#legend of the rat bastards

[dandelion-jester]

Would anyone be interested in reading a book based on a DnD campaign? I'm unsure if I'll ever put it out for the public but if I did would anyone actually be interested? It's my project 'Legend of the Rat Bastards' and its based on a heavily home brewed Curse of Strahd campaign I played in. There's more info in my writeblr bio.

Please reblog for better results

[tacagen]

look there is something So special in the way thawne smiles in his non-flash-centered arcs

[assortedseaglass]

🌟Wintering | Yuletide🌟

Tom Bennett x fem!Reader

Summary: The war is over and Tom Bennett returns home, seeking comfort in a friend from his past.

Content Warnings: Drabble, Language, Smut (p in v, oral!f receiving).

Yuletide Masterlist

Wintering, verb. To hide, hibernate, seek comfort or rest, especially after turbulent times (in humans).

“Fuck,”

Your back was beginning to ache. You hadn’t given a moment’s thought as to where you were when you’d burst through the door. Just being at home, away from prying eyes, was enough. Now, the dado rail was bruising the base of your spine with every harsh thrust.

“Fuck,” he hissed again in your ear, immediately silencing himself by covering your mouth with his own. The warmth, the wetness, was delicious.

“Tom, please,” you whined into his mouth. Even through the dull pain in your back, your legs hooked around his waist ever tighter. At your plea he looked down at you, his hips still rolling lazily. When he saw the scrunch of your eyebrows, the sheen of sweat above them, and the way your lower lip pillowed as you bit down on it, Tom Bennett grinned.

He continued grinning as his hips began pistoning at an unholy pace into your wet heat. That wolfish smile was the last thing you saw as your eyes finally closed, too overwhelmed by pleasure to stay open, as you threw your head back against the wall. Bastard. He knew he was good.

You’d heard at the dancehall last night that the final battleship into port, the HMS Valiant, was due to arrive the following day at around 3 o’clock. You also knew, from working with Lois on the ambulances, that this was Tom’s ship. When Mrs Beatty and a few other ladies from your mother’s Women's Institute suggested meeting the last of the lads to come home at the dock, the idea spread through your Manchester suburb like wildfire.

No sooner had your mother come home with the news were you being bustled onto the number 54 bus with a hamper laden with fresh clothes, bottles of beer, spam sandwiches and the little change that each family could spare. Old men, and women of all ages, piled into the buses and made their way to the docks. A few families still had bunting from the King’s jubilee and strung it from dockyard cranes.

The furore was extraordinary. The battleship was already looming large on the horizon when you all emptied from the bus, and young and old cheered themselves hoarse until the ship made its way into port. Sailors, forgetting regulations, leant over the ships’ railings and waved to family and friends. When the battleship finally docked, it let out a long blast of its horn and the crowed roared with glee. Mothers and sweethearts were already crying when the gangway was let down, and you saw that even some fathers were wiping their eyes.

You watched with relief as faces you recognised filed off the boat. Mr Martin’s only surviving son, thirty-eight and with three children who each ran into his arms. Frank Smith, the school bully’s rat-faced sidekick. The lad that worked at the corner shop, nineteen now, having received his papers the day he turned eighteen. Each was greeted by their family members and someone with a ‘welcome home’ hamper.

All, except one. Tom Bennett, one of the tallest lads on the boat, walked down the gangway in a few elegant strides and stopped on the dock with a sigh as he hitched his kitbag over his shoulder. He lifted his eyes to the sky, the October afternoon already darkening to a mournful blue.

As with the rest of the young men, the war had not been kind to him. Shadows haunted his slim face, prematurely aged from the horrors of a war none of them should have fought. At home, he was the stuff of legend. Survived the battle of River Plate, Dunkirk and went on the run in Europe, only to be sent back to war the moment he returned. More lives than the luckiest of cats, your mother said. The worst, of course, was the loss of his father and his home. The grief hit the Bennett children hard. Tom Bennett jumped onto the first battleship in dock, and Lois left baby Vera in England to go nursing in Africa. Now, Tom Bennett stood on the dock with no-one to welcome him home after six long years.

You hurried forward.

“Tom-” As though he knew you were there before you even spoke, he looked down from the sky to your flushed face.

Though he said your name quietly, a smile flashed across his boyish face. Your stomach somersaulted. He’d always been the handsomest rogue in Longsight, and still was with his blue eyes and sandy hair. At least there was one thing the war hadn’t taken away from him.

You held out the hamper. “Welcome home, Tom,” and with a sincere smile you stood on tiptoe to kiss his sallow cheek. A faint lipstick smudge lingered there and you smiled all the more.

“I’d be flattered,” Tom teased, gesturing to the hamper. “If every other Tom, Dick and Harry didn’t have one too.” He laughed as he took the hamper from you. His large palm covered your own and you shivered.

There was history there. Only a few pages, but history nonetheless. At once, you were transported back to the parish dance of 1935. Both seventeen, you as green as the grass, he already-world weary and wandering. He danced with no-one the entire night, though many a girl looked hopeful, yet took your hand for the last dance. When you thought about those innocent years before the war, in the darkest hours of the night or after a few too many sherries, you swore you could feel Tom’s hands burning against your waist, and at your neck as he kissed you. Your first.

Tom too, was remembering the first moment you touched him. A maths lesson with Miss Greene. He’d been caught flicking pencil sharpenings into girls’ hair and was sent to sit in the corner at the back of the class. You, as much a sweetheart then as you were now, were tasked with handing out textbooks. Unfortunately for you and luckily for Tom, they were on the shelf above where he sat. A cocky grin on his face, Tom didn’t move. He loved winding the girls up, and you were something different. At sixteen, you were curvier than the rest, and watching you flush pink was his favourite hobby. And so, he didn’t move. With pride, he chortled as you blushed and reached for the textbooks above him. His smug smile faltered however when, in order to reach the books, your legs came to rest on each side of his spread ones. With one of your thighs either side of his, he swallowed. He could feel the heat coming from the apex between them, smell your perfume and feel the way the soft flesh pressed against his. When you finally retrieved the books, it was your turn to smirk at the red flush peppering his cheekbones.

“Where are you staying, Tom, now you're back?” You asked, voice low. Your mother was not far away.

“Bench in the pub, presumably. Most of the lads are heading that way for a party. Then I’ll find meself lodgings above some dodgy back-alley business.” He huffed a humourless laugh. You looked him directly in the eye.

“Stay out ours tonight.”

Tom leant close to you, wetting his lips. “What would mother say?”

“Don’t know, she’ll be down pub with the rest of them. Loves a sherry and a sailor.”

Half an hour later, you were pressed against the wall of your mother’s hallway, Tom Bennett lapping hungrily at your slick centre. Beneath your skirt and petticoat, the lewd sounds of his tongue against your wet sex filled the quiet evening.

Now, buried to the hilt within you, his swollen head bullying your core, Tom forgot the last seven months he’d spent living on the Valiant. Forgot the suffering of the last six years entirely. For between the softness of your thighs, the scent of your neck as he tucked his face against it tenderly, he’d found, if for a moment, the thing he’d been fighting for. Warmth, kindness, rest­. A place to winter.

The usual suspects: @arcielee @targaryenrealnessdarling @theoneeyedprince @ewanmitchellcrumbs @ellrond @cyeco13 @babyblue711 @exitpursuedbyavulcan @humanpurposes @myfandomprompts @barbieaemond @anjelicawrites

[arecaceae175]

Type of Cat each Link Would Own

Which cat would each Link be?

[Image description below cut]

Time: Distinguished Baby

sweet

respectable

politely request you to turn on the tap so they can have a little drinkie poo

Twilight: True Baby

NEEDS affection

sleeps on your head

would make a very good emotional support animal

Hyrule: Rat Baby

will do whatever it takes to get attention

zero loyalty

climbs you like a tree

screams at closed doors

Warriors: True Distinguished

handsome

strong opinions about cat food brands

could be elected mayor of a small town

Wild: Cat

"yeah this thing just kind of lives in my house, I feed it and stuff, sometimes it lets me pet it"

put a mouse in your shoe once

Sky: True Rat

no thoughts, head empty

has stolen an entire chicken

would sell you to satan for one corn chip

Legend: Distinguished Bastard

inspires fear

poops on the floor if the litter box isn't pristine

in the evil mastermind's lap while they turn dramatically in a chair

Four: True Bastard

hates you but tolerates your presence

violence is the answer

would eat your eyeballs if it got hungry enough

(secretly loves you)

Wind: Rat Bastard

"how did you even get there??"

bites you when they want attention

frequently found inside the trashcan eating burrito wrappers

[genevawrenn]

Two years.

Two years without him.

In August of 2022 I was hanging in a VC with a close friend, when both of us have trouble sleeping we will often hop in a VC and chill until we get tired. During one of these sessions he introduced me to Technoblade by showing me the Sad-ist animations, and I was enthralled *instantly*. Then that bastard /aff left for a week, leaving me to dive headfirst into one of the longest running fixations I have ever had.

I watched a single EvanMCgaming video about the DSMP lore, then proceeded to binge the rest and the rest is history.

My first few videos of Techno's content were : Doomsday, the jail podcast and Techno & Ranboo's excellent adventure, kicking off my love of Boreal Trio. I consumed every bit of content I could, falling into watching both Phil and Ranboo who regularly streamed between long sessions of watching every Techno video I could.

I found a dynamic in that trio in the north I will forever be fond of, eventually extending to the Syndicate as well before I found SBI. I then mained SBI for about two years until...well...y'know. [Wilbur, for fucks sake, you rat bastard /neg].

I found so many people who I enjoy the content of through the silly pig man with an honourable nature and silly banter. At first it was simply just Boreal Trio, then it slowly extended to include so many : Eret, Sam, Tubbo, Niki, Fundy, Jack Manifold, Badboyhalo, Quackity, Karl Jacobs, HBomb, Foolish, Slimecicle, Michaelmcchill, Tina, Seapeekay, Aimsey...

Since then I have accomplished so much. I became a Twitch Mod for Eret [still am, they are an amazing person and streamer]. I've written over 700k on A03. I have made lifelong friends. I found my passion for creativity and was able to channel it once more. I found a home and a safe place.

It lead me into following DSMP to the bitter end, same with QSMP and now I mainly hang around Hermitcraft while still indulging my past fixations.

And it always comes back to Technoblade. He was the key to me finding a sanctuary to be myself in this crazy world and provides me comfort to this day, a little bit of his soul living on through each of his friends and every time we tell his stories.

So do this Voice a favour. Keep telling those legends. Speak the tales far and wide about this fantastic man who was gone too soon but fought a fantastic fight. He brought joy and light to everyone, inspiring hundreds of thousands. He is special enough to be remembered by millions, and has helped bring funding to a rare form of cancer after his death.

Technoblade changed the world, both mine and everyone else's.

I miss Technoblade, but he will never die in our hearts.

I just wish I could tell him thank you, just once, for how much he helped and inspired me.

[starstruckwillows]

♡ she's an intellectual - j.f ♡

requested by 🦝<3

jesper fahey x scholar!reader, fluff

nobody can quite believe jesper's dating someone smart

jesper fahey was a gunslinger, a barrel bastard, a criminal, a legend, a grisha, a killer, a gambler, and many other titles he'd collected along the way.

he was also your boyfriend, who sat at the end of your bed like a petulant child that had been scolded, waiting for you to finish up with your work. you were surprised he hadn't started to whine.

"can you finish tomorrow? kaz will have my head if i'm gone for much longer."

you shuffled the papers you were bent over, marked with ketterdam university in the top corner, and answered, "jes, kaz will have your head regardless. you lost the thing already, five more minutes won't seal your fate more than that."

with no valid argument left to stand behind, he grumbled your own words back to you and sighed, shrugging off his coat.

"you're right. i might as well stay."

"sure."

you turned only moments later to see him half undressed and fully in your bed, guns left carefully on the table atop his hat.

such a ridiculous hat, really.

"that was fast."

"that's what she said."

"no."

looking back to your sheets, the ink still drying, you rolled your eyes. there was no more use for the charade, you both could've predicted your next actions with ease. folding away your diagrams, kicking off your boots, and climbing into the blankets with him.

"y'know, inej doesn't believe you're actually a student here."

you laughed, "i'm sure she'd be able to shadow me and find out."

"she's doing this thing where she respects my privacy."

"why doesn't she believe it?"

he paused for a minute, "they think you're too smart for me. scholarly type, barrel rat. not a proper match."

"that's not true. inej said that?"

"nina. they're only teasing, though."

"that's fine. as long as you know that."

he nodded and kissed the top of your head.

you yawned, preparing to shut your eyes and bask in his warmth, but he shifts beneath you and your head slips off his chest.

"jesper..." you groan.

"wait," he stretches above him, pulling something down from your shelf.

he hands you a book, "can you read it to me?"

and there's this hint of rare vulnerability in his voice, where he's not teasing or being offhand. sincerity. trust.

impossible to say no to, really.

"yeah, course i can." you shifted to sit straighter and open the book, while he dipped his head to rest between your neck and shoulder, hand creeping around your waist.

"you gotta explain the fancy words."

"i know, my love."

🏷️ — @anordinarymuse @ell0ra-br3kk3r @kingshitonly

[icycoldninja]

Hey Icy Ninja, how are you, love your head canons and angst story from Devil May Cry... I have a request, feel free to not do it.

I wanted to ask for Dante and fem! Reader daughter, she is Dante's world, he taught her everything fighting demons, royal guard, how to navigate herself in the world, he is her biggest supporter. His daughter is nineteen and got into one of the prestigious colleges studying the history of Demon and Humans (ofc, Sparda will be in legends and as debated once feudal lord of Fortuna).

The angst I want is Dante's reaction to night, the reader coming back home in tears when she was supposed to be miles away in her dorm. Only to find out some jerk played with his precious daughter's heart, just to use her for her body. Ofc, Dante knows this guy, his daughter always told him everything. I want maddening and angry Dante serving.

ABSOLUTELY! BRING ON THE ANGST!

His baby girl (Dante x Daughter!Reader angst)

Dante was so, so proud of his little baby girl. Her whole life, he'd trained her and protected her, and taught her the ways of both demons and humans. He'd cared for her since she was a tiny, little bean-shaped bundle of cuteness, and now that she was all grown up, he couldn't help but feel his heart ache with both pride and a profound sadness that she was leaving home for college.

To be honest, it wasn't all bad because his daughter would be studying Demon and Human history, which meant she'd get a chance to learn all about her dearly departed granddad, whom Dante was sure would have been overjoyed to meet her. Yes, it was sad seeing his baby girl go away, but she was, in a sense, getting to grow closer to her grandfather in a way Dante never got the chance to.

It wasn't like you were cutting all contact with him either, you always called or texted whenever you had time, telling him all about the debates you got into over Sparda's legacy and how you were at the top of your class since you'd gotten a head start so early in life. Dante's chest burned with pride every time he heard from you; each accomplishment you related to him making him all the more impatient for the holidays to come so you could come home and see him again.

He never expected you to suddenly come home in the middle of your semester, red eyed and sobbing as you knocked frantically on the door. Dante didn't waste any time in throwing the door open and pulling you into his arms.

"Hey honey, what's wrong?" He asked, rubbing your back as you cried into his shoulder.

"Daddy...my boyfriend dumped me." You managed to croak out, hanging onto your father's neck with all your strength.

"Your boyfriend?" Dante repeated, trying to recall his name. "G/N? Seriously? That bastard hurt you?"

You were crying so much, you were pretty much incapable of speech, the most you could manage was a feeble nod before you burst into even more tears.

"What'd he do?" Dante asked, scooping you into his arms and cradling you as if you were a toddler again.

"He...he lied to me. He said he loved me but he was just using me for my body...." You couldn't continue anymore, the sadness and pure betrayal in your heart overwhelmed you, and you broke down even further, crying in your papa's arms.

"It's ok, sweetie," Dante assured you, carrying you to the living room and setting you down on the couch, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders soon afterward. "You wait right here and pick a movie or something, OK? Daddy'll be right back and then we can have a movie night, just the two of us."

"Where are you going?" You sniffled, tugging the blankets around your shoulders as you watched the man locate his pistols, Ebony and Ivory, before shoving them into the holsters on his waist.

"Gonna go find that rat bastard who tricked you and make him pay," He replied, disappearing out the door before you could reply.

Dante was gone for the next 3 hours, but when he returned, he came bearing gifts. He had three plastic bags full of your favorite treats and snacks, and had apparently gotten a pizza on his way home.

"I took care of that loser for ya, don'tcha worry," He'd said, chuckling as he sat pulled his still-smoking pistols from their holstersand sat down. You knew you should have felt bad since your dad most likely just committed homicide, but hey, the asshole deserved it.

"Did you pick a movie yet?" Dante asked, pulling a bag of pre-made popcorn and some candy out of the sacks of snacks he'd brought home.

"Nope, can't think of anything," You answered, voice still shaky from all the crying you were doing earlier.

"Alright, I'll pick then," Dante chuckled, tossing a bag of Skittles into your lap. "I'm thinking comedy, yeah?"

"Yeah," You agreed, nestling into your father's shoulder, feeling for a fleeting moment like an innocent little girl again watching princess movies with her daddy.

[arospecsyourblockdudes]

A not complete ranking of Jimmy characters from most to least bastard

1. Sheriff Jimmy. He’s like if Property Police Jimmy had anger management issues and a bigger sense of entitlement. God he’s so annoying, every man on that server wants him badly. Man is straight up corrupt on multiple levels. His only saving grace is how lame he is

2. Evo Jimmy. The Property Police as a whole were unliked and annoying and no one wanted them to be doing their thing. Martyn got points because he is funny but Jimmy was just trying to arrest and or murder people plus I think he tried to collude with the mafia once. It’s been a while since I saw his Evo

3. Codfather Jimmy. Less sense of authority and entitlement and more antagonizing near everyone he speaks to and making every problem he’s in much worse. Like his whole thing with Sausage started because he literally robbed the man and got so pissed off when Sausage wanted repayment. He causes like 80% of his own problems and then gets mad and fussy over it. He’s horrific <3

4. Double Life Jimmy. He’s encouraging panda murder, he’s chosen-soulmatephobic, he’s creating problems, he loves killing and murder, he’s cheering on whatever madness Tango comes up with. What a legend

5. Last Life Jimmy. He didn’t do much wrong but he gets bastard points for stealing a life from Martyn and then having the audacity to be upset that the Southlanders were mad at him

6. 3rd Life Jimmy. Honestly he was a little bastard but mostly he was just tryna stay alive and was stupidly reckless a lot. Rip king

7. Afterlife SMP Jimmy. I honestly don’t remember what he did on that server Not Gonna Lie. I don’t think it was much. Did kill hippie Joel at one point

8. Rat Jimmy. He’s just a rat

9. 100 Days Jimmy. There’s no one else in there for him to be a bastard to. He does devolve into madness a lot there though

[ninadove]

Hey Nina!

I wanted to ask something for the pl pokèmon au!

What legendary pokèmon do you think everyone would have?

I’m thinking Hoopa for either Clive or Descole

Maybe shaymin for Luke? Or maybe that for flora, and we give Luke a Virizion?

Maybe a Megearna for Claire? Terakkion for Hershel?

I wanted another opinion to bounce back ideas with because I’m kinda struggling!

Hi Bee!!! YES THOUGHTS ALL THE THOUGHTS LET’S DISCUSS 💙🩵🧡

So I was looking at the RO/SA Pokédex entries for Hoopa and this stuck out to me:

In its true form, it possess a huge amount of power. Legends of its avarice tell how it once carried off an entire castle to gain the treasure hidden within.

It is said to be able to seize anything it desires with its six rings and six huge arms. With its powers sealed, it is transformed into a much smaller form.

You know who this burning desire and greed make me think of? THAT RAT BASTARD RIGHT THERE:

Which obviously leaves the question of who Descole would get, and most importantly, who CLIVE would get. I am so very unbiased.

So I went down the rabbit hole of “darker” legendaries, and had a few false starts. Such as:

Darkrai: To protect itself, it afflicts those around it with nightmares. However, it means no harm. -> Anton, definitely, which means Sophia gets Cresselia

But eventually got a grip. I really like Terakkion for Hershel, which makes me think Keldeo for Luke, and another member of the Musketeer Trio for Descole — maybe Cobalion?

Magearna is great for Claire and also makes me think of Aurora:

Its mechanized body is merely a vessel. Its true self is its Soul-Heart, an artificial soul.

Dialga for Claire or Dimitri maybe, because time? Shaymin is adorable and a great friend for Flora! 💖

As for Clive… I think I have found the perfect match…

This Pokémon is said to live in a world on the reverse side of ours, where common knowledge is distorted and strange. […] It was banished for its violence [and] silently gazed upon the old world from the Distortion World. […] It appears in an ancient cemetery.

Without further ado… I give you…

[dandelion-jester]

Writblr Intro:

Hello All!!!

I've been meaning to do a proper intro so better late then never!

Who Am I?

You can call me Dandelion. I'm 22 years old, I use they/them pronouns, I'm English and I am a queer, trans, neurodivergent fantasy writer. I've not had anything published yet but it's my aim.

I have a background in theatre and circus so performing arts tend to turn up in my work. I also love making maps and studying conlangs! I do a lot of art and reading as hobbies, but my favourite pass time is playing dnd!

What Do I Write?

I write mainly fantasy, but also scifi and historical fiction. I also dabble in poetry and I would like to learn how to write for games and screen at some point. For now though, it's all novel writing as far as the eye can see.

My favourite trope to write is found family (I blame all the dungeons and dragons I play). I also write a lot of queer characters and try to diversify my casts as much as possible. My work tends to be very character driven although I do love world building a lot, especially building different cultures and places. I'm best st dialogue and really struggle with building plots. I also have a deep love for history, specifically the 1700s and Anglo saxon - medieval Britain, so that's usually finds its way into my work as well.

You can find my work on Patreon here

What Do I Read?

Unsurprisingly, it's mostly fantasy. I used to read over 100 books a year, but university has made me hit a massive reading slump. So the main thing keeping me going right now is Robin Hobb. I also listen to a lot of audiobooks.

My WIPs:

Information on my current work is under the break!!

Feypocalypse

Feypocalypse is a queer, fantasy horror comic set in medieval England following the events of a Fey Apocalypse in the 1300s. It follows a group of knights trying to survive in a world that has been turned into a Fey hunting ground, whilst protecting the Changeling child they accidentally adopted. The current plan is eight issues, to be published on Patreon and then printed as a complete novel at the end! It will be written by myself and illustrated by my amazing co-creator @withlovefromthecrowss.

The Legend of The Rat Bastards (vols. 1 & 2)

Now available to read on my patreon!

I recently finished playing in a Curse of Strahd campaign that lasted about 2 years and was one of the best dnd experiences of my life. So of course, I decided to write it up in novel form so that I and the other players could always return to it. Our paladin was an extremely detailed note taker so I've been borrowing their notes. It's currently the longest piece of writing I’ve ever done and I add to it every day. It's from the pov of my character, a human necromancer called Sepulcrave who has a pretty crazy character arc and it's my current main WIP, even though its a personal project.

Eye of the Falcon King (working title)

A secondary-world medieval fantasy novel about identity, rebellion, and manipulation. In a world where some few people have the ability to shape-shift into birds, the king seeks out these people to be his personal servants, messengers and spies. Turik is a young boy able to turn into a falcon and becomes a member of the King's circle. But after a tragedy befalls his best friend it begins to become apparent that the king is not as benevolent as he seems and Turik must come to terms with the knowledge that his reality is a lie. This book is about breaking free from manipulative forces, the ways invisible disabilities are ignored and pushed aside, and mostly about how the monarchy is terrible. Also queer people because all my stories have queer characters.

Otherlings (working title)

It's 1875 and Eliza Farthing's twin brother Alexander has just reappeared in her life after seven years. Except he's not her twin, he's her changeling. And Eliza isn't always Eliza, sometimes he's Francis. The world's of the two twins - one fey, one queer - are about to become very intertwined against their wishes. The two have to fight against their family, the police, a morally corrupt scientist, inter-community distrust, and their own dislike for each other, or both of them will never regain the lives they so desperately need and desire. Also there's a circus. The book deals with identity, secrecy, hatred, and community. It's a book about found family, about accepting yourself and others, about not needing to be seen to exist and be worth something. Mostly it's about sticking together despite your differences.

So that's my current WIPs! I'll add more as I get them, but that's all for now! Thank you for taking an interest in my work and if you have any questions, don't hesitate to send me an ask :)

Tags I use

#legend of the rat bastards, #eye of the falcon king, #ask dandelion-jester #feypocalypse #otherlings novel

[villainsidechick]

Is the guy you’re crushing on Tarkin from Star Wars? That’s actually awesome 😭

Oh, let me introduce you to the lovely Peter Cushing.

Many know him as rat bastard, Tarkin. (we'll talk about my love for the hot/sexy morally grey or straight up bastard villains later -- and he is one)

Those of us fans of the Hammer horror films and old school Hollywood LOVE this man for his iconic roles such as --

Van Helsing in Dracula (with equally iconic Christopher Lee)

Victor Frankenstein (my beloved) --

One of the best Sherlock Holmes ever on film (suck it Benedryl Cabbagepatch)

Not to mention a massive catalog of films for one actor. He is a sweetheart and angel irl and literally a LEGEND.

[detaia]

ep 3 mentopolis highlights:

- "oh my god. we gotta get Elias to touch his balls!"

- Conrad releasing one of the eagle talons on his guilt

- Anastasia remembering her key is in her freezer from the four F's which is just referencing a different thing

- Conrad's personality shift as a hotshot driver

- the whole thing about M.Bition's speech where at first he frames it like their chance to feel good and flood the city with dopamine and all the good stuff was ruined because of Imelda. but then he says "we don't get to feel good until I say we get to feel good" where its like, oh. in the same way that ambition promises happiness from your success, it also denies you happiness in other areas of your life. you don't let yourself feel good about yourself because you're not meeting your expectations so you feel like you don't deserve it.

- the image of Foot Stuff as a kaiju wading through the fog approaching mentopolis

- Hunch Curio fucking killing it what a scene with the prize fight and the first appearance of the box of doom. plus Dan Fucks committing even more and betting his whole fortune. incredible

- the reveal of SD to be Self Doubt

- the legend of Stacy Fakename grows

- Conrad saying fuck and standing up for himself :))

- the mechanical thing that Brennan did for Dom Nuntz was really cool, I love that Trapp rolled high twice and we get to see the slow progression of Dom's sharp score going up and getting closer and closer, and Trapp spending his moxie to clutch at the last second....hell yeah

- the pressure system is really cool way to up the tension of the table as the stakes get higher in a tangible way that affects gameplay

- Ivana Popov, who is another addition to my list of fav NPCs of which there are MANY

- The Fix confronting the DA and the DA dropping all niceties and being like "how does that help us" in response to The Fix. and also calling fun facts fucking useless. and can I just say. I was so fucking offended on behalf of The Fix. It makes sense for ambition to be dismissive of whimsy and interesting things but still. fuck you. The Fix said your hair looked nice. He said you looked lovely. He's such a sweet guy who the fuck do you think you are you rat bastard fuckhead shithead cunt. M.Bition more like M.Barrassment I would hate to be seen walking down the street next to your joyless dismissive pathetic ass. get outta here. I'll kill you

- Again. So much ball talk.

- Hank discussing how The Fix is still a little on the fence in Adventuring Party and he's not like the rest of the gang which makes sense. Hyperfixation, logic, these are not so much motivations as they are a means to an end. The Fix is the how. Concepts like Conrad or Dan Fucks or Hunch Curio are the why. All this while The Fix has been working in service of M.Bition but it could change. and also I love Hank for choosing to confront the DA even though him personally would 100% not do that. he's acing this roleplay jazz

[ratwavegamehouse]

One of the games available in my Hidden Games Sale (aka the I have no job and I must scream sale) is Forecaster: The Body You Share a fighting adventure game of selves-discovery for 2 or more players using playing cards.

You are an apprentice forecaster. Forecasters are responsible for sparring with weather spirits, protecting your world from natural disasters. You’ve been training for years but to physically interact with weather spirits all apprentices must undergo a journey where they will battle many tests and complete a Graduation Ritual, gifting them their true forecasting power. The ritual involves communing with a nature spirit, sharing with them a true understanding of your one self and letting them join in it. You’ve been training for years but you now have cause to suspect the ritual will fail for you. Because you are not one self. You are more than one.

Fights are played as a trick-taking game between the Front and the Opponent. It's based on an adapted version of the Transgender Deathmatch Legend rules. Cards correspond to individual moves and have trump effects. One addition is that you make a build of trump effects and success in fights can lead to the levelling up and gaining more effects.

You tell the story of a System, four characters sharing one body, and their journey. You draw a trail of cards to determine the scenes of your journey, and the opponent's you encounter in each. In a given scene one player is the Front, the system member currently in control of the body, another player is the Opponent, an external character the system must meet and fight as part of their journey, and other players act as any other system members who are co-conscious in talking scenes. In the fight phase the player who was the Front acts as the whole system, switching between members as determined by the suits if playing cards.

Some things people said about Forecaster:

"Like Jacob wrestling the angel, Forecaster takes us to a violent and sweaty place to figure out who we are, how we fit into the world, and how the world fits in us. But if that sounds like undergrad religious studies boloney, don't worry: Forecaster is also a fast-paced beat-em-up game with evocative tables that ensure everyone will kick ass and look cool doing it. Can't wait to play." - Aaron King, (@aaronsrpgs) - Patchwork World Sixth Edition

"This game presents a compelling narrative and complex fight mechanics clearly and concisely, making it a great option to pick up and play without prep or pre-planning." - Jack Blair (@toyourstations) Space Legs, This Game Will Force You to Stop Procrastinating Your Gender Crisis

"It's a personal subject, written with vulnerability through the easily relatable context of a fighting game. Its thoughtfully made & informative, with examples of play that make it easy to learn." - Gem Room Games (@postdungeon) - High Magic Lowlives, 9 Lives to Valhalla

Personally I think it's neat and heartfelt game built on a fun and innovative fighting system. It's only $3.20 in the sale or you can bundle it with Fear the Taste of Blood, Wild Duelist, The Ballad of the Bastard and the Tinkerer and Save Our Souls for just $40. I'm stilling looking for a new job and money from games can hopefully tide me over until something hopefully comes by but any if this helps.

[arecaceae175]

LU Chain as Cats

Which cat would each Link own?

Please discuss :D

[Image description below cut]

Distinguished Baby - Sky

sweet

respectable

politely request you to turn on the tap so they can have a little drinkie poo

True Baby - Twilight

NEEDS affection

sleeps on your head

would make a very good emotional support animal

Rat Baby - Wind

will do whatever it takes to get attention

zero loyalty

climbs you like a tree

screams at closed doors

True Distinguished - Warriors

handsome

strong opinions about cat food brands

could be elected mayor of a small town

Cat - Four

"yeah this thing just kind of lives in my house, I feed it and stuff, sometimes it lets me pet it"

put a mouse in your shoe once

True Rat - Hyrule

no thoughts, head empty

has stolen an entire chicken

would sell you to satan for one corn chip

Distinguished Bastard - Time

inspires fear

poops on the floor if the litter box isn't pristine

in the evil mastermind's lap while they turn dramatically in a chair

True Bastard - Legend

hates you but tolerates your presence

violence is the answer

would eat your eyeballs if it got hungry enough

(secretly loves you)

Rat Bastard - Wild

"how did you even get there??"

bites you when they want attention

frequently found inside the trashcan eating burrito wrappers

[50cal-fullauto-astarion]

↮ for the sake of having you near [one]

[ part one ] [ part two ] [ part three ]

captain john price x f!veteran!reader (no use of 'y/n') 5.3k words

cw: descriptions of gun violence & gunshot injuries, reader is an amputee & the same age as price, foul language, mentions of terminal cancer, extremely divorced-but-still-in-love behavior from two people that consider one another soulmates(some of these aren't out-and-out cw's, but points that deserve noting) ↮ Twenty years you had known John, and for seventeen of them you were married. After a career-ruining injury in the field, you were forced out of the service, and the marriage did not survive your survival. But: when John goes on leave, he always finds his way home to you. (and a quick shout-out to @alittleposhtoad who's listened to me hoot and holler for days on end about price and the type of man he is, yelling back and forth like banshees circling something beloved lol. thank you posh!)

When John returns from deployment or mission, the world sharpens. Your senses focus. Your blood courses stronger, smoother through your veins. Without even seeing him, you are transmogrified–made stronger, prouder, incendiary–as if proximity to the reckoning that is legend-walking Captain Price makes you whole. 

You roll your eyes. The grandiosity is a bit embarrassing, but he always brought that out in you. Always made you feel like a little girl making doe eyes at the crucified son of god during Christmas service. You’re switching laundry, it’s pissing down rain, and he’s surely parked the Jeep Cherokee he’s had since 2007 right in the center of the driveway, simply to be irritating.

There are keys in the door, and his voice calls out your name the moment he’s stepped through the threshold.

Your hands pause pulling the laundry basket onto your hip before you call back. Despite your chiding, you sensed him before he even made himself known. 

The bitter divorcée says, That’s because you were married to him seventeen years.

The girl that still loves her dearest, oldest friend swats at that thought, a cat soaked in hackles-raising indignation. Shut up, shut up, even the rain falls straighter when he’s home.

“In the back, John.” You force projection into your voice, tranquility, and go to meet him in the foyer. “Shit, would you look at you,” you hum, trying not to stay too terribly amused at the drowned-rat look of your ex-husband. “Long walk from the car to the door?”

He’s a bit blue in the lip, and soaked to the bone under his skullcap and fleece-lined leather bomber. From ten paces, you can tell his fingers are numb plucking at the strings of his boots. But he gives you that raggedy, affable tramp grin of his from under the chops, and raises his brows. Always able to turn on the charm of a boy. 

“Box tortoise in the road,” he chuckles, though it’s marrow-aching with exhaustion. “Had to jump out and help the poor bastard before he got washed out into the creek.”

“Jesus wept, so you were playing around on the bridge.” Admonishment doesn’t live in that statement, only comprehension. Of course, he’d stopped to save a damned tortoise. John loves underdogs. 

You were one of them. You are one of them. 

He looks up and catches your eye, and you’re plagued by the uncanny feeling he’d read your mind and heard that thought. 

You’re too well-trained to show discomfort. Not in the face of him—the man once so inextricably interwoven with you that your hand on his chest was his hand, that his eyes closed as you fell asleep. 

Your prosthetic leg drags a bit as you shift, and you are forced to remember why that no longer holds water. 

“Get your arse in the bath, and I’ll throw something together for you to eat,” you tell him, easy as. If he looks away as your eyes brush across the bruises below his sockets, you do not mention it. It’s something that sits in the soul of him, a stone round the neck, and not so easily fixed with simple respite. “Good deal?”

He drops his elbows on his knees, huffing, shaking his smirking head. Just a small break, a fond one. “Yeah, Prem. Sounds like a good deal.” He looks up at you from the corner of his eye, crow’s feet less delicate in his skin than they had been last you’d seen him, looking like the life you’d missed out on.

+

You were once a woman called Premonition, and it was a moniker that carried and levied a heavy weight. Lieutenant Price was another name you had shed, six years ago, when there was not a dark, disgusting corner of the globe you wouldn’t follow your husband without hesitation. 

You had found each other practically baby-faced, possibly stupid (who at that age does not fall under the phrase young, dumb, and full of cum), when youth allowed wild optimism to think the world could easily be saved once and for all. Reality was quick to beat that notion from both your hides, but never the goal. It absolutely wasn’t harmed by the fact that the two of you had found anchorage in one another—married after only three incredibly brief weeks.

God, your parents and his father had been so upset. Furious. In retrospect, it made sense. But, at the time, weathering the two years it took for them to warm to the sudden marriage was reinforcing—the two of you against the world now a mentality made law, and both were hungry for the conflict it brought. Then two years melted into five, ten, seventeen, and when the end came, your parents mourned.

John lumbers up the stairs–after passing the duffel bag to you when you stick your hand out expectantly–and his steps are heavy, but the stairs are solid. Together, you’d bought this former rectory as a foreclosure. The walls and ceiling were falling in, the wooden floors bloated and warped. Nature creeping in through the cracks. And then, together, you’d rebuilt it, when there was less demand and obligation tied to your combined time.

There was not a stick of timber from the subfloor to the exposed rafters that had not been put there by John’s hands. A carpenter by passion, he’d spent precious months tearing apart and replacing the skeleton of your home, giving it a chance to live another two hundred years. You’d learned to hang drywall, to mud the joints. To replace plumbing, and put down flooring and tile. Little by little, the nigh-on-dead house of worship had risen from its own ashes, and it had come to reflect its owners.

As the divorce finalized, John had intended to find himself a flat–in London, not Somerset–and the clawing-desperate love you still held for him demanded you speak out. 

When you’re home between missions, just come back to the fucking house. You’re a grown man, you ought not be living in a grubby little bachelor’s flat. The indignity of it–absolutely not.

Once you’ve left his duffel in the laundry room, you move to the kitchen pantry. John Price is a man that is not difficult to please. Had you not intimately known the corners of his mind, the utter vastness of that untamed wilderness, you might even venture to call him a simple man. He is anything but, but his pleasures sometimes are.

It became ritual in those early years (when you were both poor as church mice and your salaries poured twin into the rectory) to come off deployments and welcome one another home with soup. Tomato soup, sharp cheddar melted into it, alongside toasties with swiss cheese crisped on the outer side of one slice of bread.

Greasy, heavy, hearty, and warm. Cheap, most importantly back in the early days, and reliable—you remember piling up on the full-sized mattress that sat directly on the floor of the would-be master suite, back in the day, dunking halves of your sandwiches in the same repurposed margarine tub of soup, laughing and talking and leaving behind foreign lands.

The first time he made it for you after the initial separation, you were able to hold it together long enough to eat and thank him and smile, but nearly immediately afterward, you locked yourself in your walk-in closet and cried on the floor for thirty scorching minutes.

In the present, he trots down the stairs in a henley and flannel pajamas, chest hair peeking from his collar. He looks fresh, but exhausted. “I was hoping that was what you were making,” he groans, entering the kitchen, coming around your side to look over your shoulder. “You put–?”

“Cheddar, hot sauce, worcestershire, and garlic in it?” you finish for him, looking at him from under your brow, moving to the next pan over the flipped the toasties. “Aye, John.”

He spreads his hands in mock surrender, a smile pulling at his mouth. He always asks, and you never forget. It’s the way it’s always been–minus his hand not being  on your hip, and his lips not pressing into your shoulder.  

Your stomach clenches, but you don’t let it show. He’d been very careful to stop doing that. It had been his second nature, to touch you whenever he could. It had once been yours, as well. It was hard for both of you to carve it out of your joint muscle memory. The procedure always felt botched, and every time your hands twitched toward one another, you knew it was not going to ever fully heal.

There are just some infections you learn to live around. The pair of you were more one person than you ever were two. 

On opposite sides of the kitchen table–a beautiful piece John had crafted from the rectory’s old, stately doors–you ate in relative silence, the sound system murmuring along with old American country-western songs in the background, rain slapping against the windows bricks of your home. This is where work talk would’ve happened, once upon a time.

Now, silence festers in the grave of it. It’s hard to help yourself through it. 

All it took was one bad call—a microsecond-long error in an AQ safehouse in Beirut—and the complete totality of your life evaporated before your eyes. A scared kid, a human-trafficked baby turned child soldier, with a shotgun in his arms, hiding behind a door. 

It is still bizarre to you, the way your eyes widened, your hand reached for your radio. How your legs were knocked out from under you, and you were deafened. You looked toward the kid–he’d dropped the shotgun, but he still glared–and stupidly, you told him you were here to help, but you just couldn’t stand up. Like one of your knees was gone, because it was.

One of your sergeants shot the kid in the eye. His head slammed back into the wall before his chin met his chest. You were furious and confused and cold. 

“How’re the boys?” you ask, blinking past the medevac, the lost weeks on life support after the difficult amputation, the first time you saw John, so starved of sleep his eyes had turned black. 

John stops eating now, pushing his spoon around his soup, served now in separate bowls that look like plates that look like bowls. “Fine,” is all he can tell you. His shoulders go tight, and a flintiness briefly flashes in his eyes, before it melts into nonexistence. 

The most you could get out of him anymore was to ask if his boys were okay. He’d give a gruff, reluctant yeah, and offer no more than that. You dread the day that question is met with silence. 

“How’s Simon?” you push, suddenly sharp in the mouth, wanting to draw a drop of blood, to needle him until the pain sends fireworks through his pain receptors. Nothing can get to him like name-dropping his first lost boy.

Christ took on apostles the way John takes on war-makers.Even yourself, a Mary Magdalene now stricken from the record without remorse to sate the demands of the beast’s nature. Endless is his grace, his ability to build trust, and his dogmatic perseverance. 

But, in his line of work, that begs the question: if the apostles were meant to serve Christ and spread his word, and a war-maker is willing to fight, kill, and die for Captain John Price, does that–in this hypothetical, mirror-flipped simile–mean that where Christ died to wipe the slate clean, John must live on long past his followers?

You’ve never liked the roads that question leads your mind down. The answers are unkind, but not unlikely.

He drops his spoon with a clatter against his bowl, giving you a hard look, a rictus smile sitting under subzero eyes. It’s a warning. It’s the Captain, teeth bared. The Lieutenant rises in you, the one person unafraid enough to grab his collar and heel him, and you lean forward, meeting his look.

Locked in a stalemate, neither of you budge. He had to stop talking shop after your discharge. It was the nature of the beast. 

You knew it, he knew you knew it. The fucking world was at stake, and no matter how intimately you were acquainted with Captain Price’s history being the lover to shadows, secrecy, and sacrifice–no matter how much blood, sweat, and tears you poured into his neverending crusade–you were removed from the life. It was no longer yours to know. Big red classified stamps across his brain. 

Duty before death, death before dishonor.

Your dinner ends in tense silence and skyrocketed blood pressure, your eyes strangers to one another. Alone and Forsaken by old Hank curls through your kitchen. 

An act of contrition, John takes your dishes to the sink and washes them before stepping out on the covered patio to light a cigar. You check his laundry, and start the walk to lock up and turn the lights down.

Alone and forsaken by fate and by man. Oh Lord, if you hear me, please hold to my hand.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you snap under your breath, punching the sound system off, before blacking the kitchen lights. For a moment, you stand in darkness, your heart pounding, anger coursing through your veins. Then you go to your bed, leaving John a silhouette and an ember, watching a dark storm from across the garden.

+

The guest bedroom Price has not quite come to call his own, lacking the nerve and comfort to do so, was originally meant to be a child’s. 

The rectory was full of empty rooms and outbuildings, and it turned into a game trying to figure out what to do with them. Those were good times–keeping you tangled up with him in bed, leaving love bites across your shoulders and breasts, throwing proposals back and forth. Some practical, some ridiculous.

Some kind of study–a cigar room (“If you think I’m going to smoke indoors after all the sheetrock work you did.”). Home gym–stripper pole gymnasium (“I can see you up there already, John, putting on shows for me.”). 

It had come down to a simple matter of maths. “Three rooms,” you’d started, sucking and kissing hickeys into the skin above his collarbones, “three kids.”

“Three? Sounds like a lot.”

“Three’s a lucky number. Holy, even. Whole world is built around three’s.”

“Death’s come in three’s. Doesn’t sound all that lucky.”

“That’s only because sex and death sell, media doesn’t cover good things happening. They come in three’s, too.”

He’d bowed his head, sliding back into your sopping wet cunt, and found your mouth. “Three rooms, three kids. Alright. Glad we got that sorted,” he’d purred, basking in your knowing look and pleasured sounds.

You had a way of feeling the future before it happened, but somehow the wreckage of what was to come between the two of you had missed you completely. John thought it was some sort of glitch in the matrix. Maybe you weren’t supposed to lose your leg, get knocked out of the service and the only life either of you’d ever known.

Then again, maybe you were supposed to die in Beirut, and he’s lucky he has you at all, no matter the size of the bitter gulf between you. 

He tosses and turns in what had ended up a guest bedroom, since there were no Price children running around, requiring housing. Insomnia eats at him with a particular frenzy, a measure sharper than it does normally. It didn’t do him any favors to imagine the little furniture he’d wanted to build for this room, or to turn around the imagining of you playing with a fat infant on a soft-colored rug in this room in his mind.

There was a plan, once. Beat endlessly and ferociously against a faceless onslaught of evil—let the people who walk among the light lie ignorant as your united work bloodied the unknown dark—until your bodies could no longer keep up, old and fat and slow. 

At that point retirement was to go into effect, followed by a moneyed slide through Europe, and Asia, and wherever else caught your fancies. Then the purchase of a small place in the countryside—hell, maybe something little and manageable on the Isle of Wight—where, together, you’d warmly and laughingly succumb to alcoholism. See if cirrhosis, alcohol poisoning, or lung cancer got which one of you first. 

But time kept advancing, never heeding those little, pastoral plans. You lost everything, assimilation to civilian life abrasive and painful. John was pulled into the dark, lived under and in it and through it. Made deals with plenty of different devils.

There was suffering and silence. 

The marriage was a casualty. The kill was confirmed between your dour lawyers in a dull office, while he was out of country. And that was it. Seventeen years, close the tab. 

He pushes himself out of bed, intent on moving, doing something. Maybe fetching a drink, maybe go out to your sculpting shed, see if the Glock 19 hidden under the desk is still in shape. It will be—but he wants something easy to fuss over.

An easy thing to fuss over is not what he gets when he sees blue light from under the crack of the master suite’s door. Telly’s on. He can clearly hear Anne Robinson presenting The Weakest Link, and his shoulders unlock. Didn’t know you still slapped that on when you couldn’t sleep. It used to be a game, prattling out the answers while the contestants flubbed about. 

He heads downstairs to fetch two heavy-bottomed tumblers, glugging two fingers of scotch each–Glenmorangie. Decent sipping scotch, room temp, but a bit too sweet for his taste. 

Upstairs, he raps on the door with two knuckles, and waits until you call on him. He’d always knocked, but nowadays, there are more upsetting states to find you in than indecent. “Hey,” he starts, gesturing with the glasses he holds in the fingers of one hand. “Saw light under your door, couldn’t sleep either. Fancy a nightcap?”

Christ, though, but aren’t you as stunning as the day he met you. Maybe even more. Age had allowed you to grow into your bone structure–put an elegance in your features, a wisdom in your eyes. Your beauty had only settled into you more deeply, or his foolish heart had only grown to embrace and envelope the vines his love for you had wound about his heart.

“Yeah, alright,” you mutter, voice crackly with exhaustion, beckoning him over with an ambivalent motion of the hand. He rounds to your side of the bed–the side you’d slept on from the very first night you’d snuck into his barracks room and shimmied under his blankets, a thief in the night with a wicked grin–and holds out a glass, never letting his eyes stray to your prosthetic and glove propped against the far side of your nightstand. 

After a sip, you look up, brows raised in question, and he shrugs, “The Nectar d’Or called out to me.”

“I’m sure.” It’s skeptical, but a smile pulls at your mouth. It must’ve pleased you, because you roll onto your hip, and turn the blankets on his side of the king sized mattress. “Sleepover?”

“Mindreader,” he hums, obliging as casually as he can. He knows you will not touch in the night, and that a barricade of pillows will be erected betwixt your bodies like sandbags on the beach at Normandy, but to even hear your breathing as he closes his eyes is a gift.

“So I’ve been accused,” you laugh, a little warmer, eyes lidded comfortably, watching him sink down against the unbearably welcoming, cool mattress. Premonition. Future feeler. Hell of a woman. In a world numbering eight billion lives, he’d never come into contact with another such as you.

He settles back against the down pillows, grunting at his stiff back, but settles, training his eyes on the screen and the overdone BBC production. Anne poses the question, formatted on the bottom of the screen, “What war-time song by Vera Lynn included the words 'Don't know where, don't know when…?’”

“It’s obvious: ‘We’ll Meet Again,’” you sigh into your glass, the same moment John rolls his eyes and says, “‘We’ll Meet Again,’ even an idiot would know that.”

And if his eyes stray toward yours–and if your eyes catch his from the corner–neither of you remark upon it. Though you do remark upon the poor contestant answering, “‘We’ll Come Again!’” with all the audacious certainty of a homegrown fool.

“Oh, shut the fuck up.” – “So proud, and what the fuck for?” your voices blend together. 

+

September, 2005. Between John, you, and the rectory, there is no money. Not when the roof desperately needs replacing, not when there is a hole in the master ensuite’s floor that goes straight down into the dining room. John has a mind for making the most of money—your mom would call him a cook: a man that turns shit into food like miracles of fish and bread, versus a wizard, who is an idiot that turns food into shit before it even hits your lips. 

His dad was a carpenter, as well, and framing was his trade. He made very little, but tried very hard for John. So he could live a happy life, become an upstanding man. 

(He misses the old bastard. He’d thought the world of you. And, fuck. John’s throat cinches tight every time he thinks about you demanding Price the elder move into the rectory two years ago, after the cancer diagnosis. You’d taken care of him, seen him off quietly and comfortably. John wouldn’t’ve gotten to see him nearly as much as he did through the process, were it not for your perfunctory decision that his father not die in a care home.)

(Abso-fucking-lutely not. John, I want Terry here. Have you ever been in one of the homes? They all look like ghosts, just sitting in the halls, having fuck all done for them. I can have a room ready for him in a day.)

(I promise, honey, I know you’re trying. Let me help.)

(The pet name was a rare slip for you, but he was drunk and near to sobbing, broken with weakness and helpless mourning.)

At twenty-five, dead-broke, married four years, and almost two years past selection, he takes you shopping at Tesco. Meeting you at the back of the red Honda CRX your parents had handed down to you years ago, his big hand finds yours like music box notes—perfectly played and memorized for as long as the mechanism still turns. He starts dropping ingredients for your mental list. 

“Angel hair pasta, olive oil—we have garlic at the house, right? Parmesan—“

He snaps his hand back the moment you snap yours, and you both blink. 

It’s not September, 2005. It’s not a crisp afternoon, it’s right off a downpour. He’s not twenty-five, he’s forty-two, and so are you. The CRX is long gone to the scrap yard, in its place is the Cherokee, well loved, well maintained. 

Swears to Christ that you must be made of Agent Orange, because his fingertips suffer a fire that doesn’t burn from brushing yours. Had it always felt that way to touch you? He’s unsure. There was always something–always fire–but. He thinks of liquor and tolerance levels; thresholds lower after periods of abstinence, causing the latent reunion to make the impact that much more profound.

You both stuff your hands in your pockets. You retake your composure quickly, glancing over your shoulder at the signage on the front of the building. “Ah, hell, then. I didn’t want to go to Waitrose, anyway,” you say with a smirk, shaking the eerie spirit-walk of arrival here by rut-worn memory, absolving John’s empty head. “What else did we need?”

“Crushed red pepper, but I think there’re three or four unopened ones in the pantry,” he snorts, sliding into his unflappable default by force. 

Pasta aglio e olio. Dinner for povos wanting to feel fancy. A staple meal, in those early days, easy to return to. Comforting.

He doesn’t dare allow his hands out of his pockets until he is pushing a trolley, dutifully following you down the aisles. Incredible, how easy it is to fall into well-worn patterns. He wonders, usually when he least wants to, if the two of you are doing yourselves disservices by remaining so close to one another. If certain behaviors have only had a tourniquet put around them, but were never cut off completely the way they should’ve been.

Should one of you move on? You certainly could. At any time you wanted to, really. You’ve always been stunning, whip-smart, and ready-loaded with any number of retorts, quips, and sarcastic commentaries up your sleeve. There is not a single room you step into where you can’t strike up a conversation and leave with a new lifelong ally in your back pocket. The world is your oyster, you’d have your pick of pearls. 

But, for him?  There’s a bruise-soft spot in himself that knows you were his one-and-done. He will never have another love, great or small. 

Beyond that, there lies no rest for the wicked, and John’s hands are tied with very wicked work.

Small bead of resentment that he hates and tries to kill wells up in him at that, following you through produce. He says, “Should get tea while we’re here, it’s low at the house,” but he fights against thinking of weight and loss. Fights against thinking of anger, mourning, instability.

“Ah, shit, ta,” you say, pointing his way in acknowledgement and thanks. If he can crush it—while he carries on chatting, watching you grab things, wanting to pull you in and kiss the pit of your elbow like he used to as you squint a what the fuck look at the price of plums—he will rend into harmless powder the thought that if you had just cleared the room, if you had not always breached first, then life would’ve been completely different. 

He wouldn’t have lost his partner, his other half, the load bearing wall that kept the world and all of its horrendous, heavy sin from crushing down—he wouldn’t find himself so stupidly angry over things no one could control or explain, because you would still be there, the two of you pulling apart and gutting the time bombs threatening the world before they blew and gorged on innocent blood—he wouldn’t—

All at once, he snaps out of it, cold with guilt on the back of his neck like illness. But he says without missing a beat, “No, I don’t think anything will make progress come the next referendum. It’ll probably be more faffin’ about, watching the PM wank off on BBC.”

Your shoulders tense, nodding. He catches you looking at him from the corner of your eye, and he wonders, brief and tight, if you’d read his intrusive, untrue thoughts. If you did or did not, you say, “Honestly, that’s probably it. We’ll end up paying for more parties, meanwhile the NHS is having the piss taken.”

“That’s for fuckin’ certain,” he grunts in agreement. He’s scraped hollow, now that the nonsense has passed. Stone solid, no one on the outside would know. Feels like rot that those ideas would even dare crawl into the far sides of his mind. He doesn’t truly think them. He feels guilt, not bitterness. Sorrow, untouched by rage. All of it he keeps to himself. 

There’s a bit of an unheated, bantering tiff on the quality of Tesco’s fresh pasta—whether or not it’s just pure shit or if it falls into the shadow of public health hazard—and things continue smoothly. John can’t help stealing glances at you, tucking them away like snapshots. 

The dancer’s shape of your hips in movement as you effortlessly find your footing, eyes locked on your target. Your deliriously capable and steady hands, mid-reach. The moon-slivers of your teeth beneath your lips as you speak softly, just for him. You treat him like you’re the only two in the audience, and the world was a show made for whispered commentary between you two. 

You always had. John relishes the fact that, even now, still, he is the only other soul in your opera box. 

Unfortunately, there’ve been groundlings that attempt looks. 

John isn’t enraptured in the label of canned haggis he’s stumbled across, discarded in the produce stand holding grapes, but he’s clicked-in and curious if it was just…brought in from the outside and abandoned? And, shit, these ingredients. Carboxymethylcellulose sounds like readymade cancer, even if it’s just a preservative. Tocopherols sound like doing whippets off a can of hairspray. 

Sounds like something Johnny would try once, honestly, if only to see if he could light his belches on fire. Tactical. Something to think about. 

“Thanks much, but I’m set, I do believe,” you say, sort of lightly, like you’re not paying attention on purpose, and it registers in John’s hindbrain. An old scratch, deep-set. 

A different voice, young and plucky, “Well, if you change your mind, I know it can be kind of tricky. They’re a strange fruit, yeah?”

“Billie Holiday fan, then? Wouldn’t expect it from a kid your age.” Your tone is dubious. For good reason, ‘Strange Fruit’ is hardly the song one should choose to, what? Reference for feeling up produce? John rolls his eyes, turning the canned haggis over looking for an expiry date.

“Hah, maybe not, but I’m hardly a kid, swear it. My mum even lets me out past eleven,” the kid jokes, and there it is. The tone–flirtation, a leaning-in–puts John into an old gear, forcing the can back in the grapes, back straightening, turning on his hip to next turn on his heel, with a raised-brow expression worn on his face that is friendly and questioning, but the query posed is do you really want to be fucking hitting on my wife.

The moment he catches sight of you and your closed off body language, holding an avocado, as a skinny, little twenty-something boy in a grocer’s apron flirts with you, he’s washed over in cold. It ripples straight down his back, sourly bunching his skin. He has to push out a breath to get relief from it. 

“Good for you. Hopefully that means you’re doin’ your own laundry and paying your bills, too, then?” you ask, a pointed and unsaid challenge to back down. Uninterested. 

You’re not his wife. He can’t put on that friendly-not-friendly smile and come to stand next to you, watch the advances wither and die in the face of him as you keep a keen smirk under wraps. 

You return to him though, sans avocados, and search his face. “Alright, John?” you ask, stepping close to his end of the trolley. Over your shoulder, the kid sees John, his eyes widening, and he snaps his eyes to the farthest wall, scurrying back into the produce stockroom.

“Found a can of haggis in the grapes,” he half-lies, “gave me the creeps.”

Your face scrunches, but he can tell you don’t buy it completely. “Fuckin’ disgustin’, did someone bring it in from outside? Do you think they just left it there?”

That, however, is enough to get him to snort. Figures. He doesn’t know if it was the twenty years together, or maybe something frillier–more leaning in to the idea of higher power that he doesn’t believe in or a thread of fate he’s spent his life fighting against–but John can’t be convinced that the two of you were anything but soulmates. Too closely woven-together in thought and action to be anything but split from the same original body you were both denied.

He shrugs. “Who the fuck knows. Can’t tell what the freaks out there are thinking, what their awful little plans are.”

You laugh, raising a brow with a smile pulling at your mouth, and he thinks with a measure of soft sorrow, yeah, soulmates, I reckon.

[alexistalkingsstuff]

Everybody Wants To Rule The World- Tears for fears.

Today I will be relating this song to six of crows.

"Most for freedom" - this part being about Inej because she wants to have freedom more than anything. Matthias because during soc he just basically wants to get the fuck out of there and be a Druskelle again (obviously his motives change throughout the books) Wylan who wants to run away from his father. Nina to 1. Break Matthias out of hellgate. 2. To go back to Ravka. Jesper to be free of debt and guilt.

"And of pleasure." Kaz is a money whore.

"Nothing ever lasts forever," - chapter 40. They were all supposed to make it. But as much as they all wanted to believe they are not invincible.

" Everybody wants to rule the world." - In Ketterdam a lot of the time people's main motivation is power. Jan Van Eck wants to maintain his wealthy lifestyle while using a drug that basically kills Grisha and is almost like torture but he doesn't give a fuck about the people he hurts because he wants to be richer and why would he care about people's lives when the cause of their death, jurda parem, is mostly benefiting him. Pekka Rollins wanting to be the boss of the barrel even if that means preying on innocent children and their naivety.

"There's a room where the light won't find you,

Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down,"- This part being about how loyal the crows are to each other and how they each find love within this group both types too. They find platonic love with the fact they all have a strong bond. They also find romantic love within their pairings. (Kanej, Helnik and Wesper.) This part could also be about the ending in which Kaz and Inej hold hands without armour and the "walls tumbling down" are the walls Kaz has put up to protect not only himself but Inej too. But he ends up breaking down those walls just for her as she holds his hand through it. (Literally and metaphorically.)

"When they do I'll be right behind you," -Again the loyalty within the group.

"So glad we've almost made it," - They didn't all make it however the ones who did are glad they did so they can experience life past this point.

"So sad they had to fade it,"- This might be just me but I feel like the crows won't be known as legends like Alina Starkov. Of course Inej will be known for her work of hunting slavers and being the total badass she is. And Wylan known for being a member of the merchant council. Jesper is reading assistant and partner and helping run the Van Eck business. Nina as a Grisha soldier (I haven't finished reading RoW yet so I don't fully know Nina's ending yet). Kaz of course is famous as dirtyhands and bastard of the barrel running a criminal empire. And Matthias will sadly be known as a traitor to the Druskelle. But they won't be known as "The Crows" the ones who broke into the ice court at least not by the public. And the fact that they were criminals and also a lot of them were considered "barrel rats" probably doesn't help because history is always written by powerful people and they would be able to twist the story however they like. Idk this might just be by personal opinion on the legacy of the crows.