#alcohol mention for ts

[eritvita]

continued from x ;

@straycatherine

The sugared drinks of mixed rum burns pleasantly within Roland's blood, and his blush is vibrant, peaking, riddled up onto his ears, and his beam is wide and bashful, happy to be seen.

"Hello, Catherine," purrs he, hugged her lithe form by the waist. "How goes by thee?"

[ssslimyboy]

Janus, drunk: I don't know why people make such a big deal out of lying. You just say stuff. You still think my name's Janus.

Roman, also drunk: WHAT.

[eritvita]

His hands come up to cup Astarion's face in that sincere pleasure to kiss; sturdy, wide palms fit for climbing and grasping 'pon edges of hardy bark and leaping as like the great ape for Springtime, and his mouth is rouged in that press of ardent scents; the gleam of the Mischief-Maker, the Merry-Singer, doth shine within the center of Roland's irises.

"Couldst I write plain of the color Spectrum dawning onto the new Morning for thee," breathes he, allowing himself to be captured and to brought upward from the velvet chair; deliberate in that entwining of their clutching fingers. "How thine eyes slink with the precious scarlet of all that living Water; how thy fangs remind of fanatical porcelain." And as if borne for primitive Mimicry dost Roland's grin spread wide, forgotten his mead, his tankard.

He idles, with his freed hand, of a simplistic Measure to slide that lace at the base of Astarion's throat through the tips of his hardened fingers; pleasantly, animal in comfort. "Wilt thou drink of me, Astarion?" iterates he warmly. "Is that thine measure for tonight? Of my throat?" And Beauty in that bow into his space, that slot of invisible puzzle their faces, sharing breath.

Roland's chin twitches, tempting to be bared. "From my breast, where my thundering pulse will beat in eloquence for thee?"

The sight of Roland lounging in the armchair is one that Astarion drinks in easily, catching those eyes of his and admiring the length of his lashes as the lids of his eyes half close. Astarion takes the goblet that Roland offers him, but he has only a sip before returning it.

"Green or powder blue? Well, my outfit earlier this evening was a fine powder blue, so I think that answers that. Perhaps it's even why you're here right now." Astarion rises from his own seat and approaches, placing his hand on Roland's jaw. "I certainly don't think it's to talk about colour all evening."

And with that he leans in to kiss Roland, drinking in the taste of his lips just as he had from the goblet a moment ago, except he is more eager, hungrier, for this. "Didn't I promise you something unforgettable?" he purrs, grasping him by the hand.

[randomnerd737]

I was thinking about the 5 year anniversary video and

it is interesting to me how Patton kind of decided for Logan what his role in the "family" would be. all the other sides chose it themselves, but he didn't get to.

even when he actively objects it's played for laughs and never addressed. this happened too when Patton revealed his name for him, and I just think it's interesting to note that after all these years, Logan still never gets to decide anything when it comes to Thomas, or even himself, to an extent. it's just kind of decided for him and he is expected to just go along with it, similar to how it was when Thomas dyed his hair.

ik it's mainly a "haha wine mom" moment, but that doesn't take away from how angsty it gets when you think about it.

[dikdikpronouncedxylophone]

Virgil: Do either of you have any healthy stress outlets?

Remus: Yelling!

Janus: Drinking.

Remus: Murder!

Janus: Manipulation.

Virgil: Ok, so we have yelling...

[edupunkn00b]

On a Butterfly's Wing, Ch. 18: Happy Birthday, Logan Croft!

May the Fourth was not just Patton's SAT day, but also Logan's birthday.

Prev - Happy Birthday, Logan Croft! - Next - Masterpost - [ AO3 ]

WC: 3337 - Rated: M - CW: mentions of blood, alcohol, drunk driving, a gun. Kelly is in this chapter. -

Hopkins was right. Downpour was utterly lovely.

Nestled in a busy shopping strip off the main street, parking was a bit of a challenge and before he entered, Logan began to doubt whether a frantic Sunday morning was the best time to try a new café.

His doubts dissolved once he stepped through the door. Polished wood panels lined the walls, matching the heavy wooden counter and tables dotting the space. A large brick fireplace—unlit on this warm May day—sat at one end of the seating area, shelves of books and magazines and bric-a-brac for sale sat at the other. They seemed to absorb excess noise in the small shop, with even the bell above the door more muted than Logan would have expected.

An eclectic collection of sturdy mis-matched chairs were set about, with a low, narrow table lining big bay windows. Emptier than Logan had anticipated for a Sunday morning, he suspected most were either having a slow start to the day or had already gotten their caffeine fix and had jumped into the next part of their routine. The dog park across the street was bustling and, after Logan had ordered his coffee—and a birthday tiramisu—he spent some time watching the dogs and their humans navigate each other.

Drinking slowly, he eventually finished his coffee. The phone set on the counter in front of him remained silent, so Logan ordered a second cup. While he waited for it to brew, his book, t he book, rejected by Goodwill, sat heavy in his satchel, but he kept his bag closed. Instead, he perused a small shelf of books meant to enjoy over a cup and a scone. A thin red and black volume by Audrey Lorde stood out and he pulled it down from the shelf.

Cover and layout achingly familiar, he thumbed through the pages. He owned this edition, tucked away in a plastic tote in the garage for longer than he liked to think about, kept company with stacks of similar books quietly rescued from Kelly’s decluttering efforts. His own copy was just as worn this one, purchased secondhand back in law school.

The barista set a fresh cup on the table next to him and smiled. “Lorde’s great,” she said, gesturing at the book.

Logan nodded, thank ed her for the coffee, then sat and scanned its pages, searching for the words of a fuzzy memory.

Tears burned the edges of his eyes when he found it.

For those of us who were imprinted with fear like a faint line in the center of our foreheads learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk for by this weapon this illusion of some safety to be found the heavy-footed hoped to silence us

For all of us this instant and this triumph We were never meant to survive

And when the sun rises we are afraid it might not remain When the sun sets we are afraid it might not rise in the morning When our stomachs are full we are afraid of indigestion When our stomachs are empty we are afraid we may never eat again When we are loved we are afraid love will vanish When we are alone we are afraid love will never return And when we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard nor welcomed

but when we are silent we are still afraid so it is better to speak remembering we were never meant to survive

Logan’s coffee was half drunk and cold when his phone rang.

“Hey there, Logan,” Hopkins laughed into the phone. “Pat’ s done and ready to head home.”

~

The rest of their day was a celebratory whirlwind. They picked up sandwiches from Logan’s favorite deli, ate entirely too much cake and ice cream, and laughed as they debated which of the many—many—Star Wars films they should watch to cap off the day. Patton had even surprised him with a new journal he’d caught him eyeing at the book store last month.

They were half-way through a re-watch of Andor when they heard a car knock over the recycling bin outside.

Frowning, Logan paused the show and peered out the kitchen window. Just two days after the recycling had last been picked up , the bin was near-empty; only a dozen or so cans and bottles had been left scattered over the driveway.

But Kelly’s car sat on the lawn, the big green bin caught under the front bumper. Phone in her hand, do or open and pinging, she stabbed at the console, likely trying to power down the car while it was still in Drive.

“Pat?” Logan called, breathing deeply to keep his voice calm. “Pat, why don’t you head up to your room for a bit while I take care of this?”

“Dad?”

Eyes wide, Patton stared back at him from the kitchen doorway when Kelly’s voice rang out. “ Goddammit! ” The car door slammed, lights still on.

Logan met his eyes. “Head upstairs.” He found a smile and moved closer, giving his shoulder a little squeeze. “It’ll be okay, Pat, ” he promised. “Just head up to your room.”

Patton lingered for just a moment longer, then nodded and dashed up the stairs. Logan waited for the sound of his bedroom door closing before moving to the front door.

The door rattled in its frame, knob wiggling. “Hello?!” she called after a while. The doorbell rang repeatedly. “Logan! Open th’ door! Key’s stuck!”

Her drunken slur only confirmed what her ‘parking job’ had implied.

“Just a moment!” he called, hands opening and closing at his sides as he concentrated on slow, steady breaths. Just put her to bed and let her sleep this off. “Just a—“

“ Diddja change th’ fucking locks on me?! ”

Logan jumped, shaking his head. “No! No, Kels,” he called back loudly, moving to the door. “Of course not!”

How did she know he had the number to a 24-hour locksmith in his bag? It wasn’t even labeled. He shook away the thought. No. No, she’s drunk, that’s all.

Still struggling with the lock, she fought his attempts to turn the knob. Finally, he wrenched it open.

Her keys jangled from the door handle , her mail key jammed into the lock. “I believe you had merely selected the wrong key, that’s all,” he said, voice low. Working the key loose, he glanced over her head at a dog walker staring unabashedly from across the street. He waved half-heartedly and returned to his efforts.

“Gimme that,” she hissed, ripping the keys from his hand the moment they were free. “Selected the wrong something alright.” She dropped the keys back in her purse and zipped it.

She stumbled past him and down the hall, kicking off her shoes as she went. Logan closed and locked the door, biding his time before plucking up any of the thousand questions running through his mind. What happened to your trip? Did something happen? Are you alright?

Did you actually drive home like this?

He took a slow breath and followed her to the kitchen. She’d pulled down a glass and was working out the cork on a fresh bottle. “It’s a pleasant surprise to have you home so soon, Kels,” he said quietly.

“ W ell, yeah, I live here, don’t I?” she muttered, swearing under her breath as she fought with a corkscrew.

Logan’s hands jerked with an instinct to help, but perhaps with a bit more struggle she’d give up on drinking more tonight and sleep off the rest of this.

Her purse dangled from her arm.

“Fuck,” she spat, bits of shredded corkscrew dusting the counter and the floor. She dropped the corkscrew on the counter and reached for a different bottle. One with a screw cap.

“We didn’t expect—“ Logan cleared his throat and pressed a smile onto his face. “We thought we wouldn’t have you back home for at least another week.”

She shrugged and the bottle cap made a cracking sound as the seal broke. “Sorry I didn’t give you enough notice to get your girlfriend out ta here.” She glared at him over her shoulder. “Or your boyfriend.”

“That would be ludicrous,” he shook his head. He chuckled like she’d told a joke. “Pat and I were just—“

“Where is Patton, anyway?” she said, suddenly turning and pushing past him. Her voice grew louder as she approached the stairs. “I’ve been away for a week and my own son doesn’t even come down to greet me?”

“He’s—It is rather late and he was up early for the SAT this morning,” Logan said, hoping his own voice would carry. She stumbled and he slid between her and the first step. “I believe he is sleeping. Or nearly so, at least,” he added when he caught sight of his watch. It was barely 8:45.

“Maybe you were in bed by nine at his age,” she huffed. “Normal teenagers are up half the night.” Kelly looked down at the bottle in her hand, brow furrowed.

“I…” Logan gestured behind her, back toward the kitchen. “I believe your glass is on the counter.”

She started to turn then rolled her eyes. “I have one upstairs.” Suddenly she narrowed her eyes at him. “Unless you’ve been snooping in my office.”

“Of course not, Kels,” he said, shaking his head. He hadn’t set foot in her office in months. And certainly never when she wasn’t there. Truth be told, he’d been under the impression she kept it locked.

She humphed and continued on her way toward the stairs. Logan stepped back, staying two or three steps higher so he’d hit the landing first. “You… you haven’t mentioned if…”

“If what, Logan?” she spat back at him. She paused. One hand gripped tight on her wine, her other clung to the banister. Her bag—with her car keys—still hung from her shoulder. “What? What haven’t I done now, Logan ?”

“I…” Logan resisted the urge to move to her side and instead watched the wavering strength of her hold on the handrail. “I was merely wondering what hap—Well, why you were able to return home early.”

She scoffed then and advanced up the stairs, strength and focus fueled by annoyance. “Does it matter? Do you need every sordid little detail of my meetings? I’m home now.” He matched her step for step up the stairs as she spoke.

“I… I meant nothing by it, Kels,” he said, hands open and palms up. He tried to smile but it felt more like a grimace. Not that it mattered, she wasn’t looking at him anyway. “I was… merely curious. That’s all.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you should just curb your curiosity,” she muttered, fumbling with the door to her office. It was, indeed, locked. “Dammit.” She reached for her purse without setting down the bottle. The wine inside sloshed, a few drops spilling out onto the floor and splashing on her pantyhose. Her purse clunked against the wall, heavy, far heavier than the small handbag should have been.

It wasn’t until she got the zipper open that Logan saw why. A yellowed ivory handle poked out from the corner, silver edges on the butt worn to a dull polish.

“Is that you father’s old pistol?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

“What of it?” she snapped, nearly dropping the wine in her haste to clutch the bag to her chest.

“ ’What of…’ ” he started. “You—you reported it stolen. Years ag—“ Logan shook his head, searching his memory. Had he somehow misremembered? He blinked, recalling the weeks of disagreement over installing the gun safe in their bedroom. The break-in three months later, with the busted safe lock hanging loose on the door. The police report, the fingerprinting, the lengthy interview at the station.

And a decade later, all of their assurances to Virgil’s therapist that no, of course they didn’t keep a firearm in the house.

“You’ve just been… carrying it around?”

Kelly sucked her teeth, fishing through the bag for her keys. “Y’know, I don’ even know why I came home. I don’t need this shit,” she muttered to herself. “No other woman would ever put up with this bullshit from you.” She looked up at him then. “And you know it.”

The words shouldn’t hurt. He should’ve been ready for them, should’ve prepared for whatever stones she might sling the moment he saw her car pull up.

The words always hurt.

“Aw,” she cooed, sickly sweet. “Truth stings a bit, don’ it, honey?”

He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders, but couldn’t force himself to meet her eyes. “I am merely concerned for the safety and welfare of our—“

“Oh, now you give a fuck about Patton’s welfare?” Kelly roared. “Where the hell was all this ‘fatherly’ concern over his welfare when the school was talking you into letting them leave him behind a year, huh?”

“Forcing him into an unreasonably aggressive summer quarter simply to—“

“Schmuck.” She turned away, not listening. “Big time lawyer can’t even defend his own—”

“Just shut up! You’re always so mean to him!”

Logan hadn’t heard Patton’s door open and he had no idea how long he’d been standing there, listening.

“Pat, it’s okay,” Logan murmured, watching Kelly from the corner of his eye even as he moved closer to his son.

A little slow to react, Kelly turned from the door, unfocused eyes on Patton. “Whaddija say t’ me?” she slurred.

“It’s ok—“ Logan began, hands up as he shook his head slightly at Patton.

“No!” he said, arms crossed. “No, it’s not okay!” he said to Logan, then turned to Kelly. “You’re always so mean to him and he’s never done anything to you.”

As much as Logan tried, Patton wouldn’t meet his eyes. And once he’d gotten started, the words bubbled up and out, beyond his control. “You just complain about every little thing, no matter what he does, no matter what any of us does, it’s never good enough! Just shut up already!”

“Don’t you dare talk to me like that! Why do you think I’m even here?”

Logan felt her move behind him and he spun to face her. She’d let her purse fall to the floor. One hand clutched her bottle, the other pointed a long, manicured nail at her son.

“Who cares?” Patton shouted back. “We’re happier without you! We were fine, we were having a great time and then you showed up.” He moved closer to his room, turning his back on her. “No-one cares. No-one—“

Kelly growled. Bottle raised above her head, she charged.

Too quick to think, too quick to warn, Logan just moved . Her arm came down.

With Logan standing between her and Pat.

The bottle cracked against Logan's head. It fell but didn’t break, cold wine running through his hair and down his shirt. “Look what you made me do!” Kelly’s shout fuzzed on the edges, quiet under the roar in Logan’s ears.

“Dad? Dad!” Patton was shaking his shoulder. “Dad, are you okay?”

Logan sat on the floor, back against the wall. Wine dribbled out of Kelly’s bottle, a dark red stain spread over the ugly grey carpet.

“Dad?” Patton’ s face swam into his view.

“’M okay,” he said, nodding. It hurt to move , so he stopped. He held Patton’s gaze, though, and tried to smile. “I’m okay,” he said more carefully.

“Don’ need this,” Kelly muttered from the other side of the hall. Stumbling, she scooped up her purse and kicked the bottle out of her path. It rolled and hit the wall at the other end of the corridor with a hollow thunk. She sneered back at them but Logan’s eyes dropped back down to her purse.

Her purse that still held her car keys.

And her father’s old gun.

“Kels, wait,” he managed, pushing up to his feet. He swayed for a moment. Patton kept close, gripping his arm. “Kels, please don’t drive like this.” The time for finesse was over.

“Oh, that scares you, doesn’t it?” she laughed, dry and sharp. She shook her head and continued toward the stairs.

“Mom, Dad’s hurt!” His voice was so small.

Logan hugged his arm close, giving the gesture all the strength he could muster. “I’m okay, Pat,” he murmured. “Really.”

“He’s fine,” Kelly muttered, fumbling her bag.

“You broke a bottle on his head,” Patton shot back, moving closer to her. Logan held tight to his arm, keeping him close.

“Don’t,” he whispered, pleading with his eyes.

Kelly’s fingers flexed on her purse, more uncertain than Logan could remember seeing her in a long, long time.

“He’s fine,” she said again. “Aren’t you?” she prompted him.

Logan squared his shoulders and nudged Patton a little behind him, keeping his own body between them.

Thankfully, this time Patton followed his lead.

“See?” she said, turning and heading toward the stairs.

“Kels,” he tried again, his own voice piercing his brain. “Wait.”

“Wait ‘ what?’” she sneered.

Patton made an outraged noise beside him, but Logan stroked his hand. It calmed him for now. “You shouldn’t…” Logan’s voice wavered and he stepped closer. Something warm trickled past his left ear and he shifted, keeping Patton on his right side. “Kels, you’re in no shape to—“

“You can’t tell me what to do!” she snapped back, clutching her purse to her chest. “Besides, you’re the one who’s in a ‘state.’ Can’t hardly stand up straight, drenched in wine.” Eyes flashing, she seemed to come to a decision and she started down the stairs. “I don’ hafta listen t’ this.”

“Kelly—“ Logan winced, hot pain shooting through his head. He breathed deeply and waited for the pain to fade. It was getting better. It would get better. It had to. “Don’t… don’t drive like this, Kels. Don’t—“

“Fuck you, Logan,” she said calmly. “You’re not the boss of me.” She moved down the steps with purpose now.

Logan kept his eyes on her bag more than anything else as he navigated the stairs after her. Gripping the banisters with both hands, he had to release Patton’s hand. Patton followed, quiet.

Unsteady, her heels clicked across stone tile in the downstairs hall. There was a thunk and she groaned, swearing softly, but after a moment, the door rattled and opened.

“Kelly, wait!” Logan called again, rushing down the last steps. He turned the corner just as she’d stumbled over the threshold.

She sneered over her shoulder. “I’ll be back after you’ve figured things out.”

“Kelly, you shouldn’t—“

She slammed the door.

“Dad, she can’t drive,” Patton started toward the door but Logan held him back. “She’s—“

They both listened to her car ding, backing out into the street. Plastic bottles from the overturned recycling bin crunched under the tires.

Logan rushed to the door.

She’d pulled out onto the street and drove slowly to the corner.

“Dad, what do we do?” Patton's voice was thin, near panic.

Logan drew him close, pushing down his own fear. They were out of options.

ACAB, ACAB, ACAB, ACAB, ACAB screamed in his head, colliding with the image of that ivory inlaid grip in her purse. He pulled out his phone and held down the emergency preset.

Patton’s eyes widened when he saw what his father had done.

After a moment, the 911 dispatcher picked up. “Police, fire, or medical?”

“Um, police,” Logan said, the word sour in his mouth. “Maybe medical, too.” He took a deep breath, head hung low. Drying blood stretched and crackled at the back of his neck and he hoped the wine hid it from Patton’s terrified eyes. “I need to report a drunk driver,” he said. “And she’s armed.”

[eritvita]

"Oh, nevermind me," disbands Roland: eager to preen and to fan out his own feathers for that shimmering color of his vibrant Vanity and perfection of the pretty Artes of glamour and Artistic Delights, but, is naught Yennefer his Charge? His smallish childe e'en in her low-hanged gown and her swirling skirts and gargantuan aura? Is she not still his treasured Friend; that glaring, grimacing gremlin what demands answers to his every Query and theoretical happenstance?

"'Tis little that space of Time hath I seen thee: thou art gallant and grandstanding, and tall within thine own power, beautifully. Thou hast attained thy Need for exemplified Glory, beloved," affirms passionate Roland; mending to her space as his elbow bounces that arm what holds his drink above that torrential balcony; his face sincere, his eyes glistening with the familiar shine of his Kin Starlight.

"But, verily: thou art sad, soft-shouldered, wilted within the delicate nuances of the Labyrinth of thine silver'd Throat. Something is missing from thee, whether knowest thou through that hag's Stone or directly within the center of thy keen Sight. What hast happened?" repeats he, and confers to touch their shoulders together; naught swaying, nay, but connected in that physical spirituality, a tether to the swelling, red Heart that tends to beat through them Both. "What hath I missed, from and of thee, sweet Friend? Wilt thou not speak to me, Yen?"

Violet eyes flash to meet his, something dark and cold simmering in their depths— full of frost-cold detachment; full of menace (strange, dispassionate, gleaming as though two shards of shattered ice, tearing the world around them open; gushing and gushing with light). A toss of her dark hair, a single slow whiplash of her eyes — and all the while remaining as still as the very centre of a hurricane, wreaking havoc in its wake, capturing and swallowing the world around it only to cruelly spit it out and leave it all in shambles. Yennefer wishes, heavens, she does, that she had something more to offer in answer; and although she can scarcely breathe with all the words she has crowding her throat, she does not deign speak them. It is neither meaningless, frivolous comfort, nor advice she seeks of him, after all; she has not seen him in too long a time now, and she shall not have him think of her as naught more than that scared little girl, hanging off his every word and whim all these years ago in Aretuza. She is a storm of a woman: blazing and devastating, rattling the world to dust and ashes.

The sorceress huffs then, sharp, breathless laughter saturating the shadows of her voice.  Her mouth settles into a leisurely smirk as one of her perfectly dark eyebrows arches; there is a storm of something unspeakably violent brewing inside of her, brightening her eyes with its furious ferocity, but she does not deign speak of it; she only huffs, permits a coyer smile to splay itself over deep-red, narrow lips now, while her face remains unchanged. Fair, stoic features slowly soften with a sly smile at his final question; so full of soft, tender wonder; that familiar, affectionate curiosity of his that she had, shockingly enough, missed. ❛ morose? my, but you are a poet, Roland! ❜ Yennefer meets his gaze, and there are pinpricks of light, burning at the center of her dark eyes. ❛ I'm not quite sure I'd consider myself anything less than perfectly content! I've gotten everything I wanted, remember? —❜ a sharp, cruel joke in all its bitter irony ( a lie, but then, a soft one; for had she not, after all, gained immeasurably vast and endless power and fame all throughout the Continent, just as she had always longed for? ) ❛and you have nothing to fear of my fangs. ❜ she assures him; a swift, sharp pause, heavy with its tensions, and then, ❛ and what of you, Sir Sorcerer? what grand adventures has the mighty Lord Enaera kept himself occupied with?❜ she softly nudges him right back, laughter in her voice which sounds less restricted now; realer, somehow. Warmer, despite its cold, sharp edges.

[threadpull]

As I’ve mentioned, Jon is an alcoholic. He’s functioning at this point. He does, however, usually end up in some sort of detox treatment each time he goes to Arkham. He suffers withdrawal, though it’s not too severe. But enough to be uncomfortable, enough for him to be monitored during his intake period.

He has absolutely made jailhouse hooch out of desperation to drink something. And generally has it hidden in questionable places, like a toilet tank lmao.

Related to his alcohol consumption, he ingests a ton of candy/sugar. Particularly when he isn’t actively drinking. It’s a common coping mechanism for alcoholics/people in sobriety. Arthur also does this, though he is sober!

[emo-nightmares]

Logan Sanders Appreciation Post

[eritvita]

At the bottom of a barrel of an abandoned basement, full of cobwebs and stringing along with Roland's clothes and wind-swept hair, he arrives in the brisk, golden Sun through those thrown-open doors and moss-laden steps ... carrying a basket of left-over wine, centuries' old and left fortunately alone, until his eyes.

He stops immediately whence his is spotted, his eyes wide, his cheeks flushed; a bottle near his breast is freshly uncorked, and a good portion of the purpling wine is missing from its intricate bottle.

"Good morning!" cheers Roland, caught red-handed, grass-stained and flustered. "Merry meet and wondr'us Eve!"

[eritvita]

“I am so very sorry, Fin,” murmurs Roland, as he leans into her as the bulwark, the stalwart Oak, the Magician with the Silver Cloak. He rubs his knuckles ‘pon the strength of her bicep, and lounges with her in that safest knot of this great, loving tree, and sighs heartfully. He confers with that bottle of mead, and takes again another pull.

“Thou art done a damned good attempt to fix the brevity of this Insanity,” says he, blurted amidst the silence of twittering birds, the creak of the wind through the scant, broken branches. He lifts a palm, using his fingers to visibly count. “Thou art tendered to fix the War, to fix civility of broken bones and terrified parishioners of the main Faith, and thou art come to make Merry within thine own blood, the worried Folk of our shared Ancestry. Thou hast the league of the Inquisition with the same visions of thine own Heart. Thou art done beautifully at thine own expense,” says he gently, and bumps at her playfully, making himself sway.

“The gaggles of Halla leaping through the rocks and the battlements of this Place art the clearest sight of Hope hath I e’er espied,” says Roland, and dost bounce his handsome brows in thrice. "And that is saying something!"

As the bread is offered out to her, there is a bit of hesitance. Fin hadn't realized how hungry she was until that moment. It had been hard to eat when her mind was this way. They had slept after clearing both sides of the ramparts, but she had not eaten. Hadn't been able to break fast either due to all the uneasiness within her being.

"I could plant as many trees as my heart would desire and it still wouldn't be enough." The Dalish woman laughs softly as she puts her free hand over her eyes. This wasn't her burden to bear. It was not as though she was the cause of any of the unrest. Well. Not technically. This war had happened many, many years ago. It was just, you know, her fault that the rifts were torn open and spirits were at unease again.

"I know, I know...spirits will do as they have always done...I know..." her voice trills as she huffs at the idea, taking the mead from him now and swallowing a good gulp, one that rounded her cheeks and left a wrinkle upon her nose. "I just...I hate it. I hate leaving things so unfinished. I know they are not my burden, I know that I can't fix all the problems...I just...!" There is a feeling of necessity. That this has been put in front of her by all those laughing behind the Veil and she must do it.

Taking a bite of the bread, Finduilas leans now against Roland, her head upon his shoulder, blonde trusses falling like her own veil as she nibbles, thinking upon it. "I needn't have Varric step in. You, though, I wouldn't mind having speak so poetically to our possible allies." She takes a bigger bite this time, feeling like she must balance food from drink else she would get too free with her words. "...thank you, Roland..."

[ssslimyboy]

Janus: I only feel one emotion and it is anger.

Roman: Last night, you drunk-texted every one of us a thousand heart emojis.

Janus: Out of anger

[ask-patton]

Weird question, but do you prefer a certain drink? I have seen the stereotype floating around suburban dads only ever drinking iced tea, and now I'm curious! 👀 (Also, what do the other sides like to drink? Water is the "healthiest", of course, but there are more than one way to hydrate if someone just doesn't like plain water. I wonder if Logan would be interested in something like those funny AirUp Bottles that have been all over YouTube lately...)

I always like to have coffee in the morning, apple juice during lunch, and- you got it!- iced tea during supper. And of course, a glass of warm milk before bed. 😊

Roman LOVES fizzy drinks! Especially Izze's, he tells me they're the perfect drink between sparkling water (not enough flavor) and soda (too much sugar). Perfect for a prince like him!

I sometimes see Virgil carrying around those black and green energy drinks, and I won't lie, the pattern on the can kinda scares me. Whenever I go to his room, I make sure to give him a glass of ice water so he stays hydrated. Sometimes I add a packet of flavoring too, his favorite is red Kool-Aid!

When Logan is stressed, he drinks coffee, which seems to make him more stressed. Now despite the concerning amount of time I spend online, I've never heard of AirUp, but I have seen Logan with a giant water bottle that has those all-day timestamps. I know how much he loves making deadlines, he probably drinks the whole thing daily!

Whenever I see Janus drink anything, it's always that bitter grape juice stuff. 🤷‍♂️ I'll have to ask him if he drinks anything else the next time we see each other.

I'm not sure what Remus likes to drink, and I'm honestly too afraid to ask 😵‍💫!

Thanks for this ask kiddo, it was very fun! And I hope you have a lovely day 😁

[where-are-the-spooky-gays-2]

[shh ash and jeremy will be back later I just had this thought because of a post I saw]

Ok so as we know we have wine mom Logan™️ and wine aunt Janus™️

So we have those two right? BUT WHAT IF

The orange side (who I'm going to call Will from now on!) would most likely be the alcoholic cousin™️

Just think about it those three during happy hour or on an early Tuesday morning

just *chef's kizz*

Now if you'll excuse me I have to imagine those three in a Walmart alcohol section

~👾

They're just at a restaurant's bar section like

Logan: Excuse me he'd like a refill

Bar Tender: That's his 5th glass of Whiskey

Janus: *sipping his wine* Is there a rule against that?

Bar Tender: No but-

Orange: *glares at the Bar Tender, eyes glowing orange*

Bar Tender: *immediately* Okay right away!

[eritvita]

Is he tempted to Turn himself as bark: hard, craggy, enclasped within Roland's own Self in that canopy-shade of embarrassment, and that public flare of Shame at being so exposed; to feel the sweet breeze of a crisp, Autumnal wind to kiss at his red-stained eyes, and across his tear-blazen cheeks.

But: 'tis Ariveth, and leans he hard into her cupping palms, pressing his own o'ertop them, and holding them, soft, onto Roland's desperate, trembling mouth.

His eyes hath yet to open, squinting in this childlike Gesture to remove himself from this awful Reality: that lame stare of burnt corneas and dilated pupils, that bloat for readied flies borne to lay eggs.

The gorge bubbles in thrice, and Roland audibly gags and stands up quickly; meandering, so, without thinking to helpfully dislodge himself from his Darling. "I must be gone from here. Thine home is fine, wonderful," frets he, short-wired and nervously exposed. 'Tis hammer-strikes of lightning what skitter across his skin, drawing high Roland's shoulders; clasping his hand flat onto his mouth to shamble unsteadily, far-'way, from his naked crime.

Nightmares shalt give him premonition; that Need to Drink becomes a palpable ache.

              "THAT HARDLY MATTERS." It's the intent that matters, the knowledge that should she falter or fail, Roland would be there. It's the same sort of faith that makes her want to be his support in turn, to be his protection now — albeit in a different way. Even if she feels utterly terrible at it. "That's alright. There's no rush." Her thumbs trace the lower line of his lashes beneath each eye, gathering the moisture he attempts to prevent more of. He looks pale; almost as if nauseous. "It's not a simple thing to just... move past."

The mention of his family makes her want to pry instinctively, that curiosity ever-present although tinged with some worry. He hadn't spoken all that much of his family, not beyond her brief questions, and she wonders if it wasn't all as rosy and idyllic as she'd immediately assumed. Still, she refrains for now; holds onto that inquiry to revisit in the future.

"Yes, o'course. I um, I have drink at home, if y'wanna come back to mine." Ideally, she'd rather him seek the comfort of inebriation within the safety of her abode, rather than in the unpredictable and at times rowdy atmosphere of a tavern while he's in this state, but she doesn't want to make him go anywhere he doesn't wish. "Does that sound okay...?"

[phthalology]

the gambit playlist is truly like. “anything I want to play gambit and have a drink to.” upbeat and southern gothic flavored but a mix of genres, probably some meme-y songs on there at this point but anything high-energy and. you know. drifter sleaze vibes