#but i let myself really sink my teeth into this as a reward for shipping a huge product on time

[majorbaby]

hello I would like to hear your thoughts on himbo trapper

Thank you for the question! it's a long one: TL;DR: I don’t hate himbo Trapper, sometimes I even enjoy it, but I think it’s a shallow interpretation and I’m a bit defensive of him because I think there’s plenty of evidence in the source to support a reading of him as being intelligent. Also I blabbed on about some of the other popular fanon characterizations of him that I see as being similarly flat.

On its face, i’m a fan of the himbo trapper concept and i see where it comes from:

He can’t play solitaire

Hawkeye: “You big, dumb strong silent types”

And imo, the strongest piece of evidence: when it comes to shenanigans/schemes, if he’s not the straight brawn to hawkeye’s brain (requiem for a lightweight), it’s always the case that hawkeye that comes up with the plan and trapper who helps him execute it - too many examples to name because this is practically every single episode they appear in 

And for fun, I’m fine with the stereotype because on the whole, it’s meant to be a positive thing. We have women to thank for taking a masculinized version of the term ‘bimbo’ - which has always been a pejorative hurled at women who are conventionally hot and therefore ‘stupid’, sexually promiscuous or just enticing to men - and immediately elevating it to the point where it’s not just seen as positive, it’s seen as highly desirable. A himbo will treat you right and won’t manipulate you, while also being a hot piece of ass - imo Trapper fits some of that criteria on screen but tbf, he’s also cheating on his wife and I think we’re meant to assume that she’s unaware of that, which I think is somewhat manipulative of him. Idk, I don’t have enough information about that. 

But there’s a few pieces of his characterization that are in direct conflict with the himbo archetype - as a society I think we value STEM a lot, so there’s this general idea that people in the medical field are ‘smarter’ than your average person but at the same time fatphobia, racism, ableism and misogyny are still rampant in medical settings leading to entire populations receiving sub-par care so… I don’t think you must accept that doctor = an intellectual in general. There’s different ways to be smart! Your having gone to medical school clearly doesn’t exempt you from being a critical consumer of all the medical texts you’ve read and being able to situate them in a socio-economic and political context when providing care. 

All of this to preface my saying that: he’s a surgeon. He’s at least intelligent enough in one way to be a surgeon and a good one at that, while recognizing that that isn’t the only thing I’m basing my argument on. 

He’s emotionally intelligent:

In Ceasefire he has the opportunity to gloat about his being right about there being no end to the conflict after having been openly doubtful the whole episode, but he knows that it’s not the time and he even encourages Hawkeye to remain optimistic – a truly  brainrot-inducing moment (affectionate) if there ever was one

Operation Noselift he’s just as earnest as Hawkeye trying to get Private Someguy (id remember his name) to accept himself as he is without going under the knife

Check-up don’t even talk to me about Check-up!!! Trapper could’ve accepted “you let me lean on you” as is. I mean, I think they both know what Hawkeye means by that and so do we the audience but I think his “What?” is making space for Hawkeye to be Hawkeye and spill his guts about his feelings because that is what Hawkeye needs; he does the same with Margaret, albeit while she is drunk off her ass, later on in the episode which is a nice moment for them because she reveals something (she’s playing house with Frank because he’s around) that I don’t think she’s ready to accept for herself, but Trapper listens to her. 

Bombed which gave me Trapper/Margaret brainrot, yeah he starts off hitting on her but he stops when she asks him too and he still picks up that she needs comfort, makes her laugh and reassures her that he’s coming from a good place. That is what I get from his suggestion that they cuddle and I think Margaret does too because she accepts. 

Kim - we learn he can be emotionally vulnerable even with his wife who, up til this point, is represented as something of a thorn in his side at worst, an ambiguous off-screen figure at best. 

These are some of the examples that stand out to me but there are many examples of his good bedside manner and empathy that he freely extends to one-off characters like Young-Hi and George. 

He’s pretty much toe-to-toe with Hawkeye in terms of witty dialogue, it’s just that he doesn’t often get the last word nor the spotlight. The role of the Trapper character is that of a follower to Hawkeye’s lead in their comedic and heroic scenes. Like if he comes off as being not quite as smart as Hawkeye (which I wouldn’t say is the case) then I think it’s a matter of their being deuteragonist and protagonist respectively, and the show playing up the ‘best surgeon in the army’ angle for Hawkeye in part as a way to save him from being disciplined for insubordination multiple times. 

And finally, I think it’s worth mentioning that at the onset of American involvement in the Korean War, the American public was generally supportive. That support eroded over time but I do think that the American government, in the 50s and also to this day, goes to significant lengths to circulate pro-war propaganda and convince its citizens that war is only way. During the Gelbart years (S1-4) there was strong, consistent anti-military messaging that extended to critique of traditional masculinity in general – this frequently manifests in how Trapper and Hawkeye are positioned on moral high ground vs. Frank, Margaret and the military. So like, Trapper was a part of all that. He was, at the very least, in league with the popular ACAB Hawkeye, Queer Hawkeye and general Rabble Rouser Hawkeye that are favourites of the fandom – I think it takes a certain degree of intelligence, whether emotional or intellectual, to resist and undermine state propaganda, especially at your own personal expense. And I’m giving that to Trapper because he was around when the show was aware of itself being specifically anti-US-imperialism, rather than just generally anti-war or even anti-death later on - which isn’t ‘less smart’ it’s just more vague and there’s less of a specific effort made by the state to brainwash citizens into thinking otherwise. There is a moment where Trapper appears to betray his moral and political (i’m using ‘political’ very loosely here) leanings when he goes to (presumably) kill the soldier in Radar’s Report but that is by far the exception not the rule and furthermore I’m not saying that people who are duped by the state and/or corporate entities into buying into the cycle of violence are “stupid” but I do think you have to actively fight against such indoctrination and one of the ways of doing that, aside from just being a compassionate person, is by learning to think critically for yourself. And I’m assuming Trapper has done one or both because he is as consistent as Hawkeye is in living those values. It helps that they have good chemistry and they’re bored and sticking it to the army is fun for them but imo they go pretty far sometimes just ‘for fun’. 

So, Trapper is a technically competent surgeon, is emotionally intelligent and has come to reject some of the values that are pretty well ingrained in the society he’s grown up in. I don’t hate himbo trapper but I don’t think he’s stupid. Far from it. 

Here are my less objective thoughts on the himbo trapper phenomenon and also have some straightforward trapper defense squad messaging: I’m generally interested in pointing out trends in fandom, although I admit that my tolerance for content I don’t vibe with has lessened significantly the more time I’ve been active in mash fandom (we’re coming up on one year of straight obsession) – but from what I can remember about the popular, general portrayals of Trapper in fandom that I don’t see as having much footing in the canon: he’s a himbo, he broke Hawkeye’s heart, he’s homophobic (HATE), he’s hypersexual, he can be violent, he ‘doesn’t do feelings’, he’s not good with words… everyone is entitled to their opinion but the more I reflect on Trapper, the more I watch his episodes, the more I’ve come to question a lot of these interpretations. I’ve already talked about him being a himbo, I’m not convinced he broke Hawkeye’s heart any more than Kyung-Soon or Carlye and I am certain it’s not intended to be a romantic breakup, he’s in league with Hawkeye in George – I’m not telling you what you can and can’t indulge in but, yk Hawkeye actually has a line to the effect of ‘i live with two dudes don’t call me a fairy’ and that’s got way more of a no-homo vibe to it than anything Trapper ever says. 

He’s not any more sexual than Hawkeye is, not even because he has a big dick. Hawkeye and BJ both throw punches at some point and I also wouldn’t argue that that makes them ‘violent’ in general, but Trapper who doesn’t do it at all is the violent one. There are plenty of ways to be vulnerable and forthcoming and emotional without spilling your guts and anyway anyone could read as repressed when you hold them up next to Hawkeye Pierce. An emotionally repressed man could not extend an olive branch to Frank Burns nor could he write his wife an earnest letter in the hopes that he will be able to adopt and raise an orphan child nor could he be shown to have such a clear investment in outcomes during the episodes where there’s no clear, tangible goal to Hawkeye’s schemes. 

This has turned into a critique of some of the more uncharitable interpretations of the character, on the list of which ‘himbo’ isn’t really all that bad. But I still think it flattens his character somewhat, like all these other interpretations do, and I can easily pick out a few examples of his canonical portrayal which challenge it. So while I’m not denouncing it completely because I think it can be fun and in the grand scheme of things, people can like whatever they want to like, I am sometimes inclined to gently push back on it. 

#it just so happens to be #trapper tuesday #but i let myself really sink my teeth into this as a reward for shipping a huge product on time #trapper john mcintyre #mash #meta #trapper meta #majorbaby.txt #replies

[sitp-recs]

Do you know of any fics under 10k that aren’t too angsty? ❤️

Hi anon, I most certainly do! Thanks so much for sending this ask, I was super excited when I saw it because I’m always happy to celebrate short fics - they could use more appreciation! I’ve wanted to do a proper shorts reclist for a while so I indulged myself and went big, hope you don’t mind! Putting this together was quite hard - going through my bookmarks I realized that I usually go for angsty shorts 💀 so I tried my best not to include anything too extreme, I hope these are okay!

This became a lil monster with 40 recs (and I have lots more hehe) so I decided to sort them by genre - the last category includes light angst (more on the contemplative side) because I can’t help myself. Shout-out to @tackytigerfic for giving me a 2nd opinion and helping me polish this - and for being a darling in general. Happy readings!

ROMANCE/COMFORT

1. Sun Stroke by @peachpety (2020, E, 3k)

Warm, sexy and wholesome, this fic makes my heart soar with the magical beach setting, amazing friendship dynamics and the sweet get together with a delicious side of smut!

2. oxygen [Fic & Art] by @maesterchill (2020, T, 4k)

Tentative acquaintances become something more over a shared smoke at the balcony. Sexy, mature, deliciously atmospheric and full of promise - plus Healer Draco is always a treat!

3. Catch the Snitch (No, Catch My Heart) by @prolix- (2020, E, 4.5k)

Gorgeous bath fic where Harry and Draco just... take care of each other. The raw emotion packed here! Lush and vivid build up with stunning body worship, hot and intimate and breathtaking.

4. Thermodynamic Equilibrium by DorthyAnn (2017, T, 5k)

This quiet comfort fic gives our boys some well deserved healing through physical touching and late night companionship. Love the 8th year atmosphere, soothing and familiar.

5. Blue Sky Is Living Here Today by ignatiustrout (2018, G, 5k)

The loveliest kid fic you’ll see today - real characters, gentle longing, soft understanding. It’s a joy to watch dad Draco through Harry’s smitten eyes, as he realizes there’s no rush to live that love.

6. Gravity Centered by @carpemermaidtales (2019, E, 6.7k)

Possibly my favorite Quidditch fic, this has an original premise and amazing Drarry dynamics, casual and organic, sassy and familiar, with a perfect lil twist at the end!

7. Up The by @shiftylinguini (2018, E, 7.5k)

One of the funniest PWPs I’ve ever read, clever and charming with easy banter and delicious smut. A sweet and sexy glimpse into the Drarry married life! Cw Mpreg

8. And a Malfoy in a Pear Tree by lauren3210 (2015, E, 8k)

Sweet sweet coffee shop Christmas romance! Love the light and fun atmosphere, the easy banter and cute wooing while supportive Ron cheers in the background, what a treat!

9. Ice Snakes, Glow-worms and Wolverine Stew by khalulu (2015, M, 8.4k)

Khalulu writes the softest Drarry, it never fails to put a smile on my face. This has a gentle and sweet get together, with lovely slow burn, a gorgeous San Francisco setting and matchmaker Kreacher 💗

10. Life goes not backward by @shealwaysreads (2020, T, 8.8k)

This delicate comfort fic has a special way to tug at my heartstrings - a gorgeous tale about found family and the unexpected wonders of life. Gentle, magical and breathtaking in its simplicity.

HUMOUR

11. in charge by @bonesliketambourines (2020, E, 2.4k)

The ultimate brat Draco, bossy and confident and absolutely gorgeous with his long hair and impossible snark. Charming and funny, this packs so much character and domestic bliss under 3k! Perfect spoiled Draco is perfect.

12. The Morning After by birdsofshore, capitu (2015, M, 5.3k)

This is hysterical and so delightfully creative - Draco exploring Harry’s kitchen and charming a prudish appliance is the kind of cute, silly endeavor I need with my morning coffee!

13. The Spoiling of Sex From Enthusiastic Ignorance by @cibeewastaken (2020, E, 6k)

I’m impossibly enamored with Cibee’s drama queen Draco and his passionate missions! This time he’s decided to get some good diq, and the dialogue and mutual pining will make you smile from beginning to end.

14. All Tied Up by MyNameIsThunder (2020, M, 6k)

This is a secret relationship delight! Sneaking around gets so much better when dramatic Blaise is losing his shit to protect the Council of Serpents’ integrity! A+ faux-drama, super fun and sweet.

15. Luckiest Fucking Size Queen Alive by @l0vegl0wsinthedark (2016, E, 6.2k)

My favorite brand of thirsty and chaotic Draco; being inside his mind is such a crazy ride and you won’t stop laughing for a second. Amazing dialogue and insanely scorching smut as per loveglows’ usual 🤤

16. Sex Ed for Aurors by curiouslyfic (2010, M, 8.7k)

This is a Harry triumph, so fun and charming! Here he’s the one chaotic and thirsty, for a change - I’m obsessed with his internal ranting under the lust potion. Brilliant narrative and top notch characterization, a classic!

17. Ferocious Determination, Insufficient Deliberation, and a Slightly Wrong Destination by Faith Wood (2012, E, 9.5k)

Drunk Draco has never been so absurd and I LOVE it! This goes from hilarious to vulnerable and sweet in a heartbeat; pining Draco is a precious thing and Harry’s gentle persistence made my heart swell.

18. Stand Back: I'm About to Perform Archaeology by Blowfish_Diaries (2018, E, 9.7k)

This fic could definitely use more appreciation - I had a blast with Draco’s hilarious voice and their cute married banter! The plot is quite original and I love the 8th year domestic vibes.

19. The Full Monty by @magpiefngrl (2017, E, 9.8k)

The calendar fic we deserve 👏🏻 this is ultimate thirsty Draco being completely obliterated by Harry’s casual attractiveness but mostly by his kind heart and big smile. One of my favorite comfort reads, hilarious, sweet and so damn sexy, the full monty combo is here!

20. Aural Gratification by birdsofshore (2014, E, 10k)

This fic is a classic, charming and hysterical with an adorable Harry thirsting over Draco’s smooth voice. Such an original concept and engaging read, not to mention the rewarding shade of smut!

SMUT

21. Tense by Faith Wood (2013, E, 3k)

Me, reading smut for the dialogue? It’s more likely than you think 😂 this fic is hilarious and hot all at once, with perfect banter and clever dialogue, really a smut triumph!

22. Under Your Skin by @p1013 (2020, Explicit, 4k)

Great premise and the sexiest build up, ugh so much teasing and anticipation as pierced Draco takes Auror Harry’s control away 🔥kudos at the A+ twist and promising ending!

23. The Slytherin Urn by @icmezzo (2015, E, 4.6k)

This fic’s geniality slaps me in the face, what a fascinating concept! Redemption kink and magical theory walk together as Harry loses his mind over competent Draco doing some badass curse-breaking ritual.

24. Once Bitten by Frayach (2012, E, 5.6k)

Still one of the hottest things I’ve ever read, lush and raw and absolutely breathtaking. Dark and tender at once, it explores biting kink with unapologetic precision and I love that!

25. Matched Set by astolat (2016, E, 5.7k)

One of my faves by the genius astolat, this is a perfect mix of hot size kink, A+ dirty talk and a brilliant and nuanced plot showing how Harry navigates his post-war reality. A must-read!

26. Teeth by @amelior8or (2020, E, 6k)

This fic is an emotional rollercoaster and goes from light-hearted and casual to vulnerable and tender in a second. Hot and intimate feat scorching wall sex, gut-punching lines and enthusiastic consent🔥

27. Born Slippy by @dracoladon (2020, E, 8.3k)

My favorite clubbing fic ever, clever and sensual, a master class in UST including the drunk haze confusion and panty kink as a treat! I can’t even talk about this fic without blushing 😳

28. The Page Eleven Wars by fireflavored (2010, E, 8.5k)

Competitive boys fighting for dominance both in bed and at the gossip column’s first page This is peak enemies to lovers: witty banter, hot smut screaming switching rights and feisty stubborn idiots finally getting over their asses.

29. The Things They Never Say by @bixgirl1 (2017, E, 9k)

Angry porn with (many) feels, this feels like a punch to the solar plexus. The explosive Drarry chemistry gives way to something quieter and gentler and full of longing, ugh but it aches so good. Absolutely exquisite!

30. Sweet Indulgence by @the-sinking-ship (2020, E, 10k)

The title says it all; this is a lush and charming read, with chaotic but nuanced Draco pining over authoritative, edgy Harry 😳 steaming pent up tension that culminates in glorious semi-public smut, is your body ready?

CONTEMPLATIVE/SOFT ANGST

31. Sharing a Pack by sugar_screw (2016, E, 2.7k)

A fully fleshed-out love story in less than 3k, with complex characters and powerful feels. Raw, poignant and unbelievably romantic.

32. Still Life by orphan_account (2019, M, 3k)

A superb and gut-punching story where Harry realizes all the little things that make Draco so very different from him - and falls in love anyway. Powerful in its simplicity and concise elegance.

33. Harmony (Left-Handed Melody Remix) by mindabbles (2010, M, 5.8k)

Draco finds his way post-war and Harry meets him in the middle. Aching and bittersweet but also hopeful, with a delicious side of coconut cake, Harry in black robes and Romeo & Juliet as soundtrack.

34. Let Me Have You and I'll Let You Save Me by Frayach (2012, M, 6k)

Enemies to lovers deluxe version! Come and feast on this original narrative, amazingly clever, rich and detailed, telling us an unlikely but inevitable love story.

35. A Pain of Our Choosing by @lqtraintracks (2020, E, 6k)

Broken boys fucking through their issues and healing together during the post-war is so my jam! A+ LQT goodness, this fic is evocative and quietly devastating, but full of feels and hope.

36. Our Little Life by @tackytigerfic (2020, M, 7k)

I’ve screamed about this brilliant fic recently; inventive, poignant and utterly romantic, this fic shows all the ways in which Harry and Draco find each other across space and time.

37. the keys to your kingdom by thistle_verse (2016, E, 7.5k)

A beautiful love story packing an impressive amount of character, conflict and emotion. We are invited to witness as work partners Harry and Draco finally take a leap of faith and grow out of their casual arrangement.

38. Clear As Mud by scoradh (2005, M, 9.8k)

Subtle and heart-wrenching, the sharp and clever narrative creates fascinating dynamics between this brilliantly written Draco and poor oblivious Harry trying to make sense out of it. An all-time fave. Cw: infidelity (not Drarry).

39. fine i'll hold my breath / til i forget it's complicated by teatrolley (2015, E, 10k)

Fucks buddies gone wrong but make it soft so we get to watch as pining Draco patiently waits for Harry to get the memo. Sweet and intimate, with lots of late night talks and comfortable silence.

40. Tidings of Comfort series by @blamebrampton (2012, G, 10k)

Quietly cathartic and atmospheric, this fic is a poignant balm to the soul; such a beautiful tone, such lovely interactions! A must-read for those who enjoy church settings, honest talks and redeemed Draco. All-time fave.

#anon #asks #drarry reclist #short fics #fics under 10k

[brandyllyn]

Ghosts of Girlfriends Past

Poe Dameron / f!reader [no use of y/n]

Summary: You help Poe get over his lost love.

Alternatively: Poe takes melodrama to a whole new level during what was supposed to be a fun little 'strangers meeting’ role-play.

Part of the "Goofballs in Love" Series of One-Shots: The Scoundrel’s Reward, Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, Flexibility (noun), Give me my sin again, Writing on the Wall

My Masterlist

Words: 2600 (Read it on AO3.) [complete] Rated: Explicit Warnings: established relationship. roleplay. masturbation (m), oral (m receiving). dirty talk. PiV sex. alcohol. talk of entirely fictional (even in-universe) death.

Another successful mission. Every X-Wing had made it back safely and despite some rough going, there had been no major injuries either. It was a good night, a night to celebrate. You sipped at the fermented drink someone had handed you - maybe a type of cider? - and scanned the dining hall. Most people were celebrating in groups, occasionally splitting off into pairs.

Your gaze was caught on him. Poe Dameron. Hero of the Day. Sitting by himself at a table in the corner. As you watched, another pilot made their way over before being waved on. Grinning, you took a sip of the cider and slid onto the bench next to him, straddling it so you could face him easily.

"Looking for some company?"

Poe tilted his head back and took a gulp of his own drink. "I suppose so."

Not a great start but you could work with it. "What’s a handsome man like you doing drinking here all alone?"

"My girlfriend died," he said with a small sigh and you choked on your drink.

"What?"

A heavier sigh, "It was very tragic. It was during the fight, she refused to follow orders… crashed her ship."

Your gaze narrowed and you glared at him. "That sounds horrible," you gritted out between clenched teeth.

"Yes, it was. Love of my life. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to enjoy the touch of another’s hands."

You rolled your eyes so hard they actually hurt, tucking your face away to hide your expression. Clearing your throat you turned back to him and put your hand high on his thigh. "That would be such a shame, a fine man like you?"

He made a melodramatic little noise, staring wistfully into the distance. "It would be wouldn’t it? Such a shame."

You dug your fingers into the meat of his thigh, hearing him give a little yelp. His eyes on you were accusing and you blinked back at him innocently. "Is that maybe something I could help you with?"

"I don’t know," another sigh, his hand covering yours and moving it a little higher, "she was very special. I’m not sure anyone else could compare."

"Oh?" You lean one arm on the table. "What was so special about her?" If he was going to play this ridiculous game you could at least get some compliments out of it.

"She was beautiful, of course," he said in return, giving you a once over. "And funny."

"Sounds delightful," you smiled.

He nodded. "Yeah, and all she ever wanted to do was suck my cock."

You choked on air this time, turning away and covering your mouth with one hand. "I’m sorry?" You gasp out.

Poe heaved a loud sigh. "Day and night, it was all she ever wanted. 'Poe' she’d tell me, 'Poe I would die a happy woman if I could die with your cock in my mouth.' It’s so sad she didn’t get to go out that way."

You were struggling to hide your reaction, hand still covering the bottom half of your face as you alternated looking at him and everywhere but at him. "Tragic," you managed to stammer.

"Very," his hand caressed the back of yours again before sliding it even higher so you were cupping the warm bulge of him beneath his pants. "There’s only so much I can do for myself…"

You squeezed him lightly. "Poor thing," you leaned toward him so you could whisper in his ear, "my place isn’t far. Why don’t I see if I can help you forget for a little while."

His eyes were wide and earnest when he turned to look at you. "Really? You’d do that for me?"

You nodded in return, standing up and holding a hand out for him. He took it, leaving behind his drink as he followed you out of the dining hall and down the corridors leading to your quarters. You punched the code in quickly, tugging him inside.

"Why don’t you show me what you do for yourself?" You said, sinking into a chair across from the bed. He stood there for a second, brows drawn down in confusion.

"What?"

You waved him away from you, towards the bed. "You said there was only so much you can do for yourself, so why don’t you show me that and I’ll see if I can help."

You could see that his lips pursed for a second, trying to figure out your game. Cautiously he sat on the edge of the bed facing you. "You want me to…" he trailed off cocking his head to the side.

"I want you to touch yourself," you supplied with a smile. You leaned forward, propping your elbows on your knees. "I want you to stroke your cock and show me what you enjoy. I can’t help you if I don’t know what you’re doing wrong."

His lips parted as you spoke and his hands were moving before you even finished. Ripping the velcro of his flight suit open, unzipping it and shoving it down around his hips, pulling at his underwear until his cock was free. He was only half hard but he wrapped his fist around himself without hesitation, sliding down to the base of him and then back up to the tip in one slow movement.

You pulled the chair close, the sound of the legs on the floor jerking his eyes to yours.

"I can’t see from over there," you said simply. Your knees were touching his now, your head leaning forward even further into his space. You placed your hands on his thighs, pushing them apart ever so slightly. He stroked himself again and you made a tsking noise.

"Well I can see the first problem." Your hand reached for the one he is holding himself with and he lets go instantly, allowing you to bring it closer to you. "You don’t have any lubrication."

Slowly you snaked your tongue out and licked his palm, staring into his eyes. Then, one by one, you drew each of his fingers into your mouth, sucking on them for a minute before moving to the next. His eyes went cloudy with lust, fluttering shut even as his mouth dropped open just a touch. His chest was heaving by the time you were done and pressed his hand back down to his lap.

"Try it now." He did, instantly grabbing his now-hard cock and stroking it fast, hand slick with your saliva. He groaned and you smiled, stroking his forearm with a light touch. "Isn’t that better?"

"Much," he grunted. His hand was moving quicker, his eyes watching you watch him.

"Hmm," you tapped his thigh and he stopped his motion.

"What?"

"I still can’t see very well," you stood up, pushing the chair back with your feet and then lowering yourself to your knees between his thighs. Your hands were on him, thumbs caressing where his legs meet his hips. "Oh that’s better. Please continue."

You knew he could feel your breath on him, knew both because you could see the shudder that went through him and because you were purposefully blowing across his hand. He’d slowed down, his fist languidly passing over the taut flesh of his cock, stopping to squeeze the head.

"Close your eyes," you said, glancing up to see that he complied. "Tell me what you think about when you’re doing this."

Poe grunts, biting his lip. "I think about her. The way she looked when she had her lips around me. How beautiful and filthy she sounded when I fucked her mouth. What you look like when you’re on top of me, how I look buried inside of you."

You don’t point out his mistake, just lean forward and lick across the head of his cock. A curse flew from his lips, his other hand digging into the back of your head.

"Fuck, do that again," he whined.

You shook your head, gently grabbing his wrist, "Try the other hand now."

He switched immediately, taking his cock in his left hand. His movements were less smooth this way, but you noticed the way his hips had begun to arch beneath his own touches. Gently, so as not to warn him, you shifted forward and took the head of his cock between your lips while he was on a downstroke. You felt the burst of wetness immediately, precum staining your lips and you licked it away with a soft hum.

"Fucking hells," he groaned. He had been resting his right hand on his thigh but he slipped it behind your neck, holding your mouth steady to the small movements of his hips. You felt his fingers massage against you, the clench of them when you sucked gently on the head of his cock.

"Woman you’re going to kill me," he grunted and you smiled, sinking your mouth down further. Taking a comfortable amount between your lips and relying on him to stroke the rest.

You felt him glide against your tongue, the taste and feel of him filling your senses. Pulling back, you licked around the head of him, heard him curse and stop his strokes. Pulling away you raised an eyebrow and he gave you a lopsided smile and a shrug.

Winking, you used his thighs as leverage to stand up, unfastening and unzipping your flight suit and shrugging out of it, pushing it past your hips and stepping out of it. Your plain white panties and tank might as well have been the most expensive lingerie from Coruscant if the way his eyes were devouring you were any indication. You pushed on his shoulders and he fell back on the bed, his cock sticking up from the mess of his clothes obscenely.

You encouraged him to scoot back with a tap of your fingers, then straddled his stomach. Reaching behind you, you swiped your thumb over the head of his cock and brought the gathered moisture to your lips. "I can see why she loved this so much."

"Who?" he asked with a strangled noise.

"Your girlfriend."

"My what?" Oh bless, he’d already forgotten. His face was so befuddled you had to bite back a laugh.

Leaning forward you cupped his face in your hands. "You know, the one who died."

He jerked underneath you and then suddenly grinned. "Oh yeah. Her. I’m very sad about it." He stuck out his bottom lip for emphasis and you nipped it before sitting up.

"I can tell," you shifted your hips back so he pressed up against you, hard and hot. "You must miss her so much."

His fingers were twisting into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side so he could press himself to the heart of you. "I do. I miss her every day. She had the tightest, hottest, wettest-" whatever was going to end the sentence was cut off by his low groan when he slid inside of you.

You arched you back, feeling him slip in deeper. Maker how you loved how he felt, every inch of him stretching you, filling you. Like he was made for you specifically. Or you for him. The hows and whys of it didn’t matter very much when he was inside you. Just the hard length of his cock filling you until you could swear you felt it in the back of your throat.

Several seconds ticked by while you sat there, unmoving, just relishing how his cock felt inside of you. You felt him shift, saw his mouth open to ask you a question and you squeezed around him with every ounce of strength you had. Watched as his words were cut off into a strangled shout and his hips jolted up into yours.

"Could your girlfriend do that?" You asked with a smirk.

"She never," Poe’s eyes were glassy, "unf, she never did that."

You leaned down until your lips caressed his ear. Clenching again you whispered, "Liar."

His laugh rumbled through you, his arms wrapping around you and holding you tight while he began to thrust his hips up into yours. He turned his head so he could capture your mouth, running his tongue along the seam of your lips and then pressing inside. Everything was hot and wet and slick. You bodies writhing against each other. Your arms were wrapped around his head, fingers digging into his dark curls.

"Oh fuck Poe," you whined, grinding your hips down on him. "I need…"

"I know what you need darling," he whispered back, licking your lips and forcing one of his hands between your bodies. There was no room for finesse, just the rough slide and pressure of his fingertips on your clit and his cock inside you and you came in a blinding flash of white that left you dazed and disoriented. You could hear him vaguely, the hot pant of his breath on your cheek while he pumped upwards and then shuddered.

You held each other through it, held each other until your heartbeats began to slow down and you huffed out, "I can’t believe you killed me off," trying to catch you breath as you collapsed next to him.

Poe grinned, rolling and propping himself up on one elbow, his hand sliding up your side, his own breaths still strained. "I thought you’d like that."

You pursed your lips, "In a fucking crash too?"

He kissed just beneath your jaw and rubbed his nose to your cheek. "Don’t forget the disobeying orders part."

"Oh, I remember that part - don’t you worry." You turned on your side as well, propping yourself up in the mirror image of him. "Did you mean it?"

"Mean what?" His hand was on your hip, tracing little circles.

"What you said."

"Which part," he raised an eyebrow. "The part about you being beautiful and funny?"

You smiled at him and opened your mouth but snapped it closed at his next words.

"Or the part about you loving to suck my cock?"

You punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I can’t believe you’d use that against me. And I don’t love it that much."

He rubbed his shoulder with a frown, pouting. "Oh come on, let a man dream would you?" He pulled you close, nuzzling into your neck. "So what part did you mean?"

"When you said…" but you think better of it. You weren’t really sure you wanted the answer.

But he was too observant for you, "No, wait. Don’t do that. Tell me."

Taking a deep breath you finally say it, "About me being the love of your life?"

Poe froze, his hand on your hip digging in for just a second. Then he huffed a little laugh and smiled. "Yeah, actually. Yeah I did." He pulled away to look in your face. "You know I love you."

You nod. "Yeah, but the whole 'love of my life' thing is new."

He shrugged, "To you maybe." He snuggled down against you, drawing your body tight to his. "Not to me."

Minutes passed as you enjoyed each other, hands roaming along skin and your breaths falling into pace with each other. Suddenly, you saw Poe’s eyes go wide, staring at something over your shoulder. "Oh no."

"What?" You squirmed around but all that was there was the far wall. In the mirror you could see Poe press his face into your hair, his eyes meeting yours.

"It’s her, the ghost of my dead girlfriend." You rolled your eyes and shook your head but his hand was already slipping around your waist, pulling you back to his chest. "Think she might want to have a threesome?"

"She absolutely does not," you assured him and his fingers dipped down between your thighs.

"Are you really sure?" he purred.

Well, when he put it that way.

#poe dameron #poe dameron x reader #fic rec #poe dameron / reader #poe dameron / you #poe dameron x you #star wars sequels #star wars fanfiction #writing

[wouldpollyapprove]

Soldier’s Reward

Request: Hi! Hope your having a great day or night. I was wondering if I could have a prompt for tommy prompt 6 and 10 if not that’s fine. Hope your staying safe.

Thomas Shelby x Reader

Word Count: 1.9k

Warnings: Language, suicidal thoughts, war

A/N: I feel that this could be a little bit better but I do really like how the beginning of it turned out.

The night was dark, shadows filling the wholes were life was in the daylight hours. It was by no means a perfect night for a walk. Rival gangs were at each other’s throats and few felt safe on the streets at night, but Y/n didn’t care. She held no care for the world as she walked down the empty streets of Birmingham. A bottle of rum bumped into her thigh as she wondered through town, no destination in sight. 

How could she care about anything when almost all that held her together was gone? And no one cared but her, how sad. She almost laughed at how foolish she was to believe that someone would care about her loss. But Tommy and his brothers, they were to busy fighting with each other and trying to run their business. Polly was too wrapped in the drama that was Ada Shelby. So, Y/n was all alone. She was given false smiles and lies as condolences.

All she wanted was to be told that all was well. That she was strong enough to move past this. But that never came and she knew that now she was nothing but a shell of a person. 

Y/n came to the canal and decided to walk alongside it. There was no better company than the water that barely sloshed against the concrete that held it. 

She put the bottle of rum to her lips and drank down a good portion of the liquid, not caring that it burned her throat. If it helped to rid her mind of pain, she would drink anything. 

“I’ve seen some beautiful flowers grow in my garden fair,” she sang, slurring her words and walked further down the canal. “I’ve spent some wonderful hours lost in their fragrance rare.”

She closed her eyes for a second, beneath her eyes lids, war played out. There were men, laying face down in the mud as the rain came down like gunfire. Screams of vengeance came from those still alive, they refused to let their enemy bask in their pain. 

Eyes open, she held back tears. The past was nothing but the past, she tried to tell herself. But no matter how many times those words rang through her head, the horrors of war did alongside them. 

“But I have found another wondrous beyond compare,” her voice wavered as she walked away from the water. “There’s a rose that grows on no-man’s land.”

Y/n leaned against a crumbling brick building and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. With one stuck between her teeth, she lite it and with shaking fingers, placed it between them. If only the war had taken her, maybe then she would be at peace. She laughed at the thought. 

Oh, how she was one of the lucky ones.

She was never meant to see such violence. Y/n was sent to France when she was only 16 so she could take care of her aging grandmother. There she hoped to attended university and make something of herself, but that never happened. War broke out, along with hell. She thought for so long that it would never touch her, that war, as long as she couldn’t see it, wasn’t her problem. 

How wrong she was? 

It came knocking on her doorstep one fine morning and it consumed everything in its wake. She was thrown into the mess, doing her best to keep the French soldiers alive that littered her grandmother’s front yard. And that’s when the yard was uprooted and thrown all about. 

Y/n had heard of what bombs could do, but she’d never seen it nor felt it. It left her ears ringing as she tried to steady herself. The world was tilting at an angle she couldn’t comprehend and she was covered in dirt and blood. Unable to tell whether it was her own blood, she fell to the ground where she was found hours later by the Franch army. 

After that day, she wanted nothing more than to be one of those that was draped with their countries flag and put six feet under. There was nothing that could scrub her memory, no matter what she tried, everything came back. Her parents offered the option of electrotherapy. She grasped onto it like she was a sinking ship and it was the only thing that could save her. 

It did nothing.

She tried drugs, but they didn’t numb, they didn’t stop the bomb or block out the screams. They did nothing but cause her more pain.

Nothing worked.

The only thing that ever helped her through her rough patches and the nightmare that was her brain was her grandmother. The woman had seen it all. She’d lived in a world of violence and poverty, yet she was kind and wanted nothing but the best for those around her. Y/n clung to her like a child, that woman was the only one that made a difference. 

And now she was gone and Y/n was back in hell. 

An hour or so later, the bottle of rum was empty and Y/n was getting cold. She slowly got to her feet and trudged forward. She turned the corner and walked to wherever the cobblestone street led.

Head in the clouds, Y/n didn’t hear when a man called to her, she simply followed where her feet were traveling to. Well, the man didn’t like being ignored and stalked up to her, chest puffed out like a tough guy. 

“Are you ignoring me, bitch?” he spat at her. 

Y/n turned to him, an alcohol-induced smile on her face. “Everyone’s ignoring you,” she laughed, unaware of the weight of her words.

In an instant, like a bolt of lightning, a silver blad had found itself against the skin of her throat. “You wanna say that again, you whore.”

“You’re not man enough to do anything about it.” Her words bounced with laughter. She hoped he was, hoped that he let her blood spill against the dirty stones. That’s where it belonged. It should have been spilled along time ago, call it survivors guilt, but she didn’t deserve to breathe when others had lost their breath for her. 

The man was about to prove her wrong when a shout came from down the street. “What do you think you’re doing?” 

Two men came walking down the street, the blade dropped to the ground and the man who once held it had disappeared down an alley. As the men approached, one hit the other and said, “That’s Tommy’s girl.” The other nodded and when they stepped in front of her, they offered to take her to him, knowing that they would be dead if they didn’t.

Y/n had no say in the matter, she just nodded and followed their every move. She couldn’t make herself do more than that. Thinking for herself would only get her in trouble and she just wanted to sleep. She just wanted to lay her head down and never get up, not if life was going to throw her around.

*~~*~~*

A fight was raging in the kitchen when Y/n entered. Everyone was yelling. Polly was red with rage, Tommy was trying to hold her back before she could hit Arthur. John was the first to notice her as the two Peaky Blinders informed him of where they had found her. He spoke to her, but she didn’t hear a thing he said. Her eyes focused in on the wallpaper as she drowned everything out. 

In her mind, there was no fight. Polly wasn’t like a bull in a china cabinet and Tommy wasn’t the restraints holding her from destruction. Arthur hadn’t caused a fuss and John wasn’t speaking to her like she was a sick child. The world was nothing but an eggshell green wallpaper that was peeling off the wall. 

John gently forced her into a chair at the table and turned to his brother once Polly had composed herself enough. “Two of the boys found Y/n wondering down by the canal. Someone had a knife to her when they got there.”

A fire had ignited itself behind the man’s eyes as he looked down at his girlfriend. She looked lost, she looked hurt. There were dark bags under her eyes that looked like hazed glass. Tommy moved away from his aunt and knelt in front of Y/n and grabbed her hand. “Are you hurt, love?”

She shook her head, “No.” But her eyes never moved from the wallpaper. 

That answer just wasn’t good enough from Tommy and he asked again. “You can tell me, Y/n. Are you hurt?”

That seemed to be all she needed to snap her gaze and look down at him. A small smile adorned his lips at that. It wasn’t much but he felt it was something. 

“Why were you out there?” Polly asked as she could see Tommy wasn’t going to get there anytime soon.

“I went for walk,” she told them. 

At that, Tommy stood and ran a hand down his face. He sighed, anger bubbling, he thought she knew better than do that. “What were you thinking? You know how dangerous this city is at night. If you wanted to go for a walk you could have just called me or Arthur or John. Anyone of us would have gone with you! What, were you trying to get yourself killed?” his voice echoed throughout the room, but it held no effect on Y/n, she simply shrugged. 

“Maybe I was! But it’s not like you lot would have cared much.” Her words stung as everyone didn’t understand what they meant. They all believed themselves to be supportive to her, Tommy believed he was always by her side. “I am nothing but a broken dish and the one thing, the one thing, that was holding me together is gone! And when that happened, none of you did anything, none of you cared!” she yelled, her eyes watered, tears threatened to escape. “I was locked up in my house for days and no one came around, no one knocked, no one called. It was silent. I wanted to scream, I wanted to burst into tears, I wanted to get drunk and kill myself, but all I could do was stare at the wall in silence. So fuck all of you! I wanted to go for a fucking walk, I’m no child so I can walk by myself if I damn well please.”

The room was silent as her words sunk in, Y/n never raised her voice and it broke Tommy’s heart to know that he wasn’t there for her when she needed him. His anger faded once he saw how broken she was, how he’d let her become like that. “It’ll be alright, love. We’re here now, I’m here now.”

At that moment, her tears escaped, sliding to freedom down her cheek. Tommy had his arms around her in an instant, soothing her as best he could. He hated that she had hurt so much and he had been blind to it. That would never happen again.

“I just… I don’t want to see it anymore, Tommy,” she sobbed into his shoulder. 

He rubbed circles on her back, knowing exactly what she was talking about. All those that came back from war were plagued with nightmares, it was the soldier’s reward for walking off the battlefield. Y/n didn’t deserve the same reward. “I know, I know. I’ll help you through it, I swear.”

And, for once in his life, Thomas Shelby was a man of his word.

#the peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky blinders imagines #thomas shelby #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby imagines #thomas shelby x reader #tommy shelby imagine #tommy shleby imagines #tommy shelby

[themanicmagician]

Shipwrecked [2/4]

[AO3]

Summary: When Redd’s boat crashes upon the shore of Bastion Island, Tom reluctantly takes him in while he recovers. Tom despises Redd for his past deceit, but when he has no choice but to spend time with him, Tom is reminded why he fell in love with the wily fox in the first place.

Tom felt a knot loosen in his chest. Relief washed over him. Redd was awake and lucid, and feeling well enough to quip.

But then Redd kept talking.

“This is your bedroom?” Redd shifted, leaning his back against the mattress. He scanned the Spartan room, and his nose scrunched up in distaste. “It’s so....basic. Not your style at all.”

Tom hated the small speck of him that still yearned for Redd’s approval. He crossed his arms. “You’re hardly the expert on what I like.”

Tom’s words landed—he saw Redd wince—but the fox brushed it off, and changed tack.

“Where’d you sleep, then? Futon?”

“Couch.”

Redd patted the bed, and leered. “Could’ve shared with me. It’s plenty big enough. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“Enough, Redd. You’re only here in my home because I possess common decency. Nothing more. As soon as your arm is healed, you’re gone.”

Redd clutched at his chest with his good arm, in mock agony.

“Oh babe, you can be so cold!”

Tom ignored him. “What possessed you to attempt to sail a ship, of all things? You don’t have any experience.”

“Don’t worry about it. It was simple enough to figure out.”

“Obviously it wasn’t.”

“Hey, the storm wasn’t my fault.”

“You could have died—and for what? Another stupid scheme of yours, no doubt.”

“I resent that remark. Scheme! Scheme, he says. I’m out here because I’ve developed a new business venture. The art on my boat is real.” Brief alarm skirted across his face. “Wait, what happened to my things?”

“They’re in Blathers’ custody.”

“That featherbrain can’t keep them. They’re real, you know. I had this whole plan. I was going to go island to island. Animals are so suspicious these days. They actually want to inspect the merchandise before they buy, can you believe it?”

“I don’t want to hear about this.”

Redd plowed on, as if Tom hadn’t spoken. “—and once they placed an order, I’d say oh, you can’t take it right away. I have to ship it to you.”

“And you’d mail them a fake.”

“I’d mail them a replica. The copies that I paint myself are flawless,” Redd bragged. Greed and delight glinted in his eyes. “You’d never be able to tell the difference. I’ll wager you 5,000 bells your pal Blathers wouldn’t, either.”

“I can’t believe you,” Tom snapped. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Why tamper with perfection?”

“You—ugh!”

Tom stomped out of the room.

Timmy and Tommy were right outside, evidently listening in. They jumped guiltily as Tom caught sight of them, and tried to look busy; Tommy folded a blanket and draped it over the back of the couch, as Timmy collected up used cups to put in the kitchen sink.

“I’m going out for a bit.” Tom told them, as he pulled on a jacket. “Stay here, and make sure he does too.”

The Nooklings chirped an affirmative.

May was cold and rainy this year, and today proved no different. Tom zipped up his jacket to ward off the worst of the chill. It was misting out, but not badly enough to justify an umbrella.

Tom didn’t have a destination in mind, exactly. He wasn’t going to Resident Services today. Isabelle was certainly capable of taking the reins for a day or two. Tom just needed fresh air, just needed to clear his head.

Redd hadn’t changed at all. He hadn’t grown, he hadn’t learned anything. He was still the same as he ever was—greedy, selfish, conniving. And utterly, absolutely, insufferable.

There had been moments, before, when he had lived on the mainland, when Redd frequented his town. He’d considered reaching out. But he’d never scraped up the nerve to do so. It wasn’t his responsibility either, he’d reasoned at the time. Tom was the wronged party. Redd should have been the one to approach, not him.

And now the decade-long silence between them was shattered at last, and Redd acted as if there had never been a massive fracture in their relationship, as if nothing at all had changed. No apologies, no remorse, not even a thank you for the rescue.  

“Mr. Nook!” Flurry trotted up to him. “I’ve heard the news. How is your friend doing today?”

He supposed there was no hope of keeping it quiet. Any speck of news spread through Bastion like wildfire. Isabelle, bless her heart, was an incorrigible gossip.

“Redd is doing much better today, thank you.”

“I wanted you to give him something from me. Just to borrow, powderpuff!” She took out a book from her pockets and handed it over. It was an old leather-bound book, a collection of fairy tales. It was worn with age, but evidently well cared for. “I don’t know if it’s to his taste or not, but I always read it when I’m sick and it cheers me right up!”

“Thank you, Flurry. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” Redd wouldn’t, but Tom would never let the sweet hamster know that.

He continued his walk, and soon found himself on the beach. He followed the shoreline around the island until he reached the outcropping of rocks by Del’s and Lucha’s houses.

Tom knew what to expect, but the sight was still jarring. The hull of the boat was gouged on the rocks. Half of the vessel gaped open. The mast was snapped off at its base, and the sail, long lost to the tides. Tom stepped on the rocks to get a closer look. The remains of the boat had been secured to the rock by rope; Alex and the others, presumably, had been the ones to anchor it.

Tom peered inside the exposed hull. The boat was tilted at an angle. Barrels had rolled to one end of the ship. Several had smashed apart in the impact. Tom winced. How badly had Redd been thrown in the crash? Had he been above deck, or below?

There didn’t appear to be anything of value left inside the ship. The villagers had done well removing all the fragile artwork.

Enough of the boat remained that they wouldn’t have to build Redd a new boat from scratch, at least. The boat would have to be patched up for Redd to travel. The seaplanes weren’t built to transport someone from Bastion all the way out to the mainland.

Tom swept a critical eye over to the wreckage. Yes, they could rebuild it in several weeks, once the necessary supplies were gathered. He resolved to speak with Alex about it. If she could gather the needed materials, he’d reduce the price for her attic expansion as compensation.

He returned home with the intention to cook breakfast for the Nooklings and their guest. But as he removed his shoes in the entryway, he overheard Redd’s drawling voice. And the twins were conspicuously absent from the living room. He padded quietly over to the threshold of his bedroom.

The first thing Tom noticed was that Redd was now wearing one of his spare shirts. The floral patterned green and white flattered the fox’s fur. It was a size or two too large on him, and not his usual type of outfit. Something warm and possessive tightened in his stomach at the sight of Redd wearing his clothes.

Redd was back in bed, propped upright with the support of pillows. Timmy and Tommy were sitting on the bed as well, listening raptly to their guest. Redd was in his element as entertainer, gesturing enthusiastically with his unbroken arm as he spoke.

“...it was our third pitch of the day. Tom had persuaded me to paint wallpapers for high-end clientele, so the meeting was at this real swanky place. Very stylized lobby we waited in, minimalistic in style but in an expensive way, you know? Your Uncle Nook was sweating so much his fur looked a shade darker than normal. We were sitting there, waiting for half an hour after our appointed meeting time. And finally, finally, someone shows up. It wasn’t even the investor! It was some scrub, some assistant of an assistant. Tom was so nervous, he promptly bent over and spewed his lunch all over her expensive shoes.” Redd laughed.

Tom flushed. It hadn’t been his finest moment.

“But then, do you know what your uncle did?” Redd whispered, conspiratorially.

“What, Mr. Redd?”

“...Redd?”

The boys leaned in closer, eager not to miss a single syllable.

“Tom still managed to salvage the situation. He went right from wiping off her shoes to pitching her a new concept—scented wallpaper. Smells like lemon, pine. So if something like this happened again, at least no one would smell it!”

“Wow! Did they invest?”

“...vest?”

“Even better—they bought the concept and patent from us. All the reward, with none of the work!”

“Boys, wash up for breakfast.” Tom broke in.

The twins broke into beaming smiles at the sight of him. They sprang off the bed to crowd Tom, both talking a mile a minute.

“Uncle Nook, is it true that you won a manufacturing contract by arm wrestling the CEO of Cozy Couches?”

“—did you really start a new city fashion trend wearing your scarf as a belt?”

“—have three drinks named after you?”

“Redd likes to embellish.” Tom explained, exasperated. “Don’t believe a word he says.”

Redd pouted.

Once the boys reluctantly filed out of the room, Tom shut the door. He crossed over to Redd and offered him the book of fairytales.

“For me? You shouldn’t have.” Redd inspected the book. He grimaced at the faint mug stain on one of the pages. “Not a first edition. Far from excellent condition. You  really  shouldn’t have.”

Tom grit his teeth. “It’s not from me. A villager has loaned it to you. If it goes back to her with so much as a dog-eared page…”

“Alright, sheesh. Just messing around.” Redd set the book on the bedside table, evidently uninterested.

“Listen to me, Redd.” Redd looked up in surprise at Tom’s low, serious tone. “You cheated me. You deceived Lyle. But if you think—”

“Hey, Lyle wasn’t—”

“If you think,” Tom spoke over him. “For one second, that I’ll allow you to manipulate Timmy and Tommy, you’ve got another thing coming. I have resources now. More bells in the bank than you’ll ever see. If you ever hurt them, I’ll make you regret it. Are we clear?”

The boys were guileless, innocent. He would not stand for Redd swindling them.

Redd deflated, his previous energy visibly dimmed. His ears flattened back on his head. He looked away from Tom, and nodded.

~*~

“Where are we going?”

“Like I told you the last twelve times you asked, it’s a surprise.”

“I’m going to trip on the sidewalk and break my nose.” Tom grumbled.

“You won’t.” Redd promised, with a rumbling laugh. “I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

It had been six months since their first meeting, in that sketchy motel. Ever since, they’d hardly left each others’ company. Tom’s ambition was to build a furniture and home goods store. It would be unique in its approach, in that stock would be limited, and rotate daily, so animals would feel compelled to go to the store every day, just in case there was something they needed. Redd, an entrepreneur himself, was on board. But before they could begin such an enterprise, they needed bells, and loads of them. They’d taken the past half a year to build up their finances together. They’d done so not through conventional jobs, but through countless pitch meetings, patent sales, and even art commissions. They’d amassed enough now that their dream was looking more achievable by the day.

Tonight Redd had tied a black bandana around Tom’s eyes and led him from their apartment. Tom’s heart was doing somersaults in his chest throughout their entire walk. Redd had been furtive, secretive the entire past week. He’d been planning something, and Tom had a big hunch on what it could be.

“We’re here.” Redd announced, at long last. He unknotted the bandana. The cloth fell away from Tom’s eyes, and he gasped.

It was an older two-story building, wedged in between a pair of larger, newer ones. It was built of ruddy red brick, with floor to ceiling windows for display purposes. Tom glanced around. They were in a nicer part of town. Not the wealthiest neighborhood by any means, but one fairly busy, that had animals with bells burning holes in their pockets.

“It’s ours.” Redd withdrew a keyring from his pocket. “If you like it.”

“You—how?”

Redd winked. “I have my ways.” He held out the keys and gave them a shake. “Why don’t you do the honors?”

Tom took the keys with reverence. He felt as if he were drifting through the clouds as he glided to the door. The front door key was newly cut, firm in his palm. Tom unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

“The register could go here.” Tom circled around the corner of the back wall, nearest the door. He paced around the cavernous empty room, imagining as he went. “Heavier furniture in the back as well. Some eye-catching, lighter things near the front that can be rotated daily. Things like wreaths, tapestries—oh, and what if we hang strings of lights from the ceiling? It’d create a real welcoming, homey look.”

He turned back to Redd for his input. His face was flushed with enthusiasm.

Redd had been watching him from the doorway with a complicated, unreadable expression.

Tom’s grin faltered. “Redd?”

The strange look fell away from Redd’s face, replaced by his customary smirk. He sauntered closer.

“Your instincts are excellent as always, Tom. I was thinking of a mural, too, for the back wall.”

“Oh, that’d be great! What are you thinking? A city skyline? Or something more nature-inspired?”

Redd’s arm slid around Tom’s waist with easy familiarity. His paw squeezed Tom’s side. Tom barely muffled his squeak. They’d been together for five months of the six, and Redd’s casual displays of affection still flustered him. Back home, no one had ever looked twice at the plain, chubby raccoon.

Redd’s muzzle brushed his ear. “We can hash out the details later. This calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”

~*~

The doorbell jingled overhead as Tom stepped inside the Able Sisters’ store. Sable took a single look at Tom before she was bustling him into the back room of the shop.

“Keep an eye out for customers, Mabes.” She called over her shoulder.

Mabel mock-saluted her eldest sister.

“Sit.” Sable all but pushed him into a rocking chair. He remembered this old thing from the sisters’ first home. The quilt draped over the back of the chair was familiar too, if a bit more threadbare than he remembered. Tom was struck by a wave of gratefulness that all of his dearest friends had been so amenable to picking up their lives and moving to Bastion with him.

Sable placed a gray kettle on the stove, and retrieved two mugs from a cabinet. The mugs were lumpy things, rather sloppily painted. Mabel had made them by hand when she was young. Tom had his own original Mabel creation stored in a cabinet back at his home.

“I wanted to speak with you as soon as I heard, but I had too many shirts to sew, I couldn’t get away. I know that’s not much of an excuse, though.”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m handling everything just fine.”

Sable raised one eyebrow.

“I am.” He insisted. Redd had been subdued after Tom had warned him off about the twins. He ate the food Tom cooked without complaint, allowed Tom to check his injured arm without any protest, save the quiet hisses of pain he couldn’t quiet. They’d lived together in uneasy harmony for a week, now. Redd spent most of the day in front of the TV, or idly flipping through the book Flurry had lent him.

“How have you been?”

“Fine. Redd hasn’t been putting up too much of a fuss.” She was staring at him, too keenly. “What?”

She took a moment to muster up the words, paws twisting in her lap. “Tom...I don’t want to see you like that again.”

Tom waved his hand, as if to banish the ghost of that awful moment. “You won’t. He can never hurt me again.”

Sable’s doubt was palpable.

“I don’t care about him anymore. I don’t. And I...I used to hate him, I admit it. I used to loathe him. But I’ve moved on. I don’t trust him, and I pity him, but I don’t feel anything strong for him, hate or love, anymore.”

“You don’t sound as convincing as you’d like to be.” Sable said.

He was saved from having to respond as the kettle whistled. Sable rose to fetch their tea. She added the sachets, a drizzle of honey to her cup, three lumps of sugar to Tom’s—after all this time, she hadn’t forgotten how he liked it—and carried the mugs over.

Tom held his mug between his paws, waiting for it to cool enough to be drinkable. The pleasant scent of Earl Grey wafted up to his nose. He inhaled.

“If Redd tries anything, I’ll punch him in the nose.”

Sable, gentle, demure Sable, spoke with such a steely assuredness that Tom started. She smiled shyly at him.

“I mean it.”

“You’ll have to get in line. I have first dibs.”

Sable giggled.

~*~

Tom headed back home, feeling lighter than he had since this entire thing started. He and Sable swiftly left the topic of Redd behind them, and spent the better part of an hour catching up.

The boys saw him through the front window of the Cranny, and waved enthusiastically. He returned the gesture, albeit with less energy.

Tom then climbed the stairs and let himself into his home. Redd was no longer where Tom had left him that morning, slouched on the couch. The TV was shut off, the house almost eerily silent.

“Redd?” Tom eased open the door to his bedroom. The fox was absent, but the bed was neatly made. He checked the twins’ room, the bathroom—both empty.

Redd was gone.

#reddnook #ac #animal crossing #tom nook #redd #animal crossing new horizons #my fic #sable is the best #timmy and tommy continue to be adorable

[cordytriestowrite]

This is Our Getting Along Sweater

One Shot

Loki x Reader

Summary: Bruce is tired of you and Loki fighting. What else is he to do but take advice from the internet?

Things were slowly getting back to normal in the cluttered lab you could call your second home. Bruce was back, his hand still bandaged but out of the sling wielding the infinity gauntlet had put him in, and you had a new focus. Once you worked to find Banner a cure of the monster he called the Hulk, the same creature with which he now effortlessly cohabited. Then it was miscellaneous work for the avengers, whatever Tony Stark deemed you and Bruce could handle. Then Bruce disappeared on a mission leaving you to find work on your own. Then there was The Snap, the loss of half the population including yourself and so much had happened to your colleague in those five years that passed you by within what only felt to you like the blink of an eye. 

The Avengers, well, they didn't seem to really be a thing anymore, at least for now. Tony and Steve were gone, Natasha too. Sam and Bucky were still roaming around New York being heroic. Thor was in fucking space…but you and Bruce were back in the lab, the way it should be.

With one

Special

Guest

Who needed to back off before you punched him in the nose.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

His deep drawl blew cool air straight into your ear. You paused, your clamps hovering just above the bundle of wiring.

"Good thing you're not me then." You responded through clenched teeth.

"Yes, a very good thing I'm not a foolish Midgardian sticking her nose into technology she can't even begin to understand. And it is an especially good thing I am not about to give myself a nasty shock my weak body would never recover from."

You threw down your clamps, metal against metal causing the outburst to echo through the room. Bruce looked up, the top of his head just visible beyond the rest of the ship pieces he had managed to salvage.

You could say Bruce was directionless. You could also say Bruce was too purposeful in his direction. Once he found something interesting and complicated enough to catch his attention he would work on it until it inevitably went wrong or his duty to saving the world overrode his day job. So Bruce has been to space, been to a couple of different worlds, and yeah, occupied a spaceship or two and now he was obsessed with understanding how it all works. With his new massive Hulk-merged body he lugged large chunks of salvage for you to break down and study. Along with the flotsam and jetsam littering every surface of your shared workspace, Thor: big, smiley, secretly devious Thor, decided he would throw one more piece of foreign and complicated junk at you in the form of his brother. 

Loki who, for all his bitching and complaining of the mundane existence of Midgard, refused to leave even with the lack of supervision his brother had on him. Not only has he stayed on earth for the past three and a half weeks, but he specifically seemed to have decided his stay on earth would be treathered to the back of your neck at all working hours. 

"Loki, just fuck off okay."

You cupped your hands around your temples and let your head sink down far enough that your breath fogged the magnifier separating your uncovered face from the chunk of alien hardware. You could practically feel Loki's head move down with yours by that too short invisible tether he had decided to tie between you. 

"Now, now, is that how you thank someone for saving you from your own incompetence?"

Your palms curled into firsts at your temples, gathering the hair there almost at the root. It hurt and if Loki didn't spurr on a headache your self-inflicted pain definitely would.

"Call me incompetent. One. More. Time."

Bruce called out to you, a tired warning he had given too many times before. You barely heard him over the pounding pulse crashing against your eardrums. Loki ignored the warning as well,  possibly because it wasn't directed at him, more likely because the reward of pissing you off outweighed any punishment Bruce could shell out.

"If you stopped being so incompetent I wouldn't feel the need to point it out."

You shot up from your seat so fast your stool wobbled dangerously,  almost crashing to the ground. You turned to face him, open palm raised and ready to strike that high, delicate-looking cheekbone.

He didn't even uncross his arms, he just leaned back and avoided your hand, his smirk never even leaving his arrogant face. The cry you let out was primal, ripping your throat apart in its desperation to be heard. Your hands moved of their own accord reaching for him with closed fists but never making contact. Loki easily moved his body to avoid your wild blows and with each sidestep he let out a chuckle.

No, it wasn't a chuckle, it was a giggle, one of pure amusement. He was having fun! You could kill him if only you could get your hands on the slippery snake. 

"Hey, break it up already."

Bruce's shouting was much louder now and as soon as you realized how close he was you lost sight of him as a thick, warm, beige sweater was pulled over your head. You surfaced quickly, sputtering between one syllable curses, as your anger addled mind attempted to infuse some rational thinking into the moment of blind adrenaline. 

You could feel something moving against you beneath your new outerwear, something slightly chilly and firm and wiggly. You turned only to find yourself nose to nose with Loki, both of you trapped in the ring of Bruce's massive collar. 

"Bruce, what the fuck? Get this thing off of me."

You pushed against the fabric, against Loki, trying to bring your hands up and hoist the garment off of you, but all you managed to do was elbow Loki in the shoulder and drag your nails against his neck leaving a stark red line to blossom on his pale skin before Bruce trapped yours arms to your sides with his massive palms. 

"I saw this online. They call it a 'getting along shirt'."

You knew the photo Bruce was referring too. You had been the one to show it to him! And now it had come back to bite you in the ass. The fight was leaving you, replaced by a solemn irony. You would laugh at it all if it wasn't happening to you.

"Bruce." Loki began, his voice controlled, but the small puffs of air coming from his nostrils was hitting your cheek far too frequently to reinforce his calm demeanor.

"I will give you one minute to remove your sweater from me, else I will be forced to remove myself and I know how much you hate ordering custom clothing." 

You could just barely see the tip of a blade materialize in Loki's hand. It was placed dangerously close to the hem and with a flick of his wrist Loki could separate the fibers and let it fall away. Bruce glanced down at the weapon at the same time you did, and for the first time in three weeks you could see Hulk's anger in Bruce's kind eyes. 

"Loki, if you so much as stretch out the collar of my sweater you are out of here. If you want to stay here so bad you're going to start listening to me and you two," he wiggled a massive index finger inches away from your face, "are going to get along. Now sit down, shut up, and do some work."

Bruce left no room for arguments, his eyes firm behind his glasses. There was a twitch to his lips, one that straddled the edge of a snarl, and you didn't want to send it over the edge. Judging by Loki's silence and now empty hand even he didn't want to toe that line. In a final act of what was embarrassingly close to teenage rebellion you sighed loudly and dramatically before shoving your arm through the massive sleeve dangling on your left side. 

"How am I supposed to get anything done like this?" You called out as Bruce walked away.

"Figure it out. Together." 

You made a face at his back, tongue out and eyes screwed shut. Years of working well together and you had developed this familiarity, a bond that you assigned to that of siblings. There was no heat in your annoyance at Bruce, no intensity to it like what you had for the man next to you, the man now moving away from you causing your body to lean dangerously until you complied.

Or resisted.

"Hey!" 

You dug your heels into the floor, leaning back in an attempt to counter the god. You watched in satisfaction as Loki stopped a few steps away from you.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Loki raised an eyebrow, a single, judgmental eyebrow. It went comically well with his deadpan stare. You could see then, if ever this face wasn't directed toward you, Loki would be so consumable. You could probably watch him all day, watch his handsome face contort and transform so artfully. He could express a million things without saying a word. If only he knew how to shut up. 

"You have work to do, darling. Or were you not listening?"

You stopped resisting, your shoulders going slack with a sheepish shrug.

"I was listening." You said, coming to your own defence and really wishing you could cross your arms. Instead you settled for closing the gap between you and creating it again, this time with you leading the way.

Your work seemed unaffected by the outburst that happened only a few feet away. Soft light still pulsed through thick black tubes like a heartbeat. You could swear you saw the parts expand and contract, as if this single piece of spaceship was a set of lungs able to breathe on its own. Dissected bits 5 mm squares of paneling and scraped samples were lined up on the table Bruce was hunched over, the only sample missing was a piece of the pulsing, breathing, vein-like wiring that sat in the center of voidless black machinery. 

Loki said it would kill you. Fry you past the point of recovery. Not for the first time you asked yourself why you continued to do this, why you couldn't just go find normal work, even after Bruce disappeared for almost three years. Bruce: your reason was right in front of you, as always. A man in a terrible situation once gave you a chance. A man with seven PhDs took in an intern who ended up not even graduating because you got so caught up in Banner's work. A man fighting an internal war with a creature of his own creation entrusted you to help him find a way to undo his mistake. Bruce Banner was your reason. He was your best friend and if your eyes fogged with unshed tears at the sight of him it was only because of how far he had come since you found him, large and green, spitting out a bullet years ago.

Bruce's sleeve made good work of the water around your eyes, absorbing your quiet moment with efficiency. If Loki saw anything he had the sense to say nothing. You may not be able to conjure weapons but at this close of a range he wouldn't be able to dodge a swift knee to the crotch.

With a tiny sniffle you plopped yourself down on your stool and leaned over the magnifier. The world was only slightly blurry but with a few blinks you would be ready to tackle this all again. Except, the pressure on your neck was painfully distracting and as you leaned forward the dig only intensified. 

Sitting back you glared up at your attachment. Loki was standing tall and the angle was all wrong. You needed him at your level if this was going to work.

"Sit down, Loki."

It's like he was waiting for you to say it. Biding his time so you would ask for the torture and practically demand him to be irritating. The grin on his face was wide and wicked, and yet again you felt that if it wasn't directed at you, watching his perverse glee would have been entrancing, but when you were the victim it was like looking into the sun before being hurled right into the star.

He practically shoved you off the stool, your left foot hitting the ground with a loud, knee rattling smack. You used it to keep your other ass cheek on the small round surface, though you didn't need to fight too hard. Loki pressed himself against you on the stool, from hip to thigh, his long right leg stretched out in front of him for balance. His look was one of feigned concentration, and an expertly timed bite of his bottom lip happened in sync to his arm wrapping around your waist and settling on your hip. Your arm, with nowhere to go between you, fit like a final puzzle piece along his thigh. 

Your body was rigid but pliant as Loki shuffled a few more times to get comfortable. 

"There we go. Better?"

He was looking at you, you could see that venomous grin out of the corner of your eye, but you refused to look at him. It felt too intense, too intimate to look him in the eye, to let your breath mingle and noses touch while so much of the rest of you was connected. This is what Loki wanted, to make you uncomfortable. The hand on your hip squeezed as he waited for a response. You clenched your jaw and reached for your discarded clamp. He would not get a rise out of you, not again. 

Leaning forward was easier now that Loki's height wasn't causing the sweater to stretch to its limits but you now realized another obstacle: you had only one usable arm. 

You indulged in your stubbornness for a few minutes. You would rather attempt clamping the bundle of wiring and extracting a sample with your lone left hand than ask Loki to help. Loki, unsurprisingly, offered you no assistance, instead he held his chin up in his hand and set his elbow right next to the set of tools he could be using. Your hand was cramping up as you struggled to hold open the clamps which meant you would have to give up or give in, but somehow asking Loki for help seemed like both.

"Would you mind?"

"Hm?"

Loki had the gall to make a sound of confusion as if he hadn't been eyeing your struggles the whole time. You rolled your eyes and all but shoved a pair of tweezers into his cold hand. 

"You pull that one," you pointed your clamps at a section near the edge of the bundle, "and I'll hold the rest in place."

For once it seemed you had rendered Loki speechless. His mouth opened and closed around single syllable sounds as his eyes moved quickly between you, the tweezers you had shoved in his hand, and the pulsating mass of glowing tubes. Like revving an engine once he got the words situated in his head he let them off hurriedly.

"Were you not listening? If you do this you are going to get hurt!"

"What do you care?"

He was speechless again, you had finally unearthed the secret to shutting Loki up and you didn't know how but you managed to do it twice in the span of a few minutes. 

"I care."

You shook your head in disbelief and subconsciously leaned closer to him. You weren't sure you heard him correctly. Had the 'don't' between 'I' and 'care' somehow get drowned out by the groan of the stool or a brief and sudden deafness. With your head closer to his you definitely didn't miss the frankly carnal groan rumbling deep in his throat. 

"Your hair smells divine."

"What?" 

If you didn't expect Loki to say he cared about you then you definitely didn't expect him to confess to liking the scent of your hair. You almost choked on your breath, eyes going wide as you stared at a small dent in the table with a startling intensity. 

Something cold pressed against the top of your ear making you jump in surprise before Loki pulled in a  deep tickling inhale. He was smelling your hair! Brazen and blatant he nudged his nose into your locks and sent abrupt goosebumps over your arms. On reflex one hand squeezed Loki's knee while the other held the table to keep steady. You blinked twice, not pulling your gaze away from that dent in the table. If you moved even a millimeter who knows what would happen.

"I care if you hurt yourself." 

Loki's voice was low and husky and right against your ear so you could hear every single word. There was no way for you to deny what you were hearing.

"I care, because I like the smell of your hair."

The hand on your hip snaked under your shirt causing another eruption of goosebumps at the light and teasing way Loki's fingers moved against your skin. It was too much, the stimuli coming from all directions to attack you physically and mentally. You felt dizzy and confused as your breath came in short, shallow pants. With a chuckle Loki withdrew his hand, letting it fall limp at your side before pulling his face out of the hair at the side of your head. Your breathing slowed, your skin settled, and the fog lifted. Your heart was near a normal rhythm when a sudden thought made it jump and thunder all over again.

"You're fucking with me aren't you?"

His eyes glimmered in amusement, lips pulled in a well practiced smirk. With his free hand he gripped your chin and held your face in place as he planted a swift, mocking kiss to your cheek. It was enough of a shock to keep your attention as he unceremoniously dug into the machinery sat in front of you with his fingers and tugged a few pieces free. 

"This whole time." He confessed, holding the harmless tubing out to you.

"You're an ass." 

You should have said it with more fire, should have felt more spiteful, but all you felt was humiliation. You pulled your left arm out of Bruce's sleeve, gripping the harmless space parts protectively in your first, and then ducked your head under the collar. Wriggling down you separated yourself from Loki and moved quickly across the lab towards Bruce without looking back. Bruce glanced up curiously as you got closer. Wordlessly you opened your fist and display the extracted parts 

"Awesome! See what happens when you work together?"

You smile and nod, knowing you didn't look sincere, but Bruce already had his head back down in his work. The air around you cooled and you half turned to see Loki depositing Bruce's sweater carelessly over partially labeled and bagged mystery parts. 

"Thank you for the lesson Bruce. I think we will be getting along a lot better from now on."

Loki pulled you close with an arm around your hip, really hamming it up for Bruce by tilting his temple to meet yours. Your molars ground together as you tried to keep your anger and embarrassment in check in front of Bruce, who only wanted you to get along better.

Better. He wants your relationship to be better. Bruce Banner wants everyone to be friendly and companionable. Well that might have finally worked for Bruce and Hulk but there was no way to reach the same outcome with you and Loki. No, the only thing you could do was play Loki at his own game.

Your jaw loosened, and a wide, easy smile spread across your face. You wound your arm around Loki's waist, mirroring his close hold.

"Oh yeah Bruce, a lot better. Isn't that right sweetheart?"

Not giving Loki a chance to respond you planted a big, wet, sloppy kiss to his cheek with a resounding smack. Pulling back you grinned in satisfaction at Loki and Bruce's practically matching shocked expressions. You got why Loki toyed with people now, it was exhilarating.

There would be no getting along, only getting even, and judging by the impish glare Loki was sending your way, you wouldn't have the upper hand for very long. 

Tag list

@dark-angel-be-thirsty-af @bluediamond007 @kybaeza @myownviperroom @tarynkauai @arch-venus25 @instantnoodlese @bambamwolf87 @dyanlzbb @sebstanhun @thoughtfullhuman @sbluehi @fanfictionrecommendations-com @spacezombiie @friendly-neighborhood-lich-queen @titty-teetee @morganhoran1671 @alt-er-love-er-alt @bornfortherainydays @alysawrites @venitia89 @wolffcur @always-irrelevant @morganhoran1671 @polaroid-idiocity @darkphoenixrisingwrites @drakesfiance @katzenwahnsinn @mywinterwolf @kcd15 @somewereinthegalaxi @justalilsad5 @becs-bunker @reading--mermaid @reviewfanfics @marvelousmarauderstrash @iamverity @evolving2deppression @youpenguinadonis @darlingtholland @700teacups

#loki #loki fanfiction #loki fanfic #loki odinson #loki x reader #loki x y/n #loki x you #loki x oc #loki one shot #loki oneshot #marvel fic #marvel fanfiction #post endgame #loki is alive #loki is a little shit #loki is not dead #loki laufeyson #one shot #oneshot

[ohitsjustjimmy]

My Top 5 Albums Of 2019

Number 5: Shaped By Fire by As I Lay Dying

“I had locked away myself in a captainless ship, destined to destroy ashore.”

To start things off, we begin with a band that played a big role in getting me into the Metalcore genre. This album didn’t make the list from being the most original release. It also wasn’t as endearing or risky as other artists’ work that I’ve given a thorough listen to this year. What makes it a spot on this count down is the band’s ability to just play what they know, and even with it being practically the same sound they’ve had since their incarnation, they still retain the ability to create a record that offers something definitely palatable while being really more of the same. Accomplishing that is no simple task, although of course opinions on this sort of thing will be divided in more ways than one. With incorporating things like clean choruses that don’t detract from the brutal mix of guitar riffage, pulsing drums and the one and only Tim Lambesis leading the pack with his trademark vocal fierceness, which sounds just as intense as it ever has. Another highlight for the record is that just like some of the other ones in their discography, guitarists Nick Hipa and Phil Sgrosso have matured from composing every song in drop C. Is that a subjective statement? Sure it is. Is it true though? Most definitely. With songs like the album’s title, both Hipa and Sgrosso show their technical prowess in stemming from each other so seamlessly between rhythmn and lead. This, along with the rest of the album is a definite positive that keeps it from sounding stale. Jordan Mancino is no slouch as well, proving that after all these years of pounding away, the talented drummer still gels right in with the sound that the band is aiming for. Lambesis and Co. have perfected their metalcore craft, and show no signs of getting softer any time soon.

Number 4: Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind by Logic

“This a marathon, not a sprint.”

Bobby could be quite possibly the hardest working man in Hip Hop as of right now. Very few artists can constitently put out quality releases one after another, even when changing his style between albums. While Supermarket was a complete 180’ from the young man’s incredible rap resume, YSIV showcased his love for boom bap and proved to be an excellent product of his craft overall. Here in 2019 we have Confessions Of A Dangerous Mind, which has all the shiny production that is practically now a staple in Logic’s sound, mixed with his trademark intricate lyricism and streamlined flow. Also having the ability to carry a tune definitely helps the album even more, which is something he also proved partially in 2015’s The True Incredible Story. Transitions like the one from the title track to Homicide keep things sounding fresh and unique. Eminem’s feature on the track is also a strong point who uses his zany flow perfectly. Another standout track is Commando with features G-Eazy. The track proves that despite people’s beliefs about the two’s relationship they can indeed make a track together, and a good one at that. BOBBY is handsdown my favorite track on the album, as I am a sucker for a clean beat consisting of samples which is something Young Sinatra is no stranger to. Even after 8 albums, Logic remains a force to be reckoned with and shouldn’t be taken lightly when compared to other artists in the hip-hop scene trying to be as intricate, yet accessible at the same time so effortlessly. There’s a reason why his fanbase is so strong, and will inevitably grow with time.

Number 3: All Hail by Norma Jean

“Give it death ‘till it comes alive.”

The once Christian Metalcore outfit hailing (see what I did there) from Douglasville Georgia has made their most endearing, yet brutally beautiful record yet. Despite struggling with various members both entering and leaving the band, frontman Cory Brandan Putman has successfully kept them on track both creatively and consistently, and their 8th album is a gritty, angst injected example of it. With bangers like [Mind Over Mind], Safety Last and Landslide Defeater, the group takes ques from their previous efforts and cranks them past the highest number on the dial. The band has always been one of the more peculiar acts in the genre, with All Hail being no different. Downtuned guitars and brutal vocal performances aside, Putman and the gang place traces of more delicate melodical harmonies throughout the album, like the beginning of my favorite track /with_errors. The track’s chorus also showcases Putman’s ability to be harmonius when he needs to be, then back to traditionally discordant. All Hail is a rewarding listen exactly like practically everything else in their discography, which should definitely prove true to both newcomers and long time fans alike.

Number 2: The Act by The Devil Wears Prada

“Build me up to tear me down.”

While being primarily Metalcore just like Norma Jean, TDWP have also tried their hands at different sounds and audible textures which are littered throughout their discography. The difference between the two bands however is that this is a turn of direction for them that is completely new and unique from their usual formula. While All Hail was more of a progression for Norma Jean, The Act is more like a departure when comparing the two. Mike Hranica and Jeremy DePoyster put the sounds of their previous efforts on the back burner in favor of a more deliberate writing style that focuses on stronger song writing and bigger choruses. Some of the best examples of this are tracks like Chemical, where Hranica tries his hand at guitar and my favorite track Wave Of Youth, having some of the most memorable lines on the entire album in my opinion. While the tracks mentioned can be considered “simple” in a way compared to their usual style, them being willing to take a risk like this is something that I do commend. Please Say No might be one the slowest songs the band has written, but both the context and musical presentation enveloped me in it’s glooming lore, ultimately making me appreciate the album’s farfetched direction even more. The following track The Thread reminded me that they are still an integral force in Metalcore even after all these years, with pulsating verses and one of the most fierce breakdowns the band has orchestrated in a long time having mike eerily screeching “You Should Speak Up!”. That moment also counts as being one of the more memorable ones on the record along with Wave Of Youth. With an album like The Act, the band had to realize that making such a polarizing album would undoubtedly turn some longtime fans off. The reason why I love it so much however is because they weren’t afraid to do so, and to my ears the end result paid off.

Number 1: Compassion by Royal Coda

“Somehow your sadness is someone’s ecstasy .”

From his introduction into spotlight thanks to the band Dance Gavin Dance to the present day, Kurt Travis has remained to be one of my biggest influences within the realms of Post-Hardcore even after all these years. Despite being overshadowed and eventually replaced by Tilian Pearson, Kurt didn’t let that put out his creative flame and went on to gradually assemble the supergroup named Royal Coda. The groups first album titled by their name was released last year on Blue Swan Records, and took me some time to really sink my teeth into. Despite loving practically anything Travis puts out musically, I didn’t immediately fall in love with every song on the album. It was experimental, yet hard to completely indulge in, with only a handful of tracks really grasping my attention. Compassion on the other hand, is what that album should have been, in every way. The album’s opener Ruby Leaf sets the tone perfectly, showcasing incredible musicianship between Sergio Medina and recent newcomer Will Swan, guitarist for Dance Gavin Dance. Sergio and Will’s musical chemistry has shown in other projects like the supergroup Sianvar, however their styles have never complimented each other quite as well as they do here, with tracks like the incredible single Numbing Agent and my favorite track Becoming The Memory. Both tracks amplify the members’ talents so effortlessly with the latter being funky and angsty simultaneously, a definite nod to Happiness. Arms Race For God’s Grace, while not being as infectious as the other two tracks mentioned has one of the most heartfelt lines on the record. Kurt crooning “When the authorities came to lock me up for good, I ran as fast as I could to you” gets me everytime and helps the album as a whole grow on me more than it already has. The track Don’t Stay Long features Hail The Sun’s Donovan Melero on both verses and chorus, and his words here certainly never dissapoint, writing an ultimately gripping chorus in the same fashion as he does with his own group which adds melody to the madness. If Happiness is Kurt’s magnum opus, then Compassion is the closest thing to a predecessor that he’s ever done.

What are some of your guys’ favorite albums to come out this year? I’d love to know.

#as i lay dying #logic #norma jean #the devil wears prada #royal coda #shaped by fire #confessions of a dangerous mind #all hail #the act #compassion #tim lambesis #cory brandan putman #mike hranica #jeremy depoyster #kurt travis #will swan #sergio medina #donovan melero

[vex-bittys]

Undertale Interactive Dating: Final Round (Bonus: Papby Kiss)

Note: This is for @sesurescue who spent the entire Dating Event trying to secure a smooch from Classic Papyrus (which never happened) and also loves the Papyrus and Grillby ship.

Papyrus frowns when his brother and the human disappear. In his opinion, teleportation is the laziest form of travel. He glances back at his abandoned X and O puzzle. It’s not going to solve itself, that’s for sure. He could simply use the switches to deactivate the spikes blocking the way, but that’s not his style.

The tall and very lonely skeleton walks through all three versions of the puzzle, turning every blue X into a red O to check that the mechanisms are working because he is thorough of course and not at all because he dreads going back into town alone. He hates going to Grillby’s by himself and seeing all of the real Royal Guards crowded around their table, laughing and playing cards, but a nice cold milkshake would sure hit the spot right about now.

Besides, it beat returning to a dark and empty house….

Stepping through the door to Grillby’s bar and Restaurant and seeing the Snowdin Royal Guard talking, laughing, and playing cards at their usual table only serves to rekindle the anxiety that Papyrus tries so hard to cover with boisterousness. The group of armored dogs reminds Papyrus of his shortcomings yet again. Not only is he not a Royal Guard, but you chose Sans over his carefully crafted puzzles!

Furthermore, how can the Great Papyrus bring himself to capture a human if the rest of them are even half as charming as you were? Papyrus slumps onto a barstool with a heavy sigh, and Grillby hurries over, sensing his friend’s distress even through Papyrus straightens and plasters a smile back on his face a moment later.

Grillby pulls oven mitts from underneath the counter to cover his hands while he scoops ice cream into a blender. “Hard day?” he asks Papyrus quietly. Very few monsters have heard Grillby speak. He prefers nonverbal communication with almost everyone except for a lucky few, including the skeleton brothers of Snowdin… and especially Papyrus.

Papyrus nods glumly in response to Grillby’s inquiry. Grillby hovers nearby after placing the milkshake in front of the skeleton monster. He has his suspicions about what is bothering Papyrus, but he waits for his friend to speak first, not wanting to bring up uncomfortable topics unless Papyrus truly wants to talk about it.

Papyrus pulls his favorite MTT-brand crazy straw with attached MTT figurine out of his pocket. He would never drink his milkshake with a regular straw, and the normalcy of the action makes Grillby smile.

“EVERYTHING COMES EASILY FOR SANS EVEN THOUGH HE NEVER APPLIES HIMSELF. THAT LAZYBONES GAINS FRIENDS AND STATUS WITHOUT EVEN TRYING,” Papyrus proclaims. “NOT THAT A HERO LIKE MYSELF WOULD EVER FEEL JEALOUS OF HIS OWN BROTHER’S SUCCESS.”

Papyrus pauses to slurp loudly at his milkshake. Grillby nods, encouraging him to continue.

“I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHOULD BE RESPECTED AND ADORED. I SHOULD ALSO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY!” Papyrus finishes, blowing dejected bubbles into the melty bits of his milkshake.

“Still nobody willing to criticize your spaghetti?” Grillby asks knowingly, refilling the milkshake glass.

“THOUGH IT SEEMS TO BE AN EXERCISE IN FUTILITY (THE ONLY TYPE OF EXERCISE THAT I AM OPPOSED TO!), I HAVE DONE EVERYTHING IN MY POWER TO MAKE THE SPAGHETTI AS UNPALATABLE AS POSSIBLE, YET UNDYNE AND SANS EAT EVERY NEW, HORRENDOUS PLATE OF THE ABOMINABLE PASTA WITH A SMILE AND TELL ME HOW DELICIOUS IT IS. I EVEN TRIED PUTTING OLD BANANA PEELS IN IT!”

“I’m glad you brought me some of your spaghetti to taste or you’d still think Undyne’s rather unconventional methods were the correct way to prepare it. Honestly, though, I’ve actually come to quite enjoy our late-night cooking sessions, and those wouldn’t have been possible without her.” Fortunately, as a fire elemental, Grillby’s very nature hides any signs of the blush forming at his admission.

“I CHERISH OUR COOKING LESSONS AS WELL! YOU ACTUALLY TEACH ME THINGS! UNDYNE AND I HAVE FUN DURING OUR TRAINING, DON’T GET ME WRONG. I AM RARELY WRONG, AFTER ALL. I DOUBT ANY OF THOSE RAUCOUS, ROWDY RUFFIANS HAD TO WORK SO HARD TO BECOME GUARDS. IT’S ALL JUST A PUP-ULARITY CONTEST.”

Grillby snorts at Papyrus’s clever puns. These complaints are nothing new. Papyrus works so hard with no reward for his efforts. His brother and best friend coddle him, believing they know best, but in reality they themselves cause quite a bit of the hardship in his life. Papyrus always maintains a facade of joviality and self-confidence, but Grillby knows the truth because he actually listens to the skeleton monster. Papyrus wants more from his life. He deserves more.

“AND THE WORST PART IS THAT EVERYONE WANTS TO PET THEM JUST BECAUSE THEY’RE DOGS!” Papyrus is on a roll now. “DOES EVERYONE THINK SKELETONS DON’T WANT TO BE PET? WE ARE INCREDIBLY SOFT AND HAVE A MARSHMALLOW-ESQUE SQUISHINESS!”

“Well, do you?” asks Grillby. “Want to be pet, I mean…” He shouldn’t ask, but just this one time, Grillby can’t resist.

“OF COURSE!” Papyrus responds eagerly though his SOUL is fluttering in his ribcage under his battle body. Is Grillby really going to pet him, or is the bartender just humoring him?

Holding his breath, Grillby reaches out slowly, unable to believe that he’s actually doing this. Sure, he and Papyrus have touched before, but never in such a deliberately intimate way. Accidental hand touches don’t count, even if Grillby sometimes initiates those on purpose too. The fire elemental lays his hand against Papyrus’s smooth cheekbone and strokes it reverently.

Papyrus leans into the warmth of Grillby’s touch, rubbing his cheek affectionately against the hand petting him. Grillby is naturally hot, yet he still feels the heat emanating from Papyrus’s bones. The smooth bone and the warmth it exudes combine to make Papyrus’s cheek feel very soft and squishable indeed. Surprisingly, Papyrus’s bones rattle gently, and he emits a sound that resembles a purr, flustering Grillby to no end.

Grillby pulls his hand away, blushing furiously beneath his flames, sure he’s gone too far and extremely embarrassed at his own boldness. Papyrus simply narrows his sockets, an idea forming in his mind. He clears his proverbial throat, not sure he should be so reckless… but he is the Great Papyrus, and the Great Papyrus never falters even when he doesn’t have his trusty Dating Manual to assist his flirting.

“SANS EVEN RECEIVED A KISS FROM SOMEONE TODAY! ISN’T THE GREAT PAPYRUS EQUALLY DESERVING OF SMOOCHES? PERHAPS EVEN MORESO!” Papyrus waits expectantly.

Grillby wonders if he has dusted and fallen into some alternate universe where all of his secret daydreams have become a reality. “Of course,” Grillby says, echoing Papyrus’s earlier declaration with the very same flutter in his SOUL.

Is that a faint orange blush across Papyrus’s cheekbones? wonders Grillby, leaning in. It is! Could this mean that Papyrus feels the same way that he does? This is really happening; he is really mere inches away from kissing Papyrus!

Papyrus leans forward to meet him, and Grillby presses his fiery mouth to Papyrus’s teeth which quickly part, deepening the kiss. It appears that fire elementals aren’t the only monsters that can manipulate their magic to form tongues. The skeleton tastes of milkshakes and midnights dotted with millions of twinkling diamond stars. Both monsters close their eyes, letting their surroundings fade away around them and sinking into utter bliss.

Papyrus’s troubles have never been further from his mind, and Grillby’s hopes and dreams have never been closer than in this moment- the first of many in the future stretching out before them.

[ Return to main story. ][ Underfell Grillby BONUS ][ Swapfell Papyrus BONUS ]

INDEX | Read on AO3

#undertale interactive dating #undertale dating sim #choose your own adventure #undertale #undertale papyrus #undertale grillby #undertale papby #papby ship #ut!papyrus #ut!grillby #vexy writes

[barbex]

I wrote something!! For @hollyand-writes​, who prompted me with: F!Fenhawke prompt from that list you put up (if you've got time to write a ficlet!) “With my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable.”

I was inspired I guess: 

Why, oh why had she encouraged her mother to give a party like that. No, not a party, a ball. A ball! Hawke is still trying to get used to being rich at all but her mother has embraced the riches of the nightmarish expedition like she's never been a malnourished refugee, begging to be let into the city gates.

Now she is holding court at the fireplace, laughing as some wealthy widower is flirting with her. She is dressed in a glittering gown that would have paid for the whole ship fare from Lothering to this city.

Hawke is currently questioning if the trip was worth it at all if it has to end with her being trapped in layers upon layers of starched folds. As much as the dress tries to show all of her humble cleavage, it also has a high collar, starched to the point of feeling like wood and it is scratching her chin whenever she turns her head.

Because of that, she has to turn her whole body to address the young man who offers his name and a glass of white wine. She would prefer red wine but apparently, red wine is too strong for ladies and it was hard enough to convince the young man to bring her any wine at all.

She takes a sip and puts on her nicest smile as she addresses the nervous young man. "Serah Desjardin, was it?"

"Desjardins, Serah Hawke, Marlon Desjardins" he repeats, emphasizing the S at the end. "Of the Desjardins of Lydes, Orlais. You might come across that name again some time, as my family is extensive and keen on travelling."

"That is wonderful."

The young man looks at her with his glass of red wine stuck half way on its way to his lips. "What is?"

"Travelling?" Hawke answers, heat crawling up her neck. This is the third young man, trying to strike up a conversation with her and he at least brought her a glass of wine, so she is trying her best, but... she knows that she's failing. "Travelling is so rewarding, to see what Thedas is made of, the people, the land..."

Desjardins takes a big gulp of his wine and Hawke sips again, a tiny sip with her lips pursed. She's adhering to the clear instructions by her mother that a distinguished daughter of the House of Amell does A) not drink Ale and B) only takes the tiniest sips. With pursed lips. There was a whole lecture about lips and the correct pursing thereof and Hawke is pretty sure that she will get cramps around her mouth tonight from all the pursing.

The young man has emptied his glass — oh how she envies him — and thankfully hides his burp behind a hand. "Well, travelling in Thedas is not quite as romantic as you seem to think. Half of Thedas is fleeing from the Blight or something and you can't stop the carriage for five minutes anywhere without some dirty child or knifeear begging you for food."

Red spots appear in her vision. "How unfortunate for the people who had made a living in the country, growing the food we all eat, that they didn't have the means to stay on their farms." She has to call on all of her self control to not punch him in the face for ‘knifeear’.

"Yes, it's unfortunate but there's plenty of ways to get to places like Kirkwall without harassing innocent travellers — "

— the stem of Hawke's wineglass snaps in half between her fingers and the bulb tips over, falls, and shatters on the ground. Shards scatter all over her feet and her silken shoes. Small spots of blood appear where a shard has cut the delicate material and pierced the skin on her feet.

Desjardins stares at her feet with a look of disgust and then turns his nose up and raises his hand. "Servant? Servant, please."

The remains of the glass stem crunch in her hand as she gets ready to punch that nose all the way to the Deep Roads. But a hand on her arm and a deep and calming voice in her ear stops her.

"It is unadvisable to punch one's guests with a fist full of broken glass," Fenris murmurs into her ear.

"Are you sure?" she replies through clenched teeth.

"Very," Fenris says with a chuckle. He takes her arm and leads her out of the ballroom into the kitchen. He holds her hand over the kitchen sink and opens it slowly. The white glove is already colored in a bright red from the cuts in her hand, just like the tops of her shoes. Fenris pulls the long glove down from her elbow and pumps ice cold water over it.

"Mistress Hawke!" Orana yells out when she sees the blood rinsing off.

"Not mistress, Orana," Hawke says quietly.

"I'm sorry, Serah, but what happened?"

"Nothing terrible, I was trying to flirt with some orlesian kid and he turned out to be an ass." She slips out of the shoes and hands them to Orana with the stained glove. "I don't know if you can fix this somehow but I would be grateful if you could. My mother is going to make me chase the cows when she sees these shoes like that."

"Of course, Serah Hawke, I know just what to do." She gathers everything in a towel and hides it in a lower cupboard. "I'll get to it after the party, so that your mother doesn't get suspicious if she doesn't see me bring in the food."

"Good thinking, Orana, thank you." Hawke tiptoes to the other side of the kitchen, to the stairs that will take her up to her room without having to cross the ballroom again. Fenris follows her, his bare feet just as quiet as hers. "I could almost be a Rogue, don't you think?" Hawke says, just as she trips over a broom and sends it down the stairs with loud clattering.

"You'd be perfect for diversion tactics," Fenris deadpans.

Hawke sighs. "With my luck, this will not be the last catastrophe of the evening."

"I would hardly call a fallen broom a catastrophe." Fenris follows her in her room and closes the door behind him.

"No, I meant that stupid, arrogant, good for nothing, rich stink nose of an orlesian cow's ass down there." She throws off the starched jacket with its stiff collar and vows to herself to burn it later. The dress looks better like this anyway, it falls softly over her shoulders and the red fabric is a nice contrast to her dark hair. In her closet she finds another pair of flimsy shoes. She can only hope that her mother will be distracted by all the glittering nobles around her and not look at her feet too closely.

"What is it with you and the cows?" Fenris has an amused smile on his lips as he stands there next to her door like a guard.

"Fereldan farmgirl, remember?" She slips into the shoes and crosses over to him. Stopping in front of him, she stares into his green eyes. She is slightly taller than him but she always feels dwarfed by his control and strength. "I guess, I have to get back down there now."

He swallows, his eyes dropping to her lips before meeting her eyes again. "Yes, probably." He smiles at her. "But you might want to avoid flirting with orlesians."

She groans. "I could arm wrestle all of them in my sleep but talking to them?"

Fenris chuckles. "Maybe I can help."

"Really?"

"At least, with my help, your flirting will be much more socially acceptable than that."

Hawke clenches her fists and sighs. "Alright, what should I talk about?"

Fenris grins. "First and foremost, you should not talk but listen. Make the man feel important by listening intently, asking him questions about what he does."

"But I don't care!" she groans out. "They're all so boring."

"Ask me."

"About what?"

Fenris bows towards her, one leg stepping behind him, his back perfectly straight. Hawke is astonished how perfectly aristocratic he looks.

"Serah Hawke, allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fenris. It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

Hawke struggles to get her knees to bend to the kind of curtsy that her mother has taught her. "The pleasure is all mine, Serah Fenris. What brings you to Kirkwall?"

Fenris gives her an encouraging smile and then falls back into his role. He stands straight, his head held high and it is a stark contrast to his usual stance of being ready to fight at all times. "I'm collecting books on elven and Tevinter history and I'm hoping to find a few rare pieces for my collection here."

"Oh, how interesting," Hawke says. "Have you found anything yet?"

Fenris interlaces his fingers and nods. "Yes, I saw a few promising places at the market this morning and I plan to return to it tomorrow. Would you like to accompany me for that?"

Hawke isn't sure if this is part of the game or if he's really asking her to go with him, just them, without the others. It would be a first. "Yes, I would love to," she rushes to say before the moment passes.

Fenris blushes and opens his mouth but closes it again without speaking.

"Ehm," Hawke stammers, "what do I do if I don't know what to say anymore?"

Fenris swallows. "You could always ask for a dance."

Hawke holds her hand towards him. "Would you like to dance with me, Serah Fenris?"

"It would be my pleasure," he says and his voice has a new rasp to it. He takes her hand and holds it out to the side and wraps his other arm around her waist, pulling her close. The music from the ballroom is muted but still loud enough for them to hear.

He takes a careful step forward and Hawke lets herself be steered by his lithe form pressed against her. He leads her in a slow circle around herself, holding her so close that she couldn't stray away from his steps if she wanted.

But she doesn't want to step away. She doesn't care for the party downstairs, where her mother is probably already looking for her. She wants to stay here, in Fenris' strong arms, guided around her room to the faint sound of music. She leans into him, closing her eyes as her cheek rests against his ear.

She has never danced like this before.

The music stops and Fenris twirls her out of his arms and pulls her back again. She laughs, slightly dizzy from the spin and he holds her so that she doesn't stumble. She catches a glimpse of his eyes and her heart stops for a beat. She can't put into words what she sees in them but they pull her towards him like a force.

Their lips connect, softly, fleeting, barely more than a dash of wind across a rose petal.

They both freeze.

It can't be more, not now, they both know. But it's more than she has ever hoped for.

"We must go back downstairs," he mumbles against her lips.

"I know." She lets her lips stay open, softly pressing forward. She feels him hesitate but then he presses back, his lips open like hers.

The music downstairs swells up again and the moment shatters. They both step back, and Hawke takes a deep breath. She holds out her arm for Fenris to take.

He wordlessly takes it and leads her out of the room and down the stairs. When a group of elegantly dressed men turn around to look at her, her lets go of her arm and retreats into the background like a bodyguard.

He watches her, how she charms the men, her flirting obviously improved. Occasionally she glances over to him, giving him a smile that nobody else ever gets from her.

That is enough. It's more than he has ever thought possible for someone like him.

I hope you like it @hollyand-writes. :D

#fhawris #fenris #f!hawke x fenris #dragon age fanfiction #fhawris fic #femhawke #my writing #romance #long post #yes sorry for long post #but i see others have long posts too #and they get read #and reblogged #so yes i'm putting it out as one long post #and i hope somebody loves this like i do #dragon age #reblogs are love

[darkageofwar]

The Last Testament of Enric Zaughn

Thank you for taking the time to listen to me like this. I’m terrified of what a Marshal might do if I spoke in public, and the idea of being recorded means even small crowds are equally monstrous. So again, thank you for listening to me like this, for taking the chance to believe me, and remember all of what I am going to spit is true.

My name is Enric Zaughn of Real Barsona, and I am 1037 years old.

Yes, yes, not 37, a thousand and 37, maybe, but let me explain please.

I was recruited into the 257th Real Barsona Line Regiment, and, if you’ll allow me to brag, was the best Viell player in the signal companies. Oh you should have heard me when I got going, old boots would tap with me, and I even nearly made it into the Regiments grand band. Imagine how mad Contrat would have been if I took his spot, he’ probably blow me a new-

What? Oh sorry, sorry, I’ll get back to speaking right.

Well, we were being shoved off in the...the old transport...Lady of The Stars! Yeah, Lady of The Stars, that was her name. Well, we were marching with a whole fleet to take out a Robber Baron in Khris when, wouldn’t you know it, some of them decided to meet us halfway.

Don’t wanna get into it too much, but The Lady wasn’t supposed to be alone like she was, so you can guess how long before a whole bunch of them boarded. Hard to even call it a fair fight when about all our officers were in the heavens, we couldn’t use out full rounds, and the emergency supply of canister wasn’t. After a day we were down to bayonets, swords, axes, some sergeant spears, ship pipes, spike bombs, bottles, butts, teeth, anything we could sink into them. It was a blood bath, a full month of nothing but-

I’m sorry, but what’s in your pocket?

Oh a pipe!

What?

I’m not a Marshal, you can shoot up all you want. In fact, give me a shot too, I need something nice. Don’t worry, I’m a grown man, I won’t bomb it.

Ah, nice and painful. The story? Right, right.

We couldn’t do too much before they rounded us all up, and I guess our Choir had been killed, or else there would have been at least some scout to help us. I tried to go out on a stand, but events I couldn’t do nothing about meant I wound up in some cages instead. They tried interrogating the ones in there, and I, of course, only told them what they deserved to know. The captain must have really liked my honor, because before we knew it, I was lined up in charge of watching everyone else pretty close.

What? No, no no no no, I didn’t do that, no soldier would, I just really think they sparked with me.

Besides, they understood it, they knew I had to, there was no way they couldn’t. Everyone knew I was just doing what a soldier had to, and besides, it wasn’t anything they wouldn’t have done either.

So I watched the cages on The Faithless Servant for a...well, how long doesn’t matter. Just know that one day, they came out and the Captain snapped on me. Of course he did, since all those brigands are all the same, a twig shot in the head, gifting you one day, ready to hang you the next. And, are you ready, he said that I, a true soldier, with the stupidest thing I ever could imagine, had snuck into his daughter to-

Sorry to ask again, but what is in your pocket?

Not the pipe, your other one.

Oh, it’s just some coin...just some coins? I’m only asking because...

Right. My story.

They tried to kill me then and there, cause crazy and all, but an act of gods came through for me. We were in Hyperspace at the time, their blind idiot of a pilot steering the ship right into a storm, of course. At least, I think that’s what must have happened, since the ship just began crunching, bending, twisting our of nowhere, whole halls being wider than a field, thinner than a card, then taller than the sky in the blink of your eyes, regardless what was standing in it. Then there’s the screams, of the screams, they were thick enough to swim through, over and over and over, from everywhere and everything, begging for mercy, begging for gods, begging for an end to it all! The screamless places weren’t any better, the battering of something slamming into everything bombarding your ears, and between us, I don’t know how I didn’t change like the rest of them.

But, I didn’t change.

See, after a day, maybe a day, I hope it was only a day, dear gods I pray it was only a day, things went the other way. Oh sure, the pelting was there, but it sounded half the galaxy away, the screaming, rending, and other unpleasents being placed with whimpers you had to press your ear against them to make out. Not that they all died, but...well, I was the only moving thing left that was intelligent. Tried eating and drinking for calm, but it’s kind of hard to when the spirits want to chat and the food proves it can dance.

So I wandered the ship like that, always starving, dying of thirst, waiting for the step where the floors of walls decided to reduce me down. I wandered like that for a thousand years.

Yes, the thousand years again.

Yes, I don’t look a fight over 30, I know.

Yes, yes, that Khris system was only taken over by a Baron about 8 years ago.

Yes yes yes yes yes, they say the 257th was lost to raiders only 6 years ago, but that’s the lie.

And what is in your pocket? No, not those, the pocket my friends keep growling me about.

My Friends?

My Friends!

My friend, I haven’t told you about my Friends yet!

You see, one day I found something like a fat baby Viell in one of the rooms I was trying to sleep in and, since you can only hear the same nothings every day for so many days, I tuned it up for a draw. Wasn’t pretty mind you, but I could draw on it for something a little special, and it was then that my Friends came to watch. True, there were walls, but the yellow orbs they got for eyes didn’t care, peaking through the dead light shadows, every wall, corner, crack, crease, it all having a set of them big old eyes watching me.

Some of them even found themselves inside with me, the ones in the shadows still all blurry like, but the ones in light had their friend frames with fluffy, spindly, moltenly, amethyst  skin, or fur, or scales, or whatever it was they had. Most of them were on all their limbs on the ground, but some of them were twice as tall as the room, passing through the roof like nothing, still watching me with that big yellow eyes. Some had claws, some had talons, some had nothing, it really didn’t matter what they had because they kept applauding me with whatever it was the more I played for them, and the more I played for them, the more they clapped.

I had never played such beautiful music before then, and they gave me a just reward for a just soldier.

They changed the ship for me, leading a new bridge out over a vast desert to a massive palace of bones all smelted together with a giant moon like diamond above it all to take the light we didn’t need. Inside, oh inside were endless balls filled with all of my Friends in celebration over everything, billions and billions of groaning under the weight of literal mountains of food. I gorged myself for ten years, tasting the flesh of every meat and fruit, drowning myself in every sweet nectar and bitter soul, my Friends always having one more dish to try.

It was paradise.

After those years I was eating with the Overlord Aiznockt, such a plump and mirthful god, who thanked me for being such a great guest and Friend for their humble meal. Aiznockt told me that I, Me of all people, could help us, that I could bring their joy to our suffering hell of a lie, that I and I alone could bring an end to all suffering. They gave me the sweetest meal I ever imagined and right there, with a soldier’s hesitation, I agreed to help my Friends. So they gave me The Faithless Servant, they gave me a humble crew of Friends, they gave me everything I’d need to know, then they gave me you.

What, you thought this was your idea?

Oh, no no no no, my friend, you see, this is what we wanted.

They made sure this place was here. They made sure you had heard of us.  They made sure we could meet. They made sure we were abandoned together.

You thought you’re the first I told? I’ve talked a dozen times a day every day for five years! Everyone who leaves has full faith in my words, my Friends helping those who simply can’t understand, and have been with us this whole time. They have watched you very closely, told me many wonderful things I need to know.

But they can’t tall me what is in your pocket.

Oh sure, they’ve told me about you pipe and leaves, your Thaller and 27 Mill Thallers in coins, your pills in a sleeve pocket, your tiny device near your chest that I pray for your sake is not a horn...but not your pocket.

They told me of your secret pocket, the one your hand rests on, but not what’s inside.

They try to invade your secret pocket, but my friends are angry that they can’t.

They don’t get angry easy, for everything should be filled with joy, so I get Very Angry the more disturbed my Friend’s get.

So I demand to know one last time:

What is in your-

#Dark Age of War #science fiction

[seeroftodayandtomorrow]

The Prince and the Moon God

Chapter 8

Read on AO3

He is wandering along the quay, trying to find some enjoyment in the sunny day or a speck of interest in the bustle of the port, when something actually catches his eye. It's a soldier in the blue-and-gold uniform of the royal guard, talking to someone of the city watch, showing him something. Blaine can't see well enough what, but he doesn't need to; he knows with ice-cold certainty that it's him, that it's a portrait of the missing prince. The guard is in the garish colors of the city's uniform; the bright yellow and orange has it made hard for Blaine to take them seriously as soldiers before. Now, he sees the blade sheathed at the guard's side, and he knows it's enough to take him if they find him.

He has been careless.

He thought they couldn't openly look for the amulet, because they can't have it known that it's missing, but he has forgotten that they can look for him.

He tries to think. The portrait will be bad, because it will have been done from memory; no one ever bothered to paint his likeness while he was actually there. He should be safe enough in the city, at least for now, if he takes care not to go to the same place too often.

The ship is another matter. He doesn't like to think of it, the crew are his friends. But if there is a reward—and if the reward is big enough...he just doesn't know. He needs the ship; he won't find another one to take him where he must go.

He vows that, at the very least, whatever happens, they won't get the amulet. He will throw it into the sea if he has too; if need be, he will throw himself right behind. It won't help Cooper, but it's better than giving himself and the amulet over into their hands.

But they haven't found him yet. There is still hope.

He walks back. Walks, doesn't run, even though he feels like it. He doesn't even turn up the collar of his cloak.

On the ship, he seeks out Kurt, who is standing at the wheel with Santana. Blaine would rather he be alone, but it can't be helped.

“Captain,” he says, “I put myself under your protection.”

“Come to my state room,” Kurt says, though he is all captain now, so even Santana doesn't question any of this.

Blaine feels he should be panting, or crying, or throwing himself at Kurt's feet. He doesn't; he goes down the stairs in measured steps, then sits down with measured movements across Kurt at the big chart table in the state room.

Kurt doesn't say anything, just looks at him expectantly, so Blaine finally clears his throat.

“I'm not a criminal,” he says, “not really, but...I'm not a merchant, either. As you've probably guessed.”

Kurt nods silently.

“People are looking for me. But they can't find me. There's more than my life at stake.”

Kurt nods again. The questions he asks are not the ones Blaine is dreading.

“Is it a person or persons looking for you, or an official institution?”

Blaine snorts. It's the crown. “I think you could call it an institution.”

“I'm afraid I don't have the authority to protect you from prosecution.”

“Kurt,” Blaine pleads, desperate. “I have to be go to the Moon Isle. It's a matter of -”

“However,” Kurt interrupts with a grin, “They can't get you if they can't find you. You will have to hide for as long as we are anchored here. I will try to speed up the proceedings, and when we're afloat again, we will go as fast as we can.”

Blaine hesitates, but he has to ask. “There might be a reward. Won't the crew -?”

“I told you before, we are a family here. Nobody will jeopardize that for a few coins. I vouch for them.”

The promise has to be enough. There's no possibility in the close quarters of the ship for the crew not to detect something's different. Kurt has Santana tell the crew not to reveal Blaine's location to anyone; he seems to think the mere order is enough. Blaine takes comfort in the knowledge that Santana will have elaborated with a few colorful threats.

They find him a place in the hold, so hidden behind their cargo Blaine wouldn't have known the nook was even there. It's cramped and uncomfortable. He has enough room to lie down with his knees drawn up, and he can sit but not stand. However, it's only for a few days, until they are finally ready to go, and as long as the coast is clear, he can walk in the hold.

As he lies down on his thin pallet, he can't sleep. Whatever it was that used to calm him before, that made his nights so peaceful, that made slipping into sleep seem like sinking into a lover's embrace, doesn't work anymore. Blaine is agitated, he tosses and turns in the tight space. He can't take out the amulet as he is wont to, because it shines so brightly now, and there can't be light in the cargo hold. Not one so white and cold, so different from a candle.

What's more, the ship seems to share his agitation. Even now, unmoving as they are, by day the ship rocks from the comings and goings of workers and delivery men. At night, though, it's usually as still as any house. It had taken him some time to get used to, accustomed as he is now to the constant movement and the way his body shifts to accommodate it.

Tonight, however, the ship rocks almost angrily. This is the emotion he gets from it: anger, and fear. Helplessness. A trapped animal trying to break its bonds. Or maybe they are only his own emotions. But he doesn't imagine the rocking. Voices on deck confirm that the water is wilder than water in a harbor has any right to be, and the ship seems to exaggerate the movement. Sailors come into the hold to adjust shifted cargo before Santana can have their hide for neglecting it so much it even has to be adjusted.

Sighing, Blaine rises and helps. His knots are good now, and though he has no idea how cargo has to be stocked, he can tie it where he is shown.

He would like to go up on deck and stand beside Kurt, keeping watch.

They come the next night, when he has finally fallen asleep. The sea is turbulent again although there is no wind, and Blaine feels troubled. The crew seem to take it as normal, though, and so he tries not to let it worry him. But he also feels restless, tired of the confines of his hiding place after only a day. Puck had come to play cards with him for an hour or so earlier, and this morning, Kurt had surprised him by carrying a tray down and sitting down on the floor to eat with him. But he hasn't done much else, and not talked to anyone else, and so he is glad when it's finally time to go to sleep.

But he is even more agitated than the night before, and the ship is rocking even more, and when he finally falls asleep, he wakes up again with ragged gasps, because this time when he sinks into the Moon Lake, he drowns.

He wakes from footsteps, voices coming down into the hold. It's Kurt, calm and cool and not nearly as sleep-addled as the guards were no doubt hoping he would be as he leads them down, carrying a lantern in one hand.

He lets them look around the hold, a few hands in tow to rearrange the cargo the soldiers move without care for the balance of the load. He is composed as he declares that of course he doesn't harbor any fled princes, that there's nothing in his hold but salt fish and hard tack, as most of his cargo was spoiled in the storm that forced them to stop here.

Blaine is not so calm. He dares not move, even though his legs start falling asleep; he hardly dares breathe. His heart beats so loudly he fears they will hear it, and he feels he is close to dying when a soldier's boot stops only inches from his elbow.

At long last, however, they leave, and he hears Kurt thank them a bit too loudly and almost unnoticeably sarcastic for their visit.

It is still some minutes before he moves, slowly stretching his limbs, gritting his teeth against the needles and pins. He tells his beating heart to slow down, that the danger is over, but it still seems worried, and after a while, he realizes he is too. Because how can he do this? He is endangering Kurt and the crew, all of them. If they had found him—he doesn't know what the punishment would be, but they don't deserve to be brought in this situation.

It can't be helped, though. He is quite aware he has no other options. What he has to do is more important than any one person, or any one ship.

He can but hope he won't bring them down with him.

He is sitting on a crate, thinking about going back to sleep, when Kurt comes back. In the light of the lantern Blaine can see he isn't as calm as he seemed; there's a set to his shoulders and in the lines of his face that suggests anger, and fear.

“We might have to cut the repairs short,” he says, rubbing his neck. “Make do with what's done. One of the guards let slip that they'll shut down the harbor in a few days, if you haven't been found. We must be away by then.”

Blaine nods silently.

“Don't you think you owe me an explanation?” Kurt asks, sitting down on the crate beside Blaine. The ship is rocking too much for it to be safe to put the lantern down, so he keeps holding it. The flickering light throws moving, threatening shadows on the walls.

Blaine nods. He doesn't meet Kurt's eyes. “I can't tell you everything, but if you listen, I will tell you as much as I can.”

He shifts uneasily, takes a breath, tries to sort his thoughts and decide what can be told and what can't. He owes Kurt the truth, but he can't tell it, not now. He will tell him as much as he can, and write the rest in a letter before they reach the Moon Isle.

“Those that look for me....they are men of the king,” he says and hears Kurt gasp. “If they catch me, they will bring me back to the capital, and then I will be killed.”

“But why?” Kurt whispers.

“It's nothing I have done, it's because of what I am,” Blaine says. It's as far as he dares to go. The general public knows little about the royal family's worship of the Moon God, and nothing about what keeps them in power. Still, he can't say too much.

“I have also taken...something.” His hand automatically goes to his throat, to the amulet that hangs around his neck, under his shirt, wrapped in a kerchief. It seems to vibrate beneath his touch. “I didn't steal it, technically; it belongs to my family, but they...those who are looking for me, they want it.”

There is a long moment of silence afterwards. Then Kurt sighs and rises. “I will take you to the Moon Isle,” he promises and turns to go. Blaine has the sinking feeling that this is final, that although their journey will take a few weeks still, this is a farewell.

“Kurt? I'm—I'm sorry.”

Kurt nods and leaves.

They stay until mid-afternoon the next day. When the light begins to fade, they dismiss the workers, who pack up their tools and wait to get paid. They hoist anchor as soon as they have left, while the crew is still sweeping the sawdust off the deck. The ship is rocking more than ever, which doesn't make their task any easier, but at nightfall, they are under way, and Blaine dares to come out of the hold. He stands at the railing, breathing in the salty air, looking back at the lights of the city that has so very nearly become a trap. He has escaped, he is safe for now, and he is on the way to his destination, to his destiny. Somehow, though, he feels more lost than ever before.

#fic: the prince and the moon god #klaine fanfiction

[bollywood-and-phoenix-feather]

*sails in* soooo if you're still taking prompts *waggles eyebrows* Can I get cutesy Maurauders + Lily shenanigans? Idek what kind of shenanigans, but preferably pre-ship mutually pining wolfstar & pre-ship banter Jily. I was gonna ask for angst but then I realized that my poor heart Can't Take It.

no angst, she says

sorry this took me forever babe

read it on ao3 here

James and Sirius are, with their usual propensity for very bad timing, having a Standoff.

Peter knows this because James has actually finished his homework on Cheering Charms, despite his continued and vociferous objections when the assignment was announced in class. This, naturally, means that James will have an excuse to be best friends with Remus and ignore Sirius; ergo, Remus will be quite obviously too happy to be included to worry overmuch about Gryffindor Tower’s resident drama queen. In sum (and here’s what Peter’s good at; not charms, but people) - in sum, this means that Peter will be stuck entertaining Sirius Arsing Black while pretending that he wouldn’t rather be literally anywhere else.

That’s the thing about the four of them; they’re really only friends sometimes, and how many friends each of them has varies based on the day and its succession of probabilities; minimum none, maximum three, with Remus, to his astonishment, holding the candle for the highest calculated mean.

Remus must be the easiest to get along with; he’s quiet and unassuming and mostly just astonished to have friends. It works, of course, for James and Sirius, who probably get off on being adored, but not Peter. Peter is content to watch.

Does that make him strange?

He wonders this, as Sirius places another card on top of the already-precarious house of Exploding Snaps Cards. As a rule, the sharper Sirius’s fragile construction’s angles, the more brassed off he is, and today the cards are nearly vertical. Peter is aware, distantly, that he’s going to win, and that this will sour Sirius’s mood further. He wonders if he can Incendio his own stack without Sirius noticing.

He probably can. Sirius isn’t a watcher, like Peter, which brings him back to the point, as he nudges his wand inside his pocket and then darts back before the cards explode spectacularly in his face. Peter doesn’t, actually, think it’s strange. Really, he sometimes thinks he’s the most Gryffindor of them all; he’s good at losing himself and being brave for others - at looking at the bigger picture, at realizing that some things are more important than his own insecurities.

This also has the consequence of making him the most valuable Marauder. James and Sirius are too flashy to be of much pranking use; Remus not daring enough - so it falls to Peter to mastermind, to use the genius that surrounds him to bring pranks to life.

This is why James and Peter are friends. Sirius and Peter are friends because Peter takes slightly less bullshit from him than James does. Remus and Peter, however -

Remus and Peter are friends because of the boggart assignment.

Remus and Peter are friends because Peter knows about Remus and the full moon, and Remus knows about Peter’s Muggle dad, and they very particularly don’t talk about it and instead tell each other the locations of their private Honeydukes stashes.

(They are also friends because when Peter, watching as always, saw the way Remus stared at Sirius like he was the star he was named for, he just offered him an Acid Pop - one pain to distract from another.)

Peter realizes with a dawning self-awareness that Sirius may not, in fact, be the most dramatic of their lot. Then again, thirteen though they may be, they are simultaneously much older with experience and much younger with the giddy freedom Hogwarts provides - all except for James, who knows what it is to grow up happy, who actually looks forward to summer hols.

(In two years, Sirius will get absolutely sloshed on nicked Firewhisky and admit to Peter, slurred and soft, that no, I wouldn’t trust myself with one of them little buggers, the whole bloody world knows I’m too much like that - that - absolute tit of a Mum I’ve got, but really Peter, one day you ‘n James 'n Remus 'n especially James are going to raise a whole host of brats, and you bet I’m gonna be there to treat them right -

Peter will carefully omit the fact that Remus once told him something very similar, in the lofty tones he gets after the moon when he’s too tired to soften his speech - I’d never wish that kind of - that fucking wolf - on a kid, Peter, I couldn’t -

Good thing you’re bent as Wagnar the Wild’s cursed dick, then, Peter will say, just to make him laugh, even though it’s not, strictly, true. Remus will smile anyway.)

Pain and love and heartbreak, which are all the same thing; prank plans and maps that melt back into their parchment - Peter keeps these close to his chest, guarding them because they belong to his friends. He’s always been their Secret-Keeper, and Merlin knows they need one, these boys with brazenness hanging around their shoulders like tattered Quidditch cloaks, who wouldn’t know subtlety if it was printed on Snape’s gray underpants.

Right now, for example, the night of October 30th, that brazenness is in full force - right now, James and Sirius are having a Standoff, and Peter holds the secret behind this too.

He’d like to think that this one is a little more painless than the others, but where Snivellus is involved, that’s never true. Slimy Snape, however, isn’t the secret this time - it’s his friend with the blazing hair and attitude and the heavy, heavy chip on her shoulder.

(Peter thinks distantly that his friends should have better taste.)

“Now that Prince James has condescended to grace us with his presence - ”

“I was helping Evans with her detention, fuck off - ”

“ - and has perhaps remembered who his real friends are - ”

“Sirius, I swear on Merlin’s saggy fucking tits - ”

“Language,” says Remus, idly. “Are we going to start or not?” Peter meets his eye, rewards him with a sympathetic eyeroll for speaking up.

“We might have an hour ago if James hadn’t run off with some - ”

“Jealousy is unbecoming,” Remus starts -

“As if you’ve ever had to deal with being jealous - ” Sirius says, immediately. Peter winces, and Remus colors, shutting his mouth audibly.

Peter chooses this moment to clear his throat. “Three cheers for Sirius, who got the mass release charm working,” he says, raising his voice, because flattery always smooths things over. The teachers think he worships the other three, but that’s not quite true; he’s just more willing to concede. Less stubborn pride, a bit more sense. “Did we decide on Dungbombs or Smokebombs?” he asks, opening the floor.

With a - thank Merlin - minimum of whinging, the annual Halloween Prank Planner’s Meeting Number Four is set back on track.

James makes a lot of hand gestures. Sirius makes a lot more hand gestures, most of which are more crude. Remus pokes at places on a map of the castle with his wand, letting it spark each time he does. Sirius yells a little, James yells quite a lot, and Remus yells not at all.

Peter watches, and decides.

It’s always worked for them, and it will this time as well. Without too much broken glass, and less ripped curtains than last year, the plans are set.

The evening of the Halloween feast is crisp and clear; they watch the artificial sky closely for rain, but Fortune has conceded to favor their audacity. It’s the first year they’ve tried anything bigger than the Gryffindor common room, and Peter can see it on their faces, alive and dancing. Remus has placed the bombs, James and Sirius have activated the delayed release charms, and Peter has headed off Crib, the aging Squib janitor.

The stage is set, Peter thinks, and he settles in to watch.

It is, in his definitely-unbiased opinion, thoroughly magnificent. Thick, magenta-orange smoke billows from the mouth of each painstakingly-charmed gargoyle, smothing teachers and students alike in vibrant powder. When everyone is coughing, wands lit to see through the haze, Sirius lights the powder with a flick of his wand, unleashing a Halloween surprise on the unsuspecting student body.

Teachers watch their teeth lengthen and bloody in horror as their faces dip with unnatural pallor; the Hufflepuff table sprouts fur in Remus’s idea of a bad joke. The Slytherin table (obviously) grows scales; Snivellus gets to turn into an eel, wet and flopping around, causing most of the table to shriek in disgust. The Gryffindor and Ravenclaw students sprout feathers, the Gryffindors puffing up towards the ceiling like balloons while the Ravenclaws see their arms growing membranous bat wings.

In the middle are the Marauders, triumphant with faces and robes alight.

As quickly as it starts, it’s over; students and teachers sink gratefully back into their own bodies, with the exception of Snivellus. With a little more work, Peter thinks, they could extend the spell to hit during classes instead of at the feast.

Professor McGonagall is furious, and good old Dumbledore orders them to his office immediately, but Peter can see McGonagall’s mouth twitching furiously, the sparkle in Dumbledore’s blue eyes. They’re safe, for now.

Sirius is hollering with fierce joy - “Bloody well worked, didn’t it, well done Lupin - ”

“It was you, you got the charm working - ”

“ - don’t you lot go forgetting who placed all those fiddly smoke bombs,” James puts in, not willing to be left out.

Peter grins as he watches them argue, because these are his friends and today, they’re kings.

*

The trip to the headmaster’s goes much as expected. Dumbledore and McGonagall take each of them aside, asking if they might possibly know the instigator’s of tonight’s antics.

Peter shakes his head, lets his eyes go wide and innocent. “It was probably one of the fourth-years,” he says. “Saw Bones and her Hufflepuff friends looking shifty this morning.”

McGonagall’s nostrils flare. “Pettigrew,” she says, not unkindly. “It will be better for both you and your friends if you tell me the truth.”

Dumbledore’s gaze pierces him, and Peter swallows down a sudden, bright gulp of fear. They’ll all get detention anyway, and he doubts anyone would see him any differently if he told - after all, everyone already knows they did it, Sirius was yelling loud enough to wake the ghosts -

Someone bangs on the office door. “Minnie,” says James, impudent. “We didn’t do it, we swear! Can we go, now?”

His friends are outside, and he’s their Secret-Keeper. Peter smiles guilelessly at the two, and says, “I am telling the truth, Professors.”

*

Peter is right. They get detention anyway and Sirius complains bitterly and Remus just smiles in resignation and rolls up his sleeves and James throws an arm around Peter’s shoulder and tells him thanks for not telling, I know you were scared, and Peter wonders suddenly if he’s not the only one who watches.

*

(It’s still the best day of their lives. The Halloween Prank is cemented as tradition almost immediately; the full moon is conveniently avoiding the Halloween weekend, which means they can plot, succeed, and drink celebratory butterbeer the night of Sirius’s birthday in peace.

McGonagall’s punishment doesn’t start until the fourth of November - Sirius says it’s because Minnie secretly cares and doesn’t want to lock him up in detention on his birthday, but James thinks it’s Dumbledore’s idea of a last hurrah. Peter thinks they’re both right.

Later, when the other two are asleep, Sirius will confide to him, hushed and young, I hope it’s like this always.)

#fic #my fic #hp #hp fic #marauders #marauders fic

[gardencityvegans]

Emilie Raffa’s Everyday Sourdough & Spicy White Bean Arugula Dip

https://www.thefullhelping.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Emilie-Raffa-white-bean-arugula-dip-3.jpg

I haven’t consciously marked many milestones in my life as a home cook. My learning curve has unfurled slowly and gradually: a day comes when something I used to struggle with suddenly feels like habit, or I realize that a process I used to dread is no longer a big deal. Many of these moments have had to do with baking, simply because it’s more technical and less intuitive (for me) than cooking always has been.

2017 has been the year of bread. I started making my own bread regularly for the first time in my life, inspired by Alexandra Stafford’s amazing Bread, Toast, Crumbs, and then spurred on by The New Laurel’s Kitchen (which is full of good instruction). I’d feared homemade bread-baking for years, intimidated by overly technical advice and anxieties about whether I’d have the right sense of timing and intuition.

This year, I’ve learned that, to quote Julia Turshen, “yeast is just an ingredient,” and there’s nothing so scary about kneading or shaping dough. I’ve come to love the feel of dough in my hands. I love sitting back and watching it do its thing: resting, rising, and turning a deep golden shade in the oven.

Bread baking found me at the right time. I started cooking from Ali’s book just as I was processing the loss of a long-term relationship. I was bereft, and baking kept me company. It gave me something to do, and it presented me with a constant series of new challenges, each satisfying yet incremental enough enough to be manageable.

Most of all, it gave me bread. Loaf after tender, fragrant loaf. I can’t think of too many things that I cam as consistently happy to eat than bread or toast, and all of the things you can serve with them (dip, soup, etc.).

Through all of this, I’ve told myself that yeasted breads are within my reach, but sourdough isn’t for me. Sourdough is for serious bread bakers, those who know the ins and outs of autolysing and levains and scoring and hydration. I follow countless sourdough Instagrammers, but to some extent that has only made me more intimidated, rather than less.

Still, I haven’t been able to shake the itch to give sourdough a whirl, and the work of many women—Cheri Litchfield and Sarah C. Owens among them—has given me the ongoing encouragement I need. It was Cheri who reminded me that, no matter how technical sourdough-making can be, it’s also a time-honored method that home cooks have been practicing for hundreds of years.

I’ve known this for a while, but I needed someone to walk me through it—a warm, friendly, accessible guide. Enter Emilie Raffa.

You might know Emilie as the author of the Clever Carrot blog, where she shares wholesome and hearty comfort food recipes. She’s also an accomplished bread maker, and her new book, Artisan Sourdough Made Simple, is a loving tribute to the ins and outs of bread making. It is the most accessible, down-to-earth resource I’ve ever seen about sourdough (having purchased and left dormant a number of much more technical books).

I have Emilie to thank for the fact that, as of last week, I’ve been baking fresh sourdough every other morning, tearing it into hunks and dipping it in soup, using it for toast, slicing it up for sandwiches, and sharing gleefully it with my neighbors and friends.

It’s hard for me to say how gratifying it has been—not just the amazement I felt when I realized that I could do it, but also the sensation of empowerment that baking one’s own bread can bestow. It’s so gratifying to create a staple food from nothing but flour, water, and salt. I see more than ever why the process becomes so intoxicating over time. And I see that sourdough isn’t a project for master bakers. It really can be simple, intuitive, and fun.

I’ll be sharing Emilie’s foundational recipe for everyday sourdough in this post, along with a tasty dip to dunk your slices into. But I want to emphasize that the whole book is invaluable, especially if you’re new to sourdough. Emilie walks you through every step of the process, including creation of a starter, with simple instructions and useful cues. If you want to start baking regularly, you’ll want to read everything she has to say.

And reading it won’t overwhelm you. This book is neither dense nor dry. Emilie is happy to leave out certain techniques or terms, assuring readers that they don’t need to know everything about sourdough in order to get started. She gives you exactly as much information as is necessary for beginners. I don’t doubt that I’ll keep wanting to learn about this process, but as a novice I felt so grateful that Emilie was able to help me separate the essentials from the graduate level stuff.

Along with the book, Emilie shared with me a package of her dried starter, which is named Dylan, after her son. Dylan is the offspring of Priscilla, a robust starter that Emilie’s friend Celia shipped to her all the way from Australia years ago. Starter, she says, is meant to be shared. Using Emilie’s dried starter means that I didn’t need to grow my own from scratch; within 3 days, I had a jar that was well-fed, bubbly and ready to go.

At the end of today’s post, after the recipe, I’ll be offering a chance for a US or Canadian reader to win a copy of the book and a package of Emilie’s dried starter. Together, they’re everything you need to get started with your own loaves. For now, though, I want to share Emilie’s incredible, practically no-knead everyday sourdough recipe, along with her zippy, garlicky, oh-so-simple recipe for white bean arugula dip!

Emilie Raffa's Everyday Sourdough

Print

Recipe type: side

Cuisine: vegan, no oil, soy free, tree nut free

Author: Emilie Raffa

Serves: 1 loaf

Every baker needs an all-purpose, go-to loaf in their repertoire. And if you’re new to sourdough, this is the perfect place to start. Simply make the dough, let it rise overnight, and bake in the morning. It requires very little effort with big reward. The crust is golden and crunchy, and the velvety crumb is perfect for sandwiches and toast. Try a few thick-cut slices with creamy avocado and tomato or the most delicious grilled cheese sandwich you will ever sink your teeth into. This is my family’s favorite loaf.

Ingredients

Baker’s Schedule:

Thursday–Saturday: Feed your starter until bubbly and active.

Saturday Evening: Make the dough, and let rise overnight.

Sunday Morning: Shape the dough, let rise again, score, and bake.

Ingredients

50 g (1⁄4 cup) bubbly, active starter

350 g (11⁄3 cups plus 2 tbsp) warm water

500 g (4 cups plus 2 tbsp) bread flour 9 g (11⁄2 tsp) fine sea salt

Instructions

Make the Dough: In the evening, whisk the starter and water together in a large bowl with a fork. Add the flour and salt. Combine until a stiff dough forms, then finish mixing by hand to fully incorporate the flour. The dough will feel dense and shaggy, and it will stick to your fingers as you go. Scrape off as much as you can. Cover with a damp towel and let rest for 30 minutes. Replenish your starter with fresh flour and water, and store according to preference.

After the dough has rested, work the mass into a fairly smooth ball. To do this, grab a portion of the dough and fold it over, pressing your fingertips into the center. Repeat, working your way around the dough until it begins to tighten, about 15 seconds.

Bulk rise: Cover the bowl with a damp towel and let rise overnight at room temperature. This will take about 8 to 10 hours at 70°F (21°C). The dough is ready when it no longer looks dense and has doubled in size.

Shape: In the morning, coax the dough onto a lightly floured work surface. To shape it into a round, start at the top and fold the dough over toward the center. Turn the dough slightly and fold over the next section of dough. Repeat until you have come full circle. Flip the dough over and let rest for 5 to 10 minutes. Meanwhile, line an 8-inch (20-cm) bowl with a towel and dust with flour. With floured hands, gently cup the dough and pull it toward you in a circular motion to tighten its shape. Using a bench scraper, place the dough into the bowl, seam side up.

Second rise: Cover the bowl and let rest for 30 minutes to 1 hour. The dough is ready when it looks puffy and has risen slightly but has not yet doubled in size.

Preheat your oven to 450°F (230°C). Cut a sheet of parchment paper to fit the size of your baking pot, leaving enough excess around the sides to remove the bread.

Score: Place the parchment over the dough and invert the bowl to release. Sprinkle the dough with flour and gently rub the surface with your hands. Using the tip of a small, serrated knife or a razor blade, score the dough with the cross-cut pattern on page 195, or any way you’d like. Use the parchment to transfer the dough to the baking pot.

Bake: Bake the dough on the center rack for 20 minutes, covered. Remove the lid, and continue to bake for 30 minutes. Then, carefully remove the loaf from the pot and bake directly on the oven rack for the last 10 minutes to crisp the crust. When finished, transfer to a wire rack. Cool for 1 hour before slicing.

Sourdough is best consumed on the same day it is baked. To maximize freshness, cool completely and store at room temperature in a plastic bag for up to 1 day.

Notes

About the Dough: Because this dough rises while you’re asleep, you won’t be tempted to rush the process or check on it every five seconds to see if it’s ready. Have a look at the baker’s schedule, then make adjustments to suit your own schedule. The overnight method can be applied to most of the recipes in this book.

3.5.3226

Emilie Raffa's Spicy White Bean Arugula Dip

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Recipe type: dip, spread, starter

Cuisine: vegan, gluten free, soy free, tree nut free

Author: Emilie Raffa

Prep time: 5 mins

Cook time: 5 mins

Total time: 10 mins

Serves: 2 cups

This creamy white bean dip with baby arugula is the perfect destination for a slice of artisan sourdough. It’s not only healthy, but it’s incredibly simple to make—just pulse a few times in the blender and you’re done.

Ingredients

11⁄2 cups (375 g) cannellini beans, rinsed and drained

1 small handful of baby arugula

1⁄4 cup (60 ml) olive oil, plus more for drizzling

1⁄2 garlic clove, chopped

Pinch of red pepper flakes

Zest of 1 lemon, juice reserved

Salt and freshly ground black pepper

Instructions

Add the beans, arugula, olive oil, garlic, red pepper, zest, and juice of half the lemon to a blender. Season generously with salt and pepper. Pulse a few times to combine. The texture should be creamy and rustic. Taste the dip and adjust with more lemon juice or salt and pepper if needed.

Transfer the dip to a small bowl and drizzle with extra olive oil and red pepper flakes. Arrange your sourdough slices on the side, to serve for dipping.

Notes

You can also use fresh parsley or cilantro leaves in place of the arugula.

3.5.3226

Clearly, I’m over the moon about Emilie’s bread—not just the signature Everyday Sourdough, but the many other incredible loaves in this book, including Seeded Pumpkin Cranberry, Roasted Garlic and Rosemary, and Danish Rye Bread.

But it’s worth saying how awesome this dip is, too. It’s the kind of thing you can whip up in mere minutes if you’ve got a can of beans and a handful of bitter greens or herbs, certain that your friends or whoever’s coming over will polish it off. The creaminess of the beans and olive oil are offset by the bite of garlic and pepper, and the dip is so much more complex than its simple preparation would suggest.

If you’ve thought about sourdough but haven’t known where to begin, this is the book for you. And even if you’ve never made bread before, it’ll give you all the tools you need to understand the process. What Emilie teaches you will serve you with any type of bread-making, and her assortment of recipes (which span not only breads, but also crackers, rolls, desserts, and savory meals) will give you plenty of ideas about what to do with all of the marvelous loaves you’re making.

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As I said, bread making has found me at the right time, and I’m so excited to continue learning and sharing about the process. Perhaps Emilie’s work will inspire you to consider making sourdough at home, as it has inspired me—and if not, I hope it’ll encourage you to pick up a loaf of bread from your local baker and slathering it with some creamy white bean dip.

Enjoy the recipes, and see you this weekend for the roundup!

xo

[Read More ...] https://www.thefullhelping.com/emilie-raffas-everyday-sourdough-white-bean-arugula-spread/

#infrared #health