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fredbassettTitle : It Never Rains, But It Pours
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Lester/Lyle
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 2,435
Summary : The title says it all, really. Lester and Lyle get wet.
A/N : Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eriah211 who is need of some fluff, wanted these two and gave me the title prompt.
Lester watched the pair of Wellington boots in front of him disappearing up the narrow tube, their owner moving at a fast crawl with the ease of a ferret undulating through a tube.
Not for the first time in the last four hours, Lester wondered what the hell had possessed him to agree to a caving trip that wouldn’t be over until the early hours of the morning. They’d gone underground at 9pm, only an hour after arriving at the cottage for the weekend. Five days of unutterable boredom with nothing to chase, shoot at or blow up had left Lyle restless and irritable, and not even blasting off his own body weight in ammunition on the range at the ARC had alleviated the problem.
The lack of anomaly-related activity that had driven Lyle to distraction had enabled Lester to shift the paperwork mountain that had recently been threatening to turn into something worthy of an exhibit at the Tate Modern, but even the feeling of virtue that came with an empty in-tray had soon faded. Dealing with an extremely fractious Special Forces lieutenant, anxious for news of Ryan and Blade, off the grid somewhere in an operation that exceeded even Lester’s security clearance, hadn’t been the easiest of tasks, so when Lyle had expressed a desire to get rid of his pent up frustration, Lester had said yes, even when all he’d really wanted to do had been to curl up in front of the wood-burning stove with a large gin and tonic and a good book.
Lester hauled himself upright in a small chamber, glad that the end of the trip was almost in sight. Lyle had already reached the top of the flexible metal ladder that was their way out and was clipping himself into a short length of rope at the top, ready to life-line Lester up the pitch.
Quickly tying the rope around his waist, hands weaving practised movements without even having to look what he was doing, Lester looked up to se Lyle’s light shining down on him.
“Climb when ready!” Lyle called.
“Take up slack,” Lester instructed, then when he felt the slight tug on the rope that indicated Lyle was now ready to take his weight should it be needed, he called, “Climbing!”
The pitch was no more than seven metres deep and, even as tired as he was, Lester swiftly reached the top and pulled the ladder up behind him. While Lyle dropped the rope into the tackle bag, Lester coiled the ladder and stuffed it into the bag as well.
In the light of his caving lamp, Lester could see that for the first time in days, the strain had disappeared from Lyle’s face. Or maybe it was just obscured by the copious amounts of mud that caked the soldier’s face. Lester reached out and brushed a lump of mud off the end of Lyle’s nose.
“Rosebud, was it utterly necessary to drag me to the bitter end of Reynold’s Passage?”
Lyle’s hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’ll sleep better tonight after this.”
“In the interests of strict accuracy, I feel bound to point out that I would have slept equally well after three large gin and tonics followed by a couple of pints of Roger’s Butcombe and a leisurely stroll back from the pub.”
“You love me really,” Lyle announced cheerfully.
“I’ll love you even more if you’ll carry the tackle bag out.”
“No sooner said than done, blossom.” Lyle grabbed the tackle bag and set off through the tight squeeze known as the Letter Box with what Lester could only describe as excessive ease.
He followed Lyle at a more sedate pace, thankful that despite doing what was essentially a desk job, he still remained fit enough for this sort of activity. The squeeze was as tight and awkward as ever, but he was soon past it and climbing up the vertical entrance chimney. Hand and footholds were plentiful, and although the rock was damp and slippery, far wetter than it had been on their way into the cave, it wasn’t a difficult climb and he could soon feel the fresh air on his face, which told him that Lyle had reached the top of the shaft and pushed open the lockable metal lid that covered the entrance.
Lester heaved himself out into fresh air. Extremely wet fresh air, to be quite precise.
“Sorry about the rain, petal,” Lyle said, sounding anything but sorry.
“This isn’t rain, this is a deluge of biblical fucking proportions,” Lester commented. “That bloody stream has doubled in size since we went down. I’m surprised there wasn’t more coming down the shaft.”
“There will be in a few minutes. I think we timed that one pretty well.”
“It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning, Jon. I’m not sure that classes as timing it pretty well.”
Lyle leaned over and planted a cold, wet, muddy kiss on his lips. “I keep telling you, you love me really.”
“You keep telling yourself that, honeybee. It saves me the bother.” The rain was teeming down, the drops forcing the way through the tree cover in the valley to burst like small, water-filled balloons all around him. By the time Lyle had locked the entrance, Lester was wetter than he’d been underground.
When he’d finished with the gate, Lyle shouldered the tackle bag again, and set off down the valley on a small path beside the stream. Lester followed him, thinking that his brother Ralph would laugh himself silly when he heard that he’d agreed to Lyle’s mad idea of a late evening trip in unsettled weather. They had just over a mile to walk to get back to where they’d left the Land Rover, and Lester knew perfectly well that by the time they got there, he was going to be very wet indeed.
After walking for nearly ten minutes, he commented, “I feel you ought to know that there is a small stream running down the back of my neck.”
“Only a small one?”
“That was what is known as stoical British understatement, oh light of my exceedingly damp existence.”
“So what you really mean is that some inconsiderate bugger has diverted the Niagara Falls down the back of your neck, but you’re not complaining?”
“Exactly so.”
“I’m wet too.”
“That’s as maybe, sweetpea, but you are a roughy toughy soldier. I, on the other hand, am made for the finer things in life, such as sitting in front of a fire while you wait on me hand, foot and finger.”
“Is that a hint?”
“If you choose to interpret it as such. And, for the record, when we get back, I shall require an extremely large hot whisky delivering to me in the bath. With honey and lemon.”
“A bath, at this time of the bloody night?”
“A bath,” Lester said firmly. “A very hot bath. I shall require chocolate biscuits as well. Several of them.”
A rumble of thunder in the distance made it plain that the weather had no intention of improving. Lester gritted his teeth and kept walking, doing his best to ignore the cold that was seeping into him as his one-piece fleece caving suit got steadily more saturated with the water that was now finding its way through every small nick and tear in his well-worn oversuit. Lester made a mental note to get himself a new one at the earliest possible opportunity. And maybe a new boyfriend as well. One that didn’t drag him on mad jaunts on a Friday night when all he wanted to do was slob out and recover from an irritating week.
“I’ll go to the opera with you next week without making a fuss,” Lyle said, demonstrating for the umpteenth time his almost preternatural ability to know what Lester was thinking.
“After this, my little marsh mongoose, you’ll accompany me to the opera without complaining for the rest of the bloody year.”
Lyle cast a puzzled glance over his shoulder. “I thought we were doing botany at the moment?” he said, referring to their current pet-name contest.
Lester waved a dripping hand in the air. “I have exercised the prerogative of the terminally damp and changed the theme.”
It took another ten minutes to get back to Black Rock Quarry where they’d left the Land Rover. Lyle slung the bag in the bag and climbed into the driver’s seat. The rain had washed off most of the mud, and by then, Lester was beyond caring about any resulting mess. Trading insults had relieved the monotony of the long, dark, wet walk, but he really was sick of being cold and soaked through, although the effort had been worth it to see Lyle gradually return to his normal state of amused insouciance.
With the windscreen wipers going as fast as possible, the Land Rover lurched back down the track that led to Cheddar Gorge. Lester jumped out to open the two gates that barred their way, getting even wetter in the process. The rain was now so heavy that it was even forcing its way through his eyelashes, making it difficult see well enough to reset the combination on the lock. Having fingers practically numb with cold didn’t help, either.
The drive up the gorge and through the village of Priddy was accomplished mostly in silence. Lyle drove fast, with the casual ease of someone who had been on numerous defensive – and offensive – driving courses. The Land Rover handled well in the wet, despite its age, and Lyle managed to execute a perfect emergency stop, without locking the wheels or skidding, when a large badger ambled into their headlights with scant regard for its own safety.
Within five minutes of arriving back at Drove Cottage, Lester had stripped off his wet, filthy kit in the garage and dived, stark naked, into the welcoming warmth of the living room. They’d banked the stove well before leaving, and it still glowed red in the darkness of the room.
“Don’t forget my hot whisky, pika!” he called, heading rapidly up the stairs to start running a bath.
He could have sworn he heard Lyle mutter, “What the fuck’s a pika when it’s at home?” But his lover would no doubt deny the remark if challenged.
As soon as the water was deep enough, Lester climbed into the bath and let the heat start to drive out the chill of the rainstorm. He quickly removed the mud from his hair and ignored the faint brown tinge that the bath water was taking on. At least now he was in hot water, not cold, which was a distinct improvement on the last few hours.
The sound of Lyle’s voice downstairs told him that his lover was on the phone to Ditzy, on duty back at the ARC. The medic had been acting as their rescue call out for the evening and Lyle was now checking in to let him know that they were safely back on the surface.
A few minutes later, just as Lester had started to feel human again, Lyle arrived in the bathroom, also naked, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of hot whisky and a large pile of chocolate biscuits.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked, setting the tray down on the chair next to the bath.
Lester smiled at him and put their habitual games aside for the moment. “There’s nothing to forgive, Jon. You needed to clear your head and, as that sadist of a brother of mine likes to point out, I need the exercise so I don’t end up with middle aged spread.”
Lyle laughed and stuck his hand in the water to run it over Lester’s flat stomach. “Not much chance of that. Ditz spoke to Ryan earlier. They’re both back at base.”
“Are they both all right?”
Lyle nodded and Lester felt the last of the tension he’d been carrying start to drain out of him. “That’s good news. I presume Stephen and Lorraine know?” Watching his two colleagues wait for news hadn’t been a pleasant experience, reminding him daily of the times he’d been the one left behind waiting and worrying.
“Oh yes. They’re on their way up Hereford. Claire’s booked them into a hotel with good soundproofing that doesn’t mind opening late.”
Lester laughed. “Why am I not surprised that such a thing exists?”
Lyle grinned. “It’s actually an 18th century coaching inn run by the father of an ex-Regiment guy. I’ll take you there sometime. They have a selection of malts that would make your mouth water.”
Lester leaned back in the bath, dunking his chocolate biscuits in his hot whisky, much to Lyle’s evident amusement, and enjoying the heat of the water. “You make a good hot whisky. On occasions like this, I’m reminded why I keep you around.”
“You mean it’s not for my dashing good looks, gorgeous body and the fact I can still make you come three times a night?”
“The latter might have something to do with it,” Lester said, after giving the matter due consideration. “Now be a dear boy and put on a good display in the shower. I think I’ve earned some shameless perving after my exertion tonight.”
“And then you recline in bed like a Roman emperor eating more biscuits while I suck your cock?” Lyle obediently turned on the shower and stepped inside, leaving the door open so Lester could watch.
“In the interests of strict historical accuracy, possum, I don’t think Roman emperors ate chocolate biscuits.”
“But I bet there was a lot of cock-sucking going on. Didn’t one of them get off on having his dick sucked by kids while he was in a swimming bath?”
“That was Tiberius. I never realised you had a classical education, fruitbat.”
“I didn’t, but there was a copy of Suetonius in the bogs in Hereford and it always fell open at the dirty bits.”
Lester raised his eyebrows in surprise, but knew better than to question Lyle’s more outrageous stories. They invariably ended up being true.
As Lyle started soaping the mud from the caving trip out of his hair, he turned to Lester and asked, “I appreciate this means handing this particular round to you on a plate with a cherry on top, but is there really such a thing as a marsh mongoose?”
Try as he might to be gracious in victory, Lester couldn’t keep the grin of his face. “Would I lie to you?”
Tea in bed every morning for the rest of the month was going to be very pleasant indeed.
Author : fredbassett
Fandom : Primeval
Rating : 15
Characters : Lester/Lyle
Disclaimer : Not mine, no money made, don’t sue.
Spoilers : None
Word Count : 2,435
Summary : The title says it all, really. Lester and Lyle get wet.
A/N : Written for
eriah211 who is need of some fluff, wanted these two and gave me the title prompt. Lester watched the pair of Wellington boots in front of him disappearing up the narrow tube, their owner moving at a fast crawl with the ease of a ferret undulating through a tube.
Not for the first time in the last four hours, Lester wondered what the hell had possessed him to agree to a caving trip that wouldn’t be over until the early hours of the morning. They’d gone underground at 9pm, only an hour after arriving at the cottage for the weekend. Five days of unutterable boredom with nothing to chase, shoot at or blow up had left Lyle restless and irritable, and not even blasting off his own body weight in ammunition on the range at the ARC had alleviated the problem.
The lack of anomaly-related activity that had driven Lyle to distraction had enabled Lester to shift the paperwork mountain that had recently been threatening to turn into something worthy of an exhibit at the Tate Modern, but even the feeling of virtue that came with an empty in-tray had soon faded. Dealing with an extremely fractious Special Forces lieutenant, anxious for news of Ryan and Blade, off the grid somewhere in an operation that exceeded even Lester’s security clearance, hadn’t been the easiest of tasks, so when Lyle had expressed a desire to get rid of his pent up frustration, Lester had said yes, even when all he’d really wanted to do had been to curl up in front of the wood-burning stove with a large gin and tonic and a good book.
Lester hauled himself upright in a small chamber, glad that the end of the trip was almost in sight. Lyle had already reached the top of the flexible metal ladder that was their way out and was clipping himself into a short length of rope at the top, ready to life-line Lester up the pitch.
Quickly tying the rope around his waist, hands weaving practised movements without even having to look what he was doing, Lester looked up to se Lyle’s light shining down on him.
“Climb when ready!” Lyle called.
“Take up slack,” Lester instructed, then when he felt the slight tug on the rope that indicated Lyle was now ready to take his weight should it be needed, he called, “Climbing!”
The pitch was no more than seven metres deep and, even as tired as he was, Lester swiftly reached the top and pulled the ladder up behind him. While Lyle dropped the rope into the tackle bag, Lester coiled the ladder and stuffed it into the bag as well.
In the light of his caving lamp, Lester could see that for the first time in days, the strain had disappeared from Lyle’s face. Or maybe it was just obscured by the copious amounts of mud that caked the soldier’s face. Lester reached out and brushed a lump of mud off the end of Lyle’s nose.
“Rosebud, was it utterly necessary to drag me to the bitter end of Reynold’s Passage?”
Lyle’s hazel eyes sparkled with amusement. “You’ll sleep better tonight after this.”
“In the interests of strict accuracy, I feel bound to point out that I would have slept equally well after three large gin and tonics followed by a couple of pints of Roger’s Butcombe and a leisurely stroll back from the pub.”
“You love me really,” Lyle announced cheerfully.
“I’ll love you even more if you’ll carry the tackle bag out.”
“No sooner said than done, blossom.” Lyle grabbed the tackle bag and set off through the tight squeeze known as the Letter Box with what Lester could only describe as excessive ease.
He followed Lyle at a more sedate pace, thankful that despite doing what was essentially a desk job, he still remained fit enough for this sort of activity. The squeeze was as tight and awkward as ever, but he was soon past it and climbing up the vertical entrance chimney. Hand and footholds were plentiful, and although the rock was damp and slippery, far wetter than it had been on their way into the cave, it wasn’t a difficult climb and he could soon feel the fresh air on his face, which told him that Lyle had reached the top of the shaft and pushed open the lockable metal lid that covered the entrance.
Lester heaved himself out into fresh air. Extremely wet fresh air, to be quite precise.
“Sorry about the rain, petal,” Lyle said, sounding anything but sorry.
“This isn’t rain, this is a deluge of biblical fucking proportions,” Lester commented. “That bloody stream has doubled in size since we went down. I’m surprised there wasn’t more coming down the shaft.”
“There will be in a few minutes. I think we timed that one pretty well.”
“It’s one o’clock in the fucking morning, Jon. I’m not sure that classes as timing it pretty well.”
Lyle leaned over and planted a cold, wet, muddy kiss on his lips. “I keep telling you, you love me really.”
“You keep telling yourself that, honeybee. It saves me the bother.” The rain was teeming down, the drops forcing the way through the tree cover in the valley to burst like small, water-filled balloons all around him. By the time Lyle had locked the entrance, Lester was wetter than he’d been underground.
When he’d finished with the gate, Lyle shouldered the tackle bag again, and set off down the valley on a small path beside the stream. Lester followed him, thinking that his brother Ralph would laugh himself silly when he heard that he’d agreed to Lyle’s mad idea of a late evening trip in unsettled weather. They had just over a mile to walk to get back to where they’d left the Land Rover, and Lester knew perfectly well that by the time they got there, he was going to be very wet indeed.
After walking for nearly ten minutes, he commented, “I feel you ought to know that there is a small stream running down the back of my neck.”
“Only a small one?”
“That was what is known as stoical British understatement, oh light of my exceedingly damp existence.”
“So what you really mean is that some inconsiderate bugger has diverted the Niagara Falls down the back of your neck, but you’re not complaining?”
“Exactly so.”
“I’m wet too.”
“That’s as maybe, sweetpea, but you are a roughy toughy soldier. I, on the other hand, am made for the finer things in life, such as sitting in front of a fire while you wait on me hand, foot and finger.”
“Is that a hint?”
“If you choose to interpret it as such. And, for the record, when we get back, I shall require an extremely large hot whisky delivering to me in the bath. With honey and lemon.”
“A bath, at this time of the bloody night?”
“A bath,” Lester said firmly. “A very hot bath. I shall require chocolate biscuits as well. Several of them.”
A rumble of thunder in the distance made it plain that the weather had no intention of improving. Lester gritted his teeth and kept walking, doing his best to ignore the cold that was seeping into him as his one-piece fleece caving suit got steadily more saturated with the water that was now finding its way through every small nick and tear in his well-worn oversuit. Lester made a mental note to get himself a new one at the earliest possible opportunity. And maybe a new boyfriend as well. One that didn’t drag him on mad jaunts on a Friday night when all he wanted to do was slob out and recover from an irritating week.
“I’ll go to the opera with you next week without making a fuss,” Lyle said, demonstrating for the umpteenth time his almost preternatural ability to know what Lester was thinking.
“After this, my little marsh mongoose, you’ll accompany me to the opera without complaining for the rest of the bloody year.”
Lyle cast a puzzled glance over his shoulder. “I thought we were doing botany at the moment?” he said, referring to their current pet-name contest.
Lester waved a dripping hand in the air. “I have exercised the prerogative of the terminally damp and changed the theme.”
It took another ten minutes to get back to Black Rock Quarry where they’d left the Land Rover. Lyle slung the bag in the bag and climbed into the driver’s seat. The rain had washed off most of the mud, and by then, Lester was beyond caring about any resulting mess. Trading insults had relieved the monotony of the long, dark, wet walk, but he really was sick of being cold and soaked through, although the effort had been worth it to see Lyle gradually return to his normal state of amused insouciance.
With the windscreen wipers going as fast as possible, the Land Rover lurched back down the track that led to Cheddar Gorge. Lester jumped out to open the two gates that barred their way, getting even wetter in the process. The rain was now so heavy that it was even forcing its way through his eyelashes, making it difficult see well enough to reset the combination on the lock. Having fingers practically numb with cold didn’t help, either.
The drive up the gorge and through the village of Priddy was accomplished mostly in silence. Lyle drove fast, with the casual ease of someone who had been on numerous defensive – and offensive – driving courses. The Land Rover handled well in the wet, despite its age, and Lyle managed to execute a perfect emergency stop, without locking the wheels or skidding, when a large badger ambled into their headlights with scant regard for its own safety.
Within five minutes of arriving back at Drove Cottage, Lester had stripped off his wet, filthy kit in the garage and dived, stark naked, into the welcoming warmth of the living room. They’d banked the stove well before leaving, and it still glowed red in the darkness of the room.
“Don’t forget my hot whisky, pika!” he called, heading rapidly up the stairs to start running a bath.
He could have sworn he heard Lyle mutter, “What the fuck’s a pika when it’s at home?” But his lover would no doubt deny the remark if challenged.
As soon as the water was deep enough, Lester climbed into the bath and let the heat start to drive out the chill of the rainstorm. He quickly removed the mud from his hair and ignored the faint brown tinge that the bath water was taking on. At least now he was in hot water, not cold, which was a distinct improvement on the last few hours.
The sound of Lyle’s voice downstairs told him that his lover was on the phone to Ditzy, on duty back at the ARC. The medic had been acting as their rescue call out for the evening and Lyle was now checking in to let him know that they were safely back on the surface.
A few minutes later, just as Lester had started to feel human again, Lyle arrived in the bathroom, also naked, carrying a tray with two steaming mugs of hot whisky and a large pile of chocolate biscuits.
“Am I forgiven?” he asked, setting the tray down on the chair next to the bath.
Lester smiled at him and put their habitual games aside for the moment. “There’s nothing to forgive, Jon. You needed to clear your head and, as that sadist of a brother of mine likes to point out, I need the exercise so I don’t end up with middle aged spread.”
Lyle laughed and stuck his hand in the water to run it over Lester’s flat stomach. “Not much chance of that. Ditz spoke to Ryan earlier. They’re both back at base.”
“Are they both all right?”
Lyle nodded and Lester felt the last of the tension he’d been carrying start to drain out of him. “That’s good news. I presume Stephen and Lorraine know?” Watching his two colleagues wait for news hadn’t been a pleasant experience, reminding him daily of the times he’d been the one left behind waiting and worrying.
“Oh yes. They’re on their way up Hereford. Claire’s booked them into a hotel with good soundproofing that doesn’t mind opening late.”
Lester laughed. “Why am I not surprised that such a thing exists?”
Lyle grinned. “It’s actually an 18th century coaching inn run by the father of an ex-Regiment guy. I’ll take you there sometime. They have a selection of malts that would make your mouth water.”
Lester leaned back in the bath, dunking his chocolate biscuits in his hot whisky, much to Lyle’s evident amusement, and enjoying the heat of the water. “You make a good hot whisky. On occasions like this, I’m reminded why I keep you around.”
“You mean it’s not for my dashing good looks, gorgeous body and the fact I can still make you come three times a night?”
“The latter might have something to do with it,” Lester said, after giving the matter due consideration. “Now be a dear boy and put on a good display in the shower. I think I’ve earned some shameless perving after my exertion tonight.”
“And then you recline in bed like a Roman emperor eating more biscuits while I suck your cock?” Lyle obediently turned on the shower and stepped inside, leaving the door open so Lester could watch.
“In the interests of strict historical accuracy, possum, I don’t think Roman emperors ate chocolate biscuits.”
“But I bet there was a lot of cock-sucking going on. Didn’t one of them get off on having his dick sucked by kids while he was in a swimming bath?”
“That was Tiberius. I never realised you had a classical education, fruitbat.”
“I didn’t, but there was a copy of Suetonius in the bogs in Hereford and it always fell open at the dirty bits.”
Lester raised his eyebrows in surprise, but knew better than to question Lyle’s more outrageous stories. They invariably ended up being true.
As Lyle started soaping the mud from the caving trip out of his hair, he turned to Lester and asked, “I appreciate this means handing this particular round to you on a plate with a cherry on top, but is there really such a thing as a marsh mongoose?”
Try as he might to be gracious in victory, Lester couldn’t keep the grin of his face. “Would I lie to you?”
Tea in bed every morning for the rest of the month was going to be very pleasant indeed.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 01:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 03:43 pm (UTC)I really had my Denial goggles on, because during the caving trip I read a lot of slashy details (narrow tube, Reynold's passage, tight squeeze, shaft).
NotSorry! *g*no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 03:51 pm (UTC)That was so perfect! \0/
I have just finished reading this in the netbook while lying in bed with my electric blanket on my back. If the universe would want to give me my own naked!Lyle in the shower, it would be perfect *g* Chocolate biscuits would also be welcome.
I love the pet-name contest, but so far "oh light of my exceedingly damp existence" is my favourite. Thank you very very very much for this *tackle-hugs*
no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 04:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 04:38 pm (UTC)You are still the queen of the Lester/Lyle banter, m'dear. No one does it better than you.
If I tried to do my usual 'post my favourite lines' bit, I'd simply be quoting half of it back to you.
From 'undulating ferret' to Lyle's outrageous stories being true, this was a classic of the light-hearted genre.
Beautiful.
no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 06:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 07:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-23 10:27 pm (UTC)Aww, pikas are cute.
and why did my laptop decide to crash half way through my original comment?no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:53 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 09:12 am (UTC)Love the nickname game, and I too have no idea whether there is such a thing as a marsh mongoose, but it is such a smashing name that there should be!
no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 05:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-04-25 08:35 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-03 01:55 pm (UTC)