Dafoe) are constantly arguing together over their morals. Barnes has violent approaches and believes the villagers are harboring Vietcong, while Elias has a more sympathetic view of the villagers and the war. Their disagreements began putting soldiers up against each other, as well as the enemies.

CRUISING 1980

“They told me that there was some... special assignment... and that I was right for it.”

Steve Burns (Al Pacino) is tasked to go undercover cop as a gay man infiltrating New York’s S&M clubs for a psychopath who’s been violently killing homosexuals. Steve begins immersing himself in the subculture and club hopping. While this is going down, he becomes increasingly distant with his girlfriend and the police forces homophobia becomes more apparent as the case goes on.

KING OF NEW YORK 1990

“ I spent half my life in prison. I never got away with anything, and I never killed anybody that didn't deserve it.”

The biggest Kingpin of the underground Frank White (Christopher Walken) just got released from prison. He’s different from most gangsters though. He shares his benefits with the poor, opening children’s hospitals and protecting the wellbeing of underprivileged citizens. Though the streets are much tougher than before. The mafia, Chinatown and Colombian gangs are running the streets partaking in child human trafficking and prostitution, unnecessary killings and racketeering. Frank’s not a fan of how they do business, and puts an end to it.

One of my favorites..the ending even ends similar to Banana Fish and there’s these two gay ass cop partners that the one kisses him towards the end (no spoilerrr) Frank is a super morally grey gangster and very similar to Ash in his beliefs. Film features many famous 90s actors. Must watch.

THE OUTSIDERS 1983

“I used to talk about killing myself all the time, man. But I don't wanna die now. It ain't long enough. Sixteen years ain't gonna be long enough.”

Based on the novel of the same name, an American classic most of us had to read in middle school.

A teenage gang in 1960s Oklahoma, the Greasers have constant clashes with another rival gang the Socs. When Ponyboy (C. Thomas Howell) and Johnny (Ralph Macchio) get into a brawl that leads to the death of a Soc member, they are forced to run away into hiding. With help from their friend Dally (Matt Dillon) he tells them a place out in the rural part of town they can hide until the situation dies down. They are eventually forced to return back to their town after a tragic incident with Johnny happens, and they’re subjected to the consequences of their violent lives once again.

[theonlyren]

Public Sylveon Announcement

So. It's Pride Month, and the Sylveon are out in droves, being the icons we all want them to be (they adore the attention). During this time, you may be tempted to catch one of these goobers, or perhaps be chosen by one, to raise and train as your own. That's great! As a trainer of a Sylveon for a whole decade, I'm intimately familiar with the ins and outs of this particular Eeveelution and will be glad to share some advice!

Without further ado, here's how you care for a newly caught Sylveon!

0: Don't.

Get yourself an Eevee, and earn your Sylveon.

Understand I'm not saying this with spite, this is genuinely a word of caution, a warning, if you will. Aside from the fact that catching a Sylveon during Pride is almost certainly an "impulse catch" that you may well not be ready to commit to, stop to consider for a moment just how Sylveon evolve. They require affection. Love. A step above "mere" friendship. They require a genuine connection to another that sparks perhaps one of the most unique and precious evolutions known to all 'mon. Straight up catching/adopting one not only skips that entire, critical step, but also more-than-likely deeply implies that the Sylveon you're catching/adopting had that connection and, one way or another has lost it.

We call this baggage and a lot of people aren't ready to deal with it. You could be inadvertently taking in a 'mon with separation anxiety, depression, nightmares and high stress, imposter syndrome, and more.

Start with an Eevee (A child of a Sylveon if at all possible ;D), and evolve it with a healthy baseline into a Sylveon, you'll both be much happier.

"But what if the Sylveon chose me and isn't leaving?"/"I'm aware of the risks, but want to commit to this anyway."

Well, dear reader, keep reading!

1: Be ready for touch.

Sylveon are titled "The Intertwining Pokemon" for a reason. They adore touch. They're hardwired to seek it. Quite literally my own Sylveon is sitting under my desk as I type this, with his feeler wrapped around my leg. It's his favorite place to be that isn't also in my bed. Their feelers can be off putting to a lot of people, especially after one realizes they're flesh and fur, but do not recoil from it, you'll break the poor bab's heart. Touch is how they explore and how they get a read on you and other pokemon (it's also how they lull prey into a false sense of security before they go for the throat, more on that later). Do not touch starve your Sylveon. For a blessing, their feelers are velvety soft and feel wonderful, at least, to most people. If you have other Pokemon, encourage them to get used to the feelers as well. I have a Zoroark on my team, and, though it took a while, he doesn't recoil at Vivi's feelers and lets him explore.

This all goes double for cuddles. Sylveon are perhaps the absolute worst of the Eeveelutions that still believe they're a lap Eevee once they evolve. A lot of trainers will try and tell you to discourage such behavior, since it will encourage them to pounce on other people, but, in my experience, Sylveon are rather adept at knowing who to not pounce on. As long as you're the primary pounce person, your Sylveon will seldom jump on other people that it doesn't consider a friend and knows not to pounce on.

2: Be ready for high-maintenance.

Sylveon (most of them, at least) are spoiled brats in one way or another. It's a common "trap" most trainers fall into when raising one, a lot of the ways you can show one affection as an eevee is to go above and beyond for it in one way or another, and they will get used to that. My Sylveon, as an example, loves baths, and practically requires one daily. Other Sylveon may require a battle on the weekly, or high quality food, or long, scenic walks, or, Arc-save-you, all of the above. They're a very high-energy, high-maintenance Eeveelution, beaten out only by Jolteon.

3: Be ready for noise.

Oh they YELL. Sylveon are talkative little buggers, and the moment something goes amiss they will cry about it. If they're having fun they will cry about it. If they're bored they will cry about it. If they know Hyper Voice, Lord-in-heaven they will cry about it. You can train one to be quiet on demand, but use such commands sparingly, as frequently telling them to "quiet down" will make one start to question if you're mad at it or appreciate it. Which leads us to-

4: Temper your emotions.

Another aspect about Sylveon is they use their feelers to channel a calming Fairy-type energy that quite literally reads your emotions and dulls hostility. This makes them great therapy Pokemon, as it makes it damn near impossible to be mad if one's around, and great hunters, as it makes it damn near impossible to fear for your life when it goes in for the kill! It also, perhaps frustratingly, makes it damn near impossible to be mad at them if they misbehave. And they're a fairy-type, they will misbehave at some point. All a Sylveon wants to feel is love and joy, understandably, but other emotions exist for a reason, and both you and your Sylveon will have to learn to channel and process those emotions in a healthy, controlled manner, as this will reliably get the both of you back to feeling the love and joy you're likely seeking. This process is different for everyone, and Arc-knows I'm far from a licensed therapist, but it's still important to learn how to figure out anger and sorrow with a Sylveon around, and the both of you will need to train yourselves to work through your feelings.

5: Be ready to play.

I'm lucky, I have other mons that'll be playmates for Vivi at the drop of a hat. But one thing I've observed with Sylveon as a whole is that they all need playtime and playmates, and if you don't have other Pokemon that can be your Sylveon's playmate, guess what, bud - that means you're the playmate! Even if you do have other mons you are still a valid playmate!

Buy toys.

Squeaky toys, tug-ropes, ribbons, balls, feathers, and dolls are all fantastic toys for your Sylveon, and if one brings a toy to you, you'd best engage, unless you want an express example of lesson 3. Thankfully, most Sylveon are happy with short and quick play sessions. My own is happy with maybe three rounds of fetch or a brief tug-o-war session before it'll go back to happily cuddling up next to me, but all Sylveon are different in varous ways. Trust your instincts and you'll be able to easily tell when your Sylveon is content.

6: They are smart.

Sylveon are beat out only by Espeon in the overall intelligence category. Being mostly modern/urban life adapted Pokemon that usually spend all their lives around humans, they pick up pretty quickly on language, social cues, tools, and so on. Intelligence is always a wavering factor among all Pokemon, but, on the whole, expect your Sylveon to be far more clever than your average Growlithe or Yamper, and respect that intelligence. It may not ever speak Galarian to you, but it could very well learn to read, open doors, work a TV remote or even keyboard, steal your phone, visit and buy from stores, and so on.

---

And there we have it! Past all this, all the standard methods for training and caring for Pokemon apply! Sylveon, on the whole, are quite amicable, and most are perfectly content to chill out and cuddle when they aren't being high-chaos gremlins. They're fantastic battlers as well, with great durability, utility, and surprising potential for damage, amplified only by the love and friendship you provide one.

Give a Sylveon love, and - capital L - Love is what you get in return.

[weaveandwood]

The Bard and The Blade Chapter 2: A Small Continent

Wyll/Named Tav | Slow Burn | Read on AO3 | Entire Work

Summary:

Rosalind has a poor showing in battle and the mission is a complete failure. Will Wyll change his mind about accompanying the party now?

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out before taking a large gulp of her wine, which he instantly topped up.  “For what?” He laughed. “For having a bad day? It happens to everyone. I have had a number of days end just like this, returning to camp with my metaphorical tail tucked between my legs, my only solace at the bottom of a glass of wine. Now…I can honestly say I haven’t died in the middle of a fight,” he smiled as he teased her, hoping it would help lift her spirits. He wasn’t ready to admit to her that the sight of her lying lifeless on the ground sent a cold dread through him, even though they had only known each other a little more than a day at that point.

AN: This chapter was born out of the fact that I am playing on Balanced mode (and am Not Good at the game, even though I enjoy it immensely) and a glitch in my Investigate Kagha quest. I'm hoping to update this fic every 2 weeks, alternating with Weave & Woods. Also big thank you to @druizard for the banner!

Dying the second day of their adventure wasn’t part of Rosalind’s plan, but as she woke up gasping for air with her three party companions standing around her, it was clear that was exactly what happened. She groaned as she sat up, her now pounding head in her hands as her elbows were balanced on her knees. 

“What happened?” She asked the ground, not wanting to make eye contact with Gale, Astarion, or especially Wyll out of sheer embarrassment.

“Wood Woads,” said Gale. “Nasty buggers, they got us all pretty good.”

“Speak for yourself, wizard. I am perfectly fine, thank you very much,” said Astarion, a hint of amusement in his voice. Rosalind glanced up. Gale and Wyll looked way more beat up than Astarion. She assumed he used his sneaking abilities to get around the majority of the fight. She had been friends with plenty of rogues growing up in the Lower City, she knew how they operated. 

“As I was about to say,” Gale said as he leveled a look at Astarion who was no longer paying attention, having moved on to look around the small island for chests that may have loot in them. “Luckily, we had taken down most of the mud mephits and the other Wood Woad before you went down. Wyll here got the final blast in right after you…well right after you died.” 

She looked at Wyll, who was staring off into the distance, not making eye contact with her. While she had to admit he looked extremely handsome as the sun shone on his face, this had clearly not been a good first impression on her part. He was probably rethinking their deal right at this moment and was plotting how to leave their camp and capture Karlach on his own, leaving her in the dust. She thought about resurrecting the Wood Woad to take her out again or crawling into a large tree trunk and never coming out. Maybe she could get Gale to cast an invisibility spell on her so she could slink off for good. All three sounded like good and valid options at this point. 

“Weren’t we supposed to find some sort of clue here about Kagha?” Astarion yelled from behind the large tree trunk. The whole reason they came to this area was to see what shady deal Kagha was getting into based on the letter they found in her quarters and hopefully try to talk her out of performing the ritual that would seal the Emerald Grove and set the tiefling refugees out on a road far too dangerous for anyone who wasn’t trained to fight. “There’s nothing here!”

Rosalind took Gale’s now outstretched hand and he smiled at her as he helped her up from the ground. What a good, kind man. She was glad she pulled him out of that rock. She walked stiffly to Astarion, groaning and rubbing her back as she did. “What do you mean, there’s nothing here? There has to be!” She was desperate for something to go right today. 

“Darling, I’ve looked in every chest, under each rock, and in every nook in this tree. There’s nothing. Either someone else got to it first, or we were duped and there never was anything here.”

She sighed. This was not her day at all. “Alright, let’s head back, I guess.”

As they walked the path through the swamp back to the grove, she found herself falling in step with Gale while Wyll and Astarion led the way. Gale was easy to talk to - partially because he loved to talk, and partially because wizards had always been so interesting to her. The way they practiced magic was so studied, so precise. Sometimes watching a wizard cast felt cold, calculated, formulaic - less about artistry, more about precision. Gale was on a different level - the way he moved his hands was faster than any wizard she had ever seen, and the spells he chose had a certain flair to them, either in the type of spell he chose or when he chose to cast them, which resulted in the most dramatic effect. An artist can always spot another artist, and Rosalind felt a kindred spirit in Gale. 

“You know,” he said softly as he slowed down, putting more distance between the two groups, “I think Wyll was angrier when you went down than he was during the goblin fight yesterday. An instant after you fell, the Wood Woad who caused your demise was nothing but ash. He was also the one to revive you. Astarion and I didn’t even have time to attempt to dig our scrolls of revivify out of our packs before he was already chanting the verbal components at your side.” He smiled, a knowing tone in his voice. “Interesting, don’t you think?”

Rosalind stopped in her tracks, her mind racing. Wyll revived her? Instantly, she was giddy as she pictured him pushing everyone away to rescue the downed, fair maiden. She giggled internally at the thought and caught herself starting to blush. On the other, more practical hand, it made complete sense. He’s a hero - of course he’d rush to her rescue out of a sense of duty. Part of the job. Just another day. She knew that. And the anger Gale described? Well, that was definitely because she was a failure and put them all in danger. Any thoughts she had of him potentially fancying her disappeared as quickly as they came, replaced by deep embarrassment again at being unable to hold her own on the battlefield that day. Living in a large tree trunk for the rest of her days now seemed like the most appealing option again. 

Maybe a family of raccoons would take her and her tadpole in. 

******

The mood at camp that evening was subdued. Wyll noticed everyone seemed to take their cues from Rosalind, effectively the party leader at this point, and Rosalind was not in the best of moods. She sat away from the rest of the group, using her fork to stab at the remnants of whatever vegetables remained in her bowl of stew Gale had prepared and muttering to herself.

He recognized that mood.

He grabbed two cups and a bottle of wine and walked over, sitting next to her on the ground. He saw her freeze for a second before looking up at him. She had the biggest blue eyes with flecks of gold. He hadn’t taken the time to appreciate them fully the other day, but he was sure he’d notice their beauty all the time now. He filled one cup and handed it to her before filling his own. 

“I’m sorry,” she blurted out before taking a large gulp of her wine, which he instantly topped up. 

“For what?” He laughed. “For having a bad day? It happens to everyone. I have had a number of days end just like this, returning to camp with my metaphorical tail tucked between my legs, my only solace at the bottom of a glass of wine. Now…I can honestly say I haven’t died in the middle of a fight,” he smiled as he teased her, hoping it would help lift her spirits. He wasn’t ready to admit to her that the sight of her lying lifeless on the ground sent a cold dread through him, even though they had only known each other a little more than a day at that point. 

She groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Don’t remind me. I have a scroll I can give you to replace the one you wasted on me.”

He placed a hand on her arm, the contact making her look at him. “It wasn’t a waste, Rosalind. It would never be a waste to revive a valued member of a party.” 

She sighed. “I’m not sure exactly how valued I am. I am sure everyone here thinks I’m awful and would leave me on the side of the road in a heartbeat. Well, maybe not Gale. I’m just…new to this. Fighting, traveling, roughing it. All of it. I’ve only been outside of Baldur’s Gate just a few times, and one of those times led to me being kidnapped by mindflayers. Once this is over I don’t think I’ll be venturing outside the city again for a good long while,” she said and laughed nervously, finishing her wine. 

Wyll took a drink, observing the rest of the party. Lae’zel kept to herself mostly, sharpening her blades each night. He had heard her admonish Rosalind for dying, ordering her to train with her during any free time from now on. Gale, Astarion, and Shadowheart sat together, laughing quietly at something. Gale looked over at them a couple of times as Wyll watched. He thought he saw a smile, a nod directed at Rosalind. Wonder what that is about? He turned to look at her and caught her staring at him, her chin resting on her hands. She quickly tried to look away, but he noticed the blush rising up her neck. He smiled to himself. 

“Refill?” he asked, holding up the bottle of wine, now half gone. 

“Please,” she replied, holding out her cup. 

“So you’re from Baldur’s Gate?” He asked, wanting to confirm that his suspicions on her identity were correct. 

“Oh! I guess we didn’t really get a chance to talk much. Eventful day yesterday, what with the kidnapping, the crash, and the battle with the goblins. I think I fell asleep 10 minutes after setting up my tent. Anyway…” She cleared her throat. “Yes, I’m from Baldur’s Gate, born and raised, in a manner of speaking. You’ve already figured out that I’m a bard. Hmmm, what else? I mainly perform in coffee shops and taverns in the Lower City, sometimes the Upper City - but those are few and far between. I’ve been asked to perform at private events and bigger venues but I turn them down every time. One must keep their reputation intact, you know.” She rotated her cup in her hands as she spoke. “Do…do you ever stop in Baldur’s Gate on any Blade of Frontiers missions?” She asked. 

He shook his head. “I was raised there, but left seven years ago. I was seventeen with an eye for adventure and haven’t been back since. I did enjoy seeing bards perform in the Lower City Plaza when I was a teenager though.”

“I used to perform at that plaza! My first paying gig was there. I was so nervous!” She smiled, her face lighting up as she reminisced. “It was such a big place, and it was the weekend so of course it was busy with people not even pretending to pay attention to me. I remember it so vividly! I wanted it to feel intimate so I cast dancing lights but instead of the cool blue they normally are when I cast, I changed them to be warm yellow, like candlelight. I thought I was so creative,” she laughed. “I think maybe twenty people listened to me that night, but I’ll never forget it.” 

Wyll couldn’t believe it. It was her - The Sunlark. What a small continent it was. 

“I wonder if our paths ever crossed before this. It’s such a huge city, it feels unlikely. But I got that gig when I was seventeen, and if I’m doing the math correctly, that would have been when you were sixteen, so there’s a chance,” she said, looking at him again and catching him smiling at her. “What are you smiling about?” She asked, taking a sip.

“I remember you. I saw that performance.” He finished his wine, the bottle now empty. 

He heard her choke on her wine and had to hold back his own laughter. “You did? And you remember it after all these years? It was either really good or really bad to be that memorable,” she laughed nervously. “Hopefully good, though,” she added.

The fire cast a diffused warm glow onto her, reminding him of that night. “Good enough for a sixteen year old boy to skip drinking with his friends at the Elfsong. And good enough to remember a pretty bard’s beautiful singing after seven years,” he said softly as he looked over and saw her shy smile, the faint blush returning to her cheeks. His gaze traveled over her face, taking in the faded bird tattoos, the scar above her eyebrow, her freckles, the scar cutting through her full lips. They looked soft. He saw her beautiful blue eyes do the same, pausing when they got to his lips. He realized suddenly that he had been leaning toward her, their bodies closer now than they were when he sat next to her. All it would take was him leaning in just a little more…

No, there wasn’t time for that. He cleared his throat and stood up quickly.

“It’s getting late, I should get to my tent. Tomorrow we hunt down Karlach and we’ll need all of our strength to capture that infernal devil. Goodnight, Rosalind, thank you for the conversation.” He bowed to her before turning and walking across camp.

******

Rosalind smiled to herself as she finished the last of her wine. He had seen her perform. He remembered her. He called her pretty . Gone was the embarrassment of the day. Gone was the desire to run away. Gone were the feelings of doubt and insecurity - at least for now. She was positive she’d make more mistakes, most likely tomorrow. But none of that mattered because the Blade of Frontiers complimented her singing voice. She would float on the cloud she was now on as long as possible.

Not quite ready to end the day, she went across the campsite to sit between Gale and Astarion, laughing at jokes they were telling at each other’s expense. Her favorites were the ones about Shadowheart’s permanent scowl - even Shadowheart managed to crack a smile at a couple of them. As the wine flowed between the four of them, however, the attention turned to her. 

“So, Rosalind,” Astarion crooned. “You and Wyll looked rather…cozy over there.” 

Oh, no.

She felt her cheeks get hot, sure they were turning bright red. “We were just talking,” she said, taking a long drink. 

“Please, the two of you looked like you were two seconds away from -”

“Now, Astarion,” Gale interrupted. “Rosalind and Wyll are young. Surely you remember what it was like to be so young after the heat of a battle? I could hardly blame them for their…closeness.” Rosalind choked on her wine again. Somehow it sounded even worse coming from Gale. 

“No, no. He was just cheering me up! It was a hard day, what with dying and the mission being a complete failure. That’s all. We both grew up in Baldur’s Gate, so we were reminiscing.” Gale, Astarion, and Shadowheart all exchanged a look that implied they didn’t believe her for a second. 

She looked up at the sky, squinting at the moon, now high overhead. Does that even mean anything for nighttime? She thought, suddenly wishing she had taken the time to learn just a little about life in the wilds and not focus her entire childhood on just surviving in the city. “Well! Look at the time! We should probably wrap this up - big day tomorrow, capturing a devil and all! I’m just…I’m just going to go to my tent now.” She turned on her heel and raised her hand to give an awkward wave. “Good night! See you in the morning!” She heard the sound of muffled laughter as she entered her tent. 

She took two deep breaths, thinking again about her conversation with Wyll. She smiled as she climbed into her bedroll, grabbing her small notebook she kept for jotting down notes, potential lyrics. She wrote “fire, wine, soft lips, almost kiss” on a page and closed it, holding it to her chest. 

“Sorry family of raccoons, I think my tadpole and I are going to be sticking around here,” she laughed to herself.

[gumnut-logic]

Sweetapple Slice 18

Sweetapple series | Sweetapple Slices

It ended up at 1,884 words :D

I will admit to rereading a pile of Sweetapple today as I was down with the after effects of a migraine. I ran out of fic and wanted more...so, drat it, I had to write more :D

Oh, and I hope I haven't messed with any timeline in this series - I don't think this bit has been encountered yet, but if I mess something up, I apologise. My memory is generally poor.

Many thanks to the amazing @onereyofstarlight for sacrificing her last minutes before bed to read though this goop fest. You are so kind to me.

Kudos to the Sweetapplettes @idontknowreallywhy, @womble1 @sailing-on-a-puddle, @sofasurf, @thundergeek59 @katblu42 @pareidoliaonthemove @weirdburketeer and everyone else keeping this universe alive. You guys are amazing.

This one is definitely full of lovely goop and very m/m so if that isn't your thing, this isn't your fic.

I hope you enjoy :D

-o-o-o-

Alex settled back against the soft lounger and closed his eyes. Virgil had left him there beside the pool to ‘gather some supplies’. Alex smiled and let the ocean breeze wash over him as it rattled the palm trees above. It was mid-afternoon and their shade was crucial for comfort.

It had been a few weeks since his concussion but every now and again he would relapse a little and today was proving to be one of those days.

It started out perfect - waking to the scent of his favourite coffee, delivered to his bedside by his favourite man. Quiet talk over breakfast - they were still getting to know each other - food preferences, school stories, college anecdotes, favourite colours…Alex took so many mental notes.

They continued their discussion with a walk. Alex enjoyed wandering along the beach as much as Virgil confessed he did. The fact that this particular beach was on Tracy Island and he was walking with the kindest and strongest man on the planet were enough to send his mind spinning.

Which is what he thought was the source of the problem, particularly when they sat down beneath a huge pōhutukawa and started exploring each other more than the environment around them.

Kissing Virgil was heaven itself. The way his fingers brushed through Alex’s hair, his hand settling on the nape of his neck, pulling Alex closer. The touch of his warm lips. Taut muscle under anywhere Alex’s hands landed.

God, it was swoon-worthy.

But in no world Alex could understand would it cause the headache that eventually made itself known.

He ignored it for as long as he could, much more interested in Virgil’s company and conversation than acknowledging he wasn’t feeling great. But Virgil had some kind of medical radar and picked up that something wasn’t quite right.

And there was no way Alex was going to lie to Virgil.

So their afternoon was cut short, Virgil walking him back up to the villa and deploying that yellow-flashing scanner again.

Alex really wished he wasn’t the source of the frown that crumpled up those gorgeous eyebrows.

Rest was the recommendation. Virgil immediately suggested Alex return to his rooms, but Alex protested, determined not to give up on the day. He could rest by the pool, in the shade. He would be fine.

And they could continue their ‘discussion’.

Virgil’s dark eyes were considering, but Alex was daring enough to brush his fingers across Virgil’s cheek and lean in to gently kiss him. “Please? I want to spend my time with you.” Even in these few short weeks together, International Rescue had taken so much of Virgil’s time, Alex did not want to lose today. Not for some measly headache.

Worry flickered through those eyes, but a longing overtook it. Virgil reached up and brushed Alex’s hair out of his eyes. “Promise you will rest.”

“I will.”

And Virgil was kissing him again. Soft, warm, oh god, the headache can bugger off, this is the ultimate distraction.

But Virgil pulled away, a soft smirk on his lips. “Rest, Alex.”

“Oh, that’s just evil.”

The smirk turned into a grin and Virgil wrapped an arm around his waist, leading him out onto the pool deck. “C’mon, we can use the squishy lounges and laze by the pool.”

So Alex found himself laid up on a lounger that was definitely ‘squishy’ with a soft mattress and pillow that was just perfect to relax into, and Virgil dashed off to get ‘supplies’.

Perhaps it was Virgil’s plan for Alex to fall asleep on that lounger as it was very soporific when combined with the Island’s ambience, but just as he was about to drop off…

“M-max, I don’t need to go outside. R-really M-max, this is not part of your prog-ramming. Max, stop!”

A dark-haired man stumbled out onto the pool deck, chased by a mechanical…something…beeping urgently.

Alex just stared as the creature chased the man around the pool. In one of its many arms? (Legs?) it was holding a fire extinguisher.

Which on examination proved legitimate when Alex saw smoke curling up from the running man’s jacket.

A moment later there was flame.

Alex leapt up from his lounger and dove for the man, intending on smothering the fire.

Of course, being Alexander Sweetapple, both he and the now yelping man ended up in the pool.

A rush of cool bubbles up his nose, Alex gasped, struggling to get his feet under him in the sudden surprisingly deep water. A tangle of limbs did not help, the man he was trying to save as uncoordinated as he was.

But then there were more people in the water and Alex was pulled upright and away by strong arms. His head broke the surface and he coughed in air.

On the other side of the pool, a soaking wet Gordon Tracy was pulling the now doused man out of the water.

“Are you okay?” Virgil’s worried breath was hot against his ear.

Alex opened his mouth to answer but only coughed, his sore head rattling.

A strong stroke or two and Virgil was lifting Alex out of the pool. Alex grabbed onto the warm concrete and rolled himself away from the edge, coughing again and hating every second as it hurt his head.

Virgil was out of the pool and helping him to sit up.

“He was on fire.” Alex managed get the words out just as the mechanical creature, now on the other side of the pool with Gordon, shot the half-drowned man with the fire extinguisher.

Both men ended up covered in foam.

“Max, what the hell?!” Gordon wasn’t impressed, apparently.

Alex finally sorted out his breathing and sat staring as now Gordon started chasing the Max creature around the pool.

Foam drifted off his hair.

“What is that?”

“That is M.A.X. - Mechanical Assistant (Experimental). He’s Brains’ assistant.”

Alex blinked water out of his eyes, staring at the man wiping extinguisher foam off his face on the other side of the deck. “That’s Brains?” The wizard behind the Thunderbirds?

“Uh-huh. Max must have chased him out of his lab.” Virgil was rubbing circles on Alex’s back. It was nice.

But the breeze was now colder and Alex shivered.

“Okay, let’s get you dried off and into some clean clothes.” Virgil climbed to his feet and offered Alex a hand up.

Looking up at Virgil, Alex got an eyeful of wet t-shirt, heavy lifting man and the whole half-drowned incident was suddenly worth every moment.

Virgil’s fingers twitched and he blushed a little pink.

Alex clasped his hand and climbed to his feet. If Virgil was pulled a little closer than was absolutely necessary, well, Alex was known to fumble in stressful situations.

“Thank you for saving me.”

“Anytime.”

“M-max! Leave Gordon alone!”

The robot creature squealed to a halt and beeped a protest at its creator.

“Yes, yes, I know he’s Gordon. But he was p-pulling me out of the water. He w-was helping.”

Another impertinent beep.

“This time he was. L-let him b-be.” Brains had stumbled to his feet and wiped most of the foam off his face. A puffy lump was still stuck in his hair and wobbled as he moved.

It was only then that Alex realised exactly what he had done. “Oh, god.”

“Alex?” Virgil frowned at him.

“I almost drowned the inventor of the Thunderbirds!”

“He was on fire-“

“I didn’t mean to throw him in the pool. It was supposed to be a drop and roll!”

“Alex-“

“Oh, god.” He had been looking forward to meeting Brains. The man was brilliant and Alex wanted to ask him about some theories, hopefully get to know him, maybe a friend of Virgil’s could also be his friend. There were so many things they could talk about!

But now…

“Alex, it’s okay.” Virgil nudged his head to catch his eyes. “It’s okay, I promise. You’re not the first person to throw Brains in the pool.” His lips curled into a smile and he tilted his head a little. “The man has a habit of setting himself on fire. It is the reason Max exists.”

Alex blinked and stared. “What?”

Virgil glanced over at Gordon now discussing something at length with Brains and an attentive Max, and shrugged. “He’s a genius but sometimes he gets distracted.” Virgil smiled up at Alex. “Reminds me a little of someone I know.”

Alex had the urge to ask who, but Virgil’s smile had him blushing…and he was a little lightheaded from…well…everything.

“C’mon, I’ll introduce you.” A hand at the small of his back and Alex found himself being walked around the pool, leaving a trail of evaporating wet footprints behind him.

“Virgil-“

“I think you two will get on well.”

“Virg-“

“Brains, this is Alex. Alex meet Dr Hiram Hackenbacker.”

The engineer’s face lit up underneath the remnants of foam and pool water. “Mr Sweetapple!” Alex found his hand clasped hurriedly and excitedly. “I am s-so hhappy to finally meet you! V-Virgil has told m-me so much about y-your theories. I’m particularly interested in your ion exchange ratios in the siliwrap solidification process. How did you work it out? It is a fascinating chemical sequence.”

“Uh. The polymer is more flexible than it appears.”

The man paused a second, his eyes a little distant. Water dripped from his hair.

“Oh, my goodness, you are right. How did you manage to get it to differentiate between organic and inorganic matter?”

“Oh, that was the challenge at the heart of the process. We haven’t quite managed to fine tune it as much as I would like, but I’m positive we are on the right track.”

“You have a detection system?”

“No, it’s in the formula itself. We are attempting to chemically force a bind only with inorganic matter. Specialist chelate formation.”

“So, you’re disabling the ability itself. Defaulting to necessary molecular bonds only?”

“Essentially, yes, better to prevent rather than tertiary detect.”

“Admirable. I would l-love to see your work.”

Virgil was rubbing circles on his back again.

“Certainly, sir. Whenever you have time.”

Virgil’s hand slipped to his waist and tugged at him gently. “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes.”

Beside him Gordon opened his mouth.

Virgil clapped him up the back of his head before he could say anything but, “Ow! Hey!”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Fish.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to.” He turned to Brains. “How about we get together after dinner tonight?”

“Certainly.” Brains looked up at Alex. “N-nice to m-meet you, M-mr Sweetapple.”

“It’s Alex and same.” Alex found himself smiling.

Virgil did get him back to Alex’s rooms after that, though Alex was the one who changed his clothes…by himself…not thinking of Virgil on the other side of the door at all.

Nope.

Not at all.

Yeah, Alex’s mind was quite happily in the gutter with Gordon’s.

But rest was required and once Virgil had changed into dry clothes, they curled up on Virgil’s huge bed to watch a movie.

Ultimately the headache won out and Alex fell asleep not long after the title sequence of the movie. Probably the heart of Virgil’s plan.

But sleeping in those wonderfully warm and strong arms… made everything better.

-o-o-o-

[nellie-elizabeth]

Outlander: Carnal Knowledge (7x12)

You ever watch an episode of TV and actively cackle at the events playing out on your screen? I have been in full-on cackle mode for this entire plot thread of this show. It's everything I could have asked for.

Cons:

So, I think sometimes this show's acting is stronger than its writing, by which I mean a stellar performance from Sam Heughan can often elevate a clunky line of exposition, or the genuine passion in Caitriona Balfe's face can elevate an otherwise cheesy moment in dialogue. That remains the case in this situation as well, but there have been a few moments in Jamie's dialogue specifically that felt kind of awkward. It happened last week when he was explaining about not being on the Euturpe, and it happened again this week when he's explaining to John about why he has soldiers chasing him. Just super clunky moments where he's having to lay out basic tenants of the plot for the audience that don't feel naturalistic.

Also - I need to go back and re-read this section of the book again I think, because I was having trouble following the logic of why Jamie needed to drag John with him all the way out of the city. Once he's clear from the soldiers why doesn't he just say "hey, sorry for the light kidnapping, I'm going to run - just say that I hit you and then gave you the slip, and go back home." Like, what extra protection does John afford Jamie on his way out of the city, if the goal is to get a horse and sneak out? It only makes sense if there are still soldiers with their eyes on him who don't want to take him in by force for fear of harming Lord John. A nitpick, but I was distracted by it.

Pros:

But come on. This episode was SO juicy, where to even begin?

I've been really pleased by William's acting this season, I totally believe his distress. He's an inherently good person and, one might think, fairly open-minded and understanding, but this situation is just beyond the pale for him. I loved his conversation with Claire, where she points out that either way you look at it, she is still his stepmother. He's very reasonable and calm with her as he asks for details about Jamie and Geneva, and then when he finally does lose his cool, he storms off and destroys some property but doesn't actually take anything out on Claire.

Of course, later, he does rather hilariously and horribly take it out on Ian. Poor Ian and Rachel sharing the good news of their betrothal, and William says a strained congrats and then turns away, only for Ian to reach out for him with a smile on his face, likely wanting to invite him to the wedding or something, and William just turns around and socks him full in the face. It's darkly hilarious since Ian has no idea that it's coming. Also, this scene is so sad to me because Ian still believes that Jamie's dead, so when William is being all horrified about being Jamie's son, Ian is like "how dare you, any man would have been lucky to be his son." All the while, William could tell the poor guy that his uncle is alive, but fails to mention it in all the excitement. I also liked Rachel being horrified by the violence but also standing by her man when William allows Ian to be arrested.

We also get to meet Jane, a prostitute who William... befriends? If that's the right word? at the height of his despair over the revelation of his parenthood. He's rather awful to her at first, but then later he protects her from being taken by a man who wants to "bugger" her and likes it when the girls don't enjoy it. He takes her upstairs and offers her a night of repose, saying he won't molest her or anything. Jane, who offers William this plain first name in lieu of the "fancy" appellation of Arabella that she uses at work, seems to find William's honor charming enough that she actually does pursue sex with him, even though he's saying that his honor, his word, is the only thing he has left and he doesn't want to abuse it. It's a messy situation, because on the one hand William is saying no and Jane isn't stopping, but on the other, she's trying to give him a kindness in the only way she understands how, and he's so mixed up in the head about what's right and wrong that he doesn't know how to process anything that's happening. We'll see more of this dynamic later, and I'm anxious to see if they make any changes in adaptation...

Last thing before I turn to the juiciest stuff: we do have a moment where Jamie and William confront each other, but there's actually no opportunity for any sort of emotional catharsis or explanation. Earlier in the episode Jamie says he's sorry to John that William had to find out "our secret" and then says they'll find him and explain... but here, Jamie just shoves his son up against the nearest surface and threatens to expose him as a bastard if he doesn't get Ian free from capture. It's Jamie being very pragmatic and dangerous and very much damaging his already completely destroyed relationship with his biological son. Pour on the angst, why don't you!

The opening scene with John and Jamie - I was having the most fun staring at David Berry's face as John and just watching all the conflicting emotions. Delicious. On the one hand, Jamie's alive, and on the other hand, John has to tell him that he's had sex with Claire. I just kept thinking about how this whole scene is undoubtedly the most physical contact these two men have ever shared, what with Jamie tugging on John's arm and guiding him around Philadelphia, and then the uh... other kind of physical contact when Jamie is beating John bloody and John is basically egging him on. It's so twisted to imagine what John is thinking about everything that's happening. I love that he refuses to give Jamie the details, I love that he screams "I'm not bloody sorry" when the soldiers are dragging him away. Jamie spends this episode thinking himself the aggrieved party in this situation, and yeah, sure, hard not to see why he would feel that way - but at the same time, John didn't do anything wrong, in going to bed with Claire, did he? Strictly speaking? I also really loved the fact that when the rebel soldiers first turn up, Jamie's first instinct is actually to stop them from taking John. It's not exactly a protective instinct born of affection in that moment, but there's this sense that instinctively, he knows he and John are a thing separate from rebels vs. loyalists. He knows that this is a personal thing between them, and he doesn't want to hand John over into the hands of people who might mean him harm. The moment where you actually feel like Jamie has crossed a line, in my opinion, isn't really with the punching. It's when he gives John over and lets him be taken as a prisoner.

I could go on and on about the exchange between them, so much of this excellent dialogue is lifted straight from the book - Jamie's initial reaction being this kind of restrained and polite curiosity: "oh, why did you and Claire have sex? How interesting, please explain yourself" is sort of the tone here, and John's bewilderment is also such a treat. His incredulous anger: "What do you mean, why? I thought you were dead!" It's just such a treat for me that for all of the book moments that can't make it to screen, for all of the things they could have chosen to truncate or cut, it's my favorite stuff in the world that's getting the full drawn out treatment.

Then the Jamie and Claire scene, which happens a bit differently than in the books - the fact that it happens at Lord John's residence and that they end up having their reunion sex on his dining room table is frankly just... sending me. But honestly the whole scene is delicious, perfect acting from them both. When Claire is explaining what happened, there's this moment where you think Jamie will have to be moved to understand: Claire has just finished saying that she was contemplating suicide, and that John had the look of a man about to throw himself off a cliff, and that she really needed triage in that moment, that John provided her solace when she was at the depths of despair. There's this look on Jamie's face like he can't help but be moved by the idea of these two people being so deranged in their grief that they did this insane thing they never would have done in their right minds. But then, Jamie suddenly asks, quite calm and matter of fact: "did he bugger you?" And it's such a slap in the face to Claire and to the viewer both. Jamie isn't going to be super-human about this, he isn't going to be emotionally mature enough to accept what happened and move on. He's jealous and he's mean about it, and I love the drama there.

I also feel like this scene elevated the weird emotional triangle between Jamie, Claire, and John, even from what it is in the books. Claire has a line about how she couldn't bear to be alone and also she couldn't bear for John to be alone, and she seems so genuinely worried about John and what Jamie did to him. Then there's the beat right before Jamie decides to set aside the matter (for now), where he talks about how at Helwater, when Geneva died and William was a baby, John saved Jamie's life with his friendship. He's drawing a parallel - both of them know what it is to have John Grey hold you together when you're on the verge of falling apart. Another weird twisted way in which each arm of this triangle act as mirrors to one another. So juicy!

Meanwhile, John's eye is a mess because of Jamie's attack, and Denzel gets word that John is going to be hanged as an example, because he's deemed important enough to make a spectacle out of. So Denzel arranges to help John escape. The end of this episode is framed so amazingly and hilariously, with Jamie and Claire having passionate and re-connecting sex on a table, while John is wearing an eye-patch and in utter disarray, running through the woods as a shot rings out behind him. Lord John Grey's No Good Very Bad Day. Somebody give that man a hug.

So yeah. This whole story-line is the best because it takes my favorite character, Lord John Grey, and just shoves him into such a Situation. I love putting blorbos in Situations, I really do. Can't wait for more of the season to play out - we've got a lot of juicy stuff ahead of us, and I'm so curious as to what makes the cut from the books!

9/10

[daydreamgoddess14]

Salvation pt. 3

Full Masterlist

Roy Kent Masterlist

Roy Kent / Reader - general rating for now... set to increase 😏

Meet the woman who stole Roy Kent's watch... We finally get to some Roy x Reader deep conversation and messy history... This one is ALL OF THE ANGST guys! But the reward in part 4.... whooooo boy! The spoils (🔥) are coming lads, fear not!

This also helpfully covers one of the prompts from my 200 Followers Celebration 🎉! From a lovely Anon who requested Roy and "I won't let anything bad happen to you".

~~~~~~~~

You pick Sammy up. It’s an excuse really to see Nia, your mother/sister/best friend stand in of the last few years. Even if she is practically the same age. If Sammy’s the one who gave you a job and some semblance of financial security, Nia’s the one who recognised the dark hole you were in and lowered down the ladder to you. You hadn’t realised how close you could feel with someone in only three years, but she’d become your ‘person’ almost immediately.

“Darling, morning.”

“Hey, how’re you feeling?”

“Like my ribs have become a xylophone.” You grimace at that. The human body is a magnificent and terrifying thing. When she’d shown you in her baby book how her organs shifted to make space for her growing baby, you’d declared auntie duty would be just fine, thanks. There would be no babies moving your organs around. 

“Nice. Brought you breakfast.” You pass her a bag of pastries. “Is he ready yet?”

“Nearly. Must have changed either his tie or his turban about four times trying to find the perfect combination,” you both roll your eyes and laugh at his commitment to the flawless matching pair. You both knew the answer already - 

“Blue floral.” You confirm together with a nod.

“The fabric is just beautiful. I do feel sorry for the poor bugger who has to make a matching tie for every turban though.” You muse, knowing it’s his mother in law who takes up that mantle.

“I know, right? And he complains that I buy too many books? I think not, pal.” She sniggers.

“You show him who’s boss. Cos if you don’t, then a certain someone else will.” You point at her growing belly. 

“Come on, Sam. You’re going to be late!” She shouts up the stairs. “Dinner tonight?” She asks you, she knows you might need company after the day ahead of you. You’ve disclosed a lot more of your past to her than Sam so she’s already up to speed on the last few days. You nod gratefully. “You’ll be fine. You need to talk to him though, apologise properly - explain what was going on back then.”

“I know. I will.” You hug her tightly and pester Sam out of the door.

Rebecca Welton is a gracious host. Warm, welcoming… you knew the lies the tabloids liked to spread so you knew the whole ‘cold, old Rebecca’ name tag was a load of crap.

“So, I think if it suits you both, I’ll have a cup of tea with Sam and we can get caught up while I get Roy to give you a tour and then we can arrange some smaller interviews with key staff and players?” Sam is beside himself,

“Sounds perfect Ms. Welton.”

“Yep, I’d love a tour.” You accept with a tight smile. 

“Wonderful! Here’s Roy now,” he steps through the open door and is clearly not expecting to see you.

“Thought we had reporters coming?” He grunts.

“We do, Sammy’s here from the Gazette. This is his… apprentice?” Rebecca tells him, “Something like that.” Sam laughs. You take a deep breath before holding your hand out,

“Nice to meet you again.”

“Hmm.” His warm hand engulfs yours and shakes it. The feel of his skin against yours is enough to trigger memories through your brain at top speed - his hand in yours, his hands on your face, your legs, in your hair. You snatch your hand away. “Come on, tour.” You follow him down the stairs and through mazes of rooms, “ticket office, finance,” then out into a wide corridor, “hall of fame.” You stop to look at the collection of memorabilia, making your way slowly past each piece and reading the accompanying cards. You stop fully at the couple of shelves dedicated to him, fingertips resting lightly on the glass. He clears his throat and you follow him deeper into the building. “Locker room, physio, boot room.” He pauses at the boot room. More memories come flooding back. “Remember when we -”

“Yeahhh,” you breathed, “I remember every single time.” You turn away to avoid his gaze.

“We were good together?”

“The best.” You reply quietly, a little sadness creeping in. He pushes the door open and holds it for you to follow. You sit shoulder to shoulder on the bench, both looking straight ahead.

“How have you been?” He asks quietly.

“Better recently. You?”

“Well no one has stolen my fucking watch lately.” He bumps you slightly, there’s the barest hint of amusement in his voice that you latch onto.

“They haven’t tried hard enough then,” you reply with a wry smile. He lets out a breathy laugh that he can’t quite disguise as anything else.

“I wish I could be more fucking angry with you than I am.”

“You have every right to be angry with me. I fucked up. I’ve been angry with myself for as long as I can remember.”

“You really fucked up. I just can’t understand why. I’ve spent this whole time trying to understand why. Because we were good together.”

“I know.” You agree, again. You were good together. You’ve been single since the day you walked out on him, haven’t even kissed anyone else in all that time. He’s the one you think of when you’re alone - he’s the only one you need to think of when you can’t sleep and you let your memories guide your hand down your body. These are obviously things you can’t say aloud, illicit memories you shouldn’t lean on but do. You sigh, he’s so expectant beside you, “How are you so… calm?” you wonder aloud. 

“Therapy,” he mutters with a short laugh.

“Shit, really?”

“Yeah, you?”

“No. Not sure if I’m ready for that yet.”

“Much as I hate to admit it, it helps.”

“Do you remember when you were angling for an invite to Christmas at my mums?” You ask, he frowns a little at the sudden change of subject. You feel him nod next to you.

“That’s when it started, that’s when you started to pull away. I never met any of your family.”

“My brother. You never met him, I never wanted you to meet him. He was there… he’s an addict. He has been for a really long time and we’ve tried everything to help him, everything. He told me that he was in some money trouble with some blokes he brought off. I didn’t have much but I gave him everything I had saved. Then he needed more. And more, and more and I just didn’t know where I was going to get it from, or how to help him. I took the watch, changed my phone number and left.” You pause for a minute to take stock of what you’ve said, you can tell he wants to ask questions but he waits patiently instead. “He was a fucking mess. I made him tell me who he owed and went to see them on my own, told them I’d pay them back myself if they never went near him again. Worked about three jobs, moved back in with mum so I wouldn’t have to pay rent as well, and spent the next year and a half paying them back. I worked 18 hour days, 7 days a week. I literally kept back, like, a tenner a week for myself. I kept a record of how much I paid and when. When we were done I told them so and told them to never come near us again.”

“And?”

“They still turn up occasionally to try and get more out of me, they claim it’s interest.”

“And your brother?”

“We sent him to my uncle’s house up in the North West, he’s been there ever since but he’s clean now. Too scared to come home though.” Roy is quiet for the longest time.

“He must have owed…”

“About 130k. Maybe a bit more than that. I was pretty fucking knackered. I was doing early mornings 4-8am at Maccys, then 8.30-5 with Sammy at the paper and then bar shifts til about 10 or 11 pm most nights. Sam saved me, let me get an hour's kip at lunchtime, and brought extra food every day for me to share with him.”

“Fuuuuuck.” He slumps where he’s sat next to you.

“There is something else.” He looks over in disbelief. You reach into your bag, pull out a sleek, matt black box and put it in his hands. 

“Fuck off?” He slides open the box to find his Rolex, in pristine condition - still ticking. “Fuck off.”

“I went to hand it over to them and… I couldn’t. I didn’t want them to have something of yours. I didn’t want to know that I’d done that, sunk that low.” Your voice gets even smaller, “they tried to suggest other methods of payment but…” you feel his shoulders tense, see his fists ball tightly in his lap, “I told them to give me a couple of months and see that I was good for the money, and if I ever missed a payment then we’d have that conversation.” He wants to know if you ever had the conversation, you can feel it in the air between you both,

“You never have to justify yourself to me.” He says firmly.

“I didn’t do it. Never missed a payment. Had to borrow a bit from Sam occasionally when I fell short, but I was never going to have that conversation with them. Never.” The air feels weighty with the tension, like it's risen up from your shoulders where it’s weighed you down for the last three years and is now hovering around you both. You’re amazed you got through it without tears. It’s been so easy to fall into the trap of feeling sorry for yourself over the years and wallow in the self pity of it all. Roy on the other hand is still visibly tense, his knuckles white. You tentatively reach your hand across to cover his, using your fingers to unball his hands.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He sounds worse than he had when he asked the same question a few days ago. His voice is hoarse and tight,

“I couldn’t let them know about you. They’d have ruined you. I had to protect you.”

“I won’t let anything bad happen to you. I would never have let anything happen to you. We could have sorted it together.” You turn to face him, bringing your other hand to his cheek,

“No love, it was never your problem to fix.”

“If all of this was over eighteen months ago -”

“Don’t ask me why I didn’t come back, Roy. It’s never really over, I couldn’t bring this shit to your doorstep and these dickheads just turn up whenever they think they might get a bit of extra cash out of me. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I’m sorry I took your watch and I’m sorry I walked out on us.” You can hear voices in the corridor outside, your times up and now you both have to be the epitome of professionalism while Roy is interviewed. “I’ll get Sam to interview the team and other staff first, give you some time.”

“What about you?”

“I’ve been living with this for three years, I’m tougher than I look. Besides, I’ve got some happy memories of this place,” you admit, looking around the familiar boot room. “I had the best sex of my life in this very room.” He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head. “I would never expect you to forgive me, Roy, but I truly thank you for giving me the chance to explain.” You pat his hand gently and leave a cool space beside him when you slip through the door to meet up with Sam and Rebecca.

~~~~~~

[goshdangronpa]

any of the warriors of hope because those little buggers have been on my mind for months and they won't leave help

(obvs no sexuality stuff because come on man)

Hi, friend! Any of the Warriors of Hope? How about ... all of them?!

Like-like headcanon: Masaru still thinks liking girls is icky and he's not yet aware that boys can like boys. Jataro believes that cooties are real and the grossest cooties are his own. Kotoko is clearly enthusiastic about girls but will have to really sort some stuff out as she gets older. Nagisa was never the type to think that like-liking someone is gross - he's always wanted to get married. Monaca sees the human heart as just another instrument she can play ... but she'll mellow out if given enough time and care, and then, who knows?

Gender headcanon: Masaru is the boyest boy to ever boy ... which is what I tried to be and look how I turned out lmao. Jataro is cis, but his takes on gender are so galaxy-brained that you wouldn't believe he's not on Tumblr. Kotoko will adopt more androgynous affects over time, exploring cuteness outside of traditional femininity. Nagisa can go on for a long time about his view of his own gender, but if asked to summarize, he'd say he doesn't have one. With little to go on besides my own intuition, I'm surprisingly confident that Monaca is a trans boy.

One ship I have with them: Eh, kinda weird to ship them with anyone since they're little kids. Even Kotoko, who at one point in her boss battle declares that she wants to have children with Monaca, probably doesn't like her as much by the end of UDG. Same with Nagisa, poor guy ... but they've all still got each other.

One BroTP I have with them: Gonna use this section to declare which DR teen they'd get along with (note: I haven't played much of DRS). Masaru would be thrilled by Kazuichi, a neon-haired, shark-toothed, funny-voiced goblin man who builds robots, and Kazuichi would rather embarrassingly treasure the validation from a pretty cool kid. Angie would love love love Jataro, though anyone who knows her will make sure someone else supervises them so that arts-n-crafts playtime doesn't become Baby's Second Cult. I think Sayaka and Kotoko would have a lot that they can talk about together, and I believe she'd do everything she can to nurture and protect the kid. Nekomaru and Akane would be a refreshing pair for Nagisa: they'd focus on training his body rather than his mind, but in a way that's actually healthy and clearly caring. Monaca should probably be kept away from most people for now, but Hajime is uniquely suited to be friendly with her ... so they can wax about Nagito's weirdness together.

One NoTP I have with them: I guess anyone? Since, again, they're little kids?

Random headcanon: When Masaru goes on long walks, he looks for long sticks to carry and will exchange them for even bigger ones he finds along the way. Jataro's reading comprehension is poor, but he can already do basic algebra. Kotoko's never felt safer on a film set than when she played a creepy kid in an R-rated horror movie. Nagisa can take catnaps on command for the same reason soldiers do: they never know when their next chance to catch some sleep could be. Monaca may be the rare person who would become a kinder and gentler human being by joining a school theater program.

General opinion: Suitably creepy in their roles as antagonists to Komaru and Toko, crushingly sympathetic in their motivations, and really fun on their own. The Warriors of Hope are just one reason why I'd urge people to try Ultra Despair Girls, even with all the game's faults (especially the ones related to the WoH themselves). It's incredible that Kotoko can be my favorite for her winning personality despite how tastelessly the writers treat her. Jataro also has one of my favorite character voices in Danganronpa, not referring to the vocal performance (which is great!), but to his almost Dadaist dialogue. Ah, I like 'em all!