#another reason i say fuck king peppy like damn

[trolls-confessions]

Gonna break up the brozone and creek asks with the fact that we don’t talk abt how the trolls world tour artbook says that King Quincy nearly gave up searching for Cooper and that once Cooper found his way home and reunited with his family Quincy could finally sleep soundly at night.

Like holy shit that’s genuinely rlly sad and fucked?? Like we talk abt how Branch has depression and all that but we don’t talk enough abt how Cooper being taken from the funk fam most definitely fucked up Quincy and Essence ( and to some extent Prince D bc the book mentions that ever since Prince D was young he felt like a part of him was missing ).

Like do you think that Quincy ( and/or Essence ) either went grey or was very close to becoming grey? Do you think Quincy thought Cooper had died before they all reunited? Do you think Quincy blames himself for not being able to find his son sooner?

On Essences end I’d imagine she never gave up hope and still believed her son was alive but she probably blamed herself for Cooper getting taken as an egg.

Also do you think the day Cooper was taken was like an important holiday ( like a day to mourn the “loss” of Cooper ) and now that they are all reunited they celebrate the reunion every year?

Sorry for rambling but I think abt the funk fam a lot and I wish ppl did more with them bc there’s a lot of angst potential ( I’m tired of brozone angst and want something different )

anon please I can’t take this what the hell

#Answer #cooper #NO BECAUSE LIKE…BRO #They never stopped looking for 20 years man #im gonna kms #another reason i say fuck king peppy like damn #man I wish we got more focus on their reunion in trolls 2 ooouuurgh #prince d #queen essence #king quincy #funkfam

[hayleysstark]

Title: Mistletoe  Words: 1338  Warnings: Swearing Summary: “Come on, Branch! It’s tradition!”  Notes:  Ahhhhhhh 'tis the season where I write 100000000+ fics for Branch and Poppy getting caught under the mistletoe together. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas... anyway, made it pre-film to give it a different flavor from the other mistletoe fics I'm sure will explode all over the archives soon lmao. Can't wait to see what everyone else contributes to the fandom this holiday season!

Read on Fanfiction or AO3. 

Everything's normal right up until it's not.

Poppy's going, full steam ahead, ninety miles a minute, maybe more, on and on about her latest death trap, and she throws the word Christmas around like it's some kind of candy—come on, Branch, it's Christmas—you can be happy on Christmas, can't you—nobody should be alone on Christmas—like she thinks anyone, anywhere, gives even half a damn about a couple strings of colored lights and a ton of outdated carols, and he steps forward and opens his mouth with the refusal ready on his tongue and—

—words words words words, bursting and blasting and blaring from every single mouth, a thousand and one sounds, shrieks and shouts and screams, cutting sharp as knives through the stinging snow and spilling over him like a bucket of ice down a warm back—oh my god oh my god oh my god, and Smidge's small hands flying up to cup her cheeks—goodness, no, don't, you shouldn't, and Biggie crushes Mr. Dinkles to his chest—ew, no, Poppy, run, girl, run, and Chenille's flawless, made-up face twists up when she looks at Branch, like he's a bad smell she can't banish—yeah, no shame, girlfriend, no shame, and Satin's actually chewing her perfect manicure and what the hell is even going on—

"Guys," and the wintry world around them all has got absolutely nothing on the ice in Poppy's voice and everyone—

—everyone stops. Just like that. Standing, still as statues in the frigid whirl of snow and sleet still gusting wildly around them, and tugging on the ends of scarves and tossing flyaway strands of thick hair and is that even Poppy anymore, her pretty face all scrunched up in a—a scowl, an actual scowl, Branch has never, ever seen Poppy scowl before, and he doesn't know what to do with it, what to do with any of this because Poppy's pissed and Satin's biting her nails and if someone would just tell him what the fuck—

"Branch," Poppy huffs out a breath that ruffles up her bangs, and she still holds a storm in her eyes, but her voice softens slightly around his name and he hates how quickly his heart picks up at the sound of it on her tongue, "I know this isn't a big deal, and you know this isn't a big deal." She looks at him, pointedly, thin brows arching up by the barest centimeter in silent prompting. "Right?" There's a touch of fire to her tone that dares him to disagree.

"I—uh—I don't—"

"Poppy, love," Creek, fucking Creek, won't even get close to Poppy, none of them will get close to Poppy, like she's got an invisible two-ton five-foot barrier around her only Branch can break, and there's something seriously fucked-up going on right here and Creek's fucking calling Poppy love and everyone's staring at them and Poppy just got actually full-on pissed for the first time in her damn life, and Branch grinds his teeth together so hard it hurts and he tells himself he's not going to lose his shit he's not going to lose his shit he's not going to lose—

"—you know you don't have to—it's Branch, after all—"

"What the fuck is going on?!" Oh. Damn it. He lost his shit.

Satin squeals, and claps her hands over her open mouth. "He doesn't know!"

"'He' is right fucking here—!"

"—oh my god oh my god oh my god—"

"—Smidge, that is not helping—"

"—please, Mr. Dinkles is really freaking out—!"

—and Poppy—Poppy sighs, and rolls her pretty pink eyes and storms forward like a goddamned one-woman army but then she's grabbing Branch's chin in her hands and his breath is catching in his throat and her fingers are warm warm warm against the stinging skin of his snow-flecked face and okay no no nope no this is not fine this is not fine not fine not fine touching him is not fucking fine especially not when her touch makes him forget his own goddamn name but then she's tipping his head back back back until he's staring up into a slate-grey sky and falling snow and a tiny, fluttering sprig of green—

He's standing under a bunch of goddamn mistletoe with Princess fucking Poppy.

 Like he really needed another fucking reason to wonder what her lips taste like, or how her mouth would feel pressed up against his or if maybe the warmth of her could reach the winter inside him and pull it out or melt it down and how soft her hair would feel against his skin when he tangled his fingers up in the bubblegum-pink, strawberry-scented cloud atop her head and how he'd grab her waist and press her back against the wall and kiss her until he forgot the feeling of everything but her mouth on his and—

Fucking Christ no stop that's never going to fucking happen stop thinking about it stop fucking thinking about it you really think she'd go for the fucked-up grey outcast who ruins things and fucking kills people—

"Mistletoe. No big deal, right?" Poppy steps back and lets go of his chin and he can't remember how to even breathe. "Gotta respect the tradition, and all."

"I—" her mouth pressed up against his and her hair in his fingers and his hands on her waist and her back to the wall and stop stop fucking stop don't you dare fucking— "n-no," he says, finally, "no, we fucking don't."

"What?"

"—Branch���!"

"—you can't just—"

"—he can't actually do that, can he—?"

"—oh my god oh my god oh my god—"

"—it's tradition—"

"I don't care if it's King Peppy's latest royal decree," Branch throws out the words like his sharpest knives, with the aim and unshakable confidence of years' practice. "I'm not doing this."

A flash of actual hurt crosses Poppy's face. "Hey, you know, I didn't ask for this, either."

"No?" I know you didn't I know you didn't I fucking know you didn't who in their right fucking mind would. "Good. So we're on the same page." He steps back and he turns around and he just needs to get back to his bunker so he can barricade himself inside and give in to the images burning in the back of his mind, memorize the way Poppy's body fits against his in all his wildest fantasies, and fuck, he needs a few thousand shots of his strongest whiskey or he's never going to sleep tonight, not after this.

"Is he serious right now?"

"God, what a jerk. Good riddance. Right, Poppy?"

"Yeah, girl, you're way better off this way, trust me. It's Branch. Don't think you're missing too much."

A smattering of laughter, and Branch's ears burn in the cold wind and he bites his tongue until he feels the skin break and the hot blood bubble up and clenches his fists until he feels the telltale sting of tearing flesh.

"Absolutely right. Poppy, love, we all know Branch has a bit of a, er—unique perspective—on things in that little head of his. It's certainly no loss of yours if he doesn't want to kiss you, remember that."

And oh, God, that's the fucking problem, isn't it, because Branch—

—Branch does want to kiss Poppy.

Oh, God. Branch wants to kiss Poppy. So, so much.

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #emrys' grimoire

[its-love-u-asshole]

The Risks of Devotion [fic]

Pairings: Uraraka Ochako/Bakugou Katsuki

Summary: Bakugou would protect his princess no matter what, wanted to stay by her side no matter what. He just had to admit it to himself. 

Rating: T

Tags: a/b/o dynamics, fluff, a hint of angst tbh, royalty au 

Note: Finally, my last holiday gift is for the lovely @emeraldwaves​ <3 This is my first time writing kacchako and idk how I did, but I wanted to attempt it for you bruh LOL You’re such an amazing friend and I’m so happy we met. I hope you like this! ILU. 

AO3

Bakugou was the kingdom's strongest alpha, no fucking doubt about it. He could best any obstacle, could beat any opponent into the dirt. All his teachers had boasted about him, and rightfully so, saying he was destined to be a palace guard. Protecting royalty, securing wealth and stability for his family, there was no downside to it.

So from the young age of eight, he'd lived, eaten, and breathed the palace air. He'd trained with the kingdom's most promising alphas, and remained at the top of the class all the way up until he came of age.

Yeah, Bakugou had stopped assassination plots, could break another alpha's limbs with one twist of his own arm, but this, this was by far the most stressful thing he’d had to go through. And it was a trial which happened once a week, like clockwork, and he couldn't escape it.

He had to protect his future queen.

"Katsuki, are you mad at me?"

Bakugou's head shot up from where he'd been glaring a hole into the floor, his searing red gaze finding Uraraka's face in an instant. He hated that sometimes, how he always seemed to naturally fixate on her, though the anger had grown from explosive to simmering in the past few years. He wondered sometimes if it was completely gone altogether, but like hell would he let himself admit that.

She was looking at him with wide eyes, bright and innocent, and a little something he chose not to point out. Bakugou never knew how to handle Uraraka when she looked so damn sad. Couldn't she just bottle it all away? Be better with her emotions? It was annoying, for her to sit there all dolled up and have the nerve to look sad.

If she could just be the peppy princess she was supposed to be, it would make this situation a lot easier.

"Huh? Why would I be?" He answered gruffly, doing his best not to shout as he kicked his fancy dress shoe against the wall. He hated those things, hated the dinner parties where he had to wear them. This whole thing was useless. "It's not all about you!"

Except it was.

Bakugou stared at her, took in the frilly pink ball gown which just barely passed her knees. She was probably cold, since she hardly wore anything that didn't include pants or leggings. Her skin shone from the sparkling oils she'd been washed with, and the silver crystals sown into her dress acted like spotlights. They brought out everything about her, from the dips of her collarbones to the blush on her cheeks. Bright, shining, regal.

A princess.

The only thing that gave her away as being anything less than a perfect mate, was the mark on her neck. It was covered by foundation now, the royal dressers had certainly see to that shit. But Bakugou knew it was there, could trace the unseen lines from memory alone. An old bond mark.

What was the fucking use in hiding it? Everyone knew. Everyone talked about it.

Bakugou knew first hand people talked about it, because it was usually him that punched anyone who so much as mentioned it. His hand still stung from when he'd done so the other day, but it was a dull, satisfactory pain.

Bastards. They can all just shut up.

Uraraka hummed, choosing not to say anything. Pisses me off.

Uraraka always fought back. From the time they were kids playing around the palace and throwing rocks at each other, to now. Uraraka annoyingly refused to back down from one of Bakugou's screaming matches.

It was one of the things he...whatever. Didn't matter.

"Are you ready to go yet?" Bakugou asked, tearing his gaze away from the spot on her neck. It still got on his nerves to this day. Almost two years later. That same, possessive urge overcame him. The need to kill.

How dare some second rate, cowardly alpha claim his princess and run off.

"Not really," Uraraka sighed, plopping onto her bed and kicking her feet. They'd made her wear heels today, which he knew she despised. "What's the point? I'm just going to have to talk to a bunch of uninterested alphas. I'm tired of this..."

"Then tell your parents to knock it off," Bakugou muttered, messing with the various daggers on his belt. "Sick of this shit..."

Uraraka shot him that look, the one he hated. Like he was some stupid child and she was scolding him. "You know I can't do that Katsuki. My parents want me to find a mate and be happy. That's...all they want..."

Yeah, great. These so called 'matchmaking' balls were held weekly for the sole purpose of finding the princess, a beautiful omega, an alpha of good character and standing. The kingdom needed future rulers, future heirs to the thrown.

One would think it wouldn't be a hard problem to solve. What alpha didn't want to mate with a princess?

Finding an alpha to love her though, that was another issue. One they'd already failed at. The first alpha who had been considered suitable, ended up being a total fraud. Uraraka had been crushed, and she was left with a mark on her neck to remind her of the debacle. And it would be there until she found a new suitor, which was why they kept up with this mess.

Bakugou despised it.

Uraraka's legs stopped kicking as the heavy silence settled over them, and he could see how close she was to crying. He knew he should just leave and back down before he got in trouble with the chief of the guards for upsetting the princess.

But sometimes it was hard to remember he was supposed to separate his role as a guard, from his one as a childhood friend.

Friend. If he could even be called that. He never liked handing the term out, but it was the only one he had, and they'd been joined at the damn hip for so long...

Stupid. He should've never been a guard.

"Yeah because you seem pretty fuckin' happy doing this," he said with a grunt.

For some reason, he felt like he'd maybe walked into a trap, which only served to anger him more. Uraraka's eyes were still wet with unshed tears, but now she was grinning at him, jumping off the bed to saunter on over. The bells on her dress jingled obnoxiously, giving away the obvious skip in her step.

"I wouldn't have to do it if you'd stop being so stubborn Katsuki," she chided, her voice a sniffling sing song.

No. He didn't want to talk about this.

"I don't know what you mean brat," he growled. "Hurry up and finish your damn hair so we can go already."

But it was getting harder to actually mean any of his words, Uraraka was so close. Her scent had always had that irritating effect on him. It was weirdly intoxicating, like poison, but...obnoxiously sweet. The thing about Uraraka's scent was it was hardly a scent at all. Light, like the air she seemed to float through when she walked, settling easily on his senses. Subtle, like her silent, ballerina like footsteps through the halls.

He stepped forward against his will, and he could feel her breathe against his neck.

"Katsuki," she whispered, gripping his bicep. His muscles were tense, but he let them relax under her grip. "You don't have to be such a hard ass around me you know."

He growled, but didn't object.

They always went down this road, it always came back to the fact she--

"I only want to be with you, that's how it’s always been," Uraraka continued, her voice firm. "If you just asked my father--"

"No! That'll just ruin everything!"

"So you're fine just staying like this?" Uraraka gripped both his arms now, pleading, and he refused to meet her gaze. "Is this really better?"

Bakugou hated not having answers. He always had the right fucking answers. It wasn't like it wasn't uncommon, for non-royal alphas to prove their worth and ask to court noble omegas. But this was the princess, and it just hadn't been done in a long time.

Uraraka's father was a kind, thoughtful king, loved by many. He had also hand selected Bakugou to be Uraraka's personal bodyguard when they'd reached a certain age. After all, they'd been together all their lives. It was expected.

Bakugou didn't want to lose that honor, he didn't want to erase his own expectations for himself. But well, he hadn't expected to feel this way about the princess. Confusing, dangerous feelings, but they overpowered him all the same.

Bakugou glared at the floor, his own thoughts angering him. Uraraka was staring at him, her expression soft, her smile hesitant. She could read him well, he admitted that much. She matched him in strength, in confidence.

There was no better omega, and he deserved the best.

All at once, all their past arguments flashed in his mind, his instinct to mate with his princess. It was an instinct which had been there since his sixteenth birthday. He thought about his anger when Uraraka had selected another alpha, before she'd realized her own feelings. He remembered the rage he'd felt when that alpha had betrayed her.

And more than anything, he remembered how much he hated and dreaded every single ball, hated seeing and hearing alphas flirt with his omega.

He was Bakugou Katsuki. He didn't back down, he went after what he wanted no matter the stakes. Nothing and no one would prevent him from achieving whatever he set his mind to.

"You do want to be with me, don't you?" She asked, hammering the final nail into Bakugou's coffin. She'd never actually explicitly spoken about wanting to be together, it was always underlying, implied. Obvious. Now that the words were actually in the air though, Bakugou's walls had a chip in them, and it was all it took.

"Aren't you supposed to be smart? You should know," he said, a soft 'tch' falling from his lips as he let her fall against him. He inhaled her scent greedily, and he felt her do the same.

And if anyone asked, he certainly did not hug back, but in the dimness of the royal quarters, no one would suspect a thing anyways.

--

One thing Bakugou Katsuki did not do was kneel. So when he took the stance without much objection, Uraraka was more than a little shocked. She probably gasped aloud, which was also probably why Bakugou glared at her, but oh well.

The ball the previous night had yielded no results, as expected. Noble alphas were still as fake and conceited as always, and she wanted nothing to do with them. She never had. The first alpha she took was more out of family obligation than anything else, and she'd learned her lesson from that.

Bakugou Katsuki was and always had been her alpha. All they needed to do was make things official. Which was why they were currently in the throne room, pleading their case to her father.

Another thing she knew about Bakugou, was that he didn't particularly value the art of speech. Words were simple, minimal, only spoken when necessary. The guard was smart, exceptionally so, loud too, but sincere? Well yes, he could be, at least with Uraraka. But with words?

She didn't know.

Turns out Bakugou never failed to surprise her.

"I pledged to be the best royal guard in the kingdom, and I am," he began, his voice unusually calm. It tended to happen when Bakugou held a conviction so strong it couldn't be rivaled. "It's my job to look after the princess, and it always will be. I don't really care what anyone says about it, even you King. I'm just telling you. I'm not leavin' her, and I'll easily fight off any alpha who gets in my way."

Uraraka felt a pleasant shiver course through her, and for a moment, instinct took over. Her mind was clouded with thoughts of Bakugou holding her close, claiming her. It was all she'd been wanting.

But part of her quaked in fear when she glanced at her father, expecting to see anger or shock. After all, not many people would call what Bakugou had just said polite, or even respectful. Bakugou didn't yield to anyone, no matter how powerful.

He was number one, and he believed it whole heartedly. Uraraka smiled, because that meant deep down, he thought she was pretty damn special too. Whether or not anyone else saw that was another story...

However, instead of rage, her father looked...amused, relieved even. The smile on his face was soft, and he shook his head much in the same way he used to do when Uraraka played too rough with the other kids and got into trouble. Even Bakugou looked unsure of what to do with the reaction, watching like a hawk as the king rose from his throne.

"You're not exactly giving me room to argue Bakugou-kun," the king said, looking to the queen with barely concealed joy. "Not that I plan to. It's about time you two sorted everything out."

Uraraka rushed to Bakugou's side, both of them looking like they'd been thrown into a different dimension. Bakugou was glaring at the floor, probably pissed at himself for not being in on the joke.

Uraraka found her voice first, not letting herself believe that things could work out so perfectly all at once. "You mean...you...knew? And it's okay? We can be together?"

Bakugou's head shot up at the words, and he shuffled closer to Uraraka, ready to protect her against any onslaught.

But there was none. Her father just chuckled, sending her a scolding expression. "Did you really think we'd be so harsh Ochako? We want what you want. Whatever makes you happy," he said, and the tears were already forming in her eyes as he continued. "Plus, these balls are getting way too expensive."

Uraraka laughed, letting the tears spill from her eyes, and tackled Bakugou in front of the entire throne room, palace administrators and all.

He may have yelled at her to get off, but he held her tight, pulling her as close as possible.

Judging from the way the entire room let out a collective sigh, she was pretty sure this was long overdue.

--

A few months later, the day before her wedding, Uraraka lounged in Bakugou's arms, letting the summer breeze drift through the room. The old, hateful mark on her neck felt nearly invisible, and she closed her eyes, letting Bakugou's scent wash over her.

#bnha #kacchako #boku no hero academia #adri writing

[lgbtfalloutwinterholiday]

[fic] Deck The Halls (Hancock)

Happy Holidays!

Here’s @dragonie ‘s submission for @noneedforsuspicion featuring Hancock!

Characters: Hancock, Kent, KL-E-0, Dr Amari, Maccready, Daisy Summary: Written for the following prompt: “I would like someone's depiction of a winter holiday in Goodneighbor, featuring our favorite Mayor Hancock. No sole survivor necessary - I just wanna see the residents of Goodneighbor celebrating sometime during the winter.“ Work Count: 3,222 Rating: Safe For Work  

“There.”

   Gnarled hands meticulously placed the wreath into position, shifting it until it sat just so.

   “Nice.” Mayor Hancock gave a low whistle as he admired Kent’s work. “Pretty as a picture.”

   “You really think so?” Kent smiled bashfully down from the stepladder. “I know it’s not a patch on the ones we had before the war, but…”

   It meant a lot to him, Hancock knew. He’d seen him, these past few weeks, creaky fingers weaving scraggly wasteland conifer into rings, carefully handling tattered ribbons, baubles of bent and painted scrap, as if they were delicate treasures. His eyes shone, and that was a rare enough thing in these wastes. Lotta people drifted into Goodneighbor with hollow eyes, looking for Jet or booze or Irma’s pods or whatever took the edge off life for a time; was a breath of fresh air to see a man made so happy by a couple of twigs and some dolled-up hunks of metal.

   “‘Course. Really brightens up the old place.” He grinned, and looked Kent up and down, nice and slow. “Ain’t just talking about the leaves, either.”

   He could’ve sworn he saw a flush creep across Kent’s scarred cheeks as the ghoul carefully stepped down from the ladder.

   “You really think they’ll come?” he asked, and Hancock caught the uncertainty in his eyes, the worry conflicting with hope. “I mean, I know it won’t mean much to them, except maybe Daisy, but, y’know… I-I was just thinking…” He trailed off.

   “Sure they will,” Hancock reassured him, clapping a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Goodneighbor don’t usually pass up an excuse for a party.” He paused, and added: “Come to think of it, we don’t usually wait for an excuse in the first place. And you’re handin’ one out with a pretty little bow on it. It’ll be fine, Kent. You’ll see.”

   “Thanks, Hancock,” Kent flashed him a little smile. “It really means a lot to me.”

   “Anytime, love.” Hancock returned fire with his most charming grin (and that was pretty damn charming, if he did say so himself), and gave Kent a peck on his wrinkled cheek before drawing away. “Now, let’s get this party started, hey? Guests are gonna be here any minute, and I got a reputation to maintain as the best goddamn host in town.”

   ***

   Snow was falling in Boston, the Commonwealth caught in the grips of a nuclear winter. Hancock had to admit, it looked kinda pretty in the dim glow of the lights strung over the square, even if it did end up as a layer of radioactive slurry on the cracked cobblestones.

   Kent whistled happily as he busied himself with dinner, scurrying back and forth between pots at a makeshift cooking station in Hancock’s quarters. Hancock laid out a festive spread of Bobrov’s and Day Tripper - because this was a Goodneighbor party, after all - and couldn’t help but smile at how cheerful the man seemed, for once.

   Kent had always looked a little more down around this time of winter, Hancock had noted through the years, spent most of his days cooped up in Irma’s memory pods. He’d always been a little curious, and this year they had a good kinda thing going on, so he decided to ask Kent about it.

   Kent was hesitant to speak, at first; he always was, when it came to the things important to him, as if he half expected the listener to mock him for his thoughts. A little bit of patience got him to open up, though, and Hancock finally found out the reason behind Kent’s funk.

   He missed Christmases with his family, before the war, he said; the whole big Irish clan huddled around a table, eating something called a “ham” (presumably, thought Hancock, not the taciturn bouncer of the Third Rail), drinking brandy and putting gifts under a tree and generally having a hell of a time. It had been one of the highlights of the year, for him, right up there with the start of a new season of the Silver Shroud. But now the end of December just felt lonely, a reminded of all that he’d lost when the world got blown to shit. People in the Wasteland didn’t mark the old holidays so much; seemed like after the bombs, folks were too busy just struggling to survive to celebrate anything, so things got lost. Goodneighbor threw one hell of a New Year’s bash - at least, when there was anyone around sober enough to remember what the date was - but that was about the only Old World party they recognised. Wasteland had made its own since then, ‘course, but as far as Kent was concerned, it just wasn’t the same.

   So Hancock had had an idea. Goodneighbor was almost kinda like a family anyway - a big, dysfunctional family that always bogarted the Jet, but hell, he’d take it over his own asshole of a brother any day - so why not cheer Kent up with a little wintertime shindig of their own? Seemed to be working, too; Kent had been actually peppy these past few weeks, planning food, decorations, presents, with a kind of spring in his step that, on anyone else, would make Hancock think he’d been into the Day Tripper.

   Daisy was the first to arrive, bearing a parcel wrapped up in old copies of the Boston Bugle and tied with a frayed blue ribbon. As another pre-war ghoul, she was one of the oldest residents of Goodneighbor, and one of the few who had any more than a vague idea of what Christmas was. A Diamond City mainstay until his goddamn brother had kicked all the ghouls out, Daisy was an old friend. She had been the one who calmed him down and taught him what to expect when his own skin started peeling off and his hair falling out in clumps. He greeted her now with a broad grin and a quick hug around the shoulders.

   “Thanks for doing this, Hancock. Means a lot to Kent, I know.” A smile passed across her face as she stepped inside the Old State House, taking in all the decorations which Kent had so lovingly crafted. At pride of place in the old hall was a raggedy old pine tree, decorated with strings of lights and whatever shiny things Kent and Hancock could get their hands on - old, scavenged baubles and ornaments; bits of aluminium foil shredded into makeshift tinsel; even a handful of spit-polished caps hanging in the upper branches where no one (not naming any names) (MacCready) could pocket them. Atop the tree was a star long snapped off an old neon sign, some chain diner in the ruins around them. Daisy looked the tree up and down, a faraway gleam in her eye. “Huh. Haven’t had a Christmas since my husband passed, you know. Didn’t feel right, without him there, and then the war happened and no one felt much like celebrating. Takes me back, I gotta say.” She placed the present carefully under the tree, and gave Hancock a wry look. “You’re a regular old Saint Nick, Hancock.”

   “Heh,” Hancock chuckled as he pried the cap off of a Gwinnett Pale with the buckle of his boot. “Probably the first time anyone called me a saint.”

   A cheerful cry of “Hancock, you old bastard, where’s the booze already!” erupted from the door, and Daisy laughed.

   “Well, Mayor,” she waved him off with a smile. “Your adoring public awaits. I’ll see if Kent needs a hand with anything. You go press the flesh, or whatever it is you politicians do.”

   “Get stinkin’ drunk, mostly.” Hancock waggled what was left of his eyebrows before heading to the door to greet the family.

   ***

   The party was just getting into a good little swing - helped in no small amount by Fred Allen’s liberal stocks of “party favours” - when Kent gave a hesitant rap on the door jamb. Barely audible above the chatter, but Hancock noticed anyway, and waved him over.

   “Erm…” Kent looked uncertainly at the increasingly rowdy crowd, and cleared his throat. “Dinner’s all ready, everyone! So, ah… come with me and, well, eat up!”

   The hubbub did not even waver. Hancock saw Kent’s shoulders sag; he looked dispirited, and worse, unsurprised. No, this would not do at all. He took a gun from the hands of an on-duty Neighbourhood Watcher, climbed a few steps up the spiral staircase, and fired off a short burst into the brickwork. The talking cut short, and all eyes fell upon him, though among them, only Kent actually looked shocked. He didn’t go to enough of the parties, Hancock thought; poor guy didn’t know the Goodneighbor way of getting a room’s attention.

   “All right,” he tossed the gun back to the guardsman, who caught it after some fumbling. “Listen up, you lot. Kent here’s cooked us all a great fucking dinner, so we’re gonna eat like kings tonight, ya hear? Follow me!” He was met by a round of cheers and laughter (and one smartass comment from MacCready about “home-cooking from Hancock’s hubby”) as he led the people up the staircase.

   Kent slipped through the crowd of merrymakers to Hancock’s side. On some sudden, sappy impulse, Hancock took the man’s hand in his own. Kent started at first at the sudden, public contact, but smiled and did not pull away.

   “They really respect you, huh?” Kent sounded almost wistful in this.

   Hancock shrugged.

   “They’re good folks. Just gotta know how to talk to ‘em.”

   Hancock’s nose may have fallen off a few years back, but he still had a sense of smell. Normally, in Goodneighbor, this was not an asset. Tonight, however, he was goddamn thankful, because there were some delicious fucking scents wafting from his living room. Kent detached from him to straighten up the plates, looking bashful - not that he had any reason to be. Hancock knew the man liked to cook, when he could muster up the enthusiasm for it, but damn if he hadn’t outdone himself tonight. Each plate held steaming slices of roast Brahmin, heaped with generous dollops of some complex but delicious sauce Kent had been experimenting with the past few weeks (Hancock, of course, has been all too eager to volunteer as a taste-tester). Beside the meat was a serve of roasted carrots and tatoes and a buttered cob of corn. In the middle of the table was a stack of bowls and a tureen of rich tato soup, and two neatly-arranged rows of Gwinnett and Nuka. All in all, it was the kind of spread that would have Wellingham back in Diamond City twitching his multipurpose appendages in envy.

   The Goodneighbor lot fell on the meal like a yao guai on a juicy radstag, giving Kent a few words of thanks and appreciative back-pats on their way. He honestly deserved more, in Hancock’s admittedly biased opinion, but his eyes shone nonetheless at the sight of everyone gathered here, on this important day for him, happily eating his food. This might be what he missed most, Hancock reckoned; Kent didn’t mingle with the others nearly enough, and he’d always thought he must be kinda lonely, manning that radio station the whole day. It was what prompted Hancock to reach out to him in the first place - “a mother hen,” Daisy once called him with a laugh, ‘cause he didn’t like to see people looking down - and that, he reckoned, had been one of the better decisions of his life.

   They laughed and chatted as they feasted. (Well, most of them did, at any rate. “Oh, yes, KL-E-0, please eat with us, with your fleshy human mouth!” grumbled the dulcet tones of an Assaultron.) The plates were nearly empty and the tureen nearly drained when Kent stood up at the head of the table, a big smile on his crinkled face.

   “I’d-I’d just like to say,” he began meekly. “That it really means a lot to me that-”

   Once again, though, the gathered crowd was so absorbed in their conversations and their jokes (and one very intense game of dice that appeared to be going on in the far corner) that few faces even turned to heed him. Kent opened his mouth, once, and then sat down, looking rather disappointed. Before Hancock could call them to attention again, though, Daisy scowled and slammed her bottle of beer down hard on the table, causing a clatter of cutlery (along with a spray of suds over an unfortunate ghoul in a yellow trenchcoat, whose name Hancock had never quite caught).

   “Hey, Kent’s trying to thank you all, here!” Daisy admonished the gathered crowd. “He’s gone to a lot of trouble for this; least you could do is hear the man out.”

   There were a few mutters, at this; MacCready, at least, had the grace to look a bit guilty.

   “Thanks, Daisy,” Kent said uneasily. “But it’s okay, really, I don’t need-”

   “Just ‘aving a good time here, Dais,” Charlie swivelled one eyestalk away from his dice game. “No bloody call to be rude about it.”

   “I don’t know, Charlie,” Magnolia turned from her conversation with Ham. “I think we should listen to the man. He’s been such a dear.” She fixed Kent with a stunning smile, which he returned gratefully.

   “If it’s about the Silver Shroud,” Fahrenheit snorted as she showed KL-E-0 her new gun. “I’ve heard it already.”

   “Hey, Fahrenheit.” Hancock’s voice was uncharacteristically stern as he addressed his bodyguard. “Don’t be like that.”

   “No, no,” Kent looked as if he wanted to slip between the floorboards and disappear. “It’s really- you don’t need to-”

   “Sorry we’re late, sweeties!” A familiar voice cut through what might have been a brewing argument as Irma swept through the doorway, resplendently dressed as usual. Amari followed her close behind, carefully carrying a large tray of pitchers.

   “What you got there, Doc?” MacCready eyed the milky-looking drinks with interest.

   “Eggnog.” The good doctor set the tray down carefully on the table. “A traditional Christmas beverage, or so it seems. With Mr. Connolly’s help, we have tried to match the recipe as closely as possible to that in his memories.”

   “Sorry we couldn’t get it exact, sugar,” Irma shrugged off her fluffy winter coat with an apologetic glance at Kent. “I’m sure Deathclaw eggs will do just as well for taste, though, and go an awful lot further besides.”

   “And why,” Bobbi leaned back in her chair and tapped her cigarette without bothering to find an ashtray, the ashes falling to the ancient carpet to mingle with all the other stains. “Do we want to slurp down the contents of a Deathclaw nest?”

   “Because,” Amari replied shortly. “It’s got a medically inadvisable amount of brandy in it.” This was met with approving nods and whistles from the Goodneighbor crowd.

   “Thank you, Dr. Amari, Irma,” Kent nodded to the pair, smiling with watery eyes. “You’re always so good to me.”

   “All right, everybody!” Hancock hoisted a glass in one hand, a pitcher in the other. “These two lovely ladies are being so kind as to bring the booze, so everyone better grab a glass and drink the hell up!”

   The cheers from this announcement echoed through the Old State House as the people moved as one towards the prospect of a free alcoholic beverage.

   ***

   The booze (and chems) flowed freely as the night wore on, and soon all were merry, or at least as merry as programming and personality allowed. Magnolia led the crowd in all the carols Daisy and Kent could remember, and when those ran out, they switched smoothly to some popular pre-war hits, the more risque the better. Kent, emboldened by drink or excitement or both, clinked a spoon against a glass for attention.

   “I just wanna say,” he began, his smile broad, his face flushed. “It really means a lot to me that you all came here tonight-”

   “Aw, don’t mention it, Kent, you big sap,” MacCready grinned, Bobrov’s Best spilling from his shotglass as he swayed unsteadily. A few whoops and whistles erupted from the inebriated townsfolk.

   “It’s true, though.” Kent’s eyes looked a little dewy. “Having everyone gathered here today, sharing this with me, really… really takes me back. It’s been so long since- oh, god…”

   He broke off as the tears pooled in his eyes and dripped down his craggy face, eliciting scattered clapping, several cheers, and one derisive snort (probably Bobbi) from the peanut gallery. Hancock wrapped an arm around the man’s shoulders and gave him a comforting squeeze as Irma produced a lacy handkerchief from somewhere deep in the voluminous sleeves in her dress. Kent wiped his eyes dry and blew his nosehole to a soothing litany of “There, there”s before handing it back to her with an apologetic look.

   “Sorry about that.” His face brightened up, and he clapped his hands together. “Now, how about we exchange some presents? It’s not really Christmas until there’s wrapping paper all over the floor.”

   “You heard the man,” Hancock called to the crowd. “Get your asses down to the tree!”

   Like anything else in Goodneighbor, there was no order to the gift-giving. Some people had brought presents for all their friends, some only for one person, and some had not bothered at all. Fahrenheit gave KL-E-0 a hug and a peck on the metal cheek as she unwrapped a shiny new tri-barrel minigun mod for Ashmaker. MacCready sobbed drunkenly into Daisy’s shoulder as he clutched a patched-up toy robot for Duncan. Irma smiled knowingly as Amari gasped at the sight of her very own neuroisotropic cerebrospatulator.

   “I know it’s not much, but-” Kent pressed a parcel into Hancock’s hands. The paper was crinkled and the bow was crooked but damn if it didn’t look beautiful. What was inside wasn’t too shabby either; an intact bottle of a damn fine single malt, one that would’ve cost a pretty penny even before the bombs blew the distilleries to hell.

   “It’s perfect, love,” he grinned. “Here, I got you something too.”

   “Oh, but you’ve already-” Kent’s protest was cut short as Hancock proffered his present with a flourish. Kent unwrapped it, and was rendered speechless by its contents - a collection of comics featuring the Silver Shroud, many of which had been missing from Kent’s own collection.

   “Paid some mercs to go combing the ruins,” Hancock said. “Ain’t all of them, but this is what they came up with.”

   Kent looked up.

   “I- Thank you, Hancock. Thank you so much, for everything. I really can’t ever repay you.”

   Hancock hooked an arm around Kent’s shoulder.

   “Hell, Kent, you just keep bein’ you, and that’s enough for me. Hey, everyone!” He snatched a half-empty bottle of rum from a counter and lifted it up, calling out to his gathered friends. “To Kent!”

   “To Kent!” Goodneighbor cheered back, and held up their own bottles and glasses and Jet inhalers, and the hall was once more filled with noise and laughter. Hancock turned to look at Kent, and found that Kent was already looking at him.

   “Thank you, Hancock,” Kent’s voice was soft and full of emotion. He leaned in, and pressed his lips to Hancock’s, and the party continued long into the night.

#dragonie #noneedforsuspicion #john hancock #fallout #fallout 4 #kent connolly #submission #fanfiction

[phrynemegido]

List of shit I have thought or said

* (After making chili and cheese in a Tupperware container) Dis some ghetto shit if I've ever seen it.

* FUCK I HAVE CANDLES BURNING

* Can't I have one day without this complete bullshit?

* It pisses off straight white guys, of course I love it

* Look we're both chronic disasters whose huge dumb bitch energy is rivaled only by that of sitcom characters

* I am sick 24/7 anyways, I might as well be sick with pancakes.

* You have a deep seeded resentment for a little black cat

* I can't believe you have a rivalry with my cat

* You're so cute, you're so cute when you're not being evil.

* Do not challenge a theater bitch to karaoke

* HOLY FUCK I JUST MADE BREAD PERFECTLY ON MY FIRST TRY!!!!!!!! IM NOW GIVING OFF EVEN MORE CHAOTIC NATURE GODDESS VIBES!!

* SOMEONE NEEDS TO CONFISCATE MY YEAST I CANT STOP MAKING BREAD!!! Dear god I've made four loaves in the past week alone!

* Endeavors flaming tiddies are always funny

* I'm a genius gen z with no motivation nor desire to submit to a capitalist government system.

* I am barely functioning today, please don't ask me to do anything that is not immediately crucial to anything.

* ITS A SODA NOT SEX!!! Chill!!

* He's a snarky, sarcastic asshole, of course he's my favorite character.

* I swear to Persephone if I need to screw on one more fake ass smile for all these rude ass people I'm gonna fucking murder everyone in this building with a goddamned pencil.

* You godless travesty

* Don't fucking try me you leprechaun looking piece of ass cancer.

* *moms judging my cooking* OK YA KNOW WHAT?!?! EITHER MAKE IT YOURSELF NEXT TIME OR STOP CRITICIZING!!!!

* Oh please! You're so judgy I've heard people accidentally call you "Your Honor."

* IT SAYS DEATH IS IN THE NEAR FUTURE!!!! HOW MANY FUCKIN WAYS CAN THAT BE INTERPRETED?!?!?!

* (Wrapped in a blanket burrito) I am no longer a shambling human, I am a beautiful chrysalis, eagerly awaiting the day I emerge as a stunningly beautiful lunar moth.

* Nah bro lunar moths are different from regular moths.

* Because he's fucking David, Trisha! This is exactly the type of shit he'd do!

* The reason I never fall for your pranks is because one, you are a king of pranks and japery, but I'm the goddamned Empress. Two because I don't trust a single fucking thing you say, I love you, but I don't trust you, and for good reason. You're a little shit.

* What the fuck is wrong with you? Like clinically, what's the medical term for whatever the hell is wrong with you on a psychological level.

* It's my first time drinking, so I'm just gonna go easy. (Two Busch Lights and half a Palm Breeze later) Honestly i cannot tell a difference except I'm a bit more peppy, like this is what I would be like if I didn't have anxiety. I could do another beer, I could, but I won't.

* Wait they couldn't finish a whole beer their first times? HOLY SHIT IM BEATING THEM AT SOMETHING!!

* did hE SHIT ON THE FLOOR AGAIN?!?!?!

* It has been a long fucking time since something other than my life made me cry actual tears, but this shit did it. An anime named fucking Banana Fish made me weep. It such a stupid fucking name, but I'll be damned if it is not fucking me up. I should not be watching something that emotionally compromises me like this when I'm seeing my therapist today.

* Ahh yes, the great shitstorm of August 2019.

* Thou shalt shut the fuck up while I am writing gay fanfiction.

* Oh genetics, why hast thou screwed me over so fucking royally?

* I am never having kids.

* I just hope I'm drunk by the time it's my turn

* Well the only other option is to get drunk alone in my room

* Back when I was a tiny little b cup....

* that does not look like a penis

* I didn't think you'd actually put the lotion on your tongue!

* I have no fucking secrets, ask me anything.

* Tell me your deepest secret about covens. I'm a solitary practitioner, I don't know shit about covens.

* Wellllll that's part of your search history now.

* Why are you screaming? I'm the one over $11,000 in hospital debt with type one diabetes and no insurance, if anyone should be screaming here it's me.

* IM BI, HIGH, AND READY TO DIE!!!!

* That's a good plan, but we can't just pee and eat chocolate all night.

* "Why can't you detect sarcasm?" It's called brain damage from over ten years of untreated anxiety and depression Deborah.

* Well don't put your tits in her face and you won't have lipstick on your brand new sweater. It's your own damn fault.

* In all fairness, spite is hella powerful motivation.

* (Said through a mouthful of Cinnamon Toast Crunch I was eating right from the bag for dinner) Let me eat like the teenage disaster gremlin I am.

* Well I guess I'm an anarchist now.