#gassy guy

Me, ever so charitable and benevolent: okay, but just this once.

(SIKE, there's like ~18 more chapters of this damn thing.)

If you haven't tuned in yet, here's what you're missing:

Rudderless royal, Rose, has her work cut out for her when her bumbling father offers refuge to Jules, a malodorous mischief-maker raised by trolls. Thanks to him, her Court will never be the same.

A story of self-discovery, challenging conformities, and rude sexual awakenings. Literally.

This Rose and Jules conversation will be continued in Chapter 34, which should be available this weekend. Enjoy the tenderness now... it shan't last. 💔

Act Two will wrap up on Chapter 36. I can't believe we've come this far(t)!

Preview below!

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His moan reached her bones. He massaged and tended to his swollen globe with sure, soothing hands, eyes closed not in serenity, but focus, as he navigated this painful and persistent fullness. She could not tear away, even as her pulse threatened to resume its stiff beat and add another shiny blot to the crotch of her undergarments. The allure was insurmountable. 

He languidly opened his eyes and sighed through his nose. "I do not understand it, either. Last time, at the banquet... I know I was — musical, and of course there were... the eyebrows."

"Hmm," she humored him.

"Frankly, I could've fertilized four fields the following day. You may recall from Celeste's quarters." The smirk never quite mounted his mouth, much as she wanted it to. She especially wanted it paired with the massaging motions of his hands on his belly. "But it was nothing like this. This is—" She saw some internal sensation darken his face. "Best not to speculate, perhaps."

He stopped rubbing. The gentle hold on his gut became a splayed iron clutch. He leaned forward, grasping the chair by his littered table, and stuttered out a grunt, each fragment of sound from his mouth twinned with a similar burst from behind. Rose anticipated the seat of his pants to sag with a freshly steaming load, but something else yielded.

90s!Jules begging Rooney to pull over on a country road one evening. She obliges; she does not need another mysterious dark stain in her beloved Vauxhall Astra (whose name is Betty.) His stomach is knotted in the fashion that preludes diarrhea of the violent sort. His trousers are down before he's even selected a bush to squat behind. All that ends up happening is him blowing his horn for minutes on end. Rooney honks her horn back. "I think we're communicating!"

The only thing that breaks Rose's hyper-focus is Eustace remarking, "I thought he had two freckles on that side?" Eustace is quiet for the rest of that ride.

(Happens many a time in Knight!Verse. Eustace has lost track of how many peasants he has mooned. They don't scream half as loud when orcs lay seige to their villages.)

What it sparked was an idea of Knight!Jules playing medieval poker or some such and becoming increasingly more repugnant as the game progresses. He thinks he's keeping it cool, tells Eustace he's got this all taken care of, can read this chumps like a book, could do this in his sleep, etc. What he's actually doing is dripping with sweat, burping acid clouds, and farting out thick muddy spumes of that lung-crushing brown musk science and logic cannot explain, until his fellow players are unable to read their cards.

The beauty of it is that even if he's losing, which is almost definitely is (don't tell him that), someone has to still be conscious by the end to pocket their rightful winnings. And there's only ever one last man standing.

I miss this AU waaaaah

💚🛡💨 >> Read it here! << 💚🛡💨

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There was a telling crinkle between the brows of the round face appearing from beneath the frayed towel. 

"You can't be serious," Eustace said flatly.

"Well..." Jules shrugged. "Aren't ye?"

"No!"

"But — we're a partnership, me 'an thou. 'm 'alf, you're 'alf…?"

"That's not what that means, it means — it's how you refer to couples!"

This earned a slow, fuzzy blink.