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potteresque-ire · 4 years

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Happy 30th Birthday Good Omens!

... and here’s a quick ficlet as a present! Aziraphale/Crowley, fluff, based on the Good Omens Lockdown video released today. 😇❤️😈Given the rewards of burglarizing one bookshop in Soho and no one would ever equate burglary with socializing, it is only logical for one demon to slither in and test his luck, as a rather noodly burglar.

ETA: Crowley, I mean, the noodly burglar, mentions Hamburglar in the story. For those who’re too young (or who eat too healthily) to remember Hamburglar, he was a character from McDonald's and here’s his image: https://mcdonalds.fandom.com/wiki/Hamburglar.

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That night, AZ Fell & Co had its second break-in in a week. The burglar was transcendentally professional in his burglarizing, donning the black-and-white-striped attire as required by the human thieving tradition and complete with a face-covering (in accordance with both the tradition and NHS guidelines). He didn’t forget, either, about The Big Money Bag with its Big Dollar Sign that signalled intent. The bag got a drinkable inside because burglary was thirsty business, and because the thirst of this one burglar was particularly, (un)fortunately undeniable.

The burglar was, of course, caught red-handed (and -bellied) by the owner of the bookshop. Mr Fell had, rather curiously, been baking a Kirschtorte in the middle of the night. A bowl of miracled, brandy-soaked cherries sat on the cash box that had somehow been transported to the kitchen.

One could almost suspect that Mr Fell had been expecting a crime.

Almost.

“Wily old serpent,” admonished Mr Fell, picking up the burglar by the neck with his plump hands, floured white and smelling of butter and sugar. He narrowed his eyes at the pair peeking out from the cut holes of the burglar’s face covering. “I should’ve known there’s no rest for the wicked, even during a lockdown.”

The burglar, who, indeed, fine, was a snake (and his black-and-white-striped attire a tube sock; now please shut up and mind your own business), half-heartedly wiggled to try to set himself free. Half-heartedly, because cool criminals never wiggled.

The burglar was also presenting his burglaree a placard from his money bag.

“Give me your cashbox,” the placard said. “I’m burglar-ing.”

“Burglarizing,” corrected Mr Fell, acting quite gay for a burglaree. Couldn’t blame him, for even the burglar had to admit the kitchen smelled good. “You can talk in human as a snake. Why don’t you?” The interrogation would’ve gone on if not for the ding! from the oven. Perhaps this was why Mr Fell’s question lacked the surprise warranted by the situation, per the customs of Earth and its humans. Perhaps this was also why the burglar found himself dropped on the cherries (and the cash box), in not so much a I-shall-fling-you-to-a-scaly-death way than a have-a-snack-if-you-want-while-you-wait way.

The burglar would later respond to the question with yet another placard. Yes, he got one ready. “Loose jaw, long tongue,” this placard said. “Tried fitting on masks that stop droplet transmission from talking. Didn’t work.” The burglar slithered out of the way for Mr Fell to move the cherries onto the freshly baked torte -- every cherry but for the one the burglar had coiled around, along its now alternatively glossy and pebbled circumference where the flesh had been licked and nibbled. Cherries or any food, really, were more palatable with alcohol -- ah, no, the correct term for alcohol tonight was disinfectant. Poison. Smuggled into the bookshop in the money bag also to lower Mr Fell’s guard, ensure the crime would go smoothly. As it would evilly. “Plus,” the placard admitted then, “going for the Hamburglar look.”

Mr Fell looked up, perplexed.

Another placard materialized (say what you want about the burglar, but he was prepared)(...and bored out of his wits at home)(...and really kinda missing someone enough to imagine the entire conversation). “* Sigh *” — yes, that was how this placard started — “Think of Hamburglar as Zorro. Designed by one occult but dashing entity. Tempted many children into coveting.”

“Ah.” Mr Fell looked demystified at the answer, as if any bookshop owner would concur that wearing a Hamburglar-Zorro look while burglar-ing ... burglarizing on his property was perfectly reasonable. While being a snake. During a pandemic lockdown.

Either that, or because the presentation of the placards had revealed the bottle of drinkable in the money bag. “May I?” asked Mr Fell, already reaching inside. The label of the drinkable had been scrawled over. “Disinfectant,” tempted the writing in the same wild hand as seen on the placards. “Inject to fend off the plague!” Inject was underlined and the next sentence capitalised: “This label is not sarcastic”.

Mr Fell stared at the not-sarcastic-but-absolutely-wily temptation, and the burglar took the time to drag a set of silverware and a tumbler to his end of the table. Mr Fell, apparently abysmal at the maths, had retrieved two sets from his cabinet instead of one, and it was only reasonable, and suitably diabolic, for the burglar to covet his share. A look of epiphany soon crossed the bookseller’s cherubic features, perhaps inspired — very much inspired— by the rich amber liquid sloshing behind the label against its glass walls. “To thwart your wile, then,” Mr Fell spoke of his epiphany belatedly and thoughtfully, addressing more so to the disinfectant bottle than to the burglar, “to stop the occult work of a good-for-nothing burglar in its tracks, I shall have to drink this poison before you can ejaculate in me —”

CRASH.

A fork clattered on the floor.

And the burglar had forgotten about his lack of mouth-covering too, along with the use of his tail for proper fork gripping and really, the use of his every other organ for every other grand, ineffable tasks God had possibly created them for. He ejaculated in human speech, no, not ejaculated, injaculated, no, wait, injected, ejected, oh oh oh interjected that’s right. “Inject, Angel, for Heaven’s—ugh—whatever’s sake! Inject!”

Mr Fell was remarkably unfazed by the rather human screeches, and more disturbingly, the accidental endearment from his serpentine burglar. Instead, he surveyed the damage done to the fork, the plate that’d tipper over and the burglar half spilled from it with his tongue a quarter tied (side effect of ... ejaculating in another species’ language). He did it all with a rather holier-than-thou flair, his chin so slightly raised, his gaze moving measuredly, majestically from one damage to the next. He did it all before a tiny twitch, no, no, a smirk, that’s what it was, no mistake about it, tugged the corners of his lips.

“Inject, of course. Inject.” But he agreed solemnly, putting back on his usual air again of a tranquil if a bit stuffy professor, the type who’d give you an A if and only if you could quote from his favourite book. (”He was overcome by sleep; and as Paul continued speaking, he fell down from the third story and was taken up dead.” — Acts 20:9) “What other unholy words could I possibly have spoken?” He placed an emphasis on unholy, his blue eyes widened and doe-like with innocence, but the hint of Kirschtorte in his tone more Schwarzwälder than Kirsche.

At that, the quarter-tied tongue of the burglar could’ve won a scouting knot award. Mr Fell must have known it and his plump hands, miracled clean just to showcase just how buttery smooth and sweet and flawless they already were without the cooking stuff, proceeded to give the neck of the disinfectant bottle a long, loving stroke, and repeated doing that twice for good measure before uncorking the bottle. He swirled the liquid inside and gave it a sniff, all the while looking quite smug.

Ngk. The burglar had been played.

The rest of the night has gone as well as it could. Mr Fell has enjoyed with his cake the disinfectant, smokey and as finely aged as expected from its year and origin. The burglar, meanwhile, has enjoyed, no, he’s endured, suffered greatly and painfully, the act of coiling up on the plate he’d dragged across the table and watching his burglaree eat. No social distancing rules have been compromised because one, criminal activities do not count as socializing, and two, what’s distancing anyway to a serpent who can social distance his tail and his head at will? And right now, that long, long tail of the burglar is in the shadows under the table where no angels or demons or God or NHS can see, curled around Mr Fell’s ankle and caressing that soft, soft skin under the sock because ... well, because Mr Fell, because this dangerous, book-hoarding, cash-box-toting being with a cake kink, has to be chained in place while his burglar is about to ransack his shop. Yes. The cashbox is no longer satisfying enough for a loot. The burglar will ransack. In a bit. After his tail gets a taste on Mr Fell’s calf, maybe, just a tiny lick, if Mr Fell is amenable to that. If the width of the leg hole of Mr Fell’s trousers is amenable to that. Or the burglar can do the ransacking tomorrow. Mr Fell mentioned he’ll be making angel’s food cake and at this moment, the burglar is very much for the idea of angels for food. His dips his tongue into his tumbler of disinfectant again to quench his unquenchable thirst, the tumbler under which still lies the placard that explains, while humans have transmitted the plague to their pets, there’s yet to be instances of pets transmitting the illness back to their favourite humans.

“Pets, huh?” That was all Mr Fell has said about it, a breathy ask with an upward glance from under his long eyelashes. The burglar pulled out that placard as an act of courtesy, to assure his burglaree that while he’d be lighter on cash and heavier on disinfectants after the ordeal, he wouldn’t have to worry about catching the plague. And what gratitude was the burglar given for his niceness? That one, breathy huh?, followed by the sight of another one of those shiny, drunk cherries slipping into Mr Fell’s mouth, of his lips, red and just as plump as the cherry, following the fruit’s swollen curve and opening just enough to show a hint of his teeth, the delicate tip of his tongue. The closing of the mouth came with a small, wet smack, as Mr Fell’s lips pursed just a little ...

That’s it. That’s why AZ Fell & Co, The Bookshop from Hell — not that there’re bookshops, or books, or shops in Hell — deserves a break-in from a pet, no, a burglar every night. The burglar, specifically the one who was sent to this world to make trouble, will make sure of that. He’s got lots of placards at home and even more markers. And tube socks. And more importantly, fend-off-the-plague-injectable disinfectants from every year dating back at least a century, from every wine country of the present and the past. Mr Fell deserves to have his cash box forcibly removed from his shop every night because he’s an outright BASTARD — and one day, one day when this stupid pandemic is over and this stupider lockdown is a done thing, the burglar will have his real angel food, made of every blasted cherry being oh-so-daintily popped in the mouth across the table from him...

He’ll set his alarm for July — nuh-uh, June — to have it done.

#good omens lockdown #ineffable husbands #aziraphale x crowley #good omens #good omens 30 #pie writes

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one-piece-dumpster-fire · 5 years

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Hi I love your work sooooo much! Can I have a scenario where Katakuri trying to ask out his shy crush but something always happens but he gets his happy end

Hey sweetie, sorry it took so long but I had to start all over twice because I didn’t like what I came up with. Hopefully this version is to your liking^^! And I legit have so many Katakuri scenariorequests in my inbox, I don’t know where all that thirst is comingfrom lol xD

Katakuri scenario- Double D- Wanna Donut Date? (aka what even are titles Idk sorry xD)

…It wasn’t unusual for CharlotteKatakuri to mess up when it came to social interactions. Many of theolder children liked to link his inability to communicate with peopleoutside of the family to the fact that even at a young age he never even tried making friends, and while most of the Charlottes bloomedsocially he continued to stay introverted and only surrounded himselfwith family, and… well, donuts.

And most of the time that wasn’texactly a hindrance to the tall man. After all, he never needed‘friends’- especially those that only wanted to spend time with himwhen he was hiding his face and played along with the perfect pictureeveryone had of him. No, he didn’t need anyone else. Ever. So, whywas he here now? Inside of a clumsily build mochi house within his dinner room, with soaked,mushy donuts lying on the floor and tea spilled all over his pants? Eventhough he was all by himself and with no chance of anyone intruding on him,his scarf was pulled up as high as possible, almost reaching hiseyes, and completely covered his mouth, nose, and rosey cheeks. Hishand, which was previously spilling holding his cup of tea, now madeits way up to his temples, promptly massaging them as a low groanescaped from his throat. Today was not his day. Infact, this couldvery well make the list of the worst days he’s ever had (and itwasn’t even noon yet!)…

Everything started out so simple. Sousual. He got up, got dressed, got hungry and left his mansion to buysome breakfast donuts from the bakery around the corner. Today was aspecial day however, since they offered Red Velvet Donuts with aspecial sugar glaze, and the mere thought of them already made Katakuri’s mouth water. He wasn’t the only one looking forward tothem of course, and even though he always got up pretty early by thetime he reached the bakery there was only one left. An extra largeone on top of that, since it was kind of an unspoken rule that thefinal donut, aka the biggest one, was reserved for the minister. Themere sight of the giant treat caused Katakuri to quietly sigh withanticipation as he placed his offer, aside from the Red Velvet Donuthe also ordered a dozen different ones to gobble up for breakfasttoday. Everything seemed so perfect, so wonderful… and then heprepared to leave.

Carefully holding the huge bag ofdonuts (which was still considerably small compared to him) with hisleft arm, Katakuri turned around, towards the door- and just then the bell rang.

A new customer stepped inside- a youngand fragile looking woman who was holding a small piece of paper inher hand, her eyes quickly began to wander around the interior until her gazeshifted up to Katakuri, and with a shy smile and quick bow shegreeted the large man.

Good thing his scarf was covering upmost of his face, because by the time her eyes reached his there wasa rather large red hue covering part of his cheeks as he cleared histhroat and muttered a quick greeting.

The woman was none other than (Y/N), a shorttime citizen of Wheat Island and Katakuri’s 'secret crush’ as hisyounger triplet brothers would often refer to her before the secondson could shut them and their immature teasing down.

Although deep down he was aware thatthey spoke the truth to some extend, he was still unable to fully admit itto himself, especially since he 'barely’ knew her…

„Uhm, excuse me?“ a velvety voice suddenly tore through the silence.

…by the time he snapped out of his'daydreaming’ the young woman had already strolled past him and wasnow standing at the counter and curiously eyed the displayed treats.Katakuri could feel his face cool down a bit and once again preparedto leave, when her next sentence suddenly caught his attention.

„I know I am a bit late, but do youstill have any Red Velvet Donuts left? Uhm, I heard they were reallygood…“ she asked shyly and began to fidge with her hands. Clearly just asking this seemed to make her uncomfortable, and the red hue on hercheeks only deepened when the baker answered with a negative response.

„O-Oh, I see. Ah that’s no problem, Iguess I just came by a bit too late…“ the young woman thencontinued and instead ordered two simple, chocolate glazed donutsinstead. Katakuri could tell that even though she tried to pretend tobe fine, there was a hint of disappointment reflected in her eyes, andwithout even thinking twice about it the tall man quickly strolledback to the counter and stopped right next to her.

(Y/N) seemingly averted her gaze as shewaited for her order to be done, and by now the few other peopleinside the bakery turned to look at the two people at the counter.

Katakuri continued to stare at her fora few more moments, completely unaware that his intense gaze justincreased the young woman’s level of confusion and discomfort, whenhe suddenly began to roam through his bag and pulled out the largeRed Velvet Donut.

Although the delicious smell of thetreat caused some drool to escape from his mouth and soaked hisscarf, he held himself back and instead bowed down so he could bemore on her level.

„Miss (Y/N)…“ he muttered throughhis scarf, and the mention of her name caused the young woman tofinally look up and meet his gaze as the blush on her cheeks deepenedeven more, and for some reason she was almost preparing herself to get scolded…. but what the tall man said next caught her even more off guard.

„what are you doing later today?“Katakuri half asked/muttered through his scarf, one of his eyebrowsnow raised in what seemed to be… anticipation?

„E-EEEEHH?!?!“

her voice was as highpitched as that ofa chipmunk as the young woman looked up at the minister, any sort ofrefinement was gone and a shocked expression settled on her face.

And then- silence.

This wasn’t the response Katakuriwanted- no, anticipated- and now he was unsure on how to continue, sohe simply remained silent. Maybe she would continue…

But she didn’t.

Not only did the other customers stareat the two, but the baker himself took a step back and looked on asthe two people at the counter were seemingly having a stare-off.

Nobody seemed to know what was goingon, and after a few more moments of very, very awkward silence,Katakuri stood up and straightened his back while clearly avoiding tolook at the woman infront of him.

„….Here.“ he simply muttered andbasically shoved the huge donut into her arms, causing (Y/N) toalmost stumble backwards and fall on her butt, before he was quicklyturning around and finally exiting the bakery with a few large steps.

—

And now, here he was. As soon asKatakuri returned to his mansion, he immediately went inside his hugedinner room and build himself a small mochi house, something he hasnever done before, but because of today��s previous embarrassment hefelt so insecure that he needed to pull up another wall to seclude himself.

His breakfast donuts were thrown on theground almost immediately, the tea he had previously prepared hadgone cold and in a meekly attempt to take a sip he not only spilledthe contents of his teacup all over himself but the donuts as well.

Another groan left his lips and wasinstantly muffled through his scarf as he leaned back and closed hiseyes, trying to forget about the event of the morning.

The worst part of it all? This wasn’tthe first time something like this had happened.

The tall man had made multiple attemptsto ask the young woman out, but each seemingly ended in yet anotherdisaster- most of the time it was like today, he would attempt to'flirt’ with her in his own 'unique’ way, she wouldn’t understand himand then there was just silence until he eventually stormed off. Itwas always the same, yet part of him refused to just give up.'She would be worth it’ he kept on telling himself, and even thoughKatakuri had NO IDEA what would happen if she actually said yes and agreed to go on a date with him, he just… kept trying.Moments like these almost caused him to wish that he was as much of asocial butterfly as some of his other siblings, who seemed to be ableto flirt oh so smoothly and always with success… the mere thought just further caused his mood to drop as he continued tosulk for a few more moments when suddenly his doorbellrang.

Katakuri raised an eyebrow with mildcuriosity as he was wondering about who might have come to visit him.Perhaps it was just Oven or Daifuku who somehow found out about whatwent down at the bakery this morning… that thought alone caused alow growl to escape from the tall man’s throat as he slowly exitedhis shrine and made his way over the door, mentally preparing himselfto look into the teasing faces of his two younger twins…

But instead, it was (Y/N). And in herhands what seemed to be a basket filled with Red Velvet Donuts… Hergaze was focused on the ground, and as soon as the door opened shetook a deep breath and slowly began to look up at the minister.

„Uhm, pardon me, Lord Katakuri…“the young woman began, clear nervousness strained her voice as shemoved a strand of hair out of her face.

„I… I just wanted to thank you. Forthe donut! Ehm… I’m sorry and wanted to let you know that it’s… okay. I may be a new citizen of Wheat Island, but that doesn’t mean thatyou have to let me have your food!“

Confusion made its way onto Katakuri’sfeatures as he eyed the basket and then the young woman. Hold on…

Did she believe he gave her the donutbecause she was his citizen, and he wanted to satisfy her since itwas his duty…? If so, then that means she really misinterpreted what he was trying to do once again… A sigh left his lips as hemomentarily closed his eyes, carefully thinking about what to saynext. He clearly didn’t want to mess up again like back at thecafe…

„That’s not it, (Y/N). It was a gift,and the reason why I wanted you to have it was… I might… uhm… like…“ Katakuri tookanother deep breath as his mind was swirling around like a hurricane,and his throat felt oddly dry all of a sudden… He noticed the youngwoman looking up at him with confusion this time, and he knew that hehad to act fast or this would escalate into another awkwardencounter… So with a quick shake of his head, Katakuri decided to try and finally ask her out.

„I meant to ask if you were doinganything later. Because today’s weather is rather promising and it’sperfect to climb the Donut Mountain,“ he continued, and Katakurinever felt more relieved that his scarf was covering up his nowburning cheeks, „only very few people have been to the top. And since you’re new and all.. ifyou have time and feel like it… I would gladly be your guide.“

Realizing what it was he was offeringher, (Y/N) quickly looked back down as a deep red hue now covered herown cheeks as well. Oh, so that was what he was after…

„O-oh! So uhm… you meant to askme… out on a rendezvous earlier? Oh no, I’m so sorry for making things awkward!” the young woman quickly exclaimed and put the basket down infront of him before looking up with a shy smile, “uhm, please, take them regardless! And climbing Donut Mountain together sounds… lovely! I-I mean I would like that really! There’s nothing I had planned for today, so if you want… we could go there right now…?” she continued and played around with her hair a bit.

A sigh of relief immediately left Katakuri’s lips as he nodded down at her and picked up the basket.

“Of course. Just give me a moment to change, uhm… this attire isn’t really fit for climbing or hiking.” he responded and finally remembered the tea stain on his clothes… good thing (Y/N) appearantly didn’t notice that yet… Instead the young woman gave him a nod as Katakuri turned around and entered his mansion again, this time with a small smile on his mouth.

He may not have people skills like his siblings, but maybe it would be enough this time…

#one piece #charlotte katakuri #op scenario #one piece scenario #katakuri x reader

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ephemeral-afterlight · 5 years

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✴ and 🐾 for the sanders sides asks?

✴ - What is your theory on the next dark side?

Hmmm… this one, I have a bit of an odd relationship with. I know a lot of this comes from the colour theory (which I do enjoy!), and subsequently means that everyone is waiting for the Orange side. I’m… honestly not sure! I don’t really think of new side theories often, so this is really the first time I’ve contemplated it. I don’t think it’d be something like “Hate” (one I see a lot) because hatred in itself is classified more as a feeling rather than a trait and would fall under Patton’s reign. Obviously, this is not a prevalent aspect of Thomas/c!Thomas’ personality, but if it were to exist, I don’t think it’s a big enough aspect to constitute a completely separate side. I see “Wrath” as well, but I’m also a little bit iffy on that one because something about it feels almost redundant.

In terms of traits already existing, you have most of them taken already: Logan is Thomas’ logic, critical thinking skills, problem-solving, thirst for knowledge, etc., Patton is his sense of morality and holds a lot of his emotional reactions, Virgil is his anxiety, caution, and fight-or-flight response, the Creativitwins make up his creativity, passion, and drive to create, and Deceit is his self-preservation, part of his survival instinct, and the purveyor of his want to better himself through any means possible. A lot of possible traits a new side could have are already overseen by the sides that have already been introduced, which is why a new side would have to come from a very different place than the rest of them do. So, I don’t personally have many ideas on what they could be, but regardless, I believe it’ll be interesting to see what the team comes up with!

🐾 - What pet do you think each of the sides would have?

Ahh, this one will be fun! This is drawn quite a bit from my animal communication au, and I have given some thought to this before.

Logan - Okay, listen. Logan is a Nerd™ and therefore couldn’t help himself when he got a pretty raven that resides in his room. He’s pretty quiet and calm, and therefore doesn’t distract him from his work, but also allows Logan the option of stroking his feathers as a destressing technique. Nobody knows this, since he doesn’t ever allow anyone in his room, but Logan also has a cat and a dog, which are both well-behaved and don’t get into fights with each other, which is the only reason he got them in the first place. His cat is a really pretty Birman cat with deep blue eyes and the softest fur, who will sit on his desk while he’s working (which initially annoyed him), something Logan realized she does when she senses that he’s too stressed out and needs to take a break and relax. Although it used to be something he viewed as an inconvenience, now that he understands her intentions, he has a respectful appreciation for her care. His dog is a Border Collie and Lab mix, which is admittedly a much bigger dog than he was comfortable with, but she’s not too rowdy and has come to act as a therapy/emotional support dog. Apparently, she also has adopted his cat’s awareness, and will tug lightly at his shirt as her own way of getting him out of his head. He never really has been one for pets or animal in general, but he adores the ones he has, and he wouldn’t trade them for the world.

Dee - I can’t help myself. Snakes! Awesome snakes! Cold-blooded animals are his friends. He has two snakes that will chill wrapped around his shoulders, but he also has a huge Boa Constrictor named Ethel that doesn’t leave his room. He also has an enormous aquarium (floor-to-ceiling) full of all different colours and types of fish. He also has a tree frog somewhere, but she just does whatever she wants, so Dee doesn’t see her very often, at least not until she’ll randomly hop onto his hat and scare the shit out of him.

Roman - Okay, listen. He may be a prince, but he is also a princess, and therefore can talk to woodland animals and gain their trust very easily. He likes to sit in fields in the Imagination and animals will just be… drawn to him. Deer, rabbits, birds, even a huge bear that will let him use its stomach as a pillow. He just loves meeting them all! He also has a parrot named Mallory that resides in his room and will perch on his shoulder while he’s working, and the things that she says… well, without context, there have been some weird interactions with her.

Some examples of this include:

One time, Patton came up to ask if Roman was hungry, but instead found Mallory alone, sitting on a bedpost. She and Patton stared each other down without a word, and then she said “Sleep is for cishets”, and Patton never came into Roman’s room without knocking ever again.

“That’s not what eggs are supposed to be used for!”

Any time Virgil is in her presence, they curse each other out with increasingly profane vocabulary, and it is a mystery how she knows words that even Virgil has never heard before.

“No job! I’m gay, give me money!”

Once, Logan got into an actual argument with her over how the oven works. This is not the first time this has happened.

Patton walked in on Roman and Mal saying the words “Ranch dressing” to each other over and over again. He wishes he understood, but he doesn’t.

Sometimes, she’ll randomly blurt out the name of a brand of laundry soap. Roman suspects this is Remus’ doing, but he’s not 100% sure.

Deceit will take turns reciting with her the entirety of the song “All Star” by Smash Mouth line-by-line. Nobody knows when this started or why it has happened enough to routinely occur, but it’s still extremely entertaining, especially because of the monotony it’s done in. (”They don’t even sing, Logan, what’s the point?!”)

At midnight one night, Mal flew out of Roman’s room and down to the kitchen, where Patton was having a midnight snack. He didn’t notice her, at least until the words “Your elbows are my legal property,” came from behind him, and he has never screamed so loudly in his life.

“I’m going to live in a cave and you can’t stop me!”

Virgil - This comes as a surprise to exactly No One, but I do love the idea of Virgil having a few pet tarantulas to just chill with him when he’s doing mundane things. He really loves seeing all of the different types, temperaments, and species, and can name all of them very easily. He definitely prefers ones that are really calm, but he does have a few Old World tarantulas that he does not let out of their enclosures Ever because those bitches are cool, but mean. He also has a sleek black cat (for the Aesthetic) that will lounge on his bed and take his spot any time he gets up. He loves her, but he also kinda hates her, because she’s an asshole, so.

Remus - I Wasn’t Joking About The Locusts. (He also has a pet rat named Dorothy, who is actually really sweet and docile, which is an odd juxtaposition to her owner. Isn’t behaviour learned?)

Patton - Yes, he loves cats, but he can’t really be around them without needing an Epi-Pen. After many incidents involving a severe allergic reaction, Logan forbade Patton from being near them, so Patton settled for dogs instead. He still loves them just as much, though! He has a cute little Pomeranian that will happily bother whoever’s closest to give him attention, and Patton also has the sweetest blue heeler that is very friendly and well-trained, but he also has some more unconventional animals, too. He has three guinea pigs, a sugar glider, a beautiful Betta fish, a horse that stays in the Imagination, and oddly enough, a chicken, who sleeps in his bed with him every single night without fail. It’s a miracle Patton even remembers to feed all of them, but he adores every single one of his friends, so the others figure it’ll be fine for now.

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empressofmankind · 4 years

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The Lion in Winter - Part I: Departure - 03. Jaime I

Fandom: A Song of Ice & Fire Major Character/s: Kevan Lannister, Jaime Lannister, Barristan Selmy, Loren Lannister (mentioned), Tywin Lannister (mentioned), Cersei Lannister (mentioned), Tyrion Lannister (mentioned) Minor Somebodies: Brynmor Royan, Jared Swyft, Berick, Mathilde, Karl, Mirbelle, Clerrance Manning, Florance Manning, Tanda Stokesworth, Falyse Stokesworth, Balman Byrch, Lollys Stokesworth, Jacyntha Bywater, Jocelyn Bywater (mentioned), Lloyd Royan (mentioned) Location/s: King’s Landing Premises: King Robert insisted he throw little Kevan a party for his squiring, and what a party it is Mood: Jaime vicariously living through his little brother Warnings: On-the-nose allusions to sex / sexual innuendo (conversation with the Household guards at the barracks), Teen appropriate NOTE: Part I of The Lion in Winter is set shortly before King Robert Baratheon, Queen Cersei Lannister and their family set out for Winterfell. It therefore takes place a little bit before the start of the first book, ‘A Game of Thrones’. The Lion In Winter - Part I: Departure - 01. Kevan I // 02. Loren I //

O O O

Jaime took Kevan back to Maegor’s Holdfast and the royal guest quarters. The grand, red-stone stairway to those lofty third-floor private spaces was worn from thousands of feet across hundreds of years. Carved stone pedestals draped with the battle standards of the Great Houses lined it on either side. Jaime remembered how they had borne statues of dragons on top of their ancient folds.

“Did that standard belong to King Loren?” Kevan had halted beside a pedestal on their left hand. Amid folds of fragile, scorched crimson a familiar cloth-of-gold lion glistened despite its great age.

“It did.” Loren the Last. The King of the Rock who had bend the knee and risen a Lord. He had lived, though, unlike plenty others. Jaime had never taken much note of the old standards, they’d been a backdrop to his daily routines as much as the throneroom’s dragon skulls had been. Yet his chest swelled with pride when he saw Kevan gingerly touch the lion and felt the chasm to the distant past bridged by that simple gesture. Loren may have been the last King, but he hadn’t been the last Lannister. “I believe your Mother was named for him.”

“Mother wouldn’t have minded being a Queen,” Kevan said. Jaime didn’t doubt that neither would their Father being a King. Kevan turned to him, a grin on his face. “Helaina would have loved being a real princess.”

Jaime chuckled. “She would have, wouldn’t she?”

They continued their way up the stairs and then down the wide corridor at the top, to the bedroom Kevan shared with their little sister.

“A light tunic and sturdy trousers will do,” Jaime said as they entered. The two Lannister household guards that accompanied them filed in after, taking up positions on either side of the door. Jaime saw Helaina’s bed was empty, the sheets tucked in almost straight. She couldn’t have gone far as her toy horse sat on her pillow.

“Helaina?” Kevan called.

“She must have gone to your Mother,” Jaime said. Unlike Kevan, the little girl tended to stay put. Kevan looked from her bed to the open door and back, a thoughtful frown creasing his brow. “Kevan.”

“Yes, Ser.” Kevan dutifully went to the hutch chest at the foot of his bed. It was a sturdy, wooden affair with a raised bottom. A pride of frolicking lion cubs decorated its lid, their goldwork scuffed and dented. Kevan pushed the lid up, knocking it against the foot of the bed. Jaime waited as his little brother rummaged for clothes and put them on.

When Kevan was finished, Jaime beckoned him to follow. Once more they crossed the covered bridge over the dry moat out of Maegor’s Holdfast. “From now on, you’ll don your armour where our sworn swords do.”

“The barracks?” Kevan’s tone pitched as his eyes widened. He glanced at the man and woman walking behind them, dressed in the boiled leathers and red cloaks typical of their household guard. The woman winked, drawing a grin from the boy. Jaime put a hand on his shoulder, turning him in the right direction before descending the serpentine steps to the lower bailey. The Red Keep was waking up around them. Servants went about their tasks and men-at-arms set to their duties. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted towards them, drawing an emphatic growl from Kevan’s stomach.

“I wonder if there are any bread crusts left?” Jaime said.

Delight lit up Kevan’s boyish face, dimpling his rosy, freckled cheeks. He glanced up and the morning light hit his green eyes just so, setting a sparkle to them as if flecked with gold. Jaime could barely recall the last time his Father’s eyes had smiled at him like that. A small hand touched his lower arm, and he flinched out of his thoughts.

“Jay?” Kevan looked at him, and the thoughtful squint of those eyes made their likeness worse still.

Jaime forced a smile. “Just the thought of those crusts is enough to stun me.”

Kevan nodded, but the frown remained.

“I wonder what kind they might have?” Jaime stifled the urge to look away. “Maybe there’ll be cake crusts too.”

“Ma doesn’t approve of sweetcakes before breaking my fast.” Kevan’s tone was solemn, and Jaime wanted it to go away.

“Ah, but they aren’t sweetcakes, are they? They are crusts.” To his relief, Kevan’s frown disappeared when his words sank in, and a grin returned in its place as they walked onto the kitchen courtyard. It was busy here already. A butcher’s boy struggled with a hog intent on the garbage two young men were piling onto a cart. Three milkmaids stood giggling further along, evidently as intent on one of the young men as the hog on the trash. Porters carried caskets of Southeron wine, no doubt for the King’s unquenchable thirst. And a young girl, not much older than Kevan, stood with a basket of sweetcakes looking rather lost. No one took note of them, except a scrawny dog that knew a source of pets when she saw one.

The mutt jogged towards them, tail wagging half-mast. She had a dirty beige and white coat spotted like a cow. One ear stood up while the other flopped down, making it seem as if she were surprised.

“Are you hungry too, Snout?” Kevan let her press her wet nose into his palm and then petted her snout.

Jaime wasn’t sure if the dog was a stray or belonged to a servant. He looked about the courtyard as Kevan played with the animal. Some distance away, he spotted who he’d been looking for and started towards them. “Come with, Kev.”

Kevan patted his thigh, making the dog bark and bound after him as he ran to catch up with his big brother.

As they approached, they overheard the royal larder steward scold a kitchen boy. The basket by his feet and the mess of quail scales and egg yolk on the cobbles made it clear what the problem was.

“—for egg-in-a-crust for the Queen herself, young man.” Mirbelle was a short, lean, pale woman in her mid thrice twenties who favoured sturdy trousers over the skirts usual for women of the kitchen staff. She reminded Jaime of the septa Loren had brought with her to Casterly Rock.

The boy hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t be more than six or seven. “S’cuses ma’am,” he peeped in the smallest of voices.

“That will not unbreak the eggs, Sten.” Mirbelle pursed her lips. “Mind where you put your feet from now on.”

The boy nodded vigorously.

“Run along, quickly now,” Mirbelle said when she caught sight of the lordlings approaching her.

“Good morning, Mirbelle. Trouble afoot?” Jaime said once they reached her. The thought of his dear sister having to forgo her favoured breakfast, amused him. Pity be upon whoever befell the misfortune of having to inform her.

“A good morn to you too, Ser.” Mirbelle shook her head at the mess on the cobblestones. “And none you need spend your valued time on.”

“Hello!” Kevan popped up between the adults, drawing their attention. “Can we have bread crusts?”

“Kevan.” Jaime’s tone was stern but not unkind.

When Kevan stole a glance at him, he indicated Mirbelle with a small flick of his chin and eyebrows.

Kevan gave a curt nod, then turned back to Mirbelle. He drew himself up, his expression serious. “Can we have bread crusts, please, ma’am?”

“Mayhap. We must ask Karl.” Jaime could tell Mirbelle was suppressing a smile. She indicated a side corridor and inclined her head. “This way, younger Lord Kevan, Ser Jaime.”

They followed Mirbelle into the warren of close-leaning buildings that formed the kitchens. Boys and girls busied to and fro, most of them a few years older than Kevan. She led them through a dim room where women stood beating grain or sat grounding it into flour with rotary querns. They crossed a narrow alley where men loaded bushels of weed from a cart and passed a butcher’s workshop where a large, heavyset man slaughtered an equally large deer.

Kevan stopped, perhaps wanting to take a closer look.

Jaime grabbed his shoulder and steered him away. “Ask Lord Tywin if he will show you, next time your parents have gone hunting.”

Kevan dropped his head but said nothing. Jaime wondered if he’d already asked and received a resounding ‘No’.

The sweet smell of sugar and the spiced scent of baking bread reached them long before they entered the bakery. An older man, thin and corded like a whip, stood before a brick oven turning fist-sized round bread that lay baking. A sleek, black cat sat near his feet, lazying in the comfortable heat.

“Morn, Karl,” Mirbelle said.

Karl glanced up as they entered, then resumed his work. “Breadcrumbs for the princeling, yes?”

“Just so,” Mirbelle said. “Ser Jaime.” She inclined her head and left, no doubt to marshal the contingency plan for his sister’s lost breakfast. Jaime had dropped an egg-in-a-crust once on his way from the kitchen and had given it to her anyway. He smiled. That was years ago, now.

Kevan pulled his head back, a hint of a pout on his lips. “I’m not Prince Joffrey.”

“Aren’t you?” Karl turned the last of the bread.

Kevan shook his head vigorously. “I’m Kevan Lannister!”

Karl cleaned his hands and came towards them. He had a face as thin as the rest of him and his dark hair, tied into a neat bun, was streaked with grey. “You seem to have shrunk, Ser Kevan.”

Kevan’s frown acquired that particular look children got when they weren’t quite sure if you were pulling their leg.

“Let me look at you.” Karl sat down on his haunches to be on eye-height with the boy and overacted a good, examining look at him. “Ah! Now I see the son instead of the brother. Then your height is just about right.”

Kevan beamed.

“Tell me, what can I do for the littlest Lord of Casterly Rock?”

Are you taller than Tyrion yet, little brother? We ought to put you back to back when next we run into the Imp. Jaime struggled to keep his expression neutral. He didn’t want Kevan to think he was laughing at him.

“Can we have bread crusts, please, mister?” Kevan stole a glance at Jaime that reminded him of a dog expecting a pat for good behaviour. He inclined his head in acknowledgement.

“You certainly may.” Karl beckoned Kevan and led them to the back of the bakery. A young woman, a little younger than Lady Lynara if Jaime had to guess, sat cutting baked bread into thick slices. She discarded the crust from either end and wrapped the slices into the waxed paper before packing them into a large crate. The bread crusts she tossed into a small, tattered arm-basket that sat next to her on the bench.

“Apologise me courtesies, milords,” Mathilde said as she raised her flour stained hands and indicated herself.

Kevan nodded. “I allow it.”

Jaime suppressed his amusement at the thought of their Father’s face, had he been here. Would you have demanded she gets up instead, little brother?

“Most gracious, weelord.” Mathilde reached for new bread and continued her work. “What can Mathilde do for one so little from up so high?”

“We would like some bread crusts, miss Mathilde.” Kevan’s tone was earnest, but his eyes looked longingly at the fresh, crispy brown crusts piled into the tattered basket. Though it lasted an instant, Jaime caught the look between the kitchen maid and baker. Hers one of displeasure and his rather quelling. She was smiling a heartbeat later, but it no longer reached her eyes.

“And what if I say I have none?” Mathilde looked at Kevan as she spoke, her hands so used to their task they no longer needed her eyes to coordinate.

Kevan frowned and looked from her to the basket with its delicious crusts, and back. “But you do,” he said, his tone indignant. ‘You can give us some!”

Before Mathilde could reply, Karl sat down on the edge of the table and drew their attention away from the young woman. “A bold demand for a Lord so small. Tell me, by what right do you claim these fresh crusts?”

Kevan puffed out his chest. “I am Kevan Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

Jaime and Karl exchanged an amused look. “So you claim,” Karl said.

“So I am! Ser Jaime of the Kingsguard can vouch for me.”

Jaime nodded. “Indeed, this is my younger brother Kevan, son of Lady Loren Lannister of Lannisport and Lord Tywin Lannister of Casterly Rock.”

“Ah, Lord Tywin?” Karl frowned as if he had to think very deeply on who that might be. “Warden of the West and liege lord of the Westerlands, yes?”

Kevan nodded vigorously, drawing himself up.

“Though we aren’t in the Westerlands, are we?” A hint of teasing crept into Karl’s tone. “Your Father is no longer Hand to the King. What claim do you have, here, outside your fief?”

Kevan’s expression screwed up in thought. Several moments passed before a grin returned to his small face. “Queen Cersei is my big sister and King Robert is liege of the Crownlands, Storm’s End and all of Westeros. I am the King’s brother-in-law, and you must pay the bread crust tithe, to me, in his name.”

Karl chuckled and ruffled the boy’s tousled curls. “Your Father will be pleased to know you’ve studied your lessons and came up with such a clever riposte so swiftly.” He took a piece of waxed paper and put bread crusts from Mathilde’s basket into it, stacking them end to end. “Here’s your tithe, little Lord.”

Kevan beamed as he accepted the bulging package.

Jaime put his hand on his shoulder. “Come, we must make for the barracks.”

“Ah, it's your big day, isn’t it?” Karl said as he winked at Kevan. “That explains the inordinate amount of fruit cakes on today’s tally.”

At the mention of fruit cakes, Kevan’s grin managed to become a little wider still.

“Go on, now, don’t make Ser Jaime wait.”

Kevan turned to follow Jaime. However, when they crossed the threshold out of the kitchen, Kevan pulled Jaime’s sleeve. Jaime glanced down at him and saw Kevan hold up the package to him. Jaime accepted it from him and meant to remark on making him carry it, but Kevan had turned and ran back into the kitchen. He climbed onto the table and scooted towards Mathilde.

“Many thanks, miss Mathilde,” Kevan said and kissed her cheek before hopping off and hurrying back to Jaime.

Karl and Mathilde watched them leave. “Bread crust tithe? Hah!” Mathilde huffed as she glared at the empty doorway. “Presumptuous little brat, taking what little I have.”

“You’d do better not to say such things out loud.” Karl shook his head. “The boy carries no malice in his heart, but his brother might inform their Father. And very, very, few things in this good world are worth garnering Lord Tywin’s ire over.”

Mathilde packed the last of the bread crusts in her basket, glaring at the dent in the previously modest pile. “I don’t care.”

It reminded Karl she was barely more than a child herself. He took her by the shoulder and caught her gaze. “There is no outcome in these things where you can win, girl. Either you go hungry a day, or you go whipped and hungry a day. Do you understand me?”

She pursed her lips, angry still, but nodded.

Karl gave a curt nod in return. “Better we amuse the boy, might that something good reach his Father’s ears, too.”

Jaime and Kevan walked by the castle its orchard on their way to the barracks. Women chatted as they picked apples, balancing upon tall wooden ladders with baskets on their arm. Children ran among the trees, chasing a hoop.

“Can I have a bread crust?” Kevan said.

“They’re your tithe, aren’t they?” Jaime unfolded a corner of the package and held it down.

Kevan chose a large one with a thick crust. He took a bite and smiled in delight. “Don’t you want one?” he said, chewing.

“Don’t speak with your mouth full.” Jaime picked a bread crust as well and wrapped the packaged closed again. They were outstanding. Soft and warm still, their crust crunchy and spiced.

“Sorry,” Kevan said, with his mouth full.

Jaime shook his head. Had he been like that? He couldn’t remember. No doubt it had driven their Father up the nearest wall.

The barracks were located beside the Tower of the Hand. Though Lord Tywin hadn’t been Hand for some time, the Lannister household guards still garrisoned here. Previously, they comprised a twoscore men-at-arms, there for the Queen to call upon should she require them. However, when Lord Tywin and Lady Loren had arrived last week for the tourney on Prince Joffrey’s twelfth name day, their number had quadrupled. Lord Tywin had taken less than a fifth back to Casterly Rock. The building itself was sturdy and ancient, its wooden beams black and hardened with age, its limestone walls plastered many times anew. Some said that the beams had acquired their distinct colour because Maegor Targaryen had kept his mother’s dragon Vhagar here, rather than confine her to the Dragonpit.

The noise of the old barracks met them halfway across the training yard: the ring of swords wielded in practice matches, the tinkle of chainmail and the clang of armour plates. Talking, too, and laughter. Men in the red of House Lannister sat on benches or stood about, discussing news and sharing bawdy jokes.

“Bloody Seven, lads, my armour shrank! Again!” Ser Brynmor Royan’s roaring laughter carried above all others at his own jest. The halberdier struggled to find the right fit of his breastplate over his ample stomach. He was a man in his middle five-tens, his skin a leathery brown and his dark hair and bushy beard thoroughly greying. Though he had always been large, build like the Westerland hardwood trees, he had gotten near as wide as he was tall since last Jaime saw him. Ser Brynmor was the half-brother of Ser Lloyd Royan, the petty Lord of Westerbridge, a backwater less than a day’s ride north of Castamere.

“Should have left that last shank alone, Brynmor.” Ser Jared Swyft sat on a nearby bench, whetting his blade. He was of an age with Jaime and had been part of the Lannister Household guards stationed here at King’s Landing for as long as he could remember. Pasty, ill-proportioned and as chinless as his uncle, Jared was the younger brother of Jocelyn if Jaime recalled correctly. One of his sister’s insipid ladies-in-waiting.

“Oh, what’s one more shank on half a dozen?” Ser Brynmor guffawed. “Jousting is hungry work! No, it’s the age, you see.” He patted his belly for emphasis. “Didn’t use to get the chance to stay.”

Ser Jared’s hand stilled for a moment, his dull grey eyes almost managing a glimmer of wit as he looked up from his chore. “Age? Lord Tywin’s your age and gaunt as the spikes he loves so well despite dining better than the lot of us combined.”

“Hah! If I had a comely little wifey half my years with a rear like that, I’d be damn lean too,” Ser Brynmor snorted with amusement. “Berick, give us a hand, boy.”

“She seems happy to polish the rust off his sword,” Berick Vikary said as he assisted Ser Brynmor, holding his breastplate in place. A pock-marked seventeen-year-old with hair the colour and texture of straw, Berick had overstayed his welcome as Ser Jared’s squire for some time, evidently in no rush to be his own man. “What’s his excuse to be choleric with a keen lady warming his bed?”

Ser Brynmor leaned towards the younger man, miming a confidential tone. “Imagine what he was like before.”

“She ain’t no kitty-cat. I saw her make the Queen feel her claws at the tourney, had retracted them before anyone else saw ‘em, too,” Jared said.

“She’s taken right well to the reigns, she has,” Ser Brynmor agreed with a chuckle. He fastened the straps of his breastplate with effort. The way the leather had been stretched thinner where the clasps sat a testament to their struggle to confine his bulk being anything but recent. “Those of the Westerlands as much as our benign Liege’s.”

Ser Jared made a derisive noise and resumed his chore. “I bet she rides him sorer than a courier horse and he has nary a say in it.”

“Be that envy, I hear?” Ser Brynmor gave him a shove as he reached for his surcoat, emblazoned with the silver bridge on blue of House Royan. “If seeding her fields gets too much for him, he only need say and I will provide aid to our Liege in his time of need as is my sworn duty as his loyal banner.”

“He’d sooner die trying, tenacious prick,” Ser Jared scoffed.

A tug at his sleeve as they approached diverted Jaime’s attention away from the conversation. He glanced at Kevan, who had halted. A thoughtful frown creased his small face as he chewed the last of his bread crust. “Why is Mother’s butt important?”

Articulated reason flew out the window the second the question hit Jaime’s ears and his thoughts sped back to the tourney of their own accord. She’d worn that dress, the one with the lions salient and the cloth of gold panels winking between the crimson folds of its skirts as she walked. He distinctly remembered the way the sunlight had caught the expensive cloth as it shifted into view with the movement of her rear. He tried to banish the image from his mind’s eye. What in the Seven was he supposed to say to that?

“Ser Jaime!” Ser Jared’s hail freed him of the need to answer the question, for now. “Been a while since you graced us here.”

“I can’t seem to get the red dye to stick to this cloak,” Jaime said with good humour as he gave his white cloak a tug. The two men clasped each other’s shoulder in greeting.

“Kill brigands more and guard fat kings less.” Ser Jared grinned. His gaze fell on Kevan then. “There’s the little knight of the hour. Old Bryn wasn’t lying when he said you came out a billet of the old lion’s mold. That’s right lucky for your pretty mama, what with how quick you came, eh?”

Kevan’s frown creased deeper and he pursed his lips in an unpleasantly familiar manner. “Lady Loren,” he corrected, his tone quiet.

Ser Jared flinched, Jaime caught it, though the knight tried to conceal it. Ser Jared ruffled Kevan’s curls. “Apologies, little Lord.”

“Is this proud armour I saw yours, then?” Ser Brynmor smiled his wide, genial smile. He indicted the distinctly child-sized armour on a nearby armouring stand. “I thought it’d be a shade short for Ser Jaime.”

Kevan’s eyes widened. “Real armour?”

Jaime nodded. “You’ll be a squire, no longer a child. You’ll need real armour.”

“T’is a fine little suit,” Brynmor said as he made way for Kevan, who had eagerly come forward to see.

Jaime agreed. With its red lacquered lamellae and matte gilded sunburst rondels it was unmistakably a child-sized copy of their Father’s armour and by the look of it every inch as finely made as the original.

“Lord Tywin spared no expense in seeing you properly armoured up,” Jared said.

Kevan beamed, never taking his eyes off the brand new armour sitting on the too large armour stand.

“Aye, that must have cost a pretty penny.” Ser Brynmor inspected it with a critical eye. The Royans were petty Lords, at best, but the coal mine on their modest fief had brought them some wealth carting the black stones to Casterly Rock’s smelters and he was therefor not unfamiliar with steel grades.

“It comes from our own forges,” Jaime replied. Tailyn, Loren’s queer sister, had overseen its forging. He had known she maintained the arms and armour of his Father, Loren and his uncles and had therefor assumed she must be a skilled blacksmith. The fine quality of the small armour before him confirmed that conclusion. How long did you work on that with Father breathing down your neck? Rather you than me, Tay.

“Still, good steel is good steel, and craftsmanship,” Ser Brynmor said.

Father would still forge that little armour if it needed the last scrap of Valyrian steel in the known world, Jaime thought.

“Can I put it on?” Kevan’s hopeful tone made Jaime smile.

“You have to put it on.” Jaime had barely said it or a whoop of cheer left the boy.

Kevan clambered onto the bench and lifted his arms up. “Ser Brynmor, assist me, please!”

“You almost have it down,” Brynmor said. “Now say it like you mean it, serious as the Grey Plague.”

Kevan’s face screwed up into a frown. When he spoke again, he dropped his tone an octave and sharpened it to a verbal point. “Ser Brynmor. Assist me.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Brynmor inclined his head, suppressing a smile as he took the small chestplate off the stand. “Much better. Your Lord Father would approve.”

Jaime didn’t doubt it. He wondered if Lord Tywin had arrived yet. He must have.

Kevan grinned at the knight, stretching his arms higher as the chestplate was fitted around him.

“Hold in that fat fruitcake belly of yours,” Ser Brynmor jested as he fastened the equally little arming straps in place. Jaime watched the household knight armour Kevan with practised ease. He must have familiarised himself with the small suit. It was atypical in its fastenings, more sophisticated, like their Father’s.

Kevan gave Brynmor an askance look, though he sucked in his stomach regardless. “You’re fatter than me, Ser Brynmor.”

“Me? Fat? I’m slender as a breeding sow.”

Once armoured, Jaime and Kevan made for the Red Keep’s throne room where the squiring ceremony would take place. A dozen household guards, including Ser Brynmor, Ser Jared and Berick, followed them as a honour guard. Kevan walked beside Jaime, pretty as a picture in his new armour. Under his arm, Kevan held the smallest of great helms. It was crested with a lion, like his Father’s. However, his was a seated, ruby-eyed cub with its first tufts of mane, a paw lifted in defiance.

When they entered the throne room, Jaime was surprised by the amount of people there. At a glance, he recognised several Houses of the Crownlands, both great and small. A banquet had been laid out upon long tables with crimson runners and golden tassels, rampant lions embroidered on their ends. The centrepiece dish was a roasted dragon fashioned from what looked like the rump of a suckling pig and the front of a capon with the wings of larger fowl sewn on. A glazed bread lion cub sat triumphant beside it. Minstrels performed on a dais beside the Iron Throne. It towered over the gathered crowd, its looming shadow not quite dispelled by the festivities. Jaime avoided looking at the empty seat.

“Ser Jaime Lannister and Kevan Lannister, the Younger, of House Lannister of Casterly Rock!” A herald in the yellow and black of House Baratheon announced as they entered. King Robert had insisted he arrange and pay a fete for his littlest brother-in-law in honour of his squiring. Though it would seem he hadn’t hewn particularly close to Loren’s acquiescence of ‘a small feast will more than suffice’. It was small only by the King’s usual standards. The treasury had been overflowing with gold when Lord Tywin resigned but the new King’s extravagance had beggared the realm. Do you know you’re footing the bill for this, too, Father? Jaime thought. No doubt, Lord Tywin had realised it the moment he clapped eyes on this fine spectacle. Though Jaime saw neither his Father nor lady Loren among the gathered crowd. They must have retreated after his arrival and would soon come down. It was still early.

As they walked down the hall, a woman in a blue and argent gown came towards them. She was tall with deep-set eyes amid porcelain skin and raven hair. It took him a moment to recognise her: Jacyntha Bywater, sister to Ser Jacelyn Bywater, an officer of the City Watch. She wasn’t stunning, but there was something about her. The Bywaters had a modest manse up on the High Street near the Old Gate, in the older and stately part of King’s Landing. Jacyntha lived there with her lady-in-waiting. He’d forgotten her name, a dainty Dornish thing of sweet courtesies. The two maids had been close friends for years.

“My Lords.” Jacyntha courtesied. Kevan made a neat bow in turn. “May I be the first to offer my congratulations and a humble gift?”

Kevan glanced at Jaime, who inclined his head. Go on, little brother. These are the shenanigans our Father has so diligently heeled you for. Show them you’ve learnt, even if they aren’t here yet.

“You may,” Kevan said.

Jacyntha beckoned forth a servant, who carried a pillow covered by a silk kerchief with the Bywater arms of argent fish above alternating bars of argent and azure. The servant bend his tall frame deeply and humbly to hold it at eye-height for Kevan. Jacyntha whisked the cloth aside with a flourish of her painted nails. Upon the pillow laid a castle-forged dagger, its wooden hilt inlaid with an enamel lion rampant and its keen edge catching the light. Beside it, a scabbard of tooled leather.

A fine gift, no doubt forged to order. Jaime thought as he watched Kevan pick it up and weigh the blade. That will have cost Jacelyn his pay twice over.

“Do give your Lady Mother my best wishes, and those of my brother, Ser Jacelyn,” Jacyntha replied, lightly stressing her brothers name.

Kevan gave a curt nod. “Many thanks, miss Bywater.” As she left, Kevan turned to Jaime. “Can I wear it?”

“You may.” Loren might not approve of live steel, but Kevan was nearly ten and the dagger but a small blade. Jaime didn’t see any harm in it. Berick helped Kevan secure the scabbard properly to his belt as a rotund man in his middle fourties with a whisp of a woman at similar age came towards them. They were followed by a young girl approximately Kevan’s age. She wore a splendid crimson dress with red on red sealions. For an instant, Jaime thought them relatives of Loren’s that he hadn’t met before. However, when they properly stood before them he saw it wasn’t the golden sea cat of Lannisport that greeted him.

“Lord Clerrance Manning,” the man said with a bow so deep and fluid you’d wonder how a man his circumference managed to bend that well at the waist. “And my dear lady and daughter.”

Manning of Clearwater Breach. A fortified watchtower, and that was being generous. Jaime wondered why they were so keen. The old tower keep sat in an inlet of Blackwater Bay, due south of King’s Landing, at the mouth of the Wendwater river and the edge of the Kingswood. A bay within the bay. In older times, it had been a harbour point but had long since been overshadowed by King’s Landing.

“We too, humbly seek to honour,” Lord Clerrance said. As on cue, the girl who must be their daughter stepped forward from between her parents, carrying a polished wooden box. She made a careful courtesy, holding the box level as she did. She smiled very sweetly when Kevan bowed in turn. Jaime didn’t like the smug look on her Lord Father’s face.

“My name is Florance and I am honoured to meet you and present this gift, Lord Kevan of Casterly Rock.”

Berick appeared at their side once more, this time to accept the box. He sat down on his haunches, level with both children. Florance showed how to open the box. Within it sat a toy model of a trading ship, finely crafted. It had two little flags on the stern. One, clearly the pennant of House Lannister of Lannisport. The other, no doubt of House Manning, with its proud, red sealion on argent.

“Can it sail?” Kevan’s tone was serious, as if discussing a real vessel. He gave Florance a look that expected an answer, rather than her Lord Father.

“Certainly, milord. It’ll float where you will, its sails set proper.” Florance indicated points where the miniature riggings might be adjusted.

“I like it,” Kevan decided with a smile as he closed the box. Berick rose but kept standing beside them.

“We are humbly pleased you do, my Lord,” Lord Manning said. “We are most honoured you allowed us your time. Come, Florance.” They all but bowed their way back into the crowd before turning and leaving. As they left, Jaime noticed Kevan’s gaze trailing the young Lady’s. She stole a look over her shoulder at them.

“Maybe Mother can invite them for supper, some time.” Kevan glanced up at him.

Not bloody likely, Jaime thought. Your Mother will run them off the grounds faster than our Father can hang them for the insult. He better find a moment to inform Loren. Unwilling to dunk Kevan’s mood, he said: “You never know.”

The woman that approached them next, Jaime knew well. It was Lady Tanda Stokesworth and her daughters, and what must be her son-in-law Ser Balman Byrch, a renowned tourney jouster. No children with them. How long had Lady Falyse and Ser Balman been married? Two-years-and-ten? There’d been some noise when Elvia Lantell, a maiden cousin of Loren’s, had a bastard boy. It had put a mark of Loren’s two-score-and-ten nameday tournament and overshadowed her own daughter’s birth.

“Ser Jaime, little Lord Kevan.” Lady Tanda’s tone was genial and familiar, as if she were their grandmother. In keeping with that, she carried a delicate golden basket with hard candy. Caramel drops from far Essos. Easily more expensive than the basket they sat in. Some of Kevan’s favourite, too. Jaime eyed her and then Lollys. Right away, Lady Tanda ushered her youngest daughter forward. It was no secret his Father didn’t want him in the Kingsguard. Would you agree to the match if you learned Cersei schemed to bleach my cloak to white? Jaime thought, amused, as he regarded Lollys. A sharp lesson, indeed.

Kevan’s bow was stiff and his stern expression made him seem older than he was. Jaime didn’t think his little brother had met the Stokesworths before but it seemed he’d caught the scent of incompetence cleaving to them.

“Our beloved Queen once mentioned that you were very fond of these,” Lady Tanda said. Cersei would sooner suck a steer than suffer your company. Lady Tanda held the basket out to Kevan, who didn’t move a muscle, every inch their Father as he watched her face fall. Berick accepted the gift in his stead.

“How is your dear Lady Mother? And your uncle?” Lady Tanda enquired.

“Lady Loren is well.” Kevan’s tone was measured, reserved. Kevan had many uncles; some as old as his Father, some younger than Jaime himself. However, the boy seemed to know precisely which uncle was meant: the unwed one. “Uncle Damon is sailing the trade routes north.”

Lady Tanda didn’t give up yet. “When might he return?”

Kevan remained silent.

Trade routes north? Did your Mother say that? It sounded like something Loren would say to as presumptuous a question as this.

“I would love to invite him for dinner.” Lady Tanda added as she clasped her hands together. “Lollys would love to hear his tales of bravery and adventure, wouldn’t you, Lollys?”

Lollys took a timid step forward and courtesied to Kevan. “I would, very much, my Lord.”

Jaime struggled to hide his amusement. No doubt he’s sticking his sword in every bear and wolf he comes across, and them in him. Mighty fine tales for a lady, those will make.

Kevan observed them and the silence stretched on.

“It was a delight to meet you, Lord Kevan,” Lady Tanda said as she took her daughters by the arm and slunk away. Jaime fondly imagined them as curs with their tails thoroughly between their legs.

Kevan’s gaze wandered to the great wooden doors of the throne room before he turned to Jaime, his hands clasped behind his back. “I didn’t know I would receive gifts.”

“You did well,” Jaime said. Except for that slip of a girl, he thought. Kevan wouldn’t be a boy forever. The look of budding interest on his small face had been unmistakable.

Kevan turned to Ser Brynmor next. “Ser Brynmor, find Lady Florance Manning. I should like to spend time with her.”

Damn it, there you had it. Think quick, Jaime. Jaime’s gaze hunted around the room. Lord Guncer Sunglass. Jenia Buckwell. Ser Trystane Velaryon. Where by the Seven were his Father and Loren?

“Can do, Lord Kevan,” Ser Brynmor said and turned to look for the girl.

Jaime considered outright overruling his younger brother’s command. Lord Tywin disapproved of public dissent. Jaime caught sight of Ser Barristan Selmy just as he was about to countermand. He raised his hand to hail the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. “Look, Kevan. Ser Barristan is here as well.”

Kevan’s eyes lit up as he turned to look. Jaime caught Brynmor’s gaze and shook his head, barely more than a chin movement. The household guard inclined his head and fell back in line.

“Ser Barristan!” Kevan called and waved. He looked back at Jaime with a broad grin.

Jaime smiled, pleased with himself. Not quite big enough yet for girls to eclipse everything else. He should tell Loren. Let her handle their Father.

“Ser Jaime, younger Lord Kevan.” Ser Barristan was a tall man, his long hair and neat beard cloud white since as long as Jaime could remember. His eyes were pale blue as a summer sky, his face creased with age. Though he was only a few years older than Lord Tywin, it made it seem more. The latter’s bushy side whiskers yet retained the ochre hue they’d always had. Though he’d kept his head clean shaven ever since his golden mane had started to thin. A problem Ser Barristan evidently didn’t face.

Kevan’s bow was precise. “Ser Barristan.”

“You look ready for battle.” Ser Barristan smiled as he looked Kevan up and down, appraising his new armour.

“I wish there was a battle. Nothing has happened in an age.” Kevan’s lip puckered as he fingered the pommel of his new dagger.

Barristan and Jaime shared a look. “Take it from an old man who’s seen one too many,” Ser Barristan said. “T’is a poor thing to hope for.”

Kevan’s brow furrowed, his gaze moved to the throne room’s massive doors. “Father says wars are necessary.”

“He’s not wrong,” Ser Barristan agreed. “Sometimes, they are, but they are a sad occasion, always.”

“Yes, smallfolk go hungry,” Kevan said after a moment. “Or die.”

Kevan’s frown creased deeper at Ser Barristan’s curt nod. Jaime didn’t like how Kevan’s somber mood lingered. I wanted you to distract him, not depress him, Jaime thought. “A diligent squire might win honour at a tourney,” Jaime said.

Kevan’s eyes widened and the eager sparkle that Jaime loved so well returned. “Mother’s nameday is in less than a year.”

Lord Tywin hosted fetes at Lannisport for all their namedays but across the past decade Lady Loren’s had gained pre-eminence. It was popular with the smallfolk for its public banquet and rich pageantry, and the jousts held in her honour attracted knights from across the Seven Kingdoms. It also featured a grand melee for squires.

“A tight training regime will see you do well in it,” Ser Barristan said. Jaime had no doubt that their Father had already drawn up a schedule.

“Can you teach me?” Kevan’s voice was full of hope as he looked up at the old knight.

“Kevan.” Jaime caught his gaze.

“I’m flattered, don’t worry, Ser Jaime.” Ser Barristan gave Kevan’s shoulder a squeeze. “Though very busy, as well.”

Kevan’s face fell. “Please?” The shimmer appearing in his eyes reminded Jaime that he was only nine, and that their Father had not quite heeled children’s tendency to beg out of him.

“I have a gift instead, if you’ll accept it,” Ser Barristan said.

Kevan’s expression lit with curious surprise. It seemed to Jaime that he’d forgotten all about training at the mention of a gift from his hero.

Ser Barristan produced a small pouch, its once rich velveteen worn with age. There was a design on the cloth though Jaime couldn’t tell what it was. Barristan emptied it unto his palm with care. A pendant fell from it, followed by a thin, discoloured chain. “It’s not much but I like to think it served me well,” Ser Barristan said as he lowered his hand to give it to Kevan.

Not much? Jaime stared at it. On the knight’s palm laid a strip of Valyrian steel, its vertical edges irregular. Fitted crookedly in it sat a square cut ruby, larger than a thumbnail and alight with the firelight around them. That is a princely gift, no matter how poor its fitting, Jaime thought. It would easily pay for this modest fete five times over. Surely, he knows?

Kevan touched it gingerly, a fingertip at a time. “It’s pretty.”

Jaime couldn’t tear his gaze away. Its pidgeon blood luster sparkled with promise. It was almost as large and fine as the twin rubies set in the lioness pendant. It probably came from a hilt or scabbard, by the look of those jagged edges. Jaime tried to imagine the whole piece it might have come from. Small wonder it had been pried into pieces.

“That it is.” Ser Barristan smiled. He went down on a knee to hang the pendant around Kevan’s neck. “Perhaps, it is old wives’ tales, but I like to think it has kept me on the lucky side of safe a few times.”

Kevan pressed his chin against his chest to be able to see the pendant. “Don’t you need it?”

“I am an old man, Kevan. I’ve lucked out enough. You are young yet, with many a danger before you.”

Jaime squinted. From anyone else, that would have been a threat. However, the old knight smiled still and seemed genuine enough. His stance was open, not just to Kevan but to Jaime, too. Knelt as he was, there was no way he could draw his blade before Jaime was at his throat.

Kevan took the pendant in his hand, watchingt it wink as he held it upside down, tilting it this way and that. “Rubies are Pa’s favourite earthbones.”

Kevan’s understatement twitched the corners of Jaime’s lips up. He remembered well the fool that had given Lady Loren a fine diamond pendant when she wed his Father. Lord Tywin had rather famously remarked that ‘the only use for diamonds was to see if rubies were real.’

A curious look appeared on Ser Barristan’s weathered face at the boy’s choice of words but he didn’t ask. “Wars may be fought for diamonds but the ruby is the king of precious stones.” He mused up Kevan’s hair as he rose. “A gemstone suited to a lion, I should think.”

Kevan puffed out his chest, the ruby gleaming in its queer setting. The dark reds and muted gold of his armour seemed to funnel all light to it.

“It looks splendid on you, little Lord,” Ser Barristan added.

The heavy croak and scrape of massive wooden doors sounded above the murmur. Kevan glanced up as the throne room’s great doors sighed open. His face lit up as he turned to them, and fell so abruptly and completely a moment later that Jaime felt his heart plummet into his guts. He turned just as the herald called:

“His Splendid Majesty, King Robert Baratheon, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Roynar and First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm. Her Grace, Queen Consort Cersei Lannister, First of Her Name, Light of the West and Grace of the Realms.”

Jaime tuned out as she started listing the children, all their titles, and no doubt a score of prominent courtiers after, and turned his attention back to Kevan. Kevan’s shoulders sagged, his gaze dropping to the floor as his hand fell from his dagger to hang listlessly alongside him.

“Kevan?”

When Kevan looked up moist gathered around his green eyes, making their light flecks wink as finely as the ruby around his neck. The dissonance of seeing tears gather in his Father’s eyes twisted Jaime’s gut. He pushed the discomfort away for his little brother’s sake. Kevan was barely ten. Jaime put a hand on his slim shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. His little brother. “He’ll be here.”

O O O

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#jaime lannister #gotfic #lannisters #asoiaf #valyrianscrolls #a saga of bears & lions #imperial fiction

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luckystarphoto · 5 years

Text

Sometimes my life is like list

Amy Jeanchaiyaphum May 10 2003

Sometimes my life is like smooth white sand.

Sometimes my life is like a stone smoothed by time and water.

Sometimes my life is like a slow leaky faucet.

Sometimes my life is like a rabbit hiding from a predator.

Sometimes my life is like a comfortable shoe.

Sometimes my life is like and abstraction of another life.

Sometimes my life is like an unwritten film.

Sometimes my life isn't like any other life.

Sometimes my life is like raku pottery glistening colors smelling of oil and smoke.

Sometimes my life is like the aerodynamic iridescence of butterfly wings.

Sometimes my life is like a cocoon.

Sometimes my life is like a Horney baboon.

Sometimes my life is like a roller coaster with no end.

Sometimes my life is like a holiday breakfast grapefruit with sugar and a maraschino cherry on top served cold in a hand made clay bowl.

Sometimes my life is like finding a first Grey hair.

Sometimes my life is like a deep cerulean sea.

Sometimes my life is like thinking you can breathe underwater.

Sometimes my life is like a coconut palm tree.

Sometimes my life is like congee in the morning in a busy alley in Thailand.

Sometimes my life is like a collection of invisible photographs only I can see.

Sometimes my life is like the storytelling cracks in ancient timber.

Sometimes my life is like toads moaning in the rain.

Sometimes my life is like waking up from a nightmare of weeping lepers and a dying mother to the sound of moaning toads.

Sometimes my life is like putting my mother in an oven like a giant chocolate chip cookie in a silky dress.

Sometimes my life is like a pink and blue baby blanket with worn satin edges.

Sometimes my life is like sucking a thumb forever.

Sometimes my life is like an itch wool hat.

Sometimes my life is like an itchy wool sweater made with " LOVE".

Sometimes my life is like my putting on my dad's smelly white motorcycle helmet.

Sometimes my life is like a car driving on water.

Sometimes my life is like an elephant ice-skating.

Sometimes my life is like poodle fur.

Sometimes my life is like a herd of buffalo in South Dakota.

Sometimes my life is like penguins painting in the sun

Sometimes my life is like Floating in space.

Sometimes my life is like a noisy drag race.

Sometimes my life is like Evil Knievel.

Sometimes my Life is like a bonfire in a stone pit.

Sometimes my life is like kitty cat kisses.

Sometimes my life is like the silky seed inside a milkweed pod.

Sometimes my life is like finding a giant agate in a huge dirt pit.

Sometimes I never look at the sky.

Sometimes my life is like seeing the earth from the sky.

Sometimes m Life is like riding in the trunk of a car.

Sometimes my life is like not being picked at all in a roller skating snowball, an own birthday party.

Sometimes my life is like hiding in the curtains and talking about peace in a dodgeball. Game.

Sometimes my life is like being the last one standing in a dodgeball game.

Sometimes my life is like being the last one chosen to be on a team, but not really feeling like taking any part in the team anyway.

Sometimes my life is like a Jackson Pollack painting.

Sometimes my life is like a centerfold ripped in half.

Sometimes my life is like music played by an inexperienced musician.

Sometimes my life is like Perfect music heard in a dream.

Sometimes my life is like an unplayed piano

Sometimes my life is like my mothers Goya guitar.

Sometimes my life is like a cobblestone road.

Sometimes my life is like driving across the Lift Bridge while it's going up.

Sometimes my life is like a circus with too many clowns.

Sometimes my life is like a circus with no clowns.

Sometimes my life is like having a circus in the living room.

Sometimes my life is like a pregnant painted pony.

Sometimes my life is like a prairie sky.

Sometimes m life is like a chandelier growing living grapes flashing with crystal rainbows and light.

Sometimes my life is like an oil lamp.

Sometimes my life is like an unread book.

Sometimes my life is like an owner's manual for a useless appliance.

Sometimes my life is like tripping over nothing.

Sometimes m life is like wearing my grandpa's thick blurry glasses just for fun.

Sometimes my life is like… By A Jeanchaiyaphum Page 3

Sometimes my life is like a hotel.

Sometimes my life is like a ceremony.

Sometimes my life is like a celebration where everyone is included.

Sometimes my life is like a lonely celebration.

Sometimes my life is like a silent moment before a performance.

Sometimes my life is like giving the performance of a like time inspiring everybody and not remembering a thing.

Sometimes my life is like being thirsty on a train between two countries, having a pocket full of money but it isn't the correct currency.

Sometimes m life is like Spray painting on the Berlin wall hoping to leave a mark forever, 6 months before the wall is torn down forever.

Sometimes my life is like a lover waiting.

Sometimes my life is like the end of thirst.

Sometimes my life is like dry blue cheese on dry toast when dehydrated.

Sometimes my life is like a mussel-free from its shell laughing like a maniac and waving goodbye before it jumps down the hole in the train toilet and runs away down the track s of Chur Switzerland. Hoping to climb the Matterhorn and ski in the Olympics.

Sometimes my life is like finding a severed black braid of a supermodel under a bathroom sink in the home of the man who loved her.

Sometimes my life is like watching a party from under the antique table everyone else is eating at it.

Sometimes my life is like a tablecloth made and dyed in India covered in candle wax wine and curry.

Sometimes my life is like hiding in round rotating clothes rack filled with new clothing at a department store.

Sometimes my life is like turning the page.

Sometimes my life is like coming of age.

Sometimes my life is like sitting next to Jesus in a church pew, having a conversation about love and philosophy, while the rest of the congregation is waiting for you to get saved.

Sometimes my life is like a new creation.

Sometimes my life is like being smoothed by muses.

Sometimes my life is like list By A. Jeanchaiyaphum Page 4

Sometimes my life is like a chained up muse.

Sometimes my life is like Kirchner’s lost hand.

Sometimes my life is like sunburn.

Sometimes my life a vegetarian forced to kill and eat meat.

Sometimes my life is like a vegetarian at a veggie buffet.

Sometimes my life is like sitting on a public bus filled with divine beings.

Sometimes my life is like sliding barefoot on new wet concrete.

Sometimes my life is like the smell of fresh timber in new construction.

Sometimes my life is like a national monument.

Sometimes my life is like the statue of liberty greeting all the new kids.

Sometimes my life is like a national park.

Sometimes my life is like having a surgeon cut your bangs.

Sometimes my life is like a museum.

Sometimes my life is like grading papers with my dad.

Sometimes my life is like having my mom do my homework.

Sometimes my life is like eating stew with long-absent family at grandma's house.

Sometimes my life is like a van with wall to wall carpet.

Sometimes my life is like being a kid with the keys to the candy store.

Sometimes my life is like driving a golf cart with a dying battery while being chased by nasty geese

Sometimes my life is like swimming in the bathtub.

Sometimes my life is like learning to skate on the bumpy pond.

Sometimes my life is like A whale in a china shop.

Sometimes my life is like a recipe

Sometimes m life is like a Rorschach test.

Sometimes my life is like a woolly caterpillar.

Sometimes my life is like fleeing from Pharos.

Sometimes my life is like everybody calling me a witch and wishing they were correct.

Sometimes my life is like release time on the playground

Sometimes my life is like the sound of a giant gong.

Sometimes my life is like an exhibition.

Sometimes my life is like an island in peaceful water.

Sometimes my life is like dragonflies embracing and gliding over the water.

Sometimes my life is like floating on my back in the perfectly warm sea looking up at the perfect sky floating above me.

Sometimes my Fe is like stalking a family of familiar strangers

Sometimes my life is like loving someone deeply and never letting them know.

Sometimes my life is like …

Sometimes my life is like a fiddler on the roof.

Sometimes my life is like a pancake on the roof.

Sometimes my life is like a portfolio lost in the middle of a freeway.

Sometimes my life is like a magician's kit.

Sometimes my life is like playing with a real doctor's bag.

Sometimes my life is like a slide under a microscope.

Sometimes my life is like an enormous healthy tree.

Sometimes my life is like standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon talking to a raven feeling overwhelmed at 30.

Sometimes my life is like detention just for fun.

Sometimes my life is like taking the blame for stealing the book money so the whole class could go home,

Sometimes my life is like living in a magical kingdom.

Sometimes my life is like a glass of tab with a slice of lemon in a glass filled with Ice.

Sometimes my life is like examining how ice forms in the ice cube tray.

Sometimes my life is like watching paint dry.

Sometimes my life is like a house claustrophobic with cigarette smoke.

Sometimes my life is like the smell of red wine and cigars.

Sometimes my life is like playing dress up with friends.

Sometimes m life is like a blessing.

Sometimes my life is like the life of a sheepdog trapped in a human body.

Sometimes my life is like an upside down yoga pose.

Sometimes my life is like an undiscovered treasure.

Sometimes my life is like dipping hands in wax while my nose is dripping.

Sometimes my life is like making gods eyes out of yarn.

Sometimes my life is like building haunted houses with my brother.

Sometimes my life is like quitting a play because the role wasn't big enough.

Sometimes my life is like selling painted rocks and lemonade.

Sometimes my life is like playing forever.

Sometimes my life is like flying to the moon in a lazy boy chair.

Sometimes my life is like singing to deer in the Forrest.

Sometimes my life is like mining for diamonds.

Sometimes my life is like leftover pieces made into a quilt.

Sometimes my life is like pulling the stuffing out of upholstery through a little hole.

Sometimes m life is like playing shipwreck in a library.

Sometimes my life is like coaxing snails out of their shells.

Sometimes my life is like, page 6

Sometimes my life is like an embracing secret admiration.

Sometimes my life is like gearing exactly what I want.

Sometimes my life is like an invention.

Sometimes my life is like a sweat lodge sometimes my life is like a close encounter. Sometimes my life is like a POW wow.

Sometimes my life is like the smell of broiled steak.

Sometimes my life is like a well-furnished trailer.

Sometimes my life is like a hand made bunk bed painted cheese whiz yellow?

Sometimes my life is like making friend with my turds before I have to flush them.

Sometimes my life is like talking to inanimate objects.

Sometimes my life is like the ripped out pages of a journal.

Sometimes my life is like having some on read my journal and publish it and not real y caring.

Sometimes my life is like Et hiding in the mound of stuffed animals.

Sometimes my life is like preparing and waiting for Santa Claus and not being able to starry up all night then waking up to find that he has been there and given more than you ever expected.

Sometimes my life is like finding out who really did that and made that real.

Sometimes my life is like helping out knowing the truth but waking up with exactly the same feeling.

Sometimes my life is like a perfectly produced holiday special celebrations.

Sometimes my life is like eating crab legs and drawn butter for 5 weeks straight.

Sometimes my life is like the Easter bunny showing up and hiding eggs in my Jewish grandparent's house.

Sometimes my life is like a room full of trophies.

Sometimes my life is like pop bottles on the back stairs.

Sometimes my life is like seeing the skeleton paper in my grandmother's closet.

Sometimes my life is like an attic full of everything you could ever need.

Sometimes my life is like healing.

Some times my life is like boo rock.

Some times my life is like believing my dad really could find cookies in my ears.

Sometimes my life is like an albatross. Sometimes my life is like a silent phone call. Sometimes my life is like a sitcom.

Sometimes my life is like the smell of dad's helmet.

Sometimes my life is like going down the rapids in a boat driven by strangers.

Sometimes my life is like….

Sometimes my life is like knowing all the secrets and keeping them.

Sometimes my life is like Chocolate ice cream on the back of a bicycle.

Sometimes my life is like riding into Sa tree your first time out.

Sometimes my life is like opening a gift.

Sometimes my life is like jumping a motorcycle over a dirt pit to impress someone, and after succeeding realizing that no one saw you do it at all.

Sometimes my life is like being lazy to wait.

Sometimes my life is like a road trip.

Sometimes my life is like

#life is like repetitive poem journal

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rukopisi-ne-gore · 6 years

Text

храна (hrana), f - food

јело (jelo), n - dish

оброк (obrok), m - meal

доручак (doručak), m - breakfast

ручак (ručak), m - lunch

вечера (večera), f - dinner

ужина (užina), f - snack

глад (glad), f - hunger

жеђ (žeđ), f - thirst

сто (sto), m - table

тањир (tanjir), m - plate

чинија (činija), f - bowl

кашика (kašika), f - spoon

виљушка (viljuška), f - fork

нож (nož), m - knife

шерпа (šerpa), f - pot

лонац (lonac), m - pot

кутлача (kutlača), f - ladle

варјача (varjača), f - mixing spoon

оклагија (oklagija), f - rolling pin

тигањ (tiganj), m - pan

чаша (čaša), f - glass

шоља (šolja), f - mug

шољица (šoljica), f - cup

чајник (čajnik), m - teapot

џезва (džezva), f - coffee pot

флаша (flaša), f - bottle

јаје (jaje), n - egg

кајгана (kajgana), f - scrambled egg

јаје на око (jaje na oko), n - sunny side up

млеко (mleko), n - milk

јогурт (jogurt), m - yoghurt

павлака (pavlaka), f - sour cream

сир (sir), m - cheese

хлеб (hleb), m - bread

пециво (pecivo), n - pastry

месо (meso), n - meat

пилетина (piletina), f - chicken

ћуретина (ćuretina), f - turkey

свињетина (svinjetina), f - pork

телетина (teletina), f - veal

овчетина (ovčetina), f - mutton

јагњетина (jagnjetina), f - lamb

шницла (šnicla), f - steak

бело месо (belo meso), n - white meat

сланина (slanina), f - bacon

кобасица (kobasica), f - sausage

риба (riba), f - fish

сом (som), m - catfish

пастрмка (pastrmka), f - trout

шаран (šaran), m - carp

кавијар (kavijar), m - caviar

сардина (sardina), f - sardine

туна (tuna), f - tuna

воће (voće), n - fruit

јабука (jabuka), f - apple

крушка (kruška), f - pear

бресква (breskva), f - peach

кајсија (kajsija), f - apricot

наранџа (narandža) / поморанџа (pomorandža), f - orange

мандарина (mandarina), f - tangerine

јагода (jagoda), f - strawberry

малина (malina), f - raspberry

купина (kupina), f - blackberry

банана (banana), f - banana

трешња (trešnja), f - cherry

вишња (višnja), f - sour cherry

шљива (šljiva), f - plum

лубеница (lubenica), f - watermelon

поврће (povrće), n - vegetables

парадајз (paradajz), m - tomato

кромпир (krompir), m - potato

краставац (krastavac), m - cucumber

купус (kupus), m - cabbage

зелена салата (zelena salata), f - lettuce

пасуљ (pasulj), m - beans

грашак (grašak), m - peas

боранија (boranija), f - green beans

паприка (paprika), f - paprika

шаргарепа (šargarepa), f - carrot

бели лук (beli luk), m - garlic

црни лук (crni luk), m - onion

празилук (praziluk), m - leek

супа (supa), f - soup

чорба (čorba), f - soup

салата (salata), f - salad

кромпир салата (krompir salata), f - potato salad

шопска салата (šopska salata), f - diced tomatoes, cucumbers and onions, topped with white cheese

салама (salama), f - salami

шунка (šunka), f - ham

паштета (pašteta), f - pate

маргарин (margarin), m - margarine

џем (džem), m - jam

дезерт (dezert), m - dessert

торта (torta), f - torte

колач (kolač), m - cake

крофна (krofna), f - doughnut

палачинка (palačinka), f - crepe

мафин (mafin), m - muffin

бакин колач (bakin kolač), m - waffle

пита (pita), f - pie

сладолед (sladoled), m - ice cream

сок од наранџе (sok od narandže), m / ђус (đus), m - orange juice

кока кола (koka kola), f - coca cola

газирани сок (gazirani sok), m - soda

вода (voda), f - water

кисела вода (kisela voda), f - carbonated water

кафа (kafa), f - coffee

чај (čaj), m - tea

со (so), f - salt

бибер (biber), m - pepper

шећер (šećer), m - sugar

јести (jesti), impf / појести (pojesti) pf - to eat

пити (piti), impf / попити (popiti), pf - to drink

кувати (kuvati), impf / скувати (skuvati), pf - to cook

пробати (probati) - to taste

сладак / слатка / слатко (sladak, m / slatka, f / slatko, n) - sweet

горак / горка / горко (gorak, m / gorka, f / gorko, n) - bitter

љут / љута / љуто (ljut, m / ljuta, f / ljuto, n) - hot

слан / слана / слано (slan, m / slana, f / slano, n) - salty

кисео / кисела / кисело (kiseo, m / kisela, f / kiselo, n) - sour

укусан / укусна / укусно (ukusan, m / ukusna, f / ukusno, n) - tasty

гладан / гладна / гладно (gladan, m / gladna, f / gladno, n) - hungry

жедан / жедна / жедно (žedan, m / žedna, f / žedno, n) - thirsty

ресторан (restoran), m - restaurant

кафић (kafić), m - cafe

кафана (kafana), f - a distinct type of local bistro which primarily serves alcoholic beverages and coffee, and often also light snacks ("Meze") and other food. Most kafanas feature live music performances. This is where you go to get hammered.

посластичарница (poslastičarnica), f - patisserie

пекара (pekara), f - bakery

Notes:

1. Difference between šerpa and lonac: the depth of šerpa is bigger than the diameter of its bottom. Šerpa is deeper than lonac. (Not sure if that makes sense? That’s the only way I can explain it) 2. Piletina, ćuretina, etc. are the words for meat, not for the animals 3. Difference between supa and čorba: soup is clear, with noodles, čorba is creamy

Bonus: some dishes charasteristic of Serbia (and other Balkan countries)

бурек (burek), m - burek is made from layers of dough, alternating with layers of other fillings in a circular baking pan and then topped with a last layer of dough. Traditionally it may be baked with no filling (prazan, meaning empty), with stewed minced meat and onions, or with cheese. (DO NOT come to me saying ‘‘burek je samo sa mesom’‘ because this is post about food in Serbia, and we think every burek is valid. This is no place for the burek discourse.)

пљескавица (pljeskavica), f - a grilled dish of spiced meat patty mixture of pork, beef and lamb, is a national dish of Serbia

ћевапи (ćevapi), m, pl - a grilled dish of minced meat, a type of kebab (another national dish of Serbia)

Карађорђева шницла (Karađorđeva šnicla), f - a breaded rolled steak stuffed with kajmak, sliced ham and cheese.

кајмак (kajmak), m - a creamy dairy product similar to clotted cream

проја (proja), f - a dish made of corn flour, baking powder, sunflower oil, sparkling water and salt.

гибаница (gibanica), f - a traditional pastry dish popular all over the Balkans. It is usually made with cottage cheese and eggs.

качамак (kačamak), m - kind of maize porridge

попара (popara), f - a dish made with bread and cheese

ђувеч (đuveč), m - a vegetable dish similar to ratatouille. Either stewed or baked as a casserole.

подварак (podvarak), m - a Serbian dish, popular across Balkans. The primary ingredients are sauerkraut or fresh cabbage, finely chopped onions and meat, usually porkroast or lightly cooked chicken, which are then combined and baked in an oven in order for all flavors to combine.

пребранац (prebranac), m - a bean casserole

сарма (sarma), f - cabbage or vine leaves, stuffed with rice and minced meat.

ражњићи (ražnjići), m, pl - chunks of meat and vegetables grilled on skewers

ајвар (ajvar), m - a pepper-based condiment made from red bell peppers. It can be mild or spicy.

пинђур (pinđur), m - similar to ajvar but generally made with eggplant. In some regions the words are used interchangeably.

слатко (slatko), n - a thin fruit preserve made of fruit or rose petals

компот (kompot), m - a non-alcoholic sweet beverage of Slavic origin, that may be served hot or cold, depending on tradition and season

баклава (baklava), f - a rich, sweet dessert pastry made of layers of filo filled with chopped nuts and sweetened and held together with syrup or honey.

#this is such a wide topic #i know i didn't include everything #but i hope i covered at least some basic stuff #bcs #serbian #my (text) posts

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mangoesandpalmtrees · 10 months

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concussed-to-pieces · 7 years

Text

Overtrope

Fandom: WWE

Pairing: Dean Ambrose/Roman Reigns

Rating: Holy shit M.

AN: THIRST PARTY SATURDAY! I hope everyone has had a good week! This was brought into being because I watched too many of those terrible cop movies from the eighties and nineties. Be warned! This is some gratuitously-written stuff right here, with a silly plot and so many tropes I literally named it Overtrope. I hope you guys like your officers ultra cheesy. Tagging @toxiicpop, @oraclegazes and of course, the King Captain @hardcorewwetrash! Enjoy!

[!TRIGGER WARNING!: For reckless disregard of actual law enforcement protocols, homophobia and anilingus/analingus.]

Roman Reigns tapped his fingers absently on the steering wheel as he waited for his new partner to show up. He should have known better than to think the guy’s flight would be on time.

The radio was on, playing some upbeat synthpop crap that he’d heard a thousand times before. The neon sign for the motel across the street kept flickering about the fact that there was (no) vacancy, bright tubes buzzing in the spring rain.

When Commissioner Hunter Helmsley had ordered him up to his office, Roman had figured he was overdue for a chew out. Instead, Hunter had grumbled about his ulcer for a couple minutes, about how he was getting too old for this shit. Then he got to the point, all but flinging a thick file at Roman. The younger officer had caught it with ease, leafing through it curiously.

“Potential partner fodder.” Hunter mumbled around his cigarette, watching Roman closely. Reigns resented that a little; he was hardly volatile in an office environment and he said as much. Hunter waved off his annoyance and stabbed a thick finger down on the picture stapled to the file. “Ambrose was a regular nutcase through the academy according to the guys out in Cinci. Lost his partner recently and he’s requested a transfer out to us. Interested?”

“Your tone indicates I don’t have much of a choice.” Roman had answered dryly.

“Reigns, you’re the best man we have for the job. This shit is all you know, and you’ve got decent people skills. I’m paying you to babysit this lunatic so he doesn’t cost our department in the long run.” Hunter ashed his cigarette in a tray that already had sixteen butts in it.

“Those things’ll kill you, y’know.” Roman commented absently, squinting as he read a few of the bullet points on the transfer’s sheet. “He blew up a tanker? Commish…”

“So he’s kinda’ a loose cannon. You can even him out.” Hunter shrugged. “Look, with this orphan benefit gala on the calendar, we need to beef up the security in the city. We need more manpower.”

“Man, my people skills consist of listening. You sure you want this guy?”

“Absolutely. If Dean can keep his shit together, I think you two could rival me and Michaels.” Hunter had clapped him on the shoulder, then dismissed him.

So here he was, waiting outside the crowded airport along with a horde of cabs. Roman itched to get out of the car, he hated the feeling of being surrounded but he also hated getting soggy. He fumbled around behind the driver’s seat, trying to locate that old umbrella.

The passenger’s side door was yanked open so hard the car rocked, and a duffel bag that might have once been green nearly took Roman’s head off as it sailed by him to crash into the backseat. “Oh! Shit, man I’m so sorry.” The guy who ducked his head to apologize before flopping into the passenger’s seat was…Roman swallowed hard. The grainy black-and-white photo didn’t really do Dean Ambrose justice. The brilliant blue eyes leveled curiously at Roman effectively tied his tongue in knots. “This is…you are the guy here to uh, come pick me up, right? I’m not getting into some stranger’s sedan, am I?” Dean asked warily, rainwater dripping from his bangs.

He was tall and slender and effortlessly attractive, everything that Reigns wasn't. It hurt a little. “You’d be getting into a stranger’s sedan regardless.” Roman managed to say.

Dean chuckled, the noise rougher than Roman expected. “True enough.” He extended a hand to Roman, who shook it after a second of hesitation. “Ambrose. I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of bad shit about me.” His dimpled grin seemed to indicate that he was totally fine with that.

Roman belatedly realized that he should probably introduce himself. “Reigns.” He said, louder than he needed to.

“Yeah…?” Dean asked slowly, raising an eyebrow. “It rained a lot back in Cincinnati too, man.”

“No no, that’s my name. Reigns.” Roman was flustered now, feeling like an idiot as he carefully pulled away from the curb.

“Chief Helmsley said your name was Greek…wait, shit, no.” Dean snapped his fingers. “Trojan. Achilles? Shit, Roman?”

Roman couldn’t help his little snort of laughter. “Yeah, the last one. I was just gonna’ let you keep going but Breeze already calls me Conan. This could get out of hand.”

“Roman Reigns.” Dean rolled the ‘r’ on his last name in a way that should have been obnoxious, like the kids in middle school. “S’ a badass name.”

Roman was horrified to find himself blushing. “Thank my parents, I guess. You uh, want to get something to eat?”

“Reigns, you’ve said the magic word.”

…

Roman got a firsthand experience witnessing the loose-cannonry when he and Ambrose were put out on a case together. Someone had been sabotaging shipments of party supplies for the benefit gala and Helmsley wanted them to track down a suspect.

Dean barely waited for Roman to close the door of the cruiser before he was gunning the engine to life and peeling out of the parking lot of the coffee shop. Roman pressed a hand to the ceiling, startled. “You got a roast in the oven or something, man?”

“I had an idea when I was in line. I’ve seen that guy before, the one Helmsley showed us pictures of.” Dean crammed a whole donut into his mouth, chewing quickly and swallowing before continuing, “He goes past that shitty little apartment complex I live in. Seen him walking around pretty regularly in my off-time.” He gave Roman a sideways grin. “Let’s go catch us a rat.”

Reigns didn’t really know how much stock he was willing to put into the guy currently driving like a madman. Dean had barely been in the city for two weeks and was somehow already a leading authority on the patterns of a suspect? But Roman had to admit (at least to himself) that they had nothing else to go on. Commissioner Helmsley hadn’t exactly been a massive help. The file on their suspect was empty aside from a few blurry surveillance photos.

Once Ambrose had safely parallel-parked the cruiser in a (relatively) inconspicuous location by the corner, he opened up the box of donuts on his lap and stuffed another into his mouth. “Fuggin’ delishush.” He mumbled, washing it down with a healthy swig of coffee.

Roman pulled his lunch bag out from under the seat, preemptively bracing himself for some discussion involving his food choices when he opened it.

“S’at rice?” Dean asked with his mouth full.

Roman simply nodded and tucked into the small jar of coconut rice that was his usual snack while out on the beat. It was easy to make; he could use the leftovers from the Chinese food of the night before if he had to.

“Plain rice?”

“No, coconut.”

“Oh.”

Roman tensed up, waiting for the inevitable smartass comment. He already avoided eating in the break room after making the mistake of offering Officer Amore a bite of homemade fish salad and being treated to the guy gagging dramatically. Enzo proceeded to sneer a couple of off-color comments involving the smell of Roman’s lunch and its apparent similarity to the smell of a prostitute. The whole break room broke out into riotous laughter, a few officers catcalling the large man standing there with a Tupperware container in his hands.

“Reigns would like 'em fishy, he's always hanging around Breeze and Fandango!”

It might not have been so bad if Roman hadn't made the salad because he was desperately missing his family and he wanted a taste of home. It might not have been so bad if Enzo had stopped at one comment. But he was missing his family and Enzo didn't stop and Roman might have...accidentally dumped a cup of lukewarm, sugar-heavy coffee over the smaller man's head, effectively ruining his carefully-maintained hair.

It was fresh fish, it didn’t smell, but since Enzo had revealed the gap in his armor everyone would jeer at him when he brought his lunch into the break room. Even the lasagna made with his mother's recipe was met with suspicion.

“Watch out, the whole room will smell like low tide by the time his break is over!”

It wasn’t worth the aggravation to continue eating in the break room. Yeah, sure, it made him feel like he lived in the cruiser some days, but Roman told himself it was better than losing his job due to letting his emotions get the best of him. God forbid he do something boneheaded and get himself kicked off the force over his lunch choices.

“You and that goddamn coconut shit again. Don't you eat anything normal?”

Dean didn’t say anything else though, the light-haired man already powering through his fourth donut. Then, Ambrose suddenly stopped eating. The box of donuts was wordlessly shoved to the dashboard and Dean opened the door and practically launched himself bodily from the cruiser.

Roman, utterly bewildered, watched Dean take off down the sidewalk after a rotund gentleman in a cheap-looking suit. “Shit man, at least say something first. Like 'there he is!'. Or, 'come on, Reigns!'” He grumbled, taking the keys out of the ignition and kicking open his own door. “Wait, Ambrose!” He called, making their suspect break into a run.

Then Ambrose turned around to yell, “Come on, Reigns!”, jogging in place. Reigns rolled his eyes and locked the cruiser.

Roman was no average sprinter and he had the thighs to prove it. If there was one thing he could take pride in, it was his conditioning. But their suspect was a nondescript businessman and they kept losing track of him in the thick pedestrian traffic of downtown. Dean was relentless though, the light-haired man constantly scanning the crowds in front of them. Roman had never seen anyone look quite so threatening with a smear of pink donut frosting on their cheek.

Dean hauled their suspect to his feet when they finally cornered him, tightly gripping the front of his shirt. “Alright buddy, you know exactly why we’re here.” He snapped. He didn’t seem particularly winded, despite the somewhat lengthy chase this individual had led them on before Reigns managed to head him off with a legitimate tackle over a chain link fence. Roman would be the first to admit he’d gotten caught up in the thrill of the chase, and the momentary flash of surprise on Dean’s face at his full-body assault was much more gratifying than it needed to be. Ambrose had been impressed. “You gonna’ tell me what I need to know, or is Freight Treigns over here gonna’ have to knock your teeth out? Did I mention he’s the good cop?”

Freight Treigns. Roman squared his shoulders subtly, already feeling the nickname.

“He could break your ribs with a snap of his fingers. Feel like talkin’ yet, buddy?”

“Alright, cool it. You got me, okay? I’m here. There’s no need to be rough.” The older man was sweating profusely, his eyes darting back and forth between the angry blond in front of him and the dark-haired man to the side. “What do you want to know?”

“Motherfucker do not play games with me! You know damn well what I want, so spill!” Dean’s sidearm was out of the holster before Roman could blink. Granted, he had the safety on while he…negotiated with the suspect, but it Roman was abruptly thankful that they had ended up in a secluded alleyway. “I want dates, times, birthdays, social security numbers, maiden names, give me the fucking scoop before they have to wash you off the sidewalk with a fire hose.”

“I’d do as he says.” Roman grunted when the man locked eyes with him. “My good cop routine is a little rusty.”

“Look Ambrose, you don’t understand, they’ll kill me if I-”

The safety clicked. “What makes you think I won’t?” Dean’s voice was soft as he prodded the side of the man’s head with the barrel of his gun. “Talk to me, Pauly. You and I both know that intel ain’t worth dying over.”

“Alright Ambrose, alright.” Paul relented, quivering all over his doughy body.

Dean amicably holstered his gun and retrieved his notepad from a back pocket, opening it to a fresh page. “We got a few donuts back in the car, Paul, you want one? Probably tanked your sugar trying to get away.”

“No, no, I just want to answer your questions so I can leave.” Paul straightened out his tie and suitcoat, appearing a little less frightened. His eyes wandered to Roman again. “This your replacement for Rollins?” His tone wasn’t openly hostile, he almost sounded curious.

Dean’s pen snapped in his grip, black ink spattering violently across his navy blue work shirt. Ambrose gave no other outward indication that he’d even heard Paul. He accepted a spare pen from Roman with a nod of gratitude and continued writing everything down.

The way Dean blatantly ignored his question seemed to catch Paul’s interest, and Roman watched as the older man’s visage took on a gleefully mean look he’d seen many times on the face of one Enzo Amore. “That was a messy job with Rollins, wasn’t it? Blown sky-high. I heard all about it.” Paul said slowly. “Everyone knows what happened.”

“You shut the fuck up.” Ambrose hissed.

“Mr. Black is who you’re looking for, Ambrose. Tyler Black. I would say good luck, but what’s the point?” Paul shrugged, awfully brave all of a sudden. “You’re a dead man if you go after him.”

Dean grabbed Paul by his ill-fitting suitcoat and slammed his back against the chain link fence. “That’s it, Heyman. You’ve just earned your ass a one-on-one interview in the cinderblock room downtown. Move it.” He snarled.

Ambrose was deadly silent while he drove, giving Roman ample opportunity to radio dispatch and let them know the situation. Paul was quiet and docile in the backseat, but whenever he did speak it was to needle Ambrose further. Roman was honestly surprised that the steering wheel was in one piece by the time they arrived at the station.

Dean dumped the remainder of his donuts at the front desk once Paul was checked in and secured in a holding cell. “Lost my appetite.”

“Ambrose, do you want to talk ab-”

“Well well well!” Came the bullhorn-loud voice of the one person Roman didn’t want to see at a time like this. He wondered sometimes if Enzo actually worked, or if he just hung around the station providing garbage commentary on his day to day. “Look what the cat dragged in! Heya’ lunatic, why the long face?”

Roman blinked, confused momentarily before he realized that Enzo was talking to Dean. And Ambrose responded immediately by whirling to face the smaller man. “What the fuck did you just call me?”

A smarter individual would have known that was their opening to depart as quickly as possible. “Lunatic, I’ve read your file man. You’re nuts! Guess that’s why the commish stuck you with Reigns. Probably hopes you’ll get rid of him, too.” Enzo sneered.

Dean’s eyes widened and Roman quickly took hold of the other man’s arm, shaking his head. “Don’t bother, Ambrose. He’s not worth it.”

“Aw c’mon, Reigns! Lemme’ go a few rounds with the big lug!” Enzo jabbed at the air in front of Ambrose and Roman was hard-pressed to keep Dean where he was.

“Enzo, if I believed you’d actually fought someone fair once in your life, I’d absolutely let you guys swing at one another.” Or if I believed Ambrose would let you survive the encounter. Roman kept that thought to himself.

“Who said anything about fair?” Dean snapped his teeth violently at the smaller man, who suddenly went pale. “If he’s got a problem with me or my record, I’d like to rectify it. With a pummeling.”

“He’s not worth the energy. Guy’s always yipping at someone’s heels and being a nuisance.” Roman shook his head. “Mostly to me. So trust me when I say he isn't worth it.”

“Is that so?” Dean’s smile crept across his face but didn’t reach his eyes. “I want you to keep your mouth shut around me, Fuzzy.” He leaned down so he was eye to eye with Enzo, who looked like he might be sick. “You have no idea what the hell I’ve been through, but if you keep up with that kinda’ bullshit to me or my partner, I may treat you to a free sampler. We clear?”

“Crystal.” Amore said weakly.

“Great. Leave.” Dean ordered and Enzo scrambled away, probably heading to the break room to sulk and lick his wounds. “How does a guy like that have a badge?” He grumbled. “I’m an asshole, yeah, but I try to reserve it for the scumbags that earned it.”

“Remind me to tell you about his reaction to my lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“It’s a great story. Not disheartening in any way.”

…

It wasn’t too often that Roman’s phone rang, especially this late at night. He’d gone to bed hours ago.

“You’re where?” Roman yawned, the sheet falling to his hips as he sat up.

“Bar. Big one. Man, your mouth is somethin’ girls dream about havin’.”

Well if he hadn’t been awake before, he sure as hell was now. “I-I-I’m…excuse me?!”

“Freight Treigns you gotta’ come get meeee…I have a leeeeeeeead.”

“Did you find it at the bottom of a bottle?”

“Mm, kinda’. Look, s’a bar in…in…of all the gin joints in all the towns. Pay phone outside it.”

“Casablanca?” Roman hated himself a little for instantly knowing which place Dean was referring to. That was a gay bar. Club. Whatever. What kind of lead could Ambrose have picked up there? Unless… “Ambrose are you…are you in some kind of trouble? Is there someone there listening?” Roman struggled into a pair of jeans, trying to maneuver around the cord of the telephone.

“No-man, Ro-man, I was jus’ in for a drink.” Ambrose snickered, seeming very pleased with himself. “Look, I’ll see you inna’ li’l while, okey doke? Dime’s about-”

The receiver abruptly clicked and a dial tone buzzed in Roman’s ear. Reigns sighed, throwing on a probably-clean t-shirt and tucking his long hair up into his usual baseball cap. He debated leaving the phone off the hook in case Dean called back, but the other man had sounded pretty tipsy and Roman doubted he would put together that the busy signal meant he was on his way.

He’d been to Casablanca a few times. When he was feeling brave. Sometimes Fandango and Breeze got him to tag along with them. Roman snorted at the way Dean had tried to imitate Humphrey Bogart, “in all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…”, fingers nervously drumming an off-kilter rhythm on the steering wheel of his sedan as he eased his way into the late-night traffic.

Casablanca was busy tonight, of course it was. Roman sighed heavily. Plenty of people here to see him being brazen about who he was. Fucking Ambrose. He made the block and parked on the other side of the building, trying to be as inconspicuous as someone of his stature could be. Roman couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Get in, get Ambrose, get out.

Easier said than done, of course. The bouncer at the door (a huge bear of a man named Braun) didn’t give him any trouble, but the poorly-veiled sympathy in his eyes sat in Roman’s stomach like a rock. “Back again, huh? What is it this time?” Braun asked.

“I’m just here for a friend.” Roman tried to smile, tried to ignore the fact that apparently everyone else knew his habits better than he did. Sure, fine, he found himself here more often than not after a day had gone sour and he needed to forget with a drink and some people-watching. He didn’t dance, not really, he was too big for that. After witnessing Fandango and Breeze cut a rug on more than one occasion, he was hesitant to so much as toe the smooth tile of the dance floor lest he sully it. Casablanca was for people like them, all lithe and graceful. People like him? Door watchers, guard dogs. Kept the slim, pretty ones safe. Roman shook off his melancholy thoughts. Ambrose. Focus, Reigns.

Inside was the familiar pulse of electronic music, the disorienting flashes of lights that transformed the room into a mass of grasping hands, smoke and alcohol. Roman had been hoping that Dean would be intelligent enough to stay by the door, but he should have known it wouldn’t be that simple.

Keeping his eyes on the dance floor, Reigns eased his way around the swirling maelstrom to approach the bar. Bayley waved to him with a big smile, bouncing over to lean on the counter. “Conan! It’s been a while, what can I get you?”

“Just information tonight, Hugger. I’m looking for a guy. He’s about this tall, light hair, blue eyes, thin.” Roman held up a hand to indicate Dean’s height, running through a mental list of what he might have been wearing. “Possibly in a black leather jacket, not like a bomber jacket, regular style. Red stripes on the cuffs. Looks a little loose on him.”

Bayley’s eyes glassed over for a second, that picture-perfect memory that had helped Reigns more than once hard at work, and then she was back with an enthusiastic nod. “Yeah! He talked with me for a while. Told me to call him Bogart, asked some questions. I’m not sure where he went, though. He mentioned he wasn’t the dancing type. Why, what’s he done?”

“He’s my partner-” Bayley’s squeal of delight interrupted Roman and he had to quickly add, “Work, woman, from work. Calm down. He called me, maybe half an hour ago? Forty minutes?”

“Check the bathroom?” She suggested, raising an eyebrow. “He was putting them away pretty quickly and he didn’t want any water in between.”

Roman nodded, sliding away from the counter once more. One lead was better than no lead, he reminded himself. “Hey Conan!” Roman heard Fandango over the throb of the music and he turned, giving the gyrating man a tired smile.

“What’s up, ‘Dango? Where’s Breeze?” Fingers grazed the back of Roman’s neck but at this point he was used to it, chuckling and brushing the smaller man off. Tyler got handsy when he was a little drunk.

“Conan! You came by yourself! I’m so proud of you.” Breeze clung to Roman’s tattooed arm, tapping the bridge of the larger officer’s nose. “’Dango almost lost his badge today. Enzo again.”

Roman tensed up. “What did he do now?”

Tyler fell silent, still wrapped around Roman’s arm. Fandango just shook his head, carefully peeling his partner off him. “You’re not really dressed for a night out, Conan.” Fandango pointed out, quickly changing the subject.

Dean. “You’re right, I’m just here to pick someone up. I’ll see you guys later, okay?” Reigns bolted for the restrooms. Dean. He barely resisted kicking the door in, it’s a push door you idiot stop trying to flex, still managing to shove it so hard it banged loudly on the wall behind it. He was instantly on guard and his ears picked up the too-familiar sound of someone hacking and retching. “Ambrose?”

“Rrr…” The groan was barely audible over the music pounding through the walls.

“Ambrose, shit.” Dean was slumped over the toilet in the lone stall, his body limp aside from the twitch of his fingers. Roman quickly dropped to one knee, cupping Dean’s chin to pull his face up out of the bowl. “Ambrose? Ambrose, you in there?”

“Yeah.” Dean breathed. His lip was bleeding, looked like he’d picked at the skin until it tore. Nervous habit, Roman noted absently. “M’ here, Rollins.” Dean reached up and shakily touched the side of Roman’s face, brushing the other man’s neatly-trimmed sideburns. “Y’shaved, looks good. Like it.” He smiled, expression dazed at best.

Rollins. “Sorry Ambrose, it’s Roman. Not Rollins.” Reigns tried to snap Dean back to reality but all he got was a blank stare. “Roman, your partner? The police officer?”

“Y’not Seth.”

“Bingo, Dean.”

Dean’s face suddenly brightened. “Freight Treigns! I di’nt think you’d come f’ me. Hi!” He said cheerily. “I wanna’…uh, hol’on.” Dean clumsily scrubbed at the blood on his lip with his cuff. “There’s a great girl workin’ th' bar, great girl.”

“Ambrose, you called me, said you had a lead.” Roman gingerly pulled Dean upright, the thinner man swaying on his feet.

Dean wasn’t paying attention, seemingly mesmerized by the ink on Roman’s arm. “Holy fuck.” He whispered, sounding awed as he stared down at the tribal artwork. “I…Freight Treigns, when didja’ get this?”

“Five minutes ago, found it in a Crackerjack box, seriously?” Roman huffed. “You woke my ass up out of a sound damn sleep, told me you had a lead.” He muscled the thinner man to the sink and Dean leaned over it obediently. A little too obediently. Roman’s eyes narrowed. He dampened a paper towel and started to clean Dean’s face up. There were tear tracks on the other man’s cheeks and Reigns’ clinical motions gentled somewhat. “Ambrose, talk to me. What happened here, man?”

“Heymannnn…talkin’ about Seth. I-I needed. Needed a drink.” Dean mumbled. “The girl. The bar girl. Bay leaf.”

“Bayley.” Roman corrected him quietly.

“Said she’d seen someone. Matched his description. Said he came here sometimes. Called himself Black.” Dean’s eyes filled with tears. “He died Roman, he died an’ I couldn’t do anythin’ ‘bou’it.”

“What happened to him?” Dean started up with this weird noise that set Roman’s teeth on edge. It took him a second to recognize that it was a sob. “Alright, okay, easy Ambrose.” He said quickly, trying to head off the waterworks. “I got it, no more questions.”

Dean shook his head violently, almost tipping himself over. Roman grabbed the arm of his jacket, steadying him while Dean pressed a hand to his mouth to muffle the sobs. “My f-fault, all m-m-my f-f-”

“Whatever happened, I doubt it was your fault.” Roman sighed, unwrapping a piece of gum and popping it into Dean’s mouth. “Here, chew. It’ll settle your stomach and deal with your cottonmouth,” he hoped. “No more crying man, c’mon. You’re already a mess. You didn’t take anything else, did you? Just drinks, right?”

Dean gripped his arm tight and buried his face in Roman’s chest. Reigns could feel his jaw working as he chewed the gum and whimpered helplessly before he finally shook his head no. “Can’t. Won’t do that shit.”

Slowly, trying not to startle him, Roman wrapped his other arm around Dean’s shoulders. “You’re alright, Ambrose. You’ll be okay.” He murmured, trying for a reassuring tone. “Am I bringing you home or bringing you to my place?” He didn’t exactly believe that Ambrose would go right to bed if he left him to his own devices. Roman knew he could at least make sure he didn’t choke on his own vomit or something equally unpleasant.

Dean didn’t answer, just pushed his face further into Roman’s chest. That couldn’t be comfortable.

“My place it is. C’mon.”

Bayley winked at him from the bar when they slowly migrated by, and Roman huffed indignantly before childishly sticking his tongue out at her.

…

Dean was so far gone that Roman had a difficult time getting him up the stairs of his apartment building. Half-carrying, half-dragging him under the arms, Ambrose tried to help but mostly wrapped his body around Roman. It hurt a little to see, how desperate Dean was to have some kind of contact when he was clearly out of it.

Roman finally unlocked his door and attempted to ease Ambrose onto the couch. Dean dissolved into a puddle on the soft surface, the tall man curling up in a ball. His eyes followed Roman through a series of slow blinks, struggling out of his jacket so he could drape it over himself. “Not Rollins.” He mumbled, snuggling into the jacket.

“Not Rollins.” Roman barely kept from feeling Ambrose’s forehead for a fever. “Just Roman. Can you drink a glass of water?”

“S’important. Yeah. Can do whatever y’need.” Ambrose grabbed the back of the couch and leveraged his body into a sitting position. “So tired.”

“You’re loaded, Ambrose. That’s usual.” Roman thought longingly of his bed, getting a glass of water from his pitcher in the fridge. After a moment of deliberation, he popped open the bottle of Tylenol as well. Worse came to worst, it’d just come back up. “Here man. Drink and take these.”

“N’pills.” Dean slurred, trying to push Roman’s hand away after he carefully took the glass of water. “No pills. Ll’be ‘kay.”

“It’s just some Tylenol. For your headache.” Roman explained, sighing when Dean stubbornly shook his head. “Alright, but no whining in the morning when you have a forehead splitter.”

“Won’t do pills. Even little ones. Leads t' more, leads t' more leads'a more.” Dean squinted up at the larger man, looking uncommonly serious. “Be careful.”

“Alright, you have a hard limit. Wasn't sure. I won't offer again.” Roman yawned widely, stretching his arms over his head. When he dropped them again, Dean was blatantly staring at him. “What?” Roman asked uncomfortably after a moment had gone by.

“God, y' so pretty.” Dean lapped clumsily at the water that remained in the cup. “Th' tattoo? A-All of you? There's jus' so much of you an' I...I wanna' touch all of it.” He flopped back onto the couch, cradling the empty glass to his chest. “Oh man, Ro-man...” He said in a singsong cadence.

Roman silently pried the cup out of his hands and went to put it in the sink. When he returned, Ambrose was sound asleep. Reigns yanked the baseball cap off his head and dragged his hands through his hair, making a frustrated noise. Of course, the guy with the big blue eyes would be the one to get blackout drunk and spill his feelings while looking pitiful in that special way that made Roman want to bundle him up and protect him.

He'd be straight when the sun rose tomorrow, sure as hell.

Roman still grabbed one of the blankets from his bed and tucked it over Ambrose. He may be a lovesick idiot, but he wasn't an asshole.

...

The betrayal came as a shock. An awful, gut-wrenching shock. Roman hadn’t even known Rollins…Black, whoever. All he knew was that he’d been blown up, Ambrose blamed himself and that was that. But it seemed that Rollins was none the worse for the wear after being blown up, if the cackling laughter in the old warehouse was any indicator.

Commissioner Helmsley had demanded that Roman go after Dean when the blond had lashed out over being taken off the case. “It’s too close to home for you, Ambrose! Your personal bias can’t get in the way of this arrest!” Hunter had argued, so agitated that he’d accidentally snuffed out his cigarette on the desk instead of in his ash tray. The whole precinct must have heard their heated back and forth.

Dean obviously hadn’t been thinking clearly when he stormed off and the Commissioner had called Roman in on his day off. Not that he’d been doing anything except being mopey.

So here he was, crouched behind a stack of crates and listening in on a conversation he definitely wasn’t meant to hear.

“I thought you died.” Ambrose's voice trembled.

“That was the point, idiot. That was the plan from the beginning.”

Roman was willing to bet that Dean hadn’t had a clue about what he would do if he got to Rollins first, only a vague hope that his former partner was alive and not…well, up to nefarious activities. He was willing to bet that Ambrose hadn’t even strapped on his vest.

“You were always so fucking soft.” There was a hollow clacking noise, metal on metal. “You and your busted home and your ‘I just wanna’ help people Seth’.” Rollins spat. “Jesus Christ I was glad when I finally got to go dark. Meant I didn’t have to deal with your ass.”

“Seth, please-”

“Fuck you, don’t even talk to me. I should have blown your brains out.”

“Rollins, there has to be--”

“Are you really gonna’ do this? The whole, ‘there’s still good in you’ speech? Fuck’s sake Ambrose. Every cop is a crooked cop, one way or another.” Seth snorted derisively.

“Not my partner.”

“What did I just-”

“No, not you. My current partner. He’s different. He’s not like me, but he’s sure as fuck not like you either.” Dean snarled. “He's great. Smart. Believes in the good in people.”

“Christ, you’re pitiful and impotent. Don’t get me wrong, you coming here is gonna’ fuck up a couple things in the long run. But right now you can sit tight and wait for the boom.” That laughter rang out again and then Seth amended, “You and your buddy.”

A cold chill ran down Roman’s spine. “I came alone, Seth.” Dean sounded defeated. “Wanted to see whether it was true or not. I needed to know. I came alone.”

“Oh yeah?” The sharp click of a safety met Roman’s ears. “Come out or I do some interior decorating with his bodily fluids.” Seth snapped. “You have to the count of three. One!”

There was a grunt of pain from Ambrose and Roman flinched.

“Two!”

On the slim chance that Rollins would actually not shoot Dean in the head, Reigns bolted to his feet. “Wait!” He yelled, his own gun trained on the man they had all thought was dead. Seth had a pistol pressed to Dean’s temple and Roman deflated. “Please wait. Don’t…don’t hurt him.” The larger officer begged. “He’s worth much more to you alive, you need to think--”

“You’re a fuckin’ idiot if you think I need either of you alive.” Seth grinned, leveling his gun at Roman instead.

“Run, Reigns!” Ambrose shouted, struggling with the cuffs that secured him to a pylon. Rollins tore at his hair to silence him. “Seth, don’t-!”

The shot caught Roman square in the chest and he staggered back, bumping into the wall of warehouse crates. He slid slowly to the floor. He hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much, but he supposed that was the point.

“No!” Dean screamed over Seth’s continued cackling. “You’re not getting away with this, Rollins!”

“Pretty sure I am. Now shush. You’ve only got maybe five minutes before that bomb goes off and you’re both deep fried. Might as well savor your last moments together while he bleeds out. I’ve got an orphan benefit gala to crash.” Seth holstered his gun and rumpled Ambrose’s hair. “It’s been an experience, Dean.”

Roman waited until he heard the sound of tires on gravel before sitting up with a grimace and straining to open his uniform shirt. His bulletproof vest made a popping noise, the bullet lodged firmly in the area over his heart. “Fuck, I’m going to have the worst kink in my neck.” He grunted. Dean’s face was priceless, his jaw gone slack as he watched Roman get to his feet. Reigns pulled out his cuff keys and quickly freed his partner, offering him a hand to help him up. “C’mon Ambrose. We got work to do.”

Dean grabbed his hand and dragged him into a fierce embrace. Roman felt tears dampen the fabric of his undershirt. “Thought you were dead.” Ambrose managed to say before Roman was hauling him bodily towards the door.

“There’s no time for that now, Ambrose, did you forget that this place is rigged to blow?!” Roman shouldered the door open, trying to put as much distance as possible between them and the building. He grappled with the walkie on his shoulder for a second before finally getting the right button. “Dispatch, this is officer Reigns! Officer Reigns to dispatch, do you copy?”

There was a heart-stopping buzz of static, then Stephanie’s voice replied, “Dispatch to officer Reigns, what is your location?”

“Warehouse district, the docks. We had a hostile run-in with the suspect, he’s headed to the gala! Repeat, Black is headed to the orphan benefit g-”

The warehouse exploded behind them with a thunderous boom, knocking both men off their feet. Roman quickly rolled to cover Ambrose, Dean’s hand finding his own after a minute. “Roman!” Dean yelled over the ringing in Roman’s ears, coughing violently. “You okay?”

“Been fucking better!” Roman replied, snapping an arm over Dean’s head to protect him from the smoldering debris raining down. “You?”

“Aside from the raging boner I have from you being pressed up against me? Couple scrapes!”

Roman couldn’t help his nervous chuckle, whole body trembling from their close call. “Fuck, we could have died!”

Dean struggled to roll onto his back beneath Roman, grinning wildly up at him and then pulling the other man's face down for a breathtaking kiss. “Nah, no way! You said so yourself, Reigns! We've got work to do!” He panted when they parted.

…

Through the collective efforts of the force, Rollins was apprehended mere moments before his master plan could be set into motion. The fundraiser gala carried on without a hitch, the elite of the city blissfully unaware of the danger they had been in, while Rollins was stuffed into a cruiser and sent downtown.

Commissioner Helmsley turned to Roman and Dean after the cruiser was safely away, the older officer shaking his head. “In all my years on the force, I've never dealt with anything quite like that.” He somehow managed to say around the three cigarettes in his mouth. “Never seen a team quite like you boys, either. But I suppose, unconventional times call for unconventional police work.” He gave the both of them a rare smile. “You two have earned a night off. Now go hit the showers, you guys smell like a dirty lumberyard drenched in C-4!”

Now came the climax, Roman supposed, literally. He and Dean, freshly showered, rolling around in his bed. Ambrose reeked like his soap and that put the biggest, stupidest grin on Roman's face because God, he could definitely get used to that. It made him bold, made him urge Ambrose to lay flat on his stomach while he tried something he'd never done before.

Roman spread Dean wide and ate him out as sloppily as he could, loving the noises Ambrose made while he fucked his tongue slowly in and out of him. Reigns had always wanted to try his techniques on something that wasn’t a pussy, curious whether it would transfer, but he’d never mustered up the courage to ask any of the women he’d been with. And once he figured out a few things about himself, the women stopped altogether. People like him didn’t get to do things like this. That privilege was reserved for the slender, the conventional, the attractive. Not for someone like him. First time for everything.

Ambrose’s reaction was encouraging though, the blond biting the pillow and grinding his hips down against the mattress. He kept moaning Roman's name in this voice that cracked and wavered in the best way possible.

Roman fingered him open just as slowly. He wasn’t exactly in a rush and he coaxed Dean into a writhing, sweaty mess of need, stroking first one, then two, then three slick fingers into him. Dean was beautiful when he was desperate, promising everything and anything under the sun if Roman would “hurry the fuck up Reigns you’re killing me.” Roman didn’t have a clear idea of what Ambrose was up for, unfortunately. He probably should have figured out the terms before he started slobbering all over him. So he took his time, rocked his fingers in and out and kissed the small of Dean’s back and whispered whatever filthy thing came into his head.

Dean finally had enough of the torture and pulled Roman to lay down beside him so he could fumble a condom onto his aching cock. Ambrose’s hands ended up in his hair, his mouth on his throat whispering you came back for me into Roman’s skin like he still couldn’t believe it. Reigns closed his eyes and sighed in content. Maybe there was hope for someone like him after all. Dean eagerly straddled him, blue eyes half-lidding as he sank down on the other man’s cock. “Let me take care of you now.”

Roman knew he should just let Dean take over, he wasn't exactly experienced in this particular field, but he couldn't help flexing a little by grabbing Ambrose's hips and rolling his cock up into him. Just once, just so that the other man felt all of him.

Dean's back arched and his mouth popped open in a soundless cry. Roman immediately let him go, about to ask whether he'd done something wrong when Ambrose moved his legs out on either side of him, taking his cock as deep as he could. “You'll have to do better than that, Freight Treigns.” Dean rasped, hair falling into his eyes as he bucked and rocked his hips.

Roman spat into his palm and wrapped his fingers around Dean's cock. “How about now?” He teased through gritted teeth when he felt Ambrose tighten. “That okay?”

“Fucking Jesus-” Dean moaned.

“M' Roman.”

“Yes you fuckin' are.” Ambrose's blunt fingernails dragged over his tattooed pectoral and Roman couldn't contain his growl. “Oh is that how it is?” Dean's grin was smug and greedy, and it sent a lightning bolt down Roman's spine. “Is that sensitive, Roman? Is that sensitive?”

“You're a dick.” Roman snorted, sticking his tongue out.

“Fuck, I love how big your tongue is.” Dean hung his head and Reigns watched as a flush spread over his pale shoulders. “Sorry. That was supposed to be internal.” Ambrose mumbled. “Not trying to weird you out.”

“The fuck it was.” Reigns bottomed out in him and Dean gave a soft cry. “The fucking fuck it was, Ambrose. You tell me that shit. You like my mouth? Tell me.” Roman demanded, feeling power-drunk as Dean blushed and wriggled on his hips. “No one's ever told me that they like a part of me aside from my cock. And here you are, letting me fuck you nice and deep like how I want. Usually all anyone says to me is that they want me to rail them against the wall until they come.” Because of how I look, because of who I am--

“I like your eyes.” Dean sounded almost shy. “I like your mouth. I-I like your hands.” He planted his hands on Roman's chest, nails lightly digging in. “I like your hair, and your neck. And the way you smile at me.”

“Yeah?” Roman felt dumb for smiling, like he was doing it on command.

“Mmm.” Dean smiled right back at him, putting his hand over Roman's on his cock. “I don't need you to muscle me around, but I won't break if you decide to bury your dick in me, y'know?”

“Fuck.” Roman snarled, doing just that. “You're gonna' make me come if you keep talking.”

“You're gonna' come? Gonna' fuck up into me and fill me up?” Dean's hand sped up on his cock. “I'm close, I'm close, fuck, Roman make me come-” He pleaded, begged, commanded and Roman obliged, thumbing over the slick head of his cock and wrenching another cry out of Ambrose before he came hard on Roman's stomach. The rhythmic spasm of his body in orgasm was too much for Reigns to handle and he thrust his cock in one last time.

“Inside or outside?” Roman panted desperately. Dean's eyes were still rolled back in his head. “Fuck, Ambrose, can I come in you?” Condoms weren't foolproof, Dean was definitely within his bounds to say no and-

“Come in me, come in me-” Dean crooned, circling his hips in a daze. Roman couldn't have kept from coming even if he wanted to at that point. He pinned Ambrose's slender hips down and fucked every last drop into him, snapping his teeth when Dean cried out, “Yes!”

“Thank you, thank you.” Roman breathed after Dean slumped forward onto his chest, the taller man's body still trembling. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Thanks for savin' my life earlier.” Dean said abruptly, his voice a little muffled from where his mouth was pressed to Roman's collarbone. “Fuckin'...shit. I coulda' died.”

“No way.” Roman gripped him tighter. “I wouldn't let that happen. Not if I could help it.” Ambrose tilted his face up to kiss him and Reigns hastily dodged the motion. “No, no, at least let me brush my teeth.” He explained, seeing the look of hurt confusion that Dean tried (poorly) to hide. “Just let me brush my teeth, rinse my mouth and I promise I will give you a kiss.”

“Yeah? Well who says I want one now?” Dean pouted and Roman chuckled, swatting his ass.

“I'll change your mind.”

“Hurry up and get back here, then!” Dean ordered after Reigns got to his feet, the blond man sprawling out to take up a decent portion of the bed. “Don't forget we have work to do, Reigns.”

Roman didn't even have to turn around to know that Ambrose was smiling. “God, I hope so.”

#dean ambrose #roman reigns #roman reigns/dean ambrose #ambreigns #ambreigns au #Wrestle!AU: Freight Treigns #cop!Ambrose #cop!Reigns #because I watched Timecop and The Last Action Hero and a bunch of other crap #thirst party saturday #enjoy!#ambreigns smut #this is supposed to take place in the 80s-early 90s #but that's not really important #evil!Seth #loose-cannonry #not playing by the rules

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shannybasar · 4 years

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Life and Fate by Vasily Grossman: Day 33

Part Two, Chapters 45 - 49:

This paragraph on the power of music in the concentration camps brought tears to my eyes:

What music resurrects in the soul of a man is about to die is neither hope nor thought, but simply the blind, heart-breaking miracle of life itself. A sob passed down the column. Everything seemed transformed, everything had come together; everything scattered and fragmented - home, peace, the journey, the rumble of wheels, thirst, terror, the city, rising out of the mist, the wan red dawn - fused together, not into a memory or a picture but into the blind, fierce ache of life itself. Here, in the glow of the gas ovens, people knew that life was more than happiness - it was also grief. And freedom was both painful and difficult; it was life itself.

and this was before we got to this scene:

How can one convey the feelings of a man pressing his wife’s hand for the last time ? How can one describe that last, quick look at a beloved face ? Yes, and how can a man live with the merciless memory of how, during the silence of parting, he blinked for a moment to hide the crude joy he felt at having managed to save his own life ? How can he ever bury the memory of his wife handing him a packet containing her wedding ring, a rusk and some sugar-lumps ? How can he continue to exist, seeing the glow in the sky flaring up with renewed strength ? Now the hands he had kissed must be burning, now the eyes that had admired him, now the hair whose smell he could recognize in darkness, now his children, his wife, his mother.

and then the stories of the individuals in the queue walking into the gas chamber, including David, a little boy.

A eulogy:

What constitutes the freedom, the soul of an individual life, is its uniqueness. The reflection of the universe in someone’s consciousness is the foundation of his or her power, but life only becomes happiness, is only endowed with freedom and meaning when someone exists as a whole world that has never been repeated in all eternity. Only then can they experience the joy of freedom and kindness, finding in others what they have already found in themselves.

#vasily grossman #life and fate #books

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advocatewrites-blog · 6 years

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Into the Unknown Part 2 Chapter 4

Into the Unknown

Fandom: Undertale, Coraline (book), Over the Garden Wall, Paranorman, Gravity Falls (season 2)

Characters: Frisk, Norman B., Dipper P., Mabel P., Coraline J., Wirt, Greg, the Cat, the Frog; Sans, Toriel, Papyrus, Undyne, Alphys, Asgore,; the Other Mother, the Beast, Agatha P., Bill Cipher, Asriel D., Chara D.,

Pairings: Not the focus. Alphys/Undyne, with mentions of Papyrus/Mettaton, sans/Toriel/Asgore, and Wirt/Sara. Due to the nature of Undertale and the dating segments, there is also interpretable Papyrus/Wirt, Undyne/Mabel, Alphys/Dipper, Napstablook/Norman, Mettaton/Norman, Mettaton/Mabel, Sans/Dipper, Sans/Norman, and Sans/Greg.

Rated a high +K for violence, mild language, horrific elements that may be disturbing to younger readers, mentions of child abuse and bullying, character death that is sometimes permanent, and mentions of suicide that may be triggering. These elements remain relatively unchanged from their source material, which most all are for children, but discretion is advised nonetheless.

Disclaimer: Undertale was created and owned by Toby Fox. Coraline was created by Neil Gaiman and owned by Bloomsbury and Laika. Over the Garden Wall was created by Patrick McHale and owned by Cartoon Network. Paranorman was created by Sam Fell and Chris Butler and owned by Laika. Gravity Falls was created by Alex Hirsch and owned by Disney. Any other work mentioned or homage are property of their respective owners. This is a fan-made, nonprofit work that only seeks to entertain. Please support the original franchises.

Start from beginning / Previous chapter / Next chapter (soon)

Chapter 4

“I didn’t expect a laboratory in a place like this,” said Greg.

“What?”

Wirt was pulled out of his thoughts as he looked up. A building sat in front of them, plain except for the words “LAB” printed on its side.

“Oh,” said Wirt. “Well, maybe we should go around then.”

“I’m not sure if we can,” said Greg. He pointed to the rest of the road, barely a cliff left from where the lab ended.

“Then we’ll run in,” said Wirt. “And we’ll be very polite and we won’t stick around long enough for them to figure out we’re human.”

“Sounds like a plan. Lead the way, Spuds McKenzie!”

The frog croaked and hopped towards the lab. Two automatic doors slid open and the three walked in.

There was only one light source in the lab, a monitor that filled the room with an eerie blue glow. There was no one around, Wirt realized. The light hum of machinery felt a lot louder than it really was.

“It’s you!” Greg said, and pointed to the monitor.

Wirt turned. His reflection stared back.

“We’re going,” said Wirt as he pushed his brother through.

They were not halfway through the hallway when the lights snapped on, startling Wirt to a stop. A door opened beside him as a small dinosaur monster walked out. Its eyes instantly fell onto the two.

“Hello!” said Greg.

“Oh. My God.” It breathed. “I didn’t expect you to show up so soon! I haven’t showered, I’m barely dressed, it’s all messy and…”

It stopped its pacing and took a deep breath.

“Uh…h-h-hiya! I’m Dr. Alphys, King ASGORE’s royal scientist,” it said. “B-b-b-but I’m not one of the bad guys! Actually, since you stepped out of the Ruins, I’ve been, uh, been ‘observing’ your journey through my console.”

“We noticed,” said Wirt.

“I-I was originally going to stop you,” said Dr. Alphys “But there’s something about watching people on a screen that really makes you root for them. So I want to help you.”

“I think we’ll be fine,” said Wirt.

“But Wirt!” said Greg. “We could be famous!”

“She’s the only one watching us!” said Wirt. “And that’s weird!”

“A-a-actually, uh…” said Dr. Alphys. “T-t-there is a problem of…that. A long time ago, I made a robot named Mettaton. Originally, I built him to be an entertainment robot. Uh, you know, like a robotic TV star or something. Anyway, recently I decided to make him more useful. You know, just some small practical adjustments. Like…uh…anti…anti-human combat features? And, uh…now he’s an unstoppable killing machine with a thirst for human blood?”

Wirt’s blood ran cold. A set of heavy thuds filled the room and echoed about.

“So what you’re saying is,” said Greg. “We’re going to be on TV?”

“OH YES!” A highly processed voice rang out through the lab.

The child was not there when the Cat awoke. Neither was Beatrice. The Cat could not help but think these two were related.

“ �|ҁ�w6 ,” said the man who spoke in hands.

“I believe they mentioned they can do that,” said the Cat. “Is that why you want me to follow them?”

“ �|ҁ�w6 ?”

“Hardly,” said the Cat.

“e �|?” said the man, a tease in his voice that the Cat could not quite figure out. “ st-font-�|ҟ� ҏ� �|Ҏ RESETTING� w6 ?”

The Cat said nothing. He was right of course, and he did not want to admit it out loud.

“, bri"," MERCY�|Ҍ� w6 ,” said the man. “eigh�|Ҏ �w6. MERCY , reast-theme3|�v�w6 .”

Frisk was the first true visitor to Aunti Whispers’ cottage in a long time. Most visitors just got eaten.

“There’d be no point to eating you, of course,” said Aunti Whispers in a tone that was probably supposed to be jokingly. “You would always just come back. It’d be a waste of perfectly good spices.”

The tea was served by a young woman who was more dust than skin. It was made of golden flowers. Aunti Whispers ordered it especially for them. It was a rare plant in the Unknown, but Frisk recognized the bright colors and sharp fragrance of that in the Underground. It felt familiar, and not just because of that. It smelled like the Mr. Dad Guy that the Other Toriel had created. It reminded them of the flowers that had broken their fall when they first fell down, and again in the Dump.

“Now go rearrange the bones of the past visitors,” Aunti Whispers said to the servant girl.

“I already have, Aunti Whispers,” the girl said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Then clean the floor. Our guests have tracked in quite a bit of mud.”

Frisk couldn’t help but feel a wash of shame as the servant girl’s shoulders slumped and she resumed to her chores. They cocked their head to the side, a quiet indication of confusion.

“It is best that Lorna keeps to her chores,” said Aunti Whispers. “Working will keep the beast within her at bay. Now then, child, what brings you to the Unknown?”

Frisk started to sign.

“I’m afraid I do not know the language of hands,” said Aunti Whispers. She did not say it cruelly, but it was still disappointing. Frisk fetched the paper pad and pen.

How did you know I could Save?

“You are not the first person to enter the Unknown and use the powers of your Soul.” said Aunti Whispers. “A few of them are downstairs now.”

I didn’t know I could do it, wrote down Frisk. They don’t write down the part where they found out they could do it.

Aunti Whispers hummed in thought. “Lorna! Fetch me a book from my bookshelf. Mysteries of the Soul, Volume One. Think it’s by some fellow named Faux.”

“Oh no…” Alphys said.

“OH YES!” Mettaton announced as he popped over the kitchen counter. “WELCOME BEAUTIES AND GENTLEBEAUTIES TO THE UNDERGROUND’S PREMIERE COOKING SHOW! COOKING WITH A KILLER ROBOT!!! PREHEAT YOUR OVENS, BECASE WE’VE GOT A VERY SPECIAL RECIPE FOR YOU!”

“A cake?” Greg asked.

“RIGHT YOU ARE, MY LOVELY ASSISTANT!!!” Mettaton said. “GO AHEAD AND GATHER THE INGREDIENTS. THEY’RE RIGHT ON THE COUNTER BEHIND YOU!!!”

“We’re not going to be a part of any cooking show,” said Wirt.

“It’s just a cake, Wirt,” said Greg. “And the audience is counting on us.”

“LET’S GIVE THEM A HAND FOR ENCOURAGEMENT!!! Mettaton said.

A confetti cannon exploded from behind the kitchen set, covering Wirt. Greg clapped along before getting to work. He dropped off the eggs on the counter, dropped the sugar on the eggs, and the milk in the sugar.

“PERFECT!!! GREAT JOB BEAUTIFUL!!” Mettaton said. “NOW WE JUST NEED OUR SECRET INGREDIENT!!”

“Love?” Greg asked.

Mettaton held up a chainsaw.

“A HUMAN SOUL!!!”

“Wait, wait, wait!” Wirt said. “Don’t you have a substitution or something?”

“WHY WOULD I EVER NEED ONE WHEN THE REAL THING’S RIGHT HERE?” Mettaton asked.

“Well, what if someone’s….vegan?”

“VEGAN?”

“Well—”

“THAT’S A GREAT IDEA, SWEETHEART!!!” Mettaton said. “ACTUALLY, WE DO HAVE AN OPTION ON SET!! MTT BRAND COMVENIENT HUMAN SOUL SUBSTITUTE!!!”

Mettaton pointed off the kitchen set and out of the room. A wooden cabinet with a jar sat in the corner.

“That looks suspicious,” Wirt said.

“YOUR IDEA, BEAUTIFUL.” Mettaton said.

“I’ll get it! I’m a lovely assistant!” Greg said.

Greg ran off the set. The cameras followed him. No sooner did he lay a hand on the counter did it shoot up into the sky, taking Greg with him.

Wirt let out a series of panicked noises he could not quite form into words.

“OH DEAR. WHAT A TRAGEDY,” said Mettaton. “WELL, WE’RE ON A SCHEDULE, SWEETHEART. IF YOU CAN’T GET THEM BACK IN ONE MINUTE, WE’LL HAVE TO MOVE ONTO THE ORIGINAL PLAN!!!”

The phone rang.

“I know this looks bad,” said Alphys. “B-but I think I have an idea. S-see that button on your phone that says JET PACK?”

Wirt looked down at the phone.

“Press it,” said Alphys.

Wirt knew exactly where this was going.

“TIME’S RUNNING OUT, SWEETHEART!” Mettaton reminded.

Wirt swallowed, looked up to Greg so he wouldn’t have to look at the phone, and pressed the button.

He was a good twenty feet in the air before he could process his feet left the ground. He was not much higher when Mettaton began to throw things at him. The sense of vertigo faded as his attention shifted to dodging puffs of flour, eggs, and cups of sugar.

He had passed Greg by the time he was actually able to get his bearings. He looked just in time to see the jar that Greg had tossed it start to fall. Neither of them could catch it in time. It collided to the ground in a mess of glass and red goo.

“HUH,” said Mettaton. “HOW ABOUT WE GO TO A WORD FROM OUR SPONSORS, AND WE’LL FINISH UP WITH THE CAKE WE MADE AHEAD OF TIME!”

Mettaton flew off closer to the real set. Wirt managed to catch himself and fly down as the dresser coiled back into himself.

“That was fun!” said Greg.

“That was terrifying!” said Wirt.

He pulled Greg closer to him, stopping him from going back to the set. Mettaton was talking to his cameramen, and wouldn’t see if they left.

“How about we leave before he notices we’re gone?” Wirt asked.

“But I wanted to try the cake,” said Greg.

It took Lorna a minute to find the book. It was old and musty, with binding falling apart at the seams and pages nearly yellow with age. It was big enough that it hit the table with a thud, regardless of how carefully Lorna put it down. Aunti Whispers turned the page carefully, leaning in as she read. Frisk tried their best to read over her head. They could only make out vague shapes; heats in different colors with pigment that faded over time, and carefully sketched triangle patterns.

“Souls hold a type of power,” read Aunti Whispers. “It holds their owner together and shapes their personality, no matter what they may go through in life. Bravery, Justice, Kindness, Patience, Perseverance, Integrity…the strongest of these, Determination. The power is rare, but its powers are innate. The ability to persist after death, or rewind time. To fix what went wrong, or what went right.”

I thought it was like a video game, wrote down Frisk. Every time I felt determined, it was like I was saving the game.

Aunti Whispers made a face of confusion. Frisk supposed she did not understand what a video game was.

“I will admit my knowledge of how Souls work is lacking,” she said. “That was not the kind of magic I work with. If you truly want to find the powers of your Soul, you should try to look within the Kingdom of Monsters.”

Frisk perked up.

That’s what I want to do! They wrote. Do you know how to get there?

“There is a way,” said Aunti Whispers. “But I do not know it. How did you end up in the Unknown in the first place?”

Another wash of shame overcame Frisk as they started writing. I reset.

Aunti Whispers studied them carefully, eyes cold with something Frisk could not read. “Were you here before?”

Frisk shook their head. They started to write things down, that they were in the Underground at first and then the Other World, but Aunti Whispers spoke again.

“The other ones that used Determination were much older than you, you realize. They were much more in control of what they could do. If you came about the power recently, you may not be well-equipped to use it. One small slip, and you may have traded places with someone.”

Frisk nodded.

I know I have, they sign. That’s why I want to go back. But not before I fix things.

Aunti Whispers did not understand.

Lorna did not fall asleep until well into the night, as her body finally collapsed from exhaustion. Frisk did not fall asleep until after that. Though Aunti Whispers had proven she had no ill will towards them, her house was not exactly comfortable sleeping in.

When they woke up, Lorna made them a small breakfast of things they couldn’t quite eat and more tea. Aunti Whispers only emerged to give Lorna more orders and give a final warning to Frisk.

“Beware my sister, Adelaide. She lives in the pasture. She must not be trusted.”

The Cat was waiting for them outside the house, curled up in a tree.

“I was wondering when you’d step out,” said the Cat. He sounded like he did not care. “I take it that little trick was how you ended up in the Other World, yes?”

Frisk nodded.

Didn’t mean to, they signed. You were in danger.

The Cat watches them carefully, as if looking for a sign they were lying. His sign reading was not too good, but he could ready body language.

“I don’t believe Beatrice will be joining us again,” said the Cat. “Do you know the cause of that?”

Frisk nodded. They didn’t want to say, and the Cat probably would not understand them anyway.

The two of them head off into the unknown.

Author’s Note: I am so sorry for the late update! I drank too much eggnog and lost track of time! Hopefully this should be the last of it, and the good news is I’ll post the next chapter tomorrow since it is rather short.

#fic #Into the Unknown #Undertale #Over the Garden Wall #Frisk #Wirt #Greg #the Frog #the Cat #Alphys #Mettaton #Gaster #featured

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winetae · 7 years

Text

⇁ gumdrops & lollipops (m)

⚬ pairing ⇀ Hoseok x Reader (ft. oompa loompa! yoongi & jimin)

⚬ genre ⇀ smut, crack, willy wonka!au ↳ drabble; 2k

a visit to jung hoseok’s chocolate factory does not turn out the way you expected it to

a/n → yo, i was finally drunk enough to write this i won’t @ her bc she might block me, but jordan is 101% responsible for this. by this i mean the concept, the cute banner, everything. blame her :’‘)

Hoseok had made the search for confectionery perfection his sole purpose in life.

Chocolatier was not a term that did him justice. Making mouth-watering sweets was an art of its own; every sugary treat was crafted with ample care, for Hoseok wanted each confection to bring pleasure, to awaken the senses. There was a reason his candy was in high demand. Many had tried to rival his products, but none could imitate the genius of his creations: sweets that melted on your tongue, taste that morphed with every chew, a story behind every bite.

Hoseok was a scientist, an artist, an innovator—a pioneer in his own right. His mind was always whirring with new ideas, new possibilities. He was not one to settle for mediocrity; he wanted novelty, complexity, depth. If that meant he had to push boundaries and explore territories no one had dared to venture, then so be it. In his quest for innovative flavors, he had scoured the deep forests of the amazons for the perfect cocoa beans, traveled beyond the seven kingdoms for the most exotic fruits. Twice, he had risked his life to obtain rare and sought-after ingredients.

So, of course no corner shop candy store could compare to his daring, his brilliance. Instead of inventing their own bite-sized masterpieces, they busied themselves with creating pale imitations of his grandiose visions.

Everyone wanted to get their hands on his prized recipes, but no one ever would, not unless Hoseok decided to tell them. No one had given him reason to—that was, not until he met you.

You examined the insides of the box set and its assortment of hazelnut truffles, dark chocolate clusters, and heart-shaped, white chocolate fudge. The sweet aroma called out to you, but you knew you weren’t allowed to taste—not yet, at least. You tried to tamper your growing appetite, not wanting to end up like the rest of the volunteers who had been too blinded by their own greed. No, you certainly did not want to suffer the same fate as Jihyo… The poor girl had been rolled out of the room accompanied by the soft humming of oompa Yoongi. You had watched the scene unfold with poorly concealed fascination, an odd feeling of satisfaction curling in the pit of your stomach.

Now that Jihyo had been literally pushed out of the picture, you were the last remaining volunteer. You had somehow passed every inspection so far, but Hoseok had one last test for you.

He dipped his finger in the bird fountain, coating his digit in a layer of milky chocolate.

“Do you know how I achieve this smooth, silky texture?” he prodded, watching as your face lit up with curiosity. Under the artificial beams of light, the dark layer of sweetness looked like velvet and you could only swallow, mouth dry with anticipation and want.

Hoseok cleaned his digit off with a rude swipe of his tongue. You followed the movement with envy, wishing he would stop teasing you. Only a herculean amount of self-control had prevented you from devouring the array of colorful gumdrops earlier, but you could only take so much temptation before you caved into your desires. It was easier to keep your eyes fixed on Hoseok… If you let your gaze wander, you were afraid you would become another victim to gluttony. That was not to say that Jung Hoseok was less appealing than the butterscotch toffees and the rainbow-swirl lollipops. In his robes of deep eminence, there was something about him that aroused a different kind of hunger within you.

“No, I suspect you do not,” he laughed, taking your silence for an answer. “I take pride in my chocolates… You can prowl the earth as many times as you would like, but you will never be able find a duplicate. Not even close.”

“A taste beyond imagination,” you recited, remembering the embossed letters on his trademark gold foil packaging.

“That’s right,” he grinned. “Would you care for a taste?”

You nodded quickly, composure forgotten.

“You’ve been a good girl so far… I’ll allow it.” Hoseok smirked down at you.

He dipped his digit once more in the treacly substance and brought the index finger up to your lips. You hadn’t realized they had parted in hunger until you felt the sticky sweetness drop onto your tongue. Instinctively your mouth closed around his finger, eager to quench your thirst.

It was impossible to describe the taste. The creamy mellowness invaded your senses, like a heady red wine that had been mulled for ages. Hoseok’s finger had long been cleaned of its sugar coating, but you stubbornly kept sucking and lapping at it, needing more.

“What a greedy mouth,” Hoseok chided, taking his hand away.

You had to bite down a whine, refusing to act like a spoiled child robbed of their toy. You were stronger than that, even if Hoseok was testing your dwindling patience and self-restraint.

“Penny for your thoughts?” He queried as you licked your lips clean.

“The flavor is so rich it lingers,” you gasped in awe. “The chocolate is sweet, but there’s a tangy aftertaste. Citrus? Orange? ”

You swallowed again, trying to name the incredible savor, oblivious to the way Hoseok’s eyebrows shot up in astonishment.

“Close. I use the zest of makrut limes… It’s fragrant, isn’t it? People never think to use it.” You could tell by his boastful tone how smug he was to have thought of the idea. “You must have a developed palate. Not many notice the citrus notes.”

You felt your cheeks heat up at the compliment. “I have a sweet tooth.”

His head tilted as he considered you. Had you been too bold? Was he disappointed with your show of intemperance? You tried your best not to fidget, afraid he was going to call in another one of his oompa loompas to drag you out.

“I also have penchant for sweet things. Come,” he motioned for you to follow him.

You tried not to let your apprehension show as you tailed him. Resolving yourself to not let the surrounding sights and smells entice you further, you focused your gaze on Hoseok’s back. The purple colored robe hugged his body just right, and for a few dizzying seconds you were consumed with the desire to climb his back.

Before you could act out irrationally, Hoseok stopped in front of a large silver platter of lava cakes and frosted cupcakes. He pressed a button of some sort, and a new platter appeared on the table, as if summoned by magic.

You peered at the new arrival in great interest, noting the dark orange hue and sprinkles of what looked like sugar.

“Fudge can be a tricky thing. There needs to be a good balance between the condensed milk and the chocolate in order for the result to be perfectly chewy,” he explained, long fingers tracing the edge of the tray seductively.

The appetizing smell wafted all around you, tickling your nostrils. You wiped your mouth discreetly, hoping you hadn’t been drooling unattractively.

“These are straight out of the oven. They’re still in the works… I haven’t been able to test them out properly yet,” he picked a square of hot fudge and handed it to you. “Why don’t you give it a go and tell me what you think?”

“What, really?” you asked, not daring to believe your ears. After four very long hours of dangling various delights under your nose without letting you taste, he was finally giving you that precious opportunity. You would be a fool to refuse.

“Of course.” He smiled and adjusted his tinted glasses. “Good girls get rewarded.”

You bit into the warm fudge cautiously, still wary of his sudden change of heart. Was this still a test of some kind? But as soon as the chocolate melted in your mouth, everything else fizzled out. Nothing else mattered but the salty taste of caramel and the exploding flavor of cacao. The swirling blend of the two was so heavenly, it almost brought tears to your eyes.

“This is the best fudge I’ve had in my life,” you moaned around a mouthful of the treat.

“I’m glad to hear that.” His gaze never left your face, intent on catching every single one of your reactions. “Do you taste anything in particular?”

“Caramel,” you said immediately. “Salted caramel… The flavor is quite refined. Did you, um, perhaps use fleur de sel?”

He seemed immensely pleased with your assessment.

“Close.” His lips quirked up in amusement. “We’ve been testing out a new ingredient.”

“Yes, p-please,” you begged. “Please, I need to know.”

He raised an eyebrow, lost in thought.

“I would like to know,” you corrected yourself, knowing he preferred polite formulas.

“Are you certain?” For once, he seemed unsure.

“Yes!” Why wouldn’t you be? Millions of people all over the world probably wanted to be in your shoes right now. Who in their right minds would pass up this once-in-a-lifetime chance?

“Well then,” he straightened himself. “You’ll have to fetch it for me.”

You nodded eagerly, your thirst for knowledge and desire for candied treats fueling your curiosity

In all the wildest scenarios you managed to conjure up, the last thing you expected was for Hoseok to push you down to your knees. You stared up at his figure from below, awaiting his next move with bated breath.

Hoseok reached down and caressed your cheek, calloused fingertips trailing the lines of your face.

“You’ll have to work for it. Are you sure you want it?”

Nodding eagerly, you reached for his belt without further prompting, afraid he would change his mind. Now that he had given you permission, you no longer had to moderate and control your appetite. Your actions were now governed by your consuming cravings for sweets, for him.

It didn’t take long for Hoseok to grow in your hand; not when he was faced with your abundance of eagerness and determination. A few strokes in and you let your mouth wrap around his impressive girth, desperate to please him and, more importantly, to sate your hunger.

“Tell me why you deserved to eat my fudge,” his voice commanded, fingers tugging on the strands of your hair. “Why should I let you swallow my come? Tell me.“

With your lips sealed around his throbbing cock, you attempted to pull away in order to answer him, but he kept your head firmly in place. If anything, he pulled you further down his length, scrutinizing the minute variations in your expressions.

“Go on, tell me,” he encouraged, forcing more of his size into your mouth.

You struggled to answer; words distorted and muffled, tongue working around his girth in an attempt to form the adequate words. Hoseok watched you with wicked delight, relishing in the way your mumbled response was drowned out by the lewd sounds of your gags. You were certain you looked like a mess; spit and precome dripping down from the sides of your mouth, dribbling onto your neck, onto your clothed chest.

“Such a good girl,” he patted your cheek in praise. You looked up at him, mouth full of his cock. “You, ah, you earned this.”

“Please,” you tried pleading, a muted moan lodged in the back of your throat.

“Mm, you want more don’t you? I can see it. You’re so hungry.”

You hummed your assent, mouth still working diligently over his cock. The lack of air was starting to affect your senses, so with renewed effort, you sucked harder, delicate hands reaching up to play with his balls.

Hoseok gripped your hair tightly, and thrust into your throat, keeping your head still as he spilled his seed into your mouth.

You swallowed around his length greedily, eager to finally drink in his succulence. You could now identify the salty flavor from before, and the overpowering taste brought you the greatest ecstasy. Looking back up at Hoseok, you could see your ravenous expression reflected on his glasses.

“I have a penchant for sweet things.” Hoseok repeated his words from earlier, voice a little fucked out, a mischievous gleam in his eyes. “And I have a feeling that you, my dear, will be positively delicious.”

#i'm not even gonna put this in my masterlist #??#i don't want to claim this as my own #as i was writing i kept screaming noooOOOooo #hoseok smut #bts smut #bts scenarios #hoseok scenarios #i blame jordan

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