#ash grey trousers

[lovefrenchisbetter]

Fursac Ash Grey Trousers

#fursac #de fursac #trousers #ash grey trousers #gauthier borsarello #parisian style #parisian vibe #parisian homme #essential homme

[dhampling]

the kitchen 18+ gn!reader x potwasher!astarion au, 2k

He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes. - based on a discussion with @bhaalism. he's a potwasher. you want to fuck the potwasher. this started as a joke and now i'm obsessed. enjoy. cw: 18+, astarion is a potwasher, this is an au, you work in a shitty chain restaurant, sex, reader smokes, astarion vapes, creampies, oh no, gn reader i think

Before he’d caught you short of smokes, you’d never paid him much mind. 

Hair back in some messy swoop - grey, although you could swear under the fluorescent light of the kitchens it shone a bright white. Some age to his almost-crimson eyes but nothing too notable. 

Your pockets empty, patting down a food-encrusted apron in a tired resignatory furor - and he’d offered his vape silently under the back-door shelter. Minty. The familiar clouds in the walk-in, the occasional lingering menthol smell from his station. Your smoke breaks rarely align but this evening the stars shone between the fuzzy gaps in soaking clouds overhead and they gave you something new. Nicotine, chewed mouthpiece. 

There’d been a small exchange at the doorway following his outreach. 

He watched you with an inquisitive head tilt, eyes sharp with a dark smudge of lash - as if he were seeing you for the first time in this haze of heavy rain. Looked out to the bins with a deep breath and snorted at the overflow.

Astarion. Pot-wash extraordinaire, announced with a churlish eye-roll and some quiet clack of his tongue in your direction. He’d never so much as looked at you prior that you’d noticed, but now his gaze was locked on your inhale as if to watch the clear liquid leave the tank in real time. Lids flickering up to etch your side profile somewhere in the silver span of his mind. Another name to know. Another person to potentially cover his Sunday lates if he can get through to you, though.  

The name sounded far too beautiful, too distinct; but the pallor suggested local blood in those thick bluish veins. No freckles nor warmth in his ridiculously high cheeks, just the breeze of an oft-downturned nose and a passing fondness for the half-full bottles of red left by your tables, chugged (naturally) in a messy snorting huff over the running sink. Dribbles of dry red down that statuesque marble chin and a cack handed holler from the weekend porter - who would just as quickly be walloped over the head with the neat strike of a folded tea-towel.

His sniff at your thanks, the brief noncommittal nod before he tucked the vape back into his trouser pocket and dived back inside.

Camaraderie. That’s it.

-

It’s a week later when you both find yourselves outside again, falling through the back door out into another dark downpour to find him huddled to your left; drowning in an oversized outdoorsy coat with vape in hand. 

He catches your eye once more with a small smile

“Astarion, right?”

“Well remembered.”

You fish in your jacket pocket and pull out a disposable vape box, handing it over with a hurried smile.

“For the other night.”

“Could’ve just got the juice, you know.”

He hesitates on taking it, holding your stare. 

“I know. This was easier though. I’m not going to a vape store.” You grin and he snorts, taking the box from your hand.

“Well. Thank you. Most unexpected.”

You stand in amenable silence for a few moments, lighting your poison whilst he puffs away into the night. 

“How long have you been here, then?” You ask, flicking the ash into the wet and folding your arms.

“Too long. Far too long. You?”

“I’d say the same, but we haven’t really crossed paths before; have we?”

“Shame.”

He bristles as he says it. Some easy poke at wooing, you think. 

You could be swayed.

He is pretty. Really pretty. With those looks you’re almost surprised he’s not the rake of the joint, but your co-workers seem ridiculously oblivious to him - and he isn’t too endeared with them either, from what you can tell. He‘s not the sort to linger among the rabble of the kitchen at the end of the evenings, nor is he one of the roaring personalities that carry all the way through to the bar counter in their jovial roaring. The fact you were barely aware of his existence prior to now speaks volumes.

“What do you do when you’re not here, then?”

He looks back at you in a guarded ponder, eyes narrow.

“I spend the odd day off on my yacht, obviously; but only when my sprawling country mansion is undergoing renovations.”

You offer a laugh and he smirks. The humour is poor but salient.

“Ah! We might be neighbours, you know.”

“The mansion?”

“No, the dock. My weeknight yacht was newly refurbished there!”

“Oh, what luck!”

“We’ll have to host a dinner party or something. It’s only proper.”

Astarion gives you a laugh you’ve never heard before - loud and airy, almost comical if it weren’t for the sincere rumble toward the end.

“Dinner party! Oh yes. Absolutely. With little vol-au-vents and hors d’ouvres.”

“A must have.”

“I agree, darling. It’s a date.”

As he puts his vape back in his pocket and bids you farewell with a small wave of those pale hands, you lean back on the closed door with an uncharacteristic light-headedness.

-

Darling.

You’re given too much time to stew on it, the slight exuberant lilt of his voice. The roundness of his eyes as he spoke with you in jest. The fact he didn’t smell like kitchen grease but instead some warm note of vetiver and menthol. The fact you even noticed how he smelled.

As a new evening rounds off you find yourself with little else to do but search for him behind the service window, and you’re quietly delighted by what you find.

The smattering of white-shock curls - back arched as he leans over the empty prep station, ass high in a light nonchalant sway as your fellow servers dash to visit the kitchen in search of dead plates to devour. The quirk of a brow as the head chef gives freely to those who ask, whittling down a single stale fry with small bites as he observes.

You hadn’t expected things to change after your encounter, and to that point, they definitely haven’t.

You’re just more aware of him now. 

When he catches you watching almost immediately from afar, you offer him a small grin whilst he shifts to wholly capture your gaze. A challenge. The corner of his mouth lifts as he moves to hold your stare, calm and cool; with that fox-like tilt of his head to the side. 

You could picture it. 

The linger after lock-up, satchel on his shoulder as he catches you waiting for him. 

The slight moment of bewilderment before it becomes easy banter - even though restrained - once more. A quip on his part, maybe; some query as to what you’re waiting for as he hangs onto your every word in focused anticipation.

Maybe a drink at the bar down the road - but more likely in your mind a stop at the nearest off-licence to pick up a bottle or two of that wine he likes, as you dance around each other in a waiting quiet, bristling. Fluorescent corner-store lights giving his hair that unnatural sheen while he prowls the aisles and heads to the till, head turned back to see you waiting; eyes on him at the door. He’s heavy lidded the whole walk to his, hands kept to themselves for the walk up the stairs. The rattle of keys in the lock.

You reckon his flat - it has to be a flat, he couldn’t keep a whole house on your wage - is littered with burnt incense sticks and plush rugs and cushions in every jewel tone you can possibly imagine yet it feels so very him. He ushers you through to the living room and the awkward dance begins with the sofa, but he keeps you at ease. Collects wine glasses from the kitchen and pours with a flourish before settling back onto the seat and encouraging you with some typically witty output to do the same. 

Candles. You didn’t see him lighting them, but they’re lit. The air is heavy with orange flower, patchouli; musk - vetiver and menthol as he exhales, insisting you’re okay to smoke if you like, but passing you his vape wordlessly as you reach for it. Fingers brushing as you do. You talk for a small while, but you both know why you’re here.

His eyes move to the open buttons of your chest as he deftly wets his bottom lip, and you take it as your chance to place your glass on the side table and ask if you’re okay to shed the shirt completely. It’s far too warm in there. 

The candles, obviously. That’s why.

His coy nod, the languid blink as he watches your fingers dance your shirt open and pry the black shirt from your chest. Your deep exhale as you settle back into the sofa, lying slightly back with your legs angled toward him; glass back in hand.

His breath hitches. You notice it. He’s practically purring.

When he sets his glass aside in a pretence of pouring more wine, you reach for his arm to halt him from filling yours - now empty - and like a tense spring, he snaps. 

Time slows as he reaches for your wrist and tilts his head once more, your enthusiastic nod giving him the permission he seeks; and brings your hand quickly down the solid span of his torso to the achingly hard bulge of his cock, letting your palm rest over the top of his trousers. 

Wet. Fuck.  

His slow-primal groan as you gently stroke at the sodden patch of precum, cupping to warm him through his clothes whilst he bucks lightly toward you. Towards the pressure, the warmth you can provide.

From then, you can feel yourself growing sticky. Shuffling as you race to disrobe. You picture the stony length of his cock freed from those awful work trousers and glistening something bulbous and glassy in the low light, your own fevered want reaching its peak as you bare yourself and he pulls you into a kneeling hover over him.

To feel the soft velvet of his tip brushing your arousal. There’s no need for foreplay. No need for any preparation of the sort, you’re both craving the relief. He offers his hand to catch a pool of your spit and lubricates his length in long, steady jerks. 

Even they can’t mask the shudder of his breath. The fluttering of those smoky lashes as he rubs himself onto your waiting hole, watching; allowing a slip inside every few moments and waiting for your eager gasp each and every time.

Then, you sink onto him - and it’s bliss. Complete and utter bliss. You’ve never felt so full nor so weak in your whole entire life and for a moment you’re worried he’s ruined you. His heady moans of pleasure as you adjust around him. The space where you meet, where he impales you; runs soaking with arousal and sweat. 

You move to ride him like your life depends on it. You’re his sweet little thing, his angel; and you are being so very good for him as you take his cock. His palms remain glued to the fat of your ass whilst his cool fingers dig deep into the ripe flesh and he bounces you up and down on his forearms with some remarkable strength.

His. 

His, his; his. His beautiful thing. He’s perfect under you, with his pathetic desperate whimpers and the face of a wanton adonis; sturdy shoulders your anchor, for fear you’ll simply float away with sheer unbridled pleasure.

When he cums, he makes a point to do it inside you. Holds your thighs down so you can’t hop off nor be tempted to ride him through his peak; so you can feel him twitch and pulse inside you, ropes and ropes of his thick, hot spend painting your insides. His.

He’s called back to finish the last few pots on the side, and you silently rejoice in your sticky save as he winks goodbye through the bar window; eyes lingering on his ass as he walks slowly back to the service sink.

Fuck.

#my writing #au #alternate universe #astarion bg3 #astarion #astarion x reader #astarion ancunin #bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion baldurs gate #astarion x you #astarion x gn reader

[hesbuckcompton-baby]

I'm Your Man - Robert 'Rosie' Rosenthal x OFC - Chapter 5

Masterlist | Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 |-| Chapter 6 | Chapter 7 | Chapter 8 | Chapter 9 | Chapter 10 | Chapter 11 | Chapter 12

AO3

Summary: Egan's first mission since Cleven's disappearance proves disastrous, leaving Frankie to clean up the damage he left behind

Warnings: Language, vomit, this one's angsty guys

Word Count: 4k

Tags: @mads-weasley @xxluckystrike @curaheehee @footprintsinthesxnd @dcyllom @storysimp @latibvles @love-studying58

The smell of cigarette smoke stung Bucky's nose, his warm breath fogging up the inside of the cockpit windows as he stared aimlessly at the early morning sky, dull grey gradually giving way to a vivid blue as the sun crept above the horizon. He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there, glaring at nothing, but this certainly wasn't his first cigarette, a pair of burnt-out butts on the floor by his feet a testament to this. It could have been sadness or anger that had driven him up here, but when the two combined it felt awfully more like numbness than anything else.

A sudden hammering against the glass broke his train of thought, dropping his cigarette in surprise as if left a small scorch mark on the inside of his trousers. Turning to his left, expression contorted in shock, he came face to face with Frankie, her furrowed brow only inches from the window after somehow managing to clamber up onto the wing without him noticing.

"What the- get down!" Egan cried, stomping out his cigarette before it could become a fire hazard.

"If that cockpit's full of cigarette butts now, I'm gonna beat your ass," She warned, her voice slightly muffled by the glass.

"...No," He shook his head, attempting to covertly use his uniform cap as a makeshift dustpan to clean up his mess, but when he looked back up at Frankie her eyes had narrowed at him. "What do you want?"

"Colonel Harding's looking for you. Personally, I just didn't want to deal with the smell after you drink and smoke yourself to death in here. I'd much rather you do it somewhere else, please."

A flicker of a smile crossed Egan's face, perhaps the first he could remember since he'd heard the news about Cleven. Half-empty flask tucked in his pocket, a hat full of ashes in his hand, he clambered out of the pilot's seat, weaving his way through the plane's interior to drop down out of the door. Frankie was waiting on the tarmac for him as his feet touched the ground, peering discerningly up at him. She swiped the flask from his pocket and took a swig for herself, giving a shrug of almost-approval at his choice of drink as she handed it back.

"I'm not gonna ask if you're ok," She frowned, yanking the cap from his hand and upturning its contents.

"Good," Bucky nodded, slinging an arm around her shoulder as they wandered back towards the jeep she had come in. "Weather report?"

Frankie glared up at him. He knew she objected to his participating in the next mission - it was only a matter of time before she actually tried to argue about it. Really, it was more a question of whether she was going to fight him, or try and take on the general. "Clearing up. D'you need me to drive you back?"

"If it was anyone else I might have said yes, but you... you're really bad at driving," Evidently she had anticipated this response, for her bike was already sticking out of the trunk, waiting for her to surrender the vehicle to him.

"Alright, one sec," Frankie gestured for him to turn and face her, surveying his appearance like she was a mother about to send her son off to the school dance. Reaching up, she tugged his tie straight, brushing a few flakes of ash from his jacket with the back of her hand. "Open," She demanded, and he opened his mouth without question, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Taking a whiff of the alcohol on his breath, Frankie frowned, and Egan found himself unable to utter a word before she shoved a couple of breath mints into his mouth with such force he almost choked.

"Gee, thanks," He spluttered, coughing. "Might choke to death, but at least I'm not gonna smell."

"I can't do everything," She shrugged, stepping away to grab her bike out of the jeep.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," Bucky drawled sarcastically, clearing his throat one last time as he slid into the driver's seat, the engine starting with a roar as he watched Frankie begin to cycle away in the rearview mirror.

It was barely beginning to rain, spots of cold water striking Frankie's face as she pedalled relentlessly, taking it at a somewhat leisurely pace for once, too distracted to sprint the way she usually would. They were running a mission today. They had run one yesterday. They had run one the day before. She was losing track of the last time she'd slept more than a couple of hours in a night, the constant missions meaning tougher, tighter deadlines for all her work. The fixes needed to be completed twice as fast, and it was becoming physically impossible to keep all the buses air-worthy as needed.

Lemmons and the others were already on site and working away as she arrived, a fact that lessened her anxiety ever-so-slightly. In the months since they'd arrived, her begrudging acceptance of the American mechanics had grown more and more willing - they'd proved their worth, their dedication, and she couldn't ask more than that.

"How many can fly today?" She called, abandoning her bike in the grass as she jogged over to the hardstand where Ken was working away.

"Still only seventeen," He sighed. "A couple need fixes to the return lines, but we just don't have time for any big repairs."

"I know," Frankie nodded grimly. "Daily missions are a nightmare, just pull through with what you can, they can't blame us for any of this."

His expression was tense, tainted with guilt. She could tell he was thinking of Cleven again. "Hey," Frankie urged, pressing a reassuring hand to his shoulder. "None of this is our fault." Lemmons nodded after a moment's pause, tilting his head to let his chin rest upon the spot where her hand gripped his shoulder.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

By the time the flight crews began rolling in in their jeeps, Frankie had grown so irritable that she swore her teeth would shatter if her jaw clenched itself any harder. The constant frustration of never being able to carry out the repairs she wanted, the ever-present worry that burrowed into her stomach whenever the pilots left, and the anger she felt at Egan for going with them, were all colliding in an explosive combination. And her fellow mechanics seemed to feel it - even Ken was keeping his distance.

Bucky's car slowed to a halt behind her as she finished up, and she turned to glare at him, a look he was sure he'd never seen crease her face before. "Now, Frankie," He approached with a plastered-on grin, seizing her by the shoulders as he tried to alleviate her mood with his own false joyfulness. "Why is it that we're only flying seventeen buses this morning? I hope Lemmons over there hasn't been screwing with your excellent work."

He had touched a nerve. Unfortunately for Egan, this realisation came a split-second too late. Before he knew it, there was a spanner jammed under his chin, as if she held a knife to his throat, her expression only made harsher by the remark. "Maybe if some people didn't force themselves in where they aren't needed we wouldn't have to pull everything together in such a fucking hurry, eh?"

"Ok, Frank, tough morning, I get it," He nodded, releasing her shoulders and taking a full step back. But he wasn't going to pretend her statement about him being unneeded hadn't sparked his own anger. "But don't take that out on me, I'll pass your concern on to Harding, and we'll see what he can-"

"The only thing I want Harding to get is a smack up the fucking head for letting you fly."

"This is war, Frankie, you think I'm gonna sit out because of what happened? I've never wanted this more than I do now!"

Without fully realising, their voices had begun to rise, argument audible to the other ground and flight crews nearby as they attempted to awkwardly go about their business.

"We both know you're not fit to fly - oh, or does a breakfast of whisky and cigarettes pass the military standard these days? You're burning the candle at both ends and you won't talk to me about it because you're embarrassed by how obvious it's become, John!"

"You really wanna go there? How 'bout we talk about how you spend every fucking night up here working until you drop, and the only times you don't is when you're drinking yourself to the same effect? How many hours did you sleep last night - or the night before, huh? Two? Three? Don't stand there and fucking lecture me about 'burning the candle at both ends'-" He lifted his hands in quotation marks, mockingly mimicking her accent. "- when I'm just following your example!"

Frankie didn't speak for a moment, but as Bucky tried to walk past her, she swivelled on her heel, yelling at him with such force that it was a miracle the entire bomb squad didn't hear. "Why do I have to lose my friend just because you lost yours?!"

He stopped dead in his tracks, stone-cold expression cracking for a second. "Frankie-"

Raising a hand to silence him, she shook her head. "No- you know what? Just fuck off. Get in your death trap and fuck off. At least I'll have one less mess to clean up when you don't come back. I'm sure Cleven will be so proud that his legacy amounted to that."

Frankie could tell she'd hurt him. His glare didn't falter, but she saw the way he flinched when she mentioned Cleven. If she'd been in a more forgiving mood, she might have apologised on the spot - taken it all back, promised she wanted nothing more than for him to return safe and in one piece. But she was tired and she was angry, and apologising was the last thing on her agenda. Hot tears were welling in her eyes as she stomped off, the clanging weight of her toolbox accentuating every step as she officially declared whatever happened next as Not Her Problem.

'Royal Flush' was the next plane along the runway, close enough so that every shouted word of Egan and Frankie's exchange had carried on the wind, the flight crew exchanging embarrassed glances as they tried to ignore the conversation they had suddenly found themselves privy to. Rosie had been about to climb in, but the sudden shouts had given him pause, waiting by the hatch as he watched on with a furrowed brow. Her boots thumped hard against the tarmac as she marched up to them, tools weighing her down on one side.

"Everything looks good?" She demanded, stopping in front of the plane, her usually jovial tone gone.

He frowned, concern twisting his expression. "Everything is - yeah - are you ok?"

Frankie's lip jutted out for a moment, and Rosie grew suddenly worried that she was about to burst into tears. Taking a sharp, shaky inhale, she nodded firmly. "Everything's great."

He slammed the hatch shut, gesturing for her to step underneath the plane's belly so that they were out of both sight and earshot of the rest of Rosie's Riveters. She did so, putting her toolbox down at her feet so that she could wipe away the tears that were forming with the heels of her palms. "I'm really tired."

Rosie almost laughed, a huff escaping him as she confirmed every suspicion he'd harboured about her unorthodox work hours. Lifting a hand to her cheek, he brushed her hair away from where it had stuck to half-dried tears. "Oh, honey," He uttered before he'd had a chance to actually consider the words, the pair of them brushing past the term of endearment without a second thought, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. "He's gonna be fine. Egan'll come back in a couple hours, and you can both apologise to each other, and everything'll be fine."

She sniffed sharply, nodding, and he chuckled as she reached up to tug the zipper on his jacket all the way up past his collar, the sheepskin brushing against his chin. "Don't get... like... shot, or anything."

He grinned, nodding affirmatively. "Duly noted. Nice pep talk."

Frankie smiled then too, thumping him in the shoulder like she always did when he teased her. "I'm not kidding," She chuckled. "If every person I'm seen talking to before a flight fucking dies people will start thinking I'm bad luck."

Rosie raised a brow at this, flicking away another stray strand of hair that had gotten caught on her eyelash. "Well... of all the ways to go, I'll take your weird bad-luck-magic any day."

She sniffed again, her eyes still red from almost crying. "Thank you," She nodded earnestly.

"Alright. I'll see you later?"

"You hope," Frankie joked, smile flickering for a moment as she realised the remark may have been in bad taste, but he chuckled nonetheless, opening the hatch and climbing up into 'Royal Flush'. As his head popped up in the belly of the machine, Rosie noticed his co-pilot crouched on the floor beside him, eyeing him with a raised brow.

"... What?"

"Jesus Christ," Pappy muttered, pushing himself to his feet and worming his way through to the cockpit.

"Pappy, what?" Rosie insisted, close behind him. The man batted him away, and he threw up his hands in frustration, sliding into the pilot's seat.

"This thing ain't as sound-proof as you think it is, that's all I'm sayin'."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Frankie squinted in the midday sun as she lay in the grass beside the runway, the tall grass blowing in and out of her peripherals on the cool breeze. The wait was always agony - the uncertainty, the sense of powerlessness, the surety that some of the men who had left were never coming back. It seemed word of her public argument with Major Egan had travelled fast, for as soon as lunchtime rolled around, there was George. She never bothered to walk all the way to the airstrip from the command centre, but today she had made the hike, a paper bag full of cheese and cucumber sandwiches in tow.

Lemmons sat silently, cross-legged in the grass as he enjoyed his lunch. "Thanks for this, ma'am, it was real nice of you," He nodded appreciatively, making up for his and George's lack of familiarity with polite flattery.

"Yeah," Frankie agreed, speaking with a mouth full of cheese. "Much better than the shit coffee and stale crackers we keep in the hut."

George furrowed her brow, frowning questioningly over at Ken. "No refrigerator," He shrugged, offering no further explanation.

Frankie ate with one hand, a difficult task when lying down, half of the sandwich filling falling out onto her chest. But her other hand was draped across George's leg as she painted her nails a subtle shade of mauve, scolding her whenever she twitched. When she was stressed, she smoked too much, and George had long since realised that the best way to curb the bad habit was to distract her with food, or to ensure her hands were indisposed. On a particularly stressful afternoon such as this one, it seemed combined efforts were in order.

"... You don't think Bucky hates me now, do you?" Frankie asked quietly, her two companions frowning down at her.

"What are you, twelve?" George snorted, carefully finishing off the edges of her thumbnail. "He'll get over it. Grown-ups fight, dear."

"You're both having a hard time," Ken added. "He's just blowing off steam, I don't think he meant any of it."

"I meant what I said. When I said it, that is."

"Once you got drunk and told me you wanted to rip my eyes out because I was too pretty - I haven't held it against you," George shrugged. "You definitely meant that at the time."

"I'm easily frustrated."

"Yeah, no shit."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

George's watch ticked steadily past the time they had expected the planes to return. She didn't return to work - didn't leave Frankie's side - sitting beside her in the grass, a deathly silence hanging over them as she began to pick and chip away at her freshly dried nail polish.

"They should have been back by-"

"Shh." Frankie interrupted sharply, an utterly dreadful sense of foreboding hollowing out her gut. She didn't realise how thoroughly she'd picked at her hand until her finger came away bloody. Where were they?

The sound of an engine rattling above made their ears prick, gazes locked on the same spot on the great blue horizon as a single plane came into view.

Just one.

Before she even realised she was nauseous, Frankie had vomited the contents of her stomach onto the grass in front of her. If none of them had returned, it could have meant any number of things. She knew exactly what one plane meant. She didn't even watch it land, just stared down at the stinking puddle before her as it soaked into the dirt.

In her mind, she had a choice now. When the time came to head over, she had to decide on who she was praying would climb out.

Bucky or Rosie.

Even if it was neither, it couldn't be both.

But then a second rumble sounded, and before she'd had time to look up and track its movements, another plane was pulling in, its wings jagged and torn, engines sputtering as it slowly descended.

'Royal Flush'.

A terrible, ragged noise escaped Frankie's throat, something between a sob and a sigh of relief. Scrambling to her feet, George thrust her half-empty flask of lukewarm coffee into her hand, and she downed the whole thing, the bitterness mixing with the acidic tang in her mouth, masking the smell of sickness as best she could.

Rosie hadn't even had time to register her approach. No sooner had he slipped out of the hatch did he feel the sudden crush of another body against his, her arms thrown around his neck, her hand in his hair, holding him steady. Suddenly he was breathing again.

He wasn't sure he'd ever held anybody so tight, relishing the feeling of solid ground beneath his feet as he wrapped his arms around her back, hands pressed so firmly against her skin that he could feel her rapid heartbeat beneath it, a desperate tether to life. She was breathing in his ear, his curls waving back and forth with it, and without thinking he reached up to pluck a piece of grass away that had gotten stuck in her hair.

Her breath didn't come easy - he could hear the laboured way she pulled in each inhale, as if a weight were pressing on her chest, keeping her lungs empty. When she spoke it was barely a whisper.

"Egan?"

Rosie shook his head ever so slightly, the guilt of what he knew he had to say eating away at him. "I gotta wait until after interrogation, I can't-"

Suddenly Frankie pulled out of the embrace, hands clutching either side of his face, forcing him to look at her. Her hands were gentle in the way they pressed against his cheeks, but in that moment it felt like a vice grip. That warmth he had become so fond of was gone, her eyes merciless, and Rosie knew in that moment that if he didn't tell her now she would never forgive him.

"He went down Frankie, they all- ... They all went down."

A horrible, agonising sound tore free from her throat, half whimper, half choke, and immediately she was blinded by the tears that filled her eyes. His fingers found hers, ever so gently prying her palms away from his face so that he could hold her again, pressing his lips briefly to her sweat-soaked temple. If he could, he would have stayed there for hours, for as long as she needed someone to be there whilst she wept. But he couldn't. For someone he'd known only weeks, walking away from her was suddenly the hardest thing he'd ever had to do.

Frankie didn't turn to watch him go, didn't spare a glance to the surviving Riveters as they climbed into the back of one of the trucks, whisked away to interrogation.

What the fuck could they say that wasn't already obvious?

She felt a hand press against her shoulder, and turned her head to meet Ken's gaze, his expression twisted with fear.

"Bucky?" He asked. The simple question was enough to undo her, and all at once Frankie burst into tears, accepting his embrace as he offered it.

Just fuck off. Get in your death trap and fuck off.

At least I'll have one less mess to clean up when you don't come back.

She couldn't breathe. Couldn't feel anything but a terrible, harrowing guilt, so heavy that it made her very bones ache. If she hadn't already upturned the contents of her stomach, she would have done so now, the desperate feeling of nausea left with nothing to cling to within her.

Frankie Bevan had lost people to war before. She had loved people and sent them away, and they had never returned. But not once in her life had she let them leave without them knowing she loved them. Not until now.

"He forgave you," She heard Lemmons murmur, his hand stroking her hair in that way her father used to soothe her when she got too mad - when the world got too heavy, too weighty for her hands alone. "He knew you didn't mean it."

She sniffed loudly, clutching at the dirty fabric of his coveralls. "He loved me, didn't he?"

"Oh yeah."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Rosie sat on one of the benches outside the interrogation hut, staring down at the cup of Red Cross coffee that warmed his hands. They had made too many cups. He had walked in and seen them, laid out row by row, and taken the first of the front row like he was supposed to - leave the rest for the others. But there were no others. And suddenly the bitter liquid was the least appetising thing in the world.

The bench's wooden slats creaked as someone sat down beside him. Frankie was sitting on her hands, staring blankly at a fixed spot in the grass ahead. Wordlessly, he held the coffee out to her, and she took it, the hot liquid scalding her tongue as she took a sip.

"Jesus," She sputtered, grimacing at the sudden pain.

"Still hot," Rosie said.

"Yeah, I noticed," Frankie huffed, sucking in cool air through her teeth to soothe the burn.

"Hey, I'm really sorry about-"

"Don't," She interrupted, shaking her head. "You don't have to do that, it's okay."

At some point during their flight, Rosie had sliced the skin along his hairline, droplets of blood drying and encrusting his forehead. Frankie put the still-hot coffee down, reaching up to brush his curls out of the way with her thumb. Her hand was still warm from holding the cup, and he felt the urge to lean closer.

"That hurt?"

"Nah. It's just a scratch - I don't even know how I got it."

She nodded, hand falling back down at her side. Neither of them moved for a moment, but when Rosie lifted his arm she seemed to get the message, leaning into his side, arms wrapped around his torso. His chin rested atop Frankie's head, the smell of her hair filling his lungs with each slow inhale.

"I don't know what we're supposed to do now."

#masters of the air #masters of the air oc #masters of the air fic #rosie rosenthal #rosie rosenthal x oc #mota #mota fic #john egan #ken lemmons #oc: frankie #oc: george #fic | i'm your man

[farity]

In the Red of Night

Pairing:  Modern!AU Aemond Targaryen x you

Summary:  Aemond likes coffee.  And sugar.  And other things.

Warnings:  Future smut.

He liked to think that after all this time, he was better than this.  

But as dawn began to tint the sky in purples and pinks, Aemond Targaryen looked down at his hands, stained with dried blood, and told himself the worst lies were the ones you told yourself.  

He stood, dusting off his black trousers, and headed back to his loft.  The sun had begun to peek over the taller buildings by the time he turned onto his street.  Despite myths and movies, sunlight wouldn’t burn him to ashes or make him sparkle.  It did feel a little warmer than he liked and after a few minutes, his skin would be the bright pink that a normal pale person got after a day at the beach with no sun cream or protection, but given the fact that he had pale skin, not to mention the silver white hair that made most people do double takes, it was generally understood that he preferred to be in the shade.

He nodded at the doorman, who never questioned his hours, and headed for the private elevator around the corner.  He pressed the button and the mechanism began its near silent whirr as it traveled up to the top floor.

Walking inside his front door, he began pulling off his shirt, throwing it into his bedroom hamper before he began unzipping his trousers.  His bed was neatly made, since he hadn’t slept in it the previous night, and he finished undressing before he walked into his bathroom.  

He let the cool water beat down on his head and back for a few minutes before he began scrubbing the blood off his skin.  There wasn’t a lot of it, as he had long ago learned to not make a mess when he indulged, but it reminded him that he needed to be careful.  His very appearance and physicality made him noticeable and he could not afford to stand out any more than he already did.

One of the many advantages of the modern world was the existence of coffee shops - he was addicted to the stuff.  He also didn’t want to bother making it himself, and most shops had a quiet corner or two where he could work and watch people, and he wouldn’t be bothered.  

He dressed in his usual greys and blacks, pulled a thin cashmere knit hat over his pale hair, and went downstairs.  There was a coffee shop across the street from his building, and he had been waiting for the new owner to finish the remodeling and updating, and it was, finally, open for business.  He’d waited for the initial rush to settle before he crossed the street and walked in. 

It reminded him of a favorite bar he’d frequented in Paris long ago.  The decor was timeless, with vases and objets d’art that were either priceless antiques or very good reproductions, set safely on high shelves.  There was soft music playing, not the obnoxious litany of mumbling boys that sounded like they were barely awake - the 90s had been particularly trying music-wise - but, again, he thought back to the beginning of the previous century and felt that this place would have looked right at home then.

Of course, it had the latest technology, from the cameras to the outlets to accommodate several devices at every table.  The pristine sterling steel machines kept up a steady stream of both coffee and a low hum of sound, and Aemond quickly found a corner where he could perch himself for the next couple of hours.  He set down his laptop, placed his hoodie over it, and headed over to the counter, where several people managed to dodge each other’s arms as they worked to serve their customers.  

There was a tempting array of cakes and pastries, and Aemond, who loved sugar almost as much as he loved a certain dark red liquid, immediately chose a chocolate cake with what looked like hazelnuts on top.  

“Eyeing the chocolate praline, are we?”

He looked up at the cheerful voice and his eyes landed on a pair of green eyes, crinkling at the corners, as they studied him. 

“Is it made in house?”

“Of course, that one is made by me, actually.  Chocolate hazelnut praline, it’s a popular one.  Some coffee along with your cake?”

He nodded.  “Black, whatever you think will go best with it, and seven sugars.”

Her eyes snapped up to his, “okay, then,” she smiled.  “please don’t damage the walls when you start bouncing off of them later.”

She turned to grab a plate and start brewing some coffee while he immediately began to think of all the ways he could damage the walls.  Most of them involved having her legs wrapped around him, and he blinked, pushing the thought away when she turned back to him.  

“Will there be anything else?”

“Hmm.  Not for now, I’ll be doing some work and probably get something else later.”

She nodded and rang up his purchase.  If she was impressed by the heavy, black-finish credit card he handed her, she gave no sign.  “I’ll bring it over in a minute.”  She smiled at him and turned to greet another customer.

* * * * * 

You’d seen him a couple of times before, during the last couple of weeks as you put the final touches on the coffee shop.  The hair, obviously, had caught your attention, and the fact that he was so tall.  He lived across the street and you hoped he’d become a regular, start building your little clientele, have your core group of customers as well as the more casual buyers.

He had a very, very nice ass, you thought, glancing discreetly as he walked away.  Lean and rangy, he had covered his hair today, and in his dark clothes blended in pretty well within the little corner he’d chosen.  You grabbed his coffee, a bowl with extra sugars, and his cake, and took it all over to his table.  “Here you are, let me know if you need anything else,” you smiled.  He had the most lovely shade of eyes, somewhere between dark blue and purple.

“Thank you, I will.”

You really wanted to stay and trace your fingertip over every sharp edge of that stunning face, the wide lips, the faded scar over his eye.  Instead, you turned back to your counter and your customers, and decided to later find out more about the sugar fiend who had just come in to your shop.

* * * * * 

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My Ko-fi

#aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #modern!aemond #aemond x you #hotd fanfic #hotd fanfiction

[mlmxreader]

Forgiveness Comes Easy | Kili x gn!reader

『••✎••』

↳ ❝ Hii so this is my first request. Please feel free to ignore this if you don't wanna write it

Soo uhmm I saw that you write for kili and I wanted to ask if you could write something where like the reader (gender neutral) is in a relationship with kili and they are jealous(or smth) of the way tauriel speaks with him (like in the prison/dungeon scene)

Again, feel free to ignore this if you don't like this ❞

: ̗̀➛ Kili can sometimes make you jealous, and he can sometimes make you angry, but you'll always forgive him at the end of the day, especially when he makes you laugh.

: ̗̀➛ jealousy

•───────────────★•♛•★──────────────•

You could not help but to glare and scowl as you looked at Kili, thinking about how he used to look at you like that; big brown eyes and his eyebrows slightly raised.

The gaze itself was so soft and inviting, so warm it could melt steel with just a few seconds.

You could not fathom why he would look at her like that - granted, she was gorgeous and brave and intelligent. She was all but perfect in every which way that you could ever think of; yet the way that Kili looked at her was making your stomach churn.

He used to look at you like that, with his gorgeous dark eyes so warm and gentle. His hands were so careful despite the fact that he had so many calluses that his hands felt rough at every inch. Skin made of raw iron, and cool steel for bones.

You used to think that you were his, that he had promised you his heart just as you had promised him your own; although you could see, now, that maybe only you kept that end of the bargain.

You had long thought, that with Thorin’s blessing, Kili would be as loyal to you as you had always been to him; but the way that he looked at her, and the clumsy deftness of his fingers when he passed his mother’s stone to her, it made you clench your jaw as you shook your head.

Unable to do anything but to huff and slink to the back of the cell, staring at the cold blueish grey stone walls; how they refracted with pale cyan and gentle ash colours.

You folded your arms across your chest tightly, a slight pout mixing with your frown as you did your best not to snap at Kili and demand that he shut up.

But you must have gotten your wish, as you heard him stop talking; heavy footsteps soon followed, and before you could snap at him, he was kneeling in front of you, dark spots on his trousers where his knees became damp.

You looked at him, mapping out his features for a moment before turning your head; your face met the cold, damp stone and you huffed again as you frowned. Kili cleared his throat, nudging your knee gently but getting no response. He tilted his head to the side, frowning as he knocked you again; still no response.

“Come on,” Kili sighed, squirming to sit between your legs. “What’s wrong? You can talk to me. Was it something I said?”

You scowled again as you looked at him at last, shaking your head and trying to ignore the deep, deep urge to snap at him; to scream and shout at the top of your lungs until he finally got the message.

But you could only sigh, licking your lips as you swallowed thickly. “Why do you expect me to be loyal when you can’t be?”

He furrowed his brows as he looked at you, tilting his head ever so slightly to the side. “Pardon?”

“You,” you whispered harshly. “Tauriel is a fine, fine Elf but if you are going to go with her, at least tell me so I’m not following you around like a lost pup for no reason.”

For a moment, he gawked and stared at you, but then a grin came to his face as he cleared his throat and tried not to laugh. “Is that jealousy I smell on your breath?”

“No!” You snapped, the word coming out a little harsher than intended and echoing loud enough to make you wince and cringe. “No, I am not.”

Kili let out a soft laugh, trying to disguise it as a hum, and tapped your knees. “You are, aren’t you? Oh, dear, that-”

“Do not mock me,” you hissed, getting up and sitting over by the bars. “Do not even speak to me.”

He was relentless, coming to sit beside you with his head on your shoulder; that warm and sweet gaze on you as he smiled and tapped your hand so softly, taking it into his own and allowing his fingers to intertwine with yours.

“You’re right about one thing - Tauriel is a fine Elf… but she isn’t for me. I’m just trying to make an alliance, that’s all.”

“Since when were you so diplomatic?” You grumbled, refusing to look at him.

Kili gently squeezed your hand, letting his voice drop so that he was almost whispering under his breath. “Since there was someone who mattered more than a good scrap… I never meant to make you jealous, and I never meant to make you doubt how I feel for you - and only you, mind - either… I’m sorry… please stop sulking, I don’t like it when you sulk…”

You didn’t want to forgive him so easily, you really didn’t, but you knew that he was more than sincere about his words, and you knew that he meant every single one and would stand by them until the end of time; so you sighed, and gave his hand a little squeeze to let him know that you weren’t so angry about it that you would always give him the cold shoulder.

“Am I forgiven?” He asked softly, quietly.

You hummed, daring to smile a little, which only made him laugh and grin as he knew that he was off of the hook. “I s’pose. I can’t stay angry with you forever, now, can I?”

“Not until we’re married,” he pointed out. “Then you can stay angry with me all you like.”

You couldn’t help but to laugh, shaking your head fondly; you did notice that he never did that with anyone else - he never purposefully tried to make them laugh the way he did with you, he never tried to make a fool of himself or to tell jokes just to see them smile. You scoffed a little.

“I will hold you to that, you know,” you told him with a grin.

“I hope you do.”

#mlem writes #kili x reader #kili x you #kili imagine #kili fanfic #kili durin #the hobbit fanfiction #the hobbit kili #the hobbit fic #the hobbit imagine #the hobbit movies #the hobbit trilogy #the hobbit x reader #the hobbit x you #the hobbit x y/n #the hobbit #lord of the rings x reader #lord of the rings x you #lord of the rings x y/n #lord of the rings fanfiction #lord of the rings fanfic #lord of the rings fic #lord of the rings imagine #lord of the rings #lotr x reader #lotr x you #lotr x y/n #lotr imagine #lotr fanfiction #lotr fanfic

[silverior968]

I've been rolling around the idea of a tfp Skulduggery Pleasant AU for a while -- here's a joke courtesy of my friend @piptheteeththief that was too funny for me to not draw it

[Image ID: A digital drawing with the title "DOCTORS HATE THEM" in impact font. Underneath the text are Skulduggery Pleasant, a human skeleton dressed in a black suit, complete with black shoes, a black tie and a black hat. His hands are in his pockets. To his right is a human version of Wheeljack from the same franchise, drawn as a lean white man in his early 40s. His hair is ash-colored and very shaggy. On his head he has a dark brown cowboy hat. His eyes are grey and he has a slightly crooked nose, like it had broken before and never set the same way as it was before. He also has many small scars on his face and is smiling. In addition to his hat, his outfit consists of a white, green and red plaid shirt that's half tucked, a light gray aviator jacket, a dark brown belt with a silver buckle, dark red trousers and dark brown boots. He also has his hands in his pockets. / End ID]

#skulduggery pleasant #fanart #transformers #tfp #tfp wheeljack #on their way to get yelled at by some doctor for letting a teenager tag along on their life-threatening missions #you know how it is #doctors do hate them-- not because of any dermatological secrets they hold or anything #just for being irritating #y'all would not believe how easy it is to convert stuff from TFP into SP stuff #like the biggest issue I had up to this point was choosing a magical discipline for Bumblebee #I ended up going with an offshoot of Enhancement that strengthens the senses instead of the body itself

[majorshatterandhare]

More of the good goggles

[ID: A photo of the Mechanisms, in costume, including Tim Ledsam as Gunpowder Tim, Ben Below as Drumbot Brian, Frank Voss as Ashes O'Reilly, Morgan Wilkinson as Ivy Alexandria, and Jonny Sims as Jonny d'Ville.

Tim is front and center in the photo, holding his guitar and playing. Behind him Ben is on the left side of the frame, holding a drumstick in his hand like he's going to stab someone, and Frank is on the right, holding and playing their bass. Further to the right Morgan can be partially seen, but his face is obscured by Jonny's shoulder, which is the only part of Jonny that is visible.

Tim has light skin and shoulder length, curly, brown hair. His head is turned toward the viewer's right. He has short brown facial hair and wears a pair of modern welding goggles with a teal green skirt and frame and black lenses over his eyes. His face is partially obscured by his hair. He wears a white button up shirt with the sleeve rolled up to just under the elbows under a dark patterned waistcoat with light wash jeans and a belt. His guitar is made of light colored wood on the front and dark wood in the sides, head, and neck.

Ben has light skin, curly, auburn, chin length hair, and short facial hair. He looks down and in front of him. Only his hand holding the drumstick described above is visible; the other is hidden behind Tim, but another drumstick sticks out from behind Tim's hip on the side opposite of where Ben is standing. He wears a white collared shirt under a long black coat with gold buttons and dark trousers. He wears a black top hat with retro welding goggles around the crown and a pair of drumsticks stuck in the strap.

Frank has medium brown skin and shoulder length, straightened dark brown hair, which is shaved or pinned back on their left side. They are looking towards the camera with their body pointed toward Ben. They wear a white collared shirt, untucked, under a black waistcoat with black jeans. They wear a black fedora with a black band and a dark dangle-y earring. Their electric bass has a steel blue body and a light wood neck.

Morgan's skin is not visible, but his hair is short and dyed bright red. He wears a dark grey, long sleeve shirt, under a red waistcoat with brown corduroy trousers. His body is turned mostly toward the right side of the frame.

Jonny is mostly unseen, but on his shoulder, the sleeve of a white shirt and the edges of a vest and sash is two different shades of beige can be seen.

Behind the Mechs a beige and red brick building can be seen across some grey water. Behind and between Frank and Morgan a black tarp with something long, thin, and yellow and red is visible.

End ID]

#the mechanisms #described #gunpowder tim #tim ledsam #drumbot brian #ben below #ashes oreilly #frank voss #ivy alexandria #morgan wilkinson #jonny sims #jonny dville #i tried to find where this photo is from and failed. i stole it from a different post with about a bajillion images and i didnt want to- #describe them all. at least not all at once.

[siriannatan]

1920s mafia!Au with Flower Ranchers

Guess who watched Bernadette Banner and got inspired for some Mafia!au stuff?

I did. And I decided to delve into the Flower Ranchers pit.

Agreeing to infiltrate the Ranch - a high-profile club owned by a mysterious gangster known only as Canary- was probably Scott's biggest mistake in a while. Not that he had many other jobs to think about. Or an option to say 'no', You don't simply say 'no' to Grian. Not with a serial killer hunting him for some bizarre reason and Grian saying he can get her to stop. Scott had no idea how he was supposed to do it but meeting her would probably be better than his current situation.

The main and frankly only thing Grian wanted was Canary's real name. Scott had no idea why and what for he wanted it. But he managed to get into the bar despite not really fitting the usual guest list through an interview for a singer. A cute, blonde man in a pinstripe, three-piece suit made of dark navy fabric and a lighter blue undershirt was overseeing it all. The eyepatch over his left eye was curious. He guessed he was managing the club for Canary. By his side, with no break was a guard. Also blonde, dark ash grey shirt and deeply red trousers with black suspenders. Blonde. Red eyes. A meta-human judging by the flames dancing in his eyes whenever anyone got too close to blondie with the eyepatch.

After his turn Scott decided, in a flash of genius, to sneak about behind the scenes of the establishment. Not a good decision since the fire-eyed blonde was currently pressing a knife to his back. On the perfect spot where no ribs would stop him from stabbing Scott's heart before he could even think about fighting back. "Whatcha' doing' back here precious?" he asked, pushing the knife a bit harder.

"Looking for the toilets," Scott nervously chuckled out an excuse.

Red, as Scott decided to start calling the scary guard, huffed, clearly not believing Scott. "Yer' lucky boss likes your face and voice..." was the last Scott heard before being knocked out.

Scott woke up with an intense headache. And the voice he vaguely recognised as the blonde man with the eyepatch. "Calm down Tango, I'm the boss, I can do whatever I want," he didn't sound at all bothered by whatever 'Tango' was bothered by. With a groan, he absolutely was not able to not make Scott decided to open his eyes. Pinstripes and eyepatch was sat in an armchair in the club in Red's lap. "Looks like Scotty's waking up," he chuckled and Scott felt his already low body temperature drop even lower.

Just how much did he know already? Where in the frozen hells did Grian send him...

"I'm going to guess my lovely brother has something to do with your sneaking," pinstripes continued to grin as he presented Scott with a photo of him and Grian talking. "I like to keep an eye on my charming siblings, just so they don't get in the way too much, especially Grian," he chuckled as he tossed the photo away. 

"I had no idea who..." Scott tried to protest. He was a dead man if Grian heard he was caught. If not by Grian's goons then Pearl would hear just where she could find him.

"Shush, no need to panic, your face's pretty enough to make me want to not let Tango redecorate my club," he was stopped and blondie stood up. Red huffed and glared at Scott. It was probably best for Scott to listen to what eyepatch had to say. "I'm guessing he had to have something good to offer you, like keeping a certain sister of ours away from that pretty face of yours. Tango here also happens to know of your talents outside of singing..."

He definitely knew far too much. No one but Pearl and Grian knew what he was capable of outside his occasional performances at local clubs, bars and even rarer - the theatre. He could only hope pinstripes - he was more and more certain he's talking to the Canary - did not know about his meta-human abilities. Not even Pearl knew about that and they used to work together before it ended in an unfortunate circumstances and ended with her hunting him down... But if the sibling talk was real... Scott was sure there was frost forming on his skin but absolutely did not want to look at it.

"I say the abilities of someone who once managed to keep up with Pear's temper and work style could do much better than running Grian's useless errands. What did he even send you here for?" he asked with a tiny grin.

He no doubt already knew but what choice Scott had but to humour him. "Canary's real identity," he said and was totally stunned as the other started to laugh. "He said he'd get Pearl off my case, she was getting really hard to avoid," Scott mumbled and Tango's glare softened slightly. 

"She can be a bit much," pinstripe hummed. "Well, that's a surprise," he chuckled. "I suppose my acting's better than I thought. I thought he'd figure it out by now. No matter, I'll deal with my brother another time. As for you, little flower, how about working for me instead? Pearl avoids this place like fire, and you sing very nicely, so how about staying here? No grumpy faces Tango."

"As long as I can do some stuff of my own," Scott said before he could stop himself. Couldn't he just say no and look for a way to get as far from these accursed siblings as he possibly could?

"I don't see why not as long as it doesn't get in the way of my business and work for me takes priority," the Canary shockingly agreed. Red, or Tango did not complain in any way. "But when not performing or doing your own things, you'll be staying close to me and Tango. I'd hate for someone to bother my cute new singer," the Canary, or Jimmy as he introduced himself while giving Scott a tour of the backrooms. Red - Scott would only call him that since it seemed to annoy him slightly - was one step behind them the whole time.

Over the next few days, Scott followed Jimmy along with Red. He was very touchy but at least he was pretty and Tango was scary enough to keep most trouble away. And turned out to be a great pianist when the usual one was suddenly killed not too far from the club. It very much seemed like a Pearl kind of a kill so Scott was obviously a bit tense but still gave a great performance. Jimmy sitting in the audience with two guards replacing Tango certainly helped. She wouldn't do anything with him around, right?

Aside from Tango purposely making the usual set of songs harder the evening went well. Grian was among the guests but he was easy to ignore. Jimmy seemed to be enjoying himself. A very good evening he'd likely get very praised for. He was honestly getting used to being just Jimmy's favourite singer, even if other performers looked weird at him. So what if Jimmy also liked him as a pretty accessory? Tango was for being handsome and scary, and Scott was for being pretty and keeping Jimmy from being too angry at his problems.

"I'll grab a drink," Scott told Tango after their performance was over. Red just nodded and was off to rejoin Jimmy's side. Other guards instantly cleared out, a rather amusing sight considering Tango wasn't all that tall, he was quite a fireball when angry.

By the bar Scott made sure to also ask for Jimmy's favourite drink along with his water and was about to go to his new boss when a commotion started and suddenly very close to him was a barely held back by guards Pearl. If looks could kill Scott'd be a dead man. He didn't really see Pearl since the 'betrayal', at Cleo's funeral house but was still quite confident he'd be okay. As long as guards could hold her back long enough for him to reach Jimmy...

"You traitor!" Pearl called out along many mean words but Scott was not quite listening to her. He was never one for much conflict. Thievery? Lying? Even more theft? Yes, yes, yes. Bringing a big issue - one Jimmy knew about but still - over to a bar owned by a mob boss? Hell no and so he seized up. Chill climbed up his spine and frost formed on the glasses he was holding.

And then there was sudden heat and a Tango between him and Pearl and a hand on his back. "Sorry dear sister but I'll have to ask you to be nice to my performers, especially Scott, he's kind of my favourite alongside Tango," Jimmy's voice. Scott decided to ignore all that was happening and focus on the half-hug Jimmy had him in. Otherwise, he'd probably freeze the whole building.

He was so focused he totally missed Pearl leaving and being moved to Jimmy's office. Only Tango's freakishly warm hands on his face shook him out. "Sorry... open conflict's not my thing and..." Scott instantly jumped into apologising.

"It's all okay Scott, the boss knows, he's currently arguing with his siblings about that whole thing. Pearl had to find out somehow you're here... I'd be more worried about them than the boss," Tango gently explained as Scott slowly recovered. "He got really worried when you got all unresponsive, told me to make sure you're oka..." Tango rambled. He was clearly not used to having to explain himself in any way that did not include punching and burning. Not that Scott cared, he was warm so he just hugged him.

"Warm..." he offered as an explanation. Tango was really pleasantly warm. "Just a little while... My power is a bit hard to control..." he sighed while practically melting into Tango on Jimmy's office carpet.

And that's how Jimmy found them shortly after. His wings were no longer hidden by the illusion he usually kept up. "Scott? Oh my... I'll murder Grian one of those days... Bringing Pearl here when I said she's banned," he huffed as he joined the hug, completely ignoring Tango's hopeful look at a chance of no longer having to have emotions.

"Come on Red's it's just a hug, you're warm, I can give you a kiss later," Scott hummed even happier with Jimmy and his wings providing additional warmth and comfort.

"Boss..."

"What he said, Tango, but I say we move it somewhere more comfortable where idiots won't be looking for me," Jimmy made the final decision. "I'll leave revenge for later. NO one scares my favourite people and gets away with it. No one," he huffed as Tango carried Scott somewhere - Jimmy's room - that didn't matter at the moment. Being comfy and warm came over anything after losing control.

#my stuff #my stories #fanfiction #fanfic #empires smp #traffic smp #flower ranchers #flower husbands #team rancher #empires scott #scott smajor #tango tek #esmp jimmy #jimmy solidarity

[godkilller]

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁    𝙰𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙷𝙴𝚃𝙸𝙲𝚂 :

COLOR.       ——     red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, black, white, teal, silver, gold, grey, lilac, metallic, matte, royal blue, strawberry red, charcoal grey, forest green, apple red, navy blue, crimson, cream, mint green, magenta, pastels, bubblegum pink, blood red, ivory.

ELEMENTAL.      ——        fire. ice. water. air. earth.  rain. snow. wind. moon. stars. sun. heat. cold. steam. frost. lightning. thunder. sunlight. moonlight. dawn. dusk. twilight. midnight. sunrise. sunset. dewdrops. clouds. light. dark. shadow.

BODY.       ——       claws. long fingers. fangs. wings. tails. lips. bare feet. freckles. bruises. canine. scars. scratches. ears. wounds. burns. spikes. feathers. webs. eyes. hands. sweat. tears. feline. chubby. curvy. short. tall. normal height. muscular. slender. trained. piercings. tattoos. strong. shape-shifting. svelte. long hair. short hair. dark circles. big. small. prosthetic. experimented. cyborg. halos. horns. wolfish.

WEAPONRY.        ——       fists. sword. dagger. spear. scythe. bow & arrow. hammer. shield. poison. venom. guns. axes. throwing axes. whips. knives. throwing knives. pepper sprays. tasers. machine guns. slingshots. katana. maces. staffs. wands. powers. magical items. magic. rocks. power loader. flamethrower. metal rod. shotguns. needles.

MATERIAL.        ——        gold. silver. platinum. titanium. diamonds. pearls. rubies. sapphires. emeralds. amethyst. metal. iron. rust. steel. wood. porcelain. paper. wool. fur. lace. leather. copper. silk. velvet. denim. linen. cotton. charcoal. clay. stone. asphalt. brick. marble. dust. glitter. blood. dirt. mud. smoke. ash. shadow. carbonate. rubber. synthetics. yarn. slime. ivory.

NATURE.       ——       grass. leaves. trees. bark. roses. daisies. tulips. holly. lavender. lilies. petals. thorns. sunflowers. seeds. hay. sand. rocks. snow. ice. roots. flowers. ocean. river. lake. meadow. forest. desert. tundra. savanna. rain forest. swamp. caves. underwater. coral reef. beach. waves. space. stars. clouds. mountains. fungi. cliffs. sunlight.

ANIMALS.       ——       lions. wolves. black panther. eagles. owls. falcons. hawks. swans. snakes. turtles. ducks. bugs. roaches. spiders. birds. whales. dolphins. fish. sharks. horses. cats. dogs. bunnies. praying mantis. crows. ravens. misc. lizards. frogs. bears. werewolves. unicorns. pegasus. dinosaurs. dragons. felines. foxes. pigeons. centaurs.

FOOD & DRINK.      ——      sugar. salt. water. candy. bubblegum. wine. champagne. hard liquor. beer. coffee. tea. spices. herbs. apple. orange. lemon. cherry. strawberry. watermelon. pomegranate. vegetables. fruits. meat. fish. pies. desserts. chocolate. cream. caramel. berries. nuts. cinnamon. burgers. burritos. pizza. vanilla. cookies.

HOBBIES.       ——        music. art. piercing. watercolours. gardening. knitting. smithing. sculpting. painting. sketching. fighting. fencing. riding. writing. composing. cooking. sewing. training. dancing. acting. singing. martial arts. self - defense. electronics. technology. cameras. video cameras. video games. computer. phone. movies. theater. libraries. books. magazines. poetry. philosophy. cds. records. vinyls. cassettes. piano. violin. fiddle . cello. guitar. electronic guitar. bass guitar. harmonica. synthesizers. harp. woodwinds. brass. trumpet. flute. drums. bells. playing cards. poker chips. chess. dice. motorcycle riding. eating. climbing. tree climbing. running. vivisection.

STYLE.       ——       lingerie. armor. cape. dress. robes. suit. tunic. vest. shirt. boots. heels. legging. trousers. jeans. skirt. shorts. jewelry. earrings. necklace. bracelet. ring. pendants. hat. goggles. crown. circlet. helmet. scarf. neck tie. brocade. cloaks. corsets. doublet. chest plate. gorget. bracers. belt. pauldrons. sash. coat. jacket. hood. gloves. socks. masks. cowls. braces. watches. glasses. sunglasses. visor. eye contacts. makeup. pantyhose. stockings. thigh highs. eye patch. collar. no makeup.

MISC.       ——        balloons. bubbles. cityscape. landscape. light. dark. candles. war. peace. ripe. money. power. percussion. clocks. photos. mirror. pets. diary. fairy lights. madness. sanity. sadness. happiness. optimism. pessimism. realism. loneliness. anger. laughter. screams. family. friends. assistants. co-workers. enemies. lovers. loyalty. smoking. alcohol. stories. drugs. kindness. love.

tagged by: i stole it tagging: @dokuhai, @keikakudori, @owabisuru, @madestars, and you!

#[ roleplay meme ] #long post / #ayooo.

[valkariel]

Disdain

Head: Moonward Hairpin of Healing - ash grey Body: Edenchoir Tunic of Healing - dark purple Hands: Hypostatic Armlets of Healing - ink blue Legs: Omega Trousers of Healing - dark green Feet: Virtu Didact's Boots - dark purple

Earring: Palm Ear Cuffs of Healing Neck: The Emperor's New Necklace Wrists: The Emperor's New Bracelet Right Ring: Heirloom Ring of Healing Left Ring: Edengate Ring of Healing

Main Hand: Fae Milpreves - turquoise green Off Hand: --

Fashion Accessory: -- Minion: -- Location: #CASSIASLAIR - Dynamis/Maduin Mist W11 P60

Shader: Faeberry Gaussian

#ffxiv #ffxiv glamour #ffxiv miqo'te #ffxiv sage #eorzea collection #CASSIASLAIR #miqo'te #seekers of the sun #sage #darks/blacks/greys #fantasy glamour #valkariel ilmarë

[pecanwriter]

Very Uncool Love Story (MPREG, WG story)

Themes: M/M MPREG romance between a fat librarian and a disabled punk musician

Words: 2863

Part: 1/?

Connected to this drawing, although we're a long way away from this happening!

Larry let out a groan, dropping his hands helplessly at his sides. He stared down at his protruding gut accusingly. No matter how often he attended the gym or watched what he ate, ever since he turned thirty-five his waistline seemed to be expanding simply from his existence alone. In the last two years since he crossed the thirty-five threshold, his so-called waist had positively turned into a pot belly. Okay, he had to be honest with himself, since Cyberpunk 2077 came out he neglected his gym attendance and it definitely contributed to the further expansion of his blubber. And so now, to his dismay, his good dress trousers didn’t fit anymore. He let out another groan, realising that he had no choice but to go to one of the places every self-proclaimed nerd hated more than anything; the shopping centre. The worst part was that since the birthday party for his brother-in-law was happening at six, he had no time to procrastinate.

Squirting some toothpaste onto his brush he looked at himself in the mirror and grimaced. The beard he attempted to grow in order to hide his slowly forming double chin was coming in more patchy than he would’ve liked, but on the bright side, he was surprised to discover there was still more ash blonde in his beard than grey, unlike the hair on his head. Larry was mildly annoyed that he was genetically cursed both with a pot belly and premature greyness. He started getting grey in his mid-twenties, which was the beginning of the end he did not anticipate in time to start dyeing his hair to cover it up. Now, after so many years, it would just look stupid. And so Larry didn’t have much choice but to embrace the image of a grey-haired, fat librarian. He supposed it could’ve been worse, although at that moment he struggled to think how.

“Okay, Marshall, you can do this,” Larry muttered to himself, staring into his own green eyes in the rearview mirror for a moment. Gathering as much strength as he could, he finally got out his car where it was parked in the shopping centre parking lot.

Why are there so many people in the shopping centres at all times? How is that possible? Larry flinched as someone barged past him, laughing on the phone obnoxiously loudly. One of the best aspects of working at the library was that it was always blessedly quiet. Not only that, he was allowed to actually shush people! And they couldn’t do anything about it! Another person shouldered past him, nearly knocking his glasses off his nose. Fixing them in place Larry dived towards the shopping centre map to find the cheapest clothing store possible; he wasn’t about to spend a fortune on something his fat ass would undoubtedly outgrow soon. Besides, the less money spent on clothes, the more money for him to invest in video games.

“Can I help you?” A shopping assistant asked with one of those smiles that could have been real or completely fake and there was no way to tell which.

“I’m looking for dress trousers,” Larry answered, instantly nervous under the scrutiny of the younger man.

“Let me see if we can find something in your size.” He said, and Larry involuntarily flinched.

After an ordeal longer than he would’ve liked Larry emerged from the shop exhausted, but with a new pair of trousers with a size tag he never expected to be searching for. That’s what ageing does to you, he guessed. Ageing and Cyberpunk 2077, he reminded himself sourly. He almost jumped out of his skin as buzzing in his pocket tore him out of his revelry.

“Yes?” “Larry, tell me you remember about Tom’s birthday party.” His sister said. “I remember!” “Don’t you lie to me, brother!”

“I’m not lying!” He sputtered “I even got a new outfit for the party.” “Wow, I’m impressed. Did you get a gift?” “Uh…” “Lawrence Marshall!” She groaned.

“I will get one!” “He was talking about one of those new heavy metal albums he wanted. I don’t remember which band it was… Slayer? Judas Priest? I really don’t remember, but it came out this month, go to the CD store and ask someone!” “Ask someone…? A CD…? Arianna, wait…!” He let out a sigh as the phone indicated the call was ended by the caller.

Once again, feeling even more defeated than he did when he first came into the shopping centre, he went to look for the map to find a CD store in this monstrosity.

Larry took in a deep breath as he stared at the black sign that read “Music Emporium” in an aggressively pointy font and with burning wings on each side of it. That was a bit of an overkill, wasn’t it? Wings and fire? Couldn’t it just be one or the other? Taking a deep breath Larry entered the store.

There was some classic rock playing inside, but thankfully it wasn’t too loud. The shop was rather dim, in fact, it was positively dark and Larry wondered how anyone could see what they were buying. There was nobody inside and Larry was very thankful because never before had he been so painfully aware of being, and looking, like a librarian.

When he meant the shop was empty, he didn’t only mean customers, there was literally no one there. He assumed the shop clerk was somewhere around, maybe restocking something, or maybe they were in the back. But he wasn’t about to call out, God no. He wandered around nervously and when he spotted a sign shouting “NEW RELEASES” in big orange letters he almost flew to it, hoping he would be able to find the CD on his own and buy it without ever revealing to the shop clerk how out of his depth he actually was. He looked at the rows of different CDs and felt immediately lost. How was he supposed to find a CD without knowing anything about it other than the release month? When people asked him for books they didn’t remember the titles of he had so many ways to narrow the search down. Keywords, genre, plot, similar books… How did you search for a CD? He guessed you could sing something from it, but if it was a completely new one then you wouldn’t even know any songs from it, would you? “Why didn’t you call for me?” An unfamiliar voice with a heavy Scottish accent accused and Larry was startled enough to drop the CD he was holding. “Great, that’s amazing.” The man spat, placing something against one of the shelves to go down to the floor. Larry realised it was a crutch. “No, no, I got it!” Larry frantically dropped to the floor, picking up the CD. “You’re…” He started, but the man cut him off. “What? A cripple? Yeah, man, cripples can be music experts too, crazy, huh?” “No, I wanted to say that you’re the shop clerk,” He awkwardly held the CD out to the man “Here, it’s not broken.” “Hm.” The man humphed, taking the CD from him and bringing it closer to his right eye to examine it. That was an unusual thing to do, but Larry immediately recognized the movement. The man either had limited vision or could only see out of one eye. Larry stopped to look at the man as he examined the CD. He was younger than him, maybe late twenties, maybe younger. He was very very light-skinned, almost translucent and his hair was pure white too, shaved on the sides and the short part in the middle was brushed back on gel or something similar. The effect was slightly messy, but Larry was sure it was a very carefully curated look. His ears were gleaming with a multitude of piercings and he was wearing make-up, namely black coal around his eyes and dark, shiny lipstick… Larry couldn’t help but keep examining this man, finding the complicated outfit somewhat fascinating and, once again, vaguely reminiscent of Cyberpunk 2077. He had a necklace with a guitar pick woven into it and was wearing a ragged black tank top that was incredibly snug, showing off a large portion of his abdomen. A very, very flat abdomen, Larry couldn’t help but notice. The man was very slim, positively skinny. His hip bones were sticking out where the denim rested on them and he could see a tattoo peeking out on the side. It wasn’t the only one, in fact, both of his arms were covered and one of the tattoos was expanding to his chest, disappearing under the tank top. Even for an omega, he was extraordinarily handsome. A little sharp around the edges, perhaps, but gorgeous.

“It doesn’t seem broken, lucky you.” The man said in his clear voice, placing the CD down in its place perfectly. “So what do you need?” “I… I’m not sure.” “Browsing then?” “Not exactly, I…” “Yeah?” “I’m looking for a gift, I don’t really know a lot about heavy metal…” “Oh boy.” The man rolled his eyes and Larry was almost sure the left one didn’t roll exactly along the same trajectory as the right. “I’m sorry, it’s for my brother-in-law and…” “Fine, fine, whatever. So do you know the band?” “Not exactly…” “What does that mean?” The man cocked an eyebrow. He was very, very attractive, Larry’s unhelpful mind provided, and he had to resist the urge to facepalm.

“It’s either… Slayer or Judas Priest.” Larry soldiered on despite the man’s lips pursing “It came out this month!” The incredibly attractive shop clerk sighed and then reached for a CD, planting it in Larry’s chest. Larry was unsure if he was planning to do that or if he wanted to hand it to him but misjudged the distance between them.

“Here, Slayer. Judas Priest doesn’t have any new albums.”

“T-thank you.” he managed to say, uncomfortably aware that this very attractive, very skinny and very cool man just accidentally touched his flabby, uncool, librarian chest.

"Let me ring you up then. Unless you wanted something else…?"

"Oh no, nothing else!" Larry said urgently and the man laughed a ringing, beautiful laugh.

Larry blushed violently. What was wrong with him? Feeling his face burning, Larry followed the cleck to the till, observing the man’s careful gait as he leaned heavily on his crutch, but in a practised manner that suggested it was either a long-term or a permanent injury.

"Thank you for your business." The man said and with a slight smirk he added "We hope you will visit Music Emporium again soon!"

"I will." He said reflexively, flinching at the obvious lie and hoping the darkness of the shop concealed his blush.

The man laughed his beautiful ringing laugh again and Larry felt like he still heard it even after driving away to face the birthday party.

*

"Hey, little brother." Arianna wrapped her arms around his neck and then backed away slightly to touch his face. Her face was bright with a smile and her eyes gleamed with it. Unlike the shop clerk's, both of Arianna's unseeing eyes moved completely normally. Larry frowned. Why was he thinking about that omega again? “When will you shave this ridiculous beard?” Arianna asked, frowning.

“I’m not! I like it!” He lied, trying to disentangle himself from his sister’s arms. “Hey, uncle!” Jonas ran into him, jumping excitedly. “Hello, nephew!” He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Here.” He pulled out a library book, handing it to the boy who “ooh”-ed excitedly. “Dinosaurs? I’m gonna go read it!” He said, already running off “Thanks, uncle!” “Miriam, say hello to your uncle!” Arianna hissed at her daughter, who was just passing through the hall, her 17-year-old angst on full display in her band T-shirt, ragged jeans and messy hair covering half of her face.

“Hey uncle.” she deadpanned, not even looking up. “God, give me strength,” Arianna muttered. “Okay, I have to finish some stuff in the kitchen, go join the party!” Larry did so, like the obedient younger brother he was.

“You have got to be kidding me, Samuel! Over my dead fucking body! You are a child!” Tom shouted at his oldest son as Larry’s mother and Tom's parents sat uncomfortably in their seats. Sam’s boyfriend Aarul was holding his hand tightly, but flinching at every word Tom shouted at his son. Tom’s sister Moira and her husband Mark kept whispering to each other. From what Larry knew about them he assumed Mark was trying to keep Moira from interrupting.

“I’m not a child, I’m 23 years old, father!” Sam protested “I’m graduating this year, I will get a full-time job then and…” “You’re too young for this!” “Tom!” Moira finally managed to get out from under Mark’s calming spell. “You’re wife is 46 years old. According to, you know, the undeniable logic of math, she gave birth to this here child when she was 23.” “I don’t care, it was a different time!” “Stop shouting, let him live his life, he’s a smart boy.” Tom’s father, Jon, said, waving a hand at him. “What’s happening here?” Larry asked and everyone’s head snapped to look at him. “Larry!” They all exclaimed in a greeting. “You’re nephew is getting married!” Moira exclaimed. “Oh yeah? That’s great, Sam. Aarul.” Larry smiled, squeezing both of the boy’s shoulders and then taking a seat.

“No, Larry, it’s not GREAT.” Tom, the birthday boy, hissed, his thin narrow face twisted in anger. “He’s too young!” “And Aarul is pregnant.” Moira added in a theatrical whisper, which set the table to shouting again as Larry flinched, glad the attention was once again redirected from him. He looked at Sam. He, unfortunately, took a lot after the Marshall side of the family; ash blonde hair, very average-looking face, which couldn’t be called handsome even when he had youth working for him. He was slim and muscular, but from experience, Larry knew that was not going to last forever either. Sam gave him a small smile when he caught his eye. Larry looked at Aarul in turn; he was petite, with dark hair and skin of a South Indian, his thick black hair curled framing his heart-shaped face. He looked at Larry shyly with his big, brown eyes and smiled gently after lowering his eyes to the table again. Aarul was a lovely boy, he made Sam happy and Larry knew him to be hard-working and considerate. Sam was responsible and determined and never tried to hide the fact he thought of Aarul as his one and only. Larry truly didn’t see a problem, they were old enough to make decisions like this and as Moira already pointed out - Arianna and Tom had children and married even earlier than these two.

“Stop it this instant!” Arianna called from the door, holding the cake in front of her as Miriam trailed after her, making sure her blind mother didn’t trip with the cake but also at the same time somehow still managing to text. “Leave the boys alone.” “Arianna…” Tom growled, but his wife totted. “No, stop it, I said. This is a birthday party and there will be no more arguing.” She proclaimed and everyone dutifully kept their mouths shut.

“Good cake.” Mark observed as they were all eating, still in silence that was almost as thick as the cream on the cake. “Who wants more, this cake needs to be gone today, or it will get soggy!” Arianna announced, cutting the rest of the cake up with deliberate, learned motions that once again reminded Larry of the music shop clerk. “So, any takers? Moira? Larry?” “Don’t feed him cake, he’s fat enough!” his mother snapped. “You gained weight again, Larry.” she accused. “Mum, leave him alone!” Arianna hissed. “You’re no better, lady.” his mother snapped, looking critically at Arianna’s ample hips.

“Can we all just stop insulting each other for five minutes?” Tom’s father hissed. “Some of us would like to ENJOY spending time with our family.” “Let’s open gifts!” Jonas said, bouncing in his seat, completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere around him. “Dad, open your gifts!”

With his face still twisted in a vague image of displeasure, Tom obliged, reaching for the small pile of gifts. “Thanks, Dad,” Tom said, raising the bottle of whiskey in acknowledgement as his father nodded. “Fishbait? Because…?” Tom looked at his sister. “Because old men love to fish.” The woman proclaimed with a serious face and then burst out laughing. “Great. Thanks.” Tom rolled his eyes, putting the fish bait waiting and reaching for Larry’s gift. “A Slayer CD…” Tom pursed his lips. “Oh no, it’s the wrong CD,” Larry said feeling the blush blooming on his face again and praying the beard covered it. “No, it’s a good CD!” Tom rushed to explain “Only… I already own this.” He grimaced. So did Larry. “Dang. I’m sorry, I will exchange it for something else.” “Thanks, Larry.” “No problem..” Larry murmured, surprised to realise he was actually excited to go back to that music store. What the hell was wrong with him?

#bhm #chubby boy #mpreg #mpregnancy #mpreg fiction #bhm fiction #mpreg writing

[grandmaster-anne]

My Week: In this neck of the woods

By Vice Admiral Sir Tim Laurence | Published 29 July 2020

Country Life Guest-Edited by HRH The Princess Royal

I DON the protective gear—toughened boots, strengthened trousers, leather gauntlets, helmet and visor. Grasping the handle firmly, I release the two safety catches and press the trigger. There is no kickback, no smell of petrol and only a low whirr as the chain turns. My new battery-powered chainsaw (a birthday present to myself) is up and running.

It’s easier to use than my faithful friend of so many years—the petrol version—quieter and better for the environment, as long as the electricity comes from a suitable source. Yes, it’s twice the cost when you include the batteries and charger, but it’s ideal for cutting up fallen branches, light thinning, pruning and tidying. The faithful friend sits in the shed like an elderly labrador, wondering if it will ever be taken out again.

Covid-19 has held the human race in its grip these past months, but ash dieback is the most influential disease in the woods here. Some 25% to 35% of our mature ash is infected and great areas of natural regeneration look to be headed the same way.

Our approach is to cut trees down once we are certain they are infected, but not a moment before that. It would be mad to fell all the ash and find later that the few that were genetically immune to the disease have been sacrificed unnecessarily. Fortunately, we have 30 or so other tree species here, which will happily expand to fill the gaps. Every arboreal cloud has a silver lining.

For someone who was brought up in woods, taught forestry by my father and who has lovingly helped manage 250 acres of the most beautiful mixed English woodland these past 30 years, it may seem strange to say I have reservations about huge targets being set for tree planting in the UK.

The intent is worthy, but what about the practicalities? Will the right trees be planted in the right places or will large grant-farming companies send swathes of dense conifer, with little biodiversity value, across our hills? Will areas of permanent pasture or wetland, which may in the long run be better at capturing carbon, be sacrificed? Who will look after the planted trees? I hope someone is addressing such issues.

I have the privilege occasionally to fly low level by helicopter across the British countryside and I marvel at how much of it is still a patchwork quilt of fields, hedges, small copses, woods, moorlands, wetlands and rough grass. That combination—so beautiful and so uniquely British —is a perfect recipe for both biodiversity and carbon capture. It would be a tragedy to smother it with impenetrable forest.

Many years ago, we set aside an area of lawn at Gatcombe to leave uncut, other than a couple of winding paths. We have been rewarded by an annual profusion of wildflowers among the long grass, all self-seeded and different each year, depending on what the weather has suited. Orchids have appeared in steadily increasing numbers; however, this year, most have eschewed the uncut areas and have mainly grown up in the paths. This either shows orchids have a sense of humour or, perhaps more likely, that they find it easier to push through where we have reduced the competition. Now, of course, we cannot mow the paths and I am shouted at if I try to walk along them.

One of the most distinctive features of the Cotswolds is the dry-stone walls. With their varying shades of yellow and grey and their different styles, they frame the landscape and somehow keep it at a human, almost intimate, scale.

Each morning, if it’s dry, I catch up with the man who has rebuilt more than 4,000 yards of our walls over 25 years. He doesn’t work on wet days. I sometimes help with unskilled bits, but my main role is encouragement, exhortation (seldom needed) and gossip.

Living alone, supported by his family, driving alone to the wall, working alone and then returning directly home, he has been able to continue working safely. We chat, at least 6ft apart, letting the wind blow any virus thingies away into the distance between us. He has just finished some 140 yards of wall in a field we rent from the Landmark Trust, which borders the golf club. Heritage, golf and sheep—a fine combination.

Through lockdown, in that wonderful dry April and May, he has been at his task six mornings a week. Impressive dedication—but he is only 89 years old.

#tim laurence #country life #guest edited #princess anne #princess royal #article #my week #just realised that this gives us 'a bit' of insight as to how his 'letters' are probably composed

[iviarellereads]

Nona the Ninth, John 5:4(1)

(Curious what I'm doing here? Read this post! For detail on The Locked Tomb coverage and the index, read this one!)

(No icon) In which it's time to finish this, and get on with the rest of the story.(2)

In the dream they were back on the beach with their backs to the sea. The sand was soft and wet and grey—so fine that it dried as they plucked at it, then crumbled through their fingers like ash. The beach was a long, smooth stretch relieved only by hummocks, here and there, of thin grass and silvery driftwood sticking out of the dunes like exposed bone. He was scooping indentations in the sand, making big, print-block child’s letters with the tip of his forefinger. As she watched, he made a pothook—J—then the finned spine of E. He wiped that E clean, and replaced it with A. He wiped that clean, and he drew the prison bars of H. This J and H he barred around with an uneven heart.(3)

She asks if she can ask a question. He agrees, surprised. She asks what it means to love God. He makes a joke about being an easy date. With less patience, she asks what it means for the Ninth House to love their God.(4) There's a long silence, and then he gives her a short parable about faith that you aren't alone.

She said— “After this, you’ll resurrect them.” “Yes,” he said, as though halfway dreaming. He stuck his finger in the sand and made a hole so deep that water glimmered at the bottom. Hypnotized, he did it again. “Yes. Once we’ve rested. No, we’ll do it before you’ve rested. You can rest afterward … resurrection is different from waking up. We’ll get them all back … some of them, anyway … or at least, the ones I want to bring back. Anyone I feel didn’t do it. Anyone I feel had no part in it. Anyone I can look at the face of and forgive. And my loved ones … The ones I left, I’ll bring back. I know I can. Even G—. In fact, G—’ll be easiest—he won’t remember the compound—none of them will have to remember anything. I know where remembrance lives in the brain, and he won’t have any of it. You know that too, don’t you? It’s the easiest thing in the world … to forget.”(5)

She asks if they should forget everything. He says it's the only way, so they won't feel guilty over their actions. He adds there was no other way, once the bombs started going off, there was no hope for G- and Melbourne anyway. She says, but he said that G-'s bomb went off first. He clarifies defensively that of course it did, but that's not the point, and it doesn't matter. Only one thing matters now. He smooths over the holes he created with his fingers, and says he still breathes, and "they" still exist, and he cannot forgive them.(6) She asks to whom he refers. He doesn't answer.

Then he said, “Do you remember what happens now?” Harrowhark Nonagesimus stood up. She brushed a few traces of sand off her trousers. [...] “Yes,” she said. “Through her, I’ve seen it. You resurrect some of them. You wake up fewer still. You start out with a few thousand, then, later, some hundred thousand, then millions, but never more than millions.(7) You teach them how to live all over again. You teach yourself. [...] It’s easy. You’re God. Your energy is limitless and you can sustain your theorems without a thought—forget about them—because she is so enormous, and you and she are one. She understands at this point that she does not have to die—that she can never die, if you’re alive. And she’s scared to die.(8) You’re afraid of so many things, but she’s only afraid to die. Then, when the disciples come to you and say the word Lyctor, she does not understand that they want the thing you did to her—she watches as you watch … watch them misunderstand the process.”(9)

He says "God must be able to touch all of creation". She doesn't understand.

“You said it yourself. I can’t die if she’s alive; she can’t die if I’m alive. Why would you let something like that run around, Harrow? Why would you let someone go—away from you—untouchable—two people?(10) I couldn’t—I loved them too much—I saw the face of Earth and choked the life out of it and ate it whole. Oh, I knew I was on the clock for the Resurrection Beasts. I pretended she was the only one,(11) but I knew the others were coming. I needed my loved ones to be something I could touch … needed them to be my hands … my fingers.”

He reiterates that there's no forgiveness for those who ran from him, and there can be no forgiveness for himself, either. Not even as he rips off his very fingers and throws them at the monsters who hunt him.(12) Still, the power of God allows him to wipe it clean again, if he wants, like an old cleaner ad, "Spray and walk away, right?" He thinks perhaps the only reason he hasn't done it yet is that he wouldn't be able to touch them.(13) He thinks maybe that's why he made the Tomb, because it's his death, the apocalypse,(14) his self-preservation.

She says there's something she doesn't understand. He says there's lots he doesn't.

She said— “I want to understand why she was angry—I want to understand the mathematics, now that I have seen them for myself. I want to know how many of the Resurrection are left, and how many you began with, and what the discrepancies are. I want to know where you put them. They didn’t go into the River. I want to know why she was angry … and why you were terrified.” She looked away from him, and she said: “I want to journey to find God. Maybe, at the end of that road, I will find God in you, Teacher … the God who became man and the man who became God. Or, perhaps, the child of the Nine Houses will recognise a different divine. But I am the Reverend Daughter—I am the Reverend Mother, the Reverend Father—I must find God, or some aspect of God, and understand it for myself … even if she lies, right now, within the Tomb.”

He stands, and he's taller than she is, but she isn't afraid of him. He puts a hand on her shoulder and looks at her, wonderingly.(15) She can see no fear in him now.

He tells her God is a dream, one the people all dream together, even "her"(16). He asks where she will go in her search.

She turns from him, standing ankle-deep in the River.

Before her, the waters parted, speared-through and mute, for the enormous lance of a tower(17)—a tower that had never been there before; a tower that soared, impossible and deadly grey, out of the waters—a tower of grey bricks, lurching out of the River as though gasping for air. An impossible, cone-capped tower—a belled tower; she could see the steeple, but the bell cot was too far from shore to see the bell. “I’ll start there,” she said. And she stepped into the River. She took another step, and she walked, and she walked.

=====

(1) "And an angel of the Lord descended at certain times into the pond and the water was moved. And he that went down first into the pond after the motion of the water was made whole of whatsoever infirmity he lay under." A difficult passage to find relevance in. Loosely, I suppose, you could say that John's intention to resurrect Gideon again counts as making him whole. Our final A1Z26, though, the full sequence: THE TOWER IS REACTIVATED. The very Tower that Harrow views, here, in the River? What does it mean? Now, at this point, I can tell you that there was at least one report, from someone who got an advanced reader copy of the book, that there was a second A1Z26 sequence. Admittedly, it was just a tweet, which may or may not have disappeared since, but it said that in the ARC version, it read THE TOWER WANTS JOHN GAIUS. I should've been going through and checking the relevant Bible passages for that version, too, as I read… but I'm giving that to you, my readers, as a fun side project. Open the John chapter summaries, pull up a Douay Rheims or any old translation you prefer, and look up the alternate verses. How do they stack up against each chapter's contents? Are they more or less applicable? Honestly a lot of the "final" hardback/ebook version verses are just like astrology or tarot: vague enough that you can find ways to apply them within your biases and expectations. I don't expect that the ARC version would be much different. Though, I am curious if we'll get a third set with the paperback release in a couple of months. (Why yes, I have mine preordered.)

(2) Quite literally, when you consider this used to be the end of Act One of Alecto the Ninth. (3) The ancient tradition of putting your initials with those of your lover. John loves Earth, not quite right. John loves Alecto/Annabel, still not quite there. John loves Harrowhark? Why yes. I don't think this is a literal romantic love, though. I think it's dream-logic, since here, she is both Alecto and Harrowhark. (4) And here, the proof that it was always, on some level, Harrow as much as Alecto. (5) Multiple parts to break down here. For one, he's still mentally stuck in the story, speaking as if he only just ate Earth. Two, he's still making decisions for people he has no right to decide for. Three, this really reinforces my questions as to whether or not the Lyctors remember their pre-Resurrection relationships to him. This seems to imply that he doesn't want them to. (6) Again, he seems stuck in the immediate aftermath of his story, as if it really has only been weeks, as if he hasn't yet performed the Resurrection. Is it just dream logic? Is he insane? (7) I have another theory that he's Resurrected multiple times, I don't think I've mentioned it in the non-spoiler read so far, but here's kind of where it goes. Think back to the opening poem, "This time will be the time we get it right". He knows how to make them forget. He knows how to restore their bodies and minds to a particular point in their lives. There seem to be a lot of hints that he spent more time at Canaan House than the strictest indications of other characters' timelines as given, like Pal's psychometry indicating some pieces are thousands of years older than others. They could just be rescued statues, but the implication all that way back in GtN was that they were two parts of a whole, or seemed to be, but separated in time. There are a LOT of reasons to reread the series and there are a LOT of things that can serve as launching points for theories.

(8) Which brings a whole new depth to Nona's admission. That she's ready to die. Over and over she said it. And now I'm just gonna go crawl into a lil hole and cry for a bit over it. (9) She watches as he lets them misunderstand. As he lets them butcher each other to gain a fraction of what he has. (10) What two people? (11) Acknowledgement that she wasn't really just the Earth's spirit anymore. Alecto was the first Resurrection Beast. Truly, it's a wonder she passed for as human as she did, to make the Lyctors only suspect and not rebel so much sooner. And remember, too, that once it was stated in the text that she started to go crazy after they put down the first RB. (12) He throws the Lyctors at the RBs, and at the BOE, and at anyone who threatens his empire and his power. (13) Wouldn't be able to touch whom? Why would his loved ones not come back to him, especially if he altered their memories? Does he mean that he wouldn't have his present reach into non-House territory? This whole chapter is a damned fever dream. (14) Remember the dual meaning of this one? Yeah. (15) I think this is an intentional dual-meaning again. Wondering as in thoughtfully, but also wondering as in "with wonder(awe)". (16) Alecto, one assumes. (17) And at long last, The Tower... but what could it mean? There's not much time left for answers in this book, and we don't know when the next one's due.

#the locked tomb #tlt #nona the ninth #ntn #nona the ninth spoilers #ntn spoilers #emperor john gaius #harrowhark nonagesimus

[silverior968]

Tfp gijinkas (3/4) The Wreckers :] I ljike them

Post 1 Post 2

[Image ID: A character sheet with two characters on it. On the left is a human version of Bulkhead from Transformers Prime, who is drawn as a fat black man in his early 40s. His hair is dark brown with a single gray streak in it, and tied in a low ponytail. He also has a beard and thick eyebrows. His eyes are dark brown and he is grinning. There are multiple small scars on his face. His outfit consists of a green camo jacket with reinforced black patches on the elbows and shoulders, a black t-shirt with the autobots logo on it, black and gray work gloves, green cargo pants and brown hiking boots. The design notes placed around him read as follows: "For him and Wheeljack I tried to aim for the early 40s ballpark", "he gets a few gray hairs as a treat", "I incorporated the logo into his design as a print on his t-shirt. It ended up looking like a band shirt, which would be a fun AU idea, if slightly worrying (no band should be injury-prone enough to need a surgically trained doctor on constant standby)" "proper sturdy work boots- also suitable for hiking". To his right is a human version of Wheeljack from the same franchise, drawn as a lean white man in his early 40s. His hair is ash-colored and very shaggy. On his head he has a dark brown cowboy hat. His eyes are grey and he has a slightly crooked nose, like it had broken before and never set the same way as it was before. He also has many small scars on his face and is grinning. In addition to his hat, his outfit consists of a white, green and red plaid shirt that's half tucked, a light gray aviator jacket, a dark brown belt with a silver buckle, dark red trousers and dark brown boots. He is holding his hat with one hand. The character design notes placed around him read as follows: "I want to put him in a salad spinner", "this jacket used to be white but it hasn't been washed like ever", "I accidentally made him look too cool so I had to give him the most dripless outfit ever", "I just had to give him a cowboy hat - he probably never takes it off because he's developed hat hair like this". The last note has a small doodle of him without his hat on, showing that the hair at the top of his head is perfectly smooth thanks to the hat. / End ID]

#fanart #transformers prime #tfp #tfp bulkhead #tfp wheeljack #2 more left! #usually I would go on to ramble in the tags but I don't think I have much else to say right now #other than I think these characters are very cool thumbs up #I think it's funny how Wheeljack just showed up on a new planet and everyone was immediately like “stop the cowboy shenanigans” #like he couldn't have known what a cowboy is #right? #so it's like imagine you show up to a new planet and they're like “oh you're such a glorb” #and you're just like “what the hell is a glorb???” #even funnier is that later he starts saying yeehaw so he did his research and decided that that was just his brand #that's funny I think

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Gavin’s S2 R&S - Guilt

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers from an R&S (罪) which has not been released in EN! 🍒

Trigger warning: Bullying, blood and violence

[ ONE ]

Cumulus clouds gather in the grey and murky sky, as though it’s about to rain.

“Ding dong…”

Along with an electronic buzz, the automatic doors of the convenience store slowly shut behind Gavin.

He takes large strides, accidentally stepping into a puddle and causing waste water to splash onto his relatively clean sneakers. He remains indifferent, and his other foot quickly follows after. This time, the bottom of his trousers gets drenched. Just like this, he walks towards his residence. After digging through the pocket of his trousers, he retrieves a key and inserts it into the lock.

Once. Twice. The key doesn’t fit. Gavin grows increasingly frustrated, and his breaths grow heavier.

Splash. The key slips from his fingers and lands on the ground, releasing a crisp sound.

Gavin lowers his head, his vision filled with the old and scratched up key. He has no idea why he still keeps it. Almost everything behind that door had turned into ashes during the fire...

After a long time, Gavin finally picks it up. He retrieves a new key from his pocket. Although their ridges are very similar, the old key no longer has any use.

He refuses to dwell on this any longer. After opening the door with the new key, he walks in. What enters his vision is a dim, spacious and empty living room. Aside from necessary furniture, there’s nothing else.

But he doesn’t mind. This isn’t home. It’s simply a residence that man had provided.

His home had long since been burnt completely by that large fire.

But the moment he returns to this place, Gavin recalls that icy and unaffected expression.

He recalls the first time he pleaded with that man. He recalls the indifference that remained on that man’s expression, as well as the silent manner in which all the guilt was given to him.

“You were too useless! You couldn’t save your mother!”

Gavin should have known from a long time ago that what he tried to grasp was simply a reed floating on the surface of water.

After tossing the fast food he bought from the convenience store into the fridge, he drags his feet towards his room, staring at the only paper box on the table.

He doesn’t have the courage to check what lies inside.

“Little Gav...”

All of a sudden, Gavin seems to hear his mother’s voice. His fingertips quiver involuntarily, and it feels as though a sea of flames is surging into his head like a flood.

The crackling flames are ablaze, as though rolling up thick smoke from the depths of his memory. Piercing crimson fills Gavin’s vision. A black and fragmented figure twists in the surging flames, as though pleading for help. As though consoling him.

In a daze, Gavin takes a step forward, wanting to touch that fragmented figure.

In the next second, the tongues of fire seem to acknowledge his thoughts. They incline to the side, and a pair of eyes devoid of hope stare at Gavin from amidst the flames.

“No...!”

Gavin reaches out frantically, but he grabs the air before crashing onto the ground.

The flames instantly vanish. There’s nothing left. All that’s left is an endless darkness.

He balls up his fists, his voice hoarse while he trembles.

“Mom, I caused your death.”

[ TWO ]

“Hurry, we’re going to be late!”

Noisy shouts enter through the window, causing Gavin to open his eyes numbly.

It’s time to go to school.

Without much thought, he gets up from the ground before following a routine of brushing his teeth, washing his face, and putting on his school uniform.

To him, going to school lost its meaning since a long time ago. Right now, he seems to be compelled by an instinct to complete his mother’s final wish -

“Ahhh, our Little Gav is going to be a high school student soon. Why don’t we have a meal outside today to celebrate?”

Ever since he was small, his mother would always go to great lengths to “celebrate” every milestone of his growth.

Gavin can no longer remember which day it was. He only remembers that the weather was great. He and his mother had a huge feast and talked about how he was going to begin his life in high school. That day, his mother seemed to be exceptionally happy, and she spoke in an unceasing torrent. All of a sudden, Gavin felt that becoming a high school student was truly stepping into a new starting point, and that everything was going to be be different.

-

“Little Gavin, you’ll be a little adult once you start high school. Aside from being a good student, you must also make many friends. And if you meet a girl you fancy, you must definitely tell Mommy about her.”

Gavin choked, looking at his grinning mother with some resignation.

“Stop having that expression all the time. You have to smile more. Otherwise, you’ll scare others away...”

“...Mom.”

He watched as his mother smiled beneath the warm orange dusk while placing the most tender slice of beef into his bowl.

Gavin lowered his head, twitching the corners of his lips unnaturally. Finally, small arcs appeared.

“I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”

-

Everything did become different. That raging fire destroyed everything.

All of the wonderful things and all of the possibilities vanished along with that large fire.

Gavin shuts the fridge forcefully. He tears open the wrapping of a rice ball before stuffing it into his mouth.

“Ding...”

He pauses in his movements, following the sound and looking at the phone on the table - it’s a bank notification, punctual as always.

At this moment, he feels the rice ball he just swallowed churning in his stomach.

He’s unable to understand why that man does such unnecessary things.

Whether it’s this house, or how he’s drifting through his days as a living corpse, he has to rely on that man’s money in order to live. This thought makes Gavin feel incomparably disgusted with himself.

He’s a disappointment in the way he relies on all of this to survive.

He grips his phone fiercely, pushing the door open forcefully and attempting to toss all of his thoughts aside.

-

A thick mist fills the air outside the window, causing the building opposite to be blurry. The resonant sound of students reading aloud doesn’t seem to affect Gavin. He simply stares out the window quietly.

In school, Gavin isn’t willing to talk to anyone, nor does he care about how others view him.

Someone like him seems to be unnecessary in this world. Since he wasn't buried in a sea of flames, it seems as though he wasn’t meant to die. However, it seems as though he wasn’t meant to live either.

All of a sudden, an exam script is placed onto the table in front of Gavin.

He glances at it - it’s the script from the previous exam. The eye-catching failing grade and scarlet markings are extremely evident on the answer script.

The sound of students reading aloud continues to barrage into Gavin’s ears. All of a sudden, he seems to have enough of such noise. He rolls the answer script into a ball before getting up and walking out of the classroom.

At this moment, the impassioned sound of students reading aloud stops for half a second.

It’s finally quiet.

The school bell rings, and Gavin pushes open the iron gate to the roof.

The originally towering building is barely discernible amidst the fog. He lies on his back, staring at the non-existent sky before opening his mouth.

“Mom, I didn’t pass my exam this time. I’m also playing truant right now.”

The air is silent. Not even the sound of wind can be heard.

The world will probably remain this silent forever. With this thought in mind, Gavin closes his eyes.

[ THREE ]

By the time the teacher finds Gavin on the roof, it’s already dismissal time. After giving Gavin a lecture on school regulations, he leaves with a warning and punishment.

“After school, you’re responsible for cleaning the classroom.”

After the dismissal bell rings, only a few people are left in the classroom. Gavin picks up trash from the floor indifferently. But when he walks over to the bin, he realises that trash is spilling out of it.

He looks up and sees that the bin is stuffed with a textbook with the name “Wang Tao” on it.

...why was this thrown away? Gavin frowns, vaguely recalling that Wang Tao is a classmate who doesn’t speak much.

“I’m just asking you to bark like a puppy. It isn't difficult. As long as you do it properly, I’ll forget about the money. After all, we’re all friends. It’s only right to ‘take care of each other’”.

He turns his head, watching as Wang Tao’s face is squished into all sorts of ridiculous shapes by a male student wearing gold rimmed glasses. Wang Tao simply bites his lip without saying anything.

Gavin has seen that boy before. He's the top student from the class next door and his name seems to be “Miao Renjie”.

“Don’t you agree?”

Miao Renjie lifts his hand and is just about to swing it when another hand appears out of the air, interrupting his aggressive action.

“Your textbook.”

Gavin tosses the textbook onto the table before turning around and continuing to sweep the floor. All of a sudden, a foot kicks the broom in his hand away, and a wood splinter leaves a gash on his palm.

“Student, who are you? Are you trying to be a nameless hero?”

Miao Renjie smiles while propping up his glasses, as though he wasn't the one who angrily kicked the broom away earlier.

Gavin doesn’t pay him any mind. After glancing at the shallow welt on his hand, he turns around and picks up the nearby broom. But in the next second, he hears the sound of paper ripping from behind him. Shortly after, crumpled paper balls roll to Gavin’s feet.

“Do you want to clean up that badly? Sure, I’ll satisfy you. If you don’t clean everything up well, you can’t go home.”

Crumpled paper balls from the textbook continue to be thrown onto the ground. The scraps of paper filling the floor seem to be thrown into his tranquil heart, stirring up ripples.

“Pick them up. Why aren’t you moving? I’m talking to you. Are you deaf?”

The noise at his ears fiercely whips up the tension that Gavin has been suppressing for a very long time.

“You're so noisy.”

“What did you say?”

Footsteps draw closer to him. The moment a shadow covers him, Gavin turns around and punches the other person’s face.

At the same time, a pair of gold rimmed glasses are flung onto the ground, causing the lens to shatter.

After a short silence, the smile on Miao Renjie’s face finally disappears. He rubs the corner of his mouth, looking at Gavin ferociously.

“Ahh... I’ve bumped into a maniac. It looks like you won’t pick up the rubbish that I threw unless I speak to you properly.”

While saying this, Miao Renjie punches Gavin in the face.

A heavy and muffled sound echoes in the classroom. Gavin tastes blood in his mouth. He finally looks up, revealing a pair of sharp amber eyes.

The tension that Gavin has been suppressing for a very long time finally snaps.

-

In the evening, the mist gradually dissipates. In the office, the Director of Teaching Affairs is currently discussing how to deal with the rule violators with the teachers-in-charge of two classes.

Gavin is leaning against the wall, occasionally hearing terms related to himself. However, he simply stares at the swollen joints on his hand, feeling the sense of catharsis that letting his fist fly brought him, as well as the deeper sense of emptiness. 

“Gavin! Did you hear that?”

The teacher-in-charge slams the table, his displeasure brimming in his words and actions.

“...”

“From tomorrow onwards, you'll be suspended for three days. You also have to write a self-reflection!”

“Wang Tao, you’ll be let off with a warning this time. Write a self-reflection and ask your parents to drop by.”

“Miao Renjie, you can return home to take care of your injuries with ease. Think over what happened and don’t let this incident disrupt your studies. Okay, you can all leave now.”

The teacher waves his hand impatiently, and the three walk out of the office.

“So your name’s ‘Gavin’? Watch out.”

With this, Miao Renjie walks away. Wang Tao glances at Gavin timidly before walking quickly and vanishing at the stairway. Gavin is the only one left in the empty school. With a fatigued body full of injuries, he walks out of the school gates.

When he returns to his residence, Gavin falls onto the sofa, causing the wounds on his body to hurt from the impact.

He doesn’t frown, but simply mumbles.

“Mom, I got into a fight.”

The empty room offers him neither rebuke nor comfort.

Even so, he lifts his head indignantly, staring at the window which has never been closed.

“MOM! I GOT INTO A FIGHT!”

He raises his voice, repeating what he said. But even after the final word vanishes in the room, his surroundings remain silent.

Nobody will ever care about him again.

Gavin curls himself up, burying his face into his knees.

His tightly balled fists cause his wounds to re-open. Droplets of blood glide onto the floor quietly before solidifying, reminiscent of dried tears.

[ FOUR ]

Three days later, the atmosphere in the classroom changed.

Ever since Gavin returned to school, he could always see people pointing at him. But whenever he met their gaze, they would frantically turn away, pretending that nothing happened.

-

It’s currently physical education class - the last class of the day - and Gavin is leaning against a pillar of the school building, panting after finishing a long run. 

In the next second, a soft sound drifts from the top of his head, causing him to lift his head instinctively. All of a sudden, a massive volume of water drenches his entire frame. Waste water drips from the ends of his hair, blurring his vision.

Gavin opens his eyes, which now has bits of sediments in them, and looks up. Aside from a few stunned students, he doesn’t seem to spot the perpetrator.

He wipes away the waste water on his face, then turns around and heads towards his classroom.

When he steps into the classroom, Gavin watches as a few shocked students rush out. He doesn’t think too much into it, until his footsteps pause.

His textbook has been submerged in a bucket of water, and the bag on his seat has vanished.

Gavin glances in the direction of the bin. Sure enough, he sees his bag lying in it, reeking of a decaying stench.

Despite realising what this means, he isn’t very distressed. He simply picks up the textbook from the bucket of water, shakes it, then tosses it into the drawer. Just as he’s about to leave, a timid voice drifts from the classroom.

“Aren’t you very good at fighting? Why don’t you get even with them?

Gavin looks up towards the sound, and spots Wang Tao sitting in a dim corner, his expression unclear.

“You could beat them up so that they wouldn’t dare to be arrogant ever again...”

Wang Tao’s voice begins to tremble, and there’s an insuppressible anger within it.

“As long as you continue using your fists, you could even beat them to death. That way... we wouldn’t be bullied ever again.”

In the short silence, a hint of anger flashes in Wang Tao’s frail gaze.

“Or is it true when they said that when your mother died, you...”

Before he can finish speaking, Wang Tao is pinned with an icy stare, causing him to tremble involuntarily. He quickly shrinks his neck, once again becoming fearful.

“I-I wasn’t the one who said it. Miao Renjie and the others said it...”

“What did they say?”

“T-they said that you’re so gloomy because... your father doesn’t care about you since you caused your mother’s death... They should still be at the alley near the back gate! You might be able to meet them if you go there now.”

Without any hesitation, Gavin walks out.

Heavy clouds sit in the grey and murky sky, as though a torrential rain is about to arrive.

[ FIVE ]

Pattering rain has just begun to leave ripples in puddles when Gavin’s footsteps disperse them.

He keeps his eyes forward in silence, passing by dark alleys until he sees a bunch of figures. He pauses in his footsteps.

The group seems to notice the movement at the end of the alley, and they turn towards the sound in succession. Miao Renjie, who is standing in the middle, laughs.

“What are you doing here? Picking up rubbish?”

While saying this, he kicks over a trash can, causing a rotting stench to fill the alley.

At the same time, the others surround Gavin silently.

“Pick them up. If you don’t finish picking them up, you can’t go home. Ahhh, but do you still have a home?”

“Apologise.”

Gavin stares at Miao Renjie emotionlessly.

“Apologise? Apologise to your mother!”

One of the boys surrounding Gavin shouts at him while kicking Gavin.

In the next second, fists fly from all directions, landing on Gavin and giving him no chance to catch his breath. But very quickly, he supports himself by the leg and straightens up from amidst the blows, blood on his arms gliding off his fingertips and dripping into puddles.

“Apologise.”

Miao Renjie walks over to Gavin and laughs.

“Why do I have no idea what you’re talking about? Apologise for what?”

Gavin looks up and stares at Miao Renjie.

“Apologise to my mother.”

Miao Renjie is momentarily stunned. But soon after, he laughs even more loudly.

“Gavin, didn’t your mom die in a fire? Why should I apologise to her?”

The moment he finishes speaking, Gavin punches Miao Renjie in the face. The muffled sound of the impact causes everyone’s heart to tremble.

“AHH!!”

While the miserable exclamation is still in the air, Gavin lands another punch on the other person’s chest, and the loud sound of bones cracking can be heard.

Again and again, the sound of muffled blows are clear in the pattering rain.

Someone finally reacts and pulls Gavin away. Various fists once again land on him.

As though letting off steam, Gavin becomes even more swift and violent in his retaliation. The rain grows heavier, and he can no longer tell if the muffled sounds are from the rain or flesh and bones. He simply continues waving his arms until members of the group are defeated and flee one by one. Then, he stops, his expression emotionless.

But he doesn’t feel that it’s enough. Lowering his head, he looks at the person lying on the ground.

“Hey, get up. STAND UP!!”

Gavin screams at the curtain of rain, limping towards Miao Renjie and squatting down before him, lifting him up by the collar.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.”

“I’m... I’m sorry...”

Gavin lets out an icy “hmph”, waving his fist in front of the other person’s face.

“Too late.”

While saying this, he lands another blow. Miao Renjie trembles involuntarily.

“D-don’t hit me anymore. I was wrong. I won’t... I won’t do it again.”

“If you do it again, I’ll come looking for you. Got it?”

As Miao Renjie nods pleadingly and repeatedly, Gavin finally releases him before turning towards the curtain of rain and walking into its depths.

-

After an unknown period of time, Gavin opens his eyes to find that he’s lying on the floor of his residence.

His limbs are completely numb, and he lets the pain from his wounds stab him like knives.

He feels like he’s atoning for a crime.

That is, until an evening breeze enters through the window, brushing him gently.

It’s reminiscent of an embrace, and reminiscent of a sigh.

Gavin freezes. He reaches out, wanting to grab the breeze. But he finds that his palms remain empty.

In the end, he curls up in despair.

“Mom, I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry...”

-

What followed after that rainy evening was a quiet dawn.

None of the teachers looked for Gavin. The participants of the incident seemed to reach a tacit agreement to cover it up.

It seems that in the span of a night, all the students in school reached a common understanding - nobody would dare to mess with Gavin.

Not long after, Miao Renjie transferred to another school. This caused the rumour of that rainy evening to strike even more fear into people’s hearts.

But since then, many hooligans would challenge Gavin. He would simply raise his fists icily towards anyone who came towards him.

In that moment, Gavin thought that his life would continue this way forever - that he would continue muddying through life like this...

As a sinner.

✧ Art inspired by this R&S: here

✧ Comic inspired by this R&S: here

✧ Voiced lines: here

✧ Calls: here

✧ Moments: here

#mlqc #mlqc gavin #mlqc spoilers #mlqc cn #MUCH PAIN

[fabfabanni]

Dungeons & Daddies fic 1/∞ (season 1&2 spoilers)

While I'm thinking if I'd like to keep posting fanfic and where I'd like to post it I might as well share it here. The idea is to write a story about how Grant and Marco met between seasons 1 and 2 of the podcast Dungeons & Daddies. This is Grant's POV. Here goes nothing!

--- It feels like I’m waiting for something. As to what that something is, I have no clue. There’s not much to get excited about nowadays. The red glare of the day is turning into a darker burgundy hue, and all around me, people are getting ready to go home. To families, hobbies, to all kinds of happy sappy mundane things. In theory, that sounds nice, something to go home to. Then again that’s another thing that I would turn to ash just by touching it. 

I pay no mind to the scuffling feet of the other Daddians walking past my office. Not until one pair stops at my door. Tips of sturdy-looking leather boots protrude over the threshold. I bet those are good for running-.

“Hi,” the intruder says, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I drag my eyes from the boots to look at the man speaking. He’s wearing dark grey cargo trousers and a black henley shirt. Practical. His hair is wild and all over the place like mine, but it’s black as opposed to my reddish brown. 

“You’re making me work for it, huh?” There’s a smile tugging at his lips. I’m surprised when I don’t find it annoying. 

“What?” I ask, clearing my throat when my voice comes out a little hoarse.

“I said hi. Aren’t you going to greet me back?” He crosses his arms and leans against the doorframe, seemingly settling in. 

“Who are you?” I continue my questioning and marvel at the juxtaposition between his calm features and the way he talks. 

His brow raises just a hint before he says, “Oof. Grant that’s cold.” He knows my name. Well of course he knows my name, it’s plastered all around the HQ along with the others. Still, him saying it sounds different.

He pushes off the doorframe. I lean back in my chair and watch his approach.

“My name is Marco. We sat together at lunch on Monday. You had meatballs with a salad which I thought was mighty weird.”

That does ring a bell. I look him over once more, trying to make the connection. Marco stands all calm in front of my desk and lets me do just that. Picking up a pen from my desk, he begins to fiddle with it. 

I talk over the clicks of the pen. “Yeah, now I remember.”

Marco stills. His eyes harden for a fraction of a second before he speaks. I wouldn’t have noticed it if I wasn’t looking at him so intently.

“Can I take you out? I’d like to get to know you better,” Marco asks.

Based on his reaction it’s safe to assume I’m gawking at him. 

“I have the night shift,” I say. It’s easier to hide behind duty than to face reality. Not to say that running D.A.D.D.I.E.S is not a huge responsibility. Because it is. But even I have enough self-awareness in this moment to realize what I’m saying is bullshit. 

“Breakfast then? I know a place.” His hands land softly on the desk as he speaks. The pen he’s been clicking rolls over the papers and stills next to my phone. I fix my eyes on it and think what I should do. The issue isn’t that I wouldn’t want to go. The point is I shouldn’t. Too much is happening with the projected incursion points and I can’t be distracted.

“It would be my treat,” Marco continues. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I say honestly. 

“Why is that?” 

That catches me off guard. I thought he would take the rejection and back off. That’s how it often goes, this dance. They come and say I have pretty eyes or they ask about my beard. Betting me they can make me smile is a classic too. It’s usually my cue to finish my drink and get out of the bar my dad runs as a hobby with Uncle Ron. 

“I’m not very good company.” There, that should scare him off.

“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” Marco circles the desk and wipes away the reports I was planning to file next. He sits on the desk, bumping his ankles against the wooden side.

“What are you doing?” I ask. With him this close I can see his cargo trousers are well worn, and something is peeking out of the thigh pocket. A book, possibly. He smells comforting somehow, and I hate how much I like that. 

“Are you saying no because you’re not interested?” He makes a show looking me up and down like I did to him. My clothes are the same day in and day out, one decision I’m glad I don’t have to make. At my condo, I have a pile of blue jeans, next to a heap of black t-shirts. I’m like Donald Duck in that sense, but at least I wear pants. My uncle is rich though and he has a weird history with trousers, so I guess the connections don’t end with the lack of variety in my outfits.

“No,” I find myself admitting. “I am. Interested.”

“Good,” Marco muses. “Then it’s settled. I’ll come pick you up in the morning and we’ll go get pancakes.”

He stands up but doesn’t make a move to leave. He’s waiting for me to respond. There’s no urgency in his posture, and I wonder what that must feel like. To be that chill. I am so tightly wound that most of the time it feels like I could burst. I want to study this man and see what he’s made of. See if he really is like the true sunshine we’ve not seen for years, or if all of this is a clever front.

“Fine. But I have a feeling you’ll regret it,” I finally get out.

Marco chuckles, then walks backwards to the door. 

“Good night, Grant,” he murmurs before he disappears to the flow of people going home. It takes me a while to remember what I was doing before he came in. The reports are a mess across my desk, confidential documents I shouldn’t have let him see. 

The thing I find most confusing is why Marco came to me. I’m not going to humour myself and think I have a good reputation at the company. Everyone knows I’ll bite if they get too close. My temper is like a badly trained chihuahua crammed into the body of a tibetan mastiff. Way too much firepower wrapped into something that can do a lot of damage. And damage I have done, enough to know there’s no going back. 

I take my gun and holster from the drawer and fasten it to my hip. Next comes the bulletproof vest. It’s hung under my desk like this is an aeroplane, and putting it on will save my life if we crash. It will not. I pile the handwritten papers messily on top of each other and cram them into the safe. Analog is the only safe way to go about this mission. 

I close the door behind me and go see the whale.

#dungeonsanddaddies #fanfiction #grantwilson #marcoliwilson #dndads