#this is about hammer fable

[rainybraindays]

I keep letting my heart be shattered by fictional ginger women

[thisisntreaver]

So I've noticed that several people who ship Spreaver also ship Hammer/Sparrow(does this have a ship named?? Spammer Harrow???) And as someone else who also does, what is everyones thoughts on this?

For me, I think Hammer and Sparrow become unfeasible after the Spire. Sparrow has become a drastically different person and has faced some of the most horrific things imaginable. Hammer during this ten years begins to bcome disillusioned and is forced to be alone with their grief as opposed to being with someone who understands it. They grow apart in a way that is so extreme, and in game, to me, it feels like their friendship is struggling furing this part of the game. They love each other, but they both have these idealized versions of each other from before, and those people don't exist.

Meanwhile with Sparrow an Reaver its very much that they're both wracked with guilt but trying to pus it away. Sprrow has goals, and Reaver just shoves it all down and does more and more to drown it out. They understand each other on a way, and can meet each other on equal ground, with no past images of the other to distract. The only versions of them they know are the current theres no expectations of how to act.

Even though Reaver also leaves at the end of the game, he comes back and Hammer doesn't. He leaves the dark seal, something vital to him with Sparrow, meaning he has to come back to them while Hammer just leaves Sparrow.

And more importantly, once he comes back, Reaver seems to have stayed. Hammer never seems to return.

[snow-lavender]

I.S.S. (Is Somebody Singing?) is so Wolf and his partners coded.

[suck-mein-pokeballs]

Spoiler if you haven't finished Fable II

I have decided fable 2 is a bad game because they killed my god-damned dog fuck this shit

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 8: Demeter, Goddess Of The Harvest]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 6.2k

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged! 🥰

💜 All of my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Is it a story worth telling? I think so. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than watching raindrops slither down the cracked concrete walls until the prison guards come back to bloody us again.

Today I’m sending John McCain taps in the shape of the tale of Io. John has a hard time tapping back—they’re doing something to his shoulders, they’re destroying him—but he likes to listen. He’s getting it a lot worse than I am; perhaps even the North Vietnamese fear Aemond’s retribution if I die here. They should be afraid of him. He thinks he owns everything he touches, and he’ll snap bones to keep it.

So anyway, Io was a king’s daughter, a mortal who Zeus saw and wanted and took when her father kicked her out to avoid the god’s wrath. That’s easily half of Greek mythology, right? Zeus appears, irrevocably fucks up someone’s life, vanishes in a plume of clouds and thunder. He leaves human rubble behind him: ribs, nerves, disembodied hearts that leak blood from torn ventricles, minds broken in two. Zeus impregnated Io and then turned her into a cow to hide her from his wife Hera, ever-watchful, ever-vengeful, an aspiring mass murderess. When this disguise failed, Hera condemned Io to wander ceaselessly through the wilderness, tormented by the constant stinging of a gadfly. Eventually, Zeus returns Io to human form and she pops out a few bastard kids, as if Zeus needs any more of those. Then he ditches her and she marries some Egyptian dude. There are other details that I’ve forgotten. I don’t think John McCain will know the difference.

I’m sure you’re wondering how I acquired all this fabled trivia. I don’t seem like the type to lie around under trees reading folklore from religions that died thousands of years ago. You’re right, I’m not. But Aemond is. He would tell the stories, and Helaena would embroider scenes on quilts for us to burrow under in the winter, and I would dramatically act out the best parts (mostly murders), and Aegon would scribble comics in jagged black pen strokes. He has all these notebooks down in the basement filled with his new versions of ancient myths: Poseidon as a horny dolphin, Aphrodite as Marilyn Monroe.

Wait, I remember what I skipped. While Io was roaming across the globe, she bumped into Prometheus—chained to a rock for giving humans the gift of fire—and he cheered her up somehow. I guess meeting a guy who gets his liver continuously chewed out by a giant eagle would make me more appreciative of my circumstances too.

I have a lot of time to myself here in solitary confinement. My social circle is microscopic. I tap to John through the wall, I have dinner dates with Tessarion the rat. And I think about my family. They’re fucked up, but I miss them. I miss going to Monmouth Park with Fosco to bet on horse races, I miss getting hammered with Aegon while he sings Johnny Cash or Beatles songs. I miss my mother and Helaena and Criston. I even miss Aemond’s wife, though I only met her a few times before I deployed. She’s sharp, she’s hilarious. She’s mean as hell to Aegon, and sometimes he deserves it.

At first I wondered why Aemond hasn’t gotten me out yet, but I understand now. It sounds a lot better to have a brother being tortured as a prisoner of war than one who received a Get Out Of Jail Free card. It’s the kind of thing Aemond would consider. He understands which stories are worth telling.

I feel kind of bad for her. Aemond’s wife, I mean.

I don’t think she knows about Alys.

~~~~~~~~~~

On a chilly mid-September morning cloaked in fog, Mimi is laid to rest in the Targaryen family mausoleum at Saint George Greek Orthodox Cemetery in Asbury Park, New Jersey. Most of the golden plaques already have names chiseled into them: Viserys and Alicent, Fosco and Helaena. Aegon will one day be interred beside his wife. You have a spot reserved next to Aemond. All of you have already lived and died and been entombed; all of this was predestined by the stars eons before you had blood or bones.

Ari’s vault—an unnaturally tiny drawer, less than half the size of anyone else’s—is located just above yours. You can’t stop staring at it. You can’t hear anything the bearded priest in his black robes is chanting. Then Cosmo squeezes your hand and you look down at him. Mimi’s other children are somber but seem to be coping well enough—they are used to being raised by consensus, they would probably be more affected if one of the nannies died—but Cosmo always wants to be near you. He gazes up with those vast, wet, murky blue eyes, so much like Aegon’s, and you offer him a sad, reassuring smile. Cosmo smiles back. And you think: Life goes on.

Alicent is sniffling noisily; it echoes off the walls of the mausoleum. Criston—a man with no plaque assigned to him—is trying to console her. Aegon is watching you from across the cold granite chamber, grim and red-eyed in his black suit, the first time you can remember seeing him in one since your wedding. He wears no small gold hoops, only a row of stitches in his right ear. He wants to say something, to do something, but he can’t. Aemond is beside you, a hand heavy on your waist but muttering something to Otto. Back in Omaha, Otto had spent a few hours alone with the medical examiner, and when the death certificate was issued it revealed that Mimi died of a heart defect, a perfectly blameless sort of misfortune, an innate impending disaster. And so that’s what the newspapers printed, and any gossip to the contrary is confined to salacious rumors, untrustworthy and unproven.

When the ceremony is over, journalists are waiting to scavenge for photos and quotes under the guise of expressing their sympathies. It’s a shameless display, though they at least have the decency to wait by the cemetery gates. Aemond and Otto go to meet them. Alicent, Criston, Helaena, and Fosco, protective of the children, keep them far away from the feeding frenzy, hungry-eyed reporters like sharks without fins. Ludwika is reapplying her lipstick. Aegon is smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to his oldest son, Orion, a stilted exchange that holds the promise of turning warm with time.

You sit on a stone bench and Cosmo curls up beside you, rests his head in your lap, dozes off as you thread your fingers through his wavy blonde hair. In the mist there are shadows of gravestones and trees that turn skeletal as they shed their leaves.

“He is okay?” Fosco says as he ambles over, meaning Cosmo. He has his hands in the pockets of his slim black trousers that stop at his ankles. His suit is velvet, his eyeglasses speckled with drizzle from the slate-grey sky.

“He’s alright. He’s resting. Are you okay?”

“Oh,” Fosco sighs mournfully. “I keep thinking someone is missing. We came into this family together, Mimi and I. We got married six months apart. I have never had to do this without her. And I know she had her problems, but she was different when she was younger. She always liked a party, that’s why she and Aegon got along so well at first. But she was so loud and so funny, always telling these long stories, and everyone in the room would be grinning as they waited for the good part. Viserys loved her. Otto loved her. And then she had all those children one after the other, and that was hard, and Aegon self-destructed when he was the mayor of Trenton, and that was worse, and she was supposed to fix him and she couldn’t, the harder she tried the farther he ran from her. She started drinking her Gimlets before dinner, and then after lunch, and by the time you showed up it was never ending. But that wasn’t who she really was. She was like a moon that got smaller and smaller until the only thing left was a sliver.”

This family breaks people. This family kills people. “We’ll make ossi dei morti for Mimi tonight. I’ll help you, and we can teach the kids.”

Fosco smiles, swipes a tear from beneath his glasses, squeezes your shoulder with one wiry hand. “I am very glad you are still here.”

“I’m not trying to race you to that mausoleum.”

Fosco laughs. And then he says as he spies Aegon approaching: “Um…I will go avoid the paparazzi somewhere else.”

“You don’t have to leave, Fosco.”

“It is no trouble. And I suspect you enjoy your very rare privacy.” Fosco gives you a knowing glace and then heads back to where Helaena, Alicent, and Criston are lingering with the rest of the children. Now Ludwika is fluffing her blonde curls with her French tips, a smoldering Camel cigarette tucked between two fingers.

Aegon comes to you through the mist, plops onto the bench, and looks fondly down at Cosmo—now fast asleep, his face smooth and peaceful—before he speaks. “I can’t grasp that she’s really gone. We barely spoke for years, but she was always there, you know? Christ, she deserved better than this. She could have been happy somewhere else.”

“Your children need you.” It’s not the first time you’ve said it, but it’s the first time he believes you. He nods, staring out into the fog. “They have to get away from this whole circus for a while. And you have to learn how to be a real parent.”

“I’ll have time to work on it. I’m staying here. I’ve already been informed.”

You are alarmed. “What? By who?”

“Aemond and Otto.” Aegon says. “When the rest of you fly west, my kids and I will be at Asteria.”

“They’re getting you off the campaign trail,” you realize.

“They’re putting me on house arrest.”

Not seeing Aegon, not being near him? How long can I stand that? “I’m sure you’re relieved. You hate the grandstanding and the media.”

He shakes his head, running his fingers through his hair. “I don’t want to leave you alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I have Fosco and Ludwika.”

“I’ll talk to them.”

“About what?”

“About the fact that they need to look out for you.”

“Aegon, I’ve been doing the political wife thing for over two years.”

“But it’s different now.”

He’s right, it is.

“You’ll call, won’t you?” he asks. “You’ll let me know how the trip is going, you’ll tell me if anything bad happens? Because I can always get on a plane and meet you wherever you are. Otto might pay someone to murder me, but I’d risk it.”

“Of course I’ll call.”

“Hey.” Gently, he turns your face so you can’t hide from him. “Will you be okay without me?”

I have to be. I don’t have a choice. Instead you reply: “I’ll miss the weed.”

The tension breaks and Aegon smiles, and then he pats your cheek twice with his open palm. “Behave yourself.” He waves Ludwika over, interrupting her meditative chain smoking.

“What, what?” Ludwika says. “Are we leaving soon? Yes, it is so sad what happened to Mimi, but us standing around in the rain won’t resurrect her. And I look terrible in black.”

“I can’t be there for the last leg of the campaign.” Aegon points to you. “I need you to pay attention and check in with her at least a few times a day.”

“This is a common request. I should get a degree in it so I can charge people.”

Aegon furrows his brow at her. “What are you talking about?”

Ludwika smirks as she puffs on her Camel. “You are not the first person to ask me to keep an eye on her.” She nods subtly towards Aemond, then sashays off to give a quote to the journalists.

~~~~~~~~~~

In San Diego, Aemond meets with residents of a new public housing complex to hear their concerns about neighborhood jobs and infrastructure. In San Jose, he visits labor activist Caesar Chavez—being treated for debilitating back pain at O’Connor Hospital—and expresses support for the ongoing boycott of all grapes produced in the state. In Sacramento, he attends a Jimi Hendrix concert and receives a standing ovation from the audience; the next day he joins high school students protesting for a more inclusive curriculum. In Oregon, he makes a speech at Portland State University acknowledging the tremendous cost of the Vietnam War—in money, in time, in blood—and pledges to begin dismantling U.S. involvement as soon as he is sworn into office in January. Aemond talks about hope and despair, the bleak reality and the American Dream, and he is so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t even notice when someone takes his cufflinks as souvenirs. His lack of concern for his own safety exasperates Criston, but Aemond can’t be convinced to increase his security or his distance. If he expects the disaffected masses to carry him to the White House, he has to be real to them.

“What if another Wallace supporter tries to shoot you?” Criston demands. “What if a Nixon stooge stabs you or a crowd tramples you?”

“No one can kill me,” Aemond says, grinning wryly. “I’m not supposed to die yet. I’m supposed to be the president. It is God’s will.” And how can anybody disagree when that appears to be so true?

The earth dies as you drive north, summer withering into autumn. That familiar brisk cuttingness reappears in the air. You shake thousands of hands, smile for countless photographs. Mothers and wives of dead soldiers sob into your shoulder as you embrace them; teenage girls ask how they can get a good man like Aemond. Only one thing is missing from his glorious pilgrimage: something he wants desperately, something he cannot have (though he’ll never know why), you conceiving his child in time to announce it before Election Day. Each morning you sneak a pill and every night you bite the bullet. As often as you can, you duck into Dairy Queens to order lemon-lime Mr. Mistys.

George Wallace is in the South, galvanizing segregationists and accepting the endorsement of the Ku Klux Klan. Richard Nixon is working his way across the Midwest. He has chosen a politically moderate Greek as a running mate, Spiro Agnew; this does not strike you as a coincidence. He even shares a name with Aegon’s second son.

Nixon promises “peace with honor” in Vietnam, which means no immediate end to the draft. He makes speeches about “states’ rights” and “law and order,” ambiguous euphemisms designed to attract Wallace’s white supremacists without alienating too many suburban moderates. He commiserates with those lamenting the proliferation of sex, drugs, and divorce. He says he will return the nation to a more moral time. You wonder what he means. You can’t think of any such refuge in the bloodletting, spine-crushing history of mankind.

A kindergarten teacher tells you in Olympia, Washington, her eyes alight with reverence usually reserved for heroes, saints, gods: “People are voting for Aemond, but they’re voting for you too.”

And you find yourself thinking as a thousand miles roll by beyond the glass of limousine windows: How many people will I condemn if I don’t help Aemond win? How many lives is mine worth?

~~~~~~~~~~

The Hotel Sorrento in Seattle insists on giving you and Aemond the honeymoon suite: a retreat from the breakneck campaign, a romantic oasis for the future president and first lady…according to half the country, anyway. You are in the impractically large pink bathtub, surrounded by snowy dunes of bubbles. The wall to your right is a mirror, foggy around the edges; just a few yards to your left is the king-sized bed. In the top drawer of your nightstand is the card Aegon gave you in July. You aren’t sure where Aemond is, and you don’t especially care. You are relieved to be alone.

There’s a passion-red phone built into the rim of the tub, conveniently located for sudden room service revelations, champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries, steak and lobster. You have a different idea. It’s 7:15 p.m. here, so after 10 on the East Coast. On the steam-slick keypad, you dial the number for the main house at Asteria.

Eudoxia picks up and demands gruffly: “Geiá sou? Ti?”

“Hi, Doxie. Is Aegon around?”

“Where else would he be? Making himself useful somehow? Killing communists, driving a rocket to the moon? No. He is a burden as always.”

“Please be nice to him. His wife just died.”

“And so he cannot put his empty cups in the sink?” Without waiting for a reply, she sets the handset down on the kitchen counter with a clunk. There is distant, muffled shouting in Greek; she seems to back and forth with somebody. Then Eudoxia returns. “Antio sas,” she says, and hangs up just as a phone elsewhere in the house is lifted from its cradle.

Aegon answers with something halfway between a groan and a yawn. “Yeah?”

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hey!” You can hear it riding the wire like electricity: a rustling as he sits up, a fresh clarity in his skull. His voice is deep, hushed, still husky with sleep. “What’s up, little Io? Any interesting happenings to report from your neighborhood of the solar system?”

“I just left a riveting tea party. Apple cinnamon scones and smoked salmon sandwiches. We talked about what kind of couches I should get for the White House and I wanted to kill myself. Are the kids okay?”

He’s smiling; you can tell. “They’re alright. I could have used you this afternoon. I was trying to help Spiro with his math homework. Trying, not succeeding.”

“Well he’s in middle school and thus beyond your skill.”

“How’s Jupiter?”

You know who he means. “I don’t want to talk about Aemond.”

“Okay.” Aegon says, curious. “So what should we talk about?”

A few seconds tick by, silent and perilous. “Where are you right now?”

“In my lair. Like a beast.”

“Alone?”

A transitory pause. “At the moment.”

“On the shag carpet or your futon?”

Now he’s very intrigued. “Futon. Why?”

“I just want a visual.” Beneath the water, your free hand is resting on the velvety inside of your thigh.

“Where are you?” Aegon asks.

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Maybe I want a visual too.”

You chuckle, peeking over at yourself in the mirror. Your skin is dewy with steam; stray wisps of hair stick to your face. “I’m in a gigantic pink bathtub. It’s ridiculous, it’s shaped like a heart and everything. They have a phone installed right here in case I find myself in desperate need of filet mignon.”

“Oh.” And then he hesitates, like he’s afraid to say the wrong thing. “Big enough for two?”

“More like five. You should get a tub like this for your basement, it would delight the campaign staffers.”

“My basement’s been pretty empty recently.”

Softly, vulnerably, glass offered for him to shatter: “You aren’t seeing other girls?”

“Nah, babe. I want something they can’t give me.”

You picture him, messy hair falling over his forehead, drowsy eyes that gleam with clandestine wisdom. You can smell the smoke and rum that bleeds from his skin. “I wish you were here.”

“In Seattle?”

“No. Right here.”

Aegon exhales shakily, swallows, takes a few seconds to collect himself. “How’s the water?”

“Extremely hot and full of bubbles.”

“So I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

“No,” you say, baiting him.

“But I could touch you.”

“You already have.”

“Not enough,” he murmurs. “Nowhere close to enough.”

“Do you remember what I felt like?”

“Oh God,” he whispers, and you envision him closing his eyes, rubbing his face with the open palm of his left hand. “Yeah. Of course I do. I can’t get it out of my head. But I’ve been trying not to…you know…it felt wrong to think about you that way unless you were cool with it. Like I was betraying your trust or taking advantage of you or something.”

“No, I want you to think about me.”

You can hear Aegon moving around on the green futon, repositioning himself, yanking down a zipper. When he speaks again, his breathing is quick and jagged. “Where’s your other hand, huh?”

“Under the water,” you reply coyly.

“You bitch,” he says, laughing. “I miss you so fucking much. The house isn’t right without you in it. You belong here, you belong where I am.”

Beneath the veil of bubbles and steam, there is no scar on your belly, no infidelity, no campaign, no distance of almost 3,000 miles separating you and Aegon. Your fingers slip between your legs, finding slickness the water can’t wash away. It’s a familiar sensation, though you haven’t felt it in a while: rising steadily until you hit a plateau like a jet reaching cruising altitude. From here, it will either glide along smoothly until it dies out, or eventually turn sharp and painful. “Tell me about you,” you pant.

He can hear it in your voice, a needful surrender that sets him on fire. He can’t believe this is happening; he never wants it to end. “I mean, I’m…I’m insanely hard.”

“Stroke yourself, imagine it’s me. I wish it could be me.”

“Oh fuck,” Aegon whimpers. “Okay, okay…I want you. I want you with my fingers, I want you with my tongue, I want you to beg for it, and then…”

Impossibly, incomparably, your own pleasure is climbing faster than you can reconcile yourself to it, no longer a hunger but a violent aching, a crushing gravity you can’t fight against, a ship being dragged to the floor of the ocean. What’s happening? When will it end? You moan into the phone, amazed yet petrified. You can’t get enough air; it feels like drowning, like dying.

“I need to see you,” Aegon says. He’s close to the climax that you know men experience, he has to be; he’s gasping. “I need to be with you, let me give you what you want.”

“I want you to finish inside me.”

“Io…babe…oh my God, you’re gonna kill me…”

There are sounds out in the front room of the suite: a lock clicking, footsteps, keys and a wallet tossed onto the kitchenette counter. You’re so consumed you almost don’t notice. Aemond is back. Aemond is back!! And every ion of your ascending euphoria evaporates. “Gotta go, bye.”

“Wait—!”

You hang up just as Aemond is opening the bedroom door. He walks in—immaculately tailored dark blue suit, polished black leather shoes trampling soft pink carpet—and turns to you. He has already taken his glass eye out and put on his eyepatch. Vaguely, fleetingly, you wonder where he’s been. His gaze darts to the red phone, your fingerprints in the condensation. “Who were you talking to?”

“My parents.”

If Aemond doubts this, he doesn’t show it. He crosses the room, sits on the edge of the bathtub, peers down at you with an omniscient metallic glint in his eye. He’s always been less a man than a force of nature. “I know this year has been hell.”

You envision Persephone being stolen by Hades, Orpheus searching for his dead wife Eurydice, Charon ferrying souls across the River Styx. “You haven’t made it easier.”

There’s a flash of something in his scarred face, blazing and instantaneous like lightning, and then it fades. He reaches out to touch your hair, swept up and neatly bound with clips and pins. “We can’t forget everything we’ve accomplished together,” Aemond says. “I still need you. You’re my Aphrodite.”

He’s going to tell you to get out of the tub, to lie down on the bed, to open yourself so he can fill you. You distract him, forestalling the inevitable. Each morning Prometheus dreads the return of the eagle that pecks out his liver; as every summer ends Demeter mourns the loss of Persephone. “Any luck with Nixon?”

Aemond sighs, furious, brooding. “He still won’t agree to a debate. Wallace is onboard, he’s rabid for it, he’d show up if we held it in the fucking asteroid belt, any opportunity to spew his idiocy. But not Nixon.”

“Because he knows standing on the same stage as you can only hurt him. People thought he looked bad in 1960, can you imagine now? Television has gotten so much clearer. They’ll be able to count his sweat drops from their living room couches.”

“So how do I get him to do it?”

You look up at Aemond. It’s not a hypothetical question; he’s really asking for advice.

“I have to debate Nixon,” Aemond insists. “It’s close in the polls, which means it will be even closer on Election Day. I’ll underperform whatever is projected, my coalition is less likely to show up when it counts. College kids, hippies, transients. That’s just a fact. But the old people vote. The suburban housewives vote. Nixon’s resting on his political experience and accusations that I’m a communist, an agent of chaos. But I could slaughter him in an hour on ABC.”

You think of the mutilated Vietnam veterans waving their signs and screaming at LBJ from the other side of the wrought-iron gates of the White House. “Challenge him in public. Say that the American people deserve to see the candidates debate, and do it where everyone can hear you.”

“What if Nixon still refuses?”

“Then you call him a coward. You say he must have something to hide. You ask how he’s supposed to square up with the Russians and the Chinese if he can’t even face you.”

Aemond grins admiringly. “You’re vicious.” And he lifts your hand from the rim of the tub so he can kiss your knuckles. Once you licked up drops of his approval like Tantalus, cursed with eternal thirst. Now it is poison that turns your veins black.

“If there’s a debate, everyone should go,” you say, seized by sudden inspiration. “We should have a united front, including Aegon. It can be his return to the public eye. A month will have passed since the funeral, the timing is right. He can pose for a few photos with the kids to show the nation that they’re doing well and distract from any lingering rumors about Mimi.”

Aemond isn’t grinning anymore. He’s studying you with his cold blue gaze; no, he’s trying to intimidate you, to overpower you. “Otto and I will decide what to do with him.”

“He’s a Targaryen. He should be with the rest of us.”

Aemond stands and motions for you to follow, a snap of his wrist like a man calling a dog. “It’s late. Let’s go to bed.”

Panic, tension, an iron sinking in your belly. The water is only lukewarm now, but you don’t want to leave it. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yes you are.”

There’s nothing else to say. Legally, a wife’s flesh is one with her husband’s. You slip as you step out of the bathtub, and Aemond grabs your forearm. Not like he’s helping you; like you’re something he owns.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two knocks, swift and forceful. “Hey, it’s me. You ready? Everyone else is downstairs in the lobby waiting for the limos.”

You hurry to open the door, almost twisting your ankle as you stumble in your heels. They’re an inch higher than what you’re used to. Aemond chose them, and your dress too, and your sapphire teardrop earrings, and the silver chains around your wrist and throat, and your future and your past, and your life itself. It’s mid-October, and the night of what will almost certainly be the sole presidential debate of 1968. Aemond’s retinue is staying at the Hotel Saint Louis. It’s harvest time, the fields beyond the city being reaped of their soybeans, wheat, corn, cotton, and rice, the beef cattle culled in mechanical underworlds. Aegon’s flight must have just landed.

As soon as he sees you his eyes drop, wide and bewitched, ensnared everywhere except your face. You say: “Can you help me zip this, please?”

He blinks a few times, then shakes it off. “Sorry, what?”

“The zipper’s stuck. I need you to get it.”

“Yeah. Sure.” He steps into the suite and stands behind you. The gown is a vivid blue like the Greek flag, gorgeous and shimmering but a size too small. It wasn’t tight a week ago, but now it is, and you aren’t pregnant just always gaining and losing weight in new places, first the baby and then the pill, and it wouldn’t bother you if Aemond didn’t seem so confounded by it. Aegon says as he tugs at the zipper: “I don’t think it’s gonna fit, babe.”

“It has to fit.”

“Even if I miraculously get this closed, you won’t be able to breathe.”

“Do whatever you have to. Just…just…” You push every last molecule of air out of your lungs, suck in your belly, and you hear the triumphant squeal of the zipper. “Yes!” Oh, but Aegon was right: you really can’t breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

“You’re not gonna last the whole debate in that. You’ll be sweating more than Nixon.”

“I’m fine.”

“Io…”

“I’m fine. Come on.” You snatch your matching purse off the coffee table by the couch, check your makeup one last time, and hobble in your heels as you walk with Aegon out into the hallway.

At the Kiel Auditorium a few blocks away, the Targaryen children—Aegon’s five and Helaena’s three—are presented for photographs before being escorted back to the hotel by the nannies. And even in the few weeks that have passed since you last saw Aegon’s kids, there have been extraordinary changes. They talk to their father, and he talks back, and he ruffles their hair and rests his hands on their shoulders and asks them about what they’re learning from their private tutors. Cosmo tackles you before he leaves—a powerful bear hug, though he can only reach your legs—and he says he hopes you’re coming home to Asteria soon.

“Me too, kiddo,” Aegon tells him, and then smiles at you; but above his gleam of teeth his cloudy blue eyes, like the Atlantic in a storm, are gloomy and troubled.

As the audience takes their seats and the journalists are poised to capture the best images and quotes of the night, the three candidates and their wives (minus Wallace’s dear departed Lurleen) meet briefly backstage to exchange the perfunctory well-wishes. Pat Nixon is introverted and bookish, though she tries to hide it; but Aemond reels her in like swordfish until her eyes are filled with him. George Wallace gets one glimpse of your venomous glare and escapes, claiming to need one last trip to the restroom before the debate begins. But Richard Nixon beckons you to accompany him to a quiet, discrete corner of the room.

“I tried to call,” he says. He’s a remarkably normal man: medium height, receding dark hair, rough voice, weathered skin, not a god but a mortal, and—you have the impression—more aware of his flaws than his fiercest critics will ever be. “But no one at that damned beach house would ever put me through to you.”

You aren’t sure what he means. “Oh?”

“I never got the opportunity to tell you how sorry I was for your loss in July, Mrs. Targaryen,” Nixon says with unglamorous, plain, genuine compassion. “Pat and I, when we heard, we wept for you. We truly did. And for your husband to be clear across the country…I can’t even imagine. It must have been awful for you. A parent never gets over something like that. It stays with you like a scar.”

“It does,” you say softly.

“I lost two brothers. Arthur died when he was seven, tuberculosis killed Harold in his twenties. God, it just about destroyed my mother. You’re a remarkable woman. You’re lightning in a bottle for Aemond, do you know that? You’re like one of those Kennedy gals, but even better. More personable than Jackie. More intelligent than Ethel…although, to be frank, who wouldn’t be? And you’re not afflicted with any ghastly vices like Ted’s wife Joan. What would Aemond do without you? He’d lose, that’s what he’d do.”

Nixon’s smart, but he’s wounded. He’s capable, but he’s so desperate to prove it. Power could ruin a man like this. “You’re very kind, sir. You did some great work under Eisenhower. Self-made like my father was, a devotee of the American Dream. I believe you have an important role to play in this country…” You smirk, a bit mischievously. “Just not as the president.”

Nixon chortles. “No matter what happens tonight, rest assured that I hate Reagan more than I could ever dislike your husband,” he says, meaning the Republican governor of his home state of California. “You know that bastard tried to primary me?”

“Actors don’t belong in politics.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Nixon says, and then bids you farewell as the lights turn blinding and the curtain begins to rise.

As soon as the adrenaline begins to fade, all you can think about is that you can’t breathe. You take your seat in the audience between Aegon and Ludwika, who won’t stop making jabs about Nixon: “He looks like a troll,” “He looks like a sasquatch,” “Do you think Pat makes him wear a  Creature from the Black Lagoon mask in bed so she is not so repulsed by him?” The most you can offer is an occasional distracted nod in response.

“You alright?” Aegon whispers.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t look alright.”

“I’m great.”

“Sure,” he says, and he acts like he’s teasing, but there’s something tremendously sad underneath. He can’t save you from this. He can’t save you from anything. What must that feel like?

On the debate stage—broadcast to a national audience—Aemond performs brilliantly. Nixon salvages what could have been a bloodbath with a handful of clever retorts that Aemond pretends not to be rattled by. The real loser of the night is Wallace, who is brutally attacked by them both: Nixon because Wallace is commandeering some of his voting bloc, and Aemond because of his near-assassination back in May. After an hour, the contest concludes and the candidates descend to the main floor to pose for photos and get lassoed into brief interviews with various journalists. Everyone in Aemond’s entourage besides you and Aegon flock to his side. By now you’re gasping in shallow gulps, close to tears and in agony from your ribs to your wobbling feet.

“I told you,” Aegon says. And then: “Come on. We’ll take the first limo back.”

In the front room of your hotel suite—one yellowish end table lamp glowing dimly, the rest of the space like twilight—Aegon wrestles with the zipper as you struggle for every breath, trying not to pass out. “Ow,” you whine. “Oh fuck, this was so stupid…”

“Don’t let him make you wear shit you don’t want to wear.”

“I have to do what he says, Aegon.”

“He doesn’t own you.”

“Legally, he does.”

He’s tugging futilely at the jammed zipper. “Are you planning on using this again?”

“I believe that would be wistful thinking.”

“You probably look better out of it anyway.” He grabs his Zippo lighter from the pocket of his emerald green suit jacket and flicks it to life. “Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay.”

“At all.”

“Got it.”

You can feel heat, intense but not painful. Aegon has pulled the edge of the fabric as far away as he can from your skin and is singeing it until it turns black and charred and brittle. Then he tucks the lighter back into his pocket and with both hands rips your dress down to the small of your back. Cool air rushes to meet the ridge of your spine; goosebumps prickle all over. Aegon is marveling at you; you can see it when you glance over your shoulder at him. Then he lays a palm against your bare skin, leans into you, inhales everything you’ve ever been: smoke and sex and starlight, strategies, shadows, secrets.

The others will be pouring into the hallway from the elevator any minute. Aemond. Aemond could find us.

“We can’t,” you whisper, hating yourself for it.

Aegon kisses the nape of your neck—so slow, so kind—and then goes to the doorway. You wait for him to leave, but he doesn’t. He’s looking at you as you hold up the ruined gown so it covers your belly and your chest. You gaze back helplessly, wanting him, needing him, a moon chained to another world’s gravity.

We can’t, we can’t, we can’t.

“I’m so sorry,” you say.

And only then does Aegon vanish.

[blindmagdalena]

The Fall

2.8k mostly sfw homelander x reader. christmas adjacent. depowered homelander.

Summary: After being struck by an unidentified projectile that renders him powerless, Homelander crash lands in your backyard, wholly at your mercy.

this is a rework of this original prompt. inspired by the fable of the mouse that aids the lion whose paw has been stuck by a thorn.  ♡

Homelander is over a hundred feet in the air when he hears something whistling through the sky behind him. Some kind of projectile. A small missile, maybe. It's nothing he hasn't handled before: It could blow up in his face and he would be fine. He’s more curious about what exactly it is, who’s stupid enough to fire it at him, and where it’s coming from. 

With that in mind–in that split second he has to react–he decides to forgo dodging it and instead attempt to catch it.  However, as the mystery projectile gets nearer, his vision begins to tunnel. 

What the fuck? 

His reflexes slow, and before he knows it, the projectile strikes him hard in his left side rib, exploding in fumes that fill his lungs and coat his skin. In an instant, he feels pain like he's been turned inside out, a sensation worse than anything he’s felt since childhood. Instantly he's plummeting towards the ground, crashing directly into your backyard in an eruption of snow and yard furniture.

With his vision going black, the last thing he hears is the sound of the world turning deafeningly quiet.

When Homelander comes to, he's being shaken. No–compressed, hands over his chest, pushing again and again in a steady rhythm. Warm lips press against his, and a rush of air fills his lungs. His eyes snap open, and out of pure reflex, he drives his fist into your unfamiliar form, sitting up with a frenzied look in his eyes.

You should have flown back thirty feet with a hit like that. Instead, you only fell back onto your ass, coughing. Homelander's hands are shaking as he looks at them, and he can feel blood dripping from his ears, taste it in his mouth. He's disoriented, his whole body heavy. He's having trouble breathing, every ragged inhale a struggle, and his heart is pounding.

"Someone tried to kill me," he rasps in disbelief. Not surprised that someone tried, but that someone very nearly succeeded. "Someone... Someone tried to fucking kill me," he says again, growing more hysteric the more the pain sets in. His own brain is hammering against the confines of his skull, beating at the backs of his eyes.

He’s certain that he’s halfway to cardiac arrest, but no matter how he tries to focus, he can’t calm himself. His strength is gone. It’s gone. He looks at you, you, who should have a hole punched through your chest. Instead, you’re staggering to your feet, totally unharmed. 

"Homelander!" You address sharply, audibly trying to rein in your own bubbling panic. He can see his own fear reflected in your eyes. You’re just as confused as he is. Just a stupid little mouse that crawled out of your hole and found him like this. "I can help you, okay? Let me help you."

There’s something about the sharp authority in your voice mixed with an undeniable quiver of compassion that catches his attention. It could be the degree of his vulnerability sinking in, but after a second of dumbfounded staring, Homelander nods.

It must be pure adrenaline that gives you the strength to help him into your house. You don’t look like you should be able to carry him. He's practically dead weight in your arms, barely keeping himself on his feet as you both stumble into your living room. The height difference does neither of you any favors.

You get him down onto the couch before fetching a wet rag, a bottle of water, pills, and a first aid kit. He watches you fumble with it, hands shaking. He assumes it’s adrenaline, though you lack the acidic stench of it. No, you probably don’t. He just can’t smell it anymore. He can’t smell anything except the faint tinge of blood, and whatever nauseating scented candle you use to stink up your home. Though, even that’s distant compared to what he’s used to. However, he finds he doesn’t have it in him to panic. Is this what shock feels like?

He takes the water you offer him, but denies the pills. “No, no. I have no idea what that shit will do to me right now.” You nod, setting the bottle aside. You then lean over him, inspecting the level of damage. His ears are ringing, and his whole body is throbbing with sharp, painful aches. Maybe the pills would help, but he’s never had to take painkillers before. He’d rather swallow tacks than lean on something so pedestrian.

As you work, he notices a mottled mark blossoming darkly across the center of your chest, just under your collarbone, approximately the size of his fist. Without thinking, he reaches up to touch it, remembering the blow he’d dealt you.

You startle, looking down where he touches with a wince. The skin looks as tender as he feels. It must sting. Is he bruised like this beneath his suit? The thought of these same ugly dark marks mirrored on his own body brings him visceral disgust. 

"Don't worry about me," you tell him, as comforting as your voice can muster. You grasp his wrist and gently lay it back down at his side.

I'm not worried about you, he thinks derisively. "That should have caved in your chest."

"Guess it's my lucky day, then," you say absently, more focused on using a wet cloth to wipe away the blood from his temple, up into his hairline, seeking the injury. You're meticulous but gentle in the way you handle him, cupping the side of his face to turn him one way, then another.

If not for how clumsy your movements feel, he’d think you’ve done this before. There is care and determination in the way you tend to him, but no obvious medical expertise. Even the kit you pull from looks out of date and sparse. You probably picked it up from a gas station on a whim because you needed safety pins. "I think these need stitches," you say as you carefully apply bandages, brows furrowed. Homelander's gaze lingers on your lips as you speak. What kind of person sees someone fall out of the fucking sky, blowing a crater in their yard in the process, and then thinks to give them CPR?

"I'm calling an ambulance," you say, moving to stand. That breaks him out of his stupor. He catches you by the wrist, stopping you in your tracks, despite how pitifully weak his own grasp feels. "No, no, not... Don't do that," he says, screwing his eyes shut briefly. No one else can know that this happened. Besides, if those psychopaths are still out there, it will draw them right to him. "Too much attention, I just... give me a fucking minute," he says, flexing his hands. They still feel weak, tingling like they've fallen asleep, but the bizarre sensation is gradually beginning to abate.

Whatever was done to him, it doesn't seem to be permanent. 

He hopes to fuck that it isn’t. "Okay," you say tentatively. Instead of leaving, however, you reposition to continue wiping the blood from his face, gently rubbing from his temples down his jaw. He watches you like a hawk, rolling his fingers in and out of fists, gradually feeling his strength return to him.

He's unaccustomed to the way you're handling him. One hand cupping his jaw, ginger in the way you move his head only when you absolutely need to. The concern wrinkled between your brows is so palpable, so sincere, that for a moment he almost forgets you're strangers to each other.

"What're you doing?" He asks eventually, voice low. You pause, looking down to meet his eye. "Oh, I just... There's still blood, and I didn't want to leave you alone."

Your response tightens something in his chest, like a steel coil wrung too tight, leaving him uncomfortable. He feels small, vulnerable, and the tenderness of your touch is doing nothing for it. "I don't need you," he snaps defensively. "I'm fine."

"Okay," you respond, aggravatingly calm. Still soothing. "What do you need?" Homelander opens his mouth, but hesitates. Your earnestness is infuriating, waiting on bated breath for what you can do for him. He closes his mouth, jaw tight. His gaze flickers back down to the bruise on your chest. It's darker now, varying shades of purple and yellow fading into one another.

Looking back up at you, he schools his expression into calm focus. "Close the blinds," he says, gesturing with his head to the window, where you have twinkling white Christmas lights strung up. 

"I need to lay low awhile." He can feel his powers steadily returning. Once he gets back to Vought, he'll find out who it was, and rip out their fucking spine.

You've already gotten up to do as he asked, drawing the blinds down, and then closing the curtains over them. Afterwards, you turn to leave.

"Hey," Homelander calls, frowning. You stop in the doorway. "Where are you going?"

"The kitchen," you answer, hand on the doorframe. "You can call if you need something."

"Stay here," he says, ignoring the bit of petulance he can hear in his own voice. He doesn't care if you're confused. He doesn't care that he doesn't entirely understand himself. He just wants you to stay.

He watches you take a seat at the end of the couch, near his feet. He exhales, closing his eyes. It isn't as though you could do anything if proficient killers did appear, but for whatever reason, no matter how useless you would ultimately be, he feels better for having you near.

Even a curtain is better than no door at all.

After half an hour, his senses begin to sharpen again. It begins as a dull, irritating buzz at first. It has him rubbing at his ears, screwing his eyes shut. It rolls in and out of focus, making it difficult to adjust to. “Are you okay?” You ask from the other end of the couch, where you’ve been sitting with remarkable patience. Maybe you’re afraid of him. He hates not being able to tell by the rate of your heart.

“Peachy keen,” he replies flatly. “Hearing’s coming back.”

“That’s good,” you say, though the inflection you end with makes it sound more like a question.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s good, it’s just… Loud,” he says, grinding the heel of his palm into his temple. His skull is still pounding. “Everything’s all… Coming back in a jumble. Giving me a fucking headache,” he says, though as he speaks, he realizes he’s able to focus fairly well on the conversation, drowning out the more intrusive ambient sounds. “Keep talking.”

You look surprised by his demand, but after a beat, you oblige. After maybe an hour of idle conversation, he learns your name, that you work from home, you like decorating for Christmas even when you spend it alone, and that you've lived a thoroughly dull, ordinary little life until this very moment.

That’s just what you’ve told him.

From his personal observations, he's learned that you’re a perpetual fidgeter, that you touch your face when you're nervous, and that you would rather laugh than take any of his disparaging remarks about your mundane life to heart.

"I think it's lucky for you that I’m so boring. I might not have been here otherwise," you counter. Your smile is so inexplicably charming–nose wrinkled like you’ve somehow pulled a fast one on him–that Homelander forgets to refute your point. Instead, much to your alarm, he sits up.

"Oh, steady! Are you sure you're okay?" You ask, standing as he does, hands out as if to catch him. He stretches his hands out in front of him, and then curls his arms back in. Exhaling, his eyes flare crimson. He likes the way it makes your heart jump when he looks at you through the red glow.

His lips quirk, lasers fading out. "Good as new," he says confidently, though the aches of his fall still linger in his joints. Not quite new. He takes a few long strides across your living room, pausing in the doorway to your kitchen, where he can see through to your yard, and the absolute crater he left in it. "Vought will... take care of that," he says, gesturing vaguely to the destruction.

You can't help but laugh, crossing your arms loosely to survey the damage with him. "I appreciate it, but really, I'm just glad you're alright," you say honestly, staring out into the wreckage of your yard.

Homelander purses his lips slightly, glancing at you from his peripheral. Above him, he feels something brush the top of his head. When he glances up, what he sees hanging in the doorway makes him smile deviously.

Without warning, he puts his hands on your waist and spins you to him, lips landing warm and firm on yours. He absolutely devours the surprised little noise you make against him, halfway tempted to see what other sounds he can wring from you.

Your heart quickens to a race in his ears, and much to his delight, you kiss him back. You even surprise him by grabbing the back of his head with both hands, deepening the kiss of your own volition.

Not one to be out done, he adjusts his hold on you, one arm wrapping properly around your waist while the other slides up to cup the back of your neck, gloved fingers gently squeezing your bare skin.

To his delight, you retaliate with your tongue, slipping it between his lips and coaxing his forth.

Just full of surprises, little mouse.

Maybe you aren't so boring after all.

He meets you eagerly, exhaling a rough, excited little huff through his nose, dropping the hand at your waist to grab a cheeky squeeze full of your ass, wringing a soft moan from you that sends a bolt of heat straight to his cock.

When Homelander pulls back, you're flushed warmly all over. You smell of antiseptic wipes and peppermint, like Christmas in a hospital. It’s bizarrely appealing.

"What was that?" You ask, dazed.

"Mistletoe," he purrs, tipping his head back without taking his eyes off you, settling his hands back on your waist.

You look up slowly–taking a solid few seconds to process–and huff a gentle little laugh, nodding at the aforementioned ornament dangling above you. 

"Is this your way of saying thank you?" You manage to ask after swallowing back the lump in your throat, your shoulders relaxing, though your heart continues to gallop in your chest. "I hope you're still going to pay for my yard."

It's Homelander's turn to laugh. "Oh, no. I haven't even begun to say thank you yet," he assures you, hands lingering on your hips. 

The kiss had been pure unrestricted impulse, nothing he intended to follow through on. However, now that you're toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, your skin warm against his, your eyes half lidded, he’s not sure that he wants to let you go. Your lips shine where you’ve licked the taste of his from them. 

“I think for your good deeds, you’re owed a very merry Christmas,” he says, waggling his brows. 

You give a flustered, incredulous bark of laughter, covering your mouth as you look away from him, that flush of yours intensifying, making your whole body thrum warmly. You wouldn’t need to worry about keeping warm on these cold winter nights if he had his way with you.

“Okay, well, uhm, thank you for… for that thought,” you say, tripping over your words in a way you haven’t this entire encounter. “You hit your head pretty hard, though so maybe before you make any promises, we make sure you get checked out by an actual doctor,” you say, pushing lightly against his chest.

He maintains his hold for just a second longer, utterly immovable. It feels good to be himself again. He runs his tongue along his teeth, downright predatory in the way he stares down at you, but he does relinquish his hold.

“You should come with me to the tower. You know, now that you’re… Compromised,” he says, folding his hands behind his back. “Someone might come looking for me here. Interrogate you on my condition.”

Real fear flashes in your eyes at that. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he gives back gravely.

“Uh… Okay. Uhm, let me… I’ll pack a bag,” you say nervously, stepping away from him to do just that.

“Okie-dokie,” he gives back simply, glancing around your home while he waits. He picks up an odd little gnome with a big red hat that covers everything but a little button nose, and a long white beard. Maybe he’ll convince you to bring along some of your festive decorations.

Merry Christmas to me, he thinks, already daydreaming about twisting the head off of whoever hit him with some kind of neutralizing agent.

He might thank them for the impromptu date while he’s at it.

[orbital-inclination]

Moltendreams - Error Sans Alias - Static Pronouns: he/him, they/them Personality: Petty, holds a mean grudge, Big Tsundere, Complete Shut-in, Quick Tempered and Moody, fanatic with his interests, externally aggressive when in actuality he is quite shy. An absolute troll. His favorite passtime is messing with others. Paradoxically touch starved and suffers from haphephobia. Reckless with his own well being.

This variant of Error is capable of both love and compassion, he just hides it under a grumpy exterior and several layers of denial and self-destructive dogma. Other Notes:

Reluctant to harm Papyrus directly, though Static can't articulate why, and will generally avoid encounters Papyrus in any given AU.

Had a good relationship with his dad/W.D Gaster, actually.

Relates to "pest" pets; rats, mice, snakes, spiders, beetles, he loves them all.

Would have a pet rat of his own if he wasn't afraid of it shocking itself by chewing on his wires.

His favorite kind of chocolate is mixed with a hazelnut filling.

Views Frisk as a younger sibling.

Into Parkour.

-More Info undercut! -

Abilities: Static uses wire instead of string. Wire and summoned attacks can and do hold an electric charge. His presence alone messes with electronic devices. Residents of a particular AU may get a few minutes or seconds of warning as sweaters get staticy, computer screens glitch out, and anything with a battery spontaneously dies or gets super charged. By creating a circle of alternating RED and CYAN bones, Static creates a sort of reverse faraday cage. While Static can produce electricity, he can't directly control the voltage. He can only hope to direct it. The voltage of a charge is directly influenced by his emotional state. If you touch him, you will find his clothes zappy with static. Do NOT attempt to fight him in humid or watery environments for, hopefully, obvious reasons.

About: Static originates from a pre-Pacifist timeline that was followed by a looping Genocide Route. Through repetitive iterations, and an escalating instability in the timeline, the monsters of the underground began to recall events they didn't witness and memories they shouldn't recall.

Working together, Static, at that point still Sans, and Alphys were able to pin point the root cause of their timeline's instability. They made a plan to save the underground and separate Frisk from the Anomaly but when it came time to execute their plan something went catastrophically wrong. As a result Sans was torn from reality, and caught in the space in-between. Eventually, he escaped but not unscathed. Static has vague conflicting memories of his past, and to this day, questions if any of it was real. He can't find his original AU and secretly fears it may have been the first world he destroyed. He is still looking for it.

Outcode Politics: Static views all outcodes the same way he views every iteration of the original timeline that even slightly deviates: as glitches to be terminated. Bugs in the code he needs to hammer out before it all goes to hell. Static believes that by destroying deviating timelines and AUs, he is preserving the stability of the original. He is “saving’’ it from corruption by trimming the branches back. Despite his position as the self proclaimed Destroyer, Static is not above biases and making exceptions. 

Static includes himself on his long list of glitches in the code to be terminated. Static has a different view on the Spirits of Creation that Fable/Ink does. (Spirits of Creation are the in-universe term and stand-in for the creator of an AU). He calls them eldritch parasites. Abominations that should be avoided at all costs. And absolutely should not be encouraged or interacted with. Though he won't admit it out loud, Static is terrified of them. OG Error @.LoverofPiggies/CrayonQueen) Moltendreams @.me Edit: he has been named! Edit 2: revised his profile a bit

[lennsart]

I crave reading a fic about Ravioli, but it's illegal in their era.

Like

Warriors teases Legend and Ravio for being "roommates", but then they both stop everything and shoot everyone down and explain how they "can't mention this sort of thing here" and how "Fable's done with it, but she can't do anything about the law until she's queen" and Legend tries to really hammer in the severity of the punishment for being caught acting gay.

Does this fic exist?? No one I ask can think of any about this even remotely. If it doesn't, anyone can take this idea. I can't write, but I crave this fic.

Ok so this ask is a little funny to me in the sense that anon is like "I crave.... ✨️homophobia✨️"

I don't know if a fic similar to your idea already exists ? People of Tumblr, do you have recs ?

In the meantime, I liked the idea, so there’s a little snippet under the cut for you ! It's not exactly what you suggested, I re-read your ask after I started, but the main idea is here.

(I have a specific headcanon that I haven't been able to post something about yet which goes pretty well with this : Wars met Ravio during the war of eras, yes... But an older Ravio ! And maybe he was already married to Legend, y'know, maybe he couldn't stop talking about his husband...

So it would make sense for Wars to tease Lege until he snaps, because he literally can't imagine there's a problem.)

Of course, TW homophobia & TW internalized homophobia (not much, but just in case)

“ - Look at that smile ! ” Warriors teased, poking Legend's cheek (and nearly avoiding having his finger bitten off).

“ Someone's waiting at home ? ”

Legend sighed. They had just landed in his era, and had a bit of a walk before they got to his house.

He may have been a little giddier than usual, happy to go home. It had been a while, alright ? And no matter how nice Miss Malon was, seeing her all lovey-dovey with their resident old man made him miss his own lover.

He just... Couldn't say it to the others, of course.

“ - Just my roommate, Ravio, ” he informed with a shrug.

Warriors blinked. The veteran thought that he had managed to shut him up somehow...

But after a minute, he came back with a grin that Legend didn't like at all.

“ - Roommate ? " he repeated. " You look pretty happy for just seeing a pal. ”

Legend frowned. Alright, he may have been cheerful, but he hadn't been reckless, had he ?

“ - I don't know what you mean, ” he said, neutral.

“ - Ah, you know, just saying, we've never seen you so excited, and then I learn that you have a little housemate... I can't wait to meet him, that's it. ”

Legend stopped abruptly.

" - I don't like what you're implying, cap, " he warned, scowling.

Warriors missed the murderous aura sent his way, and shrugged with a smile.

“ - Just saying, if you have a crush—

- Shut up ! ”

Maybe the screech was a little much, but Legend couldn't shake the fear that someone might hear Warriors. He already got enough shit for his lifestyle, a rumor like that could send the guards to his head again.

Worse, to Ravio's head.

He shuddered.

The rest of the chain had stopped as well, all looking at the argument.

Warriors seemed shocked, and a little insulted, too.

It was getting overwhelming, being stared at like that.

Legend sighed and grabbed the captain by the sleeve.

“ - A minute ! ” he barked to the others, dragging Warriors behind him, away from anyone who might hear.

When he esteemed that they were far enough, he checked around them to be sure that no unwelcome ear was close.

“ - Damn, vet, I'm sorry for teasing, but that seems a little excessive, don't you think ? ” Warriors declared, rubbing his wrist.

The word made Legend frown. Excessive ? He turned around to glare at the captain.

“ - I don't know if it's funny to you, ” he prefaced with, " but I'm not exactly liked by the castle guards. Saying those types of things can send me straight to execution, alright ? ”

Warriors paled at the word, visibly not expecting such a heavy topic.

“ - What ? What do you mean ? ”

Legend took a deep breath.

“ - They already find excuses to get me when I behave, ” he explained slowly, intelligibly. “ If there's a word on the street that I'm committing a crime, that won't go well for me. ”

Legend didn't know how to explain it better than that but the captain didn't look like he got it. He was frowning and blinking in utter confusion.

“ - What crime ? ” he asked, weirded out.

...That wasn't the thing Legend expected him to be confused about.

“ - Loving a man, ” he said, frowning.

Another silence.

“ - You know, loving a man when you’re a man ? ” he clarified, just in case.

" - Are you saying that homosexuality is a crime ?! " Warriors exclaimed in revolt, way too loud.

Legend shushed him hurriedly.

" - Yes, cap, I do mean that ! ” He hissed. “ What, does that sound normal to you ?

- Yes ?! ” he blurted out. “ Why wouldn't it be ? ”

That shut the veteran up, who definitely didn’t think that the conversation would go that way.

Legend stared and stared, trying to find the lie in Warriors’ face, to catch any sign that the man would smile and joke, “gotcha !”

But he only found profound honesty.

He couldn’t help a small nervous chuckle.

“ - That’s… ”

That was great, right ? They had established that it was probable Warriors’ time came after Legend’s.

It meant that things had changed. It was good.

Right ?

Why didn’t Legend feel as happy as he should ?

“ - Oh, ” he just said, and decided that he needed to sit down, actually.

His eyes found a convenient stump a few feet away from them. He walked to it and let himself fall sitting there.

Warriors stared at him, still with this shocked expression.

“ - Lege ? ”

“ - I’m fine, ” he answered, voice neutral. “ It’s good if it’s been decriminalized, ” he added not to look like this was the problem.

He was, in fact, actively trying to make things change in his time. Fable already promised him that revising this law was one of her biggest priorities as soon as she’d get properly crowned, but she’d probably face disapproval from most of the stuck-up nobles and so it’ll take time, and...

In the meantime, Legend was stuck with pretending his lover was a roommate, being scared to even hold his hand in public, abruptly changing his behavior everytime someone knocked at the door.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it ? He really was glad for the future to not have to deal with this fear.

He was just bitter that that was what he got.

(He was just tired of only being allowed forbidden love.)

“ - Wait, I don’t, I don’t get it, ” Warriors stuttered, still looking so puzzled. “ I’ve met… I mean, wait. ”

He stopped, joining his two hands in front of his lips, visibly trying to phrase his thoughts a certain way.

“ You know the war of eras involved a lot of time-traveling fighters, right ? Well, one of my allies came from your time, and he was definitely married to a man. ”

Legend arched a brow at him, reluctant to believe him.

“ - How can you be sure he came from this time in particular ? Maybe he came from a few decades in the future, who can tell. ”

Warriors looked like he had bitten inside a lemon for a second, and then he closed his eyes, struggling to find his words.

“ - Listen, I just, I know, ok ? He mentioned... People you know. And before you ask, ” he quickly added as Legend opened his mouth with a frown, “ I’m not going to tell you more than that. But trust me, alright, vet ? Things will get better sooner than you think. ”

Legend shrugged, but it did feel good to hear. He tried a smile.

“ - Well, that’s great, then, ” he declared. He finally got up, dusting up his tunic. “ But it doesn’t actually change anything. The type of comments you made earlier ? You keep them to yourself, here. ”

Warriors nodded slowly, something like stifled revolt and sadness in the movement. Legend didn’t feel like addressing it.

It was great that the captain felt so strongly about the subject, in this direction at least. It was also not the place… And definitely not the time.

“ Good, then, ” he commented. “ I still want to go home quick, so if we could get moving… ”

Warriors’ nod was way more sympathetic.

“ - Of course, ” he said. “ I still want to meet this Ravio. He looks like he makes you happy. ”

Legend jerked his head towards him, his warning expression not entirely devoid of amusement. Warriors raised both his hands in peace.

“ He sounds like a great friend, is all I’m saying ! ”

And it did get a little chuckle out of Legend.

“ - Oh, he is, ” he declared with a smile. “ I’m afraid you two will get along swimmingly. ”

Warriors laughed, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed by.

When they got back to the rest of the group, the curious gazes sent their way were soothed by the fact that they were both smiling.

Legend’s smile was actually getting wider and wider, as they were getting close to his house.

When he saw it on its little hill, he rushed to the door, trying not to bounce on his feet as he waited for his partner to open.

And if Warriors observed from afar as they fell in each other’s arms, he waited until they were all in the privacy of Legend’s house to wink teasingly at their veteran. After all, he never denied having a crush, which was telling for 'mister I'll never confirm what I don't want you to know'.

It was easy to feel lighter about this story when he knew it'll end well for the couple.

They just had to wait a little longer.

[trinityalps]

Usopp is a LiarUsopp is Pinocchio. He “Becomes a real boy” with the other toys in Dressrosa  He is the boy who cried wolf in syrup villageSyrup village = shiro pp village, Shiro = Truth.  Usopp is Aesop, a teller of stories, specifically Fables. He tells stories about becoming a “brave warrior” like the warriors of Elbaf. Elbaf is the land of Fables. Usopp is a False Captain. Sometimes he tries to pull this with the strawhats. Trying to be a False Luffy. Usopp is a Sniper. He shares this with his father, who we tell stories about. Unlike his father, Usopp uses a slingshot. He is an underdog going up against much larger enemies. Like the biblical David. Usopp is an (amateur) shipwright aka a carpenter. He is later taken on as an apprentice by Frankie. Biblical Jesus is famously a carpenter. Frankie is a superhero. After meeting Frankie, Usopp takes on the identity (the story) of sogeking. Sogeking is a False Superhero. Sogeking wears a solar mask. He is - to an extent - a False Sungod and a False Luffy. Usopp trains with Hercules - a superhero - and learns botany.Usopp uses a hammer, both for carpentry and as a weapon (uso hammer) Usopp is connected to giants who are connected to norse myth. Norse myth contains Mjolnir - a hammer which can only be wielded by “brave warriors” Usopp’s connection with merry makes him a shepard.  Usopp is the boy who cried wolf (a shepard) Biblical jesus is a shepard Biblical David is a shepherd who uses a slingshot to defeat the giant goliath, and earn the throne from biblical king saul, who refused to fight. Merry is the lamb of god. Biblical jesus is the lamb of god Usopp is a storyteller and is often the first see or interact with “fictional” elements Usopp is the first to see a Klaubauterman, the first to learn Merry can talk Usopp bonds with the Tontatta (“fairies” who not everyone can see) Noland the Liar is a False Liar. To the Tontatta he is a God and a Savior Usopp is a False Descendant of Noland, but he is really a Savior of the tontattas When Usopp frees the slaves of dressrosa he becomes a False God He is crucified.. False christ figure, False Lamb-of-God  Usopp and Noland are both botanists.  Usopp unlocked observation Haki Observation Haki can be used to see the future. Usopp's lies and stories often come true. 

[averagemorrowindenjoyer]

LU headcanons 3 cuz I need to get my thoughts out of my head

-Warriors flirts w his friends as a joke, and nosey people will think he's being fr. So of course the only rational thing to do is harass him at bars.

-He hates the flirting, but loves the attention. He'll go out w a fake wedding ring so people will stop flirting with him. That doesn't stop them, of course, but it makes less people do it.

-Legend hates when his hair is pink, but Ravio thinks it's cute.

-Twilight always has the biggest, dumbest smile on his face whenever Malon compliments him and says she's proud of him. Same thing when Time does it. those r his parents guys

-Wild watches people sleep.

-Time was mentally screaming and crying when he saw Wild pull out Majora's mask but he acted calm.

-Time was probably tweaking tf out when Twi almost died cuz of the message that sheikah slate gave him. he probably cried in a corner once or twice when he was alone

-But now that Twilight isn't dying, he's still hella worried cuz then that means someone else is gonna die

-Not a lot of the chain know about the fierce deity's mask. The ones that do know abt it don't know exactly what it does, and Time will not be telling them anytime soon.

-Ravio may be a coward, but if he has no other option he's beating ur ass. with a big ass hammer

-Legend will go to the nearest shelter if she ever detects a storm brewing

-One time Legend was lost in a storm and couldn't find the other so she broke down like any sane person 💕💕

-Twilight is actually the sweetest person ever idk why he looks so mean

-Hyrule eats rocks

-Wild had a little sister that he lost to the calamity.

-Hyrule doesn't think, he just acts

-Legend has never told anyone about the cheer outfit, and probably never will. If he ever gets caught with it on, she'll probably cry 💀

-Sky LOVESSS LOVEESS Sun so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so so much

-Four isn't in love w Dot, he only sees her as a friend.

-I know Jojo said that Shadow Link isn't canon to LU, but.........shadow and four are boyfrien-WHAT WHO SAID THAT

-Warriors had ptsd from wars

-Legend loves to cuddle but he will never admit it

-Wind fell asleep on Malon's shoulder once because she sang him a lullaby. She carried him to his bedroom later while he was asleep. Her heart bursted with pride and love as she set him down on the bed.

-Malon sees all of the boys as her sons. She desperately wants children if u couldn't tell. and she deserves some

-Legend and Fable will pull pranks on annoying old people for fun

-Everytime Malon looks at Twilight she sees her and Time's future. She is especially motherly to him out of all the boys.

-Twilight pretends he doesn't feel immense joy when she is near him. but he does

[prettyboishin]

I'm collecting all the books for Brightwood academy in fable 3 and we don't talk about IIona PureHeart the lady who wrote Hammer/Theresa and Garth/Reaver fan fiction enough.

"Next chapter: Dark wizard, passionate rouge"

THIS BOOK SENT ME INTO FUCKING ORBIT I'VE BEEN LAUGHING FOR TEN MINUTES

[thisisntreaver]

in my mind theres a none zero chance that Theresa tipped off Lucien about Hammer because when you meet her shes irritated by the fact that shes a "pacifist monk" when she needs a hero. Much like with you Theresa knew Hammer needed a push to become said hero and in this essay I will-

[lamemaster]

The Monster Who Ate Words

Request: Hello (*^^*) Can i please request an Arranged Marriage AU story for Maedhors x Vanyar Reader? Let's say reader is a bit intimidated by Maedhors ( who has not shown much interest in her ). And Maedhors doesn't want to scare her so he keeps his distance.

Pairing: Maedhros x Reader

Genre: Arranged marriage au

Summary: Nelyafinwe was good. Good enough in your books. Good looking from the times you had met in childhood, a great politician if rumors from Tirion were to be believed, and tall enough to expect respectably tall elflings in the future. 

AN: Thanks for requesting! I hope you like this :3 I really enjoyed writing this. Unedited for now don't kill me pls I have 3 little fish to feed.

��He hasn’t bothered to show face even once!” You scowl adjusting the errant pendant. “So why should I be the one to write to him?” You turn to your father, who by now has folded into himself like a petulant sunflower at sunset. 

“He is a prince!” Your mother roars undeterred. “He probably does more than just writing children’s fables in his free time, daughter mine.” To this your father protests silently to your mother. Only to flail helplessly.

Such has been the case for your parents. Your father- the distressed damsel and your mother- a fire-breathing drake. 

And you were nothing if not her rage personified. Which was wildly out of place in most Vanya settings. Some astray friends of yours had even jested in passing about you taking after your father-in-law, Crown Prince Feanaro more than his eldest. 

An arranged marriage to Nelyafinwe hadn’t been the most unexpected. Born to Ingwe’s brother, you expected such. Given that you rarely held the passion and patience for sweet nothings for a romance of your choosing.

Nelyafinwe was good. Good enough in your books. Good looking from the times you had met in childhood, a great politician if rumors from Tirion were to be believed, and tall enough to expect respectably tall elflings in the future. 

Additionally, much to your ire and your friend group’s joy, if a certain Telerin minstrel was to be believed then, the son of Feanaro possessed worthy assets. A fact that you swore did not bother you to anyone who dared to bring up the topic. 

Your betrothal to him had been set up 2 loar ago. An agreement was established through embellished scrolls and a piece of jewel exchanged by each side. That jewel now the emerald that had been forged into the pendant that hung from your neck for the past 2 loar. 

Binding you to the Feanorian with the dignity less than that of a stabled mare. 

Love, you did not expect. But such coldness had hurt. Absence of even a single acknowledgement had hurt. This your mother knew well. Better than your soft-hearted father could ever understand. For even rocks nestled in the depths of Earth crack under the pressure of an unyielding hammer. 

“My letter or the absence of it will make little difference.” You whisper and what follows is your mother’s uncanny silence. 

You have written to him. For two loar, you have written. Every week at the beginning of your betrothal, letters about Vanyamar, about your favored writings, or scents and silks that you would like for your wedding. 

Those soon dwindled to monthly updates with perfunctory greetings and everyday happenings. Sometimes about stories that you wrote for the children in court. Or about elflings born to your siblings. 

No matter what you wrote, Nelyafinwe never once did reply. As if your letters by some sorcery never slipped past the borders of Vanyamar. 

The last one had been short. A last-ditch effort on your end. A simple request. To meet at the Feast of Trees. That is all you had wanted of your betrothed. And he had failed. 

Out of all of Finwe’s line, Nelyafinwe had been the one to not show his face. A fact that you bitterly swallowed with a forced smile and cheerfully chatted with your future in-laws.

At least Nerdanel and Feanaro seemed to possess basic decency of character to bear the Vanya thrust their way.

Nelyafinwe despised it. The lingering scent of a promise that his betrothal held. Unfailingly binding compromise. 

A business matter to be ended over correspondence. He hadn’t given it much thought. His resentment did not allow it. 

The piece of amethyst that arrived with the letter had been handed off to Curvo and his father, who within a week produced a hairpin that ended up somewhere in the mess of Nelyafinwe’s room or the drawers of his study on most days. Gathering dust away from his gaze. Next to the letters. 

He had desired a choice. Unlike the horde of brothers and cousins that fate had thrusted into his life, Nelyafinwe had desired love.

But that too had been stripped away from his hands when his grandfather in a matter of a single day roped his father, who on most days detested Vanyar to arrange a wedding with one for his eldest son. 

It started as a silent protest that soon became a habit. The letters from Vanyamar were thrusted into the farthest drawer where the light of the trees barely ever lingered. 

Why could you not understand his signs? Was it not clear that he did not desire such a connection? He did not want your words or get to know you. He did not want it because depriving himself was the only way of showing his father what this had done to him. 

For once, he did not wish to be agreeable, gentle Nelyo everyone had made him into. This was his rebellion.

Some part of him had protested such cruelty towards you. What fault was it yours that elders desired a marriage of convenience? How fair was it for you to be the scapegoat of his ire? But those voices remained quiet.

So it came as a surprise when one day, your words found him despite all he tried to run away from them. 

Crouching next to Ambarussar, who sat surrounded by the hurricane of their mess of toys and all the possible possessions, Nelyafinwe saw tiny books. Handwritten illustrated books that the twins read aloud as Kano snored next to them, sprawled on a chaise. 

“What are you reading?” Maitimo sat next to them, only for the twins to ignore their usual protocol of climbing all over him. Amras sighed, barely glancing up at his elder brother “The Monster Who Ate Words.” He replied, his eyes glued to the book.

The pages of the book, inked it a clean hand, next to the drawing of a long red serpent with blazing eyes caught Maedhros’s interest. “Sister-in-law wrote these,” Amrod looked up at Nelyo, thrusting the book in his hands. “She designed the serpent after you!” The twins giggled now sharing a book as Maitimo flipped through the pages.

A childish tale indeed. The story went- on a long lonely island lived a raging serpent with red mane and glimmering silver eyes. The serpent terrorized the island with his loud roars and ability to devour words. This left the world empty and elflings bereft of any tales or lullabies. 

The ridiculous tale further developed into a group of outcast elflings gathering the words hidden in their textbooks to fight the serpent that detested sums and numbers. 

Nelyafinwe scoffed finishing the book. He was perfectly capable of summing, and no, he did not hate numbers or mathematical calculations. 

It took a moment for him to spot the empty room. Ambarussar had fled to Eru knows where and Kano had left the room unnoticed by Nelyafinwe. Rays of Laurelin had dimmed casting a mellow light in the room. 

Suddenly Maitimo wanted to go far away from the cluttered room. He wished to get on his mare and wander until his mind calmed down. Until his heart rate evened out. He despised this restlessness. 

For his heart could not remember the last time he had held your letter. The last time he had the chance to thrust it into the drawer. He could not remember. 

He had failed to notice it. This settled like dread in his gut. That something had changed. Somehow, from a stranger he had become the monster in your stories. 

Nelyafinwe does not run away. He knows he cannot do that, no matter how much his heart craves for freedom from such obligations. He is the eldest-born Feanorian. Named after the high king of Noldor. 

So seated in the silent dark of his study he opens the drawer full of the same writing as his brother's books.

Picking up the Amethyst hairpin heavy in his palm, he pulls his hair back and uses his betrothal gift after 2 loar. It holds his hair with the comfort he is familiar with. His father’s work never fail their purpose. But this one in specific is achingly familiar as it settles into his hair. 

With a distant curiosity, he wonders what gem of his claim rests on your being. He cannot remember the conversations 2 loar ago. He had merely agreed to the first suggestion by Indis and his mother. 

One by one he reads through your letters. Words leave him heavy with guilt. His throat- scratchy with the fullness of his heart and eyes. 

He is one wretched betrothed. Worthy of all the villainy in your books.

He reads from the first letters of ill concealed excitement of introductions. Of likes and dislikes, ideas of works in progress, to rare fleeting letters about weather and courtly affairs. 

In a matter of hours, he goes through the process of getting to know you and losing you. But he does not stop reading. He does not deserve the respite of that ignorance. 

And so he picks up the quill and begins his labor. For days he sits in his study replying to the letters. His likes, dislikes, hobbies, courtly affairs, and a short review of The Monster Who Ate Words. 

To quell the heartache of his own making. This in the least was of his own choice.

[cuffmeinblack]

Amongst the buttercups

Part 2 of Out of bounds - ao3 link for all parts

Garreth Weasley x f!reader

Tags: explicit | fluff | first date | outdoor sex | multiple orgasms 4.9k words

Summary: After sharing your first kiss the week before, you finally go on a date with Garreth. As it turns out, he's quite the romantic.

A/n: There's not much plot-wise so could be read as a standalone.

Had you imagined it? You were pretty sure you had spent an evening sneaking into Professor Weasley's chambers last week. You were almost certain you'd kissed Garreth Weasley and agreed to go on a date with him. So the question remained; why hadn't he asked you yet?

You'd been waiting for days for him to arrange the fabled excursion into Hogsmeade, nervously casting him glances during your shared lessons. On more than one occasion you'd caught him looking and he'd blushed and looked away when you met his eyes. Something was wrong and you had decided to get to the bottom of it.

Cornering him after Herbology, you pulled him spluttering and mumbling to the huge tree that stood between the greenhouses, surrounded by a lily-filled pond. Tucked out of sight, there sat a stone bench often frequented by couples looking for a little privacy between lessons, though it was thankfully empty at this pivotal moment. Your heart hammered in your chest as you came to a stop next to the seat, immediately rounding on Garreth who looked back at you with wide eyes.

"What's going on, Garreth?" you asked.

"Hah, what do you mean?" he replied, smiling warmly in an attempt to feign ignorance.

"You know exactly what I mean. We…kissed. And now you're just ignoring that it ever happened. Do you…regret it?"

His eyes widened even further, practically bulging out of their sockets as he shook his head frantically.

"No…no! Of course I don't. Honestly, I just…don't know what I'm doing," he sighed, looking distinctly uncomfortable and lacking his usual self-assuredness.

"I thought we were just going to go to Hogsmeade. We've been there dozens of times," you said quietly.

Garreth cast a glance around to make sure there were no stray students around to catch snippets of your conversation before stepping closer to you. The movement caught you by surprise and you inhaled sharply, taking in his usual scent now blended with the earthy smell of the soil he’d been handling moments ago. 

"We've been as friends,” he sighed. “Merlin…I don't know the etiquette. I asked Leander about it but he's even more hopeless than I am. Then I asked my brother but he hasn't replied yet and…"

"Garreth, you're overthinking it,” you said, cutting across his monologue. “I just want to spend time with you. Alone. Hold hands and…you know..."

Garreth smiled, his eyes glittering as he watched you blush under his gaze. He was close enough to touch, and close enough to hear when he whispered next to your ear.

"Want to do that now?"

Your reply was a whimper as he closed the small gap between you, the grin falling from his lips as his face set into a serious and intense expression. His lips were on yours before you could answer his question; purely rhetorical, then.

Your hands flew to his hair, always so soft and tempting, as you melted into the kiss. You’d missed his lips. The past few days had seemed like a confusing, frustrating eternity full of vivid daydreams and unbearable tension. Finally, finally his hands encircled your waist, pulling you against him with a strength that betrayed his desires as your mouths met in a heated exchange of tongues.

Kissing Garreth was effortless, your mind and body relaxing and completely giving over to the moment—your bodies fit together so perfectly, your lips slotted against one another and tongues moved in sync. You were so absorbed in pressing yourself against him as closely as humanly possible that you failed to notice the approaching sixth years until it was too late.

“Oh! Sorry, didn’t mean to…intrude,” the girl spluttered, taking in your dishevelled and flushed appearance.

“No problem, we were…just leaving,” Garreth said, adjusting his robes and smoothing his hair.

“We were?” you asked, slightly miffed that he’d let a couple of younger students spoil your fun.

Garreth gave you a cheeky smile and winked, setting your heart racing and skin tingling as he laced his fingers with yours to guide you out of the greenhouses. He had no intention of stopping, merely finding somewhere more private to continue your entanglement.

-

That kiss had opened the floodgates. Every spare moment you had, you now spent glued to Garreth's lips, anticipating your official date at the weekend. Could you call yourself his girlfriend yet? You didn't discuss it; there was little time to talk when your mouths were so otherwise occupied.

When the weekend finally came, Garreth had channeled his nervous energy into pure enthusiasm. You walked into the common room in the morning to find him waiting by the portrait hole, dressed in casual breeches, a cotton shirt and waistcoat and clutching a colourful posy in his hands. He looked casually handsome, and oddly clean—his hair freshly washed and brushed and not a speck of potion residue or soot on him.

Garreth grinned, his gaze drifting over you slowly and incredibly obviously as you approached him.

"You look beautiful," he said, holding out the wildflower posy.

"Thank you. You look very handsome," you replied shyly, taking and smiling fondly at his gift.

You wondered if his brother had suggested the tiny hand picked bouquet or whether it was something he'd thought of, but the way he watched you nervously as you sniffed the flowers made you think it might have been the latter.

“They’re beautiful,” you smiled. “I’ll keep them next to my bed.”

With a swift kiss on his cheek which left him grinning and glancing around the common room, you ran up the stairs to your dormitory to deposit your flowers into a small vase on your nightstand, admiring the display with a fuzzy warmth in your chest. Hurtling back down the steps, you bounded up to Garreth who captured you in his arms.

“Ready?” he asked.

Would you ever be ready for a first date with your best friend of several years? Probably not, but the nervous anticipation was eating at you. You nodded and he swept you out of the room and once safely past the portrait he clasped your hand in a firm grip. It certainly felt strange holding his hand, but immensely comforting—you were practically giddy, trying hard to suppress the grin you felt tugging at the sides of your mouth.

The weather was glorious, the conversation much as it always was, with the slightest hint of hesitation. Garreth seemed to be contemplating something—most likely he was overthinking, wondering what piece of stifling courting etiquette he should be following at that precise moment. Were they walking too closely? Should he be holding your hand?

"Want to erm…have some tea and cake?" Garreth asked nervously as you crossed the bridge into the village.

"Did Leander suggest that?"

"Well, yes, actually."

You sighed and shook your head with a reassuring smile.

"Let's have a look around Zonko's, there's something I've been meaning to show you."

Garreth relaxed slightly at the suggestion, clearly not keen on the idea of the stuffy little tearoom when there was a joke shop to peruse. His hand was slightly sweaty as you guided him towards the cheerful shopfront, stopping by the window to admire the colourful display of boxing telescopes.

The item you were looking for was situated at the back of the shop, amongst the more serious items that didn't cause mild injury or a fire hazard. Garreth's eyes drifted over the display of fireworks with interest and you smiled fondly, tugging his hand to the shelf in front of you. 

"A…quill?" Garreth asked, scanning the shelf.

"The ink turns invisible after a short time and can be revealed with a simple incantation. It's meant as a prank but I thought if you're going to write notes on dubious potions, maybe use this so it doesn't get confiscated again?" you suggested, picking up a box.

"Brilliant! But having those confiscated worked out pretty well, didn't it?" he said with a cheeky wink.

You tried not to smile too widely, looking away and smirking. "I suppose it did."

Garreth's eyes lingered on you as you pretended to read the back of the quill box before placing it in his hands. You met his gaze and couldn't suppress the blush that crept across your cheeks or the way he made your pulse race. Merlin, if all he had to do was look at you to make you feel this way, you were doomed.

After a detour to the display of fireworks, marvelling at their ability to shapeshift into different creatures, Garreth paid for his new troublemaking aid and suggested a trip to Honeydukes next. The sweet shop was a short walk away through the main square, which was humming with activity as patrons enjoyed the sunshine and spilled out of the tearoom onto the cobbles.

The cake did look delicious, but you'd rather procure some chocolate and enjoy it somewhere a little more quiet. The air was filled with the scents of the various shops surrounding the square; sweets, tea, cake and even shoe polish. Your senses were bombarded, the musician making an almighty racket above the excited chatter so Garreth had to shout into your ear to be heard.

"Want to dance?" he asked.

You'd thought you'd misheard him, so you asked him to repeat the question, but he really was asking you to dance. A wide grin broke out on your face at the ridiculous request, but his earnest smile and excited eyes had you melting into submission—with a theatrical roll of your eyes and small giggle, you agreed with a nod of your head.

"I can't dance, you know," you shouted.

"I'm not fantastic, but it's fine. Come here!"

Garreth pulled you towards him, looping a hand around your waist and pulling you impossibly close to him. You stumbled, trying to avoid stepping on his toes, placing your free hand on his arm, slightly distracted by his firm muscles underneath the thin cotton.

The music was jaunty, definitely not made for a waltz, but Garreth spun you around the cobbles with enthusiasm, narrowly avoiding the crowds. It was ridiculous and exhilarating—you barely stopped laughing for the duration of the song, your cheeks hurting from smiling. Both out of breath, you came to a stop as the music died and onlookers rushed forth to tip the musician, casting amused glances your way.

Garreth was flushed across his cheeks, blowing stray hairs out of his face with a puff of his cheeks. Not letting your hand go, his other slipped from your waist to undo the top buttons of his shirt in an attempt to cool down, having the absolute opposite effect on you. His pink tinge continued down to his chest, covered in freckles and a smattering of copper hair that peeked out of his shirt.

"I don't think we'll be winning any competitions anytime soon but that was fun," he said, breaking you out of your stupor.

"It was," you agreed, fanning yourself with your hand. "We should tip the musician, come on."

A few sickles poorer, you departed the square for the slightly quieter refuge of Honeydukes sweet shop. You'd been here dozens of times with Garreth and knew his favourites, and he yours. Whilst he made a beeline for the chocolate frogs, you picked up a box of honeycomb and perused the lollipops with different magical effects. You were contemplating one which made your tongue tingle before you were interrupted by a familiar face appearing at your side.

"Oh, hello Natty!"

Natty had an armful of treats and a wide smile plastered on her face; a knowing smile that made you narrow your eyes. 

"Hello…having fun?" she asked, scanning the shop floor.

"Yes, thanks. And Garreth is just getting some frogs, if that's who you're looking for."

"Mhmm, how's it going? Your date?"

You shushed her, furtively glancing around to signs of the redhead as you moved closer to Natty.

"Very well, I think? We just…danced. It was silly, really, but…"

"Well, you're blushing and haven't stopped smiling since I asked you about him so I had assumed it was going well," she said, her dark eyes sparkling.

"I'm just blushing because we were dancing! And it's very hot…"

"Oh, you're smitten! I'll leave you to your date, then. Have fun," she said, turning to take her bundle of items to the till without giving you a chance to reply to the accusation.

Smitten? Is that what you were? The thought didn't have time to fully form before Garreth appeared out of nowhere with a stack of frogs and a small box in the shape of a heart. You looked at the little box of truffles, blinking dumbly until he spoke.

"Thought I'd get something a little different for our first official date. I might be useless at this sort of thing but I assume you still like…fancy chocolates?" he asked, jostling the box.

"I…of course, but I don't want you to spend money on me."

"Come on, let me treat you a little!" he said, a pleading look in his brilliant green eyes.

"I'm starting to think you're a hopeless romantic, Garreth."

He chuckled and shuffled the boxes around into one arm, scooping up your hand with another and planting a gentle kiss on your knuckles. 

"Maybe I am."

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing, the skin on your hand tingling.

"You can buy them if I can get my own treats. I'm not having you spending all of your money on me."

"Deal," he agreed, slotting your fingers together and pulling you off to pay.

On the way, your eyes lingered on the lollipop display, deciding to pick one up to try later and adding it to your pile. The sugar-filled treats you left the shop with were likely enough to slip you both into a coma, but it didn't stop you from popping into The Three Broomsticks for a butterbeer.

The buzz from the weak alcohol settled both of your nerves—the day felt like any other of your trips into the village with the bonus of Garreth's ridiculous flirting and being able to kiss his soft lips whenever you liked. Which happened to be a lot. The haze of the stiflingly hot pub seemed to help the alcohol work quicker, or perhaps it was simply the heat making your head swim.

"Shall we sit outside?" you suggested, running a slightly sweaty hand through your hair.

Garreth sipped the last of his drink, peering over the glass at you as he nodded in agreement. The day was drawing to a close by the time you left the pub, happily tipsy with a fuzzy warmth that may have had nothing to do with the drinks. You let Garreth lead you to wherever he wanted as you talked—whether he was wandering aimlessly or having a destination in mind, you weren't sure.

Once out of the village, he led you through a kissing gate into an overgrown field turned to meadow, clearly the destination he's used for flower-picking for your posy. The long grass was full of poppies, cow parsley and buttercups in full bloom and the hum of the busy town had dissipated into a buzz of bees and butterflies feasting on the abundant flora. 

Garreth was absolutely an unabashed romantic, bringing you to such a beautiful place at the end of a perfect date. He pulled out the heart-shaped box of truffles from his bag, dumping the satchel on the ground and settling into the grass. He patted the ground next to him and offered you a warm and slightly wonky smile and you threw yourself next to him, immediately enveloped by his arm.

"Chocolate?" he asked, offering the delicate little dusted truffles to you.

Picking one at random, you popped it in your mouth and hummed as the oozing centre covered your tongue then started crackling. Smiling at the popping candy hitting the roof of your mouth, you savoured the creamy chocolate before swallowing and immediately sticking your tongue out at Garreth.

"Can 'ou hear ih?" you asked him, pointing at your tongue.

Garreth laughed and dipped his head towards you, nodding as he heard the soft crackling. You were so busy being unreasonably excited by the surprise addition to your sweet that the addition of Garreth's tongue to your mouth took you completely by surprise. A muffled 'oh' was captured by his mouth as he cupped the back of your head before you melted into the kiss.

The sweet kisses tinged with chocolate and butterbeer in the fragrant meadow were the best of your life. They weren't awkward first kisses or frantic ones exchanged in dark corridors or empty classrooms; they were full of affection, slow and exploratory and completely perfect. You were only aware of the sun setting by the dimming light as you opened your eyes slightly, the sky turned a warm orange.

Garreth made a small noise of disappointment as you pulled away, making you chuckle as you regarded him in the glow. The light suited him, intensifying his copper hair and warming his freckled skin. You were incredibly thankful for the long grass and dimming sky as your stomach fluttered and core ached for him, throwing yourself back into his arms with reckless abandon.

He moaned in response and held tightly onto your waist, laying you back gently on the grass as his leg slotted between your own and he positioned himself half on top of you. His hand drifted to your hips, continuing its journey down your thighs and slipping under the heavy fabric of your skirt, and as his warm hands met your bare skin, you shuddered with anticipation.

"Sorry, got a little carried away," Garreth mumbled, his cheeks flushed and a sheepish smile spreading across his face.

"I don't want you to stop," you replied, completely seriously.

A fire ignited behind his eyes at your admission and he kissed you again with a fervour that took your breath away. His hand left your thigh to fiddle with your blouse and you joined him, making quick work of the buttons and shrugging out of the top, moving onto his own waistcoat and shirt.  Garreth broke your kiss to glance down as you undid the laced ribbon your stay, letting the corset fall open to expose your breasts as you ran your hand over his broad chest, eyes following the trail of hair down to the bulge in his trousers.

A hungry growl left his throat as his strong hand gripped your breast, his palm kneading and thumb brushing your peaked nipple as he kissed you again. Your hips ground together, the friction you found against his thigh creating a pool of slick in your undergarments as his erection pressed painfully into your own leg. 

The heat between your bodies radiated and became trapped, your skin burning with arousal and glistening with sweat. Your head was spinning as his hand slid around your behind with a bruising grip, pulling you against him harder and harder with every movement of your hips. Garreth felt good pressed against you, but you needed more.

You slipped your hand between your bodies to tug at his waistband, frantic and buzzing with tension. Sensing your growing frustration, he took his weight off of you, allowing your fingers access to undo his trouser buttons. You muttered an expletive as you looked down as he sighed, his erection finally released from the pressure of the fabric, growing another inch in response.

"You're…"

"Yes, I don't tend to, um, wear underwear. Chafes, you know," he replied, slightly abashed.

You certainly weren't complaining at the fact as his freed erection fell into your hand. Fuck, he was big, you thought, feeling the weight. You noticed he curved upwards slightly as you ran your fingers along the length.

"Shit," he muttered.

Part of you revelled in how easily he was wound up by your purposely gentle touch, whilst the other, altogether more vocal part of you wanted him to take you right here and now. Teasing was fun, but Merlin, he was irresistible. Grasping him firmly, you moved your hand slowly and steadily, Garreth letting out a deep and satisfied moan that made the ache between your legs pulse needily.

Garreth still had his hand clamped firmly on your backside, gently massaging your flesh in time with the tugs you gave with your hand. His eyes were half closed as he looked upon you, dazed and in a blissful world of his own.

"That feels…so good," he sighed.

The moan you let slip seemed to awaken him, his grip on your behind releasing and hand drifting round to your hips, skimming the sensitive skin of your pelvis under the waistband of your underwear. Whether he was teasing or nervous, you weren't sure—he hesitated, fingers stilling as your hand slowed in response. 

"Please touch me," you all but begged, your hand still rhythmically pumping.

Garreth slipped his hand under your garment, between your thighs and pressed roughly through your folds to find the pool of arousal that drenched the cotton. He mumbled something you couldn't quite make out, but it sounded like a prayer. His surprisingly soft fingers glided over your clit, swollen and achingly sensitive to the touch, sending shocks through your abdomen.

"Stop…," he muttered, and you searched his eyes questioningly. "Your hand. Unless you want me to..."

You loosened your grip and pulled your hand away gently, the teasing thumb you ran over his dripping head seeming to ignite something inside him. He fell to your side, his cock pressing into your thigh once again as he picked up the pace of his fingers, tracing small circles around your nub. You were surprised at his dexterity, his hand working you in a steady rhythm as he placed gentle kisses on your neck, absolutely concentrated on your pleasure.

You sighed his name softly, captured by the swaying grasses surrounding you. It was better than anything you could have achieved by your own hand, because it was him. You let yourself become absorbed by the sweet and slightly musky scent of his sweat-laced hair until he felt your face turning towards him, meeting your lips with his in a breathy kiss. You were teetering on the edge, ready to fall at the merest suggestion.

"Garreth…," you whispered into his mouth.

"Mmm, are you close?"

You nodded and whimpered, your lips brushing together as you did.

"That’s it…let it go."

You tensed before your orgasm crashed over you, your hips instinctively pressing into his hand to the rhythm of the pulses of pleasure rippling through your body. You held him tight, kissed him fiercely and fought for breath against the tide, entirely consumed with pleasure. Slowly, your senses returned as the waves ebbed and you sought his eyes, telling him wordlessly how incredible he'd made you feel.

Your heart swelled, ecstatic but your appetite not entirely sated until you’d had all of him, and to be completely his. Pulling him by his neck, you guided him back on top of you, his glittering eyes searching yours for an answer to a question he so desperately wanted to ask.

"Are we really…?" Garreth mumbled.

"Yes, I want you," you whispered.

"Shit. I mean, I-I want you, too. Have you ever…"

"Yes. Have you?"

"Erm, yes. Once…who with?" he frowned.

"Really? You want to have this conversation now?" you asked incredulously as his erection pressed painfully against your hip.

"No!" he said, shaking his head with wide eyes.

Garreth looked nervously around the meadow, but you were completely and utterly alone. Apparently satisfied that weren't about to expose yourself to the village, he got to work unbuttoning your skirt and slipping it down your legs. He ran his hands over your exposed hips, utterly entranced as his cock twitched needily.

Your drenched undergarments came off next, and you bit your lip nervously at being laid so bare before him, though his reaction settled your nerves quickly. He muttered a string of expletives that would've made his mother blush as he drank you in. His hand found his swollen and dripping erection as you salivated at the sight of him gripping himself whilst towering over you.

He lowered himself between your legs gently, lining the tip of his cock up with your soaking entrance and meeting your eyes. You nodded, prompting him to continue and he pressed his head inside you, slowly. The gasp you let out was muffled by his mouth, and you wrapped your arms around him eagerly, lacing your fingers through his soft hair as he pushed deeper.

He felt incredible, sending a pulse of pleasurable anticipation through your abdomen as your stomach twisted and heart ached all at once. You'd wanted him for so long it felt like it would never happen. Friendship was fine, but there was no going back from this.

He pulled back almost completely before plunging into you again, moaning into your mouth as your tongues wet each other's lips in a sloppy and heated kiss. You drew your legs up as he settled into a rhythm with his thrusts, pushing deeper each time, testing how much of him you could take. Every time he drove into you, your head dizzied and body shivered. 

"Mmph-...oh darling, you feel amazing," Garreth groaned.

His pace quickened steadily, leaving no time for recovery; your body building to its peak again so quickly you were unable to control the loud moans leaving your mouth.

"Someone'll…hear us," Garreth said between shuddering breaths.

"How can I…be quiet…when you're fucking me like this?!" hissed back at him, staring into his eyes with an intensity that made his own bulge in surprise.

"Fuck."

You pulled his hair hard as he bucked his hips, thrusting into you with so much force you felt the ground underneath you shift. His grip on your backside was deliciously bruising, kneading your flesh in rhythm to his movements. Your gazes were still fixed on each other, the swell of emotions his emerald eyes brought forth threatening to overwhelm you as you fought back tears.

"You feel s-so good…so good," you stammered. "I'm going to…oh, yes."

Your walls clenched around his cock as you climaxed again, the orgasm so much more satisfying with him inside you to share the pleasure with. His arms began to shake as an intense frown crossed his face, his thrusts becoming urgent and rhythm breaking down.

"I'm going to…"

"Don't you dare come inside me, Garreth Weasley."

"You're not…?"

You shook your head at his unanswered question—you had not expected to end up having intimate relations with Garreth in a meadow when you agreed to come on a date with him. Not that you minded at all, but you hadn't made certain…preparations.

"Shit," he whispered, hips still thrusting.

His legs followed his arms and began to quiver as he approached his climax and you smacked his shoulder in warning. He pulled out of you, ripping a regretful moan out of your throat as you yearned for the fullness he'd given you. Garreth was already grinding against your hip, desperately seeking his release as you met his thrusts, his slick cock sliding between your skin. 

You took his face in your hands, fingers gripping the flyaway strands of copper hair as you looked into his eyes, full of something that felt suspiciously like love.

"Come on, Garreth. Come for me."

That was all the encouragement he needed as his orgasm exploded between your bodies. You gasped as he finished, the first pulse of his cock shooting his load over your breast, then more and more spilled from the tip, covering your stomach. Garreth's moans eventually softened, his thrusts slowing as the waves subsided. You reached down, wrapping your hand around his length to squeeze the last drops onto your skin, never breaking eye contact as he hovered over you, breathing heavily. 

Garreth looked around, his eyes widening as he remembered where you were, but you were thankfully still alone. He returned his gaze to you splayed out underneath him, your chest heaving and covered in his seed. You followed his eyes, whimpering at just how messy you were, trails lacing your skin and pooling in your contours and belly button. 

"You look…incredible. Just…," he muttered.

Smiling up at him, you sighed, placing your hands above your head and unashamedly let him take all of you in. He blinked, as if snapping out of a trance and inhaled sharply. 

"Oh…Godric. Sorry…"

"You need to stop apologising after something amazing happens.”

“No, I wasn’t sorry for that. I am for the uh…mess,” he said with a cheeky smile.

“Well I might need a little help cleaning up," you replied, gesturing to your torso.

Garreth tore his eyes away from your body, giving you a quick nod before pulling out his wand from his discarded clothes and vanishing the offending mess, though your skin remained faintly sticky. You pulled your clothes back on as Garreth did the same, both absorbed in your own thoughts. There would be time to wash later, remembering and contemplating under the hot water—for now, you needed Garreth’s embrace more than anything.

He seemed to feel the same, laying back on the grass and opening his arms for you to crawl into, meeting him in a sweetly passionate kiss as his strong hands enveloped you once again. It was nighttime now, the air getting chilly with only your body heat to keep you warm, but neither of you suggested leaving. Something groundbreaking had happened and you wanted the moment to last forever—there was now no doubt in your mind that you were in love with your best friend.

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

TMAGP 25 Thoughts: Tech Support

The fabled mukbang episode is upon us. This is probably the most TMA an episode has been too. Jonny wrote it so that's not a major surprise but it really does feel like the most seamless to slot into TMA of all the episodes so far. It was a great one too. Who doesn't love dinner and a show? No notes.

Spoilers for episode 25 below the cut.

Alice and Sam's interaction is interesting to me for entirely how uninteresting it is. I'm not sure if it's just me but I feel like there has been this run of episodes recently that are sort of coasting in terms of plot progression. That's not a bad thing but it does feel like we're in a bit of a trough between big things right now. Not that this episode doesn't have at least some progression in it. It's just not now, and not next.

The incident was a lot of fun IMO. Really evocative, a great format, a nice solid contained story where no one horrifically dies. Hard to complain about anything that happened here. Just some great Magnus-flavoured horror. Similarly to the last couple I don't know that this is going to have much bearing on later episodes. It doesn't feel like there is much in here we haven't seen before. Obviously the specifics are different but I couldn't point to anything metaphysically unique in this one. It is, of course, the most hunger related one of these we've had in a while. So the Hunger-not-Fear theorist are eating well I'm sure. I don't really buy that. Or, at least, I don't think it's actually all that different than TMA. I think the strongest name we have for them right now is Dread thanks to the capital D Dread from the transcript of Hard Reset. Although it's entirely possible there is more than one category of entity here. If we didn't have German to go off of I'd also say it would be a good theory for what DPHW might mean. Each letter representing an entity, or type of entity, and the influence they have upon any given incident. That's all unrelated to the incident, of course, but I did feel like I should talk about something here.

Poor poor Colin. Cursed by the plot to get institutionalised for being right. Well, for the hammer stuff but that's nearly like being right. What's probably the most tragic part about this is that the team is primed to believe him now. Had he laid out what he knows sans hammer he'd probably have won them over but paranoia is a cruel mistress indeed.

Lena caring more about rules than people is unfortunately attractive. It's incredibly funny to me that the OIAR offices are in such a disarray that the terminals are apparently right next to server racks. I'm going to be interested to see where this goes. Sam standing up to Lena and flatly declaring that things are fucked up in the office should have some sort of payoff but I do sort of worry it might not get mentioned. The compartmentalisation of the OIAR is clearly falling to bits but she didn't seem super worried in this exchange about that. Hopefully we'll get to see more of that in the future.

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Incident/CAT#R#DPHW Master Sheet and Terminology Sheet

DPHW Theory: 2474 is about where I was expecting it to land. Not a whole lot to add there.

CAT# Theory: At CAT2 this is another one of those that reinforces my belief that if CAT is Person/Place/Object then CAT is a terrible way to grade anything. Obviously the restaurant is a place but there was also clearly someone in the place working with it in some way. That's entirely ignored by putting it in CAT2 and so is discarding information of merit for no real reason. If a team responds to this you'd expect them to want to know that there is a killer cook in the building too.

R# Theory: B seems a little high to me but I also can't really think of a good reason why it shouldn't be B.

Header talk: Food (Gorging) -/- Compulsion (Disgust) is pretty descriptive, so not much to say on that one.

[glovedcourtship]

Anyone here a fan of the Fable games? I’ve been thinking about fable 2 and 3 for weeks now. I really need to replay them

Where else can I stroll into the first village, seduce a townswoman with my song and dance, take her over to a rock face to propose, and get a whole ass house and sweet amethyst hammer out of it?! Peak gaming