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cagestark · 5 years

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Rose-Tints My World

Anon asked for Peter wearing a corset and/or ballgown. This is probably not what they meant.

Warnings: Peter fakes an orgasm onstage lmao. Alcohol, too. Also, this probably requires a semi-decent understanding of RHPS and the characters :/

Read here on AO3.

“Shots!” Ned shouts from the bathroom.

MJ sighs, putting down the eyeliner she’d been using to rim Peter’s eyes dark. They are in the kitchen because the light here in better than the light in the bathroom. May came home a half hour ago, took one look at Peter and MJ’s getup before throwing up her hands and retreating to her bedroom. Peter kind of wished he could do the same, watching MJ pour each of them a shot of tequila.

“The theater has a strict no-alcohol policy,” MJ says, rolling her eyes when Peter makes a face, shot glass held between his thin fingers. “If we don’t drink now, we don’t be drunk at all. Do you want to do this sober, Parker?”

Peter takes the shot. It tastes horrible. The salt they pour into their palms directly from the shaker doesn’t help. Much. While MJ is distracted, gagging, Peter picks up the handheld mirror beside them to look at himself and fuck, he gives a long, horrified groan.

“I can’t do this,” Peter mutters. His entire face is painted white with leftover makeup from Halloween, and his eyes and lips left a vibrant red. That’s the best of the costume, he thinks. The rest is worse: the black corset they’d bought from the women’s department at a lingerie store, the black thigh high stockings, the garters. The gloves. The heels. “Look at me, MJ. I can’t go out in public like this.”

“Peter, I swear to God,” she mutters. “Everyone is going to be dressed the way you are. Trust me. I went last year—”

“What?” Peter cries. “How?”

“I was invited, okay? And—”

“Shots!” Ned cries.

They both roll their eyes, pouring more tequila. This one isn’t as bad, actually. The first two must have burned Peter’s taste buds off.

“Anyway,” MJ says. “I went last year, and everyone dresses like this. Chad from your Women’s Studies class? You remember him?”

“Can’t forget him,” Peter mutters, only a little begrudgingly. Why did all the hot guys have to be straight and fucking jerks?

“He was dressed like this—only he didn’t look half as good. You’re the fucking twinkiest twink. You don’t even have chest hair.”

“I’m a late bloomer,” says Peter, crossing his arms over his exposed chest. His head feels light from the alcohol. How he’s going to walk in the heels, he has no idea. He holds the mirror up higher so that he can see his body better, and at least he has a good physique, because most of it is on display including a two inch section of chest-to-abs visible through the laces of the corset. When he speaks next, his voice is small. “Can I—can I at least have the blue feather boa?”

She pats his head condescendingly. “If you’re a good boy.”

“Shots!” Ned shouts.

“Are you taking all these shots back there, too?” MJ bellows.

There is the rumble of feet and then Ned is in the doorway, dressed in a leather jacket, working hard to get the fake cut on his eyebrow to drip blood. “Am I supposed to be?”

The Uber they call knows where they’re headed without the trio of them asking. Partly because MJ had entered the address before the guy got there, but also because these screenings of Rocky Horror Picture Show are pretty fucking famous by now, and that’s the only place they could be headed dressed like alien transvestites. At least it’s a warm night, he thinks while they all pile into the back of the SUV. At least he’s not shivering with all his bits on display.

“God, tonight is going to be great,” Ned says. He’s dressed like Eddie, right down to the alto saxophone that he borrowed off of his cousin for this purpose alone—under the condition that no one play it, and he doesn’t get it wet. Not guarantee-able things, according to MJ. “Are we meeting Tony there?”

“Tony?” Peter yelps. “Tony Stark? Physics class TA, Tony? Tell me there’s another Tony.”

“I doubt there’s another Tony, kid,” the Uber driver mutters up front.

“Thanks,” Peter snaps. He turns back to MJ, who looks stunning (in a very female way) as a colored Janet, wearing the character’s signature virginal white bra, tattered shirt, and prim skirt. Debauched. “You didn’t tell me that Tony Stark would be there—that we’d be meeting up with him. I’m wearing thigh highs and panties!”

“And he’s going to love it,” she says slyly, rummaging through the large tote of prompts they brought along for the show: rice to throw at the wedding scene, water pistols to shoot during the rain, a package of uncooked hotdogs—Jesus, if they got purse-snatched, the person would probably think that they were off their rockers. “You look fucking hot. I don’t know why you’re feeling shy all the sudden. Remember last Christmas when Rihanna was on the radio and you did that dance—”

“I’ve got the video if you need your memory jogged—” Ned supplies helpfully.

“I remember,” Peter says quickly, catching the raised eyebrows of the Uber driver glancing back through the mirror. “I just—I mean, I had a lot of sangria at that Christmas party.”

“You’ve had a lot of tequila tonight,” MJ sooths. “If you aren’t feeling it yet, you will be soon. Look, I’m not saying you need to fuck him tonight. I’m just saying that if you let your guard down even the slightest bit around the guy that you’ll be leading him by the cock before sunrise. Trust me. Will you trust me? Jesus. Here, drink this.”

She passes him a water bottle, but as soon as he opens it, the stench of alcohol hits him. “Is this nail polish remover?”

MJ laughs so hard her mascara runs and she has to redo it. But after a few long sips (and he’s almost positive it’s nail polish remover), he’s feeling even looser than he was before. Too much more and he’ll get sloppy, or worse, sick. He cuts himself off, capping the water bottle and tucking it back into the bag beside yesterday’s newspaper.

The Uber drops them off a block away, and they walk the last distance. It gives Peter a chance to get used to—everything. Being so exposed, feeling so many eyes on him. Some people whistle when he goes by, and he’s glad his face is painted so that they can’t see him flush in pleasure. When someone catcalls down to them from a balcony, he shimmies the feathered boa around his shoulders, shaking his flat chest and they hoot in delight.

MJ was right, too. Everyone is dressed up: corsets and thigh highs and high heels and exposed bras. It looks like the strangest collection of fetishists coming together, and the air is full of excitement that Peter is shivering. He feels drunk with it. Or maybe that’s just the alcohol. The eyes all over him feel as good as caresses, and he feels a stirring in his groin that there is no chance his underwear will hide—and oh fucking well. Tonight is about letting loose.

Getting into the theater is an entire affair. The place is packed with lookalikes: Magentas and Riff-Raffs and Columbias and Frankenfurters. There’s a blond guy who is doing a very good portrayal of Rocky, wearing nothing but golden panties, his muscular skin oiled and gleaming under the lights. His skin beckons Peter to touch.

But then it all comes to a stop, because Tony is there. Tony Stark, the senior that Peter has been crushing on since the professor of his Physics class introduced Tony as his TA for the year: the dark, fluffy hair, the whiskey eyes, the shadow of facial hair after the weekends when he comes stumbling in wearing sunglasses to disguise his hangover. There’s nothing about Tony that doesn’t get Peter hard, and tonight is no exception. He looks incredible dressed as Eddie, tight jeans, white t-shirt, black leather jacket clinging to his biceps. It’s so carelessly greaser, and Peter wonders if Tony drove his motorcycle here—the motorcycle Peter jerks himself off imagining Tony fucking him on—because that would be the cherry on top of this sin.

Tony’s smoking inside, though on a night like this, that’s probably the theater’s least concern. His face fucking lights up when he sees MJ, Ned, and Peter—Peter, who his eyes drag up and down unabashedly. It all comes rushing back then, like a movie pressed to play. Peter is dressed like Brad during the floorshow, dressed like kinky sex itself. And he looks good. Judging by the way Tony’s eyes grow wide and then narrow, the lids heavy…Tony knows too.

“Damn it, Janet,” he says around his cigarette, grasping MJ’s hand. “Was this a fucking set-up?”

“I wouldn’t have to be nefarious if other people wouldn’t be obtuse and stubborn and—”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” Peter says. “But I’m feeling a little insulted nevertheless—”

“Have we missed anything? The traffic was awful, I thought we were going to be late,” Ned chimes in.

“Nah,” Tony says. “They’re rounding up virgins.”

“Virgins?” Peter squeaks. Everyone turns to look at him. He tries not to look panicked. Surely his virginity isn’t tattooed on his forehead. Or at least, it wasn’t until he squeaked like a mouse caught between a cat’s paws. He looks around, feeling like Virgin-Police might suddenly appear with batons shaped like dildos to shame him for his chastity. “Wh-What do they want, you know, virgins for?”

“Virgins, as in, people who have never seen the show live before,” Tony says, eyes glittering brighter than the ember at the end of his cigarette. “They bring a bunch up on stage and make them fake orgasms—”

“We’ve got to get Peter up there,” MJ mutters under her breath, barely heard over the roar of the other patrons. She stands up on her toes to try to find the stage helpers who are rounding up virgins (so to speak).

“I’m sorry, I know I misheard you—"

“I’m getting you on that stage, Peter,” MJ says through her teeth. “And you’re going to fake it like that time you told me about with Flash Thompson behind the gymnasium—”

If Tony’s eyebrows climb any higher on his head, they’ll disappear into his hairline. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth to ask, “What’s all this about faking it with Flash Thompson—”

MJ snags one of the stage hands and points to Peter.

“No, no, no, no,” Peter is chanting under his breath. MJ grabs him by the feathered boa and pulls him a few feet away from where Ned and Tony are watching cautiously. She cups a hand around his ear—the closest they can get to privacy surrounded by other people—and whispers to him.

“Look over my shoulder right now. Look at Tony.” Peter does as she asks. It’s not hard. The guy is so fucking handsome, and for some reason, his eyes are glued to Peter’s legs—Peter has always had thin, shapely legs, and the hairs on his thighs are finer and blonder than they have any right to be. It almost looks like he shaves, thanks to the low lighting. “Tony can’t take his eyes off you. Look at the way he can’t stay still—you think he’s hiding a semi like you are? Don’t squawk at me, Peter, everybody can see you’re half-hard. He’s fucking thirsty for you. Get up there, pretend he’s sucking your cock, and give everybody a goddamn show. I guarantee he’ll be trying to go home with you before the night is through. Trust me, Parker. Trust me.”

She digs in her bag to hand him the water bottle. Groaning, he takes a generous sip, face scrunching. God, that’s horrible.

But it works. The alcohol, the rousing speech. That’s how he finds himself being ushered on stage with a dozen other ‘virgins’. When it’s announced that this is their first time seeing the show live, the crowd goes wild for them. Peter’s always had a bit of a thing for exhibition, for being the center of attention (Ned’s phone has a very incriminating video from last Christmas on it, after all). As soon as the lights and eyes are on him, it’s like a great sense of calm comes over him.

He tosses one end of the feathered boa over his shoulder like a brat might toss her hair, and whistles go up for him. He’s pretty sure that Tony is one of them, his figure barely visible beside Ned and MJ toward the back of the crowd.

Then they begin to go down the line, coaxing each virgin to fake an orgasm for the amusement of the room, and Peter can’t bother hiding how hard it makes him: the muscled boy dressed like Rocky gives out groans and tosses his head like he’s being given the blowjob of his life. A short, heavy-set girl dressed as Magenta makes the crowd go wild for her as she pants, palming at her breasts.

Too soon and not soon enough, it’s Peter’s turn.

“What are you playing at?” Tony asks MJ. He can’t stand still, chain smoking and dropping the butts in the pop cans people leave behind on the disused bar. The moment he saw Peter’s signature head of curls, he’d felt his heart drop to his shoes. His stomach tossed like a boat on the sea. He was known for his confident exterior, but no one knew about the deep-seeded anxiety he worked so hard to mask. Something about the baby-faced freshman put Tony on edge—made the blood in his brain go against the tide and head straight for his cock. “You told me it was just going to be us, that Peter was out of town visiting relatives.”

“That’s weird,” MJ mutters. The white she’s wearing emphasizes her warm, dark skin. If she weren’t so fucking sneaky and irritating, he’d probably try hard to get underneath her skirt. “That’s not true at all. Why would I say something like that?”

“You lying bitch,” Tony mutters, rolling his eyes when Leeds gasps. MJ looks pleased as a peach, regardless of his potty-mouth. “I told you to quit trying to push us together. He’s so fucking shy, you’ve probably scared him back into his shell.”

“Did you see what he’s wearing?” She asks flatly. “Parker isn’t shy. At all.”

Fuck yes, Tony had seen. It was indecent, little Peter Parker dressed as Brad. His legs were impossibly long in the black stockings and high heels (heels which actually made the kid taller than Tony, for once). The tight, satiny briefs that did nothing to disguise Peter’s package. The garters tempted Tony to run his fingers underneath them, to pull them away from the pale, hairless skin and let them snap back into place. The corset itself didn’t change Peter’s masculine figure, and the modesty panel was missing so that beneath the gaping laces was firm, pale skin. Who knew that Peter Parker had a fucking six-pack? More importantly: who knew but hadn’t told Tony?

How the hell MJ had convinced him to leave the apartment looking like sin incarnate, Tony would never know.

“Shut up,” Leeds says. “It’s Peter’s turn. Oh my god, I can’t watch this, this is like watching my brother get off or something—”

Tony turns his eyes to the stage just as the hot spotlight reaches Peter, bathing him in its glow. The kid’s eyes go half-lidded, not squinty. The crowd is shouting to goad him on, but the smile he gives is painfully patient, borderline coy. Tony swallows—his mouth is so fucking dry, but there’s nothing for him to wet it with.

Peter holds the microphone between both his palms, lovingly, like he might hold his cock. His eyes shut fully, and a sound comes out of him, picked up and amplified by the microphone, a low sound of pleasure that Tony might make when he eats one of his mom’s brownies after returning home on break. Tony watches raptly, cock hardening already and the kid hasn’t even done anything yet. Then Peter’s mouth parts in a breathy sigh, his head tilting back in the mimicry of ecstasy.

“Fuck,” Tony whispers. The whole world narrows down to that light beam on stage and the boy that’s caught in it. Peter’s breath hitches the way it might if someone was kissing at his neck and then decided to use their teeth, and a long whine comes out of him that has the auditorium howling. The kid’s chest is heaving like he’s having the fuck of his life, and then he lets loose a long, nearly pained groan that Tony can feel in his bones, he can see it all, Peter spread out beneath him, naked (okay maybe he’s still wearing those stockings), fingers gripping the sheets because Tony’s giving it to him so good—

On stage, one of Peter’s hands comes off of the microphone. He presses it against his heart like he’s trying to hold the organ still, but then his palm slips down, thumb catching on the laces of his corset, strumming them as he runs his hand lower and lower and fuck, there’s only one place it could be headed. There’s a ten in the kid’s black panties, no doubt he is at least half-hard, maybe more—and he runs his palm over his own erection. Right there on stage, with a hundred, two hundred eyes on him. With Tony’s eyes on him. The jolt it gives Tony makes him feel like it was his own cock being petted.

Peter pulls his hand back and then dips the tips of his fingers into the tops of the briefs, and the final noise he makes is somewhere between a shout and a cry, the perfect simulation of an incredible orgasm, and it makes Tony’s cock twitch in his pants.

The crowd loses its shit. Of course. And Tony, dazed as he is, barely is able to clap for the kid. MJ stands there the whole time, cell phone out and filming, shooting Tony these little fucking smug looks. His head is still spinning as the stage hands usher the virgins off stage, and Peter returns to them with damp skin, hot from the lights on stage, curls plastered to his forehead.

“How’d I do?” Peter asks, breathily.

“You melted his brain,” MJ says, face tilted toward her phone as she watches the video.

“I—she’s right.”

Peter’s eyes widen. “I—sorry. Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a very good thing,” Tony says, shifting on his feet and pulling at the crotch of his pants to adjust himself. Peter’s eyes drop to track the movement and his mouth parts a little, like the breath has been stolen from him. Tony knows then, that the image he had of innocent Peter Parker was only a misconception. This kid can handle his attention.

And if he wants it, he’s going to get it.

“You want to get out of here?” Tony asks.

Peter nods.

Consider leaving a tip <3

#starker #college!au #same age!au #Rocky Horror Picture Show References #tw: alcohol #nff

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wren-again · 5 years

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In the Centre of a Restaurant

This is a scene from I’m So Dirty Babe (links in the reblog) that I know I released on AO3 a while ago, but I’m still proud of it and I wanna share!

Dom!Cas, Sub/Dean. Warnings for D/s, exhibitionism, and something in the realms of edging. Nothing happens but somehow everything does….

Dean spent the next few days constantly on edge, like he was stuck between Dr Frankenfurter saying antici- and -pation in the world’s longest production of The Rocky Horror Show, so it was, of course, just when he let his guard down, certain that Castiel has just decided not to show, that he turned up at his doorstep like a dark figure emerging from the rain in some crappy B movie. There wasn’t any rain, but that’s what it felt like. He was expecting to be instantly pushed down on the bed or crowded up against a wall, but Castiel, never one to follow expectations, grabbed his wrist and pulled him out the door.

“Have you eaten?”

Dean shook his head, stomach growling at the mention of food.

“That is fortunate, we were going to a restaurant regardless.”

Was this a date? It didn’t feel like a date, it sounded like a date, surely you were asked on a date rather than dragged out the door to one. Dean gave up on trying to find the answers, expect the unexpected, he internally chanted to himself, it was the only way to keep up with this man. Not that he was likely to be able to anyway.

Castiel clearly knew where he was going, he turned Dean away from his car and led him on foot to a restaurant a few blocks away.

Cas led Dean through the door with a firm hand pressed to his lower back, a strange mixture of gentlemanly and demanding. It was strange enough to be at a restaurant with a man who he had barely spoken to aside from filth in the wake of a murder, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that the date was already far from conventional. Cas seemed more likely to rip his throat out than kiss him goodnight, a thought that left him both disturbed and aroused.

He was pulled through the room like a hostage in a gunfight, all violence disguised as affection. The hand around his waist pulling him close and gripping him tight enough to bruise. He couldn’t tell if Cas had always been intending to seat them at the table in the dead centre of the room or if he had only decided to do so when he felt Dean leaning towards the darkest corner booth. It was a decision that infuriated him, they were far too exposed here, but he clamped his mouth shut as Cas squeezed him slightly tighter in warning. Yes, he might as well have been a hostage, for all the choice he was being afforded.

Cas pulled out a chair for him, forcing him down with a hand on his shoulder, then took the seat directly beside him. Dean shot him a questioning look, which was only answered with a mischievous smile and an increasingly familiar controlling grip on his thigh. Dean took a deep breath and willed himself not to get hard in public, he had a sneaking suspicion it wouldn’t go well for him if he did, which, dammit, made it even more difficult to avoid. This was hot as fuck, but Dean Winchester sure as shit didn’t let himself get pushed around without a fight.

Cas released his hold and grinned smugly as Dean rubbed his aching leg, a look that was gone almost as soon as it had appeared. A waiter materialised at the table, asking them for their drink orders, and Cas had ordered two red wines before Dean could open his mouth and ask for a beer. The waiter was about to walk away when Dean decided that he had had just about enough thank you very much. He summoned up his most charming smile and ordered four shots of whiskey. He was expecting a reaction immediately, instantaneous world ending vengeance, perhaps that was what had been hoping for, because when it didn’t come there was a strange twinge of disappointment within him. An unreadable look passed across Cas’ face, then was gone.

An excited kind of dread settled in his stomach, which didn’t go away even as Cas pored over the menu, discussing aloud his choices for both of their meals. This was scarier than the threatening looks or possessive touches, he didn’t know how to prepare for silence. When Cas ordered their food Dean stayed determinedly quiet, telling himself half-heartedly that it was only because what Cas had ordered did sound really good. That still didn’t give him an excuse for the way he avoided looking at either Castiel or the shots when they arrived at the table.

They ate in relative silence, Castiel didn’t need words to control every action Dean made. He could do it with a look, a slight twitch of his eyebrows, a darkening of his eyes. It was so subtle Dean couldn’t be entirely sure he wasn’t imagining it, perhaps that was the game now, yet he still found himself eating more politely than he could remember doing maybe ever before. There was the occasional comment, like when he pulled a face at the taste of the wine, so friendly on the surface. Dean drank every drop, silently admitting that it wasn’t all that bad.

He was warm and content by the end of the meal, enjoying the food and the company, the lack of worry caused by no longer having to choose. There was no need to choose, Castiel appeared to know what he needed better than he did himself. The second, of course, that Dean came to this realisation was exactly when Cas decided to tell him, “drink your whiskey Dean,” in a deceptively calm voice, the true danger simmering just below.

Dean swallowed, ducking his head with something resembling shame.

“Nah, I’m good,” he said with a falsely cocky grin.

“Now now Dean, it wouldn’t do to let it go to waste, not when you wanted it so very much.”

Yes, there was that danger, an electric threat crackling behind his eyes. Dean tried to push two of the shots towards Cas, but was stopped with a look.

So that was how it was going to be.

He downed one after another, with only the briefest of pauses during which he silently begged Cas to reconsider whatever evil was brewing, but those eyes didn’t waver. Dean wasn’t accustomed to feeling shame. Guilt he was used to but shame was unusual. It was sickly sweet like chocolate cake, clogging his arteries. He hadn’t done anything wrong goddammit, he was a grown ass man and he could drink if he wanted to. Once again, a look instantly proved him wrong and he was reminded that he had entered into this knowing exactly what he was doing, he forfeited choice the second he opened his mouth for Cas’ cock. He finished the last shot and felt slightly nauseous in a way that had nothing to do with the alcohol, then sat back and waited for the tidal wave.

What he hadn’t expected was Cas sliding his seat closer, leaning in, and pressing soft lips to his neck. Cas very deliberately blew warm air on his ear and Dean shivered at the sensation. He turned his head, more desperate than he was willing to admit, and Cas half climbed into his lap as he licked whiskey from his mouth. Dean didn’t trust it, he couldn’t trust it, couldn’t believe that Cas was the forgiving type. Still, it was good, so good he couldn’t stand it. When Cas pulled him up from the seat by the collar of his shirt and lead him into an empty corridor he almost forgot to be scared.

Cas crowded him up against the wall, lining up their bodies and breathing heavily in his ear.

“The things I would do to you,” his voice was deeper then he had heard it before, raspy and practically dripping sex, “I could make you scream with pleasure, or pain, whichever you desire.”

He rolled his hips to make his point absolutely clear, Dean moaned and tried to pull him closer, but Cas didn’t allow him to. He kept a careful distance between them now. Close enough that he could feel the heat from his body without getting any pressure where he needed it most. He continued to practically growl in his ear.

“I can see your longing, it shines out of you. I could take you against this wall, right now, I could make you come so hard you’d forget your own name. Have you bare and broken and beautiful, exposed before the world. Someone could wander into this corridor, see you opened up before me, and they would know you are mine. Maybe I would share, if I was feeling kind, I don’t think you would tell them no, I don’t think you could resist any demand I made of you. Or perhaps I should keep you for myself, my filthy little fuck toy. So subservient. Would you like that? Well would you, boy?”

Dean nodded and Cas grabbed his chin, turning him to look him in the eye.

“Say it,” he commanded with a voice that had got impossibly deeper.

“I’d like that, all of it, whatever… whatever you want to do to me.”

“Then beg for it,” that cruel glint was back in his eyes, and Dean knew, just knew, that there was no way he could win this game.

“Please, fuck me,” he whispered.

“You can do better than that,” Cas was definitely mocking now. Dean gulped and continued.

“Take me against this wall Cas- sir, destroy me, expose me, make me scream however you like. I need it, I need it so fucking bad,” he was babbling, half panting, incapable of keeping back the words no matter how much speaking them hurt, “please sir, please.”

Cas smiled with the satisfaction of a cat who just caught a mouse, and spoke one deadly syllable.

“No.”

Dean slumped back against the wall, mind blank with the need that had filled him only to be denied.

“Please I… I need…”

“Well you shouldn’t have drunk that whiskey then, should you?”

Dean was shaking like he’d just been slapped across the face, he wasn’t surprised, not really. He just knew that he’d lost.

***************************

The more Dean thought about it the more he felt like he should be mad, but he wasn’t, that was the strange thing. He knew he liked being left unsatisfied sometimes, but what Cas had done was something far beyond that. He had destroyed him with barely more than a few words, cruelly broken him apart and left him to suffer. He also knew that, being honest with himself, that was exactly what he liked about it. He tried being mad, over the next few days, but when it came down to it thinking about that night just made him horny and desperate to do better next time. Desperate to be good, of all things. He hadn’t wanted to be good in years.

#Destiel #fanfiction #dom!cas #Sub!Dean #My writing #MURDER AU

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kingsofeverything · 5 years

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WIP folder

The Rules: List the names and a short description of all the files in your WIP folder, then tag some fellow writers to do the same.

anitra @allwaswell16 tagged me to do this because i said i didn’t want to lol i’m going to list them in order of likeliness that they’ll get written lolllll

anon fic. this fic is anonymous so uhhhhhhh it’s about louis and harry and they fall in love

distant future sci fi au. this is the fic idea i just had yesterday. it’ll be nonlinear which is going to be a pain in the ass for me because it’ll involve doing things a certain way and this fic is not the boss of me. i don’t want to spoil anything, but i’m thinking it’ll be both povs as well. in my head it’s not enemies but like..... general disdain to friends to virtual strangers to friends to lovers, but who knows what will happen when i start writing lol. hmmmm what else can i share without spoilers...... harry and gemma are like geniuses. oh! and louis leaves earth (and harry) and doesn’t come back (this fic could literally never happen lol i haven’t written one word)

graphic design is my passion louis. this fic is based on a prompt uhhhhh hold plz..... the next to the last prompt in this post. i have a few k already written idk why but i need this art student louis, history student harry au.

vampire!harry. well i wrote 20k+ for this and decided i didn’t like it and wanted to start over. the story in my head is greeeeeeeat. like really good. nice and safe and in my brain where nothing will happen to it lol

tshu2 which is titled ‘the drum beats out of time’ but isn’t written yet lol. i have a partial time line and a partial outline but that’s it.

not groundhog day au. welllll it’s like the movie groundhog day, but on xmas eve instead. harry pov. idk if it will work. he’s got to be an actual asshole in the beginning soooooo. i want to write it though just because i think it’d be super interesting to see him fall in love with louis in the 24 hour time loop lol because they start out as basically hating each other.

other sci fi au. original sci fi au lol. i started this fic like 2 years ago??? is that right? holy shit. anyway i wrote a few k on it and decided i didn’t like the way i’d written it, so i’m pretty much scrapping it and starting over. but i love the idea for this one. it’s unusual and i want to write it probably second to the new sci fi au.

tiny 3 which is started as tiny 2 but lol i decided to change it. this is the one where harry is a photographer who does coffee table books. and louis is an architect. have a few k on it but got stuck, so hopefully changing that one little thing will make a difference when i sit down to write on it again

dws 4.... idk why i have this listed as 4 in my spreadsheet when there are already 6 fics in the series on ao3. ANYWAY this is the fic that takes place like a week or 2 after chapter 8 in dws. i was initially doing all of the timestamps from harry’s pov but i want to do this one in louis’ pov. harry goes up to spend the weekend with louis, meets niall, etc etc etc. have a few words on this lol literally like one paragraph

rocky horror au- title: science fiction, double feature. community theater puts on rhps. louis wants to be frankenfurter but niall casts harry instead. hate to love. etc etc. i have a few hundred words on this.

camper fic / porch louis. honestly really want to write this one but idk if it’ll ever happen. i combined 2 fics lol. camper fic tag is here. but a lot of that’s changed. louis isn’t famous for one thing. hmmmmm..... the porch louis part of it was inspired by the song shy by leon bridges

broken fang vampire!harry and dentist!louis (it’s as stupid as it sounds lol)

nirvana karaoke fic. based on uhhhhhhhhhh harry singing nirvana karaoke. it’s their 25th hs reunion. that’s........... all i’ve got

traveling fic. i have zero written for this but ideassssssssssssss. for like 2 years i’ve been thinking about it. they’re newly dating. harry’s been planning a year long trip around the world, so wasn’t trying to date anyone but wooohoooo louis came along like idk 2-3 months before harry’s trip starts. harry asks him to drop everything and like quit his job and come with him.

i’m going to stop there because there are more but mostly just ideas for fics. 14 is enough and i’ve probably left one off that i’m actually already writing but forgot about. tagging @halosboat @horsegirlharry @catfishau @sometimesambroswrites @velvetnoodle @indiaalphawhiskey

#wip folder #lol whyyyyy #that anon fic is killing me #lolllllllll

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dc-tranarchist · 5 years

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Deep breath.

Okay. This blog is fairly anonymous so I feel a little more comfortable telling people on here this.

For the longest time I’ve struggled with my own identiy. Who I used to be, who I am currently. And I’m still figuring it out a bit. I used to be religious, I used to be Conservative, and for 16 years of my life, I used to think I was straight. Back in high school I discovered my true sexuality. I was bisexual. I have since told close friends and family members and I am proud of my bisexuality. I proudly display bi flags on my social media and in real life.

However. To me something has still felt off about my identity. It always has. As a child I always thought, was I supposed to be born a girl? I would look at myself in the mirror and imagine what being a girl would be like, but then thought that was stupid, I’m obviously a boy. When I was in high school I remember watching Rocky Horror picture show and seeing Dr. Frankenfurter and other men wearing dresses and having the time of there lives. No one was being shamed for it. It was a true happiness. During college I would begin experimenting in Drag. I would dress in women’s clothing any time I was given the option. I just thought it was fun. And I liked putting on makeup. And I loved dresses. I went to a Gender Bender dance at my then girlfriends College and she made me look beautiful. I had this amazing blonde wig that made me jealous.

Years later and I realize I’m actually a very feminine person sometimes. I don’t fit into what’s supposed be manly man things. I loved wearing costumes, I loved wearing tights and dresses. I loved being pretty. So of course I had to get those thoughts out of my head. I had to be manly. And manly men grew beards. I mean I enjoy my beard but it doesn’t make me feel manlier.

I have been struggling with my identity. I don’t think I’m a man, but I do enjoy doing some masculine things. I don’t think I’m completely A woman but I love most feminine things. I get jealous of how many options women have of cute outfits and make styles and that I can’t do that or I’ll be called a Sissy, or be harassed by my family and strangers. I do live in the Bible Belt after all.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, I think I’m non-binary. And I just really needed to say something. To some one. It’s been eating away at me. Idk why I can’t tell my friends. I just don’t want anyone to make fun of me or hate me for it. I know my friends are kind and accepting people. But my anxiety gets the better of me. I’m still dealing with identity issues and still get depressed because idk who I am. But I want to figure it out.

Thank you guys for always being there.

#non binary #bisexual pride #lgbtq #lgbtq community

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ectoimp · 6 years

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Frankenstein AU

did you know Frankenstein’s monster was originally described as a beautiful man? wen i found that out i kept thinking about your art of Lewis and his ghostly eyes and that lead me to making this AU and sharing it with you since you helped inspired me to make it!

ok Arthur Kingsman a scientist and alchemist. He was a student of magic who was lonely so decided to make a lover (i know a weak idea but the best I got) mainly using homunculus Alchemy to create the body parts that he’ll need for his ideal man mixing science and Alchemy, What started as a patch work of lifeless flesh was given life by the energy harnessed from lightning.Unfortunately, what awoke was not the ideal man but Arthur doesn’t mind Lewis was his, and that’s all that matters, even if Vivi can’t stop teasing him about making his own boyfriend.

if you want to know more watch this link.

Ooh interesting. I like the slight change so that arthur isnt a grave robber like victor. Though making the perfect boyfriend makes this AU remind me of something else instead lol

For the AU though Arthur doesnt necessarily need to be making a lover just a friend. He could fall in love with him later, but having him trying to make someone that will for sure love him throws Arthur into Frankenfurter villain territory I think. Unless you want him to be the villain in this AU

(sidenote, that video mentions that lightning/electricity is never mentioned in the book and that hollywood made that up. Thats only kinda true. Hollywood based it off of very real experiments that were happening in mary shellys time that are what partly inspired her in the first place. Scientists at the time had discovered that if you poke a dead body with electricity it sometimes moves and thought it was the secret to reanimation even though really they were just activating various nerves.)

#Mystery skulls #submission

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scripturient-manipulator · 7 years

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Well, time to fix what other people fucked up. Again.

I’m the vice president of the LGBT+ club here at my college and it’s...not going great. It suffered under horrible leadership for several years before my time (enough so that people were harassed out of the club) and has since dwindled to powerpoint presentations. It’s a whole mess. But THIS is about Queer Monologues. For anyone who doesn’t know, it’s a night where people read pieces they’ve written about their experience being LGBT+. Poems, rants, true stories, complaints, their thoughts on a certain subject (we had several Leelah Alcorn pieces when that tragedy was recent). It’s a night to just be queer and talk about being queer. Now, as several of you have probably noticed, this semester has been a shitshow for me in terms of mental health. And the club hasn’t been much better. Our president has missed at least the first half of every meeting thus far because she’s too busy being at another group’s meeting. Which, by the way, is actively working against us. Yet she decides what happens, and throws some random powerpoint into my lap half an hour before club to present. And she has some...not thought out views on recent activity and people. Nothing is happening, the club is not a fun place to come to. The one (1) time she said she would be coming on time I took the night off because I couldn’t handle myself much less anything else and had been barely functioning at meetings the other times. And what happens? She doesn’t come on time. Which leaves our poor secretary (who I try to make sure never has to talk because he’s incredibly anxious) and treasurer up the creek without a paddle or any warning they’d be there. And the presentation she’d put together was a bunch of clips of the new Rocky Horror Picture Show. So our treasurer does really well, she gets people talking for once, discussing the good and bad and the club’s going well and are agreeing that there were some issues when you have a trans woman play Frankenfurter when labels and gender identity and all sorts of stuff get thrown into the mix and get considered in historical context (my buds, I am not having a discussion on that point, I wasn’t even there) and she comes in and, without reading the room or asking what they were saying, loudly proclaims that she loved the movie and thought it was better than the original.

SO right now we’re at a point where I’ve been ignored in saying that we need to get organizing for Queer Monologues because it’s on November 29th and there’s been many mishaps in communicating with the people who helped us last year because she will give me zero (0) definites on anything. Now this is an event you gotta start planning early. People have to know about it, they have to commit to writing pieces, they have to write the pieces, you have to veto or let in the pieces because we’re not going to allow stuff like “hi I’m gay and we should all kill ourselves” or unintentional whoopses like how last year my poem got vetoed because it was celebrating trans people who were alive and accidentally had a line that could be read as dissing those who have passed away/committed suicide. Which wasn’t meant, and they knew that, but it could have been taken that way and triggered someone, so it was rightly removed.

None of that has happened. We literally had the informational this past Monday, and one person showed up to that. One. For a wildly popular event that at least forty people showed up to last year and that was a small crowd. And I want to use this next meeting on Monday as a writing time but our president refuses to because she’s sure that people will write over Thanksgiving break and “all we can do is promote the event”. Augggghhhh. And I’m not confident enough to say “fuck it, she’s not here, it’s writing night boys and girls” because A) anxiety and B) I’m still recovering from being the most burnt out I’ve ever been in the last couple years and C) that is some fuck-you-ing I am not emotionally prepared to face the repercussions of right now.

Now she’s just like “yeah I’ll spam email some people who haven’t even shown up to club but they signed our sheet at the Club Fair so” and I’m just like uuugggghhhh we have nothing right now. So what am I doing? Shooting off emails and praying that very busy college students will somehow find it in their time to prepare for a quickly-upcoming event that’s not only A) after a break but B) coming up on finals time so it’ll be another thing for them to write. I’m gonna be going to another club on Tuesday if they let me and basically I’ll be racing around trying to make something work because once again I am the only member of a group project who’s doing anything and the only costume designer who will do anything. Oof.

#rant #kill tw #suicide tw #flashbacks to literally every school project and most theatre jobs #fucking hell

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