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witchersgoldenbard · 2 years

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Ranger’s Apprentice fic. a snippet during book 7 (Erak’s Ransom) while they’re captured.

1.1k words of Gilan/Selethen for @kasztanisagod.

tags: gilan whump, soft selethen, hands and smiles

Gilan’s whole body is made of pain, and has been for the past few days. His feet are aching and raw from trying to keep up as they were bound to horses and dragged along. His skin is chafed and bleeding where the unforgiving sand has managed to destroy his clothes after one too many fall, and even the smallest of cuts feel like his body is nothing more than a pulsating mess.

Worst of all, though, is the dizziness. He doesn’t know if his head is still bleeding or if the wetness he can feel running down his temple is his body’s testament to the desert heat, but it doesn’t make a difference anyway.

There’s only pain. And nausea. His eyes are open but he needs a second to understand what he’s seeing — and what he’s seeing is the wall of a cell. Distantly, he hears a door clanging shut, but that might just as well be a memory.

He’s going to throw up. Tough luck when you don’t even know where up is.

A groan leaves his mouth as he tries to take a deep breath and fails miserably. Instead, he can add two broken ribs to the list of misery.

Gods above — Arridi, Skandian, whichever Gods are listening — he’s tired. But he fears that if he closes his eyes, he might not open them anymore for the sheer release that would bring. He can’t sleep, can’t rest, not when—

“Easy now,” a gentle voice interrupts his less than coherent thoughts and just moments later, a tender hand is combing through his blood-crusted hair. “You shouldn’t move, my friend. There’s nowhere to move to anymore.”

Gilan frowns, his brain trying and failing to provide any information at this point. The hits to his head must have been worse than he thought if his short term memory refuses to work with him completely.

“We have reached Maashava,” the voice continues and Gilan has to blink the fog away to make out its owner. When he does, it must show in his eyes, for the worry in Seley el’then’s eyes makes way to the briefest of smiles before returning even stronger than before. “Do you not recall?”

Gilan just stares up at him. That’s all his wrecked body and mind allow him to do right now. That’s all they want to do when gentle hands comb through his hair and chase away some of the pain.

It is then that reality slowly comes back to him and he realises where he is. He’s lying in a bleak but blissfully cool cell — any more of the desert heat in his current state, and you might have had a fair chance at reaching for his oak leaf looking him dead in the eye and he wouldn’t have been able to stop anyone from succeeding.

Shame rises in him and he has the urge to apologise to Halt, to explain, but moving his head to the side, he sees that Halt isn’t any better off. He appears to be sleeping and Evanlyn is washing blood away from his face.

Gilan blinks once, twice, and takes in his old master. It’s not a competition, he knows, but shame makes way to satisfaction when he sees that everyone else hasn’t taken as many hits, kicks and punches as himself. His distractions have worked, then.

That’s good. Now if only they didn’t make him so nauseous. So tired. So…

“Don’t fall asleep, Gilan,” Selethen demands, and the world tilts slightly, which makes everything worse until… soft. It’s softer now.

Selethen has moved him so his head is resting in his lap now.

“You don’t look too good, Ranger. Sleep is dangerous in your state, no matter how badly you might need it. Give it a few hours, please.”

A beat passes where Gilan tries to process the words that are just too many. Since when does Selethen talk so much?

“Lies,” he says after a while.

“Lies?”

“I look very good. You just can’t see it under all the blood and the bruises.” He tries to crack a smile, but even the huffed breath jolts his head too much.

Selethen does him the favour of a brief chuckle, and Gilan feels better for it. Lighter. Light is good, he finds. Maybe all he has to focus on is Selethen and his hands working out the clumps of dirt and blood from his hair, maybe all he has to to is make him smile and the world will be a bit less painful.

His world narrows down to all the ways Selethen is close to him and it does keep him occupied, but it also gets his mind wandering, the adrenaline of the past days wearing off.

“Keep doing that and I will fall asleep,” he says after another beat of silence. Fall asleep and dream. Dream of what this could mean. Dream of smiles that make me feel lighter.

“Keep doing what?” Selethen asks, and Gilan senses a trick to just keep him talking, no matter how slurred his speech is. He needs a moment to remember what he said.

“This,” he says eventually, and Selethen only hums. Finding words is hard. He tries. And tries again. “Being gentle.”

Another smile and Gilan wants to close his eyes to keep it there. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, my friend.”

“Can’t not be gentle?” He’s losing force on the consonants. The pain is getting stronger, his nerve ends more frayed and his vision blurry. This is familiar. He gives himself another quarter of an hour at most before he will lose his consciousness, no matter how hard he tries to stay here. With Selethen and his wavering smile.

“Not with my friends, no.”

This time it’s Gilan who smiles at the word friends. He likes to be Selethen’s friend. The man is admirable, he’s strong, he’s respected by his people and his soldiers, he’s kind, he’s quick-witted and patient, and his hands are impossibly soft.

“I know you said not to sleep, and I’m no one to deny a wakir’s command, but…” He swallows. Words are hard. He’s not sure they come out as planned, but he perseveres. “I’m afraid I have to prove to you now how stubborn Rangers can be.”

Another hum from above him and Gilan opens his eyes he hadn’t even noticed closing. The world is fading, but still Selethen is at its centre.

“I’ll be here when you wake up, then, stubborn Ranger.”

Will you smile at me still? Gilan wonders.

“Always,” Selethen says, but before Gilan has time to wonder if someone else has said something, darkness has swallowed him whole.

#rangers apprentice #gilan #selethen #gilethen #listen i fell down the gilethen rabbit hole not 24h ago so take this my first piece of writing since may which took me about 30 minutes #nat writes #i want to write more for them too but first i have ti hype up my first words in 4 months so let me throw them at like. two people probably #i’ll get my words back and then get back to witcher fic at some point i hope. but first let me have this 💛

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captainlondonman · 10 months

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New Skin Boss

Jed was glad it was Friday. His Boss allowed Friday to be the day when staff could wear what they wanted. During the week Jed had to tone down his gear, just jeans, thick soled shoes and a sweatshirt and anyway he had to wear a warehouse coat over. However on a Friday he did not give a shit what the other two lads in the warehouse thought and he always put on his Skin gear. Christ if you are a skin you have to show that you are, so out came the bleached jeans, the Fred Perry T shirt, the yellow braces and the yellow laced 20 hole Ranger boots. Like all good skins he wore no underwear and you could see the outline of his cock down one leg made more obvious by the piss stains from not shaking his knob when finishing his piss. The other guys wore their jeans and some boring top always looking at him as if he was an alien.

‘Well fuck them’, Jed thought

The Boss , Brian, was young, early 30s and seemed fixated with golf spending most of his free time on the golf course with his boring suburban friends. Jed had to admit he was good looking but God knows if he was straight or not. Had to be Jed thought with all this bloody golf. He was 6ft. good build, gelled hair with perfect parting and one thing Jed always noted was that there was a nice bulge hidden in his chinos. The guy obviously wore boxer shorts so his cock could swing around a bit. This Friday as they were packing up to go, Brian looked at Jed and said.

‘You always wear your Skinhead gear on a Friday, Jed. I just can’t see why and always so tight on you.’

‘Once a Skin always a skin, Brian. You wouldn’t know.’

‘Too right there, Jed, however I do admire you for looking like that. It may not be for me but it actually does suit you.’

That night Jed met up with his pals at the local Skin club. Great always to be with fellow skins in their gear. Some wore rubber versions of skin stuff and a few of the bigger blokes would bring their slaves in with a thick collar and chain and make them kneel begging for a beer. This was his home and often he would hook up with another Skin for a night of raw sex but it was usually a one night stand. Christ he had probably had half the guys there. He was talking to Otto who was considered the leader of the Skins who frequented the club. Everyone called him Otto because he loved to go off for weekends to the Berlin Skin scene and besides you would not mess with him, he was at least 6’2” and built like a brick shit house, both arms heavily tattooed and a spiders web tat covering his head. Jed was telling the group abut Brian and his comments.

‘Mate it sounds as if you fancy yer boss. I fucking hope not as us Skins stick together.’

‘Shit, Otto, no way am I having sex with anyone other than a Skin.’

‘So what Jed if this boss was a skin, what would you do?’

‘Well IF he was, I fucking love to be his fuck bitch judging from that cock outline I see in his chinos. But that’s not gonna happen ain’t it.’

‘Stranger things have happened. If you are up for it me and two of me mates could help out a bit. Always want to make us Skin boys happy.’

‘You’re bloody joking’

‘Am I? What say we have a go next weekend but I will need all the weekend and you stay out of things till I call you. You will just need to let us in before you leave and then you bugger off till I call.’

‘Not sure I can believe all this but hey man you are such a boss I’m willing to give it a go.’

‘Great, I like the sound of this commission. Will make for a good weekend.’

The following week at 5pm the other guys had gone off and Jed did as he was told by putting something Otto had given him into a cup of tea for Brian.

‘Thought you might like a cuppa before I go off, Brian’

T’hat’s nice of you Jed. No doubt you are off for one of your boys night.’

‘You can say Skin instead of boys Brian.’

‘Maybe but that’s not my thing but if you insist yeah, Skin nights. Hope you enjoy. I’ll be another half hour and then I will lock up.’

‘Have a great weekend. I’m sure its gonna be special’

‘Who knows Jed?’

Jed whispered to himself ‘I know’

He then opened the door to let Otto in and his two sidekicks.

‘You put the liquid in the tea did you, Jed’

‘Of course just as you asked’

‘Christ what have you there? It looks like a bloody huge suitcase.’

‘A bit like that but don’t you worry. Bri’s not gonna know what has hit him but the result will be exactly as you are wanting.’

‘I’m not sure now,’ Jed replied

‘Look fuck off mate and leave this to the professionals. Go.’ And with that Otto pushed him out the door and quietly shut it behind him.

‘Right lads lets give Bri 20minutes. That should be enough.’

They then opened the office door and saw Brian slumped over his desk.

‘Look like it’s worked boys so lets get to action, open up the case. First, hand me the shaving cream and razor as well as the chains and ropes but before we do anything lets get this guys clothes off.’

All three skins quickly removed Brian’s clothes

‘Well’ Otto said, ‘Jed is right, the guys got a good sized cock, I reckon a good 8inches when stiff but well find that out soon enough. A real waste in a pair of chinos. Dom, put these clothes in a bin bag and shove in the bin outside.’

Otto tied Brian to the chair with the ropes and taking out a good thick leather collar buckled that around his neck and then chained it to the back of the chair so his head was fully upright and unable to move.

Otto then took his electric razor and started on Brian’s gelled hair, great pieces falling to the floor. Once most of it was off he sprayed on the shaving foam, mixing it in with a couple of thick heavy globs of spit for good measure. Taking the razor he worked his way around the scalp once and then another go to make sure the head was smooth and properly scalped.

‘Shit that looks better for a start. He has a good Skin shape of head. Fucking hate blokes with all that gel thinking they look bloody great. Better shut him up before he comes round but first let’s close the blinds and set up the video system for him.’

Brian started to come to and as he started to open his mouth, he felt a round rubber ball being forced into his mouth almost making him gag and then it was strapped round the back of his head. He could not move his hands were firmly tied behind the chair and his head was immobile. He was vaguely conscious of a thick leather strap around his neck keeping his head firmly in position.

As his eyes still had a fuzz, he could make out in the dark room three men standing in front of him. They all looked dressed the same and he could make out high boots and shaved heads but little else.

One was bigger than the other two and came forwards so his face was up against. The guy looked fearsome and he could make out the guy was a Skinhead as he was dressed similarly to the clothes Jed wore on a Friday. The guy was bulky with thick legs encased in his bleachers and on his head a large tattoo of a spider’s web. On one cheek was another tattoo of a swastika.

‘So Bri, I’ve just put a ball gag in yer mouth to shut you up for now. You might see you’re naked but don’t worry that will get sorted out. Us lads are going to leave you for a while but before going we have a little piece of equipment we think will help you.

Otto opened up the ball stretchers and fitted them around Brian’s hefty pair of balls. As he clicked them in Brian let out a howl of pain as he felt his balls firmly locked and being stretched. You’ve a good pair there, boi, but we want them to give you a lower voice like us and besides you soon grow to love them and never want them off.’

By now Dom had set up the machine with a screen directly in front of Brian so he could not miss what was to be shown.

‘Ready Bri?’

All Brian could do in his anguish was mumble

Otto started the machine. The first video showed a group of skins hanging around some with knuckle dusters and others with bats, a group of chavs started to walk by the with Skins shouting at them. Every word was Fuck this, fuck that, Oi oi. Then the Skins waded in hitting the chavs with the bats punching the lads with their knuckle dusters, showing their power and making the chavs submit and run off. More videos started up all with real aggro Skins, looking for trouble, and always with the volume set loud, Fuck Fuck, Oi Oi. These words kept thumping in Brian’s eardrums

‘Right Bri, good stuff for you to watch. Well leave you now.’

While Brian sat tied up rigid unable not to watch the violence, the aggro, the sheer force and manliness of the Skins, Otto and his mates went next door for a couple of hours for a few beers.

When they returned Brian was wriggling in his seat, trying to force himself free, a look of sheer anger on his face, his eyes bulging with fury. His arms straining to be free.

‘Now what’s going on here Bri. Lets get that ball gag out.’

As Otto forced Brian’s mouth open and took out the gag Brian let rip

‘Fuck, fuck fuck, Fucking Skins. Oi oi ‘which he kept repeating his voice now deeper and his accent different, a working class sound erupting form his body. ‘Fucking skins,’

‘That’s more like it Bri. What I was hoping to hear.’

‘So for now we will leave the gag off but change the videos.’

Ok Dom put the other ones on for our mate here

The machine started up again and the new images flashed on to the screen. Again groups of Skins but this time no fighting, no fists. Instead the Skins were licking their Mates rangers, all in either bleachers or camos, tight, showing off their package, their hands rubbing against their crotchs. Other images showed some young Skins being forced down on their knees and their heads rammed against the older Skins bulges, unzipping and taking out their erect cocks. Being told to get on with their blow job . the older guys grabbing the head of the younger ones and forcing them to take the full shaft down the back of their throat. In other images other guys unzipped their bleachers and took out their cocks slowing wanking for the camera, eyeing each other and some helping their mate out, hands firmly grasped around the dicks, then coming with reams of thick white spunk at the camera. Other shots showed Skins with a rear zip having it undone and the top Skin shoving two or three fingers up their butt, , or getting down to give them a face fuck letting their tongues explore their mate’s arse. Then pictures and a full fuck as the main guy grabbed the other’s waist and pulled him onto his rigid cock, all the time shouting Fuck. Another video showed a fist fuck with bottom getting down on his knees and sticking his arse up so his mate could slowly start with a. couple of fingers moving then around to open up the guys arse and adding a third and fourth finger as the bottom squirmed begging for the full fist. Then the hand started to disappear in the guys cheeks and finally the arm moved in and up to the hilt. His own cock was out and wanking as he fist fucked his mate, both shouting with Fuck me mate, take my fist you fucking Skin boi.

As these pictures appeared so Otto and his mates decided to leave.

‘Bri needs a good few hours seeing all this, and you two can come with me otherwise you’ll be wanking each other raw. Later OK’

Brian was left alone to force watch the videos

As the guys were downing their beers and smoking their fags they eventually heard a voice next door shouting

‘Fuck the shit out of the bastard.’

‘Go on fucking wank yerself’

‘Get that fucking cock down yer throat’

The words went on and on in Brian’s new voice

Otto opened a beer and added something to it saying

Time to move on to the next phase boys

They went in and looking at Brian staring at the screen, still shouting

‘Fucking hell, Otto’ Dom said. ‘He’s luving all this, look at that fucking dick of his.’

Brian was sitting shouting at the screen urging on the blow jobs, the wanking and the fucking and his cock was stiff showing a full 8’ of thick manhood with a decent head. It was as if Brian wanted to break free and grab his cock for a wank

‘Good boi.’ Otto smirked. ‘Glad you luvin this what we Skins do to each other. No one has sex like a Skin. So take a beer and calm down’

Brian slurped down the beer and had not even drained the bottle when he conked out.

‘Right lads get the kit out, time for a bit of art work. Otto took out the tattoo kit with all the needles and colours

‘Time this guy looked more like us eh?’

Dom said ‘what you going to do mate’

‘Well we have to make a start and he can always add himself later as he will do. So I’ve worked out a few ideas. There are a couple of obvious ones.’

Taking hold of Brian’s hand he started to etch out Skin on his left hand on each finger, all in black letters a good inch high.

‘Well he can’t hide that now and lets give him another for every bloke to see. Taking the black needle again he etched out a spiders web on Brian’s neck, not as big as his own on his head but one about 4inclhes in diameter and one that no shirt would hide.

‘Looking good. Lets do one more.’

He made a pair of Ranger boots on his right arm with yellow laces.

‘I like a bloke with yellow laces.’ Otto said. ‘Always the sexiest. Right lets clear this up and give him a quick rub with some disinfectant. The bruising will soon go and he can admire himself.’

‘Ok Chas now get the next bit of gear for our friend.’

Chas took out a full rubber hood with no eyelets and just a plastic tube coming out from the mouth. Otto took the hood and put it over Brian’s head zipping down the back to make sure it was a very tight fit. He then fitted a funnel to the end of the tube.

‘Perfect. Christ I’ve been dying for a piss after those beers and cant save it much longer so Bri here is in for a fucking long drink. So lets wake the boy up .’

With that Otto took his hand and gave Brian a resounding slap across the rubber bound mask. ‘Fucking love hitting a bloke in rubber. Take that you fucking shit heap, and take that again,’ whacking Brian 3 times to make sure he was awake.

As Brian came round Otto opened his bleachers fly and pulled out his large thick tool.

‘Shit man,’ Dom said ‘I always luv seeing that big dick of your. Never fails to get me going’ as he started to rub his crotch.

‘Later man but for now lets give Bri here a good drink’

Otto put his dick over the funnel and start to let a stream of hot piss down it. Brin suddenly felt this wave of acrid piss spilling into his mouth but was totally unable to stop swallowing it. At first he hated the taste and tried to block it out as it poured down his throat but something clicked in his mind. It didn’t taste that bad, in fact he loved the taste and the more Otto poured down the more enthusiastically Brian swallowed.

‘You now fucking luv that boi, don’t you. Take my piss, after all those beers there’s plenty for you, as wave after wave poured down.’

Both the guys watching started rubbing each others crotches, thick outlines in their bleachers showing.

‘Ye see Bri, yer getting me mates all worked up and you can expect some luvly creamy spunk coming yer way from them. So guys hold yerself for now. The guys still rubbed each other precum stains showing through. Brian drank every drop of Otto’s piss.

Otto removed the funnel and then the rubber mask showing `Brian’s skin head glistening with sweat.

‘That was fucking great.’ Brian said. ‘Make sure you get a few more beers and let me have it again.’

‘See boys, the change is working. Well done Bri youre on the right road. Now me, Dom and Chas are gonna stand in front you. I’m gonna remove your neck chains but not the collar, it suits you, and take off the ropes. Us skins like our Rangers nice and clean and with all that piss of mine in yer mouth you are gonna lick every one so now get down on yer knees. ‘

Otto grabbed Brian by his leather collar and forced him down on his knees

‘You got 6 rangers there boi that need a good lickin so get on with it.’

Otto kept his hand on the chain that was attached to the collar and pushed him to start with Chas’s. Brian knew what he had to do and do it right

Chas shouted ‘Get fuckin right down Boi and let me see that tongue shine up me boots.’ Brian let his pissed stained tongue lick deeply on the toe caps using his spit to shin up the spit oozing out his mouth

‘That’s it boi get all the way round.’ Brian was grovelling on the floor licking round the toe caps and the backs of the Rangers his chin buffing up and his hands firmly around the boots. He looked up at Chas to make sure he was doing a good job and saw that he was stroking his crotch and Brian could see the outline of a good sized dick stretching down the inside of his bleachers

‘You lick well boi, gets me going. Me cock now nice a hard., as he unzipped his fly and let his hand go deep inside his bleachers to pull out a long cock.

‘Now fucking lick mine’ Dom shouted. He already had his dick out and was stroking it dropping some spit on to his shaft.

‘Fucking lick and use your tongue and spit boi,’ Otto shouted putting one of his boots firmly on Brian’s head and forcing it down onto the boot. ‘When we say lick you fucking lick got it.’

Chas and Dom now had their hands on each other’s cock giving one another a good wank.

Otto said,’ I’m saving you for later Bri but come on lads let’s see you both spunk over Bri’s face you can see he’s gagging for it

Shit I’ve a load of good spunk ready for him’ Chas shouted

‘Me too’ Dom said ‘I love your hand rubbing me cock, Chas, keep it going. As for you Bri sit up and lets see your face. That’s it, stare at our pricks and get ready for our cum.’

Dom was now using his hand up and down the full length of Chas’s cock and Chas was working Dom’s head knowing he loved his head rubbed with spit.

Otto watched rubbing his own crotch, smirking at his lads getting off on each other.

‘We’re gonna cum together boi so be ready to swallow and what you don’t I’m gonna rub all over yer face’

Dom and Chas had worked one another up to shoot their load.

‘I’m ready now Chas’

‘Me too Dom, yer fucking great at wanking me off, Christ im coming’

‘Take aim’

Both guys let out a stream of cum onto Brian’s face, Brian trying to swallow as much as he could loving their spunk and started using his hands to wipe it into his mouth whilst Dom and Chas rubbed what was left all over Brian’s face

Christ that fels better Ive been dying to shoot ever since we started his on the guy.

Otto said don’t worry I think youll both be at it again soon.

Otto took a wet cloth and wiped Brian’s face removing all excess of spunk.

‘I think its time to get some clothes on you boi, it the only clothes you’ll be wearing from now on, you never want to wear anything else. Once a Skin always a Skin. I’ve your new uniform.

Otto opened the suitcase and brought out the clothes for Brian. A Fred Perry black T shirt with yellow piping, a pair of camos with yellow braces, yellow long socks and 20hole ranger boots.

‘Ok Chas help the guy on with his gear. He needs to know how to do the laces of his boots.’ As Brian put on his clothes he started to feel even more different and wondered what clothing he had ever worn before this weekend. He seemed to know this was right for him and he felt it suited his body, showing off his chest and firm arse. The putting on of the boots was like a sexual surge, feeling them tight around his legs, knowing he could kick the shit out of someone wearing them with their steel caps. The pressure around his legs gave a pressure to his cock as it grew in length down his leg.

,Right Bri time to see the new you. This is what it’s all been about and hope you like what you see.’

Dom brought a mirror in and Otto pushed Brian in front

‘Well boi you look fucking horny,’ Otto said rubbing his dick

Brian was amazed. He now looked just like the others there and his spider Tat looking like a real Skin, but then he is a real Skin. He clenched his fists and could see the Skin tat on his knuckles. By clenching his fists he looked ready for a fight, tough, real aggro and so fucking manly, such a fucking turn on. His cock was rigid.

‘Right Bri time to finish off the transformation and I get the pleasure. Get over here.’

As Brian moved over towards him Otto unzipped his flies and put his hand deep down inside to pull out his thick veined 9inc rampant cock. This ain’t been washed in days boi so all the better for fucking you now bend down over your desk.’

Brian saw Ottos cock and for a moment winced at the thought but seeing this rough man standing in his Skin gear with his massive cock out at the ready, Brian knew he wanted to be fucked by this monster.

Brian did as he was told and Otto unzipped the rear of his camos.

‘I make sure all my bois have a rear zip as I love to fuck them in full gear. Dom you can call Jed now and get him down to see his Boss.. That’s some arse you got there, Bri, just as I like good firm cheeks and a deep cleft at your hole.’

Otto spat two large globs of spit onto his rancid prick.

‘Makes it a bit easier for you first time.’

As he put his arms around Brian’s waist he moved his cock into the crack.

Dom and Chas were both watching rubbing their cocks knowing how well Otto fucked.

‘Well Dom no point in the two of you just watching and feeling horny so Chas get over to the desk next to Bri and let Dom fuck you at the same time. I know you love his cock.’

‘I fucking do’ Chas said as he leant over next to Brian and unzipped his rear fly Cum on Dom give it to me.’

‘Watching Otto fuck the hell out of Bri will make you even more horny.’

Otto took his hands and spread open Brian’s cheeks to let his cock find the hole.

Nice little hairy arse you got there boi and I can see a good slit you have for my big dick.’ With his hands keeping the arse wide open he let his head meet Brains hole and spat another glob to push the head in.

‘Fucking hell Otto what a cock you have, you’ll bloody well split me.’

‘Don’t worry boy once I get the head past, my shaft will glide up your arse right to the hilt. Just look at Chas and how he takes Dom’s cock.’

Chas was starting to move his body back to allow Dom into his arse. Dom had taken Chas by the shoulders and was pushing him against his balls.

‘I want to feel that arse of yours right up tight against my balls. Make em swing Chas.’

Chas rammed his body back as much as he could until he felt Dom’s pubes rubbing against him.

Meanwhile Otto had started pushing in the full length of his cock. That’s it boi take the full load as I’m gonna blast you.’

‘Shit this is fucking great, I’ll never want anything but dick again.’

By now both Dom and Otto were fully up as Chas turned next to Bri and taking hold of his head kissed him plunging his tongue down Brian throat.

‘That’s it bois enjoy one another while we enjoy you.’

‘Come on Dom lets give our lads everything we got and cum together’

The two men fucking started pummeling, grasping their prey and pushing their dicks in an out with increasing force and rapidity. Brian and Chas were giving each other deep throat groaning as they could feel the dicks up their arses ready to explode in side them

‘Christ Bri this is your moment there’s no going back now once I cum inside you. Dom get your jism ready as I’m about to cum’

‘Me too mate’

And with that both Skins erupted their spunk deep inside Chas and Brian.

The door opened and Jed stood there transfixed at the scene.

‘Fucking hell it’s a bloody orgy. What have you been doing.’

Otto slipped his cock out of Brian’s arse giving his cheeks a hard slap.

‘Well done Bri, you know how to use that bum of yours. Now see who’s here. It’s your mate Jed who asked us for help to change you.

Otto zipped up Brian’s rear and let him stand up to face Jed

‘Christ you looking fucking amazing’ Jed said staring at his boss. ‘I could never have imagined. I don’t know what to say Otto.’

‘I think you are about to find out.’

Brian walked over to Jed and before Jed knew what had happened Brian had him in a stranglehold making Jed unable to move.

‘So it was you, you fucking little shit who caused all this. You’re the one you has put me through all this, you fucking little wanker. I should have known. It’s you who have made me a skin’, he sneered into Jed’s face spitting at him and using his spare arm to rub it in. ‘Fucking great life you’ve given me You made me a Skin just like you and Otto here. You’ve changed my life for ever.’

Jed did not know what to say ‘I didn’t know it was going to end this way Brian,’

‘Well it fucking has and let me tell you, its bloody brill. What a fucking great life you’ve given me. Who wants to be anything but a skin but I’ll tell you now having just been fucked good and hard by Otto, my cock needs to get rid of plenty of spunk and its your arse that’s gonna take it all.’

Brian threw Jed at the table and as he undid Jed’s jeans he could feel Jed with a full erect cock.

‘So you like seeing me like this do you. Well all these times I’ve seen you checking out my package you’re now gonna get it as I am so horny after Otto.’

Brian undid his zip by now his camos showing a large stain of precum.

‘Christ I’m ready for you and that arse Jed.’

With one arm firmly on Jed’s back he took hold of his cock and pressed against Jed’s crack which was already moist and waiting. He knew he was going to be fucked and he so wanted Brian inside him.

Brian decided this was no slow fuck he wanted Jed to feel every inch as he rammed the 8 inch prick all the way up so Jed could feel he could go no further. His movements were rapid but Jed wanted it all and was pushing his arse back and forwards to help the sensation and while being fucked he had his hand over his own shaft wanking for all he was worth.

‘Christ Brian fuck me, let me have all your cream as I’m about to spunk all over your desk. Go on faster and faster I want you. Christ I’m ready to explode’

‘You little horny skin you Christ I m ready to give you all my spunk’

‘Me to, shoot mate’

And with that both men groaned deeply and came at the same time a great spray of cum shooting across the desk from Jed and Brian at last cumming as he had so wanted to do during the weekend. He was a Skin and he loved fucking.

‘So guys, looks as if I’ve had another success. I can pack up.’ Otto said

Brian replied, ‘thanks Otto. Jed you’re coming home with me tonight I’ve not finished with you yet. I think you and I have something together and a good night of fucking will see what happens. I may have another job for you Otto.

On Monday morning Brian and Jed were waiting in full Skin gear for their warehouse staff to arrive. The two guys walked in and saw Brian, no longer in his chinos and light blue shirt, but looking a full skinhead in his bleachers, Rangers and Fred Perry, totally shaved and the spider tattoo showing. He had an arm around Jed and as the blokes took in the scene so he tongued Jed.

‘Well lads as you can see there have been a few changes. You see me as I want to be and I’ve promoted Jed to be my personal assistant. I’ve decided to take the company in a new direction and in order to make the changes I’ve brought in some help, so meet Otto, Dom and Chas.’

The 3 Skins came in and stood behind the employees.

‘You won’t be going home for a couple of days as Otto will be working on you. We are all going to be one fucking great Skin team.’

234 notes · View notes

annieqattheperipheral · 6 months

Text

for reference here's michael nylander's hockeydb

for my willy babes💕 here u go:

- - - - - - -

STOCKHOLM — About 35 minutes outside Stockholm sits the place that always felt most like home for William Nylander.

It is the long-time offseason home of former NHLer Michael Nylander, and it’s where the Nylander family has been congregating every summer since William Nylander was a boy.

There’s the main house, the guest house and the barn where William practically lived from the time he was old enough to hold a hockey stick. It isn’t the kind of barn where you might house cows, horses and piles of hay. It’s nicer than that, William says. There are wooden floors and, as you might expect in a household of hockey players, two hockey nets.

William and his younger brother Alex would be holed up there for hours, day after day, every summer when they were kids.

Alex would play goalie and William would fire shots. Sticks would be thrown. Fights would ensue.

“But then after the fight, no matter what happened,” Alex said, “we would be best friends again.”

Then they might step and fire pucks on the shooting ramp Michael built in the yard by the soccer nets. After that, zip the 30 seconds it took to the nearby dock for a jump in the lake. Then, a visit to the sauna.

As boys, William and Alex would often make their way over to their father’s gym, where they would watch Dad go through his offseason workouts in preparation for another NHL season.

Then, the summer would come to an end and young William, and the rest of the family, would follow Dad back to North America. Somewhere in North America.

William Nylander’s life has been forever split between two worlds and two homes.

- - - - - - -

Almost every fall, it seemed, Dad’s NHL jersey changed.

Which meant a new city, new school, new friends, new home, new minor hockey team and new hockey heroes for William (outside of Dad, of course).

William Nylander was born in Calgary while his dad was playing for the Flames. Michael was traded there from Hartford. He spent parts of five seasons with the Flames before they dealt him to Tampa Bay. Michael played only 35 games for the Lightning before another deal sent him — and the family — to Chicago.

Trades weren’t talked about in the singular, but rather, the “we.” Michael Nylander wasn’t getting traded. The Nylanders were.

William was just starting the first grade when the Blackhawks traded his dad yet again, after only nine games in the fall of 2002, to Washington. The Capitals flipped Michael to Boston not long before the 2004 trade deadline.

Michael signed with the New York Rangers not long before the 2004-05 lockout. After two seasons there, the family trekked back to Washington, where Michael signed as a free agent.

Over 17 years, Michael Nylander played for seven teams – none lasting longer than a 239-game run with the Blackhawks. He also suited up in Sweden, Switzerland, Russia and Finland, as well as minor league outposts in Rochester and Grand Rapids.

“Moving around – it’s been like that since I was born,” William said. “It’s just the way it was. And actually, every time we moved somewhere, we thought it was fun.”

Moving came to feel normal. The first week at a new school was nerve-wracking, but also familiar. So was making new friends in Chicago, Washington, and New York, the three spots that occupied most of William’s childhood.

It helped that William and Alex always had each other, along with four sisters. Alex was born in Calgary two years after William. They did everything together.

“Willy and Alex, they’re like stuck,” said Rasmus Sandin, the former Toronto Maple Leafs defenceman and a close friend of the Nylander family. “They’re together all the time.”

Alex says William is a little quieter than he is, a little less goofy, and more similar to their dad.

Thommy Nylander, Michael’s younger brother and William’s uncle, thinks William inherited his father’s mentality, among other things. Thommy trains William every summer (he’s also a chiropractor and often treats William) and said his thoroughness in preparation is very much like Michael’s.

“He’s so warm and a nice guy, but when you get to the gym, he’s very serious about working,” Thommy said. “He’s probably the best player, but he’s still doing the hours and he’s serious. He doesn’t want to waste time.”

Anders Sorensen, who coached William when he was a kid in Chicago, saw him do things that seemed beyond the comprehension for someone his age. Like the time William dropped the puck behind his own net and took off.

“What are you doing?” Sorensen asked.

“Well, we’re breaking out!” Nylander responded. “It’s a power play!”

He was unmistakably the son of an NHLer.

Michael would bring William and Alex around to the rink often. They thought it was the coolest thing imaginable, being there with Dad where actual NHL hockey was being played.

William would hop onto the ice with Alex and shoot pucks before practice. Then he would retreat, on Dad’s orders, to the ping-pong lounge. From there, they would amble over to the dressing room and inspect the sticks of their father’s teammates – stars like Tony Amonte and Doug Gilmour in Chicago or Jaromir Jagr and Peter Bondra in Washington.

When Michael played for the Rangers, the Nylanders lived for a time in Greenwich Village — about a half-hour’s walk from Madison Square Garden. William’s mother, Camilla, would walk the kids around midtown Manhattan before Michael’s games and then walk up the stairs into the arena.

The “green room” at MSG was particularly special.

“I guess it’s called a family room,” William said. “But me and my brother called it the green room. ‘We’re going to the green room!’ Go smash a Coke every period and watch the game.”

In the green room, they could sip as much Coca-Cola as they wanted.

“It’s like ‘Mom, can I have a Coke?’ ‘No. Today’s not Saturday.’ There you don’t even have to ask mom,” William said.

Their mini sticks were with them always. William and Alex didn’t need much to create a playing ground. A doorway for a goal was all it took.

That’s what made their house in Washington so thrilling: It had a big basement that was perfect for hockey. And because their dad just happened to play in the NHL, those games grew to include actual NHL players.

Fellow Swede Nicklas Backstrom visited the Nylander home for dinner frequently. Backstrom says he felt like another one of Michael’s kids. For William and Alex, Backstrom was their dad’s work colleague and also an honourary sibling.

At one Thanksgiving dinner, the Nylanders — with chef Michael doing the cooking — hosted Backstrom and his even starrier Capitals teammate, Alex Ovechkin.

Life amongst the stars was just part of the deal for William growing up. There was that one time he looked up in the elevator at MSG and saw Mario Lemieux standing across from him.

- - - - - - -

Michael taught William the game. At first, he just let William and Alex play for fun. But as they grew older and more serious about the sport, he would instruct them on how to shoot, how to skate, how to do everything on the ice. They would watch, take notes and try to do it all the same.

“Growing up, we would follow him around and stuff, but it wasn’t like he was pushing us or anything,” William said. “But once we decided that we wanted to play, he helped us out a lot and pushed us in the right way.”

Dan Houck, who coached William when he lived in Washington, saw the same thing in him that he did with all the sons of the Capitals he coached. They all seemed to come fully stocked with a certain hockey intelligence.

William saw the ice just like his dad, Thommy Nylander says.

“William was front-row to some of the most dynamic offensive talents in the NHL,” Houck said. “I think that was formidable for him in his development as a player.”

Backstrom remembers watching William and Alex both play for a local youth team. “I knew they were special players, for sure,” he said. “They were dominant.”

“I always looked up to my dad and wanted to be like my dad,” William said.

But William never played much like his dad. Michael was a pure setup man. He didn’t have William’s power as a skater or shooter.

Sorensen wonders if William, raised on all those North American rinks, had more of a shooter’s mentality than his dad, who came up in Europe, where most players think pass first.

Sorensen coached William and his dad together for Södertälje in the Swedish Hockey League when William was 16 and Michael was almost 40. They would all chuckle at signs in the rink that said explicitly: “No parents allowed on the bench.”

Not only were they on the same bench, but often the same line, with William at right wing and Michael in the middle. During one game, William pleaded with his dad: “Pass me the puck instead of hanging onto it!”

Michael wasn’t an overbearing hockey dad. He even pushed his boys to explore other sports. He did like to ask lots of questions though.

“I call him ‘Wallander’ sometimes,” Sorensen said, referring to the fictional Swedish detective, “He’s always like, ‘Why is that? What do you think about that? Why did you do it this way? Why did you do it that way?’ He’s a smart man. He’s a very smart man. He cares for his family, he cares for people around him so I’ve always got along with him great.”

As Sorensen noted, it was usually Camilla who handled a large chunk of the duties when it came to getting William to the rink.

- - - - - - -

Even as a youngster, the skill always popped with William.

Houck remembers the first time he faced William, when he was 10 and playing for the Greenwich Jr. Blues. Houck’s squad was a year older, but they still trailed by a goal late and pulled their goalie. The puck popped up and hit the stick of the “wrong” player — William Nylander. He calmly shot it down the ice into the empty net.

“Not many kids at age 10 would have the wherewithal [to do that],” Houck says. “If you miss that and it’s an icing, then the puck’s pinned in your end again.”

Sorensen remembers a select tournament in Toronto when William faced off against future NHLers like Connor McDavid, Josh Ho-Sang and Robby Fabbri. Someone came up to Sorensen and said: “This Nylander kid, he’s right up there with all those other guys.”

Michael was a little surprised when he heard about it: “They really think he’s that good?”

Houck’s primary objective when he coached Nylander was to ensure he didn’t stifle that skill. He wanted to let those gifts shine as brightly as possible, especially in key spots with the game on the line.

What sticks out most in Houck’s memory of William is how he loved the game. This wasn’t a kid who played because of his dad. It was the opposite with William, who would even sneak onto the ice with Alex’s team whenever he could.

“We always just loved hockey from the first time we ever played it,” Alex said.

- - - - - - -

William still retreats to Sweden every offseason.

“Mostly what you miss about Sweden is the family,” he said.

The Nylanders are an especially tight bunch. Michael is one of seven siblings himself. It’s not uncommon for the Nylanders to make their way to Toronto. Thommy and his older brother, Peter, came to watch in April.

In his early years with the Leafs, William was announced at home games as hailing from Calgary. That changed a couple of seasons ago. Now, when he’s introduced, it’s “from Stockholm, Sweden.”

Stockholm became home on a more permanent basis at 14 when Michael’s NHL days came to an end and when William, with Canadian and Swedish citizenship, had to decide where he would play his hockey internationally. He and Alex both opted for Sweden. That’s when he and Alex could begin to enjoy the outdoor rinks in and around Stockholm and “play and play and play and never go home” as Alex remembered it.

For a long time, William stayed with his parents when he returned to Sweden in the summer. He’s since bought an apartment in Stockholm and invited Alex to live with him in the offseason. They take William’s two dogs for walks down by the water. They hit Ciccios for dinner or Brasserie Astoria next door, or Restaurant AG for a quality steak.

William will golf five days a week with Sandin during the offseason, forever finding space for a daily nap. William and Alex might have friends over and still William will dip out for his daily nap. “We both nap a lot,” Alex said, “but you’ll never see somebody who naps more than my brother. He’ll nap 365 days of the year.”

William is still trained at home by his dad through his Playmaker92 agency.

William and Alex will usually hit the gym around 8 a.m. By 10, it’s over to the ice with a much larger group that includes Sandin and his brother, Linus, for on-ice sessions lasting an hour and a half led by Michael.

Few, if any, NHL players are trained by their former NHL-playing fathers. Michael is known to be a master of the details, creating the kind of skill drills that only a former player of his calibre could.

Another bonus of returning home to Sweden for William is the chance to eat his dad’s cooking.

Michael has been something of a foodie dating back to his playing days. He prepares “gourmet” meals with a starter, main, and dessert. (Unprompted, Backstrom mentioned Michael’s excellent food.)

Sandin remembers a particularly delicious potato pancake and says the experience of eating a Michael Nylander meal is “like you’re going to a Michelin-star restaurant.”

That’s the thing about Sweden for William. It’s home. It’s family. It’s the place he could, and can still, always come back to. It’s the place where he’s able to find some distance from his hockey-playing life.

The days of hopscotching around North America have long been over. William has played the entirety of his career with the Leafs. Toronto has become his adopted second home. He rides the TTC to most home games these days.

He feels settled in Toronto, though, he adds with a big laugh, “With every year having a trade rumor.”

Two worlds. Two homes. Forever the life of William Nylander.

It’s how he was made.

76 notes · View notes

rebelsandtherest · 1 year

Text

Home for Christmas

Words: 4,049

Summary: Matthew falls ill just before the family Christmas bash, and thinks he's missed the entire thing. However, once he hears that his baby brother is sick, Alfred concocts a bit of a holiday surprise. —— this fic is a little late, but Merry Christmas, everyone, and here's to many more!

Warnings: langauge, talk of family during holidays, nothing else that I can think of.

Author’s note: a belated gift to a dear friend, @draw-a-circle-thats-the-compass

------------------

For however many hundreds of winters Matthew Williams had endured in his home, be it in the warmth of an electric-heated home, or warding off frostbite in the untamed wilderness, he would never truly get used to the speed with which the solar night crept down from the pole. It was the dark especially that always sent spikes of dread into his bones, stealing away his warmth and setting pallor in his hands and feet, spreading chill upwards to his whole body.

This year, when he felt the frigid fingers of depression reaching through his chest with the 4:30 sunset, he mustered his willpower and on a spiteful whim bought tickets to Calgary. He had a seldom-used mountain cabin tucked away within the confines of Banff, and while he wasn’t sure the new park rangers still received the memo about him and his cabin during orientation, he was willing to invoke the Minister’s ire if it meant he could dust off his best skis and escape his mind on the slopes.

The cabin was just as he’d left it, and the radiators crackled their way to warm almost as soon as he turned them on. His wool blankets had a few new holes in them, but the quilts were warm and the fireplace clean, and he didn’t even have to replace any lightbulbs, not even in the groaning old icebox. His great snowy-white dog, Buddy, quickly found his favorite bear-fur rug and curled up by the fire, ready to dive into the snow alongside his human the next day.

It was only Matt’s luck that he woke up with a sore throat. He lived in denial for a whole day, basking in the perfect weather and flying down every slope he could get his skis on. But as the too-early sunset crept below the mountains, he began to realize he was swaying on his feet, and moreover, that he’d stopped sweating.

“Shit,” He huffed into his scarf. By the time he was back at his cabin, he could taste the fever on his breath.

Matt wasn’t sure what he’d managed to pick up on his journey westward, but whatever it was, be it cold or flu or covid or tuberculosis, within a few days it had him in a death grip and refused to let go. As he lie in bed, fever-dreaming his vacation away, the darkness grew and grew, and soon Matt felt himself falling into the well of despondency that refilled every winter.

Buddy kept him company, and he’d mustered the energy to call his Dutch beau, Jan, once or twice, but the fever had stolen his ability to tell time, and both times he’d spent about half of the call apologizing for waking him at two in the morning, and the other half repeating himself when Jan got lost in his feverish amalgamation of English and French. He had some anxiety-inducing number of unread text messages waiting for him in the corner of his phone, but reading was a doomed endeavor with his puffy, aching eyes. He watched whatever public tv stations still reached his ancient bunny-eared set, but ended up falling asleep nearly as soon as he sat down.

After some untold number of days, his fever broke, and while he was rationing the NyQuil he still had in his cupboards, he’d taken a full dose the first few nights after his fever and had been mostly comatose since. He’d been sound asleep on the couch one afternoon when his phone began to ring, buzzing loudly against the window sill just above him, until it vibrated its way fully off the sill and directly onto Matt’s head.

“Fucking putain,” he groaned and was shocked at how gravelly his voice came out. The offending device had fallen into his lap, buried somewhere in the folds of his blanket, still buzzing away. He fished it out and stabbed at the screen with squinted eyes, looking for the ‘ignore call’ button, but ended up hitting the ‘answer’ button instead. Only then did he see the caller’s name.

“...Mattie? You there?” asked Alfred from the other line. Matt sighed and sank back into bed, rubbing at the spot where his phone had hit, knowing it would be a lump by the end of the hour.

“Yeah?” he answered, trying to rein in his annoyance at being woken up.

“Holy shit bro, you sound terrible. Are you okay?”

“Sick,” Matt told him.

“Sick? I thought you were going skiing!” Matt closed his eyes, which made his head feel like he was spinning.

“I did. Skied. Got sick. Et voilà. ”

“Aww jeez Mattie. Do you think you’ll be good for our flight on Thursday?” Matt blinked.

“What flight?”

“...To London? Dad’s annual fussy Christmas bash, you know the drill.”

“That’s not until the 22nd.”

“...Matt, it’s December 20th.”

“What?” Matt’s voice cracked with his incredulity. “No, it’s… I got here on the 10th, it’s only been a couple of days, the 22nd isn’t until… I mean I don’t know when but it’s more than three days away.”

“Wait you think it’s only been—Mattie, how many days did you ski before you got sick?” Matt hesitated, embarrassed of the answer.

“One.”

“Oh my god,” Alfred sounded genuinely surprised, and it took him a moment to say, “ Matt, you’ve been sick for a week? And you still sound like this? You don’t still have a fever, do you?”

“No, it went away… I can’t remember.” Matt rubbed his face, and every inch ached. “Listen, it’s not December 19th, I swear, if you’re fucking with me–”

“Look at your phone.”

“What?”

“Look at the date on your phone.”

Matt did.

“Fuck,” he said, staring at the giant calendar date as though it would change if he stared long enough.

“Yeah,” Alfred’s voice was tinny away from his ear. Matt finally blinked and sank further under his blankets, and eventually brought the phone back to his face.

“You’re going to have to apologize to dad for me,” Matt said, “I thought it was… Jesus, I missed my flight back to Ottawa, shit.”

“Wait, you're still in Calgary?”

“Banff.”

“You didn’t leave the dog at home, did you?”

“No, he’s with me,” Matt could feel his voice getting more hoarse.

“Well that’s something. Man, you picked a helluva time to get sick, huh.”

“Apparently,” Matt wished he were comatose for all of this.

“Listen, slam some water—or gatorade, if you have it—and get some rest, okay? I know you’re feeding Buddy, but feed yourself too, alright?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Matt.”

“...I’ll try.”

“Good. Listen, I gotta go, but I’ll talk to you soon, okay? Don’t die.”

“I’m not going to die.”

“Glad to hear it. Gotta go. Love you, kiddo, feel better.”

Matt began to respond, but before he could finish, Alfred hung up. Matt watched his brother’s smiling icon disappear from the screen, leaving only the giant, damning calendar. Matt stared at it and sighed, heart sinking down through his bed and the cabin itself and into the frozen ground below. There was no way he’d be in shape to fly to Ottawa in the next three days, to say nothing of flying to Ottawa and then across the Atlantic to London.

Buddy, though far too large to be a lapdog, leapt up onto the couch draped himself across Matt’s body, crawling on his belly until he was able to nose the man’s chin, giving it a lick.

“Yeah I know,” Matt sighed, petting the dog’s soft ears and wishing it could make him feel better. “I guess I should tell dad.” The thought made his heart sink even further. “Uncle Alisdair was going to bring his homemade whiskey and everything. Even Aunt Bridgid agreed to go this year. But I guess it’s just,” Matt craned his neck to look over into his small kitchen. There was an old, half-empty bottle of whiskey and a small bag of miniatures he’d picked up while waiting on his flight. “…that, you, me, and whatever the fuck is left in the fridge. Merry fucking Christmas, eh?” Buddy whined, and licked Matt’s face again. He sighed.

“Yeah, me neither.”

-----------------------------------

December 22nd came and went, and by the 23rd, Matthew was less sick than he had been, but still far from healthy. “I imagine Uncle Rhys has already played referee to five fights by now, what d’you think?” He asked his dog. Buddy sneezed. “You’re right, maybe only four.” Matt tried to imagine it; Alfred and Dad, probably, Brighid and dad, certainly. If they were drunk enough, Zee and Uncle Alistair would fight about who was the better skier. Jack wouldn’t hurt a fly so long as he had a beer or cider in hand, though Alfred was certain to seek out arguments for sport—Matt really wished he could get his brother to understand that most people didn’t view arguments as fun.

In past years, he’d spent weeks complaining to Jan about the chaos that accompanied his family’s holiday’s reunions. Now, left alone in a cabin with nothing but his dog, whiskey, and his own thoughts, he realized that he missed it dearly, in the strangest way.

“I’m going to sleep,” he told his dog, who was practically asleep himself. “Hopefully until the New Year.”

It was an ironic cruelty that it was more difficult to sleep while sick than while healthy. It was as if his body was in a civil war over whether it needed to be asleep and miserable or awake and miserable. So, when Matt finally fell into a deep sleep, the half of his body that preferred to be asleep and miserable fought tooth and nail to keep him that way. Unfortunately, someone was trying to break into his house.

It was actually Buddy who finally roused him. Though the banging on the door was difficult to ignore, Buddy’s frantic barking was even harder to ignore. Head pounding, Matt rolled himself bodily out of bed, taking half of the quilt with him. He dragged it behind him, half draped over him, as he trudged to the door. Behind the old white curtain hanging over the door’s window, there was an imposing, human-shaped shadow.

“Fucking park rangers,” Matt groused, and glared down at Buddy. “I thought I told you to remind me to turn the lights off last night.” Buddy barked at him, and Matt sighed. “Listen,” he unlocked the door and pulled on the handle, “I’m allowed to be here, call your superintendent, I’m sure they’ll—Alfred?!”

“Finally!” beamed his brother, clad in a designer parka and what looked like a home-made toque, “I was beginning to think you were dead, which you promised you wouldn’t be. Can I come in? Fucking freezing out here.”

Matt stared for a prolonged number of seconds before he blurted, voice cracking: “Shouldn’t you be in London?” Alfred looked affronted.

“While my baby brother is on his deathbed in the bumfuck nowhere, Alberta? No way!”

“Banff isn’t bumfuck nowhere, and I’m not dying.”

“Banff isn’t, but this cabin sure is, and I’m glad you’re not dying, now can I please come inside? I’m freezing my nuts off out here.” Matt stood aside, still processing the sight of his brother in the flesh. Buddy’s tail was wagging wildly as Alfred came inside, jumping at the chance to sniff the newcomer, dancing happily around the American in a way he did for no one else.

“You should be in London,” Matt said again, head aching.

“I wasn’t about to leave you here, you dumb fuck, jeez, it’s freezing in here, too.” Alfred cast a look down at Buddy. “You let him live like this?” a singular, insistent bark. “Ah, that tracks. Never was good at looking after himself.” He looked up back to Matt, shedding his mittens and shoving them into his coat pockets. “Alright, kiddo, let’s get you packed.”

“Packed?” Matt’s voice squeaked, and he realized even the small amount of talking he’d done with Alfred was killing his voice completely, “Alfred, I can’t go to London, we talked about this–”

“Who keeps talking about London? Not me—we’re going to my place. Idaho!”

“Idaho?” Matt’s brain took a while to buffer. “Wait, at your—”

“At my ranch? Yup!”

Ranch was not the word Matt would have used; Alfred was as rugged a rancher as any rancher alive or dead, but he also had what Matt could only refer to as a Kardashian sense of luxury, and enough money to blend the two lifestyles together. Matt realized all at once the expense Alfred must have spent to abandon the family Christmas, travel north, and prepare his Idaho mansion for his company. “Alfred, you don’t have to, really—”

“Dude, cut the apologies, I’ve broken like, at least four international laws to park my cessna out back, so get your shit and let’s go. No arguing!”

“You what?!”

“C’mon, we’re wastin’ daylight!”

-----------------------------------

If Alfred weren’t already breaking laws north of the border for skipping customs, the FAA south of the border surely would’ve surely had complaints about the alterations he’d made to the rear seat of his plane. Where once there had been two passenger seats with requisite seatbelts and safety features, there was now a cozy, cot-sized bed with enough pillows and blankets for two king-sized beds. By the time Alfred had convinced Matt to “just get in the goddamn plane”, Buddy had already found the fluffiest pillow of the bunch and fallen asleep.

“Here, take this.” While the engines warmed up, Alfred leaned back to hand Matt a handful of gummies from the pilot’s seat.

“What is it?” Matt squinted at the candy.

“Delta 8 and melatonin,” Alfred said, replacing his specs with aviators and pulling on his headset. “Now make like your dog and sleep , kay? You look like you need it.”

Matt scoffed. “Thanks,” he said, and chewed the candy together. It was the last thing he remembered doing before Alfred shook him awake and gently informed him that they’d arrived in Bumfuck Nowhere—and it was actually bumfuck nowhere—Idaho.

-----------------------------------

Matt had visited Alfred’s Idaho Ranch-Mansion plenty of times since it’d been finished sometime in the late 90s, and the mountain drive from the airport to the wide-windowed lodge was an unexpected source of nostalgia of birthdays, holidays, and drunken benders past. Matt hauled himself to the window once the familiar hand-hewn wooden fences appeared, squinting against the blinding snowy paddocks until the first blanketed horses came into view. Matt couldn’t help but smile, maybe the first smile he’d entertained since falling ill. Alfred’s horse herd was made up of innumerable bloodlines, nowadays, but at the center of their pedigree was the blood of some sturdy old Morgans Matt had gifted to him during his civil war. Alfred kept a book that traced their sires all the way back to their Canadian forefathers, and seeing the newest generations never failed to swell Matt’s heart. As if sensing what his brother was looking at, Alfred said,

“Bonfire foaled twins this year—really late, too, October. I can’t remember if I told you that.”

“Really?” “Yeah, both little stubborn shits too, probably why they both lived. I’ve got them up at the barn to keep warm.”

“What’d you name them?” Matt asked. Alfred grinned, uncharacteristically sheepish.

“Pumpkin and Sweet Potato.”

“Alfred, you have to stop naming them after food.”

“What?! It was October! They’re cute.”

As they pulled up the house, Alfred was still defending his food-inspired horse name choices when Matt spotted something strange in the driveway.

“Who’s car is that?” He asked, eyeing the plain white SUV parked to one side of the massive driveway.

“Oh, I forgot about that,” Alfred bent down to peer at the car. “They didn’t all fit in the Bronco, so I had to rent a car for ‘em.”

“For who?”

“I’ll explain later,” Alfred said, shifting the car into park. Matt didn’t miss the small smirk his brother tried to hide. Immediately, a knot of dread formed in his stomach. “Let’s just get you inside and situated, yeah?”

Alfred didn’t have to explain, because the moment he unlocked the front door, the familiar sounds of pointless arguments flooded his ears.

“-bloody fucking ridiculous,” said the very drunk, very Dad voice somewhere deeper into the house. On the doorstep, Matt froze halfway out of his shoes and shot a look at Alfred, who responded by smiling a bit wider, all-american dimples peaking through

“Well how about I conquer you for a century or ten and then I can tell you you’re ridiculous, you bloated fucken Gobshite! Oi, Jackie, back me up on this!”

“Is that aunt Brighid?” Matt asked, eyeing Alfred again. The American busied himself with physically helping Matt out of his boots.

“I have some slippers for you just inside—watch your step.”

“Oh shite, I think I hear someone at the door,” said a much closer, much more Australian voice, “I’ll be just a minute there, one second!”

“ Alfred how the fuck did you—” The door swung open in a rush.

“Save me,” begged a younger, freckled, brunette version of their father. The white puff at the end of his Santa Claus hat jumped when he did a double take at Matthew. His green eyes lit up like Christmas itself.

“Matt!” He greeted, smile spreading wide as the sun. “You look like shite, it’s so good to see you! Oi! You angry cunts!” he shouted over his shoulder, “Matt’s here!”

“What?”

“Oh, thank Christ. Matthew, come tell this woman—”

“You’ll not drag him into this! The bairn’s ill,”

“Are they,” Matt looked over at Alfred, who was still smiling like a smug bastard. “How did you—you’re—” He looked over at Jack, “I thought you were in London?”

“What?” Jack seemed honestly confused, glancing between Matt and Alfred. “Did the Yank seriously not tell you—” he gave Alfred a look, and upon seeing his smug expression, scoffed. “London was a wash this year,” he laughed, “Happy Christmas, mate, come on in.”

“How’d you get here?” Matt reiterated.

“Like I said,” Alfred piped up, pushing Matt towards the doorway. Looking down, Matt realized that, in his shock, Alfred had been the one to actually remove his shoes for him, “they didn’t all fit in the Bronco, so most of them got here by the last Grand Cherokee Avis had to offer. Go on, we’re letting the cold in.” Before Matt could step fully into the threshold, Buddy had bolted in between his legs, tail alert and wagging, eager to see the rest of the family.

“Buddy!” A feminine voice cried, “C’mere you big baby, say hello to auntie Zee,” a series of happy yelps followed, accompanied by drunken laughter.

“Well the dog is here,” Uncle Alisdair said in his loud brogue, “where’s the rest of the circus?”

“We’re here too,” Alfred said, walking behind Matt into the main living area.

“Och, there they are!” “Matthew, so good to see you,” Father looked genuinely happy to see him, soft smile creasing his eyes in the way that reminded Matt of the happiest parts of his childhood. “Come here, let me look at you.”

“Matt! Croeso ! What’s your poison? Mulled wine? Whiskey? Cider?”

“The bairn is sick, Rhys—”

“Alcohol never hurt anyone on Christmas,”

“Mary and all the saints, how have you lived this long—”

“Come over here and give us a hug, you muppets!” cried Zee, spreading her arms wide, a nearly-empty bottle of wine in one fist.

Matt was frozen in place, still coming off his melatonin and wondering if he was feverish again. He was dimly aware that his jaw was hanging open as he took in the gaggle of family packed into Alfred’s living room—dad, both uncles, Jack, Zee, even aunt Brighid. There were twinkling lights hung all around the vaulted ceilings and reflecting on the tall windows, a fresh-cut Christmas tree lit in the corner with a haphazard collection of presents and duty-free bags piled below, punch and whiskey and wine and beer stacked in disorganized bunches along the nearby bar counter.

“—sure he’s alright?” Zee was asking, when his ears decided to work again.

“He’s fine,” he heard Alfred say, and a warm hand rested on his shoulder. “He’s just a bit surprised.”

“You’re,” Matt said, looking around at them all, and everyone went quiet to listen to him. “You’re not. You’re meant to be in London,” Matt insisted.

“Nonsense!” Alisdair spoke up first. “We go to London every year, it was old enough a century ago, time for a change of pace.” He ignored it when Arthur glared at him. “‘Sides, you brother Money Bags over here promised he would take care of everything, else your dad wouldn’t have ever let TSA so much as look at his Christmas pudding—”

“ Alisdair,” Arthur hissed.

“You didn’t think we’d leave you alone, did you? On Christmas?” Jack was completely earnest when he said it. Seeing his baby brother’s face, and the faces of his ridiculous, loud, chaotic family, Matt suddenly found himself with watery eyes threatening to spill over.

“The kid’s on a few drugs right now, give him a little bit to recover,” laughed Alfred, arm around Matt’s shoulders. “He needs some rest. Come on, kiddo, let’s go get you set up in your—” Alfred paused and looked at their little brother.

“Jack, did you get your stuff—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jack waved dismissively. “I moved rooms.”

“Awesome. Come on, kiddo, let’s get you in bed before you fall over.”

“We’ll be here when you wake up!” Rhys called.

“Unless we all have hangovers,” Zee amended, and she and Rhys laughed together. Alfred shook his head and led Matt to his usual room, the only bedroom in the house that had a heated bed.

“Upsy-daisy,” Alfred said, helping Matt up onto the cushioned mattress, pulling out the duvet before Matt sat on it and pulling it immediately over the younger man’s body up to his neck, cozy and warm.

“Hey, hey,” Matt hadn’t realized he’d let tears fall until Alfred was sitting on the bed beside him, brushing hair behind his ear and speaking to him softly in the way that had meant safe since he was a baby. “I wanted to surprise you, not incapacitate you, are you alright?”

Matt wiped his eyes, remembering his lonely cabin and the escape he’d been too sick to enjoy. Alfred’s house was warm and safe, and smelt of Christmas spices that harkened back to his earliest years. “Thank you,” Matt managed, gripping Alfred’s sleeve. “I don’t know how you—I didn’t think—” He sighed, feeling exactly how tired he was. “Thanks, Al.”

Al responded by wrapping him in a hug, warm and tight and safe and everything Matt needed to finally let himself rest. Over Alfred’s shoulder, he could see his dog sneak into the room, hopping up onto the foot of the bed.

“Get some good rest, okay? And don’t worry about anything,” Alfred said into his ear, bending down until Matt was lying back in bed. “We’ll all be here in the morning.”

“The fuck I did! It was your goddamned idea in the first place!” Alisdair’s bellow echoed down the hall and their brotherly moment broke so they could both whip their heads to the door to listen.

“My idea?!” countered their father, in the self-righteous tone that said he’d been at the rum punch a little too much that night, “The entire stupid thing was your doing, beginning to end!”

“You know,” came a third voice, “ I’m fairly sure that—” “Shut up, Rhys!” Shouted Alisdair and Father at once.

Alfred sighed. “Well, we’ll all probably be here in the morning. I’ll tell them to keep it down.”

“No,” Matt said, letting out a tired laugh. The bickering of his father and uncles blurred together in a familiar, lulling haze as sleep beckoned. “No, it’s okay. Merry Christmas, Alfred.” Matt was almost asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow, mind’s eye filled with twinkling lights and familiar smiles, morphing into pleasant dreams of holidays past. He was still just awake enough to feel it when Alfred bent to kiss his forehead and brush a hand over his hair.

“Merry Christmas, Mattie. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

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vivi-the-goblin · 2 years

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5e Mechanic Variant

I'll admit I don't have every book, nor have I played a ton of systems (6 in total), so I might've just reinvented something that exists. I haven't heard of it though, and its been successful in the sessions I tried it in. It's a variant on 5e's group skill checks. When the group is trying to do something together, instead of a DC 15 four times, you'd do a DC 15 times four, so DC 60. The players add their results together and see if they can beat the DC. What this does is let the players who specialized in a skill help the others out, instead of rolling a 25 and it being functionally the same as a 15. In my opinion there are two primary types of skill checks that can benefit from this. The first is "everyone succeeds or we fail" For instance stealth, the paladin clanking behind might not get YOU caught but it will kill the stealth section. Doesn't matter if you got double the DC, you can either go it alone (killing session pacing and abandoning the party) or you can end stealth. Plus everyone is actively looking for you now, so you might suddenly get found anyway. Now the rogue is showing them the proper path or making small distractions to cover the barbarian's stumble. You don't have party members who feel like they failed everyone, and it gives benefit for specializing because you can help the party. The second is in team checks. Lets say the barbarian wants to topple a stone pillar or push a giant boulder down a hill. He could get advantage from the help action 10 times over, it's not going to make him able to move 4000 lbs of stone. This lets you say "It's like a DC 80, this thing's huge. Then the party gets together and keeps trying (I set a limit on times you can try a strength check before exhaustion) before finally getting that 26+18+14+22 and succeeding. It also lets them know something's technically possible without letting it be within easy reach, giving them a sort of puzzle on how to reach that goal (getting help, using pulleys for advantage, etc) The closest thing I know of this in 5e is "If half the people make it everyone does", but I find this works better. The basic reason is "You work together and overcome the DC 80 skill check" sounds impressive and feels like everyone contributed to a difficult goal nobody could accomplish on their own. "ok cool, the two specialists passed so we'll just call it a win" makes me feel like you shouldn't have bothered asking everyone to roll, just make it a single person check if my roll is just meaningless.

The more complicated reason- it gives the specialized players a reason to continue their specialization. Think of the Rogue, for an easy example. They chose the sneak class to be good at sneaking, right? well now they're level 11, and they don't get to play anymore. They can't roll lower than a 10 and even a CR 30 can't find them without proficiency in perception. The fun minigame they built a character around becomes "I'd like to-" "Don't bother, you're in the next room now, moving on." Future stealth bonuses don't functionally do much. Also your ranger's still angry because they have high stealth too but don't get to use it. With this model, keep buffing your stealth, disguise, whatever, it still helps! It lets you lower the effective DC for your friends. And other people who are proud of their score but don't get to use it because you're better? Well they're really useful now too! Use a group deception to infiltrate, the bard patching holes in the fighter's story. Group acrobatics to make that leap, the others benefitting from having a perfect example to copy and someone to correct their form. Sure, in some cases it's not that functionally different from base rule, but it just feels better to me. I recommend at least trying out something like this. It has worked great for me so far.

#dnd 5e #dnd 5e homebrew #5e homebrew #5e #homebrew #5e variant rules

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linka-from-captain-planet · 3 months

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The L Word: Faerûn, Part 2: Tav Lore (aka why Counsellor Florrick is the actual main character)

Part 1 here.

The Thong Straps that Launched a Million Headcanons

To make TLW:F even vaguely comprehensible to anyone but me, there is something important yet convoluted to explain:

The protagonist is a Tav, but the most important character in the entire story is Counsellor Florrick.

I'm not an OC gal. Creating a brand new character is not my wheelhouse; my type of creativity is interpreting or expanding on things that already exist in canon, not really adding new things to it. So the way I went about developing an OC for this story was to start with the character that I really wanted to highlight---my beloved Florrick, the sexiest creature in this entire game (FACT not opinion)--- and build the OC around her, working more or less within the confines of canon because that's how I operate generally.

Why? Because I'm a crazy person I guess and I wanted it to seem semi-reasonable for Florrick to get her ass ate at Waukeen's Rest. Being a fan of drama, multishipping, and elaborate headcanons about background characters, the concept spiralled from there and eventually morphed into TLW:F.

So, yes, like 70% of the entire reason this thing exists is because Florrick is hot. The other 30% is the aforementioned story gripes from Part 1.

Florrick isn't the protagonist because I need her to fulfill her usual roles as a supporting character in the overall story, but she IS the most important character because she and her relationship with the protagonist drives much of the plot (and also fills in the semi-pot holes of "why the fuck would a drow agree to do any of the Baldur's Gate-centric side quests", since obvi the Tav had to be drow because they're the coolest duh).

Tav Lore: Alekto T'Elvord, and her relationship with Florrick

Note: lore mistakes are just part of the AU

Imagine Bette Porter from the L Word (snobbish, selfish, completely insane under a veneer of success) combined with Gaston from Beauty and the Beast (vain, obnoxious, but a legitimate talented hunter and tracker), add on some subjugation trauma on top (to match the other origins), some hidden depths (to match the other origins), and that's Alekto.

Born at the tail end of her clan's several hundred years of indentured servitude to House Xorlarrin, Alekto spent the first fifty years of her life underneath the boot of the Matron. Trained as a fletcher/bowyer (ranger with artisan background), her skill in crafting and using fine drow archery raised her individual clout in the status-obsessed drow society. Once her clan reached the end of servitude, most of them were simply slain rather than set free, but Alekto was spared due to her relatively high esteem and talents as an artisan and huntress. Although technically a free woman thereafter, Alekto to the present day feels bound to the Matron's beck and call, fearing what would happen if she defied her. Despite actively avoiding drow society by spending as much time as possible hunting (poaching, for trophies and alchemical ingredients to sell) in the wilds of the underdark and, eventually, the surface, Alekto recognizes that social climbing is her only real route to freedom, and so ostensibly, her individual goal in life is to win herself a high-status spouse, preferably one ranked even higher than Xorlarrin.

But really, what Alekto truly yearns for is security and reassurance, and a partner who makes her feel safe. Although it's been decades, her first love, Neerstra, another drow peasant, was sacrificed to Lolth and although Alekto tries to rationalize this event was normal-thus-fine and even honorable/romantic, she privately is very disillusioned by and resentful of the senselessly brutal and bleak drow culture.

Shortly after being granted "freedom", Alekto traveled to the surface in pursuit of a unicorn, but was captured by a village of wood elves defending the forest. Among them happened to be the future-counsellor Florrick, visiting home to share news of her promotion to the office of an up-and-coming duke. Recognizing a fellow black sheep (a city-dwelling, wizard wood elf?) and someone whose urbane sense of justice could be exploited, Alekto sought to manipulate Florrick into saving her, which worked!

But also, Alekto was sincerely drawn to the steadfast, virtuous Florrick, and although Florrick was not initially impressed by a drow poacher, the two bonded over several days of forced proximity and a long, tumultuous relationship was born.

For about the next twenty years, Florrick and Alekto were often on-and-off, and further often separated as Alekto traveled between Menzo and Baldur's Gate. They were a poor match, compatible emotionally and sexually but not socially, morally, or in lifestyle; but both were stubborn enough to stick it out way too long. Over the course of these decades, Alekto became (by drow standards) familiar with surface culture and the fixtures of Baldur's Gate, such as Ravengard and his young son, Wyll (although Alekto avoided having to meet them), as well as 'personal' associates of Florrick such as Naoise Nallinto (a member of the wood elf polycule I can only assume Florrick has) and Nine-Fingers Keene (a political rival and sometimes-lover of Florrick's).

In around 1482, ten years pre-canon, Alekto and Florrick called it quits 'officially', but find it hard to stay apart, officially. Alekto especially feels attached to Florrick, and in times of duress, finds herself 'relapsing' and returning to Baldur's Gate to check up on (stalk) Florrick, allegedly in hopes of reconciling, but really, it's more of a desire for the stability that Florrick represents than a desire for Florrick, herself.

So, in Eleasis 1492, after Minthara Baenre is drawn away from Lolth in favor of the hot new cult on the block, the Matrons of Menzoberranzan put together the growing cult and increasing rumors of illithid activity and come to a conclusion: Araj Oblodra must be involved, and may be ascending from a worthless crackpot to an actual threat. Thus, Xorlarrin sends Alekto to track Araj down in her last known location: Baldur's Gate.

Powerless to refuse, Alekto travels to the city and raids Crimson Draughts, and in doing so uncovers the indisputable evidence that Araj has joined the Cult of the Absolute and is actively mobilizing plans to reinstate her House, and/or destroy Menzoberranzan.

Nervous about the ramifications of all this, Alekto dallies in the city, hoping to find comfort in Florrick's stalwart arms. However, after connecting with Naoise, she learns that Florrick is several days late returning from Elturel with Ravengard, which worries her further.

But, before she can investigate further, she's snatched off the streets by the nautiloid.

Next part: The Pre-Canon Chart

#the l word: faerun #bg3 tav #counsellor florrick

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gaycicada · 1 year

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Behold! The Chaos party! This is a set if dnd characters I did for a campaign I did with me and my friends a while back. Through The Rabbit hole stars Brunhilde the monk nun played by @suitableheiress, Barbie the fairy barbarian played by @disasterstarr, Boreus the dragonborn cleric played by a friend of ours, Bones the aasimar rogue played by yours truly, and Gaius Brutus, Alice and Styx (these three being played by Reynie, our DM).

Brunhilde is a batshit german accented nun who beats the shit out of people with her bare feet. She's traumatized many and haunts people’s nightmares.

Boreus is a very tiny dragonborn who's whole family line is riddled with chaos magic but he just thought he sucked at being a wizard the whole time.

Barbie is if Barbie the doll needed to take anger management classes. She's also on a mission for money to collect for her plague stricken village.

Bones is your good ol scoundrel rogue, loud, proud and a traumatized destiny child. She's the one with the silver and blue color scheme.

Styx is Bones’ pirate Teifling counterpart who shares the destiny child trauma sentiment and the gay tension, and spent the first half of the campaign as a goose from hell. I came up with Styx but Reynie is the one who played her so she's like a collab character.

Alice the human ranger, is the only one in the party with the brain cell. She's the blonde with the bow and Boreus spent all of session 0 gushing over how badass she is.

And the beautiful bastard that is Gaius Brutus had me by the throat as I spent nearly 30 hours on their goddamn tattoos, wistful fuckin hair and bitch ass smirk. They're the ethereal looking Teifling by the by, they own a tavern and are like the party’s boss/sugar parent.

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multidimensionalbedandbreakfast · 4 months

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Legal Disclaimer

The Sojourner’s Rest is an adult establishment, catering to adult patrons of eXtrEMe GiRth varying needs from across many different dimensions.

The Proprietress is 18+ and only 18+ patrons are admitted. The Proprietress is not responsible for any minors who arE cLaiMEd By tHe VoiD get lost in the forest.

The Proprietress reserves the right to anNiHiLaTE deny service to any patron found violating the establishment’s policy of universal love, acceptance, and compassion.

Check ‘#the sign’ for a list of welcome kinks.

LoOk At tHe @multidimensionalbulletinboard oR eLsE

dOn’T bREaK kaYfAbE

ThERe iS No stATuE.

Welcome to the Forest

Nestled into a grove in a verdant forest, itself the heart of an inter-dimensional nexus, sits an idyllic cottage. This is the Sojourn’s Rest, an establishment that patronizes those who are passing between dimensions, putting them up for a night, as well as providing refuge for those that has become lost in the Forest. Smoke drifts up from the stone chimney, and a warm light emanates from the windows, inviting you to come inside, to mingle with whomever may be inside, and to rest…

…Or, you could ignore it, and press on through the forest, in search of the portal which will bring you to your destined dimension. Just don’t get lost~

Guest Book bellow~

(Pictures of guests may be outdated!!! So hard to find film in the Forest!!!)

Residents of The Sojourner’s Rest

[A picture of an adorable woman is pinned here. Her vibrant red hair is luscious and long, flowing freely down her back to her waist. Her emerald eyes shine with enthusiasm, and a bright smile dimples full, lightly freckled cheeks.]

Lucy Loveless

110lbs., 5’4”, ?? y.o.

Human B&B Proprietress

Ayyy, lmao, it me, ya gurl! (I miss the internet so much). I figure if I’m going to take down information about my guests, it’s only fair I do the same for myself. I run the Sojourner’s Rest — which is actually my second, and much more successful B&B. I’ve just always liked taking care of other people, so this just seems like the job for me! I’m not exactly sure how I got here, or how long I’ve been here, but even if I could get home somehow, I don’t think I would go. I’m much happier here, and it’s not like there was anyone who’d miss me.

Guests from Faerûn

(Picture to be added)

Lae’zel

180lbs., 6’1”, 20 y.o.

Githyanki LV 12 Battle Master Fighter

Str: 20, Dex: 14, Con: 16, Int: 8, Wis: 12, Cha: 8

This one scares me… always hissing, always making noises that feel like swears… It’s like living with cat that hates you. A mean, hissing cat you really want to rub the belly of but it won’t let you. But instead of a cat, it’s a muscly frog lady, and instead of getting scratched by claws, you get run through by a giant silver sword. So, you know, it’s risk versus reward.

(Picture to be added)

Shadowheart

150lbs., 5’6”, 40 y.o.

High Half-Elf LV 12 Light Domain Cleric of Selûne

Str: 12, Dex: 18, Con: 14, Int: 10, Wis: 20, Cha: 10

In the name of the Moon, she will punish you! Haha! Uh… Anyway, she really likes the whole ambiance of the cottage, she’s especially fond of the flower garden. She has a love for life I’ve seen before; the kind you only develop after years of not living.

(Picture to be added)

Karlach Cliffgate

220lbs., 6’1”, 30 y.o.

Zariel Tiefling LV 8 Oath of Vengeance Paladin LV 4 Battle Master Fighter

Str: 18, Dex: 10, Con: 14, Int: 8, Wis: 10, Cha: 18

She’s like a big teddy bear! A big, muscly, flaming teddy bear. And I don’t mean flaming as in, flamboyantly homosexual. (Although, c’mon, look at her) She’s literally flaming, there are little holes in her that fire comes out of, and her hair is also kind of fire? And not like, as in really cool and awesome. (Although, c’mon, look at her). It like, glows and is hot, but it doesn’t burn up. That all said, she’s a big sweetie who I bet is great for cuddling on a cold night~

(Picture to be added)

Minthara Baenre

170lbs., 5’7”, 100 y.o.

Lolth-Sworn Drow LV 5 Assassin Rogue LV 7 Gloomstalker Ranger

Str: 8, Dex: 18, Con: 14, Int: 12, Wis: 12, Cha: 14

I don’t understand how a person can just be mean. I get some people are mean, but to just be mean? Nothing else, and for no reason? I can’t imagine how a person ends up that way. She’s rude to the other guests, so full of herself, and gets violent at the drop of a hat. She is — and I never thought I would say this about a person — totally beyond any kind of redemption. And I want her to spit on me.

(Picture to be added)

Leslie Applebottom/‘Lez’

40lbs., 3’0”, 34 y.o.

Lightfoot Halfing College of Lore Bard

Str: 8, Dex: 16, Con: 8, Int: 14, Wis: 12, Cha: 20

I never thought someone so small could be so intimidating… and I never thought someone so intimidating could be such a sweetie! Always in a chipper mood, compliments my cooking, offers to help out around the cottage (she’s very handy!), even plays music for free! She seems to be the one who resolves any conflict among her friends, using her words to make sure things don’t come to blows, but she’s not afraid to use her aforementioned intimidating presence to solve problems as well! Seducing them to make them docile also doesn’t seem to be off the table…

(Picture to be added)

Dame Cynthia Hale

180lbs., 6’, 30 y.o.

Human LV 12 Oath of Ancients Paladin Zariel Tiefling LV 5 Fiend Warlock LV 7 Broken Oath Paladin

Str: 8, Dex: 8, Con: 16, Int: 14, Wis: 12, Cha: 20

Dame Cynthia may just be one of the most polite guests I’ve ever had! So gallant and chivalrous, and dashing in that shiny heavy armor~ I guess I should expect nothing less from such a pious and selfless knight! A hero using her own body as a shield for the innocent! …Of course, Humans don’t have horns and tails, and Paladins don’t smell of sulfur, yet she wants me to believe that’s what she is? I’m not that naïve. I would not recommend bringing it up to her, though. She crushed a mug with her bare hand when I did, and she likes me!

(Picture to be added)

Goodberry

135lbs, 6’2”, 269 y.o.

Wood Elf LV 12 Circle of the Moon Druid

Str:8, Dex: 14, Con: 16, Int: 8, Wis: 20, Cha: 12

Now this is a tricky one to keep track of! She’s a cat as often as she is an Elf, and a bear twice as often as that! When I asked her about her name, she said that she changed her name when she changed her real body’s look, and I guess if you can change your body as easily as you can change your name, why wouldn’t you? I would give myself extra arms to clean better… She’s a good guest, very mellow and good spirited, and would be a pleasure to be around if it weren’t for her… well, smell. It’s funny, of all the animals I’ve seen her turn into, a skunk is not one of them, but I always smell one when she’s around…

(Picture to be added)

Maddison Murphy/‘Paunch Drunk Murphy’

200lbs., 5’7”, 42 y.o.

Human LV 8 Way of the Open Fist Monk, LV 4 Thief Rogue

Str: 8, Dex: 20, Con: 16, Int: 8, Wis: 16, Cha: 10

So, I think she used to be called ‘Punch Drunk Murphy’, being that fighting drunk was her whole thing, but the ‘a’ got added when she developed a, well, paunch from all her drinking. Not much has changed there, though now she relies on throwing her weight around rather than using any strength, and nobody can hit her because she wobbles around so much. She’s… boisterous, let’s say. And very fond of her drink, obviously. I’d prefer it if she were less rowdy, but she’s not technically breaking any rules, so I can’t really do anything about it… Hard to believe she’s technically the oldest of her party. And a mother!

(Picture to be added)

Talica Dahlmass

140lbs., 5’6”, 47 y.o.

Drow Half-Elf Necromancy Wizard

Str: 8, Dex: 16, Con: 14, Int: 20, Wis: 10, Cha: 10

She’s the most level-headed and calm of her friends, and honestly? That makes her the scariest. She’s cold. Calculating. Charming Conniving. She knows what it takes to get what she wants, and she’s willing to do it. If helping will get her what she wants, she’ll help. If hurting advances her goals, she’ll hurt. It makes no difference to her. That kind of raw, self serving ambition never leads anywhere good. And everywhere she goes, an aura of death hangs over her… I swear I smell rot on her as well…

(Picture to be added)

Cirice

150lbs., 5’8”, 22 y.o.

High Half-Elf Wild Magic Sorcerer

Str: 8, Dex: 14, Con: 16, Int: 10, Wis: 10, Cha: 20

Definitely the most… unpredictable guest I’ve ever had. It’s almost like she doesn’t think about what she does, she just acts on impulse. That has to be it; I can’t think of a rational explanation for half the thing she does. One minute she’s cleaning her clothes, the next she’s setting them on fire. One minute she’s beating someone within an inch of their life, the next she’s kissing them (although that seems to be the common theme for this bunch). One minute, there’s light and life in her eyes, the next… someone else is in there…

(Picture to be added)

Grymglain Stoneflow

200lbs., 4’4, 44 y.o.

Deurgar LV 12 Berserker Barbarian

Str: 20, Dex: 16, Con: 16, Int: 8, Wis: 10, Cha: 8

She won’t come inside the cottage. Instead she sets up a tent outside whenever her group comes to visit. I respect a person who feels at home in the wild, forgoing the comforts and stresses of modern living in favor of a life in oneness with nature. And I’m especially impressed she hasn’t been claimed by the Forest. I just wish she wouldn’t ‘forage’ in my garden. At least she shares the meat from her hunting, but I bet it’s only because she thinks I’m a better cook than her…

(Picture to be added)

Hidi Goldseeker/Hide ’n Seek

40lbs., 3’4, 33 y.o.

Deep Gnome LV 7 Thief Rogue LV 5 Champion Fighter

Str: 9, Dex: 20, Con: 16, Int: 12, Wis: 10, Cha: 12

HIDI IS A MEAN STINKY THIEF WHO STOLE MY FAVORITE SET OF SILVERWARE! THAT’S RIGHT, HIDI! I KNOW IT WAS YOU, AND I KNOW YOU’RE READING THIS! YOUR LITTLE GOODY GOODY ACT DOESN’T FOOL ME! I’M BUSTING OUT MY JUNIOR DETECTIVE KIT, AND AS SOON AS I HAVE EVIDENCE, I’M SENDING YOU TO THE SHADOW REALM!

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softlytowardthesun · 2 months

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i challenge you to find me anything funnier than how Power Rangers writes out characters when actors can’t be around for filming.

in real life, it’s rarely funny. actors leave the show mostly due to labor violations, gay-bashing, or severe health problems. but in the world of the show, the writers have to contrive some way to get them out of the action, and they keep getting more surreal.

so in season 2, when the red, black, and yellow ranger actors left the show, they just said they went to study abroad in switzerland.

and in the latest season, 30, the blue ranger had other acting jobs, so they decide the reason he isn’t in scenes with the others because he’s been kidnapped and brainwashed by the villains and he’s holed up in the evil castle building a machine that will turn the space dictator into God. okie-dokie.

#I don’t expect this hyperfixation to last much longer #but good god has it been a fun insane trip #Power Rangers #the perfect show to watch when you’re nearly delirious and out sick from work #it’s already on your exact wavelength

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macisms · 10 months

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fuck it...last minute dtamhd ficlet. i finished this at 4:30 am. [ao3]:

And when its all over, when Dennis has screamed himself hoarse, he's just...tired.

What the fuck is the point of any of this, really? He just wasted the whole day trying to get to this goddamn beach, and instead of relaxing like he needed to do, he had boiled over, ranting and raving and kicking at the tide until the other beach-goers scurried away with fearful wide eyes. His curses against the universe were carried away by the wind and swallowed up by the ocean, lost in an endless frothy tide. And all he has to show for it was sand in his shoes and an ache in his knees.

He's getting too goddamn old for any of this. The unsavoury thought tastes acrid, and he tries to bite it back, shove it into the deep trenches of his brain where he keeps many, many things, but he can't. He fails to suppress, and the bitter, sticky defeat clings to his body like the shitty piss-stained sand of the Jersey shoreline. The pretense weighs heavy on him, dragging him under. He'll never be the type of guy to drive a flashy new electric vehicle with an iPad jammed into the dashboard. He'll never be the type of guy who does weekend getaways, or drinks at classy uptown nightclubs, or any of that shit. Get fucking real.

The sun crawls down the horizon, painting the sky in golds and oranges - mark of another day ticking away, unfulfilled.

At this point all Dennis wants is to go home, crawl into bed, and skip forward to the next day. Even tuning out his friends' incessant drivel sounds more pleasant than another day of random people grating up against him, taking up his time and space at their own liberty. It's too late for him to turn his life around, so at least let him crawl back to his hidey-hole. But, no. The prissy little eco-friendly machine he rented ran out of charge, of all things. Fuel efficiency his fucking ass. He can't even call an Uber - the stupid car-app made his phone battery go kaput. Three cheers for modern technology.

So he's stuck on the beach, with nothing but his inner thoughts for company. Fine. At least there aren't any people left milling about - just him, the wind, and the sea. The sky grows dimmer by the minute and the air gets chillier even through his coat, but he doesn't move. He knows he'll regret this tomorrow when his back feels the consequences of sitting in the lumpy sand for who knows how long, but he feels held in place. By what, he can't say. Whether its because of the sludge of exhaustion creeping into his bones, or the hypnotizing dance of waves silhouetted against the sunset, or just the bite of salty air as he breathes in, he stays. And he breathes in, and holds it in, and lets it out. The bow of his back relaxes, ever so slightly.

He doesn't know how long he's been sitting there, watching the high tide lap closer to his shoes, staring into the dusky purple sky, when he hears the rumble of an engine behind him. He clenches his jaw, almost unprepared for the wave of irritation that swells in him knowing that some anal-retentive ranger is going to shuffle him off the beach like he's some kind of thickheaded tourist lout - he can't have a moment of fucking peace on this godforsaken day, can he? He turns to give the asshole a scorching glare and a piece of his mind, even though he has very little fight left in him and this confrontation might be over sooner rather than later - but it's his own goddamn car staring back at him from over the dunes. Not that awful yuppie piece of trash - his car. And (ruining the magic slightly), some very familiar voices coming from that direction.

"There he is!"

"Hey, Dennis! Is that you?"

Well, fuck.

Their faces pop up over the sand dunes, like - like meerkats or something, Dennis thinks, somewhat hysterically. No, he's not just imagining - it really is all of them, even Frank bumbling down in the back, nearly tripping over his own feet and the sand.

"Dude, we've been looking for you everywhere," Mac says, panting as he reaches Dennis.

"You would not believe the day we had," Charlie speaks, panting even harder. "Pressure cooker was a total bust, by the way."

"Which was not my fault!" Mac interjects, clearly anticipating an argument that had been rehashed many times.

"Oh, please," Dee scoffs, "It was completely your fault. You idiot!"

"Give me a break, Dee, if you hadn't tried to cook your own formula-"

"I don't want to know!" Dennis holds his hands up, mercifully stopping them in their tracks. Something agitated is stirring inside of him. "I do. Not. Want. To. Know. How the hell are you guys here?"

"Oh, easy, dude," Mac says, "We tracked your location."

"You-!"

Dee rolls her eyes. "Oh, you're so shocked. You know we shared locations when we were staking out that department store."

Oh, yeah. Let it never be said that they didn't have their bargain hunting/shoplifting strategy down to a science.

"It shut off after we got here, though," Mac continues. "Did you block me, man?"

"We've been driving around this goddamn shithole for two hours," Frank blusters, gesturing wildly.

"Also, we found your fancy new ride by some gas station?" Charlie says, "Weird place to park a car."

"But we called triple-A for it, so, boom," Dee finishes smugly.

Dennis blinks at them. Just half a day apart from them, and already their conversation sounds like a whirlwind to his ears, jeez. He tries to muster some righteous indignity, which he feels very entitled to - they caught him completely wrong-footed, and they're spouting nonsense as usual, and they're all standing around him while he's sat down like a chump, which he hates.

"Wh- well, how'd you get my car?" he asks, with that very righteous indignity.

"Stole it right out of the yard," Mac said, with a smugness that doesn't befit him.

"We rigged up the pressure cooker right outside the place, y'know, as a distraction-"

"Then I shot it with my gun-"

"The sound it made - bro, you should have been there-"

"And all the security bozos were so distracted thinking it was a bomb, we could just cruise right out of there!"

Dennis stares up at them and their expressions of wild, devilish pride, and comes to a dizzying conclusion: the life he has chosen is insane. It's fucking certifiable, is what it is, they all are, and they're probably going to end up locked up one day.

"You idiots," he says, but he's laughing, pressing a wrist against his mouth trying to contain it. "You goddamn lunatics!"

They grin at each other, so proud and pleased at having set off a bomb threat right next to a government facility. It sets Dennis off again, and they start snorting with laughter too, first Dee then Charlie then Mac and Frank, until they're all cackling like a pack of goddamn hyenas.

"Seriously, though," Dennis continues, pretending like he isn't wiping moisture from the corner of his eyes. "I'm going to kill you for touching my car. If there's a single scratch on it-"

"Hey, all yours now, bro." Mac tosses him the keys; Dennis catches them against his chest. "And, um, if there's a problem...Dee was driving it!"

"Fuck you, Mac! I was not."

"Well, it was really out of necessity. I mean, come on, we couldn't use Dee's car. Those things crash all the time."

"Fuck you, too, Charlie!"

"All of you shut up," Frank cuts off the brewing argument. "Look, we got a ripe opportunity here - sunset, beach, couple of beers, perfect to kick back with. Let's take advantage!"

"Oh, fuck yeah!" Mac claps his hands together. "We have a cooler in the car. I mean, obviously."

"Yeah, lets go get some beers! Come on, man." Charlie holds a hand out to help Dennis up with, and after a moment's hesitation, Dennis accepts it, though he nearly regrets it when Charlie's tug yanks at his already battered body and nearly unbalances them both. Mac calls for them to hurry up, and Dennis rolls his eyes but acquiesces to follow.

They grab their bottles of Coors out of the cooler and settle at the crest of the sand dune, their backs to the Range Rover. Dennis sits with one knee pressed atop of Mac's, and the other leg nudging Charlie's. With a smirk, Dee reaches over to clink the top of her bottle against Dennis', and then he does the same with Mac, and Charlie, and even Frank.

Then they kick back, sip their beers, and watch the sun slip into the sea.

#iasip #dennis reynolds #dennis takes a mental health day #dtamhd #its always sunny in philadelphia #mywriting #this was finished being written/edited at 5 am so if its bad. you know why.

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