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bluerosetarot · 3 months

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Silly idea due to the fact I have the cilantro = soap gene. Expanding off this post I made yesterday. Gonna be a fluffy fun fic with a lil spice at the end.

Tags: fem!reader x Soap Mactavish, blowjobs, cunnilingus

Tagging: @tf141glory because they said they wanted a fic from that joke post

You noticed that Task Force 141 ordered a lot of takeout, though you chalked that up to the grueling work that you all did to keep the world safe. MREs were all fine and good and you noticed each of the men had their own particular food they could cook.

Soap would occasionally cook something called cock-a-leekie soup and the name of the dish never ceased to make you chuckle, much to his enjoyment. You noticed that when you laughed he would always give you a big smile, the corners of his eyes wrinkling ever so slightly.

Price was a traditional British man through and through; the man loved bangers and mash and at one point cooked it every day for a week until you got sick of it and you never saw him without a scone at tea.

You'd asked Ghost what he knew to cook one time and he shrugged, giving you an answer that avoided talking about himself like he always did. But you noticed that next weekend he was in the kitchen making a cottage pie for everyone. You'd given him a little teasing about hidden culinary skills to which he told you the very vaguest parts of his history from when he was a child; the enjoyment he got from when his mum would make this exact recipe. There was a sadness to his eyes as he changed the subject so you dropped the subject.

Gaz was the odd man out in that he didn't really know how to cook, you chalked it up to him being the youngest of the team and lacking experience in that department. But the man was amazing with chips and other friend foods which led you to your current dinner, everyone sat around a table with a big plate of curry chips.

The masala curry was on par with what you'd tried from the local shops which made Gaz's smile bright when you complimented him on it.

"Thanks, mate! Made it myself because I had a wild craving for curry chips and figured I'd share. Never made a curry before that wasn't from a jar but I think it turned out alright, yeah?"

"Yeah, not too spicy either. Y' did good on this one!" Soap was already getting a second helping.

"What, got a weak tongue, Sergeant?" Ghost had been picking at his plate idly with a book in front of him.

"Nae wha' ye tryin' ta imply wit tha', LT?" The accent was getting thick as Soap got more excitable. "I'll have ye know ma tongue is quite strong..." You could've swore he gave you a wink at that. "Just cannae stand heat s'all."

"Hmm." A grunt was the lieutenant's only reply as he spooned some green paste onto the top of his chips before offering it to you. "Chutney? Gaz made some cilantro chutney to go with th' chips. Not bad with th' curry."

Your nose crinkled up at the offering, disgust plain on your face.

"No thanks. I'm one of those genetic weirdos where I got a gene that cilantro tastes like soap."

"Aye an' how d'ye know wha' I taste like, bonnie?" Soap hadn't skipped a beat, and his words brought a flush of red to your cheeks.

"You know that is NOT what I meant!"

Soap smirked at you from across the table and took a chip from his plate, putting some chutney on it and offering it to you.

"Ye keen to find out wha' I taste like, bonnie? Here, have a sample."

You'd finished most of your plate already and figured this was as good enough of a time to excuse yourself from dinner. As you washed your plate you could hear Gaz elbowing Soap in the side with a muffled "Oi now cut that out."

Once you got back to your quarters you just laid in bed staring up at the ceiling. You'd had a crush on each of the guys for different reasons, but you wondered if Soap had noticed. Granted, he was always a flirt when the team went out for some r&r at one of the local bars, but up until now you hadn't really thought of the man as interested in you.

A knock made you look up and you heard Soap's voice from the other side of the heavy door.

"I wanted to apologise, bonnie. Ye still awake?"

"Yeah. Door's unlocked, come in."

Soap stuck his head through the door with an expression you'd never seen on his face before. He looked sheepish and truly regretful as he walked in and shut the door behind him.

"I think I might've taken it a bit far tonight, bonnie. Ye seemed upset after dinner and I wanted ta make sure ye weren't mad at me an' all tha'."

That got a small chuckle out of you and you saw his lips quirk up in the slightest of smiles.

"Nah, we're good, Soap. I'm used to your jokes just, uh, caught me off guard a bit, yeah?"

"Oh? An' how's that?"

He had walked from the door to your bed and sat down at the edge, his hand resting on your thigh reassuringly, the gentle way he touched you made you think about what it would be like to have those hands on other parts of your body.

"Ah, well..." You weren't quite sure how to begin. But you knew the man responded well to blunt talk so you took your chances. "I might actually be interested in what you taste like..."

As your words trailed off you could swear Soap's grin couldn't get any bigger.

"Issat so, bonnie? Well perhaps I'm interested on seein' what ye taste like as well."

The fact that your feelings were reciprocated for him made your heart skip a beat even as you sat there in stunned silence. He had moved a bit closer, his larger frame looming over you.

"Jus' a lil taste, aye? Yer lips, my lips, see where this all goes?"

With a silent nod you leaned in to close the gap between your lips, locking together in a slow, sensual kiss as you felt his strong arms wrap around you. The world seemed to melt away as your tongues explored each other's mouths and truly tasted one another.

After what seemed like a blissful eternity he was the first one to pull away, that smirk on his lips once again as he lightly held your chin in his hand.

"Now tha' I ken what those lips a' yours taste like... how's about we go a little lower, aye?"

His free hand slid up the back of your shirt, unclasping your bra with a practiced ease while you nodded once again. God above you were going to get drunk off this man's treatment of you and you helped him help you to get out of your shirt and bra.

Once topless he pulled back and took a long look at you, letting out an impressed whistle.

"Did nae ken you had such a good body under that uniform, bonnie."

He didn't give you time to reply before his mouth found one of your nipples, teasing and sucking the sensitive nub while his hand gently rolled the other between his thumb and forefinger. Each moan that he managed to work from your lips made the hunger inside him grow and he let out a soft grown when your hands went up to his mohawk and gave it a tug.

"S-soap... I want more... I want to taste you too..."

Pulling away from your breast with an audible smacking of his lips he pressed back on your shoulders.

"Nae yet, bonnie. Dinner was nice but I want some dessert first."

As you laid back he pulled your sweatpants down and off your legs, tossing them aside to some forgotten corner of the room alongside your panties. Strong hands grabbed your thighs and pulled them apart so he could see your already slick cunt, ready and waiting for him. Even as much as he wanted to taste you he wanted to relish in the moment which meant kisses along your inner thighs accompanied by the occasional soft bite to the skin there that would make you whimper in need.

Finally, after he felt you'd been teased enough, he dove in for his treat. Soft lips surrounded your clit as he sucked on it gently, alternating between that and flicking against it with his tongue. Thick fingers slid inside and curled up to rub against your g-spot in time with his tongue.

With his face buried between your legs your hands desperately grabbed onto anything to give yourself leverage as you bucked your hips up against his mouth, finally settling on gripping his short hair to earn yourself another growl from him.

It didn't take him long at all to get you to the edge of climax, you could tell this man not only had experience but enjoyed the act of getting his partner off. Just as you were teetering on the edge he pulled his mouth away to look up at you as his fingers kept pumping in and out of you.

"Aye, tha's it. Good girl. Gonna cum for me, aye?"

And with that his face was back down between your legs and your vision went white as your orgasm finally hit, your moans and whines music to his ears as you rode his face through your climax. Only when the final aftershocks and twitches had worked through your system did he stop and pull away once more, wiping his mouth on his forearm.

"Now tha' I ken wha' ye taste like, bonnie, time for ye to taste me."

You watched as he took off his belt and pulled down his pants just enough to let his cock spring free. He wasn't massive but you knew that taking him in your mouth was going to be a test of your gag reflex for sure, still you matched his cocky grin with your own and crawled over to him as he lay there, idly stroking his length.

A drop of pre rolled down the head and you lapped that up first, finding that this kind of Soap had a better taste than you expected. You wanted more and soon you had your lips wrapped around his head, slowly taking more and more of him into your mouth.

"Christ, bonnie!" His hands rested on the back of your head, fingers clenching as you could tell he wanted you to go further down, to go faster, but you wanted to tease him just as he'd teased you. So you took it slow, tongue gliding along every inch of his throbbing shaft until you finally made it to the base. His hips rolled up to meet your mouth and you finally decided to give him what he wanted.

Your soft mouth was already getting him on edge, though he was fighting against his climax with all his strength. When you finally started to slide up and down his length he swore inwardly that you were going to suck the soul right out of him.

It wasn't just your mouth working him at this point; one hand worked his shaft to stroke it in time with your mouth while your other hand gently massaged his massive balls. They felt pent up and twitched with his growing orgasm until finally he managed to choke out.

"B-bonnie... I'm gonna..."

He couldn't finish his words as a low growl cut his sentence short as he filled your mouth with his warm seed. Rope after rope filled your mouth and you eagerly swallowed it all, paying him back in kind for the pleasure he'd given you.

You only pulled away when he'd started to go soft, both of you breathing heavy in the dim light of your room. Those strong arms of his grabbed you suddenly and brought you up to rest your head on his chest. Soap was an affectionate lover and showed it by peppering your head and face with gentle kisses between words of praise.

"Ye did great, bonnie. So good."

Finally he laid his head back with a sigh and a soft chuckle.

"You tasted amazing, bonnie, hope I managed t' taste even half as good as the heaven between yer legs."

With a satisfied lick of your lips you nodded against his chest.

"Yeah, could get used to having you as dessert more often, Soap."

#soap cod #cod x reader #cod mwii #cod #cod mw2 #cod mw2 x reader #cod mw2 smut #soap mactavish x reader #soap mw2 #john soap mactavish #captain john price #kyle gaz garrick #simon ghost riley #ghost cod

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acourtofthought · 11 months

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I don't think anyone can be dispute that Claire and Jamie's love in Outlander is epic.

Yet it started with Jamie and his clan basically kidnapping Claire. It started with Claire in love and married to Frank. It started like this:

Claire: "Why did you agree to marry me? Dougal didn't give me much of a choice but you..."

Jamie: "I didn't see I had much of a choice either."

So I think it's understandable why we simply shake our heads when anyone tells us we're ridiculous for shipping Elucien, that Elain and Lucien can't have love because it's not her choice or that she doesn't want him (so they say) and can never want him.

According to SJM, Lucien is based off Jamie Fraser. And call me crazy but Elain's personality is shaping up to be a bit like Claire's, Claire who is usually well mannered and soft spoken but has a slight temper when pushed too far. She's also a nurse / healer which fits in with the possibility of Elain as a healer.

Things said in Outlander by Jamie and Claire that I could imagine Elain and Lucien saying:

Claire (Elain) :

"Take off your shirt. I want to look at you".

“I had kissed my share of men, particularly during the war years, when flirtation and instant romance were the light-minded companions of death and uncertainty. Jamie, though, was something different. His extreme gentleness was in no way tentative; rather it was a promise of power known and held in leash; a challenge and a provocation the more remarkable for its lack of demand. I am yours, it said. And if you will have me, then…”

“Did I break the skin?” “Ye do that every time ye touch me, Sassenach. I’m no bleeding, though.”

“You're beautiful to me, Jamie,” I said softly, at last. “So beautiful, you break my heart.”

Jamie (Lucien):

Jamie: 'mo nighean donn'

Claire: What does that mean?

Jamie: My brown-haired lass.

I'll never forget when I came out of the church and saw you for the first time, It was as if I stepped outside on a cloudy day and suddenly the sun came out.

D'ye ken that the only time I am without pain is in your bed, Sassenach? When I take ye, when I lie in your arms–my wounds are healed, then, my scars forgotten.”

“I canna look at ye asleep without wanting to wake ye, Sassenach. I suppose I find myself lonely without ye.”

“Ye’ve no idea how lovely ye look, stark naked, wi’ the sun behind you. All gold, like ye were dipped in it.”

“There is an oath upon her. She may not kill, save it is for mercy or her life. It is myself who kills for her.”

"Claire, it was you. It's always been you, and it always will be.

“I wanted ye from the first I saw ye--but I loved ye when you wept in my arms and let me comfort you, that first time at Leoch.”

“Ye werena the first lass I kissed,” he said softly. “But I swear you’ll be the last.” And he bent his head to my upturned face.

“And you, my Sassenach? What were you born for? To be lady of a manor, or to sleep in the fields like a gypsy? To be a healer, or a don's wife, or an outlaw's lady?"

“I meant it, Claire. My life is yours. And it's yours to decide what we shall do, where we go next. To France, to Italy, even back to Scotland. My heart has been yours since first I saw ye, and you've held my soul and body between your two hands here, and kept them safe. We shall go as ye say.”

“For so many years, for so long, I have been so many things, so many different men. But here," he said, so softly I could barely hear him, "here in the dark, with you…I have no name.”

#elucien #pro elucien #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #elain x lucien #lucien and elain #elain and lucien #pro lucien vanserra #pro elain archeron

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amphibious-thing · 1 year

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What’s up with Stede’s shoes? /gen

So in the 18th century men typically wore short heeled bucked shoes. Stede often wears these sorts of shoes.

[Left: detail of How d'ye like me, print, c. 1772, published by: Carington Bowles, via The British Museum.

Right: Ed wearing Stede's shoes in Discomfort in a Married State]

While high heels had been popular in 17th century menswear they had gone out of fashion in the 18th century. However they had a bit of a resurgence in the 1770s with macaroni fashion (which was considered effeminate). The Natural History of a Macaroni snipes that the macaroni’s “natural hight is somewhat inferior to he ordinary size of men, through by the artificial hight of their heels, they in general reach that standard”. (Walker’s Hibernian Magazine, July 1777, p458)

French style red-heels were popular with maracroni. A young Charles James Fox (satirised by Mathew Darly as “the Original Macaroni”) wore such French style red-heeled shoes. The Monthly Magazine recalls a young Fox as a celebrated “beau garçon” with “his chapeau bras, his red-heeled shoes, and his blue hair-powder.” (Oct 1806)

[Left: French style red-heels from Louis XIV, oil on canvas, c. 1701, by Hyacinthe Rigaud, via Wikimedia.

Right: Stede's red-heels; top: We Gull Way Back; bottom: Pilot]

However you will notice that Louis XIV wears buckled shoes while Stede's are tied with ribbon. Laces and ribbons were not particularly common in the 18th century. When they started to come into fashion towards the end of the century Appeal from the Buckle Trade of London and Westminster, to the Royal Conductors of Fashion (1792) complained that in spite of the “tender and effeminate the appearance of Shoe Strings” the “custom of wearing them has prevailed.”

But perhaps the most intriguing reference is that of Commissioner Pierre Louis Foucault’s papers where he details the surveillance, investigation and entrapment of “pederasts” in Paris. It is important to note that the word “pederasty” was used synonymously with “sodomy” in the 18th century and did not denote age simply sex. An Universal Etymological English Dictionary (1726) defines “A pederast” as “a Buggerer” and “Pederasty” as “Buggery”.

Foucault and the men working with him identified particular clothing worn by men seeking sex with other men that he called the “pederastical uniform”. In Foucault’s papers men are described as being “attired in such a way as to be recognized by everyone as a pederast”, “clothed with all the distinctive marks of pederasty”, or simply “dressed like a pederast”. This “uniform” generally included “some combination of frock coat, large tie, round hat, small chignon, and bows on the shoes.” Jeffrey Merrick in his article on Foucault speculates that these men dressed this way to signal to each other. However when questioned by police they would understandably deny such a purpose, one man when questioned about his outfit responded that everyone “dresses as he sees fit”. (Jeffrey Merrick, Commissioner Foucault, Inspector Noël, and the “Pederasts” of Paris, 1780-3)

Both Stede and Ed wear bows on their shoes in The Best Revenge Is Dressing Well.

#thank you anon I did want to talk about stede's shoes some more #our flag means death #stede bonnet #historical fiction #Im repeating myself a bit but if you wanna know about the shoes without reading my long ass post here you go

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sl-walker · 2 years

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Trek prompt: Scotty vs. the kittens! Somehow they wound up in Engineering and no one is claiming responsibility.

How very dare you. (Responsibility is claimed, but there is a kitten involved.)

Anyway, this takes place in early 2256, so well after where the series is on AO3. A note for anyone else reading: AotW was plotted long, long before Discovery or Strange New Worlds came out, so it doesn't fit the new stuff. But it does fit the old stuff!

It figured that the first real challenge to his new posting as Chief Engineer of the Enterprise had absolutely nothing to do with engineering.

Scotty was only beginning to get used to his promotion and appointment; it was just a week old now, and he still occasionally had to huff a breath out that fell somewhere between wondering laughter and actual anxiety.

But despite the fact he felt a wee bit like someone had lobbed a brick at his head and he was reeling around dazed in the aftermath, he knew he at least looked mostly like he was handling the huge shift his life had undergone when Captain Pike had handed him his letters and the astronomical responsibility that came with them. And it helped that he could go home -- Earth-home -- every night and find refuge with his family and the slower, more gentle pace of life in Midcoast Maine; it was awkward, yet, learning how to leave work at work, but having a niece and nephew to dote on went a long way towards it.

Any which way, he thought he was doing a fair job of seeming to be properly put together, at least until one of his temporary techs meowed at him.

The tech froze, back to him; Scotty's head went over to the side slowly, as he tried to figure out how he was supposed to react to that. Except maybe to tell the lad that he was a fine mimic, anyway; he did sound just like a kitten.

He went to open his mouth to say something -- hoping the words would leap into existence when he didn't actually know what they would be -- when the tech turned around with a resigned look and slumping shoulders. "Uh-- I can explain, Chief, I swear, I just--"

"Collins, is that a cat?" There was an orange fluffball in the lad's collar, against his neck; either it was a cat, if a very small one, or he had the kind of growth that would have Xenobiology quarantining the whole lot of them.

Collins winced. "Sir, I know we're not supposed to bring animals aboard, but I thought-- we're in the Fleet Yards, so it's not like we're out in open space, and she was out in the rain and her mother wasn't anywhere, so I thought maybe I would bring her just long enough to wait for my lunch break and then call somebody about taking her in, I mean, I have my PADD set to scan for any lost pet advisories from Chicago, and--"

Scotty was waiting for the kid to faint; Collins didn't take a single breath as he dumped that whole bucket of words out. But when it became clear that poor Collins was just going to keep going, he spoke up, holding a hand up to hopefully stall any more, "Calm down. I'm not about to go bringin' ye up on charges over a kitten, Collins." Especially given his own record. "Just--" Well, just what? he asked himself. "D'ye have a plan for if she doesn't have anyone lookin' for her?"

Collins cleared his throat, looking thoroughly abashed. "--no, sir. My roommate would probably kill me if I brought her home. And my parents already have dogs, and my grandmother has birds-- and-- well, maybe there's some kind of organization--?"

Scotty somehow managed not to start rubbing the bridge of his nose; he wasn't sure whether he was more exasperated or more amused yet. "All right. All right, stop what ye're doin', and look into it. And we'll see if we can't solve this before the end o' the day, aye?"

"Oh." Collins breathed out in clear relief. "Yessir. Uh-- d'you wanna hold her maybe?" he asked, extricating the fuzz from his collar -- which gave a tiny protesting meow -- before holding her out.

"That-- would be a very bad idea," Scotty said, except by the time he had those words out of his mouth, he also had the kitten in hand. Oh no, he thought, shaking his head to himself as Collins ran to get his PADD.

"Well, now what?" he asked the fluffball.

The kitten made to climb up his shirt in answer.

"Chief--" Captain Pike's eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed, and he leaned forward a little from where he was clearly behind his desk, expression openly baffled. "--where did you...?"

Scotty bit down a sigh, knowing full well he was blushing and unable to do a single damn thing about it. "One o' my techs found her on the way to work, Captain. I'm not quite sure how he got her past the transporter operator in Chicago, though. But I swear, she'll be off the ship by the end o' the dayshift."

The fact that the kitten was perched on his shoulder probably made for a surreal image. Pike certainly seemed amused by it, anyway. "I see. Well, I was going to ask if you had time to go over the phase three schedule, but-- clearly you have enough on your shoulders right now. I'll leave you to it."

There was the distinctive snap of a screen capture being taken, but by the time Scotty opened his mouth to protest about it and that really awful joke -- which would have been bold, aye, but necessary -- Pike had already cut the connection, though not before the first note of laughter sounded through the comm.

The kitten was purring up a storm in his ear, even as he rubbed over his face with a groan.

Thankfully, the little thing slept through most of the rest of the shift, curled up in a nest he made out of his civilian coat.

Unfortunately, they hadn't actually come up with any real plan for what to do with her.

And also unfortunately, he had to field eight different calls or notes from other senior staff members, which was especially difficult because he was still wrapping his brain around the fact he was one of them now.

And all of whom now had a picture of him playing cat-perch, no less.

"I can't just take her and put her back, Chief," Collins said, all but wringing his hands as he paced back and forth in front of Scotty's desk.

"No, that ye can't." And they were running out of both time and options.

Animal welfare laws and and strict control of the companion animal population meant that the need for rescue organizations was nearly non-existent; strays were almost completely unheard of, and on the incredibly rare occasion there was a stray that wasn't chipped and registered, it usually was rehomed quickly.

But-- no one was missing a kitten in Chicago, and no one was looking for her, and somehow she had come into existence despite all of the laws in place that would otherwise normally prevent such a thing.

Which meant that she needed somewhere to go.

"What do we do?" Collins asked, stopping his pacing -- thank everything, his pacing nearly had Scotty getting up to do the same -- and looking somehow both exhausted and pleading.

Well, it was an engineer's job to solve problems. Even, apparently, problems like these.

Scotty looked at the orange fluffball as she stretched, then yawned, then peered at them with eyes that hadn't even changed color from blue yet, and finally gave into that several-hours-old urge to rub at the bridge of his nose as he answered, "Well, ye're gonna go clean up her temporary litter box and get squared away, and I'm gonna call around and see about findin' her a home. At least until or unless someone in Chicago puts out a notice."

Collins practically melted to the floor in relief. "Thank you, sir," he said, and then he was out the door in a blur of gray boiler suit, probably so he could disappear before Scotty could change his mind.

"Corrigan here."

"So, I have this dilemma--" Scotty started, without any preamble, at least until the dilemma decided to meow, a little on the shrill side, no doubt hungry, especially now that the galley was shut down for the day and no more fish paste could be, uh-- repurposed into kitten food.

Corry's voice was both awed and rushed. "--oh my god, where did you get a cat? Is it a kitten. Tell me it's a kitten?"

Well, that didn't sound like a bad response. Scotty knew Cor had a couple cats when he was younger, but at least for the past fourteen years, the family hadn't had any pets. "Aye, it's a kitten. One o' my techs found her, felt bad for her and then brought her aboard. I know Allie and Aaron aren't old enough for pets, but d'ye think Mom and Dad--?" he asked, wincing despite the fact that it couldn't be seen.

"We'll figure something out, just bring her home. I'll stop and grab some stuff, and I'll have Mom and Dad meet us in Augusta, and we can take her back home and see, and oh man, it's been a long time since we've had cats, our last one was twenty-one when he died and then I shipped off to Basic and we just never really had a chance to have another one--"

"--right," Scotty said quietly, pretty much entirely to himself, sinking deeper into his chair in relief as his brother kept on chattering about the Corrigan cats of yore, with a headshake and a grin.

Problem solved, then.

Ten minutes -- and three stories about cat antics -- later, he picked up the kitten and held her against his chest as he headed out the door.

"Don't worry," he told her, "they're really good at takin' in strays."

(She may not have understood, but she had a home by the end of the night, one former stray brought there by another.)

#scotty #arc of the wolf #actual fluff

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captainofthepearl · 11 months

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"unfortunately my captain, Jack has something to do with Carina. Carina is on her adventure with William's and Elizabeth's son Henry and they are on there way to find Poseidon's trident. Spanish captain wants to kill Jack and Carina is near Jack which means death. Carina is on this adventure because she thinks her father left her a book to unravel the mystery of where she came from, and discover who she was truly meant to be. I know you think that it's better for her to doesn't know about you but this adventure will take her life if you don't help me captain".

She looked at captain a little bit scared, not of him but of what he will say.

"If you know anyhow to help it would be good because now YOU are my only hope to save my friend, your daughter... Captain Barbossa"

Blonde girl said and took captain's hand

"Salazar's back" Barbossa muttered to himself. A name he hadnt heard in a long time; salazar, a pirate feared by many or rather, a pirate hunter. It was even more terrifying that he was hunting Carina, a girl he left behind for a better life. If this so called 'friend' says what's true then their all in danger.

Barbossa stood upright on his wooden crutch; his expression turned to concern and determination. "D'ye know what ship Jack be sailin' on, where-cha see Carina last".

"All hands on deck as we make headway ye roaches, fer we be givin' chase ta a certain captain Sparrah!" he ordered.

#barbossa rp #hector barbossa #potc #captainofthepearl #potc rp #pirates of the carribean rp #pirates of the caribbean #pirates of the carribean #captain barbossa rp #sea dog answered

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inposterumcumgaudio · 1 year

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Poedit Cut/Unused Content: The Salty Dog, A Dead Man's Best Friend, and Old Soldiers

I am playing through We Happy Few again for monstroso and a thought occurs to me.

Another point in the direction of the Salty Dog being Something: when Sally visits Colonel Lawrence, he calls out for his third daughter, Hope. The Salty Dog contains the Hope Diamond. Colonel Lawrence's house contains the Salty Dog in Ollie's act.

Sooo off to Poedit I went to see what there was to see.

In "The Salty Dog", there's a missing cutscene where Sally meets the Ploughboys in their alley and, interestingly, the person speaking opposite her is appended with WellF, indicating this was a female Wellie role.

026 Sally Bloody Boyle. We've got no quarrel with you. Well, to be fair, we've got a quarrel with you, but it's not urgent.

028 You stole Cap'n Strawbeard's little buddy.

030 This ugly dead dog! Hah! He robbed it from Colonel Lawrence's house!

032 Yes, well, I'm taking it back to him. The Captain, I mean.

034 Do you have any idea how valuable this stupid dead dog is? No thank you, let's fight.

036 How valuable is it?

038 Not the faintest fucking clue, except someone wants it very badly.

040 What's so valuable about a dead dog? Maybe I should see if it's got something in it.

042 Nothing. Ugh. I can't believe I opened this thing up.

046 Well, in Wellington Wells, Everything already sparkles.

Mild intrigue at that at a point the dog was supposed to have already been opened before Sally got to it. A female Ploughboy though? Could also just be in the same sort of way as the Wastrellette in "Jericho" where she's merely an accomplice, but that she's apparently in charge of this endeavor? Hmmity hmm hmm hmm.

I await your Ploughgirl OC's.

Moving on, I also checked "A Dead Man's Best Friend" because that also involves the Salty Dog.

110 I think that's the stuffed dog! Do dogs really sit like that? I can't remember.

112 Och, Colonel, ye have come a very long way from the honours o' Ramsgate, have ye not?

114 Ye dinna deserve bairns such as these.

116 As one soldier to another, I'll bury ye myself if that's what it takes.

118 Why do you think he's so anxious to get this ridiculous dog?

120 I dinna ken. D'ye think there's something inside of it?

XXX What's in it? What's in it?

124 Anywhere but here, any time but this, it would be a king's ransom. Here, it's a bloody great rock.

126 The stuffing that dreams are made of.

128 Magnificent. Won't he be pleased. Oh, this is an ugly thing, is it not.

130 What's in it?

132 Nothing! Nothing at all. Well, even if there was something in it. My client is a man you want in your corner. And not in the other.

134 Ohhhh... that is a shame. It's been opened already. My client won't be interested in this any more. Well. It was a bit much to expect that neither the Plough Boys nor the Captain would have ... well never mind about that.

I already knew that in a previous build of the game, you had the option of burying Col. Lawrence so that line wasn't a surprise. It seems Ollie also had the option of ripping open the Salty Dog and finding the Hope Diamond himself. Lionel Castershire's line at the end would imply that Strawbeard stole the Salty Dog from Col. Lawrence and the Ploughboys stole it from him.

Lastly, I checked "Old Soldiers" to see if there was anything further. I didn't find anything in relation to the Salty Dog, but there was tons of cut dialogue.

001 DID YOU CHANGE THE DOOR CODES?

002 NO.

003 NEVER MIND. YOU PROBABLY DON'T KNOW HOW.

004 ARE YOU GETTING HIM HIS PORRIDGE?

005 NO I'M TURNING THE ALARM SYSTEM BACK ON WHICH SOMEONE LEFT OFF. YOU WANT SOME DOWNER TO WALK IN AND TAKE ALL OUR RESERVES?

006 WHY DON'T YOU TELL THE WHOLE BLOODY NEIGHBORHOOD WE'VE GOT RESERVES?

007 Oh, yes, you must tell me all about your wonderful reserves.

008 DON'T WORRY, I TURNED THE ALARM BACK ON.

009 WERE YOU EXPECTING A GUEST?

010 YOU'VE GOT THAT TONE IN YOUR VOICE AGAIN. WHY DON'T YOU POP A JOY.

011 OR DID YOU ALREADY HAVE YOUR GUEST?

012 WHILE YOU'RE UP THERE, WHY DON'T YOU GET HIM HIS PORRIDGE.

Tail end of this conversation was cut off.

013 It's your turn, you know.

014 He's your dad.

015 That's hardly my fault, is it?

016 I made the porridge. The least you can do is bring it up to him.

017 It wasn't my idea for him to live with us.

018 As I recall, you wanted him to move out.

019 It was the decent thing for him to do. Make way for the new generation.

021 It's his house.

022 He doesn't need a whole house. He barely even gets up from his chair. All he needs is a bed, a bathroom, and someone to bring him porridge. And clean him.

023 This again! If we'd paid for some stranger to do all that—

024 —he'd've paid for it—

025 —it's money we'd never see again. Look, it won't be long now. But in the mean time...

026 And about that. Are you sure that was the cheapest coffin?

026a They don't offer them "used."

026b They should. They're no use to the "resident."

027 ... the porridge?

028 In a bit. I'll take it up in a bit.

028a I better see if he's all right.

As was this one. That last line, 028a, is Arthur's. And it continues...

029 ... It's just that I hate the way he stares at me.

030 He's blind!

031 So why does he have to stare at me at all, then?

032 What lovely people. Remind me never to have kids. Well, it's not terribly likely, anyway, is it?

032a I dunno, he seems alive to me, or who's ringing his bell? 032b Might have been a bit premature, planning a wake.

032c They live here! They're supposed to look after him!

032d I wish he'd stop that. Now I'm getting hungry.

032e That's not his change-me ring, is it? Sounds more like his hungry ring.

032f I wish they'd take that stupid bell away.

Most interesting though is that apparently the apprentice undertaker and his superior were supposed to be present in the house for this quest. As is, there's merely directions left on the dining room table for the apprentice.

063 Awfully forward-thinking.

064 Planning the sendoff in advance?

065 Usually we're in such a rush.

066 Used to be you could hire a priest to say a mass for someone who hadn't already ... passed. It was supposed to ... encourage them to go to a better place.

067 You don't think they'd ... directly encourage him to take his holiday early?

068 You laugh, but I've had clients I've had suspicions about.

069 At the pub they seem to have suspicions about us.

070 We're not fookin' tour guides. We don't actually take the client on his holiday. We only make the arrangements. We're travel agents, like.

071 No, it's, uh, supposedly Reg the butcher is looking for new sources of meat.

072 Oh, for fuck's sake, you cannot be serious!

073 Supposedly he pays well.

074 If you think you're being funny, you're bloody well not.

075 Not much meat on this one's bones, I guess.

076 Will you shut the fuck up?

This is also actually kind of funny because I made a short twine game a couple years back that was inspired by "The Slaughterer's Apprentice" so it's quite amusing to see the undertakers were originally supposed to have a role in that part of the lore too.

Anyway, last but by no means least! Captain Edward Lawrence was supposed to still be alive when Arthur arrives at his house and he would shout at Arthur on the assumption that he was an enforcer for whoever he owed money to.

000a Go hang yourself!

000b You go tell him I'm not scared of him one bit!

000c I'm not paying him another penny!

000d Hah! You can't get in, can you?

000e Get lost, or I'll call the authorities!

001 "And what did you do in the War?"

002 Not an easy man to see.

003 HULLO? HULLO? CAPTAIN LAWRENCE? I'VE GOT A MESSAGE FOR YOU, SIR. CAPTAIN LAWRENCE SIR?

004 They're going to shut down his power.

006 The power's out. Which means the house is basically unsecured.

007 That's not a good sign.

008 The thanks of a grateful nation.

009 Blimey.

011 A dog? They were fighting over a dog?

In conclusion, what I could do is a story in which Col. Lawrence heard or assumed his brother had Bonny Prince Charlie stuffed and paid someone to steal him, but he received the Salty Dog instead, which is clearly the wrong dog as its a French bulldog, not a Cocker Spaniel. Could play with the idea of this dog being a great personal treasure, what with them having no idea that Salty Dog was hiding the diamond but Charlie being sentimental to both of them.

#we happy few #cut/unused content #sally boyle #ploughboys #cap'n strawbeard #colonel thomas lawrence #captain edward lawrence #ollie starkey #margaret worthing #lionel castershire #arthur hastings #poedit

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victoriansvilevictorians · 11 months

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"But you can't wear the red scarf, ma'am!" But the black scarf, Sarah admits, is still in to soak, having become unbearably frowsty, and the white one, despite Sarah's best attempts, is streaked with dull yellow stains. Why anyone thought of wearing white silk next to their neck is a mystery to her. "You could wear a shawl?" Sarah suggests tentatively, but her mistress doesn't reply. She detests shawls, they remind her of market women.

Sarah is not elevated to the status of a lady's maid, and washing the black scarf had taken its place alongside tasks like cleaning out the fires. Mrs Ampleforth had noted, even as a child, that while her mother professed to be exhausted after a tea party, Sarah and her workmates were banging about the kitchen before it was light, and could be heard still clearing up long after she had gone to bed. It had left her slightly in awe of servants, and the feeling had never quite worn off.

Anyway, she explained to her employee, though the sun is bright there is a chill gusty wind, it is still only February, Pedro needs his walk, and who is she going to meet on the Common at this time in the morning? She opens the front door, then steps smartly back inside. Fumbling under her coat, she releases the strings of her crinoline, steps out of it, and hangs it over the newel post at the foot of the stairs. "Madam!" says Sarah in horror. "You'd best pop that straight upstairs, in case anyone calls" she replies calmly, and steps out into the tail end of the storm, her skirts clutched firmly in her hand.

If she hadn't got out of the house, she says to herself, she would have screamed and, having screamed, started smashing the china. The sandy paths, though still damp, hold no puddles, and progress is far easier (and her legs warmer) without the crinoline swaying and bucking in the wind. The scarf cracks and flaps like a flag, pulling out every time she tucks it in, and she ends up clutching it in her other hand. It's a good job there are no gates to open, she thinks, as she doesn't have a hand free. The broad brimmed hat wasn't the best idea, but it is so firmly pinned to her tight plaits that its efforts to escape are futile.

She was wrong, however, about meeting no-one. She passes several working men, and an old lady collecting firewood blown down overnight, who count, for social purposes as No-one, but then she realises the figure chasing his round hat into a clump of juniper is the vicar. In Westheath, the church is out at the end of a lane, and this must be his short cut to the village.

"A red scarf, Mrs Ampleforth?" he says, instead of the customary how-d'ye-do. As he has started the conversation without the usual grace notes, she will follow suit. "Red is God's colour too, Vicar. I am not aware of the Bible discriminating amongst shades." This is clearly more than he bargained for, and he bows and walks on without anything more. She resists the urge to turn her head and see if he is looking back at her.

Nonetheless, the sermon the next Sunday, taking as its text "Render unto Caesar", seems rather pointed to Mrs Ampleforth, seated in the third row in her clean black scarf. Several working men and an old lady collecting firewood have been quite sufficient to pass the news round the village that Mrs Ampleforth had been seen wearing scarlet, while still in second mourning, although fortunately the collective lack of sartorial acuity had barely noticed that her gown had seemed rather bedraggled, and not identified the actual lack of crinoline.

The vicar expands, at length, on the topic of fitting in with our fellows, conforming with what is expected of us, and generally not outraging public decency. As Mrs Ampleforth is close to the front, everyone else has the luxury of staring at the back of her head, while she has only elderly Major Binks to hide behind, and he is asleep as usual. She holds her gaze with rigid stoicism on the altar cross and refuses to blink.

The rest of the service passes in its normal dreariness, and if the vicar, standing to greet his parishioners in the porch before they step out into the rain awaits Mrs Ampleforth with chagrin, he gives no sign of it. Perhaps he is ready with forgiving compassion for her to step forward, eyes downcast. Not a bit of it. "An interesting sermon, Vicar" she observes sharply "one wonders what Our Lord would make of the suggestion that we should take worldly opinion as our moral guide?" She has had half an hour to sharpen and perfect her barb, and is pleased with her firm delivery.

If the vicar has flinched, if she has hit home, she does not see, for she has stepped out into the drizzle with her nose in the air and her gaze straight ahead. On Monday morning, however, when she walks down to the post office with Pedro at her side, she is wearing the scarlet silk scarf like a flag of war.

Reactions are so varied that she is soon too amused to feel any awkwardness. The better sort of villagers simply pretend they have not seen her. Those below her in the social scale blush, or try to hide a sly smile. The children, of course, are unaware of the depths of her outrage, although some of the older ones gasp open mouthed, vaguely conscious they are witnessing a phenomenon. Does she really hear a low buzz of voices as she ducks to go through the low door of the post office, or is she imagining it?

In the darkened room there is only the postmaster, yet even he leans forward and speaks in low, conspiratorial tones. "Aren't you concerned about what Mr Ampleforth might say, looking down?" His tone is amused, the way he raises his eyes to heaven theatrical rather than pious. "Scarlet was his favourite colour, and it was he who gave me the scarf." she says tight-lipped. It is her prepared speech, but the post-master breaks into a broad grin. "Good for you, ma'am", and she finds herself smiling shyly in return.

The postmaster is a notorious free-thinker, and rumoured socialist: but he is also the village's news-service, and she knows that the fact that the disgraceful scarlet-wearing is a tribute to her tenderness for the late Mr Ampleforth rather than an insult to his memory will be disseminated very quickly. But as she and Pedro make their way back, she is restless and fidgety. She may wear a scarlet scarf every day for a month, but it hardly signifies anything other that a desire to tweak the vicar's nose.

Other women, she vaguely appreciates, experience a dissatisfaction with the ways things are arranged. Not such quibbling and, she trusts now purely temporary, inconveniences such as those affecting property, or education, or the vote: these, she is confident, will sooner or later be swept away by Progress, in this modern age. The Sarahs of this world, she is embarrassingly aware, have good reason to be as dissatisfied with the Mrs Ampleforths as with the law. Does the postmaster's rumoured socialism free the Sarahs from tyranny, or only their fathers and husbands, she wonders. She must ask him next week.

Her sister-in-law Jessica has Turned To Rome, which she feels must only make things worse, not better. As if having a husband wasn't bad enough! she catches herself thinking, which is strange, because she never thought it while Henry was alive.... Her mother recommends Good Works, and her brother says she should marry again, and is rather offended at the response he gets. "You need children" he goes on, undefeated. "No I don't!" she snaps, surprising herself.

Turning to the catalogues of progressive publishers, she embarks on a course of reading, but each new book sways her one way until the next comes along to sway her another. The solution to poverty isn't penwipers, and there is more wrong with women than Rational Dress can solve (though it is very tempting): the postmaster, tentatively consulted, concurs and supplies her with a bundle of pamphlets. She agrees with everything they propose, but finds their suggested methods of achieving it naive in the extreme.

Westheath may be charmingly rural, but the train from the little station beyond the windmill whisks her into the centre of London within half an hour. Sensibly shod and soberly dressed, red scarf apart, she tries every institution and library. She attends lectures with titles like "What is religion?" or "An Examination Of The Proposed Methods For Reforming The Plebiscite" and finds, regardless of the advertisement, regardless of the serious, nodding heads in the auditorium, that the point has been sorely missed somewhere along the way.

The old vicar, his grey hairs no doubt dragged down in sorrow, if not to the grave at least to Bournemouth, retires, and his place is taken by a wiry, nervous man who has earned Westheath by service in the East End. She attends church, which she had not quite given up doing, to hear what he has to say. His first sermon explores an obscure point of theology in Saint Augustine. After the service, at the church porch, she shakes hands. "Did you preach like that in the East End?" she asks with wide-eyed innocence. "Good Lord, no. It was all very Evangelical. Why, do you think it went over their heads?" She cannot resist a smile. "Well, it certainly went over mine!" and leaves him there, blushing slightly.

She is of course, by now, no longer young, and the beauty that turned Mr Ampleforth's head is not there to cause awkwardness between her and the Reverend Hughes. Nevertheless, villages being villages, their conversations are conducted at the church porch, or in front of the post office, and are brief. "You should try the Greeks" he ventures one week, having divined from the ether a need. "Which ones?" she asks, thinking vaguely of heavily-bearded church fathers. "I'll make you a list." he promises, boldly. If Mrs Ampleforth has put on weight, and grown grey: if her teeth are no longer so numerous as they were, she is still an imposing woman. "I don't read Greek..." she adds cautiously. "I never for a moment supposed you did." And they laugh nervously at his temerity.

She orders the books on the list from a publisher specialising in cheap editions for the working man. They are refreshingly small, after some of the books she has waded through. They are also surprisingly hard. If people were at this stage more than two thousand years ago, even before Christianity, how is it the world is still such a muddle? "You must try Marcus Aurelius next" says the Reverend Hughes. "I found him a great solace during my worst times." Somewhat alarmed at this encomium, she orders him too.

Somewhat later, she orders a deluxe edition, bound in green morocco with gold tooling. The Reverend Hughes has moved on to Anglo Saxon poetry, and though she is warmly appreciative of the copy of The Wanderer, beautifully calligraphied in his own handwriting, which falls from her Christmas card, she tells him she is more the Ancient Roman than the Dane. The difference of taste does not sour their friendship.

As the years pass, Mrs Ampleforth gets heavier, and greyer, and more of her teeth fall prey to the dentist, while the Reverend Hughes gets leaner, and wirier, (a difference which may be due to her distinct fondness for cake, and his for long solitary walks) and continues to deliver his baffling sermons. The Reverend Hughes flirts briefly with Kierkegaard, but Mrs Ampleforth, despite her other reading, remains faithful to Marcus Aurelius.

As she had predicted during an argument with her sister, all those injustices of property, and education, and politics which had exercised them so wither progressively with the passing of the years, leaving her nieces and, in time, great-nieces aware only of others, as yet unresolved. People forget there was ever a Mr Ampleforth, regarding her title as an honorific, like that bestowed on cooks. She gains, and keeps into extreme old age, a reputation for not suffering fools gladly, and being a good place to turn in a crisis. She watches her contemporaries decline into complacency or fretfulness - all except the Reverend Hughes, who expires in the fullness of years while wrestling with the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus.

Mrs Ampleforth lives on, missing him less than she had expected. The older she gets, the fuller her days seem to be. Her maid, Sarah's grand-daughter ("Don't think of it as 'service' " says Granny, "think of it as quite a cushy job with a nice boss. You don't have to stay forever, just till she finds someone else." Which was twenty years ago...) reads the newspaper to her every evening, as the print has got so small these days, a task which is especially bonding during the Great War, when Mrs Ampleforth loses a favourite great-nephew and Sarah's granddaughter loses her sweetheart. She sinks slowly and gently, much comforted by Marcus Aurelius, and eventually passes during the General Strike, her main feeling one of irritation at not knowing how it will end.

She encounters the Reverend Hughes again almost immediately. He is wearing a goatskin, and his wiry limbs are very sunbrowned. She, for her part, seems to be dressed in something soft and loose and pale - bliss after a lifetime of corsets - and her arms, when she glances down at them, are bare and unwrinkled. Looking further, she sees, peeking out from under the creamy wool, feet that have never been forced into tight patent leather boots. Her own dress is expected enough, but his is a puzzle.

"Is this heaven?" she asks tentatively, gazing into a crystalline distance resembling, quite remarkably, that in John Martin's painting at the Tate. "I rather think" says the Reverend Hughes, leaning picturesquely on a staff of rough wood "it must be the Elysian Fields". But just as she no longer cares what happened in the general strike, she meets this observation with quiet calm. "And is everybody here? Or is there ... another place?" The Reverend Hughes observes that this is rather unlikely, as he has met a number of people who would undoubtedly be in it, if there were.

"Really? Anyone interesting?" asks Mrs Ampleforth with excitement, thinking of Ivan the Terrible or Caligula. "Not really..." says the vicar, brushing away an affectionate butterfly "only my Latin tutor and the like. I haven't yet encountered anyone I didn't already know." As she ponders this intriguing peculiarity, a speck in the distant meadow resolves itself into the shape of a bounding, hairy animal with a long pink tongue. "It's Pedro!" she cries, pressing her hands together. "Oh, how awfully, awfully glorious!" Behind the dog labours a figure in an embarrassingly short tunic, carrying a basket. It is the postmaster.

"I say, Emily!" he hails, approaching. Who? My goodness, that will take some getting used to! She hasn't been Emily to anyone since her sister-in-law died. Which is a thought: she wonders what Jessica Ampleforth makes of the present arrangement? The postmaster is breathing a little hard from climbing the hill. "I say!" he repeats "What ho, Fred? Would either of you like a fig? They're awfully good this year Emily. Did you get the vote yet?" The figs are large, a lustrous purple, and wonderfully sweet. "Oh yes, ages ago. Straight after the War." He looks blank. "Which one?" She takes another fig and says "Never mind, eh?" Pedro runs round them in circles, chasing the butterflies.

#19th century #short fiction #victorian era #fiction #short stories #kingdom of heaven #socialism #victorian #mourning #cocker spaniel

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alondradina · 1 year

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The beginning of Domaystic 2023!

Day 1: Housewarming

Fandom: Harry Potter

Pairing: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle

Rating: T

https://archiveofourown.org/works/46893625

Harry wasn't sure what he had expected of Hogwarts university, but the reality was better than he had dreamed. Hermione would have told him it was because he lacked imagination — which was rich considering how much effort she had to put into art and creative writing in high school — but he knew the real issue was that he'd had so few good experiences in life.

"What d'ye think?" Ron asked, shifting the box of Harry's belongings he was carrying.

Harry looked around the ground floor of the dorm he'd be living in for his Freshman year. It was comfortably worn in, but not threadbare or in poor repair. It just looked like what he thought a home should be. The carpets were a warm maroon with flattened trails where students walked. The wooden walls glowed dully in the subdued lighting.

He had grown up in the Dursley's house; white and beige with gray accents. There were no fingerprints, no squeaky steps, no muddy welcome mats. Harry himself had ensured that. He had spent years slaving away in that house. It was strange to think that someone else would be cleaning here.

"It's nice… real nice," Harry finally answered. He shrugged at Ron's incredulous look. "Kinda like your place."

Ron wrinkled his nose. "I don't know about your house, but most people don't think mine is great."

"It's a home. People live there. People who love each other. That's better than what I had."

Rolling his eyes, Ron gestured towards the line of people waiting for the elevator. "We doing that, or going up the stairs?"

"It's only one floor up. We can do that."

"You'd hope so," Ron grumbled, leading the way towards the door marked 'stairs,' "Mad eye keeping us running all summer and all."

"Coach Moody has a point, you know. Not going to win if we don't have any stamina."

Ron scoffed in response.

The carpet on the stairs was not nearly as worn as the lobby, and Harry had the feeling people avoided taking them. Their loss, he thought; only just now hearing the elevator head back downstairs.

"What's the apartment number?" Ron hollered over his shoulder, opening the stairwell door and stepping through without holding it for his friend.

Harry rolled his eyes and pulled it open — juggling the two boxes he was carrying — and followed after. "Two oh three."

"That's convenient. It's right here."

Harry shifted to look around his friend. His apartment was one over from the stairs, which was, indeed, convenient. "Guess I will take the stairs then."

"Your funeral."

The elevator dinged and a few people stepped out. One of them was Hermione. She was animatedly speaking with a dark haired boy, who was listening with cool politeness; face blankly staring until she glanced over at him. His dark eyes briefly met Harry's when Hermione pointed him out.

"Harry!" She called, grinning her familiar bucktoothed smile. Trotting down the hall, she quickly gestured between the boys. "The tall redhead is Ron, and the other is Harry. This is Tom"

"A pleasure," Tom intoned, tone as neutral as his smile.

"He's the other scholarship winner!" Hermione exclaimed.

"So another know-it-all?" Ron snarked, rolling his eyes at Hermione's glare. "Nice to meet you or whatever, but we're here to help Harry drop his shit off, remember?"

Hermione frowned. "You're being rude, Ronald. I'm not the late one."

"The apartment is right here, Hermione," Harry interrupted, pointing his shoulder at the door.

A flicker of something crossed Tom's face before he held up a key labeled 203. "That's my apartment."

"Oh. Guess you guys are roommates," Hermione smiled, stepping back so Tom could unlock the door.

Tom gave him a quick once over, and Harry fought the urge to flinch. He plastered a fake smile on his face, wishing he had bothered to wear more presentable clothes. He hadn't expected his roommate to be so standoffish and critical.

"Your stuff already in there?" Harry inquired as Tom politely held the door open for them.

"Yes."

"Didn't know they gave the keys out any earlier than noon."

"I had extenuating circumstances."

"Like what?" Ron demanded, thunking Harry's box onto the kitchen counter.

"None of your business," Tom answered calmly. He paused at a nearby door and locked eyes with Harry. "This is my room."

Harry shrugged. "Sounds good."

Tom nodded and gave Hermione a neutral smile again. "A pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I'm sure I will see you around."

"We have a lot of the same classes," Hermione agreed, ignoring Ron as he made faces. "We should study together sometime."

"Perhaps," Tom allowed. He shot Harry another inscrutable look before opening his door and stepping inside. "Have a good afternoon."

Ron snorted as the door closed. "Good afternoon? Who is this freak?"

"Ron!" Hermione scolded, crossing her arms and glaring.

"What? He's acting all hoity toity," Ron turned to face Harry. "Offer still stands for you to stay with us."

"Where's he going to sleep, Ron?" Hermione scoffed, "at the foot of your bed?"

He flushed a brilliant red and scowled. "We'll get one of those inflatable beds or something."

"If I wanted to live with someone else, I would have taken Sirius' offer," Harry pointed out, setting his boxes on the counter next to the one Ron had carried. "I want to do my own thing for a while."

"With someone like him?"

Hermione aimed a kick at Ron's shin, who easily dodged it. "There's nothing wrong with Tom. I'm sure he will be an excellent roommate."

"You would think that-"

Harry rolled his eyes and decided to ignore their argument in favor of examining his new home. Immediately to the left of the entrance was the kitchenette.

Against the wall there was a white countertop — a microwave and an electric kettle taking up most of the space — and a single sink. The cabinets underneath were medium brown with golden knobs. A mini fridge stood off to the side.

Past that was a small brown table with two matching chairs. The room then opened up into a medium sized living room with a maroon loveseat in the middle. A small TV stand with a 32' TV sat in front of it. There were two bookshelves on opposite sides. Directly across from Tom's room was another door.

"What's in there?" Ron asked.

Hermione snorted. "I assume it's Harry's room."

"She's right," Harry said, stepping in. The room was about the same size as Dudley's second bedroom, but much more open without all of his cousin's trash. There was a brown three drawer dresser to his right, and a bare twin sized bed to his left. A desk sat under the only window.

"Pretty bare," Ron commented, peering over Harry's shoulder.

"We'll have to go shopping," Hermione agreed.

"There's some stuff over here," Harry said, opening the closet that was right behind the bedroom door. Inside there were sheets, blankets, and pillows, sitting beside a laundry shoot.

"They clean your laundry here?" Hermione inquired.

Harry shrugged. "I think just the bedding and stuff. Not personal laundry."

"Better than me," Ron sighed. "The twins said I have to do their laundry and stuff, since they're letting me stay for free."

"That seems fair," Hermione said, moving out of the way so the boys could exit. "What next?"

"Unpack?" Harry suggested, glancing at Tom's closed door. "You think he's going to stay in there?"

"You wanted to do your own thing," Ron pointed out grumpily. "Easy to do if you never see the guy."

"I suppose…"

"He'll come out eventually," Hermione said decisively, already at the counter with Harry's boxes. "Is there any organization to this? What goes where?"

A few hours later — half an hour spent on dispersing Harry's sparse belongings and the remaining time spent going to various stores — the three of them leaned against the kitchen counter and surveyed their work.

"Well, it looks like someone lives here now," Ron said, staring at his phone.

Hermione smiled at Harry. "Think this will work for you?"

"Yeah," he smiled back, "better than it would have been without you guys."

"My brothers want to come over. They said they'll bring a pizza; have a little party."

"That's not such a good-"

"Not right now, Ron," Harry protested. "I haven't gotten a chance to talk to Tom yet."

"About what? Having friends over?" Ron scoffed. "He can't tell you no."

"That's not the point, Ronald," Hermione interrupted. She shushed him when he opened his mouth. "The point is that it's rude to just throw parties without checking. It's Tom's home as well."

"Well, he can have his friends over sometime. If he has friends."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Maybe another time, Ron. I'm not going to spring the twins on him with no warning. I have to live with this guy."

"Already said you don't HAVE to," Ron grumbled, shoving his phone in his back pocket. "You could still come live with us."

"I want to stay here. I like this dorm and I like being on campus."

"It'll be fine," Hermione said, with a special glower for Ron. Checking her phone, she raised her eyebrows at Harry. "You ok with us going, then? I want to get to my dorm, and I'm sure Ron has something he needs to do as well."

"I do? Shit!" Ron winced when Hermione kicked his shin. "I guess I do have to go; somewhere far from her."

"Ronald!"

Harry escorted the bickering pair to the elevator and waited with them until the door closed. Sighing, he returned to his dorm.

Tom leaned against the wall between his room and the bathroom. The electric kettle was on, and Harry could hear the water beginning to boil.

Tom raised an eyebrow at Harry. Gesturing towards the Hogwarts football banner on the wall, he inquired, "Are you a player, or just a fan?"

"A player," Harry cautiously answered. He had been leery of decorating their shared space, but even Hermione had thought having a school poster up would be alright. "For the Gryffindor team."

Tom's aristocratic face formed a sneer more naturally than it did a smile. The kettle's whistle distracted him from whatever he had been planning on saying. Striding across the room — brushing past Harry so closely that he stumbled back into the wall — Tom pulled a mug from one of the cabinets and filled it. He pulled a tea packet out of a white box, set it into the mug, and set a timer on his phone.

Harry stood still, warily watching his roommate. Tom seemingly ignored him, though, and Harry relaxed enough to step away from the wall. When that elicited no reaction, he took another step towards the kitchen. Tom didn't look up until his timer went off, and he'd pulled the teabag from the mug.

Harry cleared his throat as Tom took a pensive sip; eyeing him over the top of his mug. "So, Tom-"

Tom set his tea down and stepped into Harry's space, backing him into the counter. "You may keep your poster, but do not decorate anywhere else from now on."

"That's fair-" Harry began, pressing as far into the cabinets as he could.

Tom used the few inches of height he had over Harry to loom. "I appreciate that you sent your companions away. There will be no parties here."

Harry scoffed, meeting Tom's unblinking stare. "You can't say no to my friends coming over."

"There is a difference between having friends over and throwing a party," Tom pointed out calmly, before returning to his tea. Taking a slow sip, examining Harry the whole time, Tom swallowed and pushed away from the counter. "But I'm sure we will work it out."

"I guess…" Harry said, keeping his body turned to Tom's as the other boy returned to his room.

Pausing halfway through the doorway, Tom lifted his cup in a friendly salute. "Goodnight, Harry."

"Goodnight," Harry replied, but Tom's door was already closed.

#domaystic2023 #domaystic #day 1 #housewarming #harry potter #tom riddle #harry/tom

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gravyffxiv · 2 years

Text

FFXIVWrite - Prompt 1: Cross

"Pull it out, hammer time!"

Old Man Jenny's voice sounded raspy as usual. Years of working the forge and inhaling ash had not been kind to the Midlander's throat. However, his words still carried an umistakable degree of authority in them, and Allyn knew not to disagree.

She kept the workpiece a few second longer, though. She knew, though not exactly how, that it was not at the perfect temperature yet. Old Man Jenny's experience was obvious, however, considering how close the metal was to that particular degree. The young Duskwight did not mind the glare aimed her way. She knew the result would prove her right.

"Hammer!" the senior blacksmith repeated, and his apprentice rushed to place the red hot piece of metal on the anvil, tongs held tightly in one hand, the other reaching instinctively for the ball-peen hammer hanging from her belt.

"Nah-ah!" her mentor barked, that raspiness making it sound almost like a growl. "Ye're gonna be spreadin' the material today, na' just moldin' it. What d'ye need?"

Allyn paused, glancing from metal to man and back to metal. She could almost feel the temperature ebbing away from the workpiece, knowing she did not have that long to think.

"Ball-peen won't work?" The girl's voice was notably deeper and raspier than one would expect, though the reason why had nothing to do with standing by a forge for too long. She wishes it had. "I could just hit and then push out--"

"Nah-ah!" Jenny interrupted her with that growly bark. "Ye'd be takin' too much or too little metal wit' each strike. Ye gotta control it, lass. A tiny mistake and that piece will be as useless as a fur coat on a Hrothgar. Come on, Gravy, ye seen me work. What d'ye need?"

The Duskwight blinked a few times, still not used to being called that way. It was her own doing, however, considering the name she offered her mentor when asking for apprenticeship. She did not expect it to stick for long.

Her crimson eyes darted to the older man's belt, scanning all the different tools that hung from it. Jenny had told her she would only have a full belt once she learned how to use each and every tool in turn. "Ev'rything's got it's specific use in the forge, lass." he had said, "Big or small, ye find the right tool for the job. Adapt, improvise, sure, but if that thing is made for one job, ye gonna damn use it for that job."

"That one." she said, pointing at a hammer with the usual flat head on one end, and a wedge-shaped head on the other. "Cross-peen, right?"

"Byregot's balls, those red eyes o'yers work well!" Jenny quickly pulled out the tool, handing it to his apprentice. The girl turned back to the anvil, relieved that the piece was still hot enough to be properly worked before a second trip to the furnace. Lifting the new hammer, she paused, brow furrowing as she looked back at her mentor.

"What... what am I making?" Her eyes went wide, as if only at that moment did she realize there were no plans, no blueprints for anything specific.

Jenny shrugged, chuckling. "Doesn't matter. I told ye what ye gonna do wi' the metal. Spread, not just mold. Be creative! Show me what that blue brain o'yers has got."

Allyn remained still for a seconds, her right cheek sinking in as she chewed on the inside of it, a sign she was thinking deeply. After a few seconds, her face brightened up with a wide smile, which was reflected by Old Man Jenny. He was already familiar with that expression. Soon, there were no more words. Only the constant sound of hammer against metal.

#FFxivWrite2022 #FFxivWrite #allyn grav'nost #ffxiv #ffxivrp

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