#rugby world cup + the intruders

[the-wales-5]

"Rugby World Cup 🇫🇷 + 'the Intruders' " :)

15th October 2023.

The Princess of Wales was attending the quarter finals of Rugby World Cup between England and Fiji. Several fans of her showed up to the game, including one wearing a hilarious mask with Catherine's face on it. Two men brought themselves to the stadium with posters made of cartons with French sentences, which translated to < divorce and marry me > & < Not him, Kate. Me >.

The princess was unaware of their act until the very end of the match when her secretary told her about it and showed a picture that was already viral around all of the 'royal' social media accounts.

***

Upon home return, William was waiting for her. "England is in the semi-finals, unlike Wales" said Catherine after seeing him, showing him her competitive side once more. William narrowed his eyes a little. His wife was rather confused, so she asked: "Is everything okay? It was a simple joke, you know that, right?.." she smiled but that facial expression was quickly replaced by a different one as she added: "Just like those posters you probably had seen".

"Posters" William sighed and then looked at her face, asking "What was your reaction ?" He asked, awaiting her explanation of the Intruders as he called them earlier. Catherine tried not to smile and said "I laughed and.. By the way, where are our kids?".

William rolled his eyes again after he did not get a direct response "And what? What else happened?" He asked once more.

Catherine hid a sigh and replied "And I assumed that you will behave in this way. Losing in a competition is not always an easy thing. Excuse me, Mr Wales, but I would like to see our children right now".

William sensed that his wife was teasing him now and couldn't help but smile as he stared at her way.

*

"I am so happy that England won, mummy. Hope they will win next week and then in the finals as well" George said.

They were playing a board game together with Charlotte and Louis. Orla was 'watching' them, occasionally barking, especially when Louis was the winner.

"She is rooting for me" he said and giggled

"Lupo used to do something similar with me," George said as he remembered their old dog and his playfulness. His mother caressed his shoulder. Thinking about Lupo and other dogs in her family that already passed away was not simple for her either, especially when an anniversary of Lupo's death was approaching.

Charlotte noticed her sudden sadness and asked, "Mummy, is everything okay?" Catherine, without saying anything, hugged her children and Orla.

*

The princess was pretending to be watching the TV in the living room late in the evening. William approached her and put his arm around her. "You've got no plans to go to sleep tonight? You should feel sleepy after your flight and all the emotions you had"

Catherine looked at him suspiciously. "Emotions? I feel like you've had more of those than me and that includes jealousy again. Am I right?".

William took a strand of her hair away from her face as he replied "You're not wrong. Well, maybe not jealousy but a bit of anger when you teased me by saying that losing in a competition is not easy" he said.

Catherine smirked "Well.. Usually you love when I am teasing you and this time you don't? This is unusual for you" she said.

"This is because you told a lie" William replied while looking into her eyes, then kissed her neck. Catherine laughed "So you think that you won. England was the winner and you are supporting Wales so you lost. This is logical."

"Both you and me know that it doesn't only mean the match itself, Mrs Wales but the posters. Those men lost, not me" William said and before Catherine could laugh, he kissed her on the neck once again, more passionately.

"Be careful" she giggled "I won't accept love bites marks. Do you know how difficult it is to cover that later?".

William only smirked as he said "The weather's getting colder so you can begin wearing turtlenecks soon, can't you?".

Catherine giggled and pushed him back. "Sorry for you, Mr Wales but you were right: I am feeling tired and sleepy right now. Your proof of winning must wait until tomorrow" she laughed and went to take a shower.

As a 'revenge' and to prevent William from joining her there, she closed the bathroom room with a key. William knocked when he realised what she did a few minutes later.

"Are you serious?" He asked and then smiled after hearing his wife's soft laugh.

*

"Aren't you sleeping?" He asked about thirty minutes later when he came to their bedroom after putting their youngest child to sleep.

"I can't" Catherine replied

"So you missed me anyway" he smiled.

Catherine shook her head and replied: "Today when I was playing with the children, all of a sudden George mentioned Lupo and you know that--.. his death anniversary is coming and it is still not easy sometimes to think about it even when Orla's with us" she sighed.

"Kate.." her husband said and pulled her closer to himself "Of course it is not possible to forget about him and the way he left us"

Catherine blinked a few times and then she could feel William's forehead kiss and then another touch of his lips - on hers.

She looked at him and William caressed her cheek as he said: "You told me to wait until tomorrow for something more so I will but it does not mean I will not try to lift your mood up a little bit if you want, Mrs Wales"

His wife nodded as she said "Yes, you are allowed to do that I think.. But that doesn't mean that you're a winner in everything. Wales lost" Catherine smirked after making a decision to tease him for the last time that evening and that way she got her 'revenge': lots of kisses on her face and a few, <almost invisible> love bites on her neck.

*

"Thank you" Catherine said sarcastically the next morning when she stood in front of a mirror, trying to cover the marks William left on her neck the night before.

"You can still wear turtlenecks, and there is nothing in our calendars until November so it will heal, right?"

"Yes, unless you plan to prove something again" Catherine scoffed a little

"Next time I need to prevent some people with the cardboard posters from coming to the areas where you will be. Then, I will not have to prove anything" he said and laughed after Catherine threw a pillow at him.

~The end ♡~

[maximumwobblerbanditdonut]

SH is not in Marseille 🇫🇷 What happened to the supposed fan of the Scottish team? He's not at the Rugby World Cup match, it looks like he's still enjoying the sun in Santa Monica, CA. or maybe somewhere in America.

He believes wearing Scotland’s jersey and making faces shows interest, but it is not the same. Not only that, but he has missed the opportunity to support Scotland 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿 in France. The Rugby World Cup is contested every four years. By the way, his tongue doesn't look good, it doesn’t make a favourable impression.

With an intruder like AN who sneaks into what he doesn't know (rugby 🏉 and nothing about Scotland) waiting for Sam’s fans' answers.

[weaknwanting]

you’re lying on some coats (short version)

full ao3 version here

gen audiences, platonic geraskier, this section is like 5k words maybe, fluff, modern setting, first meeting & getting to know each other, hopeful ending, cat! roach

part one of my geraskier x songs series that i am gunna do! go find my full length fic version for the song info for this fic :) or enjoy w/out song info

“You’re lying on some coats.”

“Good observation, genius. What gave it away, huh? Was it the coats?“

In which Jaskier is at one of Yennefer’s big parties, escapes to the coat room for peace and quiet. Until a tall dark stranger rudely intrudes. 

He lets out a huge, content sigh. This, here, in the bed of coats, is the most comfortable and happy he has been all night. Jaskier loves people, loves entertaining, being the center of attention and talking to a million people at once. However, he feels the safest alone. No matter how much they like his music or fawn over his blue eyes and curly hair, even his fans and friends think he is a bit odd. He is too much, tries too hard, doesn’t really fit in any of their definitions. Is he a musician, entertainer, geek, flighty lover …they don’t know, so they aren’t sure how to act. Here, none of that can reach him. He floats in a world alone.

At least, he does until the door flies open and shut again in a matter of a second, accompanied by a loud bang and a gasp from the intruder who had flew in and slammed the door behind him.

Jaskier jumps, knocking a few coats over the edge of the bed and causing the one covering him to slide down his chest. The surprise of the noise and the intrusion itself is nothing compared to the shock of the sight of the trespasser who has entered Jaskier’s little world.

Tall and bulky, the man’s hair is the white-grey of moonlight and hangs down to his shoulders, the front tied back. A few tendrils have slipped out of their trappings in his haste and now float around his face. Tight black clothing highlights all the curves in his arms and thighs, cupping the edges of broad shoulders perfectly. His eyes, wide at the unexpected sight of someone in a room he surely expected to be empty, are a startling yellow, and his lips hang slightly open.

Jaskier thinks aimlessly that the man must be a bodybuilder, or a model. Or both. His body is truthfully insane - people aren’t supposed to look this good in real life, are they? Jaskier bets that he was a jock his whole life. Rugby, definitely. Lacrosse probably. Maybe hockey? Absolutely not the kind of person Jaskier would normally consort with. But he is so gorgeous that absolutely none of that matters, even a bit.

Never mind, Yen, Jaskier thinks. You can have Cahir, if I can have him.

The man with yellow eyes blinks slowly. It’s mesmerizing, even from this distance. He clears his throat awkwardly, his eyebrows drawing together as he tries to piece together what is going on. His fingers dance along each other, and they are nimble despite their size. He seems quite disconcerted, unsure of himself.

It’s adorable.

“You’re lying on some coats”, the intruder says finally. His voice is deeper than Jaskier has ever heard come out of a human, and it grates together like rocks. It is gorgeous and intoxicating and could the man never stop talking, please?

“Good observation, genius. What gave it away, huh? Was it the coats?” It came out maybe harsher than he meant, but it was a rather stupid question. Maybe the man wasn’t as suave as his hunky appearance suggested.

“Um. I didn’t think anyone would be in here” he gets out. “I can go, though. Sorry for…interrupting.” He turns to leave but slams his shoulder into the door frame in his haste and lets out a grunt.

Jaskier has to stifle a little laugh. The sight of this giant of a man bumbling around and not being able to control his limbs is probably the best thing he’s seen in a while.

“You really don’t have to,” he blurts out, sitting up straight and pulling the good fluffy jacket into his lap again. “I don’t mind sharing the room. That is, depending on what you were wanting it for.”

The man turns back again and Jaskier could swear he is blushing a little.

“I was just looking to get out of the crowds. Parties really aren’t my scene and I don’t really know anyone here.”

“Oh!” Jaskier exclaims. “Well, me neither! Well, I do like parties, normally, it’s just been a long week, and I’m not really up for it right now...” he notices himself rambling and cuts himself off abruptly. Get it together, Jaskier! The prettiest man you’ve ever seen is standing in front of you in an empty room and you’re spilling your guts like a middle school girl. He clears his throat and asks, a bit more dignified, “Why are you here then? Bride-to-be or groom-to-be?”

Yellow eyes roll up to the ceiling and his rough voice grunts, “Bride, definitely bride. I haven’t met the fiancé before.” His voice is bitter and pinched, and Jaskier can tell there is a story there. He wants to hear all of it, if it will keep the gorgeous man talking and within his sight.

“Well, like I said, you’re welcome to stay in the room. We can get to know each other, and we can each say we know one more person at the party!” Jaskier knows it is quite obvious that he is flirting, but what else is he supposed to do? Not hit on the tall dark stranger who falls into his lap? Not likely.

The man casts his eyes around the room, glancing back toward the door. He is obviously contemplating whether he will spend his time better with the rich lawyers and stuck-up professors, or with the strange man in the bed with all the coats. The strange man wins out, apparently.

“Alright, then,” he says, turning back with a small smile. With huge, lanky strides he reaches the bed in moments and perches on the edge. He is obviously still uncomfortable, keeping his hands clasped on his lap, his leg bouncing up and down wildly.

“Well first of all, you have to tell me your name. I can’t keep calling you ‘tall dark stranger’ in my head, can I?” Jaskier cringes internally right after he says it, thinking that might have been a little too obvious. The man doesn’t seem to notice though, and just smiles a little again. “ ’M Geralt, Geralt Rivii.” Ooooo. That’s a hot name. Shut up, brain.

“And I’m Jaskier, Jaskier Pankratz. Pleasure to meet you,” he says, with a flourish of his hands and a little half bow from his waist, as much as he can while sitting criss cross on a bed. Geralt nods and sends him another small smile. “Sooooo,” Jaskier says, drawing out the word to give himself time to think of what to say. “How do you know Yen?”

Geralt huffs a huge sigh before muttering “We used to date, a few years ago now. It was good, for a while, but we…were on different paths, I suppose.” Jaskier nods along sympathetically. Thank all the gods for that.

“And you?” Geralt returns the question, turning to look at him so that his torso twists at his hips. “How do you know Yen?”

“Oh well, that’s an interesting story,” Jaskier sighs, leaning back and stretching out his legs. His feet are so close to Geralt’s thighs that he can feel the heat radiating. Gods it feels good, too, like a mini campfire.

“We were classmates at Oxenfurt University, you know the one in Redania County, to the north?” Geralt raises his eyebrows and nods. It would be hard for him not to know Oxenfurt, honestly, as it was one of the most prestigious universities in the region. Jaskier might not always act it, but he is really smart, academically anyways, and he can tell Geralt is impressed.

“Well, we had a lot of the same classes, ‘cause she was studying medieval history and I was studying the languages and literature from the same time period, so there was a lot of overlap. We had a bit of a rivalry,” he continues, wiggling and stretching his toes, grazing Geralt’s thigh the tiniest bit, barely enough to be felt.

Geralt flinches and looks down at his thigh, then back up to meet Jaskier’s eyes. “Sorry,” he says, curling his toes in and away. He wasn’t really. His toes still tingled from the contact. “’S okay,” Geralt mutters. “Keep going. If you guys were rivals, why are you here?” He is obviously becoming more comfortable, pulling his knees up to his chest and turning fully towards Jaskier.

“Well, we kinda got over it. She had a really bad breakup with a college boyfriend, and I happened to not be particularly fond of him either, so we somehow ended up working to make his life hell, essentially. It was a lot of fun,” he says, grinning widely at the memories. “We TP’d his house, snuck smelly food into his dorm room and hid it, nothing bad or dangerous, just annoying stuff. So we bonded over that.”

Geralt laughs lightly at his story. “Yeah, that sounds just like something she would do. When we…ended, she stole my cat. Took her for a week, so that I was absolutely frantic, running around the city looking for her! It wasn’t funny at the time!” he says when Jaskier starts trying to hide his giggles. Geralt is smiling too, though, as he’d apparently gotten over it. “I guess she felt better after getting her revenge, as she brought Roach back pretty soon, safe and sound.”

“Roach! That’s such a cute name! Where does that come from?” Jaskier is honestly surprised at his own enthusiasm. He likes cats plenty, but normally doesn’t particularly care enough to hear all the details about someone’s life. With Geralt, though, it seems that things are different. Already, right off the bat, their conversation is easy, and flows. He wants to hear what Geralt has to say. More than just to hear his voice, although that is lovely. But also because with everything he says, the man surprises Jaskier a little more. Every bit of information just makes him want another piece, as if the last bit wasn’t enough.

“Um,” Geralt is stammering a little, maybe embarrassed. “There’s a fish, named the roach. She’s silver, but has some reddish hints on her paws and tail, like the coloring of the fish, so…Roach.”

“That is seriously, insanely adorable. It is!” Jaskier exclaims, giggling like a schoolgirl for real now. He was right – this man is so much more than he expected at first sight. Something about don’t judge a book by its cover, right?

Geralt blushes and inclines his head. “Well, I’m glad someone thinks so. No one ever thinks it’s anything but odd.”

“I love odd. People say I’m odd too, so we’re like peas in a pod, me and little Roach. Do you have any pictures?” Again, Jaskier realizes how strange this is of him. First, wishing Geralt should share more information about himself of his own free will. What’s next, wanting to meet Roach? Taking Geralt to one of his shows?

Actually, both of those do sound like things he would want to do, now that he thinks of it. He tries to get those thoughts out of his head, as they would just be distracting when he is trying to enjoy his time in this moment with Geralt. They could be the only ones in the world now, and Jaskier wouldn’t be the wiser.

Geralt hums in response to his question, pulling his phone from his pocket. His nimble fingers swipe it open and start whizzing through pictures. Jaskier is honestly spellbound by that little show, and if his throat gets a little dry, no one has to know.

Geralt finally finds one that he likes and pulls it up. Jaskier scoots closer, slightly wading through coats. He pokes his head over Geralt’s shoulder to see the picture. Roach is fat and fluffy, and she has a hot pink toy mouse in her tiny mouth. The photographer, probably Geralt, must be laying on the ground, because she is eye level with the camera and is about to bump into it.

“Geralt, she is adorable. Oh my gods she is the cutest little – well, she isn’t very little, is she, but I absolutely love that. I just wanna smoosh her!” He realizes that his voice has gone all high and squeaky, but somehow knows that Geralt won’t think any less of him for it.

He’s right, because Geralt will take on almost the same tone of voice when he says “I know, right? She’s always been a bit chunky, but it just makes her a better lap warmer.”

“Oh, I bet. Ugh, she’s gorgeous,” Jaskier sighs, sinking slightly back onto his heels.

Geralt turns his head to smile warmly at him, and Jaskier is taken aback. Geralt has given him a few smiles in this time that they’ve been in the room, but none this genuine, this soft. There’s no other word – the smile is soft, and loose, and turns Geralt’s face a million times more beautiful.

Ugh, ugh, ugh! Why did he have to be so pretty? Jaskier groans in his head while he worms back to the space in the coats where he had been reclined before. His face feels flushed and his stomach squirms. Seeing Geralt gush over Roach had only made him more attractive, in Jaskier’s opinion.

“She’s kind of a menace, though. Even my closest friends, who come over literally every weekend, haven’t gotten her to warm up to them yet. She hates Lambert the most.” He laughs, and it’s beautiful. “Cöen, he’s our DM, he’s gotten the closest, but every time we think she likes him, he makes a loud noise and he’s back on the naughty list.”

“Wait a minute,” Jaskier interrupts him as he’s about to continue listing which of his friends Roach likes the most and least. “Your DM?”

“Ahh,” and now Geralt is really blushing, totally unsure of how to proceed. “Yeahh, I know it’s kind of nerdy, I guess. Do you know the game, D&D? It’s where you basically pretend to be in a fantasy magical world, and everyone has –”

“Of course I know D&D, dolt! I just would never in a million years expect you to!” Jaskier is honestly flabbergasted. He’d never had a more inaccurate first impression of a person than he had when he first saw Geralt.

Geralt frowns a little, creasing his eyebrows and squinting his eyes. “Do you play?”

“Only my entire life! That is so cool! How long have you played! What species are you? How’d you pick your ability scores? I went up on intelligence and charisma, obviously, but I’m really low in constitution which is really annoying. I bet you went all in on strength, right?” Geralt is bemused, blinking in slight confusion.

“Um honestly, I’m not totally sure. My friends roped me into it and my best friend Eskel, he basically made my character and tells me what to do all the time. I really enjoy it,” he says hurriedly, seeing Jaskier’s face slip as he considers that he may have been a bit too enthusiastic. “I’m learning, slowly, it’s just a lot to take in.”

Jaskier nods, trying not to seem too fanatic. “Well, I’d love to play sometime. I mean,” he rushes to say, “I don’t mean to invite myself in, I just really like the game and my party is all really busy recently, so it’s been a while, and ya know…” he trails off, looking down at his hands and pulling on the jacket strings. Really, it’s weird how no one has come to get their coats this whole time.

“I’d love that, Jaskier.” He looks up to see Geralt smiling at him with that soft, open smile again.

“Really? You definitely don’t have to say that just because I did, I’m a big boy and I get that you might not want me to come in between your group and meet all your friends, I mean we’ve only known each other like,” he checks his watch. “Oh gods it’s been like an hour already. Well, time flies, yada yada…”

Geralt is smiling at him again, tilting his head to the side so it almost rests on his shoulder. He does that a lot, Jaskier notices.

“I wouldn’t mind at all. I think that would be great, truthfully. I’m not just saying that.”

Now Jaskier is the one blushing and grinning back. “Well alright then. Oh, I guess I should give you my number, so you could call, or text, and we could set it up sometime. If you want.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Geralt replies. He unlocks his phone, pulls up the contacts and hands it to Jaskier. The phone is one of the bigger models, because Geralt’s hands are huge like the rest of him, and the case is warm and almost hot from the heat of them. It makes Jaskier itch to know how Geralt’s hands would feel on his own. They must be a hundred degrees, and he bets they are rough but soft at the same time.

Trying not to think about the size of Geralt’s fingers, he types his number in quickly, triple checking that it is the right one. He plays around for a minute trying to think of something funny to put at the contact name, so that it is really memorable. He thinks through it fast and settles on Jaskier, master of the coats with a keyboard smiley face at the end. He saves the contact and hands the phone back to Geralt, but not before glancing at the home screen, a selfie of Geralt and another man, who has hair about the same length as Geralt’s but brown instead. The other man’s eyes are soft and their smiles are wide, their cheeks almost pressed together to fit in the picture. Geralt looks radiant, blissful and happy.

Jaskier is struck with a surge of instant, absolutely unwarranted jealousy and sadness. Ugh. He’s been sitting here this whole time, thinking about how much he liked and wanted the man smiling at and laughing with him, and he’s been taken the whole time.

That’s not all that matters, he reminds himself. You still like him, right? You can still be friends, that means just as much. Still, he can’t stop himself from bringing it up.

“He’s cute,” he says, trying to maintain a steady and bright voice.

Geralt frowns again. “Who?” he asks, then sees the screen on his phone.

“Oh!”, he chuckles. “Him? That’s Eskel, my friend I told you about. Well, I say friend…he’s more like my brother. His dad Vesemir took me in when I was young, so we were raised together and everything.”

Jaskier floods with a huge wave of relief, and then feels guilty about feeling relieved. You were supposed to be okay with it, Jaskier! And he would have been, absolutely. It’s just…he would like to know that they could be more, at some point.

“But he is good looking enough, I guess… I could give you his number, if you’re interested?” Geralt asks, tilting his head and giving Jaskier an eyebrow.

“No, no no no, that’s not what I meant. I thought you might have been, ya know, with him, but he’s not really my type. The brown hair,” he says, moving his hands around his head randomly. “It’s a little blah, ya know? I like something a bit more interesting, I guess.”

“Well,” Geralt contemplates, “Lambert is a redhead, so that’s more interesting, but he kinda has a thing going with his neighbor Aiden, so I’m not sure…”

“No,” Jaskier says, shaking his head back and forth like a wet dog. “No, it’s really fine. I don’t really do set ups, I like to find my partners more…organically.” He gives Geralt a peek from under his shaded eyes, relieved to see Geralt nodding and smiling again.

“Me too,” he says quietly. “Last time I got set up, it didn’t really work out. Guy was much too eager, and didn’t have the same sort of life philosophy as me, and he hated cats! So it was over after a single night, and I swore off blind dates.” He chuckles lightly, obviously not too worried about it.

Jaskier, on the other hand, is radiant. Finally, confirmation! So, something with Geralt might be possible, in the future. He isn’t in a rush, at all. Already, he knows that being friends with Geralt would be a blessing. However, it definitely doesn’t hurt to know that the sexy and kind man across from him isn’t opposed to seeing other guys. Definitely doesn’t hurt.

Geralt checks his watch for the first time since they have been here, and sighs loudly. “Damn, it’s so much later than I thought…I’m sorry to do this, but I really have to go feed Roach. I had to come here right after I got out of work, and I wasn’t planning on staying this long…” he trails off, obviously hoping Jaskier gets the point and lets him go.

He would, but Jaskier really, really doesn’t want to let Geralt go.

“Ahh,” he nods. “I totally get it, I do. You’re abandoning me,” he wails, taking on an overdramatic voice. “I’ll be left here to rot, alone until the end of my days!” He flops back fully on the bed, covering his eyes with an arm and sticking out his tongue.

He hears Geralt’s low and gravely chuckle, then feels a large warm hand grasp his ankle and shake it around.

“Well, how about this. Would you like to come meet Roach? It might be late for her to be eating, but it isn’t that late in human time, I guess. But you definitely don’t have to!” He raises his voice a little higher and raising his hands in defense as he sees Jaskier peek out from behind his arm.

“I would love to, dear Geralt. Thank you for thinking of me!” he says brightly, recovering fast from his feigned death and hopping up from the bed, sprawling coats everywhere. He almost trips over from his deadened feet and the coats on the ground, and would have fallen face first if not for Geralt’s steady hands which catch him on his way down.

Geralt rights him again, and doesn’t take his hands off Jaskier’s shoulders. “Are you good? You didn’t drink too much, did you?” he demands in a mock stern voice, but one which is underlaid with real concern.

Jaskier beams up at him. When they are both standing, they are almost exactly the same height. Geralt has only an inch or so on him, but his shoulders are much wider, and his legs comparably longer. Jaskier marches in place for a minute, then looks up at Geralt again.

“No, I’m good. Legs are awake again, and I only had like a glass of wine. As long as I’m not the one driving, I’m good.”

Geralt shakes his head and grins. His grin is easy now – no more small smiles, only wide and toothy ones. Jaskier decides to start counting. Retroactively, he must have been granted maybe…4 grins like this. 5, now. He creates the mental tally in his head, reminding himself to never let one of Geralt’s smiles slip, not if they are friends until they die or if they part tonight and never meet again.

Or even if, especially if, they get married a few years down the line and Jaskier is permitted to evoke these smiles every day and swallow them off Geralt’s lips. Not even then will he let one of Geralt’s grins slip by.

They head out of the room, Geralt leading the way down the hall and past the kitchen. Jaskier makes a conscious effort to keep his eyes on the back of Geralt’s head instead of any other part of his back. He’s pretty sure he would never truly be able to only be Geralt’s friend if he glanced there now.

The other guests seem to be mainly drinking, dancing, or making out like teens. The rooms are slightly smokey from all of Yennefer’s smelly candles which she insists on lighting. They sit on every surface, surrounded by empty bottles of alcohol and limitless purses and wallets. Apparently almost no one had left, which makes sense based on the fact that no one had come to claim any of their jackets during the time Geralt and Jaskier had been in the room.

They make it out of the mansion without even having to interact with any of the other guests, and Geralt leads them over to the road to wave for a taxi. One appears almost immediately, and they slip into the back seat.

“78 Mohren Place, please,” Geralt tells the driver, who nods, gives a thumbs up, and closes the divider between the seats. The radio turns up and lets out some loud hip-hop.

Now, Jaskier has absolutely nothing against hip-hop. He finds it gives him the energy to get through the day and the long night, which must be part of the motivation for the driver, and they are able to move their mouths faster and come up with rhymes that Jaskier might never think to make. Their talent is amazing, but it doesn’t quite mean that he wants to listen to it here, next to Geralt, not when he could show him something he had made himself.

“Hey, Geralt,” Jaskier whispers, turning to find Geralt’s face only inches away. Strangely, given the fact that they had met barely 2 hours ago, he doesn’t feel uncomfortable or awkward at all.

Geralt hadn’t made fun of him for being a nerd over his cat, had even joined in. He hadn’t thought that Jaskier was weird with all of his rambling and hemming and hawing, and hadn’t given him a weird look even when Jaskier assumed that he had been dating his brother. He was kind and interesting and cared deeply about his friends and family. He had even given him five wide, priceless golden smiles.

There was nothing to feel awkward about, not even when Geralt turned his head to look at him with his yellow eyes and his plush lips and gave him another smile, a small one this time. That counts right? He decides it counts and adds it to the list.

Six.

“Do you want to listen to some of my own music? I don’t know about you, but I’m not totally in a hip-hop mood.”

Geralt’s thick eyebrows draw together and crease in the middle. “Your music?”

Jaskier gasps, a little too loudly for it to be entirely real. “You mean to say you’ve never heard the work of The Wondrous Wretches? You must be joking! We’re a sensation! We got 60 people to come to our last concert,” he says with exaggerated pride. He drops the act and smiles for real.

“Yeah, me, my friend Essi, and her brother Valdo. We started out just doing it for fun but it’s really just our job now. We make enough playing small venues and at parties and stuff. It’s really fun, I love them and the music we make. I can show you, if you wanted?” Jaskier holds up his headphones which he had stuffed in his pocket before walking in the door.

Geralt scrunches up his face, his nose drawing up closer to his eyes. “I don’t knowwww,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Can I really trust the music of a guy who still uses corded headphones? I dunno, you might be about to kill me when we get to my flat so you can steal some stuff to buy real ones.”

He ends with another grin and a cocky tilt of his head. Gods, but how Jaskier wishes he could kiss that stupid little smirk off Geralt’s face and keep it with him forever. He starts figuring out how to seal one of Geralt’s grins in a locket. Or maybe a mason jar? Instead, he counts it.

Seven.

To stop himself from doing something stupid like actually kissing the man, Jaskier elbows Geralt in the ribs, gasping as if highly offended.

“Ridiculous, treating me this way! I’ll be sure to tell Roach about your behavior. I’m sure she’ll agree with me, we’ll throw you out and take over your flat for ourselves,” he finishes with a solid nod, as if it is decided. He starts unraveling his headphones anyway, plugging them into his newly charged phone.

Geralt looks at him incredulously and shakes his hair, rubbing his side to lessen the pain.

Jaskier hands the right earbud to Geralt, putting his own into his left ear and queuing a song. It takes him a second to find one, but he remembers that he actually has the perfect one. He waits until Geralt has slipped the earbud in and gives him a thumbs up.

He presses play and turns the screen off, sliding the phone under his thigh to keep it secure. He closes his eyes and leans back against the headrest. This song is a good mix of all the others, sound wise. It is not too slow or fast, not too quiet to be boring or too loud to be jarring. It sings of hope and friendship and sunlight, filled with soul and heart, with only a touch of angst. It ends happily, but the singer doesn’t know that quite yet.

Jaskier takes a deep breath, gearing himself to take the tiny step that he wants to take. He slowly lowers his head the few inches to Geralt’s shoulder. His hair tickles his ear, but not enough to make it distracting. His shoulder is warm, just as Jaskier expected. Now that he took the leap, he’s not sure what he was worried about. Geralt barely reacts, simply humming and pulling the headphone cord so that it isn’t in Jaskier’s face. He doesn’t push him away, or grunt unhappily, or do anything to make Jaskier uncomfortable. He is kind and good and solid, as he has been all night. A good friend, even to a stranger.

Friendship is fine. More than fine. Jaskier has never had anything but bad luck with sleeping around, or getting into things too fast with people. He values friendships just as much as any good romantic relationship. His bandmates, and his family, are more important to him than any more intimate partner he’s ever had. Would he love to be more with Geralt? Yes, absolutely. But he didn’t want to push that, either. This time, he wanted to go slow. Friends, first. Then, see what would happen. After all, Jaskier knows there is such a thin line between romance-love and friend-love. And strengthening one, equally as fulfilling and interesting as the other, could only make the other form better, if they ever got there.

No matter where they went, he knew one thing. With Geralt, he doesn’t feel lonely. As much as he loves being with other people, having a good time and entertaining, he never really feels the deep, human connection he knows that you are supposed to.

With his bandmates and Yennefer, or his family, it is better. He doesn’t feel isolated, there. He feels like himself, he can do as he will without second guessing his every word and action. But without knowing someone for a really long time, knowing their moods and desires and fears, he finds it hard not to feel lonely with people, to feel comfortable with them.

But Geralt has always felt familiar, once they got past the awkward why are you sitting in coats why did you burst in here phase. It’s been easy, these few hours of talking. Easy, and warm, and joyful, and content. That’s really hard to find this fast, in someone you never expected to connect with.

So, in the taxi on the way to meet Roach, Jaskier leans his head against Geralt’s shoulder and heaves out a huge breath, all of the tension and worries he has been gathering slowly over this past week. When they get to Geralt’s flat, Jaskier will pick Roach up and swing her around. She’ll scratch him, but then come slinking back for pets and treats. Geralt will say he’s never seen her come up to any of his other guests like that.

He and Geralt will sit up in the kitchen for a little longer tossing treats to Roach and watching her run after them. They will realize that by then, it is far too late for Jaskier to be going anywhere, so Geralt will make the couch up for him. In the morning, they will make plans to get together the next weekend with Geralt’s D&D friends and play. Geralt makes sure to tell him what type of food he could bring that they would like, and warns him to avoid mentioning anything about Aiden if he doesn’t want Lambert to punch him.

And it will be easy, and it will be comfortable, and they will both be happy.

But Jaskier doesn’t know that yet. For now, he just rests on Geralt’s warm shoulder with his own music playing in his ears, and Geralt’s heavy head now settled on his. Geralt’s heat fills the back seat of the taxi, and the solidity of his body is more comforting than Jaskier has ever experienced. The cords of Jaskier’s headphones are tangled a little in Geralt’s hair and in front of Jaskier’s face, but neither of them mind. It is as if the headphones are what is really keeping their heads in place, anyway.

[reflectionsofneptune]

little things about the saturn signs

little dreamy, abstract things about the Saturn signs in Astrology.

Aries Saturn

― Skin stretched across the ridges of the knuckle. Screaming into a pillow. Droplets of sweat formed at the base of the neck. Fight or flight mode. A slow tick in the jaw. Ice cold showers. One rep too many. Steam coming from the spout of a kettle. Boxing gloves, in a corner. Paying the price for impulsive decisions. Tunnel vision. Giving the ego props, but not all the credit. Pacing oneself. Coal catching light at a barbecue. Rugby uniform, two sizes too big. A toddler falling down on soft grass.

Taurus Saturn

― Pennies in a jar. A set, of fine china, accumulated over time. Vinyl played on a Crosley Cruiser. Scrambling to make rent day. Multiple bank accounts. Paying cash over card. White lilies, a centrepiece on the dining table. Buying the same product over and over again. Loyalty cards. Slow cooking. Aeration of bread. A short stroll after dinner. Shoes buffed and shined, by the front door. Crystal cut glass housing clear liquid. The finest dinnerware brought out for special occasions.

Gemini Saturn

― A tickle in the throat. Coughing before a point is made. Audiobooks. The chewed cap of a pen, between the teeth. Stuttering. Restless eyes. Amber glow of a traffic light. Staying up all night to consume information. Aux cables. Permeant creases to the spine of a thick reference book. Last call in a library before closing time. Indentations on a stress ball. A silver tongue. Taming the mind to find peace. Soft vibrations from an electric toothbrush. A keyboard resting on the wall. Breathing exercises before a presentation.

Cancer Saturn

― Photographs in a photo album. Tea stained letters of endearment. Arms crossed over the chest recreates a sense of safety. A tried and trusted recipe passed down. Hot cocoa before bed. Lullabies. Trepidation when it comes to emotionally charged situations. Casserole dishes containing humble portions of heaven. Birdsong as the sun rises. Family heirlooms kept in a velvet pouch. Height marked by notches on the wall. Necklaces made out of macaroni. Friendship bracelets.

Leo Saturn

― Trophies catching dust, behind a cabinet. The definition of achievement drilled in from a young age. Beads embroided on the curve of the back. Scarlett stained pointe shoes. Being painfully aware of a truth embedded in a joke. Bristles of a paintbrush splayed. Finger paintings. Heart playing Scatato notes. Fringing running along the back of a leather jacket. Slicked back hair. Opera glasses observing the scene from a height. Playing small. Playstation cables tangled. Cherry cola.

Virgo Saturn

― Suduko’s on a long train journey. The smell of fresh linen permeating the house. French horn-rimmed glasses. Filter coffee. Sticky notes poking out of an organiser. Multiple alarms set. Sneaking meditation in during lunch. Rush hour. Sweating the small stuff. Employee of the month. Burnout because enough isn’t good enough. Trips away that no one knows about. Tension released on the mat. Vitamins nabbed at bargain prices. Normcore. The curve of a nail bed. The quiet carriage of a train ride.

Libra Saturn

― The tall stem of a Martini glass. Spoken word in an intimate setting. Finding gems in a vintage shops. Mascara running down cheeks. Scented candles. Vintage perfume bottles. Elocution lessons. Fluffy slippers. Holding on too tightly to whats just. Learning forward in conversation. A Minor scale. Wind chimes blowing in the wind. Satin eye masks. Opening up to another requires a bit more effort. Frilly socks. Pouring into a diary at the end of the day. A blue box. Pearls around the neck.

Scorpio Saturn

― A toothpick hanging from the side of the mouth. Alarm bells set off at the slightest inclination of an intruder. Black latex pants. Street lights flickering in an alleyway. Fearful of deep bonding with another further solidifies a notion of isolation. A silver chain hanging from belt loops. The cold tiles of the bathroom floor. The point of incisor teeth. Silver tipped boots. Black matches with a red tip. Vantage point. Riding shotgun. Tight spaces. Sharp corners. Eagles circling the air. Lowered eyelashes.

Sagittarius Saturn

― Left ear ringing. Ted talks with breakfast. Neon lights flashing between the trees. Coins under the sofa. A cork board filled with memories. Floorboards vibrating because of music. Digging deep to find the light in a dark situation. A stainless steel water bottle. The smell of rain. Just catching the last train. Raw space. A painting on a wall, slightly crooked. Recognising a familiar face in a crowd. Fingerless gloves. Boy Scouts around a campfire listening to an Elder. Jumping off a diving board. A little pocketbook shoved into a back pocket.

Capricorn Saturn

― Wanting to fall off the face of the face of earth, not forever, but for a while. A five year plan. Engraved working buttons. An empty playground. Two kisses upon meeting someone new. Country clubs. Freshly mowed lawn. The nib of a fountain pen. Not wanting to fail can actually mean nothing gets started. Socks peeking out from suit trousers. A stiff upper lip. A three course meal, and then dessert. Dry cleaning home delivered. The heavy pressure of water at the crown.

Aquarius Saturn

― Licking postage stamps. A number written on a bar reciept. Blue light from an aquarium. Feeling the weight of upholding one’s personal truth. Drawers that won’t shut. Organised mess. Red booths in a diner. Reading glasses hanging from the neck. A tray filled with trinkets accumulated over the years. Struggling to feel confident to put one’s unique spin on structures in society. Cult movies on video. A soft hue from lava lamps. Tongue-in-cheek graphic t-shirts. Frayed jeans. Floorboards creaking under pacing.

Pisces Saturn

― Alpha brain waves. A packet of cigarettes, opened but full. Escaping to deal with responsibility. Feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Reaching for something tangible in the dark. The calm before the storm. Right ear ringing. Dreams, felt vividly in dream state but in waking state, difficult to pinpoint. Crystals under the pillow. Wanting to help in the world but unsure of where to start. Shadows creeping up a white wall. Guilt. Kiss of life. The soft glow from a pink salt Himalayan lamp. Putting money into a cup outside of a train station.

| little thoughts about mercury placements

| little thoughts about venus placements

| little thoughts about mars placements

[agallimaufryofoddments]

it’s 7 PM and I’m currently nursing a third beer in a bar—stopped here en route to the train station; at my feet I’ve got my backpack, fine, but I’ve also got a short broom and dustpan and a bag of practical purchases (i.e. purchases for flat, such as cleaning wipes and a colander) and I’m sorry to intrude on my followers’ dashes—i just...in this moment, felt deeply appreciative of city life and wanted to share this sentiment with the void.

It’s just...satisfying to have the ability to stop by a bar/pub on the way home after a day’s work. To have public transportation at one’s fingertips (this is the American suburb upbringing talking; please, America, get your public transportation + infrastructure act together). I’m technically alone (drinking solo) but so what? I’ll be back here on Sunday (having been invited to watch the World Cup rugby match between Ireland and Scotland at 9:45 AM). During today’s seminar I was asked to be a partner for the course’s first major assignment (due in a week, oh boy—people only paired up today). The asker heself is someone who’s in all three of my classes for this block; I hope—I do so hope—we’ll become friends.

Sorry for another personal post; the reason I opened Tumblr here in the first place was because I’ve received two two-part asks in the last 24 hours and I wanted to assure the askers I received their asks (but suddenly felt like oversharing, oops); on that note, I’m so sorry to the Claire anon whose ask has been sitting in my drafts for at least a month—do know I haven’t forgotten you; I do have some of all of a draft response written, but I put it on hold because I thought it needed rewriting so it wasn’t so...disorganized? Still trying to figure out a balance between grad school academia, online fandom life, and real life chores + leisure. Also I did receive the refs ask, which is also in drafts.

(I’ve been thinking about having a go at devising a personal study schedule. Do I think I’d be able to stick to it first go? No, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t try. If I keep trying—including trying to form habits and stick to those habits—eventually progress will co:me, surely. University life is so personally unstructured—I may be in grad school, but the same goes for undergrad—and in a way it was easier to be productive with regard to my hobbies in the far more structured secondary school environment. Sticking to a self-imposed schedule will be harder than working around an externally imposed schedule, but rather than surrender to ADD or give up, I should continue to strive for self-discipline.)

It’s 7:25 now; I really should head home after finishing this beer (but probably should also stop at supermarket by the train station). Just wanted to say I’ve received the recent asks. Also, wish me and my partner luck on the assignment due Sep 27...

(Oh right; I think my order of the Baccano! vol 11 hardcover may be shipping soon? It’s about time... speaking of mail, may have news on that front in a week.)

[nyangibun]

Jon x Sansa; The Drowned Rat Conundrum

Inspired by this fic. 

Summary: Jon meets Sansa one rainy afternoon right after she gets dumped by her girlfriend and he becomes acutely aware of his more than inappropriate attraction to her despite knowing she's not into guys. It only gets worse when Sansa turns out to be as fun to be around as she is beautiful. So, of course, that means Jon's life is officially over and he hates everything.

When Jon meets Sansa for the first time, she’s drenched from head to toe, wearing a large ratty hoodie and black leggings, with mascara smeared down her cheeks. As first appearances go, it’s not great, and considering she’s also sobbing uncontrollably, Jon shouldn’t find her as attractive as he does, but Sansa Stark is beautiful regardless of what condition she comes in. In fact, the drowned rat look is actually sort of cute on her, if she wasn’t crying and if his heart wasn’t breaking just by hearing that sound.

It’s a universally known fact that Jon doesn’t do well around crying girls or women. He’s awkward enough as it is around them when they’re happy. This is uncharted territory. He grew up as an only child with a dead mother, an absentee father and a boarding school full of boys.

But Sansa is crying and she’s standing there on his front stoop looking for all the world like someone had just thrown her puppy into the middle of traffic, so he approaches slowly.

“Um… hello?” Jon says, immediately berating himself for such a dumb opener. “Are you okay, miss? Do you need me to ring someone for you?”

Her eyes snap to his and they immediately narrow with wariness. Even though she’s the one crying in front of his house, Jon suddenly feels like he’s intruding. “Who are you?” she snaps irritably. “Do you live here? Is my brother home?”

“Brother?” Jon repeats, just as sudden clarity strikes him like a jolt of lightning. “You’re Robb’s sister! Sansa? Or is it… Arya?”

“It’s Sansa,” she answers, though still wary.

Well, Jon can’t blame her. Robb is friends with Theon and he’s a creep, so he’d be wary of Robb’s friends too. But the girl is still sniffling and looking sorely in need of something, so Jon raises his hand and gestures towards the door. “He should be home soon. I can make you a cup of tea while you wait?”

Sansa gives a small nod, her expression softening slowly, and as he leads her through the house, gives her a cup of tea (with two spoons of sugar and a good dash of milk), the softness is there in her eyes and lips and it just about takes his breath away.

God, Jon muses to himself. He’s never had such an instant reaction to someone before and he’s still too inexperienced with girls to know if that’s a good or bad thing.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Sansa says after a moment of silence. She’s sitting on the opposite sofa from him with one of the throw blankets wrapped around her. Jon is unbelievably glad that he had thrown it into the wash only a few days prior.

“It’s Jon,” he answers. “Jon Snow. I’m… Well, obviously I’m Robb’s housemate.” He chuckles nervously. “I uh… I also play rugby with him.”

“Oh,” she nods, taking another sip from her mug. “I know you. Robb talks about you.”

“Hopefully good things?” Jon hedges with a smile.

But Sansa doesn’t hear him because she abruptly drops the mug to the coffee table and angle her entire body towards him. “Jon, you like girls, right?”

“What?” He’s too incredulous to answer, and to his horror, his whole body begins to flush just from that question alone.

“I mean you’re into girls, right?” Sansa asks again, a bit more forcefully this time. He nods, which gives her prompt to continue. “Then tell me, tell me why girls like playing games so much. Is it because they’re incapable of committing or is it just me, you know?” Sansa runs a hand through her hair and growls. “We were together for eight months! Eight months. And before that, she knew I was wary about getting back into a relationship but she promised it’d be different. And then she goes and… Well, what kind of person just wakes up one day and says they’re in love with someone else? Who does that!”

Her voice had gotten steadily higher and higher the more she told him, and while he commiserates with her heartbreak, Jon is aware of one thing and one thing only: she’s not into guys. And just like that, what unexpected and unwanted hope that had seeded itself into his mind the moment he saw her wilted and died. Then to add insult to injury, Jon is immediately wracked with guilt because here’s Robb’s sister confiding in him over her girlfriend and all he’s doing is having creepy thoughts about her.

Jon grounds his teeth and forces the thoughts away. He is not a creep. He is not going to get upset because one girl out of a million just happens to fancy girls as well. More power to Sansa for being so open and confident with her sexuality. Right?

God, he thinks, he’s an asshole.

“I… I don’t think that’s exclusive to girls,” Jon says, and immediately regrets it when she throws him a sharp look. He puts up his hands in defence. “Sorry. I just mean… there’s always going to be those people who will come into your life just to break your heart.”

She arches her eyebrow as if to say, ‘what are you on about?’, so Jon continues, stumbling over his words like the idiot that he is.

“What I mean is I don’t want you to… close yourself off. Because that’d be bad, a shame really, and you deserve to be happy. Really happy with someone. So I just wanted you to know not all girls will break your heart. That’s it.”

Sansa stares at him for a beat before she starts chuckling. “You’re really bad at this, you know that, right?”

He rubs his hands over his face and sighs. “I’ve never had to do this before!” he grouses. “Most of the time when one of the lads is going through a breakup, I just take him to the pub and we get pissed.”

“So let’s go.”

Jon drops his hands, and this time, he stares at her for a long second. “What?”

“To the pub,” Sansa says, as she stands up. “Let’s go right now.”

“Don’t you want to wait for your brother?” Jon asks hesitantly, though he stands up as well, realising he’s probably going to be unable to deny this girl anything.

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Honestly, he’s worse than you. I don’t know what I was thinking coming to him.” She chuckles again. “I guess I just thought he might be able to help because he knows Margaery as well, but he’d probably muck it up and I’d just feel worse.”

“Right…” Jon contemplates what he’s about to suggest, but then he decides it’s not about him today, it’s about her. “Pub then?”

Somehow in the months since helping Robb’s little sister drown her heartbreak in tequila, Sansa had become a permanent fixture in his life. She’s always at the house, either to pester Robb into doing something, or she’s in his room quietly studying or watching a film with him. And in that time, Jon finds that Sansa is smart, her wit as sharp as a knife, and she’s also compassionate, warm and loving, with heart far too big for her chest. He is also excruciatingly aware of how attracted he is to her and how utterly off-limits Sansa is. Even if she isn’t only into girls, she’s also Robb’s little sister and friendship or not, Robb would punch Jon in the face for even thinking about her in a way that isn’t platonic. Of course if Sansa is into boys as well, Jon would happily be punched in the face for her, but she isn’t and that’s the biggest problem. He’s crushing on someone he can’t have and it’s making him feel rotten and gross when he knows she only sees him as another big brother.

But Jon supposes he’d still rather have Sansa in his life than not, which is the only reason why he agrees to go to a Halloween party with her where her ex-girlfriend will be, so he can be there for her. In a totally platonic way.

It has to be said though that Jon hates Halloween and so he’s made zero effort in dressing up, which is the first thing Sansa comments on when she sees him.

“You’re not even trying, Jon! What the hell are you even supposed to be?”

Robb snickers by his side, dressed as bloody Flynn Rider from Tangled. But Jon’s too busy trying not to stare at Sansa’s corset-hugging dress that shows far too much cleavage to be conducive to his mental state. She’s Queen Mary Stuart from that historically inaccurate show she loves so much and there’s a red flower crown on top of her head. He’s not sure how anybody is supposed to guess what she is, but she definitely looks like a queen. Jon would certainly ride into battle for her.

“I’m Han Solo,” Jon says with a wry smirk. “Look, I have a gun and this vest thing.” He pulls at the black vest to show her.

Sansa huffs and swats at his arm. “Pathetic. Honestly, pathetic.” She then looks to her brother and pretty soon the two devolve into some age-old argument over the best Disney princes that Jon immediately tunes out.

They walk into the house party, the main foyer already filled with drunk people swaying this way and that, and the bass of some pop dance music reverberates throughout the room. Robb disappears almost as soon as they walk in, apparently to find his date, who is the Rapunzel to his Flynn tonight. And if Jon puts his hand on the small of Sansa’s back, it’s only to guide her through the throng of people towards somewhere they can breathe and maybe find some cups for their drinks. It’s totally not because she’s gorgeous and undeniably the most perfect woman he’s ever met.

“Do you see her?” Sansa hisses to him. “I don’t see her. She’s here though. She posted on her stupid Instagram.” They find the refreshments table just fine and grab two cups to pour their vodka punch concoction. Sansa downs the first drink in record time. “Poison Ivy and Harley Quinn. That’s the couple costume she has with this other girl. It was my idea! Margaery doesn’t even like comics.”

“You don’t either,” Jon points out.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say because she punches him, hard, on the shoulder. “Well, no, but that’s not the point. Are you on my side or not!”

Jon wraps an arm around her and smiles. “I’m always on your side, Sans.”

Her reciprocating smile is just as fond as his and he wishes more than ever that he could just tell her how he feels. But that, he knows, is a wasted effort and he should probably try harder to move on. No one needs to have their pseudo big brother perving on them.

The night surprisingly is uneventful. Margaery does show up with her new girlfriend an hour into the party and Sansa exchanges pleasantries with them up until they walk away when she hisses to him that Margaery’s new girlfriend makes for a lousy Poison Ivy because ‘she’s not even a redhead, Jon; Arya says that’s blasphemy!’

By one-thirty, Sansa is so drunk he decides to call for a cab and take her home. He’s waiting for her outside of the party when Margaery sidles up next to him with a near-passed out girlfriend in tow.

“Jon, was it?”

“Yeah,” he nods. He’s polite and friendly, but out of solidarity, he tries not to be too friendly.

“Does she know?” Margaery asks, a twinkle of something Jon doesn’t like in her eyes.

He plays dumb. “Know what?”

“That you’re in love with her.” But when Jon doesn’t immediately respond, Margaery continues, laughing. “Word of advice, if you don’t want to tell her, you might want to dial back the longing looks.”

Before Jon has a chance to defend himself, Margaery jumps into a car with her girlfriend and their friends and disappears down the street. He’s still incapable of speaking when Sansa returns and they get into the cab in complete silence. Thankfully, Sansa is too drunk to notice and she passes out, her head resting on his shoulder, a minute into the ride back to his place.

The next morning with much more (sober) clarity, Jon decides Margaery’s right. He can’t keep doing this to himself. Or to Sansa. She’s not into him, and no amount of pining is going to change that. He needs to get over her and to do that, he needs to put distance between them. So with a heavy heart, Jon texts her. Simple and clear.

Hope you’re feeling okay today. Got a few exams and courseworks to work on so gonna be busy for the next month. Will text you the all clear after.

Like he expected, Sansa does text back, but he doesn’t answer. And he knows her so well now that he can predict when she has enough free time to swing by the house and he makes sure he’s at the library when that happens. Of course Jon still sees her from time to time, but the interactions are different. They’re less intimate. She never stays the night anymore; she never just walks into his room and flops onto his bed after a bad day; or ring him in the afternoon to gush about the cute dog she saw on her run earlier. In fact, they’re practically strangers again after a month goes by of Jon actively doing his best to avoid her. He knows he’s obvious and perhaps that’s why she’s distant with him too, like she can’t quite understand what he’s doing but she’s too proud to admit she’s hurt.

It goes on for awhile that even oblivious Robb starts to notice and that’s when it all goes goes to shit.

They’re at rugby training. They only have one last tournament before Christmas holidays, but that’s a whole month away, so they’re just playing an easy skirmish between each other. Robb’s on the opposite team and when the whistle blows and the rugby is passed to Jon, Robb’s there, sprinting and tackling him to the ground with so much force it knocks the wind from Jon’s lungs. He lies on his back, wheezing and coughing, trying to catch his breath, as Robb stands over him with a scowl on his face.

When Jon finally is able to speak again, he jumps to his feet and shoves Robb back. “What the fuck?”

“What the fuck?” Robb repeats incredulously. “I could ask you the same thing! What the fuck are you doing with my sister?”

Jon stares, blinking rapidly, unable to process the question. “What?”

“Why the fuck have you been avoiding her?” he asks. “And don’t give me that bullshit excuse you gave to Sansa because I know you don’t have any big exams coming up.”

He rubs a hand over his face and pointedly ignoring the stares of their teammates around them. “It’s none of your business.”

“She’s my sister!” Robb shouts. “She’s always going to be my bloody business! Now tell me the truth or I swear to god I’ll kick your broody ass, Snow.”

Jon shakes his head and begins to walk off of the pitch. Robb immediately follows and shoves him again when they reach the sideline. Jon stumbles for a bit but gains his balance quickly before turning around. “Stop that.”

“Then stop being a prick and just tell me the damn truth,” Robb says. “And for fuck’s sake, have the goddamn decency of actually breaking up with my sister in person instead of just ghosting her!”

Wait, what?

“I’m not dating your sister…” Jon says, but his words trail off like a question. He’s too dumbfounded by Robb’s assumption to think of anything better to say, like maybe ‘no, they’re not dating,’ and ‘Sansa is into girls, you tool.’

 Robb rolls his eyes. “Oh, please. You two aren’t subtle! You’re always staring and smiling at each other and ugh, sneaking off to your room. Did you think I was dumb or something?”

“No, no,” he quickly says. “We’re just friends. It wasn’t like that!” Jon’s head is such a whirlwind, he just completely loses hold of his filter at this point. “Your sister’s not into me like that. Do I wish that she was? Sure. But I never crossed that line with her. What kind of creep do you think I am? I’m not one of those assholes that hit on lesbians just to prove my masculinity or something, alright?”

There’s a long tense pause as Robb continues to glare at Jon before he suddenly bursts out laughing, the slapping his thigh, doubling over kind of laughter too. This only perplexes Jon more.

“What?”

“You’re… a… fucking idiot!” Robb exclaims between laughter. He wipes at the tears forming in his eyes. “My sister is not a lesbian. She’s bi, ya moron.”

“What!” Jon says, eyes growing wide, as his heart begins to ram loudly in his chest. “Why didn’t… why didn’t anyone tell me that!”

“Because you never asked,” Robb points out. “So wait, you’re telling me that you’ve been pining after my sister all this time because you thought she was only into girls?” Jon nods and he laughs again. “Fucking moron.”

“Yeah, yeah, I gathered that,” Jon groans, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Uhuh,” Robb nods. And then he smiles, a devious, terrifying smile before punching Jon square in the jaw. “That was for messing with my sister’s feelings because you’re too much of an idiot to just ask. And that was also preemptive because I assume now you’re actually going to go boink my sister.”

Jon frowns and rolls his eyes. “Did you honestly say boink?”

“Just get the hell out of here!”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Without even telling his coach, Jon runs from the pitch, grabs his bag along the way and hails a cab to Sansa’s despite the fact that he has a bus pass for this very purpose, but the buses are slow and unreliable and he needs to see her right now.

Although it cuts the journey in half, it still takes him ten minutes too long to get to Sansa’s house. But he jumps from the cab and runs up the steps to pound unceremoniously on the door. It’s six in the evening on a Thursday and he so desperately hopes that Sansa is home. She could be out with her friends. When no one answers right away, Jon knocks again, louder this time. He’s about to do so for the third time when he hears movement coming from inside the house.

The door peels open and there standing in a ratty hoodie and black leggings is easily the most beautiful person Jon has ever seen.

“Jon, what happened to your–”

“So I’m a moron,” he cuts her off. “This isn’t anything new, really, but this time, I really, really fucked up and I’m so sorry.”

“I don’t understand,” Sansa says warily. “What happened to your face?”

“It’s not important,” Jon waves off. “I came here to tell you that… shit, okay, I’ve never actually done this before so I’m probably going to muck it up too. But right…” He takes a deep breath. “Sansa, I’ve been mad about you from the first moment I saw you and it drove me crazy that I couldn’t have you because here’s the thing, I wrongly assumed you were only into girls. Not that you being also into boys means I can have you now. If you’re not into me, that’s fine too! And we’ll be friends. If you still want to, that is. I know I’ve been kind of a cock lately and stuff, but I’d rather be friends with you than not, okay? Shit, please just say something.”

There was an imperceptible look on her face, and for a long while, Sansa said nothing. She just stared at him with that impenetrable mask and it was doing a number on his nerves. But finally, with relief and dread, she sighs. “You really are a moron. You should’ve just asked me or asked Robb or asked anyone.”

“I know,” he admits, bowing his head in shame. “I’m sorry.”

“But you know what pisses me off the most?” she says. “It’s not that you just assumed my sexuality without asking, but the fact that you blew me off without ever giving me an explanation. I thought…” Sansa’s voice broke but there’s steel in her eyes so Jon doesn’t dare try to comfort her. “I thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. That maybe I did something wrong. I thought that maybe you found someone else, someone better to be with like Margaery did.”

“Jesus, no!” Jon took her hands in his and implored her to listen. “Sansa, there isn’t anyone better than you. Trust me, I’ve looked and no one even comes close. I’m so sorry. I’m so bloody sorry I ever made you doubt yourself. But you have to know you’re the best thing to happen to anyone. You’re… I mean you’re Sansa Stark. You’re… everything.”

A faint smile pulls at her lips and Sansa’s cheeks flush pink. “For someone who’s not so great with words, you did quite well there, Jon.”

“Does that mean you forgive me?” he braves with a smile of his own.

Sansa shakes her head. “Not even close.” But before he even has a chance to feel heartbroken, she throws her arms around his neck. “But now you can make it up to me whenever you want.”

Jon laughs as he wraps his arms around her waist. “Oh, trust me, I won’t ever stop.” And without any further prompting, Jon dips head so he can fully kiss her the way he’s wanted to four months ago.

It’s too early to say those three little words, but the minute his lips press against hers, Jon knows he’s gone. Completely and utterly gone for this girl. And frankly, he doesn’t care one bit. Sansa is his perfect little drowned rat and he’s not letting her go.

[sportticketexchange]

British and Irish Lions Tour - South Africa’s pronounced Rugby hooker

With Super Rugby about midway and suspended due to the coronavirus, it's a perfect chance to see the Springboks' choices at each position for new lead trainer Jacques Nienaber and rugby chief, Rassie Erasmus, in front of arranged tests against Scotland and Georgia.

We will assess the main players this season in the Bulls, Lions, Sharks, and Stormers, and we will make our last determination. Rugby fans can book South Africa A Vs British And Irish Lions Tickets on our website on exclusively. exclusively discounted prices.

Bulls: Jaco Visagie

The previous Bolander, who hails from Clanwilliam, has now developed into a strong Super Rugby hooker. He is a persevering extra free forward who gets around the pitch and does the unfashionable stuff, and is certainly not a cutting edge garish No 2. The 27-year-old hits ruck hard, discovers his jumpers, and makes his handles.

The Bulls are in a great 6th situation on the competition list concerning lineout achievement, on 88 percent, even though their scrum has not been as smooth, being positioned tenth on 90 percent this season. Rugby fans can book Vodacom Bulls Vs British And Irish Lions Tickets on our website on exclusively discounted prices.

Visagie has made 13 ball-conveys and five turnovers, just as 45 handles – which places him joint-fourth among hookers, even though he has missed 12 handles, the most in his position.

Lions: Pieter Jansen

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They are positioned eleventh in the competition with an 86.3 percent lineout achievement rate and have the most noticeably awful scrum – measurably – with 81 percent. It is a piece of the motivation behind why Jansen in the end lost his beginning billet to Jan-Henning Campher for the last not many matches.

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Jansen has made 13 ball-conveys, yet only 20 handles in a short time of rugby across six matches. His best commitment has come in the tight free, with eight turnovers.

Sharks: Kerron van Vuuren

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The Glenwood High item is a "straightforward" administrator who appears to have that bit of mutt should have been a triumph at hooker. He works constantly, as can be seen by his 47 handles, the joint second-most in the opposition among hookers.

Van Vuuren has designed six turnovers and constrained three tackle-busts and two offloads from his 19 runs. In any case, the Sharks' lineout is evaluated as the most exceedingly awful in Super Rugby at 78.4 percent. Rugby fans can book Cell C Sharks Vs British And Irish Lions Tickets on our website on exclusively discounted prices.

Stormers: Scarra Ntubeni

The early-season injury to Bongi Mbonambi has given Ntubeni a chance to push for a Bok review after he passed up the World Cup a year ago. The ever-grinning front-rower has fortunately kept the perpetual injury intruder under control, and that saw him gathering noteworthy speed during the Stormers' four-coordinate winning beginning to the battle.

Yet, it just showed up as though Ntubeni was coming up short on a touch of steam against the Blues and Sharks, and that absence of sparkle from their normally clamoring No 2 had an influence in their progressive annihilations.

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The 29-year-old has made 14 conveys, principally nearby other people, just as four turnovers and 42 handles in six matches. The Stormers lineout has been good at 87 percent, which places them eighth in the opposition, while their scrum has been solid at 95 percent fifth. Be that as it may, Ntubeni has slipped nine handles too, which places him joint-second among hookers.

We are offering British And Irish Lions Tour Tickets so Rugby fans can get British And Irish Lions Tour Tickets through our trusted online ticketing market place. SportTicketExchange.com is the most reliable source to book British And Irish Lions Tour Tickets.

[fordsqr-blog]

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[freepib]

‘My lovely dad tried to kill me’

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Robyn Hollingworth was just 25 when she left her job in London to help care for her dad who had early-onset Alzheimer’s. Here she reveals the challenges and heartbreak of parenting a parent.

I’m hiding behind the sofa in the living room, sweating profusely and fumbling with my phone.

“Where are you, you little thief?” my dad yells as he comes down the stairs.

“I’m going to kill you, you hear me?”

He comes into the room and I can see he’s holding a carving knife.

But suddenly someone knocks at the front door and he goes to answer it. It’s the next-door neighbour.

“Hi there! You all right?” she asks nervously.

“Hello there, love!” My dad’s voice is all soft and fatherly, not mad and murderous. “How can I help you today?”

“We, uh, heard some noise and wondered if you were OK. Why, why do you have a carving knife in your hand?”

“Well funnily enough, I’ve just found a burglar in my house, so right now I’m trying to smoke the little ferret out,” Dad declares, rather proudly – though he used a stronger word than “ferret”.

I can tell my neighbour is scared but is trying to keep him talking. I crawl to the back door, sprint down the garden and hurl myself over the fence.

I walk across town to my friend Kate’s house.

She opens the door to my tear-stained face and my frozen, bare feet.

Image captionRobyn moved back to her parents house when she was 25

My dad, David Coles, was a charmingly intelligent self-made man. He was a civil engineer and built power stations all over the world. He had a beard and moustache combo that had seen him through the decades, gently fading from mouse-brown to pale grey. I idolised him.

Dad retired in his late 50s, while my mum Marjorie continued working for a local charity. They lived in Pontypool in South Wales. I had moved to London to study at Royal Holloway University and stayed there to work as a fashion buyer. But when I was 24, Mum revealed that Dad had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. A year later I was back at home to help Mum shoulder the care.

One of the first obvious signs, apart from repeating stories, was that Dad’s language changed. The F-word began making frequent appearances.

“Dad, you’ve got your jumper on back to front,” I told him one day after returning with Mum from Tesco’s.

“Ah, get lost,” he replied, except he used the F-word instead of “get lost”.

“Don’t speak to your daughter like that!” Mum snapped.

“You can get lost, too,” he added for good measure.

Sometimes it felt pointless talking to Dad because he was easily insulted. He was often aggressive or defensive with me and Mum, though funnily enough he was very obliging with my older brother, Gareth.

My dad had always spun a good yarn, but as his memory faded he would make things up to fill in the blanks. These untruths could vary from “Yes, I’ve taken my medicine,” to “Ooh, I’ve had fish for tea.” And his behaviour became more unpredictable too.

Once he offered to make Mum a cup of coffee, and came back with a soup bowl of coffee made in the microwave, giving it to her with a tea towel and a spoon.

Another day he called my mum while she was out shopping to ask where his passport was. “Are you planning on going anywhere dear?” she joked. He hung up in response. When Mum got home she found the house had been ransacked. Paper littered the living room, kitchen drawers were hanging out. The drawers in the bedrooms had been pulled out and the contents strewn on the floor. She found my dad, shaking and sobbing in their bed. Later on he mended the drawers and forgot about the incident, but Mum didn’t.

It wasn’t all doom and gloom. Once I remember spotting Mum out shopping wearing her big fluffy purple cardigan. It had sparkly bits and was embossed with flowers. I raced to catch up with her only to realise it was Dad. He had teamed it with green cords and hiking boots. He greeted everyone brazenly in the Post Office, without a care in the world.

However, a lot of the time I found caring for Dad sad and embarrassing and then I’d feel guilty and disgusted with myself. I had to keep reminding myself he couldn’t help being ill. Despite everything, I didn’t begrudge caring for him for a second and I never thought of leaving.

Image captionDavid was a keen runner and club rugby fan

A week after the passport incident Dad went out for a walk and didn’t come back. After searching the local pubs we called the police. They found him in the hospital – he had been found in the gutter by the side of the road with a large cut on his head. Mum went to collect him and he seemed vaguer than ever.

I was more and more aware how hard it must be for my mum. Physically her husband was the same but his mind had gone.

“Of course, I still love him, in a way,” she told me then, during an unusually frank conversation.

“But that is not the person I fell in love with – that’s not the man I married.”

Five ways to spot if someone has Alzheimer’s

Then, just two months after I moved home, Mum was diagnosed with aggressive skin cancer. It was made more difficult because Dad didn’t really understand that Mum was ill.

On the day of her operation he joked in the Post Office that she was getting a boob job. I wanted to hit him with a newspaper. But when we went to see her in hospital I think reality dawned on him, as he didn’t want to leave her.

“Come back to me, my love, please come back soon,” he whimpered as she stroked his hand.

Image captionRobyn’s parents met in the late 1960s

When we got back to the house he asked me where Mum was.

“Why isn’t she back from work yet? Has she gone away?” he asked.

I explained she was ill in hospital with cancer.

“Well that’s a shame, I wanted to take her for a walk in the park,” he responded.

Despite chemotherapy, Mum’s tumours spread and two months after her diagnosis we found out the cancer was terminal. Dad struggled to understand. He would repeat on a loop that he and Mum had had a good innings, with two children and a nice life. At other times he thought she had a stomach bug or was at work, when she was actually resting upstairs.

Mum died at home. The family had gathered to say goodbye to her. She told my brother and me to take care of each other and that she was sorry she was leaving us alone to care for Dad. Despite the awfulness of it, I wanted that moment to last forever. I went downstairs to discover Dad had peeled two whole 2.5kg (5lb 8oz) bags of potatoes. We’d be eating mash for months.

Image captionGareth and Robyn were always close despite the five-year age gap

At the funeral we arranged for a bagpipe player to play Mum into the church. We played Out of Africa at the end, to mark Mum and Dad’s travels abroad. I kept a nervous eye on Dad all day, but he was mostly quiet and compliant. At the wake, though, he lost the meaning of what the day was for, and thought it was to celebrate his retirement. When I was outside on the phone he tried to get people to do a conga. When I found out I laughed so hard I cried.

After Mum’s death, Dad went downhill rapidly. Apparently changes in routine and security can hugely accelerate an Alzheimer’s sufferer’s decline. He became disorientated, with little appetite. It was 10 days after the funeral that he confused me for an intruder and chased me with a carving knife.

After I escaped, it was judged too dangerous for me to return, and caring for Dad fell solely on my brother. A fortnight later we decided he needed to go into care. I would visit him with my brother, as I was too nervous to go on my own. Some days he didn’t say much and lashed out if I tried to hug him, on others he smiled and seemed happy but didn’t speak. My brother was livid one week after a carer shaved off Dad’s facial hair in a well-meaning attempt to smarten him up.

Dad caught pneumonia after a few months in care and became gaunt. I will always be haunted by the distressing image of him moaning, without his teeth in, and unable to eat or walk without help. My lovely dad had become a zombie, his wonderful brain was hollow and still. All I could do was sit with him and hold his hand and tell him I loved him. He died just five months after my Mum.

I’m sad Mum and Dad never got to see their son find a partner and have a son of his own, or their daughter get married (my brother walked me down the aisle). It wasn’t easy after they died but in my dreams I remember them when they were well and happy and in their prime.

We sold the house shortly after my dad died and on a beautiful summer’s day we drove up into the mountains overlooking town. Walking to the highest point we both took an urn and whirling around we spun our parents’ ashes into the sky. We watched as they soared from something into nothing – into the ether and everywhere.

Robyn Hollingworth is the author of My Mad Dad: The Diary of an Unravelling Mind

As told to Claire Bates. Claire is on Twitter @batesybates

from WordPress https://ikpepib.wordpress.com/2018/05/17/my-lovely-dad-tried-to-kill-me/

[the-telegraph-sport-yahoopa-blog]

Dan Cole says Leicester can turn fortunes around in same way England have under Eddie Jones

Dan Cole admits that Leicester’s fall from grace has been a “shock”, but he draws strength from the way in which England engineered a dramatic upturn in their fortunes after the 2015 World Cup by marrying “the best from the outside with the best from the inside”. 

Cole has seen at close quarters the effect that Australian Eddie Jones has had and the Leicester tighthead believes the Tigers have been at their best when they have melded their traditional virtues with influences from other rugby cultures.

There is little doubt, though, that Leicester’s humiliating recent results, culminating in the 43-0 loss at home to Glasgow Warriors on Saturday, have caused alarm.

“It was one of the worst defeats in the club’s history,” said Cole, who stood on the Welford Road terraces as a boy and came through the academy ranks. “We should be better than that. You are emotional. I’m a Leicester fan. I’ve been there since I was 16. You have an emotional attachment to what you do.

Leicester's defeat to Glasgow was one of the club's worst ever losses

“It is a shock in that it is the first time in my Leicester career that it has happened like this. We have had bad results, but this is a bad period. The club has been through them before, but in my 10 years at the club it’s never been as bad as this. It was an embarrassment.

“I don’t think anyone thought getting rid of Cockers [Richard Cockerill] would instantly turn everything around and make it hunky-dory. It might be the kick up the a--- we need to rejig and play to our potential.” 

Leicester have charged Aaron Mauger with leading their push to make the Premiership play-offs. They are fifth and have not failed to make the top four in 13 years. 

Aaron Mauger has been charged with getting Leicester into the play-offs

Yet it is obvious that there is a need for a complete overhaul. One man is not going to make a difference. Cole has been through various regimes and makes a plea for an integrated approach.

“When you lose 43-0, it is more than one thing that is the problem,” he said. “Whether that is about recruitment, coaching or individuals, I think it is a combination of everything really. 

“You could look at England before and say we didn’t play to our potential in the World Cup. And then you look at England under Eddie and we’re playing closer to that potential, hence the results we’re getting. Eddie, an Australian, has been able to take an England team and win. 

Champions Cup team of the weekend - Jan 16

“At Leicester, we were probably at our best when had a Cockers or Deano [Dean Richards], supplemented by a Matt O’Connor [Australian] or Aaron Mauger [New Zealand], someone who gets more out of us than just traditional Leicester ways. There are some very good things at the club that you just don’t throw away but the club works best when you have a marriage of the outside with the inside.” 

Cole insists that he will not allow Leicester’s woes to intrude on his work with England. “You can sit here, sulk and moan, but if you mope you can pull yourself into a hole,” said Cole, who will be on England duty now for the next two months. “You can’t be in this squad and sit around moping or you won’t be in this squad. We are out on the training field and it’s all about France. That has to be the focus”.

Leicester have banned lock Ed Slater for two matches for striking an opponent during the defeat by Glasgow.

[the-wales-5]

(One shots)

Quarrel

You love him, right?

Where is my husband?

23rd April 2018

Alone (written by @cas-ravenclaw )

Feeling blue

Always there

William's test

10th engagement anniversary special

A birthday to remember

The greatest support

I want a lifetime

Overprotectiveness

This 'Zoom' call might not have happened

Mad about you

Wales visit 2022

Miscommunication

Valentine's day 2023

An alternative universe story: In Another Life

Her legacy

Rugby World Cup + the intruders

Scene of the crime ;)

Strength & stay

The end of the worst nightmare