#i actually went a bit overboard and wrote a whole ass one shot around this scene

[writerfae]

#FridayKiss Tag Game

This scene can be entirely blamed on is for @bloodlessheirbyjacques (thank you for the tag this was really fun! 💕)

Rules: Post a smooch between your OCs for Friday. It can be as light as a peck, or intense as a makeout. It can be romantic, platonic, or familial. As long as a smooch takes places, it's free reign!

Ship: Taiden 💚

Okay so context: Aiden and Talon (not dating, just pining) are on a feast. Talon just saved Aiden from some fae that made him drunk on fae wine and tried to seduce him. He confronts Aiden and the two end up fighting (Aiden tells Talon that just because he doesn’t want him, doesn’t mean no one does). To make Aiden shut up, Talon kissed him, as you do and that’s where the scene starts

“So you like me after all.” Aiden grinned smugly, leaning closer. His hand was gripping the front of Talon’s shirt.

“‘S good. Cause I like you too,” he whispered, like he just shared the most precious of secrets.

Maybe he did.

Talon turned his face away, cheeks burning red. “You do not know what you say, Aiden,“ he mumbled, trying to gently push Aiden away from him and get some space between them.

If they stayed this close, Talon might do something stupid again. But Aiden kept holding on to him.

„Or you can’t handle the truth. Cause you’re a coward.“

„Im not a coward,“ Talon said fiercely, still not meeting Aiden’s eyes.

„You are,“ the other boy said. „You can’t even look at me.“

Talon’s mind was racing. He turned to face Aiden abruptly.

Do you know, he wanted to ask, do you know how hard that is for me? To always tear my eyes away from you so you won’t catch me staring?

Aiden was still grinning like a mad man and Talon wanted nothing more than to wipe that stupid smirk out of his face.

So he does.

Against his better judgment, he leaned in and kissed Aiden again, pressing him against the marble wall.

Aiden was quick to respond, kissing him back eagerly, pulling Talon even closer by the collar of his shirt.

One hand he rested against Talon’s chest, right over his wildly beating heart and his touch set something within the guard aflame.

He deepened the kiss, his hand moving to Aiden’s jaw, tilting up his head, before wandering back to his neck.

Aiden opened up for him immediately, gladly letting Talon take the lead. He tasted like sweet wine and Talon wanted to get drunk on it.

A pleased sound escaped Aiden’s lips and he buried a hand in Talon’s blonde locks, making the other boy gasp. He hooked one leg around Talon’s waist, the guard’s hand supporting his thigh, holding it in place.

Talon knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Aiden wasn’t quite in his right mind after all, still kind of drunk on fae wine. And Talon was his guard. This wasn’t supposed to be.

But the feeling of Aiden’s lips against Talon’s own felt too good, too right, for him to care.

In the morning they might both come to regret this, but right now Talon didn’t regret a single thing, lips moving away from the other’s mouth to trail kisses down his exposed neck.

I tag @deadlycupid <3

#i almost wrote something for villain Talon and Aiden but since i had no idea for a scenario and wanted to finish it today I chose this one #okay so fun fact this was my first actually written kiss scene going past ‚they kissed‘ haha #k mean it’s really not thscc to much more than that but it’s okay if you keep in mind I’m too awkward to write make out scenes #i wish j wouldn’t be too awkward for that #anyway #is this the canonverse? my silver lining au? my prince Aiden au? could be all of them #i actually went a bit overboard and wrote a whole ass one shot around this scene #but I cut it cause there was too much plot and not enough kiss compared to it xD #i miiiight post the whole scene one day if people are interested #i have conflicted feelings about this but k think it’s alright #writer speaks #writeblr #wip: the knights of the alder #writing #my writing

[thelastspeecher]

MerStan-at-Home

Day 01   Day 02   Day 03   Day 04   Day 05   Day 06   Day 07   Day 08 Day 09   Day 10   Day 11   Day 12   Day 13   Day 14   Day 15   Day 16 Day 17   Day 18   Day 19   Day 20   Day 21   Day 22   Day 23   Day 24 Day 25   Day 26   Day 27   Day 28   Day 29   Day 30

Since today was very stressful (found out I had to go back to Wisconsin a day earlier than planned, my car was involved in an accident where no one was hurt but my car, and I drove three hours, most of it in the dark), I didn’t do one of my prompts for NaNoWriMo, but rather cleaned up and finished a scene I wrote ages ago.  It’s a cross between the MerGucket AU and the Stay-at-Home Stan AU, and, in my humble opinion, it’s great.

Word count: 1651

              “Come on, Sixer, breathe.”  Two large hands pressed down on Ford’s chest.  Ford sat upright, coughing up water.  Spots danced in front of his eyes as he tried to catch his breath.  “About damn time.”  Ford looked over.

              “…Am I hallucinating?” Ford asked after a moment.

              “I’m not a figment of your imagination, if that’s what you’re askin’,” Stan answered.  He and Ford were on a deserted beach, a few feet from the pale blue water.  Ford’s clothes were soaked through, while Stan, clad in only pants, seemed completely dry.

              “Why aren’t you wearing a shirt, then?”

              “Wha- I feel like that’s pretty good support for me not being a hallucination.”

              “Fair enough,” Ford mumbled.  He shook his head.  “I don’t understand anything going on right now.”

              “Sounds like we’re in the same boat, then,” Stan said.  He crossed his arms and frowned at Ford.  “Why the hell did you try to drown yourself?”  Ford’s blood ran cold.

              “You saw.”

              “Yeah.  I did. What’s going on, Sixer?” Stan asked quietly.  Ford’s brow furrowed.

              “How did you see?”

              “Hmm?”

              “I was on a boat in the middle of the ocean.  How did you see that?” Ford asked.  Stan cleared his throat.

              “Answer my question first.”

              “Answer mine.”

              “Stanford,” Stan said flatly.

              “Stanley,” Ford said in the same tone.  Ford and Stan stared at each other silently for a moment.  A small smile fought its way onto Stan’s face.  

              “Heh.  You’re just as much a stubborn ass as you were…shit, seven, eight years ago?”  Stan shook his head.  “That can’t be right.”

              “No, it is.  It has been quite some time.”

              “So, why were you trying to drown yourself?” Stan asked.  

              “It’s complicated,” Ford mumbled.  “I thought I could trust someone, turned out I couldn’t, so I decided to go somewhere he couldn’t follow me.”

              “The bottom of the ocean.”

              “Exactly.”

              “Ford-”

              “Hey, Stan?” a voice shouted.  Ford turned his head.  A man he didn’t recognize was walking toward them.  Like Stan, he was shirtless, only wearing cargo shorts.

              “What’s goin’ on, Lute?” Stan called back.  The man stopped a few feet from Ford, eyeing him with blatant curiosity.

              “Angie wanted to tell ya she had to go out to work.  So ya should come grab Molly ‘fore then.”

              “On it.”  Stan stood up.  Ford sighed.

              “It was nice seeing you again, I suppose,” Ford said quietly.  

              “No, Ford, you’re comin’ with,” Stan said.  Lute cleared his throat.

              “Uh, ya sure ‘bout that?” Lute asked.  

              “Yes.”

              “But he’s-”

              “We can trust him,” Stan said firmly.  Lute let out a small huff.

              “Whatever.  It’s yer head if’n he proves otherwise.”

              “He’s my twin brother,” Stan said.  Lute raised an eyebrow.

              “The same one what turned his back on ya when ya got kicked out?  Don’t sound very trustworthy to me.”

              “Lute.  You don’t know him like I do.”

              “All right, all right,” Lute said, putting his hands up.  “I’ll tell Angie yer goin’ to come grab lil Miss Molly.”

              “We’re on our way,” Stan said.  He looked at Ford.  “Comin’?”

              “I don’t understand anything that is going on,” Ford said.  

              “Just trust me, Sixer.  You’re gonna wanna come.”

----- 

              Stan came to a stop in front of a large cliff.

              “Okay, just stay out here,” Stan said.  “I’m gonna get Molly.”

              “Who is Molly?  Please explain what’s going on,” Ford said.  Stan rubbed the back of his neck.

              “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.  I’ll have to show you.  Hang tight. I’ll be right back.”  Stan brushed aside a large branch, exposing a hole in the cliff.  Ford started forward.  “No, Ford. Wait here.”  Stan ducked into the hole.  Ford sighed and turned to face the ocean.  After about five minutes had passed, a head poked above the waves. Ford’s eyes widened.  

              Is there a woman out there? The woman caught sight of him, cocked her head curiously, then dove back underwater with a flick of a bright yellow tail.  A mermaid!  What a day for merfolk!  First there was that red male I saw earlier, now a yellow female.  Ford took the journal out of his pocket.  I’m glad I thought to write on waterproof pages.  He flipped the book open to the page with his notes on the male earlier. Before he could write anything, someone behind him cleared a throat.  Ford turned around.  Stan grinned at him.

              “All right, you wanted to know who Molly is?  Here.”  Stan nodded at the thing resting in his arms.  Ford frowned.  

              “Is- is that a mermaid?” Ford asked quietly.  Stan nodded, beaming.  “Clearly an infant.  Not more than a few months old.”

              “Yep.”

              “Remarkable,” Ford breathed.  “You said the name was Molly?  So it’s female.”

              “Wh-”

              “A fine specimen.”  Ford reached out to touch the mermaid’s green scales.  Stan took a step back, a sour look on his face.  “What?”               “What the fuck is wrong with you?” Stan demanded.

              “What are you talking about?  I’m just talking about your…pet, perhaps?” Ford hedged.  Stan’s mouth dropped open.

              “My pet?!  Ford, look at her.  Does she look like anyone you know?” Stan asked.  Ford peered at the mermaid.  The baby giggled happily and clapped her small webbed hands.  She had thick brown curls and a large ruddy nose to match her rosy cheeks.  Ford’s heart dropped to his feet.

              “…She looks like you.”

              “Yeah.  She does. Wanna know why?”

              “I’m dreading the answer.”

              “She’s my daughter, Stanford,” Stan said.  Ford swallowed.

              “Is- I take it her mother is a mermaid?” Ford asked, trying to be casual.

              “Yeah.”

              “Does she have a yellow tail?”

              “You saw her leave, huh?” Stan said.  “I told her if ya saw her, you’d probably write about her or- yep, there’s your science notebook.”  Ford smiled sheepishly.  “Go on, show me what ya wrote.”

              “Uh, I didn’t get anything down about her before you got back.  I do have my notes about a merman I saw earlier.” Ford showed Stan the pages.  “Unfortunately, I didn’t get a good look at him.  He had a red tail, and I sketched him from the back but-”  Stan stared silently at the journal, his face carefully guarded.  “Wait, do you recognize him?”

              “Yeah,” Stan said after a moment.  “Yeah, I do.” Molly began to emit a high-pitched wail.  “Shit, she can’t stay outta the water for too long. Gimme a sec.”  Stan rushed over to the water’s edge and carefully dipped Molly’s tail under.  Ford stared at Stan’s back.

              “Stanley…”

              “Yeah?” Stan asked, still watching Molly splash her tail excitedly in the water. Ford joined him and crouched down. He peered closely at Stan.  Stan looked at him, confused.  “What are you- hey!”  Ford poked Stan’s neck.  At Ford’s touch, three thin slits instinctively rose up, revealing red flesh below.  Ford stumbled back.

              “You- the merman I saw earlier was you, wasn’t it?” Ford whispered. Stan sighed.

              “Fine.  Yeah. The second you mentioned the tail color, I figured it out.  Red’s actually pretty uncommon.  Mearl – Molly’s grandpa – says I’m the first merson he’s ever met with red scales.”

              “You were watching me on the boat.”

              “I didn’t know it was you, okay?  Angie – Molly’s mom – and I were taking Molly out for her first trip outside the colony.  She’s a bit young for it, but we needed some air.”  Ford raised an eyebrow in amusement.  “Water.  Whatever. You know what I mean.  When you saw me, I was tellin’ Angie to hide Molly in the family cave, ‘cause there was a ship nearby.  A little bit later, I saw someone jump overboard, and went to check out what was happening.  It turned out to be you, and, well-”  Stan shrugged.  “You know the rest.”

              “How are you a merman?” Ford asked.

              “I fell in love with a mermaid and ate a magic plant.”

              “There has to be more to the story than that.”

              “Yeah, but it’d take a while to tell the whole thing,” Stan said.  He stroked Molly’s hair absentmindedly.  “What’s going on with you, Sixer?  Why the hell would you just jump straight to drowning yourself?  Who’s after you?”

              “His name’s Bill,” Ford said softly.

              “Bill…okay.  What makes him so nasty?”

              “It’s a long story,” Ford sighed.  “In summary, he’s- he knows more about the magical creatures and items of the sea than anyone else.  And he’s not afraid to utilize that information for his own gains.  I discovered that he was using the research I was working on to disrupt natural ecosystems.  Essentially, pillaging the ocean’s magical bounty.”

              “Pillaging- oh, shit.”  Stan stared down at the wet sand.  “I know who you’re talkin’ about.”

              “Really?”

              “Yeah.  News of mer hunters tends to spread fast.  Especially if they’re as brutal as Bill.”  Stan snorted.  “God, that’s such a dumb name for such a scary guy.”  He looked at Ford.  “So. What are you gonna do?”

              “I- I don’t know what I’ll do.”

              “Well…”  Stan glanced at the ocean.  “You said that this person couldn’t follow you to the bottom of the ocean.  And that’s where I live now.  If you want, you can crash on my couch for a while.”

              “I’m not a merman.  I would drown.”

              “Not a problem.  Angie’s mom taught me a spell that makes someone breathe underwater.”

              “Do merfolk have magical capabilities?”

              “Kinda.”

              “Fascinating,” Ford murmured.  Stan rolled his eyes.

              “So, are you gonna come?”

              “…I don’t see why not.”  Ford smiled hesitantly at Molly.  “At the very least, I could catch up with you and get to know the mer family you’ve become a part of.  Such as my newfound niece.”

              “It might be more than just Molly, Sixer.”  Stan grinned.  “Man, you’re gonna lose it when you see the eggs.”  Stan stood up and began to head back to the opening in the cliff.  Ford blinked, his brain trying to catch up with what he had just heard.  He shot up with a small yelp.

              “Eggs?”

#yes I am cheating a bit on this one but I don't care bc I'm tired and behind on writes #and anyways I have SO MUCH that I have written #but never cleaned up or finished to the point that I wanted to post them #it's nice to do some cleaning of my Word docs like this #MerGucket AU #Stay at Home Stan AU #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #Lute McGucket #Stangie Family #Molly Pines #NaNoWriMo 18 #my writing #my stuff #ficlet #speecher speaks

[kiruuuuu]

Blitz/Rook oneshot in which Blitz is, uh, kinda dressed like this. For Halloween. Not that this excuses anything. (Rating M, humour/some sexy times, ~2.6k words) - written for @magehir 💕 and also in response to the leaked Blitz elite skin!

.

“I would just like to reiterate that it was your idea to use Monika’s prototype to heat up our sandwiches and that -” Blitz is interrupted by yet another smack to his ass from a stranger passing by. His cheeks are hurting at this point and he missed the point where he should’ve just sat down because now it’d be pure agony whereas staying upright invariably ends with more pain. He banked on their British colleagues being both more polite and prudish to actually make use of the slightly smudged writing on his lower back but it seems his hope was completely and utterly in vain. “In short, all of this is your fucking fault and if I get the chance to take revenge -”

“Loosen up and live a little, you dry sponge”, Bandit shoots back, entirely unimpressed with his fury, and deliberately makes eye contact with a bloke trying to squeeze past while simultaneously getting an eyeful of the two of them. “You can touch, but it costs extra, my dude.”

“I can offer a screwdriver right from the bar”, the guy replies and causes Bandit’s face to lighten up and Blitz’ to darken at the same time.

“Don’t give him more to drink”, Blitz pleads but is interrupted by his teammate: “Honey, for a screwdriver I’ll shove my tongue so far down your throat I’ll tickle your vocal cords.”

Normally, Halloween is Blitz’ favourite holiday. He enjoys the thrill of watching scary films, even likes picking out realistic and horrifying costumes and has developed a few rituals over the years. However, this year, all of the previously sacred components which as a whole make up a successful Halloween for him had to be scrapped all because of one of Bandit’s clever ideas. They ended up trashing IQ’s current project, unsurprisingly, and incurred the wrath of a woman who takes a lot of pride in her work and who’s usually able to control her temper. Usually.

Not this time.

The result is a curse on all who are forced to witness it, a plague on earth, an abomination which never should’ve seen the light of day, an unholy trifecta and a trinity of sacrilege. In order to make it up to IQ, they agreed on what at the time sounded like a very simple premise: she was to decide their Halloween costume for the party Rainbow would attend together with the SAS operators stationed at Hereford. Blitz should’ve known it wouldn’t be that easy as soon as IQ agreed a little too readily, but back then he was too relieved to get out of the situation with all limbs intact to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Mistake. Because now he’s not only clad in the skimpiest outfit he’s ever worn in his entire life, no, it’s also an amalgamation of tulle and lace and frills and whatever any of this is called; it’s pink and exposes both his abs and half of his back, barely reaches over his ass and is topped off with intricately laced up knee-high boots sporting dangerously high heels. The objectively worst parts about all of this are twofold though: one concerns the large letters on his back written in permanent marker and spelling out Spank here with arrows pointing downwards, the other one…

Well. Never in his life has he ever felt the urge to watch Bandit make out sloppily with a nondescript Brit while wearing the sluttiest maid outfit Blitz has encountered so far but it seems that’s just what his entire career has lead to. To this moment. To yet another hand reaching out and copping a feel of his backside and him not being able to turn around fast enough to punch whoever did it in the face because he’d probably eat shit instead. Bandit rocks his pumps like a pro while Blitz attempts to move as little as possible. His feet are already killing him.

“I’m gonna throw up any second now”, he informs Bandit as soon as he’s done snogging a stranger and has started drinking the screwdriver. “Why don’t you just pick someone and disappear with them for a bit so I don’t have to watch you reapply your fucking lipstick every other minute?”

“What are you talking about?” Bandit sets his drink down on the counter next to them to whip out his small mirror to check on the state of the garishly red paint on his mouth. “I already fucked three of them. And one dude only let me blow him to get to you, just so you know.”

Okay. Alright. That is it. He’s reached maximum capacity for this evening concerning a lot of things, one of them being all the information Bandit so willingly shares when he’s past drunk – he’s already grating when sober but like this he’s positively insufferable. He’s enjoying the persona his costume enables way too much for Blitz’ taste, has posed for photos, flirts aggressively with literally everyone who doesn’t run away immediately and looked creepily enthusiastic when Jäger wrote the cursed invitation all of them bear on his back. Jäger himself, displaying a similarly short nurse outfit, has been hanging out with other Rainbow ops and is therefore mostly safe from the kind of attention lavished on Blitz – it’s not like he has anyone to hide with, however: Sledge is catching up with old friends and probably wouldn’t appreciate any interference from the porn version of Disney’s Sleeping Beauty, IQ would gloat to an uncomfortable extent and he has the vague feeling Mute would mock him relentlessly.

“I’m leaving”, he announces despite not knowing where he’s going, only knowing he needs to go somewhere else. Somewhere where Bandit isn’t.

“You’re so ungrateful, do you even know that?” This makes him stop in his tracks and frown at his amused friend. “Here I am, valiantly protecting your virtue by redirecting all those perverts’ attention to me, and how am I repaid? With disdain! Oh the humanity.”

Oddly enough, Bandit’s vocabulary increases proportionally to his ego whenever he drinks. “You tried to trade me for a shot of whisky earlier”, he replies drily before turning away for good. He swears he hears Bandit sadly mutter and it almost worked as he walks away.

The size of the party is a problem, however, and Blitz soon finds himself surrounded by people he doesn’t know, some of whom gladly endorse the message on his back whereas others manage to rope him into a conversation under the guise of wanting to be friendly. The illusion is shattered quickly when one of them asks whether he’d be up for a foursome, prompting him to keep drifting through the crowd in mild horror. Bandit has told him before that he looks almost laughably attractive (a fact Bandit still hasn’t forgiven him somehow) but he never really believed it until now. Until he’s suddenly aware of all the looks he’s getting.

“Elias!” He turns around at the mention of his name and comes face to face with a vaguely stunned Rook, probably also drunk and filled to the brim with bad ideas. “I’ve, uh, been searching for you all over. There’s something wrong with Glaz, I need your help.”

Instantly, he sobers up as if he just slept for several hours. “Lead the way.” He barely takes note of Rook’s costume which is comprised of little more than an admittedly adorable dragon onesie and doesn’t even object when the Frenchman grabs his hand tightly and drags him away. He must seem serious enough for no one to drop a remark about his outfit on the way for which he’s eternally grateful, but when Rook suddenly pulls him aside into one of the smaller men’s bathrooms, suspicion befalls him. Especially since the room is otherwise empty. And even more when Rook locks the door behind them with a deep breath.

“Glaz is fine”, he bursts out before Blitz can even say anything, “so don’t worry. But you seemed like someone who needed saving.”

Oh. He supposes Rook isn’t incorrect in that observation though it’s a little embarrassing it was this apparently this obvious. “Yeah. I kinda did.” Here, away from prying eyes and wandering hands, away from the stuffy air and the slightly suffocating presence of the crowd, he can finally breathe freely and feel a little less self-conscious about his clothes. Or the lack thereof, really. “Thank you.”

The heartfelt words are met with a timid smile accompanied by a manic stare Blitz noticed before but accredited to Rook being concerned about Glaz. This… seems to not be the case, though for some reason the young man is attempting to stare a hole into his head. “No problem. I just – I have so much respect for you and everything you do and so seeing you getting groped like that is really upsetting. You’re so much more than just a pretty face, even if it’s an extremely pretty face, but, uh, them reducing you to no more than a body to ogle at is -”, he bites his lip for a second, steadfastly refusing to break the now almost uncomfortable eye contact, “well, I’m not trying to say that it’d be a bad thing in itself if you wanted to be ogled at, but you didn’t seem like you wanted -” He trails off and Blitz realises he hasn’t blinked once since they entered the men’s. Tears are starting to form in Rook’s eyes and if he’s honest, there is some hilarity in this.

“You know, I won’t think less of you if you look, Julien”, he states gently and witnesses all the tension in Rook’s shoulder disappear at once.

“Thank fucking Christ”, he breathes and adds an even quieter holy shit as his gaze swoops to take Blitz’ costume in. Unlike some other expressions Blitz has taken note of throughout the evening, Rook’s speaks of helpless, desperate admiration and is actually quite flattering. Not only because he obviously likes Blitz as a person anyway, but also because he makes no move to touch or even comment.

In fact, his hopeless amazement is so pure that Blitz can’t help but tease him a little. “Dom really went overboard with this. He claimed Monika required us to shave everywhere but I somehow doubt it.”

Watching Rook choke on nothing is oddly satisfying. This time when his eyes travel all over Blitz’ body, it’s almost as if he can feel it like a concentrated ray of sun, kissing all his exposed (and indeed shaved) skin with a tingling warmth which lingers much longer than it should. Somehow, he doesn’t mind it coming from Rook, even welcomes the attention – Rook’s costume definitely plays into it as he looks utterly endearing, but also the strange intimacy of it, the fact they’re alone and Rook isn’t doing it to play along or crack a joke to someone amplifies the pleasant feel. It’s real, that much he knows.

“To be honest, I have no idea what’s supposed to be so sexy about men in skirts”, he continues and is about to add that seeing Bandit in one might have put him off the idea for at least a few decades, yet Rook won’t even let him finish his sentence before he chimes in, cheeks bright red.

“I can tell you: you’re fucking gorgeous already and this – this only makes it better. You might not get it, but fucking hell, I want to unlace your stupid ugly boots with my teeth.”

Oh.

Blitz’ brows rise simultaneously to Rook’s eyes widening in shock and there are a few seconds during which neither of them move a muscle. It’s definitely one of the tamest propositions Blitz has received all evening and yet it’s decidedly more forthright than all (okay, no, probably just most) of them combined because it’s meant so painfully seriously his mind immediately supplies him with the appropriate mental image. He suspected Rook to be interested in him before and this is the unambiguous proof yet where he’d normally not even consider the Frenchman (alright, another lie, he likes Rook and he likes him a lot), right now he’s… thinking about it.

And thinking right now means picturing him on his knees in front of Blitz and surely, it has to have something to do with the blasted outfit which apparently turns men into horny sluts because he literally can’t think of anything more enticing at that moment. No matter the fucking heels or the odd, cool feeling on his legs and in his crotch or his sore ass, all he can think of is giving in to Rook – who just then starts scrambling to explain himself.

“I’m so sorry, I have no idea where that came from, that’s not what I meant to say at all, I, uh, you look fantastic but you always do, but if you don’t feel comfortable wearing this you of course should take it off – I mean, not right now obviously, but you could go home to change and I’d even come along to help – fuck – I don’t mean like that, I mean I could make sure no one molests you on the way kinda like I’m doing oh God -”

And his pitiful speech dies with a high-pitched noise just as Blitz grabs one of the horns on Rook’s hood to pull him in and smash their lips together.

.

It says a lot that Rook doesn’t even seem to consider stopping when the door bursts open. Despite it having been locked, the mechanism was too flimsy to really hold against any type of weight – and some large dude reminding Blitz of Montagne slamming Bandit against it quite clearly counts as weight. “Oh fuck, it’s occupied”, Bandit mumbles against an insistent tongue and everything about the whole situation would turn Blitz off immediately if only Rook wasn’t so bloody good at this. His eyes only slide over to the sudden intrusion once, then they go back to gazing up at Blitz lovingly, longingly and with such devotion he still can’t breathe. The young man looks at him like he might literally faint should he actually be allowed to taste Blitz’ come, and not only that, his cheeks hollow out with every bob of his head, one hand is kneading Blitz’ thigh and the other playing with his (now remarkably hairless) balls and dear Lord how can anyone be this earth-shatteringly good at blow jobs?

So yes, even though Bandit and his fourth Montagne substitute saw him in a princess outfit getting sucked with abandon by an adorable purple dragon, he can’t find the energy to care, not when Rook keeps moaning around his shaft like this. It’s by far the hottest thing he’s ever experienced and not even Bandit can rain on this parade.

Even if he seems intent to do just that. “Hey, congrats, baguette, you finally did it”, he calls while herding his newest victim out of the room again, “and don’t forget – you owe me for this!”

And Blitz suddenly remembers how IQ said she’d decide on their punishment later, remembers how he saw Bandit and her together shortly before she announced her final judgement, and how much Rook seemed to look forward to Halloween despite usually not caring about it – but before he can finish the thought, Rook swallows him whole for the first time and rips a groan from his throat which makes the Frenchman’s eyelashes flutter.

He can think about this later, he decides and pushes a hand under soft fabric to bury it in Rook’s hair.

#rainbow six siege #blitz #rook #blitz/rook #fanfic #oneshot #bandit is the maybe not so secret hero in this #also this is pretty much how I picture their friendship #I wrote this in two hours so yay me

[literateape]

Couplea Jerk Poets: In Conversation with Nic Souder

by Dana Jerman

So, there you are, out in the world. Looking at things and making stuff and doing stuff and working and thinking and by thinking considering a notion that there are people out there whom you would love to meet, whom it would change your life to meet, whom you will never ever meet. People who are out in the world, looking at things and making stuff and doing and working and thinking...

And in the best case, this thought reminds us that we're not alone. That good art, or at least fun and often therapeutic art, is being made. And that art doesn't happen in a vacuum. And that maybe if we're lucky, we can celebrate some of these folx we have had the good fortune of meeting, who possess a lens for making art and collating thoughts that leave us awestruck.

Chicago native Nic Souder is one of those people for me. A podcaster, a poet, poetry show host, visual artist and acquaintance (not at all in that order). One whom I admire because he manages to use his darker experiences and the everyday to lace everything he touches with a kind of mad hipster magic. 

He was gracious enough to let me steal him away after work for a few beers and a long chat, heavily abridged and presented here in celebration with National Poetry Month, about process and other creative curiosities…

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NS: (After talking about the soundtrack to the movie "Akira") I read the manga this past summer. 1, 2 and 3 in one sitting. Then 4, 5 and 6 in one sitting. I was obsessed.  I cried when it was over. Just because there was nothing else to read. It's that good. I have a new long-term-life-goal for the next 20 years to adapt the manga into a live action three-part film. I need Netflix to give me a billion dollars.

DJ: Is there any specific work of your own you'd adapt to manga?

Huh. Well it would probably be something from my collection Kill My Idols. One about Kim Gordon being dead. There's a lot. It's like a 3-act narrative. Something like that.

So say a little bit about Kill Yr Idols the live show.

Started five apartments ago. Twenty... twelve? Having a goodbye reading for my friend Jes who was moving to NYC. We wound up having two of them. At one I read a piece that I didn't finish, because that's a thing I always do. Never goes well, but... Then we did another one right away. It moved over to Cole's Bar and then we were in the Reader as one of the suggested things to do. We did a flip-show where it was a bunch of musicians and one poet at Gallery Cabaret. Slaying or roasting Iggy Pop or Kim Deal or whomever as a theme. Now after a long hiatus it's at Bucket of Blood Books in the weird back room. I overbook because a lot of jerks cancel or don't show up. "A variety show featuring poetry, music, comedy, and conspiracy theories."

You had a photography show last year, how'd that go?

Disasterously. I actually really liked the prints I made. I haven't done a photo show in a decade. But nobody bought anything, and I needed to sell one to make some money back. I went overboard and made too many prints which is another thing I always do. Going back to re-crop and reprint. I would always stay too late at the photo lab in college and they would have to kick me out of it. Anyway I also didn't eat before the show and immediately started drinking. Work sucked. Whatever. But they hung up the big stuff and what they didn't hang I went in the back and wrapped up in my coat and took off. The show was supposed to be up for a month but a week later I texted the gallery curator I was coming to pick up my shit. Over it. I'll still sell them though. They'll become gifts. Eleven by fourteen and quality.

Would you consider yourself to be an "analog" guy? Like, when you write, do you start on paper?

More or less. Well, I start with notes on my phone until I get stuck. Then re-write what I already wrote and hope I get going again. What I used to do a lot, because I feel like a lot of my poems need to be read out loud, I would write them out loud. Kind of as performance pieces. I'd get stoned in the middle of the day and start walking around the house and sort-of just keep different pieces of paper in different places and cycle through those, then bring them together at the end. 

That's genius! I've never tried that. Strategic stations.

Yeah, those are my favorite ones. Pieces that are meant to be performed for people. Wandering around and timing it out as I went along. But then, my editing process is so stupid. I hate it. It's like newspaper journalism editing of poetry. How do you get this many words to fit into this many breaths. How do you get this point across using only this set of words. How do you make this a headline. And it comes from schooling, journalism. Even in a text message I won't allow myself to have two contracted words in a sentence.

Oh yeah, rules after a while are meant to be undone. Don called me out on my routine phonetic spelling of "thourally" and "thru", and he's correct, but I like the way they look.

I like that. I like that a lot. I use "yr" all the time for "your" then one day I tried "y're" for "you're" and said, fuck that, that looks awful. 

Composition is kind of funny right? Things have to sound good and look good. 

It has to be both. It sucks to have poems that you really like but sound like shit and you'll never read them out. I spent a lot of time on a few of them. The whole idea at that point is to finish them. But out loud feels like my tongue is too big for my mouth. They just don't sound natural. Rhythm is huge. Which is funny because when I do a reading it's always something unfinished. Just so I can hear how it sounds out loud. Touring on my new shit. Five years of Kill Yr Idols I think I've saved two pieces.

Oh sure. There's always a handful of works that will forever remain 99.99999% finished. There's always a word or two that could switch back the other way. Not the same necessarily as the struggle to actually finish something...

Yeah, I either finish or get to the point where it's unsalvageable. I do this a lot. Throw out the whole thing except for one or two lines I like, and just carry those around for years until they finally slide into place. I've got a series I've been working on for five years. "Stoner Review of ___." Reviews of movies that aren't about the movie. When I go back to smoking it'll come back with a bullet. I go back and work on it every once in a while. The beginning and the end are fixed. It's hard to edit because it's so topical. Now wherever I am editing is at some point in the middle. I haven't been back to it in a year. "The words shot out of her mouth like an accidental fart popped out of a slapped ass." That's the line at the end. Eventually I'll finish it and read it once at that'll be it. (Laughs) They're super long, but right now I've got less then ten unfinished pieces, but if I finished them I wouldn't know what to do with my life. Which is a strategy I've also applied to reading. Sometimes I'll get to the last ten pages and never pick it back up again. Ambiguity is the best thing ever.

What? Ha! Seriously? I could never do that. Wild. Well another question I had for you: is there a habit or a physical manifestation that mirrors writing for you? Or that aids concentration? 

Like during the process? I clean. Do dishes. Sweep. Laundry. I used to do this when I had panic attacks when I was younger. Cleaning the house helped me calm down. Now I'll clean my room and have a few beverages. After work I'll go to my local gas station. Get a coffee for the next day. A Topo Chico and a Gatorade. Topo Chico never lasts into the next day. I should have a sponsorship. Making lists too. When I make lists I do things. The worst habit I probably have in general is Lyft. I've been trying to get better, but I'm never on time anywhere ever.

When did you start writing?

The pretentious answer is six. The honest answer is sixteen or seventeen. Six because that's when I saw Tim Burton's Batman in the theater, first movie on the big screen, and wanted to start making movies. Worked on some films when I was younger. Was in a scene in one where I was supposed to get pissed 'cuz a girl threw a rock at my face but we had to retake because I was actually really into it. I've downloaded some scripts and written some scripts, but haven't taken any screenwriting courses. But I wanna shoot 'em. Wrote a script for my friend Erin Rose, who hates everything that we watch and doesn't use computers, and her brother Bob who loves getting wasted. We've got a really bad podcast together called Erin Rose's Never Seen It. They're on iTunes and I made a dumb Squarespace website for it. But really I just want to nerd out and not care. I have a short attention span and want to make homage. I feel comfortable with dialogue and have lots of ideas, just no real discipline. Easily distracted.

Oh lordy. Nice. That's fair. Ooo, before I forget tell me about Hobo Slumber Party and other new self-publishing endeavors.

I don't know how long it's going to be. More than seven pieces probably. Five act structure per poem. Maybe a line or two as an act. Somebody asked me once to describe my poetry and I said "it's pop music". There'll be one called "Roll Call". An alphabetical alliteration in the middle of which is a palindrome in iambic pantameter. It doesn't work yet, but when it does it'll be great! That's the thing! It's all form, then function comes later. I'd say body of writing as a whole is like a staircase. But be careful because parts of the railing have worn away and there's no board on the third step.

#photography #photographer #@sleepymenthol #lcdsoundsystem #italian #poetry #poet #writing #process