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lilydalexf · 4 years

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Old School X is a project interviewing X-Files fanfic authors who were posting fic during the original run of the show. New interviews are posted every Tuesday.

Interview with Syntax6

Syntax6 has 17 stories at Gossamer, but you should visit her website for the complete collection of her fics and to see the cover art that comes with many of the stories (and to find her pro writing!). She's written some of the most beloved casefiles in the fandom. I've recced literally all of them here before. Twice. Big thanks to Syntax6 for doing this interview.

Does it surprise you that people are still interested in reading your X-Files fanfics and others that were posted during the original run of the show (1993-2002)?

I’m delighted but not surprised because I’ve written and read fanfic for shows even older than XF. Also, I joined the XF fandom relatively late, at the end of 1999, so there were already hundreds of “classic” fics out there, stories that were theoretically superseded or dated by canon developments that came after them, but which nonetheless remained compelling in their own right. That is the beauty of fanfic: it is inspired by its original creators but not bound by them. It’s a world of “what if” and each story gets to run in a new direction, irrespective of the canon and all the other stories spinning off in their own universes. In this way, fanfic becomes almost timeless.

What do you think of when you think about your X-Files fandom experience? What did you take away from it? What did you take away from your experience with X-Files fic or with the fandom in general?

(I feel these are similar, at least for me, so I will combine them here.)

First and foremost, I found friends. There was a table full of XF fanfic writers at my wedding. Bugs was my maid of honor. I still talk to someone from XF fandom pretty much every day. Lysandra, Maybe Amanda, Michelle Kiefer, bugs…these are just some of the people who’ve been part of my life for half my existence now. Sometimes I get to have dinner with Audrey Roget or Anjou or MCA. Deb Wells and Sarah Ellen Parsons are part of my pro fic beta team. I have a similar list from the Hunter fandom, terrific people who have enriched my life in numerous ways and I am honored to count as friends.

Second, I learned a lot about writing during my years in XF fandom. I grew up there. Part of this growth experience was simply due to practice. I wrote about 1.2 million words of XF fanfic, which is the equivalent of 15 novels. I made mistakes and learned from them. But another essential part of learning is absorbing different kinds of well-told tales, and XF had these in spades. Some stories were funny. Others were lyrical. Some were short pieces with nary a word wasted while others were sprawling epics that took you on an adventure. The neat thing about XF is that it has space for many different kinds of stories, from hard-core sci-fi to historical romance. You can watch other authors executing these varied pieces and learn from them. You can form critique groups and ask for betas and get direct feedback on how to improve. It’s collaborative and fun, and this can’t be underestimated, generally supportive. The underlying shared love of the original product means that everyone comes into your work predisposed to enjoy it. I am grateful for all the encouragement and the critiques I received over my years in fandom.

Finally, I think a valuable lesson for writers that you can find in fandom, but not in your local author critique group, is how to handle yourself when your work goes public. Not everyone is going to like your work and they will make sure you know it. Some people will like it maybe too much, to the point where they cross boundaries. Learning to disengage yourself from public reaction to your work is a difficult but crucial aspect of being a writer. You control the story. You can’t control reaction to it. It’s frustrating at first, perhaps, but in the end, it’s freeing.

Social media didn't really exist during the show's original run. How were you most involved with the X-Files online (atxc, message board, email mailing list, etc.)?

I participated in ATXC, the Haven message boards, and the Scullyfic mailing list/news group. For a number of years, I also ran a fic discussion group with bugs called The Why Incision.

What got you involved with X-Files fanfic?

I started reading XF fanfic before I began watching the show. I had watched one season two episode (Soft Light) and then seen bits and pieces of a few others from season four. I’d seen Fight the Future. Basically, I’d seen enough to know which one was Mulder and which one was Scully, and which one believed in aliens. An acquaintance linked me to a rec site for XF fanfic (Gertie’s, maybe?) so that I could see how fic was formatted for the web. I clicked a fic, I think it was one by Lydia Bower dealing with Scully’s cancer arc, and basically did not stop reading. Soon I was printing off 300K of fic to take home with me each night. I could not believe the level of talent in the fandom, and that there were so many excellent writers just giving away their works for free. I wanted to play in this sandbox, too, so I started renting the VHS tapes to catch up on old episodes (see, I am An Old). After a few months, I began writing my own stuff.

What was it that got you hooked on the X-Files as a show?

I had to be dragged kicking and screaming to The X-Files. I’m not a sci-fi person by nature. I think my main objection is that, when done poorly, it feels lazy to me. Who did the thing? A ghost! Maybe an alien? I guess we’ll never know. You can always just shrug and play some spooky music and the “truth will always be out there…” somewhere beyond the story in front of you. You never have to commit to any kind of truth because you can invent some magical power or new kind of alien to change the story. I think, by the bitter end, the XF had devolved into this kind of storytelling. The mytharc made no kind of sense even in its own universe. But for years the XF achieved the best aspects of sci-fi storytelling—narrative flexibility and an apotheosis of our current fears dressed up as a super entertaining yarn.

What eventually sold me on the XF as a show is all of the smart storytelling and the sheer amount of ideas contained within its run. At its best, it’s a brilliant show. You have mediations on good versus evil, the role of government in a free society, is there a God, are we alone in the universe, and what are the elements that make us who we are? If Mulder and Morris Fletcher switch bodies, how do we know it’s really “them”? The tonal shifts from week to week were clever and engaging. For Vince Gilligan, truth was always found in fellow human beings. For Darin Morgan, humans were the biggest monster of all. The show was big enough to contain both these premises, and indeed, was stronger for it. The deep questions, the character quirks, the unsolved mysteries and all that went unsaid in the Mulder-Scully relationship left so much room for fanfic writers to do their own work. As such, the fandom attracted and continues to attract both dabbling writers and those who are serious craftspeople. People who like the mystery and those who like the sci-fi angle. Scientists and true believers. Like the show, it’s big enough for all.

What is your relationship like now to X-Files fandom?

I look at it like an old friend I catch up with once in a while. We’ve been close for so long that there’s no awkwardness—we just get each other! I love seeing people post screen shots and commentary, and I think it’s wonderful that so many writers are still inventing new adventures for Mulder and Scully. That is how the characters live on, and indeed how any of us lives on, through the stories that others tell about us.

Were you involved with any fandoms after the X-Files? If so, what was it like compared to X-Files?

I ran the Hunter fandom for about five years, mostly because when I poked my head back in, I found the person in change was a bully who’d shut down everything due to her own waning interest. A person would try to start a topic for discussion, and she’d say, “We’ve already covered that.” Well, yes, in a 30-year-old show, there’s not a lot of new ground…

Most other shows, Hunter included, have smaller fandoms and thus don’t attract the depth of fan talent. I don’t just mean fanfic writers. I mean those who do visual art, fan vids, critiques, etc. The XF fandom has all these in droves, which makes it a rare and special place. But all fandoms have the particular joy of geeking out over favorite scenes and reveling in the meeting of shared minds. It will always look odd to those not contained within it, which brings me to the part of modern fandom I find somewhat uncomfortable…the creators are often in fan-space.

In Hunter, the female lead joins fan groups and participates. This is more common now in the age of social media, where writers, producers, actors, etc., are on the same platforms as the rest of us. Fan and creator interaction used to be highly circumscribed: fans wrote letters and maybe received a signed headshot in return. There were cons where show runners gave panels and took questions from the audience. You could stand in line to meet your favorite star. Now, you can @ your favorite star on Twitter, message her on Facebook or follow him on Instagram. In some ways, this is so fun! In other ways, it blurs in the lines in ways that make me uncomfortable. I think it’s rude, for example, if a fan were to go on a star’s social media and post fanfic there or say, “I thought the episode you wrote was terrible.” But what if it’s fan space and the actor is sitting right there, watching you? Is it rude to post fanfic in front of her, especially if she says it makes her uncomfortable? Is it mean to tell a writer his episode sucked right to his face?

Do you ever still watch The X-Files or think about Mulder and Scully?

I own the first seven seasons on DVD and will pull them out from time to time to rewatch old faves. I’ve shown a few episodes over the spring and summer to my ten-year-old daughter, and it’s been fun to see the series through her eyes. We’ve mostly opted for the comedic episodes because there’s enough going on in the real world to give her nightmares. Her favorite so far is Je Souhaite.

Do you ever still read X-Files fic? Fic in another fandom?

I don’t have much bandwidth to read fanfic these days. My job as a mystery/thriller author means I have to keep up with the market so I do most of my reading there right now. I also beta read for some pro-fic friends and betaing a novel will keep you busy.

Do you have any favorite X-Files fanfic stories or authors?

I read so much back in the day that this answer could go on for pages. Alas, it also hasn’t changed much over the past fifteen years because I haven’t read much since then. But, as we’re talking Golden Oldies today, here are a bunch:

All the Mulders, by Alloway I find this short story both hilarious and haunting. Scully embraces her power in the upside down post-apocalyptic world.

Strangers and the Strange Dead, by Kipler Taut prose and an intriguing 3rd party POV make this story a winner, and that’s before the kicker of an ending, which presaged 1013’s.

Cellphone, by Marasmus Talk about your killer twists! Also one of the cleverest titles coming or going.

Arizona Highways, by Fialka I think this is one of the best-crafted stories to come out of the XF. It’s majestic in scope, full of complex literary structure and theme, and yet the plot moves like a runaway freight train. Both the Mulder and Scully characterizations are handled with tender care.

So, We Kissed, by Alelou What I love about this one is how it grounds Mulder and Scully in the ordinary. Mulder’s terrible secret doesn’t involve a UFO or some CSM-conspiracy. Scully goes to therapy that actually looks like therapy. I guess what I’m saying is that I utterly believe this version of M & S in addition to just enjoying reading about them.

Sore Luck at the Luxor, by Anubis Hot, funny, atmospheric. What’s not to love?

Black Hole Season, by Penumbra Nobody does wordsmithing like Penumbra. I use her in arguments with professional writers when they try to tell me that adverbs and adjectives MUST GO. Just gorgeous, sly, insightful prose.

The Dreaming Sea, by Revely This one reads like a fairytale in all the best ways. Revely creates such loving, beautiful worlds for M & S to live in, and I wish they could stay there always.

Malus Genius, by Plausible Deniability and MaybeAmanda Funny and fun, with great original characters, a sly casefile and some clear-eyed musings on the perils of getting older. This one resonates more and more the older I get. ;)

Riding the Whirlpool, by Pufferdeux I look this one up periodically to prove to people that it exists. Scully gets off on a washing machine while Mulder helps. Yet it’s in character? And kinda works? This one has to be read to be believed.

Bone of Contention (part 1, part 2), by Michelle Kiefer and Kel People used to tell me all the time that casefiles are super easy to write while the poetic vignette is hard. Well, I can’t say which is harder but there much fewer well-done casefiles in the fandom than there are poetic vignettes. This is one of the great ones.

Antidote, by Rachel Howard A fic that manages to be both hot and cold as it imagines Mulder and Scully trying to stay alive in the frosty wilderness while a deadly virus is on the loose. This is an ooooold fic that holds up impressively well given everything that followed it!

Falling Down in Four Acts, by Anubis Anubis was actually a bunch of different writers sharing a single author name. This particular one paints an angry, vivid world for Our Heroes and their compatriots. There is no happy ending here, but I read this once and it stayed with me forever.

The Opposite of Impulse, by Maria Nicole A sweet slice of life on a sunny day. When I imagine a gentler universe for Mulder and Scully, this is the kind of place I’d put them.

What is your favorite of your own fics, X-Files and/or otherwise?

Bait and Switch is probably the most sophisticated and tightly plotted. It was late in my fanfic “career” and so it shows the benefits to all that learning. My favorite varies a lot, but I’ll say Universal Invariants because that one was nothing but fun.

Do you think you'll ever write another X-Files story? Or dust off and post an oldie that for whatever reason never made it online?

I never say never! I don’t have any oldies sitting around, though. Everything I wrote, I posted.

Do you still write fic now? Or other creative work?

I write casefiles…er, I mean mysteries, under my own name now, Joanna Schaffhausen. My main series with Reed and Ellery consists of a male-female crime solving team, so I get a little bit of my XF kick that way. Their first book, The Vanishing Season, started its life as an XF fanfic back in the day. I had to rewrite it from the ground up to get it published, but if you know both stories, you can spot the similarities.

Where do you get ideas for stories?

The answer any writer will tell you is “everywhere.” Ideas are cheap and they’re all around us—on the news, on the subway, in conversations with friends, from Twitter memes, on a walk through the woods. My mysteries are often rooted in true crime, often more than one of them.

Each idea is like a strand of colored thread, and you have to braid them together into a coherent story. This is the tricky part, determining which threads belong in which story. If the ideas enhance one another or if they just create an ugly tangent.

Mostly, though, stories begin by asking “what if?” What if Scully’s boyfriend Ethan had never been cut from the pilot? What if Scully had moved to Utah after Fight the Future? What if the Lone Gunmen financed their toys by writing a successful comic book starring a thinly veiled Mulder and Scully?

Growing up, I had a sweet old lady for a neighbor. Her name was Doris and she gave me coffee ice cream while we watched Wheel of Fortune together. Every time there was a snow storm, the snow melted in her backyard in a such way that suggested she had numerous bodies buried out there. How’s that for a “what if?”

What's the story behind your pen name?

I’ve had a few of them and honestly can’t tell you where they came from, it’s been so long ago. The “6” part of syntax6 is because I joke that 6 is my lucky number. In eighth grade, my algebra teacher would go around the room in order, asking each student their answer to the previous night’s homework problems. I realized quickly that I didn’t have to do all the problems, just the fifteenth one because my desk was 15th on her list. This worked well until the day she decided to call on kids in random order. When she got to me and asked me the answer to the problem I had not done, I just invented something on the spot. “Uh…six?”

Her: “You mean 0.6, don’t you?”

Me, nodding vigorously: “YES, I DO.”

Her: “Very good. Moving on…”

Do your friends and family know about your fic and, if so, what have been their reactions?

My close friends and family have always known, and reactions have varied from mild befuddlement to enthusiastic support. My father voted in the Spookies one year, and you can believe he read the nominated stories before casting his vote. I think the most common reaction was: Why are you doing this for free? Why aren’t you trying to be a paid writer?

Well, having done both now, I can tell you that each kind of writing brings its own rewards. Fanfic is freeing because there is no pressure to make money from it. You can take risks and try new things and not have to worry if it fits into your business plan.

(Posted by Lilydale on September 15, 2020)

#new post #old school x #xfiles fanfic #xf fanfic #xf fanfic author interviews #syntax6

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sunflowerstalks · 3 years

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Maybe If Remus Had a Plan in the First Place This Fic Would Have Had a Name, Too

Remus is Remus, Roman is tired, and there’s a cat, too. Expected chaos ensues.

This is my gift for Pigeon, @the-pigeon, for @sanderssidesgiftxchange! I hope you enjoy your gift, and i hope your holidays were and continue to go well! Also, happy new year!! :D

word count: 2125

rating: teen and up (for slight language/innuendo)

content warnings: slight innuendo/language typical of remus, hair pulling as a stim, descriptions of bad things happening to animals (as an intrusive thought, it is dealt with accordingly), slight anxiety attack/sensory overload moment

relationships: platonic sides (all of em) with brotherly roman&remus focus, implied/background romantic roman/virgil and romantic patton/remus but it’s pretty subtle

characters: roman, remus, virgil, patton, logan, janus, c!thomas (meaning both character!thomas and cat!thomas asfhjakfh)

additional tags: high school au, punk au, heist fic, like slight conflict and then mostly fluff and comfort. also, side note, cain and abel are the twins’ cats sdhjgdskfh

“Remus.”

“Roman.”

A beat.

“Any chance you could explain… any of this?” Roman gestures wildly to the pile of metal scraps, receipts, the feral cat, and assorted other trinkets strewn across the sidewalk in front of Remus, before crossing his arms and impatiently awaiting an answer without his usual air of, well, put-together-ness.

“Well, I’d actually gotten around to finally cleaning my wallet, when—”

“The cat, Remus! Whose cat is this? Why do you have it? Why is it surrounded by trash?” Roman’s voice increased in both volume and shrillness as he went on, hands reaching unconsciously to tug at his hair.

“Hey, don’t do that shit,” Remus tugged at the cuffed jean at Roman’s ankle for emphasis, “Anyways, like I was saying, I was cleaning my wallet when I remembered that I was like, eighty assignments behind in anatomy, so I figured I could do some cool art or somethin’ with a cat! For… extra credit or something.” Remus faltered for a moment, “In all honesty, I didn’t think I’d get this far.” He had thought getting the cat would be the hard part, so now he was stuck in the swing of success without a direction to turn. Roman, however, was still stuck on the small details (in Remus’ humble opinion).

Roman took a deep breath, muttering something that sounded a lot like a prayer for forgiveness, before looking down at his brother yet again.

“Remus.”

“Yes, brother dearest?”

“Whose cat is this?”

“Do you want the honest answer?”

Roman looked moments away from manslaughter, yet managed to nod anyways. Remus’ face broke into a shit-eating grin;

“I have no fucking clue.”

---

“Let me get this straight—”

A chorus of ‘good luck with that’s and similar sentiments echoed Logan’s statement, much to his chagrin.

“Okay. Redo.”

“You can’t just say ‘redo’ IRL, Lo,” Virgil chuckled, not even bothering to look up from his phone—he had already checked out from the drama, but stayed for the simple pleasure of experiencing the familiar banter—and in fear of being called to the dean’s office for cutting class. Mostly the latter.

“And I would argue that you cannot say ‘IRL’ in a verbal conversation, yet here we are,” Logan paused for emphasis, adjusted his necklaces for the umpteenth time, and smoothed his hands over the table again before continuing, “Regardless. The situation that you—and I mean you two,” he gestured to the twins, “there is hardly a ‘we’ fault-wise here—have gotten into, is one of... feline larceny, without a known victim? Is that correct?” Remus nodded sheepishly—or as sheepish as his wolfish features could get, all teeth and eyes—while Roman just stewed in rage. Remus’ backpack laid halfway zipped on the lab table, and every once in a while a pink nose and whiskers would find its way into the light before being shoved back by a flurry of hands, aware of what yet another detention would mean for the twins. They couldn’t all just skip, though—they learned that the hard way from the last time one of Roman and Remus’ harebrained schemes had made its way from “a slight nuisance” to “an unignorable thorn in everyone’s side that also somehow ends with arson.” So, they had some past experience in handling the, well, experience that the twins brought along with their company—but they normally had at least a lead to work with.

“How,” Janus started, massaging his temples despite only just then contributing to the wreck of a conversation that their art class had devolved into, “do you steal a cat, and not know who from?” Remus just shrugged.

“It wasn’t intentional. I needed a cat, a guy had a cat, I didn’t ask questions. Was I supposed to?” Remus asked, eyebrows drawn together—normally, he’d be a sarcastic shit that would drive the group insane on (some level of) purpose, but now he just seemed genuinely afraid—of the consequences of his own actions, but, still—progress. Logan opened his mouth to offer his advice, but was silenced by the jarring ring of the bell. He sighed. This was going to be a long day of way more stress than he was qualified for—the twins were going to owe him another stick and poke if he had any say in the matter.

---

Remus must have been a wonderful, wonderful man in his past life. He had to have been. Because, somehow, by some good grace, he managed to make it through another two classes on his own, and to lunch in one piece, with a living cat by his side—well, in his backpack, but the merit stands. Logan could honestly say he was impressed—not that he would tell him that, though. Nevertheless, the six friends reconvened at lunch—still without a direction to turn.

“I could just put him back where I found him,” Remus started, attempting to break the icy silence at the table with a jackhammer as always.

“Do you even know where that is?” Roman scoffed, incredulous.

“Well, no, but I could get close.”

“This isn’t helping,” Logan interjected, “How about you bring it to a shelter? One nearby where you found it?” The table nodded in general agreement, but Remus only frowned.

“But that isn’t where I got it from. What if it has an owner? What if the closest shelter isn’t a no-kill shelter, and we go to all the trouble of saving the cat only for the fucks at the shelter to hurt it?” Remus’ pace picked up with his heart rate—despite only having this cat for maybe six hours, if anything happened to it, Remus had a pretty good idea of what he’d end up doing.

“We can check for that, can’t we, Lo?” Patton chimed in, placing a calming, steady hand on Remus’ shoulder, which sunk, relieved, at the touch.

“Possibly. But, regardless, it isn’t Remus’ cat. Our priority is to get it back to its original owner, if it has one,” Logan pointed out, “If that isn’t possible, then we need to reevaluate our plan, come up with another, and settle for a different goal.”

“Have we at any point today even actually had a plan?” Virgil snickered, ever the pessimist—it wasn’t like he was really helping as he was, once again, staring at his phone.

“Well, it’s not like you’ve done much besides stare at your phone today, edgelord,” Remus snarked, though it came out as more of a mumble—his face was pressed into the table, and his eyes were on the cat in the bag.

“You’re gonna have to get better nicknames, Dukey, we’re all edgelords here,” Janus deadpanned, smudging an unhealthy amount of eyeshadow around his eyes while Virgil and Remus argued over their respective contributions.

“Okay, can you, my brother,” Roman pointed to Remus, whose teeth clacked with how fast he shut up, ”and you, my boyfriend,” he pointed to Virgil, who could only look the smallest bit abashed, “calm all the way down? Stop arguing, holy shit—” Roman took another breath, relishing the silence that had fallen over the table before pushing on, “—how about we all go, together, and fix this shit? I mean, what could go wrong?”

---

The answer was a lot. A fucking lot could go wrong when six seventeen-year-olds tried to coordinate anything, let alone an amateur heist.

Remus managed to get through the rest of the school day without much incident, but the rest of them were not so lucky, managing to receive a grand total of three detentions and six failed tests from lunch to the end of seventh period between the five of them. The teens recounted the horror stories of sixth period; Patton gesturing wildly from the driver's seat, Remus sat quietly (for maybe the second time in his life) in the passenger seat, and the remaining accomplices squished together in the back seat (which would fit three people at most for any group that wasn’t them). Also in the back seat was the cat, who had been dubbed “Thomas” for the time being—he was sat in Janus’ lap, curled up around an abandoned ball of yarn that had been left under one of the seats. The car ride across town would have been incredibly tense and unbearably long without the feline, and for that, Remus was grateful—even if he still had a sinking feeling of guilt swirling in his stomach.

---

After a surprisingly uneventful car ride (except for the stop at a drive through for a morale boost (Patton’s words) of coffees and drinks which ended, after a rather nasty pothole, with a massive stain on the roof of the car), the party settled into the waiting room at the—no-kill, Remus triple checked—animal shelter. There weren’t enough chairs, so the group made more of a pile around Thomas, some of them standing, and the others sitting both on chairs and the floor. Juxtaposed with the sterile white of the walls, they stood out like the emo cousins that they basically were. Remus bounced his leg, up, down, up, down, over and over. He kept knocking his knee against Janus’, which jostled Thomas every time he did.

“Sorry,” Remus mumbled, trying to focus on holding still. But it itched in the back of his brain, guilt and stress and fault and all the wonderful, terrible feelings churning, over and over. The clock behind the desk was too loud, and Remus couldn’t do anything about it because they wouldn’t even have to be here if not for him. So he kept his mouth shut and tried not to cry—for all of two minutes, because that was when Janus decided that he had had enough, and shoved a ball of fur into his arms. For a moment, Remus was terrified he was going to fuck it up, hurting Thomas or himself or causing some other inevitable disaster, but Thomas just pushed his warm face into Remus’ palm, and suddenly, somehow the only thing Remus could feel was loved. He choked out a wet laugh, unable to contain the bubbling build-up of emotions that had been brewing since he first saw Thomas that morning. His friends all looked at him, concerned at first, but all they could do was coo at Remus being the softest they had ever seen him. He sniffed, and gave them all a watery smile.

“Thanks, guys.”

“Sincerity? In my brother? It’s more likely than you think!” Roman teased, poking his brother in the arm. Remus stuck his tongue out at him, and the teens devolved into familiarity, playful taunts and sincere joy, waiting to be called back for Thomas’ check up.

---

While the veterinarian had been momentarily taken aback at the request for all six visitors to be in the room during the appointment, she also hadn’t seen a reason to say no at the time. Thus, once again, like the clowns they were, they piled into the room and crowded around the table, Thomas at the heart of it all—confoundingly calm given the situation, at least to the onlookers.

The veterinarian introduced herself to each of them, and began examining the cat for any injuries, microchips, or anything out of place.

“He seems to be healthy, no broken bones or infections…” The doctor said, reaching for a handheld device, “If he’s microchipped, and I’m able to reach the owner, you boys will be off the hook, okay?” Remus cringed, but nodded—he needed to remember that Thomas wasn’t his before he got hurt. She ran the scanner over Thomas’ back, and hummed.

“I’m… actually not finding anything. You said he was lost?”

“I don’t know for sure,” Remus confessed, “I found him on the street, so he could be a stray.”

“It seems he was a very lucky one, for sure. Most cats his age are incredibly susceptible to outside bacteria—finding you guys likely saved his life.” Remus’ eyes widened, and his hand reached for Thomas almost instinctively.

“You said that he doesn’t have an owner?”

“Not that I can determine, no. Did he have a collar, any sort of identification?”

Remus shook his head.

“Well, there are two options in the meantime; we can hold on to him, and put him up for adoption through our services, or you could adopt him. He needs to be immunized and neutered, first, but where he ends up is up to you guys.” Remus thought to himself for a moment.

“Hey, Roman. How mad do you think Mom would be if we brought Cain and Abel home a new friend?”

---

The answer? Not mad enough to outweigh her happiness at Remus’ smile with Thomas in his arms. And even though he didn’t end up getting the extra credit in anatomy, Remus’ circle of best friends grew by one, so he thinks he did alright in the end.

#sanders sides #creativitwins #intruality #prinxiety #ts roman #ts remus #ts virgil #ts patton #ts janus #ts logan #c!thomas #cat!thomas

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yarniac13 · 4 years

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It's nice that in fic Merlin often sends some of his wages to his mother

But like

What would Hunith do with it?

She lives in a village where they grow their own food and make their own clothes

It's a small village there's no market

Instead of giving her his wages, I vote he sends her trinkets

Just any bits and bobs he can find

Or books!

Send her a few books and things

Slightly expensive dyed yarns and fabrics

Maybe a cow idk

Hunith and her new cow

Name it Merlin too

And Merlin comes home to visit and is like

"wtf did you replace me?!"

And Hunith is just like "it's not replacement, darling, it's just... Filling the gap a little"

Hunith talks to the cow and whenever Merlin answers to his name Hunith is like

"oh no, dear, I meant Merlin not Merlin"

And he's just like

...

Merlin and the cow have a weird like sibling rivalry

And it's weird because cow-Merlin is oddly intelligent

Merlin comes to face the cow but she just keeps turning slightly and eventually she has Merlin walking in circles

Cue bonding montage

Arthur comes to visit Hunith and bring Merlin back to Camelot

And he finds Merlin there just vibing with this cow

He recognises it since the cow had been troublesome and had been given to the king as a "gift"

But really it was an excuse to get rid of her and to get some kind of petty smugness out of giving him a misbehaving cow

Since it was 100% some stuck up noble who gave it to him in the first place

And Arthur probably asked Merlin to find it somewhere to go

But he didn't expect him to give it to his mother, though he probably should have

Arthur knows about Merlin's tendency to gift Hunith anything he can get his hands on

So Merlin and Merlin are vibing

But Merlin has to go back to Camelot

Cue sad goodbye

Also cue cow-Merlin trying to follow Merlin to Camelot

Merlin has to leave Merlin behind and it's a surprisingly emotional scene for a crack idea

But Merlin visits her every once in a while

Oh wait and what if Arthur gets lowkey jealous of the Merlins' friendship

"Merlin, are you seriously writing a letter to a cow? You know they can't read right?"

It all devolves into Arthur trying to outdo a cow

#bbc merlin #i am op #idek what this is lmao #i started typing and then i just didnt stop for a while #enjoy my sleep deprived rambles #its 7:30am and i have not slept yet #im not going to bother proofreading this #you get what you get #im gonna end up forgetting i wrote this lmao #i mean no ones really gonna see it right?#people usually scroll past long ish posts #omg i need to stop rambling #sorry

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bubble-tea-bunny · 4 years

Text

until you count all the petals

[sylvain gautier x reader]

author’s note: this is the third fic in a row that has to do w flowers and i promise that was a coincidence lol. inspired by my favorite song from my favorite group :’)

word count: 8,176

i. the sky is blue and we’re over

Sylvain’s not sure what he would call the two of you.

He tends not to label things, never much a fan of assigning names, and it’s because labels imply a degree of certainty, of commitment; commitments that came with consequences if it all went south. Strings are too messy, and, he reasons, why bother with snipping them when he could avoid getting wrapped up in them to begin with? Love’s a ball of yarn but he’s not a cat.

With these factors taken into consideration, he finds himself startled, shocked even, like lightning has shot through his veins, to realize on a nondescript afternoon with the sun high in the sky and a gently billowing breeze, that you’re different. It is especially surprising because he arrives at this conclusion while he’s alone. This wasn’t an instance where the guy looks at the girl, really looks at her, and suddenly his chest tightens and he swallows hard because the light shines on her differently now and he knows with certainty—she’s the one.

For Sylvain, it’s the flowers. He’s in the greenhouse and there are sunflowers being cultivated in one of the planters. They’re a new addition, but day by day their stems have grown, shooting up from the soil, like hands reaching for the sky. Their golden petals open, and he swears that corner of the greenhouse feels the slightest bit warmer from the multiple tiny suns. It’s when he sees them and that warmth rushes over him that he is reminded of how he feels when you’re around. And he likes it, wants to feel this way forever, and he wonders if this is the sensation of strings wrapping around his heart.

The sound of his name pulls his attention from the sunflowers and he spots you walking into the greenhouse, a wide smile on your pretty face. But sunflower or smile, smile or sunflower, Sylvain is inclined to think they are the exact same.

He meets you in the middle and offers you his arm. As you exit the greenhouse, absentmindedly you wonder if your favorite shop in the nearby town has your favorite pastry in stock today (they rotate their menu). Why don’t we go check? he asks, and you’re quick to agree. The way your eyes light up is cute.

Sylvain is still hesitant to make any sort of decision as to where your relationship stands, because you have avoided putting a name to it too, but, at the very least, he could say that the two of you are… something more.

Your favorite shop does indeed have your favorite pastry available, and you barely stop yourself from buying three. Sylvain laughs and says he’ll buy three if you want, but you resolve to start with one, and if you’re still craving them, you’d get back in line for more. But both of you know that you will. And so does the baker. This isn’t your first time there. After the food is paid for, he lowers his voice and says he’ll keep two extra in the back for you. This particular baked good is popular, and you’re grateful for the kind gesture.

The gooey frosting sticks to your lips with every bite and your tongue slips out to lick it off. You hold out the pastry to Sylvain, a wordless offer for him to take a bite since he hadn’t gotten anything for himself, but he shakes his head. His own sweet tooth is more than satisfied by you. That’s what he tells you, and he can’t help but laugh when you roll your eyes and lightly punch his shoulder from across the small table. Then he’s reaching out to you, using his thumb to swipe the bit of frosting at the corner of your mouth that you’d missed. He brings it up to his mouth and the sugar melts pleasantly on his tongue. The blush dusting your cheeks reminds him of cherries.

You discuss everything from training and sore muscles to gossip from around the monastery. Sylvain shares the scoop on who’s dating who, and you listen attentively, head occasionally tilting and eyes occasionally widening to learn of unlikely pairs. Some you doubt the validity of, but he promises it’s all true. You sit quietly in thought, gaze dropping to the two pastries on your plate. Huh, you mutter, envisioning one couple specifically that you found hard to believe. Who would have thought?

Sylvain has his head resting on his propped up hand, watching you in amusement. Movement from over your shoulder draws his focus up, and there’s a woman exiting the antique shop next to the bakery. She’s coming this way along the sidewalk, and their eyes meet, and the grin he flashes is instinctual. The response he is met with he is very much accustomed to, her own eyes momentarily diverting, a sudden shyness overcoming her, before she slips him one more quick glance with a tiny smile, and then she’s walked past, continuing on her way.

He turns back to you, but you’re already watching him, and his brows furrow in confusion when you say you’re not really hungry anymore and suggest you head back. He’s even more confused when, instead of gathering up the pastries to bring back to the monastery, as you typically do, you take them over to the next table and ask if the people there want them.

After giving them away, you join him where he’s waiting on the sidewalk. You don’t reach for his hand on the walk back, so he reaches for yours, but it’s a few seconds before your fingers curl to properly grip his. A subtle delay, but unusual enough for him to notice immediately. The sudden change in mood makes him feel like he’s been spun in circles. He doesn’t understand what’s going on, but he wishes he did.

His wish is granted upon your arrival back at the monastery. The sun is setting and the lake glitters with the last of the daylight. It’s romantic, and he’s about to stop you by the docks, turn to you and steal a kiss in the peacefulness of dusk and run a hand through your hair, soft locks the golden rays of golden hour because this time of day doesn’t look this good on anyone else. Not the way it does on you. But you’re the one to stop first, and his strides are halted by your linked hands.

Your fingers loosen but his hold on your hand keeps you connected, and he’s still smiling like nothing’s wrong. It’s when you don’t reciprocate that it drops and he asks what’s wrong.

And it’s not quite what he wants to hear when you say I don’t know. Surely there was a reason to explain your listlessness. Something like that doesn’t just spring up from nowhere. But what could it be, that you can’t really put it in words? Concern starts to creep up his spine like an unwelcome winter chill, and your hand slipping out of his now slack grip to drop back to your side does the talking for you.

Quietly he says your name, an upward inflection towards the end like it’s a question. You’re staring at your shoes and he’s staring at the crown of your head and even for his worries about what’s happening, what you might say, he can’t shake the thought of fashioning you a crown of flowers.

“What are we, Sylvain?” you finally inquire.

Pulled from his train of thought, Sylvain blinks. “What do you mean?”

“This.” You motion between you both. “You and me… Are we just a temporary fling?”

The mere suggestion stings and Sylvain shakes his head. “What? No—”

“Then are we together?”

The implications of the question catch him off guard. He’d always thought you were on the same page: no labels, no titles, no boyfriend and girlfriend. Just… you and him. Nothing more, nothing less. But your impatience is clear as day with how you cut him off, and he still doesn’t understand why you’re bringing this up. But he knows you’re aware of his hesitation to call things like this by name, and you’d been fine to follow along until this moment, so he’s slow to respond to your loaded question.

“Hey, come on,” he murmurs, taking a half step forward to be closer. “You know you’re the only one for me.” He’s skirting around giving a direct answer, and hopes that you leave it at that, but you don’t, and when he tries to reach for your hand, you take a half step back to be farther away.

“Do I?”

The doubt present in your tone stops him short, and whatever else he might’ve said dies in his throat. Your frustrations are becoming more apparent as the conversation moves along, your eyes shining from the sunset and cutting through him like newly forged steel. Sylvain wracks his brain for what could have been responsible for the soured mood, entirely unlike the atmosphere of this afternoon.

“Is this… because of earlier?” he asks uneasily.

You don’t say anything, but your lack of reply lets him know he’s right. He scoffs like it’s a silly concern, smiling to try to allay your irritation. “That was just a quick glance. She didn’t mean anything.”

It’s the wrong answer to an unspoken question. “It’s not the first time you’ve done that.”

“Done what?”

“Flirt endlessly with practically every girl you see!” This is the most emotion you’ve displayed during your talk, your volume rising slightly, and Sylvain’s thankful the two of you are alone so no one hears what has quickly devolved into a full argument. “So no, I don’t know that I’m the only one for you. I can’t know!”

Every word is a punch in the gut and there’s a heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. Sylvain’s mouth opens then closes then opens again but nothing comes out and that’s because you both know he has no defense. What you’ve said is true. He’s always flirted, always talked pretty to pretty girls and taken delight in watching them swoon. He likes to have them wrapped around his finger. Not even the less successful attempts, which leave him standing alone, staring at the back of their retreating figure, are enough to discourage him. It’s habit for him to sweet-talk his way into girls’ hearts, to stay there for a few weeks, days, hours, then take his leave and move on.

This habit is precisely what’s jeopardizing whatever sort of relationship he has with you, the prettiest girl of all. And maybe this is one of those stories where the guy looks at the girl, really looks at her, and knows that she’s the one, because it’s been much longer than a few weeks and never has he thought of leaving you behind.

But it’s too little too late as you stare up at him and he feels you drifting farther away despite the physical distance in between.

“What I said to those other girls were just empty words. They don’t matter to me,” he tries to reason. “Not like you do.”

You’re unsatisfied, however, and shake your head.

“Are you really ready for a relationship, Sylvain?” you ask with a hushed tone now, and his heart squeezes when you say his name. “Because I don’t think you are.”

His silence following your declaration is enough to cut the strings, and even if he did have words, you no longer have the patience to hear them.

———

ii. my friends tell me to give up

It’s almost frightening how you’re able to carry on as if he doesn’t exist. Whenever you’re both in a common area, you never so much as glance his way. Sylvain, on the other hand, isn’t coping very well.

Over the ruckus in the dining hall he can pick out your laugh easily, and a part of him deep down perks up the way it had before whenever he heard or saw you. His eyes shoot to where you sit at a table across the room. One of your friends appears to be telling a captivating tale that has you and your fellow housemates thoroughly entertained. Sylvain sees his mouth move but he can’t hear what he’s actually saying that has you all laughing. It’s impossible to hear much aside from clanking silverware and jumbled chatter. Sylvain’s ears have just been trained to listen for you.

The seat to his right is pulled back as Annette sits down with her plate of food, but Sylvain is too preoccupied staring at you to turn and say hello. Annette doesn’t expect any greeting, but she does sigh when she notices where he’s looking. Sylvain hadn’t officially announced what had transpired between you both; such was his prerogative when it came to any relationships. Since nothing was really ever “official,” he explained, there was no official start or end to make note of.

But Annette, as well as their mutual friends in the Blue Lion house, could surmise that whatever he had with you was different, even if he refused to put any sort of name to it. They began to suspect this when one whole moon had passed and you were still on his mind. Typically, the trysts which he discloses with them are with different girls, and there’s always that moment of trying to pair the name with the face before he continues on with the story, lamenting only half-seriously that She’s nice and all, but we just weren’t meant to be. (Not that it would matter much to figure out exactly who the girl of the week was anyway, since they would inevitably repeat this process all over again a few days later.)

When you came into the picture, you were a constant. For a long while at least—a lot longer than any of them gave Sylvain credit for. It’s been Sylvain’s nature to woo multiple girls at once, keeping them separated so as to prevent any conflict of interest, but over time it became noticeable that among the multiple names he would mention, yours came up again and again and again. And his friends began to wonder if you were it for Sylvain, that both of you were, in his words, meant to be, and maybe Sylvain didn’t want to acknowledge it because he didn’t want the commitment that came with it. Or maybe he was genuinely clueless to his own feelings, unfamiliar with love in any sense, especially the deep kind which flourishes in the deep hours of the night, a companion to silence and reflection.

Perhaps it was both, Annette thinks. He was oblivious until one day, something changed (he’d never shared the details, and no one had ever pried), and though he didn’t say it out loud, she noticed the light in his eyes when he talked about you. It was bright, instinctual, and, if she had anything to say about it, was almost love.

Now, Sylvain’s shoulders sag and his head rests on his hand as he watches you, hoping you’ll look this way, and the whole picture is one of dejection. Had the cutting of ties been what it took for his feelings to finally be truly realized? Life could be awfully cruel…

The chair across from Annette is pulled back with a grating scrape, wooden legs against wooden flooring, and Ashe sits down. His eyes are also drawn to Sylvain, as if a dark aura were surrounding him, and he frowns. A quick glance behind him in the direction Sylvain is staring confirms his suspicions immediately, and he bites his lip like he’s holding back words, wanting to speak but hesitating.

Sylvain notices Ashe’s pause and his eyes slide briefly in his direction.

“I know you want to say it, Ashe.” He’s blunt, tone flat. “So say it.”

Ashe releases his bottom lip. “Maybe it’s time to let her go.”

Annette holds her breath following this remark, anxious for Sylvain’s reaction. She doesn’t know why she’s nervous; he won’t get mad or yell. He’s been nothing but despondent since you stopped talking to him a couple of weeks ago, a perpetual raincloud hanging over his head. It did well to sour the mood of anyone who got near him, and if he noticed the effect it was having, he didn’t react or do anything to fix it. Some of those in Blue Lion were patient with him, giving him adequate time to process what happened. (Though what was that exactly? A break-up? It seemed like it, but Sylvain would never call it that.) Others, conversely, were less willing to wait for the storm to pass, hardly fans of being soaked to the bone.

Those who attempted the task of taking Sylvain’s mind off of you were far from successful. Where once mentions of a pretty girl in one of the other houses whom they’d seen glancing his way would cause Sylvain to perk up and seek her out, keen to snatch her heart up, for a day or a week or however long he fancied, such remarks now blew right past him, the faint whistle of a narrowly dodged arrow he doesn’t care enough to search for and see where it landed. The less patient among their friends have, therefore, given up. There could be no use helping someone off the ground if they weren’t looking for assistance.

Annette and Ashe were two people still holding on, but even they are gradually coming to terms with the futility of talking with what might as well be a brick wall. The absolute last resort that would pull Sylvain from his slump is if Dimitri were to say something, particularly in regards to how this is affecting Sylvain’s performance when training. Sylvain’s not at that point (yet?), so Dimitri has remained one of the patient few, but it would be better, of course, to avoid that kind of conversation entirely.

But Sylvain’s too busy running in circles around the thought of you to spot the hand offered to help him stand. He doesn’t say it, but Annette and Ashe don’t need him to because they already know what words refuse to surface: he doesn’t want to let you go.

What he does choose to share aloud is preceded by a sardonic laugh. “It’s ironic,” he starts, “that I’m the one who was dumped.” You’ve turned the tables on him. Does it usually hurt like this?

A singular issue that has remained at the forefront of his dilemma has to do with your own feelings. Was what you felt about him the same as what he still feels for you? His cynical side urges him to reason that no, he was the one making a bigger deal out of this than it was and it’s his fault he’s heartbroken. That’s the only way he could explain why you’re all smiles and laughs in the days that have transpired since the argument, a drop of sunshine warming the earth where you walk. Meanwhile he’s downtrodden in the shade, just a little too far out of your reach.

And yet he can’t shake the notion that you had to have felt just as seriously about your relationship as he had, because your outburst had stemmed from his aversion to exclusivity. Even if you didn’t say it, the problem you took with his coquetry implied your desire for something more too—that being the chance to maybe call him yours, with all the strings and none of the stray glances or flirtatious words shared with other girls. Should this be true, it was still his fault that your relationship is basically in shambles; his propensity to woo and impress with no thought to commitment, no thought to what you might think despite knowing deep down that you were different from the others, had pushed you away. So he’s paying the price. Being nobility means nothing; he’d never have enough money to pay in full for something like this.

Still, he wishes you would look at him, at least once. He feels like a lovesick puppy and maybe he should be embarrassed because as far as anyone else is concerned, he doesn’t get hung up on any one girl for long, but they don’t know you like he does. They don’t know the way you make his stomach do flips or the way your grin has him wrapped around your finger. The more you pass him by, the more he pines for you, and maybe you know and that’s why your eyes never search for his; you’re intent to move on, whatever your feelings for him may have been. The sun’s not fond of rainstorms either.

———

iii. it’s only you for me

Life starts to return to normal, slowly but surely. Sylvain’s in a slump less often these days, and he’s smiling a little more, joking around a little more. Though his training had never suffered after your relationship came to an end, he throws himself into it extra hard now, giving it his all. It’s the ideal distraction, and Dimitri has even commended his discipline and sharp improvement. Annette observes him with a knowing gaze but says nothing. The last thing Sylvain needs in his process of getting over you is to hear your name.

What truly begins to mark the return of the Sylvain they’re all familiar with is his flirtatious remarks with any cute girl that catches his eye. However, for every ounce of his enthusiasm, not everyone is interested (perhaps they’re aware of his track record), but that doesn’t discourage him. Where one might not care to give him the time of day, another is, and he pulls them in with silken praises and honeyed words murmured over the wispy tendrils of steam floating from their cups of tea.

Felix won’t admit that this past moon had been… uncomfortably quiet, with Sylvain in the state he was. It was strange to see his friend so reserved and contained, lost within his own head. Usually Sylvain would talk his ears off (or come very close to doing so) about his shenanigans and all the other monastery gossip Felix never cared to find out about himself. Now that the period of atypical quiet has passed, and Sylvain’s regained his voice and his confidence, well, Felix also won’t admit that he had missed it (but just a little).

Today he is an unintentional witness to Sylvain’s latest efforts of wooing another student; Felix doesn't know who she is, and he doesn’t plan to ask Sylvain later. They’re sitting across from each other at one of the tables in the reception hall, close to the wall. Sylvain’s broad-shouldered figure dwarfs her much smaller form, and Felix can’t see what he’s saying, but based on the girl’s bashful smile she hides behind her hand, it’s a string of saccharine remarks that Felix fears will make his teeth rot should he actually be able to overhear their conversation.

A few seconds is all it takes for Felix to grow tired of this display, and he sighs, prepared to continue his walk in the direction of the training grounds. But it seems the invisible hands which keep the world turning would keep him right where he is, and it’s in a fit of irony that perhaps the one person least interested in Sylvain’s love life also serves as an unintentional witness to his yearning, to his regression, and to his downfall.

Felix sees you around the monastery often, and he only made note of all the times he did after you and Sylvain began to spend time together more consistently. Prior to that, he had no idea who you were. The instances he had spotted you following whatever it was you told Sylvain that had left him so gloomy, were marked by slight confusion, for you carried on as if nothing were wrong, as if you didn’t have that talk and separated yourself from Sylvain entirely. And it left him to wonder, the tiniest bit curious, if maybe you were the one stringing Sylvain along. But for what purpose? To show him how it felt to be picked up, treated like gold, then abandoned in the dust? If so, you were more spiteful than you looked.

The speculation doesn’t make sense if what Sylvain had told him was true. Felix pretends he’s not listening when Sylvain talks about girls, but he is, and he remembers especially what Sylvain said about you. It wasn’t just Sylvain waxing lyrical when he declared that what you felt for each other was different. You were more than just some girl he took a brief interest in, and it was your equally enthusiastic reciprocation of his feelings that made Sylvain start to feel like he could have a real relationship. He never did tend to wear his heart on his sleeve, but with the way he spoke of you, he showed it off proudly. He’s usually guarded enough that Felix took this as a sign that your own feelings really were genuine.

And so, all those factors considered, Felix thinks he’ll never understand how, despite how strongly you had also felt for Sylvain, you are hardly affected by the break-up (Sylvain would never call it that but Felix isn’t blind nor the one in denial). You haven’t met Sylvain’s gaze since then, not once.

Well, until now, as you pass through the reception hall. Perhaps it was an accident, but that’s all it takes for Sylvain to slip back to square one. It’s a quick meeting of the eyes from over the shoulder of the girl Sylvain is talking to, and you never once pause in your steps. You almost look indignant to have caught his attention, inwardly scolding yourself for allowing your eyes to wander.

You walk right past Felix, kicking up a small breeze in your wake due to the hastening of your steps, and Felix looks from you over to Sylvain, who says something to the girl—excusing himself?—before standing up and following after you. He walks fast too, intent to catch up to you, and he doesn’t spare Felix a glance either.

Felix sighs. Oh dear…

Once out of the reception hall, Sylvain looks left and right. He barely catches sight of your figure turning the corner into the garden, and this time he breaks into a run, his wide strides carrying him to you swiftly.

“[Name]!” he calls out, and he doesn’t care for the stares he draws from other students. “Wait!”

You don’t turn around at the sound of your name, and in a desperate attempt to get you to finally look at him, he takes hold of your arm, hoping that you’ll stop. His grip is gentle, and you could easily pull away, but you don’t, and he’s breathing a little harder from the short run but also from the fact you’re standing here, in front of him, watching him and there’s no spark in your eyes like there had been once, but at the moment he’s just happy that you’re looking at him at all.

“What do you want, Sylvain?” you ask quietly.

He swallows, his breath returning to normal, and your eyes slide down to where he’s still holding your arm. His fingers uncurl from around your white long-sleeve and there are small wrinkles where they once were. There’s silence as Sylvain tries to put a sentence together because he realizes he doesn’t have anything to say. He didn’t actually think you would stop. And the longer you stand there, the more he panics, worried that you might leave and he’ll have wasted his chance to get you back.

“I’m sorry.”

He hopes you don’t ask sorry for what because there are so many things, and while part of him is ready to list them, to voice his regret and admit his feelings aloud, thereby undoing all he had ever done to keep himself from getting attached to one person, the other part of him is too scared to do it because he’s never felt like this about anyone and it’s frightening how painfully his chest tightens when you say his name, even when you say it with indifference.

You shake your head. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

But there is and somehow it hurts more than you act like there isn’t. Are you really so prepared to move on? Frantically he searches your gaze for any longing or any sign that you don’t want to completely forget about what the two of you had. Surely you had been thinking about him too, in some capacity? Do you miss him at all?

“Please,” he begs, but he can’t begin to properly describe what it is he’s begging for. “Just give me another chance.”

You almost look as if you’re going to say no, your jaw set as you stare up at him. Yet he finds an inkling of hope in your several seconds of silence because you appear to be considering what he has said. His heart is pounding and could this be it? Could you be coming back to him? It might be slow, tentative, but Sylvain will work with that. He will give you your time and space to process, and he won’t mess up again.

You break eye contact to glance to your right, in the direction of the gazebo, and it’s a signal for Sylvain that his hope was probably too ambitious. To decide on something like that right now was unrealistic, and his impatience gnaws at him but he meant it when he said he would give you space.

“Can we talk about this another time? I have to meet someone.”

Another time. Sylvain nods his head a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Of course.”

You give him a time and place and when he says goodbye, you only halfheartedly respond with a wave. He remains where he is as you walk the rest of the way to the gazebo in the center of the garden and slide into the chair across from a guy Sylvain doesn’t recognize. At the sight of you both, his stomach feels heavy and his shoulders sag and maybe you don’t miss him.

———

iv. until you count all the petals

Sylvain arrives ten minutes early.

He understands why you chose this spot. It’s far from wandering eyes, the only people likely to come this way being the guards as they make their rounds. It stings a little to be treated as something to be hidden away, but he doesn’t blame you for it. If anyone aware of what had happened between you were to spot you together, it would only invite questions you might not be keen to answer.

What exactly were your expectations for the conversation you will have? Sylvain knows what his are, but from what he can tell thus far with the way you have chosen to handle this, picking a quiet place to talk, your own are the complete opposite. If you wanted to avoid anyone seeing you, then that implies you have no intention of taking him back. Otherwise, you would have no problem if the whole academy were to observe you together.

With a huff, Sylvain shakes his head in an attempt to rid himself of these negative thoughts. Be all that as it may, he wouldn’t set himself up for failure by overthinking and acting paranoid. Even if his assumptions are correct, he would still do his best to change your mind. He’s coming to you as a different person now, one that is sure of his feelings and, for the first time in his life, ready to put a name to what you two have because it is different and it’s special and the biggest regret Sylvain has is that he hadn’t realized it sooner. He wishes he hadn’t been so afraid to accept it.

The minutes tick by and he grows increasingly nervous. He hadn’t exactly prepared a speech beforehand, and usually he’s good at winging speeches, especially the flowery kind, designed to tug the heartstrings, but he doubts that will cut it this time. There are many things he wants to say, and there isn’t a lot of time to say them. All that he feels for you is an incoherent jumble, too strong to constrain to concise sentences and he wants to show you, not tell you. He wants you to understand the depth of his affection through the gentle graze of his fingertips along your skin, through his pounding heart as he holds you close, your ear to his chest. And he wonders if you’ll get it then, that you’re the first girl to render him speechless.

“Sylvain.”

As if shocked, Sylvain twists around. He hadn’t heard you approach. You’re standing a few feet away, hands clutched behind your back, a polite stance like you’re talking to a stranger. He doesn’t say anything immediately, unsure of how to greet you or if he should greet you. Should he just get into his spiel? But then he remembers the bouquet he’s clutching because your eyes are drawn to it, and he notes with embarrassment that in his absentminded pondering, he’d been squeezing the stems. Luckily none are bent out of shape, and he holds the flowers out to you.

“I got you these.” Smooth, Sylvain.

Your blink and tilt your head, confused as to why he would present you with a gift when the conversation you’re about to have hardly merits one, but you accept it anyway, graceful as always. “… Thank you.”

You bring them up closer to your face so you can smell them, and Sylvain’s smile is hidden behind the flowers. When you lower them again, you inform him you can’t stay for long. You’re meeting someone in the library to work on an assignment, and he’d like to know if that someone is the guy he saw you having tea with the other day, but he keeps silent about that. Perhaps you do have somewhere to be, or perhaps you don’t and you’re lying because you just don’t want to talk to him more than necessary. Either way, Sylvain is strapped for time, and he needs to make the best of it.

“I won’t be long,” he promises. “Just… until you count all the petals.”

And that wouldn��t take long at all. The petals of the flowers he gave you are large, and easily counted. Upon this remark, the corner of your mouth lifts in an almost-smile, and your focus shifts downwards to the flowers you hold. He can’t tell if you’re counting but doesn’t stop to ask.

Instead, he starts to spill his heart out to you. “I messed up big time, I know. And I meant it when I said I’m sorry. I should’ve been less afraid to accept what I felt for you.”

You purse your lips and look up at him. Quietly, you inquire, “What do you feel for me?”

Sylvain can feel his pulse pounding in his ears. You’re watching him closely, but it’s not scrutinizing or investigative, simply… curious. Curious to know if he’ll actually say it now, if your feelings had been valid and he had genuinely felt the same because when you called everything off, it certainly didn’t feel like he did, and he hates that he put you through that kind of heartbreak. You were the last person to deserve that, and the gravity of his series of screw-ups settle heavy on his shoulders now. This is his last chance to redeem himself, if you would even grant him that.

Though he understands this, the words don’t leave him easily, the final struggle in breaking past the walls he has created for himself. His mouth opens then closes, nothing coming out at first. He’s trying to find the words and you’re a patient person, but it doesn’t extend that far with him, not anymore, and he understands that too. No answer would still be an answer, and as his silence stretches on, you too open your mouth to speak, perhaps to say a farewell for good. That one second feels like eternity and the dreadful thought of you walking away now is what breaks down those barriers, and he’s desperately reaching out for you where you stand on the other side.

“I love you.”

Your mouth promptly shuts, and now you’re the one who’s speechless. He’d actually said it. The surprise on your face betrays the fact you really didn’t think he would, and to be honest, he’s a bit surprised too. Never has he confessed something so heartfelt to another, preferring to keep away from anything that intimate. Such a statement isn’t to be taken lightly, and he has always understood its importance, of what it means to say that to someone with such conviction that the heart squeezes so hard it begins to crack. It’s to this that he owes his sudden shortness of breath in the following quiet, waiting apprehensively for any sort of response.

You don’t reply with words first. There are subtle changes written upon your face, whether or not you notice. Your features soften, your eyes not as guarded as they were, and he has greatly missed the fondness which settles in them. Eternal summer rests deep in his soul and you’re the sun that will never set. Your eyelashes kiss the smooth skin of your cheeks as you glance down. Now poised for a reply, your mouth opens, lips glistening, and he would like very much to kiss them. But that’s a mere passing thought and he remains in place, bracing himself, crossing his fingers for the best while mentally steeling himself for the worst.

Please say you love me too.

“Fifty-eight.”

That certainly didn’t sound like I love you too.

Sylvain’s brows furrow. “What?”

You lift your gaze to him. “There are fifty-eight petals.”

Well, it was a response. Not one Sylvain had wanted, but it was better than none at all, and you’d upheld your end of the agreement: you listened until you counted every petal.

He tries not to make his disappointment visible but you know him so well you can detect the smallest cues. His eyes break contact with yours, and for a moment it looks like you’re going to say something, at best a reciprocation of his affection, at worst a rejection of it, but you stop yourself, glancing down at the bouquet.

“I… I have to get going,” you state instead.

Sylvain nods. “Right.”

You part ways with awkward waves, and you don’t say See you later. It might be reasonable to assume that this is your way of telling him you don’t feel the same way, that it ends here and it ends for real, but he doesn’t make that assumption. There aren’t fifty-eight petals. There are seventy-two. He counted them earlier. You’d mentioned a random number, and if you hadn’t counted, that meant you’d been willing to listen from the start. Perhaps you weren’t as antsy to get away as he had previously assumed, and you had wanted to hear what he had to say.

He stares after your retreating figure but he doesn’t feel dread to see you walking away, flowers in hand. His breaths feel lighter, coming to him easier, and maybe he’d convinced you, or at the very least, is on his way to doing so. In any case, he would gladly wait, allowing you all the time you need to think.

———

v. prettier than a flower, she left

He hears you before he sees you.

You’ve just finished with choir practice and you call out a goodbye to your friend, who’s decided to stay behind in the cathedral for a bit longer. You, on the other hand, are striding past the tall and wide open wooden doors, the gentle wind today ruffling your clothes as you step outside. The air is cool and you don’t notice him standing there.

Sylvain’s off to the side of the entrance to the cathedral, leaning on the brick wall. He grins in amusement when he discovers you haven’t spotted him. He stares at your back for a few moments but doesn't let you get very far before he’s speed walking to catch up to you. His shoes clack quietly on the cobblestone but you don’t have time to react to the noise before he’s taken hold of your arm to grab your attention.

You gasp in surprise and turn around, eyes wide, and once you register who has stopped you, you let out a deep breath and set your free hand over your heart.

“Sylvain!” you exclaim. “You scared me!”

Sylvain laughs and continues to laugh even after you playfully hit him on the shoulder, so lightly that he very well could have imagined it if he hadn’t just watched you do it. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it.” With the hand still wrapped around the crook of your elbow he tugs you close, and because you aren’t prepared for this, you stumble forward and fall against his chest. You collide with a quiet oof!

“What happened to us meeting at the reception hall?” you ask, and as you do, you brace your palms against his chest to try to push away and increase distance, at least to give you adequate space to tilt your head back to look at him, but he’s got both arms wrapped around you now, and given that he’s stronger, he doesn’t budge.

You give up and stop your pushing, and he chuckles at your small whine of defeat. “I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.”

“I was going straight there. It’s a five minute walk.” Accepting that so long as Sylvain wanted to hold you like this, you would remain right where you are, you bring your own arms around his torso. You’re careful not to dig your fingers into the fabric of his blazer, not wanting to wrinkle it.

“Five minutes is too long when I could just wait for you here.”

He almost sounds offended that you imply that he could possibly wait for an extra five minutes before he could see you again, and it’s your turn to laugh. “So needy,” you tease.

Sylvain won’t deny it. There’s nothing to hide and by this point, the whole academy is aware of your relationship. You’re part of the monastery gossip now, the likes of which you enjoy talking about while sitting outside the bakery in town. Before, he might have resented the idea of being so openly wrapped around a girl’s finger, because that was supposed to be his thing. Sylvain didn’t get tied down to just one person. But before, he also hadn’t fully realized what he was missing.

He’d rearrange the stars for you, would scoop them from the sky to stick to the ceiling of your room if you asked him to, so sweetly with that sweet voice of yours. And maybe in thanks you would sing him to sleep, gently running your fingers through his hair and he’d drift off wondering how he he could be this lucky, to be in love with the moon and to be loved back.

His attention no longer strays to other girls, and for many at the academy, this is a complete turnaround from when he could hardly keep his attention on just one. So if anyone were to remark that he seems different now, or tease him with a Who are you and what have you done with Sylvain or some such joke, he won’t argue against it or act like this is merely temporary. You’re not temporary. And he’s less inclined to say that the way he is now is “different.” It’s more that he knows himself better these days, and knows that life is better with you.

Neither of you has kept track of how long you’re standing there, and Sylvain is only pulled from his thoughts by you asking him to let go so you can start the walk to town. You like when he holds you, you tell him, but the day and all its sunshine is too beautiful to waste just staying here.

Sylvain nuzzles your hair and smiles and he’s certain you can feel it. His arms around you loosen, but you don’t immediately pull back, as if you can sense he still has things he wants to say, murmured against your form so the wind can’t eavesdrop. He murmurs that he loves you, and it comes out so easily that it’s a wonder that there was once a time he’d struggled to share those words with you.

You lean back slightly to look up at him and even in the shade they are bright and glittering. Your mouth curls into a beautiful grin that he’d like to kiss. He bends down, closing the distance, and as you’re about to meet he thinks he feels you say it back—I love you—whispered in one quick and silent breath, a burst of heat against his lips.

“Sylvain?”

What? Were you saying that?

“Sylvain.”

It didn’t sound like you. But then… where was that coming from? Who was calling him?

“Sylvain, wake up.”

Wake… up?

Sylvain’s eyes slide open and through blurry vision that has yet to come into focus, he spots Ashe stand on the opposite side of the long dining table, leaning forward and bracing himself on the dark wooden tabletop. Sylvain groans and sits up, stretching out his spine after having fallen asleep in a position that wasn’t the most comfortable. Ashe’s smile is sympathetic, sorry that he had to wake him up. He was sleeping rather heavily.

“We have to get to class,” Ashe tells him. “The next lesson is starting soon.”

The hustle and bustle of the dining hall corroborates his statement. The students who had lingered and spent the entirety of their lunch period here are cleaning up, and a chorus of chairs being pushed back into place echoes through the room. With a huff, equal parts one of inconvenience at having to get up and one of disappointment that he’d simply been dreaming, Sylvain stands up and follows Ashe outside.

The weather has taken a turn for the gloomy. A thick blanket of clouds paints the sky gray, and it’s the sort of overcast sky that’s difficult to look at. Ashe wonders aloud if it might rain, but Sylvain has no response to offer. He’s still trying to regain his bearings in time for lecture, but it’s slow progress when he’s still hung up on his dream. It had felt so real, and that’s what hurts the most. For a moment, he almost believed that everything had worked out, and he wishes that he could’ve remained forever within his own head, suspended in time, where that short and blissful period could stretch to eternity.

As per usual, no matter the amount of noise, the level of commotion as students scramble to get to their classrooms, Sylvain can hear your laugh above it all. His eyes find you walking across the courtyard, uncaring for the possibility of raindrops falling from the sky.

You’re with that guy again; you have been more often as of late. Sylvain never did catch his name. He must’ve said something funny because you grin widely, looking up at him with a sense of admiration Sylvain can pick up effortlessly despite the distance. He knows that what you must feel for him is real, that what you feel for him is something like love, if not love itself, because you used to look at him that way.

You hadn’t given him a direct response after his confession, and he hadn’t pressured you for one, not wanting to risk pushing you away further. But his heartfelt admission mattered little because he truly had been too late, for you’d been swept off your feet by another, and the most you could give by way of apology was a final glance when Sylvain saw you both, arm in arm, walking to the front gates of the monastery to take the path into town. It was a shock, certainly, that it was you who initiated eye contact, but it was your merciful goodbye. You’re always sweet like that, even as you break his heart.

Sylvain’s gaze slides from your faces down to your linked hands, and it’s the last he sees of you two before you disappear into your lecture hall. He’s close behind Ashe as they step out into the courtyard, and Ashe exclaims he thinks a raindrop hit his head. While his pace quickens, Sylvain’s stays the same, and he takes a hand out of his pocket to hold it out.

A drop of rain falls into his palm, and then another, and he’d really like a sunflower right about now.

#sylvain gautier x reader #sylvain gautier imagine #fire emblem x reader #fire emblem imagine #fire emblem three houses x reader #fire emblem three houses imagine #sylvain gautier #fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #bubble-tea-bunny #queue

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allthethingamabobs · 4 years

Text

family sticks together, bruh

Notes: I was re-watching the Bay-verse movies and suddenly got irritated at the no last name thing at the end of the second one. April O'Neil was right there. Their ride-or-die, their badass older sister, their hogosha. So here's my first contribution to the TMNT fandom. I literally wrote this in half a day, so if you see any writing errors all I gotta say is...my bad. Enjoy the found family fluff!

Rating: G

Also on AO3.

April figured it all started with a package hastily stuffed in her mailbox. It was barely small enough to fit, wrapped in that tough paper-cardboard material, and took a few careful pulls to get out. She couldn’t recall ordering anything recently, so the least she could do was try not to destroy what was most likely her neighbor’s mail. But when she flipped it over for the addressee, she was surprised to see “Mikey O’Neil” on it.

April and her “childhood pets” had been reunited four months back now, and it continued to throw her life upside down. A happy upside down, though. Those two names together were doing a number on the loner habits she’d built up since her father’s death. Apparently, all it took was four mutant teenagers and their father to start breaking down those walls.

She snapped a photo of the package and sent it to Mikey as she walked up to her apartment. Her phone lit up with a video chat request seconds later. The boys were just like any other teens when there weren’t bad guys to fight—they loved texting (on their one-of-a-kind turtle phones), sending her snaps, and video chatting whenever they could. April supposed that 15 years alone in a sewer could make one a little starved for new attention, and she was always happy to talk.

One of Mikey’s eyes filled the screen first, and then his grinning face when he pulled back. “You got it!” he hollered.

There was a thump from somewhere behind him, and Leo yelled something about peace and quiet when meditating. Then all she could see was a blurry carapace as Mikey quickly escaped to some other part of the lair. “You got it!” he cheered again, down to a whisper-yell.

“Sure did,” she answered with a smile, while making sure her apartment door locked behind her. “A little heads up would be nice, though. People do steal packages.”

“Man, that would’ve been no bueno. It has my name on it and everything.”

She shrugged—it was New York, what could she say. “About that… Mikey O’Neil, huh?”

He brightened. “Yeah! Makes sense, right? You’ve always been family even if we got separated for like, way too long, and who wouldn’t want to be a badass O’Neil?”

“Hm.” Her smile was fond even as she bit her lip to keep herself from doing something dramatic like tearing up. “You make some excellent points.”

Mikey nodded, seemingly proud of his reasoning. “You get me, April. So when are you gonna come hang out?”

“Not until tomorrow at least.” She set the phone on the counter as she turned to mess with the oven dials. “I’ve got to eat, and then a grimy bathroom and donation boxes are calling my name.”

Two weeks ago, a great aunt she hadn’t talked to since her father’s funeral had passed away and apparently left her succession rights to a New York miracle: a rent-controlled apartment above a quiet antique store. It was a dated unit and still smelled a bit like old people, but she was making it work.

A whine came from her phone. “Aw, shell… Oh, hey! We could help! Four mutants and a human are better than one!”

“That’s sweet, Mikey, but I’ve got this.” Plus, she was starting to pick up the brother’s dynamics. That visit would devolve into complete chaos in no time, given the cluttered mess. There were a lot of breakable objects she was still in the process of either packing up or donating.

“Your loss, Ape. Guess we’ll see you tomorrow.” He got up close to the camera again and whispered dramatically, “You’ll bring the package, right?”

She snorted and leaned over so he could see her face. “Pinky swear.”

“I don’t have a pinky, so I’ll have to believe you. Bye, April!”

The screen went blank, and April had a glimpse of herself in the reflection. She had to admit… her smile looked a lot more genuine these days.

In work news, however, life had been a lot of sucking up to Bernadette and the team after getting her job back, so she didn’t get down to the lair until late in the evening. Entering through the water system wasn’t exactly ideal, so they’d built a biometric, heavily enforced door as an alternative. Leo spotted her first as she shoved her way in and waved from where he was cleaning his katanas.

The new lair seemed to change every time she visited—more light-up signs or beat-up furniture appearing—and she still felt a little guilty for being the reason behind the move. The guys had assured her that they didn’t blame her, and they were having fun with the tall ceilings and tunnels in the new space. Splinter had even claimed one to start a bonsai garden.

“Hey, April! How was your day?” Leo called, carefully setting his weapons aside to get up.

“Not too bad, mostly research on some detox craze—”

“April!?” There was a crash from the back where they had set up a gym area in an upper opening. Mikey came tumbling out, almost right on top of where Raph was exiting the lower tunnel, and he gracefully avoided retaliation. “You got the goods?”

Leo shot her a confused frown, and she answered with a fond “don’t ask” look before rummaging in her bag to pull it out. “Yes, Mikey, I have the goods.”

Mikey bounced over and pulled her into a quick, bone-crushing hug before taking the package out of her hands. He ripped into it and pulled out a gaudy gold chain that looked like it once belonged in a 2000’s music video.

“Bling, bling!” he crowed and threw the shell necklace off to be replaced.

“Wait a minute, is that what was so important you had to order it?” Donnie said as he and Raph joined the group. “That’s such a waste of money!”

“Some ninja you are,” Raph snorted. “You can see that ugly-ass chain from a mile away.”

Leo hummed at that and then frowned. “Mikey, did you even ask April if you could send that to her place before you ordered it?”

Said turtle shrugged. “I knew she wouldn’t mind.”

The others seemed to erupt at once.

“Except it’s an unknown package being sent to her place, especially with the Foot Clan knowing her association with us—”

“Even worse, it’s inconsiderate to just assume—”

“Even worse, Leo? What kind of bullshit is that—”

April was an only child (well, not so much anymore), so she wasn’t used to how quickly one small thing could turn into a full blown argument. If pushing got involved, then 6-foot mutant turtles or not, she would break up that fight—yup, there’s the shoving.

“Guys, GUYS!” April moved forward and intercepted the beginning of whatever as they all avoided bumping into her. “It’s fine. You can have stuff sent to my place, I don’t care. As long as I can get it down here.”

It took a little more convincing to assure them that no, they were not imposing on her, and then they seemed excited about this new opportunity. Apparently, they’d had to scout out addresses before and sneak the package away before the occupants realized. Obviously, this was much more convenient.

Steadily, they all started to order stuff online (with what money or credit card she had no idea) and have it sent to her place. Parts for Donnie, books for Leo, and though she only felt it through the packaging, yarn for Raph. At first, Mikey was the only one who used O’Neil for the address. Then something changed, and they all started to use it too. A package of tea addressed to Splinter O’Neil gave her a small laugh one day. Raph had been the last to address himself as O’Neil, always so stubborn, and seemed almost shy when she delivered it.

April knew she was very biased on this, having seen them as teeny-tiny babies, but her little-big brothers could be pretty adorable sometimes.

---

The last name thing had come up with Splinter one day as they sat in his quiet bonsai garden, enjoying some tea while the boys burned off energy around the rest of the lair.

“I don’t want to overstep any boundaries or anything, but I’ll admit it’s… nice. My dad was really all I had for family, so it was just us and then me for so long. It’s almost like this has all… I don’t know, come full-circle? If that makes sense?”

Splinter smiled and reached out to lay his hand on hers.

“I was not lying when I said I modeled my parenting after your father. One way or another, you both cared for this family, and you know we consider you a part of it.” April nodded, a little choked up, and grasped his hand. He’d said it himself, but she wasn’t ready to fully relive how Splinter felt so familiar, so comforting.

“Besides,” he continued with a chuckle. “Michelangelo has quite enjoyed having a last name, and I think the others were a bit hesitant before they saw that you didn’t mind.”

“Of course not, I’m all for it,” April laughed, wiping under her eyes. “Now there’s more than just me to make the O’Neil name proud.”

---

One other thing she had discovered about being a big sister to four trouble-prone teens: full names were extremely effective.

“Donatello O’Neil!” she shouted the second she stepped into the lair, and all movement ceased. Leo balanced on one foot, mid-throw, Raph was mid-swing across the lair, and Mikey had an orange soda titled towards his face, where it slowly dripped down his front.

A weak “Oh, shell” came from the direction of the lab, and she stormed over. A taunt from Mikey followed but was quickly cut off with a grunt. Donnie was hunched over his desk, head turned slightly to look up at April’s furious approach.

“Why the hell did I just find a tracker in not one but all of my jackets?” She reached into her pocket, grasped the tiny devices, and tossed them on the desk. “I almost had a panic attack thinking I was being tracked by someone else. You know that’s been one of my worst fears ever since the Shredder, and we’ve talked about privacy and emergency plans, Donnie. I have a panic button on my phone, and I gave you permission to track it when absolutely necessary.” She let out a frustrated huff, pointing at the trackers. “What. Are. These?”

He’d sputtered a bit and avoided her eyes as she spoke, but he finally looked up when she stood silent, waiting for an answer. His shoulders drooped, and he wheeled back from his desk to face her. Even sitting, Donnie was only slightly shorter than her.

“Contingency plan,” he finally bit out. “Phones are most likely the first thing a kidnapper would get rid of to avoid tracking.”

“Wh— kidnapper?” That caught her off guard, and the tension in her shoulders released a little. Was there a new danger she didn’t know about? “But who… Oh.”

Movement on his tablet drew her eye, and the footage there followed a shady van that looked very familiar.

The Foot Clan—because an organization that big could still survive with their leader in jail for a year now—had disabled her turtle-approved security system and ransacked her apartment a couple of weeks ago. The cameras from across the street told them that and how the intruders had missed April coming home by a mere 12 minutes. They had obviously been searching for something specific, and she eventually realized it must have been the box of notes from Project Renaissance. Luckily, they had been stored in the lair for safe keeping.

After coming home to that mess, April called Donnie right away and started packing up her necessities. All four of the turtles had met her at her usual sewer entrance, and they formed a tense detail on the trip back. She worked out-of-office that week as she laid low in the lair and waited for the all-clear while they doubled up her apartment’s security. Splinter and the boys were good about giving her space when she was working, but she could still feel the hovering and worry. The guys had been in and out more often, Splinter always had some tea ready for her, and she just knew there had been many hushed conversations out of earshot.

Sure, deadly henchmen being in her apartment had freaked her out, but it had really freaked out her new family. April held her own against all of the weird shit they got dragged into, but there were always reminders that she did not have a shell or ninja training; a sprained ankle, one small concussion, too many bruises to remember, and even a few less inches of hair when it got singed in an explosion.

She looked between the tablet and Donnie, but now he held his gaze steady. “The Foot know where you live, and you refuse to move. This was the best way for us to always be there when you need us.” His voice was even, calculated, but his hands were clasped tightly and one foot tapped insistently.

Oh, her sweet, overprotective boys. Under all that bullet-proof shell, they were all just teenagers who had five people in the world to call family, and they did not take that for granted.

April sighed and turned to sit against the desk, holding out one hand. Donnie took it and held on, grip tight. “It comes from a good place, Donnie, but you have to tell me about these things. Trust goes both ways, okay?”

Leo, Raph, and Mikey were hovering around the entrance to the lab, and she gave them all a stern look to reiterate her point. “I know I don’t have a shell, but I am scrappy, stubborn, and awesome at running in heels.”

“Way better than the Jurassic World chick,” Mikey piped up, and Raph lightly punched his arm.

“You’re damn right,” April answered, smiling at his effort to lighten the mood. “So I appreciate the worry, guys, but you need to talk to me. I worry, too. You might forget, but you’re not invincible.”

“Better off than you,” Raph grunted. This time Mikey punched him, not as lightly. “What, it’s true!”

April sighed. “Come on, Raph, you know muscle isn’t everything.”

“No,” he grumbled, “but you got us. Whether or not you like it, we can take the hard hits.”

“What he means to say,” Leo said, shoving Raph back with his shoulder, “is that we were worried, and we didn’t think you were taking the threat seriously enough.” Donnie’s hand gripped hers a little harder, and she looked back to see him nod in agreement. “We are sorry about the secrecy, though.”

April sighed. “Fair point. You know I love you guys,” they perked up at that, “but having back-up is kind of a new thing for me. It’s habit to go solo, and it’s habit for you four to be a team.”

She held out her other hand. Leo was closest, and he took it with some hesitation. “Still a learning process all around.”

Mikey eagerly grasped Leo’s other hand and then Raph’s, refusing to let go even as Raph gave a shake, so they were all joined. “Family sticks together, bruh.”

---

The O’Neils had been a thing for awhile now, but writing it down was very different to actually saying it outloud. Mikey had no trouble claiming his new last name, and had even dubbed some pizza monstrosity he concocted from as many toppings he could get as the “O’Neil Special.” For the others, it took some time to say it—at least when she was around to hear.

Eight months. Donnie had been talking a mile a minute about a phone meeting set up with an award-winning engineer currently teaching at NYU. He’d been given 30 minutes to ask her all the questions he wanted. April had kind of bullied Vern into setting it up with his new connections, and Donnie had asked her to be there for moral support. She assured him it was all going to go great and to just make the call already. His shoulders went rigid under her hands when the call connected. “Hi! Hello, uh, this is Donatello O’Neil, I got your number from Vern? The Falcon?” She squeezed his shoulders in comfort, grinning proudly for many reasons.

One year and 2 months. Raph had been playing a one-on-one basketball game with Donnie while April refereed. Even as the self-proclaimed muscles, Raph was agile, and he did a quick maneuver around Donnie to score a perfect 3-pointer. “And Raph O’Neil makes the shot!” he whooped, doing a quick victory dance. He didn’t seem to realize it, but April certainly did. She felt warm and fuzzy after that, so she let him get away with traveling a couple minutes later.

For Leo, it just hadn’t come up yet. Although, one day she’d been stress cleaning their mess of a kitchen, and opened one beat-up book in curiosity to see “Leonardo O’Neil” neatly written on the cover page. That was enough for her.

Then her amazing family had finally gotten the acknowledgement they so rightly deserved.

“To you, brothers. Leonardo, Raphael, Donatello, Michelangelo.” Chief Vincent paused. “Last name?”

The guys all glanced her way, and April didn’t care if her eyes were a little watery at Leo’s answer. “O’Neil.”

#tmnt #tmnt 2014 #tmnt 2016 #bayverse #tmnt bayverse #april o'neil #tmnt april #fanfic

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lesbianmonsterlover · 5 years

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Female Orc x Plus Sized Female Reader (plot-driven NSFW)

Humans and Houses is the magic universe analog of Dungeons and Dragons. This little group of orcs wintering at an outpost on the border of their lands has been playing since they were in the academy together, what happens when they manage to summon a human by mistake in a world where humans don’t exist except for in stories?

This is a long, long story with some NSFW to it. This is 100% self indulgent romance and comedy borderline crackfic.

“I would like to roll to see if I can guess the password on the device, this comp-tar is no match for my tech prowess!” Balzol looked over at Rokal, who considered and then nodded. The clattering of bone dice followed. “19” he grinned, tusks flashing, and Rokal chuckled.

“You find a scrap of paper posted on the side of the desk, it has some letters and numbers written on it, trying that you’re pleased to see it works giving you access to the information contained within.” Balzol looks pleased with himself, and the rest of the group at the table cheers him on.

Rokal had been running this group of Humans and Houses for a few years now with other orcs in her barracks at the stronghold, although this would be the third crop of characters, this new workplace setting was proving very interesting, much more intrigue and political backstabbing. They were running the university setting, at the request of Shokk, and having quite a good time doing it.

She waits for the noise to die down before moving on, consulting her notes and the new DM guide for this expansion. “You open up a document labeled ‘Second Semester Lesson Plan’ hoping to find some information that would allow you to outdo Jamison at the meeting coming up at the end of the week with the department. You find some class information but, moving further down the document, it seems as though it devolves into a recipe for a human love potion and a desire for a particular librarian at the university to notice him-” Rokal snorts in amusement, and writes out the recipe for the potion before giving it to the team.

Shokk scoffed, the healer of their group who had been trained in magic. “That wouldn’t even work! Stupid humans, love potions aren’t real, just mind control. Besides that this ritual wouldn’t even do anything, look.” The ingredients listed were common, and within a few minutes the laughing group is crowded around a small earthen bowl over a candle flame, dropping in the oils and herbs, Shokk gestured to Rokal. “You, oh fearless leader, should do the honors.” Rokal snorted in amusement and shoved the smaller Orc before standing over the pot and drawing in chalk the symbols pictured in the book.

Grabbing up the dried flower she grinds it between thick fingers into the pot, slowly chanting “by rose, by myrrh, by candlelight, my love will come to me tonight.” Repeating the chant again she sprinkles in the myrrh, and at the third repetition she carefully takes the beeswax candle and ignites the contents of the pot. The smoke is fragrant and heady, but nothing happens, making the Orcs break out in laughter anew until a bright flash of light is accompanied by a snap that sounds like a cracking whip, and when the light fades there’s a small body on the floor.

You, meanwhile, had graduated with your librarianship degree and were beyond thankful that you had been offered employment within the university post-graduation. It wasn’t a high paying job, but the cost of living in the area of the university was fairly low, and the benefits were nothing to stick your nose up at. The only thing was the crippling loneliness. Being gay in a small town is never quite fun, even one as progressive as the little town your university was located in. The majority of other women passing through who might be interested were undergraduates, far too young for you, and the gay scene in this place was so incestuous you couldn’t date after breaking up with your latest girlfriend.

Sighing you tapped languidly at the computer keyboard in front of you, debating whether to get up from the circulation desk for another coffee. With a shake of your head you pull out your knitting instead, finding the repetition of stitches comforting and distracting from the pull of the coffee machine at least until it’s actually your break time. You vaguely register the smell of roses and smoke before it feels like you’re sucked through a straw, twisted inside out, and then dumped unceremoniously onto a roughly hewn wooden floor, your bag skittering to a stop at the boot-clad feet of a stranger.

With a whimper you push yourself up some, blinking against the dizziness. As you come to your senses you look around, this looks like no place on campus you’ve ever been before. Large wooden bunks line one long wall of the room, with a large fire on the opposite wall in a stone hearth. You just begin to register voices, but they’re speaking a language you’ve never heard before, something rough sounding almost like german maybe? But it definitely wasn’t. Looking up the legs of the person in front of you you’re surprised to find green, maybe stockings? A leather skirt, interesting choice, with a skull belt? Very hot, and those abs, leading up to small muscular breasts and broad shoulders. The green skin was interesting, leading up to the face of what looks like an orc, if your nights of Warcraft as a teen taught you anything, and it’s at that point you promptly pass out.

Rokal gapes at the form on the floor as they collapse back down again. What in the actual hells just happened?! Shokk thankfully had more of his wits about him, crouching beside the figure and rolling them onto their back, their soft face slack in sleep. Rokal actually thinks you’re quite pretty, you look so soft and gentle compared to the warriors she has spent her years around. Bending down she picks up the bag that came to a stop at her boots, smiling a little tenderly at the knitting project she finds attached to the ball of yarn inside it. You reminded her briefly of her mother, she couldn’t deny feeling that kind of comfortable warmth inside her at the sight of you. It was somehow different though, spicier. She shook her head, gathering up the knitting and carefully placing it behind her GM screen on the table.

“She’s got round ears…” Shokk is mumbling to himself as he checks the girl over, eyes wide and hands shaking. “Rok, she has round ears, she isn’t an elf, or a dwarf, or a goblin, there’s no fae magic here, no disguises or tricks. Rok...Rok I don’t think she’s supposed to be here.” His voice is a frantic and thin whisper by the end, and Rokal has dropped to her knees beside the healer to try and calm him down. Her hands are on his shoulders as she looks into his eyes, making him breathe with her.

“Shokk, Shokk you need to relax, we’ll figure this out…” Rokal looks down at you. To her eyes, your clothing is strange, and with a cautious glance over at the table she is coming to a sinking conclusion that you look strikingly like the characters printed on her screen. A human...you look like a human. Now she’s the one trying to keep it together, at least visibly more poised than Shokk was. “What the fuck…” She picks you up off of the floor, cradling you against her chest and trying not to focus on the way your soft body molded against hers. She brought you to her own bunk, laying you on the sheets and tugging up the wool blanket that had been crumpled at the foot of the mattress. She strokes your cheek with one knuckle, staring down at you with intense searching eyes.

You stir at the stroking of your cheek, pressing up on your palms you blink your eyes open blearily. Rokal drops her hand, stepping back as you tilt your head cutely, looking confused as a newborn kitten. “What the fuck. What the fuck, did someone drug my fucking coffee?” You lean forward heavily and stare at your hands before you stare up at the group of what look like FUCKING ORCS standing around a table laughing at your outburst. When a throat clears beside you your head whips around to come face to abs with a tall, muscular orc woman. Or you assumed she was a woman, considering the binder over her chest that the others were lacking. “Oh holy shit, I’m definitely hallucinating, there’s no way anything but my imagination could make such a gorgeous woman. Christ, I need to get laid.” The group of orcs in the background laughs louder, yelling something out in that rough language you heard earlier before Rokal makes what you assume is a rude gesture in their culture and their laughing crescendos but they stop the comments.

Rokal is dark with embarrassment, thankful that it seems like you cannot understand their language although she’s sure you’re smart enough to figure out in context they were quite crass. She’s also thankful you seem to speak common so at least she can communicate, although your accent is odd and some of your words are...confusing. “Hello there, little one…” you blush darkly and give her a halfhearted scowl, offering up your name which makes her smile soften. You look like an angry kitten, it’s too cute. She repeats her greeting with your name this time, and you smile. “My name is Rokal, you are in Ecrad at our outpost at the Western border with the nation of Othar. Tell me, where are you from?”

You look confused, you supposed your brain was an odd thing inventing all of this out of thin air. You never thought of yourself as much of a prose writer, but perhaps being surrounded by books for the last several years had rubbed off on you even a little bit through osmosis. You try to explain to Rokal where you’re from, but she only gives you a blank and confused look when you name your home city. You grab your bag and are thankful you keep your small wallet with ID and a bit of cash in alongside your knitting, knowing that you never leave without it. With shaky hands you pass over the leather fold, and it looks tiny in her grip as she carefully examines it. “You are...human?” She sounds wondering, a tremor in her voice that is either fearful or hopeful, maybe even reverential? When you nod and give her a look as if to say ‘what else would I be?’ she shakes her head, looking at you wide eyed as she drops your ID. “Not possible. You aren’t real, you aren’t supposed to exist.” She reaches out with an outstretched finger and pokes the soft flesh of your upper arm, as if to make sure you are in fact corporeal. She looks over at the group of orcs helplessly before looking back at you with the same huge puppy-dog eyes in a startling shade of pure onyx.

You want to reach out to comfort her, but before you can make a move she turns and slumps onto the edge of the bed, sitting heavily next to you. The weight of her dips the bed and makes you slide until you’re pressed up against her back. You can’t move though, it seems as though the mattress has swallowed you whole and you’re just stuck between the soft feather bed and her broad strong back. It would be comforting if it wasn’t so embarrassing.

Rokal rests her elbows on her thighs, rubbing her palms over her face before raking her hands through her mohawk. A human, a real human, warm blood and flesh pressed up against her back right now, and existing in this universe. What the fuck were they supposed to do about this?! Rokal couldn’t very well get her home, and even Shokk with his knowledge of magic would be no use, as he focused on healing and strengthening their unit. It would be weeks or months until the passes would be clear from winter, they were stuck on the winter rotation on the border this year, snowed in just the group of them making sure that the border was secure until another crew would come to to relieve them in spring. Some weeks the weather was clear enough to allow them to trudge to the small village a little over a mile away to stock up on some supplies and even leisure items, like their Humans and Houses game, but there was no one there with a deep enough knowledge of the magical arts to help get this human back to wherever they are from.

The border was secure, peace had been struck between Ecrad and Othar over a century ago and the only things they caught were the occasional animal wandering through the wood without any care for the borders of lands, and the occasional patrol from Othar passing by to share gossip and news. So the border was secure but that still doesn’t explain how the fuck there is a cute soft human lying in her bunk, emphasis on human. The boys gathered around sitting across from her on Shokk’s similarly unmade bed or pulling up chairs from the table. Gurukk, another of the orcs in her company, chuckled, his grey-green skin looking strangely pallid. “Well this is a fucking mess.” His voice is a low grumble, but at least he speaks in common, following in Rokal’s lead. “We’re stuck here until spring, and the first snow was only last week…” He voices the internal struggle Rokal was having, and Shokk chimes in.

“I have no idea how she even got here, let alone how to get her back. It will be months until the mountain passes are clear enough to get her to Mama Rena, and she’s the only one who could do anything to help I think.” Shokk spoke often of his mentor, a stern half orc half elf he called Mama Rena who lived on the outskirts of the settlement he grew up in. She was brilliant with magic, naturally talented in a way that is impossible to teach or train. She was not one to take students, but Shokk couldn’t seem to get rid of her, even before he decided he wanted to study healing magic the strange old woman would simply force her presence on him. Especially infuriating was the fact that his parents encouraged her behavior, knowing the honor for what it was.

You struggled, flailing slightly and feeling for all intents and purposes like a child while surrounded by this group of giants. Finally though you managed to right yourself, scooting up to the side of the mattress and sitting next to Rokal, looking out at this group of orcs. Everyone introduced themselves, the one who couldn’t speak common introduced by other members of the company. You still found your eyes constantly drawn to Rokal though, it’s as if someone took your ideal of a woman and made it big and green with tusks (all of which was a bonus, if anyone wanted to ask you). Tall and broad, sitting next to each other the top of your head only just reached the bottom of her chest binder, with thick muscular arms and a firm stomach, small muscular breasts, and thighs that could crush your head if she let you between them. You wanted to worship every inch of her mossy skin, watch this beautiful creature come undone for you, and then maybe selfishly get pinned down and absolutely ravished by her in return. You’re so lost in your thoughts that you don’t notice you’ve begun openly staring at the orc woman, only drawn out of it when Gurukk says something to Rokal in Orcish with a teasing tone that makes her cheeks darken and she bares her tusks and growls in his direction. It would be intimidating to be on the receiving end of that, you’re sure, but Gurukk just laughs and turns his face to you with a soft smile, or at least as soft a smile as an orc mouth can manage with tusks as large as his.

“You are welcome here, tiny human, we will keep you safe until we can return you to your world. Tell us, what is human society really like? Is there really no magic? Are there no other races in your world?” The five orcs are looking at you with wide, sparkling eyes as though they’re sitting for story time like the kids from your internship at the children’s library. It makes you laugh, and the orcs look surprised at how gentle the sound is compared to their own. It isn’t as bell-like as an elf or as bellyful as an orc, it’s sweet though and they’re all a little enamored by it, especially Rokal as she stares down at you with some wonderment.

“Well, no, there’s no magic where I come from. At least, I would have said that until I wound up here somehow. I’m still not entirely convinced this isn’t a drug-induced hallucination.” You giggle, and a few of the orcs snort out a laugh. “Magic is kind of a concept where I’m from, but we consider it a myth. It’s a story you tell children, but no one in my world is capable of using or acting on it, and even if they are they’re laughed at and derided as charlatans.” Shokk looks aghast, like he can’t even fathom a world where that was a possibility let alone a reality.

“But...but anyone can learn magic if they practice hard enough!” Shokk speaks up, trying to impress this upon you. “Seriously! Some are more adept than others, but literally anyone can learn basic conjuration at the very least.” He looks confused, and you suppose for a moment that it’s like telling someone that where you come from nobody has ever heard of or is capable of performing some other basic fundamental like math or reading. Yes some people have more difficulty than others, and never progress past a basic understanding or cannot do it because of neurotyping or lack of exposure to education, but to believe that it is fake? You’d never be able to wrap your mind around that. You’re forced to shake your head no, looking at him a little sheepishly.

“No, no magic I’m afraid. At least not that we can access in any meaningful way. I wonder if it’s something that humans are incapable of, or if it’s just that the world where I come from has no magic or weak magic…” You trail off, contemplating for a moment before Balzol snaps you out of it, asking again if there are no other races where you come from that might access magic. “No, our definition of race in my world revolves around skin tone. We are all humans, but we organize based on how dark or pale our skin is, and for a long time we have fought one another based on whose skin tone is superior. Many like to say we’re past that now, and that equality has been achieved, but that is just not true. One subset of the populace is imprisoned at such a significantly higher rate because of systemic oppression and lack of opportunity, but many people in charge simply say it’s because their race makes them more violent or prone to crime. It’s depressing.” You feel a little embarrassed about the rant you’ve gone on, but the orcs looks offended on your behalf as well.

“Orcs are used to such treatment as well, it is why we have isolated ourselves for so long, because other races like to believe that we are more violent and savage simply because we are good warriors. We are treated as if we are stupid just because we are big and strong, and outside of our strongholds and settlements there are many paths barred to orcs because of other prejudiced beings. We promise little human not to underestimate you, or treat you as lesser simply because you are so cute and tiny.” Balzol has done what he set out to do and made you laugh and smile at the last sentence, bringing a smile back to your face instead of the grimace you were wearing discussing your world’s culture. You shake your head giggling.

“Maybe compared to you lot! Back home though, I’m considered quite big.” You gesture at your belly and chubby thighs, kicking out your legs a bit. “It would be more difficult if I were trying to date men I think, other queer women tend to be more forgiving of different body types.” You shrug and then notice the stare that Rokal has fixed you with, blushing a little self consciously. You’re so used to being proudly out in your world that you didn’t even stop to consider whether or not same sex relationships were acceptable in this one. You couldn’t be sure if orcish society here was the same as it was in the fiction of your universe, open and accepting of those who were true to their emotions and experiences, unabashedly themselves. “Are those sorts of relationships not acceptable in your world?” You glance out shyly at the rest of the orcs and find them fixing you with silly grins.

“Oh, no, not at all, you are attracted to who you are attracted to, there is no shame in loving anyone.” Balzol smiles wider, and you think an outsider would find you absolutely insane for not being intimidated by his huge tusks and glinting piercings, but you think he looks like a big overexcited puppy. “You know, our Rokal is the same as you...many find her too big for an orc female. It makes her quite good at what she has chosen to do though, there is no shame in living in your body.” Rokal glances down at you a little sheepishly to find you beaming up at her, your little face tilted up and filled with open affection.

You stare at each other for a moment, and you take in the scars on her face, one bisecting her left eyebrow and a thick one that just pulls the right corner of her mouth down going from her cheek down to her chin. She’s missing a chunk of one ear, it looks like a bite was taken out of it, and on either side of the wound she’s placed a shiny silver cuff. Her other ear is studded with piercings of silver and bone from the lobe all the way up to the pointed tip, a few of them dangling and clinking together when she moved. Her hair is in a mohawk, braided to the scalp and then loose down her back, keeping the hair out of her face but leaving room for traditional beads and feathers marking her achievements. She has intricately embellished rings around each tusk, and you think you noticed the glint of a stud through her tongue.

The two of you are blatantly eye-fucking each other, and you forget for a second that there are others there with you as you take in this huge, beautiful woman. Your mouth runs away from you, “I don’t think you’re too big, I think you’re gorgeous.” Your face burns as you suddenly remember that there are other people there when one of them snorts. You desperately wish you could shove the words back in your throat but sadly that isn’t possible. Rokal smirks at you though, seemingly unphased by your embarrassment.

“Well I can say the same of you, little one.” She almost purrs at you, and you forget how to breathe. She’s flirting. With you. She’s flirting with you. Oh god what do you do? So you opt to stare up at her, blushing and with slightly parted lips, and she laughs deeply. One of her thick arms snakes around your waist, her big hand sitting on your hip and squeezing slightly as she turns back to the rest of the orcs. “So you keep your grubby hands off, she isn’t interested in brutes like you.”

“Yeah, she’s interested in brutes like you!” Gurukk’s retort makes you giggle and lean into Rokal’s side, turning your head slightly to hide your blush. He isn’t wrong, after all. She laughs as well, bright and happy and loud, pulling you closer so your soft thigh is pressed right up against her muscular one.

“And don’t you forget it!” Rokal’s grin is happy, and it’s nice to see her comfortable and less worried. She looks in her element, and it makes you swoon a little more. This confident, brash orc woman was juuuust your type. “Now, little one, would you like to watch us play our game? We were playing Houses and Humans when we managed to summon you here, I’d like to know what you think of it.” Her smile is no less big, but seems gentler when she looks down at you. You nod wordlessly and her smile turns to a smirk as she thumbs your chin affectionately. “Well I am afraid we only have enough chairs for our group, so you’ll have to sit on my lap...unless you’d rather sit with one of the boys.” Your blush returns tenfold, but you smile up at her just a little shyly and shuffle even closer.

Rokal laughs and lifts you up from beside her before standing in one fluid motion. You giggle and cling to her, your arms doing their best to wrap around her broad shoulders and neck. When she settles back down at the table behind her screen you’re struck by how much this looks like a game of Dungeons and Dragons, and you comment on it. You explain D&D, and they laugh, admitting that it does in fact sound similar. You pretend to be magic beings, strong warriors, and cunning rogues, but they live in a world where that is their daily existence so they pretend to be mundane, living in a world where they have to get by on just their cunning, intelligence, and smarts - street or book.

She hands you back your bag of knitting, and you’re thankful to have not dropped any stitches by your count while the rest of the crew get settled back at their spots, refilling mugs of mead and bringing out dried meat and cheese. Rokal feeds you from her portion, making sure that you have had your fill before eating the rest, her rations are plenty big to feed her tiny little human without depriving herself of nutrients she assured you, and you couldn’t help the way your heart stuttered when she called you hers.

You watch their game curiously while knitting, curled up in Rokal’s lap feeling warm and happy. You eventually fall asleep curled up against her stomach, the soothing rhythm of her breath and the occasional rumble of her laugh lulling you into darkness. You are asleep when your arm wraps possessively around her waist while your head nuzzles into the tender skin just beneath her binder. She stills, freezing and looking down at you. The boys roar into laughter briefly before she shushes them with a bare of her teeth while gesturing down at you. They don’t quiet down too much, but keep it to a dull rumble instead of an all out riot. One of her hands pets through your hair, smiling gently as you bury your head further into her. This is what she had been missing, what she has needed her whole life. Someone to protect and care for, someone open and loving who will cherish her as much as she cherishes them. This little human was a surprise, but certainly a welcome one. Even if she only got to be with you for a short time, she would cherish and make the most of it.

It is late into the night when they finally stop. The blizzard raging outside means that they will not be patrolling until the weather lets up some. Rokal stands and cradles you in her arms, smiling at the way your face pushes against her neck, searching for her scent and warmth. You seem in tune with your nature, something orcs valued, and your nature seemed very in tune with her own. Without too much thought she sits on her bed, laying you out underneath her sheets and blanket before sliding in next to you. She can’t help the happy sigh she lets out when you curl into her side as if looking for her, one of your thick thighs slung over her leg. Her fingers card through your hair, sending up a thankful prayer to whatever forces brought you here.

You wake in the middle of the night to something caressing your ample breast and teasing over your puckering nipple. With a soft whimper you buck against whatever is between your thighs that feels so hot and firm. Your memories flood back to you, waking up in a world with orcs, and when you realize you’re definitely not hallucinating this time you still. Glancing up you can see that Rokal is asleep, one of her arms keeping you tucked firmly against her side where your full length is cuddled up along her torso, her other arm slung across her stomach and her hand unconsciously fondling your breast.

You gasp when her clever fingers pinch your nipple, moving your hips against her thigh again to press your panty-covered mound against her muscles. She shifts in her sleep, dragging you further up her body as her grip tightens, your core now pressed right into the thick protrusion of her hip bone. Rokal seems to stir at the heat of you against her, and the softness of your breasts dragging over her flesh. She squeezes slightly, making you squeak as it digs your crotch deeper into her hip. Her hips buck in return, the hand on your breast groping as she moans lightly, waking from sleep slowly. Her bright eyes lock with yours as you gaze up at her, pupils already blown with lust from her unconscious stimulation. She smiles down at you, sultry and predatory, her movements becoming conscious as she grinds up against your obvious arousal, feeling the soft flesh of your labia press enticingly against her hard hip bone. You bite your lower lip firmly, trying to keep the whimper in your throat from escaping and failing. She chuckles. “Don’t worry little one, they sleep like the dead, and besides, there is no shame in bringing pleasure to your lover.” Her hands move down to your hips, dragging you to straddle her abs.

Rokal smiles down the length of her body as she strips off your dress to reveal your bra and panties. Her hands squeeze the flesh of your belly and migrate up to grope your breasts. She tries to remove the garment and you giggle at her attempts to pull it off of you before you reach behind yourself and undo it for her. It’s her turn to gape at you as she sees your breasts for the first time. You’d usually be self conscious of their sag, and your stretch marks, but she looks at you with such wonder, her hand trembling slightly as she reaches up to caress one gently with her calloused and scarred fingers. She hauls you further up her body as she pulls your face down to hers. Your first kiss is heated and passionate, but with an underlying sweet loving wonderment, as if she’s pouring everything she’s felt from the moment she saw you until now into this kiss. Her tusks press firmly against your chubby cheeks but don’t poke you at all, you let out a pleased sigh when her tongue slips out from between her lips to push between your own. You were right, she does have a tongue piercing, and when you playfully tug on it with your teeth she growls at you and presses your hips down harder against the hard plane of her abs.

She swallows your whimper, instead moving your hips and flexing her muscles to slowly stimulate your clit. She gives a husky chuckle when your panties begin to soak through, sticking to your flesh and leaving a trail of your essence shining her skin like an emerald in the dim light of the banked fire. You let out a surprised squeal when she moves you up her body again like it’s nothing, straddling your plush thighs around her head while she hooks one tusk through your panties, shredding them away and off your body to flutter onto her chest. She’s panting, chest heaving, as she stares awed at your flesh, the curly hair of your mound glistening with your arousal, lips slightly parted to reveal deep pink flesh within. “You’re so beautiful, my love.” The endearment rolls off her tongue so effortlessly, and sounds so right, you can’t correct her. You think you love her too. Her calloused hands smooth up the inside of your soft thighs, gripping up at the top of your thighs and using her thumbs to spread the outer labia of your sex. Your whimper of ‘Rokal’ just makes her give a sultry laugh. “Don’t worry, little one, I’ve got you.”

Your hand clamps over your mouth at the first contact her tongue makes with your flesh, despite her assurances that the others slept like the dead you really didn’t want them to see you like this, pinned against the face of your lover. The desperate moan she gives you sizzles along your nerves frying your brain. Her tusks are warm and firm pressed against the inside of your labia, and you find yourself marveling for a moment how they hold you open for her as her hands stroke up to grasp your ass, kneading and pulling you firmly against her mouth. Her tongue pushes up into you as her broad flat nose nudges against your clit. You whimper, thighs twitching in pleasure as she presses and angles her tongue just right to push the stud through her tongue on your g-spot. You whimper her name again and she chuckles huskily before pulling away and licking her lips. “You taste so sweet, is this all for me?” Your shy whimper is enough of an answer and she chuckles again. “I wonder what kind of noises I can get you to make…”

Rokal sits up some, taking you with her. You’re flipped upside down, your head and upper back resting on her stomach as her legs are held out in front of her. Your legs are folded back, knees close to your shoulders as she pushes your thighs up, pinning you open completely for her and making it so you can’t move. She hold you in that position with one arm, and you’ve never felt more helpless or turned on. “R-Rokal…” You whimper, you don’t know what you’re asking for but she gives you a comforting pat on the rear.

“Shhh little one, Rok’s got you, don’t worry…” You gasp as her free hand firmly smooths up your ass and the back of your thigh, thumb pulling at the lips of your sex again. She parts you with her middle and forefinger, exposing you to her intense gaze. She chuckles, leaning down to lick a stripe from your asshole up to your clit, making you choke out a whimper. She probes her thick middle finger against your hole, circling teasingly with the rough pad of her fingertip before plunging all the way inside you. The needy moan you let out makes her chuckle, and the only movement from the others is a louder snore from one before it evens out again.

“I liked that one.” She draws your attention back to her, slowly pistoning her middle finger in and out of you. With her eyes locked with yours she presses a second finger into you, crooking them slightly and moving faster. You let out another moan, raising in pitch as her fingers find that spot inside you that makes your inner thighs twitch. Her chuckle is raspier, voice thick with arousal, you wish you could squirm but all you can do is curl your toes and grip your hands into fists. “Such a good girl for me, so good, you can take one more yeah?” You don’t think you can, but you don’t want to disappoint Rokal, so you nod a little and whimper as she slowly fits a third thick finger inside you.

It only takes a minute for you to be a drooling, whimpering mess pinned into submission by this giant muscular goddess while three of her impossibly thick fingers piston themselves in and out of your weeping pussy. The choked gasp that precedes your orgasm is a noise you don’t think you’ve ever made before, Rokal just smirks at you knowingly moving even just a little faster and deeper as you begin to spasm around her. You let out a wail of pleasure, and she coos your name affectionately as she starts to slow, working you through the last of your orgasm and wringing every drop of pleasure she possibly could from you.

Rokal releases you, arranging you over her lap with your head against her chest again, dropping kisses all along your hair and face, murmuring affectionate praises of you as you wither against her, spent with pleasure. Your arms are still slightly shaking with effort as you wrap them around her waist, burrowing into her heat. You want to return the favor, but you aren’t sure you can even keep your eyes open. It isn’t even a minute after that when you fall asleep again, making Rokal chuckle affectionately and kiss the crown of your head. Perhaps over the coming months she could convince you to stay…

Waking the next morning is a much less sensual affair, although you are embarrassed by your nudity at the very least you’re beneath a wool blanket and no one else has to know. Rokal’s hand skates affectionately up her back, the scratch of her callouses a pleasant contrast against your soft skin. “Good morning my love.” The endearment falls from your lips unthinkingly, and when you move to blush and turn away Rokal stills you with a hand on your cheek and beams down at you before kissing you fully on the lips. This kiss is less passionate than last night’s, but no less warm and loving. The wolf whistle beside you makes her lift her hand in a rude gesture and pull back slightly, growling something in Orcish.

While you didn’t love not understanding what she was saying, you’d be lying if you said hearing her speak that the guttural language didn’t turn you on a little bit. She gives you another chaste kiss before crawling out of bed, thankfully distracting the others for long enough that you can put on your bra and the tunic she’s lent you, that’s more like a dress on you. It at least comes down to your knees, and though it hangs bare off one shoulder due to the wide neck, it’s warm and smells like Rokal.

The day passes lazily, with some food and cards, exchanging stories, and Shokk showing off some basic conjuring used to impress young children. The others find it funny that you’re so enthralled, but Rokal just uses her limited knowledge of magic to produce you a pretty flower and the way you giggle and blush up at her makes her thankful that this doesn’t exist in your world. This is something she can give you that no one else can, at least no one from your universe. Perhaps it can be a reason to stay.

It’s three weeks of isolation in the cabin before the blizzard has stopped and the weather cleared enough that the party can patrol. You’re left on your own for the first time since you got here, and find yourself lonely without Rokal. And the others, you hastily tack on, Rokal and the others. But you know you’re lying to yourself. You love that big gruff orc, her cute smiles, the way her cheeks turn a dark emerald when she blushes, those lingering sultry looks, her goofy laugh, the way she tells stories, you could make a list for days. But This wasn’t your world, and you knew it would be too much to hope that she might want you to stay once winter was over and they headed back to their stronghold after finishing their tour.

You’ve managed to work yourself up into quite a tizzy when the door to the large cabin slams open and Rokal comes in calling out your name in a sing-song lilt. You’re confused to find her alone, and give her a puzzled look as she sweeps in to pull you up into a full kiss, one hand under your thighs holding you up while the other cups your cheek lovingly. You melt into her, relaxing under her careful ministrations. She pulls back and smiles at you, full of open affection. “I have something I must ask you, little one, and something I must tell you.” She places you down and cages your face between both of her large hands. You’d be worried if her smile wasn’t so bright and her eyes so full of obvious warmth. “I love you, I have since you landed on the floor of this cabin, and I would like for you to be my mate. I will protect you, provide for you, I will love you for the rest of our days together. Will you stay?”

Rokal is worried momentarily at the tears in your eyes, but when you launch yourself at her, sniffling and murmuring yes over and over again, she laughs heartily and scoops you up, spinning you in a circle. “Does that mean you’re my wife?” You giggle up at her, placing your own hands on either of her cheeks, smiling up with sparkling tear-filled eyes. She nods, giving you a roguish grin.

“Although, my little mate, we have to make it official…” The hungry look she’s giving you fills you with need and you’re looking forward to finally being able to touch her as she has you. Every time you’ve tried she’s told you that your noises are cute and small, but hers are too loud for shared quarters. You’d pout up at her, trying to argue, but you weren’t about to do something she didn’t want and so you let it be. “The boys are all going to spend the night in the village at the tavern, I told them I planned to propose.” She’s got an excited grin on her face but she’s a bit embarrassed. You’re touched by her care, and the fact that she wanted you to be someplace you felt comfortable instead of simply whisking the two of you to the village and letting them all sleep in their usual bunks.

You’re brought out of your thoughts by Rokal’s hands trailing up your thighs and pushing underneath the tunic of hers you’d thrown on today. You’d asked her once why she had them if she never wore them, and she just laughed at you saying they’re to go under her armor when she goes out on patrol or to battle, more to protect her armor from her skin than to protect her skin from the armor. Her hands make quick work of the garment, leaving you bare before her. She groans happily and kneels in front of you reverently, her face in line with your chest as you stand. She nuzzles her face into your breasts, hands pressing into the soft flesh of your stomach, and you giggle. “Rokal, my love, will you let me touch you?” You tilt her face up towards you with your little hands, staring down at her with such love and devotion.

Her answering smile is filled with heat and she turns to kiss your palm before standing before you. Stepping back slightly she pulls off her leather armor, leaving her in tight leggings and a loose tunic that looks just like the one she pulled off of you. The tunic comes off and you can see her usual leather bindings, the small loincloth when she tugs off her leggings though is a surprise, and you can’t help but admire the way it lays over the jut of her hip bones, the flat of her pubic bone leading up to her abs, you were going to be married to a literal goddess. She wants to tease you, but instead of words Rokal simply untucks the end of her chest bindings and lets the leather unravel onto the floor.

Her breasts are small and pert atop muscular pecs, still soft and feminine but they fit the rest of her figure. Her nipples are a dark green and puckered enticingly, begging for your lips, and who are you to deny them? Without preamble you step forwards, placing a kiss to the center of her chest before trailing your soft lips over to one breast. You take her nipple between your lips, sucking gently and teasing it with your tongue, and she lets out a low rumbling moan of your name. Her fingers tangle in your hair, tugging you closer to her breast. You moan against her flesh in answer, sucking on her nipple slightly more firmly and lashing across it with your clever little tongue. You move to take the other in your mouth, lifting a hand to tease and caress the nipple you just released. The words leaving her lips are in Orcish but they sound like pleas and praises to your ears, walking her back to the table you push her slightly until she’s sitting on the edge, long muscular legs splayed in front of her while she leans back onto her palms.

She grins wickedly at your open stare, flexing and posing for you as you ogle. “Do you see something you like, little mate?” You bite your lower lip, nodding as you walk up to her. You kiss down the center of her chest and down her abs, your hands massaging and caressing up the inside of firm thighs before your head and hands meet between her legs. You undo her loincloth without trouble, revealing the puffy outer labia of her emerald green sex, covered in thick dark hair glistening with drops of her arousal. You dive in like a woman starved, and the triumphant yell she lets out is definite proof of why she hadn’t let you do this sooner.

You find her clit, larger than you’re used to but it simply gives you more to work with. Your lips close over it softly as you gently press against it with your tongue, but the way Rokal’s fingers tighten in your hair and she growls at you tell you to go harder. You up the suction of your mouth, slowly increasing until you reach a point where she starts rutting her hips against your face. You lash your tongue over the head of her clit, using first two and then three fingers to push into her. “More!” Her cry is wanton, just audible above the grunts and moans she keeps letting out as she fucks her clit into your mouth. You press in a fourth finger and she glares down at you “I said more, mate.” You angle your thumb to slide in as well and begin pumping in and out to the wrist. She let out a long, loud groan of approval as you fist her, continuing to rut her clit into your suctioning mouth against your lapping tongue.

It only takes a moment of all of this stimulation for her to release all over your face, squirting so much that it soaks your arm and down your front. You don’t stop, milking her orgasm for all it is worth, and as long as she continues moving you do too. After her first orgasm she reaches a second quickly, not squirting this time but still clenching around your hand and screaming your name to the gods along with your praises of how she loves you.

She’s a panting mess leaning back against the table while you step back, giggling up at her a little proud of your handiwork. You made this beautiful, strong warrior into a puddle of melting, feminine goo. It takes her a moment to compose herself and once she catches her breath she stares at you with with a lewd gaze, licking her lips suggestively. “Oh my little mate, you are in such trouble.” She chuckles and you bolt, making her laugh. You barely make it four steps before she’s caught you in her grip and forced you face down onto her bunk.

“My beautiful wife…” She hums against your neck, nuzzling your skin while being careful with her tusks. The feeling of her nude body next to yours is better than you ever dreamed. No leather edges or cold spots, just warm scarred skin and heat. She hikes your hips up and keeps your shoulders pressed against the blanket, forcing your back to arch and exposing your heated sex. Normally she loves going down on you, teasing you until you’re a whimpering begging mess. But today she shoves two of her thick fingers into your waiting channel, knowing this is all she needs to do to make you hers forever.

“Rokal, I love you so much…” Your answering whimper makes her hum against your skin and drop a soft kiss, murmuring her own endearments in Orcish. She’s gentler than normal, but still lets you know who’s in control, using three of her fingers to bring you to your peak. You think you’re going to get rest but she merely pins your legs in place with one of her own and continues pumping her fingers into you. Your second orgasm surprises you, coming so quickly after the first, and that’s when she begins using her thumb to rub your clit. Her stimulation is gentle but still too much, and you try to wriggle your hips and relieve the pressure. She shushes you, kissing your neck and cheek, but keeping you pinned as she continues fucking you with her thick green fingers.

Your third orgasm has you screaming and hoarsely begging, it’s too much, but she just chuckles. “You can give me one more my love, come, it is my job on our wedding night to pleasure you as much as you can handle.” Your pained whimper makes her chuckle again and speed up just slightly. The incessant fingers inside you and on your clit make you come apart one more time as she kisses your neck and spine, whispering praises against your flesh. “So good for me, my mate, so beautiful. I promise you a long life of this.” You whimper, a boneless heap on the bed. She pulls you onto her, resting your head on her breast and cradling you against her body as you lay fully atop her.

“I love you.” Your tired mumble makes her smile and pet your hair, her hands are smoothing over your body, careful not to touch anywhere too sensitive, soothing and relaxing you into sleep. When you awake after your nap you’re alone in bed, but Rokal has dragged out a huge wooden tub and is boiling some water over the fire to make a bath for the two of you. Her muscular naked back contracts as she lifts the heavy kettle from over the fire, pouring the water into the tub until it reaches a comfortable steaming temperature. She gives you a wide smile when she notices your stare from the bed, holding out her hand and asking you to come take a bath. If this was to be your life here, with this beautiful creature who loved you, well, going home was no longer on the table. “I’m coming my love, just let me look at you some more.” Your tender smile makes her blush and rub her neck awkwardly, and you just giggle. Yes, this would be a good life.

#terato #monster love #female orc #fem orc #female reader #fem reader #wlw #lesbian fiction #lesbian love #hopeless romantic #exophilia

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homespork-review · 5 years

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Homespork Act 2: The Racism of the Conductor’s Baton (Part 3)

BRIGHT: Also, the prompts in John’s head are back and are making increasingly strident demands. Namely, they want John to follow Nannasprite to the cookies. John isn’t too keen on this idea. He’s so not-keen on it that he fails to notice Rose whacking him in the head with a box. Frustrated by his lack of compliance, the voice devolves into insults. I’m not sure why the Wayward Vagabond is so insistent on this? It’s not like he can eat the cookies.

On the whole this is a really good sequence, I think. It lays out some basic background information for the reader and John, and it’s paced pretty well.

Back in the future, an agitated slip of the finger causes a cupboard door to open in the Wayward Vagabond’s hideout. Out fall a few tins of food and a heavy tome of HUMAN ETIQUETTE.

Rose has updated her GameFAQs walkthrough with the new information from Nannasprite. We’re getting something of a motif here: Cut-aways to the Wayward Vagabond are followed by a walkthrough update. It’s a nice little pattern.

Rose also speculates on the prototyping process and on why the prototypings of other players worldwide have not affected John’s foes, and comes to the conclusion that each client/server pair -- or daisy chain -- spawns its own copy of the Incipisphere, or ‘session’. She’s also caught up in rewriting her work. Couldn’t the reader go somewhere else? Or somewhen else?

Why yes, the reader can. Namely the reader can jump back to Rose’s birthday, where she’s having a conversation with GG.

This conversation reinforces that there’s something funny about GG. She asks about John’s present the moment Rose opens it, and Rose isn’t surprised by this. GG also knows without being told that Rose’s dead pet is a male cat, and she’s been working on her birthday present for John for years.

Finally, she asks what Rose would say if GG told her she knew a game that could bring said cat back to life.

TT: If someone told me that, I would regard the remark with a great deal of skepticism. TT: If that someone was you, on the other hand, then I would have to ask preemptively: TT: Is that someone you? GG: yes that someone is me!!!!!!!! GG: i just thought you might find it interesting TT: So what is this game?

Whatever strange abilities GG has, Rose is familiar with her knowing things she shouldn’t, and trusts her even when she makes claims that sound impossible.

CHEL: Note, also, that here GG is the one who brings up the game, while in an early convo with John set chronologically after this one she asked “lol! whats sburb?” This is not an inconsistency. Again, it comes up later. We end up saying that a lot. Sorry.

BRIGHT: Also: Rose knows John well enough to guess that he was wearing a disguise when he talked to her earlier -- but still interprets his gift of knitting needles and yarn as a subtle jab at her habit of making analytical comments, much as her mother. GG points out that he probably didn’t mean it that way. Later, Rose says she’ll make him a gift with strong sentimental value as a dig at him, but admits she doesn’t really mean it that way when GG points it out. Then again, this takes place some months before the comic starts, and may show how Rose and John’s relationship has evolved.

Back in Dave’s home, the sun is beating down. Meteors pepper the city, and smoke is rising. Dave captchalogues his katana, and sets out in search of his brother’s copy of the game.

Dave elaborates a little on the concept of irony that he and his brother live by. His brother is awesome, apparently. Dave can only hope to one day reach those heights of irony.

The puppet theme from earlier continues, with puppets strewn around the living room where Bro lives and sleeps. Among them are a Mr. T puppet, which is wearing a leather thong and handcuffed to a pantsless Chuck Norris puppet. What makes it a little disturbing is that this is just lying out in the living room, which Dave presumably goes into all the time. Dave’s narration here sounds a lot like he’s trying to convince himself that these things are totally cool, no, really. He can’t see Lil Cal anywhere, though...

CHEL: Other puppets are the iconic Smuppets, possibly a portmanteau of “smutty puppets”, vaguely humanoid nude puppets with enormous behinds and phallic noses. There are implications that they are intended for non-PG purposes. Further implications are that the leaving of obscene material around the home has been going on for all of Dave’s life. For the record, intentionally showing pornography or sexual aids to children is classed as a form of sexual abuse. Casually leaving them lying around the house in front of kids long-term, well, the motive may not be malicious but I doubt a jury would care. It certainly counts as neglect. The popular fanfic Brainbent explored the damage this kind of thing could inflict on a kid in a realistic setting.

Also note, there is no hint of Dave having or ever having had parents, not even a photo in the background or something. The immediate assumption would most likely be that they’re dead, but Bro’s strangeness might also suggest estrangement - behaviour like that would probably result in one’s parents not talking to one anymore, though they most likely wouldn’t leave a child in a place like that if they were around. We find out the truth later, and it’s even weirder.

BRIGHT: Between one panel and the next, Lil Cal appears atop a speaker box. Dave is fine with this. Totally fine.

CHEL: For the record, this is Lil Cal:

Not something one would be very happy about finding behind one, is he?

BRIGHT: He plays a bit on the Xbox, gives Cal a fistbump, and then checks out his brother’s computer. It’s password-protected, but Dave knows the password, and Bro knows he knows it, and Dave knows this, and it’s all totally cool.

One of Bro’s websites is a puppet pornography website. Apparently this is popular enough to bring in thousands of dollars a month, and Smuppets are a multi-billion-dollar-per-year enterprise. Time for our next point:

Magic-onomics - wherein characters’ funds issue from nowhere Half-baked attempts to justify a protagonist’s mystery money can also backfire. Explanations should amount to more than “Somehow Rain had lots of money.” Giving Rain an inheritance, or explaining that she recently gave up her job at a top law firm to pursue her art, will work only where these things feel like part of the world of the novel.

Bro and Dave live in a crappy apartment in which Bro doesn’t even have his own bedroom, instead sleeping on the futon in the living room where he works. Yet they have the funds to spend on swords (not cheap) and expensive turntables. The Con Air bunny prop Dave bought for John sold in real life for almost $1,300.

And how the heck do smuppets bring in multiple billions of dollars a year? That’s a niche market, even if Bro is the only supplier. (Which he wouldn’t be — if it’s worth that much, someone else would want in on the market.)

CHEL: Even if said market is fairly disturbing. If there’s enough people who like it enough to buy it, there’ll be people comfortable with supplying it.

BRIGHT: Their income shouldn’t be anywhere near that high, even with puppet pornography adding to the revenue stream. If we grant that in this universe it is that high, then they should be living somewhere more comfortable.

HOW NOT TO WRITE A WEBCOMIC: 13

CHEL: In order for this to actually work as stated, not only would the puppets have to appeal to everyone on the planet, but there would probably have to be a lot more people on the planet than there actually are. I’m pretty sure it’s an exaggeration for humour, but considering the inconsistencies with their income status as presented, it’s still a bit shaky.

It’s also worth another count, because this is basically a handwave to mean the characters presented aesthetically as poor are still as financially secure as is necessary for writing the scenes Hussie wants to:

WHITE SBURB POSTMODERNISM: 6

If the comic was presented as a non-serious cartoon for the whole story, this would pass without comment, but when one’s trying to be dramatic and include real stakes, I think one needs to apply real stakes to everyday things too.

BRIGHT: Then again, it’s possible that their financial status is higher than the apartment would suggest, and Bro just chooses to spend his money on katanas and expensive equipment rather than upgrading. (And/or is lying to Dave about their income.) That might not be out of character given what we see of him later. But overall, this is a mess.

FAILURE ARTIST: Maybe the Smuppets is a money laundering business.

CHEL: A lot of people would read that fanfic.

The theory that the guardians knew the game was coming might explain why he chose to spend so much on swords, at least. He’d know Dave would need them. Not so much of an explanation for everything else though. Considering the weirdness that’s going on, I could imagine Bro not wanting attention drawn to it, but wouldn’t hiding weirdness be much harder in a flat than in a house set off some distance from neighbours?

For that matter, where’s John getting the money for movie memorabilia? Later reveals show the Egbert family originally came from money but they don’t seem to have that much to throw around now.

BRIGHT: Remember how Rose said earlier that she quite enjoyed Bro’s websites? I think that counts as a point for CALL CPA PLEASE…

FAILURE ARTIST: I question how pornographic the site really is. It might just literally be puppets being mashed together with no human body parts. A thirteen year old can surely see that.

BRIGHT: Fair point -- the page we see is teen-safe, at any rate.

CHEL: If it isn’t actually sexual, that possibly makes the supposed popularity level even sillier. Fetishists need constant fresh material and there are probably people who don’t have a specific puppet fetish who would ignore the puppets to look at the guy, but to keep up that level of popularity the viewers who don’t have a puppet fetish would have to keep finding it funny long after most people would think the joke had worn off. Both options say disturbing things about the world this comic is set in and their tastes in either pornography or humour. At least Veronica Chaos appears onscreen with her puppet… (Link contains no porn but you probably don’t want it on a work computer.)

For the record, I think Smuppets would actually make pretty bad sex toys. Plush is a porous material, so it would be hard to clean sticky substances out of it properly, and the phallic noses seem to be too floppy to use for penetration of a human orifice. Maybe that first point is why he brings in so much cash - the smuppets are single-use? People do use plush toys for masturbatory purposes, but usually when they can’t find anything else to use, specific fetishes for them being rare, and generally don’t use the soft parts as penetration toys.

Personally, I quite like the theory the kinkmeme brought up years ago; PlushRumps is actually an elaborate multimedia webcomic a la Homestuck itself. Now that I can see bringing in that much cash. Or possibly it just looks like this, which was made by the guy who wrote Thirty Hs (warning for eye injury and surreality): "Jumping!" (Watch on YouTube)

I could see Bro being that dude.

BRIGHT: And Dave admits, again, that he finds the puppet thing unsettling.

This is a pretty good depiction of someone trying to convince himself to be okay with something that freaks him out. He pesters John to distract himself from the puppets everywhere, and when he doesn’t get a response, he pesters Rose. And Hussie once again repeats the entire blinking pesterlog we read fifty pages ago instead of just linking back to it.

GET ON WITH IT!: 6

CHEL: Just occurred to me; why is Dave so bothered by the puppets? I can’t imagine that Bro suddenly started leaving them around when he hadn’t before - in fact, I believe a later flashback shows infant Dave using a Smuppet’s nose as a pacifier (eww, god I hope it was a freshly-made unused one). Dave really ought to be used to the things by now. Then again, now he’s reaching his teens, he’s probably old enough to start realising this is weird and creepy on a deeper level. But then that brings up the same problem we had with John; doesn’t he have any local friends he could have learned this from sooner? Though I could picture Bro not bothering to send him to school, and we do later learn there is quite possibly magic afoot in hiding the oddness of the Strider household. That’s a complicated theory and requires much more setup than we have here, though, so pin in that for later.

Also, the puppets thing counts for a point of ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?, and Dave is in fact the reason we created that count. A kid in Dave’s situation in real life would be messed up, but so would a kid in the situations of the others (or at least the girls), and Dave’s situation seems to be taken more seriously than theirs, at least later on.

ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 5

BRIGHT: Back to Rose, who’s beating John over the head with a box in a futile effort to get his attention. She eventually gives up and deploys another piece of equipment called a Punch Designix, using the Shale John collected. Since she doesn’t know what it does, she pesters John and asks him to experiment.

Unfortunately John has bigger problems to deal with: His garden is by this point overrun with imps, who are climbing on his tire swing and wearing his disguises. This is enough to snap him out of his Wayward Vagabond-induced state and get him to respond to Rose. They need to get those monsters off his pogo ride!

Fortunately, Rose is able to help by picking up the piano and dropping it on the imp. Less fortunately, the piano does not survive the experience. Neither does the imp.

The pogo ride seems fine, though.

John is reluctant to risk Nanna’s ghost cookies to go retrieve the grist, so Rose uses the pogo ride to transport it up to his room. Then she tells him to go find out what the Punch Designix does, while she works on building the house up to the gate. Apparently stairs cost a lot of grist to build. John makes a SBaHJ reference while Rose recoups the grist she used to build the catwalk earlier, sending an imp tumbling into the depths.

In the kitchen, Nannasprite has produced a lot of cookies. An imp tries to sneak one, and is blasted into grist by Nanna as a result.

John sets out on a hunt for imps and useful items, grabbing some shaving cream and his pogo ride, and launching his telescope out of the window. Amazingly, this proves relevant only a few pages later.

CHEL: Dad apparently keeps an entire cabinet filled with nothing but shaving cream. Rule of Funny, I know, but how fast does this guy’s beard grow?

BRIGHT: His living room is full of imps, who have taken a shine to the Cruxtruder and left cruxite dowels lying everywhere. Armed with hammer and shaving cream, John mounts his trusty steed and pogos his way to victory, which works amazingly well (read: works at all), until he slips on a cruxite dowel and lands flat on his back.

This is incredibly dangerous!

Acting on a polite prompt, John absconds into his Dad’s study, and Rose covers his retreat with the refrigerator, which levels up to FIVESTAR GENERAL ELECTRIC and earns 285 Boondollars.

Further extremely polite prompts ask John for a can opener. Despite the presence of two imps in the study with him, John stops to consider where to find one, while Rose takes out the imps with Dad’s safe. I don’t think that counts as HURRY UP AND DO NOTHING, though, since it’s clearly supposed to be the joke.

Back in the future, the Wayward Vagabond munches on a few pages from the etiquette book. Rose updates her GameFAQs walkthrough with a series of images of John’s house in the Medium. She does refer to Colonel Sassacre’s as racist in one of these, but it’s not really much of a rebuttal.

CHEL: She experiments with building a bit more on John’s house; ladders prove cheaper to build than stairs, albeit harder to use safely. John eventually stops contemplating can openers to examine the Punch Designix, while Rose answers Dave’s angry rant about being buried in Smuppets. I think this may be another point for ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY, because in the context of a kid ranting about his brother’s annoying hobby and his friend snarking back it’s hilarious, and it seems at this point to be presented as funny, but as discussed above the nature of Smuppets makes this rather creepy.

ARE YOU TRYING TO BE FUNNY?: 6 TG: i am enrobed in chafing, wriggling god fucking damned puppet pelvis TG: an obscenely long, coarse kermit cock is being dragged across my anguished face TT: Let's put this into perspective. You put up with the puppet prostate because you love it.

Okay, this I think could be a point for CALL CPA PLEASE. A child probably would make fun of another child’s discomfort with non-consensually being surrounded by sex toys on the grounds of not knowing better, but it’s unsettling to read.

CALL CPA PLEASE: 2

John discovers there are codes on the backs of his captchalogue cards, which can be entered into the Punch Designix to make punch cards. Punching the captchalogue card itself renders the item irremovable from it, but the punch card can, he guesses, be used to recreate the item via the Totem Lathe and Alchemiter. Before he can test this, Rose hurls a bathtub through the wall to kill some nearby imps; to be fair, when he checks his PDA, he sees he missed a message from her warning him about it. He messages her back and she says the precarious staircase up to the gate is ready. John is nervous and asks why she didn’t build straight up through the hole in his dad’s bedroom ceiling.

EB: oh come on. what's the big deal, i'll just climb up and go right through! TT: Will you? EB: yeah, why not? TT: Are you saying you've never wondered what's in there? Or why it's been kept a secret from you? EB: well, i mean yeah... TT: Then trust me. You won't be going "right on through." EB: wait, are you saying there's something, like... EB: troubling in there? TT: I don't know. EB: what do you mean? what do you see in there? TT: I can't see in there. EB: oh. TT: But I don't have a very good feeling about it. EB: pfff... EB: whatever! EB: i think i can handle a few more stupid clown paintings.

Well, that’s ominous.

Examining the destroyed safe, John finds a book about shaving, several old newspaper clippings about meteor strikes, and a much older copy of Colonel Sassacre’s book, possibly the one involved in the mysterious accident which caused Nanna’s death. Behind where the safe was, he finds an empty captchalogue card and a proud fatherly note from Dad, praising him for now being strong enough to lift the safe; presumably intended for several years in the future at least, since the safe is big enough to fit John inside it. The note further explains that John is now entitled to the contents of the safe, and provides the now-useless combination for the lock. Further sylladex shenanigans launch Sassacre’s book, killing an imp, and John heads up the stairs, but slips. As he precariously clings on, the hands and jester’s motley of something much, much bigger than the imps start to emerge from the chasm...

Cut back to Dave, still searching for the beta and/or his brother, finding only that one of Bro’s swords is missing. A brief shadowy flash takes the second sword from the wall too.

You know this drill all too well. Trouble's a brewin'.

Dave heads for the door, finding one of Bro’s “ironic” comics pinned to it. The comic in question:

Erm.

TIER: Now that is, as the folks would say, unsettling.

FAILURE ARTIST: This is another work that Hussie created pre-Homestuck and decided to add. It was part of this drawing battle on a forum.

CHEL: It took me an embarrassingly long time to realise that was supposed to be Kermit. I was seeing it as a teddy bear, with the spiral cheeks as eyes and the eyes as ears.

TIER: . . . I was “literally just now” years old when I realized that was supposed to be Kermit.

BRIGHT: Ditto!

CHEL: Me too, actually, it was after I saw it while posting it here. Before I thought it was Fozzie, drawn even worse than the rest of the comic.

Dave is fairly mellow about the comic as compared to his reaction to the puppets, but thinks that he “[doesn’t] need to see this shit right now”. It looks like something a kid his age would either draw themselves or like (I know I would have loved it), but having things like this pasted randomly about your house would definitely be unsettling even so. He understands it as further irony, and thinks Bro is trying to annoy him with it as “some weird gauntlet he's throwing down to see if you will "GET IT"”.

Worse than the comics, however, is what’s in the kitchen. Weapons are piled up on every counter and the sink is full of fireworks. Dave considers this “awesome”, the implication again being that this has been normal for his whole life. He’s really lucky he’s a cartoon character, there’s no way a real kid would still be alive here. When he turns on the blender, a green puppet in it is shredded to pieces, releasing fake blood; inside the eye socket of a Jigsaw puppet on top of the microwave is a webcam, broadcasting the incident. Okay, again, we need to consider how “pornographic” PlushRumps actually is to determine whether this is a problem. Videos of a kid shredding a puppet are harmless in and of themselves. If it’s actually being marketed as fetish material… ew. Dave appears just as unsettled by this as I am, enough so to behead the cam-puppet, so the implications aren’t good.

More Smuppets spill out of the microwave, and then we go back into fucking sylladex shenanigans as Dave tries to collect every dangerous object in the room

GET ON WITH IT!: 7

Distracted by same, Dave fails to notice a silhouetted figure which is presumably his brother appearing briefly behind him, dropping Cal on the stovetop, and disappearing. Dave’s expression doesn’t change on seeing it but he literally leaps a foot in the air. Poor kid, that is freaky. We also discover why Dave had juice in his closet way back; Bro uses the fridge as storage space for swords instead of comestibles, and cherry bombs in the icemaker.

… Okay, where does Bro keep his own food? Both humorously and actually abusive/neglectful guardians still require energy intake, you know. There are later hints that Bro himself is someone’s puppet, but only in the figurative sense.

TIER: Dude probably has spots around the apartment to stash stuff, like how Dave has apple juice hidden away in his closet.

Figuring out how seriously we're supposed to be taking things can get tricky, especially with the Big Thing way later on in the comic putting earlier events in a new light upon rereading (well, mostly just stuff related to Dave).

CHEL: And if we are supposed to take it seriously, how the fuck is Dave alive? A real kid in this situation wouldn’t have lived long enough to be traumatised.

#homespork #homestuck #homestuck meta #homestuck reread #homestuck review #let's read homestuck #literary critique #sporking

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cremebrulesides · 5 years

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Logic Yeets Himself Out A Window (And What Happens After)

This is gonna be long because I'm on mobile and can't figure out how to put a keep reading sorry. Warnings: panic, arguing, sympathetic Deceit, ask for more if you need too Word Count: 1,789 Summary: Logan jumps out the window. Chaos ensues. - - ~In the Mindscape~ "Nope, not dealing with this." With his statement said, Logan proceeded to jump out the window. And the Mind Palace descended into chaos. "NO LOGAN DON'T GO!" Virgil ran over to the window, leaning out, trying to see the logical side or possibly drag him back in, but it was too late, as he couldn't see Logan anywhere. Virgil slowly sank to the floor, shaking in panic. "No no no no no no no-" "We need an idea! Does anyone have a good idea?!" "ROMAN YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE WITH THE IDEAS!" "I KNOW BUT I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING!" Patton was crying at this point, the moral side having no idea what to do in this situation. Upset, he sank down to the floor beside Virgil, who automatically pulled him close in a hug. "You can't just sit there on the floor crying Panic at the Everywhere! We have a problem to solve!" Roman exclaimed, reaching down and grabbing Virgil's arm, trying to pull him up on his feet. "Let go of me! Can't you see I'm having a crisis?!?" Patton's crying grew louder as the two sides argued. From the other side of the kitchen, Deceit took a sip from his coffee cup and sighed. "C'mon guys, we *can't* still salvage this situat-" Patton and Roman looked up in confusion when Deceit didn't finish his sentence, only for that confusion to quickly turn to shock when they realized that the other side appeared to be frozen. As they took that in, they also noticed that time in itself appeared to have stopped, and that two glowing buttons with words on them had appeared in front of them. [Fight] or [Flight]? "Virgil? What's going on?" Patton asked, emotional panic momentarily forgotten. "What did you do?!?" Virgil looked somewhat confused at the situation as well. "I'm not really sure? Normally I'm the only one who can move when this happens." "What do you mean by that kiddo?" Virgil sighed. "Well, normally when Thomas's fight or flight reaction kicks in, time freezes around me and I'm given these two options to pick from. After I pick one, time unfreezes and Thomas does whichever one I chose." Virgil looked at the two of them. "I have no idea why you two aren't frozen though. Maybe because you were touching me?" Roman seemed to think about this statement. "So what your saying is that whichever button we press will determine Thomas's reaction to the situation?" "Pretty much yeah." "Then I say we should fight!" Patton looked distressed at that statement. "But what if they get mad at us and we hurt their feelings?" "Well we cannot choose flight! Running away would be cowardly!" Ignoring Roman entirely, Virgil reached forward towards the button reading 'flight' "Think what you want Princey, I'm picking flight." "No! We must fight!" And then Roman slammed his hand down on the fight button right as Virgil pressed the flight button. ~Reality~ Thomas punched the person who had put him on the spot in the stomach, and then turned heel and immediately ran away towards his house, questioning why he did that. ~Mindscape~ Time unfroze for the three sides as they processed what they had done. Patton sank to the floor with distressed tears on his face, Virgil joining him, while Roman stood still in shock. They flinched as Deceit dropped his coffee cup on the ground, causing it to shatter. "WHAT *DIDN'T* YOU DO??!?" He shouted, finally joining them in their panic. Virgil pointed at Roman. "HE MESSED WITH THE FIGHT OR FLIGHT BUTTONS!" "IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU DIDN'T ELABORATE ON WHAT FIGHT MEANT!" "WELL IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU DIDN'T TAKE FIGHT LITERALLY!" Roman and Virgil's argument quickly devolved into incomprehensible shouting. Patton's sobbing got louder and Deceit sunk down to the ground beside them, grabbing a tight hold of him and looking like he was about to cry himself. "This *isn't* going to be bad for Thomas's reputation. Punching them *won't* make Thomas think he's a bad person. I'm *not* going to be busy now-" Deceit stopped his mini panic rant as the four sides felt the pull of Thomas summoning them. To be honest none of them really wanted to face Thomas while they were in this state, but they didn't have much of a choice. ~Reality~ Thomas stood in the center of his living room, staring in shock at the state of the sides, seemingly not taking notice that Logan wasn't present. "What happened?!" None of the sides bothered to grace him with an answer, too busy either crying, panicking, or just straight up staring at nothing. It was at this point that Logan decided to return. He rose up, brushing what appeared to be branches and dirt off his shoulders, and took a moment to process the situation as he readjusted his glasses. "I leave for a minute and this is what happens." Patton looked up, his expression changing from upset panic to happiness in barely a second. "Logan! You're back!" "YOU WERE GONE FOR MORE THAN A MINUTE! I JUST ABOUT HAD A PANIC ATTACK!" "Virgil, you know that this happens occasionally. I would have thought you'd be the most calm in this situation." "Calm? Have you met me?" "Calm? Have you met him?" Virgil glared at Roman, causing them to restart their glaring match. "Hold on! What is happening?" Thomas asked, looking around at all the sides in confusion. "And why did I punch that guy earlier?!" "It's quite simple Thomas. You see, I threw myself out the window." "You whAT?" "I threw myself out the window. I assume that this caused the others to fall into a state of disarray and panic, but I honestly have no idea what occurred after that." Logan explained. Virgil sighed and looked resigned. "Roman messed with the Fight or Flight buttons." "Excuse you I did not-" "Up, yeah, you kinda did." Roman let out an offended gasp, but Thomas cut in before he could continue the argument. "Virgil, what do you mean? What are the Fight or Flight buttons?" "Oh! Virgil showed us this really cool thing he can do! Whenever your fight or flight response kicks in, he gets to choose which one you do, kinda like in a video game!" "That's,,,,, not how I would have put it Patton but, uh, yeah that's basically the gist of it I guess." Thomas looked resigned. "That still doesn't explain why I punched someone in the face and then ran away." "Well, you probably wouldn't have done that if someone hadn't hit the fight button at the same time that I hit the flight button." Virgil turned a little to glare at Roman, who pretended not to notice. "Fascinating." Logan said, "So you're saying you get to choose how Thomas reacts to something?" "Uh, not all the time, but yeah. I do." Logan nodded and pulled a notebook out of nowhere, writing down the new information. Thomas took the brief moment of silence to take in the appearance of all the sides. It was then that he finally noticed Deceit, who had been standing quietly beside Patton the whole time. "Deceit! Oh my gosh, how long have you been there?" Deceit didn't answer, staring at his hands, not even showing any indication that he had heard Thomas's question. "Deceit? Are you OK?" Still no answer. Patton put his hand on Deceit shoulder, concerned for the side in charge of Thomas's self preservation. "Deceit? What are you holding?" Deceit finally seemed to acknowledge them, as he held out his hands, showing a couple strands of yarn. "What is that?" "It totally *isn't* the last threads of your dignity."

#Sanders sides #fanfic #my writing #Logan #Roman #Patton #Thomas #Virgil #Deceit #Sympathetic Deceit #me and my friend were talking about this the other day so i decided to write it

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aion-rsa · 3 years

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Host Director’s Dashcam Takes Pandemic Horror to Scarier Place

https://ift.tt/eA8V8J

Creating an interesting protagonist in a horror movie is a difficult thing. Conventional wisdom suggests they should be blandly appealing, and thereby a surrogate for any viewer to insert themselves into the nightmare. More often than not though, they are treated as disposable. Interchangeable faces who eventually become pieces of meat, lambs to the slaughter. Whether by fluke or design, the “heroes” of entire popular movements in the genre—slasher flicks in the ‘80s, torture porn in the 2000s—eventually devolved into figures of ridicule: victims who the audience would root against, sometimes uncomfortably so.

All of which is a long way to note the uniquely diabolical nature of Rob Savage’s Dashcam and its hero Annie (played by Annie Hardy). Following in the footsteps of Savage’s Zoom shocker from last year, Host, Dashcam is a relentless found footage chiller that is more scary for how it reflects our status quo in a post-COVID world than its use of any demons, witches, or whatever else is rattling up there inside Savage’s imagination. Indeed, one could argue the biggest monster of Dashcam is its main character herself.

Vividly played with a total fearlessness by Hardy, who apparently improvised much of Annie’s dialogue and her penchant for sick rhymes with an even sicker lack of political correctness, Annie is a COVID denying, racial stereotyping, anti-masker who’s spent her quarantine cultivating minor internet fame by being an online troll who is game for any laugh. She’s the type of strident personality who’d be run off most college campuses on a rail. She’s also a very difficult character to like and an even harder one to cheer for when creatures in the woods descend on her head. Which makes her self-made predicaments fascinating as a narrative, as well as a potential test for the viewer’s threshold for empathy.

Set and filmed during the tail-end of 2020 lockdowns, Dashcam finds Annie at a moment of extreme boredom. Constantly streaming her daily activities and off-the-cuff vitriol in some nether region of the web, she’s a person who would now say her best friends are fellow trolls and malcontents that egg on her diatribes about rejecting masks and CDC guidelines. Their anonymous and often gleefully offensive banter is visible in a near constant stream of text on the side of the screen for the whole film. We watch Annie’s experiences through their bitter eyes. They delight when she ignores State Department recommendations and flies to the UK in that surreal pre-vaccine era where airports resembled ghost towns; and they’re frothing with blood in the mouth when she reunites with a former band mate from back in the day, Stretch (Amar Chadha-Patel), and his mask-wearing, sanitizer-using girlfriend.

At first, Stretch is amused that his riotous old chum has showed up at his flat unannounced, even taking her around London as he makes deliveries as a driver and spits some rhymes for Annie’s fans. But things quickly get too toxic after Annie refuses to wear masks inside of restaurants and leaves a “Make America Great Again” hat out for Stretch’s progressive girlfriend to find. That’s small potatoes though when compared to Annie taking Stretch’s car and also his gig as an on-demand driver. When she picks up one passenger who doesn’t seem well (Angela Enahoro) and agrees to drive her to a strange house in the woods, abstract dangers become a lot more immediate for both Annie and any friends who bother to come looking for her.

Dashcam clearly follows in the footsteps of Host, wherein a group of bored friends spend their quarantine summoning a demon on Zoom. But whereas that horror film used modern technology to tell an old-fashioned haunted house yarn, Savage attempts to tell a distinctly current thriller that could only be made in this exact moment with Dashcam. During a time of extreme polarization and tribalism, a woman vomiting blood in the backseat is almost relieving—here is something we can all agree is screwed up, right?

The irony of Dashcam is the perpetual flood of abusive text and edgelord flippancy on the side of the screen suggests otherwise. It’s clear that Annie’s let her online life drive her toward performative levels of toxicity, but of course that digital space is no help to her when shit gets real. The question then is once she finds herself in a pseudo-Blair Witch Project or Paranormal Activity situation, complete with running in the forest from unseen spooky forces, will anyone care? And that goes for the audience at home as much as it does for Stretch or any of her online kindred spirits.

This pseudo-ethical dilemma has made Dashcam an already more polarizing film than Host. To be sure, Host is the stronger and more coherent experience, with its events all occurring in one digital space (and a handful of physical places), which also doesn’t need to have the audience suspend so much disbelief about why the characters keep recording. By contrast, Annie and other characters have no reason to keep streaming the events of Dashcam after about the halfway mark of the movie. However, for all its chaotic and eventually impenetrable weirdness that reaches a bonkers crescendo in the third act, I suspect the real reason Dashcam is a more divisive film has everything to do with its inkblot test of a heroine.

Can you have empathy with someone who doesn’t care if she spreads a plague that you (hopefully) are still concerned about right now? And can you root for her to survive a genuinely grueling experience? That might be the most interesting thing about Dashcam’s reception when Blumhouse releases it to a wide audience down the road. Personally, I cheered on some of the side characters in this film, but found my relationship to Annie and her struggles constantly evolving, which in turn led me to question my own more horrific instincts in These Times™.

For Dashcam to invite that kind of interior interrogation, and likely a vast array of reactions—especially when the bifurcated realm of social media discourse gets its hands on this—is a bold choice by bold storytellers. More, please.

Dashcam premiered Sept. 11 at the Toronto International Film Festival. It currently has no release date.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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sarkastically · 6 years

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Baze/Chirrut

1: Who makes the other hot chocolate?

Baze. We’ve talked before about why Chirrut doesn’t have a lot of kitchen duties no matter how many things are properly labeled or the fact that he wants to help. His attention just seems to waver to something more interesting and then the milk gets scorched and no one (ie Baze) wants to clean that out of a saucepan. So Baze makes hot chocolate. Fancy hot chocolate. This is not pour out of a packet and go hot chocolate. It is heat the milk, melt the chocolate, add the sugars and the vanilla and experiment with infusing the milk with different spices hot chocolate. It is glorious. It is a work of art. Chirrut will down it in two minutes, however, much to Baze’s chagrin.

2: Who knits the other a seasonal sweater?

Baze is definitely the arts and crafts part of the duo. There’s something about knitting or weaving that lets him relax. And he maintains that he’s much better at selecting colors anyway. Even when Chirrut wasn’t blind.

3: Who’s family hosts a bigger holiday gathering? What’s the gathering like for your OTP?

Chirrut is definitely the one with the larger friends circle. Basically, if you’ve met Chirrut and not done something to piss him off, you’re his friend, and he will invite you in for tea or coffee or cakes. Baze would rather keep things simple and small and with a few (ie four) people, but Chirrut is rather chipper and invites the entire bloody Rebellion. Baze mutters unhappily for days.

4: How would your OTP react to having a snow day?

They would both enjoy a bit of respite from busy actions, but it couldn’t go on too long or they might get annoyed with not having much to do. Baze does enjoy walking in the snow for short periods of time, though Chirrut is not as keen on it due to the fact that snow wrecks havoc with his hearing and his echo box.

5: Who offers the other one their jacket?

Both. And then they fight over which one of them needs it more. And then neither of them are wearing one. And then they’re both sick. And Bodhi takes care of them but hates his life because the dads won’t stop arguing about whose fault it is.

6: Who makes a snowman that looks like the other member of your OTP, or do they both do this?

Baze is the artist of the two of them so his snowman of Chirrut is perfectly done. Chirrut just flops down to make a snow angel, chucks a blaster on top of it and calls it done. Baze loves it.

7: Does your OTP ever have snowball fights?

Yes. With glee and fervor and shouting, scaring everyone around them.

8: What gifts would they get each other for the holidays?

Chirrut gets Baze tea (not Taurine unless he’s pulling a prank) and paints and yarn. He pointedly does not get him a weapon because they are past that now, and he’d rather Baze know he is allowed to be soft again. Baze gets Chirrut kyber and puzzles and makes savory, buttery cakes and pies galore. And new robes.

9: How do they spend their winter holiday? Do they even celebrate the same holiday?

It’s not really a holiday per say, but the Whills has/had winter festivals, and Chirrut is adamant about continuing to practice them. Baze is somewhat grumpy about it sometimes but is generally a good sport. Each year it feels more and more like home to him.

10: What sort of seasonal treats does your OTP like to eat?

They’re both a fan of the more savory items. Roasted nuts, roasted meats, sweet potatoes (though not with all the extra sugar and butter and marshmallows), and eggnog.

11: How do they spend New Year’s Eve?

There are a number of traditions that the Whills followed/follows to usher in the new year, and Chirrut will spend most of the day going through those mostly with Baze’s (somewhat begrudging) assistance. The last hour, as mentioned below, is just for them.

12: Who initiates the New Year’s kiss?

Chirrut. Although he’s often early or just a little too late. And then Baze will simply chuckle. Lately, he’s just started suggesting that they spend the last hour of the year in bed so that he can ensure they’re at least kissing at the right time. Baze has no issues with this plan.

13: Who tries to get a secret gift for the other one for Valentine’s Day?

Baze. But it never ever works because somehow Chirrut always knows. Chirrut says it’s the Force; it’s actually Jyn.

14: Would your OTP take a walk together in the snow?

Yep. But 9 out of 10 times it devolves into a snowball fight. The other time it’s just kissing.

15: Which one gets more excited over the first snow of winter?

Outwardly it’s Chirrut who likes to gush about how clearly the Force moves through the crystals of ice, but Baze is honestly the bigger fan of snow.

#otp: i am one with the force #otp: i protected you #otp: i don't need luck #spiritassassin

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sp4c3-0ddity · 6 years

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15 with plance would be very entertaining if you get a chance. Please and thank you!

okay, it’s not exactly the prompt but it IS close. also some, uh, weakly implied sexy times ahead (you have been warned). in any case, enjoy!!

(15) A Hope We Don’t Get Caught Kiss

Long ago, the feuding Marlins and the Atuns put aside theirdifferences to unite against a common enemy, but now that the Galra werevanquished, they reverted to their old ways, much to Allura’s chagrin. And in alast-ditch effort to diffuse the building tension between the two planets, shesent one envoy to each of them.

Unfortunately, that threw an unexpected wrinkle in Lance’splans that concerned Pidge, because with each of them on different sides of theconflict – despite the fact that they insisted they remained neutral asPaladins of Voltron – their respective sides expected them to maintain acertain…aloofness around the other.

It was stupid, Lance thought when he finally spied Pidgeacross the room at yet another diplomaticmeeting that would almost certainly devolve into yelling and threats, that hecouldn’t even talk to her in private,let alone kiss her. He was constantlyshadowed by an Atun soldier, ostensibly to ‘protect’ him.

“I don’t need a bodyguard,” he told the Atun Prime Ministerwhen he introduced them.

“Please accept him, Paladin,” said the Prime Minister, his gillsfluttering more rapidly. “It would look poor if a Marlin attacked you while younegotiated on our behalf.”

Lance didn’t point out that he was only there to make surethe Atuns complied with the temporary truce; Allura was technically the negotiator.

Besides, Lance was smart enough to understand the so-calledbodyguard’s true purpose: to spy on him.

Pidge stood with a Marlin that he’d spotted her withearlier, presumably serving the same purpose as Lance’s own shadow. She watchedthe proceedings – with Allura sitting at the head of the table, a vein jumpingin her temple as the Atun Prime Minister yelled obscenities at the Marlin Queen– with the glazed-over expression he’d come to expect from her after too much talking.

Lance glanced sideways at his bodyguard; his whole head wasturned towards the conference table, eyes fixed on the meeting. Then he lookedat Pidge, eyes widening when she turned her head and met his eyes.

Later, she mouthedat him.

Lance blinked, frowning in confusion. Later? Their every step was monitored, these fish people watching them like hawks! How the quiznak could they meet later?

But it was Pidge, and if anyone could slip a shadow’snotice, it would be her. So he decided to wait, and trust her.

The only time Lance had any semblance of privacy was atnight, when the day’s failed diplomacy ended and he retreated to the smallbedroom provided for him.

On his first night, the water bed amused him, and he spentmore time than he’d ever admit to anyone but Pidge and Hunk trying to make itburst. But by the third night, the constant watch wore on his nerves,especially when he stepped out of the room during a bout of insomnia and theguard posted there offered to escort him to wherever he wanted to go.

The only place he ever wanted to go when he couldn’t sleepwas wherever Pidge was, and, well, he’d rather their private reunion not be witnessed by a handful of fishy aliens.

Now he sat leaning against the wall. His room had no window –the rooms with windows were coveted by guests more distinguished than thePaladins of Voltron – so he couldn’t sneak out that way. Besides, Pidge’spromise of later suggested that she would seek him rather than the otherway around.

Lance hummed softly to himself while knitting, the clickingof the needles soothing him. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he sat inthe living room in his grandparents’ house, listening to his grandmotherknitting. She would drop a stitch on purpose so he wouldn’t feel bad about hisown dropped stitch, and then she would show him how to recover it, so smoothlyit erased the mistake.

Something shifted in the walls, and Lance stopped humming,stilling the needles in his hands. He strained to hear, turning his head andpressing his ear to the wall behind him. But he didn’t hear or feel anythingelse, and so dismissed the sound as the building settling into its foundation.

Lance returned his attention to his knitting, but only foranother moment. He put it aside, suddenly feeling too restless to sit mostlyquiet in one place, his mind buzzing with Pidge’s promise. After getting to hisfeet, he paced the small room end to end, past the water bed, then changeddirection so that he walked from the bedroom door to the strange crack in thewall across from it.

The crack widened.

“What the quiznak?” Lance hissed, lunging for his bayard,left abandoned on the vanity.

A piece of the wall swung out in a cloud of dust, and whenthe dust settled, Pidge stood in a gap – a doorway– so short her hair brushed the top. “You’re lucky I’m not claustrophobic,”she said, greeting him with a pleased smirk.

Lance’s jaw dropped as he took her in in all her dustyglory. When he recovered from his shock, he crossed his arms and asked, “So youcouldn’t reach the air vents?”

Pidge snorted as she ran her fingers through her hair,trying to disperse the dust that seemed to drain it of color. “I tried ourfirst night,” she admitted, “but I was caught. Too loud.”

“And that wasn’t?”He gestured at the hole in his bedroom wall.

“Shh!” Pidge hissed, stalking towards him. “Keep your voicedown!”

Before Lance could retort, a harsh knock sounded from thedoor. He froze, exchanging an anxious glance with Pidge, as his appointed Atunkeeper asked, “Is everything all right in there?”

“Everything’s great!” Lance called, and it was, becausePidge was there.

“Are you sure, Paladin?” said the bodyguard. “I heardvoices.”

“Oh, I’m just talking to myself,” Lance lied, smilingabashedly and hoping he sounded sheepish.

“…if you’re sure,” he said, though he sounded uncertain.

He left it at that, and Lance smiled widely at Pidge, whogrinned back. “So…does that tunnel through the walls connect to your room?” hewondered.

Pidge scoffed, “I wish.If it did, I would’ve been here the first night.”

“The first…? Pidge, how soon did you start breaking into walls?”

She strolled around his room, stopping right in front of hisdiscarded knitting and picking it up. “The first night,” she said. “I don’tlike being told where I can and can’t go.” She glanced over her shoulder athim, a glint in her eyes. “Or who I can and can’t see.”

Lance’s heartbeat quickened, responding to her teasing.

“What’re you making?” she asked. She clicked the needlestogether as she approached him again. “A scarf? And where did you get the yarn?”

“Arusian wool,” Lance said. “And it’s a hat.” He snatchedthe knitting and yarn away from her, cradling it protectively.

“Hmm.” Pidge only eyed it for another second before shefinally looked up to his face. “Is it just me,” she said, any teasing betweenthem dispersing, “or is this frustrating?”

“It’s not just you,” he agreed. He dropped his knittingunceremoniously on the bed and turned to face Pidge again. “It’s weird notseeing you, you know, casually.”

“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” she said, the slightest smiletilting up a corner of her mouth.

Lance blinked at her, surprised. “It’s not?”

“No,” Pidge said. Her smile widened as she stepped closer tohim, close enough that her toes touched his. “It’s frustrating being this closeto you and not kissing you.”

Lance flushed, but recovered quickly enough to lean down, cuppingher face and tilting her head back. She smiled as he finally kissed her, herarms winding around his neck and pulling him closer.

His frustration at their current mission evaporated, thewarmth and reality of Pidge’s presence soothing his nerves. But when theyparted to catch their breath, Lance asked, “What do you think happens if we do get caught?”

“At best, Hunk probably replaces one of us,” Pidgesuggested. “At worst, Allura kills both of us.”

Lance raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical. “Wouldn’t it beworse if the Marlins and Atuns started fighting again?”

Pidge sighed, looking down. “I’m starting to think that’sgoing to happen anyway.”

“Oh.” When Pidge still didn’t look at him, he said, “Hey, it’snot our fault. We’re doing the best we can.”

“We’re just here to put pressure on them to cooperate,”Pidge complained, turning her head back up. “And so far, it’s not working.”

“Well, stuff like this takes time,” Lance reassured her. Hepressed his lips to her forehead, and when she giggled – she did love it when he kissed her forehead –he closed the gap between them again.

This time Pidge tipped her head back, away from him. “Nowyou’re trying to distract me,” she said.

“Is it working?” Lance wondered.

She rolled her eyes and said, “Yes.” She kissed him, walkingbackwards and dragging him with her until they sat on the water bed. Her handsslid into his hair, his own drifting down to her waist.

Before long, Pidge was lying down, Lance hovering over her,balancing almost uncomfortably on his arms. She smiled against his lips, as ifit at a private joke she was about to share with him, but not without flippingtheir positions, her surprising strength rolling them so he lay down and shestraddled him.

“Ow,” Lance said as something hard dug into his back.

“What?” Pidge asked, sitting up. “Did I—”

“No, it’s not you.” He half-sat up, reaching underneath. “Huh,my knitting.” He felt along the yarn until he found the needles, somewhere athis lower back, but when he shifted, a soft popsounded beneath him.

Water seeped into his shirt.

He stared up at Pidge, eyes wide with horror. “So I justpopped the bed,” he said.

“You did what?”Pidge hissed, her own eyes bugging in alarm.

“This is fine though!” Lance tried to reassure her quickly. “It’sjust a leak!”

Pidge stood up, backing away from him, and Lance followed,but it was too late for his yarn, his clothes, the sheets, the bedspread, andthe carpet. “Quiznak,” said Pidge as they stared at the damage.

“This is going to be fun to explain in the morning,” Lanceagreed with a backwards glance at the door.

Pidge then took his hand. “Well, I guess this means I cantake you on the all-access tour of the building,” she said, a fresh smilealighting her face.

“Oh yeah?” Lance said, brightening when he met her eyes.

That familiar glint of mischief filled her eyes as she ledhim to the hole in his bedroom wall. “I just hope we don’t get caught,” shejoked.

“And if we do?”

“Maybe our tryst caninspire these fish to reconcile, huh?”

Lance smirked. “I like the way you think, Pidge.”

“Hmm, now that’s somethingI would love to hear more often.”

#plance #pidgance #lidge #i wanted to avoid the standard 'hiding our relationship' thing #hopefully this isn't too weird though #qna #voltron #reem writes fic #Anonymous

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sttngfashion · 7 years

Text

Genesis - 7.19

It’s a fashion-light episode but it DOES involve Spot, so.

We start with Riker in sickbay getting some sort of spiny plant removed from his back after things “started getting romantic” with him and another crew member in the arboretum.

Fuck so hard I roll over dangerous plants and don’t give two shits

Nurse Ogawa is here, which is always a pleasure, and she’s rocking a seriously voluminous updo, sort of a 1940s meets 1990s sensible French twist. I’m sure she loves having to remove Riker’s sexytime plant spines. That’s definitely what she went to Starfleet Nursing Academy for.

Barclay is also in sickbay, because: Barclay.

He literally claimed he had something called “Terellian Death Syndrome” which is honestly a terrible name for a syndrome

Beverly has asked him repeatedly not to search the medical database before coming to her (AKA Never Search WebMD), but of course Broccoli does. She’s got her gorgeous strawberry shortcake season 7 hair happening:

MFW Barclay shows up in sickbay for the third time this week

The other patient being tended to is also a beautiful redhead:

The laying on of hands

Spot is pregnant and at first I was like “HOW THE FUCK DID SPOT GET PREGNANT” but apparently a) there are 12 male cats on board and b) Spot has a tendency to sneak out of Data’s quarters.

Okay, listen.

1. If there are AT LEAST 13 cats on board, WHERE ARE THEY? I want a Bridge Cat.

Bridge Cat: artist’s rendering

2. HOW IS SPOT GETTING OUT? This is a fucking SPACESHIP. Shit should be LOCKED DOWN. It’s literally AIRTIGHT. I GUESS she could sneak through, like, a vent or something but if you’re going to have cats on board, you need to PLAN for their fuckery.

This could be really bad

3. If the cats are WANDERING THE SHIP, aren’t you worried they’re going to end up in the warp core? Or that even just their fur is? WHO IS VACUUMING UP ALL THE FUR.

Anyway, Crusher is apparently also a veterinarian (which I guess makes sense since she treats all sorts of species) and says that Spot should deliver her babies soon. Nurse Ogawa then says that she’s also pregnant! THIS WILL BE IMPORTANT LATER, which is the only reason she says it.

Also important for later:

Oh yeah gimme that t-cell injection

I’ll just tell you now that all the weird stuff that occurs in this episode is a result of Broccoli’s mutated t-cells after he gets this shot (or something). It’s (enjoyable) nonsense so don’t worry about it. I just wanted you to see how much he loved getting this hypospray.

Picard and Data have to drive through an asteroid field to get a stray torpedo (bad). Data asks Barclay to keep an eye on Spot, since she’s about to give birth, and she likes Barclay best of all the people on board. You can tell by the way she looks at him:

This IS my “I love you” face

Broccoli is pleased, because no one likes him.

WE’RE BEST FRIENDS NOW

It’s actually very sweet; Barclay even seems to know something about cats and asks Data where she’s planning to have her kittens.

With Barclay’s luck, she will have them inside his pants while he’s wearing them, somehow

I just really enjoy Data’s display case here, with his violin case juuuuust open enough to let all the dust in, but not quite enough to actually see the instrument.

Spot’s in good hands:

Yarn, Spot? You cliche

Elsewhere on the ship, Worf is having a fucking feast:

No I asked for a SIDE of tentacles

This looks delicious, actually. Giant turkey leg? Some kind of weird dried fish? Potato salad on a bed of green beans? I’m in.

Troi shows up, a little upset that Worf didn’t wait for her, since they planned to have lunch together. He’s mean and it’s weird. You can already tell something STRANGE is happening on the ship, mostly because Troi is NOT wearing a jewel tone:

Eileen Fisher for Spacefleet

Drink this look in, kids, because it’s one of the two non-uniform looks in this episode. We can see here that I THINK Troi is wearing some Danskin shimmer tights with her beige on beige minidress and matching waterfall cardigan. The color is not what we usually see on her, but it’s not terrible (except for my pre-existing anti-beige bias). It’s certainly along the lines of what I wear when I’m lounging around.

Secret pajamas except it’s not a secret. It’s just pajamas I wear in public

Ed. note: I copied that picture of my cat Violet to my clipboard earlier when I was making the images above and I accidentally pasted it here and I can’t bring myself to delete it.

Troi’s hair has reached its astonishing season 7 pouf levels and I just love everything about it. Anyway, Worf is acting like a real dick, but we do get another good look at those Ten-Forward outfits.

IS THAT HOUNDSTOOTH

If I ever attend another con, that’s going to be my look because houndstooth is everything to me.

Later, Worf’s dickishness turns into something MORE:

I’M A DICK ON A RAMPAGE

This scene is super dark and it’s not totally clear what’s happening, but Worf basically just destroys his own quarters, including his pillows, then cuddles up with them on the floor. We do get a decent look at Worf’s jammies, which are brown and might be made of varying colors of burlap.

If anyone was gonna wear burlap pajamas, it would be the Klingons

I’m not sure what’s going on with that shoulder detail, but it can’t be that comfortable to sleep in? But again - Klingons aren’t exactly a culture that considers “comfort” to be something to aim for. If you showed a Klingon an Aerosole, he would 100% cut it in half and throw the halves in your face.

These PJs might also be linen, which would be WAY nicer to sleep in, but a little off-brand. I mean, a Klingon in linen? Can you imagine? Hold on, you don’t have to:

Pure white to better show off the blood of my slain enemies

So everyone is acting weird. Troi is like “I’m cold. I need a bath,” and walks off the bridge. The next time we see her, this is happening:

Deanna, sweetie? It’s more relaxing if you take your uniform off

As she’s taking her fully-clothed bath, Worf busts in and:

CHOMP

It’s actually very upsetting, and at first neither of them even really know how to react either:

Oh god did I just bite you

Did you just fucking BITE me??????

Troi goes to sickbay, where she gets my favorite disco blanket:

Disco Blanket: Because why shouldn’t a blanket be iridescent

To be fair, emergency blankets ARE shiny, so.

You better believe that’s an affiliate link, friend

Okay so THEN Crusher is examining Worf and she asks him to open his mouth and HOO BOY was that a mistake.

Does the replicator not have the recipe for Listerine, or

He SPRAYS her like a fucking dilophosaurus!!

NOT IN THE FAAAAAAAAAACE

Later someone says her injuries were so bad that SHE WILL NEED RECONSTRUCTIVE SURGERY. That means in every episode after this (not many, but still), we are seeing a RECONSTRUCTED BEV.

So everyone is losing it, basically, which doesn’t explain why Broccoli thinks this is a normal way to stand:

Is this how a human? Does a stand? How is stand

Finally, Picard and Data come back, and when they arrive, the Enterprise is just adrift. They board and find this:

Sir, if the t-shirt does not spark joy when you touch it, the book counsels you to throw it away. I was unable to apply this method as I do not feel joy, nor any other emotion

It’s the shed skin of a reptile, which: whaaaaaat? Ain’t no reptiles on this ship!

Narrator: actually, there were reptiles on this ship

Troi is still in the bathtub when Picard and Data find her, and she is like, half lizard because the t-cells released when Barclay got that hypospray are making everyone de-evolve. Sure. She looks terrible, which is a real feat since Marina Sirtis is such a Betty:

Honestly she’s still p hot

I think my favorite part of this makeup is the gecko-like fingertips. Excellent detail. Love the scales, love the contacts, love the unripe banana shade of green they used. All great.

Data and Picard go check out what else is happening, and they find a caveman at one of the control panels:

Not a Starfleet regulation haircut

But what’s this? It’s not a caveman at all! It’s...

I heard dramatic eyebrows were back in

...Riker! I guess! The makeup on Frakes here is SO heavy that it’s not immediately apparent that it’s Riker, except that he’s wearing command red and has a beard. Plus, Picard says “Will?” upon this reveal.

FUCK YOU GUYS

I’m saving this as my “flipping the bird” image to use forever.

Data and Picard manage to subdue Riker and get him to sickbay, after which they go to Data’s quarters to use his computer. But guess what happened?

KITTENS

Spot had her babies! They’re legit VERY small kittens and very cute. Data says they’re hungry, and wonders why Spot isn’t taking care of them. And then comes one of the best shots since chicken in the hallway:

Sup

IT’S AN IGUANA WEARING SPOT’S COLLAR. SPOT DEVOLVED INTO LITERALLY JUST AN IGUANA. I laughed so hard at this shot and I REALLY wanted the kittens to interact with the iguana, but they didn’t. I don’t know if that iguana was even on set.

LOL

Data notes that the kittens didn’t turn into baby iguanas, so he thinks maybe there’s some kind of cure for the devolution from pregnancy? Or something? This is where Nurse Ogawa’s recently-announced pregnancy comes into play. So he goes to sickbay, and Picard goes to see what’s going on in Engineering, and finds:

Help meeee

Barclay devolved into, like, a spider? I guess? Because this gene mutating thing is just nuts and does whatever the effects people think will look cool. (And they all do look pretty cool.)

Nurse Ogawa has devolved into Standard Neanderthal #4:

On loan from the American Museum of National History

And finally, the big boss: Worf. Worf turned into something with an exoskeleton that was able to make this dent in the sickbay door:

Rude

Picard and Data speculate that Worf thinks Troi is his mate (sure) and he’s trying to get through the door to her, so they synthesize her pheromones to draw Worf away from sickbay so that Data can focus on making a cure with Nurse Ogawa’s pregnancy hormones. Obviously. But first Picard has to get out of sickbay.

PEEK

Picard manages to lure away the Worf-monster, which looks like this:

Part beetle, part conch shell, all covered in chocolate

It’s hard to see what’s happening but what you can see is just really gnarly:

Are there horny toads on Klingon?

Ultimately, Data is successful in making a cure and sends it through the air ducts so everyone on board is fine. And when Barclay finds out that it was his treatment that started it all, and that he might have a disease named after him:

A hypochondriac’s dream

And don’t forget: THERE ARE AT LEAST 13 CATS ON THE ENTERPRISE

#season 7 #tng #sttng #star trek #Star Trek TNG #Star Trek Fashion #fashion

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vowel-in-thug · 7 years

Note

for the drabbles prompt thing could you please write some more smallpox verse? silver/thomas + 4. “Come here. Let me fix it.” thank you.

HEY ANON HOPE YOU’RE STILL HERE because i answered this 574389657348967 months after you sent it to me

this.........may be the most domestic grossness i have ever written so like...............watch out.

also shouting out @ponytailflint who literally commented again on the last smallpox fic about Thomas’s hand :)

Every so often, everything stills and quiets, and in that calm, Flint silently wonders how the fuck this became his life. It’s like he’s holding his breath, living these moments almost from the outside, watching them through a hazy glass in disbelief. He has to force himself to exhale, to not dwell on his reality too long. He’s afraid it may collapse like a dream if he looks too hard at the impossibility of it all.

He is sitting at his breakfast table with Silver and Thomas. Early morning frost sprinkles the edges of the windows as they sit down to eat together. Flint is wearing several pairs of socks. This isn’t a dream.

Above the Three Swallows Inn are just two apartments, but both have a kitchen, a parlor, and a bedroom. There’s also a hallway none of the guests downstairs can get to, so it’s become like a very large, odd home for the three of them. They still share a bed every night, but the extra rooms and the ability for actual privacy if wanted have made life a lot smoother.

Flint has developed an intense love of coffee, and is enjoying his first cup of the day while looking at the two men across the table. They are both too busy to tease Flint about his socks, or the blanket he has wrapped around his shoulders, over his day clothes. They don’t tease, but Thomas had taken the opportunity to kiss the red tips of his ears on his way to the table, while Silver had stroked the flushed bridge of his nose before sitting down.

Flint doesn’t have an aversion to the cold, exactly. He just hates how fucking pink his skin gets when the temperature drops.

“It’s not a problem,” says Silver, hand outstretched towards Thomas. “I can do it.”

“No!” says Thomas, clutching the boot in his lap. “I said I’d fix it for you. I’ve almost got it.”

Silver sighs heavily before turning back to the newspaper he normally never gets a chance to read. Thomas smiles, turning back to the boot.

It’s been a little over a month since Doctor Reynolds broke and then fixed Thomas’s hand. It had taken some convincing before Thomas finally agreed to do it -- not that Flint or Silver had any opinion on the subject. They just wanted what was best for him, after all. No, it had been at least two weeks of Thomas arguing with himself over it.

Eventually, before complying, he’d had Flint draw up a list of all the reasons why he should ignore the risk potentially damaging his hand more and the disappointment that might follow, and do it:

Write own essays

Correspondence

Properly hold a knife and fork

Table manners in general (Thomas had made him emphasize this)

Cut dressing time in half

Punch people back if necessary (Flint had crossed this out)

Jerk self off

Jerk James off

Jerk Silver off (Silver had added this one despite Thomas’s weak protests, which then devolved into a lewd a vivid conversation between the two of them that Flint thought it best not to commit to paper

So, Thomas had gone along with it, and seemingly his hand is healing nicely, but he must do certain exercises to keep the fingers strong. He’s relearning how to write and he cleans Flint’s carpentry tools and he even does some scales at Silver’s piano. But his favorite activity is untangling things. He’s collected strings, yarns, ropes, and chains -- and he loves to tangle and untangle them while studying Doctor Reynold’s medical texts, or while listening to Flint read aloud, or while hanging out unhelpful advice when Flint and Silver try to play chess.

That morning, Silver had entered the kitchen barefoot, complaining about his boot laces, and Thomas had thrown down his coveted newspaper and had snatched it out of his hand, forgetting all about his breakfast.

“How do you even manage to do this,” he mutters to himself, fingers clumsily moving over a massive knot.

Silver shrugs, not looking up from his paper. After a moment, he takes a quill and writes something down on a piece of parchment beside him.

Flint exhales.

“Would I like brandy?” Silver asks no one in particular, not looking up.

“No,” Flint says, just as Thomas says, “You can’t afford it anyway.”

Silver doesn’t react to either of these remarks, but just makes another notation on his paper.

Flint sips his coffee. The other two men prefer tea, which is fine with him. He would give his life for both of them, but he finds in himself the intense desire to covet his coffee beans for himself. It’s sharper than tea and wakes him faster, keeps him warmer longer in the center of his chest.

“Do you think there’s room downstairs for a cockfighting ring and a marionette stage?” Silver asks.

“I think you have room for neither,” says Thomas, wrenching at the laces, “because I’m going to kill myself and have my coffin and headstone entombed inside the hallowed walls of the Three Swallows Inn just so you can’t fit either of those things in that space.”

Silver just nods, and makes another note.

Flint helps himself to Thomas’s breakfast, knowing he’ll just let the porridge grow cold as he works to undo the ties. He peers at the back page of Silver’s paper.

“Looks like Mr. Singer has lost his bleedin’ cow again,” he says, squinting at the page.

Silver blinks, and flips it over. “What? Again?” He reads the ad. “It doesn’t say it’s his.”

Flint snorts, helping himself to more porridge. “‘Stray’d from a certain Perfon in Bofton on Thursday the 11th,’” Flint reads, “‘a large, red, lean Cow, with a white Spot near her Bag on the right Side.’ I wonder if his reward will be better than last time.” Last time, Singer had given the lad who’d found the cow wandering in the Common a single bag of garden seeds.

“If he did that, people would just keep stealing it,” Thomas says. “A-ha!” He holds the boot triumphantly, the laces dangling loosely over his head. “Finally! Here -- wait. Ugh. You utter bastard.”

“What?” Flint asks, cocking his head. “What’s wrong?”

Silver doesn’t move, except to take a sip of his tea.

Thomas gestures viciously with the boot. “This is the left one! Why do you even still have this!”

Silver says nothing, but continues to read the classified section of the newspaper that he never gets to read, because Thomas throws them away in case they feature a slave. But Silver has turned into a surprisingly practical businessman, and loves to scour the ads for failed taverns auctioning up their belongings, or newly arrived merchants listing their goods for a deal.

“Ugh,” says Thomas again, and then throws the boot over his shoulder. “You’re lucky my sense of accomplishment won’t leave me for hours, or I’d be really aggravated right now.”

Silver finally looks up from the paper to smile indulgently at Thomas, but when he looks back at the paper, he’s still smiling, too small for anyone but himself, but Flint sees it anyway.

“Should I buy fifty chests of prunes?” Silver asks the table.

“From what ship?” Flint asks.

A pause. “The Aurora Snow.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a Boston-built ship,” Flint says. “There’s likely as many rats as there are prunes in those chests.”

“A better question is why you’d ever want to own that many prunes,” says Thomas, poking at his half-eaten porridge. “This is a house free from shame, and there is nothing shameless about prunes. I -- damn! I’m late for work.”

Flint frowns at the clock. It’s not one he’s made, because he hasn’t made any yet, but it’s not one of Christopher’s either, because fuck that guy. “This is when you’re normally up, isn’t it?”

Thomas rushes to the coat rack, stuffing his hat on his head backwards. “I was supposed to be early today, so I’m already forty minutes late. Damn! Where’s my --”

Flint holds out his scarf, which he’d had wrapped around his wrist for extra warmth.

“Thank you,” Thomas says, taking it from him and giving him a wet kiss. “Your lips are like ice, darling. You should put on another layer if you’re feeling chilled.”

“Asshole,” Flint smiles.

Thomas presses a shorter kiss to the scar of Flint’s cheek, then moves to leave.

Without looking up from his paper, Silver tilts his face, presenting his cheek as Thomas passes.

Without pausing in fixing his hat, Thomas leans down and kisses the corner of Silver’s lips, then keeps walking to the door.

Flint sees the moment they both realize what just happened. Silver keeps staring at the paper, his eyes wide and his cheeks slightly flushed. Thomas had stopped walking like he’d run into a wall, and is standing awkwardly with one foot raised, frozen in place. He takes an abortive gesture to turn around, and Flint can see his mouth working soundlessly in profile.

Taking pity on them both, Flint gently clears his throat.

Silver finally blinks, and now he’s blinking a lot, fists clenching the paper tightly. Thomas visibly straightens, mutters, “Right. Bye,” and then leaves quickly, his scarf trailing behind.

Neither of them move right away.

Silver glances up at him and frowns. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Just stop.” He frowns harder, cheeks still pink. His sleeve is currently resting in his inkwell. He looks flustered and warm.“You know you look insane when you grin like that.”

“I know,” Flint says, and grins harder.

Silver huffs, drawing the paper up to obscure his whole face. Flint no longer feels cold, but his face still hurts from smiling so hard. He leans over the table to take the rest of Silver’s uneaten porridge. It’s not quite hot anymore, but it’s still good.

“You know,” he says, “I think he’s starting to like you.”

“Stop.”

Flint wants to tease him more, because watching Silver squirm is one of life’s greatest pleasures. But he stops himself, and instead runs one socked foot over Silver’s bare one. He traces the bumps of his toes, rubs the arch and the ball before sliding higher up to his ankle. He can’t see under the table, so he sees instead the way Silver slowly relaxes at the caress, no longer hiding behind his paper. He still is too embarrassed to look at Flint, but he shifts just a bit in his chair, just an inch forward, so that Flint can stroke up his calf, too.

This used to be his dream, and it used to be his nightmare, too, depending on how he was -- who he was -- when he woke up. This is a dream, even though it’s not a dream. It’s the understanding of what love is supposed to be. It’s unthought of. It’s that simple. It’s as instinctive as blinking, it’s as known as a heart beat. To be loved is to never have to wonder if you are loved. Flint can breathe easy, knowing there’s someone waiting up for him, behind a door or on a cliff or in a field or on a beach. He can breathe easy, knowing he has people to wait for.

Silver moves his leg minutely against him, and then casually lets one hand fall on the table towards Flint. He’s finished with his breakfast, so Flint sees no reason not to put down his spoon and take up Silver’s hand, stroking his thumb the same way he strokes his ankle.

The corner of Silver’s mouth is still wet from Thomas’s lips.

Flint exhales.

#black sails #black sails fic #silverflint #flinthamilton #silverflinthamilton #smallpox #hey look it's my suffering #you know that episode of spongebob where squidward won't admit he likes krabby patties but then spongebob figures out that he does #and spongebob just smiles at squidward like 'you like krabby patties don't you squidward'#that's flint #Anonymous

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