#like mostly as a bit but it's still emphatically out there

[ruby-red-inky-blue]

random notes on naddpod c1 ep 1-45

shared here in lieu of chewing my very indifferent friends' ears off irl. For whom it may concern. also why do i keep thinking i could keep these to a single post. this campaign has a hundred episodes.

spoiler warning! you will get no context but still

Scoutmaster Denny *murdered* me. The voice, the whole deal. I started this podcast on a trainride and fully lost it over Denny in public

“Let’s cast waterwalking on the boat!” “…Emily, that’s just a boat.”

Hardwon on the dumb mating call idea: "can't we just break a bunch of sticks or something? why do we have to make it horny?" and Murph losing the fucking plot in the background

DM lightly threatens player’s pet, endangers his marriage, more at 10

JONAH

“The animals are going batshit. Even the bats.”

legit every time they describe someone and then land on "they're just hot" almost nothing they describe works for me, it's kind of hilarious

also a truly staggering percentage of the NPCs are naked

Moonshine is saved by an almost literal Deus Ex Machina as Pawpaw descends from the Heavens carried by a very helpful centaur

-

The reaction to the last remaining dude attacking Beverly in the Ezry lab cracked me up. “We’re trying to watch a cutscene! Read the room!”

-

whenever Emily shows the slightest hint of disappointment or frustration the world will immediately alter just a little to make her feel better (like retroactively making the stairs unsafe because Emily saved a whole spell slot to climb the wall of the tower). This is the cutest shit and also it took them TWELVE episodes to call Murph out on it

(I'm much further into the podcast now and i can't believe none of them have tried to weaponise this blatant weakness even once)

-

A BROOMBA is sweeping the floor

nothing is better than Murph doing Pawpaw but his fucked-up sounding seagull is a close second. Truly capturing the personality of those damn bastards, the man is the king of the garbage critters

Emily feels SO guilty about sending this dumb bird to die

Coming into this with the only prior experience of DnD being Brennan and Aabria is kind of wild. Like D20 campaigns you'll get the big philosphical speeches for the emotional beats and here's Murph with an equally heartfelt "Life just sucks ass, you know?"

Hardwon finding out about his parents is SUCH a good scene

“Are they bioluminescent?” “No.” “Can they be?” “Yeah, okay.” (16/17)

“Get out of town!” “I can’t, I’m a mushroom. I just stay here.”

Emily: “Oh, scrying means spying!” “It doesn’t, but-“ Murph, .2 seconds within Emily getting ‘um actually’-ied on dnd: “It does in this game, wiseass.”

Ol' Cobb’s big day!

When Hardwon goes down and the whole table has to watch Murph fight this intense squirmish against himself. Just a guy rolling dice and talking to himself. God that’s so funny (19/20)

Bev’s big day! Also Bev’s first kiss! (19-20)

-

they’re really going all out for Ol' Cobb. Now he has a tragic lovestory too! (21)

“The High Elves believe that they were banished because they were cousins who wanted to get married. The Crick Elves believe they were third cousins at most. The truth is somewhere in-between.” “Second cousins?” “They were second cousins.”

Not to be cheesy on main but the Crick is such a love letter. Like it’s so obvious how much care and heart went into this almagation of all the silly asides Emily has thrown out

I have one (1) American irl friend and they're from a smalltown in North Carolina so all I'm hearing is people approximating my friend's accent with varying consistency and success

the Crick sounds like paradise and my worst nightmare, simultaneously

having Pawpaw's mother speak and also speak in the most matter-of-fact serious tone (22) is the funniest thing to ever happen. truly inspired.

Hardwon swears fealty to a middle-aged possum? what is happening

Jake v Murph’s ice ban is priceless (23) - “I caught Jake downstairs shovelling ice into his drink out of a bucket with a scoop - you had a scoop! - and he tried to cover it up and hide it!” “It was a joke!” “It sounds like you got caught though! Can you get caught making a joke?” #lifttheiceban

“I’m sure people will get the expedited version of the puzzle solving section-“ “No, give them the nine-hour cut, with just a full hour of us screaming at Murph begging for the answer.” “Join us for our new podcast, Puzzle Dullards.” (23)

Increasingly chaotic openings: “I am furious and I am also Brian Murphy” “If you edit out all my binks, I swear to Melora I’ll… I’m gonna pants you in your sleep!” (24)

Moonshine describing marble as “polite rock”

Emily attempts some straight up gaslighting: “Can I summon Illuminate Mystery?” “…that’s not… that’s not a real spell, you jerk.”

“Murph, if you kill Meemaw regardless of what happens in the fog just because it’s narratively interesting, I will sleep on the couch. For months.” “If Murph sleeps on the couch, is that a Murphy bed?” “No, I’ll sleep on the couch.” “Okay, if Meemaw dies, Emily will be punishing herself.” (25)

Not Murph giving Moonshine crickrot only to be audibly distressed when Emily is sad about it (26)

And then channeling this distress through her fictional pet possum

Pawpaw really is the funniest self-insert character of all time

“Balnor, are you from WWI?” I adore this theory and wish it were canon. But also he talked about fridges a bunch so probably not?

Okay but in all seriousness the whole Marabelle arc is SO GOOD

And Hardwon’s earnest devotion to Mawmaw is actually oddly touching ngl

-

Murph as the voice of Hardwon’s drug addiction is *devious* (30)

That NPC casino employee making zero efforts at the pirate lingo

Siobhan’s character trying to talk to Pawpaw!! Pawpaw being described as Moonshine’s accountant!!

Literally my reaction whenever pawpaw makes an appearance:

Moonshine backing out of that threesome and opting back in like five times and also roping Balnor into it is GOLD

Genuinely the strategy to fake an immediate orgasm and sprint out in embarrassment is actually probably not the worst way to get out of a foursome? Maybe?

"And Siobhan Thompson as Apple Scrumper." "MVP! MVP! MVP!" "Yeah, Apple is the only one conscious right now." "Right now, MVP stands for Most Vertical Person."

Murph treating his Jersey accent like a full-on speech impediment

"Why are you writing that down? I haven't given you guys anything!" "This is Caldwell, out of character, trying to be helpful!" "No, this is Caldwell, out of character, wanting that money for Bev!"

(in)voluntary horse murder

Emily's thornwhip move!! her MIND

-

"So do we go and look for him or do I just cast Skywrite and make the clouds say something threatening to him?" "You're going to threaten him with clouds? Okay."

"LIAR! LIAR BOY! YOU'RE NOT A REAL GREEN TEEN!" "I would never lie! It's true! The stratosphere wouldn't allow for it, I'm sorry!"

Murph making a huge deal about how it would be impossible to see skywriting at night when the way bigger issue is that Moonshine is illiterate. They keep forgetting that and it's funny every time

Moonshine firmly believing that Pawpaw knows how to write and him just writing "MO" every time is my absolute favourite bit I hope it never ends

"Wait a minute, you're in the middle of a swamp and you summoned a big, beefy horse?" "Horses can swim! Horses can swim!" "We've all seen Neverending Story, okay?" [crowd boos] "I will kill your horse! I dare you to boo me!" "Don't boo, he thrives off of it..."

Murph is channeling so much rage at something workout related here. who hurt you

"You all killed my family! My friends!" "You also did that." "You might have killed more of them than we did." "Truly all I did was hold a door shut." This is vicious I forgot how off the walls fucked up the whole Josh thing was

"Shit now I gotta do math in front of people."

Caldwell's silly little poems are actually so fucking impressive tho

"What's the damage on that?" "Rolling still." that is SO ominous

-

Spent this entire fight thinking the Watchman was throwing I beams at the BOB. Deeply confused when Murph said his players would get mad at him if he didn’t count those as spells. They meant “eye beams” as in laser beams from his eyes, and bottom line is English sucks because you can’t communicate anything clearly

-

“Murph, you’re living it up in this city.” “Yeah, you’ve invented a city full of anti-goof robots.” “The anti-goof police is out in full force.”

Murph setting up a super high-stakes social environment where the cast cannot pull their usual shenanigans and then deciding this will also be the arc where all the NPCs relentlessly flirt at Moonshine is honestly hilarious

holy shit no punches are being pulled in first half of the Frostwind arc. yeesh

Their massively lame "Headgum does Red Wedding" bit

Emily's Melora bits finally went too far: "Oh, Melora is masturbating in the corner!" "... Jesus." "Eww! That's the worst one!" "That is some Blumhouse shit, Emily!"

I think this podcast is the first time I've ever heard the word “brazier” actually pronounced out loud, and I hate it! please stop saying it

Murph taking the occasional run up at the fourth wall to go 'hey this is pretty good! who wrote this' always amuses me. i get it, if I could do that with my own writing i would

the 'one big bed' bit warms my heart. They keep trying to make it weird but honestly i still mostly come away missing big sleepovers

"I'm not afraid of the elements! The nature of mushrooms is sort of -" "Moonshine... mushrooms don't grow here." *Moonshine's life flashes before her eyes*

I know Balnor just confirmed he was around post early 80s because he quoted ESB, but the way he reacted to that whole gnarly giant murder and disembowelment is *really* giving WWI vibes

Starting to suspect Murph also just learned how to pronounce brazier. There seem to be a weird amount of them around, nobody has a campfire or an oven or a hearth or a fireplace…

The life and times of Ram Daniel

“I can’t tell you what a bad place this was to do a blood ritual.” Oh what a good and reassuring thing to hear from your DM

Murph starting to rate their little intros and immediately getting "bullied" into changing Emily's grade to an A (43)

“I sing a quick Gashlight Anthem”

Emily rolling for her dream and dreaming about Pawpaw dissolving, “that’s a one roll you monster!”

Murph stop making fantasy meth sound fun challenge

This party being fifty percent functionally illiterate is somehow still funny

-

"Bev crit on finding Werther's one time, and then failed a check to see cannons coming at his house, and his mom, his boyfriend and his grandma almost died."

"Everyone is hot, everyone is horny, welcome to NADDPod" well at least he admits it

[madigoround]

🙃

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 6 all chapters

TRIGGER WARNINGS - I'm so bad at these, feels kinda redundant in a yandere fic, BUT this chapter mentions violence against women, NOT between u & john.

-It's not two days later that a teenage girl goes missing. The town rises up in a tizzy. Everyone volunteers in search parties in the woods. But deep down, you know they should be looking for a beat-up Dodge van. You tell the police, and they take it down, though you doubt they're taking you seriously. The tip lines always go crazy when something like this happens. They’ll have mountains of information to comb through.

The very next day she appears at the police station, bruised, traumatized, but miraculously alive. A burned-out Dodge van is found later in the woods on the other side of town. The girl can't remember much about how she got free, just that someone saved her. She didn't get a good look at him. It all happened so fast.

The next day, Mr. Wick comes into the coffee house with a nasty scrape on his cheek. His eyes have a hard glint to them, sharp as obsidian. 

Somehow, you just know. 

On your break you slowly lower yourself into the seat across from him. 

He doesn't look up at you. 

“What happened to your face?” you ask quietly. 

“Tree branch.”

He's probably telling the truth, but you know there's more to it. You're not sure what you want to ask. You don't want to out him. You wouldn’t have evidence even if you did. You're glad someone was able to find that poor girl, and whatever happened to those men...good riddance.

You realize you are just sitting there staring at him with your lips parted when finally he lifts his eyes to you. 

You feel utterly pinned by his piercing gaze, and your question about the van and what happened to the guys in it dies on your lips. Even you know it would be stupid to mention it, here. Somehow, you’re still brave enough to ask a different question burning in your mind.

“Before you retired... were you a cop?” 

He snorts a little at that. 

“Hardly.” 

You nod, mostly to yourself. With a house like the one he lives in? Of course he wasn’t.

“Ok.”

You realize, you don’t really want to think on it too hard. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

You stand to go, but he touches your hand, ever so lightly. Still, it’s enough to make you freeze in your tracks. If you had any sense, it would be out of fear.

When it comes to Mr. Wick though, you’re afraid you have no sense.

 “Y/n?”

“Yeah?”

“Are we good?”

“Yes.”

You answer emphatically and you mean what you say. You listen to the news and probably to too many true crime podcasts, but it’s still easy to forget sometimes in your little town that the world's a big bad place. You're glad there's someone who can balance it out a little bit in the right direction, even if that someone has to go a little bit outside the law. You squeeze his hand, and it seems like that's enough assurance for him.

He goes back to his book, and you go back to work.

Later, you bring him a pastry, the coffee cake you’ve noticed he likes on occasion.

“What’s this for?”

You don’t know why you find the suspicion in his tone endearing.

“For taking care of us,” you answer. It’s hard not to fancy Clear Forks has gained its very own avenging angel in black. Whether he came from Up Above or Down Below doesn’t matter to that girl, and you find, it doesn’t matter to you.

[caligvlasaqvarivm]

Hello resident Eridan expert! 0u0 I was wondering if you thought he might get on well with Aradia? Thank you for your time!

Actually yes! In moderate doses. After Eridan's character development. The list I like to keep of his platonic friends, from most to least close to him, is like.

Nepeta -> Dirk -> Feferi -> Vriska -> Aradia -> Other

So I already talked about how he and Nepeta seem like they'd actually make for really good friends - the Heart player who can't help but see the good in him, and Eridan liking nice people and the fact that the two of them have a lot in common. I've also made mention before about how I think he and Dirk would have an extremely lethargic, almost transactional bro-ship where they sometimes beat each other to death. A completely neutral friendship, where they do not make each other better OR worse, they just help each other take the edge off the Prince Ennui. Using extreme violence.

He and Feferi are also not so different, and, honestly, they're childhood friends. She's pretty fond of him, and he's TOO fond of her, but after his character development and he fully gets over her, I think they'd be perfectly decent friends. He and Vriska have much the same deal, but I think their personalities mesh slightly worse than his and Feferi's.

If you're wondering why Kanaya isn't on this list, it's because she hates his dumb ass and always has. I think Eridan thinks he's really good friends with Kanaya. Kanaya has literally never respected Eridan even a little bit. Same with Rose. It's really funny.

So Aradia is kind of the last person out of the characters that I think I'd emphatically call "Eridan's Friend." Everyone covered in "other" tends to be people who are everybody's friend (like John) or basically tolerant of his behavior in small doses (like Dave).

With Aradia specifically, there's a few factors to consider; first of all, she has a pretty negative view of highbloods in general, calling them "hateful sn0bs" at one point. She's a lot more tolerant as the stewardess of the afterlife, because Alternia's gone and everyone else is dead, but I think it should still stand that she'd be sensitive to anti-casteist sentiment, since casteism colored so much of her life back when she was, y'know, alive.

But the reason I think they'd work as friends is because Aradia has a bluntness and straightforwardness about her that happens to mesh well with Eridan's suite of issues. He's actually fairly easy to manage if you're fully honest with him and set and maintain very clear boundaries, because he doesn't catch social cues, but also doesn't really see naked hostility, bluntness, or aggression as bad things.

And Aradia can be viciously sarcastic, but her natural tendency is to be very blunt and honest and call things the way she sees them. This means that if she's ever too annoyed by Eridan, she will let him know that as bluntly as humanly possible, and then happily fuck off, with Eridan generally no worse for the wear (although he may have a negative reaction in the moment. But Aradia's self-possessed enough to not really give a shit as long as she's not in the wrong).

The main issue between them is that I think Aradia would believe Eridan IS a nasty, casteist highblood, unless somehow given reason to interact with him for an extended period of time. Eridan didn't really talk to the lowbloods, and the two generally had no reason to interact, so she'd basically have no reason NOT to believe him when he starts spewing bullshit. Moreover, Eridan's the type of aggressive idiot that would outright admit that if they'd FLARPed together, there was every chance she'd wind up orphaned or dead (this is just a neutral fact to him), and then comment that maybe it wouldn't have mattered because she wound up dead anyway (again, just a neutral observation to him). Writing Eridan mostly consists of coming up with words that make you cringe.

Aradia is smart enough that I think any extensive conversation or time spent with him would make her realize how performative his casteist stuff is, and how little he actually cares about blood color. Since she generally never had reason to interact or care about him before (not even her friends are friends with him), this would pretty much shift her opinion from "idgaf about him, seems like a snob like the rest of the highbloods" to "oh... he's funny as hell. what's wrong with him".

Once she figures out that he genuinely doesn't mean any harm or offense by the awful dumb shit he says, I think she'd be willing to engage with him on mutual interests (they both FLARPed, so they're presumably both roleplayers, and they could probably bond over death - something Eridan is unfortunately obsessed with and Aradia doesn't have many discussion partners over). Emotionally, she'd probably keep him at arm's length - he has a lot of Issues and Problems, and she's not really interested in helping him handle them (she doesn't really bother with trying to cheer people up on the bubbles so much as just explaining what they can do now that they're dead, and letting them make their own decisions). Not that she isn't a nice person, but I do think it'd just be kind of difficult for her to have too much sympathy for a guy whose problems were largely caused by being too aristocratic.

But, like, she would also pretty happily call him "her friend," because she always cuts it short when it gets too real for her, minimizing her negative experiences with him. I think eventually, like training a dog, Eridan would figure out that Aradia is just Not The Friend For That, so it'd become less of a problem as time goes on.

She thinks he's ridiculous and funny, calls him up when she wants to infodump on someone and her usual buddies aren't around, and I think they'd play good DnD together with Nepeta and Vriska. Yeah I know Vriska killed her but she killed Vriska so they're even. The energy at the table is deeply weird but Eridan wouldn't notice and Aradia would get a kick out of it, leaing poor Nepeta to suffer it alone.

Anyway, I love that Eridan's assortment of platonic friendships is so haphazard. Nepeta AND Feferi, who hate each other. Vriska AND Aradia, who killed each other. And also Dirk is there. He's the DM.

[suzukiblu]

Ko-fi thank-you sentences for quietellen; Kara gets to Earth on time and the Kents get a two-for-one special on free kids.  (( chrono || non-chrono ))

In Smoll-Veel, the aliens mostly talk to Ma and Pa and call them “Mar-Tha” and “Jona-Than”, and call Kara “Ka-Lair” and Kal “Ka-Lum”. So–the aliens do have private names, Kara is almost sure. Or at least, different names to use at home, even if maybe not necessarily private ones. She’s careful not to use “Ma” or “Pa” in town anyway, until she knows either way. Or until she can just ask, if nothing else. 

She knows a few more words, now, but she can’t string together a sentence in the aliens’ language for the life of her. The best she can do is gesture at things and say their names, and even that’s only so effective to get a more complicated point across. 

By which she means, not remotely effective. Not even slightly. 

But she needs to learn, so she’s . . . trying, still. Kal needs her to learn. Kal needs . . . 

She can’t let him down. Can’t fail him. Can’t– 

“Ka-Lair Kent!” a dull alien voice calls, and Kara–reorients. Ma and Pa are still inside the shop talking to the man(?) who’s doing something with their vehicle–their “see-dann”, they call it–and she’s standing on the walkway outside the glass front door with Kal in her arms. She’s gotten used to carrying him; he doesn’t feel like he weighs a thing at all, these days. She can hold him with just one arm, even. 

She doesn’t, because it’s less secure than two. But she can, if she needs to. 

She looks towards the voice, though it makes her restless to take her eyes off the door. Off–Ma and Pa. The door is glass, so she can see Ma and Pa and the counter they’re at through the door. That’s–better, that she can see them. She doesn’t want to look away properly, or go somewhere where she can’t. 

They might not be here when she comes back, if she does. 

The voice came from a stranger. Everyone in Smoll-Veel is a stranger to Kara, obviously, but–one she hasn’t seen before. A boy, maybe? He looks around her age, and there’s a few other aliens who look around her age too standing behind him. He grins at her and lifts a hand to wag it at her. She’s . . . not sure why. His eyes are an exotic brown, just like Ma’s, but his hair is much darker. Nowhere near as black as Kal’s, though, and stick-straight instead of curly. He smells like sawdust and metal and alien sweat. 

Does he want something from her? 

“Kent,” she agrees warily, not sure what he’s . . . asking? Is he asking her something? 

He says something that sounds a little bit like a question in response, though it’s hard to tell from the flatness of his voice. He comes up to her and Kal and grins wider at her; doesn’t even glance at Kal at all. 

She didn’t recognize any of the words he said. 

“No speaks,” she says in her best attempt at the alien’s language, and hopes that’s actually close enough to what she means to get the point across. The boy grins wider; plants a hand against the building beside her and leans in closer than she’d like. She stares blankly at him. If a Kryptonian boy did that to her, his family would be too embarrassed to show their faces in polite society for a generation. 

She doesn’t know how that works here, though, and she can’t make trouble for Ma and Pa in Smoll-Veel, so she just steps back from him. The other aliens laugh, and the boy turns red in embarrassment, then scowls and reaches after her and grabs her arm. 

She’s holding Kal. And he just touched her without her permission. And she’s holding Kal, and what if he made her drop him?! 

She has those thoughts all in one simultaneous jumble, and then her arm is out and the boy is hitting his ass on the walkway with a yelp of pain. Kara doesn’t scowl down at him, because she has manners, but how ridiculous is he being right now? She didn’t even push him that hard. She barely even pushed him at all! 

“No,” she says in the aliens’ language, emphatic and short, and the boy yells something up at her. She doesn’t recognize any of the words, but she doesn’t care what he has to say anyway. 

Maybe it’s not disgraceful to step into someone’s space like that on this planet, but to grab her arm when she’s holding Kal? 

She doesn’t care if that’s disgraceful or not. It’s not something she’s going to allow. 

A couple of the other aliens say things–Kara can’t tell if they’re jeering her or the boy–and the door opens between them, and Ma and Pa come out. The boy yells again, and points at Kara. She turns enough to shield Kal from him, and doesn’t–doesn’t know what to expect. Doesn’t know what he’s saying. He could say anything, and she can’t explain. She doesn’t have the words. What are–what are Ma and Pa going to think? 

If they’re . . . upset, or angry, or . . . 

What if they just stop being so kind? So patient? What if Ma never makes the “chokk-litt” drink again and Pa never wants to do “ketch” together again and–and they stop reading Kal stories? 

What if they just take back everything they’ve given them and throw them out?

[trans-cuchulainn]

Could you recommend some good resources on accurate depiction of parchment in the medieval period? I feel like most people interested in medieval studies have a basic understanding of what it is and how it’s made, but you seem more well-versed than most on its tactile properties and regular use cases. Where can others acquire this knowledge?

most of what i've learned about manuscripts and book history has been either during my degrees or from work (i have worked in various libraries including with special collections, although mostly with early printed books and later paper manuscripts in that capacity). and in terms of what it's like to interact with, i have learned this mostly from interacting with it, but if you don't have a library or museum near you that will enable you to do this, it's a bit harder. this makes it hard to give recommendations although there are lots of very good books out there about books and manuscript history

(there's one i read early on in my journeys with palaeography etc that went into loads of detail about different writing surfaces including wood and wax tablets and so on, but i cannot remember the title and past me did NOT write it down which was really unhelpful. if i remember it i'll post about it)

there are also a ton of online resources about manuscripts though. lots of museums have online guides to manuscript production, parchment, writing through history. there's lots of codicology stuff out there. so it's not like you have to learn it in a formal environment -- that's just where i learned it and therefore mostly from lectures rather than shareable resources

but to understand parchment specifically i think understanding the process of making it is a crucial step to understanding why it is the way it is (and why it's not paper). here's a couple of youtube videos that give an overview

this is a more detailed video about a project that got people to make parchment themselves which is just kinda interesting (haven't watched it all the way through but am watching parts):

once you understand how parchment is made and the resources that go into it, i think it's easier to understand why it probably wouldn't be used for ephemera and scraps, and that helps you think about situations where people might use something else -- e.g. a wax tablet to take hasty notes, send messages that don't need to be permanent, send messages that are emphatically not permanent (your recipient can melt it and hide the note), etc -- as well as beginning to rethink the modern world's reliance on the written word in general and consider how oral messages and other non-written communication might have been used

as for the tactile side of things, as i said in a previous post, if you can't touch book parchment, go find your local irish musicians and see if the bodhrán player will let you handle their drum (or good quality orchestral timpani will do too! but with a bigger drum it's harder to feel both sides of the skin). drumskins made of goatskin are very similar on a tactile level to parchment, just a little thicker and not processed to quite the same level as a writing surface. it helps you stop thinking of them as super fragile once you realise people are whacking them with a stick regularly, and you can learn about the difference between the hair side and the flesh side of the skin and stuff and see the way the hair leaves traces in the skin and so on. this helps with the tactile understanding

(the cheaper the bodhran, the rougher the reverse side will be even if the front is still nice and smooth, which also makes you realise the difference between high quality books where you can barely tell which side of the page is the hair side, and low quality ones where they're not fully treated, there's still hair, whatever)

i talked to a conservator lately who told me the way he got into book conservation was via musical instrument repair -- they are more similar than you would think -- and i know trad musicians scattered far and wide enough to be reasonably confident that even if you're in an area with no touchable medieval manuscripts, you can probably at some point find a drummer who will let you play with their bodhrán in exchange for a pint or something, lol

but in the mean time there's lots of cool videos about there about parchment making which i do think is a crucial step to understanding it as a writing surface! and i will see if i can remember the names of any of the books i've read...

[wolfjackle-creates]

Bring Me Home Arc 2 Part 7

We're a day late for WIP Wednesday, but I was wiped after the work shifts from hell the last two days. But today and tomorrow I'm off so I'm back on track! No work next Wednesday, either, so I should be good to go next week. Because I'm a day late, you get a long one today!

Story Summary: Tim and Danny are both neglected by parents who care more about their work than their families. They deal with this by spending too much time online and find each other playing MMORPGs. They keep up their friendship as Tim becomes Robin and Danny becomes Phantom and don't bother keeping secrets from each other.

First, Previous

Word Count: 1.9k

-----

Still not entirely comfortable, Tim finally stepped into the lab. On the far wall, behind yellow and black doors was the portal he’d heard so much about.

Danny followed his gaze and put a hand on his arm. “Come on, Tim. The weapons vault is over here.”

Tim nodded once. “What do you have?”

“Everything.” Danny placed his hand over a scanner next to the door and it beeped and opened. “You like staffs, right? Try this out.”

Danny passed him a silver metal staff just a bit longer than his favored weapon. Tim took it and ran through two of his warm up exercises. The balance was excellent and he picked up the pace. If it wasn’t for the color scheme, he’d consider using one as his own backup.

“This is great. It’s effective against ghosts?”

“Yep. The Fenton Rod.” Danny reached out for it and Tim gave it back. “And if you do this—” he twisted and the staff separated into two “—you’ve got two weapons.”

He passed the two halves back to Tim who ran through a few more attacks and blocks with them. He had enough practice with Dick’s escrima sticks to hold his own. “This is perfect, thanks.”

“Now, the rest of you, would you prefer distance weapons or close up?”

Tim backed away from the vault to allow the others to explore their options. He spent the time practicing on connecting and separating the staff—he would not call it the Fenton Rod, even in his own head—and running through a few more complicated patterns with it to make sure he was familiar with it’s weight.

“You’re really good with that,” commented Sam who was watching him.

Tim shrugged fixed a self-conscious smile to his face. “It’s always good to know self defense when you live in Gotham. And Bruce is more particular about it than most.”

“Really? I thought he was a vapid idiot.”

“Oh, he is,” agreed Tim. “But he loves his kids and knows us being linked to him puts us in danger. So he goes to extremes to make sure we can hold our own when trouble arises.”

Before Sam could reply, Danny called out to them, “Hey, Tim! Do you want a long range weapon as well?”

“Sure. What do you have?”

So he joined as Danny showed them several blasters and lasers that they could use. Tim pulled out a small one that could be used single-handed.

“This is good for me.”

Cassie and Conner chose heavier weapons with more range and attack power, though Bart followed Tim’s lead.

“Okay, now that that’s done. Ready to practice ways to get a ghost out of a human?”

The emphatic agreement from every member of Tim’s team seemed to surprise Sam and Tucker but Danny just laughed.

“Sam, Tucker, which of you wants to volunteer?”

The two exchanged a look and Tucker sighed and stood up. “I’ll do it.”

“Thanks, Tuck. So, I’m gonna overshadow Tucker and go over the signs of overshadowing. They’re mostly pretty subtle if you don’t know the person. A ghost has no access to the memories or thoughts of the person they’re overshadowing, so behavior will be off. Then, if Tim is okay with it, I’ll overshadow him so he can explain how it feels to the rest of you. And I’d appreciate it if at least one of you metas will let me overshadow you so we can make sure the methods that work on baseline humans also work with you.”

Conner looked at Tim. “You trust him?”

Tim nodded. “Have since I was eleven.”

“I’ll do it, then.”

Danny grinned. “Great! Tucker, you first.” And with that, Danny transformed and flew right into Tucker’s body.

Tim watched closely as Tucker went rigid for a moment before resuming his casual slouch. “Tucker isn’t present at all right now,” said Tucker. Then his eyes flared green. “Any time a ghost uses their powers while overshadowing someone, the eyes’ll change. So look for that. Changes in behavior if you know the person are also a dead giveaway. Most ghosts haven’t been on earth in a long time, so another sign is being unused to Earth customs. Especially modern ones. But really, the eyes are your best bet. Get a ghost emotional and they can’t hold it back. Now, Sam, force me out!”

Sam grinned. “With pleasure.” She held up a thermos. “Best way is to use a thermos. It contains the ghost and prevents them from further attacks. To use, you simply remove the cap, point the opening at the ghost or overshadowed person in question, and press the button.” She did and a beam of blue light hit Tucker. Danny was pulled out and sucked into the thermos. Sam recapped the device and spun it in her hands.

Tucker held his head and groaned. “How long was he in me for?”

“Like thirty seconds, Tuck. Don’t be dramatic,” replied Sam.

“Does it hurt?” asked Cassie.

Tucker shook his head. “Minor headache immediately post overshadowing that fades in less than a minute. You don’t have any memory of the time you were overshadowed, so some disorientation if your location changed or a lot of time has passed is also normal. Maybe some vague impressions, like from a dream you can’t quite remember.”

“Ready for take two?” asked Sam.

Tucker rolled his eyes, but waved a hand around in agreement.

“So, to release a ghost from a thermos, you press the button that says ‘release.’ Super easy.” She did so, letting out another beam of light and when it cleared, Danny was floating before them.

“Does being in the thermos hurt?” asked Conner.

Danny shook his head and grinned. “Nah. Feels like you’re wrapped up in a heavy blanket. So sometimes it’s nice and sometimes it’s claustrophobic and I’m desperate to get out.”

Tim hummed. “How many ghosts can you fit in one thermos?”

Danny shrugged. “Not sure. Quite a few, but I’ve never pushed the limits. I think six or seven is the most we’ve done. Maybe more if it’s just ectopusses and blob ghosts I’m trying to clear out of my parents’ way.”

“Ectopusses?” asked Cassie.

At the same time, Bart asked, “Blob ghosts?”

Danny laughed. “I think there’s something to the hypothesis that octopusses have as much intelligence as a person. So many of them become ghosts. And they’re super curious. I think they like to explore places on land because it’s so different from the oceans they lived in. And blob ghosts are just what they sound like. Shapeless ghosts that are usually less than a foot large and don’t appear to have any cognitive power.”

Tim had a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but the news report going in the background was a constant reminder that they didn’t have time. “How else can you end an overshadowing?”

Danny nodded and flew back into Tucker.

Sam went over the different weapons they had that could be safely used on an overshadowed human. The small blasters were the easiest and caused no injury to the host. Tim’s staff was also effective, though it could leave bruises.

Finally, they’d each managed to get Danny out of Tucker three different ways each. He couldn’t even say a thermos was the weirdest thing he’d ever used as a weapon, though the fact that it had been designed as a weapon was certainly novel.

“So now it’s my turn.” Tim couldn’t help the way his stomach twisted at the thought of what was coming up. He trusted Danny, he really did. And he wanted to know what it felt like to be overshadowed. But he hated losing control of himself. Absolutely despised it. He took a deep breath and met Danny’s eyes. “Do it.”

Danny bit his lip. “You don’t have to, you know.”

“Do it, Danny.”

A brief moment of hesitation longer, then Danny was flying towards him. The next thing Tim was aware of was a sharp pain in his head that he could only describe as being located behind his brain. Conner was facing him with the thermos pointed at him. The pain was already fading as he blinked and took in the lab again.

Nothing had changed.

“What was it like?” asked Cassie.

The question put Tim right back into Bat Report Mode. “As Tucker said, I have no memory of anything since I saw Danny fly at me to overshadow me. When he left, I had a strange pain in my head that faded by the time I had checked our surroundings for any changes that may have occurred while I was unaware.” As he spoke, he did a quick body check to look for any unusual pains or feelings elsewhere in his body. “I appear to be in the exact same physical condition as I was before the experiment. How long was I overshadowed for?”

“Less than two minutes,” said Conner. “I promise no longer than that. Danny had you sing a weird song about exploding weasels and then I sucked him into this.” He shook the thermos.

Cassie laughed. “It was ‘Pop Goes the Weasel.’ We have to teach you about nursery rhymes.”

Bart raised his hand. “Uh, I don’t think I’ve ever heard that one, either.”

And finally, Tim was able to relax. “Next weekend we all have off, Cassie and I will teach you all the nursery rhymes. Dick probably knows a ton. I’d imagine growing up in a circus with performers from all sorts of countries exposed him to so many.”

Bart grinned. “It’ll be interesting to see how the list of ones I know compares to the ones you know!”

Conner smiled back. “I’d like that. I should ask Clark for any he knows, too.” As he spoke, he pressed the button to release Danny.

When the light cleared, Danny was floating upside down looking Tim over. “So what’d you think of your first experience being overshadowed?”

“Four out of ten. Would not like to repeat, but I’ve definitely been through worse.”

Danny laughed and, still upside down, turned until he was facing Conner. “Think you’re ready for you turn?”

Conner took a deep breath and handed the thermos to Bart. “As I’ll ever be.”

Danny nodded and flew into him, just as he had Tucker and Tim. And then there was no more Conner. No more Superboy. Just someone who looked like him, but held his head cocked the wrong way. Who slouched a bit too much. Who was so clearly not Conner.

Tim pulled his new staff out and reminded himself it was just Danny. This was friendly right now. And it was reassuring to know he’d be able to tell when any of his friends were overshadowed.

Danny started to sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star in Conner’s voice.

Bart held up the thermos, ready to pull Danny in.

“Let me,” said Tim. “I want to do it.”

“You’ve got it,” replied Bart as he recapped the thermos.

Tim rushed forward and hit Conner on the side with his staff; Danny went flying out of him.

Conner shook his head and looked around. “That was weird. I remember it all, though.”

Danny was rubbing at his side where Tim hit. “Yeah. I’ve never overshadowed a meta before. At least no one I could tell was a meta. I could hear you, too. It was a struggle to keep control of your body.”

Tim sagged in relief. “Do you think that makes them less of a target?”

“Possibly?” The uncertainty in Danny’s voice made Tim uneasy. “From some ghosts, sure. But others like a challenge and may target him—them—specifically.”

Bart grinned. “Sounds like it’ll be an interesting game! So, now that we’ve got the basics down, we’re going out there to help, right?”

-----

Next

Okay, so part of the reason for the length is that I just didn't want to cut it anywhere. Though the fact that it happened when I'm a day late posting certainly helped me not feel like I should find a spot to break it up!

Now, I've decided to move away from the tag system because breaking it up over two posts is getting to be quite difficult. So I've set up a subscription post for this story. Subscribe to that post and you'll get a Tumblr notification when I post. Instructions on how to subscribe can be found there. Anyone who has requested a tag before this post will be tagged today and on the next update, but I won't add anyone new. It's just getting to be a bit too much! (And I'm afraid of getting hit with a shadowban.)

In other news, I've started transferring my works to AO3. Haven't gotten there with this one yet, but the Wrong Number AU (now titled Answer My Call) has been posted. As has the bad reveal fic. Both can be found in my masterpost if you're interested.

Last bit of housekeeping, two posts below this one, I have a poll asking if you'd be interested in me sharing anything I've written for Good Omens. Feel free to check that out. Most of my time will still be spent with DPxDC, but with the new season coming out, I may try to revisit some things I haven't touched in a year (longer?).

Tag List Part 1

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[everybodyshusband]

I hurt my ankle ;( could i possibly request for Regressed Dew getting comforted with his hurt ankle via swiss and mountain?

of course you can request that ! i'm sorry this took a while to write, dear anon. i hope your ankle is starting to feel better, love <3

It starts with a thud. The quiet noise of a certain fire ghoul falling onto the soft, wet grass, followed almost immediately by quiet sobs that Dewdrop is clearly doing his best to stifle. Mountain hears him first, the glass of the greenhouse thankfully allowing sound to pass through.

The earth ghoul's ear twitches in the direction of the distressed noises and he makes the decision to set down his trowel and investigate. He brushes the dirt from his hands onto his gardening apron, making sure to take if off and hang it up on its proper hook before walking out of the greenhouse and setting his eyes on Dewdrop.

The little ghoul is sitting on the ground, one leg drawn up close to his body, the other laying out straight in front of him, the ankle already beginning to swell. He's crying, which isn't always out of character for the fire ghoul depending on the situations he finds himself in, but the little hiccups he's letting out after every sob that escapes him can only mean one thing.

"Little one?" Dewdrop looks up when Mountain speaks, tears tracking down his cheeks. "Oh, my darling, are you hurt?" Mountain rushes over to Dewdrop and reaches a hand out, swiping his thumbs over the little ghoul's cheeks to rid his face of tears. It's a pointless effort (his tear ducts immediate work to replace any tears Mountain brushes away) but the way Dewdrop leans into Mountain's touch and closes his eyes signals to the earth ghoul that the little ghoul seems to appreciate the gesture.

"I- I wanted to say hi at you, so I runned," he tries to explain through his sobs. "But I falled over and ankle hurt..."

"Oh, love," Mountain sighs, pulling Dewdrop into a hug, careful to not jolt his injured ankle. "Should we take you up to the infirmary? Get you all fixed up?"

Dewdrop shakes his head emphatically through his hiccups. "No! Wanna Swissy cuddle," he pouts, wrapping his arms around himself to emphasise his point.

"You want to see Swiss?"

"Uh huh. Wanna Mountain and Swissy cuddle."

Mountain can't help the way his face splits into a genuine smile at Dewdrop's admission of wanting to be wrapped up in his hugs. "Well, sundew," (Dewdrop chirps happily at the nickname despite the fat tears still rolling down his cheeks) "how about I carry you back to the commons and we can wait for Swiss to meet us on the couch for cuddles, hmm?"

"Yeah!" The fire ghoul nods excitedly and claps his hands at Mountain's suggestion. The earth ghoul lifts him up as carefully as he can, purposefully avoiding contact with Dewdrop's sore ankle and slowly makes his way up the hill towards the ghouls' commons.

The walk isn't a long one, but with a squirming ghoul on his back with an ankle that shouldn't be moved about too much, the journey ends up taking almost double the time Mountain usually walks it in. The earth ghoul is mostly quiet, occasionally encouraging Dewdrop in his nonsensical babbling to ensure the little ghoul stays distracted from his pain, but he mostly stays quiet, content to focus on keeping Dewdrop's leg and ankle straight as he holds him.

"Mounty," Dewdrop starts, the earth ghoul immediately tuning back in. "Wossa 'commons'? You sayed 'commons' wossat mean?"

"You want to know what 'commons' means, love?" Mountain clarifies.

"Uh huh."

"It's a fast way to say 'common room'," he explains. "You know the room with the couches outside all of our bedrooms?" He elaborates once Dewdrop is silent for just a bit too long for him to have properly understood what Mountain originally meant.

"Ohh, the big room?"

"Yes, that's right, little one!" Mountain encourages. "The big room."

Dewdrop hums. "I like the big room. 'S warm. And Swissy gonna be there too!"

"Yes, he will." Mountain sends an anti-prayer to whatever lower power is listening that for Dewdrop's sake, Swiss will already be in the common room when he and the little ghoul arrive.

As luck would have it—or maybe that prayer really did work after all—Swiss is laying sideways over one of the armchairs, legs dangling over the one of the arms of the chair, his back resting against the other. "Hey, uh, Mount? I think you have a limpet stuck to your back," he teases, grinning.

"Swissy, 'm not a limpet!" Dewdrop protests as indignantly as he can manage. "Imma ghoul."

The multi ghoul smiles at Dewdrop's voice. "Oh, of course! How could I forget!" He rolls off of the armchair landing purposefully onto the floor with a loud thump, making Dewdrop giggle, the fire ghoul's entire body vibrating against Mountain's own.

"Swissy you're silly!" He laughs. "Mounty can you let me down p'ease? I wanna Swissy-Mounty cuddle now."

Mountain lowers Dewdrop onto one of the couches slowly, careful not to let anything bump his sore ankle before seating himself at Dewdrop's side and letting the little ghoul curl into his side. Dewdrop reaches an arm out and makes grabby hands in Swiss' general direction, encouraging him to join the mini ghoul pile.

The multi ghoul gladly approaches, but stops short once he catches sight of Dewdrop's ankle. "What happened, Dewy?"

Dewdrop glances down at his ankle and Mountain has to rub his back softly as the fire ghoul begins to tear up all over again. "Falled over..." he mumbles quietly.

"Awh, baby, you poor thing." Swiss kneels on the floor in front of the little ghoul and cradles his face in his hands. "D'you want me to try and make it feel a bit better now, or do you want to wait for Aether to help you later?"

"Mmm, I dunno..." Dewdrop has begun to twist his shirt in his hands as he does his best to answer Swiss' question. "Maybe... Aefer?"

"Good choice, love," Mountain mutters into Dewdrop's hair.

Swiss nods in agreement. "I'm sure it still hurts a lot, but Aeth'll patch you up in no time, little guy. Plus," he adds, whispering conspiratorially, "if you're really well-behaved when he fixes your ankle, he might have a couple stickers to spare for you, hmm? How does that sound, baby?"

"Stickers?" Dewdrop asks, mouth agape in surprise. "Want stickers!"

"Well then it's a very good thing you're such a good, well-behaved boy, isn't it, love?" Mountain strokes Dewdrop's hair as he speaks, sharing a soft smile with Swiss as the little ghoul begins purring and wriggling further into his hold. He inclines his head to Dewdrop's other side, glad when Swiss takes the hint to move from the couch to wrap his arms around the little ghoul. Dewdrop's purring kicks up a notch as Swiss joins him and Mountain on the couch, loudly reverberating against the two ghouls he's sandwiched between.

It may have started with the thud of Dewdrop falling over and injuring himself, but it ends with a happy fire ghoul purring, sandwiched in between two of his loving packmates, their arms wrapped tightly around him as they calm him down.

[onceuponaoneshotfanfic]

Something There (Chapter 2)

7.1k words Roy Kent x Reader Warnings: Language, enemies-to-lovers, some sexual references, Roy still not being excited about women's sports, childish arguments between adults who clearly want each other

Series Masterlist

Roy threw his bag over his shoulder with a loud groan. Much to his annoyance, he had to start his day by parking on the far side of the lot; there were way more cars than he was used to, especially this early, and he didn’t recognize any of them. Whatever. Maybe Rebecca had some publicity event he’d forgotten about. Wouldn’t be the first time.

He walked into the Dog Track, only vaguely aware of the palatable excitement buzzing in the air as he went down the hall. It wasn’t unusual for him to only nod to people as he passed by instead of stopping to say hello, so that’s what he did, a bit creeped out by the wide smiles on people’s faces as they chattered in hushed tones. Weird.

The reason for the cars and the excitement finally smacked him in the face when he walked opened the door the changing room and found it full of women in sports bras, most of whom only offered him passing glances as they chattered animatedly to one another.

“Oh shit.”

Roy picked up his pace and hurried into his office, noticing its closed blinds and Nate very intentionally focusing on the white board by Roy’s desk. Without quite knowing why, Roy kept walking until he found himself standing in the Whippets’ office.

The American manager, dressed today in leggings and a Whippets jacket (still looking stupidly pretty, which Roy did his best to ignore), looked up from her heavy conversation with Lucas, eyebrow arched. “What’s up with you?”

Roy made a face, not enjoying the mocking tone in her voice. Or the fact that she was speaking to him at all. “Fuck d’you mean?”

Clearly stifling a giggle, she shrugged. “Well, you just charged into my office looking so red in the face it’s almost concerning. Do I need to call you a doctor or something?”

His eyebrows furrowed further. “There’s women changing in the- in the-”

“Changing room,” she finished for him, nodding emphatically. “That’s kind of what it’s for.”

“But it’s women.” Roy knew he sounded stupid as soon as the words left his mouth.

Her amused eyes darted to Lucas before refocusing on Roy. “Well, yeah. I manage a women’s team. Sorry if that wasn’t clear,” she snarked.

He blinked a few times, the warmth in his face growing from annoyance. “Well, you guys should fucking tell us when your team is using shit. Make a schedule or some shit. That way we know what the fuck’s going on.”

She stared at him coolly. “There is a schedule. Coach Beard made it.” Condescension dripped from her voice, letting Roy know she really didn’t have the patience for him.

Right. Roy had gotten a group email from Beard and had, of course, ignored it. He really needed to get his shit together.

When Roy didn’t respond, she continued, her expression completely icy now. “Huh. Every coach I’ve ever known has always made sure they knew what was going on in their club.” She turned to Lucas. “Is this a British thing?”

The assistant coach shrugged and pretended to start typing on his computer. He was staying the fuck out of whatever this was. Smart man.

Roy cleared his throat, feeling like he was losing a game he hadn’t signed up for. ““Well, I mean, I don’t want them to be uncom-”

 “Coach Kent, I have had mostly male coaches for most of my career. Wearing a sports bra in front of men is not a big deal to any of these women. Just like being shirtless in front of me isn’t a big deal to your guys.” She spoke slowly, as if to a child.

He fucking hated it. “Just don’t want my guys making them uncomfortable,” he mumbled, no longer able to look her in the eye.

Her eyes narrowed as she brought herself to her full height and closed the space between them, bringing her face close to his, so close that if he leaned forward just a centimeter their noses would touch. “If they’re planning on making my team uncomfortable, then that’s a Roy Kent problem. If you can’t keep your team in check and make sure they act right, then you need to figure your shit out. Lucas, you’ve shared changing rooms with women’s teams before. Ever seen it be a problem?”

The coach, who was clearly listening with great interest, kept his eyes on the computer screen. “Nope.”

“Didn’t think so.” She turned back to Roy. “I’ll go ahead and assume you weren’t the one who left the lovely little notes in the lockers for us then.”

“That was Isaac’s idea.” Coach Beard appeared in the door that led out to the hall. The door Roy wished he’d used that morning.

“Good morning, Coach,” she greeted, her voice suddenly pleasant. “Isaac… McAdoo, right? He’s your captain?”

Beard nodded. “He thought it would be nice to leave a little something, let the ladies know they’re very welcome here at Nelson Road.” He gave Roy a pointed look before continuing. “They stayed after practice yesterday to write the notes and tidy up the lockers. It was Sam’s idea to get the water bottles.”

The way her face lit up made Roy’s stupid heart skip a beat. “Oh! Those are great. Make sure to thank the guys for us.” She turned to Roy, all friendliness gone. “Your players got these for us.” She pointed to the blue water bottle on her desk, the Whippets’ logo prominent. “They’re pretty nice guys. Must’ve learned from Nate and Beard.”

Ouch. With a scoff, Roy rolled his eyes. “Well-”

She looked at the nonexistent watch on her wrist. “Oop, would you look at that. Time for the W.F.C. Richmond’s first ever practice.” She glared at Roy. “Excuse me, gentlemen.”

Roy had to forcibly stop himself from watching her as she sauntered out of the offices, calling for her team to head out to the pitch.

Coach Lucas patted Roy on the shoulder as he followed suit. “There’s no winning against her once she gets going. Trust me,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

Roy grunted, mouth in a straight line, pretending like he wasn’t focusing on getting his heartrate back to normal. Coach Beard looked thoroughly amused as Roy stayed still as a statue, waiting to hear total silence from the changing room before sulking back to his own office, where Nate quickly pretended to look busy and not like he’d been eavesdropping.

Beard’s eyes remained on Roy. “Boy, she knows how to push your buttons,” he mused.

“Does not,” Roy grumbled, feeling a bit like a schoolboy being badgered by his friends. He dropped into his chair, giving it a little spin from side to side, arms crossed stubbornly. “I don’t have fucking buttons.”

~

Lucas and I stood shoulder to shoulder as we watched the Whippets scrimmage. Under my sunglasses, my eyes were wide with joy. They were good, so good. When we signed these women, we knew there was going to be a lot of talent on this squad. But we could only dream of the chemistry we were already seeing on day one.

“Shit, can you imagine once they’re actually used to each other?” As always, Lucas was reading my mind.

I nodded. “Un. Fucking. Stoppable.” We bumped fists and knocked our hips into each other, a gesture we’d started doing when he was my coach in college. A gesture I knew we’d be making a lot this season.

“Oi!”

It didn’t take a genius to figure out who was shouting and who they were shouting at. With a groan, I turned around. Sure enough, Roy Kent was heading towards Lucas and I, looking ready for a fight. At this point, I wasn’t sure his face was capable of any other expression.

“Yeah, Coach Kent?” I pulled down my sunglasses, glaring at him from over the top, not giving a shit about professionalism or sharing or any of the other things I had promised Rebecca I’d be totally capable of.

Now standing in front of us, he nodded towards my scrimmage. “We need the pitch.”                                   

I glanced at my phone. Sure enough, it was just past time for us to give up the field so the men could use it. Dammit.

Now, if it was Beard or Nate who had come out and asked us to give up the pitch, I would have gladly done so, and would have easily apologized. But because it was Roy Kent who was demanding that we move, my heels dug in all on their own.

“We’re almost done,” I answered breezily, as if he really didn’t matter to me. Which he didn’t.

“Oh no.” He stared at me indignantly. “You made a big fucking deal about there being a fucking schedule. I’m just following it.” He turned to the pitch, where my players continued their scrimmage. “Whistle!” A few women stopped, their faces perplexed. “Get off the fucking pitch!”

My vision went red. “Hey!” I grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face me. “You don’t fucking tell my team what to do!” I blew my whistle. “Keep going!” When play resumed, I looked back at Roy, whose face was nearly purple. “Roy Kent, don’t you ever tell my squad what to do, you fucking hear me?” My hands were balled into fists at my side. “If I were a man-”

Roy rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck that. You and I both know that this has nothing to do with you being a woman and has everything to do with us needing the fucking pitch. So, knock off with your feminism for a fucking minute.”

He was right. I knew deep down that he was right. But something about the way he looked at me just lit a fire that I didn’t know if I could control. There was no way I could let him win.

I folded my arms and blew some loose hair out of my face. “You could try please,” I grumbled, knowing I looked like a pouting teenager and not a professional soccer coach.

His eyebrows flew up. “I’m sorry? You want me to say please? When it’s my turn on the pitch? Are you fucking joking?”

“Beard and Nate would have said please.”

His eyes narrowed, an unwilling acknowledgement that I was completely correct. “Fine.” He gritted his teeth. “Please.”

Every ounce of coldness returned to my body. “There, was that so hard?” I purred mockingly.

Before Roy could respond- probably something involving the word fuck- Lucas brought his whistle to his lips and blew it hard. “Alright ladies, let’s go! Bring it in!” He looked at the two of us, eyebrows raised. “If you two are still flirting, I’m going to take these gals to the weight room, cool?”

“Fuck off,” Roy and I scoffed in unison.

Once Lucas stopped laughing his ass off, we headed to the weight room and got our players started on their workouts. Finally, I turned to Lucas, who was still grinning.

“We weren’t flirting.” My tone was flat, blunt.

Lucas snorted. “Oh, you were totally flirting. So was he, to be fair.” He shrugged. “You could definitely do worse than Roy Kent, I’ll give you that. Man’s a legend. And still pretty hot.”

“Can’t stand that man,” I mumbled, wondering if I was trying to convince Lucas or myself. “He’s the fucking worst.”

“Then have some really passionate hate sex,” Lucas suggested, waggling his eyebrows. “Do something to take care of that tension between you two.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You know, in some cultures, this is sexual harassment.”

“And in some cultures,” Lucas countered, “the way you look at Roy Kent would mean you have to marry him.”

~

Roy sighed as he leaned back in the chair in Doctor Sharon’s office. It had been a full week of sharing Nelson Road with the fucking Whippets. Of sharing it with her. And Roy felt like he’d aged an entire decade in that time.

They glared at each other in place of a greeting. They had shouting matches on the pitch. They muttered swear words at each other in the weight room. They rolled their eyes whenever the other was mentioned. And on more than one occasion, they got in each other’s faces, noses almost touching, lips way too close for Roy’s comfort.

He knew better. He fucking knew better. He hadn’t spent all that time with Ronald fucking McDonald for nothing. He’d grown and changed and become a better man. He’d learned to control the rage that thundered in his chest and to use it constructively. He’d become friends with Jamie Tartt of all people. Fuck, he even met with Dr. Sharon once a month. And yet here was this Yank, with her leggings and red lipstick and cocky grin, coming in and undoing all of it.

Roy closed his eyes as he listened to Doctor Sharon settle at her desk after closing the door. There was no way she hadn’t heard about what was going on between the two managers; everyone at the Dog Track knew what was happening, despite the assistant coaches’ combined efforts to keep things under control. He was surprised they hadn’t gotten called into Rebecca’s office to be properly shouted at like the children they were.

“You seem tired, Roy.” Doctor Sharon’s gentle voice made his eyes snap open. “Everything alright?”

He grunted, crossing his arms. No use dancing around things. “It’s the new women’s team,” he grumbled. “Their manager and I….” He glanced up at the ceiling, as if it held the right words to describe the white-hot rage he felt every time he looked at her. “…. Don’t get along.”

Doctor Sharon nodded. “I’ve heard.”

She didn’t say anything else, so Roy went on. “She’s just really fucking infuriating, y’know? All cocky and full of herself. Acts entitled to the pitch and the weight room and the changing room. And of course, Beard and fucking Nate like her and the fellas all act like she’s God’s gift to football. Just because she’s won a couple of trophies.”

“Was all of this your first impression of her?” Doctor Sharon asked after a moment.

Roy squirmed a little. “Well, I mean I met her at a club actually,” he admitted. “Right before she started working here. And I didn’t know who she was. And I made a comment implying that she wanted to flirt with me for attention, because I’m, well, me.” Fuck, he felt insufferable saying that part out loud. “And then I came into work and- fuck- there she is. Fucking stuck up as hell.” He shrugged. “And she’s shit at sharing,” he mumbled.

“Hmm.” Doctor Sharon looked thoughtful for a moment. “Have you thought about what it’s like for her right now?”

Her voice always calmed him down. “How d’you mean?”

She looked him straight in the eye. He liked that about her. “Well, she’s just given up her entire life to move here, where she knows literally one person, and she’s got a lot of responsibility on her shoulders to lead a football team that doesn’t know her yet. Sounds a bit like someone else we know, hmm?”

Roy shook his head. “No. She’s nothing like him. She’s arrogant and conceited and cocky and-”

“That sounds like the way you describe yourself at that age,” Doctor Sharon mused. Roy simply grunted, so she continued. “And, like her, you know what it’s like to suddenly be away from home and everyone you love, don’t you?”

He thought way back, to when he was a child, his grandad dropping him off with his blankie. “I was a fucking kid,” he argued. “That was different.”

Doctor Sharon shook her head. “We don’t compare baggage, remember?”

Roy nodded in defeat. “Fuck. Sorry. I know.” He fiddled with the zipper on his jacket. “’m just really fucking annoyed about sharing Nelson Road,” he mumbled, hoping to change the topic a little.

Apparently, Doctor Sharon was going to let him. “Why is that?”

“Because it’s ours,” he said simply. “We finally got into a rhythm, you know? Lasso came in and turned everything upside down, turns me upside down, then he fucking left. And then Rebecca decides to put me in charge.” Roy shook his head. “And I get one fucking year to figure out how to be a manager before she brings in an entirely new team? It’s just a lot.”

Doctor Sharon nodded sympathetically. “That is a lot of change in a short time,” she affirmed. “How can we deal with that?”

Roy felt good as he walked out of Doctor Sharon’s office at the end of their hour. They’d discussed how Roy could cope with all the stress, about the things he could control to feel like he wasn’t helpless against all this change, and even some conflict resolution strategies she wanted him to try. Maybe he didn’t have to be an absolute prick about all this.

Of course, those thoughts went out the window when Roy turned a corner and saw George Willows. Everyone thought Roy had hated Trent Crimm, but George Willows was a whole other story. He was Roy’s least favorite journalist, to the point where the man didn’t even come to the Greyhounds’ press conferences due to the high chances of being screamed at.

And who should Willows be chatting with in a particularly friendly-looking manner, looking more like two flirting teenagers than professionals?

“Oi.” Roy furrowed his brow, keeping his eye on George, avoiding looking at a certain pretty American. “Fuck are you doing here?”

“We have an interview,” Coach Buck pipped up, scowling at Roy. “Did you need something, Coach Kent?”

She always sounded like she was spitting out his name.

Roy nodded. “Yeah. I need this prick-” He pointed to George. “-to get the fuck out of here before I escort him out myself.”

Before she could retort, George put his hands in front of himself defensively. “Hey, I’m not here for the Greyhounds, Roy. Just a little fluff piece on the Whippets and their new coach.” He smiled down at the manager when he mentioned her. “Help the people of Richmond know just how lucky they are to have her.”

The beaming smile on her face, aimed completely at George Willows, made Roy’s chest go painfully tight.

He rolled his eyes. “Oh fuck off,” he groaned. “Honestly, they couldn’t have sent literally anyone else? What, it’s so hard to find someone to yammer off questions and hold a fucking tape recorder?”

“They use phones now, Grandad,” Jamie Tartt teased as he passed by, hair still damp from his shower. He saluted. “G’night, Coach Buck.”

“Night, Jamie!” she called, smiling at the striker. Apparently, she had a smile for everyone but Roy. Indeed, it disappeared when she glared at him. “Coach Kent, can I help you with something?”

Roy’s mouth went dry. Why the fuck did he let this woman get to him?

Since Roy wasn’t talking, she turned to George Willows. “Why don’t you head on into my office? I’ll be there in a moment.” She pointed the way to her office, all friendliness. Her frown reappeared once he was gone. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“That guy fucking sucks,” Roy said plainly. “Seriously. All of the press sucks, that guy might actually be the fucking devil.”

Her eyeroll rivalled the ones Roy was known for. “Well, if Roy Kent hates him, he must be a lovely person. Maybe even the second coming of Jesus Christ. If there’s nothing else you need to bitch about, I’d love it if you kindly fucked off, Coach Kent. I have an interview.” With that, she turned and swaggered off, with Roy trying his best to avoid watching her receding figure and ignoring the warmth in his cheeks when he failed.

~

We were coming close to the start of the season, and I felt multitudes calmer than I thought I would. My team was fantastic, and they seemed to like me as much as I liked them. Lucas and I had been working hard on our plays and were constantly trying to figure out who our captain would be; with so many strong leaders, it was a fun problem to have.

“Excellent job today, ladies!” I called out as I strolled through the locker room. “See you all in the morning!”

The players called out their goodnights as they headed to their lockers or to the showers. I smiled when I walked into the offices and saw Nate and Beard at their desks.

Coach Beard had done a good job with the schedule, no matter how much Roy Kent bitched about it; each day, the teams rotated between either starting practice an hour early or ending an hour later, so we didn’t have too much overlap in the showers and locker room. Today was our day to end late. Rebecca had said this was temporary, that hopefully she’d eventually build us our own training facility and just use Nelson Road for games, but I didn’t mind the sharing. Not with the Greyhounds, who were gracious and kind and made sure my team felt welcome. Not with Beard and Nate, who were friendly and always offering help with anything we needed as our first match quickly approached. The only problem was- well, I didn’t need to think about him right now.

“Hello, Greyhounds,” I greeted politely. “You guys all done for the day?”

Nate smiled. “Yes, all done. And you guys? Er, gals?” He paused for a moment, his face scrunched in thought. “Ladies?”

I laughed. “Gals and ladies both work just fine,” I assured him. “And yeah, we’re wrapped up.” I paused, looking at Nate thoughtfully. “Hey, could I have Lucas run some plays by you? I’ve heard you’re something of a whiz with plays and strategy.” I shot a wink in Beard’s direction. “Some people told me you’re a real wonder kid.”

Nate’s smile widened. “Oh, yes, absolutely, I’d love to help.”

Beard gave me a nod of approval as Nate jumped up to go find Lucas in our office. “That was very nice of you.”

I shrugged, taking Roy’s empty chair, not caring if he walked in and saw me in it. “Nice has nothing to do with it. We’ll take any help we can get. If Nate’s as good as you’ve said- which I’m sure he is- I hope you all don’t mind sharing that brain of his from time to time.”

“I’m fine with it. And Nate would be thrilled to help you out. Just don’t let Roy hear about it,” Beard teased. “He’s not one for sharing.”

“Especially not with me,” I hummed with an eyeroll. I wondered if I was damaging my eyesight from doing that so much lately. “Has he always been like this?”

Coach Beard looked thoughtful for a moment. “Roy… is a tough cookie,” he said carefully. “He didn’t exactly love Ted and me when we first got here. But we broke through those walls, and honestly, we’re pretty close now. He was the best man at my wedding.” He tapped his pen against his desk. “I actually thought he’d have an easier time with this whole women’s team thing, if I’m being honest.”

“Great, so it’s me he hates, not women’s sports,” I joked, earning a sympathetic half-smile from Beard. My eyes landed on a photo hanging on the wall, one of the three Greyhound coaches and another mustached man, one I knew immediately even if we’d never met. “Bet you all miss him a lot,” I mused.

A small sigh escaped Beard’s lips. “You have no idea.” His voice was the softest I’d heard it. “He’d get you and Roy all sorted out, that’s for sure.”

The tip of my nose went warm, thinking about all the shit the other coaches had dealt with over the past few weeks. “I’m really sorry about-”

Beard shook his head. “Growing pains,” he said simply. “You’re both good coaches. Both passionate about the sport. Which makes you both a little hardheaded. You’ll figure it out.” He paused. “Or Rebecca’ll fire you both.”

Despite his serious face, I laughed. “Guess that’s a good motivation to stop calling him a fucking asshole in the hallways, huh?”

Coach Beard’s smile matched mine. “Whatever works.” His phone pinged, calling his attention to it. “Gotta head out. My wife made sushi for dinner for the first time so I should probably grab some stomach medicine.” He looked at me thoughtfully. “We’ll have you over sometime. If we invite Roy, we can have a four-way screaming contest.”

A little perplexed by what he meant by that, I nodded. “Sure, Coach. Enjoy your food poisoning. Maybe tell the missus that you had some weird English food for lunch so you can blame that.”

He tapped his head. “Smart. Love it.” With a wave, he turned and went through my office, offering quick goodbyes to Nate and Lucas.

After heaving myself out of Roy’s chair, I peeked into my office. Nate and Lucas were poring over our playbook, discussing how to adjust a particular play we’d been struggling with. Both men looked up at me expectantly.

“Hey Luke, I’m going to do some running before I head home. Need to start forming good habits again. Don’t worry about me if you guys finish, I’ll just take a cab home if you’re gone.”

Lucas nodded. “No problem. See you tomorrow, Bucky.”

“Goodnight, Coach!” Nate added, his smile wide.

I walked across the room to grab my workout bag. “Later, guys!” I hollered, waving over my shoulder as I left the office.

Once I’d changed into some shorts and sports bra, I whistled as I walked to the weight room. It was well past quitting time, with most offices empty and closed up, my remaining players straggling out of the locker room to head home for the night. As I approached the weight room, I grabbed my keys to unlock it, something Rebecca had assured me I was more than welcome to do anytime, but I found the door was already cracked open.

My eyes instinctively narrowed as I looked inside. The universe was truly cruel; a shirtless Roy Kent was on one of the two treadmills, gazing at the television on the wall above him, watching… Lust Conquers All? Jamie had mentioned the show to me, bashfully explaining that he’d been on it a few seasons back. Not what I expected to see the Greyhound’s manager watching as he jogged.

Deciding not to use my voice to alert him to my presence, I let the door close loudly behind me. Roy glanced over his shoulder, grunting when he saw me. Taking that as his way of saying he wasn’t interested in a fight, I continued into the room, heading towards the lone treadmill next to his. I quickly dropped my Whippets water bottle into the cupholder and jumped onto the treadmill, setting it to a light pace.

For a while, the only sounds in the room were our feet on the treadmills and the obnoxious voices of the Lust Conquers All contestants onscreen. Not knowing what came over me, I glanced to my left at Roy. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see that he had kept in shape post-retirement; after all, wasn’t I on the treadmill trying to do the same thing? But wow, the man looked good. My eyes couldn’t resist lingering on the thick hair covering his chest. It reminded me a bit of Sean Connery in the old James Bond movies my parents used watch; those movies had given me a great appreciation for views like the one before me. Some quiet voice in the back of my head considered that, if this man didn’t drive me crazy, I’d probably be into him.

Shaking my head to clear out the ridiculous intrusive thoughts that were quickly becoming steamy, I turned my eyes back to the screen, trying to figure out which contestant was trying to sleep with which. It was weirdly comforting to see that, even across an ocean, reality trash still remained. Over the past weeks, I had clung to anything that reminded me of home; maybe I’d have to start watching Lust Conquers All as a weird way to cope with homesickness. Lucas would surely get a kick out of that. Heck, I could probably get him to join me.

When the show went to commercial break, I felt the hair on my neck prickle, as if I were being watched. Sure enough, out of the corner of my eye, I could see Roy’s gaze on me, trailing slowly down my body as I jogged on the treadmill. A flush covered every inch of my skin where his eyes dawdled, my heart going faster than it normally did when I ran. There was something eerily familiar about the way he shook his head and looked back up at the television, as if a phone commercial was the most interesting thing in the world.

We ran in silence until the show ended. Once the trailer for the next episode began, Roy turned off his treadmill and climbed down. Our eyes met for a brief moment, the contact taking place of any cheerful “goodnights” most people would have exchanged. After he grabbed his own things, he silently placed the television remote on my treadmill, not quite looking at me.

The only other thing I heard was the sound of the door clicking closed behind him as he left.

~

“Hi Roy!”

Roy paused and turned around, hand poised to open the driver’s side door. “Keeley,” he greeted, letting his hand drop to his side.

The blonde practically skipped over to him looking particularly happy. “How’s it going?”

“Fine.” He frowned. He liked Keeley; they were friends, he’d venture to say good friends, bordering on best friends. But something glinted in her eye that made Roy uneasy. “You?”

“Great, great.” She paused a moment, swaying from side to side. “I have something really fun that I’ve been working on,” Keeley hummed.

Roy felt his antenna go up in suspicion. “Uh huh.”

Keeley’s expression was that of someone who was up to something. “And I could really use your help with it, Roy.”

There it was.

“Keeley,” he growled, raising his eyebrows at her. “Can you just tell me what you need?”

She offered Roy her best don’t-you-love-me smile, as if trying to remind him that they were friends. “A photoshoot. Featuring our fabulous Richmond coaches!”

Roy threw his head back. Keeley knew better. Roy hated this kind of shit. There was no way she’d ever ask if he wanted to- oh.

“I don’t have a fucking choice, do I?” he groaned.

Wrinkling her nose, Keeley shook her head. “D’you really think I’d ask you if you didn’t have to do it?” She shrugged. “Sorry, Roy. Rebecca’s orders. So come in tomorrow looking camera-ready, alright?”

Roy took “camera-ready” pretty loosely. He came in the next morning looking like himself, just a bit dressier: black button-down shirt, black slacks, beard, scowl. Keeley didn’t look too surprised when she saw him, just smiled and dragged him to the makeup artist. As he sat in the chair, begrudgingly letting the girl put exactly one layer of mascara on him, he coughed to get Keeley’s attention.

“Where’s Nate? Beard? Or are they pretty enough without makeup?”

“What?” Keeley looked up from her phone and shook her head. “Oh, no, they’re not doing this.” She bit her lip, the fear in her eyes telling Roy she did not want to say the next words that came out of her mouth. “It’s, er, just the managers.” Her voice became itty bitty. “So, you know, just you and Coach Bucky.”

Roy threw his head back so quickly he almost got poked in the eye with the mascara. “Fuuuuuuuuuuck,” he hissed. “So not only am I missing training, not only do I have to do a fucking photoshoot, but I have to do it with her?”

As if summoned like the demon she was, the American bounded into the office Keeley had commandeered as a staging room. Roy’s breath caught in his throat; he’d been working his ass off to get so many images out of his head: the little black dress she’d been wearing at the club, the red smirk she sported in her first press conference, the shorts she wore on the treadmill. But this had to be the fucking worst.

Not only was she wearing that red lipstick that he realized was probably her signature look at this point, but her hair was down- something he’d yet to see- and wavy and framing her face in that way Roy thought only models could accomplish. She was wearing full makeup, a natural look that accentuated her attractive features. Worse, she was wearing a fucking dress, one that hugged her curves and showed off her athletic figure. Roy hated the way his heart was pounding at the sight of her.

“Fuck you look sexy as hell!” Keeley squealed, giving the coach a once-over. “Doesn’t she look great, Roy?”

Before Roy could figure out an evasive response, laughter hit his ears.

“Oh, trust me. Coach Kent probably thinks I look like some young thing trying to trick him into dancing with me. Isn’t that right, Coach?”

Giggling, Keeley shoved the far-too-pretty manager. “Oh, leave him alone. Today’s rough enough for Roy. He doesn’t love this kind of thing.”

“Is it because vampires don’t show up on camera?”

“Oi!” Roy stood up, teeth bared. “Just because you love being the center of attention and having cameras on you and getting prickish journalists to giggle at your stupid jokes doesn’t mean everyone does. Not all of us have your fucking ego that needs to be fed constantly.”

Keeley cleared her throat. “Alright you two, why don’t we take this energy out to the pitch, hmm? Time to take some pretty pictures.”

The two managers grumbled in agreement and followed Keeley out of the room, avoiding looking at each other until they were outside. In the back of his head, Roy wondered if this was Buck’s first time on the main pitch; of course, he didn’t ask. That would require actually giving a shit.

Instead, he did his best to listen as Keeley introduced to two managers to the photographer, explaining that she and Rebecca thought these promo photos would be a great way to garner more interest in the Whippets and show the Greyhounds’ support for the women’s team, and that, if these came out well, they’d do photos of both teams as well.

“Right.” The photographer, an older man Roy had met against his will a handful of times, snapped his gum and studied the managers. “Let’s do this.”

Under Keeley’s anxious supervision, the photographer directed the two gaffers onto the grass, posing them as if they were dolls and clicking away before shifting poses, a pattern Roy knew well and hated. Roy’s stomach was in knots when the photographer instructed him to look down at the pretty, pretty coach.

“Like you admire her,” he suggested.

The American snorted. “Good luck with that one,” she mumbled.

Roy sucked in a breath through his teeth. This was already a long fucking day. This wasn’t the kind of shit he’d signed up for when he came back to Richmond after his retirement. But he reminded himself that this was for Keeley and Rebecca; he’d have to do his fucking best.

So, for once, he did as he was told. Roy knew the photographer meant admiration in a professional way, as a fellow coach. But instead, Roy let himself look at her the way he’d been avoiding since her first day at Nelson Road. He took in the sight of her unabashedly, resentfully admitting to himself that the view from up close was fucking nice when he wasn’t being screamed at.

When her eyes met his, Roy felt his brain fizz out and shut down. She was too close, too pretty, too annoying, too perfect.

“Great,” the photographer called, his camera clicking away. “Think you could get a smidge closer?”

Hating the stupid knots in his stupid stomach, Roy took a step away. “Really? Want me to hold her like we’re going to a fucking dance?” he barked.

“Roy,” Keeley warned gently, eyebrows raised.

“Just take the fucking photos, Kent,” came a grumbling voice from next to him.

Roy scoffed. “Yeah, you’d love that wouldn’t you?”

A sigh escaped those red lips. “And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

He dug himself deeper, desperate to just be done with this shit already. “Just that you must be really fucking excited to have your pretty picture taken, yeah?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That is the second time you’ve said shit like that to me today. Tell me what the fuck you mean by that.”

Their voices were rising as Keeley watched in utter frustration. She’d told Rebecca that this wasn’t the best idea. But the Amazon of a woman had insisted that the two would be able to put their issues aside for something as simple as a fucking photoshoot.

“Oi!” Keeley shook her head at the two red-faced managers. “Go to Rebecca’s office. I’m done with you two and whatever weird sexual thing you’ve got happening here.” She turned to the photographer. “I’m so sorry. Let me to grab a couple players, we can get some shots for the website or something.” She looked at the frozen coaches. “Fucking go!”

~

I’d been sent to the principal’s office plenty of times as a kid. Mostly for fighting with the boys when they refused to let me play with them, or when told me I played “like a girl” (as if it were an insult), or the time a particularly stupid classmate threw mud all over my Mia Hamm jersey and I decided to give him a bloody nose. Getting in trouble for fighting with idiots was nothing new to me.

But Rebecca Welton wasn’t going to give me a detention and call my parents.

“I am not losing this job because of you,” I informed Roy as we trudged through the hallways. “I was just trying to get things over with. But oh no, you with your fucking comments about me and pictures.” I shook my head. “It’s part of the job, Kent. You might not know this, what with playing for fucking Chelsea, but publicity matters for a new club. Especially a women’s club.”I stopped and faced Roy, who mirrored my pause. “So yeah, I had more to gain from that shoot than you did. But don’t you dare fucking judge me for that. You will never understand-”

“Oi!” Rebecca’s presence filled the hallway. “Lovebirds. In my office, now.”

Hoping Roy felt as childish as I did, I looked down as I walked into Rebecca’s office. She towered over her desk and pointed silently to the chairs, ordering us to sit down without a word. We did as we were told, both of us looking defeated with our shoulders slumped and heads down.

Roy tried first. “Rebecca, I-”

“Nope.” Rebecca crossed her arms, staring firmly at the two of us.

My turn. “We are so sor-”

Rebecca shook her head. “Don’t want to hear that either.” She rubbed her temples gingerly. “I don’t want to hear sorry, or it’s not my fault, or we’ll be better, or any of it.” She sighed. “I knew it would be an adjustment, starting a new team and having to share the Dog Track, but what the actual fuck, you two?” She threw her arms in the air. “What? Do we need to throw you in a boxing ring? Or get you a fucking hotel room?” She pointed at me. “You are a fucking Olympic champion. You think Mia fucking Hamm acts like this? You think this is what I hired you for? To set this example to the team and all the little girls who’ll be watching you?” She turned on Roy. “And you? Jesus Christ, Roy. I am trusting you with the most important thing in my life, with my family.” Her voice cracked. “Do not make me lose another manager,” she whispered.

Roy and I exchanged shamed glances, neither of us sure what to say.

Rebecca went on. “You are both incredible coaches. I see you on that pitch. When you’re not biting each other’s heads off, you’re doing great things with your teams. Your assistant coaches adore you when they’re not having to manage whatever-” She gestured between us in exasperation. “-this is. And I really think both of our teams can have a successful season, if we can get the two of you focused.”

We both nodded earnestly; fuck, I’d marry Roy Kent if it meant making Rebecca happy.

“So, pack your bags, make sure your pets are fed, because next weekend we are all going on a team-building retreat. Whippets and Greyhounds, first annual weekend of figuring out how to fucking get along and act like adults.”

There was panic in Roy Kent’s eyes as he leaned forward. “Rebecca, we are this fucking close to the start of the season, if we’re going to win our first match-”

Rebecca raised a cool eyebrow at him. “Roy Kent, you full well this team’s philosophy about where winning lands on our list of priorities.” Roy sat back, grumbling something about Ronald McDonald. “Your teams will have opportunities to train while we’re there. I do like having a winning team, after all,” she added quickly. Rebecca raised an eyebrow, waiting for us to protest some more. “Any more questions?”

We both shook our heads like obedient children.

“Right. I’ll have Higgins send you the details and you can let your teams know.” She put on a mocking smile. “It’ll be a grand old time. You, me, the teams, the woods, and conflict-resolution training.”

“I don’t think the Greyhounds and Whippets need much of that,” I found myself saying. “They get along great.”

Rebecca’s tight grin remained. “Oh, I know. I’m hoping the two of you can learn something from them.” She gestured towards the door. “Off with you then.”

Dismissed, Roy and I stood and made our way out the door, away from Rebecca’s scrutinizing gaze. Once we were far enough away that Rebecca wouldn’t hear us, we looked at each other, all anger gone for once.

“Going to be a miserable fucking weekend,” Roy mumbled.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.”

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[runwayrunway]

Miss Conenginality: Short SC.7 Skyvan

When researching for my post about the ancestors of British Airways I learned a lot I hadn't known before. Most of this was about logos and liveries, but some of it involved British European Airways' varied and eclectic fleet. One of the planes I hadn't known they operated is a plane that I adore for being, simply put, shaped.

image: Hugh W. Cowin Aviation Collection

The website I took this image of an SC.7 in BEA's 'Speedjack' livery from described it as having a 'sleek design and powerful engines'. While its turboprop engines are indeed pretty powerful for a plane of this size, 'sleek' is surely not a word I would use to describe a plane colloquially known as the 'flying shoebox'.

This...creature, which consistently gets an emphatic 'no way that's a real airplane' when I show it to people, flew for BEA's Scottish division. Red wings and all...I guess this is the shoebox they kept the Louboutins in.

The Skyvan, which with a height of 4.6 meters and length of 12.21 meters is one third as tall as it is long, is the brainchild of Shorts Brothers, best known for their pre-1950s flying boat designs. This may explain why the bottom half looks a bit like a DUKW.

This is the same thing. Unfortunately there was an accident involving a failed ditching of a Shorts 360, a stretched derivative of the Skyvan, suggesting they are not particularly seaworthy, but to be fair DUKWs aren't either.

149 of these delightfully pointy-nosed voxel-based planes were built between 1963 and 1986, seeing both civil and military use carrying cargo or up to 19 passengers. These days they're mostly used for skydiving, with around 35 still in service.

I have seen nothing at all to suggest that these aren't good planes. If you want a sturdy cargo or skydiving plane to use from short, poorly paved runways this may be a good choice for you. She's doing hard work, and I respect that. But...like, this is genuinely among the goofiest planes out there.

Shorts did make two stretched versions, the 330 and 360 (plus military derivatives of these), which were meant as regional airliners. These planes are also immensely goofy but just don't compare to the flying shoebox. They have actual elongated noses rather than a little flat nubbin with a cone stuck on the end, and they are far curvier, almost resembling an actual airplane. The 360 even has a relatively normal-looking empennage instead of the twin fins. These are still very silly but far easier to take seriously.

This is a square with rectangles attached, and it flies somehow. This is very silly, and I love her.

[gabessquishytum]

Morpheus isn't even the one getting married! He rochambeau'ed with Tel, lost, and now has to be the one to "help" Desire plan their wedding (a wedding that has to be mostly "appropriate" according to Dream's parents.)

And Morpheus even loves Desire enough to want to help (kinda), but trying to "class" up or tone down Desire's natural inclination to be extra, dramatic,,,, and mostly (what is conventionally understood) as slutty "looking" (No Judgment!) on a good day is not really in Dream's wheelhouse. And honestly, Desire should have the wedding they want,,, regardless of whether they go through with their threat to put Dream in a pink 80's inspired bridesmaid dress (https://tinyurl.com/Heee-Haha). Don't tell Desire, but Dream thinks it's super sweet that Desire has a wedding dream book from like when they were 12. That they take with them to meetings with the wedding planner.

In any event, they did hire a wedding planner who had a good reputation for they type of high society weddings that their parents would be less sour to attend......that team sucked! And wouldn't listen to what Desire wanted even a little -- after the 2nd meeting, Dream fired them outright -- they made Desire cry in the car while leaving the meeting. 🤬

Dream knew they still needed a wedding planning team, so he asked Joanna (*sigh* don't ask) if she knew of a more progressive, but classy wedding planner; Joanna did have a suggestion, but she wasn't sure if it was fancy enough team for the Endless family.

Gadling Golden Events worked out of a shipping container, and Dream was a little concerned that he and Desire would get mugged either on the way in or out. But the owner, Hob Gadling was lovely! He was kind (he carefully handled Desire's wish book) and funny (when he got to the picture of the pink 20 year old bridesmaid dress, and asked it this was what was picked out for Dream, his face told a tale.) It didn't hurt that he was handsome in a way that made Dream blush.

Hob and his team were fantastic in translating 12 year old Desire's dreams in a modern way and helped move Desire away from more emphatic dresses (https://tinyurl.com/ChainmailShorts; https://tinyurl.com/HaremChainmail) to their beautiful final choice (https://tinyurl.com/DesireCeremony). And kept Dream out of pink (https://tinyurl.com/TastefulSheer).

Working so closely with Hob was nice (*sigh*), but Dream didn't know how he could contrive a way to see Hob again, with the wedding over. Hob was rightfully focused on Desire during planning, so Dream wasn't even sure (really) if Hob liked him back. But once Desire left the reception for their honeymoon, Hob took Dream's hand, asked Dream to dance and hasn't let go yet.......

Yes!!!!!!!! More wedding planner Hob!!!!!!!!!!

And you just know that Hob would be so classy about not making a move until Desire has departed from the venue. They were very clear throughout the whole process that they just want this one day to be about them, no distractions, and Hob is very firm about respecting that. But with Desire gone, many of the guests leaving, and the venue staff starting to clean up... the DJ is still there, so there's time for one slow dance.

Hob pulls Dream close and takes most of his weight, and whispers all the things that he's admired about him for the last weeks and months of planning. How Dream is so protective but doesn't let Desire get away with any shit. How beautiful he looks in his wedding outfit. How Hob has spent hours fantasising his own wedding mood boards for a fairytale wedding with Dream... maybe he's coming on a little bit strong, but Dream looks absolutely thrilled. Finally he can be absolutely sure that Hob does like him!

They keep quiet about their blossoming romance, but when Desire comes back from their honeymoon and strolls right into Dream’s flat without knocking... the cat is pretty much out of the bag. Hob can only apologise for being naked apart from Dream’s way too small briefs. In fairness, they weren't expecting visitors!

But Desire is pretty happy tbh. They just demand that Dream doesn't break their favourite wedding planner's heart <3 they totally want to hire him if they ever have a second one! 😁

[fierceawakening]

So this post is going to be a bit rough and rambly but… I don’t know how we put this genie back in the box.

Do any of you remember when I’d freshly left the abusive relationship I was in and I read VORACIOUSLY, trying to figure out how I’d been taken in by such an awful person? (I vividly remember telling my dad about her saying I’m sure I’m gay because on my previous relationships with men I never thought I was in love, but this was so intense… well. I still wasn’t sure but I wondered if it might be.)

I read stuff like Why Does He Do That? and I Hate You, Don’t Leave Me. I also read things like The Sociopath Next Door and one of Hare’s books on psychopathy. I’m pretty sure my ex just had BPD, and I hasten to say even there that I have known many other people with BPD who I emphatically don’t think would treat me the way she did. I was trying to make sense of her, not trying to condemn anyone with a label I don’t have. (There are prosocial psychopaths, too.)

Mostly I was trying to make sense of her lack of remorse. She presented it as sexy and exciting—oh no, I don’t ever worry about taking kink too far, I don’t care what people think of me, I never give someone who wronged me a second chance.

I now see these as huge red flags and worried about them even then, but I tend to be someone who obsesses over whether I’m giving people a fair shake, so the idea of getting with her sounded like a fun vacation from scrupulosity.

It was actually “surely the leopard won’t eat MY face,” but I didn’t see it then.

Anyway. Around that time I got into a lot of arguments with people here who felt that putting too much stock into those books was inherently ableist.

The things the books said about lack of empathy, about how someone who lacks empathy treats even close loved ones as objects of use and not as full people, resonated with how I’d been treated by someone who professed to care about me. But it ruffled HARD the feathers of people for whom “lacking empathy” just means “beepy boopy, but not uncaring.” I have no solution to this—I think they’re two different phenomena that unfortunately have the same name (on tumblr. Not sure they do offline.)

Any double way. One thing I kept coming across in that research was the specter of the sociopathic leader. A charismatic public figure who charms a whole community or nation, and once they do that, rule with an iron fist.

The appeal was eerily similar to why I’d latched on to such a gross girlfriend. “Don’t you ever just want to go ape shitt,” basically. What if you don’t have to care? What if you get to put yourself, your family, your tribe, America First?

Doesn’t that take a load off your mind?

Those weird leftists who don’t understand God or gender or American exceptionalism… what if you don’t have to understand them anyway?

What if all you have to do is win?

My books said THAT is why we should continue to think of sociopathy as bad and people who have it as predators. Not because human rights stop mattering if someone isn’t neurotypical but because the attitude is infectious.

A person who thinks that way by default, if they’re charismatic (and many are), can EASILY get someone who doesn’t think that way to start wondering why they bother with perspective taking and empathy and remorse anyway.

Dehumanization is a virus, and people like that are carriers. The more power they have in a society, the more virulent the strain.

Do most people eventually snap out of it? I mean I’d better think so, my sister in law is German.

But how long does it take?

That I don’t know. And that’s what makes me think Trump might win.

And why I continue to think fighting ableism is important but ALSO to think acting like empathy is superfluous is playing with fire.

[gumnut-logic]

Lego Volcano (Part 4)

Alexander Sweetapple series | Lego Volcano - Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Here is the next bit. I apologise for the chaos that is Alex's brain. Unfortunately, I think he inherited it from me.

This one was sparked by @idontknowreallywhy, @sofasurf, @womble1 and @sailing-on-a-puddle and other wonderful Thunderfam peeps.

Many thanks to the amazing @onereyofstarlight who read through this one and helped me tweak things. Sorry I am so mean to da bois.

This fic is m/m romance fluff with a dash of h/c and sickfic. If that isn't your thing, this isn't your fic.

This is definitely turning out to be bigger than expected, now at 6500+ words with plenty more to go.

I hope you enjoy it.

-o-o-o-

Alex was awake.

Since it was barely 4am, this was annoying.

Beside him, the slightly too warm mass of Virgil was breathing noisily but slightly better than he had been earlier.

Gordon was right. This bug, whatever it was, had hit Virgil hard. The engineer, however, routinely tried to rise above it, attempt his usual activities and then fall on his face.

It was irrational and Alex could clearly see why their grandmother was so often exasperated with them if this was the norm.

Over the last three days, Alex had made it his sole purpose to keep Virgil distracted and cared for as much as possible.

He may have resorted to using their grandmother as a threat at least once. Mostly because of his own exasperation.

“Virgil, you’re sick. Slow down.”

“Two needs her checks before she can go out again.” The man was throwing on clothes and while Alex was definitely admiring the scenery, five minutes earlier Virgil had been sleeping.

But even through the soundproofing of the villa, he was able to hear his Thunderbird return from its latest mission.

Virgil hated being left behind. That much was so obvious.

“I’m sure Gordon is quite capa-“

“Gordon?” It was said with both offence and love at the same time. He shoved on his jeans.

“Brains then.” Alex had met Brains once and…wow, he lived up to his name. How had Alex ever had a chance with a genius engineer like that on the Island? But it was clear Virgil and Hiram were only very good friends.

The Island was full of geniuses and just slightly terrifying.

But at least the mention of Brains had Virgil pausing.

Alex took the opportunity and slid off the bed. He came up behind his frustrating hero and wrapped his arms around him. “C’mon, love, stay with me and rest.”

“You could come down to the hangars with me.”

“And be castrated when your grandmother discovers I colluded with you?”

That did it. Virgil’s shoulders dropped and he relaxed just a little back into Alex’s embrace.

Alex planted a kiss just below his ear. “Brains can do the maintenance. Stay here with me.”

Ultimately, he had been successful in keeping Virgil out of the hangars, but he could clearly see why Gordon had thought it necessary to haul in Alex.

Sometimes the hero needed reining in.

Alex brushed a kiss into sleeping Virgil’s hair and quietly slipped out of bed.

If he was honest, he wasn’t used to getting this much sleep himself, so being unable to sleep at 4am was no surprise.

Erica would laugh at him, so much.

She certainly had enough words to say about Alex working from Tracy Island yesterday. Just because he felt bad for leaving Erica on the lurch to go save his boyfriend from himself was apparently not enough excuse to log into his workplace when said boyfriend was ill.

Erica had been very emphatic about that. To the point of kicking him off the server, claiming he didn’t trust her with their work, and to damn well go look after Virgil.

Virgil, at that point, was absolutely fine apart from the convulsions of laughter he was struggling with beside Alex on the couch.

Of course, laughter led to a coughing fit, so Alex did end up signing out rather quickly. But despite grabbing water for the man he loved, said man still managed to rib him about it for the next hour.

So Alex had a work ethic. Virgil certainly couldn’t talk.

Alex sighed just a little as he threw on Virgil’s spare dressing gown.

Every time he landed on Tracy Island, Alex ended up stealing clothes. Usually Virgil’s, but there had been some obvious additions to Virgil’s wardrobe that Alex doubted had ever fit the well-muscled and shorter man.

It was just another thing to love about him.

And a possible reason why Alex hadn’t moved anything here but the basics.

He slipped out of Virgil’s rooms with the intention of maybe hiding for a little in the guest quarters that were his officially allocated space when on the Island. He did spend a lot of time in Virgil’s rooms, however, and was seeing less and less of being a guest.

It was still dark, starlight shining through the rafters of the residential block. He padded down the hallway only to encounter the glass that led out onto the residential balcony. The doors were closed, but the vista was enough to take his breath away.

Starlight gave the Island shape and glittered on the ripples in the lagoon. Despite having visited here multiple times, Tracy Island still held magic for him.

His mum wasn’t wrong when she said he had looked for this island so many times.

Considering who lived here…

He swallowed, as always, completely blown away that Virgil loved him and the events of the last couple of years had even happened.

He shook himself. It was too early in the morning to be thinking straight. Or maybe he had had too much sleep over the last three days. That was probably it. His brain was in shock.

Erica cracked up laughing in the back of his head.

Yep, losing it.

He turned away from the vista and headed down the stairs to the comms room. At least there he wasn’t going to disturb anyone.

The villa was a maze that he was slowly becoming familiar with. He was pretty sure he wasn’t aware of all of it. There were gaps in the structure, places he couldn’t account for in his growing mental map. But this was Tracy Island and it needed its little mysteries.

He slipped into the comms room on bare feet and found the glass doors open with the tropical breeze wafting through.

Wow, the scents, the sounds, bloody amazing place.

He eyed the mound that outlined Lego Tracy Island, still in the process of being rebuilt and made sure to give it a wide berth.

“Alex?”

He jumped.

How had he not seen Mr…Scott sitting there? The man was at his desk, the hologram in front of him lighting up his face like someone about to tell a horror story around a campfire.

A blue campfire…must be odd chemicals in the wood…but-

Focus.

“Mr Tracy?”

“What are you doing up? Is Virgil okay?” His eyes caught that blue holographic light and lasered it at Alex as he moved to get up.

Alex held up his hands and hurried over. “No, he’s fine. He’s sleeping.”

Scott sat back in his chair. “That’s good to hear.”

Alex let his hands drop, ever so aware of those eyes gauging everything about him. Mr…Scott had been so kind to him since Virgil declared his intentions.

Intentions.

Virgil’s intentions…he wanted to bounce on the spot.

Scott cleared his throat and Alex jumped.

Just a little.

God, he was hopeless.

“He listens to you.” There was something in those eyes. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”

“He’s sick. Of course, I came.”

Mr…Scott looked away, back to whatever he was working on. “Thank you, anyway.”

It was a dismissal. Alex frowned. “What are you doing up this early?”

“Things to do.” And Mr Tracy was doing something. Numbers flashed across the hologram as he shunted something aside. He looked up at Alex again. “You?”

“Uh, just stretching my legs.” Those eyes weren’t tearing into his chest, ripping out his soul, and dissecting it for answers. No, not at all.

The eye of Sauron had nothing on this.

But then blue was on the high energy end of the spectrum and Scott did have two eyes.

Did that mean Sauron had poor depth perception?

Probably how two hobbits made it into Mordor without him noticing.

One eyed and all.

“Alex?”

Those eyes wanted answers.

“Uh, yeah, you have a great view.” He gestured towards the balcony.

Those eyes followed his gesture.

“We do.” Mr…Scott stood up slowly and walked towards Alex, momentarily disappearing into shadow as he moved away from the hologram, only to appear beside Alex at the doors to the balcony.

Alex did his best not to bolt entirely.

He muted it down to a small step sideways.

He was being stupid and he knew it. Scott was Virgil’s brother. Scott held all the values Virgil held. Scott could be a goofball; Alex had seen him with his brothers many times now. The man was commanding kindness itself.

But Scott was Mr Tracy. Even now when Mr Jeff Tracy had returned and made his space in the family. Scott was THE Mr Tracy. He was someone Alex had admired and looked up to for a good percentage of his life. The man’s values and charisma infected all of those around him. He had power in a mere glance.

Eyes of bloody Sauron.

And maybe Erica was right when she said Alex shouldn’t make any decisions between one and five in the morning.

A heavy, warm hand landed on Alex’s shoulder and he tried not to flinch.

“I meant it, Alex. I’m very grateful you are here for Virgil.”

“Um, yeah, me, too.” Get it together, Alex, for goodness sake.

Mr Scott turned to look towards the sky and all the stars. So many stars with the lack of light pollution. Bloody amazing.

Magical even.

“I worried about him, you know. All of them really. We live like monks out here. Day in, day out, saving so many lives, but not living our own.”

What?

Mr Scott let out a breath. “It is so easy to get caught in doing what is right…for everyone else.” He turned to look at Alex and his eyes glistened in the starlight. “I’m so glad he found you.”

Umm…

He looked away again. “Virgil has been so happy these past months. You’ve brought so much joy into this house.”

Uh…

The hand on his shoulder gripped tight as those eyes turned back to Alex and pinned him where he stood. “So, when I say thank you, I mean it.”

Alex stared at him. This was a side of Mr Scott he had not seen. He knew he cared for his family pretty damned intensely. He’d heard International Rescue working over comms those few times he had been on Tracy Island during an incident.

Incidents happened a lot. The Tracys worked themselves to the bone.

Maybe Scott was just tired. Alex had seen Virgil tired enough. The man had fallen into his arms more than once with exhaustion, curling up in Alex’s bed, sometimes fully dressed.

Alex could understand the obsession with work. Especially since the Tracys’ work involved lives. So many lives. It was one of the reasons why he had come without Gordon asking. Virgil was as obsessed as any of them and if Alex thought too hard it led in the direction of Virgil one day sacrificing his life for a stranger and Alex’s brain just did not want to go there.

But Mr Scott…

“Are you okay?” It fell out of his mouth without thought.

The hand on his shoulder disappeared and Mr Tracy straightened. “I’m fine, Alex.” He stared out towards the caldera every bit the starlit hero.

But his eyes were still glistening.

Alex reached out and touched his arm. Heat seeped through the thin fabric of Scott’s shirt.

Far too much heat.

“Mr Tracy?!”

Those eyes turned to him again, emotion in their depths. “Promise me you’ll look after him.”

“I-“ But Alex was grabbing the man as he suddenly wavered on his feet.

Heat radiated off him. What the-? “Mr Tracy?!”

“I’m f-ine.” But it was little more than breath as Scott’s focus faltered.

And those gloriously powerful eyes rolled up in his head.

Alex struggled to catch him as he fell.

His knees hit the wooden floor hard and his foot collided with something that clinked and broke into pieces.

A vague neuron in Alex’s head acknowledged the objects scattering around and jabbing him were probably Lego, but Scott’s head was lolling onto his shoulder as his limbs splayed everywhere, and-

“Mr Tracy?! Scott?!”

No response.

Those eyes remained shut.

“John!” He yelled at the top of his voice, knowing somewhere someone would hear him. “Thunderbird Five!”

“HELP!!”

-o-o-o-

TBC

[ladytauria]

AAAAAAAAAHHHHHH “Let me ride you.” for... jaycass :"O

ahhh thank you so much for the prompt <3

so, initially i wasn't sure what to do for this one, but then yesterday, i read a post from @deepwithintheabyss, and, uh. well. later that night i wrote the first 300 words for this <3

it ended up being jaytimcass instead of just jaycass, and uhhh. somehow it spiraled into a little over 4k of... pure smut. featuring: established jaytim with dom tim and sub jay having a threesome with dom cass <3

oh, and a tiny bit of incest, because in one line tim does call cass his sister<3

same day edit: some rephrasing, sentence restructures, and some clarifications added in certain spots. nothing major has changed, though, so if you've read it already you don't need to reread <3

>> AO3 <<

Tim and Cass (and to a lesser extent, Steph) share everything. That’s just a fact. Clothes, safe houses, gear, food, showers, toothbrushes—

—and sexual partners.

Albeit, Jason’s more than that to Tim. Tim loves him, wholeheartedly, which—everything he’s ever seen and read says that should mean he wants to keep Jason all to himself.

And he does. Mostly. With one little exception.

Tim loves him, adores him, and that means… he wants desperately to share him with Cass. Not all the time, or even frequently, but. She’s such a part of him that it feels only natural for her to share in this too, even if it’s only once.

Which is the only reason he brings it up to Jason at all.

Jason’s response is a quick and emphatic no. Tim doesn’t pout or plead—he takes the rejection gracefully, kissing his cheek and reassuring him that no is a complete sentence, and if he’s not comfortable, that’s okay. Tim still loves him, he’s not upset.(Maybe, privately, a bit disappointed, but he knows better than to say that.)

He’s pretty sure that’s the end of it.

Until Jason brings it up again, later. The image, the thought, hasn’t left his mind, and… tentatively, he’s willing to try it. 

Which brings them to now. Here. In Tim’s bedroom, the lights low, the three of them stripped to their underwear. Cass hangs back for now, perched to the side, watching.

Tim straddles Jason’s thighs. It splays his legs wide open, the kind of stretch that might burn a little if he wasn’t as flexible as he is. He’s got both hands buried in Jason’s hair, tipping his head back so he can kiss him hard and deep—fucking his mouth with his tongue.

Jason moans under him, hands resting on Tim’s hips. Spit smears around their mouths, dripping down their chins. It’s wet and messy and good, especially with how lax Jason’s mouth is. If Tim’s own tongue wasn’t in the way, he’s sure Jason’s would be hanging out like a dog.

God.

He’s so good. Part of Tim wants to glance over at Cass, ask with his eyes, Do you see this? Do you see how beautiful he is for me? But he doesn’t, because right now, this is about Jason.

About getting him comfortable and aroused and ready for Cass to join them.

He plunges his tongue as far in Jason’s mouth as it’ll go, straining his frenulum  in the process. It’s worth it for the noise Jason makes; for the flex of Jason hands on his hips. Fuck. Tim loves how strong he is, how easily he could manhandle him if he really wanted to.

How he doesn’t, because he wants Tim to manhandle him instead. (And Tim does, and can, because he may be small, but he’s strong.) He wants to be good. And that—

It’s heady.

He tugs Jason’s hair with one hand, drawing a delicious noise from him. His other hand slips down, gliding over Jason’s neck, shoulder, to grip at his bicep. The muscle is pliant under his hands; squishing easily when he kneads at it. Under the fat and lose muscle, though… Solid as rock. That makes Tim moan, licking into Jason’s mouth one more time before pulling back.

The lack of air is making him dizzy.

Jason, too, he thinks, judging by the way he blinks blearily at Tim, sucking in a deep lungful of air like he’d forgotten he was supposed to be breathing. It’s cute. Cuter still is the high noise Jason makes when Tim attacks his neck with lips and teeth and tongue. He refreshes old, faded markings before moving down, down.

He slides his other hand from Jason’s hair now—down his neck, over his shoulder and down to his collarbone, where it’s joined by the other. He cups Jason’s pecs in his hands. They fit in his palms almost like tits, fat and relaxed muscle plush and soft as he kneads with his fingers.

Jason’s moan is high and sweet.

It gets higher, sweeter, when Tim wraps his mouth around a nipple.

He usually likes to start slow. Soft. But he knows Cass’s mood tonight is neither of those things. Patient as she’s being, there’s an antsiness in her. Tim had offered to reschedule, but…

He’d known by the look in her eye what his sister wanted. He also knew that Jason was more than capable of rising to the occasion, regardless of how Tim chose to prep him. Still. Tim was going to get him used to it now, starting by sucking hard on his nipple… and following that with a scrape of his teeth.

Jason shudders, his skin pebbling with bumps, a sweet little whimper in his voice.

He hears Cass shift. Chances a quick glance over at her, and nearly smiles at what he sees, the way her gaze has gotten more intense. More interested. He can’t blame her. Jason really does make such lovely sounds.

It motivates Tim to draw more from him. He plays with Jason’s nipples until the man is shying under his touch—then, he leaves a ring of bruises around his pecs, loving the way he squirms.

Tim can feel Jason’s hips working. Small, minute shifts, seeking friction. His cock strains at his briefs—tight, black, with a little bit of red lace trim. Tim presses the heel of his palm against it, letting Jason grind on it.

It makes him pant, open mouthed, body trembling with each breath. When Tim takes his hand away, he whimpers again, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. A glossy sheen of tears coats them, starting to gather in the corners.

Adorable.

Tim kisses his nose, and shoves at his shoulders. Jason goes, falling back into the bed willingly. He looks up at Tim with the sweetest expression—needy and wanting and so so adoring. Tim loves him.

Jason lifts his hips obediently when Tim hooks his fingers in the waistband of his briefs. They look so good on him it’s almost a shame to take them off, but. Tim knows for a fact what’s underneath is far prettier. He tugs them down his legs and tosses them toward the hamper.

Tim skims his fingers up the underside of Jason’s cock, watching the way he shudders; bumps pebbling on his skin. The flesh of him is hot under Tim’s fingers—precome saturates the head, drooling down the shaft. Tim swipes his finger through it, and sticks it in his mouth, ignoring the needy whimper Jason makes, instead humming, pleased, at the feeling of salt on his tongue.

“Grip the headboard, Jay— Good boy. Knees up for me, yes, just like that, that’s beautiful.” Tim reaches—Cass hands him the pillow he was looking for, and he thanks her with a brief smile. Jason blinks at her, like he’d forgotten she was here—and then smiles, shyly.

Cass smiles back, ghosting her fingers over the underside of his thigh. Jason shivers, arms twitching. Before Tim can ask, he’s raising his hips, letting Tim slip the pillow under them.

Cass hands him the lube next.

Tim cups Jason’s balls. Lifts them to expose his perineum, and drizzles lube over it, letting it dribble down to Jason’s hole. Jason flinches, keens. The headboard creaks under his grip, his hands twisting around it.

He stays where he was put, though, even as tears trickle down his temples. Cass hums, pressing up against Tim’s back, stroking over Jason’s calf as she hooks her chin over Tim’s shoulder.

Tim rolls his balls in his palm in reward—Jason shudders, head tipping back with a soft moan. Then Tim lets them go so he can slick up two of his fingers. He circles them around Jason’s rim, massaging the muscle. The muscles in Jason’s thighs twitch as they quiver. His belly jumps.

Tim pushes in with his index finger; just to the first knuckle. He keeps rubbing his rim with forefinger, biting back a smile as Jason fights to stay still. His cock drools, dripping onto his abdomen. Cass pets over Tim’s belly, humming as she watches. Her other hand is still tracing patterns over Jason’s calf.

He pushes in to the second knuckle, rubbing at Jason’s walls. Jason is hot around him, his passage silken. He pumps his finger once, twice—then withdraws. Jason whimpers, though it cuts off sharply when Tim plunges back in with both fingers, to the second knuckle. Jason clenches around him, wiggling his hips, a needy, plaintive sound in his throat.

Tim works his fingers, quickly working his fingers in to the third knuckle. Jason’s passage spasms around him, as if he can milk his fingers.

“Needy,” Cass says. 

Tim hums in agreement, and Jason whines, pouting at them both. The pout drops off his face when Tim crooks his fingers, rubbing over his prostate. Jason’s lashes flutter, mouth open in an O, more tears rolling down his face as he whimpers. His hips twitch a little, like he can ride Tim’s fingers.

The angle’s not good enough, though, and he’s forced to simply take what Tim gives him.

When Tim adds a third finger, Jason keens again, bucking, hands straining against the headboard. He can feel Cass’s breathing deepen, feel the way her hand presses down on his belly, the way she presses closer against his back.

“Taking me so well,” Tim croons as he stretches Jason open. He tears his eyes away from Jason’s face to watch his hole, the way it swallows Tim’s fingers. Such a pretty sight. He hums to himself.

Tim keeps teasing him, massaging his prostate, stretching his walls, until Jason is sniffling, crying, sweet, desperate sounds falling from his mouth. Then, Tim takes pity. Cass slicks up the plug Tim had set out, passing it to him when it’s ready. Tim withdraws his fingers. Jason doesn’t even have time to whine before Tim is rubbing the base of the plug against his hole.

It’s a little thicker than even three of Tim’s fingers—he watches Jason’s hole stretch to accommodate it, enjoys the way he strains, arching up off the bed, sweet little cries leaving him.

Tim rocks it until he’s sure it’s nestled right against his prostate. Then he pats Jason’s thigh. “Good boy,” he praises.

Jason sniffles at him, widening his eyes, pleading silently.

Cass laughs sweetly in Tim’s ear.

“Not yet." His cock throbs at the way Jason’s face drops. He holds his hand out automatically, accepting the final toy from Cass—a cock ring.

Jason whimpers at the sight of it, but he doesn’t put up a fuss when Tim works it over him, fixing it to the base of Jason's cock. He kisses the tip, precome smearing on his lips, and pets Jason’s flanks.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he says. “You just relax for me. Deep breaths—just like that, very good. Keep your hands on the headboard for me.” He cards his fingers through the hair on Jason’s belly a few times, watching as Jason does what he’s told, eyes fluttering shut.

When some of the tension has eased from his shoulders, Tim moves, sliding up to sit next to Jason’s head, leaning back against the headboard. Cass crawls after him, her movements graceful and languid like a predator. Jason, eyes open again, watches her with wide eyes. She straddles Tim’s thighs and twins her arms around his neck, toying with the short hairs at his nape, making him shiver minutely. Tim cups her hips, stroking his thumbs over the v leading to her groin.

“Hi,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” she echoes, mouth twitching. The light in her eyes is dancing with amusement and anticipation. Tim tips his head back as Cass kisses him; mouths moving in perfect sync, tongues slipping and sliding together wetly, neither of them taking more from the other than they’re given. Push and pull—back and forth. A dance Tim thinks both of them were born knowing the steps to.

The headboard creaks. Jason whines pleadingly.

They ignore him.

Tim’s hands smooth up Cass’s rib cage, counting each bone under her skin before palming her breasts. He knows Cass doesn’t usually wear a bra—that the lacy thing cupping them is for their benefit alone. He plays with her nipples through the fabric, enjoying the way she rolls her hips against him in return.

When she nips his tongue, he goes for the band, unhooking it with practiced ease. Cass shrugs it off, tossing it carelessly over her shoulder.

The headboard creaks again as Jason makes a soft, plaintive sound. Tim smiles into Cass’s mouth before she breaks the kiss. This time, it’s her turn. She pays only a little attention to his chest—pinching his nipples until he squirms. Then she focuses on other things, spaces of his body that Tim had never known were sensitive until she found them. His side, his stomach, even spots on his back. Cass works them all while Tim holds onto her hips and moans.

It drives Jason crazy beside them. Tim can hear him squirming. Hear the sweet, needy sounds he makes. Can picture the way tears fall on his cheeks. It would be so easy for him to look over, to see it for himself, but.

Ignoring him while they put on a show will drive him that much crazier. And Tim loves to drive Jason crazy.

Tim’s turn again. He kisses Cass’s neck, using far less teeth than he had on Jason and leaving no marks. His hands roam her body, mapping out the places that make her squirm, make her breathing hitch, make her even moan. It’s always a treat, getting a sound from Cass. She’s so silent. (Tim likes that too, though: reading her pleasure from breath and expression alone.)

They don’t stop until both of them are leaking through their underwear; damp spots where their arousal pools the thickest.

Tim discards his—Cass does the same above him, both of them tossing them carelessly. He turns to Jason again, finally, finding him watching them. He’s just as Tim pictured; face rosy red, tears glistening in his eyes and on his cheeks, hands twisting around the headboard, grip white-knuckled. A pearly pool of precome glitters on his stomach.

Tim strokes his cheek with his knuckles, stopping to cup his jaw, thumb catching over his full bottom lip. Jason’s lips wrap around the tip, suckling., looking up at Tim with wide, pleading eyes.

Tim smiles at him. “Good boy,” he praises. “Being so patient, keeping your hands where I told you… Do you think you can keep being good for me?”

Jason nods, immediately, curls falling into his eyes.

Tim brushes them back to plant a kiss on his forehead. “Of course you can,” he croons. He takes a condom off the bedside table, sitting up. He works his hand over Jason’s cock, gentle, making sure it’s thoroughly coated in pre before he rolls it on. He can hear the way Jason’s breath hitches in anticipation. “You’re gonna stay nice and still, and let her ride you, aren’t you?”

Jason’s breath hitches, and he nods again; quick, sharp jerks. “Yes. Please. Pleasepleaseplease.”

Tim strokes his face, fingertips skimming over his jaw. He looks over at Cass, nodding, giving her the go ahead.

She’s all languid limbs when she climbs over Jason, settling onto his thighs. Tim lies on his side, ignoring his own erection in favor of propping his head up with one hand, and trailing the other over Jason’s chest, twirling his fingertips through the wiry curls.

Cass wraps her hand around Jason’s cock—looking pale and small against his cock. The contrast makes his fingers itch for a camera. She rubs the tip through her folds, eyes heavy-lidded, mouth parted.

The headboard jerks under Jason’s grip, knocking against the wall. Tim kisses his jaw. Cass teases Jason for a moment more—Tim can see her eyes glittering under her lashes, the twitch at her mouth that shows just how much she’s enjoying the sounds Jason makes.

And then…

Cass slams down, taking Jason to the root with a single thrust.

He shouts—Tim is half worried the headboard is going to snap under his hands. It doesn’t. Instead, it slams back against the wall again; a loud sound that makes him glad he doesn’t have neighbors. Jason’s chest heaves, his arms shake.

Cass sets a hard, brutal pace. Tim can barely hear her soft grunts under Jason’s cries. She switches back and forth between riding him and grinding on him, rubbing her clit against him. Fat tears roll down Jason’s face; his skin is flushed from head to chest. His tongue lolls out of his mouth—Tim can’t resist plunging two fingers between his lips.

He’s rewarded by Jason sucking; cheeks hollowing, swallowing around them. Tim pets his tongue idly, turning back to watch Cass.

He can tell the moment she comes—clamping tight around Jason’s cock, her movements stilling. Jason lets out a strangled cry, teeth grazing over Tim's skin. Cass's head tips back, chest thrust forward. She still looks so composed; only a slight flush on her skin; the barest sheen of sweat.

She isn't still for long. Bending backwards, reaching for the remote at the foot of the bed. Jason’s brow furrows in confusion at the sight of it—until she presses the button, and the plug in his ass buzzes to life. Jason’s breath hitches. He whines needily around Tim’s fingers. He pumps them, fucking Jason’s mouth properly, watching the way his eyelids droop. He pants, breath hot and humid.

Tim brushes his mouth against Jason’s ear. “Such a good boy, letting her use you like this,” he whispers. “Letting her use that pretty cock of yours to make herself come. A sweet little toy for her.”

Jason moans around his fingers, shivering, looking up at Tim through his lashes. His sucks turn more insistent, and Tim chuckles. “Do you need something more in your mouth, baby?” 

Jason whines, nodding. Tim drags himself back up, moving until Jason’s head and shoulders are pillowed on his legs. He takes his fingers, wiping them on Jason’s cheek. He feeds Jason his cock.

Tim will never tire of Jason’s mouth. His body is a furnace, running a few degrees hotter than everyone else’s. He feels molten and soft around Tim’s flesh, and when he sucks—

Stars dance in Tim’s eyes.

He pets Jason’s face, deepening his breaths to try and keep them even. Jason moans, whines, cries around Tim’s cock—but he never, ever stops sucking and licking, doing his best to bob his head, and staring up at Tim, hazy-eyed and adoring. He soaks up ever stroke of Tim's hand like he's starving for it.

If Tim was even a fraction less horny it would make his heart ache. As it is—he just gets harder, belly tight and hot.

He's nearly undone when Cass comes again—Jason's mouth tightening around him, moaning long and low, the sound vibrating around his cock.

Tim reaches out with his other hand—Cass takes it, tangling their fingers together. She’s showing signs of exertion now, sweat glittering and glistening on her skin. As beautiful now as she is on stage, arms raised in a perfect pirouette.

She squeezes Tim’s hand.

Tim squeezes back. He taps Jason’s cheek with the other, getting his attention. “You’re going to make Cass come one more time, baby,” he says. “And then you get a reward, alright?”

Jason hums, blinking slowly up at him in acknowledgement. His lashes are clumped with tears, eyes rimmed with red. Tim strokes a finger down the line of his nose, over his bulging cheek.

Cass’s pace is slower this time—her hips rolling. Her breaths quicken, quiet moans tumbling from her mouth. The movements of Jason’s mouth grow clumsier; too focused on Cass. Tim doesn’t mind. He is too.

When Cass’s stomach starts to tighten, the muscles flexing, showing off her abs, Tim lets go of her hand, rising up a little to pull her into a kiss over Jason’s head. He hears, feels, Jason groans—the vibrations make him moan. A particularly hard thrust has Cass tensing, then coming with a sigh, melting against Tim’s mouth.

She pats his cheek when she pulls away, smiling at him, eyes hazy and face pink, looking far more relaxed than when they started. Tim smiles to see it. She slips off of Jason, resting on his other side, curling her legs under her. 

Tim eases his cock from Jason’s mouth—when he whimpers, Cass replaces it with her fingers. Jason’s eyes blow wide in surprise, and then he sucks eagerly. Cass smiles down at him.

Tim settles between his legs, cupping his balls lifting them as if he's testing the weight of them before making a low, sympathetic noise. "Aw, poor baby. You're so full. I bet it hurts, doesn't it?"

Jason whines around Cass’s fingers. Tim is sure he would be begging to come if he could speak—especially when Tim rolls them in his palm, rubbing them with his fingertips. Jason thrashes his head, his hips moving in short, aborted jerks as he tries to stay still, like Tim asked.

“What do you think, Cass?” Tim asks, contemplatively. “Has he earned it?”

Cass hums, her mouth quirking on one side. “Hasn’t made you come yet,” she points out, to Jason’s distress. Idly, she starts circling one of his nipples with her free hand. Tim watches his chest jerk, both up and away.

Tim lets his eyes widen, pretending surprise. “You’re right. He hasn’t. That’s not really fair, is it Jay?” he asks, and Jason whines, pouting around Cass’s fingers. He’s so cute, with his curls falling into those big, pleading eyes, glassy with lust and tears.

Ignoring him, Tim hums contemplatively. “Although... I did promise him a reward for making you come again." He pets Jason's thigh, cocking his head like he's thinking. “Hm… I suppose for your reward, darling, I’ll take this off for you.” Tim eases the cock ring from him, and lets it fall on the bed beside them. “But if you want to come…” He grabs the base of the plug, Cass turning it off as pulls it out. “You’re going to have to do it on my cock. Think you can do that?”

Jason nods, frantically. His cheeks have hollowed, and Tim knows he’s got to be sucking Cass’s fingers like a champ. He can see her moving slightly, probably petting his tongue.

Tim lets the plug drop on the bed with the cock ring. He grabs the lube again. Hisses at the cold liquid on his heated flesh before he strokes himself, smearing it everywhere. He doesn’t bother with a condom; just lines himself up with Jason’s hole, lifting up one of Jason’s legs and pushing it toward his chest. 

With one snap of his hips, he buries himself to the hilt.

Jason sobs. His cock and balls twitch, a spurt of precome splattering on his skin. He tightens beautifully around Tim, making him snarl at the tight, wet heat of him.

Cass hums, watching with dark eyes. She presses her mouth against Jason’s temple and whispers, just loud enough for Tim to hear, “Beautiful.”

The praise makes Jason shake, sobbing again. Cass brushes hair from his forehead, looking from him to Tim, clear approval in her eyes. Keep him, she tells him silently, without so much as moving her lips.

I intend to, Tim says back, snapping his hips again. Jason keens.

Cass keeps petting Jason, touch firm and soothing, letting him suck on her fingers as Tim fucks him. He uses the same pace as Cass, right at the very start. Hard and punishing, slowing occasionally to roll his hips, angling for Jason’s prostate.

It doesn’t take very long at all for Jason to come. Especially not when Cass starts teasing his tit again—scraping a nail over his tight, puckered nipple.

Tim has to hold his hips and Cass his shoulders to keep him from arching completely off the bed, mouth hanging open in a silent shout. He paints his own chest with come—Tim helps him, massaging his balls and perineum while fucking him shallowly.

When Jason collapses, he looks half passed out. 

Tim pets his flanks, giving both of them a moment to catch their breaths and then... he keeps going, chasing his own bliss in the tight heat of Jason's body.

Cass drags three fingers through Jason’s come—examines them curiously, tilting them in the light. Then, she slips her fingers from Jason's mouth, holding up the ones covered in his come instead. Jason swallows them down without hesitation, moaning when he tastes himself on her fingers, and that—

That’s when Tim spills, deep inside him. He feels Jason shudder, hears his quiet moan, feels the way he clenches around him. He clenches tighter when Tim pulls out, as if he can hold him inside, but Tim ignores him. A line of come follows his cock; Tim scoops it up with his fingers, stuffs it back inside, using them to keep him plugged while he snags the plug. He uses his come to slick the plug before working back inside him. As soon as it's settled, Jason sighs sweetly, relaxing back against the mattress, suckling contentedly on Cass's fingers.

Tim crawls up to the headboard, settling down on Jason's other side. He strokes Jason's cheek. "You can let go of the headboard now, sweetheart," he whispers. Jason blinks up at him. It takes him a second to comply, and when he does, it's slow, finger-by-finger before he lowers his arms. Cass slips her fingers from his mouth, then; she and Tim each taking one of his arms, massaging them. Jason hums, low and rumbly like a purr.

Tim raises Jason's hand to his mouth, turning it to kiss his palm before threading their fingers together. "Very well done, sweetheart. You were so good for us, thank you."

Jason shivers, blinking sleepily at him, a little smile on his mouth.

Cass sweeps Jason's bangs from his face again so she can kiss his forehead. "Good boy," she tells him when she comes back up. Jason blinks at her, wide-eyed with surprise. Then he flushes, smiling shyly at her. She smiles back, sweetly, patting his cheek before leaning over him.

Tim meets her halfway, sighing into her slow, languid kiss.

They say sharing is caring, and right now, Tim couldn’t agree more.

[qqueenofhades]

Spooky prompts 14 and/or 22 for Dreamling, please

The first day of autumn term, to put it mildly, is always something of an adventure. The Powers That Be have scheduled "Introduction to the Medieval World, 500-1500" at nine o'clock AM sharp, which is always a great way to get students to turn up on the first day (or indeed, at all) and when Hob reaches the classroom at quarter till nine, it turns out that this happy event has failed to be passed along to Facilities, as it is locked and dark. He then has to ring them up, wait for them to send someone along to unlock it, and when he gets inside, discovers that the A/V emphatically refuses to communicate with the projector. Hob sighs deeply, logs in with his faculty ID, fiddles with the input source, and finally gets the GOLDSMITHS UNIVERSITY OF LONDON logo to appear on the screen. By this time, students are starting to trickle in, yawning and clutching large cups from Costa Coffee and Caffe Nero. Hob has advised them all to print out the module handbook from Blackboard beforehand, but as sustained exposure to undergraduates has dented his confidence in their ability to follow simple instructions, he has brought plenty of extra copies. He hands them around, along with the attendance sheet. Only three names missing. For an early class on Day 1, that's not bad.

Hob introduces himself, explains what they'll be covering in the course (pretty much what it says on the tin), and offers them a few helpful tips to not actually have to purchase anything from the bookstore. Teaching the medieval survey is always an exercise in seeing just how high his blood pressure can go and/or how many Game of Thrones-related inanities he will have to firmly dispel, but he does enjoy it. (A few semesters ago, a student wrote in their evaluation that "Dr. Gadling teaches history like he was really there," a comment which gratified Hob immensely.) The fifty minutes of the introductory lecture fly by, which is mostly just names, dates, terms, and PowerPoints, and everyone dutifully starts packing up to go. Hob has a few hours until he has to teach Empire and the Atlantic World this afternoon, and he absently stuffs his things back into his bag. His phone buzzes, which is undoubtedly one of the three missing students emailing to apologize for their absence and asking a question that is answered on page 3 of the handbook. (That or they accidentally gave themselves food poisoning -- truly, who let these infants live alone?) Hob resolves to check it later, steps out into the hallway, and --

"Good morning, Hob."

Hob skids to a halt, extremely startled, before he spots the tall dark figure standing in the middle of the busy corridor like an extremely emo, extremely goth roadblock. The students veer around him, not without a few who's-that-guy sidelong looks, and Hob desperately tries to make sure that his own are not among them before he moves closer. "Good morning... Morpheus." The name still tastes odd on his tongue, pleasant but unusual, needing a bit of comfortable wear to feel just right. "And can I ask, what are you doing here?"

The Lord of Dreams shrugs. "Isn't it the first day of school?"

"As if that matters to you." Hob raises an eyebrow. "Well, as it so happens, I do have a few free hours until my next class. You know. If you possibly felt the need to grab a coffee."

It's unclear whether Dream has ever just grabbed a coffee in his entire eternal life, but he considers that studiously, then nods once, shoving his hands into the pockets of his long black coat and falling into step next to Hob. They emerge from the history building and into the soggy, mild London morning, a fine drizzle still sifting down from the low grey clouds. They head to the campus cafe, as Hob glances shiftily around again to make sure nobody spots Dr. Gadling in company of this... person. (Not that he's ashamed of Dream, not at all, but students do gossip like fiends, and this is all so new. He has to be extremely careful not to accidentally spook the bastard and send him running away for another hundred and thirty-three years.)

"Small latte, please," Hob says to the barista. "Blueberry muffin. Oh, and whatever he wants."

Dream looks startled. He stares at the menu as if he has never contemplated an overpriced espresso beverage in his life (almost five quid for Hob's latte alone, they are having a laugh -- why is London not a real city where real people can still afford to live?) Then he says uncertainly, "Coffee, I suppose."

The barista looks expectant.

"Uh." Hob clears his throat. "What sort of coffee, love?"

Dream looks deeply startled, and Hob is briefly afraid that he is in fact about to throw up his hands and rush out of this establishment in a fit of pique. He didn't mean to say it, it just slipped out, and well, they are seeing a lot more of each other these days (in, ah, all sorts of ways). Dream thinks about it a moment more, as there is an audible sound of impatient throat-clearing and shuffling from the queue behind them. Hob says hastily, "Just a small brew of the day, please. No cream, no sugar. Black. Like his soul."

The barista stifles a snort. Dream looks at Hob accusingly. Hob shrugs -- a bite me sort of shrug that makes Dream likewise muffle a smile -- and opens his wallet. It is, of course, far more than two small drinks and a pastry product should cost in any reasonable epoch of the world, but damn if he isn't so happy to pay it, to be here with his no-longer-stranger, to sip their drinks as Hob laments the dismal standard of essays to which he will undoubtedly be subjected and Dream listens with quiet, patient adoration, that he can hardly stand it.

[suzukiblu]

Would you be willing to post a snippet of think pink? It's been a while since I've seen it on here and I would love to get some think pink crumbs

welllll since you asked so nice, friend . . .

Tim hasn't told him what to do this time, but Kon kinda already has a goal in mind here, so he just grins flirty and dirty at them both again and leans forward towards Tim, giving him a wink as he wags the unwrapped condom at him. 

"You still look good in green, right, man?" he asks teasingly. Tim visibly swallows, and Kon watches his pupils dilate. 

And he feels his cock twitch. 

Fuck, Kon loves his TTK. 

"I'll let you be the judge," Tim says. "Put it on me, pet." 

Kon is very, very happy to. 

He shifts forward a little farther and reaches out, feeling flushed and warm and weirdly . . . excited, almost, to have this. To get to touch Tim this intimately. 

Seriously, if he'd had any idea this was an option sooner . . . 

Well, it sure as shit would've happened a lot sooner. 

He wraps a hand around Tim's cock because he can't quite resist the urge to; can't quite hold back when he's got permission to touch him like this. Permission and encouragement to touch him like this, even. 

Kon feels way, way warmer at that thought. 

Tim inhales quietly. His cock feels weirdly good in Kon's hand; warm and hard and a perfect curve against his palm. Kon licks his lips without quite meaning to and wonders how it's going to feel in his mouth. 

And inside him. 

Fuck. 

He squeezes, once; gives Tim a stroke. Watches his face as he does it. 

Tim exhales, and takes a picture of him. 

Kon wonders what he looks like, if Tim wants a picture of it right now. 

"Fuck, man," Kon says, biting his lip around a grin; giving Tim another stroke or two to get him fully hard. "You always this pretty when you're getting jacked off? I've been missing out." 

"He gets prettier, actually, this is just stage one," Bernard informs him, and Kon resists the urge to squirm at the thought. "Stage one" implies multiple stages, after all. And Bernard mentioning those multiple stages implies Kon being around to get to see those multiple stages. "You should see him right after he's come, when he's all oversensitive and overwhelmed.” 

“Bernard,” Tim says, his voice mostly even but a little tight. 

"Can I see that, Tim?" Kon asks with absolutely every intention of doing so. Tim's face reddens, and his eyes go heated and dark. 

“If you're good for me,” he says, and Kon nearly bites his tongue. 

“Fuck you're hot,” he mutters, immediately taking that as his cue to hurry up and get the damn condom on him already. It's a little weird doing it from the opposite direction he's used to, but it's still something he's done a thousand times, and it's not like it's complicated: he just uses his TTK to make the gesture smooth and quick and do it without having to worry about getting any air trapped in the tip or any risk of tearing or anything. 

“Kon,” Tim says through his teeth. “Did you just use your powers to do that?” 

“Yeah?” Kon says, not sure why he's asking. They both just watched him do it, after all. 

“Do you usually put condoms on that way?” Bernard asks curiously. 

“Yeah,” Kon says. “Makes sure I won't accidentally rip it. And I mean, it's not any different from using my TTK on toys or–” 

“Ngh,” Tim says, putting a hand over his face. 

“Don't take this the wrong way, because just to be clear I love literally every word that has ever come out of your mouth,” Bernard says emphatically, gesturing at Kon as he speaks. “But please stop talking and start sucking off my boyfriend, like, yesterday.” 

Kon's gut twists with heat, and this time he definitely does bite his tongue. It's fine; his tongue is invulnerable. Like. Mostly. 

Fuck. 

“Tim,” he says, leaning in a little closer than he means to and giving his cock a few more exploratory strokes as he does, and the name comes out just a bit pleading. “I can, right? You'll let me?” 

Tim exhales roughly and drags his hand down his face, splaying his fingers to stare intently at him. Kon's gut twists up even tighter. He wants to kiss him again. He wants to knock him over and touch him everywhere and stay so much longer than a long weekend and just–

“Would you like that, pet?” Tim says, and Kon feels restless and overheated and just–hungry, for lack of a better word. 

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing at the thought. His mouth feels . . . it waters, almost. Feels . . . empty, almost. Eager. 

Greedy. 

He doesn't really know how else to put it. 

“Hm,” Tim says as he reaches out with a hand and threads his fingers into Kon's hair, and then curls them against his scalp and sort of . . . scritches, like he's petting a dog or a cat or something. 

Like he's petting him. 

Kon's every single higher thought process shorts out and he feels like an electric shock just went up his spine and through all his muscles and stays very, very still. 

He wants to say Tim's name. He wants to push into the contact. 

He wants Tim to tell him how to be good. 

“You know I want to give you things you like, pet,” Tim murmurs, and then he flattens his hand against the top of Kon's head and just . . . doesn't push or anything, but . . . 

Kon can lift literal tons without breaking a sweat and take a hit from a fucking train without even noticing the impact. He can withstand gravity that'd crush an unenhanced human and impacts that'd outright pulp them. 

The barely-there little weight of Tim's hand on his head is absolutely impossible to resist.