#drunkenness

[fanaticsnail]

Heartbeats

Masterlist Here

Word Count: 3,600+

Summary: You were friends first, only ever friends; until a night of drinking led to something more. After that one night, you decided to not speak on it and remain only as close friends; an outcome you both could respect as captain and crewmate. A small fluttered heartbeat complicates such an arrangement. 

Warnings: suggestive content but sfw, law x afab!reader, kisses, drinking, assumed unrequited love, drunkenness, pregnancy mentioned, unexpected pregnancy, feelings, emotions, angst, swearing, fluff. 

Notes: This was a little gift for mother’s day. I thought it might be fun to explore the concept of Law telling his friend they’re pregnant, but conflicted because he was the one to make them this way. Please read the warnings.

Tag List: @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @mfreedomstuff @writingmysanity @carrotsunshine @gingernut1314 @daydreamer-in-training @indydonuts @i-am-vita @since-im-already-here

Penguin’s birthday was an event aboard the Polar Tang that was anticipated greatly by the crew. Streamers, balloons, cake and music were flowing as heavy as the waves crashing against the hull. Not a care in the world, you all showered the dark-haired, hat-wearing man with affection and praise for his life lapping one more loop around the sun. 

And then Shachi decided to bring out the kirschwasser. The double-distilled, cherry flavored liquor that nightmares were truly made of for Captain Trafalgar D Water-Law. It was not because of the scent, nor the taste, but it was the fact that it rendered him the most defenseless and vulnerable to spilling his emotions that he was sure he had repressed. 

When Law drank kirschwasser, he remembered his mother, his father, and his sister: memories he thought he had long since forgotten came oozing up his throat, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth and a subtle glisten in his eyes. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut, gripping the glass firmly in his hand, and grinding his teeth in a tight clamp. 

When you took another shot of kirschwasser with Ikkaku, you placed down the glass with a smile on your face and a laugh on your tongue. Looking over towards your captain, you cocked your head to the side as you studied his body language. Drawing your eyes over his tense body, you excuse yourself from the rest of the crew to assess the damage he was attempting to suppress. 

Approaching him, you gently place your hand on his forearm and soften your tone to a low and soothing tone. It was one simple question, one soft and pointed ask, that had him softly fold his hand within yours and thump his forehead on your shoulder. 

“Law, are you okay?” was the only question that fell from your lips that had him curl himself against you in a soft embrace. His cup hung limply behind your back as he locked his wrists after releasing your hand. He buried himself further into your embrace, sighing deeply into your neck as you widened your eyes and drew your hands around his neck.

As friends, you and Law had shared the odd embrace from time to time in your weekly catch-ups. Bepo was usually the one that the crew sought out for more warm hugs; that mink-bear was the best for encumbering holds. This felt more intimate than any moment you had ever shared, the smooth kirschwasser releasing you of your inhibitions and giving into sharing this soft moment.

As the night dwelled on, Law never left your side. His hands were always on some part of you, ensuring you did not get too far from his reach to pull you in closer as the night went on. Once the party had reached its peak and began to dwindle into the evening, Law pulled you into the hallway adjacent to the door and pinned you to the wall. 

Lips sought out your flesh, whispers of promises and confessed desires being branded into your neck, cheeks, jaw, shoulders and chest with feverish kisses. “I need you,” he whispered, “I want you,” his hands caressed your hips and began to find the zipper of your boiler suit. 

“We said we wouldn’t,” you smiled, your own resolve being chipped away at the aid of the kirschwasser and Law’s lips trailing against your skin, “We’re friends, Captain.” He groaned against your skin, enjoying the way your hands traveled to his hair and massaged the nape of his neck. 

“Friends,” he mocked his confirmation with a soft growl in his tone, “But I need more.” He nipped and bit at your neck, prompting a small whimper to flee from your lips as you elevated your head to give him more access. You closed your eyes, biting your lip as Law’s body continued to ravish yours. You groaned in frustration at your prior agreement, shaking your head as you pulled his lips and teeth away from you. 

“Not in the hallway,” you warned him, having a moment of clarity. Your eyes darted between his, glancing down at his lips and back up. Law’s eyes darkened as he elevated his hand with his thumb, index and middle finger raised.

“Room,” he whispered, leaning in closer to you, and hovering his lips over yours. As he twisted his wrist, he murmured before his breath tickled at your parted mouth, “Shambles.”

A night of passion, littering each other with marks of claim over one another, had you both sharing the captain’s quarters for the night wrapped in each other’s arms. Blankets over your waists, gazing up at each other before you fell asleep, you felt a pitter in your heart as his amber eyes stared almost lovingly down at you. This intimate moment had you captivated, feeling his emotions and heart tangibly beat with yours.

In the morning, your heads panged with the residue of the cherry liquor. Groans of regret at drinking the quantity of kirschwasser along with other mixed drinks had the night before a distant, blissful, and foggy memory. Looking down at your bare flesh and over to your captain’s, you snapped up in shock. He cradled his head with a soft sigh, only now realizing that you were in the bed beside him as he twitched back in his own shock. Both of your eyes widened, looking between your bodies and snapping your eyes up to meet with one another’s surprised eyes. 

Rambunctious, lazy laughter fell easily from your lips, both clapping each other’s hands against each other’s shoulders and arms in friendly touches. You tugged the bedsheets away from your body and began collecting your uniform from the floor, shaking your head with a smile spread up to your cheeks.

“I’ll go get started on clean up from Penguin’s party, captain,” you suggested, pinching your brow and cradling your swirling and soupy mind, “Might stop off in your office and grab some ibuprofen and electrolytes if you’ll let me rustle through your desk?” He growled and pinched his own brow, his eyes tightly clenched shut and feeling the dizzy fog eclipse his senses. 

“Rustle away,” he whispered your name in a soft voice. As you hoisted your uniform over your hips, slotting your arms into the sleeves, he reached out for you with his hand, asking the question you had both avoided since opening your eyes, “Did you-...?” he squinted his tired eyes up at you, “Should we-...?” he choked out, shifting his blankets away from his lap and rising to his feet, “Do we need to talk about this?” 

You shook your head, reaching down and zipping up your boiler suit before rubbing your face. Smoothing your skin beneath your palms and nursing your forehead, you blow out an exasperated breath and turn back to him. 

“Let’s just not mention it, okay?” you smiled at him with a soft, tight-lipped smile, “Was a moment of weakness on both our parts.” Law nodded, trailing his eyes over you to assess your posture and stance as you added, “We’re friends, Law. I don’t think revisiting last night would be in either of our best interests.” 

Law nodded his head in response, waiting until you left his room with a soft 'click' for him to sink back onto his bed and experience the full brunt of the wind being shot out of his sails. He cradled his forehead in his hands, the inked digits raking through his hair as he dwelled on your words. ‘We’re friends, Law,’ shattered his heart into shards, his hope that you might reciprocate his affections for you being ruined with those three simple words. 

As days turned into weeks, you and Law continued on as you had always been: captain and crewmen, leader and subordinate, friend and friend. You would catch up afterhours, enjoy reading with one another and discussing ailments and woes with rapport with the crew. After Penguin’s birthday party, comradery was at an all-time high, and everybody noticed as much. 

Over the next few days, Trafalgar Law took the opportunity to do as he always does as the current wielder of the ‘Ope-Ope no mi’. He takes the small luxury of concentrating on the heartbeats of his crewmen to wordlessly check in with any irregularities with their bodies and breathing, enjoying knowing that his crew is all safe and accounted for. The crew was aware he did this, and it was something each of you appreciated greatly to avoid a formal physical examination every few weeks. As he floated his attention over to you, focussing on your body as you spoke with Bepo about approaching land, his breath was caught in his lungs.

Heartbeats.

Plural. 

He rose to his feet, his eyes wide and in shock as his lips fell open. Fear overcame him, looking down to your belly and back up to your chest. Teeth chattering, he wordlessly excused himself to the hallway and began counting with his fingers while clawing at his hair. 

“Penguins birthday,” he whispered to himself, looking down at his fingers, “Three days to travel internally up to-...” he shook his head, his hands beginning to shake, “...It’s been seven weeks since-...” he joined his other hand in his hair, raking his fingers over his raven locks. 

“...Fuck.”

After speaking with Bepo, you turn to walk towards the mess hall and begin getting yourself something to eat for lunch. You had been abnormally famished, feeling drawn to spices and sweets over salt and savories lately. Eyeing off a dark chocolate ganache tart with chili-flakes, your mouth began salivating at the thought. As you reached for it, you felt a hand on your shoulder and a whisper in your ear.

“My office,” Law ordered quietly, “Now.” You snapped your head over to him before looking back to the tart longingly. He groaned, relenting with a roll of his eyes, “Bring the tart.” You beam him a wolfy grin full of teeth and joy, a smile Law has begun to yearn for each time you joined him in his office as friends. You claim the tart in your hands and, with a pep in your step, you trot along behind him to his office. 

For the short walk from the mess hall to his office, he was formulating a long speech to not only ask you if you know, but alert you if you don’t; to inform you carefully of your pregnancy, while not seeming to be overager at the prospect of you both rearing a child. He came to terms with it from the moment he sensed that small flutter. He wanted this child, wanted to parent them with you, and wanted to show it all of the love his parents, sister, and Rosinante had shown to him. 

Looking up from nibbling and enjoying the chocolate tart, you notice the tension in Law’s shoulders and additional pressure in the thud in his boots. You furrow your brows in a deep frown, unsure of what was going through his mind. Both agreeing to leave the prior experience at the door seven or so weeks ago was a mutually beneficial decision you both made. The way you rationalized it, you can’t give in to the emotions and feelings you had for your captain if you forbade yourself from sharing them with him. 

The truth of it was this: you loved him. Plain, simple, and as true as the fact the sun rose every day to illuminate the world in its glory. You started as friends, shared a drunken night together that opened a door to your heart - a door that you slammed shut as soon as it was revealed. To fall in love at sea, especially loving your captain as a subordinate, was a luxury you had both barred one another from feeling. You were friends, and you were okay with that. 

Ushering you into his office, you sat in your regular chair beside his circular table. You licked at your lips, the crumbling shell of the tart leaving a soft crust of sweetness on your mouth. Law had a whole speech finally planned out: his lips curling to attempt to relay them.

“I am so desperately in love with you. You are my closest friend, my best friend, someone I could spend the rest of my life with. I know you don’t feel the same, but considering my child is growing in your belly, I would hope that you could warm to seeing me in such a way. I want them, I want you. I love you, please learn to love me too: if not as a partner, then as a co-parent to our child.’

But instead of pouring his heart out to you, he sat at his desk and stared unblinkingly at your stomach, uttering a simple phrase with a quiet whisper of your name.

“You’re pregnant.” 

Blinking slowly, you place the half-eaten tart on the circular table in front of you, the base crumbling onto the clean countertop. You return your hands to your lap with a soft shake in your fingers. Reaching up to your abdomen, you press down on the pit of your stomach with a soft pressure. 

The Heart-Pirates had all received extensive medical degrees in specialist areas: Law being the 'surgeon of death', Shachi being an expert in fishmen biology, Penguin being an anesthetist, Bepo being proficient in naturopathic remedies, Ikkaku being the best for combat quick fixes on the battlefield, and so on. Your speciality in nursing had you explore anatomy within the midwifery sub category, your fingers settling above your uterus and using your thumb, index and middle finger assess the size of your abdominal growth. 

You looked down to your fingers, feeling the lump beneath your digging hand feel as large as a lemon in your abdomen. Using your unoccupied hand, you draw it up to your breasts and give one a gentle squeeze to test the ache in their swell. You snap your eyes up to meet with your captains, his eyes never leaving yours. 

“I am,” you whisper in shock, with a quiver in your lips and your eyes pooling in fear at the unknown. You could not get a read on him, glancing between his eyes and clenching your chattering teeth tightly shut to halt their nervous twitching. Your heartbeat tremors, your eyes beginning to swim in glassy pools as you anticipated his wrath. 

Instead of wrath, Law calmly walked over to you and sat on the couch beside you. With an unsure and soft hand, he drew your body into him and cradled you against his chest. He wanted to feel you safely in his arms, his heart crying and pleading with him to confess those unspoken words to you more fervently. You circled your hands beneath his arms and buried your face in his chest, your body caged within the clutches of anxiety at the prospect of shepherding life. Law held you like this, stroking your back with his tattooed fingers and holding you firmly against himself. 

“I’m not mad,” Law whispered, soothing your hair in his hand. Your breath hitched, your heart jumping into your throat and forming a solid lump. 

“You’re not mad?” you whisper your question against his chest, looking up into his amber eyes with shock, “But what if I am?” The small twitch in his wide eyes looked down at you in shock.

“Are you?” Law’s eyes widened with his question fleeing his lips as soon as you offered yours. His teeth clenched shut, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed in anticipation. You looked away, sifting through your eyes for regrets of the night you shared seven weeks prior. 

“I don’t think I am, no,” you admit with a soft nod of your head. You untangle yourself from his arms, sitting upright and lacing your hands in front of you with a frown on your features. 

“Talk to me,” Law ordered you softly, “Tell me what’s going on in there.” He whispered your name, humming over the syllables in his soft cadence saved for quiet moments together. You inhale deeply, exhaling with your eyes scrunched shut before reopening them again.

“I suppose I need to leave, captain,” you utter with soft sorrow in your tone, thinking about all the options you’ve explore internally and processing them orally, “Give up my life at sea, make a home for myself in some coastal town, offer my services as a medical practitioner to bring in regular clients, raise the child of a pirate alone-.” 

“-No.” 

Law’s bark shocked you, prompting you to snap your eyes up to meet his frown. His left hand shot down to yours in your lap, his right hand placed on the pit of your stomach and holding over the small, barely noticeable elevation. You fluttered your eyes between his, the seriousness in his expression beginning to cause you to run away with your thoughts. 

“I will not let either of you out of my sight,” Law whispered softly, raising his right hand away from your hands and cupping your cheek, “I want you here,” he ushered you closer by your chin towards his lips, “I want you home with me.” 

“What are you saying?” you ask him, allowing him to lead your lips towards his. Your eyes dart down to them before floating up to look at him through half-hooded lashes. His soft smile twitched up at the corners. 

“You said we shouldn’t mention it,” he teased you, mostly to make light of the situation you found yourselves within, “But I’m going to say now what I would’ve said then.” He leaned down, pressing his lips against yours in a soft, tender and loving kiss. He felt the shock in your whimper, the soft whisper of a sob in your voice, and smiled further into the kiss the moment you wrapped your arms around his neck.

Rubbing soothing circles into your cheek, he caressed your stomach as he raked his hand over your abdomen towards your hip. You clutched at his raven locks, finally allowing yourself to smile into the kiss and lean into his touch. His tongue darted out to dampen your bottom lip, softly coaxing you to open yourself up to him further. Before taking the kiss any further than just a simple expression, he broke away and pressed his forehead against your own.

“While I will always be your friend first,” he whispered, drawing his hand down to your chin and rubbing at your bottom lip with his thumb softly, “I want so much more from you,” he smiled at you, releasing your lip from his thumb and pinching at your chin, “I need you to know that I love you, and I want to do this right.” 

Overwhelmed with emotions, you slowly nod your head in his grip. Your wordless confirmation is all he needed to capture your lips in his once more and travel his hands to the front of your boiler suit. You gasp into his mouth, his smile morphing up more into his cheeks as he whispers. 

“Easy now, I’m not being funny,” he murmurs into the kiss, “Just need to feel for myself, alright?” His fingers reach below your boiler suit, hovering over your stomach as his lips break away from yours. He slowly, tentatively, presses down onto your abdomen and seeks out the firming ball of flesh against your cervix. He gasps, his eyes beginning to brim with emotion as you beam up at him with pride. 

“I feel them,” he whispers, looking down at your stomach, pushing a little firmly against you, “Perfect size for seven weeks gestation.” He hovers his fingers over your abdomen and activates his devil fruit to measure their fluttering beat and concentrating with his brows furrowed. After a few minutes pass, he looks back up to you, “One-thirty beats.”

“That's good,” you smile, pressing your hand against his knuckles, “Strong already for such a little lemon.” He cracks his face into a wide grin, his teeth showing and his eyes crinkling at the corners. This image was one you never thought you would see over his features, the purity of his joy fully on his face. 

Questions left unthought of and unanswered regarding the health of your child were flung from your mind. Would there be complications with this child being a half devil-fruit user, would Law’s hereditary blood disease pass from him to them, would you still be able to resist haki while balancing your own body and a foreign within you? So many questions that fled your mind the moment Law’s joy sprung to his face. 

You could be lost within his amber eyes forever, both of you feeling excited about exploring this new life growing and developing within you. Sooner or later, you would have to inform the crew of not only your new relationship, but ushering a new “Trafalgar D” into the era of piracy. For now, you lingered a little longer on Law’s couch, the chili-chocolate tart discarded for something sweeter found against the lips of your lover. 

[palmettoshitposts]

Neil’s done a lot of unhinged shit in his life, but the first time he gets absolutely shitfaced at Eden’s, he obtains a pigeon.

On the drive home, Andrew allows himself to think “Okay, no big events tonight. All around a successful evening. No one started any fights, nobody died,” but SOMEHOW between Eden’s and the car which is parked right outside, Neil obtains a pigeon.

It turns out Nicky has a deep-seated fear of pigeons. Andrew has to pull over in a random suburban street, mostly because Nicky's already opened the door and is trying to throw himself out of the car. So, they all scramble out onto the sidewalk. Nicky then turns and in a fit of phobia-induced hysteria, tries to fucking drop kick the pigeon. He misses. The pigeon is unperturbed, hopping around them curiously.

Meanwhile, Aaron is waffling about how the pigeon is a government spy and they're being surveyed for mafia-related crimes. This just freaks Nicky out even more.

Neil begins muttering about child abuse and being arrested for kidnap and assault of a minor. He convinces Aaron they're going to jail.

Andrew, watching silently the entire time, is smoking out the driver-side door, and filming on his phone. He may or may not send it to Allison immediately after, accompanied by the words "You owe me."

Meanwhile, Kevin is laying starfished on the tarmac. He tells them he simply does not believe in pigeons and says no more the entire interaction.

[philosophybits]

A man when drunk is led by a boy, stumbling and not knowing where he goes, since his soul is wet. A ray of light the dry soul, wisest and best.

Heraclitus, Fragments, B117 & B118

[fruitcoops]

Can you write another jealous sirius fic? I love your work!🫶🏾

Par for the course, this is less 'jealous' and more 'gently possessive', but yes I absolutely can! Coops credit goes to @lumosinlove, but I once again tale the burden of a shitty OC. Enjoy!

TW alcohol mentions, mild drunkenness

The sway of his hips was something to behold. It was subtle (everything about Remus was subtle, if he could help it), but movement rippled from the strong arc of his shoulders and narrowed the world to a single place of fineness. His shirt was loose and casual; Sirius’ mouth watered at the thought of getting to touch the small of his back. It wouldn’t take more than a slip of his hand.

Remus meandered around the edge of the crowd in a winding path. Sirius hid a smile in the side of his hand. He caught a glimpse of pink cheeks when Remus turned his head at the change in music, lips forming a soft ‘oh’ of excitement—he picked up the pace with only a little wobble and Sirius couldn’t help a snort.

Please, let me—

I got this. Remus’ insistence had been adorable; the press of his entire palm over Sirius’ mouth, even moreso.

You’re drunk, honey.

I’m tipsy. A kiss to his forehead. And I’m fine.

He was fine. Remus didn’t really do ‘not fine’, didn’t like the cotton-mouth feeling the next morning, would probably commit a murder to avoid an unnecessary headache. But at this point in the night, he was certainly tipsy enough that Sirius questioned his ability to not spill water all over them both.

Lily’s hair flashed in a copper fan under the low light when James spun her. Her laughter spiked over the noise of the other dancers, unfiltered by the canopy above the dance floor. He leaned back in his seat with a sigh and followed Remus with his eyes as he bobbed and wove, all kinds of amber honey against his soft blue button-down. It was nothing fancy. They went dancing often now, and grew bored of dressing up.

Sirius thought he looked better than a dozen Stanley Cups.

He narrowed his eyes. It seemed those thoughts did not belong to him alone.

Remus hadn’t noticed yet; that much was clear from the tilt of his smile as he watched James and Lily dance before moving closer to the bar. Sirius suffered to take his eyes off the line of his jaw to fix on the other side of the bartop. The man there was watching Remus with absolutely none of the respect he deserved. That alone made Sirius want to kick his stool out from under him, but then the fucker stood up, and—

Someone’s hand was in his hair.

“Blegh—”

“Excuse me,” James said loudly, cupping Sirius’ face in both hands. “Hello? Captain RBF, you’re off the clock, I need my bestie for the evening.”

“Don’t say bestie.”

Lily’s palm moved down to clasp across his forehead, as if feeling for a fever. “Doctor, he’s dying,” she declared. “I prescribe one song, or two and a half minutes of attempted fun.”

“That might kill him faster,” James said, solemn as the grave.

“I’m having fun!” Sirius protested. “And—move, you’re blocking my view.”

James’ brow furrowed. “Of what? The best view is right in front of you.”

A disgruntled noise found its way out before words could; he batted them away, but they just settled down in the adjacent seats and squished him between their shoulders. He couldn’t find it in himself to be grumpy about it.

“Alright,” Lily sighed. Her nails drummed a gentle chime against her gin and tonic. “What are we grouching about tonight?”

“The—ugh, would you fucking look at that?” The man from the stool had nearly made his way to Remus by now. James and Lily shared a look in the corners of his vision. Sirius groaned and took James by the chin, turning his head toward them. “Look.”

“…I don’t see anything.”

“Are the glasses just for show?”

“Yes.”

“Oh,” Lily said suddenly, only to muffle a giggle behind her hand.

Sirius turned to her in dismay. “Don’t laugh!”

“Is that it?”

“It’s not funny!”

“Honey, you married somebody with a cute face and a rockin’ bod.” Lily reached out to pat the back of his hand. “This is the price you pay.”

James nodded, taking a slow sip of his lemonade. “It’s true. Basic risk-reward, my man.”

Public Shithead Number One sidled up to Remus at the counter. Sirius’ stomach turned. “Can I—”

“Bodily harm is forbidden,” James interrupted.

He chewed the inside of his lip. “…Can I—”

“Probably not.”

“It wasn’t bodily harm.” Mostly.

Lily flicked him on the shoulder. “How about we try putting on a happy face for a double-date and enjoying the show?”

“I’m gonna go get him,” he muttered, setting his napkin aside.

Four hands grabbed him before he could so much as stand. “No,” James and Lily chorused.

“That guy is going to flirt with him!”

“What’s gonna happen?” Lily asked. Her brow arched at a frightening angle. “Hmm? It’s Remus, dummy. He looks at you like the sun shines out of your ass.”

“But he’s kind of drunk,” Sirius protested.

“So he probably won’t even notice any flirting. He’s oblivious enough when he’s sober. If you march over there, he’ll just be upset.”

Upset. God, Sirius hated it when Remus was upset. Any step past mildly vexed was devastating. And when he was otherwise having such a good night, looking so cute and cuddly with his pink cheeks, it was out of the question.

“Fine,” he managed. The table creaked when he rested his elbows on it. “But I’m keeping an eye on the shithead’s hands.”

Lily’s eyes gleamed with amusement as she turned to James. “Can you leash him?”

“Have I ever?”

“He’s making moves.” Sirius bit down on the inside of his cheek to control his scowl. Remus didn’t even like blonds. It was ridiculous for the shithead to even try, with his slacks and overbalanced swagger. The stretch of Remus’ shirt over his upper back while he leaned on the bartop was infinitely nicer to look at.

“Don’t explode, sweetheart.” Lily patted his shoulder, tapping away at her phone. “I don’t want to clean it up.”

“Look at him. He’s like a peacock—oh.”

The tapping paused. “Oh?”

“Remus noticed him.”

“Yeah, the guy’s practically in his lap.”

“No.” A grin budded in Sirius’ chest and bloomed across his face, urged on by horrible, giddy joy. “No, no, he asked Remus a question.”

Next to him, James straightened; the front legs of his chair hit the tile with a soft clunk. “Remus noticed him?”

Remus was fully turned to the side now, hands tight around two water glasses and face lit by more than just Edison bulbs. His profile was sharpened by the pale canvas backdrop as he leaned in slightly, flushed with excitement. The shithead looked thrilled.

Remus took a deep breath, and opened his mouth.

“I love that little nerd,” Lily murmured, leaning into Sirius’ side with a hand to her mouth. “He’s so weird. What do you think set him off?”

“I have no idea,” James said through a laugh. “But I’ll pray for that poor soul.”

“I won’t.” Sirius squinted for a better view. The shithead’s smile was long gone. Before his eyes, the hand that had been itching to wander was shoved solidly into the pocket of charcoal slacks.

Remus Lupin was the greatest part of his life, the moon to his stars, the wing to his center, his favorite non-James individual. He was intelligent, hardworking, and handsome to a fault. Sirius constantly marveled at his kind heart.

When Remus had a touch more alcohol than usual, his helpful nature and brilliant mind tended to entangle the closest victim if they asked the right question, Cthulu-style. He’d spill anything: hockey strategy, random knowledge, government secrets.

By the looks of it, the shithead had asked a very interesting question, indeed.

He attempted an escape, but Remus touched him gently on the shoulder and snagged his attention right back. “It’s an art,” Sirius muttered.

James sighed. “I should save him.”

“No, no.” Sirius reached back blindly to pat his arm. “Leave it. For me.”

“You wanted that guy flayed on your doorstep five minutes ago.”

“This is so much better. I’ll get him in a minute.” Or three.

The song changed and Lily let out a soft gasp. “No, go get him, I want to dance.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but stood and brushed his hands off on his pants. “You hate it when I have fun,” he called.

“Sure do!” Lily chirped, raising her glass.

The crowd parted for him like warm butter. The wind was picking up, cool on his skin and ruffling the back of Remus’ hair where it was just starting to curl. He supposed that was the benefit of finding an outdoor space; no sweaty, crushing darkness to get stuck in as the night went on.

“—which is where I met Moody,” Remus was saying as he drew closer. His forehead creased. “Have I mentioned Moody?”

The other man looked vaguely terrified. “I…don’t know.”

Remus waved a hand. “It’s fine. He was my mentor out of college. Cranky bastard, fake leg, heart of gold. Anyway, I worked with him for a couple years, mostly on broken bones, but some tendon stuff. I told you about those, remember?”

The man’s throat bobbed. “Yes. Look, I was going to ask—”

“Oh, I can answer any of your questions,” Remus said earnestly. Sirius’ heart skipped a beat at the genuine hope in his voice. Fucking sweetheart. “Seriously, I—oh, hey!”

“Hi.” The small of his back was just as soft as Sirius knew it would be. His temple was a little warmer than normal when he brushed a kiss over it, but Remus pushed into it with a quiet hum, and that banished all worry from his mind in one blow. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, I made a friend. This is Derek, he’s so nice.” His blinks were slow, and he took a moment to focus when he looked up. A crooked smile followed on its heels. “Missed you. Got your water.”

“Thanks, loup.”

A faint cough caught their attention. Sirius twitched a brow; ‘Derek’ shuffled in place for a few seconds. “Is he, uh, yours?”

“My what?” It was best to keep it blunt in situations like this. Sirius felt for the man’s general confusion, but it wasn’t like he had missed Remus’ wedding ring.

“Husband,” Remus answered for him with a nudge to Sirius’ waist. “Duh.”

“I was asking your friend,” Sirius laughed, taking one of the glasses from Remus. Derek’s gaze flickered over them. He watched his eyes bulge when they landed on Remus’ left hand.

Huh. Perhaps he had missed the ring, after all.

“Yeah, I’m—” Derek patted his pockets as redness crept up his neck. “I’m just—I’m going to—sorry about that, excuse me.”

Sirius watched until his glossy hair was out of sight. Then, and only then, did he look back down at Remus. “You’re a terror.”

“Hmm.” Fingertips trailed over his belt; Remus nestled his cheek in the bend of Sirius’ neck. “I like these jeans.”

“I know.”

“I like this song.”

“Lily’s already dancing. Asked me to come find you.”

Remus smiled, and planted a sloppy kiss to the side of his neck before tangling their fingers. A long exhale warmed his skin. “You’re gonna love me forever, right?”

Sirius buried his nose in the top of his head and took a deep breath. He let his other hand settle at the back of Remus’ neck, drawing a happy noise from him. “I’m going to love you forever.”

“That’s good.”

“You’re not going to say it back?” Sirius teased.

Remus pulled his face free long enough to narrow his eyes. It did nothing to quell his grin. “Come dance with me, then we’ll see.”

A soft ‘I love you’ found them far before the end of the song did. Sirius closed his eyes and savored the shape of it, pressed against his lips like a prayer and a promise.

[basicallyanotherwitchesthing]

Anonymous (translated by L.E. LaBan; introduction by Rudolph Conway, Ph.D.) - Crossroads of Ecstasy (Original Title: Les Carrefours des Ivresses) - Brandon House - 1968

[strangewiggles]

[OC Sketch comic]

After a long night of partying, Bertie comes home to her…roommate…Micky.

⚠️ Substance use [drugs, alcohol], drunkenness

Micky - Black-footed cat - she/her

Bertie - Bearded dragon - she/her

both are 24-25ish and lesbians of course

[naminethewriter]

On the Road, Just the Two of Us

Chapter Seven: Outside a Bar, Just the Two of Us

Masterpost | First | Previous | Next | Ao3

Summary: This was written for @dukeceit-week-2024, @dukeceitweek

Janus and Remus are living in a campervan at the moment. Are they going somewhere? Who knows. The only thing that’s important is that they’re together.

Content Warnings: Innuendo, Heavy Flirting, Kink mention, Drunkenness, Alcohol consumption off screen

🌻🌻🌻🌻

Janus gulped down the fresh air as he stepped out of the warm and loud bar. Remus had begged him to stay in this town for the rest of the day when he’d seen it and the poster advertising a gig of a local punk band playing there that evening. He hadn’t minded staying, it seemed like a fun evening, and it was! But it was getting close to midnight and Janus needed a break from the used-up air and bass vibrations that he still felt rattling around his brain.

Or maybe that was the alcohol.

He hadn’t drunk all that much – he never did. He enjoyed the buzz but not more than that.

Remus on the other hand had taken a few more shots. But he also had a higher tolerance than Janus, so he wasn’t worried. His boyfriend was currently having fun on the dance floor and while Janus hadn’t felt comfortable there, he would never take Remus’ enjoyment away from him.

He’d made sure Remus had seen him head outside. He wouldn’t make him worry.

Janus took another few, deep breaths. He looked up, admiring the starry sky for a moment. It was a smaller town, so he could see a lot more of the stars than he could at home.

It made him not want to go back.

But there were responsibilities. And this trip was already three months long.

…Maybe he should check his e-mails. He hadn’t this entire time, knew it would make him anxious about how much work he’d return to. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

Janus pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over the icon of his e-mail program, but before he could tap it, the bar door swung open and Remus came stumbling out.

“Where’s my snake boy??” he slurred, looking around. Janus had enough time to put his phone away before he was spotted and as soon as Remus did, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Janny! Love of my life! There you are!” He giggled, clumsily making it over to Janus and pulling him close. “I missed you. So much.”

“I was gone for not even five minutes, dear. How much more did you have to drink?” Janus chuckled, gently rubbing Remus’ cheek with his thumb. He was running rather hot but considering the temperature inside, the fact that he had been dancing and a good amount of alcohol, it wasn’t concerning.

Remus leaned into his touch and sighed.

“The band like, paid for like three rounds for everyone. I probably shouldn’t’ve taken all three shots directly after the other, but c’mon! It was fun!”

“I’m sure it was, darling. Don’t you dare throw up on my shoes, though.”

“I would never. I love your boots, they’re so sexy and way too good to be ruined by puke. If it happens anyway, I will clean them for you though. With my tongue. Or I can clean them now, I would love to worship your boots for you, Janny.”

Janus listened to Remus’ drunken rambling while gently guiding him away from the bar and towards where they parked the van. He definitely had enough for the night and while it wasn’t uncommon for Remus to declare his various kinks so openly, the fact that he was swaying on his feet and slurring slightly was enough indication that it was time to call it a night for him, too.

“I know you would, darling, and we can experiment with that when we’re back home and I have cleaned these properly. You’re not touching them with your tongue after I’ve worn them outside. Especially not before the wedding.”

Remus whined and Janus sympathetically patted his cheek.

“I know, I’m so mean to you.”

“You’re not,” Remus insisted immediately, pushing himself away a bit and trying to stay more steadily on his own so that he could look Janus in the eyes. “You’re the one person that isn’t mean to me. At least not in any way I don’t like. You’re the best and I love you. Want me to prove it to you? I can kill a guy for you!”

“I know you can, darling, and I love you, too, but what I want from you right now is to get back to the car and cuddle me until the sun comes up again.”

“I’d love to.”

“Good.”

[kllingdaddy]

knight in shining armor

Summary: in which emily gets drunk and calls aaron to pick her up.

Word count: 1k+

It was nearing midnight, but the bar was no less crowded than it was when they first arrived. People sat around downing glass after glass, including the BAU team. Well, everyone except Aaron and Spencer. Spencer didn't drink and Aaron had opted out of a night out to get back home to his son.

Emily was nursing her fifth shot of tequila, a buzzing in her veins that made her smiley and giddy with everyone around her. Her and Garcia were the only ones who truly got wasted on nights like these. Everyone else was careful with how much they drank, considering they all had work the next morning and would rather not deal with a nasty hangover.

But Emily couldn't care less about work and hangovers. All she wanted was to forget about the upsetting case they'd all just dealt with and drink the night away. At least she had Garcia to get wasted with, who was having the time of her life shamelessly flirting with Morgan.

"I think you've had a bit too many to drink," Morgan declared as he carefully plucked the shot glass from Garcia's fingers.

The bubbly blonde pouted dramatically. "Oh let me have my fun, Derek Morgan! Emily has had way more than me!"

"I have not," Emily rebutted, though the slur in her words gave her away. She could hardly stand straight, the view of her friends becoming a little hazy, and she felt Morgan take her glass away as well.

"It's time to get out of here," he said, steering Garcia in the direction of the door. Reid shrugged on his coat and followed, Rossi on his heels.

JJ was the second to last to leave, her speculating eyes narrowing at Emily. "You look like you're about to faint."

Emily waved off her friend's concern. "I'm perfectly fine."

"Yeah, sure you are." The two walked out of the bar—well, JJ walked, Emily mostly stumbled—and Will was already waiting in the parking lot. "Want us to give you a ride home? You sure as hell aren't driving."

Emily shook her head. "Nah, you go ahead. I'll just call someone to pick me up."

"Who?"

"Hotch," she replied easily.

JJ merely raised an eyebrow. "You sure? I'm sure Will doesn't mind taking you."

"You get home to Henry, I'll be fine." Emily stumbled forward and stamped her lips to JJ's cheek. "I promise."

"If you say so," JJ chuckled, waving at the brunette before crossing the parking lot to her boyfriend.

As the couple drove away, Emily dug out her phone and thumbed a contact she only called for emergencies, putting it to her ear as it rang. On the third ring, her boss picked up.

"Prentiss?" His voice sounded gruff, as if she'd waken him up from his sleep. "What's wrong? Is everything okay?"

"Mhm," she nodded. "I was jus' wondering if you could pick me up? I'm kinda hammered..."

"Hammered? Jesus, Prentiss, it's one in the morning." She heard the mattress spring as he sat up, presumably slipping on his shoes. "Where are you?"

"Hmm, Lotus's Bar," she said, reading the sign on the building.

"Is the team still with you?"

"Nope."

"Fuck, Emily." A pause, then some shuffling. "Stay there and go inside if you're not already. I'll be there as fast as I can."

"Okay," she murmured, heading back inside the bar. Half of the place had gone already, but there were still a few tables full and more beers being handed out. "Thank you, Aaron."

"You don't have to thank me, Em. I have to call Jess to watch Jack and then I'll be on my way, okay?"

Emily just hummed in response, plopping down on one of the stools at the bar. As tempting as another shot of liquor was, she knew her boss would kill her if she even thought about it, so she just rested her head on the counter and waited for him to arrive.

Minutes passed, and she nearly fell off the stool when she felt a hand clamp down on her shoulder, her head snapping up in panic. Her eyes met with a pair that were unfamiliar to her.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." The stranger smiled at her. He was tall, with blonde-ish hair and blue eyes. He looked to be a few years younger than her, maybe in his early thirties. "I just wanted to check if you were alright. Are you?"

Emily tried to smile back. Her head was pounding and all she wanted to do was pass out in her bed. "Oh yeah, I'm fine."

"Do you need a ride home? I could take you—"

"She's with me." A deep, familiar voice thrummed in her ears and she glanced towards the sound of it. Aaron was next to her, his dark eyes fixed on the younger man, his lips pinched.

"Aaron," she beamed, throwing her arms around his neck with joy. "You came!"

"Of course I came," he murmured into her hair. "Now let's get you home."

Emily pulled away from him and turned to face the stranger. "I'm sorry, but my Aaron's here now. Thank you for the offer, though."

Aaron's lips quirked at her words, his arm slipping around her waist to steady her as he guided her away from the guy and out of the bar. The chill of the night nipped at them both and considering all she wore was a black tank top and jeans, she must've been cold, so he shrugged off his coat and draped it around her shoulders.

"My hero," she hummed happily, tightening his jacket around her.

"Always," he promised, opening the passenger side door for her.

As he got in on his side and buckled, Emily nestled further into his jacket and sighed. "I'm so tired."

Aaron glanced at her. "I know you are. I'm taking you home, and then you can sleep all you want."

"Sleep sounds good," she agreed with a slight nod, a yawn escaping her.

He smiled softly at the woman beside him. He had no idea she was such an adorable drunk, but he wasn't complaining. Although it did make him want to pull her in and kiss her senseless.

God, what was she doing to him?

When they reached her apartment, he helped her inside and to the bed, where she immediately collapsed without a thought. He shook his head and kneeled at the bed, gently slipping off her boots and setting them aside on the floor.

"Gonna sleep with your jacket," she told him seriously, her eyes already fluttering shut with how exhausted she was. "Smells like you."

He suppressed a smile and nodded. "Okay, Em."

"Get me Sergio?"

"Of course. Be right back."

He left the room in search for the black fur ball, successfully finding him on the kitchen counter sniffing for crumbs. He carried the cat to her room and Emily reached for him, grinning once he was purring in her arms.

"Thank you, hero," she giggled, cuddling Sergio close to her as her eyes closed.

It didn't take long for her to drift off, maybe a minute or so, and he couldn't help but gaze at her for a split second as she slept. She looked so peaceful, so innocent, and it took everything he had not to get into bed with her and tug her into his arms.

Instead, he retreated to the kitchen to fill a glass with water and set it on her bedside table for when the morning came. Then, before he left, he bent down and brushed his lips against her cheek.

"I'll always be your hero, sweetheart."

[mistresskayla-blog1]

Pockets Full of Gold

Characters: Thorin Oakenshield x town of Dale x dwarf company (Bilbo and Tauriel)

Fandom: The Hobbit - Richard Armitage

Lyn's Writing Event Day 6

May 6th: Week 1: Leprechaun                               

Characters: Thorin x townsfolk of Dale x Dwarf company (including Tauriel and Bilbo)

Fandom: Thorin Oakenshield (HOBBIT) – Richard Armitage

(The character of Thorin Oakenshield was created by J.R.R. Tolkien)

Timeline: AU Post (BOFTA) – No one dies, everyone lives

Warnings: drunkenness, embarrassment, anxiety, disorientation, scorn, angst, unaidable hiccups, mild nudity, shape changing, leprechauns.

Word count: 2.1k

Disclaimer: I am aware that even in the AU this violates rules of Tolkien, so I am hoping the 2 ladies and guardians of this lore will forgive me a little prank story, because it is a little funny. Enjoy!

              It was dusk, in Dale, the rebuilding was well underway, and part of the company was celebrating a workday well done. Thorin had been overseeing some of the reconstruction over Bard’s request. Bard offers the dwarf company ale and food to their fill for the evening. And of course, chaos ensues, this gives our prankster an opportunity to spike Thorin’s drink. (But who would want to embarrass or otherwise humiliate Thorin?) Bilbo steps away from the riotous eating, which he knew too well would end in a mess and walk out to the look out on the river leading to Lake Town.

Thorin was sitting watching the revelry and a wench set down some ale for him. He nodded at her and took a sip. Bofur winked at him and tipped his own ale to him, “To many more glasses of merriment” Bifur, Oin and Gloin, Nori and Dori and Fili also cheered. Kili was away towards the water with Tauriel, discussing plans for their new future. Thorin knew this would get out of hand if he didn’t stick around. Balin had already gone back to Erebor, leaving him to get his nephews and the rest of the company home. There wasn’t much to protect right now, and Thorin drank avidly letting the ale hit his palette and quench his thirst. He knew, now as King not to imbibe too much, but he was a dwarf that could hold his ale better than any man.

              Bofur grabbed another tankard and set it before Thorin, “Come on brother, let’s have another!” Thorin looked at him, quizzically, “Are you trying to get your King drunk?” Bofur chuckled merrily, “No, I’m trying to get that grimace of your face, your far too serious” he chuckled, “Its nearly May day, spring has sprung!” Bofur started to sing and bang his fists on the table and the company joined in. Thorin sighed, at the end of the table and sipped again.

Bilbo came back into the inn, and sat next to Thorin, “So, Master Baggins, how long will you be staying with us?” Bilbo, nervously, “Oh, probably a few more weeks, ya?” Thorin finished his tankard and reached for the second one, a loud clatter from behind made him turn, and Bilbo moved across the table to grab some cheese off a platter, passing over Thorin’s tankard. Thorin looked back as he sat down. And started to drink the second tankard. He stood up to speak to the company, “I wanted to thank you all for working with the Children of Man, I know that we are a proud lot, and as your, official leader, I am confident we can maintain a fair relationship with them”. The company cheered again, creating others in the inn to reply in kind. Thorin sat down and spoke conspiratorially to Bilbo, “Master Baggins, do you think you can cover me, I, (burped audibly) need a moment outside”. Bilbo nodded, “of course, of course”.

Thorin rose and left the table, feeling a bit strange, but not drunk. He finished the second tankard and set it down on an empty table as he left the inn. The streets were darker now, alleyways stretched and bent in his vision. Thorin gripped the wall of a building, steadying himself, “I don’t *hic* feel well *hic*,” Then Thorin fell to his knees and passed out, landing face first.

---

No one passed that alleyway, and after some minutes Thorin groaned, and pushed himself back to rest on his knees. He looked at his hands and they were smaller, he was wearing a dark green coat, with intricate gold trim along the lapel and collar. He stood up and barely made the 4th brick, “What the –“ he murmured, and scratched his chin, only to find a thicker beard there, and a when he saw himself in the moon’s reflection of a puddle, he saw it his hair was reddened. Thorin hiccuped and put his hand to his face, “Oh, Dwalin,” muttering Khuzdul under his breath, “I’ll kill him”. His head throbbed and he couldn’t figure out why he was so short, so much shorter than he was when he passed out. He was also wearing dark green boots that had pointy toes, “This is nuts” he mumbled. And as he started to walk, he heard the jingle of coins and felt the weight of them in his pockets, “Oh no..” he muttered, and as he started to walk, he jingled, and hiccuped, and then jingled again, coins started to spill from his pockets, and he scrambled to quiet the sound and pick them up.

Two men ambled by, and nearly bumped into him, as he scrambled to grab a coin, the gold shone in the moonlight and flickering torches, “Hey what you got there little guy?” One asked, Thorin gritted his teeth up at him, “Woah! Nevermind” and they both walked swiftly away. Each step that Thorin took he made more and more noise, and gold coins still spilled out, leaving a trail behind him, “I’m going to kill him,” was all he said. Until some children peaked down from a window hearing the jingle, “Mama! Mama! Look it’s a leprechaun come to help us!” Thorin looked up, his fright palpable, “Oh no, Mahal" And several boisterous youth came bounding out of a hut and scooped him up shaking him wildly. Thorin hiccuped uncontrollably and shouted for them to set him down. They collected the coins and dropped him scurrying off. Thorin huffed, wiping off his pants and readjusting himself. His pockets felt lighter, and then suddenly refilled, weighing him down again, “Oh you’ve got to be kidding me”, he rolled his eyes.

Thorin attempted to make it back to the inn, but what would he do? How would he explain how he looked? Several more men and women came upon him, stooping down to his very small stature and inquiring to his gold. “You look like that King from the Mountain, is that where you got all that gold from little man?” Thorin gritted his teeth, “Surely” A women looked back at her husband, “Maybe this is his offering, a little lad that looks just like him, did the King have kids this quickly, or maybe he always had some tucked away”.  The women caressed Thorin’s scruffy beard and picked up some coins that were scattered around him, “Well don’t mind if I do your highness” She grinned and patted him on the head. Thorin hiccuped again, trying to quiet the queasiness in this stomach. He dug into his own pockets and threw handfuls of gold coins at the passersby. “Here! Just take it! I’m sick of this!” Thorin sounded like a petulant child to them with his shrunken form. But the more he emptied his pockets the more they refilled. And finally he just stormed off again towards the edge of the little lake, by the riverside.

Fili was walking back from the lake with Tauriel and stumbled past Thorin as he jingled and hiccuped heading towards the water, “Uncle?” Fili questioned. Thorin did not stop. He shucked the jacket, boots and pants and jumped headfirst into the river. Tauriel looked just as puzzled, “Was that Thorin?” Kili shrugged, “Sure looked like him, but why is his hair red, and look at these coins”, he picked up a handful. He picked up the clothes that Thorin had discarded, and more coins fell out of the pockets, “But well, to go the spoils, aye?” Tauriel rolled her eyes, “We should go after him, he seemed distressed”. Kili picked up more coins and pocketed them. Tossing the clothes back down on the walkway, “Right, right”. Kili’s sweet smile drooped when he saw Thorin wading in the water, at full size. The water was still cold and Thorin felt everything against his body, wearing only a shirt that hugged at his dwarven muscles. His diaphragm seized again, in hiccups, as he swam against the current of the river. Thorin pushed himself out of the water onto the fishing pier where Kili and Tauriel stood.

Thorin flopped onto the pier and Fili stood over him, Tauriel looked away as Thorin was naked from the waist down, “Uncle what happened?” Thorin groaned and put his hand out to be pulled up, Kili responded immediately. Taking off his coat and offering it to him, “Thank you”, the hiccups subsiding, his hair and beard back to normal. “I drank something I shouldn’t have”, he looked towards the Inn, “apparently”. Tauriel looked concerned, “A potion of some kind, you looked like a Leprechaun, a faeish creature of the West”. Kili looked at her, “Do you think your kin did this to humiliate him?”  Tauriel looked shaken, “Oh my no, must have been someone around here, but who bears ill will towards you?” Thorin started to walk with them, back towards the Inn, “Only my men, and half the town, of course”. Tauriel looked embarrassed, “But surely not after you have made good on your claims to restore the towns”. Thorin smirked, “It doesn’t take much, you of all kind should know how fickle men can be”. Kili huffed, “Come on, don’t say that, I’m sure it was something harmless, a prank, maybe”. It is nearing May Day, we usually celebrate in surprising ways. Thorin looked down at him, “Well then maybe I should strip you down to your bares and let you dance under the full moon is that it?” Kili’s shoulders’ drooped, “I didn’t mean it like that,” Thorin ruffed up his hair, and hugged his shoulder warmly, “I’m kidding, kadan”, Kili warmed as they entered the inn.

Bilbo saw Thorin first and rushed over to him, “Thorin, my god! What happened?”  Thorin looked at him, eyes softening, “I would like to know, Master Baggins”. His smirk faded as Bofur turned towards him, “Oh.. look who decided to come back! And what pray tell has happened to your clothes?”  bangs on the table, “Look men, he's been robbed by a wee lass off the piers now,” Thorin gritted his teeth again at Bofur, and clamped his hand on his collar, lifting him to his face, “Did you do this to me?” Bofur put his hands up, “Never, never would I, I swear it”. Dwalin was keeping to the shadows, and he stood, approaching Thorin. Thorin looked to Dwalin an accusation at his lips, Dwalin cut him off, “I did not, my King, either”. Thorin set Bofur back down on the floor.

Thorin spoke to the company, “Does anyone know who put something in my ale?” The rest of the company was silent and looked contrite. Bilbo was still standing a few feet from Thorin, looking down, and mumbling. Thorin turned to Bilbo, “Did you do it?” his anger rising again, “You little pest!” Bilbo put his hands up, “Thorin I can explain, it was a,” Thorin grabbed him up by his shoulders and lifted him off the floor. “Don’t you realize what could have happened if I remained that way for longer than I had, do you?” Bilbo tried his best to explain in his soft tones, but all he could do was start to chuckle. Thorin’s eyes shifted from anger, to something akin to understanding as he set Bilbo back down to the floor. “You really are a pest you know that, what was that about anyways”. Bilbo, “Happy May Day?” he offered. And got a fresh tankard of ale. Thorin looked at him, “And what is this one going to do to me?” Bilbo’s eyes went wide as the King under the Mountain gulped it down strongly and wiped his mouth off with his sleeve. He let out a battle worthy cry, and slapped Bofur on the back, starting to sing along, “Come on, there once was a man..” then stomped his feet, still pants-less in the inn. Within a few moments Dwalin brought him some spare clothes from his saddle bag. Bilbo sat down, wiping the sweat off his brow, nervously as Tauriel stepped to him, “That was pretty risky, Bilbo, what was your plan?”  Bilbo placed his handkerchief back in his vest pocket, “Oh I just wanted him to feel smaller and maybe spread some cheer around”. Tauriel looked at him, “But why, he is your friend is he not?”

Bilbo looked at her, “yes of course, and sometimes in brotherly love we all need to be taught humility”. He chuffed, and she stood proudly again, “I see, well, your lucky that Thorin respects and cares for you, that you can play such pranks on him”. Bilbo looked at Thorin again, clothed and merry, “I am indeed yes, he is a good dwarf, as well as a good leader, I will remember that”. Tauriel spoke to him as she watched Kili and Thorin dance arm in arm, “But I see what you mean about him being so serious. Its nice to see him smiling with his kin”. Bilbo looked up to, “Yes, yes it is".

THE END.

Hope you all enjoyed.

@legolasbadass @middleearthpixie @lathalea @riepu10 @evenstareedits @scariusaquarius @littlesweetdressmaker

@fizzyxcustard @enchantzz

#Lyns writing event 2024

[mockva]

A drunken Soviet worker tries to ride a hippopotamus, Novokuznetsk, 1982.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Heretic's Confession, Chapter Three

CW: Drunkenness, alchohol in general, some implied dubcon starting at *** and ending at the next ***, magical mind manipulation, restraints, religious talk

Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three

-

One year prior to present-day

He still thinks of himself as Brother Grigori, in his mind, even though he walked away from the temple in the middle of the night months ago. He abandoned his goddess and her open arms in a fit of rage and grief, in the aftermath of a week’s worth of nightmares. 

In his mind, he’s still Brother Grigori. To the world outside, though, he’s Greg. Or, well, mostly he’s the drunk over there.

He keeps his white robes carefully wrapped in canvas and twine, hidden in a bag on the bench beside him. He’s anonymous like this, just wearing a simple linen shirt and pants, rope sandals to take the edge off the boiling summer heat. His skin’s tanned to a constant warm, light brown now and his hair’s a mop he doesn’t bother to brush more than once every few days, grown out and streaked from sunshine. 

No one would know him for a priest. Dromada’s Chosen seclude themselves in the temples, spend little time in the light. Priests are pale men in white robes who smile without pain or bitterness, and they certainly don’t hate themselves and sit up at night wishing they were dead. They absolutely don’t drink themselves into a stupor every single night so they won’t wake up screaming. 

He looks nothing like the hero they made of him through well-intentioned lies and constantly expanding gossip, and that’s exactly how he likes it. 

There are already four separate popular songs about his supposed courage and bravery. Standing up against the wicked bandits who want to tear the kingdom apart in the name of his goddess, his stalwart and true faith terrifying the evil men and women back into the dark of the great, thick woods. 

None of these songs tell a story he recognizes as anywhere close to what happened.

He’s come to this tavern every day this week because it’s the one place where he never has to overhear any of the tripe they’ve made about his life. The barman, who also owns the inn upstairs, hates him - or rather, hates the idea of him from the songs, and has banned all the music that mentions his name, or even the thought of him.

Grigori is deeply grateful for him for it. 

All the pretty nonsense played on lutes or sung in warbling voices about Dromada’s son, who stood up to the evil spat out by the Kaila trees… It’s all just lies, pointless lies to comfort the people. They want to think one man can make a difference. What could he even tell them? He couldn’t even save his own brothers in the temple. The men who had raised him from his infancy, and taught him to be holy and pure. When they could have used him, he wasn’t there.

If I had been there, I’d just have died with them.

The thought brings no comfort. It’s what should have happened, but didn’t. 

He takes another drink, letting the liquor burn hot down his throat. He had never had anything stronger than watered-down wine in the temple before it all happened, and now he isn’t sure when he’s last been sober at all once the sun goes down.

Sobriety, for him, comes in bursts of hangovers - headaches and nausea and a stomach desperate for bread and butter nonetheless. Sobriety is the return of his self-hatred after he had spent the night before successfully drinking it away. Or sometimes not as successfully, but on those nights he just drank more and sooner or later he fell asleep with his head on the bar.

As long as he keeps paying, the barman doesn’t mind mopping up when ‘Greg’ spills a tankard or two when he forgets to keep holding onto it. Even if he suspects the man goes through his things when he’s passed out, he hasn’t said anything and he hasn’t kicked him out for being a priest who broke the vow of sobriety.

Grigory lets his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed. So many vows. He’s broken, what, two of them? To always wear his robes and make himself known as a Chosen of the goddess, and to pursue always sober living, staying away from wine that isn’t watered and all alcohol otherwise. 

That leaves… poverty, chastity, obedience, and serenity. 

He’s probably broken serenity, too, actually. Is being drunk all the time serene? Or the opposite? His hair brushes against his cheeks, and he wonders if blood vessels have begun to break, if he’ll get ruddy like the drunks he saw sometimes as a child, leaving offerings to Dromada and begging her forgiveness for the sins they confessed to the priests.

Dromada forgives, you have only to ask. So you have requested, so Her forgiveness is given. Walk in new peace and be free of your chains. 

He hasn’t confessed any sins since the day the temple priests died and he didn’t. Not that it matters, not anymore.

Dromada isn’t listening. He isn’t sure if She ever did.

A cheery voice speaks entirely too closely to him, making him jump as his heart skips a beat. The voice is bright, slightly raspy and deeply masculine. “Well, don’t you need a haircut, a bowl of stew, and some clean shoes? Not necessarily in that order, of course.”

He blinks his eyes open, wincing a little as the light stings - even as dim as it is in here, the light stings. He needs to drink more. “What?”

A handsome man smiles down at him, a knit hat pulled low on his head, until it covers even the tips of his ears. White-blond hair sticks out the bottom over his forehead like hay, straight as a bone and every which way, but there’s a hint of closely-shorn hair just above his ears that suggests the sides are shaved. Unusually, his eyes are a thick and glossy black, with no sign of the shift between iris and pupil. It’s all one color, and seems to suck light in rather than reflect it. The stranger’s tall, having to lean over just to talk to Grigory where he sits, but he’s also lean, like a sapling ready to bend in the wind rather than break. “I said, you need a haircut.” The stranger reaches out and twines a bit of Grigori’s curly brown hair around his finger, letting it brush against his cheek.

He watches Grigori shiver with a slight, half-cocked smile, black eyes sparkling with a kind of good humor and interest that feels as dangerous as a threat. 

“You also need a bowl of stew and some clean shoes. Sadly, only one of those can I be of assistance with. Bowl of stew, bit of bread? My treat, of course.”

“I… are you asking me?” The stranger nods, and Grigori hesitates… then sighs, and looks down, eyeing his sandals. Are they that dirty? They look fine to him. “No, but thank you. I am not hungry.”

“Don’t eat much these days, do you?”

Grigori’s frown deepens. “I eat when I am hungry.”

“No, you drink when you’re hungry. But you’re going to eat now.” The stranger laughs, bright and kind of beautiful, and Grigori blinks, his frown fading. He watches the man cross the room, calling out his order to the tavern’s owner, who looks over at Grigori with eyebrows raised. Grigori just shrugs, and goes back to his drink.

Or he tries to.

He has to stop when the stranger swoops in with two bowls of stew and a plate of bread balanced on the inside of one elbow, like a man who has waited tables in inns all his life. He then swipes the tankard from Grigori and chugs it all down, drops running from the corners of his mouth down over the long line of his throat.

Grigori’s mouth feels, suddenly, rather dry - for reasons Dromada would frown on, but Dromada already allowed his brothers to be sacrificed. He’s not sure he believes in her forgiveness and mercy anymore. No goddess who cannot protect her most devoted can be much of a goddess at all, can she?

“I see you undressing me with your eyes,” The stranger teases, and Grigori blushes even more deeply, dropping his eyes hurriedly back down to the steaming bowl of stew on the table before him, picking up his spoon with fumbling fingers and getting a bit of meat - cheap cut of beef cooked slow over a fire until it tasted as good as the richest man’s steak - and faking a consummate interest in the shimmering fat that had settled atop the broth. “None of that until we’re done getting some food in you. And no more beer until you’re full, either. Try dunking the bread in, it’s great.”

Grigori nods without looking up, afraid to see the sparkle in those eyes again. He’s never had anyone look at him like that before. Being raised by the priests, well… when you’re wearing Dromada’s robes, the people know you’re pure.

He feels like the stranger isn’t very pure at all.

“What’s-... thank you, for the stew,” He says around mouthfuls, discovering once he starts eating that he can’t seem to get himself to stop. His stomach growls after the first bite and somehow he finishes the bowl and starts sopping it up with bread in record time. “What’s your name?”

“Ooooh, he’s curious now that he can think,” The stranger says, still bright and cheerful. Grigori watches the line of his body as he sits back, fingers interlocked behind his head and elbows bent, kicking up his feet to rest his heels on an empty chair. “The formal name is Bohlinde hir Maksma en Ygridsen, which I hate. Call me Bohli.”

“You have a nobleman’s name?” Grigori’s curiosity gets the best of him and he looks up, eyebrows raising. “Or… partly. Maks is a noble house-”

“My mother was quite the little lady indeed,” Bohli says, and his smile twists sharp and cynical. Somehow it suits his equally sharp features, and Grigori feels an unsettling, unfamiliar shiver roll through him at the sight. Something about the room feels a little overheated, but when he glances over, there’s no fire in the fireplace, no reason for it. “My father… well. Ygridsen-”

“I know what it means.”

“You do?” Bohli’s smile stretches somehow even wider. 

“Yes. We do training, in such things at-... at school.” He catches himself almost too late. He doesn’t share that he was a priest - no priest leaves his order, and they might find out who he is. He couldn’t stand it if that happened. He’d shrivel up and die, if the people had to see what their great hero really is. “Ygridsen means ‘god’s son’. You don’t have a father.”

“Well, I mean. Technically I have one. Just not the one my mother was married to when I was born.” He winks, and Grigori’s eyes narrow more in confusion than distaste. Bohli must misread it, though, because he sighs almost dramatically and grabs a hunk of bread himself, spreading it with thick butter. “Oh, what. Listen, my mother had an idea. It didn’t pan out for her, and here I am. Besides, you should be happy with me being a bastard.”

Grigori finds himself oddly fixated on the sight of Bohli’s long, thin fingers as he lifts the bread to his mouth and bites. A bit of butter sticks to one lip, melting against it. There are crumbs at the corners of his mouth. Grigori wants to do… something to it. But he doesn’t know what. “Why?”

“Because the man my mother was married to was ugly as a dog with mange and about half as graceful,” Bohli says, bright and cheerful, and then grins at Grigori’s shocked half-laugh in return. “There we go. See, I knew you’d be fun, given the chance.”

“What?”

“Never mind. Let me buy you another drink, since I finished yours.” Bohli lifts a hand and the barman finds his way over, pints of beer already ready to go.

Bohli pays for it all, seemingly no end to the coins he has on hand. At some point beer becomes whiskey, heady and too strong, and the room runs together along with all the people in it. Grigori opens up, a little - he doesn’t tell the truth about who he is, but he and Bohli talk about the dangers of travel in the countryside. Bohli nods sympathetically as Grigori explains how careful he is to avoid the Kaila and the bandits within, and how it means that he must always take the longer, winding route everywhere he goes. His words slur but Bohli seems to understand, or at least is polite enough to pretend to.

Grigori hasn’t realized just how lonely he is until he has someone to talk to and discovers himself utterly unable to stop.

Couching his words carefully, he even shares with Bohli that he is traveling because of the untimely murders of his family a year ago, and Bohli nods and murmurs comforting things and puts a hand on his shoulder, rubbing one thumb back and forth in a way that sends a strange heat deep in Grigori’s stomach. He tips his head, looking at that hand, a little confused by its placement there. And far more confused by the fact that he doesn’t want it to stop being placed there, unless it moves down. 

“I think I know how to help you,” Bohli says, and Grigori doesn’t know when it happened but the man’s lips are moving against his ear. His breath is hot and Grigori has to hold back a sound, something odd and helpless. 

Is this-?

This is temptation. Sins of impurity, unchastity. This is his body wanting another’s, more shameful than the nights he wakes up in damp sheets from sweat and has to furtively clean and purify himself after the impure dreams that the priests say are natural, but will fade, in time. 

Dromada’s priests are dead. The men who found him, raised him, made him one of their own… slaughtered by the Kaila-born bandits, destroyed. What use is chastity to a priest with no temple?

Grigori has to hold back a groan when Bohli’s fingers drift up to graze up the side of his neck, up into the nape, into his hair. 

“You have a room here?” Bohli asks, all hushed voice and too much breathing against thin, sensitive skin.

Grigori nods, not trusting his voice, and grabs his bag and stands so fast he knocks his chair over, making Bohli laugh that beautiful brilliant bell-like laughter, drawing the eyes of the room. 

Everyone knows what they’re about to do.

Everyone.

Just by the sight of Grigori all but fleeing to the stairs and the back half of the building, Bohli hot on his heels, still laughing.

****

Grigori has barely dropped his bag and closed the door when Bohli slams into him, surprisingly strong for such a lithe body, shoving his back against a wall and kissing him with a fervor that steals every ounce of willpower he might ever have had to resist.

The world is still spinning, from desire or drink he can no longer tell, when Bohli drops to his knees and yanks Grigori’s pants down until they tangle around his ankles. “Stay still,” Bohli orders, and takes him - already half-hard even not quite knowing what comes next - into his hand. The heat and grip makes Grigori shudder and let out a sound like a cry. It’s nothing like his own hand, nothing at all.

“Ssssshhh, keep it down,” Bohli says, but that teasing smile is back and his hand starts to move, stroking languidly. Grigori has to grit his teeth against the urge to simply spill right here and now, before anything has even gotten started. He swallows and closes his eyes so he can’t see the incredible sight of Bohli’s black eyes as his mouth closes slowly over him.

Grigori probably cries out again, but at some point Bohli stops shushing him and he no longer cares. He comes once and his knees buckle, but Bohli refuses to stop and brings him back to hardness again too soon, his back on the floor and the man straddling him, before he strokes him off a second time, laughing in a way that would be sinister if the pleasure weren’t so overwhelming.

Somehow they find their way into the bed, and Bohli brings him to his peak a third time, a mix of hands and mouth.

“Three,” Bohli whispers, when Grigori is boneless and sated. “That’s a sign if there ever was one.”

“Sign of… of what?” Grigori murmurs, eyes closed, drifting somewhere just before sleep claims him. Bohli is still fully clothed next to him, murmuring sweet soft things and tracing little patterns on his skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bohli whispers. “Just sleep, pretty man.” He kisses Grigori on the cheek, sweet and soft, and Grigori falls into the darkness, content in his sin, reveling in the broken vow. He can feel guilty and go to Confession tomorrow. He can worry about that when he wakes and has to feed the hangover again.

He sleeps without dreams, grateful for the peace he’s been given by this stranger he only just met, how his body’s release unlocked some rage and horror he’d been holding tightly within him and gave it the freedom to go.

***

He wakes with a groan, finding his arms stretched above his head, arching his back as he stretches further.

“Oh, damn,” Bohli’s voice says, husky and low. “Now that’s a pretty sight. They breed all your priests to look that good with your robes off?”

Grigori’s eyes fly open, and he moves to jerk himself upright, but his wrists catch. Wide eyes roll back to look up, and he finds his wrists tied with firm knots to the headboard of the bed. His ankles are tied to the posts at the end, forcing him to lie spread-eagled, naked as the day he was born. 

“Wh-... what-”

He turns to look, wincing against the stinging headache and the hangover throbbing behind his eyes, and sees Bohli standing over in the corner. He’s surrounded by the contents of Grigori’s bag, the white robes laid out on the floor, picking up the first hints of dust, along with everything else he has brought with him or bought since he left.

“Why-... I have nothing to steal,” Grigori starts, his body washing cold with something close to fear. He broke his vows for a man who will rob him? What a small mean awful thing to commit such a sin for. “Nothing worth buying!”

“Mmmmn, beg to differ, but I could see how you might think so.” Bohli steps carefully over and around Grigori’s only possessions, until he sits next to him on the bed. He leans over, patting him on the stomach as if soothing a frightened animal. “You have lots to offer, though, Brother Grigori.”

His heart skips a beat. “Why-... why did you call me?”

“Oh, silly holy man. I’ve been looking for you for a year. I’ve been following you for a month. I guess I owe you the twenty marks, though, since it took me this long. Guess I didn’t know where you’d go. Never occurred to me you’d just… fucking stop being a priest. I’ll pay you later.” Bohli grins. “In kisses.”

Grigori’s eyes widen. In a burst of panic and rage, his vision blurs and then clears again, his headache fading. “You!”

“Me!” Bohli grins. “Me indeed. You didn’t forget me completely, then?”

“You… you bastard-”

“Right again!”

“-you killed my family-”

“Technically, that wasn’t me, but Harren did it on my orders, so I guess kind of-”

“Why?!” The cry is one of sorrow, a barely-human wail. Grigori’s grief wells back up and washes out of him, tears burning and running down his cheeks. “Why?!”

“Damn,” Bohli whispers.

Grigori can’t tell if he sounds guilty or like he wants to bed him again.

“Listen. I’ll explain later, once I get you back home.”

“Home?” For a second, Grigori stupidly thinks of the desecrated temple and its empty halls.

“To the Kaila. We live there-”

“Never!”

That just makes Bohli sigh, as if disappointed in him for his lack of enthusiasm. “Oh, hush. You’re going with me whether you like it or not, you know, Brother Grigori. I have need of a priest.”

“You… no.” Grigori struggles against his bonds, the ropes pulling tight, red marks growing on his wrists as the skin rubs raw. “No! I will go nowhere with you!”

“Now, see, you’re lying. I guess if you don’t realize it, it doesn’t count. But, look. You’re going. And you’re going to tell everyone who you are on the way there.”

Bohli leans over, slipping something over his head. A chain with a pendant on the end, simple stone with a runic mark carved in the middle. Grigori feels the burst of elven magic, his mouth dropping open in shock, and then-

His mind feels cool, like slipping underneath the water in a pond, only he has no need to breathe. He can’t imagine needing to breathe. His thoughts are still and calm, contented. Bohli leans close and Grigori wonders how he could ever have felt anger at such a lovely, kind man. The trap spell in the pendant, the elven magic that takes hold of him, feels like being held in such a sweet and soft embrace. It feels like the water closing over his head.

“There we go,” Bohli murmurs. “Pretty-pretty. I’m going to untie you. When you get dressed, make sure you put your robes on, all right? I want everyone to see who you are. I want you to show them off.”

Grigori swallows, nodding. 

He can do that.

“Good. Then we’re going to my house, and that’s where you’re going to live now.” Bohli’s fingers made quick work of the knots on the rope, and Grigori sat slowly up, blinking as if he had to push through a haze to do it. 

When Bohli hands him the robes, he dresses, clumsily. Bohli has to help him tie the belt at his waist.

“Good. You look great. I’m going to pack your bag back up, and then you’ll come with me and be my useful little traitor to the crown, won’t you, Brother Grigori?”

Another nod. He’s not even sure he hears what Bohli is saying. Or cares. He just likes the sound of his voice.

“Good,” Bohli croons. “Very good. Let’s go. I have a king’s reputation to ruin, and you are going to be my secret weapon.”

Grigori follows him downstairs, smiling when the people there eating their breakfast gasp at the sight of his robes. He’s happy to tell them exactly who he is. 

Happy to tell them he’s the Hero they sing about.

Happy to tell them he’s joining the bandits, now, in the Kaila, because the king cannot protect them.

Happy to get on Bohli’s horse, sitting just before him with Bohli behind resting his chin on Grigori’s shoulder, and ride away.

The pendant bumps against his collarbone, and when Bohli whispers, “Sleep upright,” Grigori closes his eyes and lets himself sleep deeper into the pool in his mind, until all is dark and quiet and calm and he knows no more.

-

@burtlederp @finder-of-rings @arlin-always-writing @sunshiline-writes @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @befuddled-calico-whump

[tildeathiwillwrite]

My time has come!

A writing request! Could be OCs or generic whump, whichever you're more comfortable with!

Whumpee and Caretaker got into a bad argument, and Whumpee leaves. Caretaker left them alone for a few days until they learned that Whumpee has been kidnapped and being held as bait for them. Despite the fight and the fact it was a trap, they rescued Whumpee from their kidnappers. Cue apologies and hurt/comfort ❤️

Thank you so much for the request! (Rules here)

It took me about two weeks but I managed to get 3600 words out of this prompt, and I chose to go with the Gunblade Duo (Draven and Octavian). I had a lot of fun with this, enjoy! :D

CW: swearing, blood, guns, concussion, passing out, tied up, knife wounds, implied mauling, abduction, referenced abduction, arguing, death, alcohol

A/N: This takes place during The Hunter, the Myth and the Cure and is not canon to the story. There is some reference to the events leading up to this one-shot, and implied reference to the events of The Watcher and the Thief. None of that is relevant for reading and enjoying the story :)

Tag List: @fourwingedsnake @pigeonwhumps

The trek back through Zariya was even more tense than the initial trip. Octavian must’ve sensed Draven’s displeasure. He was silent for much of the journey, only speaking to point out notable sounds and scents. Draven should’ve offered thanks. It was what a decent person would have done, considering any of the people they avoided due to Octavian’s warnings could have had ill intentions.

Draven, however, wasn’t in the mood to be a decent person.

“I apologize that the party was a bust,” Octavian finally said. They were drawing close to the safe house where the devar and Reese were staying until Draven felt it was safe for them. Octavian was, for some reason, even more paranoid than Draven about keeping the kid safe, so even if Draven decided the search for her had subsided, they might still be stuck with her for a while yet.

“You don’t sound very sorry,” Draven muttered as they rounded a corner, dodging around the pool of light illuminated by a nearby street lamp. The party had been his idea; to draw out some of the higher-profile targets the evening before a full moon. The smart ones would decline. The foolish ones would accept and try to depart early.

Unfortunately, only one of them was clever enough to avoid the party. Of the ones who attended, only one tried to leave early. And that was because she hated staying around the crowd of partygoers for too long.

“Personally, I don’t see it as a total loss.”

Draven exhaled sharply. “Really? How so?” When they’d returned to the party, he’d been pissed to discover that two of the attending targets had slipped out while they were distracted with the noblewoman. This little piece of information had turned one confirmed suspect into three.  Three more lycanthropes they had to track down. Draven was beginning to get sick of the whole thing. But money was money, and he was getting paid a lot of money.

Octavian indicated a pair of figures ahead of them on the street, and they ducked into an adjoining alley. “I spoke with a former Draigo contact. Most of the human confidants were never made public, we’re lucky I recognized him from a previous mission.”

Yeah. We. “And?”

“He all but confirmed what I already suspected. The stronghold in the south burned down before the plague claimed its first victims. It was unrelated.”

“And this is relevant because…?” They emerged from the alley. Draven quickly glanced around before turning south. Almost there.

Octavian hesitated. “I… it means that I can trust my memories from right before… you know….”

Draven rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“Are you still annoyed that those targets got away from us?”

“Of course I’m annoyed!” Draven snapped, stopping in his tracks. “More than annoyed, I’m fucking furious! The plan was to eliminate four difficult targets from my list, not one!” He folded his arms, glaring at Octavian. “And your ‘relevant’ information was all but useless. It was a complete dead-end, and the cost is definitely coming out of my pay, and—”

Octavian hissed through his teeth sharply. “Of course it all comes down to money for you. Typical.”

Draven folded his arms, hands clenched into fists. “At least I’m not the one in denial about the greatest tragedy in the last decade!”

Octavian’s mouth snapped shut, and his expression changed from mild annoyance to barely concealed rage. If looks could kill, Draven would be six feet under and decomposing. “I can see myself to the safe house.” He finally spit out through gritted teeth, “Good night, Cozenson.”

He turned on his heel and stalked away, quickly melting into the shadows between the buildings. Draven gritted his teeth and walked in the opposite direction. He needed a drink.

- - - - -

Of course it all comes down to money for you.

Typical.

Draven knocked back the remnants of his drink. The alcohol did little to numb the shame that curled around his mind, threatening to pull him under. He slammed the shot glass on the counter, causing the other empty glasses to rattle. Since when did he care about what de Silv thought... of all people! 

A few feet away, the bartender of the random tavern Draven had stormed into eyed him with a questioning look. Draven waved him off. “I’m done for the night, I’ll settle my tab now.”

He fumbled with the strings on his coin purse with numb fingers, growing more annoyed by the second. Drinking away his frustrations had never worked in the past. Why would it this time? And now he was guaranteed a hangover in the morning. 

This was all de Silv’s fault.

The door to the tavern opened, and several pairs of feet stomped on the wooden floor. A bit late for a party. Draven finished paying for the drinks, frowning as the bartender grabbed the money with a fearful expression on his face and quickly ducked into the kitchen. As he turned to leave, he found a group of five well-armed men, all wearing identical black metal masks, standing behind him. “I was just leaving,” he said, moving to walk around them.

The group moved with him, keeping between him and the door. “Look,” Draven snapped, words slurred from the alcohol, “As much as I’d love to settle whatever score you got with me, I’m surprisingly not in the mood. So if you could just get out of my way and we could go on with our merry lives….”

No response. All five men stared at him in silence. Well, he assumed they were staring at him. He couldn’t tell, what with the masks completely obscuring their faces.

“‘Kay,” Draven muttered, reaching for his pistol, “I did warn you.”

His attackers sprang into action, surrounding him on all sides. But Draven only focused on the one directly in front of him.

Crack! Cra—!

He only got to aim one shot before he was tackled from the side. Even with unsteady hands, his aim was true, and he earned a cry of pain and a spray of blood for his efforts. The second shot went wide, the bullet embedding itself in the far wall. Draven stumbled sideways as his assailant tried to wrestle the gun away from him, the other three advancing.

Temporarily freeing his gun arm, Draven slammed the butt of the pistol against the side of his attacker’s head and pressed the business end against the bare skin of his neck. The other man stumbled back, one hand clutching his head, the other pressed against the burn caused by the hot metal.

Draven whirled around and almost fell over as the world continued to spin. He swore and drew his other pistol, blindly firing with his non-dominant hand as he stumbled backward towards the door. He didn’t notice the movement behind him until it was too late.

Thud.

Pain exploded in Draven’s head. The force of whatever had hit him sent him to the floor, his weapons falling from numb fingers and clattering out of reach. What…?

What… in the depths…?

Strong hands seized him and began to drag him away. Draven watched through half-open eyes as one of the remaining masked men picked up his pistols. Darkness bled into the edges of his vision.

They… they don’t want me dead…?

That… that’s not…

…not good…

…fuck…

…

- - - - -

Octavian dealt with his anger in the only way he knew how: sharpening his knives. He’d been doing that a lot lately, he realized, especially since he officially started working with Draven. It wasn’t just anger that prompted him to do something repetitive like knife sharpening, it was also worry, and stress. Both were also incredibly prominent in his life.

As a result, they had become incredibly sharp over the last couple of years. So sharp Octavian didn’t notice he had cut his hand until Reese pointed it out. “You’re, uh, bleeding.”

His jaw clenched as he carefully set the offending weapon aside and accepted the handkerchief she handed him. “I must’ve been more distracted than I thought,” he muttered, wiping away the pale red liquid from the cut. It wasn’t deep, thankfully, but it was long, cutting along the side of his left pointer finger.

Octavian stared at the cut, watching the blood drip down his hand in morbid fascination. At least I’m not the one in denial about the greatest tragedy in the last decade! Even if the words had come from a place of emotion, intending to hurt, he couldn’t deny the truth behind them. Call it optimism, call it hope, it was all the same.

Denial.

He pressed the cloth against the cut as Reese returned—when had she left?—with one of Draven’s spare bags. She handed Octavian the augri and bandages before sitting down next to him. She picked up the knife, still wet with his blood.

“…It’s been three days.”

Octavian hissed out through his teeth. The clear liquid was cold against his skin but searing hot like fire on the wound. Three days since the party, yes. Three days since we last parted, yes. “And?”

Reese carefully cleaned the blood off the edge of the weapon. The edges of the bandages on her forearms peeked out from underneath her sleeves. Her own wounds were healing, but they still needed to be covered. In a couple more days, she wouldn’t need the bandages. “I just… three days… is kind of a long time… to be left alone…?”

“You’re worried about Cozenson.”

She nodded.

Octavian sighed through his nose as he wrapped a thin strip of cloth around his finger. “He can handle himself.”

Her jaw tightened, and she hesitated before speaking. “You’re still angry with him.”

Octavian made a noise of indifference.

“So… so you don’t think any one of his enemies might have gotten him? You’re not worried at all?”

He opened his mouth to argue that no, he wasn’t worried, and if the hunter had gotten himself into some sort of mess he could very well get himself out of it, but the look on Reese’s face made him reconsider his words. He exhaled slowly and held out his hand. She handed over the knife, and he slid it into his sheath.

The truth? Octavian was concerned, now that Reese had brought it up, that Cozenson had left him alone for so long. Granted, Octavian hadn’t gone out to meet him at the guild over the past three days, but even so, Draven barely went a day without checking up on Reese. He pretended otherwise, but he was as interested in the girl’s safety as Octavian was.

“If it’ll make you feel better,” he began, rising to his feet, “I’ll go check up on him.”

Reese jumped up and thrust the bag at him. “Here. You might need it.”

Octavian nodded and slung it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon. You know the rules.”

She all but shoved him towards the door, bolting it behind him as soon as it was closed. Octavian wasted no time setting off northeast, towards the Hunter’s Guild. He would ask around there first. And if nobody knew where Cozenson was, the next step would be breaking into his apartment.

And if the apartment offered no clues? Octavian brushed the thought aside as he turned up his hood to hide the tell-tale silver of his hair. It was early morning, and few people were nearby, but he didn’t want to risk running into Reese’s abductors, who were no doubt on the lookout for him. He still received odd looks from passersby, but it was better than nothing.

He wasn’t a skilled tracker for nothing. But he’d rather not have to go that far. A trail three days cold was going to be a nightmare to follow.

Octavian had only just gotten into the northern district of Zariya when he was approached by a familiar face. Thaddeus Kaneson? Octavian had worked with him briefly back when he first joined the Hunter’s Guild. As far as he was aware, Thaddeus would have no reason to know about his and Draven’s current job. Their partnership, maybe. Why is he here?

“De Silv,” the hunter greeted softly, joining him.

“Kaneson,” Octavian replied, not slowing his pace, “I thought you were in Caenum.”

Thaddeus shrugged. “I was. Got called back.”

“That’s not why you’re here.”

“No, it’s not.” Thaddeus stopped and pulled out a sealed envelope from a hidden pocket on his duster. “This was dropped off late last night. Nobody saw who did it.” He held it out. “It’s for you. I got the short straw of trying to deliver it. Glad I found you quickly.”

Octavian hesitantly took it. His name was scrawled on the front with thick, dark letters. Thaddeus turned to leave, but Octavian touched his arm, stopping him. “Have you seen Cozenson? Within the last couple of days?”

The hunter paused, thinking. “Can’t say I have,” he said, cracking a grin. “Why, did you lose your partner?”

Octavian sighed. “I’m concerned that he might have gotten himself into a situation that I will need to rescue him from before he gets himself killed.”

Thaddeus’ grin grew wider. “Celestials, you did lose him! Well, if I find him before you do, you’ll owe me drinks at the Laughing Bear.”

“I highly doubt that will happen, Kaneson.”

Thaddeus turned away, chuckling. “We’ll see about that, de Silv.”

Octavian let him go, fiddling with the envelope until the hunter was out of sight. Shaking his head, he ducked into the shelter of a nearby alley and turned it over. He ran a finger over the wax seal. Unbroken, but he knew there were ways to open it without damaging the seal. No design was imprinted on the dark red wax, the color oddly similar to human blood. Either no signet or the person who’d sent the letter did not want to be known.

Octavian’s suspicions grew as he broke the seal and pulled out the letter. One page, same messy lettering.

We have your partner. If you do not turn over Reese Takari, we will kill him. You have one week.

The paper crinkled under the force of Octavian’s grip, but he didn’t care. It was dated the night of the last full moon, three days before, with an address scrawled below the note. No signature, but he didn’t need it to guess who had sent it.

And he’d rather be damned to the depths than give Reese’s abductors what they wanted.

- - - - -

“I think I finally figured out what your mask reminds me of.”

The guard who had been assigned to watch Draven did not obviously react, but Draven noted the way his jaw visibly tightened under the stupid metal face mask.

Draven smirked despite the pounding in his head and the aching in his joints from being tied to the chair for so long. “Your mask specifically looks like a little obedient watchdog. One who only knows how to follow the orders of someone who’s done nothing but bitch at you.”

The guard, celestials bless his patience, remained motionless, holding his handgun, as he stood about as far as he could get from his charge without leaving the small, windowless room where Draven was kept. He had originally been in the main area of the random warehouse in the merchant district, but with the front door right there, he couldn’t help but almost escape twice. Now, he was about as far away from the door as he could get, though there were plenty of windows just outside the room.

“Personally,” Draven continued, “I don’t see why your boss—whoever the depths that might be—makes you wear those stupid masks. It’s not like I couldn’t identify you by the way you stand or anything.”

The guard’s knuckles turned white as he resisted the temptation to strike Draven across the face. Or at least that’s why Draven assumed he was gripping his weapon with such strength. Any more force and the gun would probably snap in half.

“So… when did your boss say the time limit was again? Three days left, now? I have a job to get back to.”

No response.

Dammit. Worth a shot.

Draven sighed and ran his fingers along the ropes tied around his wrists for the hundredth time since he’d been bound there after the second escape. Both of the knives hidden in his sleeves had gotten confiscated, all he had left was the one in his boot. Which was currently out of reach.

Not that it would do him much good at this point. With the one guard between him and the only exit, and at least two more standing outside between the door and the nearest windows, he wasn’t getting very far. They might actually shoot him this time if only to keep him from attempting escape with a more permanent solution.

Draven opened his mouth to ask another question, but before the words left his lips, the sound of shattering glass pierced the air. The guard jumped, startled, and darted out the door. Draven cocked his head, listening as chaos reigned. Screaming, shouting, gunshots, and running footsteps as his captors tried to contain whatever had gotten inside.

The person in charge, who wore an identical black metal mask with a single gold stripe across where the forehead would be, had claimed they could handle Draven’s partner if he chose to fight his way through. “De Silv would have no choice but to accept,” he’d gloated, “I have thirty men armed to the teeth. What does a single hunter have against that?”

Besides, Octavian had no reason to risk the kid for Draven. 

Why would he, after what Draven had said to him? 

If Draven were in his position, he would have just left him and gotten himself and Reese out of Zariya days ago while her abductors waited in vain.

Just as the thought crossed Draven’s mind, a familiar face appeared in the doorway. “Cozenson,” Octavian said in greeting. He was covered in human blood, the dark red liquid dripping from his knives and smeared on his face and clothing.

“De Silv,” Draven returned slowly.

“Surprised to see me?”

He sighed. “A little bit, yeah.”

Octavian casually tossed one of his knives into the air and caught it deftly. “I couldn’t just leave you to die at the hands of these masked imbeciles. I’m not you.”

The last sentence was unspoken, but the look on Octavian’s face implied it well enough. Draven opened his mouth to argue, to deny, but he hesitated. Octavian would know it was a lie. “Look,” he said, after a moment of thought, “I’m sorry. For what I said to you. I wasn’t being fair.”

The look of pure shock on Octavian’s face was priceless. “I….”

“I know, I’m apologizing. Big shocker.” Draven jerked his head to the side, indicating the ropes binding him to the chair. “Could you let me out? My hands are getting numb.”

Octavian blinked and slowly nodded. He crossed the small room in two strides and quickly sliced through the ropes. Draven jumped to his feet and staggered, vision tunneling. “Shit,” he muttered as Octavian steadied him. “Don’t get a concussion while drunk.”

“Noted.” Octavian considered the blood on his knives, lips pressed into a thin line, before wiping the blood off and sheathing them. “I also apologize. For leaving you alone. However much I detested your company at that point, we are partners.”

Draven sighed. “Yeah, couldn’t agree more.” He slowly stepped out of the room, noting the copious amount of blood and broken glass littering the warehouse floor. The bodies of the dead lay scattered about haphazardly. Most had died by Octavian’s blades. Two appeared to have been mauled. “So… thirty men?”

“Some of them fled,” Octavian said softly. “They assumed they were dealing with an elven hunter. They were half-right.”

Draven’s eyes landed on his guns, which rested on a table across the vast room. They appeared undamaged, thank the celestials. He could always get new guns, of course, but those were his guns. They’d seen him through many a hunt and duel and scuffle. He began to pick his way over, avoiding the corpses and the worst of the blood. “You seem conflicted.”

Octavian trailed after him “I think anyone would, in my position.”

“Has everything gotta be a damned riddle with you?” Draven reached the table and picked up one of his guns. Empty. The boss must’ve unloaded it. Pretty clever for someone working with limited knowledge. He gave the room another glance. From what he could see, none of the masks on the dead guards possessed the golden stripe. “Octavian, did you happen to kill a guy with a stupid-looking gold streak across his mask? ‘Cause that guy was a particular brand of asshole. And also the one in charge.”

He glanced back to find his partner staring into space, eyes moving back and forth. “No,” Octavian finally said, refocusing his attention on Draven. “He was one of the first to flee.”

“Damned coward.”

“‘Damned coward’, indeed.”

Draven returned his guns to their rightful places on his belt and gave the warehouse one last cursory look. “Guess I’m rooming with you and the kid for a little while.”

Octavian nodded. “Her abductors are surprisingly resourceful. She must’ve been a valuable prisoner.”

“Still hasn’t told you anything?”

“No.”

Draven sighed. “I don’t know what they did with the knives I kept up my sleeve, but I’m tired, my head hurts, and I want nothing more than to go home.”

“Shall we depart then?” “Celestials, stop being so formal. Let’s get out of here.”

Meme Summary

[fruitcoops]

Dial Drunk

Fic O'Ween Day 1, for the prompt 'First Frost'! Many thanks to @noots-fic-fests for organizing and @lumosinlove for the best characters <3 Have some baby Sirius and James causing Dumo heart failure for your Thursday!

TW drunkenness (silly fun, not angsty)

Pascal enjoyed 20 minutes of a PG-13 movie (the first in three months) before stumbling, out-of-sync footsteps outside his house interrupted his peace. He should have known better than to think a quiet night in would live up to its name.

“Come on, man, work with me—”

“Shh.”

The kids were in bed. Why couldn’t that be enough?

“No, no, why can’t we just go back to your house?”

“Because—”

They had been gems this evening. Dinner passed without a fuss; a FaceTime with their mother riveted them more than a TV show, for once.

“James…”

“Don’t whine at me, god. Can I have my arm back?”

Pascal cursed softly to himself as he rummaged the remote from the couch cushions and paused the movie. Rustling became a scuffle—he opened the door just as the bell rang through the house.

James Potter stared at him, then broke into a broad grin. “Dumo! Hi!”

“Did you read the sign?”

James’ eyes flickered over the doorframe. Pascal got to watch him read the Please Do Not Ring Bell—Infant Inside! in real time. His smile slipped into more of a grimace. “…shit. My bad.”

“Bonjour,” Sirius mumbled blearily, listing into James’ side. “Ça va?”

Pascal sighed. He had been hoping someone on the team would keep an eye on those two. Parties were all well and good until the dynamic duo of poor decision-making was left to their own devices.

“We had fun,” James offered by way of explanation. Sirius’ hiccup jostled them both. “Maybe—maybe a little too much fun.”

“Got kissed on the cheek,” Sirius said with an enthusiastic nod.

The lipstick print on his face was glittery in the porchlight. “Congratulations.”

“Merci.”

Christ above. “Pots.”

James had the decency to look embarrassed. “I know.”

“Are you serious?”

“Non, c’est moi,” Sirius snorted, swaying toward the potted plant at the edge of the stairs. They both reached for him at once; Sirius made a noise of surprise, but was pliable as putty when James coaxed him back out of the danger zone. The sharp tang of alcohol and at least three different perfumes spilled off him in waves. Sirius was doe-eyed when he bent to rest his head on James’ shoulder. “Thanks for bringing me home.”

Pascal arched a brow; James gave Sirius a guilty pat on the back. “Any time, buddy.”

“Are you sure we can’t go back to your house instead?”

“Mhmm.”

Sirius huffed in disappointment. “Why?”

“Because my guest room isn’t unpacked.”

“Can sleep on the couch. Or the floor.”

“Lily’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

Sirius’ groan cracked as he pushed his face into James’ shoulder. “Just put me in the backyard.”

“One of us will turn the hose on you.”

Pascal shook his head and reached out. “Allez, mon fils, let’s get you—"

“You’re so mean,” Sirius complained, still fixated on James. “I don’t want to go home. Dumo’s going to be upset.”

James’ gaze darted to him for a beat. “Pads, no, it’ll be fine.”

“Non.”

Pascal’s stomach sank. “I’m not upset,” he tried, gentling his voice.

But Sirius just nodded. “Yes, he is.”

“Hey.” Pascal prodded his arm. “Hey, petit chou.”

“Don’t like cabbage. Crunchy.”

Pascal exchanged a look with James and fought an eye roll. Without initial surprise clouding his vision, James was clearly only more sober by a slim margin. His glasses seemed determined to balance on the very end of his nose, despite repeated attempts to push them up again. His sneakers shuffled sheepishly on the doormat.

“Just tell me you didn’t drive.”

“I don’t have a car,” Sirius said brightly.

James gave a vigorous shake of his head. “Fuck no, we took an Uber. Are you crazy?”

“Are you drunk?” Pascal countered. Sirius barked a laugh; James’ already-flushed cheeks darkened. A once-over revealed little he didn’t already know, only a comfort in the sense that they both seemed hale and whole regardless of their wobbling.

Oh, to be twenty again.

Pascal inclined his head toward the house and stood aside. “In. Don’t wake the kids.”

An attempt to fit through the door at the same time was admirable, but doomed, as they soon realized after a few seconds of fumbling. James eventually squeezed past with Sirius trotting close behind. Something about it struck Pascal as a particular poetic irony.

“Where’d you end up?”

“Place on sixth.” James’ hands were clumsy on his shoelaces. Sirius observed him for a moment, then kicked his own shoes into the closet still tied.

“Was it fun?”

“Mhmm. Hopping tonight.”

“We left early,” Sirius chimed in. “James said I needed to go home.”

“He’s smart. You should listen to him more.” Listen to me more, he added in his mind as he guided James’ jacket off his flailing arm and nudged Sirius’ phone away from the precarious table edge. Despite their clumsiness, their clear efforts to stay quiet did not go unnoticed. It was a common courtesy that some of the rowdier boys tended to forget.

“D’you want me to—”

“Guest room,” Pascal interrupted, tilting his chin down the hall. “Bathroom’s yours. Advil in the top drawer.”

James took a breath, then paused. “Does it have one of those kid-lock things?”

“Yes.”

He whistled through his teeth. A reluctant nod followed. “Kay. I can handle that.”

“Lame if you couldn’t,” Sirius mumbled.

“Like you’d do better.”

His lazy grin became offense in half a second; his back stiffened under Pascal’s palm. “I could—”

“Quiet,” Pascal reminded him.

“I could,” Sirius repeated in a harsh whisper, jabbing his finger toward James. “And you know it.”

James raised his hands in mocking surrender before raking one through his hair. His glasses had wandered down his nose again, and he gave Pascal a drowsy blink. “I’ll be out by, like, nine tomorrow. Lily’s coming over at eleven, so…y’know. Gotta clean my kitchen ‘n shit.”

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate that,” was Pascal’s response of choice. He was fairly sure noting the late (or rather, early) hour was a poor course of action if he wanted James Potter asleep in the next five minutes.

James squinted at the floor for a few more seconds. “Fuck, I gotta wash my sheets.”

“Go to bed, James.”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright.”

Pascal propped Sirius up on his shoulder as he watched James go. There was a hole in the heel of his sock that was only going to get bigger. James probably wouldn’t throw the thing out until it literally fell off his foot. Maybe it was a good thing Lily was visiting—she always shook some sense into him.

“Dumo.”

Pacal’s stomach swooped. “Are you going to throw up?”

“No,” Sirius snorted, as if the very idea was ridiculous.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’.”

“What do you need?”

“Nothin’.” Sirius wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out for a weak raspberry. “English tastes gross. Makes my head hurt. Regulus doesn’t like it, either. Mine is a lot better since because I was here but he’s pratiss—practick—pratique. In school. See? Dumb language.”

“You’re doing a very good job.”

Sirius beamed at him. “Really?”

“Ouais. Much better than I did.”

“Yours is a lot better than mine, though.”

Pacal was glad he didn’t protest the subtle guidance toward the basement stairs, if he noticed at all. “Well,” he began, grunting slightly at the weight imbalance on the first step. “I’ve been in the league for nearly twenty years. You’ll pick it up.”

“I wanna play hockey forever,” Sirius sighed.

“Give it your best, and you’ll do great things.”

Sirius hummed in acknowledgment, though he seemed a little too focused on holding the railing for Pascal to believe it. They edged their way down two more steps before he glanced up again with an astonished look on his face. “You’ve been in the league as long as I’ve been alive?”

Holy Jesus fucking Christ. His tongue went dry and stiff as leather. “I guess I—” Pascal tipped his head toward the ceiling and let a breath siphon through his nose. He should’ve taken James up on the backyard offer. A spray-down with the hose would do Sirius some good. “I hadn’t, ah. Thought about that. Merci.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Isn’t it just?” Perhaps if he asked nicely, Sirius would kick him down the stairs. It would be kinder. He might even hit his head hard enough to forget the entire evening. Where was the shy boy covered in winter’s first frost when Pascal needed him, anyway?

He winced at the thought. As accidentally-devastating as Sirius was with alcohol coursing through his veins instead of common sense, he couldn’t make himself wish for the opposite. They had only just managed to get his shell open; James better than anyone. There really wasn’t a world where he would trade this newfound vibrancy for anything, but—

His lower back panged when Sirius lurched toward his bed. “Woah.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Sirius muttered. “Tired.”

“Je sais.” Pascal shook his head against the glimmers of pain in his vision and made a mental note to ask Remus about that during their next session. “Pajamas, water, then bed.”

“But—”

“Pajamas, water, bed,” he repeated firmly. “Or skip the pajamas. I don’t care.”

Sirius frowned down at himself, scratching at his cheek. Glossy sparkles spread into an amorphous blob. Exasperation pressed against the inside of Pascal’s ribs; he sat Sirius on the edge of his desk and dampened a washcloth in the bathroom, then returned to his side. “Let me see.”

“See what?”

“Your cheek.”

Dark brows knit. “Not hurt.”

“Just—hold on.”

Sirius was flinching back before the cloth even got close. “Hey, hey, non.”

“You’ve got—”

A forceful push to his wrist made him pause. “Non.”

Pascal blinked. “There’s something on your cheek,” he tried. Sirius watched him with strange, alert suspicion. He held both hands palm-up between them and bit the inside of his lip against the urge to reach again. “Here.”

Silver eyes flickered back and forth in the low lamplight, towel to Pascal to towel to Pascal. Sirius shifted on his perch and took the cloth hesitantly. The rigidity of his torso eased once the gloss-print was gone under a few harsh scrubs, and Pascal took it back without issue.

“I’m not upset with you.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m not upset.” He watched Sirius take two large gulps of water from the bottle on his desk before flopping back on the bed. “I’m just glad you two got home safe.”

Sirius made a faint noise of agreement while he made himself comfortable, tugging at the sheets with little regard for their proper direction. A leg and most of his shoulders stuck out when he finally gave up and pushed the side of his face into the pillow. Pascal tucked the blanket around him on instinct; his heart tugged at the long, contented exhale that followed. “James is so nice to me.”

“He’s your friend.”

“So nice,” Sirius mumbled, almost to himself. His eyes were already half-shut. “Dumo?”

“Ouais?”

“Is James going to play hockey with me forever?”

“Ah.” Of all the questions you could ask. “I think you two do well together on the ice, so there’s no reason to split you up.”

Sirius tucked his knees up beneath the covers and shoved an arm under his pillow. “I don’t want to play hockey forever if James isn’t there.”

Pascal sat on the edge of the desk and crossed his arms across his chest. It had been nearly twenty years since he last checked his blindspot on the ice. There was no need—not while Sergei was there. They had talked about the end, of course, and the after. It went unspoken that they’d probably leave together. Too many jokes about PTA duels would be wasted if they didn’t.

How many nights had they dragged each other home, stumbling and giggling? They had walked nearly four miles the night they won the Cup in Colorado, those glorious quiet hours between being shooed home and when the taxis would answer their phones. Pascal couldn’t recall the last time he had fallen over the welcome mat with Sergei on his heels, instead of being the one holding the door open.

“Sirius?”

“Mhmm.”

“James will stay with you.” There was nobody Pascal would rather have at Sirius’ back, when he thought about it. Not even himself. “If you decide you want to play hockey forever, he will be the first person to sign up with you.”

“You’re not—” A yawn interrupted him, wide enough to make him scrunch his face. “—upset that we were loud?”

“Non. Promise.”

“Merci.” The sheets twisted in Sirius’ fist as he brought them close to his body. His mere twenty years made him look small without a frown and a ‘C’.

“Bonne nuit, mon fils.”

An incoherent mumble was all the answer he received, and more than he expected. He turned the lamp off with a gentle click, leaving Sirius to sink into heavy, even breaths.

New Message To: Vans

Pots and Black home safe

Lunch tomorrow @ usual. Kids included.

I’m buying. No protests.

New Message From: Vans

?

Why are you awake

New Message To: Vans

Lunch. Usual. Kids included.

If you bring your wallet I will kick your ass.

New Message From: Vans

Vans laughed at your message

:thumbs-up_emoji:

Can’t wait.

[hkandiu]

In honor of the eclipse, that time I wrote drunk Iruka singing "Total eclipse of the heart" to Kakashi 😂

[friskishdrawings]

Sketch request of Crowley from the book (and series and radio show) Good Omens, for @laura-arro-doodles ! Just started reading it again and reached this part, and immediately had to go and check if it was in the series too. So have my weird amalgamation of both!

Good Omens © Neil Gaiman and Sir Terry Pratchett

___

My instagram: Friskishdrawings

[bonefall]

Hope you don't mind I re-posted your ask so that I can toss this under a cut, I don't want to spook anyone because this picture could be alarming to anyone just quick scrolling down the dash lmao

CW: Drunk birds (They look dead but they're ok!) and discussion of alcohol from fermented rowanberries

@hoofhound

"on fermentation

can they eat the berry

(the birds are alive and well it is commonplace to see them passed out after eating fermented berries and passerbys pick them up and set them on the side safely until they wake up :) )"

Yes! The cats can eat the berry; but only when they're ripe and fermented like this. Immature rowan berries have parasorbic acid, which is harmful to both people and cats.

However- cats have an extremely low tolerance for alcohol because they are obligate carnivores. They can't eat as many as even a tiny little waxwing. Remember that a single shot of vodka is fatally poisonous to a cat.

I'll make a rough estimate until I can make an official entry with REAL math and say 1 berry = 1 beer.

So as long as they're not munching an entire bushel of rowanberries, and this should be fine to get your Clan drunk.