#ed cropped the t-shirt himself of course

[lyoneve]

The new crew member on Hornigold’s ship gets real flirty when he drinks and Izzy has finally stopped pretending to be annoyed by it

Young!edizzy anyone? 👀

#consider this my contribution to the babygirlification of ed teach #this was just an excuse to stare at pictures of young taika and con #ed cropped the t-shirt himself of course #ofmd fanart #ofmd #our flag means death #edward teach #blackbeard #izzy hands #edizzy #ed x izzy #ed/izzy #my art #i feel the need to explore their backstory now before we get a backstory that ruins all my headcanons #like them meeting pre blackbeard era #and izzy teaching him sword fighting #it might not make the most sense but it does make the most feels

[dhwty-writes]

Keep You Warm

Day 2 of @witcher-and-his-bard‘s prompt challenge, huddling for warmth.

So, this turned a bit steamy in the end. Since I haven't written anything spicier than a tomato in ages, I am a bit confused as to how this happened. I looked away for two seconds and suddenly the bard was horny. Have fun!

Summary: It is snowing. Again. In spring. Jaskier is freezing his fucking balls of, thank you very much; and who is he to deny his witcher's request to sleep next to him? 

Warnings: mild sexual content

Read on AO3

It was cold. No, that wasn't quite strong enough of an expression. Jaskier was freezing his fucking balls off, in a cave in the arse end of nowhere no less, with no one but a grumpy horse and a grumpier witcher as his companions. Oh, right. And a damp fire that smoked more than it gave off heat or light.

He sighed and turned to his other side, sulking that he wouldn't find a comfortable sleeping position either. It had started out well enough, when he had found Geralt a whole month earlier than anticipated—he always was the first to set out on the Path, since Oxenfurt wasn't encased in ice and snow as Kaer Morhen was.

But it had been a warm winter with an early thaw and no sooner had he entered Kaedwen, he had felt two strong witcher-y arms lifting him up in their annual reunion hug. After a decent amount of complaints (squeals, Geralt insisted, the liar) and a maybe more-than-sufficing amount of alcohol to swap stories to (complaining about colleagues, students, and siblings, which were more or less the same for Geralt, but quite different for Jaskier), they had continued with their adventuring. And now- this.

One day they had been tracking a griffin and the next, BOOM, snow again. Snow! At the beginning of Birke! Not unheard of, of course, there was snow as late as Belleteyn sometimes, but still, this was outrageous. Because they weren't talking a few flakes barely encrusting the blades of the grass here, oh no! This was a twenty-to-forty-inches-situation they were dealing with here; Jaskier wasn't sufficiently equipped for that in the best of times and these were not the best of times.

He had been preparing for spring, and summer after! Wading through tepid creeks, enjoying a goblet of wine at the coast, those kinds of things. He had cropped trousers, silken doublets, sheer shirts through one could see every hair on his chest (with a witcher's eyesight, at least). But furs and wool? No, he didn't have any of that! That was all stored in his quarters in Oxenfurt, way too heavy to be brought along on the Path. In hindsight, that had been very stupid.

Geralt wasn't being helpful, either. At first the witcher had laughed and called him an idiot (the prick), and now he was getting grumpier and grumpier with every chatter of Jaskier's teeth.

He, of course, was fine, stupid witcher mutations. Well, and he did have sturdy boots and a real cloak, which promptly had been converted into Jaskier's with the first flake hitting the ground. Not that it made much of a difference. 'Fucking cock,' he thought as he pulled the coat tighter around his shoulders with trembling fingers.

He exhaled a painful breath and forced his eyes close again. He should try to sleep, he knew, come morning they had a long way ahead. And then he wouldn't notice the cold either, he hoped. On the other hand, he remembered Geralt telling him something about falling asleep when cold, something he couldn't quite remember-

"Jaskier," Geralt grumbled quietly from where he laid on the other side of the campfire.

"Y-yeah?" he managed to get out with his chattering teeth, and turned around to face him.

Geralt was propped up on one arm, studying him with a curious look on his face. This procedure continued for such a long time that Jaskier's skin began to crawl. He was just about to ask what exactly they were doing, when Geralt lifted his blanket a bit and jerked his chin to the side. "Get your arse over here."

Jaskier felt like he should protest the gruff order. In any other situation he probably would've protested. But fuck, it had to have been hours since he last felt his toes. If Geralt was willing to share his blanket with him, he wasn't about to object.

Getting up and walking the short distance over to him, was a bit of a chore, if he was quite honest. Especially since he was dragging his bedroll and useless blanket with him, while doing his best not to trip over Geralt's cloak or soak Geralt's woollen socks with slush.

When he was within an arm's width of his friend, it was the witcher who carefully laid out the bedrolls so that they were overlapping slightly and hopefully wouldn't slip apart to much while they slept, so that one of them ended up sleeping on the floor. Once Jaskier had sat down, it was also Geralt, who untied the cloak with deft fingers, who pulled their two blankets up to their chins and spread the cloak over them, too. "Sleep," he grunted.

Jaskier nodded obediently and closed his eyes, giving his best to do so, as he scooted as far away from his friend as their shared blankets allowed him. That wasn't quite as effective in terms of sharing body heat, but if a decade of travelling with Geralt of Rivia had taught him something, it was that, while the witcher was many things, a cuddler was not one of them. Jaskier doubted it would be any different in this completely unprecedented situation.

Imagine his surprise, when it was Geralt, too, who threw an arm over his waist to pull him close. Jaskier 'eep'-ed and Geralt 'hmm'-ed, and went ahead to press his forehead against the base of Jaskier's skull. "Stupid bard," he mumbled, "should've come over sooner. Can't have you die of hypothermia."

"A-alright," he managed through his still chattering teeth, "I-I'll k-k-keep that i-in m-mi-mind." At least now he was certain that his heart was still pumping blood through his veins. Quite thoroughly so. Gods, Geralt was bound to notice at this rate.

"Hmm," Geralt said again and propped himself up on his elbow again, frowning darkly down at him.

"Wh-what?"

"You're still cold."

Jaskier almost laughed. "Yeah," he managed to get out without being interrupted by his teeth. "It- It'll t-t-take a whi-while." Shucks, there went his record.

"Hmmm," he hummed even more displeased, his fingers twitching as if he wasn't sure what to do with them. Geralt tore his gaze away and hissed something akin to "Fucking fragile humans," before simply yanking his shirt over his head.

Cold or not Jaskier thought his reaction that could only be classified as 'bewildered, admiring staring' was more than justified. He caught the thought 'Oh, fuck me' flitting through his head and thanked all his lucky stars that he didn't utter them out loud.

Geralt tossed his shirt to the bedroll, to be used as pillow. He fixed him with a piercing glare and, oh, if Jaskier had been frozen before he was positively melting now.

He really tried not to ogle his friend. He really did. But he couldn't quite stop himself from raking his eyes over the bare torso before him that looked as if it had been sculpted by the gods and-

"Off," Geralt growled, pulling Jaskier's attention back to his eyes.

"I'm sorry, what?" he squeaked. He wasn't embarrassed to admit squeaking this time, thank you very much. Evidently, he had missed something.

"Off," Geralt insisted again, and tugged on Jaskier's collar.

"Umm-" His eyes bulged. 'Oh, shit.' His chances of surviving the night were sinking rapidly.

"Body heat will keep you warm," Geralt replied with a simple shrug. As if there was nothing much to sleeping arm in arm with your half-naked, very good looking... friend. As if that wouldn't lead to a whole host of other problems and-

Geralt raised and inquisitive eyebrow and Jaskier couldn't even finish thinking 'He's got a point' before he was divesting himself of his own shirt. His fingers were still numb, so it took a lot longer (and probably looked a lot less appealing) than normally, but before long Jaskier was shirtless, too, staring at Geralt with wide eyes.

He just huffed a breath—in... annoyance? Amusement? Who was Jaskier to judge—and lay down again, his arm outstretched for him. Jaskier gulped and stretched out next to him. Again, it didn't take long for Geralt's arm to settle on his waist, and oh, there was no chance he'd survive until sunrise. The cold forgotten, his nerve-ends ablaze; along the sparse points of skin-to-skin contact there was a delightful tingling, bordering on unpleasant.

"Sleep," Geralt mumbled again, his lips brushing against the bare skin of his shoulder.

Jaskier closed his eyes and breathed out a shuddering: "Fuck." Sleep, Geralt said? How the fuck was he supposed to sleep like that, with arousal coiling hot in his stomach. With a casual arm thrown over his waist, presenting a perfectly hold-able hand within grasping distance? With Geralt so close he could feel the heat emanating of his torso, so close he only needed to scoot back and tip his head up to have a wonderful neck exposed to him that basically begged to be kissed-

'Ah, shit.' He squirmed uncomfortably, in an attempt to hide his rather embarrassing predicament, that he knew to be futile. At least he had his back to Geralt, anything else would be truly mortifying. Still, he really hoped the witcher would choose to ignore it.

Apparently, the witcher knew no such mercy. He sighed deeply and—tightened? tightened—his arm around his waist. "Really, Jaskier?" He pressed his face into his neck and inhaled deeply. Jaskier imagined to feel his lips spread in a grin against his skin. "Now? You were chilled to the bone not half an hour ago."

Horrifyingly, he heard himself say: "Well, people change, Geralt, gods, keep it up." His mouth snapped shut as he became cognisant of the stupidity of his own words.

When Geralt didn't answer, Jaskier idiotically kept on talking: "You never would've noticed except for your stupid sense of smell." He rolled his eyes. "Really, what do you deem to be the appropriate reaction to- to-" He waved his hand around to encompass the absurdity of the situation. "-to this! Hm?"

Geralt, ever the conversationalist, replied: "Hm."

"My thoughts exactly," Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms. His heart was beating as if he had just completed an endurance run, and he heaved a few breaths to calm himself down.

The lack of response from Geralt was beginning to freak him out. Maybe he had underestimated the severity of this folly. Self-consciously he pulled up his shoulders. "Do you want me to leave?" he hazarded a guess. "So, um- so, I can do something about it?" 'And not bother you with it anymore,' his mind supplied.

No reaction. He closed his eyes. 'Look at the bright side, Jaskier,' he told himself. 'No reaction is better than reaction.' Yeah, it didn't convince him either. "Geralt?" he tried again.

The witcher hummed against his neck, his arm moving at a snail's pace. After an overabundance of hitched breaths and skipped heartbeats, there was a possessive hand splayed all over his stomach, and Jaskier thought he had finally an idea of what was going on in Geralt's head. "Do you-" He cleared his throat, there was really no reason to lead this conversation in a voice an octave higher than normally. "Do you want to do something about it?"

Geralt's arm twitched, still hesitating. "Do you want me to?" Geralt rumbled in his gravelly voice. The smallest of nods was all it took for him to pull Jaskier flush against him; albeit carefully and slowly so, as if any too sudden movement might startle him, scare him away.

"Well," Jaskier laughed nervously. "It might help to alleviate the awkwardness of this situation a bit," he joked, pressing back even further.

A gasp escaped his mouth when Geralt rewarded him with a roll of his hips for that, his hand ghosting over the front of his pants. "Y-yeah, I would very much like you to do something about it," he was quick to splutter.

"Hm." Oh, he was grinning after all. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing, and he was enjoying it. Jaskier was almost about to voice his complaints when Geralt's grip tightened even more, his hand steadily travelling lower, ghosting over his hips, splaying his legs, but never touching right where he wanted him to.

Jaskier sighed contentedly, as he tipped his head against Geralt's shoulder. Oh, the urge to pull him into a kiss was even worse than anticipated. "Geralt," he whined.

He chuckled quietly and dragged a rather toothy kiss over his shoulder. "Good?" he asked as his fingers ghosted over the front of Jaskier's breeches again.

The audacity. "Yes, good," he hissed, chasing the friction to no avail. "Would you get on with it, then? Else I might overheat."

Geralt huffed a laugh and retracted his hand back to his abdomen, rubbing infuriating circles right above his waistband. "Bossy," he commented, "and rude." After a moment he added: "Nothing's changed, then."

Jaskier had a thousand biting comments on the tip of his tongue, but a thumb slipping below his waistband reminded him that now was not the time. He held his breath, expecting Geralt to loosen the ties. Nothing happened.

Well. Good thing he wasn't above begging. "Please," he murmured, rolling his hips back, where Geralt was straining against his breeches. "Weren't you going to keep me warm?"

"I s'pose I was." Now that definitely was a kiss to his shoulder, followed by sharp nipping teeth. Geralt tugged at his breeches. "Off," he demanded again.

And, well, Jaskier was weak, and he was wanting; who was he to decline such an offer?

#my writing #geraskier #geralt of rivia #jaskier #julian alfred pankratz #geraskier fanfiction #the witcher fanfiction #geraltxjaskier #geralt/jaskier #winter prompt challenge

[lyrazehedgieboiii]

another mood

I was in the mood to do this. I know. I’m pathetic. I have asks, yet I’m not doing them. I will get to them.

SO, there’s this person on Deviantart called MontyTH, and basically has an OC of this little hedgehog that’s supposed to be Sonic’s little brother. (Lmao he actually looks like a SonAmy fanchild though) So, that inspired me to make this!

PLEASE READ THIS PART:

Monty is kind of a blueish-periwinkle color, with three bangs just like Amy’s. He has emerald eyes just like Sonic. Sonic is overprotective of him, and gets jealous when someone else gets his attention.

Ages:

Amy: 16

Sonic: 19

Monty: 9

Basically anyone else: 

Female: same as Amy’s.

Male: Same as Sonic’s.

   “Hey Monty! I’m home! I have someone with me! Come down, I want you to meet her!” Her? What did he mean, her? Monty went down the stairs, and found his brother, Sonic the Hedgehog, with a pretty hot pink hedgehog.

   “Hi big bro! Who’s she?” Monty asked, gesturing out to the lady next to him.

   “Monty, remember Amy Rose?” Sonic asked. Monty remembered his number one fangirl. She would always chase after Sonic, always begging him to marry her. It was quite annoying, really. However, Monty couldn’t say that out loud. Sonic had taught him to be nice to everyone. 

    “Yeah. She was your friend.” Monty simply said. He was about to say ‘fangirl,’ but stopped himself before he could say it.

     “Well, now she’s back, and she’s more than just a friend now!” His big brother exclaimed. “I introduce you, Amy Rose! My first girlfriend!” Earlier, Sonic had his arm around her covered waist. Monty looked at her. She was practically unrecognizable! Her quills had grown to her back, she wore studs on her cute little ears. She was wearing a red cropped sweatshirt, and she she had a rose pendant around her neck. She wore a black shirt under the crop top. She wore skinny jeans and a pair of red converse. 

    “Hey there, Monty!” She giggled. “You probably wouldn’t recognize me, seeing that I was very annoying as a kid, but don’t worry, I won’t take your big bro away!” Amy said in a loving voice, like she was a doting mother praising her child. Monty liked how she changed.

    “I sure hope not!” Monty replied. Amy giggled once again, and Monty decided that he liked her and thought she was great for Sonic. “So she’s your girlfriend?” He questioned, turning to Sonic. He nodded.

    “And she won’t be able to get rid of me that easily!~” Sonic chirped, nuzzling his head into the crook of Amy’s neck. Amy chuckled.

    “After years of chasing you, of course I’d hold on to you forever!” Amy cheekily replied, nuzzling back. Monty found this a bit awkward, just standing there as his brother and his old stalker were starting to get intimate. He cleared his throat, hoping they would notice that he was still in the room. They quickly separated, and blushed.

    “Uh, well, I’ll go get all of us a quick snack. Monty, can you please take Amy to the living room?” Sonic commanded him. Monty saluted him, and took Amy’s hand.

    “What spell have you used to make Sonic fall for you?!” Monty demanded out in surprise. Amy flinched, not expecting the sudden outburst.

    “Spell? I’m not a witch, Monty. You know that.” Amy stated while smirking.

    “Your face is saying something else.” Monty crossed his arms, tapping his foot, copying his brother when he would get impatient.

     “Monty, are you not happy that Sonic finally has someone to love? And that someone actually loves him back?” Amy inquired, but Monty wouldn’t have it.

    “Are you saying my brother doesn’t, ugh, love me?” Amy was taken by surprise again.

   “No! I meant love, romantically! He loves you so very much, and you have a big piece in his heart. All I ask, is that if I can have a piece of yours?” Amy gently questioned him.

  “...Why?” He seemed a bit disturbed as to why she would want to be friends with him. 

   “You’re a really nice kid. Who wouldn’t want to be friends with you? You’re adorable and I love making new friends. Last time you saw me, I was some brat who only wanted Sonic to myself, and I would kill anybody who got near Sonic. I’m not like that anymore. I mean, I would kill any flirters who got near Sonic.” Amy darkly chuckled.

   “Uhm, still as...hyper as always?” Monty tried to lighten up the atmosphere, indirectly asking if she was still crazy.

    “Not really, I only act crazy when someone does something I hate, or when they abuse any of my friends’ names.” Amy responded, as if she was prepared for that question. “Anyways, has Twinkle Park changed? I haven’t been there in a long time.” She asked, hoping he’d offer to go with her so they could bond.

    “Yeah, they added some more exciting rides there, I go all the time with my friends. We can go there tomorrow and I could show you!” Monty exclaimed, ecstatic to go on the newest ride, that only he and a few other knew about. “But you’ll have to wake up early, we have to be the first ones at the park!” He added, while Amy nodded.

    “I can’t wait!” Amy replied in the same tone as him. Sonic comes back and hands them some snacks and Monty goes back to his room to give the couple some privacy, because he saw Sonic’s hand going down her back...

They started to make-out aggressively, Amy on the bottom and Sonic at the top. Sonic bit her lip begging for entrance, and Amy happily accepted. They were like that for a few minutes before they heard Monty yell out in disgust. Amy left, after trying not to give in to Sonic’s pleads to sleep with him. (not like that!) 

The next day, Amy and Monty went to Twinkle Park, and were on the new ride, which was called “The Thrill Seeker,” which Amy admitted wasn’t as thrill seeking as being in Sonic’s arms when he’s running, but they enjoyed it. Then came one of those prize-winning game with the hammer, and Amy showed off her strength with her own hammer, breaking the game altogether. She won a stuffed Sonic, and yelled out “AMY ROSE IS BACK, BABY!” until a couple of Eggman’s robots (which were automatically programmed to attack without Eggman in sight) decided to attack Twinkle Park, but Amy and her iconic hammer saved the day.

‘She looked so cool, no wonder Sonic loves her so much!’ Monty thought, as she appeared out of the smoke, her hair dancing with the wind. He gasped loudly. Then, it was time to go back home. Amy insisted that she go with him so nothing happens. Monty didn’t mind; Amy was now his new guardian angel. Well, not exactly “Guardian,” because Sonic was, but still, he was super thankful for her. As soon as they got home, Sonic pounced on them, asking if they were alright, and if anything happened. Monty proceeded to tell him about how Amy single-handedly took down Eggman’s robots, and made Amy blush by how heroic he made her sound.

Sonic seemed impressed, and that made Amy’s heart soar to the heavens. Monty went up to his room to text all of his friends what he had experienced. Sonic smirked at Amy and pulled her into his room. They made out once again, but with Sonic being fast, attempted to pull her shirt up before Amy knee-ed him at the crotch. (DUDE I WANT TO WRITE LEMONS SO BADLY FUCK TUMBLR’S POLICIES) 

    “Sonic, your brother is upstairs, he could hear us! And, I won’t let you go any farther until you propose!” Amy declared. Sonic’s sexy smile dropped. 

     “Amyyyy, you’re only 16! You need a legal guardian to allow you to get married.” Sonic pointed out.

    “Then you can ask Rouge if you can have my hand in marriage! She took ‘responsibility’ of me, since I’m still kind of a minor.” Amy rolled her eyes. “I moved in with Blaze and Rouge, so I’m closer to everyone!” She told him in a happy tone. He was happy too, he got to spend more time with his beautiful girlfriend...

TIME SKIP TO MOTHER’S DAY :DDDDDDDD

During the time passing, Monty and Amy took the time to have fun by going out to eat, take a drive, train Monty because Sonic was scared something would happen if he used his thunder powers (it fits him, I don’t think MontyTH gave him a power). And he also told her about things that happen in school, and Amy always gives him advice on how to handle it.

Then came Mothers’ Day, the day to celebrate mother figures everywhere, whether it be your mother, your sister, your teacher, anyone. Monty never knew his mother, because she died when Sonic was only 10 and Monty was a newborn. Sonic looked everywhere for an opportunity to give his little brother the life he deserved. He became a hero, earned a lot of money, got a house, sent his brother to school, gave him the life he deserves. He didn’t have a mother, but Sonic tried to be everything for him. 

Monty decided to celebrate with Amy for Mothers’ Day, seeing as she was his brother’s girlfriend, and he could trust her with anything. She was his mother-figure, as well as a sister-figure, as Sonia wasn’t around because she had become queen. Monty texted ‘Happy Mothers’ Day Amy!!!!💕💕💕💕🌹” as soon as he woke up, and as soon as he sent it, he heard someone’s phone get a notification downstairs. He ran down to find Amy wearing one of Sonic’s cotton shirts, crying with a smile as she looked at her phone. She saw Monty and squeezed the living daylights out of him, and kissed his forehead.

    “T-Thank you so much! I’m so honored that you think of me as your mother! I love you so much!” She kissed him all over his face like some doting aunt would to her nephews and nieces.

    “You’re welcome!” He managed to say, all of his breath being taken out. She let him catch his breath, before he asked her something. “Where’s Sonic?”

    “On his morning run.” That got Monty confused.

    “But, he usually goes when I go to school?” He said, not sure why his schedule changed.

    “It’s because he doesn’t want to leave you home alone, but since I’m here, he gets to do it early.” She blushed intensely, thinking of what they had done last night. “Also, someone’s going to get another big sister~!” Amy’s voice chimed melodiously. Monty tilted his head in confusion. She stuck her hand out to reveal a diamond encrusted ring on her finger. Monty’s eyes widened in shock and happiness.

    “You and Sonic are getting married?! Yes!” Monty yelled and threw and a fist up into the air. Amy giggled and nodded. Sonic zipped back into the room and ruffled up Monty’s quills and kissed Amy’s cheek. He put a hand around on her waist, representing that she was his. Amy sighed in content. 

    “Whatcha guys talking about?” Sonic asks, taking his hand off of her and grabbing a plate of toast that was on the counter.      “Amy told me that you proposed to her!” Monty exclaimed, running around, streaks of lightening traveling through his quills. He jumped onto Amy, who would’ve almost fell back if Sonic wasn’t behind her. She happily wrapped her arms around Monty and hugged him back.

“Yup! Rouge, her guardian, said that I have to wait until she’s 18 to get married, but for now, she’s engaged to me.” Sonic informed him. Monty nodded in understanding and went upstairs to talk to his friend on Discord. Amy turned to Sonic and grinned. Before they were about to kiss, they heard the doorbell ring. Sonic answered it, and found Rouge standing there with some documents.

“Here’s the papers, like I said, she’s not getting married until she’s eighteen.” Rouge simply stated and waved at Amy. “Here’s some of your clothes, hun!” She wheeled a suitcase into the house and flew away. Amy hugged Sonic from the back, avoiding his quills and nuzzling him in the neck. He turned around and kissed her.

“I love you, babe.” Her muffled voice could be heard saying. Sonic’s heart felt like it leaped right out of his chest, but kept his happiness contained.

“I love you more.~” Sonic replied.

“Says the one who’s been running away from me since I was eight.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.”

“I was an immature boy back then, I’m a responsible adult now!”

“...Last night told a different story.”

“How do I even reply to that, Ames?!”

“Say I won.”

“No.”

#sonamy story #sonamy fanfic #sonamy fanfics #sonamy #sonamy fanfiction #sonic and amy #sonic the hedgehog #amy rose #lyra ze hedgie boiii #sonic #sonamy auish

[luulapants]

Hale Royal Family AU - Part 1

@shey-elizabeth​ made this post:

”Me reading the Prince Harry-Meghan Markel royal family drama:

Wait… I think I read this fic already. (Starts scrolling through my AO3 history)

#random #royalty au #someone write me a steter fic #reading the news before coffee”

And, I mean, I don’t even need to be told to write Steter fics, but it damn sure helps.

Part 1: September 2014

Over the buzzing of his razor, Peter could just hear the soft knock that sounded on the bedroom door, followed by Stiles calling, “Come in!”

In the mirror, through the crack in the bathroom door, he saw the maid, Mrs. Larson, wheel in a tray of tea and, presumably, breakfast sandwiches or something of the sort. “How are you this morning, Master Stilinski?” she asked, a bit stiffly. Sixth months in, and the staff still didn’t know what to make of the barely-legal human suddenly lounging about like he owned the place.

“Peachy,” Stiles replied blithely, though Peter knew he was nursing a hangover that would have put a lesser man in the ground. “You can just leave the cart. He’s still primping, so who knows when he’ll actually get to his tea. Oh, hey, is that the paper?”

Peter heard Mrs. Larson leave as he patted on his aftershave. Nudging the bathroom door open the rest of the way, he saw Stiles, draped over a five thousand dollar leather settee like it was an old sofa in a frat house. He had one gangly leg slung over the back, the other stretched out on the floor. He hadn’t gotten dressed yet, still in nothing but a pair of black briefs and the utterly obscene red leather crop top he’d worn out the night before. Peter couldn’t imagine it had been comfortable to sleep in.

He regretted missing the look on Mrs. Larson’s face when she saw the state of him.

“Primping?” Peter echoed with a fond smile.

Stiles had the newspaper propped up on his chest. He looked over, and his eyes dragged shamelessly over Peter’s bare chest, down to the towel knotted at his waist, then back up to his face. “Primping,” Stiles affirmed.

“Did you find it yet?” Peter asked, gesturing to the paper. He walked over to stand behind Stiles so he could read along.

“Nope. Was just looking for it.” He started to flip through the sections haphazardly. “Op-Ed, Business, Business, Sports… ah! Society.” There, at the top of the society section, was a picture of Peter, a clip from the video interview he’d done yesterday. The top of the section read ‘Continued from Page 3.’ “Oh, shit, you made the big time,” Stiles muttered, quickly flipping back to the front sections.

Prince Peter Comes Out, Shocks The Nation

“Shocks the nation?” Stiles snorted, tapping his fingers against the headline. “Seriously, who is shocked by this? Do they know anything about you?”

Peter huffed and headed over to his closet. “I’m not that obvious,” he protested.

“You own a vineyard,” Stiles said.

“Plenty of straight people own vineyards.” Peter stepped into the closet, but left the door open so they could keep talking. He frowned thoughtfully at the shirts hanging just inside the door.

“You own paisley pants.”

Peter poked his head out of the closet. “You promised you wouldn’t bring those up again,” he snapped.

“You have an entire section of your closet dedicated to vests!”

Peter sighed and went back to staring down his wardrobe. “Yes, well, they have to hang, Stiles. You can’t fold them up in a drawer.”

“What I’m saying is that no one in this entire world should be shocked that you’re gay.”

Pulling down two Oxford shirts, one blue-gray and the other burgundy, Peter stepped back out into the room, holding them up. “Which one?”

Stiles glanced between them with a frown. “What are you dressing for?”

“Existing,” Peter drawled, “as a shockingly gay member of royal society.” Stiles lifted an eyebrow at him in judgment, and he added, “And dinner at Talia’s later.”

“The blue,” Stiles decided, then gave him a cheeky grin. “And wear a vest.”

Talia’s butler bowed as he opened the front door with a subdued, “Your Highness, welcome.”

“Mr. Boyd,” Peter greeted as he stepped into the entryway. “How are your boys doing?”

“Very well, sir. Vernon is in his last year at USC. He’ll be graduating with honors.”

“How wonderful.”

“Her Majesty is a bit delayed and gives her apologies. She asked that you wait in the solarium, where she will be with you shortly.”

“Of course,” Peter agreed, biting the inside of his cheek to hold the false smile on his lips. His sister liked to make him wait, especially when she was angry with him.

The Beacon Hills Manor had always been too stern for Peter’s taste. The entryway opened to a dark-stained double staircase with wolves carved into the handrails, frozen mid-leap with their ivory teeth bared and garnets glinting in their eyes.

He walked between them, through a massive gallery lined with imposing portraits of long-dead relatives. They had frightened him as a child, the way they all seemed to gaze downward at him, their huge faces drawn into ferocious expressions that seemed judgmental at best, furious at worst.

At the end of the gallery, he passed through a set of over-sized wooden doors inlaid with copper triskelions. The solarium always felt humid, just short of stifling. Outside the glass walls, the summer garden sprawled outward in shocking beauty. Inside, orchids and vining plants hung from the ceiling and various tropical plants framed the delicate wicker furniture.

They had lived in this house only briefly, when Peter was ten years old, Talia already moved out and in graduate school. He had hated it here, hated the isolation of Beacon Hills and the loneliness of roaming the woods by himself, all of the cousins and his other friends back in San Francisco. Talia had liked the location for raising her family, though, set far back in the woods where her children could shift and run freely without fear of being harassed by the press.

Peter sat on the wicker couch, unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt as a maid hurried in with a glass of iced tea. Peter thanked her and pulled out his phone. He already had a text from Stiles.

How’s Beacon Thrills?

Stiles, by some coincidence, had grown up in Beacon Hills, but he hadn’t even been born yet when Peter lived here. Even then, it would have been unlikely for them to ever interact. Even werewolves not of royal lineage tended to live apart from human society. Peter had attended private schools and taken lessons with private tutors. Stiles had gone to the local public school.

Her Majesty is making me wait in the greenhouse. She’s literally letting me sweat it out.

He was so focused on tapping out his response that he didn’t hear his sister come in until she said, “And what’s that smile about?”

Peter realized, with some irritation, that he was smiling like an idiot at his phone. He schooled his expression into something prim as he looked up, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Why, the thought of your arrival, of course,” he replied.

“Resorting to flattery already?” Talia stood just inside the doorway, an eyebrow raised and her lips twisted into a smirk. She wore white linen pants and a deep purple blouse that matched her flats. Her eyes flashed red, and his shone blue in response. They stared each other down for a long moment before, at once, they both broke into soft laughter.

Rising from his seat, Peter crossed the room and hugged her around the middle, lifting her from her feet just briefly. He kissed her cheek as he set her down, and she returned the gesture. “It’s nice to see you, Talia.”

She pinched his cheek. “I wish we could do this when it’s not about you giving ulcers to an entire staff of publicity agents.”

Peter spun on his heel, walking back to the sitting area. “Oh, for God’s sake, I don’t know what everyone is so up in arms about. It can’t be such a terrible shock. I own a vineyard and an unholy amount of vests.” He dropped back onto the couch with an exhausted huff.

“It was always going to be a big deal, Peter,” Talia chided, following and sitting in the chair opposite him. “We’re the first generation that could even dream about going public with this. Besides, you know how the press likes to make a fuss.”

“Well, it will all settle down soon enough,” Peter insisted, waving a careless hand and picking up his iced tea. Another maid came in with a drink for Talia – raspberry lemonade, by the smell of it.

“You could have handled the interview a bit better.” She took a sip of her drink, glaring at him over the top of her glass.

It had been a standard catching-up-with-the-royals sort of thing. Peter had been prepared to talk about his business ventures, his house, his vineyard – hell, even his cat. Instead, they’d asked when he thought he would be ready to find a woman and settle down.

“What was I supposed to do? Lie and say I hadn’t found the right one? Apologize for dashing their hopes of more royal babies?” What he had said was, ‘Well, I’m gay, so I’m going to say ‘never’.’ The startled look on the interviewer’s face had been the highlight of his year so far.

“I suppose tact would have been too much to ask for,” Talia laughed softly. She shook her head, but she looked fond. “Anyway, it will blow over as long as you keep your head down and don’t go causing a scandal right after it. You know how the royal watchers get once they have their eyes on someone.”

Peter slouched back in his chair, swirling his glass idly in his hand. “And what sort of scandal do you suppose I would make?”

Talia stared at him for a long moment, lips pursed, and he recognized it as her ‘diplomacy face.’ Weighing her words before she spoke. Finally, she said, “I hear that human boy is still hanging around quite a lot.”

“Stiles?” Peter shrugged a lazy shoulder. “Sure. We’re friends.”

“Peter. Come on, you know how it’s going to look. He’s half your age.”

“He’s not half my age,” Peter argued. “He’s nineteen. That’s at least sixty percent of my age.”

“Thought about it that much, hmm?” she teased. When Peter didn’t have a reply beyond a glare, she pressed on. “He’s human. He’s inappropriately young. He’s not from any sort of notable background. If the press catch wind of him, they’ll have a field day.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “It’s innocent, honestly. He’s an interesting person that I enjoy spending time with. There’s nothing romantic about it.”

Talia looked skeptical. “So, what, you’ve taken him under your wing? Brought home a stray?”

“The opposite is closer to the truth, honestly,” Peter admitted.

It had been his first night sneaking out to a gay club. Thirty-two years old – and how sad was that? Peter had always been too wary of being recognized or mobbed by paparazzi.

It was mostly a human club, which lowered his chances of being recognized somewhat, but plenty of humans followed and fawned over werewolf royalty. Werewolves in Europe at least got to split attention with the human royal families. Here in the states, the Hales received the full and brutal fixation of the royal watchers.

Peter put on heavy eye makeup and wore his hair loose and curly, instead of gelled back, as he usually wore it. Checking himself in the mirror before going out, Peter had hardly recognized himself.

When he got to the club, he felt a little lost at first. He got himself a wolfsbane drink and nursed it, eyeing the dance floor uncertainly.

“You look like you’re new!” a voice yelled over the noise. Peter stifled a wince. He could have heard just fine at normal speaking volume. When Peter turned, there he was: loose-limbed and joyful in nothing but a pair of skinny jeans and sneakers. Bits of glitter stuck to his abdomen.

Peter leaned closer to him. “You look like you’re new,” he shot back. “There’s no way you’re old enough to be in here.”

The boy laughed and sidled up close, chest-to-chest. Against Peter’s ear, he said, “I’m Stiles.”

They spent a couple of hours dancing and drinking, both of them getting looser as the night went on, touching and laughing more freely. On the dance floor, Peter got a thigh between Stiles’s legs. Stiles ground onto it, wound his arms around Peter’s neck, and kissed him.

They were making out when the fire alarm sounded. Peter doubled over at the noise, hands clasped over his ears. The lights came up, and the sprinklers overhead went off almost immediately, dousing the crowd and dredging up a new wave of noise as people shrieked and pushed for the exits.

When Peter looked up, Stiles was standing next to him, a hand on Peter’s shoulder, surveying the chaos with a frown. His hair was already drenched, slicked down to his forehead. He looked at Peter, swore, then bent down to speak softly in his ear. “We have to get you out of here. Someone’s gonna recognize you.”

The next thing Peter knew, they were on the back patio, scaling the fence to jump into the adjacent alleyway. The winter had started to loosen its grasp lately, but this late at night, drenched to the bone, Peter felt the chill coming on fast. He couldn’t imagine how bad it would be for a human. Stiles grabbed his hand and headed off down the alley at a jog.

“Where are we going?” Peter asked, the first in a long list of questions whizzing through his head. Had Stiles known who he was all along? Why hadn’t he said anything? Was he going to tell anyone?

“My place,” Stiles said. “It’s just a block and a half, and my roommates are out of town. Don’t worry.”

Peter should have been worried. He should have been terrified and calling security staff to come and retrieve him.

Instead, he followed Stiles home to a shitty, tiny three-bedroom apartment. They dried off and made hot chocolate and microwave taquitos. They stayed up all night, just talking. They talked about everything. Their lives, their histories, their friends and families, their fears.

There was a moment that night.

Stiles had been lying on the floor with his feet on the couch, his head pillowed on Peter’s calf. A mosaic glass lamp, hung in the corner of the room, cast shadows of blue and gold over his face. Peter had told Stiles his many reasons for keeping his sexuality out of the press, and Stiles listened quietly until he had poured out his every thought on the matter.

Stiles folded his hands on his stomach and stared up at the ceiling. “You know, the way I think about it, it’s all about power. You’re supposed to sit there and wait for someone to make a judgment on you. Will they accept you or won’t they? That’s the set-up. You bare your soul and wait for them to judge it.”

“So then should you just not do it? Keep things to yourself?” Peter asked.

“Nah, you take the power back. Decide what is and isn’t an acceptable response to you coming out, and you judge them right back. Anyone that isn’t a fucking delight when you come out? Kick ‘em to the curb.” He kicked the back of the couch with a smug little expression.

Stroking his fingers through Stiles’s hair, Peter wished he could have half the brassy courage this boy had. “Is that what you did?” he asked.

Stiles laughed, and the sound bubbled through the room like energy. “No, I cried like a baby. But it’s what I’d do if I could do it again.” He sighed and looked up at Peter, eyes tired but creased with a smile at the corners. “If you decide to come out, promise you won’t give them the power, okay?”

Peter stared down at his face, at his earnest concern for a werewolf royal, of all people. For someone he didn’t even know. For a terrifying moment, he thought, I could fall in love with him. Then he shook the thought off, set it aside.

He had never had a best friend before. The werewolf nobility Peter had spent his whole life surrounded by were shameless ladder climbers, social strategists and politicians. Stiles had a best friend growing up, Scott, but they had started to grow apart since Scott went out of state for college. Over the course of a few months, he and Stiles become nearly inseparable.

Maybe it should have been weird, what with the age gap and their radically different backgrounds. Peter had grown up in multi-million dollar mansions, waited on by service staff and trailed by body guards. Stiles had grown up in an understaffed sheriff’s department, doing his math homework in vacant interrogation rooms because his dad couldn’t afford a babysitter as often as he needed one.

But Stiles was funny and sharp as a whip, earnest and passionate. He never once treated Peter like royalty. He pushed him out of his comfort zone and called him on his bullshit, and Peter adored him for it.

If Talia thought he could just call that off, she was crazy.

#Steter #stiles stilinski #Peter Hale #talia hale #teen wolf #teen wolf fanfiction #teen wolf au #royals au #hale royal family au #this needs a better title at some point #part 1 of 6 #yes 6 #because I have no self control

[toziersspaghettihead]

“Reddie Porn Rec List”

“I want to know your heart” - “The omega with flowers in his hair and wearing the lavender crop top was the prettiest smelling person Richie had ever come across.”

LINK-

“Cant buy me love”- “It wasn't that Richie wasn't a good partner. He was just... inattentive at times. Now, he would be the first to say that his job was no excuse. Sure, he had to tour a lot, but cell phones existed. He could call every once in awhile. It was the fact that he had ADHD which made it worse. [...] So, by the time he remembered that he was going to call his boyfriend, it was suddenly one in the morning where he was, so probably even later back home in Chicago, and he'd tell himself he'd call in the morning. Of course, he'd stupidly not write a note to remind himself to make that phone call in the morning, and the next day he'd spend far too much time thinking, 'There was something I was supposed to do today,' but he'd never remember what. And then he'd be touching down at O'Hare only to find that Cody or Gavin or whoever wasn't waiting for him like they had agreed, and he'd slap himself, because he'd realize he basically ignored him the entire tour.”

LINK- 

“Our days and nights are perfumed with obsession.”- “If you had told Richie fifteen years ago that one day he would be the type of man who goes to BDSM clubs… well, he’d probably shrug, say “sounds plausible” and down another shot.

However, if you had told him that Eddie fucking Kaspbrak, the boy who used to wear a fanny pack and whine about germs in between puffs of his inhaler, would be the type of man to one day go to BDSM clubs, he probably would have choked on that shot and done a spit take.

And if you’d told him that HE, Richie Trashmouth Tozier, would be the one who would get to accompany him to these clubs, often pulling Eddie around on a leash while his hands were bound and his mouth was gagged… well, Richie could have only hoped for so much, even in his younger days.

“Punk Rock Love”- “ [...] Eddie couldn't stop playing with the chains clipped to the studded belt that was holding up the yellow and black paid pants Richie was wearing. They had been a staple in his wardrobe for Punk Rock Ghost Story, which he had finished filming earlier that week. Carlise, the costumer, told him he could keep them since they weren't part of the vintage punk couture she had acquired.

"You can get those at any Hot Topic in the world," she had said. "This will save you the embarrassment of having to do that, old man."

"Hey, fuck you," Richie had said jokingly. "My generation invented punk."

"Your generation invented Dave Matthews Band."

LINK- 

“Ive been runnin’ hot.” - “For anon prompt: Richie fucks Eddie with Eddie in his lap with his back against Richie’s chest under a blanket with everyone there.”

LINK- 

“Sweetest thing you’ve ever seen.” - “ "Jesus, just fuck me," Eddie demands, rolling his hips. "Fuckmefuckmefuckme."

"I feel like you're trying to tell me something, Spaghetti." Richie grins.

"Ergh, fuck you," Eddie groans and turns to kiss him swiftly, biting Richie's bottom lip hard. "Fuck me already, Tozier, you goddamn asshole."

LINK-

“Stupid deep”-    ““Rich, what the fuck.”

“What,” Richie says breathlessly, pushing up into Eddie’s grip with a weak sound.

Eddie stares, as he did five months ago, at the dick in his hand. Not that it was in his hand at the time. “I thought maybe I, like. Exaggerated it in my mind. But it’s really that fucking big.”

“Huh?” Richie blinks at him dumbly, jaw slack and abs tensing.

“Rich, I don’t even know what to do with all of this.”

---

or, Richie has a big dick, and Eddie is into it.”

LINK- 

“Daddys good boy” - “This is smut, pure and simple. Eddie never married Myra. He and Richie have been happily married for years and over time developed some extremely kinky habits. Eddie is a happy and obedient submissive and Richie provides the control and dominance Eddie craves. They do this kinky shit because they like it, but some nights they drop it and just cuddle in bed watching Snapped.”

LINK- 

“Dreaming of a white christmas”- “"I know how much of a come slut you are,” Richie whispered, both of his hands up under Eddie’s sweater and holding onto his waist. “And I haven’t gotten off in two weeks.”

Eddie let out a choked gasp, not able to stop his hips from grinding down into Richie’s, his hand grabbing the fabric of Richie’s t-shirt right underneath his shoulder.

“Richie, oh my god."

LINK- 

“Black on Black” - “Eddie licks his lips. “Who deserves to put their hands on me?”

Richie’s staring at him like he’s not sure if Eddie is real. In all honesty, Eddie’s half-convinced that he’s dreaming—worried that he’s gonna wake up back in his dorm with his dick aching under his covers, Richie snoring soundly across the room.

As it is, Richie is standing in front of him in the middle of a college party looking like he could eat Eddie alive.”

LINK- 

“Back to the wall” - “Eddie comes to some belated realizations about himself when Richie gets just a little too enthusiastic during a kiss…”

LINK- 

“Fever pitch”- ““Eds, what’s wrong?” Richie frets, “You smell distressed.”

“Am I a bad omega?” Eddie whispers.

“What? No, what made you think that?” he asks.

“Because I don’t know how to be an omega,” Eddie fusses.

“Eds, you don’t have to be anything but be yourself to be a good omega, the idea that you have to be submissive is archaic,” Richie says.

Eddie frowns. “But isn’t that what alphas want?”

“I don’t want anything but you, Eds,” Richie promises.

aka

Eddie has his life turned upside down when he finds out he's an omega. Now he has to learn to adapt to a new part of his life that he never accounted for. Most importantly his first heat.

LINK-

“Wasted”- “Now that they've conquered Eddie's heat, they need to prepare and deal with Richie's rut.

Richie's worried about controlling himself as he somehow has even less of a filter during rut. Turns out Eddie doesn't mind this little revelation.”

LINK- 

“Once More” - “[P]lugging himself up while Richie's come was still in him.

He knew that they'd probably go again since they didn't have any plans until later that night. So he was content to snuggle up to Richie and watch whatever weird buddy cop movie he had put on.

"Hey, you ready to take this out?" Richie asked, fingers trailing lightly along the base of the plug. "Get you cleaned up?"

"Why do that? We can just keep it in there until round two."

LINK- 

#reddie #reddie fan art #reddie fan fic #rec list #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #Richie x Eddie #beverly marsh #ben hanscom #bill denbrough #stanley uris #mike hanlon #it #IT movie #it chapter two #it chapter one

[livingmybestfictionallife]

Live Wire --The Dirt--

Little something I’ve been working on due to a lack of Douglas Booth!Nikki Sixx fics.

Summary: Wren Ledden, Tommy’s best friend from high school has had a rough life and she intends to keep the nitty gritty details of her suffrage to herself until the day she dies. Only Tommy has gotten her to open up about a small portion of her troubles, and it’s only Tommy who she trusts with her life. That is until her life gets turned around sneaking into a concert one night...the same night Motley Crue is born.

Since westward expansion and the Gold Rush, all anyone in the United States could think about were the promises that seemed to lie buried within the jungled streets of chaos in California. It was where everyone wanted to be—the ocean was beautiful, Hollywood was booming, the mountains up north were to die for, and the music scene was evolving before the world’s eyes. It seemed like the perfect place for anyone with a dream and the will-power to achieve it; however, for Wren Ledden, California was a cage that, since a young age, she promised herself she’d find her way out of.

Wren was smart, driven, and talented, but never seemed to be in the right place at the right time, and as everyone knows, timing is everything. School was all too easy for her and she even managed to complete all of her gen-ed courses for college while she was still a junior in high school. By the time she graduated with her high school diploma, she had her associate’s degree and a ‘the-sky’s-the-limit’ attitude toward the rest of her life. Sure, she didn’t have the money to attend a fancy college and she didn’t know what the hell she even wanted to study, but she knew two things: one, she’d worked her ass off throughout high school, and two, she deserved a break.

“Why the hell do you study so much?” Wren heard her one and only friend from high school grumble as she laid on her back and read from a Rolling Stone magazine.

“Do you even know what the hell I’m reading?” she huffed as she tossed the magazine at the lanky boy’s face.

“Rolling Stone,” he commented with an airy tone as he stole a glance away from his reflection to look at the magazine that rested beside him. “Cool. I just assumed you were being a nerd.” The all too familiar snarky laugh she had heard resonate through her friend’s lungs since middle school echoed against the walls of his room.

“Shut up, asshole.” Wren’s lips curled up into a smirk as she flipped over from her resting position on his bed to sitting cross-legged and watching her friend primp. “I still can’t believe you’re going to this concert with what’s her nuts and not me,” Wren sighed in exuberant frustration as her eyes drifted from her friend to the posters that littered the walls of his room.

“Oh, come on, Wren, give her a chance; I bet you’d like her! She’s really cool,” he whined as he turned around from the mirror and turned down the tape playing over the speakers.

“I bet,” Wren said dryly as her mind drifted from her friend’s new girlfriend to the band he was taking her to go see tonight. “I’m just pissed because I turned you on to London in the first place, Tommy.”

“And I know we always said we’d go together, but I’m trying to get her to give them a chance.”

“So you’re taking someone who may not even like the show over me, your best friend and musical connoisseur?” Wren shot Tommy a pained look and pretended to clutch her heart as she flopped backwards on his bed.

“Look, if it means that much to you, I can cancel tonight and we can go.” Tommy’s big heart was something that had drawn Wren to him in the first place. Throughout high school, she was an outcast; Wren had a different upbringing from many of her classmates, including Tommy, which led to her inability to trust others. Middle school band brought Wren the only friend she’d ever need, someone to share her interests, who was able to break down her walls, and whose family gave her what she lacked in her own familial life. Tommy’s chaotic extroversion saved Wren’s dry-humored introverted time and time again. Tommy had always been fond of Wren and he even found her cynicism humorous, albeit at first he was only interested in dating her, but as they grew closer as friends, both Wren and Tommy realized they were bonded for life.

“Go on your date, Tommy,” Wren sighed as she watched the slightest hint of disappointment cross his eyes.

“Meet me at the diner afterwards?” He asked with big, begging eyes. “I want you to meet her.” Wren considered her options: spend another night crashing in Tommy’s parents’ guest room and annoying his little sister, Athena, or meeting what would probably be another week-long girlfriend he had fallen head-over-heels for.

“Sure,” she sighed only to catch his infectious smile growing onto her lips. “But that’s only if I don’t decide to sneak into the show behind you like we did with that punk band last month.”

“Why the fuck don’t you just come with us?” Tommy asked as he jumped up from where he was sitting on the floor and spun toward where Wren was still perched on his bed.

“I’m not dressed for the strip,” she said as she tossed her arms out to the side and examined her attire. A black leather jacket hung from Wren’s shoulders as a hand-made cropped black shirt dangled around her torso, baring just a portion of her midriff as black leather pants hugged her legs and chunky boots were laced around her feet.

“Yes you are, and if we didn’t already know this,” he said and gestured between the two “would never work, I’d even say you were hot.” Tommy said as he pulled his own black leather jacked over the mustard yellow t-shirt he wore, and then stuffed his drumsticks through the loop of his studded belt.

“These are just my normal clothes; you know the slutty shit girls wear out there,” Wren continued, trying her hardest to keep from becoming a third wheel on Tommy’s day.

“I’ll even pay for you!” her friend continued to beg for her companionship.

“So you’re taking both of us out tonight?” Wren huffed with a cocky and teasing smirk on her face. As Tommy thought through his proposition, he raised his eyebrows and pointed at his best friend with a curious and playful look spreading over his face, however Wren was quick to shut his wandering thoughts down. “Just sneak off for a bit once you get there and come to that janky fucking door in the men’s room to let me in.”

“I can do that!” Tommy said as he opened his bedroom door and ushered for Wren to come with him down the hall and into the kitchen. As she paced through the halls of a home she’d come to know all too familiarly, she tried to avert her eyes from all signs that reminded her she lived there. She hated having to rely on anyone besides herself. Her own ability to provide for herself was all she had ever known. Even when she still lived at home, her parents were too self-indulged and too busy fighting one another to notice their only child. At eighteen, they threw her to the wolves, ready to be rid of her—the thing that in their eyes kept them from having the life they’d wanted—and claimed she would never make anything of herself. Thankfully, upon hearing of her misfortune nearly ten months after the fact, Tommy called bullshit on Wren’s parents and his family opened their home to her. Wren was beyond grateful for their generosity, but overwhelmingly guilty for even finding herself in the position to put someone out in such a damning way.

“You’re not a burden to my folks,” Tommy would always say. “They love you like the daughter they never had; because their real daughter is nice and sweet, and not anywhere near as fucking metal as you.”

Tommy and Wren’s friendship was an odd one—everyone who saw the pair together could see that much. He was a colorful person who expressed everything outwardly, whereas Wren was often described as dark and introspective. At shows, Tommy would be flailing his limbs around, letting the music speak to his body while Wren let the rhythm and lyrics fill her soul. She’d tap her foot and bang her head on occasion, but would never lunge herself into the mosh pit and crowd-surf among other fans as Tommy had on more than one occasion. However unlikely the friendship maybe, it was strong and, on many occasions, too strong for Tommy’s dates to handle. Girls who dated Tommy never understood how he could be so close to Wren without wanting to fuck her, and their suspicion always got the best of them. This always led to an end in the relationship after a huge fight over an ultimatum between Wren or whatever flavor of the week he was tasting.

Regardless of the Bass family’s insistence on Wren’s presence being nothing but welcome, she found herself ridden by guilt each night she ate their food and took up space in their home. Getting out of the house and going to see London with Tommy—even if they wouldn’t be together during the show—could be exactly what Wren needs to get out of the mental funk she’d been finding herself returning to for months now.

Wren was fine with the sneaking around and the ridiculous plots Tommy would find himself cooking up on how to avoid “the Wren issue” with his dates while also making sure he’d have a good time if his date abandoned him at a show. It wasn’t uncommon for many of the girls Tommy brought around to cower away from the rock scene, and as much of a people person as Tommy was, he hated being at shows by himself. Tonight wouldn’t be the first time Wren hung around at a concert waiting for her best friend’s date to bail at the sight of a fight, and she knew it wouldn’t be the last. Overall, she had fun: it was fun to sneak into clubs to watch her favorite bands, it was fun knowing that she was Tommy’s ride or die—the one who he knew would always be there to keep him company—and it was a hell of a lot more fun when the stuck up bitches bailed and she got to break out of her shell a tiny bit and join Tommy in the mosh pit for a song or two. Deep down, in the pit of her stomach, as she held her arms close and tried to ignore the subtly cool breeze floating through the Los Angeles streets, she knew tonight was going to be fun too.

“Fuck, Tommy, where are you?” she grunted. Wren leaned her back against the brick wall and kicked the bathroom door with the heel of her boot, impatient as to why it was taking him so long to come and get her. She accounted for the five-minute drive to his girlfriend’s house, and the five-minute drive back, but after standing in the chilly air for over twenty minutes, she allowed herself to grow impatient at Tommy’s tardiness. She knew in reality he was probably still waiting in the long ass line out front, so she tried to suppress the temper that usually came with her impatience. Tilting her head up and gazing at the sliver of sky between the buildings surrounding her, Wren let the cool air flow over her hot cheeks. Just as she was about to step away from the wall and peer around the corner to see if she could spot Tommy’s leopard printed ass in the sea of people waiting to get in, she heard the rusty creak of the alley door open and poked her head inside.

“Finally,” she sighed as she made the small jump from the ground up through the slightly elevated bathroom floor. “I thought you forgot about me Tomm—you’re not Tommy.” The bar was always dark and dingy, and the bathrooms were even more so than the rest of the establishment, however she was always easily able to distinguish her friend from other men. A tall man, no more than three or four years older than her, stood before her with a cigarette between his lips and a lighter in his left hand as his right hand grasped what appeared to be a glass of either whiskey or bourbon on the rocks. He wore a dark leather jacket with what appeared to be a dark shirt underneath and dark leather pants. His overall demeanor seemed to be in stark contrast of Tommy, and Wren straightened her posture and tone from hunched over joking banter to straight-line intimidation standoff.

“What the fuck are you doing?” the man asked once the alley door closed. He assumed that she wouldn’t want a confrontation and that she’d retreat from the venue out of submission or intimidation, but Wren’s eyebrows quickly stitched into a skeptical glare as she stood her ground. The man before her still had his lighter flicked open and a small flame burned in his hand while his hazel eyes peered down at the young woman. He tried to stand up straighter in order to intimidate her into explaining herself, but he got a sense nothing would make her stand down. She had fierce, cold eyes that seemed to cut right through him and in an instant of impatience, he opened his mouth to repeat himself, only to have her speak over him.

“What does it look like?” she scoffed and folded her arms over her chest. The man’s narrowed eyes, tense jaw, and teased, long black hair was nothing more than an obstacle keeping her from having a good time at a show she’d been dying to see.

“Looks like you’re sneaking in,” the man said with an arrogant smirk as he cocked his head to the left and took in the woman’s appearance.

“Congratu-fucking-lations,” Wren smirked, “you regular Sherlock Holmes.” Dropping her arms to her side, Wren took a long step forward to side-step the man in front of her only for him to take a quick step to his left and puff out his chest. “Come on, man,” she sighed. “You can’t be that much of a dick!”

“That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart,” he smirked devilishly. He was certain the woman would crack and turn away to save herself the humiliation of continuing to linger in a men’s room, but the self-assured grin that traveled onto her face only caused his eyebrows to furrow in curiosity.

“You may be a dick, but you’re nothing but talk,” Wren stated and placed her hands gently on her hips, allowing herself to be in as vulnerable of a position as she could be in a situation like this in order to show how unafraid she was of the man before her. “I, on the other hand, have the balls to follow through. So, thanks for the, whatever the fuck public decency lecture that was, but I’m going to step around you now and watch what I expect to be a kick ass show that I’m, frankly, too damn broke to afford to see the ‘appropriate’ way,” Wren stated while using air quotes. “I’m also too damn broke to afford a drink, even in a hole like this, so,” without any warning, she slipped her fingers around the glass the man was holding, plucked it from his hand, and sent the burning, icy liquor down her throat in one large gulp, “thanks for the Jack, even if it is a pansy-ass whiskey if you ask me.” With nothing more than a light shoulder check, Wren took a long stride past the man standing in her way, and carried herself high as she paced past the line of men at the urinals watching the scene unfold, before she emerged into the bar.

It only took her about ten minutes to find Tommy in the masses of concert goers, and throughout the night, she managed to keep him in her sights just in case his date bailed; although at the end of the night, she was still pressed against the back of the venue, being forced to squint in order to make out which band was playing, while Miss Blondie hung close to Tommy. Wren had to hand it to the girl, she wasn’t like the other chicks Tommy brought to shows in hopes of turning them on to the rock scene. Even when the bassist of London threw a heavy hitting punch at the band’s lead singer, she didn’t run off like Wren had expected. Sure, she jumped back in awe as the rest of the crowd shouted either obscenities of shock or encouragement, but she didn’t run, and that deserved at least a little respect from Wren.

As bouncers rushed toward the stage to separate the two band members, other employees of the bar acted as ushers to escort the numerous patrons of various stages of intoxication out of the venue and into the streets to have a better chance of breaking up the fight without a brawl. Wren tried to call out for Tommy’s attention, but a slight panic came over her as she noticed a cop picking out another sleazy freeloader who had snuck in through one of the other weak points in security. Wren retreated the way she had come in—through the dank and abysmal restroom, leading into a dingy alley—and then disappeared into the crowd that dispersed along the sidewalk of the Sunset Strip.

Continue Reading: Next Chapter

#douglas booth nikki sixx #douglas booth the dirt #douglas booth!nikki sixx #the dirt douglas booth #the dirt fanfic nikki #the dirt #douglas booth!nikki sixx fic #douglas booth #the dirt fanfic #the dirt fandom #douglas booth fanfic

[nancythebisexualslutwheeler]

Can i get soulmate au reddie ? Can i PLEASE

So I looked through soulmate prompts and saw one where soulmates can hear each other sing and I said yes that’s what I’m about. xx T 

Eddie hums a lot. It’s annoying at first. A constant buzzing in the back of his mind, but it’s there, and Richie’s about had enough.

He knows it’s his soulmate. Knows he can hear his soulmates singing, and that’s the reason he’s not flipping out when he hears the incessant humming.

He’s much more elaborate, does whole performances of 2000s pop punk in his shower. Which he has to admit are sometimes timely and extremely late or extremely early. But at least his soulmate hears his actual voice. Might recognize him, if he ever heard him in person.

Richie knows he’s a dick. Like a grade A asshole, and he’s demanding. His team absolutely frets after him at every single show, Richie’s sure he would forget his fucking pants if his stylist didn’t lay them out for him. But that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t take care of them. Like, take care.

Whitney’s on an extended paid maternity leave until whenever she wants to come back because she’d just had a whole live human, dammit. Richie should have been best man for how much money he had shelled out for Brian’s wedding.

There’s only one employee who never accepts anything. Wouldn’t even tell Richie his damn birthday, and that was his accountant, Eddie Kaspbrak.

If he didn’t know Eddie from work, he would have been tapped that ass. But since he did and that was unprofessional, he kept the stares to a minimum. Eddie, the germaphobe, organized little shit he was probably didn’t even like men. But Richie is too old to be having some sort of crush, and he’d been told that a few times, but Bev had never seen Eddie Kaspbrak in jeans, and that was a sight to be hold.

Anyway, he finds out it’s Eddie’s birthday, Carol had baked him a cake, which Richie ate more than one piece of, if he’s being honest, and decides to bounce downtown to Eddie’s office.

He has other clients, of course, Richie’s not that wealthy, but he likes to think of Eddie as his because he drops everything anytime Richie calls. He wishes he could call him for different reasons. Late at night as a matter of fact.

But anyway, he prances into Eddie’s office with a huge bouquet of flowers just to be obnoxious. There’s lots of fawning from the receptionist and she giddily leads him to the conference room. He’d hardly meant to interrupt a meeting, but who is he to deny, he’s sure her name is Hailey, or Haddie or something, her fun.

“Eddie,” he sing songs loudly.

Eddie’s looking just delicious in a purple button down. Sans tie. Richie wants to lick his throat.

“You didn’t tell me it was your birthday! I am wounded Edward. Wounded!”

“Richie,” he says desperately, “Hailey,” he snaps, “we’re in the middle of-“

But a black woman has already stood up and shut her folder,

“Eddie. It is your birthday! Get out of here!”

He splutters,

“I can’t, I can’t,”

“It’s a Friday afternoon,” she insists, “don’t keep your boyfriend waiting, that would be rude!” And since she’s his boss, she says it with a touch of finality.

And here’s the thing, Eddie doesn’t correct her. He knows Eddie’s probably embarrassed but how much would a, “not my boyfriend thanks.” Take? Surely not long. But what does happen, is Eddie slams his briefcase shut and grabs, grabs, Richie’s cock stirs that’s how hard he grabs him and drags him out of the room.

His office is neat and pristine, just like he is,

“What the hell? This is my place of work!”

He scoffs,

“And now they think you have a boyfriend to replace that stick up your ass you moron! You didn’t tell me it was your birthday!”

Eddie’s jaw drops and Richie watches every emotion flash across his face as he realizes this is for a birthday.

“You little shit!” He doesn’t comment about the dick joke, which, interesting, “All this for my birthday? How did you even find out?! Get out! You know what, it doesn’t matter, get out,” and he’s pushing at Richie’s chest. He is handsy. Richie is preening,

“What about your flowers?!”

He doesn’t,

“I don’t want flowers you idiot! Take them away!”

“But Ed, they’d look so good right here,” and he saunters over to the corner of the desk, rubbing his hand across it. “I bet Hailey can find a vase.”

Eddie hesitates,

“Fine, leave the flowers but get out.”

Richie walks around his desk to look down at the city below.

“You ever bang anyone in here?”

“What?!”

“I mean, ever just pressed someone against the window, twenty feet in the air, no one can see you but you can see-“

Eddie squeaks and Richie laughs, turning around,

“Man I’m just-“ he’s about to say kidding even though he’s so totally not, but Eddie looks kind of into it. He’s unbuttoned another button, his cheeks are flushed and there’s sweat at his temples.

Richie absolutely grins.

“What is it going to take for you to get out?” He whines.

“The bar, tonight. We’ll all go. Big party for my man Eddie!”

Eddie looks like he’s about to throw himself out the window,

“Fine. Fine. Text me the deats later.”

“If you don’t show up I’ll be here on Monday morning!” He says, heading out the door.

Richie is a dick and that’s why he’s wearing tight skinny jeans, Vans and an AC/DC shirt that’s about two sizes small, with a checkered flannel over it.  If he was ten years younger it would be a crop top and eyeliner type of night.

He has an idea. Seduce Eddie Kaspbrak.

It’s not everyone. It’s not even someone. Richie and Eddie are the only two at the bar. It’s pathetic. Richie can sense Eddie about to leave and he orders them a round of drinks. Well, shots. And then drinks. And then Eddie buys shots. And then Eddie is sweating, in his t shirt and cardigan, cardigan, is he freaking sixty?!

So anyway, he’s standing up, sliding the sweater off of his shoulders and Richie’s sliding his hands down his chest.

“What are you,”

He slips the tips of his fingers underneath Eddie’s waistband, barely brushing skin as he pulls his shirt out from where it’s tucked into his pants. He pats Eddie’s abs. Slowly removes his hands.

“Much better!”

He is so drunk. Eddie is so hot. He wants to fuck him.

Anyway there’s more shots and then there’s a body shot situation that Edward suggested. And Richie’s had a hard time keep his thoughts under control since Eddie licked his happy trail!

So there’s nothing that’ll kill his oncoming erection like-

“Karaoke!” He shouts.

“Karaoke?” Eddie asks.

“Karaoke!” He shouts again.

Eddie has to go first. Eddie has to go first because Richie is almost to the point of being too drunk and he was going to need to go home soon. He’s begging and Eddie’s not listening and then Richie’s bringing out all the stops. He’s leaning into Eddie’s space and begging and his mouth is wet and he’s about ready to offer anything to him if he just fucking goes first so Richie can jump him the second he gets off stage and they can get out of here.

So anyway, Eddie’s getting ready to sing and that incessant humming is back in his head. No. Not now. He thinks. He just wants to focus on what song Eddie chose to sing and the humming keeps going.

Suddenly the base is starting and Eddie has a sense of humor too because... well his soulmate is singing Fergalicious, which is, precisely what song Eddie is on stage singing.

Eddie. Is. He cocks his head to the side and strains to ignore the voice inside of his head and focus on Eddie. But he’s.. right. For once. Eddie is his soulmate. Eddie fucking Kaspbrak is his soulmate. The love of his life, holy shit.

He drags Eddie off the stage. Kisses the confusion off of Eddie’s face. Whisper sings obnoxiously across his lips, watching the realization slide across his face.

“Holy shit.”

Richie pulls him in for another kiss.

#asks #prompts #reddie au #reddie fan fiction #soulmate au #it 2019 #it 2017 #my writing

[thejollyroger-writer]

Study Buddies

Based on the prompt: let's imagine this, emma is killian's teacher (college), and she's doing a strip tease for him to learn/study for sex education test, after all, she's his sex ed. teacher. via @csprompter

Killian Jones is a nontraditional college student at Boston University. Emma Swan is the teaching assistant for his Personal and Sexual Wellness class, and he gets some help studying for his final exam.

a/n: I stuck as close to the prompt as I felt comfortable -- the only change is that Emma and Killian are the same age, and Emma is his TA instead of professor. They're both fully consenting 27 year old adults, and feelings may have (once again) worked their way into my smut. If you have any questions about their relationship before you enter into this, please message me!

RATED E // 4K // ON AO3

Killian Jones has been in a lot of sticky situations in his twenty-seven years. He was almost kicked out of high school for being caught with too many girls in the library, almost kicked off the soccer team because of what happened with the coach's daughter, and definitely kicked out of that club in London after he was caught with one of the dancers in the dressing room on his twenty-first birthday. 

He's been given speeding tickets, been kicked out of countless bars, and been dishonorably discharged from the British Navy after his brothers death sent him down a path of self-destruction that he never thought he could come back from.��

But he's a different man now than he was during any of those times. He's cleaned up his act, taken the severance pay from the Navy and moved to America, and has even started taking college classes again, since he found a job at Boston University in the first place. 

Even through all that, twenty-year-old Killian Jones never would have imagined finding himself in twenty-seven-year-old Killian Jones' current situation. 

He knows he's walking a fine line, one that he's not even sure he knows how to draw, since the rules around this aren't incredibly clear. All he'd done was ask her out for coffee, then lunch, then dinner, slowly building their relationship in hopes that it would flourish into something concrete. But he'd wanted something concrete after finals, when she technically wasn't his teacher anymore. 

She's had his heart since the very first day of classes, when he walked into the lecture hall and saw her standing behind the podium wearing black leggings and a BU Swimming t-shirt, her soft blonde curls pulled into a high ponytail. Clacking away softly at the keyboard in front of her, she was only half paying attention to the students coming into the room, but as he took a seat at the center of the third row, she raised her eyes to his and turned the very corner of her lip up into the beginnings of a smile, though it only lasted a moment before it disappeared. 

And then the professor walked in, an older lady with cropped white hair in jeans and a Martha's Vineyard sweatshirt. He started to put the pieces together, and it made much more sense: the gorgeous blonde was not Dr. Lucas. Within just a few minutes, the class started, and she introduced herself as Emma Swan, teaching assistant for the health and wellness department — also known as, the woman that would be teaching all of them Personal and Sexual Health for the next 15 weeks. The longest 15 weeks of his life. 

He still doesn't quite understand how he got here . Sure, when he had flirted, she has returned it without batting an eye, the innuendoes included. Once they got comfortable enough with each other — as friends , he insisted, though his heart (and other parts of the anatomy she eloquently taught them about) had yearned for so much more — he had offered to walk her back to her apartment, even though it was very far out of his way back to his. 

And then she invited him up. There was no way to ignore the spark that's been lingering between them, the way her eyes have been flashing to his while she's teaching lectures about sex, the way she tries to hide the smile on her face. 

The way he tries to hide his erection. 

"I don't — I don't know, Emma, I don't think—" he stuttered, his hand rising to scratch the spot behind his ear, a nervous tick he's had since middle school, but then she fisted her hands around the collar of his jacket and pulled her lips to his, and he was completely useless to fight against her anymore. 

But this ? This was all her idea, and they may have shared a few glasses of wine with dinner, but he didn't think that could possibly cloud her judgement enough to cause this . 

He's stone-still, both wondering how the hell he got here, and thanking every version of a higher power that he's ever heard of. He knows his mouth is agape, he knows there is a fairly-obvious tent being pitched in his jeans, and he knows that if he were gripping the arms of the chair any harder, he would probably break them. 

He knows all that, yet he doesn't care. Because in front of him, close enough that he could reach out and touch her delicate pale skin, is Emma Swan, the very minx who stole his heart on the first day of the fall semester and has been haunting his dreams for just as long, her bright green eyes blazing with something more than just a slight buzz from the wine, staring deep into his soul as she unzips the side of her soft pink dress, slowly aiding the fabric as it falls to the floor. 

As she sways her hips to the beat of the music pouring softly from the speakers behind her, her hands sliding slowly across the exposed skin of her stomach. 

As she curls her fingers around her still-covered breasts before moving her hands back down to her hips and toying with the elastic edge of her plain black panties. 

As she climbs into his lap, her fingers quickly working at the buttons of his shirt. He is still motionless, even as she presses her lips against the sensitive skin under his ear and whispers, "I've been teaching you about sex for three weeks, now it's your turn to show me what you've learned."

She untucks the ends of his shirt so she can push it off his shoulders and leans back down to his ear, this time taking the lobe between her teeth before she purrs, "Touch me, Killian." 

This is, apparently, the right thing for her to say, and he finally springs into action, moving all at once: capturing her lips with his, wrapping one arm around her back while the other moves straight to one of her breasts, fingers pushing the lacy cup out of the way so he can roll her nipple between them. She moans into his mouth, a sound that travels directly to his still-hardening erection, and he pulls her down against him further, needing the friction to alleviate some of the tension under his jeans. 

"The most important part of sex," he mumbles, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw and up her neck, "is the foreplay." 

"I certainly — ah, " she says, her words stopping with a cry when he sucks on the skin of her collarbone and pinches her nipple simultaneously. "I certainly didn't teach you that." 

He reaches around her to unhook her bra, something that he hasn't had to do since before he moved to Boston, kissing down the curves of her now-bare breasts as he tosses it onto the floor. When he swirls his tongue around one of her nipples, pinching it between his teeth before soothing it with his tongue, she groans again, half-laughing, and grinds down against where he is still painfully confined by his jeans. 

He needs to get out of his jeans. Out of his jeans and in to her. 

"Would you like to argue about it?" he asks, his lips never leaving her breast. 

"What's the alternative?" she jokes, but sucks in a breath when his hand finds her other breast and he ruts his hips up against her core, trailing his lips back up to her ear so he can growl, "You show me where your bed is so I can fuck you into it." 

"That one," she mumbles, her lips pressed against his neck. "I vote for that one." 

Sliding one of his hands under her ass and wrapping the other around her waist, he stands up, pulling her along with him. She wraps her legs around him, pressing the area where she aches for him against the soft hair that covers his stomach, and she holds back from rutting against him a second time. 

"I figured you might. Now, where is this bed of yours?" 

She points him towards the bedroom, allowing herself the distraction of pushing his shirt onto the floor and feeling the hard muscles of his back instead of focusing on the way he rubs deliciously against her with every movement. 

He stops in the doorway, and for the briefest moment, she thinks that maybe he's changed his mind, until he says, "Turn the light on, love. I want to see the way you look when I fuck you." 

A wave of both adrenaline and heat rolls through her body at his words, something about the way they so eloquently roll off his tongue, even as he is completely wrecked, and she does as he asks. It only takes him two more steps to reach the bed, where he somehow sets her gently down on top of it before climbing on top of her, caging her against the mattress with his body. His lips find hers again, not even pausing before tonguing his way into her mouth. He loses himself in the feeling of her body beneath him, her fingers curled into his hair, her breasts against his bare chest and her legs spread open around his hips. 

Bloody hell , he needs to get out of his jeans. 

This is the only reason he pulls away from her, moving only as far as he needs to to finally free himself from the confines of his pants, but the adrenaline coursing through him won't keep his lips still. 

"I've wanted to do this since the first day I saw you behind that podium," he whispers, his eyes on her face, but hers watching the movement of his hands as he loosens his belt. "You're absolutely bloody gorgeous, and I knew that day that you were either a siren that would bring me to my demise, or the angel sent to save me." He's not sure where the words even come from, and he's convinced that she's not listening to him, or only half-hearing as she focuses on where he is sliding his jeans over his hips, his erection bobbing free from the confines against the thin fabric of his boxer-briefs, which he removes with his jeans and tosses both on the floor. 

Her eyes are still on his cock, but a small smile spreads across her features. "Which is it?" she asks, only meeting his eyes again when he is silent. 

"Pardon?" He really thought she wasn't listening, and in focusing on her reaction to him, he forgot everything he said. 

"Am I a siren or an angel?" she whispers, bringing herself to kneel in front of him, mirroring his stance, resting one hand gently against his cheek as the other quickly wraps itself around his erection. 

He can't answer her for a moment, overwhelmed by the feel of her hand around him, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Letting out a small laugh, she leans closer to him to press her lips against his collarbone as she slowly begins to pump him with her hand, collecting the wetness from his tip with her thumb. 

"I haven't decided yet," he groans, and it takes everything in him to reach down and stop her. "But if you keep doing that, I won't last long enough to come to a decision."

"That would be a shame," she says, and even though she doesn't sound like she really wants to, she does stop pumping him. 

"Besides." He nudges her shoulder until she goes back to laying on her back, though this time, he does not cage her in. "There's so much more I want to do to you before we even get to that point," he growls, his fingers slowly tracing up the inside of her thighs. 

She shivers, his touch leaving fire in its wake. "Like what?" she whispers, barely able to get the words out over every reaction her body has to him. She has loved the way his voice sounded since the very first question he asked, since he asked her if she was free to get a coffee, and during every conversation they've had in the past thirteen weeks — but this , having him completely in awe of her, his voice deep and wrecked and dark is something else entirely. 

Hearing him talk dirty to her, winding her up more than she has ever been before without even touching her soaked core, is something that she has a feeling she may never get tired of. Something that she would like to hear enough to learn if she will ever tire of it. 

And then he laughs, deeper and darker than his voice, with his lips pressed against her inner thigh, his stubble tickling the sensitive skin there as his fingers toy with the very edge of her panties, and she changes her mind — that is the greatest sound in the world. 

"Oh, darling," he mumbles, his lips never leaving her skin. "I'm going to have you screaming my name before I even fill you up." 

"Is that a challenge?" she breathes, almost unable to form the words in the first place, just as he ghosts the very tips of his fingers over the thin material of her panties. 

He moves to look up at her, meeting her eyes over the swell of her breasts and the muscles of her stomach, and even with the overhead lights illuminating the room around them, she notices that the bright blue of his eyes that she noticed on the first day of the semester has darkened to something much stormier. 

That, along with the touch of his fingers again, sends a shudder through her body, one he must feel, because he smiles at her. 

"I would like to think of it as a promise, but if you want to make it a challenge, by all means. I do love a challenge."

She laughs, actually laughs out loud at this, and his smile grows, especially once he dips his fingers under her panties and against her wet core. Sucking in. breath, she squeezes her eyes shut. 

"Let's get these out of our way, shall we?" he whispers, hooking his index fingers underneath them, and all she can do is nod as he pulls them down her legs, moving out of the way so she can deposit them on the floor with everything else. 

He stays still for a moment, long enough for Emma to meet his eyes again. He winks at her, but still says nothing, slowly taking in her entire naked body. She feels another shiver start at the top of her spine, but this one is not from her arousal; instead, it's the very beginning of a memory, of the last time she let another man look at her like that, though where he thought she was a possession, Killian thinks she is a work of art, an absolute masterpiece. 

"Absolutely bloody perfect," he groans, and she feels a different heat, the heat of embarrassment begin to color her cheeks. 

If he notices it, he says nothing, instead bringing his lips to hers again. 

One of his hands tangles into her hair, the other moving slowly down her side, stopping momentarily to rub at her nipple until it hardens into a peak again before continuing downward until his fingers find the wetness pooled at her core. 

His lips curve into a smile, one that she feels as she continues to kiss him, and he mumbles, "So wet for me, love," against her lips. 

Her only response is to tighten her grip around him, tighten her fist in his hair and dig her fingernails into his back. She needs him to touch her, to stop ghosting his fingers across her skin and take action. 

Though when he pulls away from her, running his thumb across her cheek, and says, "I need to taste you, Emma," she has I admit to herself that she definitely expected him to be the type of person who not only wants to, but enjoys going down on a woman. 

She has never been with a man like that before. 

She nods. 

He pecks his lips against hers, the softest thing shared by them that night, before quickly moving his lips down her body: her jaw, her neck, her chest — where he pauses for a moment, swirling his tongue around each nipple, swirling it between his teeth and sucking softly, soothing the pain away, before continuing to make his way down her stomach, her hips, the inside of her things, until finally — 

She moans, a noise she has never heard escape her lips before, when he swipes his tongue against her, widening her legs with his hands so he can press his tongue into her. 

He was worried that he's forgotten how to do this, having been so long since the last woman he paid this much attention to, since the last time he needed something more than a quick fuck — but between the sounds escaping her lips and the way she raises her hips towards his mouth, he thinks it's safe to assume he's doing alright. 

He really meant what he said before, about wanting her to scream out his name, and whether she takes it as a promise or a challenge, he intends to make good on it. He curls his tongue inside her one more time, devouring as much of her sweet nectar as he can, swipes his tongue against her again, and presses his tongue into her clit. 

She moans again, higher-pitched this time than the last one, and when he raises his eyes to look at her face, her eyes are still squeezed shut. He's never seen a more perfect sight before in his life, and she bucks her hips against his mouth when he swirls her tongue against her swollen clit.  

Fuck , there is a very good chance he might just be in love with her. It's a though he plans to keep to himself for the time being — at least until he turns in his final exam — but feeling her move beneath him, the way she responds to his every touch, even just looking at her, spread out on the bed before him, opening herself up to him — there is something in this moment that he knows is more than lust. 

But there's also very much lust. 

"I want you to touch yourself, Emma," he whispers, slowly pressing one of his fingers into her. Her face does not change, even as she nods, and he feels another surge of heat gather at the base of his spine as he watches her swirl her long fingers around her nipples, pinching at them simultaneously. "Just like that." He curls his finger deeper into her, pulling at her clit gently with his teeth, and he has to push memories of Emma with her laser pointer teaching them the female anatomy out of his head. 

He slides another finger inside her, relishing in the feeling of her walls clenching tighter around them, sucking and pressing at her clit with his mouth, and when she begins to move her hips in rhythm with his fingers, he knows she won't be too much longer. 

Which is good, because he’s not sure how much longer he can last himself. 

As much as he is able, he tries to focus on her face, on the way she looks as he brings her to completion, hoping to distract himself from the thought of how incredible she feels around his fingers, how desperately he wants to be inside her. 

But he has a promise to keep first. Or a challenge to win. Whichever it is, he plans to make due. 

It only takes a few more pumps, a few more rocks of her hips, a few more swipes of his tongue against her sweet-tasting clit, and then she is fluttering around him, her loudest moan yet escaping from her lips as her hands leave her nipples and fly to her side, fisting around handfuls of the blanket beneath her. She is lost in a moment of total euphoria, even the darkness behind her eyelids flashing white, and the only thing that matters is Killian. 

God , she’s absolutely gorgeous. 

“That’s it, darling,” he mumbles, not slowing the movement of his fingers as his voice vibrates against her sensitive skin. 

“ Oh , fuck,” she cries, her fists tightening more around the blanket as her body reacts to him. 

As he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow. 

As he just keeps pumping, sucking at her clit between his lips. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mouths, the words themselves barely escaping, and he smiles against her skin. Her hips won’t stop bucking against him, even as she continues to ride out her orgasm, which only seems to be gaining intensity. 

He laughs against her skin, slowly sliding his lips to the inside of her thigh, where he plants a gentle kiss, the scratchy-softness of his stubble only adding to the intensity of it all. 

She moans again, mumbles his name, but that’s not good enough for him, though it only makes his smile grow. 

“Come on, love,” he whispers, nipping lightly at her thigh, and she cries out. “You know what it is I want from you.” 

At this, her eyes snap open, finding his from where he is watching her, face still buried between her thighs. 

“Are you fucking serious?” she breathes out, but none of her anger makes it into her body movement — she’s still useless against him as his fingers continue their movements within her. 

“Aye, love, I am.” He pauses his movement for a moment, though her hips still rut against his hand, not wanting the break from her high. “Though if you give me what I want, then I can finally be fucking Emma Swan.” 

She rolls her eyes — or, starts to, though the action is rudely cut off by her slamming her eyes shut when his tongue presses back against her clit. 

As if without her permission, the very thing he is waiting for slips from between her lips here, and she cries, “ Fuck, Killian, please! ” as he scrapes his teeth against her bundle of nerves. 

He nods, laughing again as he carefully and slowly slides his fingers from inside her and climbs back up her body, pressing small kisses against some of the skin he finds along the way before positioning himself at her entrance. 

“This may really not be the moment for this conversation, but do you have a condom?” he growls in her ear, wishing that it was something he thought of before. 

But she’s his health teacher, and if anyone was going to be prepared, it would be the woman who has been handing condoms out in class to students who answer questions correctly. 

(Worst case scenario he has one in his wallet, the first one he got from her.) 

She laughs, her head falling back against the pillow. “I’m covered, I have an IUD. Do you really think I would rely on condoms anyway, being someone who has to regularly teach that they’re best to use as a secondary?” 

“Valid.” 

“So as long as you’re not carrying any weird British naval venereal diseases, I think we’ll be alright.” 

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I’ve seen quite a few doctors since the last woman I was with.” 

“Well then,” she purrs, much softer than the words spoken before it, reaching between them to wrap her slender fingers around him. “If you’ll be so kind, I would really like to have you inside me.” 

She can’t help herself, with her fingers encasing him like they are, and she pumps him once, twice, smiling wickedly up at him. 

Of all the moments to get embarrassed, he’s chosen this one, using her guidance to slide slowly inside her. “I really should warn you,” he mumbles, suddenly unsure of himself, even after every reaction she has had to him so far. “There’s a large chance that I won’t last very long.” 

Surprising him, she slides her hands up his back until she is cupping his face, and she pulls it down to hers, finding his lips in a soft kiss. “You’ve already made me scream your name, and you’ve broken through every expectation I had,” she whispers, then kisses him again, starting to slowly move her hips beneath him. “Just the incredible feeling of you filling me up is enough for this time.” 

Even as he begins to lose himself in the feeling of being inside her, the meaning of her words is not lost on him. 

“Does that mean there will be a next time?” 

Tilting her hips to give him a better angle, she smiles, moving her fingers across his cheek. “Assuming that’s what you want?” 

“ Bloody hell,” he groans, both at the question and the tension growing at the base of his spine, a tension that begs to be released. “Yes — fuck — of course.” 

“Good,” she whispers, so soft that it is almost only a breath, and moves under him again, wrapping her legs around the back of his knees. His movements quicken, one of his hands finding its way to her breast, and he leans down to capture her lips in a kiss. He was correct — it really does not take more than just a few more pumps, harder and faster, before he is completely drowning in the feeling of her wrapped around him, of the way she seems to get impossibly tighter with every thrust, and then he is gone — “Christ, Emma, I—” — spilling himself inside of her with a few erratic thrusts before practically collapsing on top of her, his face pressed into the pillow beside her head. 

With her fingers winding through his hair, she turns her head to press a kiss against his cheek, a soft smile spread across her features. 

“I can’t say for sure,” she whispers, her lips pressed against the shell of his ear, “But I have a pretty good feeling that you’ll pass your exam next week.” 

TAGGING: @profdanglaisstuff @darkcolinodonorgasm @kmomof4 @teamhook 

#cs smut #captain swan #cs au #college au #student/teacher #but only kind of #theyre the same age #and consenting without feeling pressured #and there might be feelings #cs fics #cs prompts

[lydiaandarry]

{How To Dress Similarly To Your Favorite Cartoon Characters Pt.2 (Using Five Examples!)}

Hello there!

     My name is Arabella but you can call me Arry, if it’s easier. I don’t know about you but I basically grew up on cartoons. I watched Cartoon Network all day and I used to get so much inspiration from cartoon characters that probably followed me into my older years. Personality and fashion-wise. Have you ever wanted to dress similar to one of your favorite cartoon characters yet not wanting to look like a cosplay or costume? Well, you’ve come to the right gal because that is exactly what I am going to be helping you with but before I get onto the five examples, we must go over some basic knowledge. Fashion can say a lot about a character, especially in cartoons where the clothes rarely change. It has to be iconic yet true to the personality being demonstrated in some sense. Five things go into analyzing and copying a cartoon characters style: 1) Color Palette 2) Aesthetic 3) Overall Impression 4) Fashion Items 5) How It Shapes Their Personality? These are five things we are going to keep in mind during our five examples. Let’s invade this topic.

(Nazz)

   Nazz from Ed Edd n’ Eddy is probably one of the easiest old cartoon characters to make modern. Especially since her style has come back into trend with layering. Now I didn't grow up with Ed Edd n’ Eddy because my mother was fearful that I would develop behavior similar to the boys. But whenever I did see images of it or short scenes, I loved Nazz’s fashion (next to Marie’s). Starting with the first thing to think about when recreating a style of any cartoon character, color palette. A color palette is quite important especially when it comes to cartoon characters because these colors can be forever associated with this character. Nazz’s color palette includes black, white, denim, red, and occasionally green. These colors are great because they can go great with each other and makes a strong color palette. Nazz’s aesthetic is a mixture between Girl Next Door and Tomboy. She has boyish elements that allows her to be ‘one of the boys’ yet she also has a fun, flirty girly side. The third thing to consider is the overall impression of their clothes to the world around them. Now this may seem odd but this is worth consideration because it depends on how you want to be taken. As people judge upon appearances and your clothes can say a lot about you. Nazz’s overall impression and how it makes people see her is that Nazz is seen as very attractive and everyone wants to hang out with her. She’s the female character that has a lot of friends and is overall popular and kind. She isn’t the stereotypical mean girl despite dressing nice and being friends with a lot of people. She breaks that stereotype and shows that you can be cool yet nice. The fourth thing to consider is fashion items, unless you are planning on copying Nazz’s style piece by piece. It is great to really observe it and take pieces of it that may fit into her character yet is good for everyday use and not a cosplay. Remember, it’s all about inspiration. With Nazz, I recommend for tops, basic plain color shirts, crop tops, ringer tees, cropped sweaters, and cami tops. For bottoms, high waisted shorts, basic jeans or ripped jeans, flared jeans, and pleated skirts. For shoes, sneakers like Vans or Converse. For accessories, a quirky pair of sunglasses. And last but not least, the fifth thing to consider is how does her clothes shape her personality? Nazz’s clothes shape her personality in a sense of how she wants to look good. Nazz is very particular on how she looks and despite being confident, is upset if she looks anything but good. Her appearance is very important to her. It shapes her personality in how she likes hanging out with boys more so over girls in the show and is seen as one of the boys due to how her clothes aren’t overly feminine. She’s a great beginner choice for people who want to try this out.

(Mandy)

   Ah yes, the girl I aspired to be when I was younger and probably scared my mother some more. Mandy from Grim Adventures of Billy & Mandy. This is a fun character because her outfit… is completely different from her personality. She wears a pink flower dress, mary-janes and a headband. She looks like an innocent, girly girl but Mandy is evil. She’s a good type of evil but is still evil. Mandy’s color palette depends on where you want to take from it but I gathered white, black, pale pink, pale blue & pale yellow (counting the flower) and purple (her eyeshadow, at times). But if I was going to dress similarly, I would just do white, black and pale pink as the other colors are mere colors compared to those main three. Mandy doesn’t exactly have an aesthetic instead I guess she would be gothic with pink and a sort of doll-like quality. Mandy’s overall impression is that people mistake her for being sweet and innocent although her parents are terrified of her, everyone is mostly terrified of her. A grim reaper is terrified of her. Her clothes are deceiving but everyone knows that she is a very unhappy person due to her constant frown which was even in there inside the womb. Now onto the fun part, clothing choices. For jackets, I would suggest something like a Lazy Oaf jacket style (like their chore jackets) and oversized cardigans. For tops, mock necks, crop tops, layered shirts with a mock-neck under a shirt. Also pinafore dresses and a-line dresses. For bottoms, high-waisted shorts and pleated skirts. For shoes, mary-janes or sneakers. And for accessories, always have a headband on and maybe some skeleton or creepy accessories like a coffin backpack. Mandy’s clothing shapes her personality in a way for humor, she’s this scary person who can almost be a villain yet edges on being an anti-hero at most. It’s complete satire that she looks sweet and innocent with a gothic personality. So have fun with it because if anything, she shows that it’s not what is on the outside that counts after all. There’s a very creepy personality behind that color of pink.

(Sam Manson)

     Another favorite female character of mine. Okay, let’s say… that you don’t like pink or want to be a secret Goth. There is plenty of gothic female characters to choose from. But one of my favorites has always been Sam Manson from Danny Phantom. I mean, I loved that show in general. And I loved Sam’s design, even though I wasn’t allowed to wear crop-tops til I turned 18. Her color palette is purple, green, black. You’ve noticed that cartoon characters always seem to have a simple color palette. And of course, Sam’s aesthetic is gothic, even though she could also be eco-goth since I remember an episode of her wanting to save the Earth and becoming a vegetarian. For fashion choices, hm. For jackets, I feel like she would wear hoodies, oversized black denim jackets, and long coats or even a varsity jacket. For tops, crop-tops, band tees, mock-necks, muscle tees, fishnet tops and sheer tops with something underneath. If she wore a dress, it would probably be black and an a-line, once again with a mock-neck. For bottoms, plaid skirts, checkered shirts, pleated skirts, ripped jeans with fishnets underneath, high-waisted shorts. For shoes, Doc Martens, sneakers, mary-janes and platforms. For accessories, knee-high socks, fishnets, tights, chokers, patches and enamel pins, belt, and a cool backpack. Sam’s overall impression is kind of hard to sum up in a small summary since Danny Phantom is so complex so I recommend watching the show to get a better idea but it’s never really brought up as a main point in her character how she dresses. She’s a great gothic character for inspiration though.

(Valhallen)

   Okay now the first three characters and five characters of my last post were all girls. For those, who may not know Valhallen is a male character from “Justice Friends” which originated as a short from “Dexter’s Laboratory”, are you following me? Let’s say you’re a dude or you want to dress similar to a dude character. Valhallen is a great character to start with as he is a very simple character to modernized because you don’t even really have to go off his sense of style to dress similar to him. His color palette consists of black, yellow, and silver. Pretty simple. His aesthetic is kind of surfer mixed with metalhead mixed with Nordic god. He was created to be a parody of Thor. Which he succeeds greatly with. What is the overall impression of Valhallen? Well, he is quite a ladies man. He is definitely seen as the more attractive member. Valhallen doesn’t have much of an overall impression except the fact that the ladies love him from all realms and he is a fan favorite character. Onto the fun part! Fashion items. Now I chose Valhallen, because no offense but he does have a feminine touch on clothing that can easily be feminized. The dude wears a midriff. For jackets, denim jackets would suit, perhaps with patches of your favorite metal bands or enamel pins. For tops, crop-tops, midriffs, band tees, muscle tees, fishnet or sheer tops with something underneath, cropped camis. Don’t be afraid to show a lot of skin on your upper body. For bottoms, ripped jeans, basic jeans, high waisted shorts, bell bottoms. For shoes, knee high boots. For accessories, headpieces, fingerless gloves, studded jewelry, spiked belts. How does his clothes shape his personality? Well, he’s The Viking God of Rock. He has to look the part and this is basic metalhead fashion with God twists similar to Thor. He’s a goofy character who is hilariously rad and doesn’t take himself too seriously and his clothes show that. He’s less out there than Major Glory but can stand out more than The Infraggable Krunk. He’s obviously the more free-spirited one who isn’t afraid to be himself.

(Judy Jetson)

    Here is what I like to call expert mode because unlike the other four who have easily modernized looks. Judy is from the future yet has a vintage twist. Her clothes are not something a typical teenager or young adult would wear in this day and age. I mean, someone who isn’t as weird as me. So you have to kind of reinvent her and make her suit your taste yet keep elements about her that are amazing and what makes her lovely. Judy’s color palette is pale pink, red (in some lighting), darker pink, white and black. If anyone asks you about a known fact of me… I love pink with red and pink with black. I also love pink on pink. And Judy Jetson has two of my favorite pinks where it’s not Barbie Pink or Too Pink. The overall impression of Judy, well she’s seen as the teenage girl of the future. She’s boy-crazy, fun, has exciting hobbies, can be quite moody and sassy. She loves dancing, attends high school and spends her evening listening to her favorite boy bands. Parts of Judy have travelled into the future as I related to her a lot when I was sixteen. And still do! She can get out of hand sometimes and I feel like all girls do, even into early adult years. I’ve had my moments where I have overreacted. Onto fashion items! Now, with Judy, as I said before, you are going to have to reimagine outfits for her. With jackets, I suggest fit and flare, perhaps long jackets, something to show off the figure however. With tops, crop-tops, mock necks, fitted tops, fun bodysuits, sheer tops, about anything that is cool. With bottoms, flared skirts or pleated skirts, mini skirts, high-waisted shorts, suspender pants, pants or jeans. For dresses, pinafores, figure hugging, a-line. For shoes, sneakers, flats, boots, platforms. A tip for seeming more futuristic is adding in color palette fitting metallics and holographic. For accessories, tights, knee high socks, circle purses, star shaped things, hair bows, headbands, funky sunglasses, vintage gloves, roller-skates if you skate.  How does Judy’s clothes shape her personality? Well, her outfit is very youthful compared to her mother’s. She has more of a spark and quirky sense. Her clothes really show that she is bubbly and charismatic. She is out of this world. Something that I feel like girls should be more confident to try to be. To be unapologetically themselves. Just because her outfit isn’t exactly the future creators in the 60s were thinking of. It doesn’t mean that we can’t carry traits into this world.

    That was how to dress similarly to your favorite cartoon characters, part two! If you want to see part one, click here! Feel free to follow for more posts like this. Also feel free to like and reblog if you enjoyed it! I may turn this into a series as they are always a lot of fun. Just be you and have fun with fashion! I post every Wednesday and Saturday so I will see you on Wednesday! Peace out!

#cartoon characters #cartoons #cartoon network #the grim adventures of billy and mandy #mandy #nazz #ed edd n eddy #judy jetson #the jetsons #dexter's laboratory #justice friends #valhallen #sam manson #danny phantom #fashion #fashion items #post #my post