so much liquor!

pls keep Good Temple Boy Baze in ur thoughts as he tries some teenage rebellion in the hopes that Chirrut will think he’s cool (jokes on him Chirrut’s only acting out for his attention) and he gets drunk and really clingy and handsy and OVERT in a way Baze never is, and Chirrut can’t deal and runs away to blush in private because ohgod, Baze is hanging off his shoulders and slurring about how incredible Chirrut looked that one time three months ago, and that other time, and right now-

thus the beginning of Chirrut being a tad more responsible because he loves Good Temple Boy Baze and he wants him to be lucid when (if) he ever says these things again. And he doesn’t want to torture himself with Grinning Octopus Baze before they’ve even held hands, god

only a tad more responsible, though. not much

(in the chaos of post-scarif celebration, Chirrut can’t anticipate and intercept all the congratulatory drinks pressed into Baze’s hand, but he’s still able to make red faced excuses and a hasty exit for them both when things start heading towards the point of no return)

bakery au (oldie but a goodie)

Part 1

“He hates me,” Bitty moaned, flopping on his couch. Holster was raiding his kitchen, listening to his rant about Jack Zimmermann.

“I don’t even know what I did wrong! Maybe it was because I told him that he played a hard game last night the first time he came into the bakery? All he does is glare at me and say stuff like ‘Eric, the coffee is too sweet,’ or ‘Eric, you need more protein.’”

“Brah, maybe Zimmermann just has a total resting bitch face,” said Holster as he pulled out a leftover pie from Bitty’s fridge. “Guy seems fucking intense. At least he’s good for business.”

“He keeps on glaring at me! And he comes in, like, three times a week. Orders a coffee and just drinks it in his corner, ignores my attempts at conversation even though, mind you, he has already said some pretty rude stuff!”

“The guy’s a celebrity, he probably has his head so far in his ass and doesn’t care about shit, and also just wants some privacy. Bits, you haven’t been taking pictures of him and posting it on twitter have you?” Holster asked, alarmed.

Bitty gasped, “Adam Birkholtz! I would never!”

“Then just treat him like an antisocial customer, he can’t be the only one going to the bakery who doesn’t want conversation and just wants service and food,” Holster said, dropping down next to Bitty on the couch with two tins of pie.

“I know,” Bitty sighs. “He’s just…so handsome. And he was so nice to Nursey when that fool tripped. And he tips generously. And he’s just so gorgeous, even when he’s glaring at me and speaking in grunts whenever I ask him how his day has been. I just want him to like me!”

Holster navigated the TV to a rerun of Golden Girls and handed Bitty one of the pie tins. “I think that’s your problem. You’re an amazing person, Bits, but maybe you can be a bit too friendly for resting bitch face robozoid Zimmermann. Maybe stop asking him about his day and just let him chill.”

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anonymous asked:

So idk if your comfortable with this because it can be a touchy subject but could you do one where Josh finds out the reader self harms? I'm feeling kinda down and thought it might help to read something like that.

OK FIRST OFF IF ANYONE IS EVER SAD PLS MESSAGE ME (on my other blog omg i never check this one) AND WE’LL TALK, I LOVE YOU ALL. 

but here. 

trigger warning (self harm etc.)


In a world full of so much pain and suffering, it was always the little things that set you off.   Tonight, it was a candle.  

You were at a party, one you never wanted to attend in the first place.  But Josh had begged, and you were never very good at saying no.  He was mingling, the outgoing one of the two of you, constantly smiling and interacting with anyone and everyone.  

It was one of those parties with music so loud you had to scream to hear anyone.  You watched a tall man with a sharp, gray suit on lean down so that his mouth was ear-level to another man.  He cupped his hand around the man’s ear, like he was about to tell a secret, but instead bellowed out directions to the nearest bathroom.  You shook your head, wondering why on earth anyone would want to listen to Kayne this loud ever.  

There was probably enough booze to intoxicate the entire city, but then again, LA parties were the real deal.  These were Josh’s new people.  His new life.  You knew you should try to be a part of it, but looking around at the company, you couldn’t help but feel extremely out of place.  Fancy dresses and glamorous hair seemed to be a consistent trend for the night.

You sat on the edge of the staircase, tapping your foot anxiously and waiting for Josh to come find you again.  You hoped he wouldn’t be too long.  While you waited, you allowed yourself to take in the full extent of people Josh was spending the majority of his time with now.  

Beauty.  Elegance.  Celebrities.  The closest thing Earth had to Gods.  You suddenly feel so, so small.  Acknowledging everyone around you was a bad idea.  So you choose to focus on something a little less personified.  

There is a burning candle across the room.  You find it odd that there’s an open flame around so much liquor.  But you quickly become entranced with the fire.  Watching as it whips and flickers with small gusts of wind you pretend to also feel.  

You suddenly imagine what it would feel like to run your skin across the flame.  You imagine the sharp burning feeling and your stomach settles slightly.  You imagine watching your skin go from pink to blistered, the transition always so captivating.   You imagine all the tension and anxiety boiling under your skin flooding to the area of injury instead, away from your mind.   You knew you had to let it out.

The idea had been planted, and well, there was no going back now.

You didn’t realize how clammy your hands had gotten until you were patting them down on your jeans, standing up from the stairs and looking around for Josh.

He wasn’t in eye sight.  


You pushed your way through crowds of people, not really bothering to apologize for stepped on toes.

“Y/N!” someone calls out.  You cringe, wanting nothing more than to disappear amongst the people and easily slip outside.  But you turn around.

Tyler was making his way towards you.

“Hey, Ty,” you murmur, rubbing the back of your neck.  “Listen, I gotta go-“ your mind was too focused on thoughts of razor blades and lighters.  You were unable to really focus on speaking.  “If you see Josh just tell him I left for me?”

Tyler gives you a puzzled look.  But you don’t stick around for an explanation.  You turn around and break through the clogged area of people.

You thought you’d breathe easier once you were outside.  You were wrong.  

Your chest still felt heavy.  Heavy with thoughts of being you.  You thought about the people back there.  The girls in fancy dresses and boys in brand new suits.  You cringed at the thought of Josh being exposed to that kind of allure on a daily basis, and then having to come home to you.  

You wished you could disappear.  Fade into the nothingness that you represented.  

Normally you would practice all those coping mechanisms your therapist told you about.  Deep breathing.  Challenging the negative thoughts.  Telling someone.  Something like that.  Yeah right.  There wasn’t a single part of you that wanted to talk yourself out of this.  Because what your therapist didn’t know was that this was your coping mechanisms.  Your demons ran a lot deeper than cuts.  

You carefully unlocked the front door to your apartment.  You threw your purse on the counter, stripping off your sweatshirt and leaving it in a heap on the floor.  You made your way to the bathroom, immediately flicking on both the fan and the light.  The humming noise soothed you.  

You’d be smart about it, you thought as you removed the razor blade from your eyeliner sharpener.  None of that horizontal lines up the arm shit.  That was too obvious.  Josh would see.  You’d space them out.  One or two on the arm.  A few on the thighs.  The rest on your hips or sides.  Areas Josh wouldn’t notice.  

You fell to the floor, cradling the piece of metal between your fingertips.  You let the thoughts consume you.  If you were gonna do this, you might as well go all out.  

Worthless.  Never going to be good enough.  A nobody.  You didn’t belong in that world.  You didn’t belong in the same room as those people.  Josh had become those people.  It took you this long to realize.  Josh wasn’t the same, Columbus born and raised, kid he used to be.  He had fancy suits and knew the names of producers.  

You thought of the flame.  Flickering and doing all it could.  It burned and shined and still went completely unnoticed in a room full of those people.

You brought the metal to your upper arm, pressing and dragging the blade across.  You thought you could hear a crack, then you felt the slight tug of your skin tearing.  You watched, entranced as blood appeared, small droplets forming in places you might have pressed a little harder.  It took a moment for your body to react to the trauma, but eventually your blood started to collect, dripping down your arm.  It was so bright, so beautifully contrasting against your pale skin.  

It wasn’t enough.  

You placed the blade on the same spot and dug in deeper, this time going back and forth once each.  More blood flowed, leaving traces on your skin.  It reminded you of being little and riding in the backseat of the car while it rained.  You remember being so entranced with the raindrops flowing across the glass, leaving streaks in their wake, racing to a place you only wish you knew about.

Your blood was like rain.  

You found a new spot and cut again.

It wasn’t enough.

And again.  

You stuck your tongue out in concentration, your mind had gone a little foggy, but you needed to focus.  Your first cut was still bleeding steadily, but it fascinated you, so you tried lining up the razor blade for one more swipe.  

You pushed a little harder than intended.  

You probably should be worried about the amount of blood rushing from your skin.

But it was too beautiful to be scared.

You finally felt lighter as you watched your pain stream down your arm.  

The rest of your senses had dulled.  You didn’t hear the front door slam shut.  You didn’t hear Josh calling your name, or him knocking.

Your first thought when Josh pushes open the door is that you probably should have thought to lock it.  Your second instinct is to cover the blood.

You collect the towel on the floor beside you in a hurry, curling up and trying to make yourself look as small and discrete as possible.  You cover the cuts, desperate and ashamed.  

You’ll probably never forget the look on Josh’s face.  

His eyes are wide, his mouth slightly open.  He freezes, taking in the horror flick in front of him before he responds.  

He quickly rushes to the closet, pulling out as many towels as he can.  He rushes to the sink, wetting a washcloth before kneeling down beside you.  

You hear his knees clank as they collide with the tiled floor.  

You look up at him, feeling slightly dazed and very confused.  

His mouth is moving.  But you can’t really understand what he’s saying.  The cool water on the washcloth feels nice, until he’s putting pressure on it with his fingers, making it sting.  

You blink sharply, sitting up and trying to break away from his grasp.

“Shh,” he’s saying, his voice suddenly coming into focus.

It hurts.

“It’s okay,” Josh is saying. His arm wrapping around your front, pulling you back and he holds you in place.

That’s when the crying starts.

Completely out of nowhere, a sob originating from the darkest, deepest part inside of you erupts.  The cry cuts through the air, and suddenly everything hurts.  Your stupid cuts, your stomach, your chest.  You want to go to that place the raindrops did.  You want to go.

“Josh-“ you’re pleading, unsure of what you’re really asking for.  You want it to stop.

“Shh, baby, it’s okay,” Josh is crying too.  He’s got you cradled in his lap now, like a small child.  A small, bloody child.  “I’m here,” he’s whispering, rocking with you back and forth.  

You’re grabbing at the arm he has barred against your chest, your fingers digging into his skin.  His face is next to yours, his chin resting on your shoulder, his cheek pressed against your own.  You wished you could feel it, but the pain inside you was all you could focus on.

“I’m here, I’m here, baby,” he’s saying, over and over.  The sound of his voice is making you ache more.  “I’m right here.”

It takes you a while before you can breathe again.  Even then, it’s not proper.  It’s all choking sounds and gasping.  But you’re not sobbing anymore, so Josh takes that as a sign to help get you to your feet.

You feel dead inside.  The pain is replaced with numbness, and honestly, you’re not sure which was worse.  

He gently is stepping over bloody towels and leading you to the sink.  He unwraps the bloody washcloth from your wrist gently, peeling back parts that had dried on.  

You stare at the remnants of your self hatred.  Three, deep cuts.  Ugly and horrifying.  Matching the rest of the decor.  

Josh helps you sit on the toilet lid.  You look blankly ahead, only vaguely aware of him getting another washcloth from the cabinet.  

He kneels in front of you, getting in the way of your vacant stare.  Your eyes latch on to him instead, following his movements as he gently starts dabbing at the bits of blood left on your skin.  He’s so articulate and gentle, concentrating so hard at the task.

You’re suddenly overcome with an immense amount of guilt.  

How could you do this to Josh?  How could you put him through all this?

Here he was, again, cleaning up your chaos and destruction.  

“I’m sorry,” you croak out.  Your voice is a mess of raspy breathes.  But it’s comprehendible.  

Josh closes his eyes, the washcloth freezing in place.

He’s shaking his head.

You look down, the embarrassment and shame of what you’d done starting to sink in.  You wished you could tell what Josh was thinking.  But he’s not saying anything.  The silence makes you want to disappear.

Finally, “Let’s just get this all cleaned up, yeah?”

His voice is soft.  You wish you could decipher it.  

Once Josh is done cleaning and bandaging you up, he discards the washcloth in the trash.  There was no going back from all those stains.  He leads you to the bedroom, gently helping you out of your clothes.  He leaves you briefly to get a sweatshirt from his closet.  

The moment you slip it on, you feel safe.  Maybe you’ll add Josh’s clothes to your list of coping mechanisms for next time.  

Josh is peeling back the sheets on your side of the bed.  You walk over and he holds the blankets up for you to climb under.  

It feels strange having Josh tuck you in.  You feel like a child again.  

Your eyes are heavy.  The events of the evening have completely wiped you out.  But you doubt you’ll be sleeping anytime soon.  

You lay on your side, the blankets grasped in your fist, tucked so tightly underneath your chin.  You’re surprised when the bed dips beside you.  You’re even more surprised when Josh scoots over, slinging his arm around your middle and cuddling behind you.

You immediately exhale when he comes in contact with you.  You feel so safe wrapped up in his arms.  

You hold his arm tightly, part of you wanting to make sure he stays put throughout the night.

Josh must sense your uneasiness because he leans over and presses his soft lips to your cheek.  “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispers before fitting his head comfortably behind yours.  

You fall into a deep, settled sleep like that.  Your breathing finally back to normal.

When you wake the next morning, Josh is no longer fit around you.

You rub your tired eyes, sitting up and giving the room a quick glance.  

The happenings of the previous night haunt your mind.  The full impact of what you had done hits you and you can’t help it when the tears start to fall again.  This time from embarrassment and shame.  You had finally let Josh see what a freak you were.  

You couldn’t get a handle on it for one second.  Couldn’t overcome your corrupt mind.  And now Josh knew.  You couldn’t think of anything worse.

You curled yourself into a ball, wrapping your arms around your own middle and crying into the pillow.  Josh knew.  

You felt pathetic.  Useless.  And stupid, stupid, stupid.  

“Hey, hey, hey-“ you hear.

You crack open an eye to see Josh, fully dressed, rushing towards you.  He must’ve heard you crying again.  You shake your head, burying it in the pillow.  You couldn’t look at him.  Not after last night.

He climbs in bed next to you, leaning against the headboard and pulling you into his lap again.  You were getting tired of this whole, ‘helpless child’ act.

“I thought sleeping would make things better,” he said softly.

You let your head rest back into Josh’s chest, the familiar rise and fall was soothing.  

“I’m so sorry, Josh,” was all you could think to say.

“Please,” he said, his voice desperate, “please don’t apologize.”

You shake your head, “I am though,” you sigh, “I’m so sorry, I’m so embarrassed and-“

“Stop,” he cuts you off. “I love you so much.  I wish I’d seen- wish I knew how much you were hurting.  I didn’t- I didn’t even see it.  I wish I could’ve done something, been there-“ he takes a deep breath, “I’m here now, I’m right here.  Not going anywhere.”

Josh was blaming himself.  Josh thought he could’ve done something.  You ache inside.  More guilt.

“No Josh, please, you were there.  I’m just- I’m- I’m fucked up.”

“Don’t say that,” he murmurs.

“It’s true-“

“It’s not true, you’re not.”

“I was at that stupid party last night,” you whisper, “so many people, so much to do, and all I could think about was how every single person in that room was better than me in a million different ways.  It just-“ you exhale sharply, “I just want to be good enough for you.”

You feel Josh stiffen behind you, clutching you tighter than ever.  

“Baby,” he whispers softly, “please- Why would you ever think that?”

You scoff.

“Josh, I’ve never been good enough for anyone in my entire life.  Not you.  Not my parents.  Not my friends.  I’m tired.  I’m tired of it all. I’m not LA.  I don’t fit into that world- I don’t fit into your world.”

“You,” Josh says, pulling back and looking you straight in the eyes.  His coffee eyes bore a hole in you.  “You’re my world.  Not LA, not those fancy parties.  It’s you.  It’s the Skype dates and the butterflies before my flights about to land.  It’s staying in bed all day and getting to hold you while you fall asleep.  The rest is just background.  It’s just there.  But you, you’re my world.”

You let out a desperate sob, burying your face in Josh’s t-shirt.  

You’d have to apologize later for the tear streaks.

“I love you, so much,” Josh breathes.  “I’m never going to let you forget it again.  We’re gonna get through this.  I’ll stay home.  We’ll get help.  It’ll all be okay.  I’ll be here.  You won’t have to be alone.”

Josh’s words sink in and you slowly nod.  

You don’t really believe it all.  But you desperately want to.  And that, along with Josh holding you so close, was enough for now.  

The Convenient Accident

Steve Rogers x Reader

Summary: You’re having a relaxing night back at home with a bubble bath, wine, candles and good music to keep you company. That changes when you decide to send a sexy picture to your asshole of ex-boyfriend and when that picture ends up in someone’s phone. More like Captain America’s phone.
Genre: Romance/fluff
Rating: T
Warnings: Swearings
2,095 words

Notes: This was supposed to be a drabble…lmao. Imagine Person A accidentally sending a nude photo to [friend/boss/ect.] when they meant to send it to B. There goes the prompt! Hope you all enjoy! <3

Lighting on the last smelly candle around your bathtub and throwing a few relaxing salts into the water, you couldn’t help but sigh contently as you stepped into the warm water. 

After such a shitty day at work, all you wanted from a Friday night was a warm bath, a glass of wine and some good music to take you out of the edge again. 

Sometimes you’d even think of yourself as an old soul – while all your girlfriends were out partying and drinking colorful drinks, you were lying in a bathtub, almost falling asleep with the comforting scent of lavender filling the room when not drinking some expensive wine you bought especially for occasions like this. 

Even so, you didn’t bother much when they sending you several texts, your phone crazily ringing as the notifications filled your lockscreen. 

Chuckling quietly at their rowdiness, you quickly swiped off your phone and started typing out a quick reply. 

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Of Drinks and Friends

Pavel Chekov X Reader
Words: 1224

Characters: Female Reader, Pavel Chekov, Montgomery ‘Scotty’ Scott, Keenser, Spock (mentioned)

Warnings: talk of (small) injury, slight blackmail, parties, alcohol use, hangovers, fluff (I think I got everything)

“It’s not like I was trying to listen. You two just don’t know how to whisper.”

Summary: Pavel Chekov overhears you and Scotty talking about a party in engineering and wants to be invited.

Author’s Note: Hi guys! I want to wish Dani ( @starshiphufflebadger ) a happy early birthday! She is too nice and deserves all the love. Anyways, this is for her birthday challenge and it took a while but I finally wrote it haha. Anyways, this is my first time writing Chekov and I hope he is correct. (Please inform me if you think my Chekov is OOC) Anyways, I hope you like this oneshot! Sorry for any spelling or grammatical errors. Enjoy!


Originally posted by travelerwithanocarina

(All gif credit goes to owner)

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Michael in The Bathroom

(I’m sorry @gayradwhitedad @kagenes I had to. I changed some things if that’s alright. I wrote this in like 15 minutes.)

Michael huddled up against the wall, cramped between the toilet and the bathtub. Drunken shouting sounded on the other side of the door and he tightened his arms around his knees. He sobbed as he chipped out more grout from between the tiles. The tears burned like acid, and his throat felt like fire. Michael jolted as the door opened, and in stepped the last person he wanted to see.

“Michael? Are you oka-”

“Do I look okay to you?!” Michael lashed out against his, well, former best friend.

Jeremy flinched and Michael felt a sort of grim satisfaction at that, but then he straightened, and stared him down, and he broke all over again. Jeremy, his Jeremy, would never do that. He’d stutter and stammer, look to the side, rub his neck awkwardly, but this….this ‘Jeremy 2.0’ wasn’t his friend.

“What do you want?” Michael rubbed his arms across his face and he could see the pity in Jeremy’s eyes. I’m just a creeper in the bathroom, of course he feels sorry.

“Well, I needed to pee…” Jeremy let out a small chuckle, like it would magically fix everything. Michael rolled his eyes.

“There’s other bathrooms.” He clenched his fist, his fingertips torn from the constant picking he had been doing for the last half hour. A tense silence followed as Jeremy shifted back and forth on his feet, would say a few words, then cut himself off. Michael watched it all in a vague, watered down sense of amusement.

“I’m sorry, for, ya know, acting like a jerk.” Jeremy made his way across the room and plopped down on the toilet. Michael, out of impulse, leaned his head against his thigh. “I’m still your friend.”

“You’ve got a weird way of showing it.” He curled his fingers into the sleeves of his jacket, staining the red fabric darker with his blood. Jeremy slowed raised his hand and set it on his head, nothing more, nothing less, but Michael let it be. He had no idea the next time he could have a moment like this again, much less actually talking to Jeremy.

They both jumped as a jock called down the hall for Jeremy, and Michael laughed bitterly.

“There’s your cue.”

“But-” Jeremy hissed, and Michael guessed that the squib could only put up with this for so long.

“Do you remember that time in second grade? We drank so much liquor and threw up everywhere.” Jeremy glanced down, a glint of hope in his eyes. Michael remembered it clearly, the panic at the sparking playstation, the talk in the bathroom and the kiss that they never talked about again. Jeremy was on his feet now, awkwardly shifting again.

“No, I don’t.” He knew it was a low blow, but that was in a better time, free of freaky tech and girls and this pressure to be cool. Jeremy blinked, and opened the door.

“Yeah, me neither.” The door was anticlimactically quiet as it closed, and Michael whispered to himself under his breath.

“Awesome party, I’m so glad I came.”

The drinking game I will be doing for Thordak:

+take a drink when Matt says ‘circumstance’

+take a drink when Liam says “…with advantage?”

+take a drink when Sam sings

++do a shot if multiple people sing along

+take a drink when Grog crits

+take a drink when Taliesin says “That’ll do!”

++do a shot if Ashley says “Where you all at?” and they tell her their position rather than their HP

++do a shot of the good stuff if someone dies

+take a drink for a LootCrate ad

++do a shot and eat a chocolate if someone successfully restrains Thordak

+take a drink when Scanlan does something ridiculously clutch

++do a shot if a Vestige awakens

+take a drink when an NPC gets a crit

TravelTale (or AdventureTale) is an AU where no war ever took place and humans and monsters continue to live together in peace. Thanks to this, their world has developed much faster (with the combination of technology and magic), creating world full of interesting cities (such as the underwater city of Aquara and the sky city of Angela). Goldenheart stands as the world’s capital which symbolizes the unity of human and monster-kind. Its palace is also ruled by humans and monsters.

Here in TravelTale, you are almost never bored. There are lots of things to do and places to explore. And though this world is all happy and joyful on the surface, it’s not without its dark history and mysterious folklore, so far buried in the past and slowly about to resurface…

Name: Pyre

Race: Fire Skeleton

Age: Between 20 - 35 (these are just educated guesses)

Date of Birth: Unknown

Relatives/Siblings: Unknown

Home (currently): Driwood Point

Job: Bar Owner


·         Experiments involving mixing drinks

·         Baking (surprisingly)

·         Jazz and Electro Swing (otherwise, not very picky when it comes to music)

·         Reapers and Scorpions (peppers; eats them like snacks)

·         Pushing people’s buttons (because he’s a dick)

·         Spice and Mint (Conure birds)


·         Headaches

·         Nightmares

·         People who don’t pay their tab

·         Frisk’s logic of Danger = Fun

·         Frisk and Alphy’s insane ideas (AU travel for instance)

·         Frisk bringing AU Sanses and Papyruses into his bar (they don’t pay their fuckin tab!)


Skeleton monsters are considered a rarity in the TravelTale world, despite the population of monsters to be relatively equal to humans. A fire skeleton of questionable origins, Pyre owns a bar in a somewhat dry town called Driwood Point. The bar is called The Pyre, and regulars and tourists alike visit to either unwind or try out his ‘fiery’ drinks, for his concoctions are said to be so hot that only fire monsters can down it without trouble. Finding this amusing, Pyre makes a game out of it and a cash prize is given to those who can drink the shots without any relieving assistance.

Other than that, Pyre is somewhat chill, a bit cynical, rude and often paranoid, but cares a lot for his friends, especially Frisk. He also cares for two Conure birds he named Spice and Mint. To strangers he first meets, he comes off as a bit of a bully, but opens up a little if he finds the person trustworthy.


Before he became “Pyre” he was just a monster who suddenly woke up on a dirt floor next to a burning facility. At least, that’s what he assumed the place looked like. He couldn’t recall how he got there or how the place ended up like it did. Maybe it was his fault? He didn’t know.

After that, he just wandered. He wandered with no destination in mind. Time passed and he got to learn about the world he lived in by just quietly observing. Observing and wandering. Sadly, the things he learned didn’t help him learn anything about himself.

Until he stumbled upon a kid getting attacked by a group of market vendors. All he ever did was observe, but this was the first time he ever felt the urge to act. It was the first time he ever felt anything actually. So he saved the kid. Then the kid started to follow him. For some reason he didn’t mind.

He managed to learn more about the world, himself even, thanks to the child named Frisk. He seemed to know how to take care of her, keep her safe, like it was some instinct he always had. He also liked the feelings he felt when he’s with Frisk. They felt familiar and he didn’t know why, but the feelings made him happy and he was glad to make Frisk happy too.

Along the way though, these feelings that gave him joy also brought him immense pain, for reasons he couldn’t understand. Headaches and nightmares brought forth to a point where when they arrived at Goldenheart City, he decided to cut all ties with Frisk, thinking it’d be the best for both of them. After requesting Queen Toriel to look after her, he erased Frisks memories and set off on his own once again.

He found refuge in an abandoned building at Driwood Point. He secludes himself in that building, never once stepping foot outside, fearing he might go crazy and accidentally attack someone. Since then, residents have been telling stories about how the place is haunted by a raging fire demon. Frisk finds him eventually, memories intact, much to his surprise. He tries to push her away again, but she’s relentless in wanting to go back to the way things were with them, even promising to help him.

After many attempts, Pyre gives in, but says helping him will be a lost cause. Whatever it is that happened to him before he met Frisk, before he woke next to that burning building, Pyre is certain about one thing. Something or someone broke him, broke everything that was once precious to him, far beyond repair.  

Trivia Facts

·         Pyre’s favorite drink is what he calls, Instant Hell, a shot containing hard whiskey and Reaper extract. He likes it so much he carries a liquor flask full of it with him. It’s one of the drinks also used in his cash prize challenge.

·         It takes a lot to get him drunk.

·         In the summer, Pyre goes out and sells alcoholic ice cream (as well as regular ice cream for the kids).

·         The Pyre was constructed from the abandoned building Pyre hid himself in.

·         Spice and Mint were given to him as eggs. Frisk found them next to their dying mother. Too busy to look after them at the time, she handed them to Pyre, because at the start of his bar business, he was still closed-off and anti-social. Not knowing what to do, Pyre sought help from Toriel… which somehow led to also getting help from Chara, who likes birds (much to his displeasure).

·         Pyre’s favorite song is Reverie, by Spire.

More TravelTale Stuff

·         Frisk’s Profile

·         More soon…

seolangel  asked:

hi oreana! could you please write something about reader getting drunk for the first time (celebrating with the rooks, perhaps) and jacob taking care of her? :D that could be cute.. until she starts vomiting that is lmao. you don't have to ofc! i've just remembered that one quest when jacob took care of a drunk rook :')

{Awwr, I can see what I can come up with, hon. X3 I’ve had Jacob take care of someone before. It was in the request mini-series I did called ‘To Woo the One’ and the following chapter, The Pursuit, was about her being ill and Jacob remaining beside her if you find these scenes to be your thing. C:}

You were a social drinker at best…one to only bother with drinking if others were involved, and now you were beginning to regret that about yourself as you could only handle so much liquor within your body.

The world was spinning, the simplest sounds were louder than usual as they banged about in your skull and gave you a horrible headache… You leaned against the nearby brick wall to try and find some sort of reprieve in the idea the structure was cool to the skin that chilly evening, but you were a drunken mess and the best thing for you would be to stumble back to the stronghold and to find rest like most of the drunkards would do.

But where were you…? Your mind wasn’t working properly, and you couldn’t make sense of the streets or even the shops. The citizens of London would push past you, not caring for the fact you needed help. Ducking into a nearby alleyway, you heaved as you steadied yourself best you were able to prevent from falling but your hand slipped on the building you were trying to have support you and it was there you lost your footing.

“Whoa there!” came a familiar voice as an arm quickly grappled you just under your chest to keep your face from smashing into the ground below.

While the support was welcomed, the pressure it put on your upset stomach wasn’t, and it was there you lost the contents of what you had eaten and drunk prior.

“Uh…charming,” commented the tone again as he did his best to stay out of the way though being kind enough to keep your loosened hair from the sickness the liquor caused.

You were almost too embarrassed to look at him…especially since the voice (as fuzzy as it was) was starting to make sense to you now. “S-Sorry, boss…” you apologized with a bite of your lower lip. It was Jacob Frye, the leader of the Rooks and the syndicate you had joined a year or so ago.

His hold on you tightened as you were a lot more difficult to move than anticipated. Jacob’s arm urged you back against him to where your head could rest if you wished. As your ear found the gentle beating of his heart, the assassin dug about in his pocket for a clean handkerchief he kept with him to dab at your mouth and clean it for you as your body was heavy as iron and impossible to move properly. Honestly, you had surrendered that thought of caring to move at all when Jacob came to your rescue and just submitted to his touch.

“Not much of a drinker, are you?” Jacob asked with a light chuckle, hoping to make light of the situation. “Come on then!” His words strained as he positioned you again in his embrace, moved onward through the small crowds of London’s deadening night and towards the stronghold you were trying to get to. “Let’s get you to lie down at least.”

The covers of any stronghold cot were hardly delightful, but all the same, this was home, and it was better than lying on the streets like some boozed up homeless woman. “My head is killing me,” you groaned, eyes remaining shut as even the simple candlelight Jacob soon held was agitating the pain in your head.

Jacob set the light source off to the side on a workbench before placing his hand upon your forehead to be sure it was just a simple trick of the alcohol and not something that required a doctor’s aid. “Water will assist you, love,” insisted the voice of your boss, causing him to take to his feet and drift across the room to see if the pipes were working as intended without making the water brown as it often did in the past.

“I appreciate this, Mr. Frye,” you murmured, voice labored still in pain as a small whine of discomfort squeezed past your lips at the ache pounding in your mind and making you wish to vomit once more.

“Perhaps next time it will teach you not to overdo it?” Jacob wondered, the sounds of his feet inching closer to you again echoed in your mind, floorboards moaning under his weight before he urged you to face him as he held the water you would need.

At his command, you rolled over onto your back, swallowing down the desire to be horribly sick once more. “I-I am not one for drinking unless…the lads do,” you whispered, lips trembling as they pressed upon the rim of the glass he guided towards you. The drink was refreshing and cooled the jumbled mess that was your stomach. When you felt you had enough, you gently urged away Jacob’s hand.

“Then perhaps, next time, you should be mindful if you can’t hold your alcohol,” Jacob teased though being honest at the same time. When he slipped the glass away from your lips, he accidentally caused a bit to dribble from the corner of your mouth. The side of his finger was quick, and it was there he snagged the rogue bit of water to do away with it. “I would offer food to you, but seeing as you near vomited on me earlier, I might withhold that thought till later when you’ve rid most of this from your body.”

You nodded, finding that to be wise as you couldn’t dream of eating anything at the moment without losing it shortly after. “You can just…you can leave me here if you want.” Feeling guilty for stealing his time, you didn’t want to be a nuisance. “I am sure I’ll be fine tomorrow…”

“Some lads have been known to overdo it before to where their body just stops working in the middle of the night,” Jacob confessed, remaining at side of the old cot he had gotten you on. He was squatting beside you, hands clasped between his legs. “I want to make sure you didn’t overdo it so much to where your body cannot function any longer, love.” With what remaining water was in the glass he offered earlier, Jacob pushed it off to the side for now. “I have nowhere to be.”

“Willing to stay here even if I vomit on you?” you asked with a weary moan of displeasure at the throbbing still happening in your head.

Jacob scoffed quietly, knowing any simple sound might upset your body further. “I’ve dealt with worse on me, love. Don’t dwell on it, and try to get some rest.” Here, he pushed himself to his feet and moved over to the nearby window to look out at the other Rooks patrolling the location, making sure everything was in order and no Blighters were trying to take the place over with you ill.

Companions React Text: Drunk Sole

Cait: Sole wasn’t someone who normally drank. They didn’t like the taste and hated the hangover effect that it left. There was only one circumstance that Sole would drink a lot, and that was if they wanted to forget something. Then, it didn’t matter. Sole would just use it to make all of their memories go away.

Cait hadn’t been able to find Sole all day, and when she finally did, they were a mess. They were sitting out in the Commonwealth, gun by their side, a glass of what looked to be whiskey in their hands.

“So this is where you’ve been. Tell me to wait and never come back to Sanctuary to tell me what is going on.” Cait walks over to Sole, sitting down beside them. Sole doesn’t say anything, they just stare into the swirling liquid that is filling their cup.

“Something on your mind?” Cait asked, knowing that look. She had seen it so many times in the Combat Zone and in the mirror.

“I can’t believe I killed him…” They mumbled before taking a huge gulp.

“Him..?” Cait didn’t want to seem rude, but they killed so many people that she didn’t know who Sole was talking about. It could have been anyone.

“Kellog! He might have been my only chance at finding Shaun!” Sole yelled at Cait who narrowed her eyes, but didn’t say anything back because she understood why they yelled. They were scared and didn’t know what to do.

“He wasn’t your only chance.” Cait started to say but got interupted by Sole yelling,

“Yes he was! He-He goddamn knew! And I put a bullet through his brain! The thing we needed!” Sole started to cry and Cait wasn’t sure what to do. She never expected Sole to be a sad drunk. She set her hands on their shoulders and brought them close.

“No need to worry, love. You’ll find Shaun, I know it. We are going to the Memory Den in Goodneighbor, they can help. I promise.” For the rest of the night, Sole sobbed into Cait’s shoulder while the woman run her fingers through their hair, trying to comfort them in any way she could.

Codsworth: While traveling the Commonwealth, Codsworth had found the right ingredients to make Sole’s favorite alcoholic beverage. He didn’t think about how he would have to deal with drunk Sole. He hadn’t dealt with that since the war.

But once he had made a few martinis and given them to Sole, he realized that he was going to have to babysit Sole. He didn’t mind. It was nice seeing them with the bright red cheeks and glaze in their eyes.

“Oh, Codsworth!” They swung their arms around Codsworth, a huge grin on their face, “Do you know how much I love you? I really appreciate you.”

They were slurring their words and it was obvious that they were drunk. It was something that Codsworth missed. They hadn’t been this happy for such a long time. They were always worried about others that they didn’t think about their own happiness.

“Oh, Mum/Sir, I love you too!” Codsworth tried to hug Sole back as much as possible with the arms that he had.

Curie: Since Curie had never had alcohol before, Sole decided that they needed to experience it together. They searched for a useable wine bottle and when they finally had it, it was time to have a party.

It didn’t take long until both of the participants of the party where giggling, being very drunk. Since Sole didn’t drink alcohol often and Curie never had before, it didn’t take much to make either of them to get drunk. After one glass they were already tipsy.

“This feeling is quite nice.” Curie giggled, her cheeks being the reddest that Sole had ever seen them before.

“Yeah..” Sole hiccuped, leaning back against the wall as they took a drink out of the bottle.

“Can we do this more often?” Curie asked and Sole laughed loudly.

“Yeah, we can do this more often if you would like.

Danse: “Soldier, I believe you have had enough to drink tonight.” Danse said, trying to grab the bottle from Sole’s hands. After a successful mission, Sole suggested having something to drink, and while Danse didn’t want to have any, he didn’t stop Sole from having any. He was regretting his decision now.

‘No, come on. Let’s pop open another champagne bottle. “ Sole grabbed a bottle and popped the cork off. When the stream of liquid came out, they tried to drink some but only ended up making a mess on their face.

Danse shook his head and grabbed the bottle from Sole, once it had finished erupting from the top. He set it down on the table and then took Sole by the arm, leading them back to their house. He hoped that they would want to go to sleep.

Sole followed, yawning while they were walking. When they finally got to the house, Sole laid down on their bed but forced Danse to stay with them until they fell asleep. Danse, though flustered, stayed with them.

He made sure to leave some water beside their bed for when they woke up, since they would be having a really bad hangover once they woke up.

Deacon: The Radio was turned up loud to the Diamond City radio, the music filling the entirety of Sole’s house. They were dancing in their living room, a bottle of beer in their hand. They had already drank a few bottles of beer so they were starting to feel a little drunk.

Deacon was sitting on their couch, staring at them with a smile on his face. He drank a few bottles himself, but he wasn’t as drunk as Sole. He felt a warm sensation in his stomach, but he still knew what he was doing. He didn’t know if the same thing could be said for Sole.

“Come on Deacon, join me~!” The extended their hands toward him, a huge grin on their face.

“Oh, I’m not really much of a dancer.” He tried to wave them off but they didn’t give up. They grabbed his hands and made them stand up, wavering slightly when they were pulling him up.

“Oh, come on. Please?”

“Fine.” Deacon smiled and the two of them started to dance together, both with bright red cheeks though for different reasons.

Hancock: The Third Rail was having a happy hour and anyone who wanted to get drunk was there. Sole wasn’t sure why they decided to go drink, but they did. At first, they were slightly awkward, as they didn’t fit in with the other people in Goodneighbor, but after a few drinks, they were having fun.

They didn’t notice that many of the guards were flirting with them, one even going as far as wrapping their arm around their waist. Everyone was being gutsy with all of the alcohol that was in their system.

Sole didn’t seem to mind, but they also had so much liquor in their system that they weren’t their normal self. Normally they wouldn’t let anyone touch them like that, but since they had so much to drink, their mind was fuzzy.

Just as the one guard was going to pull enough courage to try to kiss Sole, Hancock walked in. The entire bar went silent, knowing how protective  he was of Sole. As soon as his dark eyes fell on the guard and Sole, he stormed over.

“What is happening over here?” He asked, glaring at the guard. He wasn’t angry at Sole, but he was angry at the guards. They knew about how close Hancock was to Sole, they shouldn’t have tried anything.

“The drinks were cheap.” Sole slurred, almost falling into Hancock’s open arms, “I think I drank too much…”

“Yeah, I think so too.” Hancock started to walk back to his office, helping hold up Sole. Before the two of them were out of the door, he looked back at the guards and gave them a look that said he was going to have a chat with them about this later.

MacCready: “Boss, you need to get up.” MacCready looked down at Sole who was lying on a bed, an empty bottle of whiskey on the floor beside them. Ever since they had finished their most recent mission, MacCready had been unable to find Sole. He now realized what they were doing.

“Leave me alone…” They groaned, burying their face in their pillow.

“Come on, you did your best. You couldn’t have done anything else.” MacCready knew they were beat up over the results of their mission, but they tried their best. They couldn’t have done anything else to change the result. They shouldn’t be drinking to forget.

MacCready cleaned the room of empty bottles before sitting down on the side of the bed. He pulled the sheet up over Sole, deciding that the best decision now would be to let them just wait out the alcohol.

“Don’t worry.” He rubbed your back, “Sometimes things can’t always go our way.”

Nick: Sole wasn’t someone who drank normally unless it was fancy alcohol. They didn’t like beer or whiskey, so normal bars didn’t appeal to them. They were picky about their wine. The thing that they liked the most was Absynthe.

One night when they were in a fancy town that actually had the alcohol that they liked, they wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. Sole came back to the motel that they were staying in with Nick,drunk.

As soon as they walked in, Nick could tell that they were intoxicated. He knew they were going out but he wasn’t sure where they were going. He know knew they must have went to the main bar in the town.

“I hope this is worth it, kid. Because I can assure you, you are gonna have a bad hangover in the morning and I don’t want to hear your whining.” He said as he helped them into their bed, a small smile on his face. He enjoyed seeing Sole so relaxed and happy, though he wasn’t sure how the next morning was going to go. Though, that didn’t matter, because Sole was happy now. That was all that mattered.

Piper: Sole came walking down the hallway of their shared house, wearing a bra and shorts. They had a bit too many drinks and they hadn’t drank in such a long time. They weren’t prepared because they had no alcohol tolerance.

Piper was chasing after them, afraid that they were going to embarrass themselves in front of people that they respected. She felt like she needed to be the responsible since she hadn’t had any drinks today. She was sober while Sole definitely wasn’t.  

“Get back here!” Piper yelled, not sounding angry but more annoyed and worried. She was like a mother who didn’t want their child to get hurt.

Sole was carrying a bottle of vodka in each of their hands, singing some old Pre-war song. Piper had never heard it before, but she wasn’t worried about trying to figure out what the song was. She realized that she was going to have a very hectic night until Sole decided to pass out.

Garvey: “Why don’t we celebrate tonight?” Sole asked, holding up two champagne bottles that they had found while traveling in the Commonwealth. They had been actually searching for this for this exact moment.

“Why?” Garvey asked, leaning back on the chair that he was sitting on.

“Because we’ve helped so many people in the settlements, you know? I think we should drink a bit and have some fun.” Sole said, popping the champagne bottle. They quickly poured it into a glass before handing it to Garvey. They poured themselves one and sat down on the couch with Garvey.

“Fine…I guess you are right.” Garvey smiled and raised his glass,” To the Minutemen.”

Sole clinked their glass against his, “To the Minutemen.”

Strong: Strong was impressed by the amount that Sole had drank. Empty bottles were littered on the floor and Sole was laying on a dirty mattress. Strong wasn’t sure what to do because he knew that they were passed out from having so much to drink, so he just decided to sit beside them and wait until they woke up.

X6-88: He walks in, sees that they are drunk, and turns around, refusing to see them while they are drunk.


After her mother’s passing, Lily returns to her childhood hometown and opens a tattoo shop. James and his mates, working for the Order, are glad to find a small, nondescript town where they can lay low. When he passes by her shop, however, an old memory resurfaces, and they both realize this might not be as simple as they’d intended. Tattoo shop AU

FFN    AO3

The first installment of my @jilyfest submission. part (¼)

i. we were young and restless

- - - Hindsight (James) - - -

It started with a Niffler.

Or so James tells his mates. His girlfriend too. They’ve retired from his parents’ house to the flat, and they’re cozy, lounging in chairs and the sofa. They’re warm in jumpers and off one of Pete’s drink concoctions that no one is brave (or stupid) enough to question the specifics of.

They drink, and they laugh, and it’s Christmas, right? They reminisce about the good things, because that’s easier.

When James tells them it started with the Niffler, Remus clicks his tongue. And when James asks what the tongue clicking is for, Remus nods to Lily and says he reckons it started with her smile—on cue, she smiles—as that’s how James ended up with the bloody tat in the first place.

Peter rolls his eyes at them both, insisting it started with the bottle of liquor, and—with a pointed look to Sirius—the shit Refilling Charm placed upon it.

Sirius, slapping Pete on the back, points out it was probably the Chinese they started forty-five minutes before they ever uncapped the bloody bottle.

They’re all wrong, his mates, but that’s not the point.

- - - Niffler pt. 1 - - -

The point: It’s two days post-moon, so they can’t go out, but it’s a bloody Friday and they’re all—for once—off-mission. So, y’know, they’ve got to do something. Moony’s exhausted as fuck, and Padfoot’s bored as fuck, and Pete’s hungry as fuck, and James is sick as fuck of his mates’ collective whining.

When Pete mentions Chinese, James jumps at the chance to get out of the flat; he shakes off their offers to join him.

Much as he wants to, he can’t blame them for being tetchy bastards. He’s on edge himself, isn’t he? It’s been a hell of a week, or three, or nine, and Dearborn is missing, and—he can’t blame them at all.

They’d let a flat for the summer. Longer, if things stay quiet, or shorter—more likely—if things go to shit.

Working for the Order, things often go to shit. But this nondescript, rundown Muggle town, while boring as fuck, affords them a sense of security they haven’t enjoyed in months.

He’s had worse.

He swings by the corner grocer for provisions of the alcoholic variety—his mates aren’t going to be any less bloody needy when he returns, are they? And, thinking of Dearborn, they could use a drink. Or three. Or seven. Whatever.

Predictably, he bypasses the alley shortcut in favor of the longer route. Nicer views, and all that.

And he slows, just enough to see if she’s there. When her dark red hair flashes in his peripheral, he stops short, risks a proper glance. She’s sat, back turned to him, palming some bloke’s bicep.

It’s irrational, sure, but James indulges in a twinge of jealousy before adjusting the bags in his arms and moving on.

- - - Hindsight (Lily) - - -

He says it started with the Niffler; he’s dead wrong. Which is…typical, isn’t it?

He looks so put out at her declaration that she kisses his cheek. He’s entire too smug about it, though, so when he leans in for another, she shoves him away.

For her, it nearly ended with the Niffler, and she tells him this. His mates laugh, and Pete mimes pulling down his pants, and Remus mimes sicking-up, and Sirius tips is beer to her in toast.

She laughs, marveling at how fond she is over all of them, given the relatively short time they’ve known each other. This, Christmas with James, his friends—her friends, she reminds herself—takes the sting off what she’s missing today. She watches the levitating ornaments.

Magic, isn’t it?

James ducks his head, embarrassed at his mates, and ruffs his hair.

There, that.


She points to James. That’s where it began for her, she tells him—them—a month before the Niffler.


The egg.


- - - Over Easy - - -

It’s not natural, ever, but it’s especially unnatural in bloody May.

Lily’s suffering through one of those fringe plastered to the forehead, thighs plastered to the vinyl seat, children plastered to any water deeper than two inches type afternoons. Too miserable even to smoke, and that’s saying something.

She shouldn’t be open—who wants a tattoo at three on a bloody Tuesday?

Except, after months of council bullshit, she’s finally gotten their approval to repurpose the old beauty shop, so she ought to keep regular hours. Or something. And, after having spent most of her inheritance on equipment, the potential for a few pounds of income, however slim, keeps the door propped open and her legs propped up on her counter.

Besides flirting with the grocer’s son for another discount ice lolly, what else does she have to do?

She’d returned, expecting things to be different, only to encounter the same dodgy pubs, damned mill, stinky river. Same people, too, a few who’d even recognized her—old Mrs. Bradley, for one, who had pretended not to be shocked by her piercings and invited her for tea. Lily hadn’t yet taken her up on it.

Though the houses seemed shabbier, Lily couldn’t work out if they’d always been that way, or if she’d changed enough to notice, or what.

Because she had changed. Losing her father had changed her then; the loss of her mother, now. Why else would she have fled Ireland and returned here, after a decade away? Same as her Mum had done after her dad had passed, but in reverse.


Full circle. Something.

Knowing she was a witch and not being able to properly integrate into that society has changed her, but that’s an entirely different matter, isn’t it? She brushes it aside, furiously sticking her needle into her ‘suck cock’ embroidery. She pricks her finger. Fucking fitting.

Fitting, too, that she’s thinking about that, when he saunters by.

Jogs by, actually.

She hears him before she sees him.

A shout cuts through the oppressive quiet, drawing her attention from her needlework. The shout is followed by a hearty burst of laughter, then the slapping of trainers against pavement. Next moment, he jogs into view.

He’s an untidy mess of a boy, all angles, obscene hair, criminally tall. He looks familiar, though he’s far too posh for a Cokeworth boy. She squints, trying to place him.

His three companions—all boys around his age, and hers—catch up to him in short order. Together, they make a little movie in front of her shop’s picture window: the other dark-haired boy—too pretty to be allowed, that one—tosses him—Hair—something small, which he easily catches. They make a game of keep away, passing it back and forth over their friend’s head. Except the friend—Shorty, Lily names him—doesn’t seem at all keen on the idea.

Her storefront catches Hair’s attention, and he stops playing to eye both Lily and her shop with interest. He flashes her an easy grin, more smirk than smile. 

A lad through and through, isn’t he?

She rolls her eyes, and then she laughs, really laughs, because—and it’s a fucking thing of beauty to watch—the object he’s been tossing back and forth—an egg, turns out—crashes and cracks against Hair’s head.

Bits of yolk fleck her window. It’s poetry.

He grimaces and lifts his hand to his hair, inspecting the damage. As he does this, Lily feels the air grow solid, stiff, like a well-placed anti-Apparition Ward, because she places him: Diagon Alley.

She hasn’t yet returned to Diagon Alley. She’s heard the rumors, after all, and she doesn’t have a death wish. Yet, she’s sure she’s seen that gesture before.


A Gryffindor, like his dad.

She scours the memory for more details—a name, anything—but the bit about Gryffindor is all she gets.

The fourth companion, a shabby boy—the living embodiment of Cokeworth—brings her back to the present. He taps on the eggy window, smiling apologetically, and shoves his friends on.

Hair—no, Egg—moves, reluctantly, though not before a sidelong, puzzled look of his own.

- - - Niffler pt. 2 - - -

They blame his being late on the window. On her. And it isn’t entirely true, but it’s true enough, isn’t it? They wouldn’t believe the truth, anyway, so he lets their teasing pass unchallenged.

As delicious as their takeaway tastes, the drink proves better.

And for a bloke who likes his liquor so much, Sirius is notoriously shit at Refilling Charms. James sees it happening, lets it. Worse case, James’ll run out and get more.

Halfway through the bottle, Peter dares James to get a tat.

Peter often dares him lately, and James always declines, even if it means a chance to chat up the redhead. Because, well—Muggle tattoos are mad wicked, aren’t they? Needles, especially mechanical needles that move faster than he can see, sound like his idea of a Boggart. Y’know, if his Boggart wasn’t already a flesh-eating slug.

So. No tattoos.

Except, when Peter dares him to get a Niffler, it’s ludicrous. James cannot stop laughing.

Moony, giggling hysterically, tells him she’ll take good, bloody well care of him, he stares through her window and gapes at her tits often enough. An especially unMoonyish thing to say, sure, but he’s drunk and it’s two days post-moon, so, whatever.

Sirius chimes in, tells him he’d do well to get it on his arse, because he’d be an arse to begin with if he ever actually balls up enough to speak with her.

Who could possibly back down from that?


James can, and does, telling Lupin if he wants to get a unicorn, and Pettigrew wants to get a dragon, and Black wants to get a hippogriff, then he’ll happily join them. Until then, they can piss off, yeah?

His mates shut up, then Peter swigs the last of the liquor.

- - - Scrambled - - -

After that, he’s everywhere. She finds herself abandoning her half-full trolly at Tesco, hiding behind her popcorn at the cinema. And at the laundrette, at three in the bloody morning, he walks in with Pretty Boy. She ducks out the back entrance with her sopping clothes in hand.

Why she’s avoiding him, she can’t parse, except—if she’s wrong, it’s definitely embarrassing, and if she’s right, it’s potentially dangerous.

He’s always with his mates. They rove around town in a bloody pack, like they’re the uncrowned kings of Cokeworth. A hoodlum gang, Dursley would call them. She never sees them fucking around, exactly, but they seem perpetually on the brink of Trouble, or in the midst of it, or like they’ve just gotten away with it.

The pranks, for example. Benevolent pranks. Like, chaotic good or something.

Last Tuesday, see, at 2:46 a-fucking-m, Lily, unable to sleep, was hanging out her window to watch the stars. And, yes, to smoke, but whatever. It’s for naught—the stars. They’d suit her melancholy just fine, but it’s all clouds, so fuck that, yeah? Anyway, she’d heard a laugh, saw four shadows sneaking around the square, just down the road. She wasn’t entirely surprised when, next morning, everyone was in a lather about the town fountain, overflowing with purple bubbles.

Thing was, that fountain had been closed years before—severe cracks, and no budget to fix them. How could it have been repaired so quickly, and without anyone knowing? It would cost something to flush the pipes, yes, but nothing to what it would’ve been to repair the damn thing in the first place.

The pipes are flushed, and suddenly the square has an operational fountain.

And two weeks before that, all the downtown street signs had been switched around. It was so masterfully done—no one had realized it until midday. And the signs…curious, but they’d all been scrubbed up, gleaming, brand bloody new; none of them had actually been stolen. Still, it took three days to set them all right.


Was it them? She couldn’t say, but who else would it have been?


Her final straw is Egg raiding the ice lollies—her ice lollies—at her beloved corner grocer.


Is he stalking her? No. They’ve exchanged a few glances, but he doesn’t seem any more interested in confronting her than she is him.

Then: June, solstice, Friday, one of the few nights she can count on more than two customers. She looks up from Sweaty McSweaterson’s nasty bicep and sees Egg’s familiar black mop pass by in her mirror, Chinese in hand. She watches him pause.

He never lingers, and he never comes in, but he always bloody glances.

- - - Niffler pt. 3 - - -

They’ve been teasing him about her for a fucking month, hadn’t they?

And he really, truly deserves it. He’s a pathetic ponce, stealing glances in the window like a bloody coward. What could he possibly say to her though? Excuse me, Miss, are you by chance a witch, and did we meet in a London shop ten years ago, and I watched you get your wand, but you never came to our magic school?

He doesn’t fucking think so.

So he goes for the alcohol, and on his way back, being the pathetic twat that he is, he skips the alley and goes the long way home. He resolves not to glance, except, when he breaks down and looks, she’s waiting for him.

She taps on the window, grinning like a madwoman, beckoning him inside.

And is he a bloody Gryffindor, or what?

- - - - -

Sweaty McSweaterson is gone, finally, and she’s counting the till. A good night, all considered, when Egg walks by, third time in one night. And she knows he’ll be back by, and what else does she have to do?

He startles when she knocks, and the way ruffs his hair, all flustered? Fuck her sideways.

Before she can stop herself, she’s beckoning him inside.

- - - - -

He stands there like an arse, gaping, and a bit lopsided, and what does he know?

Her smile is lopsided, too.

- - - - -

It’s so goddamn awkward.

What was her plan, exactly? Hey, mate, d’you by chance happen to be a wizard? You’ve a fantastic smile.

He’s tipsy—not full arse over elbow, but he has that sway about him, and his grin is too sloppy and warm to be entirely natural. She could play it off, the asking, but there’s the Secrecy Statute, and the war, and—here’s the crux—she doesn’t know what side he’s on.

Without warning, he sets down his bag, and then asks her for a tattoo while he unzips his trousers.

The questions slip from her mind.

- - - - -

So, he ends up with a Niffler on his shoulder.

Oh, he doesn’t tell her it’s a Niffler. He might be reckless and half-pissed, yeah, but he’s not so far gone that he’d risk dementors over a fantastic smile. Even fantastic smiles that twist his stomach more than those Muggle pretzels Moony is overly fond of.


He draws a quick sketch for her, but that doesn’t work—at all.

- - - - -

A Niffler. A bloody fucking Niffler.

So he’s a wizard after all.

She hadn’t gone to Hogwarts. She’d gotten her letter, her wand, but her dad had died, and—

To compensate, her Mother had gotten a referral from the teacher who’d come to visit them, and Lily had attended magic class four evenings each week at a small provincial school. So top secret, even her grandmother hadn’t realized.

It—the school—hadn’t been as thorough, so she’s never seen magical creatures in person. She’s seen the diagrams, though, and she knows what a fucking Niffler is.


Whether he’s the wizard doesn’t matter, because what the ever loving fuck?

A Niffler.

She convinces him to get the tattoo on his shoulder instead of his arse. And he resists, he really resists, trying to show her his arse. And—it’s a nice fucking arse, right? She can see that through his pants.

It’d be a bloody shame to ruin it.

However much he might deserve it, wandering into a tattoo shop tipsy and chatting up the owner, her conscience won’t permit an arse tattoo. Thing is, she needs the cash too badly to just send him on his way.

Reluctantly, he zips up and whips his shirt off. With a flourish, because he’s an arse. An arse with a nice arse and some very nice arms.

He—Potter, she learns quickly enough—is a chatty sodding mess. Cute, hilarious, but a fucking disaster of a lad.

- - - - -

She’s not her—wand girl. She would know what a fucking Niffler is, for one, and she absolutely doesn’t. He has to help her sketch it out.

They sort it, finally, and he settles into the chair, determined not to wince as she starts up the machine.

He winces rather a lot, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

She doesn’t seem to mind a lot of things, though that might be because he’s a paying customer. Who knows. She’s just as funny as she is pretty. Unfair, that, and ridiculous.

A half hour in, his fucking mates—twats, all of them—send Pete down to find him. And find James he does, leers through the window at him.

James waves at him to go the fuck away. He does, and James breathes a sigh of relief. As much as he can, anyway, with her digging a goddamn mechanical needle in his arm.

Of course, the bastard—Wormy, not her—comes strolling by twenty minutes later, all casual, with Padfoot, no less, dragging a slouching Remus between them.

They pass by every few minutes, because they are traitorous fucking twats, the lot of them.

Fuck, she’s pretty.



- - - - -

The propositions, plural?

Those, she can overlook. Comes with the territory, unfortunately, though a light castration threat usually brings chatty or handsy blokes in line. It’s not necessary here—he’s not being creepy. His lines are awful, but they’re delivered in good humor, more to amuse her than anything.

At least she bloody hopes so, because they are really—like, really—terrible.

The sweat, too, she can overlook. He’s nervous, and she’s a pretty girl with her hands all over his arm. He’s clearly terrified.

Same with the tears she pretends aren’t prickling at the corners of his eyes. He isn’t blubbering, or even wincing too terribly badly. She’s dealt with worse.

The vomit, however? Too fucking much.

She finishes, finally, and hands him the mirror.  A textbook Niffler, which is what he’d requested, and a damn sight better than his mess of a sketch. It’s no less than he deserves. Whether the gravity of the situation—a Niffler permanently tattooed on his shoulder—or whatever alcohol he’d consumed, combined with his dinner, she doesn’t know.

He turns green. It isn’t her fucking problem.

Except, it is exactly her fucking problem, because he vomits all over her bloody chair, and her floor, and her favorite shoes.

And his mates—pissed themselves, far more pissed than Potter—dissolve into hysterics outside her window. She waves them in as she wraps up the tattoo, sees that Pretty Boy has enough tattoos to handle aftercare, and kindly orders them to get their mate the fuck out of her shop.

- - - Something Brewing - - -

The details are fuzzy for him, even four days later.

Despite what Padfoot says, he’s cert he didn’t cry. He doesn’t doubt he hit on her, as Peter gleefully informs him. Moony still can’t believe he sicked-up on her.

James can’t believe he has a fucking Niffler tattoo.

He goes to apologize. If her warm welcome is any indication, he’d definitely hit on her.

“Get the fuck out of my shop, Potter—”

She brandishes her needlework at him, managing to look more formidable than Longbottom’s mum. He steps forward.


“Did you manage to get it infected already?”

No, I—”

“I won’t remove it, so don’t bother asking.”

He could remove it, if it came to that. Ugly as it is, it reminds him of her, and that makes him a ponce, sure, but— “I came to apologize for being an arse.”

As she considers him, he’s surprised so much coolness can radiate from her when it’s so bloody hot outside. At length, she asks him what specifically he is here to apologize for.

“Erm, mooning you?”

She nods. Against his better judgment, he leans forward, resting a hand on her counter.

“And hitting on me?” she asks.

He grins. “Not that bit, no, though I’d have used better lines, if I’d have had my wits about me.”

“If you hadn’t been piss drunk, you mean.”

His smile vanishes. “Well, yeah…”

“They wouldn’t have worked.”

This is not going well. His hand twitches, itching to jump to his hair, but he’s still got the box hidden behind his back.

“Why are you here, really, Potter?”

“I said—to apologize. A-and, to thank you—for, er, saving my arse.” She grins, and he’s bolstered. “Literally saving my arse. And I am sorry about the sick-up. And your shoes, and the general principle of the thing. I owe you one.”

“Or twenty.”

“Oi, and for not tipping you.”



“Well, have a good day, then.” She returns to her embroidery, dismissing him.

“No—there’s more,” he insists.

She doesn’t look up, but she pauses mid-stitch, so he knows she’s listening.

“You didn’t think I’d just use words, would you? What good would that do?” He fishes two twenty pound notes out of his pocket and sets them on the counter—that gets her attention. “Your tip, and some provisions.” He produces a box of half-melted ice lollies. “It’s supposed to be hot as bullocks all week, yeah?”

She makes no move to take them, so he sets them awkwardly on the counter.

“All right—well, um,” he fixes his hair. “See you ’round.”

- - - - -

Bloody ice lollies.

He’s halfway out the door before she calls him back.


He whips around.

“I wouldn’t tell you my name the other night, yeah?” she explains. “It’s Evans.”

“Evans, what?”

She grins. “Just Evans.”

“All right.” He shoots her that bloody lopsided grin that made her knees a bit jelly-like, the bastard. “I’m James.”

“I remember.”

“Well, Just Evans, see you ’round, yeah?”

Lily nods. Potter flashes her a cocky three-fingered salute and marches out the door.

They’re delicious, the lollies.

She ought to throw them away on principle, but it’s the hottest fucking June in ages, so she shoves them in the icebox. She pockets the twenties, too, intent on replacing her shoes.

Thing is, as she idly sucks on a grape lolly hours later, another idea takes hold. She turns it over in her head for the rest of the evening.

Next morning, Lily hasn’t slept, but she has made up her mind. She’s considered it for at least twelve hours, so it’s not rash or impulsive, is it? Reckless, yes, but her mother isn’t here to tell her otherwise.

She doesn’t have anything like the proper clothing,

She remembers the old tavern, nods at the barman like she knows what she’s doing, only to come up short in the courtyard behind. Five minutes later, she’s on the verge of leaving, flustered, when a kindly ginger witch takes pity and helps her with the bricks. And if that woman—pregnant, with three young boys in tow—has just braved Diagon Alley, Lily certainly can.


After a deep steadying breath—or three, and maybe a cig for good measure—she steps back into the Wizarding world.

Underwhelming. It’s all terribly underwhelming. Eerily empty, far removed from the bustling, cheery street she’s long-romanticized in her memories, and far closer—with its boarded-up shops—to Cokeworth than she cares to admit. Far, also, from the Death Eater on every corner scenario she’d been envisioning.

Still, no one lingers.

And still, she forges ahead, forfeiting Potter’s tip to a Gringott’s goblin in exchange for a small bag of gold.

She wanders the alley, aimless, until inspiration strikes in an old cauldron sitting in the window of the used equipment shop. Aside from the odd potion, she hasn’t tackled any advanced potions work. Those she had brewed had been class projects—no one had their own equipment, and the time and budget didn’t allow for such luxuries—but she’d loved the O.W.L. level coursework. More importantly, she’d excelled at it.

She leaves Alley laden with a cauldron, an equally tarnished set of scales, a N.E.W.T. level book, and a basic stock of ingredients the kind old apothecary had helped her sort.

They’re shabby, but they’re hers. She ruins three scouring pads scraping grime out of the cauldron bottom, and she calls the tarnish on the scales vintage charm.

Anyway, everything she owns, save her work equipment downstairs, is a little old and tarnished.

So, it suits. Something.

Three weeks later, July is half over, and it will not stop bloody raining. Lily’s worked through her box of ice lollies and a third of the way through the advanced potions book.


She studies her book surreptitiously between clients. Affordable, and reliable, and good, she’s quickly become a favorite for the local kids, now that they’re out of school—piercings, mostly, and band tattoos they’ll regret in a few years.

Stupid, the lot of them, but they pay for her potions ingredients.

Potter is noticeably absent—she doesn’t see him on the streets, in her launderette, anywhere. She wonders if they’ve left, then chastises herself for wondering at all. Until she sees Short Stuff wandering in the park, a lost puppy, eating a sandwich on a bench; she smiles to herself as she flips her sign to ‘closed.’

Lily’s careful about brewing—her flat is above her shop, and if a potion goes rancid, all the Vanishing Charms in the world can’t clear the stench—and works in the cool, quite middle of the night hours.

Something about it takes the edge off the loneliness that likes to creep in and choke her.

She’d never before considered N.E.W.T.s as an attainable goal, but this is N.E.W.T. level coursework, isn’t it? And so far, she’s managed well enough. She’d only had to scrape her cauldron out four times. All right, maybe five, but she was distracted with the radio and missed a stir. Complete fluke.

It’s only potions, yes, and she’ll need to sort out loads of other subjects before she’s anything like qualified, but still.

Something like hope unfurls inside of her.

FFN    AO3

The Night Before

A/N: I didn’t have anything in particular in mind when I started writing this pre-wedding series, other than fulfilling prompts. But this seems like a logical progression after Infatuation, and I will soon wrap it all up, because I don’t think I can drag out the rent party any longer and still leave them in a canon-ish world. After all, Jamie and Claire eventually have to get married. In this case, soon. The story is set during the first book between Chapters 13 (A Marriage is Announced) and 14 (A Marriage Takes Place), aka the night before the wedding, hours after Claire signed the marriage contract. As is true for all the stories in the series, this can be read as a stand alone, but all the pre wedding fics, and all my other stories, can be found here.

His bride-to-be was drunk. Very drunk. Jamie eyed her where she sat in a corner of the taproom, alone but for a bottle of whiskey, its contents rapidly diminishing. He was equal parts impressed and worried, for he had never seen a lass drink so much liquor. She remained upright for the moment, but had started to tilt on her stool a little, yet she did not fall. He sat on the edge of his own seat, ready to launch himself across the room to right her if she listed too far to the side, but so far was too nervous to make his way closer. And she was managing, barely.

He didn’t know what to do, so he simply watched and waited. The bigger part of him wanted to speak with her, sit with her, touch her, but he knew she wouldn’t welcome it, welcome him. Not now. She was too overwhelmed by the shock of their upcoming nuptials to do anything but swallow the intoxicating liquid in front of her. He, too, was surprised and anxious, and had imbibed a few drams of his own, but it helped greatly that he wanted it badly. He’d known she was meant for him as long as he’d known her, but the how had eluded him until Dougal approached him with a proposal to keep Claire out of the clutches of Captain Randall. He’d agreed without protest, to the surprise of no one.

No one except Claire, that is. They had spoken briefly when Dougal came to fetch him. She seemed utterly stunned at the prospect of marrying him, but had asked him only three questions: first, if he knew they were to be wed, second, if he was already promised to another, and third, if he cared that she wasn’t a virgin. Of all the things to ask! Of course he knew she wasn’t a virgin. She was a widow, after all, and unless her husband dropped dead at the altar, she had lain with the lucky bastard. He had spent no insignificant amount of time being jealous of the dead man, but now, on the eve of his own wedding, he felt only pity. Claire still hadn’t told him what had happened, but Jamie was sure her husband never would have left her willingly. Once she was his, completely and fully, Jamie would defy death itself to keep her.

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Klaine Advent Day 2: Broadway

Blaine makes his “Broadway” debut. Featuring one of my favorite Blaines - Drunk!Blaine.  400 words.


“Did you see me?” Blaine said, his face glowing both from excitement and the lights from the signs lining the street.  “Did you hear them cheering for me?  I’m a star!”

“Yes, you’re a star honey,” Kurt replied.  “But they would’ve –“

“On Broadway!”

“Blaine, this doesn’t –“

“Broadway, Kurt,” Blaine insisted, stumbling a bit on the sidewalk and not protesting when Kurt’s arm linked with his to help him stay upright.  “This is technically Broadway.”

“Someone’s a little drunk,” Kurt chuckled.

“But the lights spell out my name.  On Broadway,” Blaine continued, pointing to the sign above him.

“The lights on that sign are neon and they spell out ‘Lonnie’s Western Room’,” Kurt said.  “So unless your name is Mr. Blaine Western Room—“

“Excuse me, I thought we agreed on Mr. Blaine Anderson hyphen Western Room, to honor both of our cultures.”

“—Then that is not your name in lights,” Kurt continued, unable to stop a grin.  “But you did get a standing ovation for your karaoke rendition of ‘Jolene’.”

“I mean, Dolly is just amazing, right?” Blaine insisted. “She’s so… out there, and she makes art and helps people and did you know that she’s given a book to every child in Tennessee?  All of them.  She’s a precious gift.”

“Dolly is right up there in the pantheon of immortal divas.”

“How can you even remember the word ‘pantheon’?  You’ve had more to drink than I have.”

“Oh, honey,” Kurt cooed, giving Blaine a kiss on the top of his head.  “I hold my liquor so much better than you.  But it’s one of the things I love most about you.  And seeing you do drunken Dolly karaoke here in Nashville is like a Christmas present.”

“Sam said I did good,” Blaine said.  “And it is his bachelor party.  He wanted to tear up Nashville and so here we are.  And I think there were more drinks coming.  I want another drink.  And to sing Shania.  We should go in there and do it again.”

“The guys will wonder where we went.”  Kurt gave his arm a squeeze.  “Ready to go back in?”

“I just needed a moment to take in my momentous Broadway debut.”

“Yes, we’re in Lower Broadway, but this bar isn’t even on Broadway proper.  We’re like two blocks away from Broadway.”

“Off-Broadway,” Blaine beamed.  “Still counts!”

bad news;

“It starts with a hastily packed duffle bag in the backseat. A pistol sheathed within the waistband of her jeans.”

summary: where ward keeps his promises, and skye makes sure he delivers. a road trip that includes burning alcohol, dusty motels and route 66 as their race track.

a/n: created in association with this fanmix/graphic. i am nothing but skye/ward trash. 

find at: ao3, tumblr

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└ Masaki kicks off Ura Arashi for Japonism Arena Show (Fukui). It’s been a decade!!! 

Cr: English jweb (Ura Arashi Japonism Arena Shows)